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Archive for the ‘Carolyn's Poetry’ Category

The white dream waits

for me to enter. The rabbit

runs through a field of nettles,

burdock bends in the wind. I follow,

find the room without walls.

No boundary, just wild weaving

in green stem and white-pin flower

along your blue shirted shoulder.

We stand there in the where –

a dream is always now and never –

while a wave in love with itself

and the chase, crests, falls

into the sea, the shore, the broken shell.

You fell fast. I didn’t hold you.

Each dream has its own dreamer –

white dream, red dream, purple, blue,

all the way down to the black,

the dark waiting

to bring up

the new.

 

Published in Spillway 23 

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In some places,

silt over loam

the death of a field

and ferns covered in dulled-silver dust:

ghosts caught between the green world and the dead.

 

 

In other places,

the land stripped to bedrock

barely a place for root to take hold

soil slipped away

and our suppers with it.

 

In these places where weather and water upend

our hungry counting of squash in the field

ripe tomatoes

a pumpkin’s blooming

 

Our voices, too, ebb and flow

no longer innocent

and not today tender.

 

Published in The Kerf 2015

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                                    Sick of those who come with words but no language

                                    I made my way to the snow-covered island

                                                                                    Tomas Tranströmer

 

A language without words forms at seam of earth and sky

its first sounds are

snow melt

 

It swirls at edge of day

dark

and we do not want to enter

 

We crave our old words

Christmas cold

May’s apple blossoms

 

But heat loosens hold

between letters, each one to the other.

 

We shift in soft beds of sweat,

watch letters descend:

 

albedo

drought

moulin

tide gauge.

 

Reach for them.  Breathe

in and out, then mixed

and maybe lucky,

they’ll form

that prayer

we need

to take us

down.

 

Published in The Kerf 2015

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Something rises from river, the melt,
mad movement over rocks
spray of water grasps light
and winter’s hard rim,
last ice ledge,
falls
in.

Is this grief?

No,
it is the river
and you standing
at its verge.

 

Published on Red Rose Review, Spring 2015

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I am delighted to have my poem Emergence appear in the summer issue of Rose Red Review.  It is always delightful to have my poems appear in print and what a great name for a journal.  Yes, there is a connection between Rose Red and Snow White; here is the relationship as described on the site:

Rose Red is the outdoorsy, curious sister of Snow White, a shy, delicate wallflower. Rose Red represents warmth, passion, and the thirst for knowledge; it is she who invites the cursed bear-prince into the home she shares with her sister. Rose Red is enamored with life, and she possesses a sense of adventure. If she were a real girl, Rose Red would seek out the magic in the every day: a sandy riverbank, a new song, strange happenings in an airport. In difficult times, she would recognize the nature of hardship: a hurdle to overcome.

They have also taken a poem for their spring issue so I’ll let you know when that comes out.

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To arrive by quiet finally

at the doorway into dark

nothing, force

that renovates the now,

puts daily plans

to eternity’s test

so that just these three remain:

To love, the heart cracked, spilling now its unstoppable fire.

To die, the body at rest while the hawk rises.

To live, the hand pulls silken seeds from a pod,

lifts them to wind,

lets go.

Dark Milkweed for Post Illustration

 

This poem was published in Freshwater 2014, I am proud to report.

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Raise up the Sleepers

you do not have to look for them

they are below the soles of your feet

they are in the fallow lines of a field after plowing

they are in the mud and the muck where the weeds drink down the rain

they are there, which is everywhere.

 

Raise up the Sleepers

listen to their voices

they are there in the wild-winged branches wavering

they are no louder than the elm tree’s breath or its downed branch rotting

they are quiet but constant

the whisper at the back of your ear.

 

Raise up the Sleepers

they want to be held in your hands

to feel your fingers rest on the photo snipped from time’s flow

always taken before they died so they can not be dead

but traveling still in a sturdy boat toward Western mountains

lit by a smile that, yes, goes on forever and into

 

the place where the Sleepers rise up.

 

John in a boat in Glacier

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