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https://opentextbc.ca/virtualscienceresources/chapter/environmental-science/
|
Resources
6 Environmental Science
Note: This list of resources has not been vetted by a subject matter expert. If you or someone you know is a qualified environmental science instructor who is interested in reviewing and potentially expanding this list, please contact BCcampus Support.
From Open University: “Live data from The OpenStem Labs weather station on the Open University campus — principally for use by users of the ARROW radio telescope and the George Abell observatory. There is also a link to live weather data from The Teide Observatory in Tenerife — the site of our OpenScience Observatories.” Requires a free Open University account.
Controlling Water Activity in Food
Food science. From MERLOT: “In this virtual laboratory, learners test water activity levels of dried corn and explore how they change under three different storage environments. The interactive animation guides users through the theory and practice of sampling a food product, using a water activity meter, and setting up replicates, to build familiarity with concepts and procedures used in real food science labs. Before beginning this lab, it may be useful to complete Virtual Labs — Understanding Water Activity.” Requires Flash.
This is a video about bat ecology in southwest England. Students can calculate a number of cattle and area of pasture needed to sustain them, then interpret some data about different food types over the season. There are discussion questions about types of food and preferences and how they may change over the season. Requires a free Open University account.
Lab Directory for Virtual Paleobotany
From MERLOT: “An in-depth and very detailed virtual lab manual with definitions, pictures, and a wide range of topics from plant structure to biogeography.”
Leaf Structure as Environment Indicator
Botany. This is a nice overview of leaf structure in different environments. Has good images and activities with a little quiz. Could be used as part of a plant or photosynthesis lab. Requires a free Open University account.
Great series of exercises on map reading. UK-focused: the grid reference section has British examples and all the maps are in the UK. The exercises are still useful and you could either skip the grid reference section or use it anyway. A couple of small problems that students should know about in advance (e.g., slide 8 is blank). Requires a free Open University account.
Measuring Levels of Nitrates in Spring Water
Virtual lab on ultraviolet–visible spectrophotometry in which you measure the levels of nitrates in water samples. Requires a free Open University account.
This is a very good gas chromatography–mass spectrometry (GC-MS) simulation. Has a database of mass spectra to aid in identifying each GC peak.
pH Scale and pH Scale: Basics (PhET) (CC BY)
The first activity shows the pH of common items and how it varies with concentration. The second activity is part of the first.
Virtual field trip to examine various soils around the River Teign in Devon County in southwest England. Requires a free Open University account.
Interactive food science module teaches basic laboratory techniques for testing corn for toxins. Requires Flash.
Citizen science project to map every tree in Britain. Fun exercise with a map and “adding” tree species (comparing tree species) to determine economic and ecosystem benefits such as carbon sequestration. Very much focused on trees in the UK, but still interesting to play around with. Fun complement to an introduction to biosphere or ecosystem ecology lab.
Variation in Vegetation: The Heather Hypothesis
Environmental science. This is a great series of exercises about vegetation patterns and drainage. Requires a free Open University account.
Virtual Courseware for Earth and Environmental Sciences
A series of activities, labs, and quizzes about various earth and environmental science concepts, such as earthquakes, global warming, geologic time and dating, and river processes. The earthquake module is also available in Spanish.
Virtual Microscope for Earth Sciences
This could be used for many different subjects: mineralogy, petrology, sedimentology and stratigraphy, ore deposits, etc. Excellent resource with dozens of rotatable hand samples and zoomable thin sections of rocks and minerals (visible in both PPL and XPL, in some cases). Requires a free Open University account.
Google Play or Apple Store application. From Open University: “A VR opportunity to experience a series of dives in a submersible at key locations around the world. The dives are designed to provide students with 3D interactive visualizations of the complex ocean and how ocean processes vary across the planet. When integrated with exercises around scientific observations or critical real-world problems, such as ocean acidification, it will provide students with an opportunity to gather observations from a submersible and experience practical ocean science.”
From MERLOT: “The Virtual Paleobotany Lab contains the background material and instructions for 12 lab exercises from a UC Berkeley course on paleobotany. The online pages have links to black and white drawings and colour photographs of the plants being described; there is a detailed glossary, and each lab ends with several questions for a student to think about.”
Virtual Petrographic Microscope
Useful for many subjects, such as mineralogy, petrology, sedimentology and stratigraphy, ore deposits, etc. Many rock and mineral samples observed through a microscope.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:10.538434
|
08-10-2022
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://opentextbc.ca/virtualscienceresources/chapter/environmental-science/",
"book_url": "https://opentextbc.ca/virtualscienceresources/front-matter/accessibility-statement/",
"title": "Virtual Lab and Science Resource Directory",
"author": "Arianna Cheveldave (Editor)",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Education, Reference, Information and Interdisciplinary subjects, Mathematics and Science"
}
|
https://opentextbc.ca/virtualscienceresources/chapter/math/
|
Resources
7 Math
Calculus Grapher (PhET) (CC BY)
This lab is an interactive plot builder for a function. It would be useful as a simple visualization tool. Great way to show the relationships between functions and derivatives. The kinematics forms drop out right away, and resonance curves are clear.
Curve Fitting (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year statistics. Nice introduction to curve fitting.
Fourier: Making Waves (PhET) (CC BY)
Differential equations. Very good simulator for Fourier waves.
GeoGebra Website (free for non-commercial purposes)
From GeoGebra’s website: “GeoGebra is dynamic mathematics software for all levels of education that brings together geometry, algebra, spreadsheets, graphing, statistics, and calculus in one easy-to-use package.” Has a graphing calculator, computer algebra systems (CAS) calculator, and books and activities on many different math subjects. Also see the GeoGebra YouTube channel.
Least-Squares Regression (PhET) (CC BY)
Statistics. Very good simulator for regression.
Plinko Probability (PhET) (CC BY)
Introductory statistics. Can be used to illustrate the value of a big N. From the PhET website: “Drop balls through a triangular grid of pegs and see them accumulate in containers. Switch to a histogram view and compare the distribution of balls to an ideal binomial distribution. Adjust the binary probability and develop your knowledge of statistics!”
Trig Tour (PhET) (CC BY)
Precalculus. Good tool for review. From the PhET website: “Take a tour of trigonometry using degrees or radians! Look for patterns in the values and on the graph when you change the value of theta. Compare the graphs of sine, cosine, and tangent.”
Statistics. Contains a guide that introduces and explains the t-test, as well as an application for applying it. Requires a free Open University account.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:10.548425
|
08-10-2022
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://opentextbc.ca/virtualscienceresources/chapter/math/",
"book_url": "https://opentextbc.ca/virtualscienceresources/front-matter/accessibility-statement/",
"title": "Virtual Lab and Science Resource Directory",
"author": "Arianna Cheveldave (Editor)",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Education, Reference, Information and Interdisciplinary subjects, Mathematics and Science"
}
|
https://opentextbc.ca/virtualscienceresources/chapter/physics-and-astronomy/
|
Resources
8 Physics and Astronomy
Alpha Decay (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year physics and astronomy. Good simulation for concepts.
Atomic Interactions (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year physics and astronomy. Useful as the simulation creates a nice clear graph, as would be produced in a hands-on version of this lab, meaning it can yield rich discussion from students.
Balancing Act (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year physics. Simple and clear introduction to the “law of the lever.” Could be good for a participation or pre-lab grade.
Band Structure (PhET) (CC BY)
First- or second-year physics. Covers band structure in crystals of atoms and how that relates to conductivity.
Bending Light (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year optics. Great simulator: clearly shows Snell’s law as well as total internal reflection. Has the great feature to see the laser as a wave and a beam.
Blackbody Spectrum (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year physics and astronomy. From PhET: ” Learn about the blackbody spectrum of Sirius A, the sun, a light bulb, and the earth. Adjust the temperature to see the wavelength and intensity of the spectrum change. View the colour of the peak of the spectral curve.”
Buoyancy (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year physics. From PhET: “Learn how buoyancy works with blocks. Arrows show the applied forces, and you can modify the properties of the blocks and the fluid.”
Calculus Grapher (PhET) (CC BY)
Interactive plot builder for a function. It would be useful as a simple visualization tool. Great way to show the relationships between functions and derivatives. The kinematics forms drop out right away, and resonance curves are clear.
Capacitor Lab and Capacitor Lab: Basics (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year electricity and magnetism. Great lab when looking into how capacitors work and how to set them up in series and parallel. Can generate conceptual data as well as graphical data using the voltmeter, as would be found in a hands-on lab.
Charges and Fields (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year electricity and magnetism. This is nicer than a hands-on lab: great way to see how electric fields change and move. Clear layout and fairly accessible; the vectors and values are superb visuals. Possible to get students to sketch out various field lines.
Circuit Construction Kit (AC+DC) and Circuit Construction Kit (AC+DC), Virtual Lab (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year electricity and magnetism. Simulates circuit building. Though students are missing out on firsthand circuit construction, this is a great way for students to play around with circuits. Labs can be made around these constructions kits and important concepts can be passed down to students. Great feature is that you have access to multiple circuit items.
Circuit Construction Kit: DC and Circuit Construction Kit: DC — Virtual Lab (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year physics. From PhET: “Build circuits with batteries, resistors, light bulbs, fuses, and switches. Determine if everyday objects are conductors or insulators, and take measurements with an ammeter and voltmeter. View the circuit as a schematic diagram, or switch to a lifelike view.”
Collision Lab (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year physics. From PhET: “Use an air hockey table to investigate simple collisions in 1D and more complex collisions in 2D.” This sophisticated simulation goes up to coefficient of restitution. It could easily be used as homework.
Colour Vision (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year optics. Can be used to discuss light dispersion and rainbows. More of an inquiry or activity, as opposed to a more formal lab, as it is all concept-based, but you could make up a nice series of questions (as can be found in the Teacher Resources part of the PhET) about the various colour combinations.
Coulomb’s Law (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year physics. From PhET: “Visualize the electrostatic force that two charges exert on each other. Observe how changing the sign and magnitude of the charges and the distance between them affects the electrostatic force.” The ruler and force meter mean that a nice inverse square graph can be generated. Includes an introduction to scientific notation.
Curve Fitting (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year physics. From PhET: “Drag data points and their error bars and watch the best-fit polynomial curve update instantly. You choose the type of fit: linear, quadratic, or cubic. The reduced chi-square statistic shows you when the fit is good. Or you can try to find the best fit by manually adjusting fit parameters.”
Davisson-Germer: Electron Diffraction (PhET) (CC BY)
Second-year physics. Covers electron diffraction. This is nowhere as “pretty” as the other simulations, but as a result, has a much more realistic feel to it. Best done after Waves PhETs.
Diffusion (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year diffusion and thermodynamics. From PhET: “Mix two gases to explore diffusion. Experiment with concentration, temperature, mass, and radius and determine how these factors affect the rate of diffusion.”
Double Wells and Covalent Bonds (PhET) (CC BY)
Second-year physics. Contains multiple activities for an introductory or intermediate quantum class.
Energy Skate Park and Energy Skate Park: Basics (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year mechanics. This is a good lab, as this simulation generates lovely graphs that can be analyzed by the students, illustrating standard kinetic versus potential energy curves. Clear with some nice variations; covers the law of conservation of energy. Being able to control friction makes this an exceptionally useful simulation
Faraday’s Electromagnetic Lab (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year physics. From PhET: “Play with a bar magnet and coils to learn about Faraday’s law. Move a bar magnet near one or two coils to make a light bulb glow. View the magnetic field lines. A meter shows the direction and magnitude of the current. View the magnetic field lines or use a meter to show the direction and magnitude of the current. You can also play with electromagnets, generators and transformers.”
Faraday’s Law (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year physics. Covers electromagnetic induction. Contains questions that are in most first-year physics labs.
First-year electricity and magnetism. The e/me lab is a Nobel Prize–winning lab and part of the great paradigm shift for quantum physics. The interface is easy to use and gives real data, just like in a hands-on lab. You can easily choose values that make it “not work” — an important part of lab work. Requires a free Open University account.
Forces and Motion: Basics (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year physics. This simulation provides nice and easy to understand visuals of the key concepts of velocity, acceleration, and force.
Gases Intro (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year physics and astronomy. Students can generate quantitative data of temperature and pressure using the virtual gauges in this simulation. Simpler version of Gas Properties.
Gas Properties (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year physics and astronomy. It includes some qualitative molecular kinetics, and a quantitative diffusion simulation. More advanced version of Gases Intro.
First-year physics. GasSim is a nice lab that generates graphs similar to what a student would create in a hands-on laboratory. Students can change the variables so many different versions of the lab could be created and analyzed.
Generator (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year physics. Demonstrates Faraday’s law. This simulation can generate qualitative data using virtual instruments and has the ability to change the number of coils. This could be either a demo or part of a concept check.
Geometric Optics (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year optics. Requires Flash, but covers an essential first-year physics concept. It could be used to illustrate how magnification and image position change as you move an object.
Gravity and Orbits (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year and upper-level physics and astronomy for non-majors. Illustrates Newton’s law of gravity and inertia that form circular orbits. Everyone loves to watch the planets move off in a straight line when you turn gravity off. A great activity or short “lab.” Should do the Gravity Force Lab first.
Gravity Force Lab and Gravity Force Lab: Basics (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year physics and astronomy. This is a lab that is very difficult to do in a hands-on environment, so the simulation is very valuable. It generates nice qualitative data of force as a function of distance. Introduces scientific notation and more realistic values.
Hooke’s Law (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year physics and astronomy. Good for introducing Hooke’s Law and could be used as an exercise to confirm some numerical values. This is a great virtual lab, as it helps with both the qualitative concepts of masses on a string and generates qualitative graphs that yield rich discussion from students. Pairs well with Masses and Springs.
John Travoltage (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year physics. It is most useful as a pre-lab activity, but you can ask many questions that prompt explanations, such as “Why is there a minimum number of foot movements needed before the spark occurs?” to get at the idea of critical breakdown voltage.
Ladybug Motion 2D and Ladybug Revolution (PhET) (CC BY)
The first activity is a demo to show the relationship between velocity and acceleration vectors in arbitrary 2D motion. The second activity generates nice graphs of orbital motion and shows the vector nature of rotation.
Lasers (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year physics. Might be useful as a pre-lab activity for a laser-based lab. Could be used as a way of explaining the trade-offs in design.
Magnets and Electromagnets (PhET) (CC BY)
From PhET: “Explore the interactions between a compass and bar magnet. Discover how you can use a battery and wire to make a magnet. Can you make it a stronger magnet? Can you make the magnetic field reverse?” Good demonstration piece.
Masses and Springs and Masses and Springs: Basics (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year kinematics lab, either for Hooke’s law or acceleration due to gravity. It is appropriate for students who are in either a calculus-based or a non-calculus–based kinematics course. The simulation is clearly laid out and is easy to use. It is missing the error analysis and error propagation part of the lab, but it is a decent replacement for a hands-on lab. With the ruler and the force meter, students can generate graphs to analyze, just like in hands-on labs. The energy graphs beautifully illustrate the law of conservation of energy.
Models of the Hydrogen Atom and Rutherford Scattering (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year physics and astronomy. Models of the Hydrogen Atom is a good pre-lab activity to help differentiate between the various models of an atom (pudding, solar system, de Broglie). Rutherford Scattering pairs well for an effective, qualitative investigation of scientific modelling.
Molecules and Light (PhET) (CC BY)
This simple activity shows the effect of different wavelengths on different molecules.
The Moving Man (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year physics and astronomy. Demonstrates graphing motion. You can make the students “program” a particular setup to test their learning.
Nuclear Fission (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year physics and astronomy. Great fun to fire a neutron into various atoms and watch them decay, or not. Useful as a pre-lab activity. The nuclear reactor is also fun to play with, but has different control mechanisms than Canadian CANDU reactors.
Ohm’s Law (PhET) (CC BY)
From PhET: “See how the equation form of Ohm’s law relates to a simple circuit. Adjust the voltage and resistance, and see the current change according to Ohm’s law.”
Pendulum Lab (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year kinematics. Great lab. Like many simulations, it’s missing the concepts of error analysis and error propagation. However, it does give \students the opportunity to see the relationship between pendulum length, mass, and periods.
Photoelectric Effect (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year physics and astronomy. Einstein won his Nobel Prize for the photoelectric effect, and this lab is a very nice (but idealized) simulation of that work. This simulation is suitable for concept-based teaching of the core principles in the topic.
Projectile Motion (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year physics. The angles and ranges are easy to measure, so this can easily translate into a very nice simulation lab.
Quantum Bound States (PhET) (CC BY)
Second-year physics. From PhET: “Explore the properties of quantum ‘particles’ bound in potential wells. See how the wave functions and probability densities that describe them evolve (or don’t evolve) over time.”
Quantum Tunnelling and Wave Packets (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year physics and astronomy. This would be a nice in-class illustration of key concepts as well as a potential lab.
Quantum Wave Interference (PhET) (CC BY)
First- and second-year physics and astronomy. Demonstrates wave particle duality. This is a nice simulation lab, as it is easy to change the quantities, such as slit width, to get good quantitative data that can yield rich discussion from students.
Radiating Charge (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year physics and astronomy. From PhET: “Watch radiation propagate outward at the speed of light as you wiggle the charge. Stop a moving charge to see bremsstrahlung (braking) radiation. Explore the radiation patterns as the charge moves with sinusoidal, circular, or linear motion. You can move the charge any way you like, as long as you don’t exceed the speed of light.”
The Ramp and Ramp: Forces and Motion (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year physics. Shows the force components present on a ramp. Nice numerical data with the angles and the forces.
Resonance (PhET) (CC BY)
Second-year physics or higher. From PhET: “Observe resonance in a collection of driven, damped harmonic oscillators. Vary the driving frequency and amplitude, the damping constant, and the mass and spring constant of each resonator. Notice the long-lived transients when damping is small, and observe the phase change for resonators above and below resonance.”
Simplified MRI (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year physics. This is a nice simulation of resonance, as well as MRI. The associated lecture is very good.
States of Matter and States of Matter: Basics (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year physics. This lab demonstrates an important concept and as there is both a thermometer and a pressure gauge a student can generate nice data, including graphs allowing rich discussion by students. One of my top ten PhET labs.
Stern-Gerlach Experiment (PhET) (CC BY)
Second-year physics. This is a nice simulated lab. Useful tool for getting a feeling for the quantum nature of spin when first learning the concept. The running totals and fractions also have the makings of a statistics lab.
Tracker (GNU General Public License 3.0)
A video analysis and modelling tool. Tracker is a great piece of software and is very useful for first-year physics labs. This was mentioned at the 2020 Physics & Astronomy Articulation meeting as being one of the best pieces of virtual lab software.
Under Pressure (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year physics. This is a good lab, as fluid and pressures are an important part of all first-year physics labs. This simulation generates good numerical data, thanks to the pressure gauge.
Vector Addition (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year physics. Helps reinforce the concepts of vector addition.
Waves Intro, Wave on a String, and Wave Interference (PhET) (CC BY)
First-year physics and astronomy. Waves Intro and Wave on a String are more concept building simulations, whereas Wave Interference can be used as a lab that is often done in first-year physics optics and astronomy labs, as well as engineering labs. This virtual simulation and lab highlight things that are very difficult to see in a hands-on lab. The Waves Intro clearly helps students understand velocity, frequency, and wavelength, as well as the similarities between water, sound, and light waves.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:10.584477
|
08-10-2022
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://opentextbc.ca/virtualscienceresources/chapter/physics-and-astronomy/",
"book_url": "https://opentextbc.ca/virtualscienceresources/front-matter/accessibility-statement/",
"title": "Virtual Lab and Science Resource Directory",
"author": "Arianna Cheveldave (Editor)",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Education, Reference, Information and Interdisciplinary subjects, Mathematics and Science"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/
|
1 Are You Listening?
Constance Hodder
Two Tin Cans
Two tin cans hold taut
the cord between us,
a tight rope for
children’s secrets to cross.
Old telephone booth
beside a grave yard,
conduit to the dead for
the living’s confessions.
Put your ear to the can,
a coin in the payphone,
for I too have secrets
to whisper, to confess.
Are you listening?
I will tell my tales through
the air on a heart string,
send them sailing on the wind,
to fall like leaves at your feet.
Rake them up and jump in
like a child, or leave them
swirling among the graves,
the dead will always listen.
A Blue Jay: Self Portrait part one
A blue jay sings atop
the branch of a paper birch
before a luminous azure sky.
How often I have gazed through
this temple window.
A blue jay soars above
the expansive indigo Lake
sky mirrored on calm waters.
How often I have prayed at
this living altar.
A blue jay flies up
the cliff on Blueberry Hill
so high heaven can be seen.
How often I have reached to
touch the face of God.
Long Dry Grasses Sing: Self Portrait part two
Long dry grasses sing,
blown one way, then the other.
Divide for a tawny cat
stalking through the cover.
Pads across dampened sand,
leaps atop a rock.
Surveys white capped lake,
gulls bobbing in a flock.
Wind dies with setting sun,
water reflects the glow.
Cat wanders back through
grasses now woven gold.
Tall Sunflowers: Self Portrait part three
Tall sunflowers,
garden giants,
golden petals grace
black gleaming faces,
sun followers.
At summer’s end
heads hang heavy,
mature with seed,
bend to survey
garden’s harvest.
Stems bow in prayer
goldfinch whispers,
“tomorrow comes”
plucks a seed,
then flies away.
Snow soon covers
fallen remnants,
memory of sun
secured in seed,
waiting in soil.
Tucked In a Drawer: Self Portrait part four
Tucked in a drawer,
too old to be of use,
lies a pile of hankies,
laced with memories.
Each one unfolded,
its wrinkled face smoothed,
telling tales of tears,
farewells and broken hearts.
Delicate fabric,
whiteness yellowed grey,
colors faded, worn thin
that veil of passing.
Lovingly refolded,
no longer a piece
of today, tucked safely
back into yesterday.
This Gravel Road : Self Portrait part five
This gravel road is
long, hot, and dusty.
I keep walking on.
My feet are tired,
my shoes worn.
I have walked this road
a lifetime. They say
all roads come to an end.
Down the way there is
a bend in sight.
Along this timeworn road,
I gather flowers,
their beauty wilting
in my hands being
dropped, one by one.
I look behind. They say
never look back but
now there’s a path of
flowers to follow
when my soul returns.
The Child Laughs Aloud
The child laughs aloud,
not bubbling up
or holding back, but
erupting like Vesuvius.
There was a time,
when I too could laugh
without restraint,
tears rolling down.
This was before
I grew up, standing tall,
assured in the fact,
I knew something.
Uncertainty and fear,
now bend my spine.
Searching for answers,
my eyes grow blind.
Look up, my head says.
What should I see?
Pray, my heart says.
What do I ask for?
I hear the child,
laughter peeling like a bell,
resounding inside me,
an answer, a prayer.
The Down Arrow Glows Red
The down arrow glows red.
As the door slides open,
I step in, press LL.
People move aside, we descend.
I have been so tired.
My skin smells rusty.
I laugh imagining
myself as the tin man,
rusting when he cried.
The elevator stops
on every floor. People
get off. I reach the
lowest level, alone.
I have been so very tired.
The doctor does not laugh,
orders tests, procedures.
Then calls me saying, “Sorry
to tell you this on the phone”.
I exit down in the bowels
of the earth, following signs
that point to the tunnel.
My steps echo as I walk.
Cancer makes you tired.
My husband brings me in
for surgery. We hold hands
knowing love’s strength,
and life’s fragility.
Florescent light floods the hall.
Tiles line the narrow path,
just wide enough for the
ill and dying to pass.
I could sleep forever.
They cut out the cancer,
removing my uterus.
Womanhood a memory
I will have to forget.
The tunnel is long, twisted.
At each turn I think
this must be the end.
There is no end, it stretches on.
Curls Go With Girls
“Curls go with girls” mother taught,
pin curling my straight hair.
By morning my girlishness
was revealed. The ads taught:
“Amp up your luscious lips.”
“A dab of gloss gives you a
plumper pout.” “False eye lashes,
glam bam!” Ideal beauty revealed.
Wear makeup to feel confident,
camouflage your imperfections,
fix your face. After all,
the mirror never lies.
With good grooming, plain girls
transform into nubile maidens,
ready for seduction.
Mother, was this your goal?
Grooming builds relationships,
leading to manipulation,
exploitation and abuse,
with no choice but to follow.
From the first time the glass slipper
is tried on, the soul is locked
into a turret to await
a fairy godmother.
“A woman without paint
is like food without salt”
the Roman Plautus taught.
What about curls?
I Was Born in Winter
I was born in winter.
Janus the gatekeeper
looking forward and back.
Grandfather’s ghost prayed
beside my bed.
The hairs on my head are
numbered, as are my days.
Past and future entwined
like stars whose light is seen
beyond their death.
In the woods stands an oak
bowed under the weight of
a fallen comrade, held aloft.
I too cannot let go of
those gone before.
They still can be heard in
my voice, seen in my face,
alive within my bones.
Like Lot’s wife, I cannot help
but look back.
When time’s gate swings shut
and life ends, only bones
will remember my name.
Look up, you will find me
in the stars.
On the eve of my 69th birthday
He Lies On My Lap
He lies on my lap,
curled like a comma,
dividing now, from then,
his head tucked to tail,
no beginning or end.
Like Regulus, the cat,
star in Leo’s constellation,
who prowled the night sky,
as the child in the womb,
swam through darkness.
Starlight born around her,
sixty-nine light years ago,
bathed the babe in brightness,
before and thereafter,
as old as she is new.
In a Dark Swirl of Wind
In a dark swirl of wind,
a tree fell leaving a
hollow in the canopy.
The crash was never heard.
There must have been a
splintering groan as it
let go of the earth and sky,
the sun, wind, and rain.
No one witnessed life passing.
You left us that way,
avoiding long goodbyes,
slipping off on your own.
When time calls our name
do we chose to let go,
or does the earth let loose
from under our roots?
That dark swirl of wind
may need to snatch me up,
refusing to let go
I’ll fall with a crash.
As a Child I Believed
As a child I believed,
wind was all I needed,
to make my dime-store kite fly,
if only I could run faster.
My kite would swoop and spin,
turn and dive into the ground.
I would try again and again,
until the kite crumpled.
The bus made its final stop,
dropping her at the Home,
to live out her days, in the
company of strangers.
She sat marooned with others,
powerless, mirroring despair.
Reaching out, she grasped the hands
of those seated beside her.
A tail on a kite helps it fly,
adding drag, pulling it
in the wind’s direction.
If only I had understood,
that kind of power. As the
World Trade Center tower burned,
when there was no escape,
strangers held hands and jumped.
I see a kite flying high,
bright against the blue sky,
reaching its way toward heaven,
its tail trailing toward earth.
So You Crossed the Finish Line
So, you crossed the finish line.
They congratulated you,
said you would be missed,
then locked the door.
So, you checked the time on
the watch you no longer need,
loaded up your memories,
and drove off into the sunset.
So, is that the end,
roll the credits,
the screen turns black,
everyone files out but you?
So?
If I Do Not Write It Down
If I do not write it down,
will I ever see the truth?
So many words go past us,
we skim with our ears the fat
that coats our toast, fries our eggs,
but will never sustain us.
Like an e-visit to the doctor,
who never sets eyes on us,
nods and says “Amen” at church
to assure God Incarnate
that He is known and loved
but will be passed on the street.
So I write down the words,
trying to see their reflection
off the wide lined paper,
that draws on the letters from
youth, traced over and over,
then graded on penmanship.
I stand before you fearful
that my lack of substance will
be discovered and paraded
round for all to see and mock.
So I’ve hidden away words
that may follow me to the grave.
Before that day of cremation,
I try not to look back while boldly
stepping forward, writing the words
that once were secreted away,
my sight blurred and clouded,
so only now, I start to see.
Time Has Set Me Apart
Time has set me apart.
On the street the child calls,
“Hey, old lady”. I don’t look up,
my eyes are on my path.
You take one step, then another.
Each step brings you closer.
Each step, farther away.
The walk is uneven.
That first step, precarious,
a missed step, disastrous.
I have a fear of falling.
I have a fear of failure.
You can practice falling
so no bones are broken.
Should you practice failure,
so you can stand again?
Time warns me to watch my step.
My bones are fragile.
The path calls “Hey, old lady”.
This time I look ahead.
Welcomed in the Doorway
Welcomed in the doorway,
perches on a chair,
smiles same as ever,
Illusions to portray.
Well-worn gifted sweater,
hole opens under arm,
too late now to sew it,
onerous to maintain.
Every day, efforts made,
tries to make things last,
another coat of paint,
glue to mend a crack.
Endlessly the edges fray,
nothing stays the same,
time seems to accelerate,
marching to decay.
Helped into a jacket,
hugged fondly at the door,
loved for what once was,
ghost of what remains.
She Listens to Her World
She listens to her world
reading lips, gestures, eyes irritation.
Hears it all
but not the words in her head.
There is a drought
not colored red on a map. A dearth.
Her mouth dry, tongue parched
lips cracked.
When she speaks, dust flies out
like a car leaving down a gravel road.
It happened gradually
over years. Everyone remembered
when words rained down.
No one noticed when it slowed
to sprinkle then stopped.
Temporal lobe aphasia they said
abandoning her to memory.
She listens
SLAPS the table. That was understood.
The Woman Tips Her Coiffed Do
The woman tips her coiffed do,
smiling as she polishes,
her table to a glossy shine,
mirroring her image.
“Isn’t that a nice reflection on you?”
the Pledge commercial asks me.
Taught to dust back in the sixties,
you’d think I’d polish mine,
but my table shines with gravy
and greasy fingerprints too.
No amount of lemon polish
or elbow grease is going
to shine it like a mirror,
nor would I want it to.
My reflection is mine alone,
built on years of living,
life filled with memories,
brings back “nice” reflections.
Family gathered all together,
Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners,
roast beef as well as gravy,
licked from greasy fingers.
The Curtain Goes Up
The curtain goes up.
Scenes from yesterday,
memorized by heart,
replay in my mind. I remember.
Warehouse windows stuck shut.
Struggling to open them,
the studio heating up
like an oven. I remember.
You opened those windows,
fresh air flowed through, blowing
away deceit, the hands
around my neck. I remember.
Golden curtains billowing
on windows filled with sunlight,
the breeze cooling sweat from
our languid bodies. I remember.
Life flows through these windows.
One day the scene will end,
curtains fall, lights go dark.
Will I still remember?
Even now, my eyes grow dim.
When I no longer see,
slide open the window,
so I feel the breeze, and remember.
I Believe it was October
I believe it was October
when the long thin arms of
autumn sunlight stretched
across fields of dry grass.
Wind blew through remains
of corn stubble refuse,
stirring clouds of dust
that hung suspended.
Late in the day, your face shaded
by the thin worn curtain,
damp with sweat, glowed with
knowledge of our longings.
Where do I find myself now,
wrapped in your arms or
watching in the failing light,
shoes covered in dust?
Old Abandoned Farm House
Old abandoned farm house,
weather beaten, stripped bare,
windows stare out blankly
through fractured panes.
The front door boarded shut,
telling no tales. Not stopping
the curious who are drawn
to peer inside its decay.
I refuse to look through
those dark broken windows,
afraid of waking the ghost
still lurking there.
Haunted with memory
of a duplicitous grin,
devouring young women
to fill its rotten hollow.
Instead, I chose to stand
back in the shadows to watch
as this house is burnt down.
I’m drawn to watch the flames.
I am a Desert Owl
I am a desert owl,
looking for shelter,
flying over burning sands,
without a place to land.
I am a pelican in the wilderness,
tearing at my breast,
hearing children cry,
without a bite to eat.
I am an owl among ruins,
searching for creation,
finding desolation,
without a way back.
I am a sparrow in darkness,
watching through the night,
alone on a rooftop,
waiting for light.
Oh, Sweet Gift
Oh, sweet gift of sleep,
our bed a boat set adrift.
You lay warm against my back,
breath moves hairs on my neck.
The battle over pain and loss,
finally, at rest.
In the early hours,
the leviathan circles.
Heard over roiling waters
echoes from the past,
“Just shoot me. Throw me in.”
Ancient timbers groan.
Oh, sweet gift of life, time
blows us farther out to sea.
“I wish I was dead” was said
in pain, giving way to anger,
frustration preparing
a watery grave.
Your arms, a life preserver,
pull me to safety.
My body surrenders,
sleep washes our yesterdays,
love keeps us afloat.
Life and time still move
with the tide.
Hard Wooden Doors
Hard wooden doors
hinges creak apart
dim light filters
stained glass panes
suspended cross.
Solitary.
Hard wooden pews
groan under stress
echoes emptiness
loss, life’s questions
death’s conclusion.
Hallowed answer.
Hard garden bench
sunflowers sway
geese circle south
dusk envelopes
consummate peace.
Sanctuary.
My Life
My life is a Word Find.
Searching for “FATE”.
Discovering “FAITH”.
Looking for “HEAVEN”.
Finding “HAVE”.
Four Walls
Four walls a fortress
sometimes turn prison,
thick walls of heat
close in on me.
I dive out the door,
swim through humidity,
gasping like a
woman drowning.
Under a tree’s shade
my mind empties out,
worries fade away,
hands hang limp.
Verdant leaves droop,
a pale moth lands,
tree toads doze,
cicadas hiss.
On this hot summer day
I have no direction,
I have no goals,
I have no cares.
I breathe in,
I breathe out.
That’s enough.
The Curtains Part
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window, down the drive.
The school bus passes below.
No children live here anymore.
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window to the barn.
Metal doors clang in the wind.
No one works there anymore.
The curtains part as she opens
the window. Fresh air fills the room.
Dust dances in the sunlight.
Smiling, she writes down this poem.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:10.673139
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-1
|
1 Are You Listening?
Constance Hodder
Two Tin Cans
Two tin cans hold taut
the cord between us,
a tight rope for
children’s secrets to cross.
Old telephone booth
beside a grave yard,
conduit to the dead for
the living’s confessions.
Put your ear to the can,
a coin in the payphone,
for I too have secrets
to whisper, to confess.
Are you listening?
I will tell my tales through
the air on a heart string,
send them sailing on the wind,
to fall like leaves at your feet.
Rake them up and jump in
like a child, or leave them
swirling among the graves,
the dead will always listen.
A Blue Jay: Self Portrait part one
A blue jay sings atop
the branch of a paper birch
before a luminous azure sky.
How often I have gazed through
this temple window.
A blue jay soars above
the expansive indigo Lake
sky mirrored on calm waters.
How often I have prayed at
this living altar.
A blue jay flies up
the cliff on Blueberry Hill
so high heaven can be seen.
How often I have reached to
touch the face of God.
Long Dry Grasses Sing: Self Portrait part two
Long dry grasses sing,
blown one way, then the other.
Divide for a tawny cat
stalking through the cover.
Pads across dampened sand,
leaps atop a rock.
Surveys white capped lake,
gulls bobbing in a flock.
Wind dies with setting sun,
water reflects the glow.
Cat wanders back through
grasses now woven gold.
Tall Sunflowers: Self Portrait part three
Tall sunflowers,
garden giants,
golden petals grace
black gleaming faces,
sun followers.
At summer’s end
heads hang heavy,
mature with seed,
bend to survey
garden’s harvest.
Stems bow in prayer
goldfinch whispers,
“tomorrow comes”
plucks a seed,
then flies away.
Snow soon covers
fallen remnants,
memory of sun
secured in seed,
waiting in soil.
Tucked In a Drawer: Self Portrait part four
Tucked in a drawer,
too old to be of use,
lies a pile of hankies,
laced with memories.
Each one unfolded,
its wrinkled face smoothed,
telling tales of tears,
farewells and broken hearts.
Delicate fabric,
whiteness yellowed grey,
colors faded, worn thin
that veil of passing.
Lovingly refolded,
no longer a piece
of today, tucked safely
back into yesterday.
This Gravel Road : Self Portrait part five
This gravel road is
long, hot, and dusty.
I keep walking on.
My feet are tired,
my shoes worn.
I have walked this road
a lifetime. They say
all roads come to an end.
Down the way there is
a bend in sight.
Along this timeworn road,
I gather flowers,
their beauty wilting
in my hands being
dropped, one by one.
I look behind. They say
never look back but
now there’s a path of
flowers to follow
when my soul returns.
The Child Laughs Aloud
The child laughs aloud,
not bubbling up
or holding back, but
erupting like Vesuvius.
There was a time,
when I too could laugh
without restraint,
tears rolling down.
This was before
I grew up, standing tall,
assured in the fact,
I knew something.
Uncertainty and fear,
now bend my spine.
Searching for answers,
my eyes grow blind.
Look up, my head says.
What should I see?
Pray, my heart says.
What do I ask for?
I hear the child,
laughter peeling like a bell,
resounding inside me,
an answer, a prayer.
The Down Arrow Glows Red
The down arrow glows red.
As the door slides open,
I step in, press LL.
People move aside, we descend.
I have been so tired.
My skin smells rusty.
I laugh imagining
myself as the tin man,
rusting when he cried.
The elevator stops
on every floor. People
get off. I reach the
lowest level, alone.
I have been so very tired.
The doctor does not laugh,
orders tests, procedures.
Then calls me saying, “Sorry
to tell you this on the phone”.
I exit down in the bowels
of the earth, following signs
that point to the tunnel.
My steps echo as I walk.
Cancer makes you tired.
My husband brings me in
for surgery. We hold hands
knowing love’s strength,
and life’s fragility.
Florescent light floods the hall.
Tiles line the narrow path,
just wide enough for the
ill and dying to pass.
I could sleep forever.
They cut out the cancer,
removing my uterus.
Womanhood a memory
I will have to forget.
The tunnel is long, twisted.
At each turn I think
this must be the end.
There is no end, it stretches on.
Curls Go With Girls
“Curls go with girls” mother taught,
pin curling my straight hair.
By morning my girlishness
was revealed. The ads taught:
“Amp up your luscious lips.”
“A dab of gloss gives you a
plumper pout.” “False eye lashes,
glam bam!” Ideal beauty revealed.
Wear makeup to feel confident,
camouflage your imperfections,
fix your face. After all,
the mirror never lies.
With good grooming, plain girls
transform into nubile maidens,
ready for seduction.
Mother, was this your goal?
Grooming builds relationships,
leading to manipulation,
exploitation and abuse,
with no choice but to follow.
From the first time the glass slipper
is tried on, the soul is locked
into a turret to await
a fairy godmother.
“A woman without paint
is like food without salt”
the Roman Plautus taught.
What about curls?
I Was Born in Winter
I was born in winter.
Janus the gatekeeper
looking forward and back.
Grandfather’s ghost prayed
beside my bed.
The hairs on my head are
numbered, as are my days.
Past and future entwined
like stars whose light is seen
beyond their death.
In the woods stands an oak
bowed under the weight of
a fallen comrade, held aloft.
I too cannot let go of
those gone before.
They still can be heard in
my voice, seen in my face,
alive within my bones.
Like Lot’s wife, I cannot help
but look back.
When time’s gate swings shut
and life ends, only bones
will remember my name.
Look up, you will find me
in the stars.
On the eve of my 69th birthday
He Lies On My Lap
He lies on my lap,
curled like a comma,
dividing now, from then,
his head tucked to tail,
no beginning or end.
Like Regulus, the cat,
star in Leo’s constellation,
who prowled the night sky,
as the child in the womb,
swam through darkness.
Starlight born around her,
sixty-nine light years ago,
bathed the babe in brightness,
before and thereafter,
as old as she is new.
In a Dark Swirl of Wind
In a dark swirl of wind,
a tree fell leaving a
hollow in the canopy.
The crash was never heard.
There must have been a
splintering groan as it
let go of the earth and sky,
the sun, wind, and rain.
No one witnessed life passing.
You left us that way,
avoiding long goodbyes,
slipping off on your own.
When time calls our name
do we chose to let go,
or does the earth let loose
from under our roots?
That dark swirl of wind
may need to snatch me up,
refusing to let go
I’ll fall with a crash.
As a Child I Believed
As a child I believed,
wind was all I needed,
to make my dime-store kite fly,
if only I could run faster.
My kite would swoop and spin,
turn and dive into the ground.
I would try again and again,
until the kite crumpled.
The bus made its final stop,
dropping her at the Home,
to live out her days, in the
company of strangers.
She sat marooned with others,
powerless, mirroring despair.
Reaching out, she grasped the hands
of those seated beside her.
A tail on a kite helps it fly,
adding drag, pulling it
in the wind’s direction.
If only I had understood,
that kind of power. As the
World Trade Center tower burned,
when there was no escape,
strangers held hands and jumped.
I see a kite flying high,
bright against the blue sky,
reaching its way toward heaven,
its tail trailing toward earth.
So You Crossed the Finish Line
So, you crossed the finish line.
They congratulated you,
said you would be missed,
then locked the door.
So, you checked the time on
the watch you no longer need,
loaded up your memories,
and drove off into the sunset.
So, is that the end,
roll the credits,
the screen turns black,
everyone files out but you?
So?
If I Do Not Write It Down
If I do not write it down,
will I ever see the truth?
So many words go past us,
we skim with our ears the fat
that coats our toast, fries our eggs,
but will never sustain us.
Like an e-visit to the doctor,
who never sets eyes on us,
nods and says “Amen” at church
to assure God Incarnate
that He is known and loved
but will be passed on the street.
So I write down the words,
trying to see their reflection
off the wide lined paper,
that draws on the letters from
youth, traced over and over,
then graded on penmanship.
I stand before you fearful
that my lack of substance will
be discovered and paraded
round for all to see and mock.
So I’ve hidden away words
that may follow me to the grave.
Before that day of cremation,
I try not to look back while boldly
stepping forward, writing the words
that once were secreted away,
my sight blurred and clouded,
so only now, I start to see.
Time Has Set Me Apart
Time has set me apart.
On the street the child calls,
“Hey, old lady”. I don’t look up,
my eyes are on my path.
You take one step, then another.
Each step brings you closer.
Each step, farther away.
The walk is uneven.
That first step, precarious,
a missed step, disastrous.
I have a fear of falling.
I have a fear of failure.
You can practice falling
so no bones are broken.
Should you practice failure,
so you can stand again?
Time warns me to watch my step.
My bones are fragile.
The path calls “Hey, old lady”.
This time I look ahead.
Welcomed in the Doorway
Welcomed in the doorway,
perches on a chair,
smiles same as ever,
Illusions to portray.
Well-worn gifted sweater,
hole opens under arm,
too late now to sew it,
onerous to maintain.
Every day, efforts made,
tries to make things last,
another coat of paint,
glue to mend a crack.
Endlessly the edges fray,
nothing stays the same,
time seems to accelerate,
marching to decay.
Helped into a jacket,
hugged fondly at the door,
loved for what once was,
ghost of what remains.
She Listens to Her World
She listens to her world
reading lips, gestures, eyes irritation.
Hears it all
but not the words in her head.
There is a drought
not colored red on a map. A dearth.
Her mouth dry, tongue parched
lips cracked.
When she speaks, dust flies out
like a car leaving down a gravel road.
It happened gradually
over years. Everyone remembered
when words rained down.
No one noticed when it slowed
to sprinkle then stopped.
Temporal lobe aphasia they said
abandoning her to memory.
She listens
SLAPS the table. That was understood.
The Woman Tips Her Coiffed Do
The woman tips her coiffed do,
smiling as she polishes,
her table to a glossy shine,
mirroring her image.
“Isn’t that a nice reflection on you?”
the Pledge commercial asks me.
Taught to dust back in the sixties,
you’d think I’d polish mine,
but my table shines with gravy
and greasy fingerprints too.
No amount of lemon polish
or elbow grease is going
to shine it like a mirror,
nor would I want it to.
My reflection is mine alone,
built on years of living,
life filled with memories,
brings back “nice” reflections.
Family gathered all together,
Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners,
roast beef as well as gravy,
licked from greasy fingers.
The Curtain Goes Up
The curtain goes up.
Scenes from yesterday,
memorized by heart,
replay in my mind. I remember.
Warehouse windows stuck shut.
Struggling to open them,
the studio heating up
like an oven. I remember.
You opened those windows,
fresh air flowed through, blowing
away deceit, the hands
around my neck. I remember.
Golden curtains billowing
on windows filled with sunlight,
the breeze cooling sweat from
our languid bodies. I remember.
Life flows through these windows.
One day the scene will end,
curtains fall, lights go dark.
Will I still remember?
Even now, my eyes grow dim.
When I no longer see,
slide open the window,
so I feel the breeze, and remember.
I Believe it was October
I believe it was October
when the long thin arms of
autumn sunlight stretched
across fields of dry grass.
Wind blew through remains
of corn stubble refuse,
stirring clouds of dust
that hung suspended.
Late in the day, your face shaded
by the thin worn curtain,
damp with sweat, glowed with
knowledge of our longings.
Where do I find myself now,
wrapped in your arms or
watching in the failing light,
shoes covered in dust?
Old Abandoned Farm House
Old abandoned farm house,
weather beaten, stripped bare,
windows stare out blankly
through fractured panes.
The front door boarded shut,
telling no tales. Not stopping
the curious who are drawn
to peer inside its decay.
I refuse to look through
those dark broken windows,
afraid of waking the ghost
still lurking there.
Haunted with memory
of a duplicitous grin,
devouring young women
to fill its rotten hollow.
Instead, I chose to stand
back in the shadows to watch
as this house is burnt down.
I’m drawn to watch the flames.
I am a Desert Owl
I am a desert owl,
looking for shelter,
flying over burning sands,
without a place to land.
I am a pelican in the wilderness,
tearing at my breast,
hearing children cry,
without a bite to eat.
I am an owl among ruins,
searching for creation,
finding desolation,
without a way back.
I am a sparrow in darkness,
watching through the night,
alone on a rooftop,
waiting for light.
Oh, Sweet Gift
Oh, sweet gift of sleep,
our bed a boat set adrift.
You lay warm against my back,
breath moves hairs on my neck.
The battle over pain and loss,
finally, at rest.
In the early hours,
the leviathan circles.
Heard over roiling waters
echoes from the past,
“Just shoot me. Throw me in.”
Ancient timbers groan.
Oh, sweet gift of life, time
blows us farther out to sea.
“I wish I was dead” was said
in pain, giving way to anger,
frustration preparing
a watery grave.
Your arms, a life preserver,
pull me to safety.
My body surrenders,
sleep washes our yesterdays,
love keeps us afloat.
Life and time still move
with the tide.
Hard Wooden Doors
Hard wooden doors
hinges creak apart
dim light filters
stained glass panes
suspended cross.
Solitary.
Hard wooden pews
groan under stress
echoes emptiness
loss, life’s questions
death’s conclusion.
Hallowed answer.
Hard garden bench
sunflowers sway
geese circle south
dusk envelopes
consummate peace.
Sanctuary.
My Life
My life is a Word Find.
Searching for “FATE”.
Discovering “FAITH”.
Looking for “HEAVEN”.
Finding “HAVE”.
Four Walls
Four walls a fortress
sometimes turn prison,
thick walls of heat
close in on me.
I dive out the door,
swim through humidity,
gasping like a
woman drowning.
Under a tree’s shade
my mind empties out,
worries fade away,
hands hang limp.
Verdant leaves droop,
a pale moth lands,
tree toads doze,
cicadas hiss.
On this hot summer day
I have no direction,
I have no goals,
I have no cares.
I breathe in,
I breathe out.
That’s enough.
The Curtains Part
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window, down the drive.
The school bus passes below.
No children live here anymore.
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window to the barn.
Metal doors clang in the wind.
No one works there anymore.
The curtains part as she opens
the window. Fresh air fills the room.
Dust dances in the sunlight.
Smiling, she writes down this poem.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:10.752574
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-1",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-2
|
1 Are You Listening?
Constance Hodder
Two Tin Cans
Two tin cans hold taut
the cord between us,
a tight rope for
children’s secrets to cross.
Old telephone booth
beside a grave yard,
conduit to the dead for
the living’s confessions.
Put your ear to the can,
a coin in the payphone,
for I too have secrets
to whisper, to confess.
Are you listening?
I will tell my tales through
the air on a heart string,
send them sailing on the wind,
to fall like leaves at your feet.
Rake them up and jump in
like a child, or leave them
swirling among the graves,
the dead will always listen.
A Blue Jay: Self Portrait part one
A blue jay sings atop
the branch of a paper birch
before a luminous azure sky.
How often I have gazed through
this temple window.
A blue jay soars above
the expansive indigo Lake
sky mirrored on calm waters.
How often I have prayed at
this living altar.
A blue jay flies up
the cliff on Blueberry Hill
so high heaven can be seen.
How often I have reached to
touch the face of God.
Long Dry Grasses Sing: Self Portrait part two
Long dry grasses sing,
blown one way, then the other.
Divide for a tawny cat
stalking through the cover.
Pads across dampened sand,
leaps atop a rock.
Surveys white capped lake,
gulls bobbing in a flock.
Wind dies with setting sun,
water reflects the glow.
Cat wanders back through
grasses now woven gold.
Tall Sunflowers: Self Portrait part three
Tall sunflowers,
garden giants,
golden petals grace
black gleaming faces,
sun followers.
At summer’s end
heads hang heavy,
mature with seed,
bend to survey
garden’s harvest.
Stems bow in prayer
goldfinch whispers,
“tomorrow comes”
plucks a seed,
then flies away.
Snow soon covers
fallen remnants,
memory of sun
secured in seed,
waiting in soil.
Tucked In a Drawer: Self Portrait part four
Tucked in a drawer,
too old to be of use,
lies a pile of hankies,
laced with memories.
Each one unfolded,
its wrinkled face smoothed,
telling tales of tears,
farewells and broken hearts.
Delicate fabric,
whiteness yellowed grey,
colors faded, worn thin
that veil of passing.
Lovingly refolded,
no longer a piece
of today, tucked safely
back into yesterday.
This Gravel Road : Self Portrait part five
This gravel road is
long, hot, and dusty.
I keep walking on.
My feet are tired,
my shoes worn.
I have walked this road
a lifetime. They say
all roads come to an end.
Down the way there is
a bend in sight.
Along this timeworn road,
I gather flowers,
their beauty wilting
in my hands being
dropped, one by one.
I look behind. They say
never look back but
now there’s a path of
flowers to follow
when my soul returns.
The Child Laughs Aloud
The child laughs aloud,
not bubbling up
or holding back, but
erupting like Vesuvius.
There was a time,
when I too could laugh
without restraint,
tears rolling down.
This was before
I grew up, standing tall,
assured in the fact,
I knew something.
Uncertainty and fear,
now bend my spine.
Searching for answers,
my eyes grow blind.
Look up, my head says.
What should I see?
Pray, my heart says.
What do I ask for?
I hear the child,
laughter peeling like a bell,
resounding inside me,
an answer, a prayer.
The Down Arrow Glows Red
The down arrow glows red.
As the door slides open,
I step in, press LL.
People move aside, we descend.
I have been so tired.
My skin smells rusty.
I laugh imagining
myself as the tin man,
rusting when he cried.
The elevator stops
on every floor. People
get off. I reach the
lowest level, alone.
I have been so very tired.
The doctor does not laugh,
orders tests, procedures.
Then calls me saying, “Sorry
to tell you this on the phone”.
I exit down in the bowels
of the earth, following signs
that point to the tunnel.
My steps echo as I walk.
Cancer makes you tired.
My husband brings me in
for surgery. We hold hands
knowing love’s strength,
and life’s fragility.
Florescent light floods the hall.
Tiles line the narrow path,
just wide enough for the
ill and dying to pass.
I could sleep forever.
They cut out the cancer,
removing my uterus.
Womanhood a memory
I will have to forget.
The tunnel is long, twisted.
At each turn I think
this must be the end.
There is no end, it stretches on.
Curls Go With Girls
“Curls go with girls” mother taught,
pin curling my straight hair.
By morning my girlishness
was revealed. The ads taught:
“Amp up your luscious lips.”
“A dab of gloss gives you a
plumper pout.” “False eye lashes,
glam bam!” Ideal beauty revealed.
Wear makeup to feel confident,
camouflage your imperfections,
fix your face. After all,
the mirror never lies.
With good grooming, plain girls
transform into nubile maidens,
ready for seduction.
Mother, was this your goal?
Grooming builds relationships,
leading to manipulation,
exploitation and abuse,
with no choice but to follow.
From the first time the glass slipper
is tried on, the soul is locked
into a turret to await
a fairy godmother.
“A woman without paint
is like food without salt”
the Roman Plautus taught.
What about curls?
I Was Born in Winter
I was born in winter.
Janus the gatekeeper
looking forward and back.
Grandfather’s ghost prayed
beside my bed.
The hairs on my head are
numbered, as are my days.
Past and future entwined
like stars whose light is seen
beyond their death.
In the woods stands an oak
bowed under the weight of
a fallen comrade, held aloft.
I too cannot let go of
those gone before.
They still can be heard in
my voice, seen in my face,
alive within my bones.
Like Lot’s wife, I cannot help
but look back.
When time’s gate swings shut
and life ends, only bones
will remember my name.
Look up, you will find me
in the stars.
On the eve of my 69th birthday
He Lies On My Lap
He lies on my lap,
curled like a comma,
dividing now, from then,
his head tucked to tail,
no beginning or end.
Like Regulus, the cat,
star in Leo’s constellation,
who prowled the night sky,
as the child in the womb,
swam through darkness.
Starlight born around her,
sixty-nine light years ago,
bathed the babe in brightness,
before and thereafter,
as old as she is new.
In a Dark Swirl of Wind
In a dark swirl of wind,
a tree fell leaving a
hollow in the canopy.
The crash was never heard.
There must have been a
splintering groan as it
let go of the earth and sky,
the sun, wind, and rain.
No one witnessed life passing.
You left us that way,
avoiding long goodbyes,
slipping off on your own.
When time calls our name
do we chose to let go,
or does the earth let loose
from under our roots?
That dark swirl of wind
may need to snatch me up,
refusing to let go
I’ll fall with a crash.
As a Child I Believed
As a child I believed,
wind was all I needed,
to make my dime-store kite fly,
if only I could run faster.
My kite would swoop and spin,
turn and dive into the ground.
I would try again and again,
until the kite crumpled.
The bus made its final stop,
dropping her at the Home,
to live out her days, in the
company of strangers.
She sat marooned with others,
powerless, mirroring despair.
Reaching out, she grasped the hands
of those seated beside her.
A tail on a kite helps it fly,
adding drag, pulling it
in the wind’s direction.
If only I had understood,
that kind of power. As the
World Trade Center tower burned,
when there was no escape,
strangers held hands and jumped.
I see a kite flying high,
bright against the blue sky,
reaching its way toward heaven,
its tail trailing toward earth.
So You Crossed the Finish Line
So, you crossed the finish line.
They congratulated you,
said you would be missed,
then locked the door.
So, you checked the time on
the watch you no longer need,
loaded up your memories,
and drove off into the sunset.
So, is that the end,
roll the credits,
the screen turns black,
everyone files out but you?
So?
If I Do Not Write It Down
If I do not write it down,
will I ever see the truth?
So many words go past us,
we skim with our ears the fat
that coats our toast, fries our eggs,
but will never sustain us.
Like an e-visit to the doctor,
who never sets eyes on us,
nods and says “Amen” at church
to assure God Incarnate
that He is known and loved
but will be passed on the street.
So I write down the words,
trying to see their reflection
off the wide lined paper,
that draws on the letters from
youth, traced over and over,
then graded on penmanship.
I stand before you fearful
that my lack of substance will
be discovered and paraded
round for all to see and mock.
So I’ve hidden away words
that may follow me to the grave.
Before that day of cremation,
I try not to look back while boldly
stepping forward, writing the words
that once were secreted away,
my sight blurred and clouded,
so only now, I start to see.
Time Has Set Me Apart
Time has set me apart.
On the street the child calls,
“Hey, old lady”. I don’t look up,
my eyes are on my path.
You take one step, then another.
Each step brings you closer.
Each step, farther away.
The walk is uneven.
That first step, precarious,
a missed step, disastrous.
I have a fear of falling.
I have a fear of failure.
You can practice falling
so no bones are broken.
Should you practice failure,
so you can stand again?
Time warns me to watch my step.
My bones are fragile.
The path calls “Hey, old lady”.
This time I look ahead.
Welcomed in the Doorway
Welcomed in the doorway,
perches on a chair,
smiles same as ever,
Illusions to portray.
Well-worn gifted sweater,
hole opens under arm,
too late now to sew it,
onerous to maintain.
Every day, efforts made,
tries to make things last,
another coat of paint,
glue to mend a crack.
Endlessly the edges fray,
nothing stays the same,
time seems to accelerate,
marching to decay.
Helped into a jacket,
hugged fondly at the door,
loved for what once was,
ghost of what remains.
She Listens to Her World
She listens to her world
reading lips, gestures, eyes irritation.
Hears it all
but not the words in her head.
There is a drought
not colored red on a map. A dearth.
Her mouth dry, tongue parched
lips cracked.
When she speaks, dust flies out
like a car leaving down a gravel road.
It happened gradually
over years. Everyone remembered
when words rained down.
No one noticed when it slowed
to sprinkle then stopped.
Temporal lobe aphasia they said
abandoning her to memory.
She listens
SLAPS the table. That was understood.
The Woman Tips Her Coiffed Do
The woman tips her coiffed do,
smiling as she polishes,
her table to a glossy shine,
mirroring her image.
“Isn’t that a nice reflection on you?”
the Pledge commercial asks me.
Taught to dust back in the sixties,
you’d think I’d polish mine,
but my table shines with gravy
and greasy fingerprints too.
No amount of lemon polish
or elbow grease is going
to shine it like a mirror,
nor would I want it to.
My reflection is mine alone,
built on years of living,
life filled with memories,
brings back “nice” reflections.
Family gathered all together,
Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners,
roast beef as well as gravy,
licked from greasy fingers.
The Curtain Goes Up
The curtain goes up.
Scenes from yesterday,
memorized by heart,
replay in my mind. I remember.
Warehouse windows stuck shut.
Struggling to open them,
the studio heating up
like an oven. I remember.
You opened those windows,
fresh air flowed through, blowing
away deceit, the hands
around my neck. I remember.
Golden curtains billowing
on windows filled with sunlight,
the breeze cooling sweat from
our languid bodies. I remember.
Life flows through these windows.
One day the scene will end,
curtains fall, lights go dark.
Will I still remember?
Even now, my eyes grow dim.
When I no longer see,
slide open the window,
so I feel the breeze, and remember.
I Believe it was October
I believe it was October
when the long thin arms of
autumn sunlight stretched
across fields of dry grass.
Wind blew through remains
of corn stubble refuse,
stirring clouds of dust
that hung suspended.
Late in the day, your face shaded
by the thin worn curtain,
damp with sweat, glowed with
knowledge of our longings.
Where do I find myself now,
wrapped in your arms or
watching in the failing light,
shoes covered in dust?
Old Abandoned Farm House
Old abandoned farm house,
weather beaten, stripped bare,
windows stare out blankly
through fractured panes.
The front door boarded shut,
telling no tales. Not stopping
the curious who are drawn
to peer inside its decay.
I refuse to look through
those dark broken windows,
afraid of waking the ghost
still lurking there.
Haunted with memory
of a duplicitous grin,
devouring young women
to fill its rotten hollow.
Instead, I chose to stand
back in the shadows to watch
as this house is burnt down.
I’m drawn to watch the flames.
I am a Desert Owl
I am a desert owl,
looking for shelter,
flying over burning sands,
without a place to land.
I am a pelican in the wilderness,
tearing at my breast,
hearing children cry,
without a bite to eat.
I am an owl among ruins,
searching for creation,
finding desolation,
without a way back.
I am a sparrow in darkness,
watching through the night,
alone on a rooftop,
waiting for light.
Oh, Sweet Gift
Oh, sweet gift of sleep,
our bed a boat set adrift.
You lay warm against my back,
breath moves hairs on my neck.
The battle over pain and loss,
finally, at rest.
In the early hours,
the leviathan circles.
Heard over roiling waters
echoes from the past,
“Just shoot me. Throw me in.”
Ancient timbers groan.
Oh, sweet gift of life, time
blows us farther out to sea.
“I wish I was dead” was said
in pain, giving way to anger,
frustration preparing
a watery grave.
Your arms, a life preserver,
pull me to safety.
My body surrenders,
sleep washes our yesterdays,
love keeps us afloat.
Life and time still move
with the tide.
Hard Wooden Doors
Hard wooden doors
hinges creak apart
dim light filters
stained glass panes
suspended cross.
Solitary.
Hard wooden pews
groan under stress
echoes emptiness
loss, life’s questions
death’s conclusion.
Hallowed answer.
Hard garden bench
sunflowers sway
geese circle south
dusk envelopes
consummate peace.
Sanctuary.
My Life
My life is a Word Find.
Searching for “FATE”.
Discovering “FAITH”.
Looking for “HEAVEN”.
Finding “HAVE”.
Four Walls
Four walls a fortress
sometimes turn prison,
thick walls of heat
close in on me.
I dive out the door,
swim through humidity,
gasping like a
woman drowning.
Under a tree’s shade
my mind empties out,
worries fade away,
hands hang limp.
Verdant leaves droop,
a pale moth lands,
tree toads doze,
cicadas hiss.
On this hot summer day
I have no direction,
I have no goals,
I have no cares.
I breathe in,
I breathe out.
That’s enough.
The Curtains Part
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window, down the drive.
The school bus passes below.
No children live here anymore.
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window to the barn.
Metal doors clang in the wind.
No one works there anymore.
The curtains part as she opens
the window. Fresh air fills the room.
Dust dances in the sunlight.
Smiling, she writes down this poem.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:10.829065
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-2",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-3
|
1 Are You Listening?
Constance Hodder
Two Tin Cans
Two tin cans hold taut
the cord between us,
a tight rope for
children’s secrets to cross.
Old telephone booth
beside a grave yard,
conduit to the dead for
the living’s confessions.
Put your ear to the can,
a coin in the payphone,
for I too have secrets
to whisper, to confess.
Are you listening?
I will tell my tales through
the air on a heart string,
send them sailing on the wind,
to fall like leaves at your feet.
Rake them up and jump in
like a child, or leave them
swirling among the graves,
the dead will always listen.
A Blue Jay: Self Portrait part one
A blue jay sings atop
the branch of a paper birch
before a luminous azure sky.
How often I have gazed through
this temple window.
A blue jay soars above
the expansive indigo Lake
sky mirrored on calm waters.
How often I have prayed at
this living altar.
A blue jay flies up
the cliff on Blueberry Hill
so high heaven can be seen.
How often I have reached to
touch the face of God.
Long Dry Grasses Sing: Self Portrait part two
Long dry grasses sing,
blown one way, then the other.
Divide for a tawny cat
stalking through the cover.
Pads across dampened sand,
leaps atop a rock.
Surveys white capped lake,
gulls bobbing in a flock.
Wind dies with setting sun,
water reflects the glow.
Cat wanders back through
grasses now woven gold.
Tall Sunflowers: Self Portrait part three
Tall sunflowers,
garden giants,
golden petals grace
black gleaming faces,
sun followers.
At summer’s end
heads hang heavy,
mature with seed,
bend to survey
garden’s harvest.
Stems bow in prayer
goldfinch whispers,
“tomorrow comes”
plucks a seed,
then flies away.
Snow soon covers
fallen remnants,
memory of sun
secured in seed,
waiting in soil.
Tucked In a Drawer: Self Portrait part four
Tucked in a drawer,
too old to be of use,
lies a pile of hankies,
laced with memories.
Each one unfolded,
its wrinkled face smoothed,
telling tales of tears,
farewells and broken hearts.
Delicate fabric,
whiteness yellowed grey,
colors faded, worn thin
that veil of passing.
Lovingly refolded,
no longer a piece
of today, tucked safely
back into yesterday.
This Gravel Road : Self Portrait part five
This gravel road is
long, hot, and dusty.
I keep walking on.
My feet are tired,
my shoes worn.
I have walked this road
a lifetime. They say
all roads come to an end.
Down the way there is
a bend in sight.
Along this timeworn road,
I gather flowers,
their beauty wilting
in my hands being
dropped, one by one.
I look behind. They say
never look back but
now there’s a path of
flowers to follow
when my soul returns.
The Child Laughs Aloud
The child laughs aloud,
not bubbling up
or holding back, but
erupting like Vesuvius.
There was a time,
when I too could laugh
without restraint,
tears rolling down.
This was before
I grew up, standing tall,
assured in the fact,
I knew something.
Uncertainty and fear,
now bend my spine.
Searching for answers,
my eyes grow blind.
Look up, my head says.
What should I see?
Pray, my heart says.
What do I ask for?
I hear the child,
laughter peeling like a bell,
resounding inside me,
an answer, a prayer.
The Down Arrow Glows Red
The down arrow glows red.
As the door slides open,
I step in, press LL.
People move aside, we descend.
I have been so tired.
My skin smells rusty.
I laugh imagining
myself as the tin man,
rusting when he cried.
The elevator stops
on every floor. People
get off. I reach the
lowest level, alone.
I have been so very tired.
The doctor does not laugh,
orders tests, procedures.
Then calls me saying, “Sorry
to tell you this on the phone”.
I exit down in the bowels
of the earth, following signs
that point to the tunnel.
My steps echo as I walk.
Cancer makes you tired.
My husband brings me in
for surgery. We hold hands
knowing love’s strength,
and life’s fragility.
Florescent light floods the hall.
Tiles line the narrow path,
just wide enough for the
ill and dying to pass.
I could sleep forever.
They cut out the cancer,
removing my uterus.
Womanhood a memory
I will have to forget.
The tunnel is long, twisted.
At each turn I think
this must be the end.
There is no end, it stretches on.
Curls Go With Girls
“Curls go with girls” mother taught,
pin curling my straight hair.
By morning my girlishness
was revealed. The ads taught:
“Amp up your luscious lips.”
“A dab of gloss gives you a
plumper pout.” “False eye lashes,
glam bam!” Ideal beauty revealed.
Wear makeup to feel confident,
camouflage your imperfections,
fix your face. After all,
the mirror never lies.
With good grooming, plain girls
transform into nubile maidens,
ready for seduction.
Mother, was this your goal?
Grooming builds relationships,
leading to manipulation,
exploitation and abuse,
with no choice but to follow.
From the first time the glass slipper
is tried on, the soul is locked
into a turret to await
a fairy godmother.
“A woman without paint
is like food without salt”
the Roman Plautus taught.
What about curls?
I Was Born in Winter
I was born in winter.
Janus the gatekeeper
looking forward and back.
Grandfather’s ghost prayed
beside my bed.
The hairs on my head are
numbered, as are my days.
Past and future entwined
like stars whose light is seen
beyond their death.
In the woods stands an oak
bowed under the weight of
a fallen comrade, held aloft.
I too cannot let go of
those gone before.
They still can be heard in
my voice, seen in my face,
alive within my bones.
Like Lot’s wife, I cannot help
but look back.
When time’s gate swings shut
and life ends, only bones
will remember my name.
Look up, you will find me
in the stars.
On the eve of my 69th birthday
He Lies On My Lap
He lies on my lap,
curled like a comma,
dividing now, from then,
his head tucked to tail,
no beginning or end.
Like Regulus, the cat,
star in Leo’s constellation,
who prowled the night sky,
as the child in the womb,
swam through darkness.
Starlight born around her,
sixty-nine light years ago,
bathed the babe in brightness,
before and thereafter,
as old as she is new.
In a Dark Swirl of Wind
In a dark swirl of wind,
a tree fell leaving a
hollow in the canopy.
The crash was never heard.
There must have been a
splintering groan as it
let go of the earth and sky,
the sun, wind, and rain.
No one witnessed life passing.
You left us that way,
avoiding long goodbyes,
slipping off on your own.
When time calls our name
do we chose to let go,
or does the earth let loose
from under our roots?
That dark swirl of wind
may need to snatch me up,
refusing to let go
I’ll fall with a crash.
As a Child I Believed
As a child I believed,
wind was all I needed,
to make my dime-store kite fly,
if only I could run faster.
My kite would swoop and spin,
turn and dive into the ground.
I would try again and again,
until the kite crumpled.
The bus made its final stop,
dropping her at the Home,
to live out her days, in the
company of strangers.
She sat marooned with others,
powerless, mirroring despair.
Reaching out, she grasped the hands
of those seated beside her.
A tail on a kite helps it fly,
adding drag, pulling it
in the wind’s direction.
If only I had understood,
that kind of power. As the
World Trade Center tower burned,
when there was no escape,
strangers held hands and jumped.
I see a kite flying high,
bright against the blue sky,
reaching its way toward heaven,
its tail trailing toward earth.
So You Crossed the Finish Line
So, you crossed the finish line.
They congratulated you,
said you would be missed,
then locked the door.
So, you checked the time on
the watch you no longer need,
loaded up your memories,
and drove off into the sunset.
So, is that the end,
roll the credits,
the screen turns black,
everyone files out but you?
So?
If I Do Not Write It Down
If I do not write it down,
will I ever see the truth?
So many words go past us,
we skim with our ears the fat
that coats our toast, fries our eggs,
but will never sustain us.
Like an e-visit to the doctor,
who never sets eyes on us,
nods and says “Amen” at church
to assure God Incarnate
that He is known and loved
but will be passed on the street.
So I write down the words,
trying to see their reflection
off the wide lined paper,
that draws on the letters from
youth, traced over and over,
then graded on penmanship.
I stand before you fearful
that my lack of substance will
be discovered and paraded
round for all to see and mock.
So I’ve hidden away words
that may follow me to the grave.
Before that day of cremation,
I try not to look back while boldly
stepping forward, writing the words
that once were secreted away,
my sight blurred and clouded,
so only now, I start to see.
Time Has Set Me Apart
Time has set me apart.
On the street the child calls,
“Hey, old lady”. I don’t look up,
my eyes are on my path.
You take one step, then another.
Each step brings you closer.
Each step, farther away.
The walk is uneven.
That first step, precarious,
a missed step, disastrous.
I have a fear of falling.
I have a fear of failure.
You can practice falling
so no bones are broken.
Should you practice failure,
so you can stand again?
Time warns me to watch my step.
My bones are fragile.
The path calls “Hey, old lady”.
This time I look ahead.
Welcomed in the Doorway
Welcomed in the doorway,
perches on a chair,
smiles same as ever,
Illusions to portray.
Well-worn gifted sweater,
hole opens under arm,
too late now to sew it,
onerous to maintain.
Every day, efforts made,
tries to make things last,
another coat of paint,
glue to mend a crack.
Endlessly the edges fray,
nothing stays the same,
time seems to accelerate,
marching to decay.
Helped into a jacket,
hugged fondly at the door,
loved for what once was,
ghost of what remains.
She Listens to Her World
She listens to her world
reading lips, gestures, eyes irritation.
Hears it all
but not the words in her head.
There is a drought
not colored red on a map. A dearth.
Her mouth dry, tongue parched
lips cracked.
When she speaks, dust flies out
like a car leaving down a gravel road.
It happened gradually
over years. Everyone remembered
when words rained down.
No one noticed when it slowed
to sprinkle then stopped.
Temporal lobe aphasia they said
abandoning her to memory.
She listens
SLAPS the table. That was understood.
The Woman Tips Her Coiffed Do
The woman tips her coiffed do,
smiling as she polishes,
her table to a glossy shine,
mirroring her image.
“Isn’t that a nice reflection on you?”
the Pledge commercial asks me.
Taught to dust back in the sixties,
you’d think I’d polish mine,
but my table shines with gravy
and greasy fingerprints too.
No amount of lemon polish
or elbow grease is going
to shine it like a mirror,
nor would I want it to.
My reflection is mine alone,
built on years of living,
life filled with memories,
brings back “nice” reflections.
Family gathered all together,
Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners,
roast beef as well as gravy,
licked from greasy fingers.
The Curtain Goes Up
The curtain goes up.
Scenes from yesterday,
memorized by heart,
replay in my mind. I remember.
Warehouse windows stuck shut.
Struggling to open them,
the studio heating up
like an oven. I remember.
You opened those windows,
fresh air flowed through, blowing
away deceit, the hands
around my neck. I remember.
Golden curtains billowing
on windows filled with sunlight,
the breeze cooling sweat from
our languid bodies. I remember.
Life flows through these windows.
One day the scene will end,
curtains fall, lights go dark.
Will I still remember?
Even now, my eyes grow dim.
When I no longer see,
slide open the window,
so I feel the breeze, and remember.
I Believe it was October
I believe it was October
when the long thin arms of
autumn sunlight stretched
across fields of dry grass.
Wind blew through remains
of corn stubble refuse,
stirring clouds of dust
that hung suspended.
Late in the day, your face shaded
by the thin worn curtain,
damp with sweat, glowed with
knowledge of our longings.
Where do I find myself now,
wrapped in your arms or
watching in the failing light,
shoes covered in dust?
Old Abandoned Farm House
Old abandoned farm house,
weather beaten, stripped bare,
windows stare out blankly
through fractured panes.
The front door boarded shut,
telling no tales. Not stopping
the curious who are drawn
to peer inside its decay.
I refuse to look through
those dark broken windows,
afraid of waking the ghost
still lurking there.
Haunted with memory
of a duplicitous grin,
devouring young women
to fill its rotten hollow.
Instead, I chose to stand
back in the shadows to watch
as this house is burnt down.
I’m drawn to watch the flames.
I am a Desert Owl
I am a desert owl,
looking for shelter,
flying over burning sands,
without a place to land.
I am a pelican in the wilderness,
tearing at my breast,
hearing children cry,
without a bite to eat.
I am an owl among ruins,
searching for creation,
finding desolation,
without a way back.
I am a sparrow in darkness,
watching through the night,
alone on a rooftop,
waiting for light.
Oh, Sweet Gift
Oh, sweet gift of sleep,
our bed a boat set adrift.
You lay warm against my back,
breath moves hairs on my neck.
The battle over pain and loss,
finally, at rest.
In the early hours,
the leviathan circles.
Heard over roiling waters
echoes from the past,
“Just shoot me. Throw me in.”
Ancient timbers groan.
Oh, sweet gift of life, time
blows us farther out to sea.
“I wish I was dead” was said
in pain, giving way to anger,
frustration preparing
a watery grave.
Your arms, a life preserver,
pull me to safety.
My body surrenders,
sleep washes our yesterdays,
love keeps us afloat.
Life and time still move
with the tide.
Hard Wooden Doors
Hard wooden doors
hinges creak apart
dim light filters
stained glass panes
suspended cross.
Solitary.
Hard wooden pews
groan under stress
echoes emptiness
loss, life’s questions
death’s conclusion.
Hallowed answer.
Hard garden bench
sunflowers sway
geese circle south
dusk envelopes
consummate peace.
Sanctuary.
My Life
My life is a Word Find.
Searching for “FATE”.
Discovering “FAITH”.
Looking for “HEAVEN”.
Finding “HAVE”.
Four Walls
Four walls a fortress
sometimes turn prison,
thick walls of heat
close in on me.
I dive out the door,
swim through humidity,
gasping like a
woman drowning.
Under a tree’s shade
my mind empties out,
worries fade away,
hands hang limp.
Verdant leaves droop,
a pale moth lands,
tree toads doze,
cicadas hiss.
On this hot summer day
I have no direction,
I have no goals,
I have no cares.
I breathe in,
I breathe out.
That’s enough.
The Curtains Part
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window, down the drive.
The school bus passes below.
No children live here anymore.
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window to the barn.
Metal doors clang in the wind.
No one works there anymore.
The curtains part as she opens
the window. Fresh air fills the room.
Dust dances in the sunlight.
Smiling, she writes down this poem.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:10.907070
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-3",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-4
|
1 Are You Listening?
Constance Hodder
Two Tin Cans
Two tin cans hold taut
the cord between us,
a tight rope for
children’s secrets to cross.
Old telephone booth
beside a grave yard,
conduit to the dead for
the living’s confessions.
Put your ear to the can,
a coin in the payphone,
for I too have secrets
to whisper, to confess.
Are you listening?
I will tell my tales through
the air on a heart string,
send them sailing on the wind,
to fall like leaves at your feet.
Rake them up and jump in
like a child, or leave them
swirling among the graves,
the dead will always listen.
A Blue Jay: Self Portrait part one
A blue jay sings atop
the branch of a paper birch
before a luminous azure sky.
How often I have gazed through
this temple window.
A blue jay soars above
the expansive indigo Lake
sky mirrored on calm waters.
How often I have prayed at
this living altar.
A blue jay flies up
the cliff on Blueberry Hill
so high heaven can be seen.
How often I have reached to
touch the face of God.
Long Dry Grasses Sing: Self Portrait part two
Long dry grasses sing,
blown one way, then the other.
Divide for a tawny cat
stalking through the cover.
Pads across dampened sand,
leaps atop a rock.
Surveys white capped lake,
gulls bobbing in a flock.
Wind dies with setting sun,
water reflects the glow.
Cat wanders back through
grasses now woven gold.
Tall Sunflowers: Self Portrait part three
Tall sunflowers,
garden giants,
golden petals grace
black gleaming faces,
sun followers.
At summer’s end
heads hang heavy,
mature with seed,
bend to survey
garden’s harvest.
Stems bow in prayer
goldfinch whispers,
“tomorrow comes”
plucks a seed,
then flies away.
Snow soon covers
fallen remnants,
memory of sun
secured in seed,
waiting in soil.
Tucked In a Drawer: Self Portrait part four
Tucked in a drawer,
too old to be of use,
lies a pile of hankies,
laced with memories.
Each one unfolded,
its wrinkled face smoothed,
telling tales of tears,
farewells and broken hearts.
Delicate fabric,
whiteness yellowed grey,
colors faded, worn thin
that veil of passing.
Lovingly refolded,
no longer a piece
of today, tucked safely
back into yesterday.
This Gravel Road : Self Portrait part five
This gravel road is
long, hot, and dusty.
I keep walking on.
My feet are tired,
my shoes worn.
I have walked this road
a lifetime. They say
all roads come to an end.
Down the way there is
a bend in sight.
Along this timeworn road,
I gather flowers,
their beauty wilting
in my hands being
dropped, one by one.
I look behind. They say
never look back but
now there’s a path of
flowers to follow
when my soul returns.
The Child Laughs Aloud
The child laughs aloud,
not bubbling up
or holding back, but
erupting like Vesuvius.
There was a time,
when I too could laugh
without restraint,
tears rolling down.
This was before
I grew up, standing tall,
assured in the fact,
I knew something.
Uncertainty and fear,
now bend my spine.
Searching for answers,
my eyes grow blind.
Look up, my head says.
What should I see?
Pray, my heart says.
What do I ask for?
I hear the child,
laughter peeling like a bell,
resounding inside me,
an answer, a prayer.
The Down Arrow Glows Red
The down arrow glows red.
As the door slides open,
I step in, press LL.
People move aside, we descend.
I have been so tired.
My skin smells rusty.
I laugh imagining
myself as the tin man,
rusting when he cried.
The elevator stops
on every floor. People
get off. I reach the
lowest level, alone.
I have been so very tired.
The doctor does not laugh,
orders tests, procedures.
Then calls me saying, “Sorry
to tell you this on the phone”.
I exit down in the bowels
of the earth, following signs
that point to the tunnel.
My steps echo as I walk.
Cancer makes you tired.
My husband brings me in
for surgery. We hold hands
knowing love’s strength,
and life’s fragility.
Florescent light floods the hall.
Tiles line the narrow path,
just wide enough for the
ill and dying to pass.
I could sleep forever.
They cut out the cancer,
removing my uterus.
Womanhood a memory
I will have to forget.
The tunnel is long, twisted.
At each turn I think
this must be the end.
There is no end, it stretches on.
Curls Go With Girls
“Curls go with girls” mother taught,
pin curling my straight hair.
By morning my girlishness
was revealed. The ads taught:
“Amp up your luscious lips.”
“A dab of gloss gives you a
plumper pout.” “False eye lashes,
glam bam!” Ideal beauty revealed.
Wear makeup to feel confident,
camouflage your imperfections,
fix your face. After all,
the mirror never lies.
With good grooming, plain girls
transform into nubile maidens,
ready for seduction.
Mother, was this your goal?
Grooming builds relationships,
leading to manipulation,
exploitation and abuse,
with no choice but to follow.
From the first time the glass slipper
is tried on, the soul is locked
into a turret to await
a fairy godmother.
“A woman without paint
is like food without salt”
the Roman Plautus taught.
What about curls?
I Was Born in Winter
I was born in winter.
Janus the gatekeeper
looking forward and back.
Grandfather’s ghost prayed
beside my bed.
The hairs on my head are
numbered, as are my days.
Past and future entwined
like stars whose light is seen
beyond their death.
In the woods stands an oak
bowed under the weight of
a fallen comrade, held aloft.
I too cannot let go of
those gone before.
They still can be heard in
my voice, seen in my face,
alive within my bones.
Like Lot’s wife, I cannot help
but look back.
When time’s gate swings shut
and life ends, only bones
will remember my name.
Look up, you will find me
in the stars.
On the eve of my 69th birthday
He Lies On My Lap
He lies on my lap,
curled like a comma,
dividing now, from then,
his head tucked to tail,
no beginning or end.
Like Regulus, the cat,
star in Leo’s constellation,
who prowled the night sky,
as the child in the womb,
swam through darkness.
Starlight born around her,
sixty-nine light years ago,
bathed the babe in brightness,
before and thereafter,
as old as she is new.
In a Dark Swirl of Wind
In a dark swirl of wind,
a tree fell leaving a
hollow in the canopy.
The crash was never heard.
There must have been a
splintering groan as it
let go of the earth and sky,
the sun, wind, and rain.
No one witnessed life passing.
You left us that way,
avoiding long goodbyes,
slipping off on your own.
When time calls our name
do we chose to let go,
or does the earth let loose
from under our roots?
That dark swirl of wind
may need to snatch me up,
refusing to let go
I’ll fall with a crash.
As a Child I Believed
As a child I believed,
wind was all I needed,
to make my dime-store kite fly,
if only I could run faster.
My kite would swoop and spin,
turn and dive into the ground.
I would try again and again,
until the kite crumpled.
The bus made its final stop,
dropping her at the Home,
to live out her days, in the
company of strangers.
She sat marooned with others,
powerless, mirroring despair.
Reaching out, she grasped the hands
of those seated beside her.
A tail on a kite helps it fly,
adding drag, pulling it
in the wind’s direction.
If only I had understood,
that kind of power. As the
World Trade Center tower burned,
when there was no escape,
strangers held hands and jumped.
I see a kite flying high,
bright against the blue sky,
reaching its way toward heaven,
its tail trailing toward earth.
So You Crossed the Finish Line
So, you crossed the finish line.
They congratulated you,
said you would be missed,
then locked the door.
So, you checked the time on
the watch you no longer need,
loaded up your memories,
and drove off into the sunset.
So, is that the end,
roll the credits,
the screen turns black,
everyone files out but you?
So?
If I Do Not Write It Down
If I do not write it down,
will I ever see the truth?
So many words go past us,
we skim with our ears the fat
that coats our toast, fries our eggs,
but will never sustain us.
Like an e-visit to the doctor,
who never sets eyes on us,
nods and says “Amen” at church
to assure God Incarnate
that He is known and loved
but will be passed on the street.
So I write down the words,
trying to see their reflection
off the wide lined paper,
that draws on the letters from
youth, traced over and over,
then graded on penmanship.
I stand before you fearful
that my lack of substance will
be discovered and paraded
round for all to see and mock.
So I’ve hidden away words
that may follow me to the grave.
Before that day of cremation,
I try not to look back while boldly
stepping forward, writing the words
that once were secreted away,
my sight blurred and clouded,
so only now, I start to see.
Time Has Set Me Apart
Time has set me apart.
On the street the child calls,
“Hey, old lady”. I don’t look up,
my eyes are on my path.
You take one step, then another.
Each step brings you closer.
Each step, farther away.
The walk is uneven.
That first step, precarious,
a missed step, disastrous.
I have a fear of falling.
I have a fear of failure.
You can practice falling
so no bones are broken.
Should you practice failure,
so you can stand again?
Time warns me to watch my step.
My bones are fragile.
The path calls “Hey, old lady”.
This time I look ahead.
Welcomed in the Doorway
Welcomed in the doorway,
perches on a chair,
smiles same as ever,
Illusions to portray.
Well-worn gifted sweater,
hole opens under arm,
too late now to sew it,
onerous to maintain.
Every day, efforts made,
tries to make things last,
another coat of paint,
glue to mend a crack.
Endlessly the edges fray,
nothing stays the same,
time seems to accelerate,
marching to decay.
Helped into a jacket,
hugged fondly at the door,
loved for what once was,
ghost of what remains.
She Listens to Her World
She listens to her world
reading lips, gestures, eyes irritation.
Hears it all
but not the words in her head.
There is a drought
not colored red on a map. A dearth.
Her mouth dry, tongue parched
lips cracked.
When she speaks, dust flies out
like a car leaving down a gravel road.
It happened gradually
over years. Everyone remembered
when words rained down.
No one noticed when it slowed
to sprinkle then stopped.
Temporal lobe aphasia they said
abandoning her to memory.
She listens
SLAPS the table. That was understood.
The Woman Tips Her Coiffed Do
The woman tips her coiffed do,
smiling as she polishes,
her table to a glossy shine,
mirroring her image.
“Isn’t that a nice reflection on you?”
the Pledge commercial asks me.
Taught to dust back in the sixties,
you’d think I’d polish mine,
but my table shines with gravy
and greasy fingerprints too.
No amount of lemon polish
or elbow grease is going
to shine it like a mirror,
nor would I want it to.
My reflection is mine alone,
built on years of living,
life filled with memories,
brings back “nice” reflections.
Family gathered all together,
Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners,
roast beef as well as gravy,
licked from greasy fingers.
The Curtain Goes Up
The curtain goes up.
Scenes from yesterday,
memorized by heart,
replay in my mind. I remember.
Warehouse windows stuck shut.
Struggling to open them,
the studio heating up
like an oven. I remember.
You opened those windows,
fresh air flowed through, blowing
away deceit, the hands
around my neck. I remember.
Golden curtains billowing
on windows filled with sunlight,
the breeze cooling sweat from
our languid bodies. I remember.
Life flows through these windows.
One day the scene will end,
curtains fall, lights go dark.
Will I still remember?
Even now, my eyes grow dim.
When I no longer see,
slide open the window,
so I feel the breeze, and remember.
I Believe it was October
I believe it was October
when the long thin arms of
autumn sunlight stretched
across fields of dry grass.
Wind blew through remains
of corn stubble refuse,
stirring clouds of dust
that hung suspended.
Late in the day, your face shaded
by the thin worn curtain,
damp with sweat, glowed with
knowledge of our longings.
Where do I find myself now,
wrapped in your arms or
watching in the failing light,
shoes covered in dust?
Old Abandoned Farm House
Old abandoned farm house,
weather beaten, stripped bare,
windows stare out blankly
through fractured panes.
The front door boarded shut,
telling no tales. Not stopping
the curious who are drawn
to peer inside its decay.
I refuse to look through
those dark broken windows,
afraid of waking the ghost
still lurking there.
Haunted with memory
of a duplicitous grin,
devouring young women
to fill its rotten hollow.
Instead, I chose to stand
back in the shadows to watch
as this house is burnt down.
I’m drawn to watch the flames.
I am a Desert Owl
I am a desert owl,
looking for shelter,
flying over burning sands,
without a place to land.
I am a pelican in the wilderness,
tearing at my breast,
hearing children cry,
without a bite to eat.
I am an owl among ruins,
searching for creation,
finding desolation,
without a way back.
I am a sparrow in darkness,
watching through the night,
alone on a rooftop,
waiting for light.
Oh, Sweet Gift
Oh, sweet gift of sleep,
our bed a boat set adrift.
You lay warm against my back,
breath moves hairs on my neck.
The battle over pain and loss,
finally, at rest.
In the early hours,
the leviathan circles.
Heard over roiling waters
echoes from the past,
“Just shoot me. Throw me in.”
Ancient timbers groan.
Oh, sweet gift of life, time
blows us farther out to sea.
“I wish I was dead” was said
in pain, giving way to anger,
frustration preparing
a watery grave.
Your arms, a life preserver,
pull me to safety.
My body surrenders,
sleep washes our yesterdays,
love keeps us afloat.
Life and time still move
with the tide.
Hard Wooden Doors
Hard wooden doors
hinges creak apart
dim light filters
stained glass panes
suspended cross.
Solitary.
Hard wooden pews
groan under stress
echoes emptiness
loss, life’s questions
death’s conclusion.
Hallowed answer.
Hard garden bench
sunflowers sway
geese circle south
dusk envelopes
consummate peace.
Sanctuary.
My Life
My life is a Word Find.
Searching for “FATE”.
Discovering “FAITH”.
Looking for “HEAVEN”.
Finding “HAVE”.
Four Walls
Four walls a fortress
sometimes turn prison,
thick walls of heat
close in on me.
I dive out the door,
swim through humidity,
gasping like a
woman drowning.
Under a tree’s shade
my mind empties out,
worries fade away,
hands hang limp.
Verdant leaves droop,
a pale moth lands,
tree toads doze,
cicadas hiss.
On this hot summer day
I have no direction,
I have no goals,
I have no cares.
I breathe in,
I breathe out.
That’s enough.
The Curtains Part
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window, down the drive.
The school bus passes below.
No children live here anymore.
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window to the barn.
Metal doors clang in the wind.
No one works there anymore.
The curtains part as she opens
the window. Fresh air fills the room.
Dust dances in the sunlight.
Smiling, she writes down this poem.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:10.983842
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-4",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-5
|
1 Are You Listening?
Constance Hodder
Two Tin Cans
Two tin cans hold taut
the cord between us,
a tight rope for
children’s secrets to cross.
Old telephone booth
beside a grave yard,
conduit to the dead for
the living’s confessions.
Put your ear to the can,
a coin in the payphone,
for I too have secrets
to whisper, to confess.
Are you listening?
I will tell my tales through
the air on a heart string,
send them sailing on the wind,
to fall like leaves at your feet.
Rake them up and jump in
like a child, or leave them
swirling among the graves,
the dead will always listen.
A Blue Jay: Self Portrait part one
A blue jay sings atop
the branch of a paper birch
before a luminous azure sky.
How often I have gazed through
this temple window.
A blue jay soars above
the expansive indigo Lake
sky mirrored on calm waters.
How often I have prayed at
this living altar.
A blue jay flies up
the cliff on Blueberry Hill
so high heaven can be seen.
How often I have reached to
touch the face of God.
Long Dry Grasses Sing: Self Portrait part two
Long dry grasses sing,
blown one way, then the other.
Divide for a tawny cat
stalking through the cover.
Pads across dampened sand,
leaps atop a rock.
Surveys white capped lake,
gulls bobbing in a flock.
Wind dies with setting sun,
water reflects the glow.
Cat wanders back through
grasses now woven gold.
Tall Sunflowers: Self Portrait part three
Tall sunflowers,
garden giants,
golden petals grace
black gleaming faces,
sun followers.
At summer’s end
heads hang heavy,
mature with seed,
bend to survey
garden’s harvest.
Stems bow in prayer
goldfinch whispers,
“tomorrow comes”
plucks a seed,
then flies away.
Snow soon covers
fallen remnants,
memory of sun
secured in seed,
waiting in soil.
Tucked In a Drawer: Self Portrait part four
Tucked in a drawer,
too old to be of use,
lies a pile of hankies,
laced with memories.
Each one unfolded,
its wrinkled face smoothed,
telling tales of tears,
farewells and broken hearts.
Delicate fabric,
whiteness yellowed grey,
colors faded, worn thin
that veil of passing.
Lovingly refolded,
no longer a piece
of today, tucked safely
back into yesterday.
This Gravel Road : Self Portrait part five
This gravel road is
long, hot, and dusty.
I keep walking on.
My feet are tired,
my shoes worn.
I have walked this road
a lifetime. They say
all roads come to an end.
Down the way there is
a bend in sight.
Along this timeworn road,
I gather flowers,
their beauty wilting
in my hands being
dropped, one by one.
I look behind. They say
never look back but
now there’s a path of
flowers to follow
when my soul returns.
The Child Laughs Aloud
The child laughs aloud,
not bubbling up
or holding back, but
erupting like Vesuvius.
There was a time,
when I too could laugh
without restraint,
tears rolling down.
This was before
I grew up, standing tall,
assured in the fact,
I knew something.
Uncertainty and fear,
now bend my spine.
Searching for answers,
my eyes grow blind.
Look up, my head says.
What should I see?
Pray, my heart says.
What do I ask for?
I hear the child,
laughter peeling like a bell,
resounding inside me,
an answer, a prayer.
The Down Arrow Glows Red
The down arrow glows red.
As the door slides open,
I step in, press LL.
People move aside, we descend.
I have been so tired.
My skin smells rusty.
I laugh imagining
myself as the tin man,
rusting when he cried.
The elevator stops
on every floor. People
get off. I reach the
lowest level, alone.
I have been so very tired.
The doctor does not laugh,
orders tests, procedures.
Then calls me saying, “Sorry
to tell you this on the phone”.
I exit down in the bowels
of the earth, following signs
that point to the tunnel.
My steps echo as I walk.
Cancer makes you tired.
My husband brings me in
for surgery. We hold hands
knowing love’s strength,
and life’s fragility.
Florescent light floods the hall.
Tiles line the narrow path,
just wide enough for the
ill and dying to pass.
I could sleep forever.
They cut out the cancer,
removing my uterus.
Womanhood a memory
I will have to forget.
The tunnel is long, twisted.
At each turn I think
this must be the end.
There is no end, it stretches on.
Curls Go With Girls
“Curls go with girls” mother taught,
pin curling my straight hair.
By morning my girlishness
was revealed. The ads taught:
“Amp up your luscious lips.”
“A dab of gloss gives you a
plumper pout.” “False eye lashes,
glam bam!” Ideal beauty revealed.
Wear makeup to feel confident,
camouflage your imperfections,
fix your face. After all,
the mirror never lies.
With good grooming, plain girls
transform into nubile maidens,
ready for seduction.
Mother, was this your goal?
Grooming builds relationships,
leading to manipulation,
exploitation and abuse,
with no choice but to follow.
From the first time the glass slipper
is tried on, the soul is locked
into a turret to await
a fairy godmother.
“A woman without paint
is like food without salt”
the Roman Plautus taught.
What about curls?
I Was Born in Winter
I was born in winter.
Janus the gatekeeper
looking forward and back.
Grandfather’s ghost prayed
beside my bed.
The hairs on my head are
numbered, as are my days.
Past and future entwined
like stars whose light is seen
beyond their death.
In the woods stands an oak
bowed under the weight of
a fallen comrade, held aloft.
I too cannot let go of
those gone before.
They still can be heard in
my voice, seen in my face,
alive within my bones.
Like Lot’s wife, I cannot help
but look back.
When time’s gate swings shut
and life ends, only bones
will remember my name.
Look up, you will find me
in the stars.
On the eve of my 69th birthday
He Lies On My Lap
He lies on my lap,
curled like a comma,
dividing now, from then,
his head tucked to tail,
no beginning or end.
Like Regulus, the cat,
star in Leo’s constellation,
who prowled the night sky,
as the child in the womb,
swam through darkness.
Starlight born around her,
sixty-nine light years ago,
bathed the babe in brightness,
before and thereafter,
as old as she is new.
In a Dark Swirl of Wind
In a dark swirl of wind,
a tree fell leaving a
hollow in the canopy.
The crash was never heard.
There must have been a
splintering groan as it
let go of the earth and sky,
the sun, wind, and rain.
No one witnessed life passing.
You left us that way,
avoiding long goodbyes,
slipping off on your own.
When time calls our name
do we chose to let go,
or does the earth let loose
from under our roots?
That dark swirl of wind
may need to snatch me up,
refusing to let go
I’ll fall with a crash.
As a Child I Believed
As a child I believed,
wind was all I needed,
to make my dime-store kite fly,
if only I could run faster.
My kite would swoop and spin,
turn and dive into the ground.
I would try again and again,
until the kite crumpled.
The bus made its final stop,
dropping her at the Home,
to live out her days, in the
company of strangers.
She sat marooned with others,
powerless, mirroring despair.
Reaching out, she grasped the hands
of those seated beside her.
A tail on a kite helps it fly,
adding drag, pulling it
in the wind’s direction.
If only I had understood,
that kind of power. As the
World Trade Center tower burned,
when there was no escape,
strangers held hands and jumped.
I see a kite flying high,
bright against the blue sky,
reaching its way toward heaven,
its tail trailing toward earth.
So You Crossed the Finish Line
So, you crossed the finish line.
They congratulated you,
said you would be missed,
then locked the door.
So, you checked the time on
the watch you no longer need,
loaded up your memories,
and drove off into the sunset.
So, is that the end,
roll the credits,
the screen turns black,
everyone files out but you?
So?
If I Do Not Write It Down
If I do not write it down,
will I ever see the truth?
So many words go past us,
we skim with our ears the fat
that coats our toast, fries our eggs,
but will never sustain us.
Like an e-visit to the doctor,
who never sets eyes on us,
nods and says “Amen” at church
to assure God Incarnate
that He is known and loved
but will be passed on the street.
So I write down the words,
trying to see their reflection
off the wide lined paper,
that draws on the letters from
youth, traced over and over,
then graded on penmanship.
I stand before you fearful
that my lack of substance will
be discovered and paraded
round for all to see and mock.
So I’ve hidden away words
that may follow me to the grave.
Before that day of cremation,
I try not to look back while boldly
stepping forward, writing the words
that once were secreted away,
my sight blurred and clouded,
so only now, I start to see.
Time Has Set Me Apart
Time has set me apart.
On the street the child calls,
“Hey, old lady”. I don’t look up,
my eyes are on my path.
You take one step, then another.
Each step brings you closer.
Each step, farther away.
The walk is uneven.
That first step, precarious,
a missed step, disastrous.
I have a fear of falling.
I have a fear of failure.
You can practice falling
so no bones are broken.
Should you practice failure,
so you can stand again?
Time warns me to watch my step.
My bones are fragile.
The path calls “Hey, old lady”.
This time I look ahead.
Welcomed in the Doorway
Welcomed in the doorway,
perches on a chair,
smiles same as ever,
Illusions to portray.
Well-worn gifted sweater,
hole opens under arm,
too late now to sew it,
onerous to maintain.
Every day, efforts made,
tries to make things last,
another coat of paint,
glue to mend a crack.
Endlessly the edges fray,
nothing stays the same,
time seems to accelerate,
marching to decay.
Helped into a jacket,
hugged fondly at the door,
loved for what once was,
ghost of what remains.
She Listens to Her World
She listens to her world
reading lips, gestures, eyes irritation.
Hears it all
but not the words in her head.
There is a drought
not colored red on a map. A dearth.
Her mouth dry, tongue parched
lips cracked.
When she speaks, dust flies out
like a car leaving down a gravel road.
It happened gradually
over years. Everyone remembered
when words rained down.
No one noticed when it slowed
to sprinkle then stopped.
Temporal lobe aphasia they said
abandoning her to memory.
She listens
SLAPS the table. That was understood.
The Woman Tips Her Coiffed Do
The woman tips her coiffed do,
smiling as she polishes,
her table to a glossy shine,
mirroring her image.
“Isn’t that a nice reflection on you?”
the Pledge commercial asks me.
Taught to dust back in the sixties,
you’d think I’d polish mine,
but my table shines with gravy
and greasy fingerprints too.
No amount of lemon polish
or elbow grease is going
to shine it like a mirror,
nor would I want it to.
My reflection is mine alone,
built on years of living,
life filled with memories,
brings back “nice” reflections.
Family gathered all together,
Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners,
roast beef as well as gravy,
licked from greasy fingers.
The Curtain Goes Up
The curtain goes up.
Scenes from yesterday,
memorized by heart,
replay in my mind. I remember.
Warehouse windows stuck shut.
Struggling to open them,
the studio heating up
like an oven. I remember.
You opened those windows,
fresh air flowed through, blowing
away deceit, the hands
around my neck. I remember.
Golden curtains billowing
on windows filled with sunlight,
the breeze cooling sweat from
our languid bodies. I remember.
Life flows through these windows.
One day the scene will end,
curtains fall, lights go dark.
Will I still remember?
Even now, my eyes grow dim.
When I no longer see,
slide open the window,
so I feel the breeze, and remember.
I Believe it was October
I believe it was October
when the long thin arms of
autumn sunlight stretched
across fields of dry grass.
Wind blew through remains
of corn stubble refuse,
stirring clouds of dust
that hung suspended.
Late in the day, your face shaded
by the thin worn curtain,
damp with sweat, glowed with
knowledge of our longings.
Where do I find myself now,
wrapped in your arms or
watching in the failing light,
shoes covered in dust?
Old Abandoned Farm House
Old abandoned farm house,
weather beaten, stripped bare,
windows stare out blankly
through fractured panes.
The front door boarded shut,
telling no tales. Not stopping
the curious who are drawn
to peer inside its decay.
I refuse to look through
those dark broken windows,
afraid of waking the ghost
still lurking there.
Haunted with memory
of a duplicitous grin,
devouring young women
to fill its rotten hollow.
Instead, I chose to stand
back in the shadows to watch
as this house is burnt down.
I’m drawn to watch the flames.
I am a Desert Owl
I am a desert owl,
looking for shelter,
flying over burning sands,
without a place to land.
I am a pelican in the wilderness,
tearing at my breast,
hearing children cry,
without a bite to eat.
I am an owl among ruins,
searching for creation,
finding desolation,
without a way back.
I am a sparrow in darkness,
watching through the night,
alone on a rooftop,
waiting for light.
Oh, Sweet Gift
Oh, sweet gift of sleep,
our bed a boat set adrift.
You lay warm against my back,
breath moves hairs on my neck.
The battle over pain and loss,
finally, at rest.
In the early hours,
the leviathan circles.
Heard over roiling waters
echoes from the past,
“Just shoot me. Throw me in.”
Ancient timbers groan.
Oh, sweet gift of life, time
blows us farther out to sea.
“I wish I was dead” was said
in pain, giving way to anger,
frustration preparing
a watery grave.
Your arms, a life preserver,
pull me to safety.
My body surrenders,
sleep washes our yesterdays,
love keeps us afloat.
Life and time still move
with the tide.
Hard Wooden Doors
Hard wooden doors
hinges creak apart
dim light filters
stained glass panes
suspended cross.
Solitary.
Hard wooden pews
groan under stress
echoes emptiness
loss, life’s questions
death’s conclusion.
Hallowed answer.
Hard garden bench
sunflowers sway
geese circle south
dusk envelopes
consummate peace.
Sanctuary.
My Life
My life is a Word Find.
Searching for “FATE”.
Discovering “FAITH”.
Looking for “HEAVEN”.
Finding “HAVE”.
Four Walls
Four walls a fortress
sometimes turn prison,
thick walls of heat
close in on me.
I dive out the door,
swim through humidity,
gasping like a
woman drowning.
Under a tree’s shade
my mind empties out,
worries fade away,
hands hang limp.
Verdant leaves droop,
a pale moth lands,
tree toads doze,
cicadas hiss.
On this hot summer day
I have no direction,
I have no goals,
I have no cares.
I breathe in,
I breathe out.
That’s enough.
The Curtains Part
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window, down the drive.
The school bus passes below.
No children live here anymore.
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window to the barn.
Metal doors clang in the wind.
No one works there anymore.
The curtains part as she opens
the window. Fresh air fills the room.
Dust dances in the sunlight.
Smiling, she writes down this poem.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:11.060718
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-5",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-6
|
1 Are You Listening?
Constance Hodder
Two Tin Cans
Two tin cans hold taut
the cord between us,
a tight rope for
children’s secrets to cross.
Old telephone booth
beside a grave yard,
conduit to the dead for
the living’s confessions.
Put your ear to the can,
a coin in the payphone,
for I too have secrets
to whisper, to confess.
Are you listening?
I will tell my tales through
the air on a heart string,
send them sailing on the wind,
to fall like leaves at your feet.
Rake them up and jump in
like a child, or leave them
swirling among the graves,
the dead will always listen.
A Blue Jay: Self Portrait part one
A blue jay sings atop
the branch of a paper birch
before a luminous azure sky.
How often I have gazed through
this temple window.
A blue jay soars above
the expansive indigo Lake
sky mirrored on calm waters.
How often I have prayed at
this living altar.
A blue jay flies up
the cliff on Blueberry Hill
so high heaven can be seen.
How often I have reached to
touch the face of God.
Long Dry Grasses Sing: Self Portrait part two
Long dry grasses sing,
blown one way, then the other.
Divide for a tawny cat
stalking through the cover.
Pads across dampened sand,
leaps atop a rock.
Surveys white capped lake,
gulls bobbing in a flock.
Wind dies with setting sun,
water reflects the glow.
Cat wanders back through
grasses now woven gold.
Tall Sunflowers: Self Portrait part three
Tall sunflowers,
garden giants,
golden petals grace
black gleaming faces,
sun followers.
At summer’s end
heads hang heavy,
mature with seed,
bend to survey
garden’s harvest.
Stems bow in prayer
goldfinch whispers,
“tomorrow comes”
plucks a seed,
then flies away.
Snow soon covers
fallen remnants,
memory of sun
secured in seed,
waiting in soil.
Tucked In a Drawer: Self Portrait part four
Tucked in a drawer,
too old to be of use,
lies a pile of hankies,
laced with memories.
Each one unfolded,
its wrinkled face smoothed,
telling tales of tears,
farewells and broken hearts.
Delicate fabric,
whiteness yellowed grey,
colors faded, worn thin
that veil of passing.
Lovingly refolded,
no longer a piece
of today, tucked safely
back into yesterday.
This Gravel Road : Self Portrait part five
This gravel road is
long, hot, and dusty.
I keep walking on.
My feet are tired,
my shoes worn.
I have walked this road
a lifetime. They say
all roads come to an end.
Down the way there is
a bend in sight.
Along this timeworn road,
I gather flowers,
their beauty wilting
in my hands being
dropped, one by one.
I look behind. They say
never look back but
now there’s a path of
flowers to follow
when my soul returns.
The Child Laughs Aloud
The child laughs aloud,
not bubbling up
or holding back, but
erupting like Vesuvius.
There was a time,
when I too could laugh
without restraint,
tears rolling down.
This was before
I grew up, standing tall,
assured in the fact,
I knew something.
Uncertainty and fear,
now bend my spine.
Searching for answers,
my eyes grow blind.
Look up, my head says.
What should I see?
Pray, my heart says.
What do I ask for?
I hear the child,
laughter peeling like a bell,
resounding inside me,
an answer, a prayer.
The Down Arrow Glows Red
The down arrow glows red.
As the door slides open,
I step in, press LL.
People move aside, we descend.
I have been so tired.
My skin smells rusty.
I laugh imagining
myself as the tin man,
rusting when he cried.
The elevator stops
on every floor. People
get off. I reach the
lowest level, alone.
I have been so very tired.
The doctor does not laugh,
orders tests, procedures.
Then calls me saying, “Sorry
to tell you this on the phone”.
I exit down in the bowels
of the earth, following signs
that point to the tunnel.
My steps echo as I walk.
Cancer makes you tired.
My husband brings me in
for surgery. We hold hands
knowing love’s strength,
and life’s fragility.
Florescent light floods the hall.
Tiles line the narrow path,
just wide enough for the
ill and dying to pass.
I could sleep forever.
They cut out the cancer,
removing my uterus.
Womanhood a memory
I will have to forget.
The tunnel is long, twisted.
At each turn I think
this must be the end.
There is no end, it stretches on.
Curls Go With Girls
“Curls go with girls” mother taught,
pin curling my straight hair.
By morning my girlishness
was revealed. The ads taught:
“Amp up your luscious lips.”
“A dab of gloss gives you a
plumper pout.” “False eye lashes,
glam bam!” Ideal beauty revealed.
Wear makeup to feel confident,
camouflage your imperfections,
fix your face. After all,
the mirror never lies.
With good grooming, plain girls
transform into nubile maidens,
ready for seduction.
Mother, was this your goal?
Grooming builds relationships,
leading to manipulation,
exploitation and abuse,
with no choice but to follow.
From the first time the glass slipper
is tried on, the soul is locked
into a turret to await
a fairy godmother.
“A woman without paint
is like food without salt”
the Roman Plautus taught.
What about curls?
I Was Born in Winter
I was born in winter.
Janus the gatekeeper
looking forward and back.
Grandfather’s ghost prayed
beside my bed.
The hairs on my head are
numbered, as are my days.
Past and future entwined
like stars whose light is seen
beyond their death.
In the woods stands an oak
bowed under the weight of
a fallen comrade, held aloft.
I too cannot let go of
those gone before.
They still can be heard in
my voice, seen in my face,
alive within my bones.
Like Lot’s wife, I cannot help
but look back.
When time’s gate swings shut
and life ends, only bones
will remember my name.
Look up, you will find me
in the stars.
On the eve of my 69th birthday
He Lies On My Lap
He lies on my lap,
curled like a comma,
dividing now, from then,
his head tucked to tail,
no beginning or end.
Like Regulus, the cat,
star in Leo’s constellation,
who prowled the night sky,
as the child in the womb,
swam through darkness.
Starlight born around her,
sixty-nine light years ago,
bathed the babe in brightness,
before and thereafter,
as old as she is new.
In a Dark Swirl of Wind
In a dark swirl of wind,
a tree fell leaving a
hollow in the canopy.
The crash was never heard.
There must have been a
splintering groan as it
let go of the earth and sky,
the sun, wind, and rain.
No one witnessed life passing.
You left us that way,
avoiding long goodbyes,
slipping off on your own.
When time calls our name
do we chose to let go,
or does the earth let loose
from under our roots?
That dark swirl of wind
may need to snatch me up,
refusing to let go
I’ll fall with a crash.
As a Child I Believed
As a child I believed,
wind was all I needed,
to make my dime-store kite fly,
if only I could run faster.
My kite would swoop and spin,
turn and dive into the ground.
I would try again and again,
until the kite crumpled.
The bus made its final stop,
dropping her at the Home,
to live out her days, in the
company of strangers.
She sat marooned with others,
powerless, mirroring despair.
Reaching out, she grasped the hands
of those seated beside her.
A tail on a kite helps it fly,
adding drag, pulling it
in the wind’s direction.
If only I had understood,
that kind of power. As the
World Trade Center tower burned,
when there was no escape,
strangers held hands and jumped.
I see a kite flying high,
bright against the blue sky,
reaching its way toward heaven,
its tail trailing toward earth.
So You Crossed the Finish Line
So, you crossed the finish line.
They congratulated you,
said you would be missed,
then locked the door.
So, you checked the time on
the watch you no longer need,
loaded up your memories,
and drove off into the sunset.
So, is that the end,
roll the credits,
the screen turns black,
everyone files out but you?
So?
If I Do Not Write It Down
If I do not write it down,
will I ever see the truth?
So many words go past us,
we skim with our ears the fat
that coats our toast, fries our eggs,
but will never sustain us.
Like an e-visit to the doctor,
who never sets eyes on us,
nods and says “Amen” at church
to assure God Incarnate
that He is known and loved
but will be passed on the street.
So I write down the words,
trying to see their reflection
off the wide lined paper,
that draws on the letters from
youth, traced over and over,
then graded on penmanship.
I stand before you fearful
that my lack of substance will
be discovered and paraded
round for all to see and mock.
So I’ve hidden away words
that may follow me to the grave.
Before that day of cremation,
I try not to look back while boldly
stepping forward, writing the words
that once were secreted away,
my sight blurred and clouded,
so only now, I start to see.
Time Has Set Me Apart
Time has set me apart.
On the street the child calls,
“Hey, old lady”. I don’t look up,
my eyes are on my path.
You take one step, then another.
Each step brings you closer.
Each step, farther away.
The walk is uneven.
That first step, precarious,
a missed step, disastrous.
I have a fear of falling.
I have a fear of failure.
You can practice falling
so no bones are broken.
Should you practice failure,
so you can stand again?
Time warns me to watch my step.
My bones are fragile.
The path calls “Hey, old lady”.
This time I look ahead.
Welcomed in the Doorway
Welcomed in the doorway,
perches on a chair,
smiles same as ever,
Illusions to portray.
Well-worn gifted sweater,
hole opens under arm,
too late now to sew it,
onerous to maintain.
Every day, efforts made,
tries to make things last,
another coat of paint,
glue to mend a crack.
Endlessly the edges fray,
nothing stays the same,
time seems to accelerate,
marching to decay.
Helped into a jacket,
hugged fondly at the door,
loved for what once was,
ghost of what remains.
She Listens to Her World
She listens to her world
reading lips, gestures, eyes irritation.
Hears it all
but not the words in her head.
There is a drought
not colored red on a map. A dearth.
Her mouth dry, tongue parched
lips cracked.
When she speaks, dust flies out
like a car leaving down a gravel road.
It happened gradually
over years. Everyone remembered
when words rained down.
No one noticed when it slowed
to sprinkle then stopped.
Temporal lobe aphasia they said
abandoning her to memory.
She listens
SLAPS the table. That was understood.
The Woman Tips Her Coiffed Do
The woman tips her coiffed do,
smiling as she polishes,
her table to a glossy shine,
mirroring her image.
“Isn’t that a nice reflection on you?”
the Pledge commercial asks me.
Taught to dust back in the sixties,
you’d think I’d polish mine,
but my table shines with gravy
and greasy fingerprints too.
No amount of lemon polish
or elbow grease is going
to shine it like a mirror,
nor would I want it to.
My reflection is mine alone,
built on years of living,
life filled with memories,
brings back “nice” reflections.
Family gathered all together,
Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners,
roast beef as well as gravy,
licked from greasy fingers.
The Curtain Goes Up
The curtain goes up.
Scenes from yesterday,
memorized by heart,
replay in my mind. I remember.
Warehouse windows stuck shut.
Struggling to open them,
the studio heating up
like an oven. I remember.
You opened those windows,
fresh air flowed through, blowing
away deceit, the hands
around my neck. I remember.
Golden curtains billowing
on windows filled with sunlight,
the breeze cooling sweat from
our languid bodies. I remember.
Life flows through these windows.
One day the scene will end,
curtains fall, lights go dark.
Will I still remember?
Even now, my eyes grow dim.
When I no longer see,
slide open the window,
so I feel the breeze, and remember.
I Believe it was October
I believe it was October
when the long thin arms of
autumn sunlight stretched
across fields of dry grass.
Wind blew through remains
of corn stubble refuse,
stirring clouds of dust
that hung suspended.
Late in the day, your face shaded
by the thin worn curtain,
damp with sweat, glowed with
knowledge of our longings.
Where do I find myself now,
wrapped in your arms or
watching in the failing light,
shoes covered in dust?
Old Abandoned Farm House
Old abandoned farm house,
weather beaten, stripped bare,
windows stare out blankly
through fractured panes.
The front door boarded shut,
telling no tales. Not stopping
the curious who are drawn
to peer inside its decay.
I refuse to look through
those dark broken windows,
afraid of waking the ghost
still lurking there.
Haunted with memory
of a duplicitous grin,
devouring young women
to fill its rotten hollow.
Instead, I chose to stand
back in the shadows to watch
as this house is burnt down.
I’m drawn to watch the flames.
I am a Desert Owl
I am a desert owl,
looking for shelter,
flying over burning sands,
without a place to land.
I am a pelican in the wilderness,
tearing at my breast,
hearing children cry,
without a bite to eat.
I am an owl among ruins,
searching for creation,
finding desolation,
without a way back.
I am a sparrow in darkness,
watching through the night,
alone on a rooftop,
waiting for light.
Oh, Sweet Gift
Oh, sweet gift of sleep,
our bed a boat set adrift.
You lay warm against my back,
breath moves hairs on my neck.
The battle over pain and loss,
finally, at rest.
In the early hours,
the leviathan circles.
Heard over roiling waters
echoes from the past,
“Just shoot me. Throw me in.”
Ancient timbers groan.
Oh, sweet gift of life, time
blows us farther out to sea.
“I wish I was dead” was said
in pain, giving way to anger,
frustration preparing
a watery grave.
Your arms, a life preserver,
pull me to safety.
My body surrenders,
sleep washes our yesterdays,
love keeps us afloat.
Life and time still move
with the tide.
Hard Wooden Doors
Hard wooden doors
hinges creak apart
dim light filters
stained glass panes
suspended cross.
Solitary.
Hard wooden pews
groan under stress
echoes emptiness
loss, life’s questions
death’s conclusion.
Hallowed answer.
Hard garden bench
sunflowers sway
geese circle south
dusk envelopes
consummate peace.
Sanctuary.
My Life
My life is a Word Find.
Searching for “FATE”.
Discovering “FAITH”.
Looking for “HEAVEN”.
Finding “HAVE”.
Four Walls
Four walls a fortress
sometimes turn prison,
thick walls of heat
close in on me.
I dive out the door,
swim through humidity,
gasping like a
woman drowning.
Under a tree’s shade
my mind empties out,
worries fade away,
hands hang limp.
Verdant leaves droop,
a pale moth lands,
tree toads doze,
cicadas hiss.
On this hot summer day
I have no direction,
I have no goals,
I have no cares.
I breathe in,
I breathe out.
That’s enough.
The Curtains Part
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window, down the drive.
The school bus passes below.
No children live here anymore.
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window to the barn.
Metal doors clang in the wind.
No one works there anymore.
The curtains part as she opens
the window. Fresh air fills the room.
Dust dances in the sunlight.
Smiling, she writes down this poem.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:11.139972
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-6",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-7
|
1 Are You Listening?
Constance Hodder
Two Tin Cans
Two tin cans hold taut
the cord between us,
a tight rope for
children’s secrets to cross.
Old telephone booth
beside a grave yard,
conduit to the dead for
the living’s confessions.
Put your ear to the can,
a coin in the payphone,
for I too have secrets
to whisper, to confess.
Are you listening?
I will tell my tales through
the air on a heart string,
send them sailing on the wind,
to fall like leaves at your feet.
Rake them up and jump in
like a child, or leave them
swirling among the graves,
the dead will always listen.
A Blue Jay: Self Portrait part one
A blue jay sings atop
the branch of a paper birch
before a luminous azure sky.
How often I have gazed through
this temple window.
A blue jay soars above
the expansive indigo Lake
sky mirrored on calm waters.
How often I have prayed at
this living altar.
A blue jay flies up
the cliff on Blueberry Hill
so high heaven can be seen.
How often I have reached to
touch the face of God.
Long Dry Grasses Sing: Self Portrait part two
Long dry grasses sing,
blown one way, then the other.
Divide for a tawny cat
stalking through the cover.
Pads across dampened sand,
leaps atop a rock.
Surveys white capped lake,
gulls bobbing in a flock.
Wind dies with setting sun,
water reflects the glow.
Cat wanders back through
grasses now woven gold.
Tall Sunflowers: Self Portrait part three
Tall sunflowers,
garden giants,
golden petals grace
black gleaming faces,
sun followers.
At summer’s end
heads hang heavy,
mature with seed,
bend to survey
garden’s harvest.
Stems bow in prayer
goldfinch whispers,
“tomorrow comes”
plucks a seed,
then flies away.
Snow soon covers
fallen remnants,
memory of sun
secured in seed,
waiting in soil.
Tucked In a Drawer: Self Portrait part four
Tucked in a drawer,
too old to be of use,
lies a pile of hankies,
laced with memories.
Each one unfolded,
its wrinkled face smoothed,
telling tales of tears,
farewells and broken hearts.
Delicate fabric,
whiteness yellowed grey,
colors faded, worn thin
that veil of passing.
Lovingly refolded,
no longer a piece
of today, tucked safely
back into yesterday.
This Gravel Road : Self Portrait part five
This gravel road is
long, hot, and dusty.
I keep walking on.
My feet are tired,
my shoes worn.
I have walked this road
a lifetime. They say
all roads come to an end.
Down the way there is
a bend in sight.
Along this timeworn road,
I gather flowers,
their beauty wilting
in my hands being
dropped, one by one.
I look behind. They say
never look back but
now there’s a path of
flowers to follow
when my soul returns.
The Child Laughs Aloud
The child laughs aloud,
not bubbling up
or holding back, but
erupting like Vesuvius.
There was a time,
when I too could laugh
without restraint,
tears rolling down.
This was before
I grew up, standing tall,
assured in the fact,
I knew something.
Uncertainty and fear,
now bend my spine.
Searching for answers,
my eyes grow blind.
Look up, my head says.
What should I see?
Pray, my heart says.
What do I ask for?
I hear the child,
laughter peeling like a bell,
resounding inside me,
an answer, a prayer.
The Down Arrow Glows Red
The down arrow glows red.
As the door slides open,
I step in, press LL.
People move aside, we descend.
I have been so tired.
My skin smells rusty.
I laugh imagining
myself as the tin man,
rusting when he cried.
The elevator stops
on every floor. People
get off. I reach the
lowest level, alone.
I have been so very tired.
The doctor does not laugh,
orders tests, procedures.
Then calls me saying, “Sorry
to tell you this on the phone”.
I exit down in the bowels
of the earth, following signs
that point to the tunnel.
My steps echo as I walk.
Cancer makes you tired.
My husband brings me in
for surgery. We hold hands
knowing love’s strength,
and life’s fragility.
Florescent light floods the hall.
Tiles line the narrow path,
just wide enough for the
ill and dying to pass.
I could sleep forever.
They cut out the cancer,
removing my uterus.
Womanhood a memory
I will have to forget.
The tunnel is long, twisted.
At each turn I think
this must be the end.
There is no end, it stretches on.
Curls Go With Girls
“Curls go with girls” mother taught,
pin curling my straight hair.
By morning my girlishness
was revealed. The ads taught:
“Amp up your luscious lips.”
“A dab of gloss gives you a
plumper pout.” “False eye lashes,
glam bam!” Ideal beauty revealed.
Wear makeup to feel confident,
camouflage your imperfections,
fix your face. After all,
the mirror never lies.
With good grooming, plain girls
transform into nubile maidens,
ready for seduction.
Mother, was this your goal?
Grooming builds relationships,
leading to manipulation,
exploitation and abuse,
with no choice but to follow.
From the first time the glass slipper
is tried on, the soul is locked
into a turret to await
a fairy godmother.
“A woman without paint
is like food without salt”
the Roman Plautus taught.
What about curls?
I Was Born in Winter
I was born in winter.
Janus the gatekeeper
looking forward and back.
Grandfather’s ghost prayed
beside my bed.
The hairs on my head are
numbered, as are my days.
Past and future entwined
like stars whose light is seen
beyond their death.
In the woods stands an oak
bowed under the weight of
a fallen comrade, held aloft.
I too cannot let go of
those gone before.
They still can be heard in
my voice, seen in my face,
alive within my bones.
Like Lot’s wife, I cannot help
but look back.
When time’s gate swings shut
and life ends, only bones
will remember my name.
Look up, you will find me
in the stars.
On the eve of my 69th birthday
He Lies On My Lap
He lies on my lap,
curled like a comma,
dividing now, from then,
his head tucked to tail,
no beginning or end.
Like Regulus, the cat,
star in Leo’s constellation,
who prowled the night sky,
as the child in the womb,
swam through darkness.
Starlight born around her,
sixty-nine light years ago,
bathed the babe in brightness,
before and thereafter,
as old as she is new.
In a Dark Swirl of Wind
In a dark swirl of wind,
a tree fell leaving a
hollow in the canopy.
The crash was never heard.
There must have been a
splintering groan as it
let go of the earth and sky,
the sun, wind, and rain.
No one witnessed life passing.
You left us that way,
avoiding long goodbyes,
slipping off on your own.
When time calls our name
do we chose to let go,
or does the earth let loose
from under our roots?
That dark swirl of wind
may need to snatch me up,
refusing to let go
I’ll fall with a crash.
As a Child I Believed
As a child I believed,
wind was all I needed,
to make my dime-store kite fly,
if only I could run faster.
My kite would swoop and spin,
turn and dive into the ground.
I would try again and again,
until the kite crumpled.
The bus made its final stop,
dropping her at the Home,
to live out her days, in the
company of strangers.
She sat marooned with others,
powerless, mirroring despair.
Reaching out, she grasped the hands
of those seated beside her.
A tail on a kite helps it fly,
adding drag, pulling it
in the wind’s direction.
If only I had understood,
that kind of power. As the
World Trade Center tower burned,
when there was no escape,
strangers held hands and jumped.
I see a kite flying high,
bright against the blue sky,
reaching its way toward heaven,
its tail trailing toward earth.
So You Crossed the Finish Line
So, you crossed the finish line.
They congratulated you,
said you would be missed,
then locked the door.
So, you checked the time on
the watch you no longer need,
loaded up your memories,
and drove off into the sunset.
So, is that the end,
roll the credits,
the screen turns black,
everyone files out but you?
So?
If I Do Not Write It Down
If I do not write it down,
will I ever see the truth?
So many words go past us,
we skim with our ears the fat
that coats our toast, fries our eggs,
but will never sustain us.
Like an e-visit to the doctor,
who never sets eyes on us,
nods and says “Amen” at church
to assure God Incarnate
that He is known and loved
but will be passed on the street.
So I write down the words,
trying to see their reflection
off the wide lined paper,
that draws on the letters from
youth, traced over and over,
then graded on penmanship.
I stand before you fearful
that my lack of substance will
be discovered and paraded
round for all to see and mock.
So I’ve hidden away words
that may follow me to the grave.
Before that day of cremation,
I try not to look back while boldly
stepping forward, writing the words
that once were secreted away,
my sight blurred and clouded,
so only now, I start to see.
Time Has Set Me Apart
Time has set me apart.
On the street the child calls,
“Hey, old lady”. I don’t look up,
my eyes are on my path.
You take one step, then another.
Each step brings you closer.
Each step, farther away.
The walk is uneven.
That first step, precarious,
a missed step, disastrous.
I have a fear of falling.
I have a fear of failure.
You can practice falling
so no bones are broken.
Should you practice failure,
so you can stand again?
Time warns me to watch my step.
My bones are fragile.
The path calls “Hey, old lady”.
This time I look ahead.
Welcomed in the Doorway
Welcomed in the doorway,
perches on a chair,
smiles same as ever,
Illusions to portray.
Well-worn gifted sweater,
hole opens under arm,
too late now to sew it,
onerous to maintain.
Every day, efforts made,
tries to make things last,
another coat of paint,
glue to mend a crack.
Endlessly the edges fray,
nothing stays the same,
time seems to accelerate,
marching to decay.
Helped into a jacket,
hugged fondly at the door,
loved for what once was,
ghost of what remains.
She Listens to Her World
She listens to her world
reading lips, gestures, eyes irritation.
Hears it all
but not the words in her head.
There is a drought
not colored red on a map. A dearth.
Her mouth dry, tongue parched
lips cracked.
When she speaks, dust flies out
like a car leaving down a gravel road.
It happened gradually
over years. Everyone remembered
when words rained down.
No one noticed when it slowed
to sprinkle then stopped.
Temporal lobe aphasia they said
abandoning her to memory.
She listens
SLAPS the table. That was understood.
The Woman Tips Her Coiffed Do
The woman tips her coiffed do,
smiling as she polishes,
her table to a glossy shine,
mirroring her image.
“Isn’t that a nice reflection on you?”
the Pledge commercial asks me.
Taught to dust back in the sixties,
you’d think I’d polish mine,
but my table shines with gravy
and greasy fingerprints too.
No amount of lemon polish
or elbow grease is going
to shine it like a mirror,
nor would I want it to.
My reflection is mine alone,
built on years of living,
life filled with memories,
brings back “nice” reflections.
Family gathered all together,
Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners,
roast beef as well as gravy,
licked from greasy fingers.
The Curtain Goes Up
The curtain goes up.
Scenes from yesterday,
memorized by heart,
replay in my mind. I remember.
Warehouse windows stuck shut.
Struggling to open them,
the studio heating up
like an oven. I remember.
You opened those windows,
fresh air flowed through, blowing
away deceit, the hands
around my neck. I remember.
Golden curtains billowing
on windows filled with sunlight,
the breeze cooling sweat from
our languid bodies. I remember.
Life flows through these windows.
One day the scene will end,
curtains fall, lights go dark.
Will I still remember?
Even now, my eyes grow dim.
When I no longer see,
slide open the window,
so I feel the breeze, and remember.
I Believe it was October
I believe it was October
when the long thin arms of
autumn sunlight stretched
across fields of dry grass.
Wind blew through remains
of corn stubble refuse,
stirring clouds of dust
that hung suspended.
Late in the day, your face shaded
by the thin worn curtain,
damp with sweat, glowed with
knowledge of our longings.
Where do I find myself now,
wrapped in your arms or
watching in the failing light,
shoes covered in dust?
Old Abandoned Farm House
Old abandoned farm house,
weather beaten, stripped bare,
windows stare out blankly
through fractured panes.
The front door boarded shut,
telling no tales. Not stopping
the curious who are drawn
to peer inside its decay.
I refuse to look through
those dark broken windows,
afraid of waking the ghost
still lurking there.
Haunted with memory
of a duplicitous grin,
devouring young women
to fill its rotten hollow.
Instead, I chose to stand
back in the shadows to watch
as this house is burnt down.
I’m drawn to watch the flames.
I am a Desert Owl
I am a desert owl,
looking for shelter,
flying over burning sands,
without a place to land.
I am a pelican in the wilderness,
tearing at my breast,
hearing children cry,
without a bite to eat.
I am an owl among ruins,
searching for creation,
finding desolation,
without a way back.
I am a sparrow in darkness,
watching through the night,
alone on a rooftop,
waiting for light.
Oh, Sweet Gift
Oh, sweet gift of sleep,
our bed a boat set adrift.
You lay warm against my back,
breath moves hairs on my neck.
The battle over pain and loss,
finally, at rest.
In the early hours,
the leviathan circles.
Heard over roiling waters
echoes from the past,
“Just shoot me. Throw me in.”
Ancient timbers groan.
Oh, sweet gift of life, time
blows us farther out to sea.
“I wish I was dead” was said
in pain, giving way to anger,
frustration preparing
a watery grave.
Your arms, a life preserver,
pull me to safety.
My body surrenders,
sleep washes our yesterdays,
love keeps us afloat.
Life and time still move
with the tide.
Hard Wooden Doors
Hard wooden doors
hinges creak apart
dim light filters
stained glass panes
suspended cross.
Solitary.
Hard wooden pews
groan under stress
echoes emptiness
loss, life’s questions
death’s conclusion.
Hallowed answer.
Hard garden bench
sunflowers sway
geese circle south
dusk envelopes
consummate peace.
Sanctuary.
My Life
My life is a Word Find.
Searching for “FATE”.
Discovering “FAITH”.
Looking for “HEAVEN”.
Finding “HAVE”.
Four Walls
Four walls a fortress
sometimes turn prison,
thick walls of heat
close in on me.
I dive out the door,
swim through humidity,
gasping like a
woman drowning.
Under a tree’s shade
my mind empties out,
worries fade away,
hands hang limp.
Verdant leaves droop,
a pale moth lands,
tree toads doze,
cicadas hiss.
On this hot summer day
I have no direction,
I have no goals,
I have no cares.
I breathe in,
I breathe out.
That’s enough.
The Curtains Part
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window, down the drive.
The school bus passes below.
No children live here anymore.
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window to the barn.
Metal doors clang in the wind.
No one works there anymore.
The curtains part as she opens
the window. Fresh air fills the room.
Dust dances in the sunlight.
Smiling, she writes down this poem.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:11.219576
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-7",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-8
|
1 Are You Listening?
Constance Hodder
Two Tin Cans
Two tin cans hold taut
the cord between us,
a tight rope for
children’s secrets to cross.
Old telephone booth
beside a grave yard,
conduit to the dead for
the living’s confessions.
Put your ear to the can,
a coin in the payphone,
for I too have secrets
to whisper, to confess.
Are you listening?
I will tell my tales through
the air on a heart string,
send them sailing on the wind,
to fall like leaves at your feet.
Rake them up and jump in
like a child, or leave them
swirling among the graves,
the dead will always listen.
A Blue Jay: Self Portrait part one
A blue jay sings atop
the branch of a paper birch
before a luminous azure sky.
How often I have gazed through
this temple window.
A blue jay soars above
the expansive indigo Lake
sky mirrored on calm waters.
How often I have prayed at
this living altar.
A blue jay flies up
the cliff on Blueberry Hill
so high heaven can be seen.
How often I have reached to
touch the face of God.
Long Dry Grasses Sing: Self Portrait part two
Long dry grasses sing,
blown one way, then the other.
Divide for a tawny cat
stalking through the cover.
Pads across dampened sand,
leaps atop a rock.
Surveys white capped lake,
gulls bobbing in a flock.
Wind dies with setting sun,
water reflects the glow.
Cat wanders back through
grasses now woven gold.
Tall Sunflowers: Self Portrait part three
Tall sunflowers,
garden giants,
golden petals grace
black gleaming faces,
sun followers.
At summer’s end
heads hang heavy,
mature with seed,
bend to survey
garden’s harvest.
Stems bow in prayer
goldfinch whispers,
“tomorrow comes”
plucks a seed,
then flies away.
Snow soon covers
fallen remnants,
memory of sun
secured in seed,
waiting in soil.
Tucked In a Drawer: Self Portrait part four
Tucked in a drawer,
too old to be of use,
lies a pile of hankies,
laced with memories.
Each one unfolded,
its wrinkled face smoothed,
telling tales of tears,
farewells and broken hearts.
Delicate fabric,
whiteness yellowed grey,
colors faded, worn thin
that veil of passing.
Lovingly refolded,
no longer a piece
of today, tucked safely
back into yesterday.
This Gravel Road : Self Portrait part five
This gravel road is
long, hot, and dusty.
I keep walking on.
My feet are tired,
my shoes worn.
I have walked this road
a lifetime. They say
all roads come to an end.
Down the way there is
a bend in sight.
Along this timeworn road,
I gather flowers,
their beauty wilting
in my hands being
dropped, one by one.
I look behind. They say
never look back but
now there’s a path of
flowers to follow
when my soul returns.
The Child Laughs Aloud
The child laughs aloud,
not bubbling up
or holding back, but
erupting like Vesuvius.
There was a time,
when I too could laugh
without restraint,
tears rolling down.
This was before
I grew up, standing tall,
assured in the fact,
I knew something.
Uncertainty and fear,
now bend my spine.
Searching for answers,
my eyes grow blind.
Look up, my head says.
What should I see?
Pray, my heart says.
What do I ask for?
I hear the child,
laughter peeling like a bell,
resounding inside me,
an answer, a prayer.
The Down Arrow Glows Red
The down arrow glows red.
As the door slides open,
I step in, press LL.
People move aside, we descend.
I have been so tired.
My skin smells rusty.
I laugh imagining
myself as the tin man,
rusting when he cried.
The elevator stops
on every floor. People
get off. I reach the
lowest level, alone.
I have been so very tired.
The doctor does not laugh,
orders tests, procedures.
Then calls me saying, “Sorry
to tell you this on the phone”.
I exit down in the bowels
of the earth, following signs
that point to the tunnel.
My steps echo as I walk.
Cancer makes you tired.
My husband brings me in
for surgery. We hold hands
knowing love’s strength,
and life’s fragility.
Florescent light floods the hall.
Tiles line the narrow path,
just wide enough for the
ill and dying to pass.
I could sleep forever.
They cut out the cancer,
removing my uterus.
Womanhood a memory
I will have to forget.
The tunnel is long, twisted.
At each turn I think
this must be the end.
There is no end, it stretches on.
Curls Go With Girls
“Curls go with girls” mother taught,
pin curling my straight hair.
By morning my girlishness
was revealed. The ads taught:
“Amp up your luscious lips.”
“A dab of gloss gives you a
plumper pout.” “False eye lashes,
glam bam!” Ideal beauty revealed.
Wear makeup to feel confident,
camouflage your imperfections,
fix your face. After all,
the mirror never lies.
With good grooming, plain girls
transform into nubile maidens,
ready for seduction.
Mother, was this your goal?
Grooming builds relationships,
leading to manipulation,
exploitation and abuse,
with no choice but to follow.
From the first time the glass slipper
is tried on, the soul is locked
into a turret to await
a fairy godmother.
“A woman without paint
is like food without salt”
the Roman Plautus taught.
What about curls?
I Was Born in Winter
I was born in winter.
Janus the gatekeeper
looking forward and back.
Grandfather’s ghost prayed
beside my bed.
The hairs on my head are
numbered, as are my days.
Past and future entwined
like stars whose light is seen
beyond their death.
In the woods stands an oak
bowed under the weight of
a fallen comrade, held aloft.
I too cannot let go of
those gone before.
They still can be heard in
my voice, seen in my face,
alive within my bones.
Like Lot’s wife, I cannot help
but look back.
When time’s gate swings shut
and life ends, only bones
will remember my name.
Look up, you will find me
in the stars.
On the eve of my 69th birthday
He Lies On My Lap
He lies on my lap,
curled like a comma,
dividing now, from then,
his head tucked to tail,
no beginning or end.
Like Regulus, the cat,
star in Leo’s constellation,
who prowled the night sky,
as the child in the womb,
swam through darkness.
Starlight born around her,
sixty-nine light years ago,
bathed the babe in brightness,
before and thereafter,
as old as she is new.
In a Dark Swirl of Wind
In a dark swirl of wind,
a tree fell leaving a
hollow in the canopy.
The crash was never heard.
There must have been a
splintering groan as it
let go of the earth and sky,
the sun, wind, and rain.
No one witnessed life passing.
You left us that way,
avoiding long goodbyes,
slipping off on your own.
When time calls our name
do we chose to let go,
or does the earth let loose
from under our roots?
That dark swirl of wind
may need to snatch me up,
refusing to let go
I’ll fall with a crash.
As a Child I Believed
As a child I believed,
wind was all I needed,
to make my dime-store kite fly,
if only I could run faster.
My kite would swoop and spin,
turn and dive into the ground.
I would try again and again,
until the kite crumpled.
The bus made its final stop,
dropping her at the Home,
to live out her days, in the
company of strangers.
She sat marooned with others,
powerless, mirroring despair.
Reaching out, she grasped the hands
of those seated beside her.
A tail on a kite helps it fly,
adding drag, pulling it
in the wind’s direction.
If only I had understood,
that kind of power. As the
World Trade Center tower burned,
when there was no escape,
strangers held hands and jumped.
I see a kite flying high,
bright against the blue sky,
reaching its way toward heaven,
its tail trailing toward earth.
So You Crossed the Finish Line
So, you crossed the finish line.
They congratulated you,
said you would be missed,
then locked the door.
So, you checked the time on
the watch you no longer need,
loaded up your memories,
and drove off into the sunset.
So, is that the end,
roll the credits,
the screen turns black,
everyone files out but you?
So?
If I Do Not Write It Down
If I do not write it down,
will I ever see the truth?
So many words go past us,
we skim with our ears the fat
that coats our toast, fries our eggs,
but will never sustain us.
Like an e-visit to the doctor,
who never sets eyes on us,
nods and says “Amen” at church
to assure God Incarnate
that He is known and loved
but will be passed on the street.
So I write down the words,
trying to see their reflection
off the wide lined paper,
that draws on the letters from
youth, traced over and over,
then graded on penmanship.
I stand before you fearful
that my lack of substance will
be discovered and paraded
round for all to see and mock.
So I’ve hidden away words
that may follow me to the grave.
Before that day of cremation,
I try not to look back while boldly
stepping forward, writing the words
that once were secreted away,
my sight blurred and clouded,
so only now, I start to see.
Time Has Set Me Apart
Time has set me apart.
On the street the child calls,
“Hey, old lady”. I don’t look up,
my eyes are on my path.
You take one step, then another.
Each step brings you closer.
Each step, farther away.
The walk is uneven.
That first step, precarious,
a missed step, disastrous.
I have a fear of falling.
I have a fear of failure.
You can practice falling
so no bones are broken.
Should you practice failure,
so you can stand again?
Time warns me to watch my step.
My bones are fragile.
The path calls “Hey, old lady”.
This time I look ahead.
Welcomed in the Doorway
Welcomed in the doorway,
perches on a chair,
smiles same as ever,
Illusions to portray.
Well-worn gifted sweater,
hole opens under arm,
too late now to sew it,
onerous to maintain.
Every day, efforts made,
tries to make things last,
another coat of paint,
glue to mend a crack.
Endlessly the edges fray,
nothing stays the same,
time seems to accelerate,
marching to decay.
Helped into a jacket,
hugged fondly at the door,
loved for what once was,
ghost of what remains.
She Listens to Her World
She listens to her world
reading lips, gestures, eyes irritation.
Hears it all
but not the words in her head.
There is a drought
not colored red on a map. A dearth.
Her mouth dry, tongue parched
lips cracked.
When she speaks, dust flies out
like a car leaving down a gravel road.
It happened gradually
over years. Everyone remembered
when words rained down.
No one noticed when it slowed
to sprinkle then stopped.
Temporal lobe aphasia they said
abandoning her to memory.
She listens
SLAPS the table. That was understood.
The Woman Tips Her Coiffed Do
The woman tips her coiffed do,
smiling as she polishes,
her table to a glossy shine,
mirroring her image.
“Isn’t that a nice reflection on you?”
the Pledge commercial asks me.
Taught to dust back in the sixties,
you’d think I’d polish mine,
but my table shines with gravy
and greasy fingerprints too.
No amount of lemon polish
or elbow grease is going
to shine it like a mirror,
nor would I want it to.
My reflection is mine alone,
built on years of living,
life filled with memories,
brings back “nice” reflections.
Family gathered all together,
Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners,
roast beef as well as gravy,
licked from greasy fingers.
The Curtain Goes Up
The curtain goes up.
Scenes from yesterday,
memorized by heart,
replay in my mind. I remember.
Warehouse windows stuck shut.
Struggling to open them,
the studio heating up
like an oven. I remember.
You opened those windows,
fresh air flowed through, blowing
away deceit, the hands
around my neck. I remember.
Golden curtains billowing
on windows filled with sunlight,
the breeze cooling sweat from
our languid bodies. I remember.
Life flows through these windows.
One day the scene will end,
curtains fall, lights go dark.
Will I still remember?
Even now, my eyes grow dim.
When I no longer see,
slide open the window,
so I feel the breeze, and remember.
I Believe it was October
I believe it was October
when the long thin arms of
autumn sunlight stretched
across fields of dry grass.
Wind blew through remains
of corn stubble refuse,
stirring clouds of dust
that hung suspended.
Late in the day, your face shaded
by the thin worn curtain,
damp with sweat, glowed with
knowledge of our longings.
Where do I find myself now,
wrapped in your arms or
watching in the failing light,
shoes covered in dust?
Old Abandoned Farm House
Old abandoned farm house,
weather beaten, stripped bare,
windows stare out blankly
through fractured panes.
The front door boarded shut,
telling no tales. Not stopping
the curious who are drawn
to peer inside its decay.
I refuse to look through
those dark broken windows,
afraid of waking the ghost
still lurking there.
Haunted with memory
of a duplicitous grin,
devouring young women
to fill its rotten hollow.
Instead, I chose to stand
back in the shadows to watch
as this house is burnt down.
I’m drawn to watch the flames.
I am a Desert Owl
I am a desert owl,
looking for shelter,
flying over burning sands,
without a place to land.
I am a pelican in the wilderness,
tearing at my breast,
hearing children cry,
without a bite to eat.
I am an owl among ruins,
searching for creation,
finding desolation,
without a way back.
I am a sparrow in darkness,
watching through the night,
alone on a rooftop,
waiting for light.
Oh, Sweet Gift
Oh, sweet gift of sleep,
our bed a boat set adrift.
You lay warm against my back,
breath moves hairs on my neck.
The battle over pain and loss,
finally, at rest.
In the early hours,
the leviathan circles.
Heard over roiling waters
echoes from the past,
“Just shoot me. Throw me in.”
Ancient timbers groan.
Oh, sweet gift of life, time
blows us farther out to sea.
“I wish I was dead” was said
in pain, giving way to anger,
frustration preparing
a watery grave.
Your arms, a life preserver,
pull me to safety.
My body surrenders,
sleep washes our yesterdays,
love keeps us afloat.
Life and time still move
with the tide.
Hard Wooden Doors
Hard wooden doors
hinges creak apart
dim light filters
stained glass panes
suspended cross.
Solitary.
Hard wooden pews
groan under stress
echoes emptiness
loss, life’s questions
death’s conclusion.
Hallowed answer.
Hard garden bench
sunflowers sway
geese circle south
dusk envelopes
consummate peace.
Sanctuary.
My Life
My life is a Word Find.
Searching for “FATE”.
Discovering “FAITH”.
Looking for “HEAVEN”.
Finding “HAVE”.
Four Walls
Four walls a fortress
sometimes turn prison,
thick walls of heat
close in on me.
I dive out the door,
swim through humidity,
gasping like a
woman drowning.
Under a tree’s shade
my mind empties out,
worries fade away,
hands hang limp.
Verdant leaves droop,
a pale moth lands,
tree toads doze,
cicadas hiss.
On this hot summer day
I have no direction,
I have no goals,
I have no cares.
I breathe in,
I breathe out.
That’s enough.
The Curtains Part
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window, down the drive.
The school bus passes below.
No children live here anymore.
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window to the barn.
Metal doors clang in the wind.
No one works there anymore.
The curtains part as she opens
the window. Fresh air fills the room.
Dust dances in the sunlight.
Smiling, she writes down this poem.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:11.300395
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-8",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-9
|
1 Are You Listening?
Constance Hodder
Two Tin Cans
Two tin cans hold taut
the cord between us,
a tight rope for
children’s secrets to cross.
Old telephone booth
beside a grave yard,
conduit to the dead for
the living’s confessions.
Put your ear to the can,
a coin in the payphone,
for I too have secrets
to whisper, to confess.
Are you listening?
I will tell my tales through
the air on a heart string,
send them sailing on the wind,
to fall like leaves at your feet.
Rake them up and jump in
like a child, or leave them
swirling among the graves,
the dead will always listen.
A Blue Jay: Self Portrait part one
A blue jay sings atop
the branch of a paper birch
before a luminous azure sky.
How often I have gazed through
this temple window.
A blue jay soars above
the expansive indigo Lake
sky mirrored on calm waters.
How often I have prayed at
this living altar.
A blue jay flies up
the cliff on Blueberry Hill
so high heaven can be seen.
How often I have reached to
touch the face of God.
Long Dry Grasses Sing: Self Portrait part two
Long dry grasses sing,
blown one way, then the other.
Divide for a tawny cat
stalking through the cover.
Pads across dampened sand,
leaps atop a rock.
Surveys white capped lake,
gulls bobbing in a flock.
Wind dies with setting sun,
water reflects the glow.
Cat wanders back through
grasses now woven gold.
Tall Sunflowers: Self Portrait part three
Tall sunflowers,
garden giants,
golden petals grace
black gleaming faces,
sun followers.
At summer’s end
heads hang heavy,
mature with seed,
bend to survey
garden’s harvest.
Stems bow in prayer
goldfinch whispers,
“tomorrow comes”
plucks a seed,
then flies away.
Snow soon covers
fallen remnants,
memory of sun
secured in seed,
waiting in soil.
Tucked In a Drawer: Self Portrait part four
Tucked in a drawer,
too old to be of use,
lies a pile of hankies,
laced with memories.
Each one unfolded,
its wrinkled face smoothed,
telling tales of tears,
farewells and broken hearts.
Delicate fabric,
whiteness yellowed grey,
colors faded, worn thin
that veil of passing.
Lovingly refolded,
no longer a piece
of today, tucked safely
back into yesterday.
This Gravel Road : Self Portrait part five
This gravel road is
long, hot, and dusty.
I keep walking on.
My feet are tired,
my shoes worn.
I have walked this road
a lifetime. They say
all roads come to an end.
Down the way there is
a bend in sight.
Along this timeworn road,
I gather flowers,
their beauty wilting
in my hands being
dropped, one by one.
I look behind. They say
never look back but
now there’s a path of
flowers to follow
when my soul returns.
The Child Laughs Aloud
The child laughs aloud,
not bubbling up
or holding back, but
erupting like Vesuvius.
There was a time,
when I too could laugh
without restraint,
tears rolling down.
This was before
I grew up, standing tall,
assured in the fact,
I knew something.
Uncertainty and fear,
now bend my spine.
Searching for answers,
my eyes grow blind.
Look up, my head says.
What should I see?
Pray, my heart says.
What do I ask for?
I hear the child,
laughter peeling like a bell,
resounding inside me,
an answer, a prayer.
The Down Arrow Glows Red
The down arrow glows red.
As the door slides open,
I step in, press LL.
People move aside, we descend.
I have been so tired.
My skin smells rusty.
I laugh imagining
myself as the tin man,
rusting when he cried.
The elevator stops
on every floor. People
get off. I reach the
lowest level, alone.
I have been so very tired.
The doctor does not laugh,
orders tests, procedures.
Then calls me saying, “Sorry
to tell you this on the phone”.
I exit down in the bowels
of the earth, following signs
that point to the tunnel.
My steps echo as I walk.
Cancer makes you tired.
My husband brings me in
for surgery. We hold hands
knowing love’s strength,
and life’s fragility.
Florescent light floods the hall.
Tiles line the narrow path,
just wide enough for the
ill and dying to pass.
I could sleep forever.
They cut out the cancer,
removing my uterus.
Womanhood a memory
I will have to forget.
The tunnel is long, twisted.
At each turn I think
this must be the end.
There is no end, it stretches on.
Curls Go With Girls
“Curls go with girls” mother taught,
pin curling my straight hair.
By morning my girlishness
was revealed. The ads taught:
“Amp up your luscious lips.”
“A dab of gloss gives you a
plumper pout.” “False eye lashes,
glam bam!” Ideal beauty revealed.
Wear makeup to feel confident,
camouflage your imperfections,
fix your face. After all,
the mirror never lies.
With good grooming, plain girls
transform into nubile maidens,
ready for seduction.
Mother, was this your goal?
Grooming builds relationships,
leading to manipulation,
exploitation and abuse,
with no choice but to follow.
From the first time the glass slipper
is tried on, the soul is locked
into a turret to await
a fairy godmother.
“A woman without paint
is like food without salt”
the Roman Plautus taught.
What about curls?
I Was Born in Winter
I was born in winter.
Janus the gatekeeper
looking forward and back.
Grandfather’s ghost prayed
beside my bed.
The hairs on my head are
numbered, as are my days.
Past and future entwined
like stars whose light is seen
beyond their death.
In the woods stands an oak
bowed under the weight of
a fallen comrade, held aloft.
I too cannot let go of
those gone before.
They still can be heard in
my voice, seen in my face,
alive within my bones.
Like Lot’s wife, I cannot help
but look back.
When time’s gate swings shut
and life ends, only bones
will remember my name.
Look up, you will find me
in the stars.
On the eve of my 69th birthday
He Lies On My Lap
He lies on my lap,
curled like a comma,
dividing now, from then,
his head tucked to tail,
no beginning or end.
Like Regulus, the cat,
star in Leo’s constellation,
who prowled the night sky,
as the child in the womb,
swam through darkness.
Starlight born around her,
sixty-nine light years ago,
bathed the babe in brightness,
before and thereafter,
as old as she is new.
In a Dark Swirl of Wind
In a dark swirl of wind,
a tree fell leaving a
hollow in the canopy.
The crash was never heard.
There must have been a
splintering groan as it
let go of the earth and sky,
the sun, wind, and rain.
No one witnessed life passing.
You left us that way,
avoiding long goodbyes,
slipping off on your own.
When time calls our name
do we chose to let go,
or does the earth let loose
from under our roots?
That dark swirl of wind
may need to snatch me up,
refusing to let go
I’ll fall with a crash.
As a Child I Believed
As a child I believed,
wind was all I needed,
to make my dime-store kite fly,
if only I could run faster.
My kite would swoop and spin,
turn and dive into the ground.
I would try again and again,
until the kite crumpled.
The bus made its final stop,
dropping her at the Home,
to live out her days, in the
company of strangers.
She sat marooned with others,
powerless, mirroring despair.
Reaching out, she grasped the hands
of those seated beside her.
A tail on a kite helps it fly,
adding drag, pulling it
in the wind’s direction.
If only I had understood,
that kind of power. As the
World Trade Center tower burned,
when there was no escape,
strangers held hands and jumped.
I see a kite flying high,
bright against the blue sky,
reaching its way toward heaven,
its tail trailing toward earth.
So You Crossed the Finish Line
So, you crossed the finish line.
They congratulated you,
said you would be missed,
then locked the door.
So, you checked the time on
the watch you no longer need,
loaded up your memories,
and drove off into the sunset.
So, is that the end,
roll the credits,
the screen turns black,
everyone files out but you?
So?
If I Do Not Write It Down
If I do not write it down,
will I ever see the truth?
So many words go past us,
we skim with our ears the fat
that coats our toast, fries our eggs,
but will never sustain us.
Like an e-visit to the doctor,
who never sets eyes on us,
nods and says “Amen” at church
to assure God Incarnate
that He is known and loved
but will be passed on the street.
So I write down the words,
trying to see their reflection
off the wide lined paper,
that draws on the letters from
youth, traced over and over,
then graded on penmanship.
I stand before you fearful
that my lack of substance will
be discovered and paraded
round for all to see and mock.
So I’ve hidden away words
that may follow me to the grave.
Before that day of cremation,
I try not to look back while boldly
stepping forward, writing the words
that once were secreted away,
my sight blurred and clouded,
so only now, I start to see.
Time Has Set Me Apart
Time has set me apart.
On the street the child calls,
“Hey, old lady”. I don’t look up,
my eyes are on my path.
You take one step, then another.
Each step brings you closer.
Each step, farther away.
The walk is uneven.
That first step, precarious,
a missed step, disastrous.
I have a fear of falling.
I have a fear of failure.
You can practice falling
so no bones are broken.
Should you practice failure,
so you can stand again?
Time warns me to watch my step.
My bones are fragile.
The path calls “Hey, old lady”.
This time I look ahead.
Welcomed in the Doorway
Welcomed in the doorway,
perches on a chair,
smiles same as ever,
Illusions to portray.
Well-worn gifted sweater,
hole opens under arm,
too late now to sew it,
onerous to maintain.
Every day, efforts made,
tries to make things last,
another coat of paint,
glue to mend a crack.
Endlessly the edges fray,
nothing stays the same,
time seems to accelerate,
marching to decay.
Helped into a jacket,
hugged fondly at the door,
loved for what once was,
ghost of what remains.
She Listens to Her World
She listens to her world
reading lips, gestures, eyes irritation.
Hears it all
but not the words in her head.
There is a drought
not colored red on a map. A dearth.
Her mouth dry, tongue parched
lips cracked.
When she speaks, dust flies out
like a car leaving down a gravel road.
It happened gradually
over years. Everyone remembered
when words rained down.
No one noticed when it slowed
to sprinkle then stopped.
Temporal lobe aphasia they said
abandoning her to memory.
She listens
SLAPS the table. That was understood.
The Woman Tips Her Coiffed Do
The woman tips her coiffed do,
smiling as she polishes,
her table to a glossy shine,
mirroring her image.
“Isn’t that a nice reflection on you?”
the Pledge commercial asks me.
Taught to dust back in the sixties,
you’d think I’d polish mine,
but my table shines with gravy
and greasy fingerprints too.
No amount of lemon polish
or elbow grease is going
to shine it like a mirror,
nor would I want it to.
My reflection is mine alone,
built on years of living,
life filled with memories,
brings back “nice” reflections.
Family gathered all together,
Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners,
roast beef as well as gravy,
licked from greasy fingers.
The Curtain Goes Up
The curtain goes up.
Scenes from yesterday,
memorized by heart,
replay in my mind. I remember.
Warehouse windows stuck shut.
Struggling to open them,
the studio heating up
like an oven. I remember.
You opened those windows,
fresh air flowed through, blowing
away deceit, the hands
around my neck. I remember.
Golden curtains billowing
on windows filled with sunlight,
the breeze cooling sweat from
our languid bodies. I remember.
Life flows through these windows.
One day the scene will end,
curtains fall, lights go dark.
Will I still remember?
Even now, my eyes grow dim.
When I no longer see,
slide open the window,
so I feel the breeze, and remember.
I Believe it was October
I believe it was October
when the long thin arms of
autumn sunlight stretched
across fields of dry grass.
Wind blew through remains
of corn stubble refuse,
stirring clouds of dust
that hung suspended.
Late in the day, your face shaded
by the thin worn curtain,
damp with sweat, glowed with
knowledge of our longings.
Where do I find myself now,
wrapped in your arms or
watching in the failing light,
shoes covered in dust?
Old Abandoned Farm House
Old abandoned farm house,
weather beaten, stripped bare,
windows stare out blankly
through fractured panes.
The front door boarded shut,
telling no tales. Not stopping
the curious who are drawn
to peer inside its decay.
I refuse to look through
those dark broken windows,
afraid of waking the ghost
still lurking there.
Haunted with memory
of a duplicitous grin,
devouring young women
to fill its rotten hollow.
Instead, I chose to stand
back in the shadows to watch
as this house is burnt down.
I’m drawn to watch the flames.
I am a Desert Owl
I am a desert owl,
looking for shelter,
flying over burning sands,
without a place to land.
I am a pelican in the wilderness,
tearing at my breast,
hearing children cry,
without a bite to eat.
I am an owl among ruins,
searching for creation,
finding desolation,
without a way back.
I am a sparrow in darkness,
watching through the night,
alone on a rooftop,
waiting for light.
Oh, Sweet Gift
Oh, sweet gift of sleep,
our bed a boat set adrift.
You lay warm against my back,
breath moves hairs on my neck.
The battle over pain and loss,
finally, at rest.
In the early hours,
the leviathan circles.
Heard over roiling waters
echoes from the past,
“Just shoot me. Throw me in.”
Ancient timbers groan.
Oh, sweet gift of life, time
blows us farther out to sea.
“I wish I was dead” was said
in pain, giving way to anger,
frustration preparing
a watery grave.
Your arms, a life preserver,
pull me to safety.
My body surrenders,
sleep washes our yesterdays,
love keeps us afloat.
Life and time still move
with the tide.
Hard Wooden Doors
Hard wooden doors
hinges creak apart
dim light filters
stained glass panes
suspended cross.
Solitary.
Hard wooden pews
groan under stress
echoes emptiness
loss, life’s questions
death’s conclusion.
Hallowed answer.
Hard garden bench
sunflowers sway
geese circle south
dusk envelopes
consummate peace.
Sanctuary.
My Life
My life is a Word Find.
Searching for “FATE”.
Discovering “FAITH”.
Looking for “HEAVEN”.
Finding “HAVE”.
Four Walls
Four walls a fortress
sometimes turn prison,
thick walls of heat
close in on me.
I dive out the door,
swim through humidity,
gasping like a
woman drowning.
Under a tree’s shade
my mind empties out,
worries fade away,
hands hang limp.
Verdant leaves droop,
a pale moth lands,
tree toads doze,
cicadas hiss.
On this hot summer day
I have no direction,
I have no goals,
I have no cares.
I breathe in,
I breathe out.
That’s enough.
The Curtains Part
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window, down the drive.
The school bus passes below.
No children live here anymore.
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window to the barn.
Metal doors clang in the wind.
No one works there anymore.
The curtains part as she opens
the window. Fresh air fills the room.
Dust dances in the sunlight.
Smiling, she writes down this poem.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:11.473608
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-9",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-10
|
1 Are You Listening?
Constance Hodder
Two Tin Cans
Two tin cans hold taut
the cord between us,
a tight rope for
children’s secrets to cross.
Old telephone booth
beside a grave yard,
conduit to the dead for
the living’s confessions.
Put your ear to the can,
a coin in the payphone,
for I too have secrets
to whisper, to confess.
Are you listening?
I will tell my tales through
the air on a heart string,
send them sailing on the wind,
to fall like leaves at your feet.
Rake them up and jump in
like a child, or leave them
swirling among the graves,
the dead will always listen.
A Blue Jay: Self Portrait part one
A blue jay sings atop
the branch of a paper birch
before a luminous azure sky.
How often I have gazed through
this temple window.
A blue jay soars above
the expansive indigo Lake
sky mirrored on calm waters.
How often I have prayed at
this living altar.
A blue jay flies up
the cliff on Blueberry Hill
so high heaven can be seen.
How often I have reached to
touch the face of God.
Long Dry Grasses Sing: Self Portrait part two
Long dry grasses sing,
blown one way, then the other.
Divide for a tawny cat
stalking through the cover.
Pads across dampened sand,
leaps atop a rock.
Surveys white capped lake,
gulls bobbing in a flock.
Wind dies with setting sun,
water reflects the glow.
Cat wanders back through
grasses now woven gold.
Tall Sunflowers: Self Portrait part three
Tall sunflowers,
garden giants,
golden petals grace
black gleaming faces,
sun followers.
At summer’s end
heads hang heavy,
mature with seed,
bend to survey
garden’s harvest.
Stems bow in prayer
goldfinch whispers,
“tomorrow comes”
plucks a seed,
then flies away.
Snow soon covers
fallen remnants,
memory of sun
secured in seed,
waiting in soil.
Tucked In a Drawer: Self Portrait part four
Tucked in a drawer,
too old to be of use,
lies a pile of hankies,
laced with memories.
Each one unfolded,
its wrinkled face smoothed,
telling tales of tears,
farewells and broken hearts.
Delicate fabric,
whiteness yellowed grey,
colors faded, worn thin
that veil of passing.
Lovingly refolded,
no longer a piece
of today, tucked safely
back into yesterday.
This Gravel Road : Self Portrait part five
This gravel road is
long, hot, and dusty.
I keep walking on.
My feet are tired,
my shoes worn.
I have walked this road
a lifetime. They say
all roads come to an end.
Down the way there is
a bend in sight.
Along this timeworn road,
I gather flowers,
their beauty wilting
in my hands being
dropped, one by one.
I look behind. They say
never look back but
now there’s a path of
flowers to follow
when my soul returns.
The Child Laughs Aloud
The child laughs aloud,
not bubbling up
or holding back, but
erupting like Vesuvius.
There was a time,
when I too could laugh
without restraint,
tears rolling down.
This was before
I grew up, standing tall,
assured in the fact,
I knew something.
Uncertainty and fear,
now bend my spine.
Searching for answers,
my eyes grow blind.
Look up, my head says.
What should I see?
Pray, my heart says.
What do I ask for?
I hear the child,
laughter peeling like a bell,
resounding inside me,
an answer, a prayer.
The Down Arrow Glows Red
The down arrow glows red.
As the door slides open,
I step in, press LL.
People move aside, we descend.
I have been so tired.
My skin smells rusty.
I laugh imagining
myself as the tin man,
rusting when he cried.
The elevator stops
on every floor. People
get off. I reach the
lowest level, alone.
I have been so very tired.
The doctor does not laugh,
orders tests, procedures.
Then calls me saying, “Sorry
to tell you this on the phone”.
I exit down in the bowels
of the earth, following signs
that point to the tunnel.
My steps echo as I walk.
Cancer makes you tired.
My husband brings me in
for surgery. We hold hands
knowing love’s strength,
and life’s fragility.
Florescent light floods the hall.
Tiles line the narrow path,
just wide enough for the
ill and dying to pass.
I could sleep forever.
They cut out the cancer,
removing my uterus.
Womanhood a memory
I will have to forget.
The tunnel is long, twisted.
At each turn I think
this must be the end.
There is no end, it stretches on.
Curls Go With Girls
“Curls go with girls” mother taught,
pin curling my straight hair.
By morning my girlishness
was revealed. The ads taught:
“Amp up your luscious lips.”
“A dab of gloss gives you a
plumper pout.” “False eye lashes,
glam bam!” Ideal beauty revealed.
Wear makeup to feel confident,
camouflage your imperfections,
fix your face. After all,
the mirror never lies.
With good grooming, plain girls
transform into nubile maidens,
ready for seduction.
Mother, was this your goal?
Grooming builds relationships,
leading to manipulation,
exploitation and abuse,
with no choice but to follow.
From the first time the glass slipper
is tried on, the soul is locked
into a turret to await
a fairy godmother.
“A woman without paint
is like food without salt”
the Roman Plautus taught.
What about curls?
I Was Born in Winter
I was born in winter.
Janus the gatekeeper
looking forward and back.
Grandfather’s ghost prayed
beside my bed.
The hairs on my head are
numbered, as are my days.
Past and future entwined
like stars whose light is seen
beyond their death.
In the woods stands an oak
bowed under the weight of
a fallen comrade, held aloft.
I too cannot let go of
those gone before.
They still can be heard in
my voice, seen in my face,
alive within my bones.
Like Lot’s wife, I cannot help
but look back.
When time’s gate swings shut
and life ends, only bones
will remember my name.
Look up, you will find me
in the stars.
On the eve of my 69th birthday
He Lies On My Lap
He lies on my lap,
curled like a comma,
dividing now, from then,
his head tucked to tail,
no beginning or end.
Like Regulus, the cat,
star in Leo’s constellation,
who prowled the night sky,
as the child in the womb,
swam through darkness.
Starlight born around her,
sixty-nine light years ago,
bathed the babe in brightness,
before and thereafter,
as old as she is new.
In a Dark Swirl of Wind
In a dark swirl of wind,
a tree fell leaving a
hollow in the canopy.
The crash was never heard.
There must have been a
splintering groan as it
let go of the earth and sky,
the sun, wind, and rain.
No one witnessed life passing.
You left us that way,
avoiding long goodbyes,
slipping off on your own.
When time calls our name
do we chose to let go,
or does the earth let loose
from under our roots?
That dark swirl of wind
may need to snatch me up,
refusing to let go
I’ll fall with a crash.
As a Child I Believed
As a child I believed,
wind was all I needed,
to make my dime-store kite fly,
if only I could run faster.
My kite would swoop and spin,
turn and dive into the ground.
I would try again and again,
until the kite crumpled.
The bus made its final stop,
dropping her at the Home,
to live out her days, in the
company of strangers.
She sat marooned with others,
powerless, mirroring despair.
Reaching out, she grasped the hands
of those seated beside her.
A tail on a kite helps it fly,
adding drag, pulling it
in the wind’s direction.
If only I had understood,
that kind of power. As the
World Trade Center tower burned,
when there was no escape,
strangers held hands and jumped.
I see a kite flying high,
bright against the blue sky,
reaching its way toward heaven,
its tail trailing toward earth.
So You Crossed the Finish Line
So, you crossed the finish line.
They congratulated you,
said you would be missed,
then locked the door.
So, you checked the time on
the watch you no longer need,
loaded up your memories,
and drove off into the sunset.
So, is that the end,
roll the credits,
the screen turns black,
everyone files out but you?
So?
If I Do Not Write It Down
If I do not write it down,
will I ever see the truth?
So many words go past us,
we skim with our ears the fat
that coats our toast, fries our eggs,
but will never sustain us.
Like an e-visit to the doctor,
who never sets eyes on us,
nods and says “Amen” at church
to assure God Incarnate
that He is known and loved
but will be passed on the street.
So I write down the words,
trying to see their reflection
off the wide lined paper,
that draws on the letters from
youth, traced over and over,
then graded on penmanship.
I stand before you fearful
that my lack of substance will
be discovered and paraded
round for all to see and mock.
So I’ve hidden away words
that may follow me to the grave.
Before that day of cremation,
I try not to look back while boldly
stepping forward, writing the words
that once were secreted away,
my sight blurred and clouded,
so only now, I start to see.
Time Has Set Me Apart
Time has set me apart.
On the street the child calls,
“Hey, old lady”. I don’t look up,
my eyes are on my path.
You take one step, then another.
Each step brings you closer.
Each step, farther away.
The walk is uneven.
That first step, precarious,
a missed step, disastrous.
I have a fear of falling.
I have a fear of failure.
You can practice falling
so no bones are broken.
Should you practice failure,
so you can stand again?
Time warns me to watch my step.
My bones are fragile.
The path calls “Hey, old lady”.
This time I look ahead.
Welcomed in the Doorway
Welcomed in the doorway,
perches on a chair,
smiles same as ever,
Illusions to portray.
Well-worn gifted sweater,
hole opens under arm,
too late now to sew it,
onerous to maintain.
Every day, efforts made,
tries to make things last,
another coat of paint,
glue to mend a crack.
Endlessly the edges fray,
nothing stays the same,
time seems to accelerate,
marching to decay.
Helped into a jacket,
hugged fondly at the door,
loved for what once was,
ghost of what remains.
She Listens to Her World
She listens to her world
reading lips, gestures, eyes irritation.
Hears it all
but not the words in her head.
There is a drought
not colored red on a map. A dearth.
Her mouth dry, tongue parched
lips cracked.
When she speaks, dust flies out
like a car leaving down a gravel road.
It happened gradually
over years. Everyone remembered
when words rained down.
No one noticed when it slowed
to sprinkle then stopped.
Temporal lobe aphasia they said
abandoning her to memory.
She listens
SLAPS the table. That was understood.
The Woman Tips Her Coiffed Do
The woman tips her coiffed do,
smiling as she polishes,
her table to a glossy shine,
mirroring her image.
“Isn’t that a nice reflection on you?”
the Pledge commercial asks me.
Taught to dust back in the sixties,
you’d think I’d polish mine,
but my table shines with gravy
and greasy fingerprints too.
No amount of lemon polish
or elbow grease is going
to shine it like a mirror,
nor would I want it to.
My reflection is mine alone,
built on years of living,
life filled with memories,
brings back “nice” reflections.
Family gathered all together,
Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners,
roast beef as well as gravy,
licked from greasy fingers.
The Curtain Goes Up
The curtain goes up.
Scenes from yesterday,
memorized by heart,
replay in my mind. I remember.
Warehouse windows stuck shut.
Struggling to open them,
the studio heating up
like an oven. I remember.
You opened those windows,
fresh air flowed through, blowing
away deceit, the hands
around my neck. I remember.
Golden curtains billowing
on windows filled with sunlight,
the breeze cooling sweat from
our languid bodies. I remember.
Life flows through these windows.
One day the scene will end,
curtains fall, lights go dark.
Will I still remember?
Even now, my eyes grow dim.
When I no longer see,
slide open the window,
so I feel the breeze, and remember.
I Believe it was October
I believe it was October
when the long thin arms of
autumn sunlight stretched
across fields of dry grass.
Wind blew through remains
of corn stubble refuse,
stirring clouds of dust
that hung suspended.
Late in the day, your face shaded
by the thin worn curtain,
damp with sweat, glowed with
knowledge of our longings.
Where do I find myself now,
wrapped in your arms or
watching in the failing light,
shoes covered in dust?
Old Abandoned Farm House
Old abandoned farm house,
weather beaten, stripped bare,
windows stare out blankly
through fractured panes.
The front door boarded shut,
telling no tales. Not stopping
the curious who are drawn
to peer inside its decay.
I refuse to look through
those dark broken windows,
afraid of waking the ghost
still lurking there.
Haunted with memory
of a duplicitous grin,
devouring young women
to fill its rotten hollow.
Instead, I chose to stand
back in the shadows to watch
as this house is burnt down.
I’m drawn to watch the flames.
I am a Desert Owl
I am a desert owl,
looking for shelter,
flying over burning sands,
without a place to land.
I am a pelican in the wilderness,
tearing at my breast,
hearing children cry,
without a bite to eat.
I am an owl among ruins,
searching for creation,
finding desolation,
without a way back.
I am a sparrow in darkness,
watching through the night,
alone on a rooftop,
waiting for light.
Oh, Sweet Gift
Oh, sweet gift of sleep,
our bed a boat set adrift.
You lay warm against my back,
breath moves hairs on my neck.
The battle over pain and loss,
finally, at rest.
In the early hours,
the leviathan circles.
Heard over roiling waters
echoes from the past,
“Just shoot me. Throw me in.”
Ancient timbers groan.
Oh, sweet gift of life, time
blows us farther out to sea.
“I wish I was dead” was said
in pain, giving way to anger,
frustration preparing
a watery grave.
Your arms, a life preserver,
pull me to safety.
My body surrenders,
sleep washes our yesterdays,
love keeps us afloat.
Life and time still move
with the tide.
Hard Wooden Doors
Hard wooden doors
hinges creak apart
dim light filters
stained glass panes
suspended cross.
Solitary.
Hard wooden pews
groan under stress
echoes emptiness
loss, life’s questions
death’s conclusion.
Hallowed answer.
Hard garden bench
sunflowers sway
geese circle south
dusk envelopes
consummate peace.
Sanctuary.
My Life
My life is a Word Find.
Searching for “FATE”.
Discovering “FAITH”.
Looking for “HEAVEN”.
Finding “HAVE”.
Four Walls
Four walls a fortress
sometimes turn prison,
thick walls of heat
close in on me.
I dive out the door,
swim through humidity,
gasping like a
woman drowning.
Under a tree’s shade
my mind empties out,
worries fade away,
hands hang limp.
Verdant leaves droop,
a pale moth lands,
tree toads doze,
cicadas hiss.
On this hot summer day
I have no direction,
I have no goals,
I have no cares.
I breathe in,
I breathe out.
That’s enough.
The Curtains Part
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window, down the drive.
The school bus passes below.
No children live here anymore.
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window to the barn.
Metal doors clang in the wind.
No one works there anymore.
The curtains part as she opens
the window. Fresh air fills the room.
Dust dances in the sunlight.
Smiling, she writes down this poem.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:11.550731
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-10",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-11
|
1 Are You Listening?
Constance Hodder
Two Tin Cans
Two tin cans hold taut
the cord between us,
a tight rope for
children’s secrets to cross.
Old telephone booth
beside a grave yard,
conduit to the dead for
the living’s confessions.
Put your ear to the can,
a coin in the payphone,
for I too have secrets
to whisper, to confess.
Are you listening?
I will tell my tales through
the air on a heart string,
send them sailing on the wind,
to fall like leaves at your feet.
Rake them up and jump in
like a child, or leave them
swirling among the graves,
the dead will always listen.
A Blue Jay: Self Portrait part one
A blue jay sings atop
the branch of a paper birch
before a luminous azure sky.
How often I have gazed through
this temple window.
A blue jay soars above
the expansive indigo Lake
sky mirrored on calm waters.
How often I have prayed at
this living altar.
A blue jay flies up
the cliff on Blueberry Hill
so high heaven can be seen.
How often I have reached to
touch the face of God.
Long Dry Grasses Sing: Self Portrait part two
Long dry grasses sing,
blown one way, then the other.
Divide for a tawny cat
stalking through the cover.
Pads across dampened sand,
leaps atop a rock.
Surveys white capped lake,
gulls bobbing in a flock.
Wind dies with setting sun,
water reflects the glow.
Cat wanders back through
grasses now woven gold.
Tall Sunflowers: Self Portrait part three
Tall sunflowers,
garden giants,
golden petals grace
black gleaming faces,
sun followers.
At summer’s end
heads hang heavy,
mature with seed,
bend to survey
garden’s harvest.
Stems bow in prayer
goldfinch whispers,
“tomorrow comes”
plucks a seed,
then flies away.
Snow soon covers
fallen remnants,
memory of sun
secured in seed,
waiting in soil.
Tucked In a Drawer: Self Portrait part four
Tucked in a drawer,
too old to be of use,
lies a pile of hankies,
laced with memories.
Each one unfolded,
its wrinkled face smoothed,
telling tales of tears,
farewells and broken hearts.
Delicate fabric,
whiteness yellowed grey,
colors faded, worn thin
that veil of passing.
Lovingly refolded,
no longer a piece
of today, tucked safely
back into yesterday.
This Gravel Road : Self Portrait part five
This gravel road is
long, hot, and dusty.
I keep walking on.
My feet are tired,
my shoes worn.
I have walked this road
a lifetime. They say
all roads come to an end.
Down the way there is
a bend in sight.
Along this timeworn road,
I gather flowers,
their beauty wilting
in my hands being
dropped, one by one.
I look behind. They say
never look back but
now there’s a path of
flowers to follow
when my soul returns.
The Child Laughs Aloud
The child laughs aloud,
not bubbling up
or holding back, but
erupting like Vesuvius.
There was a time,
when I too could laugh
without restraint,
tears rolling down.
This was before
I grew up, standing tall,
assured in the fact,
I knew something.
Uncertainty and fear,
now bend my spine.
Searching for answers,
my eyes grow blind.
Look up, my head says.
What should I see?
Pray, my heart says.
What do I ask for?
I hear the child,
laughter peeling like a bell,
resounding inside me,
an answer, a prayer.
The Down Arrow Glows Red
The down arrow glows red.
As the door slides open,
I step in, press LL.
People move aside, we descend.
I have been so tired.
My skin smells rusty.
I laugh imagining
myself as the tin man,
rusting when he cried.
The elevator stops
on every floor. People
get off. I reach the
lowest level, alone.
I have been so very tired.
The doctor does not laugh,
orders tests, procedures.
Then calls me saying, “Sorry
to tell you this on the phone”.
I exit down in the bowels
of the earth, following signs
that point to the tunnel.
My steps echo as I walk.
Cancer makes you tired.
My husband brings me in
for surgery. We hold hands
knowing love’s strength,
and life’s fragility.
Florescent light floods the hall.
Tiles line the narrow path,
just wide enough for the
ill and dying to pass.
I could sleep forever.
They cut out the cancer,
removing my uterus.
Womanhood a memory
I will have to forget.
The tunnel is long, twisted.
At each turn I think
this must be the end.
There is no end, it stretches on.
Curls Go With Girls
“Curls go with girls” mother taught,
pin curling my straight hair.
By morning my girlishness
was revealed. The ads taught:
“Amp up your luscious lips.”
“A dab of gloss gives you a
plumper pout.” “False eye lashes,
glam bam!” Ideal beauty revealed.
Wear makeup to feel confident,
camouflage your imperfections,
fix your face. After all,
the mirror never lies.
With good grooming, plain girls
transform into nubile maidens,
ready for seduction.
Mother, was this your goal?
Grooming builds relationships,
leading to manipulation,
exploitation and abuse,
with no choice but to follow.
From the first time the glass slipper
is tried on, the soul is locked
into a turret to await
a fairy godmother.
“A woman without paint
is like food without salt”
the Roman Plautus taught.
What about curls?
I Was Born in Winter
I was born in winter.
Janus the gatekeeper
looking forward and back.
Grandfather’s ghost prayed
beside my bed.
The hairs on my head are
numbered, as are my days.
Past and future entwined
like stars whose light is seen
beyond their death.
In the woods stands an oak
bowed under the weight of
a fallen comrade, held aloft.
I too cannot let go of
those gone before.
They still can be heard in
my voice, seen in my face,
alive within my bones.
Like Lot’s wife, I cannot help
but look back.
When time’s gate swings shut
and life ends, only bones
will remember my name.
Look up, you will find me
in the stars.
On the eve of my 69th birthday
He Lies On My Lap
He lies on my lap,
curled like a comma,
dividing now, from then,
his head tucked to tail,
no beginning or end.
Like Regulus, the cat,
star in Leo’s constellation,
who prowled the night sky,
as the child in the womb,
swam through darkness.
Starlight born around her,
sixty-nine light years ago,
bathed the babe in brightness,
before and thereafter,
as old as she is new.
In a Dark Swirl of Wind
In a dark swirl of wind,
a tree fell leaving a
hollow in the canopy.
The crash was never heard.
There must have been a
splintering groan as it
let go of the earth and sky,
the sun, wind, and rain.
No one witnessed life passing.
You left us that way,
avoiding long goodbyes,
slipping off on your own.
When time calls our name
do we chose to let go,
or does the earth let loose
from under our roots?
That dark swirl of wind
may need to snatch me up,
refusing to let go
I’ll fall with a crash.
As a Child I Believed
As a child I believed,
wind was all I needed,
to make my dime-store kite fly,
if only I could run faster.
My kite would swoop and spin,
turn and dive into the ground.
I would try again and again,
until the kite crumpled.
The bus made its final stop,
dropping her at the Home,
to live out her days, in the
company of strangers.
She sat marooned with others,
powerless, mirroring despair.
Reaching out, she grasped the hands
of those seated beside her.
A tail on a kite helps it fly,
adding drag, pulling it
in the wind’s direction.
If only I had understood,
that kind of power. As the
World Trade Center tower burned,
when there was no escape,
strangers held hands and jumped.
I see a kite flying high,
bright against the blue sky,
reaching its way toward heaven,
its tail trailing toward earth.
So You Crossed the Finish Line
So, you crossed the finish line.
They congratulated you,
said you would be missed,
then locked the door.
So, you checked the time on
the watch you no longer need,
loaded up your memories,
and drove off into the sunset.
So, is that the end,
roll the credits,
the screen turns black,
everyone files out but you?
So?
If I Do Not Write It Down
If I do not write it down,
will I ever see the truth?
So many words go past us,
we skim with our ears the fat
that coats our toast, fries our eggs,
but will never sustain us.
Like an e-visit to the doctor,
who never sets eyes on us,
nods and says “Amen” at church
to assure God Incarnate
that He is known and loved
but will be passed on the street.
So I write down the words,
trying to see their reflection
off the wide lined paper,
that draws on the letters from
youth, traced over and over,
then graded on penmanship.
I stand before you fearful
that my lack of substance will
be discovered and paraded
round for all to see and mock.
So I’ve hidden away words
that may follow me to the grave.
Before that day of cremation,
I try not to look back while boldly
stepping forward, writing the words
that once were secreted away,
my sight blurred and clouded,
so only now, I start to see.
Time Has Set Me Apart
Time has set me apart.
On the street the child calls,
“Hey, old lady”. I don’t look up,
my eyes are on my path.
You take one step, then another.
Each step brings you closer.
Each step, farther away.
The walk is uneven.
That first step, precarious,
a missed step, disastrous.
I have a fear of falling.
I have a fear of failure.
You can practice falling
so no bones are broken.
Should you practice failure,
so you can stand again?
Time warns me to watch my step.
My bones are fragile.
The path calls “Hey, old lady”.
This time I look ahead.
Welcomed in the Doorway
Welcomed in the doorway,
perches on a chair,
smiles same as ever,
Illusions to portray.
Well-worn gifted sweater,
hole opens under arm,
too late now to sew it,
onerous to maintain.
Every day, efforts made,
tries to make things last,
another coat of paint,
glue to mend a crack.
Endlessly the edges fray,
nothing stays the same,
time seems to accelerate,
marching to decay.
Helped into a jacket,
hugged fondly at the door,
loved for what once was,
ghost of what remains.
She Listens to Her World
She listens to her world
reading lips, gestures, eyes irritation.
Hears it all
but not the words in her head.
There is a drought
not colored red on a map. A dearth.
Her mouth dry, tongue parched
lips cracked.
When she speaks, dust flies out
like a car leaving down a gravel road.
It happened gradually
over years. Everyone remembered
when words rained down.
No one noticed when it slowed
to sprinkle then stopped.
Temporal lobe aphasia they said
abandoning her to memory.
She listens
SLAPS the table. That was understood.
The Woman Tips Her Coiffed Do
The woman tips her coiffed do,
smiling as she polishes,
her table to a glossy shine,
mirroring her image.
“Isn’t that a nice reflection on you?”
the Pledge commercial asks me.
Taught to dust back in the sixties,
you’d think I’d polish mine,
but my table shines with gravy
and greasy fingerprints too.
No amount of lemon polish
or elbow grease is going
to shine it like a mirror,
nor would I want it to.
My reflection is mine alone,
built on years of living,
life filled with memories,
brings back “nice” reflections.
Family gathered all together,
Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners,
roast beef as well as gravy,
licked from greasy fingers.
The Curtain Goes Up
The curtain goes up.
Scenes from yesterday,
memorized by heart,
replay in my mind. I remember.
Warehouse windows stuck shut.
Struggling to open them,
the studio heating up
like an oven. I remember.
You opened those windows,
fresh air flowed through, blowing
away deceit, the hands
around my neck. I remember.
Golden curtains billowing
on windows filled with sunlight,
the breeze cooling sweat from
our languid bodies. I remember.
Life flows through these windows.
One day the scene will end,
curtains fall, lights go dark.
Will I still remember?
Even now, my eyes grow dim.
When I no longer see,
slide open the window,
so I feel the breeze, and remember.
I Believe it was October
I believe it was October
when the long thin arms of
autumn sunlight stretched
across fields of dry grass.
Wind blew through remains
of corn stubble refuse,
stirring clouds of dust
that hung suspended.
Late in the day, your face shaded
by the thin worn curtain,
damp with sweat, glowed with
knowledge of our longings.
Where do I find myself now,
wrapped in your arms or
watching in the failing light,
shoes covered in dust?
Old Abandoned Farm House
Old abandoned farm house,
weather beaten, stripped bare,
windows stare out blankly
through fractured panes.
The front door boarded shut,
telling no tales. Not stopping
the curious who are drawn
to peer inside its decay.
I refuse to look through
those dark broken windows,
afraid of waking the ghost
still lurking there.
Haunted with memory
of a duplicitous grin,
devouring young women
to fill its rotten hollow.
Instead, I chose to stand
back in the shadows to watch
as this house is burnt down.
I’m drawn to watch the flames.
I am a Desert Owl
I am a desert owl,
looking for shelter,
flying over burning sands,
without a place to land.
I am a pelican in the wilderness,
tearing at my breast,
hearing children cry,
without a bite to eat.
I am an owl among ruins,
searching for creation,
finding desolation,
without a way back.
I am a sparrow in darkness,
watching through the night,
alone on a rooftop,
waiting for light.
Oh, Sweet Gift
Oh, sweet gift of sleep,
our bed a boat set adrift.
You lay warm against my back,
breath moves hairs on my neck.
The battle over pain and loss,
finally, at rest.
In the early hours,
the leviathan circles.
Heard over roiling waters
echoes from the past,
“Just shoot me. Throw me in.”
Ancient timbers groan.
Oh, sweet gift of life, time
blows us farther out to sea.
“I wish I was dead” was said
in pain, giving way to anger,
frustration preparing
a watery grave.
Your arms, a life preserver,
pull me to safety.
My body surrenders,
sleep washes our yesterdays,
love keeps us afloat.
Life and time still move
with the tide.
Hard Wooden Doors
Hard wooden doors
hinges creak apart
dim light filters
stained glass panes
suspended cross.
Solitary.
Hard wooden pews
groan under stress
echoes emptiness
loss, life’s questions
death’s conclusion.
Hallowed answer.
Hard garden bench
sunflowers sway
geese circle south
dusk envelopes
consummate peace.
Sanctuary.
My Life
My life is a Word Find.
Searching for “FATE”.
Discovering “FAITH”.
Looking for “HEAVEN”.
Finding “HAVE”.
Four Walls
Four walls a fortress
sometimes turn prison,
thick walls of heat
close in on me.
I dive out the door,
swim through humidity,
gasping like a
woman drowning.
Under a tree’s shade
my mind empties out,
worries fade away,
hands hang limp.
Verdant leaves droop,
a pale moth lands,
tree toads doze,
cicadas hiss.
On this hot summer day
I have no direction,
I have no goals,
I have no cares.
I breathe in,
I breathe out.
That’s enough.
The Curtains Part
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window, down the drive.
The school bus passes below.
No children live here anymore.
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window to the barn.
Metal doors clang in the wind.
No one works there anymore.
The curtains part as she opens
the window. Fresh air fills the room.
Dust dances in the sunlight.
Smiling, she writes down this poem.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:11.629843
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-11",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-12
|
1 Are You Listening?
Constance Hodder
Two Tin Cans
Two tin cans hold taut
the cord between us,
a tight rope for
children’s secrets to cross.
Old telephone booth
beside a grave yard,
conduit to the dead for
the living’s confessions.
Put your ear to the can,
a coin in the payphone,
for I too have secrets
to whisper, to confess.
Are you listening?
I will tell my tales through
the air on a heart string,
send them sailing on the wind,
to fall like leaves at your feet.
Rake them up and jump in
like a child, or leave them
swirling among the graves,
the dead will always listen.
A Blue Jay: Self Portrait part one
A blue jay sings atop
the branch of a paper birch
before a luminous azure sky.
How often I have gazed through
this temple window.
A blue jay soars above
the expansive indigo Lake
sky mirrored on calm waters.
How often I have prayed at
this living altar.
A blue jay flies up
the cliff on Blueberry Hill
so high heaven can be seen.
How often I have reached to
touch the face of God.
Long Dry Grasses Sing: Self Portrait part two
Long dry grasses sing,
blown one way, then the other.
Divide for a tawny cat
stalking through the cover.
Pads across dampened sand,
leaps atop a rock.
Surveys white capped lake,
gulls bobbing in a flock.
Wind dies with setting sun,
water reflects the glow.
Cat wanders back through
grasses now woven gold.
Tall Sunflowers: Self Portrait part three
Tall sunflowers,
garden giants,
golden petals grace
black gleaming faces,
sun followers.
At summer’s end
heads hang heavy,
mature with seed,
bend to survey
garden’s harvest.
Stems bow in prayer
goldfinch whispers,
“tomorrow comes”
plucks a seed,
then flies away.
Snow soon covers
fallen remnants,
memory of sun
secured in seed,
waiting in soil.
Tucked In a Drawer: Self Portrait part four
Tucked in a drawer,
too old to be of use,
lies a pile of hankies,
laced with memories.
Each one unfolded,
its wrinkled face smoothed,
telling tales of tears,
farewells and broken hearts.
Delicate fabric,
whiteness yellowed grey,
colors faded, worn thin
that veil of passing.
Lovingly refolded,
no longer a piece
of today, tucked safely
back into yesterday.
This Gravel Road : Self Portrait part five
This gravel road is
long, hot, and dusty.
I keep walking on.
My feet are tired,
my shoes worn.
I have walked this road
a lifetime. They say
all roads come to an end.
Down the way there is
a bend in sight.
Along this timeworn road,
I gather flowers,
their beauty wilting
in my hands being
dropped, one by one.
I look behind. They say
never look back but
now there’s a path of
flowers to follow
when my soul returns.
The Child Laughs Aloud
The child laughs aloud,
not bubbling up
or holding back, but
erupting like Vesuvius.
There was a time,
when I too could laugh
without restraint,
tears rolling down.
This was before
I grew up, standing tall,
assured in the fact,
I knew something.
Uncertainty and fear,
now bend my spine.
Searching for answers,
my eyes grow blind.
Look up, my head says.
What should I see?
Pray, my heart says.
What do I ask for?
I hear the child,
laughter peeling like a bell,
resounding inside me,
an answer, a prayer.
The Down Arrow Glows Red
The down arrow glows red.
As the door slides open,
I step in, press LL.
People move aside, we descend.
I have been so tired.
My skin smells rusty.
I laugh imagining
myself as the tin man,
rusting when he cried.
The elevator stops
on every floor. People
get off. I reach the
lowest level, alone.
I have been so very tired.
The doctor does not laugh,
orders tests, procedures.
Then calls me saying, “Sorry
to tell you this on the phone”.
I exit down in the bowels
of the earth, following signs
that point to the tunnel.
My steps echo as I walk.
Cancer makes you tired.
My husband brings me in
for surgery. We hold hands
knowing love’s strength,
and life’s fragility.
Florescent light floods the hall.
Tiles line the narrow path,
just wide enough for the
ill and dying to pass.
I could sleep forever.
They cut out the cancer,
removing my uterus.
Womanhood a memory
I will have to forget.
The tunnel is long, twisted.
At each turn I think
this must be the end.
There is no end, it stretches on.
Curls Go With Girls
“Curls go with girls” mother taught,
pin curling my straight hair.
By morning my girlishness
was revealed. The ads taught:
“Amp up your luscious lips.”
“A dab of gloss gives you a
plumper pout.” “False eye lashes,
glam bam!” Ideal beauty revealed.
Wear makeup to feel confident,
camouflage your imperfections,
fix your face. After all,
the mirror never lies.
With good grooming, plain girls
transform into nubile maidens,
ready for seduction.
Mother, was this your goal?
Grooming builds relationships,
leading to manipulation,
exploitation and abuse,
with no choice but to follow.
From the first time the glass slipper
is tried on, the soul is locked
into a turret to await
a fairy godmother.
“A woman without paint
is like food without salt”
the Roman Plautus taught.
What about curls?
I Was Born in Winter
I was born in winter.
Janus the gatekeeper
looking forward and back.
Grandfather’s ghost prayed
beside my bed.
The hairs on my head are
numbered, as are my days.
Past and future entwined
like stars whose light is seen
beyond their death.
In the woods stands an oak
bowed under the weight of
a fallen comrade, held aloft.
I too cannot let go of
those gone before.
They still can be heard in
my voice, seen in my face,
alive within my bones.
Like Lot’s wife, I cannot help
but look back.
When time’s gate swings shut
and life ends, only bones
will remember my name.
Look up, you will find me
in the stars.
On the eve of my 69th birthday
He Lies On My Lap
He lies on my lap,
curled like a comma,
dividing now, from then,
his head tucked to tail,
no beginning or end.
Like Regulus, the cat,
star in Leo’s constellation,
who prowled the night sky,
as the child in the womb,
swam through darkness.
Starlight born around her,
sixty-nine light years ago,
bathed the babe in brightness,
before and thereafter,
as old as she is new.
In a Dark Swirl of Wind
In a dark swirl of wind,
a tree fell leaving a
hollow in the canopy.
The crash was never heard.
There must have been a
splintering groan as it
let go of the earth and sky,
the sun, wind, and rain.
No one witnessed life passing.
You left us that way,
avoiding long goodbyes,
slipping off on your own.
When time calls our name
do we chose to let go,
or does the earth let loose
from under our roots?
That dark swirl of wind
may need to snatch me up,
refusing to let go
I’ll fall with a crash.
As a Child I Believed
As a child I believed,
wind was all I needed,
to make my dime-store kite fly,
if only I could run faster.
My kite would swoop and spin,
turn and dive into the ground.
I would try again and again,
until the kite crumpled.
The bus made its final stop,
dropping her at the Home,
to live out her days, in the
company of strangers.
She sat marooned with others,
powerless, mirroring despair.
Reaching out, she grasped the hands
of those seated beside her.
A tail on a kite helps it fly,
adding drag, pulling it
in the wind’s direction.
If only I had understood,
that kind of power. As the
World Trade Center tower burned,
when there was no escape,
strangers held hands and jumped.
I see a kite flying high,
bright against the blue sky,
reaching its way toward heaven,
its tail trailing toward earth.
So You Crossed the Finish Line
So, you crossed the finish line.
They congratulated you,
said you would be missed,
then locked the door.
So, you checked the time on
the watch you no longer need,
loaded up your memories,
and drove off into the sunset.
So, is that the end,
roll the credits,
the screen turns black,
everyone files out but you?
So?
If I Do Not Write It Down
If I do not write it down,
will I ever see the truth?
So many words go past us,
we skim with our ears the fat
that coats our toast, fries our eggs,
but will never sustain us.
Like an e-visit to the doctor,
who never sets eyes on us,
nods and says “Amen” at church
to assure God Incarnate
that He is known and loved
but will be passed on the street.
So I write down the words,
trying to see their reflection
off the wide lined paper,
that draws on the letters from
youth, traced over and over,
then graded on penmanship.
I stand before you fearful
that my lack of substance will
be discovered and paraded
round for all to see and mock.
So I’ve hidden away words
that may follow me to the grave.
Before that day of cremation,
I try not to look back while boldly
stepping forward, writing the words
that once were secreted away,
my sight blurred and clouded,
so only now, I start to see.
Time Has Set Me Apart
Time has set me apart.
On the street the child calls,
“Hey, old lady”. I don’t look up,
my eyes are on my path.
You take one step, then another.
Each step brings you closer.
Each step, farther away.
The walk is uneven.
That first step, precarious,
a missed step, disastrous.
I have a fear of falling.
I have a fear of failure.
You can practice falling
so no bones are broken.
Should you practice failure,
so you can stand again?
Time warns me to watch my step.
My bones are fragile.
The path calls “Hey, old lady”.
This time I look ahead.
Welcomed in the Doorway
Welcomed in the doorway,
perches on a chair,
smiles same as ever,
Illusions to portray.
Well-worn gifted sweater,
hole opens under arm,
too late now to sew it,
onerous to maintain.
Every day, efforts made,
tries to make things last,
another coat of paint,
glue to mend a crack.
Endlessly the edges fray,
nothing stays the same,
time seems to accelerate,
marching to decay.
Helped into a jacket,
hugged fondly at the door,
loved for what once was,
ghost of what remains.
She Listens to Her World
She listens to her world
reading lips, gestures, eyes irritation.
Hears it all
but not the words in her head.
There is a drought
not colored red on a map. A dearth.
Her mouth dry, tongue parched
lips cracked.
When she speaks, dust flies out
like a car leaving down a gravel road.
It happened gradually
over years. Everyone remembered
when words rained down.
No one noticed when it slowed
to sprinkle then stopped.
Temporal lobe aphasia they said
abandoning her to memory.
She listens
SLAPS the table. That was understood.
The Woman Tips Her Coiffed Do
The woman tips her coiffed do,
smiling as she polishes,
her table to a glossy shine,
mirroring her image.
“Isn’t that a nice reflection on you?”
the Pledge commercial asks me.
Taught to dust back in the sixties,
you’d think I’d polish mine,
but my table shines with gravy
and greasy fingerprints too.
No amount of lemon polish
or elbow grease is going
to shine it like a mirror,
nor would I want it to.
My reflection is mine alone,
built on years of living,
life filled with memories,
brings back “nice” reflections.
Family gathered all together,
Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners,
roast beef as well as gravy,
licked from greasy fingers.
The Curtain Goes Up
The curtain goes up.
Scenes from yesterday,
memorized by heart,
replay in my mind. I remember.
Warehouse windows stuck shut.
Struggling to open them,
the studio heating up
like an oven. I remember.
You opened those windows,
fresh air flowed through, blowing
away deceit, the hands
around my neck. I remember.
Golden curtains billowing
on windows filled with sunlight,
the breeze cooling sweat from
our languid bodies. I remember.
Life flows through these windows.
One day the scene will end,
curtains fall, lights go dark.
Will I still remember?
Even now, my eyes grow dim.
When I no longer see,
slide open the window,
so I feel the breeze, and remember.
I Believe it was October
I believe it was October
when the long thin arms of
autumn sunlight stretched
across fields of dry grass.
Wind blew through remains
of corn stubble refuse,
stirring clouds of dust
that hung suspended.
Late in the day, your face shaded
by the thin worn curtain,
damp with sweat, glowed with
knowledge of our longings.
Where do I find myself now,
wrapped in your arms or
watching in the failing light,
shoes covered in dust?
Old Abandoned Farm House
Old abandoned farm house,
weather beaten, stripped bare,
windows stare out blankly
through fractured panes.
The front door boarded shut,
telling no tales. Not stopping
the curious who are drawn
to peer inside its decay.
I refuse to look through
those dark broken windows,
afraid of waking the ghost
still lurking there.
Haunted with memory
of a duplicitous grin,
devouring young women
to fill its rotten hollow.
Instead, I chose to stand
back in the shadows to watch
as this house is burnt down.
I’m drawn to watch the flames.
I am a Desert Owl
I am a desert owl,
looking for shelter,
flying over burning sands,
without a place to land.
I am a pelican in the wilderness,
tearing at my breast,
hearing children cry,
without a bite to eat.
I am an owl among ruins,
searching for creation,
finding desolation,
without a way back.
I am a sparrow in darkness,
watching through the night,
alone on a rooftop,
waiting for light.
Oh, Sweet Gift
Oh, sweet gift of sleep,
our bed a boat set adrift.
You lay warm against my back,
breath moves hairs on my neck.
The battle over pain and loss,
finally, at rest.
In the early hours,
the leviathan circles.
Heard over roiling waters
echoes from the past,
“Just shoot me. Throw me in.”
Ancient timbers groan.
Oh, sweet gift of life, time
blows us farther out to sea.
“I wish I was dead” was said
in pain, giving way to anger,
frustration preparing
a watery grave.
Your arms, a life preserver,
pull me to safety.
My body surrenders,
sleep washes our yesterdays,
love keeps us afloat.
Life and time still move
with the tide.
Hard Wooden Doors
Hard wooden doors
hinges creak apart
dim light filters
stained glass panes
suspended cross.
Solitary.
Hard wooden pews
groan under stress
echoes emptiness
loss, life’s questions
death’s conclusion.
Hallowed answer.
Hard garden bench
sunflowers sway
geese circle south
dusk envelopes
consummate peace.
Sanctuary.
My Life
My life is a Word Find.
Searching for “FATE”.
Discovering “FAITH”.
Looking for “HEAVEN”.
Finding “HAVE”.
Four Walls
Four walls a fortress
sometimes turn prison,
thick walls of heat
close in on me.
I dive out the door,
swim through humidity,
gasping like a
woman drowning.
Under a tree’s shade
my mind empties out,
worries fade away,
hands hang limp.
Verdant leaves droop,
a pale moth lands,
tree toads doze,
cicadas hiss.
On this hot summer day
I have no direction,
I have no goals,
I have no cares.
I breathe in,
I breathe out.
That’s enough.
The Curtains Part
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window, down the drive.
The school bus passes below.
No children live here anymore.
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window to the barn.
Metal doors clang in the wind.
No one works there anymore.
The curtains part as she opens
the window. Fresh air fills the room.
Dust dances in the sunlight.
Smiling, she writes down this poem.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:11.716108
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-12",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-13
|
1 Are You Listening?
Constance Hodder
Two Tin Cans
Two tin cans hold taut
the cord between us,
a tight rope for
children’s secrets to cross.
Old telephone booth
beside a grave yard,
conduit to the dead for
the living’s confessions.
Put your ear to the can,
a coin in the payphone,
for I too have secrets
to whisper, to confess.
Are you listening?
I will tell my tales through
the air on a heart string,
send them sailing on the wind,
to fall like leaves at your feet.
Rake them up and jump in
like a child, or leave them
swirling among the graves,
the dead will always listen.
A Blue Jay: Self Portrait part one
A blue jay sings atop
the branch of a paper birch
before a luminous azure sky.
How often I have gazed through
this temple window.
A blue jay soars above
the expansive indigo Lake
sky mirrored on calm waters.
How often I have prayed at
this living altar.
A blue jay flies up
the cliff on Blueberry Hill
so high heaven can be seen.
How often I have reached to
touch the face of God.
Long Dry Grasses Sing: Self Portrait part two
Long dry grasses sing,
blown one way, then the other.
Divide for a tawny cat
stalking through the cover.
Pads across dampened sand,
leaps atop a rock.
Surveys white capped lake,
gulls bobbing in a flock.
Wind dies with setting sun,
water reflects the glow.
Cat wanders back through
grasses now woven gold.
Tall Sunflowers: Self Portrait part three
Tall sunflowers,
garden giants,
golden petals grace
black gleaming faces,
sun followers.
At summer’s end
heads hang heavy,
mature with seed,
bend to survey
garden’s harvest.
Stems bow in prayer
goldfinch whispers,
“tomorrow comes”
plucks a seed,
then flies away.
Snow soon covers
fallen remnants,
memory of sun
secured in seed,
waiting in soil.
Tucked In a Drawer: Self Portrait part four
Tucked in a drawer,
too old to be of use,
lies a pile of hankies,
laced with memories.
Each one unfolded,
its wrinkled face smoothed,
telling tales of tears,
farewells and broken hearts.
Delicate fabric,
whiteness yellowed grey,
colors faded, worn thin
that veil of passing.
Lovingly refolded,
no longer a piece
of today, tucked safely
back into yesterday.
This Gravel Road : Self Portrait part five
This gravel road is
long, hot, and dusty.
I keep walking on.
My feet are tired,
my shoes worn.
I have walked this road
a lifetime. They say
all roads come to an end.
Down the way there is
a bend in sight.
Along this timeworn road,
I gather flowers,
their beauty wilting
in my hands being
dropped, one by one.
I look behind. They say
never look back but
now there’s a path of
flowers to follow
when my soul returns.
The Child Laughs Aloud
The child laughs aloud,
not bubbling up
or holding back, but
erupting like Vesuvius.
There was a time,
when I too could laugh
without restraint,
tears rolling down.
This was before
I grew up, standing tall,
assured in the fact,
I knew something.
Uncertainty and fear,
now bend my spine.
Searching for answers,
my eyes grow blind.
Look up, my head says.
What should I see?
Pray, my heart says.
What do I ask for?
I hear the child,
laughter peeling like a bell,
resounding inside me,
an answer, a prayer.
The Down Arrow Glows Red
The down arrow glows red.
As the door slides open,
I step in, press LL.
People move aside, we descend.
I have been so tired.
My skin smells rusty.
I laugh imagining
myself as the tin man,
rusting when he cried.
The elevator stops
on every floor. People
get off. I reach the
lowest level, alone.
I have been so very tired.
The doctor does not laugh,
orders tests, procedures.
Then calls me saying, “Sorry
to tell you this on the phone”.
I exit down in the bowels
of the earth, following signs
that point to the tunnel.
My steps echo as I walk.
Cancer makes you tired.
My husband brings me in
for surgery. We hold hands
knowing love’s strength,
and life’s fragility.
Florescent light floods the hall.
Tiles line the narrow path,
just wide enough for the
ill and dying to pass.
I could sleep forever.
They cut out the cancer,
removing my uterus.
Womanhood a memory
I will have to forget.
The tunnel is long, twisted.
At each turn I think
this must be the end.
There is no end, it stretches on.
Curls Go With Girls
“Curls go with girls” mother taught,
pin curling my straight hair.
By morning my girlishness
was revealed. The ads taught:
“Amp up your luscious lips.”
“A dab of gloss gives you a
plumper pout.” “False eye lashes,
glam bam!” Ideal beauty revealed.
Wear makeup to feel confident,
camouflage your imperfections,
fix your face. After all,
the mirror never lies.
With good grooming, plain girls
transform into nubile maidens,
ready for seduction.
Mother, was this your goal?
Grooming builds relationships,
leading to manipulation,
exploitation and abuse,
with no choice but to follow.
From the first time the glass slipper
is tried on, the soul is locked
into a turret to await
a fairy godmother.
“A woman without paint
is like food without salt”
the Roman Plautus taught.
What about curls?
I Was Born in Winter
I was born in winter.
Janus the gatekeeper
looking forward and back.
Grandfather’s ghost prayed
beside my bed.
The hairs on my head are
numbered, as are my days.
Past and future entwined
like stars whose light is seen
beyond their death.
In the woods stands an oak
bowed under the weight of
a fallen comrade, held aloft.
I too cannot let go of
those gone before.
They still can be heard in
my voice, seen in my face,
alive within my bones.
Like Lot’s wife, I cannot help
but look back.
When time’s gate swings shut
and life ends, only bones
will remember my name.
Look up, you will find me
in the stars.
On the eve of my 69th birthday
He Lies On My Lap
He lies on my lap,
curled like a comma,
dividing now, from then,
his head tucked to tail,
no beginning or end.
Like Regulus, the cat,
star in Leo’s constellation,
who prowled the night sky,
as the child in the womb,
swam through darkness.
Starlight born around her,
sixty-nine light years ago,
bathed the babe in brightness,
before and thereafter,
as old as she is new.
In a Dark Swirl of Wind
In a dark swirl of wind,
a tree fell leaving a
hollow in the canopy.
The crash was never heard.
There must have been a
splintering groan as it
let go of the earth and sky,
the sun, wind, and rain.
No one witnessed life passing.
You left us that way,
avoiding long goodbyes,
slipping off on your own.
When time calls our name
do we chose to let go,
or does the earth let loose
from under our roots?
That dark swirl of wind
may need to snatch me up,
refusing to let go
I’ll fall with a crash.
As a Child I Believed
As a child I believed,
wind was all I needed,
to make my dime-store kite fly,
if only I could run faster.
My kite would swoop and spin,
turn and dive into the ground.
I would try again and again,
until the kite crumpled.
The bus made its final stop,
dropping her at the Home,
to live out her days, in the
company of strangers.
She sat marooned with others,
powerless, mirroring despair.
Reaching out, she grasped the hands
of those seated beside her.
A tail on a kite helps it fly,
adding drag, pulling it
in the wind’s direction.
If only I had understood,
that kind of power. As the
World Trade Center tower burned,
when there was no escape,
strangers held hands and jumped.
I see a kite flying high,
bright against the blue sky,
reaching its way toward heaven,
its tail trailing toward earth.
So You Crossed the Finish Line
So, you crossed the finish line.
They congratulated you,
said you would be missed,
then locked the door.
So, you checked the time on
the watch you no longer need,
loaded up your memories,
and drove off into the sunset.
So, is that the end,
roll the credits,
the screen turns black,
everyone files out but you?
So?
If I Do Not Write It Down
If I do not write it down,
will I ever see the truth?
So many words go past us,
we skim with our ears the fat
that coats our toast, fries our eggs,
but will never sustain us.
Like an e-visit to the doctor,
who never sets eyes on us,
nods and says “Amen” at church
to assure God Incarnate
that He is known and loved
but will be passed on the street.
So I write down the words,
trying to see their reflection
off the wide lined paper,
that draws on the letters from
youth, traced over and over,
then graded on penmanship.
I stand before you fearful
that my lack of substance will
be discovered and paraded
round for all to see and mock.
So I’ve hidden away words
that may follow me to the grave.
Before that day of cremation,
I try not to look back while boldly
stepping forward, writing the words
that once were secreted away,
my sight blurred and clouded,
so only now, I start to see.
Time Has Set Me Apart
Time has set me apart.
On the street the child calls,
“Hey, old lady”. I don’t look up,
my eyes are on my path.
You take one step, then another.
Each step brings you closer.
Each step, farther away.
The walk is uneven.
That first step, precarious,
a missed step, disastrous.
I have a fear of falling.
I have a fear of failure.
You can practice falling
so no bones are broken.
Should you practice failure,
so you can stand again?
Time warns me to watch my step.
My bones are fragile.
The path calls “Hey, old lady”.
This time I look ahead.
Welcomed in the Doorway
Welcomed in the doorway,
perches on a chair,
smiles same as ever,
Illusions to portray.
Well-worn gifted sweater,
hole opens under arm,
too late now to sew it,
onerous to maintain.
Every day, efforts made,
tries to make things last,
another coat of paint,
glue to mend a crack.
Endlessly the edges fray,
nothing stays the same,
time seems to accelerate,
marching to decay.
Helped into a jacket,
hugged fondly at the door,
loved for what once was,
ghost of what remains.
She Listens to Her World
She listens to her world
reading lips, gestures, eyes irritation.
Hears it all
but not the words in her head.
There is a drought
not colored red on a map. A dearth.
Her mouth dry, tongue parched
lips cracked.
When she speaks, dust flies out
like a car leaving down a gravel road.
It happened gradually
over years. Everyone remembered
when words rained down.
No one noticed when it slowed
to sprinkle then stopped.
Temporal lobe aphasia they said
abandoning her to memory.
She listens
SLAPS the table. That was understood.
The Woman Tips Her Coiffed Do
The woman tips her coiffed do,
smiling as she polishes,
her table to a glossy shine,
mirroring her image.
“Isn’t that a nice reflection on you?”
the Pledge commercial asks me.
Taught to dust back in the sixties,
you’d think I’d polish mine,
but my table shines with gravy
and greasy fingerprints too.
No amount of lemon polish
or elbow grease is going
to shine it like a mirror,
nor would I want it to.
My reflection is mine alone,
built on years of living,
life filled with memories,
brings back “nice” reflections.
Family gathered all together,
Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners,
roast beef as well as gravy,
licked from greasy fingers.
The Curtain Goes Up
The curtain goes up.
Scenes from yesterday,
memorized by heart,
replay in my mind. I remember.
Warehouse windows stuck shut.
Struggling to open them,
the studio heating up
like an oven. I remember.
You opened those windows,
fresh air flowed through, blowing
away deceit, the hands
around my neck. I remember.
Golden curtains billowing
on windows filled with sunlight,
the breeze cooling sweat from
our languid bodies. I remember.
Life flows through these windows.
One day the scene will end,
curtains fall, lights go dark.
Will I still remember?
Even now, my eyes grow dim.
When I no longer see,
slide open the window,
so I feel the breeze, and remember.
I Believe it was October
I believe it was October
when the long thin arms of
autumn sunlight stretched
across fields of dry grass.
Wind blew through remains
of corn stubble refuse,
stirring clouds of dust
that hung suspended.
Late in the day, your face shaded
by the thin worn curtain,
damp with sweat, glowed with
knowledge of our longings.
Where do I find myself now,
wrapped in your arms or
watching in the failing light,
shoes covered in dust?
Old Abandoned Farm House
Old abandoned farm house,
weather beaten, stripped bare,
windows stare out blankly
through fractured panes.
The front door boarded shut,
telling no tales. Not stopping
the curious who are drawn
to peer inside its decay.
I refuse to look through
those dark broken windows,
afraid of waking the ghost
still lurking there.
Haunted with memory
of a duplicitous grin,
devouring young women
to fill its rotten hollow.
Instead, I chose to stand
back in the shadows to watch
as this house is burnt down.
I’m drawn to watch the flames.
I am a Desert Owl
I am a desert owl,
looking for shelter,
flying over burning sands,
without a place to land.
I am a pelican in the wilderness,
tearing at my breast,
hearing children cry,
without a bite to eat.
I am an owl among ruins,
searching for creation,
finding desolation,
without a way back.
I am a sparrow in darkness,
watching through the night,
alone on a rooftop,
waiting for light.
Oh, Sweet Gift
Oh, sweet gift of sleep,
our bed a boat set adrift.
You lay warm against my back,
breath moves hairs on my neck.
The battle over pain and loss,
finally, at rest.
In the early hours,
the leviathan circles.
Heard over roiling waters
echoes from the past,
“Just shoot me. Throw me in.”
Ancient timbers groan.
Oh, sweet gift of life, time
blows us farther out to sea.
“I wish I was dead” was said
in pain, giving way to anger,
frustration preparing
a watery grave.
Your arms, a life preserver,
pull me to safety.
My body surrenders,
sleep washes our yesterdays,
love keeps us afloat.
Life and time still move
with the tide.
Hard Wooden Doors
Hard wooden doors
hinges creak apart
dim light filters
stained glass panes
suspended cross.
Solitary.
Hard wooden pews
groan under stress
echoes emptiness
loss, life’s questions
death’s conclusion.
Hallowed answer.
Hard garden bench
sunflowers sway
geese circle south
dusk envelopes
consummate peace.
Sanctuary.
My Life
My life is a Word Find.
Searching for “FATE”.
Discovering “FAITH”.
Looking for “HEAVEN”.
Finding “HAVE”.
Four Walls
Four walls a fortress
sometimes turn prison,
thick walls of heat
close in on me.
I dive out the door,
swim through humidity,
gasping like a
woman drowning.
Under a tree’s shade
my mind empties out,
worries fade away,
hands hang limp.
Verdant leaves droop,
a pale moth lands,
tree toads doze,
cicadas hiss.
On this hot summer day
I have no direction,
I have no goals,
I have no cares.
I breathe in,
I breathe out.
That’s enough.
The Curtains Part
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window, down the drive.
The school bus passes below.
No children live here anymore.
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window to the barn.
Metal doors clang in the wind.
No one works there anymore.
The curtains part as she opens
the window. Fresh air fills the room.
Dust dances in the sunlight.
Smiling, she writes down this poem.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:11.795777
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-13",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-14
|
1 Are You Listening?
Constance Hodder
Two Tin Cans
Two tin cans hold taut
the cord between us,
a tight rope for
children’s secrets to cross.
Old telephone booth
beside a grave yard,
conduit to the dead for
the living’s confessions.
Put your ear to the can,
a coin in the payphone,
for I too have secrets
to whisper, to confess.
Are you listening?
I will tell my tales through
the air on a heart string,
send them sailing on the wind,
to fall like leaves at your feet.
Rake them up and jump in
like a child, or leave them
swirling among the graves,
the dead will always listen.
A Blue Jay: Self Portrait part one
A blue jay sings atop
the branch of a paper birch
before a luminous azure sky.
How often I have gazed through
this temple window.
A blue jay soars above
the expansive indigo Lake
sky mirrored on calm waters.
How often I have prayed at
this living altar.
A blue jay flies up
the cliff on Blueberry Hill
so high heaven can be seen.
How often I have reached to
touch the face of God.
Long Dry Grasses Sing: Self Portrait part two
Long dry grasses sing,
blown one way, then the other.
Divide for a tawny cat
stalking through the cover.
Pads across dampened sand,
leaps atop a rock.
Surveys white capped lake,
gulls bobbing in a flock.
Wind dies with setting sun,
water reflects the glow.
Cat wanders back through
grasses now woven gold.
Tall Sunflowers: Self Portrait part three
Tall sunflowers,
garden giants,
golden petals grace
black gleaming faces,
sun followers.
At summer’s end
heads hang heavy,
mature with seed,
bend to survey
garden’s harvest.
Stems bow in prayer
goldfinch whispers,
“tomorrow comes”
plucks a seed,
then flies away.
Snow soon covers
fallen remnants,
memory of sun
secured in seed,
waiting in soil.
Tucked In a Drawer: Self Portrait part four
Tucked in a drawer,
too old to be of use,
lies a pile of hankies,
laced with memories.
Each one unfolded,
its wrinkled face smoothed,
telling tales of tears,
farewells and broken hearts.
Delicate fabric,
whiteness yellowed grey,
colors faded, worn thin
that veil of passing.
Lovingly refolded,
no longer a piece
of today, tucked safely
back into yesterday.
This Gravel Road : Self Portrait part five
This gravel road is
long, hot, and dusty.
I keep walking on.
My feet are tired,
my shoes worn.
I have walked this road
a lifetime. They say
all roads come to an end.
Down the way there is
a bend in sight.
Along this timeworn road,
I gather flowers,
their beauty wilting
in my hands being
dropped, one by one.
I look behind. They say
never look back but
now there’s a path of
flowers to follow
when my soul returns.
The Child Laughs Aloud
The child laughs aloud,
not bubbling up
or holding back, but
erupting like Vesuvius.
There was a time,
when I too could laugh
without restraint,
tears rolling down.
This was before
I grew up, standing tall,
assured in the fact,
I knew something.
Uncertainty and fear,
now bend my spine.
Searching for answers,
my eyes grow blind.
Look up, my head says.
What should I see?
Pray, my heart says.
What do I ask for?
I hear the child,
laughter peeling like a bell,
resounding inside me,
an answer, a prayer.
The Down Arrow Glows Red
The down arrow glows red.
As the door slides open,
I step in, press LL.
People move aside, we descend.
I have been so tired.
My skin smells rusty.
I laugh imagining
myself as the tin man,
rusting when he cried.
The elevator stops
on every floor. People
get off. I reach the
lowest level, alone.
I have been so very tired.
The doctor does not laugh,
orders tests, procedures.
Then calls me saying, “Sorry
to tell you this on the phone”.
I exit down in the bowels
of the earth, following signs
that point to the tunnel.
My steps echo as I walk.
Cancer makes you tired.
My husband brings me in
for surgery. We hold hands
knowing love’s strength,
and life’s fragility.
Florescent light floods the hall.
Tiles line the narrow path,
just wide enough for the
ill and dying to pass.
I could sleep forever.
They cut out the cancer,
removing my uterus.
Womanhood a memory
I will have to forget.
The tunnel is long, twisted.
At each turn I think
this must be the end.
There is no end, it stretches on.
Curls Go With Girls
“Curls go with girls” mother taught,
pin curling my straight hair.
By morning my girlishness
was revealed. The ads taught:
“Amp up your luscious lips.”
“A dab of gloss gives you a
plumper pout.” “False eye lashes,
glam bam!” Ideal beauty revealed.
Wear makeup to feel confident,
camouflage your imperfections,
fix your face. After all,
the mirror never lies.
With good grooming, plain girls
transform into nubile maidens,
ready for seduction.
Mother, was this your goal?
Grooming builds relationships,
leading to manipulation,
exploitation and abuse,
with no choice but to follow.
From the first time the glass slipper
is tried on, the soul is locked
into a turret to await
a fairy godmother.
“A woman without paint
is like food without salt”
the Roman Plautus taught.
What about curls?
I Was Born in Winter
I was born in winter.
Janus the gatekeeper
looking forward and back.
Grandfather’s ghost prayed
beside my bed.
The hairs on my head are
numbered, as are my days.
Past and future entwined
like stars whose light is seen
beyond their death.
In the woods stands an oak
bowed under the weight of
a fallen comrade, held aloft.
I too cannot let go of
those gone before.
They still can be heard in
my voice, seen in my face,
alive within my bones.
Like Lot’s wife, I cannot help
but look back.
When time’s gate swings shut
and life ends, only bones
will remember my name.
Look up, you will find me
in the stars.
On the eve of my 69th birthday
He Lies On My Lap
He lies on my lap,
curled like a comma,
dividing now, from then,
his head tucked to tail,
no beginning or end.
Like Regulus, the cat,
star in Leo’s constellation,
who prowled the night sky,
as the child in the womb,
swam through darkness.
Starlight born around her,
sixty-nine light years ago,
bathed the babe in brightness,
before and thereafter,
as old as she is new.
In a Dark Swirl of Wind
In a dark swirl of wind,
a tree fell leaving a
hollow in the canopy.
The crash was never heard.
There must have been a
splintering groan as it
let go of the earth and sky,
the sun, wind, and rain.
No one witnessed life passing.
You left us that way,
avoiding long goodbyes,
slipping off on your own.
When time calls our name
do we chose to let go,
or does the earth let loose
from under our roots?
That dark swirl of wind
may need to snatch me up,
refusing to let go
I’ll fall with a crash.
As a Child I Believed
As a child I believed,
wind was all I needed,
to make my dime-store kite fly,
if only I could run faster.
My kite would swoop and spin,
turn and dive into the ground.
I would try again and again,
until the kite crumpled.
The bus made its final stop,
dropping her at the Home,
to live out her days, in the
company of strangers.
She sat marooned with others,
powerless, mirroring despair.
Reaching out, she grasped the hands
of those seated beside her.
A tail on a kite helps it fly,
adding drag, pulling it
in the wind’s direction.
If only I had understood,
that kind of power. As the
World Trade Center tower burned,
when there was no escape,
strangers held hands and jumped.
I see a kite flying high,
bright against the blue sky,
reaching its way toward heaven,
its tail trailing toward earth.
So You Crossed the Finish Line
So, you crossed the finish line.
They congratulated you,
said you would be missed,
then locked the door.
So, you checked the time on
the watch you no longer need,
loaded up your memories,
and drove off into the sunset.
So, is that the end,
roll the credits,
the screen turns black,
everyone files out but you?
So?
If I Do Not Write It Down
If I do not write it down,
will I ever see the truth?
So many words go past us,
we skim with our ears the fat
that coats our toast, fries our eggs,
but will never sustain us.
Like an e-visit to the doctor,
who never sets eyes on us,
nods and says “Amen” at church
to assure God Incarnate
that He is known and loved
but will be passed on the street.
So I write down the words,
trying to see their reflection
off the wide lined paper,
that draws on the letters from
youth, traced over and over,
then graded on penmanship.
I stand before you fearful
that my lack of substance will
be discovered and paraded
round for all to see and mock.
So I’ve hidden away words
that may follow me to the grave.
Before that day of cremation,
I try not to look back while boldly
stepping forward, writing the words
that once were secreted away,
my sight blurred and clouded,
so only now, I start to see.
Time Has Set Me Apart
Time has set me apart.
On the street the child calls,
“Hey, old lady”. I don’t look up,
my eyes are on my path.
You take one step, then another.
Each step brings you closer.
Each step, farther away.
The walk is uneven.
That first step, precarious,
a missed step, disastrous.
I have a fear of falling.
I have a fear of failure.
You can practice falling
so no bones are broken.
Should you practice failure,
so you can stand again?
Time warns me to watch my step.
My bones are fragile.
The path calls “Hey, old lady”.
This time I look ahead.
Welcomed in the Doorway
Welcomed in the doorway,
perches on a chair,
smiles same as ever,
Illusions to portray.
Well-worn gifted sweater,
hole opens under arm,
too late now to sew it,
onerous to maintain.
Every day, efforts made,
tries to make things last,
another coat of paint,
glue to mend a crack.
Endlessly the edges fray,
nothing stays the same,
time seems to accelerate,
marching to decay.
Helped into a jacket,
hugged fondly at the door,
loved for what once was,
ghost of what remains.
She Listens to Her World
She listens to her world
reading lips, gestures, eyes irritation.
Hears it all
but not the words in her head.
There is a drought
not colored red on a map. A dearth.
Her mouth dry, tongue parched
lips cracked.
When she speaks, dust flies out
like a car leaving down a gravel road.
It happened gradually
over years. Everyone remembered
when words rained down.
No one noticed when it slowed
to sprinkle then stopped.
Temporal lobe aphasia they said
abandoning her to memory.
She listens
SLAPS the table. That was understood.
The Woman Tips Her Coiffed Do
The woman tips her coiffed do,
smiling as she polishes,
her table to a glossy shine,
mirroring her image.
“Isn’t that a nice reflection on you?”
the Pledge commercial asks me.
Taught to dust back in the sixties,
you’d think I’d polish mine,
but my table shines with gravy
and greasy fingerprints too.
No amount of lemon polish
or elbow grease is going
to shine it like a mirror,
nor would I want it to.
My reflection is mine alone,
built on years of living,
life filled with memories,
brings back “nice” reflections.
Family gathered all together,
Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners,
roast beef as well as gravy,
licked from greasy fingers.
The Curtain Goes Up
The curtain goes up.
Scenes from yesterday,
memorized by heart,
replay in my mind. I remember.
Warehouse windows stuck shut.
Struggling to open them,
the studio heating up
like an oven. I remember.
You opened those windows,
fresh air flowed through, blowing
away deceit, the hands
around my neck. I remember.
Golden curtains billowing
on windows filled with sunlight,
the breeze cooling sweat from
our languid bodies. I remember.
Life flows through these windows.
One day the scene will end,
curtains fall, lights go dark.
Will I still remember?
Even now, my eyes grow dim.
When I no longer see,
slide open the window,
so I feel the breeze, and remember.
I Believe it was October
I believe it was October
when the long thin arms of
autumn sunlight stretched
across fields of dry grass.
Wind blew through remains
of corn stubble refuse,
stirring clouds of dust
that hung suspended.
Late in the day, your face shaded
by the thin worn curtain,
damp with sweat, glowed with
knowledge of our longings.
Where do I find myself now,
wrapped in your arms or
watching in the failing light,
shoes covered in dust?
Old Abandoned Farm House
Old abandoned farm house,
weather beaten, stripped bare,
windows stare out blankly
through fractured panes.
The front door boarded shut,
telling no tales. Not stopping
the curious who are drawn
to peer inside its decay.
I refuse to look through
those dark broken windows,
afraid of waking the ghost
still lurking there.
Haunted with memory
of a duplicitous grin,
devouring young women
to fill its rotten hollow.
Instead, I chose to stand
back in the shadows to watch
as this house is burnt down.
I’m drawn to watch the flames.
I am a Desert Owl
I am a desert owl,
looking for shelter,
flying over burning sands,
without a place to land.
I am a pelican in the wilderness,
tearing at my breast,
hearing children cry,
without a bite to eat.
I am an owl among ruins,
searching for creation,
finding desolation,
without a way back.
I am a sparrow in darkness,
watching through the night,
alone on a rooftop,
waiting for light.
Oh, Sweet Gift
Oh, sweet gift of sleep,
our bed a boat set adrift.
You lay warm against my back,
breath moves hairs on my neck.
The battle over pain and loss,
finally, at rest.
In the early hours,
the leviathan circles.
Heard over roiling waters
echoes from the past,
“Just shoot me. Throw me in.”
Ancient timbers groan.
Oh, sweet gift of life, time
blows us farther out to sea.
“I wish I was dead” was said
in pain, giving way to anger,
frustration preparing
a watery grave.
Your arms, a life preserver,
pull me to safety.
My body surrenders,
sleep washes our yesterdays,
love keeps us afloat.
Life and time still move
with the tide.
Hard Wooden Doors
Hard wooden doors
hinges creak apart
dim light filters
stained glass panes
suspended cross.
Solitary.
Hard wooden pews
groan under stress
echoes emptiness
loss, life’s questions
death’s conclusion.
Hallowed answer.
Hard garden bench
sunflowers sway
geese circle south
dusk envelopes
consummate peace.
Sanctuary.
My Life
My life is a Word Find.
Searching for “FATE”.
Discovering “FAITH”.
Looking for “HEAVEN”.
Finding “HAVE”.
Four Walls
Four walls a fortress
sometimes turn prison,
thick walls of heat
close in on me.
I dive out the door,
swim through humidity,
gasping like a
woman drowning.
Under a tree’s shade
my mind empties out,
worries fade away,
hands hang limp.
Verdant leaves droop,
a pale moth lands,
tree toads doze,
cicadas hiss.
On this hot summer day
I have no direction,
I have no goals,
I have no cares.
I breathe in,
I breathe out.
That’s enough.
The Curtains Part
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window, down the drive.
The school bus passes below.
No children live here anymore.
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window to the barn.
Metal doors clang in the wind.
No one works there anymore.
The curtains part as she opens
the window. Fresh air fills the room.
Dust dances in the sunlight.
Smiling, she writes down this poem.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:11.872771
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-14",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-15
|
1 Are You Listening?
Constance Hodder
Two Tin Cans
Two tin cans hold taut
the cord between us,
a tight rope for
children’s secrets to cross.
Old telephone booth
beside a grave yard,
conduit to the dead for
the living’s confessions.
Put your ear to the can,
a coin in the payphone,
for I too have secrets
to whisper, to confess.
Are you listening?
I will tell my tales through
the air on a heart string,
send them sailing on the wind,
to fall like leaves at your feet.
Rake them up and jump in
like a child, or leave them
swirling among the graves,
the dead will always listen.
A Blue Jay: Self Portrait part one
A blue jay sings atop
the branch of a paper birch
before a luminous azure sky.
How often I have gazed through
this temple window.
A blue jay soars above
the expansive indigo Lake
sky mirrored on calm waters.
How often I have prayed at
this living altar.
A blue jay flies up
the cliff on Blueberry Hill
so high heaven can be seen.
How often I have reached to
touch the face of God.
Long Dry Grasses Sing: Self Portrait part two
Long dry grasses sing,
blown one way, then the other.
Divide for a tawny cat
stalking through the cover.
Pads across dampened sand,
leaps atop a rock.
Surveys white capped lake,
gulls bobbing in a flock.
Wind dies with setting sun,
water reflects the glow.
Cat wanders back through
grasses now woven gold.
Tall Sunflowers: Self Portrait part three
Tall sunflowers,
garden giants,
golden petals grace
black gleaming faces,
sun followers.
At summer’s end
heads hang heavy,
mature with seed,
bend to survey
garden’s harvest.
Stems bow in prayer
goldfinch whispers,
“tomorrow comes”
plucks a seed,
then flies away.
Snow soon covers
fallen remnants,
memory of sun
secured in seed,
waiting in soil.
Tucked In a Drawer: Self Portrait part four
Tucked in a drawer,
too old to be of use,
lies a pile of hankies,
laced with memories.
Each one unfolded,
its wrinkled face smoothed,
telling tales of tears,
farewells and broken hearts.
Delicate fabric,
whiteness yellowed grey,
colors faded, worn thin
that veil of passing.
Lovingly refolded,
no longer a piece
of today, tucked safely
back into yesterday.
This Gravel Road : Self Portrait part five
This gravel road is
long, hot, and dusty.
I keep walking on.
My feet are tired,
my shoes worn.
I have walked this road
a lifetime. They say
all roads come to an end.
Down the way there is
a bend in sight.
Along this timeworn road,
I gather flowers,
their beauty wilting
in my hands being
dropped, one by one.
I look behind. They say
never look back but
now there’s a path of
flowers to follow
when my soul returns.
The Child Laughs Aloud
The child laughs aloud,
not bubbling up
or holding back, but
erupting like Vesuvius.
There was a time,
when I too could laugh
without restraint,
tears rolling down.
This was before
I grew up, standing tall,
assured in the fact,
I knew something.
Uncertainty and fear,
now bend my spine.
Searching for answers,
my eyes grow blind.
Look up, my head says.
What should I see?
Pray, my heart says.
What do I ask for?
I hear the child,
laughter peeling like a bell,
resounding inside me,
an answer, a prayer.
The Down Arrow Glows Red
The down arrow glows red.
As the door slides open,
I step in, press LL.
People move aside, we descend.
I have been so tired.
My skin smells rusty.
I laugh imagining
myself as the tin man,
rusting when he cried.
The elevator stops
on every floor. People
get off. I reach the
lowest level, alone.
I have been so very tired.
The doctor does not laugh,
orders tests, procedures.
Then calls me saying, “Sorry
to tell you this on the phone”.
I exit down in the bowels
of the earth, following signs
that point to the tunnel.
My steps echo as I walk.
Cancer makes you tired.
My husband brings me in
for surgery. We hold hands
knowing love’s strength,
and life’s fragility.
Florescent light floods the hall.
Tiles line the narrow path,
just wide enough for the
ill and dying to pass.
I could sleep forever.
They cut out the cancer,
removing my uterus.
Womanhood a memory
I will have to forget.
The tunnel is long, twisted.
At each turn I think
this must be the end.
There is no end, it stretches on.
Curls Go With Girls
“Curls go with girls” mother taught,
pin curling my straight hair.
By morning my girlishness
was revealed. The ads taught:
“Amp up your luscious lips.”
“A dab of gloss gives you a
plumper pout.” “False eye lashes,
glam bam!” Ideal beauty revealed.
Wear makeup to feel confident,
camouflage your imperfections,
fix your face. After all,
the mirror never lies.
With good grooming, plain girls
transform into nubile maidens,
ready for seduction.
Mother, was this your goal?
Grooming builds relationships,
leading to manipulation,
exploitation and abuse,
with no choice but to follow.
From the first time the glass slipper
is tried on, the soul is locked
into a turret to await
a fairy godmother.
“A woman without paint
is like food without salt”
the Roman Plautus taught.
What about curls?
I Was Born in Winter
I was born in winter.
Janus the gatekeeper
looking forward and back.
Grandfather’s ghost prayed
beside my bed.
The hairs on my head are
numbered, as are my days.
Past and future entwined
like stars whose light is seen
beyond their death.
In the woods stands an oak
bowed under the weight of
a fallen comrade, held aloft.
I too cannot let go of
those gone before.
They still can be heard in
my voice, seen in my face,
alive within my bones.
Like Lot’s wife, I cannot help
but look back.
When time’s gate swings shut
and life ends, only bones
will remember my name.
Look up, you will find me
in the stars.
On the eve of my 69th birthday
He Lies On My Lap
He lies on my lap,
curled like a comma,
dividing now, from then,
his head tucked to tail,
no beginning or end.
Like Regulus, the cat,
star in Leo’s constellation,
who prowled the night sky,
as the child in the womb,
swam through darkness.
Starlight born around her,
sixty-nine light years ago,
bathed the babe in brightness,
before and thereafter,
as old as she is new.
In a Dark Swirl of Wind
In a dark swirl of wind,
a tree fell leaving a
hollow in the canopy.
The crash was never heard.
There must have been a
splintering groan as it
let go of the earth and sky,
the sun, wind, and rain.
No one witnessed life passing.
You left us that way,
avoiding long goodbyes,
slipping off on your own.
When time calls our name
do we chose to let go,
or does the earth let loose
from under our roots?
That dark swirl of wind
may need to snatch me up,
refusing to let go
I’ll fall with a crash.
As a Child I Believed
As a child I believed,
wind was all I needed,
to make my dime-store kite fly,
if only I could run faster.
My kite would swoop and spin,
turn and dive into the ground.
I would try again and again,
until the kite crumpled.
The bus made its final stop,
dropping her at the Home,
to live out her days, in the
company of strangers.
She sat marooned with others,
powerless, mirroring despair.
Reaching out, she grasped the hands
of those seated beside her.
A tail on a kite helps it fly,
adding drag, pulling it
in the wind’s direction.
If only I had understood,
that kind of power. As the
World Trade Center tower burned,
when there was no escape,
strangers held hands and jumped.
I see a kite flying high,
bright against the blue sky,
reaching its way toward heaven,
its tail trailing toward earth.
So You Crossed the Finish Line
So, you crossed the finish line.
They congratulated you,
said you would be missed,
then locked the door.
So, you checked the time on
the watch you no longer need,
loaded up your memories,
and drove off into the sunset.
So, is that the end,
roll the credits,
the screen turns black,
everyone files out but you?
So?
If I Do Not Write It Down
If I do not write it down,
will I ever see the truth?
So many words go past us,
we skim with our ears the fat
that coats our toast, fries our eggs,
but will never sustain us.
Like an e-visit to the doctor,
who never sets eyes on us,
nods and says “Amen” at church
to assure God Incarnate
that He is known and loved
but will be passed on the street.
So I write down the words,
trying to see their reflection
off the wide lined paper,
that draws on the letters from
youth, traced over and over,
then graded on penmanship.
I stand before you fearful
that my lack of substance will
be discovered and paraded
round for all to see and mock.
So I’ve hidden away words
that may follow me to the grave.
Before that day of cremation,
I try not to look back while boldly
stepping forward, writing the words
that once were secreted away,
my sight blurred and clouded,
so only now, I start to see.
Time Has Set Me Apart
Time has set me apart.
On the street the child calls,
“Hey, old lady”. I don’t look up,
my eyes are on my path.
You take one step, then another.
Each step brings you closer.
Each step, farther away.
The walk is uneven.
That first step, precarious,
a missed step, disastrous.
I have a fear of falling.
I have a fear of failure.
You can practice falling
so no bones are broken.
Should you practice failure,
so you can stand again?
Time warns me to watch my step.
My bones are fragile.
The path calls “Hey, old lady”.
This time I look ahead.
Welcomed in the Doorway
Welcomed in the doorway,
perches on a chair,
smiles same as ever,
Illusions to portray.
Well-worn gifted sweater,
hole opens under arm,
too late now to sew it,
onerous to maintain.
Every day, efforts made,
tries to make things last,
another coat of paint,
glue to mend a crack.
Endlessly the edges fray,
nothing stays the same,
time seems to accelerate,
marching to decay.
Helped into a jacket,
hugged fondly at the door,
loved for what once was,
ghost of what remains.
She Listens to Her World
She listens to her world
reading lips, gestures, eyes irritation.
Hears it all
but not the words in her head.
There is a drought
not colored red on a map. A dearth.
Her mouth dry, tongue parched
lips cracked.
When she speaks, dust flies out
like a car leaving down a gravel road.
It happened gradually
over years. Everyone remembered
when words rained down.
No one noticed when it slowed
to sprinkle then stopped.
Temporal lobe aphasia they said
abandoning her to memory.
She listens
SLAPS the table. That was understood.
The Woman Tips Her Coiffed Do
The woman tips her coiffed do,
smiling as she polishes,
her table to a glossy shine,
mirroring her image.
“Isn’t that a nice reflection on you?”
the Pledge commercial asks me.
Taught to dust back in the sixties,
you’d think I’d polish mine,
but my table shines with gravy
and greasy fingerprints too.
No amount of lemon polish
or elbow grease is going
to shine it like a mirror,
nor would I want it to.
My reflection is mine alone,
built on years of living,
life filled with memories,
brings back “nice” reflections.
Family gathered all together,
Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners,
roast beef as well as gravy,
licked from greasy fingers.
The Curtain Goes Up
The curtain goes up.
Scenes from yesterday,
memorized by heart,
replay in my mind. I remember.
Warehouse windows stuck shut.
Struggling to open them,
the studio heating up
like an oven. I remember.
You opened those windows,
fresh air flowed through, blowing
away deceit, the hands
around my neck. I remember.
Golden curtains billowing
on windows filled with sunlight,
the breeze cooling sweat from
our languid bodies. I remember.
Life flows through these windows.
One day the scene will end,
curtains fall, lights go dark.
Will I still remember?
Even now, my eyes grow dim.
When I no longer see,
slide open the window,
so I feel the breeze, and remember.
I Believe it was October
I believe it was October
when the long thin arms of
autumn sunlight stretched
across fields of dry grass.
Wind blew through remains
of corn stubble refuse,
stirring clouds of dust
that hung suspended.
Late in the day, your face shaded
by the thin worn curtain,
damp with sweat, glowed with
knowledge of our longings.
Where do I find myself now,
wrapped in your arms or
watching in the failing light,
shoes covered in dust?
Old Abandoned Farm House
Old abandoned farm house,
weather beaten, stripped bare,
windows stare out blankly
through fractured panes.
The front door boarded shut,
telling no tales. Not stopping
the curious who are drawn
to peer inside its decay.
I refuse to look through
those dark broken windows,
afraid of waking the ghost
still lurking there.
Haunted with memory
of a duplicitous grin,
devouring young women
to fill its rotten hollow.
Instead, I chose to stand
back in the shadows to watch
as this house is burnt down.
I’m drawn to watch the flames.
I am a Desert Owl
I am a desert owl,
looking for shelter,
flying over burning sands,
without a place to land.
I am a pelican in the wilderness,
tearing at my breast,
hearing children cry,
without a bite to eat.
I am an owl among ruins,
searching for creation,
finding desolation,
without a way back.
I am a sparrow in darkness,
watching through the night,
alone on a rooftop,
waiting for light.
Oh, Sweet Gift
Oh, sweet gift of sleep,
our bed a boat set adrift.
You lay warm against my back,
breath moves hairs on my neck.
The battle over pain and loss,
finally, at rest.
In the early hours,
the leviathan circles.
Heard over roiling waters
echoes from the past,
“Just shoot me. Throw me in.”
Ancient timbers groan.
Oh, sweet gift of life, time
blows us farther out to sea.
“I wish I was dead” was said
in pain, giving way to anger,
frustration preparing
a watery grave.
Your arms, a life preserver,
pull me to safety.
My body surrenders,
sleep washes our yesterdays,
love keeps us afloat.
Life and time still move
with the tide.
Hard Wooden Doors
Hard wooden doors
hinges creak apart
dim light filters
stained glass panes
suspended cross.
Solitary.
Hard wooden pews
groan under stress
echoes emptiness
loss, life’s questions
death’s conclusion.
Hallowed answer.
Hard garden bench
sunflowers sway
geese circle south
dusk envelopes
consummate peace.
Sanctuary.
My Life
My life is a Word Find.
Searching for “FATE”.
Discovering “FAITH”.
Looking for “HEAVEN”.
Finding “HAVE”.
Four Walls
Four walls a fortress
sometimes turn prison,
thick walls of heat
close in on me.
I dive out the door,
swim through humidity,
gasping like a
woman drowning.
Under a tree’s shade
my mind empties out,
worries fade away,
hands hang limp.
Verdant leaves droop,
a pale moth lands,
tree toads doze,
cicadas hiss.
On this hot summer day
I have no direction,
I have no goals,
I have no cares.
I breathe in,
I breathe out.
That’s enough.
The Curtains Part
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window, down the drive.
The school bus passes below.
No children live here anymore.
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window to the barn.
Metal doors clang in the wind.
No one works there anymore.
The curtains part as she opens
the window. Fresh air fills the room.
Dust dances in the sunlight.
Smiling, she writes down this poem.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:11.951657
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-15",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-16
|
1 Are You Listening?
Constance Hodder
Two Tin Cans
Two tin cans hold taut
the cord between us,
a tight rope for
children’s secrets to cross.
Old telephone booth
beside a grave yard,
conduit to the dead for
the living’s confessions.
Put your ear to the can,
a coin in the payphone,
for I too have secrets
to whisper, to confess.
Are you listening?
I will tell my tales through
the air on a heart string,
send them sailing on the wind,
to fall like leaves at your feet.
Rake them up and jump in
like a child, or leave them
swirling among the graves,
the dead will always listen.
A Blue Jay: Self Portrait part one
A blue jay sings atop
the branch of a paper birch
before a luminous azure sky.
How often I have gazed through
this temple window.
A blue jay soars above
the expansive indigo Lake
sky mirrored on calm waters.
How often I have prayed at
this living altar.
A blue jay flies up
the cliff on Blueberry Hill
so high heaven can be seen.
How often I have reached to
touch the face of God.
Long Dry Grasses Sing: Self Portrait part two
Long dry grasses sing,
blown one way, then the other.
Divide for a tawny cat
stalking through the cover.
Pads across dampened sand,
leaps atop a rock.
Surveys white capped lake,
gulls bobbing in a flock.
Wind dies with setting sun,
water reflects the glow.
Cat wanders back through
grasses now woven gold.
Tall Sunflowers: Self Portrait part three
Tall sunflowers,
garden giants,
golden petals grace
black gleaming faces,
sun followers.
At summer’s end
heads hang heavy,
mature with seed,
bend to survey
garden’s harvest.
Stems bow in prayer
goldfinch whispers,
“tomorrow comes”
plucks a seed,
then flies away.
Snow soon covers
fallen remnants,
memory of sun
secured in seed,
waiting in soil.
Tucked In a Drawer: Self Portrait part four
Tucked in a drawer,
too old to be of use,
lies a pile of hankies,
laced with memories.
Each one unfolded,
its wrinkled face smoothed,
telling tales of tears,
farewells and broken hearts.
Delicate fabric,
whiteness yellowed grey,
colors faded, worn thin
that veil of passing.
Lovingly refolded,
no longer a piece
of today, tucked safely
back into yesterday.
This Gravel Road : Self Portrait part five
This gravel road is
long, hot, and dusty.
I keep walking on.
My feet are tired,
my shoes worn.
I have walked this road
a lifetime. They say
all roads come to an end.
Down the way there is
a bend in sight.
Along this timeworn road,
I gather flowers,
their beauty wilting
in my hands being
dropped, one by one.
I look behind. They say
never look back but
now there’s a path of
flowers to follow
when my soul returns.
The Child Laughs Aloud
The child laughs aloud,
not bubbling up
or holding back, but
erupting like Vesuvius.
There was a time,
when I too could laugh
without restraint,
tears rolling down.
This was before
I grew up, standing tall,
assured in the fact,
I knew something.
Uncertainty and fear,
now bend my spine.
Searching for answers,
my eyes grow blind.
Look up, my head says.
What should I see?
Pray, my heart says.
What do I ask for?
I hear the child,
laughter peeling like a bell,
resounding inside me,
an answer, a prayer.
The Down Arrow Glows Red
The down arrow glows red.
As the door slides open,
I step in, press LL.
People move aside, we descend.
I have been so tired.
My skin smells rusty.
I laugh imagining
myself as the tin man,
rusting when he cried.
The elevator stops
on every floor. People
get off. I reach the
lowest level, alone.
I have been so very tired.
The doctor does not laugh,
orders tests, procedures.
Then calls me saying, “Sorry
to tell you this on the phone”.
I exit down in the bowels
of the earth, following signs
that point to the tunnel.
My steps echo as I walk.
Cancer makes you tired.
My husband brings me in
for surgery. We hold hands
knowing love’s strength,
and life’s fragility.
Florescent light floods the hall.
Tiles line the narrow path,
just wide enough for the
ill and dying to pass.
I could sleep forever.
They cut out the cancer,
removing my uterus.
Womanhood a memory
I will have to forget.
The tunnel is long, twisted.
At each turn I think
this must be the end.
There is no end, it stretches on.
Curls Go With Girls
“Curls go with girls” mother taught,
pin curling my straight hair.
By morning my girlishness
was revealed. The ads taught:
“Amp up your luscious lips.”
“A dab of gloss gives you a
plumper pout.” “False eye lashes,
glam bam!” Ideal beauty revealed.
Wear makeup to feel confident,
camouflage your imperfections,
fix your face. After all,
the mirror never lies.
With good grooming, plain girls
transform into nubile maidens,
ready for seduction.
Mother, was this your goal?
Grooming builds relationships,
leading to manipulation,
exploitation and abuse,
with no choice but to follow.
From the first time the glass slipper
is tried on, the soul is locked
into a turret to await
a fairy godmother.
“A woman without paint
is like food without salt”
the Roman Plautus taught.
What about curls?
I Was Born in Winter
I was born in winter.
Janus the gatekeeper
looking forward and back.
Grandfather’s ghost prayed
beside my bed.
The hairs on my head are
numbered, as are my days.
Past and future entwined
like stars whose light is seen
beyond their death.
In the woods stands an oak
bowed under the weight of
a fallen comrade, held aloft.
I too cannot let go of
those gone before.
They still can be heard in
my voice, seen in my face,
alive within my bones.
Like Lot’s wife, I cannot help
but look back.
When time’s gate swings shut
and life ends, only bones
will remember my name.
Look up, you will find me
in the stars.
On the eve of my 69th birthday
He Lies On My Lap
He lies on my lap,
curled like a comma,
dividing now, from then,
his head tucked to tail,
no beginning or end.
Like Regulus, the cat,
star in Leo’s constellation,
who prowled the night sky,
as the child in the womb,
swam through darkness.
Starlight born around her,
sixty-nine light years ago,
bathed the babe in brightness,
before and thereafter,
as old as she is new.
In a Dark Swirl of Wind
In a dark swirl of wind,
a tree fell leaving a
hollow in the canopy.
The crash was never heard.
There must have been a
splintering groan as it
let go of the earth and sky,
the sun, wind, and rain.
No one witnessed life passing.
You left us that way,
avoiding long goodbyes,
slipping off on your own.
When time calls our name
do we chose to let go,
or does the earth let loose
from under our roots?
That dark swirl of wind
may need to snatch me up,
refusing to let go
I’ll fall with a crash.
As a Child I Believed
As a child I believed,
wind was all I needed,
to make my dime-store kite fly,
if only I could run faster.
My kite would swoop and spin,
turn and dive into the ground.
I would try again and again,
until the kite crumpled.
The bus made its final stop,
dropping her at the Home,
to live out her days, in the
company of strangers.
She sat marooned with others,
powerless, mirroring despair.
Reaching out, she grasped the hands
of those seated beside her.
A tail on a kite helps it fly,
adding drag, pulling it
in the wind’s direction.
If only I had understood,
that kind of power. As the
World Trade Center tower burned,
when there was no escape,
strangers held hands and jumped.
I see a kite flying high,
bright against the blue sky,
reaching its way toward heaven,
its tail trailing toward earth.
So You Crossed the Finish Line
So, you crossed the finish line.
They congratulated you,
said you would be missed,
then locked the door.
So, you checked the time on
the watch you no longer need,
loaded up your memories,
and drove off into the sunset.
So, is that the end,
roll the credits,
the screen turns black,
everyone files out but you?
So?
If I Do Not Write It Down
If I do not write it down,
will I ever see the truth?
So many words go past us,
we skim with our ears the fat
that coats our toast, fries our eggs,
but will never sustain us.
Like an e-visit to the doctor,
who never sets eyes on us,
nods and says “Amen” at church
to assure God Incarnate
that He is known and loved
but will be passed on the street.
So I write down the words,
trying to see their reflection
off the wide lined paper,
that draws on the letters from
youth, traced over and over,
then graded on penmanship.
I stand before you fearful
that my lack of substance will
be discovered and paraded
round for all to see and mock.
So I’ve hidden away words
that may follow me to the grave.
Before that day of cremation,
I try not to look back while boldly
stepping forward, writing the words
that once were secreted away,
my sight blurred and clouded,
so only now, I start to see.
Time Has Set Me Apart
Time has set me apart.
On the street the child calls,
“Hey, old lady”. I don’t look up,
my eyes are on my path.
You take one step, then another.
Each step brings you closer.
Each step, farther away.
The walk is uneven.
That first step, precarious,
a missed step, disastrous.
I have a fear of falling.
I have a fear of failure.
You can practice falling
so no bones are broken.
Should you practice failure,
so you can stand again?
Time warns me to watch my step.
My bones are fragile.
The path calls “Hey, old lady”.
This time I look ahead.
Welcomed in the Doorway
Welcomed in the doorway,
perches on a chair,
smiles same as ever,
Illusions to portray.
Well-worn gifted sweater,
hole opens under arm,
too late now to sew it,
onerous to maintain.
Every day, efforts made,
tries to make things last,
another coat of paint,
glue to mend a crack.
Endlessly the edges fray,
nothing stays the same,
time seems to accelerate,
marching to decay.
Helped into a jacket,
hugged fondly at the door,
loved for what once was,
ghost of what remains.
She Listens to Her World
She listens to her world
reading lips, gestures, eyes irritation.
Hears it all
but not the words in her head.
There is a drought
not colored red on a map. A dearth.
Her mouth dry, tongue parched
lips cracked.
When she speaks, dust flies out
like a car leaving down a gravel road.
It happened gradually
over years. Everyone remembered
when words rained down.
No one noticed when it slowed
to sprinkle then stopped.
Temporal lobe aphasia they said
abandoning her to memory.
She listens
SLAPS the table. That was understood.
The Woman Tips Her Coiffed Do
The woman tips her coiffed do,
smiling as she polishes,
her table to a glossy shine,
mirroring her image.
“Isn’t that a nice reflection on you?”
the Pledge commercial asks me.
Taught to dust back in the sixties,
you’d think I’d polish mine,
but my table shines with gravy
and greasy fingerprints too.
No amount of lemon polish
or elbow grease is going
to shine it like a mirror,
nor would I want it to.
My reflection is mine alone,
built on years of living,
life filled with memories,
brings back “nice” reflections.
Family gathered all together,
Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners,
roast beef as well as gravy,
licked from greasy fingers.
The Curtain Goes Up
The curtain goes up.
Scenes from yesterday,
memorized by heart,
replay in my mind. I remember.
Warehouse windows stuck shut.
Struggling to open them,
the studio heating up
like an oven. I remember.
You opened those windows,
fresh air flowed through, blowing
away deceit, the hands
around my neck. I remember.
Golden curtains billowing
on windows filled with sunlight,
the breeze cooling sweat from
our languid bodies. I remember.
Life flows through these windows.
One day the scene will end,
curtains fall, lights go dark.
Will I still remember?
Even now, my eyes grow dim.
When I no longer see,
slide open the window,
so I feel the breeze, and remember.
I Believe it was October
I believe it was October
when the long thin arms of
autumn sunlight stretched
across fields of dry grass.
Wind blew through remains
of corn stubble refuse,
stirring clouds of dust
that hung suspended.
Late in the day, your face shaded
by the thin worn curtain,
damp with sweat, glowed with
knowledge of our longings.
Where do I find myself now,
wrapped in your arms or
watching in the failing light,
shoes covered in dust?
Old Abandoned Farm House
Old abandoned farm house,
weather beaten, stripped bare,
windows stare out blankly
through fractured panes.
The front door boarded shut,
telling no tales. Not stopping
the curious who are drawn
to peer inside its decay.
I refuse to look through
those dark broken windows,
afraid of waking the ghost
still lurking there.
Haunted with memory
of a duplicitous grin,
devouring young women
to fill its rotten hollow.
Instead, I chose to stand
back in the shadows to watch
as this house is burnt down.
I’m drawn to watch the flames.
I am a Desert Owl
I am a desert owl,
looking for shelter,
flying over burning sands,
without a place to land.
I am a pelican in the wilderness,
tearing at my breast,
hearing children cry,
without a bite to eat.
I am an owl among ruins,
searching for creation,
finding desolation,
without a way back.
I am a sparrow in darkness,
watching through the night,
alone on a rooftop,
waiting for light.
Oh, Sweet Gift
Oh, sweet gift of sleep,
our bed a boat set adrift.
You lay warm against my back,
breath moves hairs on my neck.
The battle over pain and loss,
finally, at rest.
In the early hours,
the leviathan circles.
Heard over roiling waters
echoes from the past,
“Just shoot me. Throw me in.”
Ancient timbers groan.
Oh, sweet gift of life, time
blows us farther out to sea.
“I wish I was dead” was said
in pain, giving way to anger,
frustration preparing
a watery grave.
Your arms, a life preserver,
pull me to safety.
My body surrenders,
sleep washes our yesterdays,
love keeps us afloat.
Life and time still move
with the tide.
Hard Wooden Doors
Hard wooden doors
hinges creak apart
dim light filters
stained glass panes
suspended cross.
Solitary.
Hard wooden pews
groan under stress
echoes emptiness
loss, life’s questions
death’s conclusion.
Hallowed answer.
Hard garden bench
sunflowers sway
geese circle south
dusk envelopes
consummate peace.
Sanctuary.
My Life
My life is a Word Find.
Searching for “FATE”.
Discovering “FAITH”.
Looking for “HEAVEN”.
Finding “HAVE”.
Four Walls
Four walls a fortress
sometimes turn prison,
thick walls of heat
close in on me.
I dive out the door,
swim through humidity,
gasping like a
woman drowning.
Under a tree’s shade
my mind empties out,
worries fade away,
hands hang limp.
Verdant leaves droop,
a pale moth lands,
tree toads doze,
cicadas hiss.
On this hot summer day
I have no direction,
I have no goals,
I have no cares.
I breathe in,
I breathe out.
That’s enough.
The Curtains Part
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window, down the drive.
The school bus passes below.
No children live here anymore.
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window to the barn.
Metal doors clang in the wind.
No one works there anymore.
The curtains part as she opens
the window. Fresh air fills the room.
Dust dances in the sunlight.
Smiling, she writes down this poem.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:12.037184
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-16",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-17
|
1 Are You Listening?
Constance Hodder
Two Tin Cans
Two tin cans hold taut
the cord between us,
a tight rope for
children’s secrets to cross.
Old telephone booth
beside a grave yard,
conduit to the dead for
the living’s confessions.
Put your ear to the can,
a coin in the payphone,
for I too have secrets
to whisper, to confess.
Are you listening?
I will tell my tales through
the air on a heart string,
send them sailing on the wind,
to fall like leaves at your feet.
Rake them up and jump in
like a child, or leave them
swirling among the graves,
the dead will always listen.
A Blue Jay: Self Portrait part one
A blue jay sings atop
the branch of a paper birch
before a luminous azure sky.
How often I have gazed through
this temple window.
A blue jay soars above
the expansive indigo Lake
sky mirrored on calm waters.
How often I have prayed at
this living altar.
A blue jay flies up
the cliff on Blueberry Hill
so high heaven can be seen.
How often I have reached to
touch the face of God.
Long Dry Grasses Sing: Self Portrait part two
Long dry grasses sing,
blown one way, then the other.
Divide for a tawny cat
stalking through the cover.
Pads across dampened sand,
leaps atop a rock.
Surveys white capped lake,
gulls bobbing in a flock.
Wind dies with setting sun,
water reflects the glow.
Cat wanders back through
grasses now woven gold.
Tall Sunflowers: Self Portrait part three
Tall sunflowers,
garden giants,
golden petals grace
black gleaming faces,
sun followers.
At summer’s end
heads hang heavy,
mature with seed,
bend to survey
garden’s harvest.
Stems bow in prayer
goldfinch whispers,
“tomorrow comes”
plucks a seed,
then flies away.
Snow soon covers
fallen remnants,
memory of sun
secured in seed,
waiting in soil.
Tucked In a Drawer: Self Portrait part four
Tucked in a drawer,
too old to be of use,
lies a pile of hankies,
laced with memories.
Each one unfolded,
its wrinkled face smoothed,
telling tales of tears,
farewells and broken hearts.
Delicate fabric,
whiteness yellowed grey,
colors faded, worn thin
that veil of passing.
Lovingly refolded,
no longer a piece
of today, tucked safely
back into yesterday.
This Gravel Road : Self Portrait part five
This gravel road is
long, hot, and dusty.
I keep walking on.
My feet are tired,
my shoes worn.
I have walked this road
a lifetime. They say
all roads come to an end.
Down the way there is
a bend in sight.
Along this timeworn road,
I gather flowers,
their beauty wilting
in my hands being
dropped, one by one.
I look behind. They say
never look back but
now there’s a path of
flowers to follow
when my soul returns.
The Child Laughs Aloud
The child laughs aloud,
not bubbling up
or holding back, but
erupting like Vesuvius.
There was a time,
when I too could laugh
without restraint,
tears rolling down.
This was before
I grew up, standing tall,
assured in the fact,
I knew something.
Uncertainty and fear,
now bend my spine.
Searching for answers,
my eyes grow blind.
Look up, my head says.
What should I see?
Pray, my heart says.
What do I ask for?
I hear the child,
laughter peeling like a bell,
resounding inside me,
an answer, a prayer.
The Down Arrow Glows Red
The down arrow glows red.
As the door slides open,
I step in, press LL.
People move aside, we descend.
I have been so tired.
My skin smells rusty.
I laugh imagining
myself as the tin man,
rusting when he cried.
The elevator stops
on every floor. People
get off. I reach the
lowest level, alone.
I have been so very tired.
The doctor does not laugh,
orders tests, procedures.
Then calls me saying, “Sorry
to tell you this on the phone”.
I exit down in the bowels
of the earth, following signs
that point to the tunnel.
My steps echo as I walk.
Cancer makes you tired.
My husband brings me in
for surgery. We hold hands
knowing love’s strength,
and life’s fragility.
Florescent light floods the hall.
Tiles line the narrow path,
just wide enough for the
ill and dying to pass.
I could sleep forever.
They cut out the cancer,
removing my uterus.
Womanhood a memory
I will have to forget.
The tunnel is long, twisted.
At each turn I think
this must be the end.
There is no end, it stretches on.
Curls Go With Girls
“Curls go with girls” mother taught,
pin curling my straight hair.
By morning my girlishness
was revealed. The ads taught:
“Amp up your luscious lips.”
“A dab of gloss gives you a
plumper pout.” “False eye lashes,
glam bam!” Ideal beauty revealed.
Wear makeup to feel confident,
camouflage your imperfections,
fix your face. After all,
the mirror never lies.
With good grooming, plain girls
transform into nubile maidens,
ready for seduction.
Mother, was this your goal?
Grooming builds relationships,
leading to manipulation,
exploitation and abuse,
with no choice but to follow.
From the first time the glass slipper
is tried on, the soul is locked
into a turret to await
a fairy godmother.
“A woman without paint
is like food without salt”
the Roman Plautus taught.
What about curls?
I Was Born in Winter
I was born in winter.
Janus the gatekeeper
looking forward and back.
Grandfather’s ghost prayed
beside my bed.
The hairs on my head are
numbered, as are my days.
Past and future entwined
like stars whose light is seen
beyond their death.
In the woods stands an oak
bowed under the weight of
a fallen comrade, held aloft.
I too cannot let go of
those gone before.
They still can be heard in
my voice, seen in my face,
alive within my bones.
Like Lot’s wife, I cannot help
but look back.
When time’s gate swings shut
and life ends, only bones
will remember my name.
Look up, you will find me
in the stars.
On the eve of my 69th birthday
He Lies On My Lap
He lies on my lap,
curled like a comma,
dividing now, from then,
his head tucked to tail,
no beginning or end.
Like Regulus, the cat,
star in Leo’s constellation,
who prowled the night sky,
as the child in the womb,
swam through darkness.
Starlight born around her,
sixty-nine light years ago,
bathed the babe in brightness,
before and thereafter,
as old as she is new.
In a Dark Swirl of Wind
In a dark swirl of wind,
a tree fell leaving a
hollow in the canopy.
The crash was never heard.
There must have been a
splintering groan as it
let go of the earth and sky,
the sun, wind, and rain.
No one witnessed life passing.
You left us that way,
avoiding long goodbyes,
slipping off on your own.
When time calls our name
do we chose to let go,
or does the earth let loose
from under our roots?
That dark swirl of wind
may need to snatch me up,
refusing to let go
I’ll fall with a crash.
As a Child I Believed
As a child I believed,
wind was all I needed,
to make my dime-store kite fly,
if only I could run faster.
My kite would swoop and spin,
turn and dive into the ground.
I would try again and again,
until the kite crumpled.
The bus made its final stop,
dropping her at the Home,
to live out her days, in the
company of strangers.
She sat marooned with others,
powerless, mirroring despair.
Reaching out, she grasped the hands
of those seated beside her.
A tail on a kite helps it fly,
adding drag, pulling it
in the wind’s direction.
If only I had understood,
that kind of power. As the
World Trade Center tower burned,
when there was no escape,
strangers held hands and jumped.
I see a kite flying high,
bright against the blue sky,
reaching its way toward heaven,
its tail trailing toward earth.
So You Crossed the Finish Line
So, you crossed the finish line.
They congratulated you,
said you would be missed,
then locked the door.
So, you checked the time on
the watch you no longer need,
loaded up your memories,
and drove off into the sunset.
So, is that the end,
roll the credits,
the screen turns black,
everyone files out but you?
So?
If I Do Not Write It Down
If I do not write it down,
will I ever see the truth?
So many words go past us,
we skim with our ears the fat
that coats our toast, fries our eggs,
but will never sustain us.
Like an e-visit to the doctor,
who never sets eyes on us,
nods and says “Amen” at church
to assure God Incarnate
that He is known and loved
but will be passed on the street.
So I write down the words,
trying to see their reflection
off the wide lined paper,
that draws on the letters from
youth, traced over and over,
then graded on penmanship.
I stand before you fearful
that my lack of substance will
be discovered and paraded
round for all to see and mock.
So I’ve hidden away words
that may follow me to the grave.
Before that day of cremation,
I try not to look back while boldly
stepping forward, writing the words
that once were secreted away,
my sight blurred and clouded,
so only now, I start to see.
Time Has Set Me Apart
Time has set me apart.
On the street the child calls,
“Hey, old lady”. I don’t look up,
my eyes are on my path.
You take one step, then another.
Each step brings you closer.
Each step, farther away.
The walk is uneven.
That first step, precarious,
a missed step, disastrous.
I have a fear of falling.
I have a fear of failure.
You can practice falling
so no bones are broken.
Should you practice failure,
so you can stand again?
Time warns me to watch my step.
My bones are fragile.
The path calls “Hey, old lady”.
This time I look ahead.
Welcomed in the Doorway
Welcomed in the doorway,
perches on a chair,
smiles same as ever,
Illusions to portray.
Well-worn gifted sweater,
hole opens under arm,
too late now to sew it,
onerous to maintain.
Every day, efforts made,
tries to make things last,
another coat of paint,
glue to mend a crack.
Endlessly the edges fray,
nothing stays the same,
time seems to accelerate,
marching to decay.
Helped into a jacket,
hugged fondly at the door,
loved for what once was,
ghost of what remains.
She Listens to Her World
She listens to her world
reading lips, gestures, eyes irritation.
Hears it all
but not the words in her head.
There is a drought
not colored red on a map. A dearth.
Her mouth dry, tongue parched
lips cracked.
When she speaks, dust flies out
like a car leaving down a gravel road.
It happened gradually
over years. Everyone remembered
when words rained down.
No one noticed when it slowed
to sprinkle then stopped.
Temporal lobe aphasia they said
abandoning her to memory.
She listens
SLAPS the table. That was understood.
The Woman Tips Her Coiffed Do
The woman tips her coiffed do,
smiling as she polishes,
her table to a glossy shine,
mirroring her image.
“Isn’t that a nice reflection on you?”
the Pledge commercial asks me.
Taught to dust back in the sixties,
you’d think I’d polish mine,
but my table shines with gravy
and greasy fingerprints too.
No amount of lemon polish
or elbow grease is going
to shine it like a mirror,
nor would I want it to.
My reflection is mine alone,
built on years of living,
life filled with memories,
brings back “nice” reflections.
Family gathered all together,
Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners,
roast beef as well as gravy,
licked from greasy fingers.
The Curtain Goes Up
The curtain goes up.
Scenes from yesterday,
memorized by heart,
replay in my mind. I remember.
Warehouse windows stuck shut.
Struggling to open them,
the studio heating up
like an oven. I remember.
You opened those windows,
fresh air flowed through, blowing
away deceit, the hands
around my neck. I remember.
Golden curtains billowing
on windows filled with sunlight,
the breeze cooling sweat from
our languid bodies. I remember.
Life flows through these windows.
One day the scene will end,
curtains fall, lights go dark.
Will I still remember?
Even now, my eyes grow dim.
When I no longer see,
slide open the window,
so I feel the breeze, and remember.
I Believe it was October
I believe it was October
when the long thin arms of
autumn sunlight stretched
across fields of dry grass.
Wind blew through remains
of corn stubble refuse,
stirring clouds of dust
that hung suspended.
Late in the day, your face shaded
by the thin worn curtain,
damp with sweat, glowed with
knowledge of our longings.
Where do I find myself now,
wrapped in your arms or
watching in the failing light,
shoes covered in dust?
Old Abandoned Farm House
Old abandoned farm house,
weather beaten, stripped bare,
windows stare out blankly
through fractured panes.
The front door boarded shut,
telling no tales. Not stopping
the curious who are drawn
to peer inside its decay.
I refuse to look through
those dark broken windows,
afraid of waking the ghost
still lurking there.
Haunted with memory
of a duplicitous grin,
devouring young women
to fill its rotten hollow.
Instead, I chose to stand
back in the shadows to watch
as this house is burnt down.
I’m drawn to watch the flames.
I am a Desert Owl
I am a desert owl,
looking for shelter,
flying over burning sands,
without a place to land.
I am a pelican in the wilderness,
tearing at my breast,
hearing children cry,
without a bite to eat.
I am an owl among ruins,
searching for creation,
finding desolation,
without a way back.
I am a sparrow in darkness,
watching through the night,
alone on a rooftop,
waiting for light.
Oh, Sweet Gift
Oh, sweet gift of sleep,
our bed a boat set adrift.
You lay warm against my back,
breath moves hairs on my neck.
The battle over pain and loss,
finally, at rest.
In the early hours,
the leviathan circles.
Heard over roiling waters
echoes from the past,
“Just shoot me. Throw me in.”
Ancient timbers groan.
Oh, sweet gift of life, time
blows us farther out to sea.
“I wish I was dead” was said
in pain, giving way to anger,
frustration preparing
a watery grave.
Your arms, a life preserver,
pull me to safety.
My body surrenders,
sleep washes our yesterdays,
love keeps us afloat.
Life and time still move
with the tide.
Hard Wooden Doors
Hard wooden doors
hinges creak apart
dim light filters
stained glass panes
suspended cross.
Solitary.
Hard wooden pews
groan under stress
echoes emptiness
loss, life’s questions
death’s conclusion.
Hallowed answer.
Hard garden bench
sunflowers sway
geese circle south
dusk envelopes
consummate peace.
Sanctuary.
My Life
My life is a Word Find.
Searching for “FATE”.
Discovering “FAITH”.
Looking for “HEAVEN”.
Finding “HAVE”.
Four Walls
Four walls a fortress
sometimes turn prison,
thick walls of heat
close in on me.
I dive out the door,
swim through humidity,
gasping like a
woman drowning.
Under a tree’s shade
my mind empties out,
worries fade away,
hands hang limp.
Verdant leaves droop,
a pale moth lands,
tree toads doze,
cicadas hiss.
On this hot summer day
I have no direction,
I have no goals,
I have no cares.
I breathe in,
I breathe out.
That’s enough.
The Curtains Part
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window, down the drive.
The school bus passes below.
No children live here anymore.
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window to the barn.
Metal doors clang in the wind.
No one works there anymore.
The curtains part as she opens
the window. Fresh air fills the room.
Dust dances in the sunlight.
Smiling, she writes down this poem.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:12.119340
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-17",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-18
|
1 Are You Listening?
Constance Hodder
Two Tin Cans
Two tin cans hold taut
the cord between us,
a tight rope for
children’s secrets to cross.
Old telephone booth
beside a grave yard,
conduit to the dead for
the living’s confessions.
Put your ear to the can,
a coin in the payphone,
for I too have secrets
to whisper, to confess.
Are you listening?
I will tell my tales through
the air on a heart string,
send them sailing on the wind,
to fall like leaves at your feet.
Rake them up and jump in
like a child, or leave them
swirling among the graves,
the dead will always listen.
A Blue Jay: Self Portrait part one
A blue jay sings atop
the branch of a paper birch
before a luminous azure sky.
How often I have gazed through
this temple window.
A blue jay soars above
the expansive indigo Lake
sky mirrored on calm waters.
How often I have prayed at
this living altar.
A blue jay flies up
the cliff on Blueberry Hill
so high heaven can be seen.
How often I have reached to
touch the face of God.
Long Dry Grasses Sing: Self Portrait part two
Long dry grasses sing,
blown one way, then the other.
Divide for a tawny cat
stalking through the cover.
Pads across dampened sand,
leaps atop a rock.
Surveys white capped lake,
gulls bobbing in a flock.
Wind dies with setting sun,
water reflects the glow.
Cat wanders back through
grasses now woven gold.
Tall Sunflowers: Self Portrait part three
Tall sunflowers,
garden giants,
golden petals grace
black gleaming faces,
sun followers.
At summer’s end
heads hang heavy,
mature with seed,
bend to survey
garden’s harvest.
Stems bow in prayer
goldfinch whispers,
“tomorrow comes”
plucks a seed,
then flies away.
Snow soon covers
fallen remnants,
memory of sun
secured in seed,
waiting in soil.
Tucked In a Drawer: Self Portrait part four
Tucked in a drawer,
too old to be of use,
lies a pile of hankies,
laced with memories.
Each one unfolded,
its wrinkled face smoothed,
telling tales of tears,
farewells and broken hearts.
Delicate fabric,
whiteness yellowed grey,
colors faded, worn thin
that veil of passing.
Lovingly refolded,
no longer a piece
of today, tucked safely
back into yesterday.
This Gravel Road : Self Portrait part five
This gravel road is
long, hot, and dusty.
I keep walking on.
My feet are tired,
my shoes worn.
I have walked this road
a lifetime. They say
all roads come to an end.
Down the way there is
a bend in sight.
Along this timeworn road,
I gather flowers,
their beauty wilting
in my hands being
dropped, one by one.
I look behind. They say
never look back but
now there’s a path of
flowers to follow
when my soul returns.
The Child Laughs Aloud
The child laughs aloud,
not bubbling up
or holding back, but
erupting like Vesuvius.
There was a time,
when I too could laugh
without restraint,
tears rolling down.
This was before
I grew up, standing tall,
assured in the fact,
I knew something.
Uncertainty and fear,
now bend my spine.
Searching for answers,
my eyes grow blind.
Look up, my head says.
What should I see?
Pray, my heart says.
What do I ask for?
I hear the child,
laughter peeling like a bell,
resounding inside me,
an answer, a prayer.
The Down Arrow Glows Red
The down arrow glows red.
As the door slides open,
I step in, press LL.
People move aside, we descend.
I have been so tired.
My skin smells rusty.
I laugh imagining
myself as the tin man,
rusting when he cried.
The elevator stops
on every floor. People
get off. I reach the
lowest level, alone.
I have been so very tired.
The doctor does not laugh,
orders tests, procedures.
Then calls me saying, “Sorry
to tell you this on the phone”.
I exit down in the bowels
of the earth, following signs
that point to the tunnel.
My steps echo as I walk.
Cancer makes you tired.
My husband brings me in
for surgery. We hold hands
knowing love’s strength,
and life’s fragility.
Florescent light floods the hall.
Tiles line the narrow path,
just wide enough for the
ill and dying to pass.
I could sleep forever.
They cut out the cancer,
removing my uterus.
Womanhood a memory
I will have to forget.
The tunnel is long, twisted.
At each turn I think
this must be the end.
There is no end, it stretches on.
Curls Go With Girls
“Curls go with girls” mother taught,
pin curling my straight hair.
By morning my girlishness
was revealed. The ads taught:
“Amp up your luscious lips.”
“A dab of gloss gives you a
plumper pout.” “False eye lashes,
glam bam!” Ideal beauty revealed.
Wear makeup to feel confident,
camouflage your imperfections,
fix your face. After all,
the mirror never lies.
With good grooming, plain girls
transform into nubile maidens,
ready for seduction.
Mother, was this your goal?
Grooming builds relationships,
leading to manipulation,
exploitation and abuse,
with no choice but to follow.
From the first time the glass slipper
is tried on, the soul is locked
into a turret to await
a fairy godmother.
“A woman without paint
is like food without salt”
the Roman Plautus taught.
What about curls?
I Was Born in Winter
I was born in winter.
Janus the gatekeeper
looking forward and back.
Grandfather’s ghost prayed
beside my bed.
The hairs on my head are
numbered, as are my days.
Past and future entwined
like stars whose light is seen
beyond their death.
In the woods stands an oak
bowed under the weight of
a fallen comrade, held aloft.
I too cannot let go of
those gone before.
They still can be heard in
my voice, seen in my face,
alive within my bones.
Like Lot’s wife, I cannot help
but look back.
When time’s gate swings shut
and life ends, only bones
will remember my name.
Look up, you will find me
in the stars.
On the eve of my 69th birthday
He Lies On My Lap
He lies on my lap,
curled like a comma,
dividing now, from then,
his head tucked to tail,
no beginning or end.
Like Regulus, the cat,
star in Leo’s constellation,
who prowled the night sky,
as the child in the womb,
swam through darkness.
Starlight born around her,
sixty-nine light years ago,
bathed the babe in brightness,
before and thereafter,
as old as she is new.
In a Dark Swirl of Wind
In a dark swirl of wind,
a tree fell leaving a
hollow in the canopy.
The crash was never heard.
There must have been a
splintering groan as it
let go of the earth and sky,
the sun, wind, and rain.
No one witnessed life passing.
You left us that way,
avoiding long goodbyes,
slipping off on your own.
When time calls our name
do we chose to let go,
or does the earth let loose
from under our roots?
That dark swirl of wind
may need to snatch me up,
refusing to let go
I’ll fall with a crash.
As a Child I Believed
As a child I believed,
wind was all I needed,
to make my dime-store kite fly,
if only I could run faster.
My kite would swoop and spin,
turn and dive into the ground.
I would try again and again,
until the kite crumpled.
The bus made its final stop,
dropping her at the Home,
to live out her days, in the
company of strangers.
She sat marooned with others,
powerless, mirroring despair.
Reaching out, she grasped the hands
of those seated beside her.
A tail on a kite helps it fly,
adding drag, pulling it
in the wind’s direction.
If only I had understood,
that kind of power. As the
World Trade Center tower burned,
when there was no escape,
strangers held hands and jumped.
I see a kite flying high,
bright against the blue sky,
reaching its way toward heaven,
its tail trailing toward earth.
So You Crossed the Finish Line
So, you crossed the finish line.
They congratulated you,
said you would be missed,
then locked the door.
So, you checked the time on
the watch you no longer need,
loaded up your memories,
and drove off into the sunset.
So, is that the end,
roll the credits,
the screen turns black,
everyone files out but you?
So?
If I Do Not Write It Down
If I do not write it down,
will I ever see the truth?
So many words go past us,
we skim with our ears the fat
that coats our toast, fries our eggs,
but will never sustain us.
Like an e-visit to the doctor,
who never sets eyes on us,
nods and says “Amen” at church
to assure God Incarnate
that He is known and loved
but will be passed on the street.
So I write down the words,
trying to see their reflection
off the wide lined paper,
that draws on the letters from
youth, traced over and over,
then graded on penmanship.
I stand before you fearful
that my lack of substance will
be discovered and paraded
round for all to see and mock.
So I’ve hidden away words
that may follow me to the grave.
Before that day of cremation,
I try not to look back while boldly
stepping forward, writing the words
that once were secreted away,
my sight blurred and clouded,
so only now, I start to see.
Time Has Set Me Apart
Time has set me apart.
On the street the child calls,
“Hey, old lady”. I don’t look up,
my eyes are on my path.
You take one step, then another.
Each step brings you closer.
Each step, farther away.
The walk is uneven.
That first step, precarious,
a missed step, disastrous.
I have a fear of falling.
I have a fear of failure.
You can practice falling
so no bones are broken.
Should you practice failure,
so you can stand again?
Time warns me to watch my step.
My bones are fragile.
The path calls “Hey, old lady”.
This time I look ahead.
Welcomed in the Doorway
Welcomed in the doorway,
perches on a chair,
smiles same as ever,
Illusions to portray.
Well-worn gifted sweater,
hole opens under arm,
too late now to sew it,
onerous to maintain.
Every day, efforts made,
tries to make things last,
another coat of paint,
glue to mend a crack.
Endlessly the edges fray,
nothing stays the same,
time seems to accelerate,
marching to decay.
Helped into a jacket,
hugged fondly at the door,
loved for what once was,
ghost of what remains.
She Listens to Her World
She listens to her world
reading lips, gestures, eyes irritation.
Hears it all
but not the words in her head.
There is a drought
not colored red on a map. A dearth.
Her mouth dry, tongue parched
lips cracked.
When she speaks, dust flies out
like a car leaving down a gravel road.
It happened gradually
over years. Everyone remembered
when words rained down.
No one noticed when it slowed
to sprinkle then stopped.
Temporal lobe aphasia they said
abandoning her to memory.
She listens
SLAPS the table. That was understood.
The Woman Tips Her Coiffed Do
The woman tips her coiffed do,
smiling as she polishes,
her table to a glossy shine,
mirroring her image.
“Isn’t that a nice reflection on you?”
the Pledge commercial asks me.
Taught to dust back in the sixties,
you’d think I’d polish mine,
but my table shines with gravy
and greasy fingerprints too.
No amount of lemon polish
or elbow grease is going
to shine it like a mirror,
nor would I want it to.
My reflection is mine alone,
built on years of living,
life filled with memories,
brings back “nice” reflections.
Family gathered all together,
Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners,
roast beef as well as gravy,
licked from greasy fingers.
The Curtain Goes Up
The curtain goes up.
Scenes from yesterday,
memorized by heart,
replay in my mind. I remember.
Warehouse windows stuck shut.
Struggling to open them,
the studio heating up
like an oven. I remember.
You opened those windows,
fresh air flowed through, blowing
away deceit, the hands
around my neck. I remember.
Golden curtains billowing
on windows filled with sunlight,
the breeze cooling sweat from
our languid bodies. I remember.
Life flows through these windows.
One day the scene will end,
curtains fall, lights go dark.
Will I still remember?
Even now, my eyes grow dim.
When I no longer see,
slide open the window,
so I feel the breeze, and remember.
I Believe it was October
I believe it was October
when the long thin arms of
autumn sunlight stretched
across fields of dry grass.
Wind blew through remains
of corn stubble refuse,
stirring clouds of dust
that hung suspended.
Late in the day, your face shaded
by the thin worn curtain,
damp with sweat, glowed with
knowledge of our longings.
Where do I find myself now,
wrapped in your arms or
watching in the failing light,
shoes covered in dust?
Old Abandoned Farm House
Old abandoned farm house,
weather beaten, stripped bare,
windows stare out blankly
through fractured panes.
The front door boarded shut,
telling no tales. Not stopping
the curious who are drawn
to peer inside its decay.
I refuse to look through
those dark broken windows,
afraid of waking the ghost
still lurking there.
Haunted with memory
of a duplicitous grin,
devouring young women
to fill its rotten hollow.
Instead, I chose to stand
back in the shadows to watch
as this house is burnt down.
I’m drawn to watch the flames.
I am a Desert Owl
I am a desert owl,
looking for shelter,
flying over burning sands,
without a place to land.
I am a pelican in the wilderness,
tearing at my breast,
hearing children cry,
without a bite to eat.
I am an owl among ruins,
searching for creation,
finding desolation,
without a way back.
I am a sparrow in darkness,
watching through the night,
alone on a rooftop,
waiting for light.
Oh, Sweet Gift
Oh, sweet gift of sleep,
our bed a boat set adrift.
You lay warm against my back,
breath moves hairs on my neck.
The battle over pain and loss,
finally, at rest.
In the early hours,
the leviathan circles.
Heard over roiling waters
echoes from the past,
“Just shoot me. Throw me in.”
Ancient timbers groan.
Oh, sweet gift of life, time
blows us farther out to sea.
“I wish I was dead” was said
in pain, giving way to anger,
frustration preparing
a watery grave.
Your arms, a life preserver,
pull me to safety.
My body surrenders,
sleep washes our yesterdays,
love keeps us afloat.
Life and time still move
with the tide.
Hard Wooden Doors
Hard wooden doors
hinges creak apart
dim light filters
stained glass panes
suspended cross.
Solitary.
Hard wooden pews
groan under stress
echoes emptiness
loss, life’s questions
death’s conclusion.
Hallowed answer.
Hard garden bench
sunflowers sway
geese circle south
dusk envelopes
consummate peace.
Sanctuary.
My Life
My life is a Word Find.
Searching for “FATE”.
Discovering “FAITH”.
Looking for “HEAVEN”.
Finding “HAVE”.
Four Walls
Four walls a fortress
sometimes turn prison,
thick walls of heat
close in on me.
I dive out the door,
swim through humidity,
gasping like a
woman drowning.
Under a tree’s shade
my mind empties out,
worries fade away,
hands hang limp.
Verdant leaves droop,
a pale moth lands,
tree toads doze,
cicadas hiss.
On this hot summer day
I have no direction,
I have no goals,
I have no cares.
I breathe in,
I breathe out.
That’s enough.
The Curtains Part
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window, down the drive.
The school bus passes below.
No children live here anymore.
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window to the barn.
Metal doors clang in the wind.
No one works there anymore.
The curtains part as she opens
the window. Fresh air fills the room.
Dust dances in the sunlight.
Smiling, she writes down this poem.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:12.196166
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-18",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-19
|
1 Are You Listening?
Constance Hodder
Two Tin Cans
Two tin cans hold taut
the cord between us,
a tight rope for
children’s secrets to cross.
Old telephone booth
beside a grave yard,
conduit to the dead for
the living’s confessions.
Put your ear to the can,
a coin in the payphone,
for I too have secrets
to whisper, to confess.
Are you listening?
I will tell my tales through
the air on a heart string,
send them sailing on the wind,
to fall like leaves at your feet.
Rake them up and jump in
like a child, or leave them
swirling among the graves,
the dead will always listen.
A Blue Jay: Self Portrait part one
A blue jay sings atop
the branch of a paper birch
before a luminous azure sky.
How often I have gazed through
this temple window.
A blue jay soars above
the expansive indigo Lake
sky mirrored on calm waters.
How often I have prayed at
this living altar.
A blue jay flies up
the cliff on Blueberry Hill
so high heaven can be seen.
How often I have reached to
touch the face of God.
Long Dry Grasses Sing: Self Portrait part two
Long dry grasses sing,
blown one way, then the other.
Divide for a tawny cat
stalking through the cover.
Pads across dampened sand,
leaps atop a rock.
Surveys white capped lake,
gulls bobbing in a flock.
Wind dies with setting sun,
water reflects the glow.
Cat wanders back through
grasses now woven gold.
Tall Sunflowers: Self Portrait part three
Tall sunflowers,
garden giants,
golden petals grace
black gleaming faces,
sun followers.
At summer’s end
heads hang heavy,
mature with seed,
bend to survey
garden’s harvest.
Stems bow in prayer
goldfinch whispers,
“tomorrow comes”
plucks a seed,
then flies away.
Snow soon covers
fallen remnants,
memory of sun
secured in seed,
waiting in soil.
Tucked In a Drawer: Self Portrait part four
Tucked in a drawer,
too old to be of use,
lies a pile of hankies,
laced with memories.
Each one unfolded,
its wrinkled face smoothed,
telling tales of tears,
farewells and broken hearts.
Delicate fabric,
whiteness yellowed grey,
colors faded, worn thin
that veil of passing.
Lovingly refolded,
no longer a piece
of today, tucked safely
back into yesterday.
This Gravel Road : Self Portrait part five
This gravel road is
long, hot, and dusty.
I keep walking on.
My feet are tired,
my shoes worn.
I have walked this road
a lifetime. They say
all roads come to an end.
Down the way there is
a bend in sight.
Along this timeworn road,
I gather flowers,
their beauty wilting
in my hands being
dropped, one by one.
I look behind. They say
never look back but
now there’s a path of
flowers to follow
when my soul returns.
The Child Laughs Aloud
The child laughs aloud,
not bubbling up
or holding back, but
erupting like Vesuvius.
There was a time,
when I too could laugh
without restraint,
tears rolling down.
This was before
I grew up, standing tall,
assured in the fact,
I knew something.
Uncertainty and fear,
now bend my spine.
Searching for answers,
my eyes grow blind.
Look up, my head says.
What should I see?
Pray, my heart says.
What do I ask for?
I hear the child,
laughter peeling like a bell,
resounding inside me,
an answer, a prayer.
The Down Arrow Glows Red
The down arrow glows red.
As the door slides open,
I step in, press LL.
People move aside, we descend.
I have been so tired.
My skin smells rusty.
I laugh imagining
myself as the tin man,
rusting when he cried.
The elevator stops
on every floor. People
get off. I reach the
lowest level, alone.
I have been so very tired.
The doctor does not laugh,
orders tests, procedures.
Then calls me saying, “Sorry
to tell you this on the phone”.
I exit down in the bowels
of the earth, following signs
that point to the tunnel.
My steps echo as I walk.
Cancer makes you tired.
My husband brings me in
for surgery. We hold hands
knowing love’s strength,
and life’s fragility.
Florescent light floods the hall.
Tiles line the narrow path,
just wide enough for the
ill and dying to pass.
I could sleep forever.
They cut out the cancer,
removing my uterus.
Womanhood a memory
I will have to forget.
The tunnel is long, twisted.
At each turn I think
this must be the end.
There is no end, it stretches on.
Curls Go With Girls
“Curls go with girls” mother taught,
pin curling my straight hair.
By morning my girlishness
was revealed. The ads taught:
“Amp up your luscious lips.”
“A dab of gloss gives you a
plumper pout.” “False eye lashes,
glam bam!” Ideal beauty revealed.
Wear makeup to feel confident,
camouflage your imperfections,
fix your face. After all,
the mirror never lies.
With good grooming, plain girls
transform into nubile maidens,
ready for seduction.
Mother, was this your goal?
Grooming builds relationships,
leading to manipulation,
exploitation and abuse,
with no choice but to follow.
From the first time the glass slipper
is tried on, the soul is locked
into a turret to await
a fairy godmother.
“A woman without paint
is like food without salt”
the Roman Plautus taught.
What about curls?
I Was Born in Winter
I was born in winter.
Janus the gatekeeper
looking forward and back.
Grandfather’s ghost prayed
beside my bed.
The hairs on my head are
numbered, as are my days.
Past and future entwined
like stars whose light is seen
beyond their death.
In the woods stands an oak
bowed under the weight of
a fallen comrade, held aloft.
I too cannot let go of
those gone before.
They still can be heard in
my voice, seen in my face,
alive within my bones.
Like Lot’s wife, I cannot help
but look back.
When time’s gate swings shut
and life ends, only bones
will remember my name.
Look up, you will find me
in the stars.
On the eve of my 69th birthday
He Lies On My Lap
He lies on my lap,
curled like a comma,
dividing now, from then,
his head tucked to tail,
no beginning or end.
Like Regulus, the cat,
star in Leo’s constellation,
who prowled the night sky,
as the child in the womb,
swam through darkness.
Starlight born around her,
sixty-nine light years ago,
bathed the babe in brightness,
before and thereafter,
as old as she is new.
In a Dark Swirl of Wind
In a dark swirl of wind,
a tree fell leaving a
hollow in the canopy.
The crash was never heard.
There must have been a
splintering groan as it
let go of the earth and sky,
the sun, wind, and rain.
No one witnessed life passing.
You left us that way,
avoiding long goodbyes,
slipping off on your own.
When time calls our name
do we chose to let go,
or does the earth let loose
from under our roots?
That dark swirl of wind
may need to snatch me up,
refusing to let go
I’ll fall with a crash.
As a Child I Believed
As a child I believed,
wind was all I needed,
to make my dime-store kite fly,
if only I could run faster.
My kite would swoop and spin,
turn and dive into the ground.
I would try again and again,
until the kite crumpled.
The bus made its final stop,
dropping her at the Home,
to live out her days, in the
company of strangers.
She sat marooned with others,
powerless, mirroring despair.
Reaching out, she grasped the hands
of those seated beside her.
A tail on a kite helps it fly,
adding drag, pulling it
in the wind’s direction.
If only I had understood,
that kind of power. As the
World Trade Center tower burned,
when there was no escape,
strangers held hands and jumped.
I see a kite flying high,
bright against the blue sky,
reaching its way toward heaven,
its tail trailing toward earth.
So You Crossed the Finish Line
So, you crossed the finish line.
They congratulated you,
said you would be missed,
then locked the door.
So, you checked the time on
the watch you no longer need,
loaded up your memories,
and drove off into the sunset.
So, is that the end,
roll the credits,
the screen turns black,
everyone files out but you?
So?
If I Do Not Write It Down
If I do not write it down,
will I ever see the truth?
So many words go past us,
we skim with our ears the fat
that coats our toast, fries our eggs,
but will never sustain us.
Like an e-visit to the doctor,
who never sets eyes on us,
nods and says “Amen” at church
to assure God Incarnate
that He is known and loved
but will be passed on the street.
So I write down the words,
trying to see their reflection
off the wide lined paper,
that draws on the letters from
youth, traced over and over,
then graded on penmanship.
I stand before you fearful
that my lack of substance will
be discovered and paraded
round for all to see and mock.
So I’ve hidden away words
that may follow me to the grave.
Before that day of cremation,
I try not to look back while boldly
stepping forward, writing the words
that once were secreted away,
my sight blurred and clouded,
so only now, I start to see.
Time Has Set Me Apart
Time has set me apart.
On the street the child calls,
“Hey, old lady”. I don’t look up,
my eyes are on my path.
You take one step, then another.
Each step brings you closer.
Each step, farther away.
The walk is uneven.
That first step, precarious,
a missed step, disastrous.
I have a fear of falling.
I have a fear of failure.
You can practice falling
so no bones are broken.
Should you practice failure,
so you can stand again?
Time warns me to watch my step.
My bones are fragile.
The path calls “Hey, old lady”.
This time I look ahead.
Welcomed in the Doorway
Welcomed in the doorway,
perches on a chair,
smiles same as ever,
Illusions to portray.
Well-worn gifted sweater,
hole opens under arm,
too late now to sew it,
onerous to maintain.
Every day, efforts made,
tries to make things last,
another coat of paint,
glue to mend a crack.
Endlessly the edges fray,
nothing stays the same,
time seems to accelerate,
marching to decay.
Helped into a jacket,
hugged fondly at the door,
loved for what once was,
ghost of what remains.
She Listens to Her World
She listens to her world
reading lips, gestures, eyes irritation.
Hears it all
but not the words in her head.
There is a drought
not colored red on a map. A dearth.
Her mouth dry, tongue parched
lips cracked.
When she speaks, dust flies out
like a car leaving down a gravel road.
It happened gradually
over years. Everyone remembered
when words rained down.
No one noticed when it slowed
to sprinkle then stopped.
Temporal lobe aphasia they said
abandoning her to memory.
She listens
SLAPS the table. That was understood.
The Woman Tips Her Coiffed Do
The woman tips her coiffed do,
smiling as she polishes,
her table to a glossy shine,
mirroring her image.
“Isn’t that a nice reflection on you?”
the Pledge commercial asks me.
Taught to dust back in the sixties,
you’d think I’d polish mine,
but my table shines with gravy
and greasy fingerprints too.
No amount of lemon polish
or elbow grease is going
to shine it like a mirror,
nor would I want it to.
My reflection is mine alone,
built on years of living,
life filled with memories,
brings back “nice” reflections.
Family gathered all together,
Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners,
roast beef as well as gravy,
licked from greasy fingers.
The Curtain Goes Up
The curtain goes up.
Scenes from yesterday,
memorized by heart,
replay in my mind. I remember.
Warehouse windows stuck shut.
Struggling to open them,
the studio heating up
like an oven. I remember.
You opened those windows,
fresh air flowed through, blowing
away deceit, the hands
around my neck. I remember.
Golden curtains billowing
on windows filled with sunlight,
the breeze cooling sweat from
our languid bodies. I remember.
Life flows through these windows.
One day the scene will end,
curtains fall, lights go dark.
Will I still remember?
Even now, my eyes grow dim.
When I no longer see,
slide open the window,
so I feel the breeze, and remember.
I Believe it was October
I believe it was October
when the long thin arms of
autumn sunlight stretched
across fields of dry grass.
Wind blew through remains
of corn stubble refuse,
stirring clouds of dust
that hung suspended.
Late in the day, your face shaded
by the thin worn curtain,
damp with sweat, glowed with
knowledge of our longings.
Where do I find myself now,
wrapped in your arms or
watching in the failing light,
shoes covered in dust?
Old Abandoned Farm House
Old abandoned farm house,
weather beaten, stripped bare,
windows stare out blankly
through fractured panes.
The front door boarded shut,
telling no tales. Not stopping
the curious who are drawn
to peer inside its decay.
I refuse to look through
those dark broken windows,
afraid of waking the ghost
still lurking there.
Haunted with memory
of a duplicitous grin,
devouring young women
to fill its rotten hollow.
Instead, I chose to stand
back in the shadows to watch
as this house is burnt down.
I’m drawn to watch the flames.
I am a Desert Owl
I am a desert owl,
looking for shelter,
flying over burning sands,
without a place to land.
I am a pelican in the wilderness,
tearing at my breast,
hearing children cry,
without a bite to eat.
I am an owl among ruins,
searching for creation,
finding desolation,
without a way back.
I am a sparrow in darkness,
watching through the night,
alone on a rooftop,
waiting for light.
Oh, Sweet Gift
Oh, sweet gift of sleep,
our bed a boat set adrift.
You lay warm against my back,
breath moves hairs on my neck.
The battle over pain and loss,
finally, at rest.
In the early hours,
the leviathan circles.
Heard over roiling waters
echoes from the past,
“Just shoot me. Throw me in.”
Ancient timbers groan.
Oh, sweet gift of life, time
blows us farther out to sea.
“I wish I was dead” was said
in pain, giving way to anger,
frustration preparing
a watery grave.
Your arms, a life preserver,
pull me to safety.
My body surrenders,
sleep washes our yesterdays,
love keeps us afloat.
Life and time still move
with the tide.
Hard Wooden Doors
Hard wooden doors
hinges creak apart
dim light filters
stained glass panes
suspended cross.
Solitary.
Hard wooden pews
groan under stress
echoes emptiness
loss, life’s questions
death’s conclusion.
Hallowed answer.
Hard garden bench
sunflowers sway
geese circle south
dusk envelopes
consummate peace.
Sanctuary.
My Life
My life is a Word Find.
Searching for “FATE”.
Discovering “FAITH”.
Looking for “HEAVEN”.
Finding “HAVE”.
Four Walls
Four walls a fortress
sometimes turn prison,
thick walls of heat
close in on me.
I dive out the door,
swim through humidity,
gasping like a
woman drowning.
Under a tree’s shade
my mind empties out,
worries fade away,
hands hang limp.
Verdant leaves droop,
a pale moth lands,
tree toads doze,
cicadas hiss.
On this hot summer day
I have no direction,
I have no goals,
I have no cares.
I breathe in,
I breathe out.
That’s enough.
The Curtains Part
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window, down the drive.
The school bus passes below.
No children live here anymore.
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window to the barn.
Metal doors clang in the wind.
No one works there anymore.
The curtains part as she opens
the window. Fresh air fills the room.
Dust dances in the sunlight.
Smiling, she writes down this poem.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:12.273108
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-19",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-20
|
1 Are You Listening?
Constance Hodder
Two Tin Cans
Two tin cans hold taut
the cord between us,
a tight rope for
children’s secrets to cross.
Old telephone booth
beside a grave yard,
conduit to the dead for
the living’s confessions.
Put your ear to the can,
a coin in the payphone,
for I too have secrets
to whisper, to confess.
Are you listening?
I will tell my tales through
the air on a heart string,
send them sailing on the wind,
to fall like leaves at your feet.
Rake them up and jump in
like a child, or leave them
swirling among the graves,
the dead will always listen.
A Blue Jay: Self Portrait part one
A blue jay sings atop
the branch of a paper birch
before a luminous azure sky.
How often I have gazed through
this temple window.
A blue jay soars above
the expansive indigo Lake
sky mirrored on calm waters.
How often I have prayed at
this living altar.
A blue jay flies up
the cliff on Blueberry Hill
so high heaven can be seen.
How often I have reached to
touch the face of God.
Long Dry Grasses Sing: Self Portrait part two
Long dry grasses sing,
blown one way, then the other.
Divide for a tawny cat
stalking through the cover.
Pads across dampened sand,
leaps atop a rock.
Surveys white capped lake,
gulls bobbing in a flock.
Wind dies with setting sun,
water reflects the glow.
Cat wanders back through
grasses now woven gold.
Tall Sunflowers: Self Portrait part three
Tall sunflowers,
garden giants,
golden petals grace
black gleaming faces,
sun followers.
At summer’s end
heads hang heavy,
mature with seed,
bend to survey
garden’s harvest.
Stems bow in prayer
goldfinch whispers,
“tomorrow comes”
plucks a seed,
then flies away.
Snow soon covers
fallen remnants,
memory of sun
secured in seed,
waiting in soil.
Tucked In a Drawer: Self Portrait part four
Tucked in a drawer,
too old to be of use,
lies a pile of hankies,
laced with memories.
Each one unfolded,
its wrinkled face smoothed,
telling tales of tears,
farewells and broken hearts.
Delicate fabric,
whiteness yellowed grey,
colors faded, worn thin
that veil of passing.
Lovingly refolded,
no longer a piece
of today, tucked safely
back into yesterday.
This Gravel Road : Self Portrait part five
This gravel road is
long, hot, and dusty.
I keep walking on.
My feet are tired,
my shoes worn.
I have walked this road
a lifetime. They say
all roads come to an end.
Down the way there is
a bend in sight.
Along this timeworn road,
I gather flowers,
their beauty wilting
in my hands being
dropped, one by one.
I look behind. They say
never look back but
now there’s a path of
flowers to follow
when my soul returns.
The Child Laughs Aloud
The child laughs aloud,
not bubbling up
or holding back, but
erupting like Vesuvius.
There was a time,
when I too could laugh
without restraint,
tears rolling down.
This was before
I grew up, standing tall,
assured in the fact,
I knew something.
Uncertainty and fear,
now bend my spine.
Searching for answers,
my eyes grow blind.
Look up, my head says.
What should I see?
Pray, my heart says.
What do I ask for?
I hear the child,
laughter peeling like a bell,
resounding inside me,
an answer, a prayer.
The Down Arrow Glows Red
The down arrow glows red.
As the door slides open,
I step in, press LL.
People move aside, we descend.
I have been so tired.
My skin smells rusty.
I laugh imagining
myself as the tin man,
rusting when he cried.
The elevator stops
on every floor. People
get off. I reach the
lowest level, alone.
I have been so very tired.
The doctor does not laugh,
orders tests, procedures.
Then calls me saying, “Sorry
to tell you this on the phone”.
I exit down in the bowels
of the earth, following signs
that point to the tunnel.
My steps echo as I walk.
Cancer makes you tired.
My husband brings me in
for surgery. We hold hands
knowing love’s strength,
and life’s fragility.
Florescent light floods the hall.
Tiles line the narrow path,
just wide enough for the
ill and dying to pass.
I could sleep forever.
They cut out the cancer,
removing my uterus.
Womanhood a memory
I will have to forget.
The tunnel is long, twisted.
At each turn I think
this must be the end.
There is no end, it stretches on.
Curls Go With Girls
“Curls go with girls” mother taught,
pin curling my straight hair.
By morning my girlishness
was revealed. The ads taught:
“Amp up your luscious lips.”
“A dab of gloss gives you a
plumper pout.” “False eye lashes,
glam bam!” Ideal beauty revealed.
Wear makeup to feel confident,
camouflage your imperfections,
fix your face. After all,
the mirror never lies.
With good grooming, plain girls
transform into nubile maidens,
ready for seduction.
Mother, was this your goal?
Grooming builds relationships,
leading to manipulation,
exploitation and abuse,
with no choice but to follow.
From the first time the glass slipper
is tried on, the soul is locked
into a turret to await
a fairy godmother.
“A woman without paint
is like food without salt”
the Roman Plautus taught.
What about curls?
I Was Born in Winter
I was born in winter.
Janus the gatekeeper
looking forward and back.
Grandfather’s ghost prayed
beside my bed.
The hairs on my head are
numbered, as are my days.
Past and future entwined
like stars whose light is seen
beyond their death.
In the woods stands an oak
bowed under the weight of
a fallen comrade, held aloft.
I too cannot let go of
those gone before.
They still can be heard in
my voice, seen in my face,
alive within my bones.
Like Lot’s wife, I cannot help
but look back.
When time’s gate swings shut
and life ends, only bones
will remember my name.
Look up, you will find me
in the stars.
On the eve of my 69th birthday
He Lies On My Lap
He lies on my lap,
curled like a comma,
dividing now, from then,
his head tucked to tail,
no beginning or end.
Like Regulus, the cat,
star in Leo’s constellation,
who prowled the night sky,
as the child in the womb,
swam through darkness.
Starlight born around her,
sixty-nine light years ago,
bathed the babe in brightness,
before and thereafter,
as old as she is new.
In a Dark Swirl of Wind
In a dark swirl of wind,
a tree fell leaving a
hollow in the canopy.
The crash was never heard.
There must have been a
splintering groan as it
let go of the earth and sky,
the sun, wind, and rain.
No one witnessed life passing.
You left us that way,
avoiding long goodbyes,
slipping off on your own.
When time calls our name
do we chose to let go,
or does the earth let loose
from under our roots?
That dark swirl of wind
may need to snatch me up,
refusing to let go
I’ll fall with a crash.
As a Child I Believed
As a child I believed,
wind was all I needed,
to make my dime-store kite fly,
if only I could run faster.
My kite would swoop and spin,
turn and dive into the ground.
I would try again and again,
until the kite crumpled.
The bus made its final stop,
dropping her at the Home,
to live out her days, in the
company of strangers.
She sat marooned with others,
powerless, mirroring despair.
Reaching out, she grasped the hands
of those seated beside her.
A tail on a kite helps it fly,
adding drag, pulling it
in the wind’s direction.
If only I had understood,
that kind of power. As the
World Trade Center tower burned,
when there was no escape,
strangers held hands and jumped.
I see a kite flying high,
bright against the blue sky,
reaching its way toward heaven,
its tail trailing toward earth.
So You Crossed the Finish Line
So, you crossed the finish line.
They congratulated you,
said you would be missed,
then locked the door.
So, you checked the time on
the watch you no longer need,
loaded up your memories,
and drove off into the sunset.
So, is that the end,
roll the credits,
the screen turns black,
everyone files out but you?
So?
If I Do Not Write It Down
If I do not write it down,
will I ever see the truth?
So many words go past us,
we skim with our ears the fat
that coats our toast, fries our eggs,
but will never sustain us.
Like an e-visit to the doctor,
who never sets eyes on us,
nods and says “Amen” at church
to assure God Incarnate
that He is known and loved
but will be passed on the street.
So I write down the words,
trying to see their reflection
off the wide lined paper,
that draws on the letters from
youth, traced over and over,
then graded on penmanship.
I stand before you fearful
that my lack of substance will
be discovered and paraded
round for all to see and mock.
So I’ve hidden away words
that may follow me to the grave.
Before that day of cremation,
I try not to look back while boldly
stepping forward, writing the words
that once were secreted away,
my sight blurred and clouded,
so only now, I start to see.
Time Has Set Me Apart
Time has set me apart.
On the street the child calls,
“Hey, old lady”. I don’t look up,
my eyes are on my path.
You take one step, then another.
Each step brings you closer.
Each step, farther away.
The walk is uneven.
That first step, precarious,
a missed step, disastrous.
I have a fear of falling.
I have a fear of failure.
You can practice falling
so no bones are broken.
Should you practice failure,
so you can stand again?
Time warns me to watch my step.
My bones are fragile.
The path calls “Hey, old lady”.
This time I look ahead.
Welcomed in the Doorway
Welcomed in the doorway,
perches on a chair,
smiles same as ever,
Illusions to portray.
Well-worn gifted sweater,
hole opens under arm,
too late now to sew it,
onerous to maintain.
Every day, efforts made,
tries to make things last,
another coat of paint,
glue to mend a crack.
Endlessly the edges fray,
nothing stays the same,
time seems to accelerate,
marching to decay.
Helped into a jacket,
hugged fondly at the door,
loved for what once was,
ghost of what remains.
She Listens to Her World
She listens to her world
reading lips, gestures, eyes irritation.
Hears it all
but not the words in her head.
There is a drought
not colored red on a map. A dearth.
Her mouth dry, tongue parched
lips cracked.
When she speaks, dust flies out
like a car leaving down a gravel road.
It happened gradually
over years. Everyone remembered
when words rained down.
No one noticed when it slowed
to sprinkle then stopped.
Temporal lobe aphasia they said
abandoning her to memory.
She listens
SLAPS the table. That was understood.
The Woman Tips Her Coiffed Do
The woman tips her coiffed do,
smiling as she polishes,
her table to a glossy shine,
mirroring her image.
“Isn’t that a nice reflection on you?”
the Pledge commercial asks me.
Taught to dust back in the sixties,
you’d think I’d polish mine,
but my table shines with gravy
and greasy fingerprints too.
No amount of lemon polish
or elbow grease is going
to shine it like a mirror,
nor would I want it to.
My reflection is mine alone,
built on years of living,
life filled with memories,
brings back “nice” reflections.
Family gathered all together,
Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners,
roast beef as well as gravy,
licked from greasy fingers.
The Curtain Goes Up
The curtain goes up.
Scenes from yesterday,
memorized by heart,
replay in my mind. I remember.
Warehouse windows stuck shut.
Struggling to open them,
the studio heating up
like an oven. I remember.
You opened those windows,
fresh air flowed through, blowing
away deceit, the hands
around my neck. I remember.
Golden curtains billowing
on windows filled with sunlight,
the breeze cooling sweat from
our languid bodies. I remember.
Life flows through these windows.
One day the scene will end,
curtains fall, lights go dark.
Will I still remember?
Even now, my eyes grow dim.
When I no longer see,
slide open the window,
so I feel the breeze, and remember.
I Believe it was October
I believe it was October
when the long thin arms of
autumn sunlight stretched
across fields of dry grass.
Wind blew through remains
of corn stubble refuse,
stirring clouds of dust
that hung suspended.
Late in the day, your face shaded
by the thin worn curtain,
damp with sweat, glowed with
knowledge of our longings.
Where do I find myself now,
wrapped in your arms or
watching in the failing light,
shoes covered in dust?
Old Abandoned Farm House
Old abandoned farm house,
weather beaten, stripped bare,
windows stare out blankly
through fractured panes.
The front door boarded shut,
telling no tales. Not stopping
the curious who are drawn
to peer inside its decay.
I refuse to look through
those dark broken windows,
afraid of waking the ghost
still lurking there.
Haunted with memory
of a duplicitous grin,
devouring young women
to fill its rotten hollow.
Instead, I chose to stand
back in the shadows to watch
as this house is burnt down.
I’m drawn to watch the flames.
I am a Desert Owl
I am a desert owl,
looking for shelter,
flying over burning sands,
without a place to land.
I am a pelican in the wilderness,
tearing at my breast,
hearing children cry,
without a bite to eat.
I am an owl among ruins,
searching for creation,
finding desolation,
without a way back.
I am a sparrow in darkness,
watching through the night,
alone on a rooftop,
waiting for light.
Oh, Sweet Gift
Oh, sweet gift of sleep,
our bed a boat set adrift.
You lay warm against my back,
breath moves hairs on my neck.
The battle over pain and loss,
finally, at rest.
In the early hours,
the leviathan circles.
Heard over roiling waters
echoes from the past,
“Just shoot me. Throw me in.”
Ancient timbers groan.
Oh, sweet gift of life, time
blows us farther out to sea.
“I wish I was dead” was said
in pain, giving way to anger,
frustration preparing
a watery grave.
Your arms, a life preserver,
pull me to safety.
My body surrenders,
sleep washes our yesterdays,
love keeps us afloat.
Life and time still move
with the tide.
Hard Wooden Doors
Hard wooden doors
hinges creak apart
dim light filters
stained glass panes
suspended cross.
Solitary.
Hard wooden pews
groan under stress
echoes emptiness
loss, life’s questions
death’s conclusion.
Hallowed answer.
Hard garden bench
sunflowers sway
geese circle south
dusk envelopes
consummate peace.
Sanctuary.
My Life
My life is a Word Find.
Searching for “FATE”.
Discovering “FAITH”.
Looking for “HEAVEN”.
Finding “HAVE”.
Four Walls
Four walls a fortress
sometimes turn prison,
thick walls of heat
close in on me.
I dive out the door,
swim through humidity,
gasping like a
woman drowning.
Under a tree’s shade
my mind empties out,
worries fade away,
hands hang limp.
Verdant leaves droop,
a pale moth lands,
tree toads doze,
cicadas hiss.
On this hot summer day
I have no direction,
I have no goals,
I have no cares.
I breathe in,
I breathe out.
That’s enough.
The Curtains Part
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window, down the drive.
The school bus passes below.
No children live here anymore.
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window to the barn.
Metal doors clang in the wind.
No one works there anymore.
The curtains part as she opens
the window. Fresh air fills the room.
Dust dances in the sunlight.
Smiling, she writes down this poem.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:12.359981
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-20",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-21
|
1 Are You Listening?
Constance Hodder
Two Tin Cans
Two tin cans hold taut
the cord between us,
a tight rope for
children’s secrets to cross.
Old telephone booth
beside a grave yard,
conduit to the dead for
the living’s confessions.
Put your ear to the can,
a coin in the payphone,
for I too have secrets
to whisper, to confess.
Are you listening?
I will tell my tales through
the air on a heart string,
send them sailing on the wind,
to fall like leaves at your feet.
Rake them up and jump in
like a child, or leave them
swirling among the graves,
the dead will always listen.
A Blue Jay: Self Portrait part one
A blue jay sings atop
the branch of a paper birch
before a luminous azure sky.
How often I have gazed through
this temple window.
A blue jay soars above
the expansive indigo Lake
sky mirrored on calm waters.
How often I have prayed at
this living altar.
A blue jay flies up
the cliff on Blueberry Hill
so high heaven can be seen.
How often I have reached to
touch the face of God.
Long Dry Grasses Sing: Self Portrait part two
Long dry grasses sing,
blown one way, then the other.
Divide for a tawny cat
stalking through the cover.
Pads across dampened sand,
leaps atop a rock.
Surveys white capped lake,
gulls bobbing in a flock.
Wind dies with setting sun,
water reflects the glow.
Cat wanders back through
grasses now woven gold.
Tall Sunflowers: Self Portrait part three
Tall sunflowers,
garden giants,
golden petals grace
black gleaming faces,
sun followers.
At summer’s end
heads hang heavy,
mature with seed,
bend to survey
garden’s harvest.
Stems bow in prayer
goldfinch whispers,
“tomorrow comes”
plucks a seed,
then flies away.
Snow soon covers
fallen remnants,
memory of sun
secured in seed,
waiting in soil.
Tucked In a Drawer: Self Portrait part four
Tucked in a drawer,
too old to be of use,
lies a pile of hankies,
laced with memories.
Each one unfolded,
its wrinkled face smoothed,
telling tales of tears,
farewells and broken hearts.
Delicate fabric,
whiteness yellowed grey,
colors faded, worn thin
that veil of passing.
Lovingly refolded,
no longer a piece
of today, tucked safely
back into yesterday.
This Gravel Road : Self Portrait part five
This gravel road is
long, hot, and dusty.
I keep walking on.
My feet are tired,
my shoes worn.
I have walked this road
a lifetime. They say
all roads come to an end.
Down the way there is
a bend in sight.
Along this timeworn road,
I gather flowers,
their beauty wilting
in my hands being
dropped, one by one.
I look behind. They say
never look back but
now there’s a path of
flowers to follow
when my soul returns.
The Child Laughs Aloud
The child laughs aloud,
not bubbling up
or holding back, but
erupting like Vesuvius.
There was a time,
when I too could laugh
without restraint,
tears rolling down.
This was before
I grew up, standing tall,
assured in the fact,
I knew something.
Uncertainty and fear,
now bend my spine.
Searching for answers,
my eyes grow blind.
Look up, my head says.
What should I see?
Pray, my heart says.
What do I ask for?
I hear the child,
laughter peeling like a bell,
resounding inside me,
an answer, a prayer.
The Down Arrow Glows Red
The down arrow glows red.
As the door slides open,
I step in, press LL.
People move aside, we descend.
I have been so tired.
My skin smells rusty.
I laugh imagining
myself as the tin man,
rusting when he cried.
The elevator stops
on every floor. People
get off. I reach the
lowest level, alone.
I have been so very tired.
The doctor does not laugh,
orders tests, procedures.
Then calls me saying, “Sorry
to tell you this on the phone”.
I exit down in the bowels
of the earth, following signs
that point to the tunnel.
My steps echo as I walk.
Cancer makes you tired.
My husband brings me in
for surgery. We hold hands
knowing love’s strength,
and life’s fragility.
Florescent light floods the hall.
Tiles line the narrow path,
just wide enough for the
ill and dying to pass.
I could sleep forever.
They cut out the cancer,
removing my uterus.
Womanhood a memory
I will have to forget.
The tunnel is long, twisted.
At each turn I think
this must be the end.
There is no end, it stretches on.
Curls Go With Girls
“Curls go with girls” mother taught,
pin curling my straight hair.
By morning my girlishness
was revealed. The ads taught:
“Amp up your luscious lips.”
“A dab of gloss gives you a
plumper pout.” “False eye lashes,
glam bam!” Ideal beauty revealed.
Wear makeup to feel confident,
camouflage your imperfections,
fix your face. After all,
the mirror never lies.
With good grooming, plain girls
transform into nubile maidens,
ready for seduction.
Mother, was this your goal?
Grooming builds relationships,
leading to manipulation,
exploitation and abuse,
with no choice but to follow.
From the first time the glass slipper
is tried on, the soul is locked
into a turret to await
a fairy godmother.
“A woman without paint
is like food without salt”
the Roman Plautus taught.
What about curls?
I Was Born in Winter
I was born in winter.
Janus the gatekeeper
looking forward and back.
Grandfather’s ghost prayed
beside my bed.
The hairs on my head are
numbered, as are my days.
Past and future entwined
like stars whose light is seen
beyond their death.
In the woods stands an oak
bowed under the weight of
a fallen comrade, held aloft.
I too cannot let go of
those gone before.
They still can be heard in
my voice, seen in my face,
alive within my bones.
Like Lot’s wife, I cannot help
but look back.
When time’s gate swings shut
and life ends, only bones
will remember my name.
Look up, you will find me
in the stars.
On the eve of my 69th birthday
He Lies On My Lap
He lies on my lap,
curled like a comma,
dividing now, from then,
his head tucked to tail,
no beginning or end.
Like Regulus, the cat,
star in Leo’s constellation,
who prowled the night sky,
as the child in the womb,
swam through darkness.
Starlight born around her,
sixty-nine light years ago,
bathed the babe in brightness,
before and thereafter,
as old as she is new.
In a Dark Swirl of Wind
In a dark swirl of wind,
a tree fell leaving a
hollow in the canopy.
The crash was never heard.
There must have been a
splintering groan as it
let go of the earth and sky,
the sun, wind, and rain.
No one witnessed life passing.
You left us that way,
avoiding long goodbyes,
slipping off on your own.
When time calls our name
do we chose to let go,
or does the earth let loose
from under our roots?
That dark swirl of wind
may need to snatch me up,
refusing to let go
I’ll fall with a crash.
As a Child I Believed
As a child I believed,
wind was all I needed,
to make my dime-store kite fly,
if only I could run faster.
My kite would swoop and spin,
turn and dive into the ground.
I would try again and again,
until the kite crumpled.
The bus made its final stop,
dropping her at the Home,
to live out her days, in the
company of strangers.
She sat marooned with others,
powerless, mirroring despair.
Reaching out, she grasped the hands
of those seated beside her.
A tail on a kite helps it fly,
adding drag, pulling it
in the wind’s direction.
If only I had understood,
that kind of power. As the
World Trade Center tower burned,
when there was no escape,
strangers held hands and jumped.
I see a kite flying high,
bright against the blue sky,
reaching its way toward heaven,
its tail trailing toward earth.
So You Crossed the Finish Line
So, you crossed the finish line.
They congratulated you,
said you would be missed,
then locked the door.
So, you checked the time on
the watch you no longer need,
loaded up your memories,
and drove off into the sunset.
So, is that the end,
roll the credits,
the screen turns black,
everyone files out but you?
So?
If I Do Not Write It Down
If I do not write it down,
will I ever see the truth?
So many words go past us,
we skim with our ears the fat
that coats our toast, fries our eggs,
but will never sustain us.
Like an e-visit to the doctor,
who never sets eyes on us,
nods and says “Amen” at church
to assure God Incarnate
that He is known and loved
but will be passed on the street.
So I write down the words,
trying to see their reflection
off the wide lined paper,
that draws on the letters from
youth, traced over and over,
then graded on penmanship.
I stand before you fearful
that my lack of substance will
be discovered and paraded
round for all to see and mock.
So I’ve hidden away words
that may follow me to the grave.
Before that day of cremation,
I try not to look back while boldly
stepping forward, writing the words
that once were secreted away,
my sight blurred and clouded,
so only now, I start to see.
Time Has Set Me Apart
Time has set me apart.
On the street the child calls,
“Hey, old lady”. I don’t look up,
my eyes are on my path.
You take one step, then another.
Each step brings you closer.
Each step, farther away.
The walk is uneven.
That first step, precarious,
a missed step, disastrous.
I have a fear of falling.
I have a fear of failure.
You can practice falling
so no bones are broken.
Should you practice failure,
so you can stand again?
Time warns me to watch my step.
My bones are fragile.
The path calls “Hey, old lady”.
This time I look ahead.
Welcomed in the Doorway
Welcomed in the doorway,
perches on a chair,
smiles same as ever,
Illusions to portray.
Well-worn gifted sweater,
hole opens under arm,
too late now to sew it,
onerous to maintain.
Every day, efforts made,
tries to make things last,
another coat of paint,
glue to mend a crack.
Endlessly the edges fray,
nothing stays the same,
time seems to accelerate,
marching to decay.
Helped into a jacket,
hugged fondly at the door,
loved for what once was,
ghost of what remains.
She Listens to Her World
She listens to her world
reading lips, gestures, eyes irritation.
Hears it all
but not the words in her head.
There is a drought
not colored red on a map. A dearth.
Her mouth dry, tongue parched
lips cracked.
When she speaks, dust flies out
like a car leaving down a gravel road.
It happened gradually
over years. Everyone remembered
when words rained down.
No one noticed when it slowed
to sprinkle then stopped.
Temporal lobe aphasia they said
abandoning her to memory.
She listens
SLAPS the table. That was understood.
The Woman Tips Her Coiffed Do
The woman tips her coiffed do,
smiling as she polishes,
her table to a glossy shine,
mirroring her image.
“Isn’t that a nice reflection on you?”
the Pledge commercial asks me.
Taught to dust back in the sixties,
you’d think I’d polish mine,
but my table shines with gravy
and greasy fingerprints too.
No amount of lemon polish
or elbow grease is going
to shine it like a mirror,
nor would I want it to.
My reflection is mine alone,
built on years of living,
life filled with memories,
brings back “nice” reflections.
Family gathered all together,
Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners,
roast beef as well as gravy,
licked from greasy fingers.
The Curtain Goes Up
The curtain goes up.
Scenes from yesterday,
memorized by heart,
replay in my mind. I remember.
Warehouse windows stuck shut.
Struggling to open them,
the studio heating up
like an oven. I remember.
You opened those windows,
fresh air flowed through, blowing
away deceit, the hands
around my neck. I remember.
Golden curtains billowing
on windows filled with sunlight,
the breeze cooling sweat from
our languid bodies. I remember.
Life flows through these windows.
One day the scene will end,
curtains fall, lights go dark.
Will I still remember?
Even now, my eyes grow dim.
When I no longer see,
slide open the window,
so I feel the breeze, and remember.
I Believe it was October
I believe it was October
when the long thin arms of
autumn sunlight stretched
across fields of dry grass.
Wind blew through remains
of corn stubble refuse,
stirring clouds of dust
that hung suspended.
Late in the day, your face shaded
by the thin worn curtain,
damp with sweat, glowed with
knowledge of our longings.
Where do I find myself now,
wrapped in your arms or
watching in the failing light,
shoes covered in dust?
Old Abandoned Farm House
Old abandoned farm house,
weather beaten, stripped bare,
windows stare out blankly
through fractured panes.
The front door boarded shut,
telling no tales. Not stopping
the curious who are drawn
to peer inside its decay.
I refuse to look through
those dark broken windows,
afraid of waking the ghost
still lurking there.
Haunted with memory
of a duplicitous grin,
devouring young women
to fill its rotten hollow.
Instead, I chose to stand
back in the shadows to watch
as this house is burnt down.
I’m drawn to watch the flames.
I am a Desert Owl
I am a desert owl,
looking for shelter,
flying over burning sands,
without a place to land.
I am a pelican in the wilderness,
tearing at my breast,
hearing children cry,
without a bite to eat.
I am an owl among ruins,
searching for creation,
finding desolation,
without a way back.
I am a sparrow in darkness,
watching through the night,
alone on a rooftop,
waiting for light.
Oh, Sweet Gift
Oh, sweet gift of sleep,
our bed a boat set adrift.
You lay warm against my back,
breath moves hairs on my neck.
The battle over pain and loss,
finally, at rest.
In the early hours,
the leviathan circles.
Heard over roiling waters
echoes from the past,
“Just shoot me. Throw me in.”
Ancient timbers groan.
Oh, sweet gift of life, time
blows us farther out to sea.
“I wish I was dead” was said
in pain, giving way to anger,
frustration preparing
a watery grave.
Your arms, a life preserver,
pull me to safety.
My body surrenders,
sleep washes our yesterdays,
love keeps us afloat.
Life and time still move
with the tide.
Hard Wooden Doors
Hard wooden doors
hinges creak apart
dim light filters
stained glass panes
suspended cross.
Solitary.
Hard wooden pews
groan under stress
echoes emptiness
loss, life’s questions
death’s conclusion.
Hallowed answer.
Hard garden bench
sunflowers sway
geese circle south
dusk envelopes
consummate peace.
Sanctuary.
My Life
My life is a Word Find.
Searching for “FATE”.
Discovering “FAITH”.
Looking for “HEAVEN”.
Finding “HAVE”.
Four Walls
Four walls a fortress
sometimes turn prison,
thick walls of heat
close in on me.
I dive out the door,
swim through humidity,
gasping like a
woman drowning.
Under a tree’s shade
my mind empties out,
worries fade away,
hands hang limp.
Verdant leaves droop,
a pale moth lands,
tree toads doze,
cicadas hiss.
On this hot summer day
I have no direction,
I have no goals,
I have no cares.
I breathe in,
I breathe out.
That’s enough.
The Curtains Part
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window, down the drive.
The school bus passes below.
No children live here anymore.
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window to the barn.
Metal doors clang in the wind.
No one works there anymore.
The curtains part as she opens
the window. Fresh air fills the room.
Dust dances in the sunlight.
Smiling, she writes down this poem.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:12.440399
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-21",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-22
|
1 Are You Listening?
Constance Hodder
Two Tin Cans
Two tin cans hold taut
the cord between us,
a tight rope for
children’s secrets to cross.
Old telephone booth
beside a grave yard,
conduit to the dead for
the living’s confessions.
Put your ear to the can,
a coin in the payphone,
for I too have secrets
to whisper, to confess.
Are you listening?
I will tell my tales through
the air on a heart string,
send them sailing on the wind,
to fall like leaves at your feet.
Rake them up and jump in
like a child, or leave them
swirling among the graves,
the dead will always listen.
A Blue Jay: Self Portrait part one
A blue jay sings atop
the branch of a paper birch
before a luminous azure sky.
How often I have gazed through
this temple window.
A blue jay soars above
the expansive indigo Lake
sky mirrored on calm waters.
How often I have prayed at
this living altar.
A blue jay flies up
the cliff on Blueberry Hill
so high heaven can be seen.
How often I have reached to
touch the face of God.
Long Dry Grasses Sing: Self Portrait part two
Long dry grasses sing,
blown one way, then the other.
Divide for a tawny cat
stalking through the cover.
Pads across dampened sand,
leaps atop a rock.
Surveys white capped lake,
gulls bobbing in a flock.
Wind dies with setting sun,
water reflects the glow.
Cat wanders back through
grasses now woven gold.
Tall Sunflowers: Self Portrait part three
Tall sunflowers,
garden giants,
golden petals grace
black gleaming faces,
sun followers.
At summer’s end
heads hang heavy,
mature with seed,
bend to survey
garden’s harvest.
Stems bow in prayer
goldfinch whispers,
“tomorrow comes”
plucks a seed,
then flies away.
Snow soon covers
fallen remnants,
memory of sun
secured in seed,
waiting in soil.
Tucked In a Drawer: Self Portrait part four
Tucked in a drawer,
too old to be of use,
lies a pile of hankies,
laced with memories.
Each one unfolded,
its wrinkled face smoothed,
telling tales of tears,
farewells and broken hearts.
Delicate fabric,
whiteness yellowed grey,
colors faded, worn thin
that veil of passing.
Lovingly refolded,
no longer a piece
of today, tucked safely
back into yesterday.
This Gravel Road : Self Portrait part five
This gravel road is
long, hot, and dusty.
I keep walking on.
My feet are tired,
my shoes worn.
I have walked this road
a lifetime. They say
all roads come to an end.
Down the way there is
a bend in sight.
Along this timeworn road,
I gather flowers,
their beauty wilting
in my hands being
dropped, one by one.
I look behind. They say
never look back but
now there’s a path of
flowers to follow
when my soul returns.
The Child Laughs Aloud
The child laughs aloud,
not bubbling up
or holding back, but
erupting like Vesuvius.
There was a time,
when I too could laugh
without restraint,
tears rolling down.
This was before
I grew up, standing tall,
assured in the fact,
I knew something.
Uncertainty and fear,
now bend my spine.
Searching for answers,
my eyes grow blind.
Look up, my head says.
What should I see?
Pray, my heart says.
What do I ask for?
I hear the child,
laughter peeling like a bell,
resounding inside me,
an answer, a prayer.
The Down Arrow Glows Red
The down arrow glows red.
As the door slides open,
I step in, press LL.
People move aside, we descend.
I have been so tired.
My skin smells rusty.
I laugh imagining
myself as the tin man,
rusting when he cried.
The elevator stops
on every floor. People
get off. I reach the
lowest level, alone.
I have been so very tired.
The doctor does not laugh,
orders tests, procedures.
Then calls me saying, “Sorry
to tell you this on the phone”.
I exit down in the bowels
of the earth, following signs
that point to the tunnel.
My steps echo as I walk.
Cancer makes you tired.
My husband brings me in
for surgery. We hold hands
knowing love’s strength,
and life’s fragility.
Florescent light floods the hall.
Tiles line the narrow path,
just wide enough for the
ill and dying to pass.
I could sleep forever.
They cut out the cancer,
removing my uterus.
Womanhood a memory
I will have to forget.
The tunnel is long, twisted.
At each turn I think
this must be the end.
There is no end, it stretches on.
Curls Go With Girls
“Curls go with girls” mother taught,
pin curling my straight hair.
By morning my girlishness
was revealed. The ads taught:
“Amp up your luscious lips.”
“A dab of gloss gives you a
plumper pout.” “False eye lashes,
glam bam!” Ideal beauty revealed.
Wear makeup to feel confident,
camouflage your imperfections,
fix your face. After all,
the mirror never lies.
With good grooming, plain girls
transform into nubile maidens,
ready for seduction.
Mother, was this your goal?
Grooming builds relationships,
leading to manipulation,
exploitation and abuse,
with no choice but to follow.
From the first time the glass slipper
is tried on, the soul is locked
into a turret to await
a fairy godmother.
“A woman without paint
is like food without salt”
the Roman Plautus taught.
What about curls?
I Was Born in Winter
I was born in winter.
Janus the gatekeeper
looking forward and back.
Grandfather’s ghost prayed
beside my bed.
The hairs on my head are
numbered, as are my days.
Past and future entwined
like stars whose light is seen
beyond their death.
In the woods stands an oak
bowed under the weight of
a fallen comrade, held aloft.
I too cannot let go of
those gone before.
They still can be heard in
my voice, seen in my face,
alive within my bones.
Like Lot’s wife, I cannot help
but look back.
When time’s gate swings shut
and life ends, only bones
will remember my name.
Look up, you will find me
in the stars.
On the eve of my 69th birthday
He Lies On My Lap
He lies on my lap,
curled like a comma,
dividing now, from then,
his head tucked to tail,
no beginning or end.
Like Regulus, the cat,
star in Leo’s constellation,
who prowled the night sky,
as the child in the womb,
swam through darkness.
Starlight born around her,
sixty-nine light years ago,
bathed the babe in brightness,
before and thereafter,
as old as she is new.
In a Dark Swirl of Wind
In a dark swirl of wind,
a tree fell leaving a
hollow in the canopy.
The crash was never heard.
There must have been a
splintering groan as it
let go of the earth and sky,
the sun, wind, and rain.
No one witnessed life passing.
You left us that way,
avoiding long goodbyes,
slipping off on your own.
When time calls our name
do we chose to let go,
or does the earth let loose
from under our roots?
That dark swirl of wind
may need to snatch me up,
refusing to let go
I’ll fall with a crash.
As a Child I Believed
As a child I believed,
wind was all I needed,
to make my dime-store kite fly,
if only I could run faster.
My kite would swoop and spin,
turn and dive into the ground.
I would try again and again,
until the kite crumpled.
The bus made its final stop,
dropping her at the Home,
to live out her days, in the
company of strangers.
She sat marooned with others,
powerless, mirroring despair.
Reaching out, she grasped the hands
of those seated beside her.
A tail on a kite helps it fly,
adding drag, pulling it
in the wind’s direction.
If only I had understood,
that kind of power. As the
World Trade Center tower burned,
when there was no escape,
strangers held hands and jumped.
I see a kite flying high,
bright against the blue sky,
reaching its way toward heaven,
its tail trailing toward earth.
So You Crossed the Finish Line
So, you crossed the finish line.
They congratulated you,
said you would be missed,
then locked the door.
So, you checked the time on
the watch you no longer need,
loaded up your memories,
and drove off into the sunset.
So, is that the end,
roll the credits,
the screen turns black,
everyone files out but you?
So?
If I Do Not Write It Down
If I do not write it down,
will I ever see the truth?
So many words go past us,
we skim with our ears the fat
that coats our toast, fries our eggs,
but will never sustain us.
Like an e-visit to the doctor,
who never sets eyes on us,
nods and says “Amen” at church
to assure God Incarnate
that He is known and loved
but will be passed on the street.
So I write down the words,
trying to see their reflection
off the wide lined paper,
that draws on the letters from
youth, traced over and over,
then graded on penmanship.
I stand before you fearful
that my lack of substance will
be discovered and paraded
round for all to see and mock.
So I’ve hidden away words
that may follow me to the grave.
Before that day of cremation,
I try not to look back while boldly
stepping forward, writing the words
that once were secreted away,
my sight blurred and clouded,
so only now, I start to see.
Time Has Set Me Apart
Time has set me apart.
On the street the child calls,
“Hey, old lady”. I don’t look up,
my eyes are on my path.
You take one step, then another.
Each step brings you closer.
Each step, farther away.
The walk is uneven.
That first step, precarious,
a missed step, disastrous.
I have a fear of falling.
I have a fear of failure.
You can practice falling
so no bones are broken.
Should you practice failure,
so you can stand again?
Time warns me to watch my step.
My bones are fragile.
The path calls “Hey, old lady”.
This time I look ahead.
Welcomed in the Doorway
Welcomed in the doorway,
perches on a chair,
smiles same as ever,
Illusions to portray.
Well-worn gifted sweater,
hole opens under arm,
too late now to sew it,
onerous to maintain.
Every day, efforts made,
tries to make things last,
another coat of paint,
glue to mend a crack.
Endlessly the edges fray,
nothing stays the same,
time seems to accelerate,
marching to decay.
Helped into a jacket,
hugged fondly at the door,
loved for what once was,
ghost of what remains.
She Listens to Her World
She listens to her world
reading lips, gestures, eyes irritation.
Hears it all
but not the words in her head.
There is a drought
not colored red on a map. A dearth.
Her mouth dry, tongue parched
lips cracked.
When she speaks, dust flies out
like a car leaving down a gravel road.
It happened gradually
over years. Everyone remembered
when words rained down.
No one noticed when it slowed
to sprinkle then stopped.
Temporal lobe aphasia they said
abandoning her to memory.
She listens
SLAPS the table. That was understood.
The Woman Tips Her Coiffed Do
The woman tips her coiffed do,
smiling as she polishes,
her table to a glossy shine,
mirroring her image.
“Isn’t that a nice reflection on you?”
the Pledge commercial asks me.
Taught to dust back in the sixties,
you’d think I’d polish mine,
but my table shines with gravy
and greasy fingerprints too.
No amount of lemon polish
or elbow grease is going
to shine it like a mirror,
nor would I want it to.
My reflection is mine alone,
built on years of living,
life filled with memories,
brings back “nice” reflections.
Family gathered all together,
Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners,
roast beef as well as gravy,
licked from greasy fingers.
The Curtain Goes Up
The curtain goes up.
Scenes from yesterday,
memorized by heart,
replay in my mind. I remember.
Warehouse windows stuck shut.
Struggling to open them,
the studio heating up
like an oven. I remember.
You opened those windows,
fresh air flowed through, blowing
away deceit, the hands
around my neck. I remember.
Golden curtains billowing
on windows filled with sunlight,
the breeze cooling sweat from
our languid bodies. I remember.
Life flows through these windows.
One day the scene will end,
curtains fall, lights go dark.
Will I still remember?
Even now, my eyes grow dim.
When I no longer see,
slide open the window,
so I feel the breeze, and remember.
I Believe it was October
I believe it was October
when the long thin arms of
autumn sunlight stretched
across fields of dry grass.
Wind blew through remains
of corn stubble refuse,
stirring clouds of dust
that hung suspended.
Late in the day, your face shaded
by the thin worn curtain,
damp with sweat, glowed with
knowledge of our longings.
Where do I find myself now,
wrapped in your arms or
watching in the failing light,
shoes covered in dust?
Old Abandoned Farm House
Old abandoned farm house,
weather beaten, stripped bare,
windows stare out blankly
through fractured panes.
The front door boarded shut,
telling no tales. Not stopping
the curious who are drawn
to peer inside its decay.
I refuse to look through
those dark broken windows,
afraid of waking the ghost
still lurking there.
Haunted with memory
of a duplicitous grin,
devouring young women
to fill its rotten hollow.
Instead, I chose to stand
back in the shadows to watch
as this house is burnt down.
I’m drawn to watch the flames.
I am a Desert Owl
I am a desert owl,
looking for shelter,
flying over burning sands,
without a place to land.
I am a pelican in the wilderness,
tearing at my breast,
hearing children cry,
without a bite to eat.
I am an owl among ruins,
searching for creation,
finding desolation,
without a way back.
I am a sparrow in darkness,
watching through the night,
alone on a rooftop,
waiting for light.
Oh, Sweet Gift
Oh, sweet gift of sleep,
our bed a boat set adrift.
You lay warm against my back,
breath moves hairs on my neck.
The battle over pain and loss,
finally, at rest.
In the early hours,
the leviathan circles.
Heard over roiling waters
echoes from the past,
“Just shoot me. Throw me in.”
Ancient timbers groan.
Oh, sweet gift of life, time
blows us farther out to sea.
“I wish I was dead” was said
in pain, giving way to anger,
frustration preparing
a watery grave.
Your arms, a life preserver,
pull me to safety.
My body surrenders,
sleep washes our yesterdays,
love keeps us afloat.
Life and time still move
with the tide.
Hard Wooden Doors
Hard wooden doors
hinges creak apart
dim light filters
stained glass panes
suspended cross.
Solitary.
Hard wooden pews
groan under stress
echoes emptiness
loss, life’s questions
death’s conclusion.
Hallowed answer.
Hard garden bench
sunflowers sway
geese circle south
dusk envelopes
consummate peace.
Sanctuary.
My Life
My life is a Word Find.
Searching for “FATE”.
Discovering “FAITH”.
Looking for “HEAVEN”.
Finding “HAVE”.
Four Walls
Four walls a fortress
sometimes turn prison,
thick walls of heat
close in on me.
I dive out the door,
swim through humidity,
gasping like a
woman drowning.
Under a tree’s shade
my mind empties out,
worries fade away,
hands hang limp.
Verdant leaves droop,
a pale moth lands,
tree toads doze,
cicadas hiss.
On this hot summer day
I have no direction,
I have no goals,
I have no cares.
I breathe in,
I breathe out.
That’s enough.
The Curtains Part
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window, down the drive.
The school bus passes below.
No children live here anymore.
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window to the barn.
Metal doors clang in the wind.
No one works there anymore.
The curtains part as she opens
the window. Fresh air fills the room.
Dust dances in the sunlight.
Smiling, she writes down this poem.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:12.518113
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-22",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-23
|
1 Are You Listening?
Constance Hodder
Two Tin Cans
Two tin cans hold taut
the cord between us,
a tight rope for
children’s secrets to cross.
Old telephone booth
beside a grave yard,
conduit to the dead for
the living’s confessions.
Put your ear to the can,
a coin in the payphone,
for I too have secrets
to whisper, to confess.
Are you listening?
I will tell my tales through
the air on a heart string,
send them sailing on the wind,
to fall like leaves at your feet.
Rake them up and jump in
like a child, or leave them
swirling among the graves,
the dead will always listen.
A Blue Jay: Self Portrait part one
A blue jay sings atop
the branch of a paper birch
before a luminous azure sky.
How often I have gazed through
this temple window.
A blue jay soars above
the expansive indigo Lake
sky mirrored on calm waters.
How often I have prayed at
this living altar.
A blue jay flies up
the cliff on Blueberry Hill
so high heaven can be seen.
How often I have reached to
touch the face of God.
Long Dry Grasses Sing: Self Portrait part two
Long dry grasses sing,
blown one way, then the other.
Divide for a tawny cat
stalking through the cover.
Pads across dampened sand,
leaps atop a rock.
Surveys white capped lake,
gulls bobbing in a flock.
Wind dies with setting sun,
water reflects the glow.
Cat wanders back through
grasses now woven gold.
Tall Sunflowers: Self Portrait part three
Tall sunflowers,
garden giants,
golden petals grace
black gleaming faces,
sun followers.
At summer’s end
heads hang heavy,
mature with seed,
bend to survey
garden’s harvest.
Stems bow in prayer
goldfinch whispers,
“tomorrow comes”
plucks a seed,
then flies away.
Snow soon covers
fallen remnants,
memory of sun
secured in seed,
waiting in soil.
Tucked In a Drawer: Self Portrait part four
Tucked in a drawer,
too old to be of use,
lies a pile of hankies,
laced with memories.
Each one unfolded,
its wrinkled face smoothed,
telling tales of tears,
farewells and broken hearts.
Delicate fabric,
whiteness yellowed grey,
colors faded, worn thin
that veil of passing.
Lovingly refolded,
no longer a piece
of today, tucked safely
back into yesterday.
This Gravel Road : Self Portrait part five
This gravel road is
long, hot, and dusty.
I keep walking on.
My feet are tired,
my shoes worn.
I have walked this road
a lifetime. They say
all roads come to an end.
Down the way there is
a bend in sight.
Along this timeworn road,
I gather flowers,
their beauty wilting
in my hands being
dropped, one by one.
I look behind. They say
never look back but
now there’s a path of
flowers to follow
when my soul returns.
The Child Laughs Aloud
The child laughs aloud,
not bubbling up
or holding back, but
erupting like Vesuvius.
There was a time,
when I too could laugh
without restraint,
tears rolling down.
This was before
I grew up, standing tall,
assured in the fact,
I knew something.
Uncertainty and fear,
now bend my spine.
Searching for answers,
my eyes grow blind.
Look up, my head says.
What should I see?
Pray, my heart says.
What do I ask for?
I hear the child,
laughter peeling like a bell,
resounding inside me,
an answer, a prayer.
The Down Arrow Glows Red
The down arrow glows red.
As the door slides open,
I step in, press LL.
People move aside, we descend.
I have been so tired.
My skin smells rusty.
I laugh imagining
myself as the tin man,
rusting when he cried.
The elevator stops
on every floor. People
get off. I reach the
lowest level, alone.
I have been so very tired.
The doctor does not laugh,
orders tests, procedures.
Then calls me saying, “Sorry
to tell you this on the phone”.
I exit down in the bowels
of the earth, following signs
that point to the tunnel.
My steps echo as I walk.
Cancer makes you tired.
My husband brings me in
for surgery. We hold hands
knowing love’s strength,
and life’s fragility.
Florescent light floods the hall.
Tiles line the narrow path,
just wide enough for the
ill and dying to pass.
I could sleep forever.
They cut out the cancer,
removing my uterus.
Womanhood a memory
I will have to forget.
The tunnel is long, twisted.
At each turn I think
this must be the end.
There is no end, it stretches on.
Curls Go With Girls
“Curls go with girls” mother taught,
pin curling my straight hair.
By morning my girlishness
was revealed. The ads taught:
“Amp up your luscious lips.”
“A dab of gloss gives you a
plumper pout.” “False eye lashes,
glam bam!” Ideal beauty revealed.
Wear makeup to feel confident,
camouflage your imperfections,
fix your face. After all,
the mirror never lies.
With good grooming, plain girls
transform into nubile maidens,
ready for seduction.
Mother, was this your goal?
Grooming builds relationships,
leading to manipulation,
exploitation and abuse,
with no choice but to follow.
From the first time the glass slipper
is tried on, the soul is locked
into a turret to await
a fairy godmother.
“A woman without paint
is like food without salt”
the Roman Plautus taught.
What about curls?
I Was Born in Winter
I was born in winter.
Janus the gatekeeper
looking forward and back.
Grandfather’s ghost prayed
beside my bed.
The hairs on my head are
numbered, as are my days.
Past and future entwined
like stars whose light is seen
beyond their death.
In the woods stands an oak
bowed under the weight of
a fallen comrade, held aloft.
I too cannot let go of
those gone before.
They still can be heard in
my voice, seen in my face,
alive within my bones.
Like Lot’s wife, I cannot help
but look back.
When time’s gate swings shut
and life ends, only bones
will remember my name.
Look up, you will find me
in the stars.
On the eve of my 69th birthday
He Lies On My Lap
He lies on my lap,
curled like a comma,
dividing now, from then,
his head tucked to tail,
no beginning or end.
Like Regulus, the cat,
star in Leo’s constellation,
who prowled the night sky,
as the child in the womb,
swam through darkness.
Starlight born around her,
sixty-nine light years ago,
bathed the babe in brightness,
before and thereafter,
as old as she is new.
In a Dark Swirl of Wind
In a dark swirl of wind,
a tree fell leaving a
hollow in the canopy.
The crash was never heard.
There must have been a
splintering groan as it
let go of the earth and sky,
the sun, wind, and rain.
No one witnessed life passing.
You left us that way,
avoiding long goodbyes,
slipping off on your own.
When time calls our name
do we chose to let go,
or does the earth let loose
from under our roots?
That dark swirl of wind
may need to snatch me up,
refusing to let go
I’ll fall with a crash.
As a Child I Believed
As a child I believed,
wind was all I needed,
to make my dime-store kite fly,
if only I could run faster.
My kite would swoop and spin,
turn and dive into the ground.
I would try again and again,
until the kite crumpled.
The bus made its final stop,
dropping her at the Home,
to live out her days, in the
company of strangers.
She sat marooned with others,
powerless, mirroring despair.
Reaching out, she grasped the hands
of those seated beside her.
A tail on a kite helps it fly,
adding drag, pulling it
in the wind’s direction.
If only I had understood,
that kind of power. As the
World Trade Center tower burned,
when there was no escape,
strangers held hands and jumped.
I see a kite flying high,
bright against the blue sky,
reaching its way toward heaven,
its tail trailing toward earth.
So You Crossed the Finish Line
So, you crossed the finish line.
They congratulated you,
said you would be missed,
then locked the door.
So, you checked the time on
the watch you no longer need,
loaded up your memories,
and drove off into the sunset.
So, is that the end,
roll the credits,
the screen turns black,
everyone files out but you?
So?
If I Do Not Write It Down
If I do not write it down,
will I ever see the truth?
So many words go past us,
we skim with our ears the fat
that coats our toast, fries our eggs,
but will never sustain us.
Like an e-visit to the doctor,
who never sets eyes on us,
nods and says “Amen” at church
to assure God Incarnate
that He is known and loved
but will be passed on the street.
So I write down the words,
trying to see their reflection
off the wide lined paper,
that draws on the letters from
youth, traced over and over,
then graded on penmanship.
I stand before you fearful
that my lack of substance will
be discovered and paraded
round for all to see and mock.
So I’ve hidden away words
that may follow me to the grave.
Before that day of cremation,
I try not to look back while boldly
stepping forward, writing the words
that once were secreted away,
my sight blurred and clouded,
so only now, I start to see.
Time Has Set Me Apart
Time has set me apart.
On the street the child calls,
“Hey, old lady”. I don’t look up,
my eyes are on my path.
You take one step, then another.
Each step brings you closer.
Each step, farther away.
The walk is uneven.
That first step, precarious,
a missed step, disastrous.
I have a fear of falling.
I have a fear of failure.
You can practice falling
so no bones are broken.
Should you practice failure,
so you can stand again?
Time warns me to watch my step.
My bones are fragile.
The path calls “Hey, old lady”.
This time I look ahead.
Welcomed in the Doorway
Welcomed in the doorway,
perches on a chair,
smiles same as ever,
Illusions to portray.
Well-worn gifted sweater,
hole opens under arm,
too late now to sew it,
onerous to maintain.
Every day, efforts made,
tries to make things last,
another coat of paint,
glue to mend a crack.
Endlessly the edges fray,
nothing stays the same,
time seems to accelerate,
marching to decay.
Helped into a jacket,
hugged fondly at the door,
loved for what once was,
ghost of what remains.
She Listens to Her World
She listens to her world
reading lips, gestures, eyes irritation.
Hears it all
but not the words in her head.
There is a drought
not colored red on a map. A dearth.
Her mouth dry, tongue parched
lips cracked.
When she speaks, dust flies out
like a car leaving down a gravel road.
It happened gradually
over years. Everyone remembered
when words rained down.
No one noticed when it slowed
to sprinkle then stopped.
Temporal lobe aphasia they said
abandoning her to memory.
She listens
SLAPS the table. That was understood.
The Woman Tips Her Coiffed Do
The woman tips her coiffed do,
smiling as she polishes,
her table to a glossy shine,
mirroring her image.
“Isn’t that a nice reflection on you?”
the Pledge commercial asks me.
Taught to dust back in the sixties,
you’d think I’d polish mine,
but my table shines with gravy
and greasy fingerprints too.
No amount of lemon polish
or elbow grease is going
to shine it like a mirror,
nor would I want it to.
My reflection is mine alone,
built on years of living,
life filled with memories,
brings back “nice” reflections.
Family gathered all together,
Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners,
roast beef as well as gravy,
licked from greasy fingers.
The Curtain Goes Up
The curtain goes up.
Scenes from yesterday,
memorized by heart,
replay in my mind. I remember.
Warehouse windows stuck shut.
Struggling to open them,
the studio heating up
like an oven. I remember.
You opened those windows,
fresh air flowed through, blowing
away deceit, the hands
around my neck. I remember.
Golden curtains billowing
on windows filled with sunlight,
the breeze cooling sweat from
our languid bodies. I remember.
Life flows through these windows.
One day the scene will end,
curtains fall, lights go dark.
Will I still remember?
Even now, my eyes grow dim.
When I no longer see,
slide open the window,
so I feel the breeze, and remember.
I Believe it was October
I believe it was October
when the long thin arms of
autumn sunlight stretched
across fields of dry grass.
Wind blew through remains
of corn stubble refuse,
stirring clouds of dust
that hung suspended.
Late in the day, your face shaded
by the thin worn curtain,
damp with sweat, glowed with
knowledge of our longings.
Where do I find myself now,
wrapped in your arms or
watching in the failing light,
shoes covered in dust?
Old Abandoned Farm House
Old abandoned farm house,
weather beaten, stripped bare,
windows stare out blankly
through fractured panes.
The front door boarded shut,
telling no tales. Not stopping
the curious who are drawn
to peer inside its decay.
I refuse to look through
those dark broken windows,
afraid of waking the ghost
still lurking there.
Haunted with memory
of a duplicitous grin,
devouring young women
to fill its rotten hollow.
Instead, I chose to stand
back in the shadows to watch
as this house is burnt down.
I’m drawn to watch the flames.
I am a Desert Owl
I am a desert owl,
looking for shelter,
flying over burning sands,
without a place to land.
I am a pelican in the wilderness,
tearing at my breast,
hearing children cry,
without a bite to eat.
I am an owl among ruins,
searching for creation,
finding desolation,
without a way back.
I am a sparrow in darkness,
watching through the night,
alone on a rooftop,
waiting for light.
Oh, Sweet Gift
Oh, sweet gift of sleep,
our bed a boat set adrift.
You lay warm against my back,
breath moves hairs on my neck.
The battle over pain and loss,
finally, at rest.
In the early hours,
the leviathan circles.
Heard over roiling waters
echoes from the past,
“Just shoot me. Throw me in.”
Ancient timbers groan.
Oh, sweet gift of life, time
blows us farther out to sea.
“I wish I was dead” was said
in pain, giving way to anger,
frustration preparing
a watery grave.
Your arms, a life preserver,
pull me to safety.
My body surrenders,
sleep washes our yesterdays,
love keeps us afloat.
Life and time still move
with the tide.
Hard Wooden Doors
Hard wooden doors
hinges creak apart
dim light filters
stained glass panes
suspended cross.
Solitary.
Hard wooden pews
groan under stress
echoes emptiness
loss, life’s questions
death’s conclusion.
Hallowed answer.
Hard garden bench
sunflowers sway
geese circle south
dusk envelopes
consummate peace.
Sanctuary.
My Life
My life is a Word Find.
Searching for “FATE”.
Discovering “FAITH”.
Looking for “HEAVEN”.
Finding “HAVE”.
Four Walls
Four walls a fortress
sometimes turn prison,
thick walls of heat
close in on me.
I dive out the door,
swim through humidity,
gasping like a
woman drowning.
Under a tree’s shade
my mind empties out,
worries fade away,
hands hang limp.
Verdant leaves droop,
a pale moth lands,
tree toads doze,
cicadas hiss.
On this hot summer day
I have no direction,
I have no goals,
I have no cares.
I breathe in,
I breathe out.
That’s enough.
The Curtains Part
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window, down the drive.
The school bus passes below.
No children live here anymore.
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window to the barn.
Metal doors clang in the wind.
No one works there anymore.
The curtains part as she opens
the window. Fresh air fills the room.
Dust dances in the sunlight.
Smiling, she writes down this poem.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:12.597596
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-23",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-24
|
1 Are You Listening?
Constance Hodder
Two Tin Cans
Two tin cans hold taut
the cord between us,
a tight rope for
children’s secrets to cross.
Old telephone booth
beside a grave yard,
conduit to the dead for
the living’s confessions.
Put your ear to the can,
a coin in the payphone,
for I too have secrets
to whisper, to confess.
Are you listening?
I will tell my tales through
the air on a heart string,
send them sailing on the wind,
to fall like leaves at your feet.
Rake them up and jump in
like a child, or leave them
swirling among the graves,
the dead will always listen.
A Blue Jay: Self Portrait part one
A blue jay sings atop
the branch of a paper birch
before a luminous azure sky.
How often I have gazed through
this temple window.
A blue jay soars above
the expansive indigo Lake
sky mirrored on calm waters.
How often I have prayed at
this living altar.
A blue jay flies up
the cliff on Blueberry Hill
so high heaven can be seen.
How often I have reached to
touch the face of God.
Long Dry Grasses Sing: Self Portrait part two
Long dry grasses sing,
blown one way, then the other.
Divide for a tawny cat
stalking through the cover.
Pads across dampened sand,
leaps atop a rock.
Surveys white capped lake,
gulls bobbing in a flock.
Wind dies with setting sun,
water reflects the glow.
Cat wanders back through
grasses now woven gold.
Tall Sunflowers: Self Portrait part three
Tall sunflowers,
garden giants,
golden petals grace
black gleaming faces,
sun followers.
At summer’s end
heads hang heavy,
mature with seed,
bend to survey
garden’s harvest.
Stems bow in prayer
goldfinch whispers,
“tomorrow comes”
plucks a seed,
then flies away.
Snow soon covers
fallen remnants,
memory of sun
secured in seed,
waiting in soil.
Tucked In a Drawer: Self Portrait part four
Tucked in a drawer,
too old to be of use,
lies a pile of hankies,
laced with memories.
Each one unfolded,
its wrinkled face smoothed,
telling tales of tears,
farewells and broken hearts.
Delicate fabric,
whiteness yellowed grey,
colors faded, worn thin
that veil of passing.
Lovingly refolded,
no longer a piece
of today, tucked safely
back into yesterday.
This Gravel Road : Self Portrait part five
This gravel road is
long, hot, and dusty.
I keep walking on.
My feet are tired,
my shoes worn.
I have walked this road
a lifetime. They say
all roads come to an end.
Down the way there is
a bend in sight.
Along this timeworn road,
I gather flowers,
their beauty wilting
in my hands being
dropped, one by one.
I look behind. They say
never look back but
now there’s a path of
flowers to follow
when my soul returns.
The Child Laughs Aloud
The child laughs aloud,
not bubbling up
or holding back, but
erupting like Vesuvius.
There was a time,
when I too could laugh
without restraint,
tears rolling down.
This was before
I grew up, standing tall,
assured in the fact,
I knew something.
Uncertainty and fear,
now bend my spine.
Searching for answers,
my eyes grow blind.
Look up, my head says.
What should I see?
Pray, my heart says.
What do I ask for?
I hear the child,
laughter peeling like a bell,
resounding inside me,
an answer, a prayer.
The Down Arrow Glows Red
The down arrow glows red.
As the door slides open,
I step in, press LL.
People move aside, we descend.
I have been so tired.
My skin smells rusty.
I laugh imagining
myself as the tin man,
rusting when he cried.
The elevator stops
on every floor. People
get off. I reach the
lowest level, alone.
I have been so very tired.
The doctor does not laugh,
orders tests, procedures.
Then calls me saying, “Sorry
to tell you this on the phone”.
I exit down in the bowels
of the earth, following signs
that point to the tunnel.
My steps echo as I walk.
Cancer makes you tired.
My husband brings me in
for surgery. We hold hands
knowing love’s strength,
and life’s fragility.
Florescent light floods the hall.
Tiles line the narrow path,
just wide enough for the
ill and dying to pass.
I could sleep forever.
They cut out the cancer,
removing my uterus.
Womanhood a memory
I will have to forget.
The tunnel is long, twisted.
At each turn I think
this must be the end.
There is no end, it stretches on.
Curls Go With Girls
“Curls go with girls” mother taught,
pin curling my straight hair.
By morning my girlishness
was revealed. The ads taught:
“Amp up your luscious lips.”
“A dab of gloss gives you a
plumper pout.” “False eye lashes,
glam bam!” Ideal beauty revealed.
Wear makeup to feel confident,
camouflage your imperfections,
fix your face. After all,
the mirror never lies.
With good grooming, plain girls
transform into nubile maidens,
ready for seduction.
Mother, was this your goal?
Grooming builds relationships,
leading to manipulation,
exploitation and abuse,
with no choice but to follow.
From the first time the glass slipper
is tried on, the soul is locked
into a turret to await
a fairy godmother.
“A woman without paint
is like food without salt”
the Roman Plautus taught.
What about curls?
I Was Born in Winter
I was born in winter.
Janus the gatekeeper
looking forward and back.
Grandfather’s ghost prayed
beside my bed.
The hairs on my head are
numbered, as are my days.
Past and future entwined
like stars whose light is seen
beyond their death.
In the woods stands an oak
bowed under the weight of
a fallen comrade, held aloft.
I too cannot let go of
those gone before.
They still can be heard in
my voice, seen in my face,
alive within my bones.
Like Lot’s wife, I cannot help
but look back.
When time’s gate swings shut
and life ends, only bones
will remember my name.
Look up, you will find me
in the stars.
On the eve of my 69th birthday
He Lies On My Lap
He lies on my lap,
curled like a comma,
dividing now, from then,
his head tucked to tail,
no beginning or end.
Like Regulus, the cat,
star in Leo’s constellation,
who prowled the night sky,
as the child in the womb,
swam through darkness.
Starlight born around her,
sixty-nine light years ago,
bathed the babe in brightness,
before and thereafter,
as old as she is new.
In a Dark Swirl of Wind
In a dark swirl of wind,
a tree fell leaving a
hollow in the canopy.
The crash was never heard.
There must have been a
splintering groan as it
let go of the earth and sky,
the sun, wind, and rain.
No one witnessed life passing.
You left us that way,
avoiding long goodbyes,
slipping off on your own.
When time calls our name
do we chose to let go,
or does the earth let loose
from under our roots?
That dark swirl of wind
may need to snatch me up,
refusing to let go
I’ll fall with a crash.
As a Child I Believed
As a child I believed,
wind was all I needed,
to make my dime-store kite fly,
if only I could run faster.
My kite would swoop and spin,
turn and dive into the ground.
I would try again and again,
until the kite crumpled.
The bus made its final stop,
dropping her at the Home,
to live out her days, in the
company of strangers.
She sat marooned with others,
powerless, mirroring despair.
Reaching out, she grasped the hands
of those seated beside her.
A tail on a kite helps it fly,
adding drag, pulling it
in the wind’s direction.
If only I had understood,
that kind of power. As the
World Trade Center tower burned,
when there was no escape,
strangers held hands and jumped.
I see a kite flying high,
bright against the blue sky,
reaching its way toward heaven,
its tail trailing toward earth.
So You Crossed the Finish Line
So, you crossed the finish line.
They congratulated you,
said you would be missed,
then locked the door.
So, you checked the time on
the watch you no longer need,
loaded up your memories,
and drove off into the sunset.
So, is that the end,
roll the credits,
the screen turns black,
everyone files out but you?
So?
If I Do Not Write It Down
If I do not write it down,
will I ever see the truth?
So many words go past us,
we skim with our ears the fat
that coats our toast, fries our eggs,
but will never sustain us.
Like an e-visit to the doctor,
who never sets eyes on us,
nods and says “Amen” at church
to assure God Incarnate
that He is known and loved
but will be passed on the street.
So I write down the words,
trying to see their reflection
off the wide lined paper,
that draws on the letters from
youth, traced over and over,
then graded on penmanship.
I stand before you fearful
that my lack of substance will
be discovered and paraded
round for all to see and mock.
So I’ve hidden away words
that may follow me to the grave.
Before that day of cremation,
I try not to look back while boldly
stepping forward, writing the words
that once were secreted away,
my sight blurred and clouded,
so only now, I start to see.
Time Has Set Me Apart
Time has set me apart.
On the street the child calls,
“Hey, old lady”. I don’t look up,
my eyes are on my path.
You take one step, then another.
Each step brings you closer.
Each step, farther away.
The walk is uneven.
That first step, precarious,
a missed step, disastrous.
I have a fear of falling.
I have a fear of failure.
You can practice falling
so no bones are broken.
Should you practice failure,
so you can stand again?
Time warns me to watch my step.
My bones are fragile.
The path calls “Hey, old lady”.
This time I look ahead.
Welcomed in the Doorway
Welcomed in the doorway,
perches on a chair,
smiles same as ever,
Illusions to portray.
Well-worn gifted sweater,
hole opens under arm,
too late now to sew it,
onerous to maintain.
Every day, efforts made,
tries to make things last,
another coat of paint,
glue to mend a crack.
Endlessly the edges fray,
nothing stays the same,
time seems to accelerate,
marching to decay.
Helped into a jacket,
hugged fondly at the door,
loved for what once was,
ghost of what remains.
She Listens to Her World
She listens to her world
reading lips, gestures, eyes irritation.
Hears it all
but not the words in her head.
There is a drought
not colored red on a map. A dearth.
Her mouth dry, tongue parched
lips cracked.
When she speaks, dust flies out
like a car leaving down a gravel road.
It happened gradually
over years. Everyone remembered
when words rained down.
No one noticed when it slowed
to sprinkle then stopped.
Temporal lobe aphasia they said
abandoning her to memory.
She listens
SLAPS the table. That was understood.
The Woman Tips Her Coiffed Do
The woman tips her coiffed do,
smiling as she polishes,
her table to a glossy shine,
mirroring her image.
“Isn’t that a nice reflection on you?”
the Pledge commercial asks me.
Taught to dust back in the sixties,
you’d think I’d polish mine,
but my table shines with gravy
and greasy fingerprints too.
No amount of lemon polish
or elbow grease is going
to shine it like a mirror,
nor would I want it to.
My reflection is mine alone,
built on years of living,
life filled with memories,
brings back “nice” reflections.
Family gathered all together,
Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners,
roast beef as well as gravy,
licked from greasy fingers.
The Curtain Goes Up
The curtain goes up.
Scenes from yesterday,
memorized by heart,
replay in my mind. I remember.
Warehouse windows stuck shut.
Struggling to open them,
the studio heating up
like an oven. I remember.
You opened those windows,
fresh air flowed through, blowing
away deceit, the hands
around my neck. I remember.
Golden curtains billowing
on windows filled with sunlight,
the breeze cooling sweat from
our languid bodies. I remember.
Life flows through these windows.
One day the scene will end,
curtains fall, lights go dark.
Will I still remember?
Even now, my eyes grow dim.
When I no longer see,
slide open the window,
so I feel the breeze, and remember.
I Believe it was October
I believe it was October
when the long thin arms of
autumn sunlight stretched
across fields of dry grass.
Wind blew through remains
of corn stubble refuse,
stirring clouds of dust
that hung suspended.
Late in the day, your face shaded
by the thin worn curtain,
damp with sweat, glowed with
knowledge of our longings.
Where do I find myself now,
wrapped in your arms or
watching in the failing light,
shoes covered in dust?
Old Abandoned Farm House
Old abandoned farm house,
weather beaten, stripped bare,
windows stare out blankly
through fractured panes.
The front door boarded shut,
telling no tales. Not stopping
the curious who are drawn
to peer inside its decay.
I refuse to look through
those dark broken windows,
afraid of waking the ghost
still lurking there.
Haunted with memory
of a duplicitous grin,
devouring young women
to fill its rotten hollow.
Instead, I chose to stand
back in the shadows to watch
as this house is burnt down.
I’m drawn to watch the flames.
I am a Desert Owl
I am a desert owl,
looking for shelter,
flying over burning sands,
without a place to land.
I am a pelican in the wilderness,
tearing at my breast,
hearing children cry,
without a bite to eat.
I am an owl among ruins,
searching for creation,
finding desolation,
without a way back.
I am a sparrow in darkness,
watching through the night,
alone on a rooftop,
waiting for light.
Oh, Sweet Gift
Oh, sweet gift of sleep,
our bed a boat set adrift.
You lay warm against my back,
breath moves hairs on my neck.
The battle over pain and loss,
finally, at rest.
In the early hours,
the leviathan circles.
Heard over roiling waters
echoes from the past,
“Just shoot me. Throw me in.”
Ancient timbers groan.
Oh, sweet gift of life, time
blows us farther out to sea.
“I wish I was dead” was said
in pain, giving way to anger,
frustration preparing
a watery grave.
Your arms, a life preserver,
pull me to safety.
My body surrenders,
sleep washes our yesterdays,
love keeps us afloat.
Life and time still move
with the tide.
Hard Wooden Doors
Hard wooden doors
hinges creak apart
dim light filters
stained glass panes
suspended cross.
Solitary.
Hard wooden pews
groan under stress
echoes emptiness
loss, life’s questions
death’s conclusion.
Hallowed answer.
Hard garden bench
sunflowers sway
geese circle south
dusk envelopes
consummate peace.
Sanctuary.
My Life
My life is a Word Find.
Searching for “FATE”.
Discovering “FAITH”.
Looking for “HEAVEN”.
Finding “HAVE”.
Four Walls
Four walls a fortress
sometimes turn prison,
thick walls of heat
close in on me.
I dive out the door,
swim through humidity,
gasping like a
woman drowning.
Under a tree’s shade
my mind empties out,
worries fade away,
hands hang limp.
Verdant leaves droop,
a pale moth lands,
tree toads doze,
cicadas hiss.
On this hot summer day
I have no direction,
I have no goals,
I have no cares.
I breathe in,
I breathe out.
That’s enough.
The Curtains Part
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window, down the drive.
The school bus passes below.
No children live here anymore.
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window to the barn.
Metal doors clang in the wind.
No one works there anymore.
The curtains part as she opens
the window. Fresh air fills the room.
Dust dances in the sunlight.
Smiling, she writes down this poem.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:12.683125
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-24",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-25
|
1 Are You Listening?
Constance Hodder
Two Tin Cans
Two tin cans hold taut
the cord between us,
a tight rope for
children’s secrets to cross.
Old telephone booth
beside a grave yard,
conduit to the dead for
the living’s confessions.
Put your ear to the can,
a coin in the payphone,
for I too have secrets
to whisper, to confess.
Are you listening?
I will tell my tales through
the air on a heart string,
send them sailing on the wind,
to fall like leaves at your feet.
Rake them up and jump in
like a child, or leave them
swirling among the graves,
the dead will always listen.
A Blue Jay: Self Portrait part one
A blue jay sings atop
the branch of a paper birch
before a luminous azure sky.
How often I have gazed through
this temple window.
A blue jay soars above
the expansive indigo Lake
sky mirrored on calm waters.
How often I have prayed at
this living altar.
A blue jay flies up
the cliff on Blueberry Hill
so high heaven can be seen.
How often I have reached to
touch the face of God.
Long Dry Grasses Sing: Self Portrait part two
Long dry grasses sing,
blown one way, then the other.
Divide for a tawny cat
stalking through the cover.
Pads across dampened sand,
leaps atop a rock.
Surveys white capped lake,
gulls bobbing in a flock.
Wind dies with setting sun,
water reflects the glow.
Cat wanders back through
grasses now woven gold.
Tall Sunflowers: Self Portrait part three
Tall sunflowers,
garden giants,
golden petals grace
black gleaming faces,
sun followers.
At summer’s end
heads hang heavy,
mature with seed,
bend to survey
garden’s harvest.
Stems bow in prayer
goldfinch whispers,
“tomorrow comes”
plucks a seed,
then flies away.
Snow soon covers
fallen remnants,
memory of sun
secured in seed,
waiting in soil.
Tucked In a Drawer: Self Portrait part four
Tucked in a drawer,
too old to be of use,
lies a pile of hankies,
laced with memories.
Each one unfolded,
its wrinkled face smoothed,
telling tales of tears,
farewells and broken hearts.
Delicate fabric,
whiteness yellowed grey,
colors faded, worn thin
that veil of passing.
Lovingly refolded,
no longer a piece
of today, tucked safely
back into yesterday.
This Gravel Road : Self Portrait part five
This gravel road is
long, hot, and dusty.
I keep walking on.
My feet are tired,
my shoes worn.
I have walked this road
a lifetime. They say
all roads come to an end.
Down the way there is
a bend in sight.
Along this timeworn road,
I gather flowers,
their beauty wilting
in my hands being
dropped, one by one.
I look behind. They say
never look back but
now there’s a path of
flowers to follow
when my soul returns.
The Child Laughs Aloud
The child laughs aloud,
not bubbling up
or holding back, but
erupting like Vesuvius.
There was a time,
when I too could laugh
without restraint,
tears rolling down.
This was before
I grew up, standing tall,
assured in the fact,
I knew something.
Uncertainty and fear,
now bend my spine.
Searching for answers,
my eyes grow blind.
Look up, my head says.
What should I see?
Pray, my heart says.
What do I ask for?
I hear the child,
laughter peeling like a bell,
resounding inside me,
an answer, a prayer.
The Down Arrow Glows Red
The down arrow glows red.
As the door slides open,
I step in, press LL.
People move aside, we descend.
I have been so tired.
My skin smells rusty.
I laugh imagining
myself as the tin man,
rusting when he cried.
The elevator stops
on every floor. People
get off. I reach the
lowest level, alone.
I have been so very tired.
The doctor does not laugh,
orders tests, procedures.
Then calls me saying, “Sorry
to tell you this on the phone”.
I exit down in the bowels
of the earth, following signs
that point to the tunnel.
My steps echo as I walk.
Cancer makes you tired.
My husband brings me in
for surgery. We hold hands
knowing love’s strength,
and life’s fragility.
Florescent light floods the hall.
Tiles line the narrow path,
just wide enough for the
ill and dying to pass.
I could sleep forever.
They cut out the cancer,
removing my uterus.
Womanhood a memory
I will have to forget.
The tunnel is long, twisted.
At each turn I think
this must be the end.
There is no end, it stretches on.
Curls Go With Girls
“Curls go with girls” mother taught,
pin curling my straight hair.
By morning my girlishness
was revealed. The ads taught:
“Amp up your luscious lips.”
“A dab of gloss gives you a
plumper pout.” “False eye lashes,
glam bam!” Ideal beauty revealed.
Wear makeup to feel confident,
camouflage your imperfections,
fix your face. After all,
the mirror never lies.
With good grooming, plain girls
transform into nubile maidens,
ready for seduction.
Mother, was this your goal?
Grooming builds relationships,
leading to manipulation,
exploitation and abuse,
with no choice but to follow.
From the first time the glass slipper
is tried on, the soul is locked
into a turret to await
a fairy godmother.
“A woman without paint
is like food without salt”
the Roman Plautus taught.
What about curls?
I Was Born in Winter
I was born in winter.
Janus the gatekeeper
looking forward and back.
Grandfather’s ghost prayed
beside my bed.
The hairs on my head are
numbered, as are my days.
Past and future entwined
like stars whose light is seen
beyond their death.
In the woods stands an oak
bowed under the weight of
a fallen comrade, held aloft.
I too cannot let go of
those gone before.
They still can be heard in
my voice, seen in my face,
alive within my bones.
Like Lot’s wife, I cannot help
but look back.
When time’s gate swings shut
and life ends, only bones
will remember my name.
Look up, you will find me
in the stars.
On the eve of my 69th birthday
He Lies On My Lap
He lies on my lap,
curled like a comma,
dividing now, from then,
his head tucked to tail,
no beginning or end.
Like Regulus, the cat,
star in Leo’s constellation,
who prowled the night sky,
as the child in the womb,
swam through darkness.
Starlight born around her,
sixty-nine light years ago,
bathed the babe in brightness,
before and thereafter,
as old as she is new.
In a Dark Swirl of Wind
In a dark swirl of wind,
a tree fell leaving a
hollow in the canopy.
The crash was never heard.
There must have been a
splintering groan as it
let go of the earth and sky,
the sun, wind, and rain.
No one witnessed life passing.
You left us that way,
avoiding long goodbyes,
slipping off on your own.
When time calls our name
do we chose to let go,
or does the earth let loose
from under our roots?
That dark swirl of wind
may need to snatch me up,
refusing to let go
I’ll fall with a crash.
As a Child I Believed
As a child I believed,
wind was all I needed,
to make my dime-store kite fly,
if only I could run faster.
My kite would swoop and spin,
turn and dive into the ground.
I would try again and again,
until the kite crumpled.
The bus made its final stop,
dropping her at the Home,
to live out her days, in the
company of strangers.
She sat marooned with others,
powerless, mirroring despair.
Reaching out, she grasped the hands
of those seated beside her.
A tail on a kite helps it fly,
adding drag, pulling it
in the wind’s direction.
If only I had understood,
that kind of power. As the
World Trade Center tower burned,
when there was no escape,
strangers held hands and jumped.
I see a kite flying high,
bright against the blue sky,
reaching its way toward heaven,
its tail trailing toward earth.
So You Crossed the Finish Line
So, you crossed the finish line.
They congratulated you,
said you would be missed,
then locked the door.
So, you checked the time on
the watch you no longer need,
loaded up your memories,
and drove off into the sunset.
So, is that the end,
roll the credits,
the screen turns black,
everyone files out but you?
So?
If I Do Not Write It Down
If I do not write it down,
will I ever see the truth?
So many words go past us,
we skim with our ears the fat
that coats our toast, fries our eggs,
but will never sustain us.
Like an e-visit to the doctor,
who never sets eyes on us,
nods and says “Amen” at church
to assure God Incarnate
that He is known and loved
but will be passed on the street.
So I write down the words,
trying to see their reflection
off the wide lined paper,
that draws on the letters from
youth, traced over and over,
then graded on penmanship.
I stand before you fearful
that my lack of substance will
be discovered and paraded
round for all to see and mock.
So I’ve hidden away words
that may follow me to the grave.
Before that day of cremation,
I try not to look back while boldly
stepping forward, writing the words
that once were secreted away,
my sight blurred and clouded,
so only now, I start to see.
Time Has Set Me Apart
Time has set me apart.
On the street the child calls,
“Hey, old lady”. I don’t look up,
my eyes are on my path.
You take one step, then another.
Each step brings you closer.
Each step, farther away.
The walk is uneven.
That first step, precarious,
a missed step, disastrous.
I have a fear of falling.
I have a fear of failure.
You can practice falling
so no bones are broken.
Should you practice failure,
so you can stand again?
Time warns me to watch my step.
My bones are fragile.
The path calls “Hey, old lady”.
This time I look ahead.
Welcomed in the Doorway
Welcomed in the doorway,
perches on a chair,
smiles same as ever,
Illusions to portray.
Well-worn gifted sweater,
hole opens under arm,
too late now to sew it,
onerous to maintain.
Every day, efforts made,
tries to make things last,
another coat of paint,
glue to mend a crack.
Endlessly the edges fray,
nothing stays the same,
time seems to accelerate,
marching to decay.
Helped into a jacket,
hugged fondly at the door,
loved for what once was,
ghost of what remains.
She Listens to Her World
She listens to her world
reading lips, gestures, eyes irritation.
Hears it all
but not the words in her head.
There is a drought
not colored red on a map. A dearth.
Her mouth dry, tongue parched
lips cracked.
When she speaks, dust flies out
like a car leaving down a gravel road.
It happened gradually
over years. Everyone remembered
when words rained down.
No one noticed when it slowed
to sprinkle then stopped.
Temporal lobe aphasia they said
abandoning her to memory.
She listens
SLAPS the table. That was understood.
The Woman Tips Her Coiffed Do
The woman tips her coiffed do,
smiling as she polishes,
her table to a glossy shine,
mirroring her image.
“Isn’t that a nice reflection on you?”
the Pledge commercial asks me.
Taught to dust back in the sixties,
you’d think I’d polish mine,
but my table shines with gravy
and greasy fingerprints too.
No amount of lemon polish
or elbow grease is going
to shine it like a mirror,
nor would I want it to.
My reflection is mine alone,
built on years of living,
life filled with memories,
brings back “nice” reflections.
Family gathered all together,
Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners,
roast beef as well as gravy,
licked from greasy fingers.
The Curtain Goes Up
The curtain goes up.
Scenes from yesterday,
memorized by heart,
replay in my mind. I remember.
Warehouse windows stuck shut.
Struggling to open them,
the studio heating up
like an oven. I remember.
You opened those windows,
fresh air flowed through, blowing
away deceit, the hands
around my neck. I remember.
Golden curtains billowing
on windows filled with sunlight,
the breeze cooling sweat from
our languid bodies. I remember.
Life flows through these windows.
One day the scene will end,
curtains fall, lights go dark.
Will I still remember?
Even now, my eyes grow dim.
When I no longer see,
slide open the window,
so I feel the breeze, and remember.
I Believe it was October
I believe it was October
when the long thin arms of
autumn sunlight stretched
across fields of dry grass.
Wind blew through remains
of corn stubble refuse,
stirring clouds of dust
that hung suspended.
Late in the day, your face shaded
by the thin worn curtain,
damp with sweat, glowed with
knowledge of our longings.
Where do I find myself now,
wrapped in your arms or
watching in the failing light,
shoes covered in dust?
Old Abandoned Farm House
Old abandoned farm house,
weather beaten, stripped bare,
windows stare out blankly
through fractured panes.
The front door boarded shut,
telling no tales. Not stopping
the curious who are drawn
to peer inside its decay.
I refuse to look through
those dark broken windows,
afraid of waking the ghost
still lurking there.
Haunted with memory
of a duplicitous grin,
devouring young women
to fill its rotten hollow.
Instead, I chose to stand
back in the shadows to watch
as this house is burnt down.
I’m drawn to watch the flames.
I am a Desert Owl
I am a desert owl,
looking for shelter,
flying over burning sands,
without a place to land.
I am a pelican in the wilderness,
tearing at my breast,
hearing children cry,
without a bite to eat.
I am an owl among ruins,
searching for creation,
finding desolation,
without a way back.
I am a sparrow in darkness,
watching through the night,
alone on a rooftop,
waiting for light.
Oh, Sweet Gift
Oh, sweet gift of sleep,
our bed a boat set adrift.
You lay warm against my back,
breath moves hairs on my neck.
The battle over pain and loss,
finally, at rest.
In the early hours,
the leviathan circles.
Heard over roiling waters
echoes from the past,
“Just shoot me. Throw me in.”
Ancient timbers groan.
Oh, sweet gift of life, time
blows us farther out to sea.
“I wish I was dead” was said
in pain, giving way to anger,
frustration preparing
a watery grave.
Your arms, a life preserver,
pull me to safety.
My body surrenders,
sleep washes our yesterdays,
love keeps us afloat.
Life and time still move
with the tide.
Hard Wooden Doors
Hard wooden doors
hinges creak apart
dim light filters
stained glass panes
suspended cross.
Solitary.
Hard wooden pews
groan under stress
echoes emptiness
loss, life’s questions
death’s conclusion.
Hallowed answer.
Hard garden bench
sunflowers sway
geese circle south
dusk envelopes
consummate peace.
Sanctuary.
My Life
My life is a Word Find.
Searching for “FATE”.
Discovering “FAITH”.
Looking for “HEAVEN”.
Finding “HAVE”.
Four Walls
Four walls a fortress
sometimes turn prison,
thick walls of heat
close in on me.
I dive out the door,
swim through humidity,
gasping like a
woman drowning.
Under a tree’s shade
my mind empties out,
worries fade away,
hands hang limp.
Verdant leaves droop,
a pale moth lands,
tree toads doze,
cicadas hiss.
On this hot summer day
I have no direction,
I have no goals,
I have no cares.
I breathe in,
I breathe out.
That’s enough.
The Curtains Part
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window, down the drive.
The school bus passes below.
No children live here anymore.
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window to the barn.
Metal doors clang in the wind.
No one works there anymore.
The curtains part as she opens
the window. Fresh air fills the room.
Dust dances in the sunlight.
Smiling, she writes down this poem.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:12.764964
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-25",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-26
|
1 Are You Listening?
Constance Hodder
Two Tin Cans
Two tin cans hold taut
the cord between us,
a tight rope for
children’s secrets to cross.
Old telephone booth
beside a grave yard,
conduit to the dead for
the living’s confessions.
Put your ear to the can,
a coin in the payphone,
for I too have secrets
to whisper, to confess.
Are you listening?
I will tell my tales through
the air on a heart string,
send them sailing on the wind,
to fall like leaves at your feet.
Rake them up and jump in
like a child, or leave them
swirling among the graves,
the dead will always listen.
A Blue Jay: Self Portrait part one
A blue jay sings atop
the branch of a paper birch
before a luminous azure sky.
How often I have gazed through
this temple window.
A blue jay soars above
the expansive indigo Lake
sky mirrored on calm waters.
How often I have prayed at
this living altar.
A blue jay flies up
the cliff on Blueberry Hill
so high heaven can be seen.
How often I have reached to
touch the face of God.
Long Dry Grasses Sing: Self Portrait part two
Long dry grasses sing,
blown one way, then the other.
Divide for a tawny cat
stalking through the cover.
Pads across dampened sand,
leaps atop a rock.
Surveys white capped lake,
gulls bobbing in a flock.
Wind dies with setting sun,
water reflects the glow.
Cat wanders back through
grasses now woven gold.
Tall Sunflowers: Self Portrait part three
Tall sunflowers,
garden giants,
golden petals grace
black gleaming faces,
sun followers.
At summer’s end
heads hang heavy,
mature with seed,
bend to survey
garden’s harvest.
Stems bow in prayer
goldfinch whispers,
“tomorrow comes”
plucks a seed,
then flies away.
Snow soon covers
fallen remnants,
memory of sun
secured in seed,
waiting in soil.
Tucked In a Drawer: Self Portrait part four
Tucked in a drawer,
too old to be of use,
lies a pile of hankies,
laced with memories.
Each one unfolded,
its wrinkled face smoothed,
telling tales of tears,
farewells and broken hearts.
Delicate fabric,
whiteness yellowed grey,
colors faded, worn thin
that veil of passing.
Lovingly refolded,
no longer a piece
of today, tucked safely
back into yesterday.
This Gravel Road : Self Portrait part five
This gravel road is
long, hot, and dusty.
I keep walking on.
My feet are tired,
my shoes worn.
I have walked this road
a lifetime. They say
all roads come to an end.
Down the way there is
a bend in sight.
Along this timeworn road,
I gather flowers,
their beauty wilting
in my hands being
dropped, one by one.
I look behind. They say
never look back but
now there’s a path of
flowers to follow
when my soul returns.
The Child Laughs Aloud
The child laughs aloud,
not bubbling up
or holding back, but
erupting like Vesuvius.
There was a time,
when I too could laugh
without restraint,
tears rolling down.
This was before
I grew up, standing tall,
assured in the fact,
I knew something.
Uncertainty and fear,
now bend my spine.
Searching for answers,
my eyes grow blind.
Look up, my head says.
What should I see?
Pray, my heart says.
What do I ask for?
I hear the child,
laughter peeling like a bell,
resounding inside me,
an answer, a prayer.
The Down Arrow Glows Red
The down arrow glows red.
As the door slides open,
I step in, press LL.
People move aside, we descend.
I have been so tired.
My skin smells rusty.
I laugh imagining
myself as the tin man,
rusting when he cried.
The elevator stops
on every floor. People
get off. I reach the
lowest level, alone.
I have been so very tired.
The doctor does not laugh,
orders tests, procedures.
Then calls me saying, “Sorry
to tell you this on the phone”.
I exit down in the bowels
of the earth, following signs
that point to the tunnel.
My steps echo as I walk.
Cancer makes you tired.
My husband brings me in
for surgery. We hold hands
knowing love’s strength,
and life’s fragility.
Florescent light floods the hall.
Tiles line the narrow path,
just wide enough for the
ill and dying to pass.
I could sleep forever.
They cut out the cancer,
removing my uterus.
Womanhood a memory
I will have to forget.
The tunnel is long, twisted.
At each turn I think
this must be the end.
There is no end, it stretches on.
Curls Go With Girls
“Curls go with girls” mother taught,
pin curling my straight hair.
By morning my girlishness
was revealed. The ads taught:
“Amp up your luscious lips.”
“A dab of gloss gives you a
plumper pout.” “False eye lashes,
glam bam!” Ideal beauty revealed.
Wear makeup to feel confident,
camouflage your imperfections,
fix your face. After all,
the mirror never lies.
With good grooming, plain girls
transform into nubile maidens,
ready for seduction.
Mother, was this your goal?
Grooming builds relationships,
leading to manipulation,
exploitation and abuse,
with no choice but to follow.
From the first time the glass slipper
is tried on, the soul is locked
into a turret to await
a fairy godmother.
“A woman without paint
is like food without salt”
the Roman Plautus taught.
What about curls?
I Was Born in Winter
I was born in winter.
Janus the gatekeeper
looking forward and back.
Grandfather’s ghost prayed
beside my bed.
The hairs on my head are
numbered, as are my days.
Past and future entwined
like stars whose light is seen
beyond their death.
In the woods stands an oak
bowed under the weight of
a fallen comrade, held aloft.
I too cannot let go of
those gone before.
They still can be heard in
my voice, seen in my face,
alive within my bones.
Like Lot’s wife, I cannot help
but look back.
When time’s gate swings shut
and life ends, only bones
will remember my name.
Look up, you will find me
in the stars.
On the eve of my 69th birthday
He Lies On My Lap
He lies on my lap,
curled like a comma,
dividing now, from then,
his head tucked to tail,
no beginning or end.
Like Regulus, the cat,
star in Leo’s constellation,
who prowled the night sky,
as the child in the womb,
swam through darkness.
Starlight born around her,
sixty-nine light years ago,
bathed the babe in brightness,
before and thereafter,
as old as she is new.
In a Dark Swirl of Wind
In a dark swirl of wind,
a tree fell leaving a
hollow in the canopy.
The crash was never heard.
There must have been a
splintering groan as it
let go of the earth and sky,
the sun, wind, and rain.
No one witnessed life passing.
You left us that way,
avoiding long goodbyes,
slipping off on your own.
When time calls our name
do we chose to let go,
or does the earth let loose
from under our roots?
That dark swirl of wind
may need to snatch me up,
refusing to let go
I’ll fall with a crash.
As a Child I Believed
As a child I believed,
wind was all I needed,
to make my dime-store kite fly,
if only I could run faster.
My kite would swoop and spin,
turn and dive into the ground.
I would try again and again,
until the kite crumpled.
The bus made its final stop,
dropping her at the Home,
to live out her days, in the
company of strangers.
She sat marooned with others,
powerless, mirroring despair.
Reaching out, she grasped the hands
of those seated beside her.
A tail on a kite helps it fly,
adding drag, pulling it
in the wind’s direction.
If only I had understood,
that kind of power. As the
World Trade Center tower burned,
when there was no escape,
strangers held hands and jumped.
I see a kite flying high,
bright against the blue sky,
reaching its way toward heaven,
its tail trailing toward earth.
So You Crossed the Finish Line
So, you crossed the finish line.
They congratulated you,
said you would be missed,
then locked the door.
So, you checked the time on
the watch you no longer need,
loaded up your memories,
and drove off into the sunset.
So, is that the end,
roll the credits,
the screen turns black,
everyone files out but you?
So?
If I Do Not Write It Down
If I do not write it down,
will I ever see the truth?
So many words go past us,
we skim with our ears the fat
that coats our toast, fries our eggs,
but will never sustain us.
Like an e-visit to the doctor,
who never sets eyes on us,
nods and says “Amen” at church
to assure God Incarnate
that He is known and loved
but will be passed on the street.
So I write down the words,
trying to see their reflection
off the wide lined paper,
that draws on the letters from
youth, traced over and over,
then graded on penmanship.
I stand before you fearful
that my lack of substance will
be discovered and paraded
round for all to see and mock.
So I’ve hidden away words
that may follow me to the grave.
Before that day of cremation,
I try not to look back while boldly
stepping forward, writing the words
that once were secreted away,
my sight blurred and clouded,
so only now, I start to see.
Time Has Set Me Apart
Time has set me apart.
On the street the child calls,
“Hey, old lady”. I don’t look up,
my eyes are on my path.
You take one step, then another.
Each step brings you closer.
Each step, farther away.
The walk is uneven.
That first step, precarious,
a missed step, disastrous.
I have a fear of falling.
I have a fear of failure.
You can practice falling
so no bones are broken.
Should you practice failure,
so you can stand again?
Time warns me to watch my step.
My bones are fragile.
The path calls “Hey, old lady”.
This time I look ahead.
Welcomed in the Doorway
Welcomed in the doorway,
perches on a chair,
smiles same as ever,
Illusions to portray.
Well-worn gifted sweater,
hole opens under arm,
too late now to sew it,
onerous to maintain.
Every day, efforts made,
tries to make things last,
another coat of paint,
glue to mend a crack.
Endlessly the edges fray,
nothing stays the same,
time seems to accelerate,
marching to decay.
Helped into a jacket,
hugged fondly at the door,
loved for what once was,
ghost of what remains.
She Listens to Her World
She listens to her world
reading lips, gestures, eyes irritation.
Hears it all
but not the words in her head.
There is a drought
not colored red on a map. A dearth.
Her mouth dry, tongue parched
lips cracked.
When she speaks, dust flies out
like a car leaving down a gravel road.
It happened gradually
over years. Everyone remembered
when words rained down.
No one noticed when it slowed
to sprinkle then stopped.
Temporal lobe aphasia they said
abandoning her to memory.
She listens
SLAPS the table. That was understood.
The Woman Tips Her Coiffed Do
The woman tips her coiffed do,
smiling as she polishes,
her table to a glossy shine,
mirroring her image.
“Isn’t that a nice reflection on you?”
the Pledge commercial asks me.
Taught to dust back in the sixties,
you’d think I’d polish mine,
but my table shines with gravy
and greasy fingerprints too.
No amount of lemon polish
or elbow grease is going
to shine it like a mirror,
nor would I want it to.
My reflection is mine alone,
built on years of living,
life filled with memories,
brings back “nice” reflections.
Family gathered all together,
Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners,
roast beef as well as gravy,
licked from greasy fingers.
The Curtain Goes Up
The curtain goes up.
Scenes from yesterday,
memorized by heart,
replay in my mind. I remember.
Warehouse windows stuck shut.
Struggling to open them,
the studio heating up
like an oven. I remember.
You opened those windows,
fresh air flowed through, blowing
away deceit, the hands
around my neck. I remember.
Golden curtains billowing
on windows filled with sunlight,
the breeze cooling sweat from
our languid bodies. I remember.
Life flows through these windows.
One day the scene will end,
curtains fall, lights go dark.
Will I still remember?
Even now, my eyes grow dim.
When I no longer see,
slide open the window,
so I feel the breeze, and remember.
I Believe it was October
I believe it was October
when the long thin arms of
autumn sunlight stretched
across fields of dry grass.
Wind blew through remains
of corn stubble refuse,
stirring clouds of dust
that hung suspended.
Late in the day, your face shaded
by the thin worn curtain,
damp with sweat, glowed with
knowledge of our longings.
Where do I find myself now,
wrapped in your arms or
watching in the failing light,
shoes covered in dust?
Old Abandoned Farm House
Old abandoned farm house,
weather beaten, stripped bare,
windows stare out blankly
through fractured panes.
The front door boarded shut,
telling no tales. Not stopping
the curious who are drawn
to peer inside its decay.
I refuse to look through
those dark broken windows,
afraid of waking the ghost
still lurking there.
Haunted with memory
of a duplicitous grin,
devouring young women
to fill its rotten hollow.
Instead, I chose to stand
back in the shadows to watch
as this house is burnt down.
I’m drawn to watch the flames.
I am a Desert Owl
I am a desert owl,
looking for shelter,
flying over burning sands,
without a place to land.
I am a pelican in the wilderness,
tearing at my breast,
hearing children cry,
without a bite to eat.
I am an owl among ruins,
searching for creation,
finding desolation,
without a way back.
I am a sparrow in darkness,
watching through the night,
alone on a rooftop,
waiting for light.
Oh, Sweet Gift
Oh, sweet gift of sleep,
our bed a boat set adrift.
You lay warm against my back,
breath moves hairs on my neck.
The battle over pain and loss,
finally, at rest.
In the early hours,
the leviathan circles.
Heard over roiling waters
echoes from the past,
“Just shoot me. Throw me in.”
Ancient timbers groan.
Oh, sweet gift of life, time
blows us farther out to sea.
“I wish I was dead” was said
in pain, giving way to anger,
frustration preparing
a watery grave.
Your arms, a life preserver,
pull me to safety.
My body surrenders,
sleep washes our yesterdays,
love keeps us afloat.
Life and time still move
with the tide.
Hard Wooden Doors
Hard wooden doors
hinges creak apart
dim light filters
stained glass panes
suspended cross.
Solitary.
Hard wooden pews
groan under stress
echoes emptiness
loss, life’s questions
death’s conclusion.
Hallowed answer.
Hard garden bench
sunflowers sway
geese circle south
dusk envelopes
consummate peace.
Sanctuary.
My Life
My life is a Word Find.
Searching for “FATE”.
Discovering “FAITH”.
Looking for “HEAVEN”.
Finding “HAVE”.
Four Walls
Four walls a fortress
sometimes turn prison,
thick walls of heat
close in on me.
I dive out the door,
swim through humidity,
gasping like a
woman drowning.
Under a tree’s shade
my mind empties out,
worries fade away,
hands hang limp.
Verdant leaves droop,
a pale moth lands,
tree toads doze,
cicadas hiss.
On this hot summer day
I have no direction,
I have no goals,
I have no cares.
I breathe in,
I breathe out.
That’s enough.
The Curtains Part
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window, down the drive.
The school bus passes below.
No children live here anymore.
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window to the barn.
Metal doors clang in the wind.
No one works there anymore.
The curtains part as she opens
the window. Fresh air fills the room.
Dust dances in the sunlight.
Smiling, she writes down this poem.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:12.843645
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-26",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-27
|
1 Are You Listening?
Constance Hodder
Two Tin Cans
Two tin cans hold taut
the cord between us,
a tight rope for
children’s secrets to cross.
Old telephone booth
beside a grave yard,
conduit to the dead for
the living’s confessions.
Put your ear to the can,
a coin in the payphone,
for I too have secrets
to whisper, to confess.
Are you listening?
I will tell my tales through
the air on a heart string,
send them sailing on the wind,
to fall like leaves at your feet.
Rake them up and jump in
like a child, or leave them
swirling among the graves,
the dead will always listen.
A Blue Jay: Self Portrait part one
A blue jay sings atop
the branch of a paper birch
before a luminous azure sky.
How often I have gazed through
this temple window.
A blue jay soars above
the expansive indigo Lake
sky mirrored on calm waters.
How often I have prayed at
this living altar.
A blue jay flies up
the cliff on Blueberry Hill
so high heaven can be seen.
How often I have reached to
touch the face of God.
Long Dry Grasses Sing: Self Portrait part two
Long dry grasses sing,
blown one way, then the other.
Divide for a tawny cat
stalking through the cover.
Pads across dampened sand,
leaps atop a rock.
Surveys white capped lake,
gulls bobbing in a flock.
Wind dies with setting sun,
water reflects the glow.
Cat wanders back through
grasses now woven gold.
Tall Sunflowers: Self Portrait part three
Tall sunflowers,
garden giants,
golden petals grace
black gleaming faces,
sun followers.
At summer’s end
heads hang heavy,
mature with seed,
bend to survey
garden’s harvest.
Stems bow in prayer
goldfinch whispers,
“tomorrow comes”
plucks a seed,
then flies away.
Snow soon covers
fallen remnants,
memory of sun
secured in seed,
waiting in soil.
Tucked In a Drawer: Self Portrait part four
Tucked in a drawer,
too old to be of use,
lies a pile of hankies,
laced with memories.
Each one unfolded,
its wrinkled face smoothed,
telling tales of tears,
farewells and broken hearts.
Delicate fabric,
whiteness yellowed grey,
colors faded, worn thin
that veil of passing.
Lovingly refolded,
no longer a piece
of today, tucked safely
back into yesterday.
This Gravel Road : Self Portrait part five
This gravel road is
long, hot, and dusty.
I keep walking on.
My feet are tired,
my shoes worn.
I have walked this road
a lifetime. They say
all roads come to an end.
Down the way there is
a bend in sight.
Along this timeworn road,
I gather flowers,
their beauty wilting
in my hands being
dropped, one by one.
I look behind. They say
never look back but
now there’s a path of
flowers to follow
when my soul returns.
The Child Laughs Aloud
The child laughs aloud,
not bubbling up
or holding back, but
erupting like Vesuvius.
There was a time,
when I too could laugh
without restraint,
tears rolling down.
This was before
I grew up, standing tall,
assured in the fact,
I knew something.
Uncertainty and fear,
now bend my spine.
Searching for answers,
my eyes grow blind.
Look up, my head says.
What should I see?
Pray, my heart says.
What do I ask for?
I hear the child,
laughter peeling like a bell,
resounding inside me,
an answer, a prayer.
The Down Arrow Glows Red
The down arrow glows red.
As the door slides open,
I step in, press LL.
People move aside, we descend.
I have been so tired.
My skin smells rusty.
I laugh imagining
myself as the tin man,
rusting when he cried.
The elevator stops
on every floor. People
get off. I reach the
lowest level, alone.
I have been so very tired.
The doctor does not laugh,
orders tests, procedures.
Then calls me saying, “Sorry
to tell you this on the phone”.
I exit down in the bowels
of the earth, following signs
that point to the tunnel.
My steps echo as I walk.
Cancer makes you tired.
My husband brings me in
for surgery. We hold hands
knowing love’s strength,
and life’s fragility.
Florescent light floods the hall.
Tiles line the narrow path,
just wide enough for the
ill and dying to pass.
I could sleep forever.
They cut out the cancer,
removing my uterus.
Womanhood a memory
I will have to forget.
The tunnel is long, twisted.
At each turn I think
this must be the end.
There is no end, it stretches on.
Curls Go With Girls
“Curls go with girls” mother taught,
pin curling my straight hair.
By morning my girlishness
was revealed. The ads taught:
“Amp up your luscious lips.”
“A dab of gloss gives you a
plumper pout.” “False eye lashes,
glam bam!” Ideal beauty revealed.
Wear makeup to feel confident,
camouflage your imperfections,
fix your face. After all,
the mirror never lies.
With good grooming, plain girls
transform into nubile maidens,
ready for seduction.
Mother, was this your goal?
Grooming builds relationships,
leading to manipulation,
exploitation and abuse,
with no choice but to follow.
From the first time the glass slipper
is tried on, the soul is locked
into a turret to await
a fairy godmother.
“A woman without paint
is like food without salt”
the Roman Plautus taught.
What about curls?
I Was Born in Winter
I was born in winter.
Janus the gatekeeper
looking forward and back.
Grandfather’s ghost prayed
beside my bed.
The hairs on my head are
numbered, as are my days.
Past and future entwined
like stars whose light is seen
beyond their death.
In the woods stands an oak
bowed under the weight of
a fallen comrade, held aloft.
I too cannot let go of
those gone before.
They still can be heard in
my voice, seen in my face,
alive within my bones.
Like Lot’s wife, I cannot help
but look back.
When time’s gate swings shut
and life ends, only bones
will remember my name.
Look up, you will find me
in the stars.
On the eve of my 69th birthday
He Lies On My Lap
He lies on my lap,
curled like a comma,
dividing now, from then,
his head tucked to tail,
no beginning or end.
Like Regulus, the cat,
star in Leo’s constellation,
who prowled the night sky,
as the child in the womb,
swam through darkness.
Starlight born around her,
sixty-nine light years ago,
bathed the babe in brightness,
before and thereafter,
as old as she is new.
In a Dark Swirl of Wind
In a dark swirl of wind,
a tree fell leaving a
hollow in the canopy.
The crash was never heard.
There must have been a
splintering groan as it
let go of the earth and sky,
the sun, wind, and rain.
No one witnessed life passing.
You left us that way,
avoiding long goodbyes,
slipping off on your own.
When time calls our name
do we chose to let go,
or does the earth let loose
from under our roots?
That dark swirl of wind
may need to snatch me up,
refusing to let go
I’ll fall with a crash.
As a Child I Believed
As a child I believed,
wind was all I needed,
to make my dime-store kite fly,
if only I could run faster.
My kite would swoop and spin,
turn and dive into the ground.
I would try again and again,
until the kite crumpled.
The bus made its final stop,
dropping her at the Home,
to live out her days, in the
company of strangers.
She sat marooned with others,
powerless, mirroring despair.
Reaching out, she grasped the hands
of those seated beside her.
A tail on a kite helps it fly,
adding drag, pulling it
in the wind’s direction.
If only I had understood,
that kind of power. As the
World Trade Center tower burned,
when there was no escape,
strangers held hands and jumped.
I see a kite flying high,
bright against the blue sky,
reaching its way toward heaven,
its tail trailing toward earth.
So You Crossed the Finish Line
So, you crossed the finish line.
They congratulated you,
said you would be missed,
then locked the door.
So, you checked the time on
the watch you no longer need,
loaded up your memories,
and drove off into the sunset.
So, is that the end,
roll the credits,
the screen turns black,
everyone files out but you?
So?
If I Do Not Write It Down
If I do not write it down,
will I ever see the truth?
So many words go past us,
we skim with our ears the fat
that coats our toast, fries our eggs,
but will never sustain us.
Like an e-visit to the doctor,
who never sets eyes on us,
nods and says “Amen” at church
to assure God Incarnate
that He is known and loved
but will be passed on the street.
So I write down the words,
trying to see their reflection
off the wide lined paper,
that draws on the letters from
youth, traced over and over,
then graded on penmanship.
I stand before you fearful
that my lack of substance will
be discovered and paraded
round for all to see and mock.
So I’ve hidden away words
that may follow me to the grave.
Before that day of cremation,
I try not to look back while boldly
stepping forward, writing the words
that once were secreted away,
my sight blurred and clouded,
so only now, I start to see.
Time Has Set Me Apart
Time has set me apart.
On the street the child calls,
“Hey, old lady”. I don’t look up,
my eyes are on my path.
You take one step, then another.
Each step brings you closer.
Each step, farther away.
The walk is uneven.
That first step, precarious,
a missed step, disastrous.
I have a fear of falling.
I have a fear of failure.
You can practice falling
so no bones are broken.
Should you practice failure,
so you can stand again?
Time warns me to watch my step.
My bones are fragile.
The path calls “Hey, old lady”.
This time I look ahead.
Welcomed in the Doorway
Welcomed in the doorway,
perches on a chair,
smiles same as ever,
Illusions to portray.
Well-worn gifted sweater,
hole opens under arm,
too late now to sew it,
onerous to maintain.
Every day, efforts made,
tries to make things last,
another coat of paint,
glue to mend a crack.
Endlessly the edges fray,
nothing stays the same,
time seems to accelerate,
marching to decay.
Helped into a jacket,
hugged fondly at the door,
loved for what once was,
ghost of what remains.
She Listens to Her World
She listens to her world
reading lips, gestures, eyes irritation.
Hears it all
but not the words in her head.
There is a drought
not colored red on a map. A dearth.
Her mouth dry, tongue parched
lips cracked.
When she speaks, dust flies out
like a car leaving down a gravel road.
It happened gradually
over years. Everyone remembered
when words rained down.
No one noticed when it slowed
to sprinkle then stopped.
Temporal lobe aphasia they said
abandoning her to memory.
She listens
SLAPS the table. That was understood.
The Woman Tips Her Coiffed Do
The woman tips her coiffed do,
smiling as she polishes,
her table to a glossy shine,
mirroring her image.
“Isn’t that a nice reflection on you?”
the Pledge commercial asks me.
Taught to dust back in the sixties,
you’d think I’d polish mine,
but my table shines with gravy
and greasy fingerprints too.
No amount of lemon polish
or elbow grease is going
to shine it like a mirror,
nor would I want it to.
My reflection is mine alone,
built on years of living,
life filled with memories,
brings back “nice” reflections.
Family gathered all together,
Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners,
roast beef as well as gravy,
licked from greasy fingers.
The Curtain Goes Up
The curtain goes up.
Scenes from yesterday,
memorized by heart,
replay in my mind. I remember.
Warehouse windows stuck shut.
Struggling to open them,
the studio heating up
like an oven. I remember.
You opened those windows,
fresh air flowed through, blowing
away deceit, the hands
around my neck. I remember.
Golden curtains billowing
on windows filled with sunlight,
the breeze cooling sweat from
our languid bodies. I remember.
Life flows through these windows.
One day the scene will end,
curtains fall, lights go dark.
Will I still remember?
Even now, my eyes grow dim.
When I no longer see,
slide open the window,
so I feel the breeze, and remember.
I Believe it was October
I believe it was October
when the long thin arms of
autumn sunlight stretched
across fields of dry grass.
Wind blew through remains
of corn stubble refuse,
stirring clouds of dust
that hung suspended.
Late in the day, your face shaded
by the thin worn curtain,
damp with sweat, glowed with
knowledge of our longings.
Where do I find myself now,
wrapped in your arms or
watching in the failing light,
shoes covered in dust?
Old Abandoned Farm House
Old abandoned farm house,
weather beaten, stripped bare,
windows stare out blankly
through fractured panes.
The front door boarded shut,
telling no tales. Not stopping
the curious who are drawn
to peer inside its decay.
I refuse to look through
those dark broken windows,
afraid of waking the ghost
still lurking there.
Haunted with memory
of a duplicitous grin,
devouring young women
to fill its rotten hollow.
Instead, I chose to stand
back in the shadows to watch
as this house is burnt down.
I’m drawn to watch the flames.
I am a Desert Owl
I am a desert owl,
looking for shelter,
flying over burning sands,
without a place to land.
I am a pelican in the wilderness,
tearing at my breast,
hearing children cry,
without a bite to eat.
I am an owl among ruins,
searching for creation,
finding desolation,
without a way back.
I am a sparrow in darkness,
watching through the night,
alone on a rooftop,
waiting for light.
Oh, Sweet Gift
Oh, sweet gift of sleep,
our bed a boat set adrift.
You lay warm against my back,
breath moves hairs on my neck.
The battle over pain and loss,
finally, at rest.
In the early hours,
the leviathan circles.
Heard over roiling waters
echoes from the past,
“Just shoot me. Throw me in.”
Ancient timbers groan.
Oh, sweet gift of life, time
blows us farther out to sea.
“I wish I was dead” was said
in pain, giving way to anger,
frustration preparing
a watery grave.
Your arms, a life preserver,
pull me to safety.
My body surrenders,
sleep washes our yesterdays,
love keeps us afloat.
Life and time still move
with the tide.
Hard Wooden Doors
Hard wooden doors
hinges creak apart
dim light filters
stained glass panes
suspended cross.
Solitary.
Hard wooden pews
groan under stress
echoes emptiness
loss, life’s questions
death’s conclusion.
Hallowed answer.
Hard garden bench
sunflowers sway
geese circle south
dusk envelopes
consummate peace.
Sanctuary.
My Life
My life is a Word Find.
Searching for “FATE”.
Discovering “FAITH”.
Looking for “HEAVEN”.
Finding “HAVE”.
Four Walls
Four walls a fortress
sometimes turn prison,
thick walls of heat
close in on me.
I dive out the door,
swim through humidity,
gasping like a
woman drowning.
Under a tree’s shade
my mind empties out,
worries fade away,
hands hang limp.
Verdant leaves droop,
a pale moth lands,
tree toads doze,
cicadas hiss.
On this hot summer day
I have no direction,
I have no goals,
I have no cares.
I breathe in,
I breathe out.
That’s enough.
The Curtains Part
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window, down the drive.
The school bus passes below.
No children live here anymore.
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window to the barn.
Metal doors clang in the wind.
No one works there anymore.
The curtains part as she opens
the window. Fresh air fills the room.
Dust dances in the sunlight.
Smiling, she writes down this poem.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:12.922202
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-27",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-28
|
1 Are You Listening?
Constance Hodder
Two Tin Cans
Two tin cans hold taut
the cord between us,
a tight rope for
children’s secrets to cross.
Old telephone booth
beside a grave yard,
conduit to the dead for
the living’s confessions.
Put your ear to the can,
a coin in the payphone,
for I too have secrets
to whisper, to confess.
Are you listening?
I will tell my tales through
the air on a heart string,
send them sailing on the wind,
to fall like leaves at your feet.
Rake them up and jump in
like a child, or leave them
swirling among the graves,
the dead will always listen.
A Blue Jay: Self Portrait part one
A blue jay sings atop
the branch of a paper birch
before a luminous azure sky.
How often I have gazed through
this temple window.
A blue jay soars above
the expansive indigo Lake
sky mirrored on calm waters.
How often I have prayed at
this living altar.
A blue jay flies up
the cliff on Blueberry Hill
so high heaven can be seen.
How often I have reached to
touch the face of God.
Long Dry Grasses Sing: Self Portrait part two
Long dry grasses sing,
blown one way, then the other.
Divide for a tawny cat
stalking through the cover.
Pads across dampened sand,
leaps atop a rock.
Surveys white capped lake,
gulls bobbing in a flock.
Wind dies with setting sun,
water reflects the glow.
Cat wanders back through
grasses now woven gold.
Tall Sunflowers: Self Portrait part three
Tall sunflowers,
garden giants,
golden petals grace
black gleaming faces,
sun followers.
At summer’s end
heads hang heavy,
mature with seed,
bend to survey
garden’s harvest.
Stems bow in prayer
goldfinch whispers,
“tomorrow comes”
plucks a seed,
then flies away.
Snow soon covers
fallen remnants,
memory of sun
secured in seed,
waiting in soil.
Tucked In a Drawer: Self Portrait part four
Tucked in a drawer,
too old to be of use,
lies a pile of hankies,
laced with memories.
Each one unfolded,
its wrinkled face smoothed,
telling tales of tears,
farewells and broken hearts.
Delicate fabric,
whiteness yellowed grey,
colors faded, worn thin
that veil of passing.
Lovingly refolded,
no longer a piece
of today, tucked safely
back into yesterday.
This Gravel Road : Self Portrait part five
This gravel road is
long, hot, and dusty.
I keep walking on.
My feet are tired,
my shoes worn.
I have walked this road
a lifetime. They say
all roads come to an end.
Down the way there is
a bend in sight.
Along this timeworn road,
I gather flowers,
their beauty wilting
in my hands being
dropped, one by one.
I look behind. They say
never look back but
now there’s a path of
flowers to follow
when my soul returns.
The Child Laughs Aloud
The child laughs aloud,
not bubbling up
or holding back, but
erupting like Vesuvius.
There was a time,
when I too could laugh
without restraint,
tears rolling down.
This was before
I grew up, standing tall,
assured in the fact,
I knew something.
Uncertainty and fear,
now bend my spine.
Searching for answers,
my eyes grow blind.
Look up, my head says.
What should I see?
Pray, my heart says.
What do I ask for?
I hear the child,
laughter peeling like a bell,
resounding inside me,
an answer, a prayer.
The Down Arrow Glows Red
The down arrow glows red.
As the door slides open,
I step in, press LL.
People move aside, we descend.
I have been so tired.
My skin smells rusty.
I laugh imagining
myself as the tin man,
rusting when he cried.
The elevator stops
on every floor. People
get off. I reach the
lowest level, alone.
I have been so very tired.
The doctor does not laugh,
orders tests, procedures.
Then calls me saying, “Sorry
to tell you this on the phone”.
I exit down in the bowels
of the earth, following signs
that point to the tunnel.
My steps echo as I walk.
Cancer makes you tired.
My husband brings me in
for surgery. We hold hands
knowing love’s strength,
and life’s fragility.
Florescent light floods the hall.
Tiles line the narrow path,
just wide enough for the
ill and dying to pass.
I could sleep forever.
They cut out the cancer,
removing my uterus.
Womanhood a memory
I will have to forget.
The tunnel is long, twisted.
At each turn I think
this must be the end.
There is no end, it stretches on.
Curls Go With Girls
“Curls go with girls” mother taught,
pin curling my straight hair.
By morning my girlishness
was revealed. The ads taught:
“Amp up your luscious lips.”
“A dab of gloss gives you a
plumper pout.” “False eye lashes,
glam bam!” Ideal beauty revealed.
Wear makeup to feel confident,
camouflage your imperfections,
fix your face. After all,
the mirror never lies.
With good grooming, plain girls
transform into nubile maidens,
ready for seduction.
Mother, was this your goal?
Grooming builds relationships,
leading to manipulation,
exploitation and abuse,
with no choice but to follow.
From the first time the glass slipper
is tried on, the soul is locked
into a turret to await
a fairy godmother.
“A woman without paint
is like food without salt”
the Roman Plautus taught.
What about curls?
I Was Born in Winter
I was born in winter.
Janus the gatekeeper
looking forward and back.
Grandfather’s ghost prayed
beside my bed.
The hairs on my head are
numbered, as are my days.
Past and future entwined
like stars whose light is seen
beyond their death.
In the woods stands an oak
bowed under the weight of
a fallen comrade, held aloft.
I too cannot let go of
those gone before.
They still can be heard in
my voice, seen in my face,
alive within my bones.
Like Lot’s wife, I cannot help
but look back.
When time’s gate swings shut
and life ends, only bones
will remember my name.
Look up, you will find me
in the stars.
On the eve of my 69th birthday
He Lies On My Lap
He lies on my lap,
curled like a comma,
dividing now, from then,
his head tucked to tail,
no beginning or end.
Like Regulus, the cat,
star in Leo’s constellation,
who prowled the night sky,
as the child in the womb,
swam through darkness.
Starlight born around her,
sixty-nine light years ago,
bathed the babe in brightness,
before and thereafter,
as old as she is new.
In a Dark Swirl of Wind
In a dark swirl of wind,
a tree fell leaving a
hollow in the canopy.
The crash was never heard.
There must have been a
splintering groan as it
let go of the earth and sky,
the sun, wind, and rain.
No one witnessed life passing.
You left us that way,
avoiding long goodbyes,
slipping off on your own.
When time calls our name
do we chose to let go,
or does the earth let loose
from under our roots?
That dark swirl of wind
may need to snatch me up,
refusing to let go
I’ll fall with a crash.
As a Child I Believed
As a child I believed,
wind was all I needed,
to make my dime-store kite fly,
if only I could run faster.
My kite would swoop and spin,
turn and dive into the ground.
I would try again and again,
until the kite crumpled.
The bus made its final stop,
dropping her at the Home,
to live out her days, in the
company of strangers.
She sat marooned with others,
powerless, mirroring despair.
Reaching out, she grasped the hands
of those seated beside her.
A tail on a kite helps it fly,
adding drag, pulling it
in the wind’s direction.
If only I had understood,
that kind of power. As the
World Trade Center tower burned,
when there was no escape,
strangers held hands and jumped.
I see a kite flying high,
bright against the blue sky,
reaching its way toward heaven,
its tail trailing toward earth.
So You Crossed the Finish Line
So, you crossed the finish line.
They congratulated you,
said you would be missed,
then locked the door.
So, you checked the time on
the watch you no longer need,
loaded up your memories,
and drove off into the sunset.
So, is that the end,
roll the credits,
the screen turns black,
everyone files out but you?
So?
If I Do Not Write It Down
If I do not write it down,
will I ever see the truth?
So many words go past us,
we skim with our ears the fat
that coats our toast, fries our eggs,
but will never sustain us.
Like an e-visit to the doctor,
who never sets eyes on us,
nods and says “Amen” at church
to assure God Incarnate
that He is known and loved
but will be passed on the street.
So I write down the words,
trying to see their reflection
off the wide lined paper,
that draws on the letters from
youth, traced over and over,
then graded on penmanship.
I stand before you fearful
that my lack of substance will
be discovered and paraded
round for all to see and mock.
So I’ve hidden away words
that may follow me to the grave.
Before that day of cremation,
I try not to look back while boldly
stepping forward, writing the words
that once were secreted away,
my sight blurred and clouded,
so only now, I start to see.
Time Has Set Me Apart
Time has set me apart.
On the street the child calls,
“Hey, old lady”. I don’t look up,
my eyes are on my path.
You take one step, then another.
Each step brings you closer.
Each step, farther away.
The walk is uneven.
That first step, precarious,
a missed step, disastrous.
I have a fear of falling.
I have a fear of failure.
You can practice falling
so no bones are broken.
Should you practice failure,
so you can stand again?
Time warns me to watch my step.
My bones are fragile.
The path calls “Hey, old lady”.
This time I look ahead.
Welcomed in the Doorway
Welcomed in the doorway,
perches on a chair,
smiles same as ever,
Illusions to portray.
Well-worn gifted sweater,
hole opens under arm,
too late now to sew it,
onerous to maintain.
Every day, efforts made,
tries to make things last,
another coat of paint,
glue to mend a crack.
Endlessly the edges fray,
nothing stays the same,
time seems to accelerate,
marching to decay.
Helped into a jacket,
hugged fondly at the door,
loved for what once was,
ghost of what remains.
She Listens to Her World
She listens to her world
reading lips, gestures, eyes irritation.
Hears it all
but not the words in her head.
There is a drought
not colored red on a map. A dearth.
Her mouth dry, tongue parched
lips cracked.
When she speaks, dust flies out
like a car leaving down a gravel road.
It happened gradually
over years. Everyone remembered
when words rained down.
No one noticed when it slowed
to sprinkle then stopped.
Temporal lobe aphasia they said
abandoning her to memory.
She listens
SLAPS the table. That was understood.
The Woman Tips Her Coiffed Do
The woman tips her coiffed do,
smiling as she polishes,
her table to a glossy shine,
mirroring her image.
“Isn’t that a nice reflection on you?”
the Pledge commercial asks me.
Taught to dust back in the sixties,
you’d think I’d polish mine,
but my table shines with gravy
and greasy fingerprints too.
No amount of lemon polish
or elbow grease is going
to shine it like a mirror,
nor would I want it to.
My reflection is mine alone,
built on years of living,
life filled with memories,
brings back “nice” reflections.
Family gathered all together,
Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners,
roast beef as well as gravy,
licked from greasy fingers.
The Curtain Goes Up
The curtain goes up.
Scenes from yesterday,
memorized by heart,
replay in my mind. I remember.
Warehouse windows stuck shut.
Struggling to open them,
the studio heating up
like an oven. I remember.
You opened those windows,
fresh air flowed through, blowing
away deceit, the hands
around my neck. I remember.
Golden curtains billowing
on windows filled with sunlight,
the breeze cooling sweat from
our languid bodies. I remember.
Life flows through these windows.
One day the scene will end,
curtains fall, lights go dark.
Will I still remember?
Even now, my eyes grow dim.
When I no longer see,
slide open the window,
so I feel the breeze, and remember.
I Believe it was October
I believe it was October
when the long thin arms of
autumn sunlight stretched
across fields of dry grass.
Wind blew through remains
of corn stubble refuse,
stirring clouds of dust
that hung suspended.
Late in the day, your face shaded
by the thin worn curtain,
damp with sweat, glowed with
knowledge of our longings.
Where do I find myself now,
wrapped in your arms or
watching in the failing light,
shoes covered in dust?
Old Abandoned Farm House
Old abandoned farm house,
weather beaten, stripped bare,
windows stare out blankly
through fractured panes.
The front door boarded shut,
telling no tales. Not stopping
the curious who are drawn
to peer inside its decay.
I refuse to look through
those dark broken windows,
afraid of waking the ghost
still lurking there.
Haunted with memory
of a duplicitous grin,
devouring young women
to fill its rotten hollow.
Instead, I chose to stand
back in the shadows to watch
as this house is burnt down.
I’m drawn to watch the flames.
I am a Desert Owl
I am a desert owl,
looking for shelter,
flying over burning sands,
without a place to land.
I am a pelican in the wilderness,
tearing at my breast,
hearing children cry,
without a bite to eat.
I am an owl among ruins,
searching for creation,
finding desolation,
without a way back.
I am a sparrow in darkness,
watching through the night,
alone on a rooftop,
waiting for light.
Oh, Sweet Gift
Oh, sweet gift of sleep,
our bed a boat set adrift.
You lay warm against my back,
breath moves hairs on my neck.
The battle over pain and loss,
finally, at rest.
In the early hours,
the leviathan circles.
Heard over roiling waters
echoes from the past,
“Just shoot me. Throw me in.”
Ancient timbers groan.
Oh, sweet gift of life, time
blows us farther out to sea.
“I wish I was dead” was said
in pain, giving way to anger,
frustration preparing
a watery grave.
Your arms, a life preserver,
pull me to safety.
My body surrenders,
sleep washes our yesterdays,
love keeps us afloat.
Life and time still move
with the tide.
Hard Wooden Doors
Hard wooden doors
hinges creak apart
dim light filters
stained glass panes
suspended cross.
Solitary.
Hard wooden pews
groan under stress
echoes emptiness
loss, life’s questions
death’s conclusion.
Hallowed answer.
Hard garden bench
sunflowers sway
geese circle south
dusk envelopes
consummate peace.
Sanctuary.
My Life
My life is a Word Find.
Searching for “FATE”.
Discovering “FAITH”.
Looking for “HEAVEN”.
Finding “HAVE”.
Four Walls
Four walls a fortress
sometimes turn prison,
thick walls of heat
close in on me.
I dive out the door,
swim through humidity,
gasping like a
woman drowning.
Under a tree’s shade
my mind empties out,
worries fade away,
hands hang limp.
Verdant leaves droop,
a pale moth lands,
tree toads doze,
cicadas hiss.
On this hot summer day
I have no direction,
I have no goals,
I have no cares.
I breathe in,
I breathe out.
That’s enough.
The Curtains Part
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window, down the drive.
The school bus passes below.
No children live here anymore.
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window to the barn.
Metal doors clang in the wind.
No one works there anymore.
The curtains part as she opens
the window. Fresh air fills the room.
Dust dances in the sunlight.
Smiling, she writes down this poem.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:13.011326
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-28",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-29
|
1 Are You Listening?
Constance Hodder
Two Tin Cans
Two tin cans hold taut
the cord between us,
a tight rope for
children’s secrets to cross.
Old telephone booth
beside a grave yard,
conduit to the dead for
the living’s confessions.
Put your ear to the can,
a coin in the payphone,
for I too have secrets
to whisper, to confess.
Are you listening?
I will tell my tales through
the air on a heart string,
send them sailing on the wind,
to fall like leaves at your feet.
Rake them up and jump in
like a child, or leave them
swirling among the graves,
the dead will always listen.
A Blue Jay: Self Portrait part one
A blue jay sings atop
the branch of a paper birch
before a luminous azure sky.
How often I have gazed through
this temple window.
A blue jay soars above
the expansive indigo Lake
sky mirrored on calm waters.
How often I have prayed at
this living altar.
A blue jay flies up
the cliff on Blueberry Hill
so high heaven can be seen.
How often I have reached to
touch the face of God.
Long Dry Grasses Sing: Self Portrait part two
Long dry grasses sing,
blown one way, then the other.
Divide for a tawny cat
stalking through the cover.
Pads across dampened sand,
leaps atop a rock.
Surveys white capped lake,
gulls bobbing in a flock.
Wind dies with setting sun,
water reflects the glow.
Cat wanders back through
grasses now woven gold.
Tall Sunflowers: Self Portrait part three
Tall sunflowers,
garden giants,
golden petals grace
black gleaming faces,
sun followers.
At summer’s end
heads hang heavy,
mature with seed,
bend to survey
garden’s harvest.
Stems bow in prayer
goldfinch whispers,
“tomorrow comes”
plucks a seed,
then flies away.
Snow soon covers
fallen remnants,
memory of sun
secured in seed,
waiting in soil.
Tucked In a Drawer: Self Portrait part four
Tucked in a drawer,
too old to be of use,
lies a pile of hankies,
laced with memories.
Each one unfolded,
its wrinkled face smoothed,
telling tales of tears,
farewells and broken hearts.
Delicate fabric,
whiteness yellowed grey,
colors faded, worn thin
that veil of passing.
Lovingly refolded,
no longer a piece
of today, tucked safely
back into yesterday.
This Gravel Road : Self Portrait part five
This gravel road is
long, hot, and dusty.
I keep walking on.
My feet are tired,
my shoes worn.
I have walked this road
a lifetime. They say
all roads come to an end.
Down the way there is
a bend in sight.
Along this timeworn road,
I gather flowers,
their beauty wilting
in my hands being
dropped, one by one.
I look behind. They say
never look back but
now there’s a path of
flowers to follow
when my soul returns.
The Child Laughs Aloud
The child laughs aloud,
not bubbling up
or holding back, but
erupting like Vesuvius.
There was a time,
when I too could laugh
without restraint,
tears rolling down.
This was before
I grew up, standing tall,
assured in the fact,
I knew something.
Uncertainty and fear,
now bend my spine.
Searching for answers,
my eyes grow blind.
Look up, my head says.
What should I see?
Pray, my heart says.
What do I ask for?
I hear the child,
laughter peeling like a bell,
resounding inside me,
an answer, a prayer.
The Down Arrow Glows Red
The down arrow glows red.
As the door slides open,
I step in, press LL.
People move aside, we descend.
I have been so tired.
My skin smells rusty.
I laugh imagining
myself as the tin man,
rusting when he cried.
The elevator stops
on every floor. People
get off. I reach the
lowest level, alone.
I have been so very tired.
The doctor does not laugh,
orders tests, procedures.
Then calls me saying, “Sorry
to tell you this on the phone”.
I exit down in the bowels
of the earth, following signs
that point to the tunnel.
My steps echo as I walk.
Cancer makes you tired.
My husband brings me in
for surgery. We hold hands
knowing love’s strength,
and life’s fragility.
Florescent light floods the hall.
Tiles line the narrow path,
just wide enough for the
ill and dying to pass.
I could sleep forever.
They cut out the cancer,
removing my uterus.
Womanhood a memory
I will have to forget.
The tunnel is long, twisted.
At each turn I think
this must be the end.
There is no end, it stretches on.
Curls Go With Girls
“Curls go with girls” mother taught,
pin curling my straight hair.
By morning my girlishness
was revealed. The ads taught:
“Amp up your luscious lips.”
“A dab of gloss gives you a
plumper pout.” “False eye lashes,
glam bam!” Ideal beauty revealed.
Wear makeup to feel confident,
camouflage your imperfections,
fix your face. After all,
the mirror never lies.
With good grooming, plain girls
transform into nubile maidens,
ready for seduction.
Mother, was this your goal?
Grooming builds relationships,
leading to manipulation,
exploitation and abuse,
with no choice but to follow.
From the first time the glass slipper
is tried on, the soul is locked
into a turret to await
a fairy godmother.
“A woman without paint
is like food without salt”
the Roman Plautus taught.
What about curls?
I Was Born in Winter
I was born in winter.
Janus the gatekeeper
looking forward and back.
Grandfather’s ghost prayed
beside my bed.
The hairs on my head are
numbered, as are my days.
Past and future entwined
like stars whose light is seen
beyond their death.
In the woods stands an oak
bowed under the weight of
a fallen comrade, held aloft.
I too cannot let go of
those gone before.
They still can be heard in
my voice, seen in my face,
alive within my bones.
Like Lot’s wife, I cannot help
but look back.
When time’s gate swings shut
and life ends, only bones
will remember my name.
Look up, you will find me
in the stars.
On the eve of my 69th birthday
He Lies On My Lap
He lies on my lap,
curled like a comma,
dividing now, from then,
his head tucked to tail,
no beginning or end.
Like Regulus, the cat,
star in Leo’s constellation,
who prowled the night sky,
as the child in the womb,
swam through darkness.
Starlight born around her,
sixty-nine light years ago,
bathed the babe in brightness,
before and thereafter,
as old as she is new.
In a Dark Swirl of Wind
In a dark swirl of wind,
a tree fell leaving a
hollow in the canopy.
The crash was never heard.
There must have been a
splintering groan as it
let go of the earth and sky,
the sun, wind, and rain.
No one witnessed life passing.
You left us that way,
avoiding long goodbyes,
slipping off on your own.
When time calls our name
do we chose to let go,
or does the earth let loose
from under our roots?
That dark swirl of wind
may need to snatch me up,
refusing to let go
I’ll fall with a crash.
As a Child I Believed
As a child I believed,
wind was all I needed,
to make my dime-store kite fly,
if only I could run faster.
My kite would swoop and spin,
turn and dive into the ground.
I would try again and again,
until the kite crumpled.
The bus made its final stop,
dropping her at the Home,
to live out her days, in the
company of strangers.
She sat marooned with others,
powerless, mirroring despair.
Reaching out, she grasped the hands
of those seated beside her.
A tail on a kite helps it fly,
adding drag, pulling it
in the wind’s direction.
If only I had understood,
that kind of power. As the
World Trade Center tower burned,
when there was no escape,
strangers held hands and jumped.
I see a kite flying high,
bright against the blue sky,
reaching its way toward heaven,
its tail trailing toward earth.
So You Crossed the Finish Line
So, you crossed the finish line.
They congratulated you,
said you would be missed,
then locked the door.
So, you checked the time on
the watch you no longer need,
loaded up your memories,
and drove off into the sunset.
So, is that the end,
roll the credits,
the screen turns black,
everyone files out but you?
So?
If I Do Not Write It Down
If I do not write it down,
will I ever see the truth?
So many words go past us,
we skim with our ears the fat
that coats our toast, fries our eggs,
but will never sustain us.
Like an e-visit to the doctor,
who never sets eyes on us,
nods and says “Amen” at church
to assure God Incarnate
that He is known and loved
but will be passed on the street.
So I write down the words,
trying to see their reflection
off the wide lined paper,
that draws on the letters from
youth, traced over and over,
then graded on penmanship.
I stand before you fearful
that my lack of substance will
be discovered and paraded
round for all to see and mock.
So I’ve hidden away words
that may follow me to the grave.
Before that day of cremation,
I try not to look back while boldly
stepping forward, writing the words
that once were secreted away,
my sight blurred and clouded,
so only now, I start to see.
Time Has Set Me Apart
Time has set me apart.
On the street the child calls,
“Hey, old lady”. I don’t look up,
my eyes are on my path.
You take one step, then another.
Each step brings you closer.
Each step, farther away.
The walk is uneven.
That first step, precarious,
a missed step, disastrous.
I have a fear of falling.
I have a fear of failure.
You can practice falling
so no bones are broken.
Should you practice failure,
so you can stand again?
Time warns me to watch my step.
My bones are fragile.
The path calls “Hey, old lady”.
This time I look ahead.
Welcomed in the Doorway
Welcomed in the doorway,
perches on a chair,
smiles same as ever,
Illusions to portray.
Well-worn gifted sweater,
hole opens under arm,
too late now to sew it,
onerous to maintain.
Every day, efforts made,
tries to make things last,
another coat of paint,
glue to mend a crack.
Endlessly the edges fray,
nothing stays the same,
time seems to accelerate,
marching to decay.
Helped into a jacket,
hugged fondly at the door,
loved for what once was,
ghost of what remains.
She Listens to Her World
She listens to her world
reading lips, gestures, eyes irritation.
Hears it all
but not the words in her head.
There is a drought
not colored red on a map. A dearth.
Her mouth dry, tongue parched
lips cracked.
When she speaks, dust flies out
like a car leaving down a gravel road.
It happened gradually
over years. Everyone remembered
when words rained down.
No one noticed when it slowed
to sprinkle then stopped.
Temporal lobe aphasia they said
abandoning her to memory.
She listens
SLAPS the table. That was understood.
The Woman Tips Her Coiffed Do
The woman tips her coiffed do,
smiling as she polishes,
her table to a glossy shine,
mirroring her image.
“Isn’t that a nice reflection on you?”
the Pledge commercial asks me.
Taught to dust back in the sixties,
you’d think I’d polish mine,
but my table shines with gravy
and greasy fingerprints too.
No amount of lemon polish
or elbow grease is going
to shine it like a mirror,
nor would I want it to.
My reflection is mine alone,
built on years of living,
life filled with memories,
brings back “nice” reflections.
Family gathered all together,
Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners,
roast beef as well as gravy,
licked from greasy fingers.
The Curtain Goes Up
The curtain goes up.
Scenes from yesterday,
memorized by heart,
replay in my mind. I remember.
Warehouse windows stuck shut.
Struggling to open them,
the studio heating up
like an oven. I remember.
You opened those windows,
fresh air flowed through, blowing
away deceit, the hands
around my neck. I remember.
Golden curtains billowing
on windows filled with sunlight,
the breeze cooling sweat from
our languid bodies. I remember.
Life flows through these windows.
One day the scene will end,
curtains fall, lights go dark.
Will I still remember?
Even now, my eyes grow dim.
When I no longer see,
slide open the window,
so I feel the breeze, and remember.
I Believe it was October
I believe it was October
when the long thin arms of
autumn sunlight stretched
across fields of dry grass.
Wind blew through remains
of corn stubble refuse,
stirring clouds of dust
that hung suspended.
Late in the day, your face shaded
by the thin worn curtain,
damp with sweat, glowed with
knowledge of our longings.
Where do I find myself now,
wrapped in your arms or
watching in the failing light,
shoes covered in dust?
Old Abandoned Farm House
Old abandoned farm house,
weather beaten, stripped bare,
windows stare out blankly
through fractured panes.
The front door boarded shut,
telling no tales. Not stopping
the curious who are drawn
to peer inside its decay.
I refuse to look through
those dark broken windows,
afraid of waking the ghost
still lurking there.
Haunted with memory
of a duplicitous grin,
devouring young women
to fill its rotten hollow.
Instead, I chose to stand
back in the shadows to watch
as this house is burnt down.
I’m drawn to watch the flames.
I am a Desert Owl
I am a desert owl,
looking for shelter,
flying over burning sands,
without a place to land.
I am a pelican in the wilderness,
tearing at my breast,
hearing children cry,
without a bite to eat.
I am an owl among ruins,
searching for creation,
finding desolation,
without a way back.
I am a sparrow in darkness,
watching through the night,
alone on a rooftop,
waiting for light.
Oh, Sweet Gift
Oh, sweet gift of sleep,
our bed a boat set adrift.
You lay warm against my back,
breath moves hairs on my neck.
The battle over pain and loss,
finally, at rest.
In the early hours,
the leviathan circles.
Heard over roiling waters
echoes from the past,
“Just shoot me. Throw me in.”
Ancient timbers groan.
Oh, sweet gift of life, time
blows us farther out to sea.
“I wish I was dead” was said
in pain, giving way to anger,
frustration preparing
a watery grave.
Your arms, a life preserver,
pull me to safety.
My body surrenders,
sleep washes our yesterdays,
love keeps us afloat.
Life and time still move
with the tide.
Hard Wooden Doors
Hard wooden doors
hinges creak apart
dim light filters
stained glass panes
suspended cross.
Solitary.
Hard wooden pews
groan under stress
echoes emptiness
loss, life’s questions
death’s conclusion.
Hallowed answer.
Hard garden bench
sunflowers sway
geese circle south
dusk envelopes
consummate peace.
Sanctuary.
My Life
My life is a Word Find.
Searching for “FATE”.
Discovering “FAITH”.
Looking for “HEAVEN”.
Finding “HAVE”.
Four Walls
Four walls a fortress
sometimes turn prison,
thick walls of heat
close in on me.
I dive out the door,
swim through humidity,
gasping like a
woman drowning.
Under a tree’s shade
my mind empties out,
worries fade away,
hands hang limp.
Verdant leaves droop,
a pale moth lands,
tree toads doze,
cicadas hiss.
On this hot summer day
I have no direction,
I have no goals,
I have no cares.
I breathe in,
I breathe out.
That’s enough.
The Curtains Part
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window, down the drive.
The school bus passes below.
No children live here anymore.
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window to the barn.
Metal doors clang in the wind.
No one works there anymore.
The curtains part as she opens
the window. Fresh air fills the room.
Dust dances in the sunlight.
Smiling, she writes down this poem.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:13.100685
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-29",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-30
|
1 Are You Listening?
Constance Hodder
Two Tin Cans
Two tin cans hold taut
the cord between us,
a tight rope for
children’s secrets to cross.
Old telephone booth
beside a grave yard,
conduit to the dead for
the living’s confessions.
Put your ear to the can,
a coin in the payphone,
for I too have secrets
to whisper, to confess.
Are you listening?
I will tell my tales through
the air on a heart string,
send them sailing on the wind,
to fall like leaves at your feet.
Rake them up and jump in
like a child, or leave them
swirling among the graves,
the dead will always listen.
A Blue Jay: Self Portrait part one
A blue jay sings atop
the branch of a paper birch
before a luminous azure sky.
How often I have gazed through
this temple window.
A blue jay soars above
the expansive indigo Lake
sky mirrored on calm waters.
How often I have prayed at
this living altar.
A blue jay flies up
the cliff on Blueberry Hill
so high heaven can be seen.
How often I have reached to
touch the face of God.
Long Dry Grasses Sing: Self Portrait part two
Long dry grasses sing,
blown one way, then the other.
Divide for a tawny cat
stalking through the cover.
Pads across dampened sand,
leaps atop a rock.
Surveys white capped lake,
gulls bobbing in a flock.
Wind dies with setting sun,
water reflects the glow.
Cat wanders back through
grasses now woven gold.
Tall Sunflowers: Self Portrait part three
Tall sunflowers,
garden giants,
golden petals grace
black gleaming faces,
sun followers.
At summer’s end
heads hang heavy,
mature with seed,
bend to survey
garden’s harvest.
Stems bow in prayer
goldfinch whispers,
“tomorrow comes”
plucks a seed,
then flies away.
Snow soon covers
fallen remnants,
memory of sun
secured in seed,
waiting in soil.
Tucked In a Drawer: Self Portrait part four
Tucked in a drawer,
too old to be of use,
lies a pile of hankies,
laced with memories.
Each one unfolded,
its wrinkled face smoothed,
telling tales of tears,
farewells and broken hearts.
Delicate fabric,
whiteness yellowed grey,
colors faded, worn thin
that veil of passing.
Lovingly refolded,
no longer a piece
of today, tucked safely
back into yesterday.
This Gravel Road : Self Portrait part five
This gravel road is
long, hot, and dusty.
I keep walking on.
My feet are tired,
my shoes worn.
I have walked this road
a lifetime. They say
all roads come to an end.
Down the way there is
a bend in sight.
Along this timeworn road,
I gather flowers,
their beauty wilting
in my hands being
dropped, one by one.
I look behind. They say
never look back but
now there’s a path of
flowers to follow
when my soul returns.
The Child Laughs Aloud
The child laughs aloud,
not bubbling up
or holding back, but
erupting like Vesuvius.
There was a time,
when I too could laugh
without restraint,
tears rolling down.
This was before
I grew up, standing tall,
assured in the fact,
I knew something.
Uncertainty and fear,
now bend my spine.
Searching for answers,
my eyes grow blind.
Look up, my head says.
What should I see?
Pray, my heart says.
What do I ask for?
I hear the child,
laughter peeling like a bell,
resounding inside me,
an answer, a prayer.
The Down Arrow Glows Red
The down arrow glows red.
As the door slides open,
I step in, press LL.
People move aside, we descend.
I have been so tired.
My skin smells rusty.
I laugh imagining
myself as the tin man,
rusting when he cried.
The elevator stops
on every floor. People
get off. I reach the
lowest level, alone.
I have been so very tired.
The doctor does not laugh,
orders tests, procedures.
Then calls me saying, “Sorry
to tell you this on the phone”.
I exit down in the bowels
of the earth, following signs
that point to the tunnel.
My steps echo as I walk.
Cancer makes you tired.
My husband brings me in
for surgery. We hold hands
knowing love’s strength,
and life’s fragility.
Florescent light floods the hall.
Tiles line the narrow path,
just wide enough for the
ill and dying to pass.
I could sleep forever.
They cut out the cancer,
removing my uterus.
Womanhood a memory
I will have to forget.
The tunnel is long, twisted.
At each turn I think
this must be the end.
There is no end, it stretches on.
Curls Go With Girls
“Curls go with girls” mother taught,
pin curling my straight hair.
By morning my girlishness
was revealed. The ads taught:
“Amp up your luscious lips.”
“A dab of gloss gives you a
plumper pout.” “False eye lashes,
glam bam!” Ideal beauty revealed.
Wear makeup to feel confident,
camouflage your imperfections,
fix your face. After all,
the mirror never lies.
With good grooming, plain girls
transform into nubile maidens,
ready for seduction.
Mother, was this your goal?
Grooming builds relationships,
leading to manipulation,
exploitation and abuse,
with no choice but to follow.
From the first time the glass slipper
is tried on, the soul is locked
into a turret to await
a fairy godmother.
“A woman without paint
is like food without salt”
the Roman Plautus taught.
What about curls?
I Was Born in Winter
I was born in winter.
Janus the gatekeeper
looking forward and back.
Grandfather’s ghost prayed
beside my bed.
The hairs on my head are
numbered, as are my days.
Past and future entwined
like stars whose light is seen
beyond their death.
In the woods stands an oak
bowed under the weight of
a fallen comrade, held aloft.
I too cannot let go of
those gone before.
They still can be heard in
my voice, seen in my face,
alive within my bones.
Like Lot’s wife, I cannot help
but look back.
When time’s gate swings shut
and life ends, only bones
will remember my name.
Look up, you will find me
in the stars.
On the eve of my 69th birthday
He Lies On My Lap
He lies on my lap,
curled like a comma,
dividing now, from then,
his head tucked to tail,
no beginning or end.
Like Regulus, the cat,
star in Leo’s constellation,
who prowled the night sky,
as the child in the womb,
swam through darkness.
Starlight born around her,
sixty-nine light years ago,
bathed the babe in brightness,
before and thereafter,
as old as she is new.
In a Dark Swirl of Wind
In a dark swirl of wind,
a tree fell leaving a
hollow in the canopy.
The crash was never heard.
There must have been a
splintering groan as it
let go of the earth and sky,
the sun, wind, and rain.
No one witnessed life passing.
You left us that way,
avoiding long goodbyes,
slipping off on your own.
When time calls our name
do we chose to let go,
or does the earth let loose
from under our roots?
That dark swirl of wind
may need to snatch me up,
refusing to let go
I’ll fall with a crash.
As a Child I Believed
As a child I believed,
wind was all I needed,
to make my dime-store kite fly,
if only I could run faster.
My kite would swoop and spin,
turn and dive into the ground.
I would try again and again,
until the kite crumpled.
The bus made its final stop,
dropping her at the Home,
to live out her days, in the
company of strangers.
She sat marooned with others,
powerless, mirroring despair.
Reaching out, she grasped the hands
of those seated beside her.
A tail on a kite helps it fly,
adding drag, pulling it
in the wind’s direction.
If only I had understood,
that kind of power. As the
World Trade Center tower burned,
when there was no escape,
strangers held hands and jumped.
I see a kite flying high,
bright against the blue sky,
reaching its way toward heaven,
its tail trailing toward earth.
So You Crossed the Finish Line
So, you crossed the finish line.
They congratulated you,
said you would be missed,
then locked the door.
So, you checked the time on
the watch you no longer need,
loaded up your memories,
and drove off into the sunset.
So, is that the end,
roll the credits,
the screen turns black,
everyone files out but you?
So?
If I Do Not Write It Down
If I do not write it down,
will I ever see the truth?
So many words go past us,
we skim with our ears the fat
that coats our toast, fries our eggs,
but will never sustain us.
Like an e-visit to the doctor,
who never sets eyes on us,
nods and says “Amen” at church
to assure God Incarnate
that He is known and loved
but will be passed on the street.
So I write down the words,
trying to see their reflection
off the wide lined paper,
that draws on the letters from
youth, traced over and over,
then graded on penmanship.
I stand before you fearful
that my lack of substance will
be discovered and paraded
round for all to see and mock.
So I’ve hidden away words
that may follow me to the grave.
Before that day of cremation,
I try not to look back while boldly
stepping forward, writing the words
that once were secreted away,
my sight blurred and clouded,
so only now, I start to see.
Time Has Set Me Apart
Time has set me apart.
On the street the child calls,
“Hey, old lady”. I don’t look up,
my eyes are on my path.
You take one step, then another.
Each step brings you closer.
Each step, farther away.
The walk is uneven.
That first step, precarious,
a missed step, disastrous.
I have a fear of falling.
I have a fear of failure.
You can practice falling
so no bones are broken.
Should you practice failure,
so you can stand again?
Time warns me to watch my step.
My bones are fragile.
The path calls “Hey, old lady”.
This time I look ahead.
Welcomed in the Doorway
Welcomed in the doorway,
perches on a chair,
smiles same as ever,
Illusions to portray.
Well-worn gifted sweater,
hole opens under arm,
too late now to sew it,
onerous to maintain.
Every day, efforts made,
tries to make things last,
another coat of paint,
glue to mend a crack.
Endlessly the edges fray,
nothing stays the same,
time seems to accelerate,
marching to decay.
Helped into a jacket,
hugged fondly at the door,
loved for what once was,
ghost of what remains.
She Listens to Her World
She listens to her world
reading lips, gestures, eyes irritation.
Hears it all
but not the words in her head.
There is a drought
not colored red on a map. A dearth.
Her mouth dry, tongue parched
lips cracked.
When she speaks, dust flies out
like a car leaving down a gravel road.
It happened gradually
over years. Everyone remembered
when words rained down.
No one noticed when it slowed
to sprinkle then stopped.
Temporal lobe aphasia they said
abandoning her to memory.
She listens
SLAPS the table. That was understood.
The Woman Tips Her Coiffed Do
The woman tips her coiffed do,
smiling as she polishes,
her table to a glossy shine,
mirroring her image.
“Isn’t that a nice reflection on you?”
the Pledge commercial asks me.
Taught to dust back in the sixties,
you’d think I’d polish mine,
but my table shines with gravy
and greasy fingerprints too.
No amount of lemon polish
or elbow grease is going
to shine it like a mirror,
nor would I want it to.
My reflection is mine alone,
built on years of living,
life filled with memories,
brings back “nice” reflections.
Family gathered all together,
Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners,
roast beef as well as gravy,
licked from greasy fingers.
The Curtain Goes Up
The curtain goes up.
Scenes from yesterday,
memorized by heart,
replay in my mind. I remember.
Warehouse windows stuck shut.
Struggling to open them,
the studio heating up
like an oven. I remember.
You opened those windows,
fresh air flowed through, blowing
away deceit, the hands
around my neck. I remember.
Golden curtains billowing
on windows filled with sunlight,
the breeze cooling sweat from
our languid bodies. I remember.
Life flows through these windows.
One day the scene will end,
curtains fall, lights go dark.
Will I still remember?
Even now, my eyes grow dim.
When I no longer see,
slide open the window,
so I feel the breeze, and remember.
I Believe it was October
I believe it was October
when the long thin arms of
autumn sunlight stretched
across fields of dry grass.
Wind blew through remains
of corn stubble refuse,
stirring clouds of dust
that hung suspended.
Late in the day, your face shaded
by the thin worn curtain,
damp with sweat, glowed with
knowledge of our longings.
Where do I find myself now,
wrapped in your arms or
watching in the failing light,
shoes covered in dust?
Old Abandoned Farm House
Old abandoned farm house,
weather beaten, stripped bare,
windows stare out blankly
through fractured panes.
The front door boarded shut,
telling no tales. Not stopping
the curious who are drawn
to peer inside its decay.
I refuse to look through
those dark broken windows,
afraid of waking the ghost
still lurking there.
Haunted with memory
of a duplicitous grin,
devouring young women
to fill its rotten hollow.
Instead, I chose to stand
back in the shadows to watch
as this house is burnt down.
I’m drawn to watch the flames.
I am a Desert Owl
I am a desert owl,
looking for shelter,
flying over burning sands,
without a place to land.
I am a pelican in the wilderness,
tearing at my breast,
hearing children cry,
without a bite to eat.
I am an owl among ruins,
searching for creation,
finding desolation,
without a way back.
I am a sparrow in darkness,
watching through the night,
alone on a rooftop,
waiting for light.
Oh, Sweet Gift
Oh, sweet gift of sleep,
our bed a boat set adrift.
You lay warm against my back,
breath moves hairs on my neck.
The battle over pain and loss,
finally, at rest.
In the early hours,
the leviathan circles.
Heard over roiling waters
echoes from the past,
“Just shoot me. Throw me in.”
Ancient timbers groan.
Oh, sweet gift of life, time
blows us farther out to sea.
“I wish I was dead” was said
in pain, giving way to anger,
frustration preparing
a watery grave.
Your arms, a life preserver,
pull me to safety.
My body surrenders,
sleep washes our yesterdays,
love keeps us afloat.
Life and time still move
with the tide.
Hard Wooden Doors
Hard wooden doors
hinges creak apart
dim light filters
stained glass panes
suspended cross.
Solitary.
Hard wooden pews
groan under stress
echoes emptiness
loss, life’s questions
death’s conclusion.
Hallowed answer.
Hard garden bench
sunflowers sway
geese circle south
dusk envelopes
consummate peace.
Sanctuary.
My Life
My life is a Word Find.
Searching for “FATE”.
Discovering “FAITH”.
Looking for “HEAVEN”.
Finding “HAVE”.
Four Walls
Four walls a fortress
sometimes turn prison,
thick walls of heat
close in on me.
I dive out the door,
swim through humidity,
gasping like a
woman drowning.
Under a tree’s shade
my mind empties out,
worries fade away,
hands hang limp.
Verdant leaves droop,
a pale moth lands,
tree toads doze,
cicadas hiss.
On this hot summer day
I have no direction,
I have no goals,
I have no cares.
I breathe in,
I breathe out.
That’s enough.
The Curtains Part
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window, down the drive.
The school bus passes below.
No children live here anymore.
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window to the barn.
Metal doors clang in the wind.
No one works there anymore.
The curtains part as she opens
the window. Fresh air fills the room.
Dust dances in the sunlight.
Smiling, she writes down this poem.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:13.177531
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-30",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-31
|
1 Are You Listening?
Constance Hodder
Two Tin Cans
Two tin cans hold taut
the cord between us,
a tight rope for
children’s secrets to cross.
Old telephone booth
beside a grave yard,
conduit to the dead for
the living’s confessions.
Put your ear to the can,
a coin in the payphone,
for I too have secrets
to whisper, to confess.
Are you listening?
I will tell my tales through
the air on a heart string,
send them sailing on the wind,
to fall like leaves at your feet.
Rake them up and jump in
like a child, or leave them
swirling among the graves,
the dead will always listen.
A Blue Jay: Self Portrait part one
A blue jay sings atop
the branch of a paper birch
before a luminous azure sky.
How often I have gazed through
this temple window.
A blue jay soars above
the expansive indigo Lake
sky mirrored on calm waters.
How often I have prayed at
this living altar.
A blue jay flies up
the cliff on Blueberry Hill
so high heaven can be seen.
How often I have reached to
touch the face of God.
Long Dry Grasses Sing: Self Portrait part two
Long dry grasses sing,
blown one way, then the other.
Divide for a tawny cat
stalking through the cover.
Pads across dampened sand,
leaps atop a rock.
Surveys white capped lake,
gulls bobbing in a flock.
Wind dies with setting sun,
water reflects the glow.
Cat wanders back through
grasses now woven gold.
Tall Sunflowers: Self Portrait part three
Tall sunflowers,
garden giants,
golden petals grace
black gleaming faces,
sun followers.
At summer’s end
heads hang heavy,
mature with seed,
bend to survey
garden’s harvest.
Stems bow in prayer
goldfinch whispers,
“tomorrow comes”
plucks a seed,
then flies away.
Snow soon covers
fallen remnants,
memory of sun
secured in seed,
waiting in soil.
Tucked In a Drawer: Self Portrait part four
Tucked in a drawer,
too old to be of use,
lies a pile of hankies,
laced with memories.
Each one unfolded,
its wrinkled face smoothed,
telling tales of tears,
farewells and broken hearts.
Delicate fabric,
whiteness yellowed grey,
colors faded, worn thin
that veil of passing.
Lovingly refolded,
no longer a piece
of today, tucked safely
back into yesterday.
This Gravel Road : Self Portrait part five
This gravel road is
long, hot, and dusty.
I keep walking on.
My feet are tired,
my shoes worn.
I have walked this road
a lifetime. They say
all roads come to an end.
Down the way there is
a bend in sight.
Along this timeworn road,
I gather flowers,
their beauty wilting
in my hands being
dropped, one by one.
I look behind. They say
never look back but
now there’s a path of
flowers to follow
when my soul returns.
The Child Laughs Aloud
The child laughs aloud,
not bubbling up
or holding back, but
erupting like Vesuvius.
There was a time,
when I too could laugh
without restraint,
tears rolling down.
This was before
I grew up, standing tall,
assured in the fact,
I knew something.
Uncertainty and fear,
now bend my spine.
Searching for answers,
my eyes grow blind.
Look up, my head says.
What should I see?
Pray, my heart says.
What do I ask for?
I hear the child,
laughter peeling like a bell,
resounding inside me,
an answer, a prayer.
The Down Arrow Glows Red
The down arrow glows red.
As the door slides open,
I step in, press LL.
People move aside, we descend.
I have been so tired.
My skin smells rusty.
I laugh imagining
myself as the tin man,
rusting when he cried.
The elevator stops
on every floor. People
get off. I reach the
lowest level, alone.
I have been so very tired.
The doctor does not laugh,
orders tests, procedures.
Then calls me saying, “Sorry
to tell you this on the phone”.
I exit down in the bowels
of the earth, following signs
that point to the tunnel.
My steps echo as I walk.
Cancer makes you tired.
My husband brings me in
for surgery. We hold hands
knowing love’s strength,
and life’s fragility.
Florescent light floods the hall.
Tiles line the narrow path,
just wide enough for the
ill and dying to pass.
I could sleep forever.
They cut out the cancer,
removing my uterus.
Womanhood a memory
I will have to forget.
The tunnel is long, twisted.
At each turn I think
this must be the end.
There is no end, it stretches on.
Curls Go With Girls
“Curls go with girls” mother taught,
pin curling my straight hair.
By morning my girlishness
was revealed. The ads taught:
“Amp up your luscious lips.”
“A dab of gloss gives you a
plumper pout.” “False eye lashes,
glam bam!” Ideal beauty revealed.
Wear makeup to feel confident,
camouflage your imperfections,
fix your face. After all,
the mirror never lies.
With good grooming, plain girls
transform into nubile maidens,
ready for seduction.
Mother, was this your goal?
Grooming builds relationships,
leading to manipulation,
exploitation and abuse,
with no choice but to follow.
From the first time the glass slipper
is tried on, the soul is locked
into a turret to await
a fairy godmother.
“A woman without paint
is like food without salt”
the Roman Plautus taught.
What about curls?
I Was Born in Winter
I was born in winter.
Janus the gatekeeper
looking forward and back.
Grandfather’s ghost prayed
beside my bed.
The hairs on my head are
numbered, as are my days.
Past and future entwined
like stars whose light is seen
beyond their death.
In the woods stands an oak
bowed under the weight of
a fallen comrade, held aloft.
I too cannot let go of
those gone before.
They still can be heard in
my voice, seen in my face,
alive within my bones.
Like Lot’s wife, I cannot help
but look back.
When time’s gate swings shut
and life ends, only bones
will remember my name.
Look up, you will find me
in the stars.
On the eve of my 69th birthday
He Lies On My Lap
He lies on my lap,
curled like a comma,
dividing now, from then,
his head tucked to tail,
no beginning or end.
Like Regulus, the cat,
star in Leo’s constellation,
who prowled the night sky,
as the child in the womb,
swam through darkness.
Starlight born around her,
sixty-nine light years ago,
bathed the babe in brightness,
before and thereafter,
as old as she is new.
In a Dark Swirl of Wind
In a dark swirl of wind,
a tree fell leaving a
hollow in the canopy.
The crash was never heard.
There must have been a
splintering groan as it
let go of the earth and sky,
the sun, wind, and rain.
No one witnessed life passing.
You left us that way,
avoiding long goodbyes,
slipping off on your own.
When time calls our name
do we chose to let go,
or does the earth let loose
from under our roots?
That dark swirl of wind
may need to snatch me up,
refusing to let go
I’ll fall with a crash.
As a Child I Believed
As a child I believed,
wind was all I needed,
to make my dime-store kite fly,
if only I could run faster.
My kite would swoop and spin,
turn and dive into the ground.
I would try again and again,
until the kite crumpled.
The bus made its final stop,
dropping her at the Home,
to live out her days, in the
company of strangers.
She sat marooned with others,
powerless, mirroring despair.
Reaching out, she grasped the hands
of those seated beside her.
A tail on a kite helps it fly,
adding drag, pulling it
in the wind’s direction.
If only I had understood,
that kind of power. As the
World Trade Center tower burned,
when there was no escape,
strangers held hands and jumped.
I see a kite flying high,
bright against the blue sky,
reaching its way toward heaven,
its tail trailing toward earth.
So You Crossed the Finish Line
So, you crossed the finish line.
They congratulated you,
said you would be missed,
then locked the door.
So, you checked the time on
the watch you no longer need,
loaded up your memories,
and drove off into the sunset.
So, is that the end,
roll the credits,
the screen turns black,
everyone files out but you?
So?
If I Do Not Write It Down
If I do not write it down,
will I ever see the truth?
So many words go past us,
we skim with our ears the fat
that coats our toast, fries our eggs,
but will never sustain us.
Like an e-visit to the doctor,
who never sets eyes on us,
nods and says “Amen” at church
to assure God Incarnate
that He is known and loved
but will be passed on the street.
So I write down the words,
trying to see their reflection
off the wide lined paper,
that draws on the letters from
youth, traced over and over,
then graded on penmanship.
I stand before you fearful
that my lack of substance will
be discovered and paraded
round for all to see and mock.
So I’ve hidden away words
that may follow me to the grave.
Before that day of cremation,
I try not to look back while boldly
stepping forward, writing the words
that once were secreted away,
my sight blurred and clouded,
so only now, I start to see.
Time Has Set Me Apart
Time has set me apart.
On the street the child calls,
“Hey, old lady”. I don’t look up,
my eyes are on my path.
You take one step, then another.
Each step brings you closer.
Each step, farther away.
The walk is uneven.
That first step, precarious,
a missed step, disastrous.
I have a fear of falling.
I have a fear of failure.
You can practice falling
so no bones are broken.
Should you practice failure,
so you can stand again?
Time warns me to watch my step.
My bones are fragile.
The path calls “Hey, old lady”.
This time I look ahead.
Welcomed in the Doorway
Welcomed in the doorway,
perches on a chair,
smiles same as ever,
Illusions to portray.
Well-worn gifted sweater,
hole opens under arm,
too late now to sew it,
onerous to maintain.
Every day, efforts made,
tries to make things last,
another coat of paint,
glue to mend a crack.
Endlessly the edges fray,
nothing stays the same,
time seems to accelerate,
marching to decay.
Helped into a jacket,
hugged fondly at the door,
loved for what once was,
ghost of what remains.
She Listens to Her World
She listens to her world
reading lips, gestures, eyes irritation.
Hears it all
but not the words in her head.
There is a drought
not colored red on a map. A dearth.
Her mouth dry, tongue parched
lips cracked.
When she speaks, dust flies out
like a car leaving down a gravel road.
It happened gradually
over years. Everyone remembered
when words rained down.
No one noticed when it slowed
to sprinkle then stopped.
Temporal lobe aphasia they said
abandoning her to memory.
She listens
SLAPS the table. That was understood.
The Woman Tips Her Coiffed Do
The woman tips her coiffed do,
smiling as she polishes,
her table to a glossy shine,
mirroring her image.
“Isn’t that a nice reflection on you?”
the Pledge commercial asks me.
Taught to dust back in the sixties,
you’d think I’d polish mine,
but my table shines with gravy
and greasy fingerprints too.
No amount of lemon polish
or elbow grease is going
to shine it like a mirror,
nor would I want it to.
My reflection is mine alone,
built on years of living,
life filled with memories,
brings back “nice” reflections.
Family gathered all together,
Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners,
roast beef as well as gravy,
licked from greasy fingers.
The Curtain Goes Up
The curtain goes up.
Scenes from yesterday,
memorized by heart,
replay in my mind. I remember.
Warehouse windows stuck shut.
Struggling to open them,
the studio heating up
like an oven. I remember.
You opened those windows,
fresh air flowed through, blowing
away deceit, the hands
around my neck. I remember.
Golden curtains billowing
on windows filled with sunlight,
the breeze cooling sweat from
our languid bodies. I remember.
Life flows through these windows.
One day the scene will end,
curtains fall, lights go dark.
Will I still remember?
Even now, my eyes grow dim.
When I no longer see,
slide open the window,
so I feel the breeze, and remember.
I Believe it was October
I believe it was October
when the long thin arms of
autumn sunlight stretched
across fields of dry grass.
Wind blew through remains
of corn stubble refuse,
stirring clouds of dust
that hung suspended.
Late in the day, your face shaded
by the thin worn curtain,
damp with sweat, glowed with
knowledge of our longings.
Where do I find myself now,
wrapped in your arms or
watching in the failing light,
shoes covered in dust?
Old Abandoned Farm House
Old abandoned farm house,
weather beaten, stripped bare,
windows stare out blankly
through fractured panes.
The front door boarded shut,
telling no tales. Not stopping
the curious who are drawn
to peer inside its decay.
I refuse to look through
those dark broken windows,
afraid of waking the ghost
still lurking there.
Haunted with memory
of a duplicitous grin,
devouring young women
to fill its rotten hollow.
Instead, I chose to stand
back in the shadows to watch
as this house is burnt down.
I’m drawn to watch the flames.
I am a Desert Owl
I am a desert owl,
looking for shelter,
flying over burning sands,
without a place to land.
I am a pelican in the wilderness,
tearing at my breast,
hearing children cry,
without a bite to eat.
I am an owl among ruins,
searching for creation,
finding desolation,
without a way back.
I am a sparrow in darkness,
watching through the night,
alone on a rooftop,
waiting for light.
Oh, Sweet Gift
Oh, sweet gift of sleep,
our bed a boat set adrift.
You lay warm against my back,
breath moves hairs on my neck.
The battle over pain and loss,
finally, at rest.
In the early hours,
the leviathan circles.
Heard over roiling waters
echoes from the past,
“Just shoot me. Throw me in.”
Ancient timbers groan.
Oh, sweet gift of life, time
blows us farther out to sea.
“I wish I was dead” was said
in pain, giving way to anger,
frustration preparing
a watery grave.
Your arms, a life preserver,
pull me to safety.
My body surrenders,
sleep washes our yesterdays,
love keeps us afloat.
Life and time still move
with the tide.
Hard Wooden Doors
Hard wooden doors
hinges creak apart
dim light filters
stained glass panes
suspended cross.
Solitary.
Hard wooden pews
groan under stress
echoes emptiness
loss, life’s questions
death’s conclusion.
Hallowed answer.
Hard garden bench
sunflowers sway
geese circle south
dusk envelopes
consummate peace.
Sanctuary.
My Life
My life is a Word Find.
Searching for “FATE”.
Discovering “FAITH”.
Looking for “HEAVEN”.
Finding “HAVE”.
Four Walls
Four walls a fortress
sometimes turn prison,
thick walls of heat
close in on me.
I dive out the door,
swim through humidity,
gasping like a
woman drowning.
Under a tree’s shade
my mind empties out,
worries fade away,
hands hang limp.
Verdant leaves droop,
a pale moth lands,
tree toads doze,
cicadas hiss.
On this hot summer day
I have no direction,
I have no goals,
I have no cares.
I breathe in,
I breathe out.
That’s enough.
The Curtains Part
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window, down the drive.
The school bus passes below.
No children live here anymore.
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window to the barn.
Metal doors clang in the wind.
No one works there anymore.
The curtains part as she opens
the window. Fresh air fills the room.
Dust dances in the sunlight.
Smiling, she writes down this poem.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:13.254443
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/are-you-listening/#chapter-279-section-31",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/floating-on-uncertain-seas/
|
2 Floating on Uncertain Seas
Constance Hodder
Lost
Lost my job, soon my dog.
He headed toward the bridge.
The cat ran off and hid.
Not sure how to find them.
Cell phone lost its power.
Pressed nine to be removed.
Eyes are clouded, ears ringing,
Not sure how to answer.
Sprung forward, lost an hour.
Calendar refused to change.
Time took off to join the dog.
Not sure how to follow.
Reality soon stepped aside.
Maybe was demoted.
Limbo took claim, raised his flag.
Not sure where I am now.
Joined dog and time up on
the bridge, horizon slips away.
The helm is standing empty.
Not sure where I’m going.
Chart a course, words my map.
Poetry my wheelhouse.
Floating on uncertain seas.
Not sure where I’ll land at.
Marilee Smiling Broadly
Marilee, smiling broadly
for the camera points to
the weather map reporting,
“Tonight’s forecast, enhanced risk”.
Later the storm hits, just as
she said, with all its fury.
Wouldn’t it be great to know
the risks before proceeding?
Marilee smiles, pointing at
your fiancé, “Your marriage,
marginal risk”. Now you smile,
breathing a sigh of relief.
She points to that used car,
“Slight risk” she foretells. Going on,
pointing to the contract for deed,
“Moderate risk” she predicts.
Through all this, you nod knowingly.
Smiling now, she points to you,
“Your life, high risk”. You pale,
anticipating impending doom.
There is great risk in living.
No one can predict the future,
not even Marilee, but we all know
no one gets out alive.
Now I Lay Me
Now I lay me down to sleep
on a pillow-top of privilege,
prostrate on freshly pressed sheets
purchased from Penneys.
My soul is well kept,
baptized and sanctified.
Washed clean by daily showers
and semi-annual hygienists visits.
Should I die before I wake
I pray the present profit
margins support the futures
maintaining resale value.
My soul preempts a takeover,
I eat right, exercise, and
attend weekly service. My ways
need no further guidance.
Powerless to dream the dream
I pass time penning poems
on reams of paper to be recycled
saving the planet. Amen.
Branches of the Noble Spruce
Branches of the noble spruce
raised like a Flamenco dancer,
swirl in the wind parading
his male prowess.
I hear the rhythmic clapping,
then fiery crickets join in,
strumming their guitars to the
throbbing pulse of his beat.
The scarlet paintbrush enters
to the sound of heels rapid tapping,
her sultry face half hidden
behind a fluttering fan.
With chin proudly raised, she turns
away from him, their limbs
undulating in unison,
passion overtaking them.
Their dance reaches its climax,
the paintbrush now entwined
within the spruce’s branches,
both spent and breathless.
The final notes hang in the air
humming like a bee,
the two bow in the wind as
I clap, and shout, “Bravo!”
The Darkened Stage Lights
The darkened stage lights,
woodwind and percussion sound,
the Thai dancer poses,
elegant fingers lifted.
The pine tree stands postured,
filled with inner stillness,
slender needles splayed
raised in awed wonder.
Face serenely composed,
arms and hands tell
life’s emotional journey,
struggle for survival.
Branches bowed down under,
weighted with snow and ice,
enduring winter’s darkness,
waiting for the light.
The dancer is not a tree
nor the tree a dancer,
their spirits share a song,
voiced within their limbs.
Music learned in darkness,
heard in graceful gesture,
twist of twig, branch, and root,
in blood and sap, on wind.
Happy Breath day
Happy Breath day.
We are on the air:
Air our grievances.
air our complaints.
air our dirty laundry.
It clouds the air.
Happy Breath day.
It’s in the air:
Respiratory droplets
when you sneeze,
when you cough,
when you lie.
They breathe out.
You breathe in.
Happy Breath day.
He sucked all the oxygen out of the room.
Freedom is like air.
When you have it
you don’t notice it.
I can’t breathe.
Happy Breath day.
Come up for air:
Throw open the window.
Fill your lungs.
Hold it in.
Embrace it.
Happy Breath day.
Hurry
HURRY, TIMES RUNNING OUT.
With dark clouds rolling in, we point
saying, “Look, there’s still blue sky,”
as light ebbs away.
Warned, QUANTITIES LIMITED.
What remains? Emptiness
fills the vacancy between
today and that day.
So we SHOP AND SAVE, praying
our credit isn’t exceeded
before closing time. Facing
FINAL DAY, ENDS SOON.
Just Beneath My Skin
Just beneath my skin
a mesh structure exists,
like chicken wire,
holding me together.
It keeps me upright
so I don’t crumple,
sag before family,
collapse in a heap.
This is a bad day.
My hollow chest caved in.
Old wire has become
brittle, rusted, unstable.
Years ago it was
recalled from the market,
leaving us implants
no recourse but removal.
Without it I would never
stand again, return to
slither through the garden,
in search of fallen apples.
Open to Question
Please complete the following:
Check the box.
Are you alive?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Undetermined
Have you received a second opinion?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Planning to
Are you satisfied with the results?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Doubtful
Is this your final answer?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Unlikely
Do you have any comments?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Unable
Thank you for your participation.
The New York Times Asks
The New York Times asks,
“Is Omicron peaking?”
I saw the covered face,
neither man nor woman,
child nor adult,
black nor white.
I could not pick out
that face in a crowd,
but it glanced my way,
caught my eye,
dipped its head.
Death lives next door.
I smell the smoke rise
from his burn pile.
I see the hand raised to me
from the window.
Why is it now the dead
that point the way?
Why is it their voice I hear
though they no longer
speak a word?
Omicron is peaking.
MPR Reports: Ancient cooking vessel found in
Boundary Waters dates back more than 1600 years.
I return from checking traps.
What do I find?
The wild rice pot boiled over,
our dinner burned, the fire out.
I leave you one simple job.
Do you do it?
No, you have more important
things to do than watch a pot boil.
I trusted you to watch it.
What were you doing?
I bet you fell asleep, or
fooling around again.
Oh no, I don’t believe it.
Do you see it?
That long crack way up the side.
My mother gave me that pot.
I have used that pot all my life.
How will I cook?
We will have to eat rice raw,
break our teeth off chewing it.
I loved that beautiful pot.
Where do I find another?
It could’ve been on display.
Now look at it. Nothing changes.
After Weeks of Winter’s Cold
After weeks of winter’s cold,
my mood as dark as days,
temps rose above freezing,
it’s bitter grip loosened.
Spring sent a card,
Remember me.
I heard birds sing again,
morning light brightened.
I did remember Spring.
Like a foolish school girl
longing for love, I wrote
its name over and over.
You Are Such a Tease
You are such a tease,
warm one day, cold the other.
Your moods a roller coaster,
sunny then threatening.
You ruffle my hair,
promise me my heart’s desire,
encourage my affection,
but your kisses sting my cheeks.
“Any day now” you taunt,
“Trust me to satisfy your longings”.
Your words torment and excite.
I am so in need of your warmth.
Winter has me in its grasp,
the ground still frozen solid.
Spring just a dim memory.
March, you’re such a tease.
Dear Poet,
I’ve never written to you
before today but I can
no longer maintain silence.
Don’t think I’m not grateful,
you’ve been a good employer,
but I’m tired of having to write
lots of words where a few would do.
For instance,
“She looked at me sadly” is now,
“She gazed at me from afar,
tears glistening in her eyes,
her face twisted in despair.”
This is a waste of ink.
Are you writing a poem
or a soap opera?
No one has time for this drivel.
I can tell by your grip that
you feel this is pensplaining,
but look at your audience,
they write in text messages,
and follow twitter. They are
not going to contemplate the
impact of your chosen words
on the literary world.
Think about what I’ve said.
This is within your grasp.
I remain,
Your devoted pen
I Looked for Meaning
I looked for meaning
gazing up at the clouds.
In them I saw the hand of God
stretched above me, then again,
it may have been a crab,
dancing the can-can.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:13.301369
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/floating-on-uncertain-seas/",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/floating-on-uncertain-seas/#chapter-282-section-1
|
2 Floating on Uncertain Seas
Constance Hodder
Lost
Lost my job, soon my dog.
He headed toward the bridge.
The cat ran off and hid.
Not sure how to find them.
Cell phone lost its power.
Pressed nine to be removed.
Eyes are clouded, ears ringing,
Not sure how to answer.
Sprung forward, lost an hour.
Calendar refused to change.
Time took off to join the dog.
Not sure how to follow.
Reality soon stepped aside.
Maybe was demoted.
Limbo took claim, raised his flag.
Not sure where I am now.
Joined dog and time up on
the bridge, horizon slips away.
The helm is standing empty.
Not sure where I’m going.
Chart a course, words my map.
Poetry my wheelhouse.
Floating on uncertain seas.
Not sure where I’ll land at.
Marilee Smiling Broadly
Marilee, smiling broadly
for the camera points to
the weather map reporting,
“Tonight’s forecast, enhanced risk”.
Later the storm hits, just as
she said, with all its fury.
Wouldn’t it be great to know
the risks before proceeding?
Marilee smiles, pointing at
your fiancé, “Your marriage,
marginal risk”. Now you smile,
breathing a sigh of relief.
She points to that used car,
“Slight risk” she foretells. Going on,
pointing to the contract for deed,
“Moderate risk” she predicts.
Through all this, you nod knowingly.
Smiling now, she points to you,
“Your life, high risk”. You pale,
anticipating impending doom.
There is great risk in living.
No one can predict the future,
not even Marilee, but we all know
no one gets out alive.
Now I Lay Me
Now I lay me down to sleep
on a pillow-top of privilege,
prostrate on freshly pressed sheets
purchased from Penneys.
My soul is well kept,
baptized and sanctified.
Washed clean by daily showers
and semi-annual hygienists visits.
Should I die before I wake
I pray the present profit
margins support the futures
maintaining resale value.
My soul preempts a takeover,
I eat right, exercise, and
attend weekly service. My ways
need no further guidance.
Powerless to dream the dream
I pass time penning poems
on reams of paper to be recycled
saving the planet. Amen.
Branches of the Noble Spruce
Branches of the noble spruce
raised like a Flamenco dancer,
swirl in the wind parading
his male prowess.
I hear the rhythmic clapping,
then fiery crickets join in,
strumming their guitars to the
throbbing pulse of his beat.
The scarlet paintbrush enters
to the sound of heels rapid tapping,
her sultry face half hidden
behind a fluttering fan.
With chin proudly raised, she turns
away from him, their limbs
undulating in unison,
passion overtaking them.
Their dance reaches its climax,
the paintbrush now entwined
within the spruce’s branches,
both spent and breathless.
The final notes hang in the air
humming like a bee,
the two bow in the wind as
I clap, and shout, “Bravo!”
The Darkened Stage Lights
The darkened stage lights,
woodwind and percussion sound,
the Thai dancer poses,
elegant fingers lifted.
The pine tree stands postured,
filled with inner stillness,
slender needles splayed
raised in awed wonder.
Face serenely composed,
arms and hands tell
life’s emotional journey,
struggle for survival.
Branches bowed down under,
weighted with snow and ice,
enduring winter’s darkness,
waiting for the light.
The dancer is not a tree
nor the tree a dancer,
their spirits share a song,
voiced within their limbs.
Music learned in darkness,
heard in graceful gesture,
twist of twig, branch, and root,
in blood and sap, on wind.
Happy Breath day
Happy Breath day.
We are on the air:
Air our grievances.
air our complaints.
air our dirty laundry.
It clouds the air.
Happy Breath day.
It’s in the air:
Respiratory droplets
when you sneeze,
when you cough,
when you lie.
They breathe out.
You breathe in.
Happy Breath day.
He sucked all the oxygen out of the room.
Freedom is like air.
When you have it
you don’t notice it.
I can’t breathe.
Happy Breath day.
Come up for air:
Throw open the window.
Fill your lungs.
Hold it in.
Embrace it.
Happy Breath day.
Hurry
HURRY, TIMES RUNNING OUT.
With dark clouds rolling in, we point
saying, “Look, there’s still blue sky,”
as light ebbs away.
Warned, QUANTITIES LIMITED.
What remains? Emptiness
fills the vacancy between
today and that day.
So we SHOP AND SAVE, praying
our credit isn’t exceeded
before closing time. Facing
FINAL DAY, ENDS SOON.
Just Beneath My Skin
Just beneath my skin
a mesh structure exists,
like chicken wire,
holding me together.
It keeps me upright
so I don’t crumple,
sag before family,
collapse in a heap.
This is a bad day.
My hollow chest caved in.
Old wire has become
brittle, rusted, unstable.
Years ago it was
recalled from the market,
leaving us implants
no recourse but removal.
Without it I would never
stand again, return to
slither through the garden,
in search of fallen apples.
Open to Question
Please complete the following:
Check the box.
Are you alive?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Undetermined
Have you received a second opinion?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Planning to
Are you satisfied with the results?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Doubtful
Is this your final answer?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Unlikely
Do you have any comments?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Unable
Thank you for your participation.
The New York Times Asks
The New York Times asks,
“Is Omicron peaking?”
I saw the covered face,
neither man nor woman,
child nor adult,
black nor white.
I could not pick out
that face in a crowd,
but it glanced my way,
caught my eye,
dipped its head.
Death lives next door.
I smell the smoke rise
from his burn pile.
I see the hand raised to me
from the window.
Why is it now the dead
that point the way?
Why is it their voice I hear
though they no longer
speak a word?
Omicron is peaking.
MPR Reports: Ancient cooking vessel found in
Boundary Waters dates back more than 1600 years.
I return from checking traps.
What do I find?
The wild rice pot boiled over,
our dinner burned, the fire out.
I leave you one simple job.
Do you do it?
No, you have more important
things to do than watch a pot boil.
I trusted you to watch it.
What were you doing?
I bet you fell asleep, or
fooling around again.
Oh no, I don’t believe it.
Do you see it?
That long crack way up the side.
My mother gave me that pot.
I have used that pot all my life.
How will I cook?
We will have to eat rice raw,
break our teeth off chewing it.
I loved that beautiful pot.
Where do I find another?
It could’ve been on display.
Now look at it. Nothing changes.
After Weeks of Winter’s Cold
After weeks of winter’s cold,
my mood as dark as days,
temps rose above freezing,
it’s bitter grip loosened.
Spring sent a card,
Remember me.
I heard birds sing again,
morning light brightened.
I did remember Spring.
Like a foolish school girl
longing for love, I wrote
its name over and over.
You Are Such a Tease
You are such a tease,
warm one day, cold the other.
Your moods a roller coaster,
sunny then threatening.
You ruffle my hair,
promise me my heart’s desire,
encourage my affection,
but your kisses sting my cheeks.
“Any day now” you taunt,
“Trust me to satisfy your longings”.
Your words torment and excite.
I am so in need of your warmth.
Winter has me in its grasp,
the ground still frozen solid.
Spring just a dim memory.
March, you’re such a tease.
Dear Poet,
I’ve never written to you
before today but I can
no longer maintain silence.
Don’t think I’m not grateful,
you’ve been a good employer,
but I’m tired of having to write
lots of words where a few would do.
For instance,
“She looked at me sadly” is now,
“She gazed at me from afar,
tears glistening in her eyes,
her face twisted in despair.”
This is a waste of ink.
Are you writing a poem
or a soap opera?
No one has time for this drivel.
I can tell by your grip that
you feel this is pensplaining,
but look at your audience,
they write in text messages,
and follow twitter. They are
not going to contemplate the
impact of your chosen words
on the literary world.
Think about what I’ve said.
This is within your grasp.
I remain,
Your devoted pen
I Looked for Meaning
I looked for meaning
gazing up at the clouds.
In them I saw the hand of God
stretched above me, then again,
it may have been a crab,
dancing the can-can.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:13.346952
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/floating-on-uncertain-seas/#chapter-282-section-1",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/floating-on-uncertain-seas/#chapter-282-section-2
|
2 Floating on Uncertain Seas
Constance Hodder
Lost
Lost my job, soon my dog.
He headed toward the bridge.
The cat ran off and hid.
Not sure how to find them.
Cell phone lost its power.
Pressed nine to be removed.
Eyes are clouded, ears ringing,
Not sure how to answer.
Sprung forward, lost an hour.
Calendar refused to change.
Time took off to join the dog.
Not sure how to follow.
Reality soon stepped aside.
Maybe was demoted.
Limbo took claim, raised his flag.
Not sure where I am now.
Joined dog and time up on
the bridge, horizon slips away.
The helm is standing empty.
Not sure where I’m going.
Chart a course, words my map.
Poetry my wheelhouse.
Floating on uncertain seas.
Not sure where I’ll land at.
Marilee Smiling Broadly
Marilee, smiling broadly
for the camera points to
the weather map reporting,
“Tonight’s forecast, enhanced risk”.
Later the storm hits, just as
she said, with all its fury.
Wouldn’t it be great to know
the risks before proceeding?
Marilee smiles, pointing at
your fiancé, “Your marriage,
marginal risk”. Now you smile,
breathing a sigh of relief.
She points to that used car,
“Slight risk” she foretells. Going on,
pointing to the contract for deed,
“Moderate risk” she predicts.
Through all this, you nod knowingly.
Smiling now, she points to you,
“Your life, high risk”. You pale,
anticipating impending doom.
There is great risk in living.
No one can predict the future,
not even Marilee, but we all know
no one gets out alive.
Now I Lay Me
Now I lay me down to sleep
on a pillow-top of privilege,
prostrate on freshly pressed sheets
purchased from Penneys.
My soul is well kept,
baptized and sanctified.
Washed clean by daily showers
and semi-annual hygienists visits.
Should I die before I wake
I pray the present profit
margins support the futures
maintaining resale value.
My soul preempts a takeover,
I eat right, exercise, and
attend weekly service. My ways
need no further guidance.
Powerless to dream the dream
I pass time penning poems
on reams of paper to be recycled
saving the planet. Amen.
Branches of the Noble Spruce
Branches of the noble spruce
raised like a Flamenco dancer,
swirl in the wind parading
his male prowess.
I hear the rhythmic clapping,
then fiery crickets join in,
strumming their guitars to the
throbbing pulse of his beat.
The scarlet paintbrush enters
to the sound of heels rapid tapping,
her sultry face half hidden
behind a fluttering fan.
With chin proudly raised, she turns
away from him, their limbs
undulating in unison,
passion overtaking them.
Their dance reaches its climax,
the paintbrush now entwined
within the spruce’s branches,
both spent and breathless.
The final notes hang in the air
humming like a bee,
the two bow in the wind as
I clap, and shout, “Bravo!”
The Darkened Stage Lights
The darkened stage lights,
woodwind and percussion sound,
the Thai dancer poses,
elegant fingers lifted.
The pine tree stands postured,
filled with inner stillness,
slender needles splayed
raised in awed wonder.
Face serenely composed,
arms and hands tell
life’s emotional journey,
struggle for survival.
Branches bowed down under,
weighted with snow and ice,
enduring winter’s darkness,
waiting for the light.
The dancer is not a tree
nor the tree a dancer,
their spirits share a song,
voiced within their limbs.
Music learned in darkness,
heard in graceful gesture,
twist of twig, branch, and root,
in blood and sap, on wind.
Happy Breath day
Happy Breath day.
We are on the air:
Air our grievances.
air our complaints.
air our dirty laundry.
It clouds the air.
Happy Breath day.
It’s in the air:
Respiratory droplets
when you sneeze,
when you cough,
when you lie.
They breathe out.
You breathe in.
Happy Breath day.
He sucked all the oxygen out of the room.
Freedom is like air.
When you have it
you don’t notice it.
I can’t breathe.
Happy Breath day.
Come up for air:
Throw open the window.
Fill your lungs.
Hold it in.
Embrace it.
Happy Breath day.
Hurry
HURRY, TIMES RUNNING OUT.
With dark clouds rolling in, we point
saying, “Look, there’s still blue sky,”
as light ebbs away.
Warned, QUANTITIES LIMITED.
What remains? Emptiness
fills the vacancy between
today and that day.
So we SHOP AND SAVE, praying
our credit isn’t exceeded
before closing time. Facing
FINAL DAY, ENDS SOON.
Just Beneath My Skin
Just beneath my skin
a mesh structure exists,
like chicken wire,
holding me together.
It keeps me upright
so I don’t crumple,
sag before family,
collapse in a heap.
This is a bad day.
My hollow chest caved in.
Old wire has become
brittle, rusted, unstable.
Years ago it was
recalled from the market,
leaving us implants
no recourse but removal.
Without it I would never
stand again, return to
slither through the garden,
in search of fallen apples.
Open to Question
Please complete the following:
Check the box.
Are you alive?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Undetermined
Have you received a second opinion?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Planning to
Are you satisfied with the results?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Doubtful
Is this your final answer?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Unlikely
Do you have any comments?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Unable
Thank you for your participation.
The New York Times Asks
The New York Times asks,
“Is Omicron peaking?”
I saw the covered face,
neither man nor woman,
child nor adult,
black nor white.
I could not pick out
that face in a crowd,
but it glanced my way,
caught my eye,
dipped its head.
Death lives next door.
I smell the smoke rise
from his burn pile.
I see the hand raised to me
from the window.
Why is it now the dead
that point the way?
Why is it their voice I hear
though they no longer
speak a word?
Omicron is peaking.
MPR Reports: Ancient cooking vessel found in
Boundary Waters dates back more than 1600 years.
I return from checking traps.
What do I find?
The wild rice pot boiled over,
our dinner burned, the fire out.
I leave you one simple job.
Do you do it?
No, you have more important
things to do than watch a pot boil.
I trusted you to watch it.
What were you doing?
I bet you fell asleep, or
fooling around again.
Oh no, I don’t believe it.
Do you see it?
That long crack way up the side.
My mother gave me that pot.
I have used that pot all my life.
How will I cook?
We will have to eat rice raw,
break our teeth off chewing it.
I loved that beautiful pot.
Where do I find another?
It could’ve been on display.
Now look at it. Nothing changes.
After Weeks of Winter’s Cold
After weeks of winter’s cold,
my mood as dark as days,
temps rose above freezing,
it’s bitter grip loosened.
Spring sent a card,
Remember me.
I heard birds sing again,
morning light brightened.
I did remember Spring.
Like a foolish school girl
longing for love, I wrote
its name over and over.
You Are Such a Tease
You are such a tease,
warm one day, cold the other.
Your moods a roller coaster,
sunny then threatening.
You ruffle my hair,
promise me my heart’s desire,
encourage my affection,
but your kisses sting my cheeks.
“Any day now” you taunt,
“Trust me to satisfy your longings”.
Your words torment and excite.
I am so in need of your warmth.
Winter has me in its grasp,
the ground still frozen solid.
Spring just a dim memory.
March, you’re such a tease.
Dear Poet,
I’ve never written to you
before today but I can
no longer maintain silence.
Don’t think I’m not grateful,
you’ve been a good employer,
but I’m tired of having to write
lots of words where a few would do.
For instance,
“She looked at me sadly” is now,
“She gazed at me from afar,
tears glistening in her eyes,
her face twisted in despair.”
This is a waste of ink.
Are you writing a poem
or a soap opera?
No one has time for this drivel.
I can tell by your grip that
you feel this is pensplaining,
but look at your audience,
they write in text messages,
and follow twitter. They are
not going to contemplate the
impact of your chosen words
on the literary world.
Think about what I’ve said.
This is within your grasp.
I remain,
Your devoted pen
I Looked for Meaning
I looked for meaning
gazing up at the clouds.
In them I saw the hand of God
stretched above me, then again,
it may have been a crab,
dancing the can-can.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:13.391455
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/floating-on-uncertain-seas/#chapter-282-section-2",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/floating-on-uncertain-seas/#chapter-282-section-3
|
2 Floating on Uncertain Seas
Constance Hodder
Lost
Lost my job, soon my dog.
He headed toward the bridge.
The cat ran off and hid.
Not sure how to find them.
Cell phone lost its power.
Pressed nine to be removed.
Eyes are clouded, ears ringing,
Not sure how to answer.
Sprung forward, lost an hour.
Calendar refused to change.
Time took off to join the dog.
Not sure how to follow.
Reality soon stepped aside.
Maybe was demoted.
Limbo took claim, raised his flag.
Not sure where I am now.
Joined dog and time up on
the bridge, horizon slips away.
The helm is standing empty.
Not sure where I’m going.
Chart a course, words my map.
Poetry my wheelhouse.
Floating on uncertain seas.
Not sure where I’ll land at.
Marilee Smiling Broadly
Marilee, smiling broadly
for the camera points to
the weather map reporting,
“Tonight’s forecast, enhanced risk”.
Later the storm hits, just as
she said, with all its fury.
Wouldn’t it be great to know
the risks before proceeding?
Marilee smiles, pointing at
your fiancé, “Your marriage,
marginal risk”. Now you smile,
breathing a sigh of relief.
She points to that used car,
“Slight risk” she foretells. Going on,
pointing to the contract for deed,
“Moderate risk” she predicts.
Through all this, you nod knowingly.
Smiling now, she points to you,
“Your life, high risk”. You pale,
anticipating impending doom.
There is great risk in living.
No one can predict the future,
not even Marilee, but we all know
no one gets out alive.
Now I Lay Me
Now I lay me down to sleep
on a pillow-top of privilege,
prostrate on freshly pressed sheets
purchased from Penneys.
My soul is well kept,
baptized and sanctified.
Washed clean by daily showers
and semi-annual hygienists visits.
Should I die before I wake
I pray the present profit
margins support the futures
maintaining resale value.
My soul preempts a takeover,
I eat right, exercise, and
attend weekly service. My ways
need no further guidance.
Powerless to dream the dream
I pass time penning poems
on reams of paper to be recycled
saving the planet. Amen.
Branches of the Noble Spruce
Branches of the noble spruce
raised like a Flamenco dancer,
swirl in the wind parading
his male prowess.
I hear the rhythmic clapping,
then fiery crickets join in,
strumming their guitars to the
throbbing pulse of his beat.
The scarlet paintbrush enters
to the sound of heels rapid tapping,
her sultry face half hidden
behind a fluttering fan.
With chin proudly raised, she turns
away from him, their limbs
undulating in unison,
passion overtaking them.
Their dance reaches its climax,
the paintbrush now entwined
within the spruce’s branches,
both spent and breathless.
The final notes hang in the air
humming like a bee,
the two bow in the wind as
I clap, and shout, “Bravo!”
The Darkened Stage Lights
The darkened stage lights,
woodwind and percussion sound,
the Thai dancer poses,
elegant fingers lifted.
The pine tree stands postured,
filled with inner stillness,
slender needles splayed
raised in awed wonder.
Face serenely composed,
arms and hands tell
life’s emotional journey,
struggle for survival.
Branches bowed down under,
weighted with snow and ice,
enduring winter’s darkness,
waiting for the light.
The dancer is not a tree
nor the tree a dancer,
their spirits share a song,
voiced within their limbs.
Music learned in darkness,
heard in graceful gesture,
twist of twig, branch, and root,
in blood and sap, on wind.
Happy Breath day
Happy Breath day.
We are on the air:
Air our grievances.
air our complaints.
air our dirty laundry.
It clouds the air.
Happy Breath day.
It’s in the air:
Respiratory droplets
when you sneeze,
when you cough,
when you lie.
They breathe out.
You breathe in.
Happy Breath day.
He sucked all the oxygen out of the room.
Freedom is like air.
When you have it
you don’t notice it.
I can’t breathe.
Happy Breath day.
Come up for air:
Throw open the window.
Fill your lungs.
Hold it in.
Embrace it.
Happy Breath day.
Hurry
HURRY, TIMES RUNNING OUT.
With dark clouds rolling in, we point
saying, “Look, there’s still blue sky,”
as light ebbs away.
Warned, QUANTITIES LIMITED.
What remains? Emptiness
fills the vacancy between
today and that day.
So we SHOP AND SAVE, praying
our credit isn’t exceeded
before closing time. Facing
FINAL DAY, ENDS SOON.
Just Beneath My Skin
Just beneath my skin
a mesh structure exists,
like chicken wire,
holding me together.
It keeps me upright
so I don’t crumple,
sag before family,
collapse in a heap.
This is a bad day.
My hollow chest caved in.
Old wire has become
brittle, rusted, unstable.
Years ago it was
recalled from the market,
leaving us implants
no recourse but removal.
Without it I would never
stand again, return to
slither through the garden,
in search of fallen apples.
Open to Question
Please complete the following:
Check the box.
Are you alive?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Undetermined
Have you received a second opinion?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Planning to
Are you satisfied with the results?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Doubtful
Is this your final answer?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Unlikely
Do you have any comments?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Unable
Thank you for your participation.
The New York Times Asks
The New York Times asks,
“Is Omicron peaking?”
I saw the covered face,
neither man nor woman,
child nor adult,
black nor white.
I could not pick out
that face in a crowd,
but it glanced my way,
caught my eye,
dipped its head.
Death lives next door.
I smell the smoke rise
from his burn pile.
I see the hand raised to me
from the window.
Why is it now the dead
that point the way?
Why is it their voice I hear
though they no longer
speak a word?
Omicron is peaking.
MPR Reports: Ancient cooking vessel found in
Boundary Waters dates back more than 1600 years.
I return from checking traps.
What do I find?
The wild rice pot boiled over,
our dinner burned, the fire out.
I leave you one simple job.
Do you do it?
No, you have more important
things to do than watch a pot boil.
I trusted you to watch it.
What were you doing?
I bet you fell asleep, or
fooling around again.
Oh no, I don’t believe it.
Do you see it?
That long crack way up the side.
My mother gave me that pot.
I have used that pot all my life.
How will I cook?
We will have to eat rice raw,
break our teeth off chewing it.
I loved that beautiful pot.
Where do I find another?
It could’ve been on display.
Now look at it. Nothing changes.
After Weeks of Winter’s Cold
After weeks of winter’s cold,
my mood as dark as days,
temps rose above freezing,
it’s bitter grip loosened.
Spring sent a card,
Remember me.
I heard birds sing again,
morning light brightened.
I did remember Spring.
Like a foolish school girl
longing for love, I wrote
its name over and over.
You Are Such a Tease
You are such a tease,
warm one day, cold the other.
Your moods a roller coaster,
sunny then threatening.
You ruffle my hair,
promise me my heart’s desire,
encourage my affection,
but your kisses sting my cheeks.
“Any day now” you taunt,
“Trust me to satisfy your longings”.
Your words torment and excite.
I am so in need of your warmth.
Winter has me in its grasp,
the ground still frozen solid.
Spring just a dim memory.
March, you’re such a tease.
Dear Poet,
I’ve never written to you
before today but I can
no longer maintain silence.
Don’t think I’m not grateful,
you’ve been a good employer,
but I’m tired of having to write
lots of words where a few would do.
For instance,
“She looked at me sadly” is now,
“She gazed at me from afar,
tears glistening in her eyes,
her face twisted in despair.”
This is a waste of ink.
Are you writing a poem
or a soap opera?
No one has time for this drivel.
I can tell by your grip that
you feel this is pensplaining,
but look at your audience,
they write in text messages,
and follow twitter. They are
not going to contemplate the
impact of your chosen words
on the literary world.
Think about what I’ve said.
This is within your grasp.
I remain,
Your devoted pen
I Looked for Meaning
I looked for meaning
gazing up at the clouds.
In them I saw the hand of God
stretched above me, then again,
it may have been a crab,
dancing the can-can.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:13.437208
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/floating-on-uncertain-seas/#chapter-282-section-3",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/floating-on-uncertain-seas/#chapter-282-section-4
|
2 Floating on Uncertain Seas
Constance Hodder
Lost
Lost my job, soon my dog.
He headed toward the bridge.
The cat ran off and hid.
Not sure how to find them.
Cell phone lost its power.
Pressed nine to be removed.
Eyes are clouded, ears ringing,
Not sure how to answer.
Sprung forward, lost an hour.
Calendar refused to change.
Time took off to join the dog.
Not sure how to follow.
Reality soon stepped aside.
Maybe was demoted.
Limbo took claim, raised his flag.
Not sure where I am now.
Joined dog and time up on
the bridge, horizon slips away.
The helm is standing empty.
Not sure where I’m going.
Chart a course, words my map.
Poetry my wheelhouse.
Floating on uncertain seas.
Not sure where I’ll land at.
Marilee Smiling Broadly
Marilee, smiling broadly
for the camera points to
the weather map reporting,
“Tonight’s forecast, enhanced risk”.
Later the storm hits, just as
she said, with all its fury.
Wouldn’t it be great to know
the risks before proceeding?
Marilee smiles, pointing at
your fiancé, “Your marriage,
marginal risk”. Now you smile,
breathing a sigh of relief.
She points to that used car,
“Slight risk” she foretells. Going on,
pointing to the contract for deed,
“Moderate risk” she predicts.
Through all this, you nod knowingly.
Smiling now, she points to you,
“Your life, high risk”. You pale,
anticipating impending doom.
There is great risk in living.
No one can predict the future,
not even Marilee, but we all know
no one gets out alive.
Now I Lay Me
Now I lay me down to sleep
on a pillow-top of privilege,
prostrate on freshly pressed sheets
purchased from Penneys.
My soul is well kept,
baptized and sanctified.
Washed clean by daily showers
and semi-annual hygienists visits.
Should I die before I wake
I pray the present profit
margins support the futures
maintaining resale value.
My soul preempts a takeover,
I eat right, exercise, and
attend weekly service. My ways
need no further guidance.
Powerless to dream the dream
I pass time penning poems
on reams of paper to be recycled
saving the planet. Amen.
Branches of the Noble Spruce
Branches of the noble spruce
raised like a Flamenco dancer,
swirl in the wind parading
his male prowess.
I hear the rhythmic clapping,
then fiery crickets join in,
strumming their guitars to the
throbbing pulse of his beat.
The scarlet paintbrush enters
to the sound of heels rapid tapping,
her sultry face half hidden
behind a fluttering fan.
With chin proudly raised, she turns
away from him, their limbs
undulating in unison,
passion overtaking them.
Their dance reaches its climax,
the paintbrush now entwined
within the spruce’s branches,
both spent and breathless.
The final notes hang in the air
humming like a bee,
the two bow in the wind as
I clap, and shout, “Bravo!”
The Darkened Stage Lights
The darkened stage lights,
woodwind and percussion sound,
the Thai dancer poses,
elegant fingers lifted.
The pine tree stands postured,
filled with inner stillness,
slender needles splayed
raised in awed wonder.
Face serenely composed,
arms and hands tell
life’s emotional journey,
struggle for survival.
Branches bowed down under,
weighted with snow and ice,
enduring winter’s darkness,
waiting for the light.
The dancer is not a tree
nor the tree a dancer,
their spirits share a song,
voiced within their limbs.
Music learned in darkness,
heard in graceful gesture,
twist of twig, branch, and root,
in blood and sap, on wind.
Happy Breath day
Happy Breath day.
We are on the air:
Air our grievances.
air our complaints.
air our dirty laundry.
It clouds the air.
Happy Breath day.
It’s in the air:
Respiratory droplets
when you sneeze,
when you cough,
when you lie.
They breathe out.
You breathe in.
Happy Breath day.
He sucked all the oxygen out of the room.
Freedom is like air.
When you have it
you don’t notice it.
I can’t breathe.
Happy Breath day.
Come up for air:
Throw open the window.
Fill your lungs.
Hold it in.
Embrace it.
Happy Breath day.
Hurry
HURRY, TIMES RUNNING OUT.
With dark clouds rolling in, we point
saying, “Look, there’s still blue sky,”
as light ebbs away.
Warned, QUANTITIES LIMITED.
What remains? Emptiness
fills the vacancy between
today and that day.
So we SHOP AND SAVE, praying
our credit isn’t exceeded
before closing time. Facing
FINAL DAY, ENDS SOON.
Just Beneath My Skin
Just beneath my skin
a mesh structure exists,
like chicken wire,
holding me together.
It keeps me upright
so I don’t crumple,
sag before family,
collapse in a heap.
This is a bad day.
My hollow chest caved in.
Old wire has become
brittle, rusted, unstable.
Years ago it was
recalled from the market,
leaving us implants
no recourse but removal.
Without it I would never
stand again, return to
slither through the garden,
in search of fallen apples.
Open to Question
Please complete the following:
Check the box.
Are you alive?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Undetermined
Have you received a second opinion?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Planning to
Are you satisfied with the results?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Doubtful
Is this your final answer?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Unlikely
Do you have any comments?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Unable
Thank you for your participation.
The New York Times Asks
The New York Times asks,
“Is Omicron peaking?”
I saw the covered face,
neither man nor woman,
child nor adult,
black nor white.
I could not pick out
that face in a crowd,
but it glanced my way,
caught my eye,
dipped its head.
Death lives next door.
I smell the smoke rise
from his burn pile.
I see the hand raised to me
from the window.
Why is it now the dead
that point the way?
Why is it their voice I hear
though they no longer
speak a word?
Omicron is peaking.
MPR Reports: Ancient cooking vessel found in
Boundary Waters dates back more than 1600 years.
I return from checking traps.
What do I find?
The wild rice pot boiled over,
our dinner burned, the fire out.
I leave you one simple job.
Do you do it?
No, you have more important
things to do than watch a pot boil.
I trusted you to watch it.
What were you doing?
I bet you fell asleep, or
fooling around again.
Oh no, I don’t believe it.
Do you see it?
That long crack way up the side.
My mother gave me that pot.
I have used that pot all my life.
How will I cook?
We will have to eat rice raw,
break our teeth off chewing it.
I loved that beautiful pot.
Where do I find another?
It could’ve been on display.
Now look at it. Nothing changes.
After Weeks of Winter’s Cold
After weeks of winter’s cold,
my mood as dark as days,
temps rose above freezing,
it’s bitter grip loosened.
Spring sent a card,
Remember me.
I heard birds sing again,
morning light brightened.
I did remember Spring.
Like a foolish school girl
longing for love, I wrote
its name over and over.
You Are Such a Tease
You are such a tease,
warm one day, cold the other.
Your moods a roller coaster,
sunny then threatening.
You ruffle my hair,
promise me my heart’s desire,
encourage my affection,
but your kisses sting my cheeks.
“Any day now” you taunt,
“Trust me to satisfy your longings”.
Your words torment and excite.
I am so in need of your warmth.
Winter has me in its grasp,
the ground still frozen solid.
Spring just a dim memory.
March, you’re such a tease.
Dear Poet,
I’ve never written to you
before today but I can
no longer maintain silence.
Don’t think I’m not grateful,
you’ve been a good employer,
but I’m tired of having to write
lots of words where a few would do.
For instance,
“She looked at me sadly” is now,
“She gazed at me from afar,
tears glistening in her eyes,
her face twisted in despair.”
This is a waste of ink.
Are you writing a poem
or a soap opera?
No one has time for this drivel.
I can tell by your grip that
you feel this is pensplaining,
but look at your audience,
they write in text messages,
and follow twitter. They are
not going to contemplate the
impact of your chosen words
on the literary world.
Think about what I’ve said.
This is within your grasp.
I remain,
Your devoted pen
I Looked for Meaning
I looked for meaning
gazing up at the clouds.
In them I saw the hand of God
stretched above me, then again,
it may have been a crab,
dancing the can-can.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:13.483765
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/floating-on-uncertain-seas/#chapter-282-section-4",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/floating-on-uncertain-seas/#chapter-282-section-5
|
2 Floating on Uncertain Seas
Constance Hodder
Lost
Lost my job, soon my dog.
He headed toward the bridge.
The cat ran off and hid.
Not sure how to find them.
Cell phone lost its power.
Pressed nine to be removed.
Eyes are clouded, ears ringing,
Not sure how to answer.
Sprung forward, lost an hour.
Calendar refused to change.
Time took off to join the dog.
Not sure how to follow.
Reality soon stepped aside.
Maybe was demoted.
Limbo took claim, raised his flag.
Not sure where I am now.
Joined dog and time up on
the bridge, horizon slips away.
The helm is standing empty.
Not sure where I’m going.
Chart a course, words my map.
Poetry my wheelhouse.
Floating on uncertain seas.
Not sure where I’ll land at.
Marilee Smiling Broadly
Marilee, smiling broadly
for the camera points to
the weather map reporting,
“Tonight’s forecast, enhanced risk”.
Later the storm hits, just as
she said, with all its fury.
Wouldn’t it be great to know
the risks before proceeding?
Marilee smiles, pointing at
your fiancé, “Your marriage,
marginal risk”. Now you smile,
breathing a sigh of relief.
She points to that used car,
“Slight risk” she foretells. Going on,
pointing to the contract for deed,
“Moderate risk” she predicts.
Through all this, you nod knowingly.
Smiling now, she points to you,
“Your life, high risk”. You pale,
anticipating impending doom.
There is great risk in living.
No one can predict the future,
not even Marilee, but we all know
no one gets out alive.
Now I Lay Me
Now I lay me down to sleep
on a pillow-top of privilege,
prostrate on freshly pressed sheets
purchased from Penneys.
My soul is well kept,
baptized and sanctified.
Washed clean by daily showers
and semi-annual hygienists visits.
Should I die before I wake
I pray the present profit
margins support the futures
maintaining resale value.
My soul preempts a takeover,
I eat right, exercise, and
attend weekly service. My ways
need no further guidance.
Powerless to dream the dream
I pass time penning poems
on reams of paper to be recycled
saving the planet. Amen.
Branches of the Noble Spruce
Branches of the noble spruce
raised like a Flamenco dancer,
swirl in the wind parading
his male prowess.
I hear the rhythmic clapping,
then fiery crickets join in,
strumming their guitars to the
throbbing pulse of his beat.
The scarlet paintbrush enters
to the sound of heels rapid tapping,
her sultry face half hidden
behind a fluttering fan.
With chin proudly raised, she turns
away from him, their limbs
undulating in unison,
passion overtaking them.
Their dance reaches its climax,
the paintbrush now entwined
within the spruce’s branches,
both spent and breathless.
The final notes hang in the air
humming like a bee,
the two bow in the wind as
I clap, and shout, “Bravo!”
The Darkened Stage Lights
The darkened stage lights,
woodwind and percussion sound,
the Thai dancer poses,
elegant fingers lifted.
The pine tree stands postured,
filled with inner stillness,
slender needles splayed
raised in awed wonder.
Face serenely composed,
arms and hands tell
life’s emotional journey,
struggle for survival.
Branches bowed down under,
weighted with snow and ice,
enduring winter’s darkness,
waiting for the light.
The dancer is not a tree
nor the tree a dancer,
their spirits share a song,
voiced within their limbs.
Music learned in darkness,
heard in graceful gesture,
twist of twig, branch, and root,
in blood and sap, on wind.
Happy Breath day
Happy Breath day.
We are on the air:
Air our grievances.
air our complaints.
air our dirty laundry.
It clouds the air.
Happy Breath day.
It’s in the air:
Respiratory droplets
when you sneeze,
when you cough,
when you lie.
They breathe out.
You breathe in.
Happy Breath day.
He sucked all the oxygen out of the room.
Freedom is like air.
When you have it
you don’t notice it.
I can’t breathe.
Happy Breath day.
Come up for air:
Throw open the window.
Fill your lungs.
Hold it in.
Embrace it.
Happy Breath day.
Hurry
HURRY, TIMES RUNNING OUT.
With dark clouds rolling in, we point
saying, “Look, there’s still blue sky,”
as light ebbs away.
Warned, QUANTITIES LIMITED.
What remains? Emptiness
fills the vacancy between
today and that day.
So we SHOP AND SAVE, praying
our credit isn’t exceeded
before closing time. Facing
FINAL DAY, ENDS SOON.
Just Beneath My Skin
Just beneath my skin
a mesh structure exists,
like chicken wire,
holding me together.
It keeps me upright
so I don’t crumple,
sag before family,
collapse in a heap.
This is a bad day.
My hollow chest caved in.
Old wire has become
brittle, rusted, unstable.
Years ago it was
recalled from the market,
leaving us implants
no recourse but removal.
Without it I would never
stand again, return to
slither through the garden,
in search of fallen apples.
Open to Question
Please complete the following:
Check the box.
Are you alive?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Undetermined
Have you received a second opinion?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Planning to
Are you satisfied with the results?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Doubtful
Is this your final answer?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Unlikely
Do you have any comments?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Unable
Thank you for your participation.
The New York Times Asks
The New York Times asks,
“Is Omicron peaking?”
I saw the covered face,
neither man nor woman,
child nor adult,
black nor white.
I could not pick out
that face in a crowd,
but it glanced my way,
caught my eye,
dipped its head.
Death lives next door.
I smell the smoke rise
from his burn pile.
I see the hand raised to me
from the window.
Why is it now the dead
that point the way?
Why is it their voice I hear
though they no longer
speak a word?
Omicron is peaking.
MPR Reports: Ancient cooking vessel found in
Boundary Waters dates back more than 1600 years.
I return from checking traps.
What do I find?
The wild rice pot boiled over,
our dinner burned, the fire out.
I leave you one simple job.
Do you do it?
No, you have more important
things to do than watch a pot boil.
I trusted you to watch it.
What were you doing?
I bet you fell asleep, or
fooling around again.
Oh no, I don’t believe it.
Do you see it?
That long crack way up the side.
My mother gave me that pot.
I have used that pot all my life.
How will I cook?
We will have to eat rice raw,
break our teeth off chewing it.
I loved that beautiful pot.
Where do I find another?
It could’ve been on display.
Now look at it. Nothing changes.
After Weeks of Winter’s Cold
After weeks of winter’s cold,
my mood as dark as days,
temps rose above freezing,
it’s bitter grip loosened.
Spring sent a card,
Remember me.
I heard birds sing again,
morning light brightened.
I did remember Spring.
Like a foolish school girl
longing for love, I wrote
its name over and over.
You Are Such a Tease
You are such a tease,
warm one day, cold the other.
Your moods a roller coaster,
sunny then threatening.
You ruffle my hair,
promise me my heart’s desire,
encourage my affection,
but your kisses sting my cheeks.
“Any day now” you taunt,
“Trust me to satisfy your longings”.
Your words torment and excite.
I am so in need of your warmth.
Winter has me in its grasp,
the ground still frozen solid.
Spring just a dim memory.
March, you’re such a tease.
Dear Poet,
I’ve never written to you
before today but I can
no longer maintain silence.
Don’t think I’m not grateful,
you’ve been a good employer,
but I’m tired of having to write
lots of words where a few would do.
For instance,
“She looked at me sadly” is now,
“She gazed at me from afar,
tears glistening in her eyes,
her face twisted in despair.”
This is a waste of ink.
Are you writing a poem
or a soap opera?
No one has time for this drivel.
I can tell by your grip that
you feel this is pensplaining,
but look at your audience,
they write in text messages,
and follow twitter. They are
not going to contemplate the
impact of your chosen words
on the literary world.
Think about what I’ve said.
This is within your grasp.
I remain,
Your devoted pen
I Looked for Meaning
I looked for meaning
gazing up at the clouds.
In them I saw the hand of God
stretched above me, then again,
it may have been a crab,
dancing the can-can.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:13.536788
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/floating-on-uncertain-seas/#chapter-282-section-5",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/floating-on-uncertain-seas/#chapter-282-section-6
|
2 Floating on Uncertain Seas
Constance Hodder
Lost
Lost my job, soon my dog.
He headed toward the bridge.
The cat ran off and hid.
Not sure how to find them.
Cell phone lost its power.
Pressed nine to be removed.
Eyes are clouded, ears ringing,
Not sure how to answer.
Sprung forward, lost an hour.
Calendar refused to change.
Time took off to join the dog.
Not sure how to follow.
Reality soon stepped aside.
Maybe was demoted.
Limbo took claim, raised his flag.
Not sure where I am now.
Joined dog and time up on
the bridge, horizon slips away.
The helm is standing empty.
Not sure where I’m going.
Chart a course, words my map.
Poetry my wheelhouse.
Floating on uncertain seas.
Not sure where I’ll land at.
Marilee Smiling Broadly
Marilee, smiling broadly
for the camera points to
the weather map reporting,
“Tonight’s forecast, enhanced risk”.
Later the storm hits, just as
she said, with all its fury.
Wouldn’t it be great to know
the risks before proceeding?
Marilee smiles, pointing at
your fiancé, “Your marriage,
marginal risk”. Now you smile,
breathing a sigh of relief.
She points to that used car,
“Slight risk” she foretells. Going on,
pointing to the contract for deed,
“Moderate risk” she predicts.
Through all this, you nod knowingly.
Smiling now, she points to you,
“Your life, high risk”. You pale,
anticipating impending doom.
There is great risk in living.
No one can predict the future,
not even Marilee, but we all know
no one gets out alive.
Now I Lay Me
Now I lay me down to sleep
on a pillow-top of privilege,
prostrate on freshly pressed sheets
purchased from Penneys.
My soul is well kept,
baptized and sanctified.
Washed clean by daily showers
and semi-annual hygienists visits.
Should I die before I wake
I pray the present profit
margins support the futures
maintaining resale value.
My soul preempts a takeover,
I eat right, exercise, and
attend weekly service. My ways
need no further guidance.
Powerless to dream the dream
I pass time penning poems
on reams of paper to be recycled
saving the planet. Amen.
Branches of the Noble Spruce
Branches of the noble spruce
raised like a Flamenco dancer,
swirl in the wind parading
his male prowess.
I hear the rhythmic clapping,
then fiery crickets join in,
strumming their guitars to the
throbbing pulse of his beat.
The scarlet paintbrush enters
to the sound of heels rapid tapping,
her sultry face half hidden
behind a fluttering fan.
With chin proudly raised, she turns
away from him, their limbs
undulating in unison,
passion overtaking them.
Their dance reaches its climax,
the paintbrush now entwined
within the spruce’s branches,
both spent and breathless.
The final notes hang in the air
humming like a bee,
the two bow in the wind as
I clap, and shout, “Bravo!”
The Darkened Stage Lights
The darkened stage lights,
woodwind and percussion sound,
the Thai dancer poses,
elegant fingers lifted.
The pine tree stands postured,
filled with inner stillness,
slender needles splayed
raised in awed wonder.
Face serenely composed,
arms and hands tell
life’s emotional journey,
struggle for survival.
Branches bowed down under,
weighted with snow and ice,
enduring winter’s darkness,
waiting for the light.
The dancer is not a tree
nor the tree a dancer,
their spirits share a song,
voiced within their limbs.
Music learned in darkness,
heard in graceful gesture,
twist of twig, branch, and root,
in blood and sap, on wind.
Happy Breath day
Happy Breath day.
We are on the air:
Air our grievances.
air our complaints.
air our dirty laundry.
It clouds the air.
Happy Breath day.
It’s in the air:
Respiratory droplets
when you sneeze,
when you cough,
when you lie.
They breathe out.
You breathe in.
Happy Breath day.
He sucked all the oxygen out of the room.
Freedom is like air.
When you have it
you don’t notice it.
I can’t breathe.
Happy Breath day.
Come up for air:
Throw open the window.
Fill your lungs.
Hold it in.
Embrace it.
Happy Breath day.
Hurry
HURRY, TIMES RUNNING OUT.
With dark clouds rolling in, we point
saying, “Look, there’s still blue sky,”
as light ebbs away.
Warned, QUANTITIES LIMITED.
What remains? Emptiness
fills the vacancy between
today and that day.
So we SHOP AND SAVE, praying
our credit isn’t exceeded
before closing time. Facing
FINAL DAY, ENDS SOON.
Just Beneath My Skin
Just beneath my skin
a mesh structure exists,
like chicken wire,
holding me together.
It keeps me upright
so I don’t crumple,
sag before family,
collapse in a heap.
This is a bad day.
My hollow chest caved in.
Old wire has become
brittle, rusted, unstable.
Years ago it was
recalled from the market,
leaving us implants
no recourse but removal.
Without it I would never
stand again, return to
slither through the garden,
in search of fallen apples.
Open to Question
Please complete the following:
Check the box.
Are you alive?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Undetermined
Have you received a second opinion?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Planning to
Are you satisfied with the results?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Doubtful
Is this your final answer?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Unlikely
Do you have any comments?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Unable
Thank you for your participation.
The New York Times Asks
The New York Times asks,
“Is Omicron peaking?”
I saw the covered face,
neither man nor woman,
child nor adult,
black nor white.
I could not pick out
that face in a crowd,
but it glanced my way,
caught my eye,
dipped its head.
Death lives next door.
I smell the smoke rise
from his burn pile.
I see the hand raised to me
from the window.
Why is it now the dead
that point the way?
Why is it their voice I hear
though they no longer
speak a word?
Omicron is peaking.
MPR Reports: Ancient cooking vessel found in
Boundary Waters dates back more than 1600 years.
I return from checking traps.
What do I find?
The wild rice pot boiled over,
our dinner burned, the fire out.
I leave you one simple job.
Do you do it?
No, you have more important
things to do than watch a pot boil.
I trusted you to watch it.
What were you doing?
I bet you fell asleep, or
fooling around again.
Oh no, I don’t believe it.
Do you see it?
That long crack way up the side.
My mother gave me that pot.
I have used that pot all my life.
How will I cook?
We will have to eat rice raw,
break our teeth off chewing it.
I loved that beautiful pot.
Where do I find another?
It could’ve been on display.
Now look at it. Nothing changes.
After Weeks of Winter’s Cold
After weeks of winter’s cold,
my mood as dark as days,
temps rose above freezing,
it’s bitter grip loosened.
Spring sent a card,
Remember me.
I heard birds sing again,
morning light brightened.
I did remember Spring.
Like a foolish school girl
longing for love, I wrote
its name over and over.
You Are Such a Tease
You are such a tease,
warm one day, cold the other.
Your moods a roller coaster,
sunny then threatening.
You ruffle my hair,
promise me my heart’s desire,
encourage my affection,
but your kisses sting my cheeks.
“Any day now” you taunt,
“Trust me to satisfy your longings”.
Your words torment and excite.
I am so in need of your warmth.
Winter has me in its grasp,
the ground still frozen solid.
Spring just a dim memory.
March, you’re such a tease.
Dear Poet,
I’ve never written to you
before today but I can
no longer maintain silence.
Don’t think I’m not grateful,
you’ve been a good employer,
but I’m tired of having to write
lots of words where a few would do.
For instance,
“She looked at me sadly” is now,
“She gazed at me from afar,
tears glistening in her eyes,
her face twisted in despair.”
This is a waste of ink.
Are you writing a poem
or a soap opera?
No one has time for this drivel.
I can tell by your grip that
you feel this is pensplaining,
but look at your audience,
they write in text messages,
and follow twitter. They are
not going to contemplate the
impact of your chosen words
on the literary world.
Think about what I’ve said.
This is within your grasp.
I remain,
Your devoted pen
I Looked for Meaning
I looked for meaning
gazing up at the clouds.
In them I saw the hand of God
stretched above me, then again,
it may have been a crab,
dancing the can-can.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:13.584610
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/floating-on-uncertain-seas/#chapter-282-section-6",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/floating-on-uncertain-seas/#chapter-282-section-7
|
2 Floating on Uncertain Seas
Constance Hodder
Lost
Lost my job, soon my dog.
He headed toward the bridge.
The cat ran off and hid.
Not sure how to find them.
Cell phone lost its power.
Pressed nine to be removed.
Eyes are clouded, ears ringing,
Not sure how to answer.
Sprung forward, lost an hour.
Calendar refused to change.
Time took off to join the dog.
Not sure how to follow.
Reality soon stepped aside.
Maybe was demoted.
Limbo took claim, raised his flag.
Not sure where I am now.
Joined dog and time up on
the bridge, horizon slips away.
The helm is standing empty.
Not sure where I’m going.
Chart a course, words my map.
Poetry my wheelhouse.
Floating on uncertain seas.
Not sure where I’ll land at.
Marilee Smiling Broadly
Marilee, smiling broadly
for the camera points to
the weather map reporting,
“Tonight’s forecast, enhanced risk”.
Later the storm hits, just as
she said, with all its fury.
Wouldn’t it be great to know
the risks before proceeding?
Marilee smiles, pointing at
your fiancé, “Your marriage,
marginal risk”. Now you smile,
breathing a sigh of relief.
She points to that used car,
“Slight risk” she foretells. Going on,
pointing to the contract for deed,
“Moderate risk” she predicts.
Through all this, you nod knowingly.
Smiling now, she points to you,
“Your life, high risk”. You pale,
anticipating impending doom.
There is great risk in living.
No one can predict the future,
not even Marilee, but we all know
no one gets out alive.
Now I Lay Me
Now I lay me down to sleep
on a pillow-top of privilege,
prostrate on freshly pressed sheets
purchased from Penneys.
My soul is well kept,
baptized and sanctified.
Washed clean by daily showers
and semi-annual hygienists visits.
Should I die before I wake
I pray the present profit
margins support the futures
maintaining resale value.
My soul preempts a takeover,
I eat right, exercise, and
attend weekly service. My ways
need no further guidance.
Powerless to dream the dream
I pass time penning poems
on reams of paper to be recycled
saving the planet. Amen.
Branches of the Noble Spruce
Branches of the noble spruce
raised like a Flamenco dancer,
swirl in the wind parading
his male prowess.
I hear the rhythmic clapping,
then fiery crickets join in,
strumming their guitars to the
throbbing pulse of his beat.
The scarlet paintbrush enters
to the sound of heels rapid tapping,
her sultry face half hidden
behind a fluttering fan.
With chin proudly raised, she turns
away from him, their limbs
undulating in unison,
passion overtaking them.
Their dance reaches its climax,
the paintbrush now entwined
within the spruce’s branches,
both spent and breathless.
The final notes hang in the air
humming like a bee,
the two bow in the wind as
I clap, and shout, “Bravo!”
The Darkened Stage Lights
The darkened stage lights,
woodwind and percussion sound,
the Thai dancer poses,
elegant fingers lifted.
The pine tree stands postured,
filled with inner stillness,
slender needles splayed
raised in awed wonder.
Face serenely composed,
arms and hands tell
life’s emotional journey,
struggle for survival.
Branches bowed down under,
weighted with snow and ice,
enduring winter’s darkness,
waiting for the light.
The dancer is not a tree
nor the tree a dancer,
their spirits share a song,
voiced within their limbs.
Music learned in darkness,
heard in graceful gesture,
twist of twig, branch, and root,
in blood and sap, on wind.
Happy Breath day
Happy Breath day.
We are on the air:
Air our grievances.
air our complaints.
air our dirty laundry.
It clouds the air.
Happy Breath day.
It’s in the air:
Respiratory droplets
when you sneeze,
when you cough,
when you lie.
They breathe out.
You breathe in.
Happy Breath day.
He sucked all the oxygen out of the room.
Freedom is like air.
When you have it
you don’t notice it.
I can’t breathe.
Happy Breath day.
Come up for air:
Throw open the window.
Fill your lungs.
Hold it in.
Embrace it.
Happy Breath day.
Hurry
HURRY, TIMES RUNNING OUT.
With dark clouds rolling in, we point
saying, “Look, there’s still blue sky,”
as light ebbs away.
Warned, QUANTITIES LIMITED.
What remains? Emptiness
fills the vacancy between
today and that day.
So we SHOP AND SAVE, praying
our credit isn’t exceeded
before closing time. Facing
FINAL DAY, ENDS SOON.
Just Beneath My Skin
Just beneath my skin
a mesh structure exists,
like chicken wire,
holding me together.
It keeps me upright
so I don’t crumple,
sag before family,
collapse in a heap.
This is a bad day.
My hollow chest caved in.
Old wire has become
brittle, rusted, unstable.
Years ago it was
recalled from the market,
leaving us implants
no recourse but removal.
Without it I would never
stand again, return to
slither through the garden,
in search of fallen apples.
Open to Question
Please complete the following:
Check the box.
Are you alive?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Undetermined
Have you received a second opinion?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Planning to
Are you satisfied with the results?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Doubtful
Is this your final answer?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Unlikely
Do you have any comments?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Unable
Thank you for your participation.
The New York Times Asks
The New York Times asks,
“Is Omicron peaking?”
I saw the covered face,
neither man nor woman,
child nor adult,
black nor white.
I could not pick out
that face in a crowd,
but it glanced my way,
caught my eye,
dipped its head.
Death lives next door.
I smell the smoke rise
from his burn pile.
I see the hand raised to me
from the window.
Why is it now the dead
that point the way?
Why is it their voice I hear
though they no longer
speak a word?
Omicron is peaking.
MPR Reports: Ancient cooking vessel found in
Boundary Waters dates back more than 1600 years.
I return from checking traps.
What do I find?
The wild rice pot boiled over,
our dinner burned, the fire out.
I leave you one simple job.
Do you do it?
No, you have more important
things to do than watch a pot boil.
I trusted you to watch it.
What were you doing?
I bet you fell asleep, or
fooling around again.
Oh no, I don’t believe it.
Do you see it?
That long crack way up the side.
My mother gave me that pot.
I have used that pot all my life.
How will I cook?
We will have to eat rice raw,
break our teeth off chewing it.
I loved that beautiful pot.
Where do I find another?
It could’ve been on display.
Now look at it. Nothing changes.
After Weeks of Winter’s Cold
After weeks of winter’s cold,
my mood as dark as days,
temps rose above freezing,
it’s bitter grip loosened.
Spring sent a card,
Remember me.
I heard birds sing again,
morning light brightened.
I did remember Spring.
Like a foolish school girl
longing for love, I wrote
its name over and over.
You Are Such a Tease
You are such a tease,
warm one day, cold the other.
Your moods a roller coaster,
sunny then threatening.
You ruffle my hair,
promise me my heart’s desire,
encourage my affection,
but your kisses sting my cheeks.
“Any day now” you taunt,
“Trust me to satisfy your longings”.
Your words torment and excite.
I am so in need of your warmth.
Winter has me in its grasp,
the ground still frozen solid.
Spring just a dim memory.
March, you’re such a tease.
Dear Poet,
I’ve never written to you
before today but I can
no longer maintain silence.
Don’t think I’m not grateful,
you’ve been a good employer,
but I’m tired of having to write
lots of words where a few would do.
For instance,
“She looked at me sadly” is now,
“She gazed at me from afar,
tears glistening in her eyes,
her face twisted in despair.”
This is a waste of ink.
Are you writing a poem
or a soap opera?
No one has time for this drivel.
I can tell by your grip that
you feel this is pensplaining,
but look at your audience,
they write in text messages,
and follow twitter. They are
not going to contemplate the
impact of your chosen words
on the literary world.
Think about what I’ve said.
This is within your grasp.
I remain,
Your devoted pen
I Looked for Meaning
I looked for meaning
gazing up at the clouds.
In them I saw the hand of God
stretched above me, then again,
it may have been a crab,
dancing the can-can.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:13.628942
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/floating-on-uncertain-seas/#chapter-282-section-7",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/floating-on-uncertain-seas/#chapter-282-section-8
|
2 Floating on Uncertain Seas
Constance Hodder
Lost
Lost my job, soon my dog.
He headed toward the bridge.
The cat ran off and hid.
Not sure how to find them.
Cell phone lost its power.
Pressed nine to be removed.
Eyes are clouded, ears ringing,
Not sure how to answer.
Sprung forward, lost an hour.
Calendar refused to change.
Time took off to join the dog.
Not sure how to follow.
Reality soon stepped aside.
Maybe was demoted.
Limbo took claim, raised his flag.
Not sure where I am now.
Joined dog and time up on
the bridge, horizon slips away.
The helm is standing empty.
Not sure where I’m going.
Chart a course, words my map.
Poetry my wheelhouse.
Floating on uncertain seas.
Not sure where I’ll land at.
Marilee Smiling Broadly
Marilee, smiling broadly
for the camera points to
the weather map reporting,
“Tonight’s forecast, enhanced risk”.
Later the storm hits, just as
she said, with all its fury.
Wouldn’t it be great to know
the risks before proceeding?
Marilee smiles, pointing at
your fiancé, “Your marriage,
marginal risk”. Now you smile,
breathing a sigh of relief.
She points to that used car,
“Slight risk” she foretells. Going on,
pointing to the contract for deed,
“Moderate risk” she predicts.
Through all this, you nod knowingly.
Smiling now, she points to you,
“Your life, high risk”. You pale,
anticipating impending doom.
There is great risk in living.
No one can predict the future,
not even Marilee, but we all know
no one gets out alive.
Now I Lay Me
Now I lay me down to sleep
on a pillow-top of privilege,
prostrate on freshly pressed sheets
purchased from Penneys.
My soul is well kept,
baptized and sanctified.
Washed clean by daily showers
and semi-annual hygienists visits.
Should I die before I wake
I pray the present profit
margins support the futures
maintaining resale value.
My soul preempts a takeover,
I eat right, exercise, and
attend weekly service. My ways
need no further guidance.
Powerless to dream the dream
I pass time penning poems
on reams of paper to be recycled
saving the planet. Amen.
Branches of the Noble Spruce
Branches of the noble spruce
raised like a Flamenco dancer,
swirl in the wind parading
his male prowess.
I hear the rhythmic clapping,
then fiery crickets join in,
strumming their guitars to the
throbbing pulse of his beat.
The scarlet paintbrush enters
to the sound of heels rapid tapping,
her sultry face half hidden
behind a fluttering fan.
With chin proudly raised, she turns
away from him, their limbs
undulating in unison,
passion overtaking them.
Their dance reaches its climax,
the paintbrush now entwined
within the spruce’s branches,
both spent and breathless.
The final notes hang in the air
humming like a bee,
the two bow in the wind as
I clap, and shout, “Bravo!”
The Darkened Stage Lights
The darkened stage lights,
woodwind and percussion sound,
the Thai dancer poses,
elegant fingers lifted.
The pine tree stands postured,
filled with inner stillness,
slender needles splayed
raised in awed wonder.
Face serenely composed,
arms and hands tell
life’s emotional journey,
struggle for survival.
Branches bowed down under,
weighted with snow and ice,
enduring winter’s darkness,
waiting for the light.
The dancer is not a tree
nor the tree a dancer,
their spirits share a song,
voiced within their limbs.
Music learned in darkness,
heard in graceful gesture,
twist of twig, branch, and root,
in blood and sap, on wind.
Happy Breath day
Happy Breath day.
We are on the air:
Air our grievances.
air our complaints.
air our dirty laundry.
It clouds the air.
Happy Breath day.
It’s in the air:
Respiratory droplets
when you sneeze,
when you cough,
when you lie.
They breathe out.
You breathe in.
Happy Breath day.
He sucked all the oxygen out of the room.
Freedom is like air.
When you have it
you don’t notice it.
I can’t breathe.
Happy Breath day.
Come up for air:
Throw open the window.
Fill your lungs.
Hold it in.
Embrace it.
Happy Breath day.
Hurry
HURRY, TIMES RUNNING OUT.
With dark clouds rolling in, we point
saying, “Look, there’s still blue sky,”
as light ebbs away.
Warned, QUANTITIES LIMITED.
What remains? Emptiness
fills the vacancy between
today and that day.
So we SHOP AND SAVE, praying
our credit isn’t exceeded
before closing time. Facing
FINAL DAY, ENDS SOON.
Just Beneath My Skin
Just beneath my skin
a mesh structure exists,
like chicken wire,
holding me together.
It keeps me upright
so I don’t crumple,
sag before family,
collapse in a heap.
This is a bad day.
My hollow chest caved in.
Old wire has become
brittle, rusted, unstable.
Years ago it was
recalled from the market,
leaving us implants
no recourse but removal.
Without it I would never
stand again, return to
slither through the garden,
in search of fallen apples.
Open to Question
Please complete the following:
Check the box.
Are you alive?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Undetermined
Have you received a second opinion?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Planning to
Are you satisfied with the results?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Doubtful
Is this your final answer?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Unlikely
Do you have any comments?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Unable
Thank you for your participation.
The New York Times Asks
The New York Times asks,
“Is Omicron peaking?”
I saw the covered face,
neither man nor woman,
child nor adult,
black nor white.
I could not pick out
that face in a crowd,
but it glanced my way,
caught my eye,
dipped its head.
Death lives next door.
I smell the smoke rise
from his burn pile.
I see the hand raised to me
from the window.
Why is it now the dead
that point the way?
Why is it their voice I hear
though they no longer
speak a word?
Omicron is peaking.
MPR Reports: Ancient cooking vessel found in
Boundary Waters dates back more than 1600 years.
I return from checking traps.
What do I find?
The wild rice pot boiled over,
our dinner burned, the fire out.
I leave you one simple job.
Do you do it?
No, you have more important
things to do than watch a pot boil.
I trusted you to watch it.
What were you doing?
I bet you fell asleep, or
fooling around again.
Oh no, I don’t believe it.
Do you see it?
That long crack way up the side.
My mother gave me that pot.
I have used that pot all my life.
How will I cook?
We will have to eat rice raw,
break our teeth off chewing it.
I loved that beautiful pot.
Where do I find another?
It could’ve been on display.
Now look at it. Nothing changes.
After Weeks of Winter’s Cold
After weeks of winter’s cold,
my mood as dark as days,
temps rose above freezing,
it’s bitter grip loosened.
Spring sent a card,
Remember me.
I heard birds sing again,
morning light brightened.
I did remember Spring.
Like a foolish school girl
longing for love, I wrote
its name over and over.
You Are Such a Tease
You are such a tease,
warm one day, cold the other.
Your moods a roller coaster,
sunny then threatening.
You ruffle my hair,
promise me my heart’s desire,
encourage my affection,
but your kisses sting my cheeks.
“Any day now” you taunt,
“Trust me to satisfy your longings”.
Your words torment and excite.
I am so in need of your warmth.
Winter has me in its grasp,
the ground still frozen solid.
Spring just a dim memory.
March, you’re such a tease.
Dear Poet,
I’ve never written to you
before today but I can
no longer maintain silence.
Don’t think I’m not grateful,
you’ve been a good employer,
but I’m tired of having to write
lots of words where a few would do.
For instance,
“She looked at me sadly” is now,
“She gazed at me from afar,
tears glistening in her eyes,
her face twisted in despair.”
This is a waste of ink.
Are you writing a poem
or a soap opera?
No one has time for this drivel.
I can tell by your grip that
you feel this is pensplaining,
but look at your audience,
they write in text messages,
and follow twitter. They are
not going to contemplate the
impact of your chosen words
on the literary world.
Think about what I’ve said.
This is within your grasp.
I remain,
Your devoted pen
I Looked for Meaning
I looked for meaning
gazing up at the clouds.
In them I saw the hand of God
stretched above me, then again,
it may have been a crab,
dancing the can-can.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:13.672996
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/floating-on-uncertain-seas/#chapter-282-section-8",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/floating-on-uncertain-seas/#chapter-282-section-9
|
2 Floating on Uncertain Seas
Constance Hodder
Lost
Lost my job, soon my dog.
He headed toward the bridge.
The cat ran off and hid.
Not sure how to find them.
Cell phone lost its power.
Pressed nine to be removed.
Eyes are clouded, ears ringing,
Not sure how to answer.
Sprung forward, lost an hour.
Calendar refused to change.
Time took off to join the dog.
Not sure how to follow.
Reality soon stepped aside.
Maybe was demoted.
Limbo took claim, raised his flag.
Not sure where I am now.
Joined dog and time up on
the bridge, horizon slips away.
The helm is standing empty.
Not sure where I’m going.
Chart a course, words my map.
Poetry my wheelhouse.
Floating on uncertain seas.
Not sure where I’ll land at.
Marilee Smiling Broadly
Marilee, smiling broadly
for the camera points to
the weather map reporting,
“Tonight’s forecast, enhanced risk”.
Later the storm hits, just as
she said, with all its fury.
Wouldn’t it be great to know
the risks before proceeding?
Marilee smiles, pointing at
your fiancé, “Your marriage,
marginal risk”. Now you smile,
breathing a sigh of relief.
She points to that used car,
“Slight risk” she foretells. Going on,
pointing to the contract for deed,
“Moderate risk” she predicts.
Through all this, you nod knowingly.
Smiling now, she points to you,
“Your life, high risk”. You pale,
anticipating impending doom.
There is great risk in living.
No one can predict the future,
not even Marilee, but we all know
no one gets out alive.
Now I Lay Me
Now I lay me down to sleep
on a pillow-top of privilege,
prostrate on freshly pressed sheets
purchased from Penneys.
My soul is well kept,
baptized and sanctified.
Washed clean by daily showers
and semi-annual hygienists visits.
Should I die before I wake
I pray the present profit
margins support the futures
maintaining resale value.
My soul preempts a takeover,
I eat right, exercise, and
attend weekly service. My ways
need no further guidance.
Powerless to dream the dream
I pass time penning poems
on reams of paper to be recycled
saving the planet. Amen.
Branches of the Noble Spruce
Branches of the noble spruce
raised like a Flamenco dancer,
swirl in the wind parading
his male prowess.
I hear the rhythmic clapping,
then fiery crickets join in,
strumming their guitars to the
throbbing pulse of his beat.
The scarlet paintbrush enters
to the sound of heels rapid tapping,
her sultry face half hidden
behind a fluttering fan.
With chin proudly raised, she turns
away from him, their limbs
undulating in unison,
passion overtaking them.
Their dance reaches its climax,
the paintbrush now entwined
within the spruce’s branches,
both spent and breathless.
The final notes hang in the air
humming like a bee,
the two bow in the wind as
I clap, and shout, “Bravo!”
The Darkened Stage Lights
The darkened stage lights,
woodwind and percussion sound,
the Thai dancer poses,
elegant fingers lifted.
The pine tree stands postured,
filled with inner stillness,
slender needles splayed
raised in awed wonder.
Face serenely composed,
arms and hands tell
life’s emotional journey,
struggle for survival.
Branches bowed down under,
weighted with snow and ice,
enduring winter’s darkness,
waiting for the light.
The dancer is not a tree
nor the tree a dancer,
their spirits share a song,
voiced within their limbs.
Music learned in darkness,
heard in graceful gesture,
twist of twig, branch, and root,
in blood and sap, on wind.
Happy Breath day
Happy Breath day.
We are on the air:
Air our grievances.
air our complaints.
air our dirty laundry.
It clouds the air.
Happy Breath day.
It’s in the air:
Respiratory droplets
when you sneeze,
when you cough,
when you lie.
They breathe out.
You breathe in.
Happy Breath day.
He sucked all the oxygen out of the room.
Freedom is like air.
When you have it
you don’t notice it.
I can’t breathe.
Happy Breath day.
Come up for air:
Throw open the window.
Fill your lungs.
Hold it in.
Embrace it.
Happy Breath day.
Hurry
HURRY, TIMES RUNNING OUT.
With dark clouds rolling in, we point
saying, “Look, there’s still blue sky,”
as light ebbs away.
Warned, QUANTITIES LIMITED.
What remains? Emptiness
fills the vacancy between
today and that day.
So we SHOP AND SAVE, praying
our credit isn’t exceeded
before closing time. Facing
FINAL DAY, ENDS SOON.
Just Beneath My Skin
Just beneath my skin
a mesh structure exists,
like chicken wire,
holding me together.
It keeps me upright
so I don’t crumple,
sag before family,
collapse in a heap.
This is a bad day.
My hollow chest caved in.
Old wire has become
brittle, rusted, unstable.
Years ago it was
recalled from the market,
leaving us implants
no recourse but removal.
Without it I would never
stand again, return to
slither through the garden,
in search of fallen apples.
Open to Question
Please complete the following:
Check the box.
Are you alive?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Undetermined
Have you received a second opinion?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Planning to
Are you satisfied with the results?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Doubtful
Is this your final answer?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Unlikely
Do you have any comments?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Unable
Thank you for your participation.
The New York Times Asks
The New York Times asks,
“Is Omicron peaking?”
I saw the covered face,
neither man nor woman,
child nor adult,
black nor white.
I could not pick out
that face in a crowd,
but it glanced my way,
caught my eye,
dipped its head.
Death lives next door.
I smell the smoke rise
from his burn pile.
I see the hand raised to me
from the window.
Why is it now the dead
that point the way?
Why is it their voice I hear
though they no longer
speak a word?
Omicron is peaking.
MPR Reports: Ancient cooking vessel found in
Boundary Waters dates back more than 1600 years.
I return from checking traps.
What do I find?
The wild rice pot boiled over,
our dinner burned, the fire out.
I leave you one simple job.
Do you do it?
No, you have more important
things to do than watch a pot boil.
I trusted you to watch it.
What were you doing?
I bet you fell asleep, or
fooling around again.
Oh no, I don’t believe it.
Do you see it?
That long crack way up the side.
My mother gave me that pot.
I have used that pot all my life.
How will I cook?
We will have to eat rice raw,
break our teeth off chewing it.
I loved that beautiful pot.
Where do I find another?
It could’ve been on display.
Now look at it. Nothing changes.
After Weeks of Winter’s Cold
After weeks of winter’s cold,
my mood as dark as days,
temps rose above freezing,
it’s bitter grip loosened.
Spring sent a card,
Remember me.
I heard birds sing again,
morning light brightened.
I did remember Spring.
Like a foolish school girl
longing for love, I wrote
its name over and over.
You Are Such a Tease
You are such a tease,
warm one day, cold the other.
Your moods a roller coaster,
sunny then threatening.
You ruffle my hair,
promise me my heart’s desire,
encourage my affection,
but your kisses sting my cheeks.
“Any day now” you taunt,
“Trust me to satisfy your longings”.
Your words torment and excite.
I am so in need of your warmth.
Winter has me in its grasp,
the ground still frozen solid.
Spring just a dim memory.
March, you’re such a tease.
Dear Poet,
I’ve never written to you
before today but I can
no longer maintain silence.
Don’t think I’m not grateful,
you’ve been a good employer,
but I’m tired of having to write
lots of words where a few would do.
For instance,
“She looked at me sadly” is now,
“She gazed at me from afar,
tears glistening in her eyes,
her face twisted in despair.”
This is a waste of ink.
Are you writing a poem
or a soap opera?
No one has time for this drivel.
I can tell by your grip that
you feel this is pensplaining,
but look at your audience,
they write in text messages,
and follow twitter. They are
not going to contemplate the
impact of your chosen words
on the literary world.
Think about what I’ve said.
This is within your grasp.
I remain,
Your devoted pen
I Looked for Meaning
I looked for meaning
gazing up at the clouds.
In them I saw the hand of God
stretched above me, then again,
it may have been a crab,
dancing the can-can.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:13.717189
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/floating-on-uncertain-seas/#chapter-282-section-9",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/floating-on-uncertain-seas/#chapter-282-section-10
|
2 Floating on Uncertain Seas
Constance Hodder
Lost
Lost my job, soon my dog.
He headed toward the bridge.
The cat ran off and hid.
Not sure how to find them.
Cell phone lost its power.
Pressed nine to be removed.
Eyes are clouded, ears ringing,
Not sure how to answer.
Sprung forward, lost an hour.
Calendar refused to change.
Time took off to join the dog.
Not sure how to follow.
Reality soon stepped aside.
Maybe was demoted.
Limbo took claim, raised his flag.
Not sure where I am now.
Joined dog and time up on
the bridge, horizon slips away.
The helm is standing empty.
Not sure where I’m going.
Chart a course, words my map.
Poetry my wheelhouse.
Floating on uncertain seas.
Not sure where I’ll land at.
Marilee Smiling Broadly
Marilee, smiling broadly
for the camera points to
the weather map reporting,
“Tonight’s forecast, enhanced risk”.
Later the storm hits, just as
she said, with all its fury.
Wouldn’t it be great to know
the risks before proceeding?
Marilee smiles, pointing at
your fiancé, “Your marriage,
marginal risk”. Now you smile,
breathing a sigh of relief.
She points to that used car,
“Slight risk” she foretells. Going on,
pointing to the contract for deed,
“Moderate risk” she predicts.
Through all this, you nod knowingly.
Smiling now, she points to you,
“Your life, high risk”. You pale,
anticipating impending doom.
There is great risk in living.
No one can predict the future,
not even Marilee, but we all know
no one gets out alive.
Now I Lay Me
Now I lay me down to sleep
on a pillow-top of privilege,
prostrate on freshly pressed sheets
purchased from Penneys.
My soul is well kept,
baptized and sanctified.
Washed clean by daily showers
and semi-annual hygienists visits.
Should I die before I wake
I pray the present profit
margins support the futures
maintaining resale value.
My soul preempts a takeover,
I eat right, exercise, and
attend weekly service. My ways
need no further guidance.
Powerless to dream the dream
I pass time penning poems
on reams of paper to be recycled
saving the planet. Amen.
Branches of the Noble Spruce
Branches of the noble spruce
raised like a Flamenco dancer,
swirl in the wind parading
his male prowess.
I hear the rhythmic clapping,
then fiery crickets join in,
strumming their guitars to the
throbbing pulse of his beat.
The scarlet paintbrush enters
to the sound of heels rapid tapping,
her sultry face half hidden
behind a fluttering fan.
With chin proudly raised, she turns
away from him, their limbs
undulating in unison,
passion overtaking them.
Their dance reaches its climax,
the paintbrush now entwined
within the spruce’s branches,
both spent and breathless.
The final notes hang in the air
humming like a bee,
the two bow in the wind as
I clap, and shout, “Bravo!”
The Darkened Stage Lights
The darkened stage lights,
woodwind and percussion sound,
the Thai dancer poses,
elegant fingers lifted.
The pine tree stands postured,
filled with inner stillness,
slender needles splayed
raised in awed wonder.
Face serenely composed,
arms and hands tell
life’s emotional journey,
struggle for survival.
Branches bowed down under,
weighted with snow and ice,
enduring winter’s darkness,
waiting for the light.
The dancer is not a tree
nor the tree a dancer,
their spirits share a song,
voiced within their limbs.
Music learned in darkness,
heard in graceful gesture,
twist of twig, branch, and root,
in blood and sap, on wind.
Happy Breath day
Happy Breath day.
We are on the air:
Air our grievances.
air our complaints.
air our dirty laundry.
It clouds the air.
Happy Breath day.
It’s in the air:
Respiratory droplets
when you sneeze,
when you cough,
when you lie.
They breathe out.
You breathe in.
Happy Breath day.
He sucked all the oxygen out of the room.
Freedom is like air.
When you have it
you don’t notice it.
I can’t breathe.
Happy Breath day.
Come up for air:
Throw open the window.
Fill your lungs.
Hold it in.
Embrace it.
Happy Breath day.
Hurry
HURRY, TIMES RUNNING OUT.
With dark clouds rolling in, we point
saying, “Look, there’s still blue sky,”
as light ebbs away.
Warned, QUANTITIES LIMITED.
What remains? Emptiness
fills the vacancy between
today and that day.
So we SHOP AND SAVE, praying
our credit isn’t exceeded
before closing time. Facing
FINAL DAY, ENDS SOON.
Just Beneath My Skin
Just beneath my skin
a mesh structure exists,
like chicken wire,
holding me together.
It keeps me upright
so I don’t crumple,
sag before family,
collapse in a heap.
This is a bad day.
My hollow chest caved in.
Old wire has become
brittle, rusted, unstable.
Years ago it was
recalled from the market,
leaving us implants
no recourse but removal.
Without it I would never
stand again, return to
slither through the garden,
in search of fallen apples.
Open to Question
Please complete the following:
Check the box.
Are you alive?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Undetermined
Have you received a second opinion?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Planning to
Are you satisfied with the results?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Doubtful
Is this your final answer?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Unlikely
Do you have any comments?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Unable
Thank you for your participation.
The New York Times Asks
The New York Times asks,
“Is Omicron peaking?”
I saw the covered face,
neither man nor woman,
child nor adult,
black nor white.
I could not pick out
that face in a crowd,
but it glanced my way,
caught my eye,
dipped its head.
Death lives next door.
I smell the smoke rise
from his burn pile.
I see the hand raised to me
from the window.
Why is it now the dead
that point the way?
Why is it their voice I hear
though they no longer
speak a word?
Omicron is peaking.
MPR Reports: Ancient cooking vessel found in
Boundary Waters dates back more than 1600 years.
I return from checking traps.
What do I find?
The wild rice pot boiled over,
our dinner burned, the fire out.
I leave you one simple job.
Do you do it?
No, you have more important
things to do than watch a pot boil.
I trusted you to watch it.
What were you doing?
I bet you fell asleep, or
fooling around again.
Oh no, I don’t believe it.
Do you see it?
That long crack way up the side.
My mother gave me that pot.
I have used that pot all my life.
How will I cook?
We will have to eat rice raw,
break our teeth off chewing it.
I loved that beautiful pot.
Where do I find another?
It could’ve been on display.
Now look at it. Nothing changes.
After Weeks of Winter’s Cold
After weeks of winter’s cold,
my mood as dark as days,
temps rose above freezing,
it’s bitter grip loosened.
Spring sent a card,
Remember me.
I heard birds sing again,
morning light brightened.
I did remember Spring.
Like a foolish school girl
longing for love, I wrote
its name over and over.
You Are Such a Tease
You are such a tease,
warm one day, cold the other.
Your moods a roller coaster,
sunny then threatening.
You ruffle my hair,
promise me my heart’s desire,
encourage my affection,
but your kisses sting my cheeks.
“Any day now” you taunt,
“Trust me to satisfy your longings”.
Your words torment and excite.
I am so in need of your warmth.
Winter has me in its grasp,
the ground still frozen solid.
Spring just a dim memory.
March, you’re such a tease.
Dear Poet,
I’ve never written to you
before today but I can
no longer maintain silence.
Don’t think I’m not grateful,
you’ve been a good employer,
but I’m tired of having to write
lots of words where a few would do.
For instance,
“She looked at me sadly” is now,
“She gazed at me from afar,
tears glistening in her eyes,
her face twisted in despair.”
This is a waste of ink.
Are you writing a poem
or a soap opera?
No one has time for this drivel.
I can tell by your grip that
you feel this is pensplaining,
but look at your audience,
they write in text messages,
and follow twitter. They are
not going to contemplate the
impact of your chosen words
on the literary world.
Think about what I’ve said.
This is within your grasp.
I remain,
Your devoted pen
I Looked for Meaning
I looked for meaning
gazing up at the clouds.
In them I saw the hand of God
stretched above me, then again,
it may have been a crab,
dancing the can-can.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:13.761049
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/floating-on-uncertain-seas/#chapter-282-section-10",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/floating-on-uncertain-seas/#chapter-282-section-11
|
2 Floating on Uncertain Seas
Constance Hodder
Lost
Lost my job, soon my dog.
He headed toward the bridge.
The cat ran off and hid.
Not sure how to find them.
Cell phone lost its power.
Pressed nine to be removed.
Eyes are clouded, ears ringing,
Not sure how to answer.
Sprung forward, lost an hour.
Calendar refused to change.
Time took off to join the dog.
Not sure how to follow.
Reality soon stepped aside.
Maybe was demoted.
Limbo took claim, raised his flag.
Not sure where I am now.
Joined dog and time up on
the bridge, horizon slips away.
The helm is standing empty.
Not sure where I’m going.
Chart a course, words my map.
Poetry my wheelhouse.
Floating on uncertain seas.
Not sure where I’ll land at.
Marilee Smiling Broadly
Marilee, smiling broadly
for the camera points to
the weather map reporting,
“Tonight’s forecast, enhanced risk”.
Later the storm hits, just as
she said, with all its fury.
Wouldn’t it be great to know
the risks before proceeding?
Marilee smiles, pointing at
your fiancé, “Your marriage,
marginal risk”. Now you smile,
breathing a sigh of relief.
She points to that used car,
“Slight risk” she foretells. Going on,
pointing to the contract for deed,
“Moderate risk” she predicts.
Through all this, you nod knowingly.
Smiling now, she points to you,
“Your life, high risk”. You pale,
anticipating impending doom.
There is great risk in living.
No one can predict the future,
not even Marilee, but we all know
no one gets out alive.
Now I Lay Me
Now I lay me down to sleep
on a pillow-top of privilege,
prostrate on freshly pressed sheets
purchased from Penneys.
My soul is well kept,
baptized and sanctified.
Washed clean by daily showers
and semi-annual hygienists visits.
Should I die before I wake
I pray the present profit
margins support the futures
maintaining resale value.
My soul preempts a takeover,
I eat right, exercise, and
attend weekly service. My ways
need no further guidance.
Powerless to dream the dream
I pass time penning poems
on reams of paper to be recycled
saving the planet. Amen.
Branches of the Noble Spruce
Branches of the noble spruce
raised like a Flamenco dancer,
swirl in the wind parading
his male prowess.
I hear the rhythmic clapping,
then fiery crickets join in,
strumming their guitars to the
throbbing pulse of his beat.
The scarlet paintbrush enters
to the sound of heels rapid tapping,
her sultry face half hidden
behind a fluttering fan.
With chin proudly raised, she turns
away from him, their limbs
undulating in unison,
passion overtaking them.
Their dance reaches its climax,
the paintbrush now entwined
within the spruce’s branches,
both spent and breathless.
The final notes hang in the air
humming like a bee,
the two bow in the wind as
I clap, and shout, “Bravo!”
The Darkened Stage Lights
The darkened stage lights,
woodwind and percussion sound,
the Thai dancer poses,
elegant fingers lifted.
The pine tree stands postured,
filled with inner stillness,
slender needles splayed
raised in awed wonder.
Face serenely composed,
arms and hands tell
life’s emotional journey,
struggle for survival.
Branches bowed down under,
weighted with snow and ice,
enduring winter’s darkness,
waiting for the light.
The dancer is not a tree
nor the tree a dancer,
their spirits share a song,
voiced within their limbs.
Music learned in darkness,
heard in graceful gesture,
twist of twig, branch, and root,
in blood and sap, on wind.
Happy Breath day
Happy Breath day.
We are on the air:
Air our grievances.
air our complaints.
air our dirty laundry.
It clouds the air.
Happy Breath day.
It’s in the air:
Respiratory droplets
when you sneeze,
when you cough,
when you lie.
They breathe out.
You breathe in.
Happy Breath day.
He sucked all the oxygen out of the room.
Freedom is like air.
When you have it
you don’t notice it.
I can’t breathe.
Happy Breath day.
Come up for air:
Throw open the window.
Fill your lungs.
Hold it in.
Embrace it.
Happy Breath day.
Hurry
HURRY, TIMES RUNNING OUT.
With dark clouds rolling in, we point
saying, “Look, there’s still blue sky,”
as light ebbs away.
Warned, QUANTITIES LIMITED.
What remains? Emptiness
fills the vacancy between
today and that day.
So we SHOP AND SAVE, praying
our credit isn’t exceeded
before closing time. Facing
FINAL DAY, ENDS SOON.
Just Beneath My Skin
Just beneath my skin
a mesh structure exists,
like chicken wire,
holding me together.
It keeps me upright
so I don’t crumple,
sag before family,
collapse in a heap.
This is a bad day.
My hollow chest caved in.
Old wire has become
brittle, rusted, unstable.
Years ago it was
recalled from the market,
leaving us implants
no recourse but removal.
Without it I would never
stand again, return to
slither through the garden,
in search of fallen apples.
Open to Question
Please complete the following:
Check the box.
Are you alive?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Undetermined
Have you received a second opinion?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Planning to
Are you satisfied with the results?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Doubtful
Is this your final answer?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Unlikely
Do you have any comments?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Unable
Thank you for your participation.
The New York Times Asks
The New York Times asks,
“Is Omicron peaking?”
I saw the covered face,
neither man nor woman,
child nor adult,
black nor white.
I could not pick out
that face in a crowd,
but it glanced my way,
caught my eye,
dipped its head.
Death lives next door.
I smell the smoke rise
from his burn pile.
I see the hand raised to me
from the window.
Why is it now the dead
that point the way?
Why is it their voice I hear
though they no longer
speak a word?
Omicron is peaking.
MPR Reports: Ancient cooking vessel found in
Boundary Waters dates back more than 1600 years.
I return from checking traps.
What do I find?
The wild rice pot boiled over,
our dinner burned, the fire out.
I leave you one simple job.
Do you do it?
No, you have more important
things to do than watch a pot boil.
I trusted you to watch it.
What were you doing?
I bet you fell asleep, or
fooling around again.
Oh no, I don’t believe it.
Do you see it?
That long crack way up the side.
My mother gave me that pot.
I have used that pot all my life.
How will I cook?
We will have to eat rice raw,
break our teeth off chewing it.
I loved that beautiful pot.
Where do I find another?
It could’ve been on display.
Now look at it. Nothing changes.
After Weeks of Winter’s Cold
After weeks of winter’s cold,
my mood as dark as days,
temps rose above freezing,
it’s bitter grip loosened.
Spring sent a card,
Remember me.
I heard birds sing again,
morning light brightened.
I did remember Spring.
Like a foolish school girl
longing for love, I wrote
its name over and over.
You Are Such a Tease
You are such a tease,
warm one day, cold the other.
Your moods a roller coaster,
sunny then threatening.
You ruffle my hair,
promise me my heart’s desire,
encourage my affection,
but your kisses sting my cheeks.
“Any day now” you taunt,
“Trust me to satisfy your longings”.
Your words torment and excite.
I am so in need of your warmth.
Winter has me in its grasp,
the ground still frozen solid.
Spring just a dim memory.
March, you’re such a tease.
Dear Poet,
I’ve never written to you
before today but I can
no longer maintain silence.
Don’t think I’m not grateful,
you’ve been a good employer,
but I’m tired of having to write
lots of words where a few would do.
For instance,
“She looked at me sadly” is now,
“She gazed at me from afar,
tears glistening in her eyes,
her face twisted in despair.”
This is a waste of ink.
Are you writing a poem
or a soap opera?
No one has time for this drivel.
I can tell by your grip that
you feel this is pensplaining,
but look at your audience,
they write in text messages,
and follow twitter. They are
not going to contemplate the
impact of your chosen words
on the literary world.
Think about what I’ve said.
This is within your grasp.
I remain,
Your devoted pen
I Looked for Meaning
I looked for meaning
gazing up at the clouds.
In them I saw the hand of God
stretched above me, then again,
it may have been a crab,
dancing the can-can.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:13.805640
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/floating-on-uncertain-seas/#chapter-282-section-11",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/floating-on-uncertain-seas/#chapter-282-section-12
|
2 Floating on Uncertain Seas
Constance Hodder
Lost
Lost my job, soon my dog.
He headed toward the bridge.
The cat ran off and hid.
Not sure how to find them.
Cell phone lost its power.
Pressed nine to be removed.
Eyes are clouded, ears ringing,
Not sure how to answer.
Sprung forward, lost an hour.
Calendar refused to change.
Time took off to join the dog.
Not sure how to follow.
Reality soon stepped aside.
Maybe was demoted.
Limbo took claim, raised his flag.
Not sure where I am now.
Joined dog and time up on
the bridge, horizon slips away.
The helm is standing empty.
Not sure where I’m going.
Chart a course, words my map.
Poetry my wheelhouse.
Floating on uncertain seas.
Not sure where I’ll land at.
Marilee Smiling Broadly
Marilee, smiling broadly
for the camera points to
the weather map reporting,
“Tonight’s forecast, enhanced risk”.
Later the storm hits, just as
she said, with all its fury.
Wouldn’t it be great to know
the risks before proceeding?
Marilee smiles, pointing at
your fiancé, “Your marriage,
marginal risk”. Now you smile,
breathing a sigh of relief.
She points to that used car,
“Slight risk” she foretells. Going on,
pointing to the contract for deed,
“Moderate risk” she predicts.
Through all this, you nod knowingly.
Smiling now, she points to you,
“Your life, high risk”. You pale,
anticipating impending doom.
There is great risk in living.
No one can predict the future,
not even Marilee, but we all know
no one gets out alive.
Now I Lay Me
Now I lay me down to sleep
on a pillow-top of privilege,
prostrate on freshly pressed sheets
purchased from Penneys.
My soul is well kept,
baptized and sanctified.
Washed clean by daily showers
and semi-annual hygienists visits.
Should I die before I wake
I pray the present profit
margins support the futures
maintaining resale value.
My soul preempts a takeover,
I eat right, exercise, and
attend weekly service. My ways
need no further guidance.
Powerless to dream the dream
I pass time penning poems
on reams of paper to be recycled
saving the planet. Amen.
Branches of the Noble Spruce
Branches of the noble spruce
raised like a Flamenco dancer,
swirl in the wind parading
his male prowess.
I hear the rhythmic clapping,
then fiery crickets join in,
strumming their guitars to the
throbbing pulse of his beat.
The scarlet paintbrush enters
to the sound of heels rapid tapping,
her sultry face half hidden
behind a fluttering fan.
With chin proudly raised, she turns
away from him, their limbs
undulating in unison,
passion overtaking them.
Their dance reaches its climax,
the paintbrush now entwined
within the spruce’s branches,
both spent and breathless.
The final notes hang in the air
humming like a bee,
the two bow in the wind as
I clap, and shout, “Bravo!”
The Darkened Stage Lights
The darkened stage lights,
woodwind and percussion sound,
the Thai dancer poses,
elegant fingers lifted.
The pine tree stands postured,
filled with inner stillness,
slender needles splayed
raised in awed wonder.
Face serenely composed,
arms and hands tell
life’s emotional journey,
struggle for survival.
Branches bowed down under,
weighted with snow and ice,
enduring winter’s darkness,
waiting for the light.
The dancer is not a tree
nor the tree a dancer,
their spirits share a song,
voiced within their limbs.
Music learned in darkness,
heard in graceful gesture,
twist of twig, branch, and root,
in blood and sap, on wind.
Happy Breath day
Happy Breath day.
We are on the air:
Air our grievances.
air our complaints.
air our dirty laundry.
It clouds the air.
Happy Breath day.
It’s in the air:
Respiratory droplets
when you sneeze,
when you cough,
when you lie.
They breathe out.
You breathe in.
Happy Breath day.
He sucked all the oxygen out of the room.
Freedom is like air.
When you have it
you don’t notice it.
I can’t breathe.
Happy Breath day.
Come up for air:
Throw open the window.
Fill your lungs.
Hold it in.
Embrace it.
Happy Breath day.
Hurry
HURRY, TIMES RUNNING OUT.
With dark clouds rolling in, we point
saying, “Look, there’s still blue sky,”
as light ebbs away.
Warned, QUANTITIES LIMITED.
What remains? Emptiness
fills the vacancy between
today and that day.
So we SHOP AND SAVE, praying
our credit isn’t exceeded
before closing time. Facing
FINAL DAY, ENDS SOON.
Just Beneath My Skin
Just beneath my skin
a mesh structure exists,
like chicken wire,
holding me together.
It keeps me upright
so I don’t crumple,
sag before family,
collapse in a heap.
This is a bad day.
My hollow chest caved in.
Old wire has become
brittle, rusted, unstable.
Years ago it was
recalled from the market,
leaving us implants
no recourse but removal.
Without it I would never
stand again, return to
slither through the garden,
in search of fallen apples.
Open to Question
Please complete the following:
Check the box.
Are you alive?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Undetermined
Have you received a second opinion?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Planning to
Are you satisfied with the results?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Doubtful
Is this your final answer?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Unlikely
Do you have any comments?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Unable
Thank you for your participation.
The New York Times Asks
The New York Times asks,
“Is Omicron peaking?”
I saw the covered face,
neither man nor woman,
child nor adult,
black nor white.
I could not pick out
that face in a crowd,
but it glanced my way,
caught my eye,
dipped its head.
Death lives next door.
I smell the smoke rise
from his burn pile.
I see the hand raised to me
from the window.
Why is it now the dead
that point the way?
Why is it their voice I hear
though they no longer
speak a word?
Omicron is peaking.
MPR Reports: Ancient cooking vessel found in
Boundary Waters dates back more than 1600 years.
I return from checking traps.
What do I find?
The wild rice pot boiled over,
our dinner burned, the fire out.
I leave you one simple job.
Do you do it?
No, you have more important
things to do than watch a pot boil.
I trusted you to watch it.
What were you doing?
I bet you fell asleep, or
fooling around again.
Oh no, I don’t believe it.
Do you see it?
That long crack way up the side.
My mother gave me that pot.
I have used that pot all my life.
How will I cook?
We will have to eat rice raw,
break our teeth off chewing it.
I loved that beautiful pot.
Where do I find another?
It could’ve been on display.
Now look at it. Nothing changes.
After Weeks of Winter’s Cold
After weeks of winter’s cold,
my mood as dark as days,
temps rose above freezing,
it’s bitter grip loosened.
Spring sent a card,
Remember me.
I heard birds sing again,
morning light brightened.
I did remember Spring.
Like a foolish school girl
longing for love, I wrote
its name over and over.
You Are Such a Tease
You are such a tease,
warm one day, cold the other.
Your moods a roller coaster,
sunny then threatening.
You ruffle my hair,
promise me my heart’s desire,
encourage my affection,
but your kisses sting my cheeks.
“Any day now” you taunt,
“Trust me to satisfy your longings”.
Your words torment and excite.
I am so in need of your warmth.
Winter has me in its grasp,
the ground still frozen solid.
Spring just a dim memory.
March, you’re such a tease.
Dear Poet,
I’ve never written to you
before today but I can
no longer maintain silence.
Don’t think I’m not grateful,
you’ve been a good employer,
but I’m tired of having to write
lots of words where a few would do.
For instance,
“She looked at me sadly” is now,
“She gazed at me from afar,
tears glistening in her eyes,
her face twisted in despair.”
This is a waste of ink.
Are you writing a poem
or a soap opera?
No one has time for this drivel.
I can tell by your grip that
you feel this is pensplaining,
but look at your audience,
they write in text messages,
and follow twitter. They are
not going to contemplate the
impact of your chosen words
on the literary world.
Think about what I’ve said.
This is within your grasp.
I remain,
Your devoted pen
I Looked for Meaning
I looked for meaning
gazing up at the clouds.
In them I saw the hand of God
stretched above me, then again,
it may have been a crab,
dancing the can-can.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:13.849672
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/floating-on-uncertain-seas/#chapter-282-section-12",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/floating-on-uncertain-seas/#chapter-282-section-13
|
2 Floating on Uncertain Seas
Constance Hodder
Lost
Lost my job, soon my dog.
He headed toward the bridge.
The cat ran off and hid.
Not sure how to find them.
Cell phone lost its power.
Pressed nine to be removed.
Eyes are clouded, ears ringing,
Not sure how to answer.
Sprung forward, lost an hour.
Calendar refused to change.
Time took off to join the dog.
Not sure how to follow.
Reality soon stepped aside.
Maybe was demoted.
Limbo took claim, raised his flag.
Not sure where I am now.
Joined dog and time up on
the bridge, horizon slips away.
The helm is standing empty.
Not sure where I’m going.
Chart a course, words my map.
Poetry my wheelhouse.
Floating on uncertain seas.
Not sure where I’ll land at.
Marilee Smiling Broadly
Marilee, smiling broadly
for the camera points to
the weather map reporting,
“Tonight’s forecast, enhanced risk”.
Later the storm hits, just as
she said, with all its fury.
Wouldn’t it be great to know
the risks before proceeding?
Marilee smiles, pointing at
your fiancé, “Your marriage,
marginal risk”. Now you smile,
breathing a sigh of relief.
She points to that used car,
“Slight risk” she foretells. Going on,
pointing to the contract for deed,
“Moderate risk” she predicts.
Through all this, you nod knowingly.
Smiling now, she points to you,
“Your life, high risk”. You pale,
anticipating impending doom.
There is great risk in living.
No one can predict the future,
not even Marilee, but we all know
no one gets out alive.
Now I Lay Me
Now I lay me down to sleep
on a pillow-top of privilege,
prostrate on freshly pressed sheets
purchased from Penneys.
My soul is well kept,
baptized and sanctified.
Washed clean by daily showers
and semi-annual hygienists visits.
Should I die before I wake
I pray the present profit
margins support the futures
maintaining resale value.
My soul preempts a takeover,
I eat right, exercise, and
attend weekly service. My ways
need no further guidance.
Powerless to dream the dream
I pass time penning poems
on reams of paper to be recycled
saving the planet. Amen.
Branches of the Noble Spruce
Branches of the noble spruce
raised like a Flamenco dancer,
swirl in the wind parading
his male prowess.
I hear the rhythmic clapping,
then fiery crickets join in,
strumming their guitars to the
throbbing pulse of his beat.
The scarlet paintbrush enters
to the sound of heels rapid tapping,
her sultry face half hidden
behind a fluttering fan.
With chin proudly raised, she turns
away from him, their limbs
undulating in unison,
passion overtaking them.
Their dance reaches its climax,
the paintbrush now entwined
within the spruce’s branches,
both spent and breathless.
The final notes hang in the air
humming like a bee,
the two bow in the wind as
I clap, and shout, “Bravo!”
The Darkened Stage Lights
The darkened stage lights,
woodwind and percussion sound,
the Thai dancer poses,
elegant fingers lifted.
The pine tree stands postured,
filled with inner stillness,
slender needles splayed
raised in awed wonder.
Face serenely composed,
arms and hands tell
life’s emotional journey,
struggle for survival.
Branches bowed down under,
weighted with snow and ice,
enduring winter’s darkness,
waiting for the light.
The dancer is not a tree
nor the tree a dancer,
their spirits share a song,
voiced within their limbs.
Music learned in darkness,
heard in graceful gesture,
twist of twig, branch, and root,
in blood and sap, on wind.
Happy Breath day
Happy Breath day.
We are on the air:
Air our grievances.
air our complaints.
air our dirty laundry.
It clouds the air.
Happy Breath day.
It’s in the air:
Respiratory droplets
when you sneeze,
when you cough,
when you lie.
They breathe out.
You breathe in.
Happy Breath day.
He sucked all the oxygen out of the room.
Freedom is like air.
When you have it
you don’t notice it.
I can’t breathe.
Happy Breath day.
Come up for air:
Throw open the window.
Fill your lungs.
Hold it in.
Embrace it.
Happy Breath day.
Hurry
HURRY, TIMES RUNNING OUT.
With dark clouds rolling in, we point
saying, “Look, there’s still blue sky,”
as light ebbs away.
Warned, QUANTITIES LIMITED.
What remains? Emptiness
fills the vacancy between
today and that day.
So we SHOP AND SAVE, praying
our credit isn’t exceeded
before closing time. Facing
FINAL DAY, ENDS SOON.
Just Beneath My Skin
Just beneath my skin
a mesh structure exists,
like chicken wire,
holding me together.
It keeps me upright
so I don’t crumple,
sag before family,
collapse in a heap.
This is a bad day.
My hollow chest caved in.
Old wire has become
brittle, rusted, unstable.
Years ago it was
recalled from the market,
leaving us implants
no recourse but removal.
Without it I would never
stand again, return to
slither through the garden,
in search of fallen apples.
Open to Question
Please complete the following:
Check the box.
Are you alive?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Undetermined
Have you received a second opinion?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Planning to
Are you satisfied with the results?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Doubtful
Is this your final answer?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Unlikely
Do you have any comments?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Unable
Thank you for your participation.
The New York Times Asks
The New York Times asks,
“Is Omicron peaking?”
I saw the covered face,
neither man nor woman,
child nor adult,
black nor white.
I could not pick out
that face in a crowd,
but it glanced my way,
caught my eye,
dipped its head.
Death lives next door.
I smell the smoke rise
from his burn pile.
I see the hand raised to me
from the window.
Why is it now the dead
that point the way?
Why is it their voice I hear
though they no longer
speak a word?
Omicron is peaking.
MPR Reports: Ancient cooking vessel found in
Boundary Waters dates back more than 1600 years.
I return from checking traps.
What do I find?
The wild rice pot boiled over,
our dinner burned, the fire out.
I leave you one simple job.
Do you do it?
No, you have more important
things to do than watch a pot boil.
I trusted you to watch it.
What were you doing?
I bet you fell asleep, or
fooling around again.
Oh no, I don’t believe it.
Do you see it?
That long crack way up the side.
My mother gave me that pot.
I have used that pot all my life.
How will I cook?
We will have to eat rice raw,
break our teeth off chewing it.
I loved that beautiful pot.
Where do I find another?
It could’ve been on display.
Now look at it. Nothing changes.
After Weeks of Winter’s Cold
After weeks of winter’s cold,
my mood as dark as days,
temps rose above freezing,
it’s bitter grip loosened.
Spring sent a card,
Remember me.
I heard birds sing again,
morning light brightened.
I did remember Spring.
Like a foolish school girl
longing for love, I wrote
its name over and over.
You Are Such a Tease
You are such a tease,
warm one day, cold the other.
Your moods a roller coaster,
sunny then threatening.
You ruffle my hair,
promise me my heart’s desire,
encourage my affection,
but your kisses sting my cheeks.
“Any day now” you taunt,
“Trust me to satisfy your longings”.
Your words torment and excite.
I am so in need of your warmth.
Winter has me in its grasp,
the ground still frozen solid.
Spring just a dim memory.
March, you’re such a tease.
Dear Poet,
I’ve never written to you
before today but I can
no longer maintain silence.
Don’t think I’m not grateful,
you’ve been a good employer,
but I’m tired of having to write
lots of words where a few would do.
For instance,
“She looked at me sadly” is now,
“She gazed at me from afar,
tears glistening in her eyes,
her face twisted in despair.”
This is a waste of ink.
Are you writing a poem
or a soap opera?
No one has time for this drivel.
I can tell by your grip that
you feel this is pensplaining,
but look at your audience,
they write in text messages,
and follow twitter. They are
not going to contemplate the
impact of your chosen words
on the literary world.
Think about what I’ve said.
This is within your grasp.
I remain,
Your devoted pen
I Looked for Meaning
I looked for meaning
gazing up at the clouds.
In them I saw the hand of God
stretched above me, then again,
it may have been a crab,
dancing the can-can.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:13.903524
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/floating-on-uncertain-seas/#chapter-282-section-13",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/floating-on-uncertain-seas/#chapter-282-section-14
|
2 Floating on Uncertain Seas
Constance Hodder
Lost
Lost my job, soon my dog.
He headed toward the bridge.
The cat ran off and hid.
Not sure how to find them.
Cell phone lost its power.
Pressed nine to be removed.
Eyes are clouded, ears ringing,
Not sure how to answer.
Sprung forward, lost an hour.
Calendar refused to change.
Time took off to join the dog.
Not sure how to follow.
Reality soon stepped aside.
Maybe was demoted.
Limbo took claim, raised his flag.
Not sure where I am now.
Joined dog and time up on
the bridge, horizon slips away.
The helm is standing empty.
Not sure where I’m going.
Chart a course, words my map.
Poetry my wheelhouse.
Floating on uncertain seas.
Not sure where I’ll land at.
Marilee Smiling Broadly
Marilee, smiling broadly
for the camera points to
the weather map reporting,
“Tonight’s forecast, enhanced risk”.
Later the storm hits, just as
she said, with all its fury.
Wouldn’t it be great to know
the risks before proceeding?
Marilee smiles, pointing at
your fiancé, “Your marriage,
marginal risk”. Now you smile,
breathing a sigh of relief.
She points to that used car,
“Slight risk” she foretells. Going on,
pointing to the contract for deed,
“Moderate risk” she predicts.
Through all this, you nod knowingly.
Smiling now, she points to you,
“Your life, high risk”. You pale,
anticipating impending doom.
There is great risk in living.
No one can predict the future,
not even Marilee, but we all know
no one gets out alive.
Now I Lay Me
Now I lay me down to sleep
on a pillow-top of privilege,
prostrate on freshly pressed sheets
purchased from Penneys.
My soul is well kept,
baptized and sanctified.
Washed clean by daily showers
and semi-annual hygienists visits.
Should I die before I wake
I pray the present profit
margins support the futures
maintaining resale value.
My soul preempts a takeover,
I eat right, exercise, and
attend weekly service. My ways
need no further guidance.
Powerless to dream the dream
I pass time penning poems
on reams of paper to be recycled
saving the planet. Amen.
Branches of the Noble Spruce
Branches of the noble spruce
raised like a Flamenco dancer,
swirl in the wind parading
his male prowess.
I hear the rhythmic clapping,
then fiery crickets join in,
strumming their guitars to the
throbbing pulse of his beat.
The scarlet paintbrush enters
to the sound of heels rapid tapping,
her sultry face half hidden
behind a fluttering fan.
With chin proudly raised, she turns
away from him, their limbs
undulating in unison,
passion overtaking them.
Their dance reaches its climax,
the paintbrush now entwined
within the spruce’s branches,
both spent and breathless.
The final notes hang in the air
humming like a bee,
the two bow in the wind as
I clap, and shout, “Bravo!”
The Darkened Stage Lights
The darkened stage lights,
woodwind and percussion sound,
the Thai dancer poses,
elegant fingers lifted.
The pine tree stands postured,
filled with inner stillness,
slender needles splayed
raised in awed wonder.
Face serenely composed,
arms and hands tell
life’s emotional journey,
struggle for survival.
Branches bowed down under,
weighted with snow and ice,
enduring winter’s darkness,
waiting for the light.
The dancer is not a tree
nor the tree a dancer,
their spirits share a song,
voiced within their limbs.
Music learned in darkness,
heard in graceful gesture,
twist of twig, branch, and root,
in blood and sap, on wind.
Happy Breath day
Happy Breath day.
We are on the air:
Air our grievances.
air our complaints.
air our dirty laundry.
It clouds the air.
Happy Breath day.
It’s in the air:
Respiratory droplets
when you sneeze,
when you cough,
when you lie.
They breathe out.
You breathe in.
Happy Breath day.
He sucked all the oxygen out of the room.
Freedom is like air.
When you have it
you don’t notice it.
I can’t breathe.
Happy Breath day.
Come up for air:
Throw open the window.
Fill your lungs.
Hold it in.
Embrace it.
Happy Breath day.
Hurry
HURRY, TIMES RUNNING OUT.
With dark clouds rolling in, we point
saying, “Look, there’s still blue sky,”
as light ebbs away.
Warned, QUANTITIES LIMITED.
What remains? Emptiness
fills the vacancy between
today and that day.
So we SHOP AND SAVE, praying
our credit isn’t exceeded
before closing time. Facing
FINAL DAY, ENDS SOON.
Just Beneath My Skin
Just beneath my skin
a mesh structure exists,
like chicken wire,
holding me together.
It keeps me upright
so I don’t crumple,
sag before family,
collapse in a heap.
This is a bad day.
My hollow chest caved in.
Old wire has become
brittle, rusted, unstable.
Years ago it was
recalled from the market,
leaving us implants
no recourse but removal.
Without it I would never
stand again, return to
slither through the garden,
in search of fallen apples.
Open to Question
Please complete the following:
Check the box.
Are you alive?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Undetermined
Have you received a second opinion?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Planning to
Are you satisfied with the results?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Doubtful
Is this your final answer?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Unlikely
Do you have any comments?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Unable
Thank you for your participation.
The New York Times Asks
The New York Times asks,
“Is Omicron peaking?”
I saw the covered face,
neither man nor woman,
child nor adult,
black nor white.
I could not pick out
that face in a crowd,
but it glanced my way,
caught my eye,
dipped its head.
Death lives next door.
I smell the smoke rise
from his burn pile.
I see the hand raised to me
from the window.
Why is it now the dead
that point the way?
Why is it their voice I hear
though they no longer
speak a word?
Omicron is peaking.
MPR Reports: Ancient cooking vessel found in
Boundary Waters dates back more than 1600 years.
I return from checking traps.
What do I find?
The wild rice pot boiled over,
our dinner burned, the fire out.
I leave you one simple job.
Do you do it?
No, you have more important
things to do than watch a pot boil.
I trusted you to watch it.
What were you doing?
I bet you fell asleep, or
fooling around again.
Oh no, I don’t believe it.
Do you see it?
That long crack way up the side.
My mother gave me that pot.
I have used that pot all my life.
How will I cook?
We will have to eat rice raw,
break our teeth off chewing it.
I loved that beautiful pot.
Where do I find another?
It could’ve been on display.
Now look at it. Nothing changes.
After Weeks of Winter’s Cold
After weeks of winter’s cold,
my mood as dark as days,
temps rose above freezing,
it’s bitter grip loosened.
Spring sent a card,
Remember me.
I heard birds sing again,
morning light brightened.
I did remember Spring.
Like a foolish school girl
longing for love, I wrote
its name over and over.
You Are Such a Tease
You are such a tease,
warm one day, cold the other.
Your moods a roller coaster,
sunny then threatening.
You ruffle my hair,
promise me my heart’s desire,
encourage my affection,
but your kisses sting my cheeks.
“Any day now” you taunt,
“Trust me to satisfy your longings”.
Your words torment and excite.
I am so in need of your warmth.
Winter has me in its grasp,
the ground still frozen solid.
Spring just a dim memory.
March, you’re such a tease.
Dear Poet,
I’ve never written to you
before today but I can
no longer maintain silence.
Don’t think I’m not grateful,
you’ve been a good employer,
but I’m tired of having to write
lots of words where a few would do.
For instance,
“She looked at me sadly” is now,
“She gazed at me from afar,
tears glistening in her eyes,
her face twisted in despair.”
This is a waste of ink.
Are you writing a poem
or a soap opera?
No one has time for this drivel.
I can tell by your grip that
you feel this is pensplaining,
but look at your audience,
they write in text messages,
and follow twitter. They are
not going to contemplate the
impact of your chosen words
on the literary world.
Think about what I’ve said.
This is within your grasp.
I remain,
Your devoted pen
I Looked for Meaning
I looked for meaning
gazing up at the clouds.
In them I saw the hand of God
stretched above me, then again,
it may have been a crab,
dancing the can-can.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:13.949787
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/floating-on-uncertain-seas/#chapter-282-section-14",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/floating-on-uncertain-seas/#chapter-282-section-15
|
2 Floating on Uncertain Seas
Constance Hodder
Lost
Lost my job, soon my dog.
He headed toward the bridge.
The cat ran off and hid.
Not sure how to find them.
Cell phone lost its power.
Pressed nine to be removed.
Eyes are clouded, ears ringing,
Not sure how to answer.
Sprung forward, lost an hour.
Calendar refused to change.
Time took off to join the dog.
Not sure how to follow.
Reality soon stepped aside.
Maybe was demoted.
Limbo took claim, raised his flag.
Not sure where I am now.
Joined dog and time up on
the bridge, horizon slips away.
The helm is standing empty.
Not sure where I’m going.
Chart a course, words my map.
Poetry my wheelhouse.
Floating on uncertain seas.
Not sure where I’ll land at.
Marilee Smiling Broadly
Marilee, smiling broadly
for the camera points to
the weather map reporting,
“Tonight’s forecast, enhanced risk”.
Later the storm hits, just as
she said, with all its fury.
Wouldn’t it be great to know
the risks before proceeding?
Marilee smiles, pointing at
your fiancé, “Your marriage,
marginal risk”. Now you smile,
breathing a sigh of relief.
She points to that used car,
“Slight risk” she foretells. Going on,
pointing to the contract for deed,
“Moderate risk” she predicts.
Through all this, you nod knowingly.
Smiling now, she points to you,
“Your life, high risk”. You pale,
anticipating impending doom.
There is great risk in living.
No one can predict the future,
not even Marilee, but we all know
no one gets out alive.
Now I Lay Me
Now I lay me down to sleep
on a pillow-top of privilege,
prostrate on freshly pressed sheets
purchased from Penneys.
My soul is well kept,
baptized and sanctified.
Washed clean by daily showers
and semi-annual hygienists visits.
Should I die before I wake
I pray the present profit
margins support the futures
maintaining resale value.
My soul preempts a takeover,
I eat right, exercise, and
attend weekly service. My ways
need no further guidance.
Powerless to dream the dream
I pass time penning poems
on reams of paper to be recycled
saving the planet. Amen.
Branches of the Noble Spruce
Branches of the noble spruce
raised like a Flamenco dancer,
swirl in the wind parading
his male prowess.
I hear the rhythmic clapping,
then fiery crickets join in,
strumming their guitars to the
throbbing pulse of his beat.
The scarlet paintbrush enters
to the sound of heels rapid tapping,
her sultry face half hidden
behind a fluttering fan.
With chin proudly raised, she turns
away from him, their limbs
undulating in unison,
passion overtaking them.
Their dance reaches its climax,
the paintbrush now entwined
within the spruce’s branches,
both spent and breathless.
The final notes hang in the air
humming like a bee,
the two bow in the wind as
I clap, and shout, “Bravo!”
The Darkened Stage Lights
The darkened stage lights,
woodwind and percussion sound,
the Thai dancer poses,
elegant fingers lifted.
The pine tree stands postured,
filled with inner stillness,
slender needles splayed
raised in awed wonder.
Face serenely composed,
arms and hands tell
life’s emotional journey,
struggle for survival.
Branches bowed down under,
weighted with snow and ice,
enduring winter’s darkness,
waiting for the light.
The dancer is not a tree
nor the tree a dancer,
their spirits share a song,
voiced within their limbs.
Music learned in darkness,
heard in graceful gesture,
twist of twig, branch, and root,
in blood and sap, on wind.
Happy Breath day
Happy Breath day.
We are on the air:
Air our grievances.
air our complaints.
air our dirty laundry.
It clouds the air.
Happy Breath day.
It’s in the air:
Respiratory droplets
when you sneeze,
when you cough,
when you lie.
They breathe out.
You breathe in.
Happy Breath day.
He sucked all the oxygen out of the room.
Freedom is like air.
When you have it
you don’t notice it.
I can’t breathe.
Happy Breath day.
Come up for air:
Throw open the window.
Fill your lungs.
Hold it in.
Embrace it.
Happy Breath day.
Hurry
HURRY, TIMES RUNNING OUT.
With dark clouds rolling in, we point
saying, “Look, there’s still blue sky,”
as light ebbs away.
Warned, QUANTITIES LIMITED.
What remains? Emptiness
fills the vacancy between
today and that day.
So we SHOP AND SAVE, praying
our credit isn’t exceeded
before closing time. Facing
FINAL DAY, ENDS SOON.
Just Beneath My Skin
Just beneath my skin
a mesh structure exists,
like chicken wire,
holding me together.
It keeps me upright
so I don’t crumple,
sag before family,
collapse in a heap.
This is a bad day.
My hollow chest caved in.
Old wire has become
brittle, rusted, unstable.
Years ago it was
recalled from the market,
leaving us implants
no recourse but removal.
Without it I would never
stand again, return to
slither through the garden,
in search of fallen apples.
Open to Question
Please complete the following:
Check the box.
Are you alive?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Undetermined
Have you received a second opinion?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Planning to
Are you satisfied with the results?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Doubtful
Is this your final answer?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Unlikely
Do you have any comments?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Unable
Thank you for your participation.
The New York Times Asks
The New York Times asks,
“Is Omicron peaking?”
I saw the covered face,
neither man nor woman,
child nor adult,
black nor white.
I could not pick out
that face in a crowd,
but it glanced my way,
caught my eye,
dipped its head.
Death lives next door.
I smell the smoke rise
from his burn pile.
I see the hand raised to me
from the window.
Why is it now the dead
that point the way?
Why is it their voice I hear
though they no longer
speak a word?
Omicron is peaking.
MPR Reports: Ancient cooking vessel found in
Boundary Waters dates back more than 1600 years.
I return from checking traps.
What do I find?
The wild rice pot boiled over,
our dinner burned, the fire out.
I leave you one simple job.
Do you do it?
No, you have more important
things to do than watch a pot boil.
I trusted you to watch it.
What were you doing?
I bet you fell asleep, or
fooling around again.
Oh no, I don’t believe it.
Do you see it?
That long crack way up the side.
My mother gave me that pot.
I have used that pot all my life.
How will I cook?
We will have to eat rice raw,
break our teeth off chewing it.
I loved that beautiful pot.
Where do I find another?
It could’ve been on display.
Now look at it. Nothing changes.
After Weeks of Winter’s Cold
After weeks of winter’s cold,
my mood as dark as days,
temps rose above freezing,
it’s bitter grip loosened.
Spring sent a card,
Remember me.
I heard birds sing again,
morning light brightened.
I did remember Spring.
Like a foolish school girl
longing for love, I wrote
its name over and over.
You Are Such a Tease
You are such a tease,
warm one day, cold the other.
Your moods a roller coaster,
sunny then threatening.
You ruffle my hair,
promise me my heart’s desire,
encourage my affection,
but your kisses sting my cheeks.
“Any day now” you taunt,
“Trust me to satisfy your longings”.
Your words torment and excite.
I am so in need of your warmth.
Winter has me in its grasp,
the ground still frozen solid.
Spring just a dim memory.
March, you’re such a tease.
Dear Poet,
I’ve never written to you
before today but I can
no longer maintain silence.
Don’t think I’m not grateful,
you’ve been a good employer,
but I’m tired of having to write
lots of words where a few would do.
For instance,
“She looked at me sadly” is now,
“She gazed at me from afar,
tears glistening in her eyes,
her face twisted in despair.”
This is a waste of ink.
Are you writing a poem
or a soap opera?
No one has time for this drivel.
I can tell by your grip that
you feel this is pensplaining,
but look at your audience,
they write in text messages,
and follow twitter. They are
not going to contemplate the
impact of your chosen words
on the literary world.
Think about what I’ve said.
This is within your grasp.
I remain,
Your devoted pen
I Looked for Meaning
I looked for meaning
gazing up at the clouds.
In them I saw the hand of God
stretched above me, then again,
it may have been a crab,
dancing the can-can.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:13.993912
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/floating-on-uncertain-seas/#chapter-282-section-15",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/floating-on-uncertain-seas/#chapter-282-section-16
|
2 Floating on Uncertain Seas
Constance Hodder
Lost
Lost my job, soon my dog.
He headed toward the bridge.
The cat ran off and hid.
Not sure how to find them.
Cell phone lost its power.
Pressed nine to be removed.
Eyes are clouded, ears ringing,
Not sure how to answer.
Sprung forward, lost an hour.
Calendar refused to change.
Time took off to join the dog.
Not sure how to follow.
Reality soon stepped aside.
Maybe was demoted.
Limbo took claim, raised his flag.
Not sure where I am now.
Joined dog and time up on
the bridge, horizon slips away.
The helm is standing empty.
Not sure where I’m going.
Chart a course, words my map.
Poetry my wheelhouse.
Floating on uncertain seas.
Not sure where I’ll land at.
Marilee Smiling Broadly
Marilee, smiling broadly
for the camera points to
the weather map reporting,
“Tonight’s forecast, enhanced risk”.
Later the storm hits, just as
she said, with all its fury.
Wouldn’t it be great to know
the risks before proceeding?
Marilee smiles, pointing at
your fiancé, “Your marriage,
marginal risk”. Now you smile,
breathing a sigh of relief.
She points to that used car,
“Slight risk” she foretells. Going on,
pointing to the contract for deed,
“Moderate risk” she predicts.
Through all this, you nod knowingly.
Smiling now, she points to you,
“Your life, high risk”. You pale,
anticipating impending doom.
There is great risk in living.
No one can predict the future,
not even Marilee, but we all know
no one gets out alive.
Now I Lay Me
Now I lay me down to sleep
on a pillow-top of privilege,
prostrate on freshly pressed sheets
purchased from Penneys.
My soul is well kept,
baptized and sanctified.
Washed clean by daily showers
and semi-annual hygienists visits.
Should I die before I wake
I pray the present profit
margins support the futures
maintaining resale value.
My soul preempts a takeover,
I eat right, exercise, and
attend weekly service. My ways
need no further guidance.
Powerless to dream the dream
I pass time penning poems
on reams of paper to be recycled
saving the planet. Amen.
Branches of the Noble Spruce
Branches of the noble spruce
raised like a Flamenco dancer,
swirl in the wind parading
his male prowess.
I hear the rhythmic clapping,
then fiery crickets join in,
strumming their guitars to the
throbbing pulse of his beat.
The scarlet paintbrush enters
to the sound of heels rapid tapping,
her sultry face half hidden
behind a fluttering fan.
With chin proudly raised, she turns
away from him, their limbs
undulating in unison,
passion overtaking them.
Their dance reaches its climax,
the paintbrush now entwined
within the spruce’s branches,
both spent and breathless.
The final notes hang in the air
humming like a bee,
the two bow in the wind as
I clap, and shout, “Bravo!”
The Darkened Stage Lights
The darkened stage lights,
woodwind and percussion sound,
the Thai dancer poses,
elegant fingers lifted.
The pine tree stands postured,
filled with inner stillness,
slender needles splayed
raised in awed wonder.
Face serenely composed,
arms and hands tell
life’s emotional journey,
struggle for survival.
Branches bowed down under,
weighted with snow and ice,
enduring winter’s darkness,
waiting for the light.
The dancer is not a tree
nor the tree a dancer,
their spirits share a song,
voiced within their limbs.
Music learned in darkness,
heard in graceful gesture,
twist of twig, branch, and root,
in blood and sap, on wind.
Happy Breath day
Happy Breath day.
We are on the air:
Air our grievances.
air our complaints.
air our dirty laundry.
It clouds the air.
Happy Breath day.
It’s in the air:
Respiratory droplets
when you sneeze,
when you cough,
when you lie.
They breathe out.
You breathe in.
Happy Breath day.
He sucked all the oxygen out of the room.
Freedom is like air.
When you have it
you don’t notice it.
I can’t breathe.
Happy Breath day.
Come up for air:
Throw open the window.
Fill your lungs.
Hold it in.
Embrace it.
Happy Breath day.
Hurry
HURRY, TIMES RUNNING OUT.
With dark clouds rolling in, we point
saying, “Look, there’s still blue sky,”
as light ebbs away.
Warned, QUANTITIES LIMITED.
What remains? Emptiness
fills the vacancy between
today and that day.
So we SHOP AND SAVE, praying
our credit isn’t exceeded
before closing time. Facing
FINAL DAY, ENDS SOON.
Just Beneath My Skin
Just beneath my skin
a mesh structure exists,
like chicken wire,
holding me together.
It keeps me upright
so I don’t crumple,
sag before family,
collapse in a heap.
This is a bad day.
My hollow chest caved in.
Old wire has become
brittle, rusted, unstable.
Years ago it was
recalled from the market,
leaving us implants
no recourse but removal.
Without it I would never
stand again, return to
slither through the garden,
in search of fallen apples.
Open to Question
Please complete the following:
Check the box.
Are you alive?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Undetermined
Have you received a second opinion?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Planning to
Are you satisfied with the results?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Doubtful
Is this your final answer?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Unlikely
Do you have any comments?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Unable
Thank you for your participation.
The New York Times Asks
The New York Times asks,
“Is Omicron peaking?”
I saw the covered face,
neither man nor woman,
child nor adult,
black nor white.
I could not pick out
that face in a crowd,
but it glanced my way,
caught my eye,
dipped its head.
Death lives next door.
I smell the smoke rise
from his burn pile.
I see the hand raised to me
from the window.
Why is it now the dead
that point the way?
Why is it their voice I hear
though they no longer
speak a word?
Omicron is peaking.
MPR Reports: Ancient cooking vessel found in
Boundary Waters dates back more than 1600 years.
I return from checking traps.
What do I find?
The wild rice pot boiled over,
our dinner burned, the fire out.
I leave you one simple job.
Do you do it?
No, you have more important
things to do than watch a pot boil.
I trusted you to watch it.
What were you doing?
I bet you fell asleep, or
fooling around again.
Oh no, I don’t believe it.
Do you see it?
That long crack way up the side.
My mother gave me that pot.
I have used that pot all my life.
How will I cook?
We will have to eat rice raw,
break our teeth off chewing it.
I loved that beautiful pot.
Where do I find another?
It could’ve been on display.
Now look at it. Nothing changes.
After Weeks of Winter’s Cold
After weeks of winter’s cold,
my mood as dark as days,
temps rose above freezing,
it’s bitter grip loosened.
Spring sent a card,
Remember me.
I heard birds sing again,
morning light brightened.
I did remember Spring.
Like a foolish school girl
longing for love, I wrote
its name over and over.
You Are Such a Tease
You are such a tease,
warm one day, cold the other.
Your moods a roller coaster,
sunny then threatening.
You ruffle my hair,
promise me my heart’s desire,
encourage my affection,
but your kisses sting my cheeks.
“Any day now” you taunt,
“Trust me to satisfy your longings”.
Your words torment and excite.
I am so in need of your warmth.
Winter has me in its grasp,
the ground still frozen solid.
Spring just a dim memory.
March, you’re such a tease.
Dear Poet,
I’ve never written to you
before today but I can
no longer maintain silence.
Don’t think I’m not grateful,
you’ve been a good employer,
but I’m tired of having to write
lots of words where a few would do.
For instance,
“She looked at me sadly” is now,
“She gazed at me from afar,
tears glistening in her eyes,
her face twisted in despair.”
This is a waste of ink.
Are you writing a poem
or a soap opera?
No one has time for this drivel.
I can tell by your grip that
you feel this is pensplaining,
but look at your audience,
they write in text messages,
and follow twitter. They are
not going to contemplate the
impact of your chosen words
on the literary world.
Think about what I’ve said.
This is within your grasp.
I remain,
Your devoted pen
I Looked for Meaning
I looked for meaning
gazing up at the clouds.
In them I saw the hand of God
stretched above me, then again,
it may have been a crab,
dancing the can-can.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:14.040919
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/floating-on-uncertain-seas/#chapter-282-section-16",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/floating-on-uncertain-seas/#chapter-282-section-17
|
2 Floating on Uncertain Seas
Constance Hodder
Lost
Lost my job, soon my dog.
He headed toward the bridge.
The cat ran off and hid.
Not sure how to find them.
Cell phone lost its power.
Pressed nine to be removed.
Eyes are clouded, ears ringing,
Not sure how to answer.
Sprung forward, lost an hour.
Calendar refused to change.
Time took off to join the dog.
Not sure how to follow.
Reality soon stepped aside.
Maybe was demoted.
Limbo took claim, raised his flag.
Not sure where I am now.
Joined dog and time up on
the bridge, horizon slips away.
The helm is standing empty.
Not sure where I’m going.
Chart a course, words my map.
Poetry my wheelhouse.
Floating on uncertain seas.
Not sure where I’ll land at.
Marilee Smiling Broadly
Marilee, smiling broadly
for the camera points to
the weather map reporting,
“Tonight’s forecast, enhanced risk”.
Later the storm hits, just as
she said, with all its fury.
Wouldn’t it be great to know
the risks before proceeding?
Marilee smiles, pointing at
your fiancé, “Your marriage,
marginal risk”. Now you smile,
breathing a sigh of relief.
She points to that used car,
“Slight risk” she foretells. Going on,
pointing to the contract for deed,
“Moderate risk” she predicts.
Through all this, you nod knowingly.
Smiling now, she points to you,
“Your life, high risk”. You pale,
anticipating impending doom.
There is great risk in living.
No one can predict the future,
not even Marilee, but we all know
no one gets out alive.
Now I Lay Me
Now I lay me down to sleep
on a pillow-top of privilege,
prostrate on freshly pressed sheets
purchased from Penneys.
My soul is well kept,
baptized and sanctified.
Washed clean by daily showers
and semi-annual hygienists visits.
Should I die before I wake
I pray the present profit
margins support the futures
maintaining resale value.
My soul preempts a takeover,
I eat right, exercise, and
attend weekly service. My ways
need no further guidance.
Powerless to dream the dream
I pass time penning poems
on reams of paper to be recycled
saving the planet. Amen.
Branches of the Noble Spruce
Branches of the noble spruce
raised like a Flamenco dancer,
swirl in the wind parading
his male prowess.
I hear the rhythmic clapping,
then fiery crickets join in,
strumming their guitars to the
throbbing pulse of his beat.
The scarlet paintbrush enters
to the sound of heels rapid tapping,
her sultry face half hidden
behind a fluttering fan.
With chin proudly raised, she turns
away from him, their limbs
undulating in unison,
passion overtaking them.
Their dance reaches its climax,
the paintbrush now entwined
within the spruce’s branches,
both spent and breathless.
The final notes hang in the air
humming like a bee,
the two bow in the wind as
I clap, and shout, “Bravo!”
The Darkened Stage Lights
The darkened stage lights,
woodwind and percussion sound,
the Thai dancer poses,
elegant fingers lifted.
The pine tree stands postured,
filled with inner stillness,
slender needles splayed
raised in awed wonder.
Face serenely composed,
arms and hands tell
life’s emotional journey,
struggle for survival.
Branches bowed down under,
weighted with snow and ice,
enduring winter’s darkness,
waiting for the light.
The dancer is not a tree
nor the tree a dancer,
their spirits share a song,
voiced within their limbs.
Music learned in darkness,
heard in graceful gesture,
twist of twig, branch, and root,
in blood and sap, on wind.
Happy Breath day
Happy Breath day.
We are on the air:
Air our grievances.
air our complaints.
air our dirty laundry.
It clouds the air.
Happy Breath day.
It’s in the air:
Respiratory droplets
when you sneeze,
when you cough,
when you lie.
They breathe out.
You breathe in.
Happy Breath day.
He sucked all the oxygen out of the room.
Freedom is like air.
When you have it
you don’t notice it.
I can’t breathe.
Happy Breath day.
Come up for air:
Throw open the window.
Fill your lungs.
Hold it in.
Embrace it.
Happy Breath day.
Hurry
HURRY, TIMES RUNNING OUT.
With dark clouds rolling in, we point
saying, “Look, there’s still blue sky,”
as light ebbs away.
Warned, QUANTITIES LIMITED.
What remains? Emptiness
fills the vacancy between
today and that day.
So we SHOP AND SAVE, praying
our credit isn’t exceeded
before closing time. Facing
FINAL DAY, ENDS SOON.
Just Beneath My Skin
Just beneath my skin
a mesh structure exists,
like chicken wire,
holding me together.
It keeps me upright
so I don’t crumple,
sag before family,
collapse in a heap.
This is a bad day.
My hollow chest caved in.
Old wire has become
brittle, rusted, unstable.
Years ago it was
recalled from the market,
leaving us implants
no recourse but removal.
Without it I would never
stand again, return to
slither through the garden,
in search of fallen apples.
Open to Question
Please complete the following:
Check the box.
Are you alive?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Undetermined
Have you received a second opinion?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Planning to
Are you satisfied with the results?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Doubtful
Is this your final answer?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Unlikely
Do you have any comments?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
[ ] Unable
Thank you for your participation.
The New York Times Asks
The New York Times asks,
“Is Omicron peaking?”
I saw the covered face,
neither man nor woman,
child nor adult,
black nor white.
I could not pick out
that face in a crowd,
but it glanced my way,
caught my eye,
dipped its head.
Death lives next door.
I smell the smoke rise
from his burn pile.
I see the hand raised to me
from the window.
Why is it now the dead
that point the way?
Why is it their voice I hear
though they no longer
speak a word?
Omicron is peaking.
MPR Reports: Ancient cooking vessel found in
Boundary Waters dates back more than 1600 years.
I return from checking traps.
What do I find?
The wild rice pot boiled over,
our dinner burned, the fire out.
I leave you one simple job.
Do you do it?
No, you have more important
things to do than watch a pot boil.
I trusted you to watch it.
What were you doing?
I bet you fell asleep, or
fooling around again.
Oh no, I don’t believe it.
Do you see it?
That long crack way up the side.
My mother gave me that pot.
I have used that pot all my life.
How will I cook?
We will have to eat rice raw,
break our teeth off chewing it.
I loved that beautiful pot.
Where do I find another?
It could’ve been on display.
Now look at it. Nothing changes.
After Weeks of Winter’s Cold
After weeks of winter’s cold,
my mood as dark as days,
temps rose above freezing,
it’s bitter grip loosened.
Spring sent a card,
Remember me.
I heard birds sing again,
morning light brightened.
I did remember Spring.
Like a foolish school girl
longing for love, I wrote
its name over and over.
You Are Such a Tease
You are such a tease,
warm one day, cold the other.
Your moods a roller coaster,
sunny then threatening.
You ruffle my hair,
promise me my heart’s desire,
encourage my affection,
but your kisses sting my cheeks.
“Any day now” you taunt,
“Trust me to satisfy your longings”.
Your words torment and excite.
I am so in need of your warmth.
Winter has me in its grasp,
the ground still frozen solid.
Spring just a dim memory.
March, you’re such a tease.
Dear Poet,
I’ve never written to you
before today but I can
no longer maintain silence.
Don’t think I’m not grateful,
you’ve been a good employer,
but I’m tired of having to write
lots of words where a few would do.
For instance,
“She looked at me sadly” is now,
“She gazed at me from afar,
tears glistening in her eyes,
her face twisted in despair.”
This is a waste of ink.
Are you writing a poem
or a soap opera?
No one has time for this drivel.
I can tell by your grip that
you feel this is pensplaining,
but look at your audience,
they write in text messages,
and follow twitter. They are
not going to contemplate the
impact of your chosen words
on the literary world.
Think about what I’ve said.
This is within your grasp.
I remain,
Your devoted pen
I Looked for Meaning
I looked for meaning
gazing up at the clouds.
In them I saw the hand of God
stretched above me, then again,
it may have been a crab,
dancing the can-can.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:14.094573
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/floating-on-uncertain-seas/#chapter-282-section-17",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/
|
3 Your Voice Was Heard
Constance Hodder
In the Silence
In the silence, at day’s end,
looking over the meadow,
I hear you say,
“You should work the land”.
Great Grandfather,
You were a logger.
You were a farmer.
I am not. What is our connection
now a century past?
At the end of the road at Red Top,
I tried to find you.
Your sawmill, gone.
Tall tamaracks, gone.
Even sawdust
blown away.
What remained was the soil,
sewn with your sweat,
sewn with your dreams,
I found you there,
Your love of this land.
Great Grandfather,
We share a kinship
with each other,
with the land.
I plant trees
to remember,
those gone before
whose roots grow
deep in my bones.
Your voice was heard.
I could not leave Red Top
without something
to hold onto.
I collected a branch
from an old oak tree
you may have rested against,
in the silence, at day’s end.
My Grandmother Was Clever
My grandmother was clever,
she could tat a collar of lace,
make a doll out of a handkerchief,
and beat me at tiddlywinks.
In the end of her days, she was
heard conversing with her mother,
who passed when she was eight,
time’s veil having worn thin.
Today was warm and sunny,
I took my sandwich outside,
to eat at the picnic table,
and found you were there.
So we ate side by side,
mine peanut butter with jelly,
yours peanut butter with mayo.
Are you surprised I remembered?
Together for that moment,
eating with the sun on our backs,
yesterday as today,
without a breath between them.
Sorrow replaced by wonder
that time’s passage is not
terminal, only limited
by how we part the veil.
Gloria
Gloria is gone.
Covid stole her,
while we looked away.
Chickadee lies still
in the garden,
while we looked away.
Gloria asked angels
to lift her foot
as she stepped off.
Tiny bird entombed
between my hands,
Were angels there for you?
Gloria in Excelsis.
The Child cries alone
and we looked away.
Wind Howled in the Night
Wind howled in the night,
rain came down in torrents.
I awoke to birds singing
but heard you did not.
You who loved bright beads,
delighted in wearing a rainbow
of mismatched socks.
Who laughed so hard, we cried.
Every day birds take time
to sing out their hearts.
Do they do this to
let go of sorrow?
Intellectual disability,
a label about knowing less but
understanding more about
how vital it is to sing.
After the clouds blew off,
the sun shone this morning.
Despite this, the day didn’t
seem as bright without you.
Elise
Elise stands tall
On straight thin legs.
“I am almost ten”
she states.
That’s five plus five,
I marvel.
Elise stands proud.
“I don’t like sports.
I like music”
she reports.
What’s your instrument?
I question.
Elise never wavers.
“I like to sing”.
She stands tall
almost 10.
I listen,
bent with age.
In awe of youth.
Singing!
The Saga of Heavenly Hash
I know you remember
that evening so many years ago
in South Minneapolis
like yesterday.
Sitting side by side
on the porch front stoop
too hot to sit inside
the evening light fading.
Our hearts were one
as we poured out our
thoughts, hopes, and dreams
souls united from the start.
You on my left with your
deep tan and deeper insights.
Me with my long unshaven legs
and optimistic innocence.
The evening etched into memory
all because of two spoons
and a half gallon of ice cream
that disappeared as night set in.
Watering Trees
I remember
you as a young boy
going out to the field
with your father
to water trees.
He planted those trees
to protect the soil
creating shelter
for our home.
The trees grew tall
and you grew tall.
Now I see you
protecting your family
creating shelter
for your home.
Your son now
will need to learn
from you how to
water trees.
On The First Day
On the first day in June
the sky was brilliant blue,
so crystal clear it ran
through an icy stream
you could dip your cup into
and drink until you burst.
Life giving water flowing
over the forehead of
a newborn held so closely
by his father that their
hearts beat together as one
under a brilliant blue sky.
The Sky Darkened
The sky darkened with clouds.
Water sprinkled like rain
from the hands of the priest,
who draped the casket with
a white blanket as if
he was tucking in bed
his cold sleeping child.
In this tender action,
our loss too was covered,
not unlike a Band-Aid
hiding a weeping wound,
or newly laid tile
over old linoleum,
though neither captures it.
More like the first snowfall,
covering fallen leaves,
bare patches of dead grass,
fields of brown corn stubble,
suddenly cloaked in
white sparkling brilliance,
a paradise to behold.
We know what lies beneath,
sleeping through this season,
waiting till snow melts away,
verdant leaves bursting forth,
grass springing green overnight,
corn growing tall to harvest,
hope breaking through darkness.
CNN Reports: Colorado Reels after Deadly LGBTQ Club Shooting
He Was Only Four
He was only four
when he told his mother
he was a boy.
Then God said, ”Let us make man…
He/him “was a light in my life
with so much more life to give.”
in our own image, after our likeness…
She/her “was an amazing mother
with a huge heart.”
He created he/him, she/her, they/them.
He/him “was kind, willing to go out
of his way to help others.”
He created them.
She/her “was loving, caring, and sweet.
Everyone loved her.”
And it was so.”
He/him “found a community he loved
where he could really shine.”
We wept.
Her Hands Stretched Wide
Her hands stretched wide
across a growing belly,
searching for hope’s dance,
love’s secret within.
Seeing the unseen,
knowing the unknown,
bound eternally,
in blood and bone.
Hope denied, buried,
grave without a name,
sorrow never resting
stretches out its hands.
Blood will never see,
secrets within the vein,
bone will never hear,
a name only whispered.
My Hands Cradle
My hands cradle
the calabash,
scrubbing clean its
mottled brown skin.
Stretched tight over
a rounded belly,
its moisture lost,
dried seeds wait.
Coping with loss
is life’s journey,
was said as we
tied netted beads.
Around their hulls,
transforming gourds
into shakere,
beaded rattles.
A shake giving
voice to the hollow
bewitching beat
of the gourd dance.
“Ready to go,
ready to die”,
chant the rattle’s
ancient cadence.
Within its hollow,
loss and life lie
cradled together,
ready to sing.
At Thanksgiving
At Thanksgiving,
grief and sorrow,
took their place around the table,
on either side of gratitude.
At Christmas,
hope and joy,
joined in the festive celebration,
inviting remembrance to take a seat.
Easter is yet a mystery,
your face unseen,
known only in our hearts and bones.
We hold a place for you.
A Father’s Letter, June 25, 1974
“Honey we love you very much. We know you are going to have times of loneliness…”
I remember being small,
lost in a sea of legs.
Searching and sobbing,
you scooping me up.
“and times of foreboding.”
I remember being scared,
in shock after mother was shot.
Waiting side by side,
you consoling me.
“When these times come, pray to God.”
I remember being a bride,
walking down an aisle
on your arm having learned
love endures.
“When all else fails…”
I remember the sorrow,
you not knowing my name.
Then your heart sang out
calling ‘sweetheart’.
“You are not alone. Your ever-loving, Dad”
I remember your passing,
my glimpse of your spirit.
The message received,
love never fails.
My Father’s Stockings
He passed away
narrowly alone in
nursing home bed
once surrounded
by family
left now
in peace.
He may have worn stockings
to warm bony
cold blue feet
but the next morning
when we returned
only the bare
striped mattress
remained.
My father was
a clean man
who washed out
his stockings nightly
hanging them to dry
on the towel rack.
Something he learned to do
surrounded by brothers
with dirty feet.
We cleaned out
his drawers
his closet
his photos
leaving with bags
of a used life. Useful.
This for daughter
this for son,
this for donations
this for garbage.
The stockings
for donation laid
on top of the heap
for days
then seeing
their worn heels
their prickly
elastic tops
were placed
in the garbage.
One pair never
passed on but
remains in my
sock drawer
silently awaiting
hands that
hold turn
and remember
the man.
Two Deer
Two deer lay side by side
on an island of grass,
surrounded by snow,
waiting for sunrise.
I watched from my window,
delighted with their ease,
blessed to be included
In this landscape we share.
A bald eagle watched,
perched high atop a tree,
messenger of prayers
between souls now and past.
How do the departed slip
past the sleeping deer,
past the morning sunrise,
past our out stretched hands?
On the eagle’s wings
their spirit soars, not past,
within the landscape
of our shared existence.
Never far, always near,
joined with us, sharing love,
joy, sorrow, and prayers,
sunrises and sunsets.
Under Cover of Lipstick
Under cover of lipstick,
she took on the world.
Fire Engine Red, I teased her,
a nineteen-sixties siren.
Left behind her mark on
coffee cups and children’s cheeks,
giving life to her pale lips,
igniting a glowing smile.
That hid sorrow well until
the undertaker applied it
for the final time after which
those lips sealed the secret.
You told us he died,
such a long time ago,
crying to keep him buried,
but behind those tears, he lived.
Did you lie to protect us
or to protect yourself?
Sometimes what is apparent,
is nothing more than a ghost.
I rub the lipstick off my cheek,
still covering the truth.
and Death Shall Have No
and Death shall have no
dominion but time,
time is an open wound
never healing, picked
raw in secret.
Five years now have passed.
Seeing your face in
anguish etched into
memory that stands
frozen, helpless.
Time holds me captive.
Richness of happy days.
Poverty of loss.
Death’s dominion grips
what time is left.
Thanksgiving is past.
Snow blankets a frozen
world not dead, at rest,
awaiting rebirth,
awaiting hope.
I Laid My Hand
I laid my hand
against your cheek
holding what remained.
Your face etched
in memory as
life ebbed away.
A tree branch flung
my glasses off,
far into the snow.
Blinded I searched,
until my heart
began to see.
Three days you walked
through the valley
shadowed by death.
Goodness and mercy
followed, while bedside,
I sat helpless.
Looking in a mirror
my heart now sees
our reflection.
I lay my hand
against my cheek,
holding what remains.
I Thought of You
I thought of you today.
Snow has melted away
from the burial mound
of grass clippings you left.
Things seem unfinished
that never had an end.
Why ask why, when there’ll
never be an answer?
This is what I know from
all my years of living.
Pain cannot be treated
with a Band-Aid and a kiss.
Too much insulation
stops a house from breathing.
Crumpled paper cannot
keep china from cracking.
Closing your eyes will not
shut out the world.
I thought of the cabin.
Plywood covering the doors
and windows has not stopped
squirrels from getting in.
You shut your eyes when life
became unbearable.
Winter ended. Spring began.
The grass grows green again.
The Table Stands Empty
In a cavernous silence
the table stands empty.
Yellow leaves drift down
covering its surface.
Yesterday we sat there
feasting on colors
of light and love spinning
a cocoon together.
Within its snug safety
dark places opened.
The work of our hands
became the work of our hearts.
Today we awaken,
bright colors painted,
strong baskets woven,
awaiting butterflies.
Colors
Colors cascade
from hands of
friend to friend.
Delighted like girls,
bonded like women,
who know places
not all hearts
have found
together.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:14.162913
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-1
|
3 Your Voice Was Heard
Constance Hodder
In the Silence
In the silence, at day’s end,
looking over the meadow,
I hear you say,
“You should work the land”.
Great Grandfather,
You were a logger.
You were a farmer.
I am not. What is our connection
now a century past?
At the end of the road at Red Top,
I tried to find you.
Your sawmill, gone.
Tall tamaracks, gone.
Even sawdust
blown away.
What remained was the soil,
sewn with your sweat,
sewn with your dreams,
I found you there,
Your love of this land.
Great Grandfather,
We share a kinship
with each other,
with the land.
I plant trees
to remember,
those gone before
whose roots grow
deep in my bones.
Your voice was heard.
I could not leave Red Top
without something
to hold onto.
I collected a branch
from an old oak tree
you may have rested against,
in the silence, at day’s end.
My Grandmother Was Clever
My grandmother was clever,
she could tat a collar of lace,
make a doll out of a handkerchief,
and beat me at tiddlywinks.
In the end of her days, she was
heard conversing with her mother,
who passed when she was eight,
time’s veil having worn thin.
Today was warm and sunny,
I took my sandwich outside,
to eat at the picnic table,
and found you were there.
So we ate side by side,
mine peanut butter with jelly,
yours peanut butter with mayo.
Are you surprised I remembered?
Together for that moment,
eating with the sun on our backs,
yesterday as today,
without a breath between them.
Sorrow replaced by wonder
that time’s passage is not
terminal, only limited
by how we part the veil.
Gloria
Gloria is gone.
Covid stole her,
while we looked away.
Chickadee lies still
in the garden,
while we looked away.
Gloria asked angels
to lift her foot
as she stepped off.
Tiny bird entombed
between my hands,
Were angels there for you?
Gloria in Excelsis.
The Child cries alone
and we looked away.
Wind Howled in the Night
Wind howled in the night,
rain came down in torrents.
I awoke to birds singing
but heard you did not.
You who loved bright beads,
delighted in wearing a rainbow
of mismatched socks.
Who laughed so hard, we cried.
Every day birds take time
to sing out their hearts.
Do they do this to
let go of sorrow?
Intellectual disability,
a label about knowing less but
understanding more about
how vital it is to sing.
After the clouds blew off,
the sun shone this morning.
Despite this, the day didn’t
seem as bright without you.
Elise
Elise stands tall
On straight thin legs.
“I am almost ten”
she states.
That’s five plus five,
I marvel.
Elise stands proud.
“I don’t like sports.
I like music”
she reports.
What’s your instrument?
I question.
Elise never wavers.
“I like to sing”.
She stands tall
almost 10.
I listen,
bent with age.
In awe of youth.
Singing!
The Saga of Heavenly Hash
I know you remember
that evening so many years ago
in South Minneapolis
like yesterday.
Sitting side by side
on the porch front stoop
too hot to sit inside
the evening light fading.
Our hearts were one
as we poured out our
thoughts, hopes, and dreams
souls united from the start.
You on my left with your
deep tan and deeper insights.
Me with my long unshaven legs
and optimistic innocence.
The evening etched into memory
all because of two spoons
and a half gallon of ice cream
that disappeared as night set in.
Watering Trees
I remember
you as a young boy
going out to the field
with your father
to water trees.
He planted those trees
to protect the soil
creating shelter
for our home.
The trees grew tall
and you grew tall.
Now I see you
protecting your family
creating shelter
for your home.
Your son now
will need to learn
from you how to
water trees.
On The First Day
On the first day in June
the sky was brilliant blue,
so crystal clear it ran
through an icy stream
you could dip your cup into
and drink until you burst.
Life giving water flowing
over the forehead of
a newborn held so closely
by his father that their
hearts beat together as one
under a brilliant blue sky.
The Sky Darkened
The sky darkened with clouds.
Water sprinkled like rain
from the hands of the priest,
who draped the casket with
a white blanket as if
he was tucking in bed
his cold sleeping child.
In this tender action,
our loss too was covered,
not unlike a Band-Aid
hiding a weeping wound,
or newly laid tile
over old linoleum,
though neither captures it.
More like the first snowfall,
covering fallen leaves,
bare patches of dead grass,
fields of brown corn stubble,
suddenly cloaked in
white sparkling brilliance,
a paradise to behold.
We know what lies beneath,
sleeping through this season,
waiting till snow melts away,
verdant leaves bursting forth,
grass springing green overnight,
corn growing tall to harvest,
hope breaking through darkness.
CNN Reports: Colorado Reels after Deadly LGBTQ Club Shooting
He Was Only Four
He was only four
when he told his mother
he was a boy.
Then God said, ”Let us make man…
He/him “was a light in my life
with so much more life to give.”
in our own image, after our likeness…
She/her “was an amazing mother
with a huge heart.”
He created he/him, she/her, they/them.
He/him “was kind, willing to go out
of his way to help others.”
He created them.
She/her “was loving, caring, and sweet.
Everyone loved her.”
And it was so.”
He/him “found a community he loved
where he could really shine.”
We wept.
Her Hands Stretched Wide
Her hands stretched wide
across a growing belly,
searching for hope’s dance,
love’s secret within.
Seeing the unseen,
knowing the unknown,
bound eternally,
in blood and bone.
Hope denied, buried,
grave without a name,
sorrow never resting
stretches out its hands.
Blood will never see,
secrets within the vein,
bone will never hear,
a name only whispered.
My Hands Cradle
My hands cradle
the calabash,
scrubbing clean its
mottled brown skin.
Stretched tight over
a rounded belly,
its moisture lost,
dried seeds wait.
Coping with loss
is life’s journey,
was said as we
tied netted beads.
Around their hulls,
transforming gourds
into shakere,
beaded rattles.
A shake giving
voice to the hollow
bewitching beat
of the gourd dance.
“Ready to go,
ready to die”,
chant the rattle’s
ancient cadence.
Within its hollow,
loss and life lie
cradled together,
ready to sing.
At Thanksgiving
At Thanksgiving,
grief and sorrow,
took their place around the table,
on either side of gratitude.
At Christmas,
hope and joy,
joined in the festive celebration,
inviting remembrance to take a seat.
Easter is yet a mystery,
your face unseen,
known only in our hearts and bones.
We hold a place for you.
A Father’s Letter, June 25, 1974
“Honey we love you very much. We know you are going to have times of loneliness…”
I remember being small,
lost in a sea of legs.
Searching and sobbing,
you scooping me up.
“and times of foreboding.”
I remember being scared,
in shock after mother was shot.
Waiting side by side,
you consoling me.
“When these times come, pray to God.”
I remember being a bride,
walking down an aisle
on your arm having learned
love endures.
“When all else fails…”
I remember the sorrow,
you not knowing my name.
Then your heart sang out
calling ‘sweetheart’.
“You are not alone. Your ever-loving, Dad”
I remember your passing,
my glimpse of your spirit.
The message received,
love never fails.
My Father’s Stockings
He passed away
narrowly alone in
nursing home bed
once surrounded
by family
left now
in peace.
He may have worn stockings
to warm bony
cold blue feet
but the next morning
when we returned
only the bare
striped mattress
remained.
My father was
a clean man
who washed out
his stockings nightly
hanging them to dry
on the towel rack.
Something he learned to do
surrounded by brothers
with dirty feet.
We cleaned out
his drawers
his closet
his photos
leaving with bags
of a used life. Useful.
This for daughter
this for son,
this for donations
this for garbage.
The stockings
for donation laid
on top of the heap
for days
then seeing
their worn heels
their prickly
elastic tops
were placed
in the garbage.
One pair never
passed on but
remains in my
sock drawer
silently awaiting
hands that
hold turn
and remember
the man.
Two Deer
Two deer lay side by side
on an island of grass,
surrounded by snow,
waiting for sunrise.
I watched from my window,
delighted with their ease,
blessed to be included
In this landscape we share.
A bald eagle watched,
perched high atop a tree,
messenger of prayers
between souls now and past.
How do the departed slip
past the sleeping deer,
past the morning sunrise,
past our out stretched hands?
On the eagle’s wings
their spirit soars, not past,
within the landscape
of our shared existence.
Never far, always near,
joined with us, sharing love,
joy, sorrow, and prayers,
sunrises and sunsets.
Under Cover of Lipstick
Under cover of lipstick,
she took on the world.
Fire Engine Red, I teased her,
a nineteen-sixties siren.
Left behind her mark on
coffee cups and children’s cheeks,
giving life to her pale lips,
igniting a glowing smile.
That hid sorrow well until
the undertaker applied it
for the final time after which
those lips sealed the secret.
You told us he died,
such a long time ago,
crying to keep him buried,
but behind those tears, he lived.
Did you lie to protect us
or to protect yourself?
Sometimes what is apparent,
is nothing more than a ghost.
I rub the lipstick off my cheek,
still covering the truth.
and Death Shall Have No
and Death shall have no
dominion but time,
time is an open wound
never healing, picked
raw in secret.
Five years now have passed.
Seeing your face in
anguish etched into
memory that stands
frozen, helpless.
Time holds me captive.
Richness of happy days.
Poverty of loss.
Death’s dominion grips
what time is left.
Thanksgiving is past.
Snow blankets a frozen
world not dead, at rest,
awaiting rebirth,
awaiting hope.
I Laid My Hand
I laid my hand
against your cheek
holding what remained.
Your face etched
in memory as
life ebbed away.
A tree branch flung
my glasses off,
far into the snow.
Blinded I searched,
until my heart
began to see.
Three days you walked
through the valley
shadowed by death.
Goodness and mercy
followed, while bedside,
I sat helpless.
Looking in a mirror
my heart now sees
our reflection.
I lay my hand
against my cheek,
holding what remains.
I Thought of You
I thought of you today.
Snow has melted away
from the burial mound
of grass clippings you left.
Things seem unfinished
that never had an end.
Why ask why, when there’ll
never be an answer?
This is what I know from
all my years of living.
Pain cannot be treated
with a Band-Aid and a kiss.
Too much insulation
stops a house from breathing.
Crumpled paper cannot
keep china from cracking.
Closing your eyes will not
shut out the world.
I thought of the cabin.
Plywood covering the doors
and windows has not stopped
squirrels from getting in.
You shut your eyes when life
became unbearable.
Winter ended. Spring began.
The grass grows green again.
The Table Stands Empty
In a cavernous silence
the table stands empty.
Yellow leaves drift down
covering its surface.
Yesterday we sat there
feasting on colors
of light and love spinning
a cocoon together.
Within its snug safety
dark places opened.
The work of our hands
became the work of our hearts.
Today we awaken,
bright colors painted,
strong baskets woven,
awaiting butterflies.
Colors
Colors cascade
from hands of
friend to friend.
Delighted like girls,
bonded like women,
who know places
not all hearts
have found
together.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:14.228764
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-1",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-2
|
3 Your Voice Was Heard
Constance Hodder
In the Silence
In the silence, at day’s end,
looking over the meadow,
I hear you say,
“You should work the land”.
Great Grandfather,
You were a logger.
You were a farmer.
I am not. What is our connection
now a century past?
At the end of the road at Red Top,
I tried to find you.
Your sawmill, gone.
Tall tamaracks, gone.
Even sawdust
blown away.
What remained was the soil,
sewn with your sweat,
sewn with your dreams,
I found you there,
Your love of this land.
Great Grandfather,
We share a kinship
with each other,
with the land.
I plant trees
to remember,
those gone before
whose roots grow
deep in my bones.
Your voice was heard.
I could not leave Red Top
without something
to hold onto.
I collected a branch
from an old oak tree
you may have rested against,
in the silence, at day’s end.
My Grandmother Was Clever
My grandmother was clever,
she could tat a collar of lace,
make a doll out of a handkerchief,
and beat me at tiddlywinks.
In the end of her days, she was
heard conversing with her mother,
who passed when she was eight,
time’s veil having worn thin.
Today was warm and sunny,
I took my sandwich outside,
to eat at the picnic table,
and found you were there.
So we ate side by side,
mine peanut butter with jelly,
yours peanut butter with mayo.
Are you surprised I remembered?
Together for that moment,
eating with the sun on our backs,
yesterday as today,
without a breath between them.
Sorrow replaced by wonder
that time’s passage is not
terminal, only limited
by how we part the veil.
Gloria
Gloria is gone.
Covid stole her,
while we looked away.
Chickadee lies still
in the garden,
while we looked away.
Gloria asked angels
to lift her foot
as she stepped off.
Tiny bird entombed
between my hands,
Were angels there for you?
Gloria in Excelsis.
The Child cries alone
and we looked away.
Wind Howled in the Night
Wind howled in the night,
rain came down in torrents.
I awoke to birds singing
but heard you did not.
You who loved bright beads,
delighted in wearing a rainbow
of mismatched socks.
Who laughed so hard, we cried.
Every day birds take time
to sing out their hearts.
Do they do this to
let go of sorrow?
Intellectual disability,
a label about knowing less but
understanding more about
how vital it is to sing.
After the clouds blew off,
the sun shone this morning.
Despite this, the day didn’t
seem as bright without you.
Elise
Elise stands tall
On straight thin legs.
“I am almost ten”
she states.
That’s five plus five,
I marvel.
Elise stands proud.
“I don’t like sports.
I like music”
she reports.
What’s your instrument?
I question.
Elise never wavers.
“I like to sing”.
She stands tall
almost 10.
I listen,
bent with age.
In awe of youth.
Singing!
The Saga of Heavenly Hash
I know you remember
that evening so many years ago
in South Minneapolis
like yesterday.
Sitting side by side
on the porch front stoop
too hot to sit inside
the evening light fading.
Our hearts were one
as we poured out our
thoughts, hopes, and dreams
souls united from the start.
You on my left with your
deep tan and deeper insights.
Me with my long unshaven legs
and optimistic innocence.
The evening etched into memory
all because of two spoons
and a half gallon of ice cream
that disappeared as night set in.
Watering Trees
I remember
you as a young boy
going out to the field
with your father
to water trees.
He planted those trees
to protect the soil
creating shelter
for our home.
The trees grew tall
and you grew tall.
Now I see you
protecting your family
creating shelter
for your home.
Your son now
will need to learn
from you how to
water trees.
On The First Day
On the first day in June
the sky was brilliant blue,
so crystal clear it ran
through an icy stream
you could dip your cup into
and drink until you burst.
Life giving water flowing
over the forehead of
a newborn held so closely
by his father that their
hearts beat together as one
under a brilliant blue sky.
The Sky Darkened
The sky darkened with clouds.
Water sprinkled like rain
from the hands of the priest,
who draped the casket with
a white blanket as if
he was tucking in bed
his cold sleeping child.
In this tender action,
our loss too was covered,
not unlike a Band-Aid
hiding a weeping wound,
or newly laid tile
over old linoleum,
though neither captures it.
More like the first snowfall,
covering fallen leaves,
bare patches of dead grass,
fields of brown corn stubble,
suddenly cloaked in
white sparkling brilliance,
a paradise to behold.
We know what lies beneath,
sleeping through this season,
waiting till snow melts away,
verdant leaves bursting forth,
grass springing green overnight,
corn growing tall to harvest,
hope breaking through darkness.
CNN Reports: Colorado Reels after Deadly LGBTQ Club Shooting
He Was Only Four
He was only four
when he told his mother
he was a boy.
Then God said, ”Let us make man…
He/him “was a light in my life
with so much more life to give.”
in our own image, after our likeness…
She/her “was an amazing mother
with a huge heart.”
He created he/him, she/her, they/them.
He/him “was kind, willing to go out
of his way to help others.”
He created them.
She/her “was loving, caring, and sweet.
Everyone loved her.”
And it was so.”
He/him “found a community he loved
where he could really shine.”
We wept.
Her Hands Stretched Wide
Her hands stretched wide
across a growing belly,
searching for hope’s dance,
love’s secret within.
Seeing the unseen,
knowing the unknown,
bound eternally,
in blood and bone.
Hope denied, buried,
grave without a name,
sorrow never resting
stretches out its hands.
Blood will never see,
secrets within the vein,
bone will never hear,
a name only whispered.
My Hands Cradle
My hands cradle
the calabash,
scrubbing clean its
mottled brown skin.
Stretched tight over
a rounded belly,
its moisture lost,
dried seeds wait.
Coping with loss
is life’s journey,
was said as we
tied netted beads.
Around their hulls,
transforming gourds
into shakere,
beaded rattles.
A shake giving
voice to the hollow
bewitching beat
of the gourd dance.
“Ready to go,
ready to die”,
chant the rattle’s
ancient cadence.
Within its hollow,
loss and life lie
cradled together,
ready to sing.
At Thanksgiving
At Thanksgiving,
grief and sorrow,
took their place around the table,
on either side of gratitude.
At Christmas,
hope and joy,
joined in the festive celebration,
inviting remembrance to take a seat.
Easter is yet a mystery,
your face unseen,
known only in our hearts and bones.
We hold a place for you.
A Father’s Letter, June 25, 1974
“Honey we love you very much. We know you are going to have times of loneliness…”
I remember being small,
lost in a sea of legs.
Searching and sobbing,
you scooping me up.
“and times of foreboding.”
I remember being scared,
in shock after mother was shot.
Waiting side by side,
you consoling me.
“When these times come, pray to God.”
I remember being a bride,
walking down an aisle
on your arm having learned
love endures.
“When all else fails…”
I remember the sorrow,
you not knowing my name.
Then your heart sang out
calling ‘sweetheart’.
“You are not alone. Your ever-loving, Dad”
I remember your passing,
my glimpse of your spirit.
The message received,
love never fails.
My Father’s Stockings
He passed away
narrowly alone in
nursing home bed
once surrounded
by family
left now
in peace.
He may have worn stockings
to warm bony
cold blue feet
but the next morning
when we returned
only the bare
striped mattress
remained.
My father was
a clean man
who washed out
his stockings nightly
hanging them to dry
on the towel rack.
Something he learned to do
surrounded by brothers
with dirty feet.
We cleaned out
his drawers
his closet
his photos
leaving with bags
of a used life. Useful.
This for daughter
this for son,
this for donations
this for garbage.
The stockings
for donation laid
on top of the heap
for days
then seeing
their worn heels
their prickly
elastic tops
were placed
in the garbage.
One pair never
passed on but
remains in my
sock drawer
silently awaiting
hands that
hold turn
and remember
the man.
Two Deer
Two deer lay side by side
on an island of grass,
surrounded by snow,
waiting for sunrise.
I watched from my window,
delighted with their ease,
blessed to be included
In this landscape we share.
A bald eagle watched,
perched high atop a tree,
messenger of prayers
between souls now and past.
How do the departed slip
past the sleeping deer,
past the morning sunrise,
past our out stretched hands?
On the eagle’s wings
their spirit soars, not past,
within the landscape
of our shared existence.
Never far, always near,
joined with us, sharing love,
joy, sorrow, and prayers,
sunrises and sunsets.
Under Cover of Lipstick
Under cover of lipstick,
she took on the world.
Fire Engine Red, I teased her,
a nineteen-sixties siren.
Left behind her mark on
coffee cups and children’s cheeks,
giving life to her pale lips,
igniting a glowing smile.
That hid sorrow well until
the undertaker applied it
for the final time after which
those lips sealed the secret.
You told us he died,
such a long time ago,
crying to keep him buried,
but behind those tears, he lived.
Did you lie to protect us
or to protect yourself?
Sometimes what is apparent,
is nothing more than a ghost.
I rub the lipstick off my cheek,
still covering the truth.
and Death Shall Have No
and Death shall have no
dominion but time,
time is an open wound
never healing, picked
raw in secret.
Five years now have passed.
Seeing your face in
anguish etched into
memory that stands
frozen, helpless.
Time holds me captive.
Richness of happy days.
Poverty of loss.
Death’s dominion grips
what time is left.
Thanksgiving is past.
Snow blankets a frozen
world not dead, at rest,
awaiting rebirth,
awaiting hope.
I Laid My Hand
I laid my hand
against your cheek
holding what remained.
Your face etched
in memory as
life ebbed away.
A tree branch flung
my glasses off,
far into the snow.
Blinded I searched,
until my heart
began to see.
Three days you walked
through the valley
shadowed by death.
Goodness and mercy
followed, while bedside,
I sat helpless.
Looking in a mirror
my heart now sees
our reflection.
I lay my hand
against my cheek,
holding what remains.
I Thought of You
I thought of you today.
Snow has melted away
from the burial mound
of grass clippings you left.
Things seem unfinished
that never had an end.
Why ask why, when there’ll
never be an answer?
This is what I know from
all my years of living.
Pain cannot be treated
with a Band-Aid and a kiss.
Too much insulation
stops a house from breathing.
Crumpled paper cannot
keep china from cracking.
Closing your eyes will not
shut out the world.
I thought of the cabin.
Plywood covering the doors
and windows has not stopped
squirrels from getting in.
You shut your eyes when life
became unbearable.
Winter ended. Spring began.
The grass grows green again.
The Table Stands Empty
In a cavernous silence
the table stands empty.
Yellow leaves drift down
covering its surface.
Yesterday we sat there
feasting on colors
of light and love spinning
a cocoon together.
Within its snug safety
dark places opened.
The work of our hands
became the work of our hearts.
Today we awaken,
bright colors painted,
strong baskets woven,
awaiting butterflies.
Colors
Colors cascade
from hands of
friend to friend.
Delighted like girls,
bonded like women,
who know places
not all hearts
have found
together.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:14.293222
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-2",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-3
|
3 Your Voice Was Heard
Constance Hodder
In the Silence
In the silence, at day’s end,
looking over the meadow,
I hear you say,
“You should work the land”.
Great Grandfather,
You were a logger.
You were a farmer.
I am not. What is our connection
now a century past?
At the end of the road at Red Top,
I tried to find you.
Your sawmill, gone.
Tall tamaracks, gone.
Even sawdust
blown away.
What remained was the soil,
sewn with your sweat,
sewn with your dreams,
I found you there,
Your love of this land.
Great Grandfather,
We share a kinship
with each other,
with the land.
I plant trees
to remember,
those gone before
whose roots grow
deep in my bones.
Your voice was heard.
I could not leave Red Top
without something
to hold onto.
I collected a branch
from an old oak tree
you may have rested against,
in the silence, at day’s end.
My Grandmother Was Clever
My grandmother was clever,
she could tat a collar of lace,
make a doll out of a handkerchief,
and beat me at tiddlywinks.
In the end of her days, she was
heard conversing with her mother,
who passed when she was eight,
time’s veil having worn thin.
Today was warm and sunny,
I took my sandwich outside,
to eat at the picnic table,
and found you were there.
So we ate side by side,
mine peanut butter with jelly,
yours peanut butter with mayo.
Are you surprised I remembered?
Together for that moment,
eating with the sun on our backs,
yesterday as today,
without a breath between them.
Sorrow replaced by wonder
that time’s passage is not
terminal, only limited
by how we part the veil.
Gloria
Gloria is gone.
Covid stole her,
while we looked away.
Chickadee lies still
in the garden,
while we looked away.
Gloria asked angels
to lift her foot
as she stepped off.
Tiny bird entombed
between my hands,
Were angels there for you?
Gloria in Excelsis.
The Child cries alone
and we looked away.
Wind Howled in the Night
Wind howled in the night,
rain came down in torrents.
I awoke to birds singing
but heard you did not.
You who loved bright beads,
delighted in wearing a rainbow
of mismatched socks.
Who laughed so hard, we cried.
Every day birds take time
to sing out their hearts.
Do they do this to
let go of sorrow?
Intellectual disability,
a label about knowing less but
understanding more about
how vital it is to sing.
After the clouds blew off,
the sun shone this morning.
Despite this, the day didn’t
seem as bright without you.
Elise
Elise stands tall
On straight thin legs.
“I am almost ten”
she states.
That’s five plus five,
I marvel.
Elise stands proud.
“I don’t like sports.
I like music”
she reports.
What’s your instrument?
I question.
Elise never wavers.
“I like to sing”.
She stands tall
almost 10.
I listen,
bent with age.
In awe of youth.
Singing!
The Saga of Heavenly Hash
I know you remember
that evening so many years ago
in South Minneapolis
like yesterday.
Sitting side by side
on the porch front stoop
too hot to sit inside
the evening light fading.
Our hearts were one
as we poured out our
thoughts, hopes, and dreams
souls united from the start.
You on my left with your
deep tan and deeper insights.
Me with my long unshaven legs
and optimistic innocence.
The evening etched into memory
all because of two spoons
and a half gallon of ice cream
that disappeared as night set in.
Watering Trees
I remember
you as a young boy
going out to the field
with your father
to water trees.
He planted those trees
to protect the soil
creating shelter
for our home.
The trees grew tall
and you grew tall.
Now I see you
protecting your family
creating shelter
for your home.
Your son now
will need to learn
from you how to
water trees.
On The First Day
On the first day in June
the sky was brilliant blue,
so crystal clear it ran
through an icy stream
you could dip your cup into
and drink until you burst.
Life giving water flowing
over the forehead of
a newborn held so closely
by his father that their
hearts beat together as one
under a brilliant blue sky.
The Sky Darkened
The sky darkened with clouds.
Water sprinkled like rain
from the hands of the priest,
who draped the casket with
a white blanket as if
he was tucking in bed
his cold sleeping child.
In this tender action,
our loss too was covered,
not unlike a Band-Aid
hiding a weeping wound,
or newly laid tile
over old linoleum,
though neither captures it.
More like the first snowfall,
covering fallen leaves,
bare patches of dead grass,
fields of brown corn stubble,
suddenly cloaked in
white sparkling brilliance,
a paradise to behold.
We know what lies beneath,
sleeping through this season,
waiting till snow melts away,
verdant leaves bursting forth,
grass springing green overnight,
corn growing tall to harvest,
hope breaking through darkness.
CNN Reports: Colorado Reels after Deadly LGBTQ Club Shooting
He Was Only Four
He was only four
when he told his mother
he was a boy.
Then God said, ”Let us make man…
He/him “was a light in my life
with so much more life to give.”
in our own image, after our likeness…
She/her “was an amazing mother
with a huge heart.”
He created he/him, she/her, they/them.
He/him “was kind, willing to go out
of his way to help others.”
He created them.
She/her “was loving, caring, and sweet.
Everyone loved her.”
And it was so.”
He/him “found a community he loved
where he could really shine.”
We wept.
Her Hands Stretched Wide
Her hands stretched wide
across a growing belly,
searching for hope’s dance,
love’s secret within.
Seeing the unseen,
knowing the unknown,
bound eternally,
in blood and bone.
Hope denied, buried,
grave without a name,
sorrow never resting
stretches out its hands.
Blood will never see,
secrets within the vein,
bone will never hear,
a name only whispered.
My Hands Cradle
My hands cradle
the calabash,
scrubbing clean its
mottled brown skin.
Stretched tight over
a rounded belly,
its moisture lost,
dried seeds wait.
Coping with loss
is life’s journey,
was said as we
tied netted beads.
Around their hulls,
transforming gourds
into shakere,
beaded rattles.
A shake giving
voice to the hollow
bewitching beat
of the gourd dance.
“Ready to go,
ready to die”,
chant the rattle’s
ancient cadence.
Within its hollow,
loss and life lie
cradled together,
ready to sing.
At Thanksgiving
At Thanksgiving,
grief and sorrow,
took their place around the table,
on either side of gratitude.
At Christmas,
hope and joy,
joined in the festive celebration,
inviting remembrance to take a seat.
Easter is yet a mystery,
your face unseen,
known only in our hearts and bones.
We hold a place for you.
A Father’s Letter, June 25, 1974
“Honey we love you very much. We know you are going to have times of loneliness…”
I remember being small,
lost in a sea of legs.
Searching and sobbing,
you scooping me up.
“and times of foreboding.”
I remember being scared,
in shock after mother was shot.
Waiting side by side,
you consoling me.
“When these times come, pray to God.”
I remember being a bride,
walking down an aisle
on your arm having learned
love endures.
“When all else fails…”
I remember the sorrow,
you not knowing my name.
Then your heart sang out
calling ‘sweetheart’.
“You are not alone. Your ever-loving, Dad”
I remember your passing,
my glimpse of your spirit.
The message received,
love never fails.
My Father’s Stockings
He passed away
narrowly alone in
nursing home bed
once surrounded
by family
left now
in peace.
He may have worn stockings
to warm bony
cold blue feet
but the next morning
when we returned
only the bare
striped mattress
remained.
My father was
a clean man
who washed out
his stockings nightly
hanging them to dry
on the towel rack.
Something he learned to do
surrounded by brothers
with dirty feet.
We cleaned out
his drawers
his closet
his photos
leaving with bags
of a used life. Useful.
This for daughter
this for son,
this for donations
this for garbage.
The stockings
for donation laid
on top of the heap
for days
then seeing
their worn heels
their prickly
elastic tops
were placed
in the garbage.
One pair never
passed on but
remains in my
sock drawer
silently awaiting
hands that
hold turn
and remember
the man.
Two Deer
Two deer lay side by side
on an island of grass,
surrounded by snow,
waiting for sunrise.
I watched from my window,
delighted with their ease,
blessed to be included
In this landscape we share.
A bald eagle watched,
perched high atop a tree,
messenger of prayers
between souls now and past.
How do the departed slip
past the sleeping deer,
past the morning sunrise,
past our out stretched hands?
On the eagle’s wings
their spirit soars, not past,
within the landscape
of our shared existence.
Never far, always near,
joined with us, sharing love,
joy, sorrow, and prayers,
sunrises and sunsets.
Under Cover of Lipstick
Under cover of lipstick,
she took on the world.
Fire Engine Red, I teased her,
a nineteen-sixties siren.
Left behind her mark on
coffee cups and children’s cheeks,
giving life to her pale lips,
igniting a glowing smile.
That hid sorrow well until
the undertaker applied it
for the final time after which
those lips sealed the secret.
You told us he died,
such a long time ago,
crying to keep him buried,
but behind those tears, he lived.
Did you lie to protect us
or to protect yourself?
Sometimes what is apparent,
is nothing more than a ghost.
I rub the lipstick off my cheek,
still covering the truth.
and Death Shall Have No
and Death shall have no
dominion but time,
time is an open wound
never healing, picked
raw in secret.
Five years now have passed.
Seeing your face in
anguish etched into
memory that stands
frozen, helpless.
Time holds me captive.
Richness of happy days.
Poverty of loss.
Death’s dominion grips
what time is left.
Thanksgiving is past.
Snow blankets a frozen
world not dead, at rest,
awaiting rebirth,
awaiting hope.
I Laid My Hand
I laid my hand
against your cheek
holding what remained.
Your face etched
in memory as
life ebbed away.
A tree branch flung
my glasses off,
far into the snow.
Blinded I searched,
until my heart
began to see.
Three days you walked
through the valley
shadowed by death.
Goodness and mercy
followed, while bedside,
I sat helpless.
Looking in a mirror
my heart now sees
our reflection.
I lay my hand
against my cheek,
holding what remains.
I Thought of You
I thought of you today.
Snow has melted away
from the burial mound
of grass clippings you left.
Things seem unfinished
that never had an end.
Why ask why, when there’ll
never be an answer?
This is what I know from
all my years of living.
Pain cannot be treated
with a Band-Aid and a kiss.
Too much insulation
stops a house from breathing.
Crumpled paper cannot
keep china from cracking.
Closing your eyes will not
shut out the world.
I thought of the cabin.
Plywood covering the doors
and windows has not stopped
squirrels from getting in.
You shut your eyes when life
became unbearable.
Winter ended. Spring began.
The grass grows green again.
The Table Stands Empty
In a cavernous silence
the table stands empty.
Yellow leaves drift down
covering its surface.
Yesterday we sat there
feasting on colors
of light and love spinning
a cocoon together.
Within its snug safety
dark places opened.
The work of our hands
became the work of our hearts.
Today we awaken,
bright colors painted,
strong baskets woven,
awaiting butterflies.
Colors
Colors cascade
from hands of
friend to friend.
Delighted like girls,
bonded like women,
who know places
not all hearts
have found
together.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:14.357692
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-3",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-4
|
3 Your Voice Was Heard
Constance Hodder
In the Silence
In the silence, at day’s end,
looking over the meadow,
I hear you say,
“You should work the land”.
Great Grandfather,
You were a logger.
You were a farmer.
I am not. What is our connection
now a century past?
At the end of the road at Red Top,
I tried to find you.
Your sawmill, gone.
Tall tamaracks, gone.
Even sawdust
blown away.
What remained was the soil,
sewn with your sweat,
sewn with your dreams,
I found you there,
Your love of this land.
Great Grandfather,
We share a kinship
with each other,
with the land.
I plant trees
to remember,
those gone before
whose roots grow
deep in my bones.
Your voice was heard.
I could not leave Red Top
without something
to hold onto.
I collected a branch
from an old oak tree
you may have rested against,
in the silence, at day’s end.
My Grandmother Was Clever
My grandmother was clever,
she could tat a collar of lace,
make a doll out of a handkerchief,
and beat me at tiddlywinks.
In the end of her days, she was
heard conversing with her mother,
who passed when she was eight,
time’s veil having worn thin.
Today was warm and sunny,
I took my sandwich outside,
to eat at the picnic table,
and found you were there.
So we ate side by side,
mine peanut butter with jelly,
yours peanut butter with mayo.
Are you surprised I remembered?
Together for that moment,
eating with the sun on our backs,
yesterday as today,
without a breath between them.
Sorrow replaced by wonder
that time’s passage is not
terminal, only limited
by how we part the veil.
Gloria
Gloria is gone.
Covid stole her,
while we looked away.
Chickadee lies still
in the garden,
while we looked away.
Gloria asked angels
to lift her foot
as she stepped off.
Tiny bird entombed
between my hands,
Were angels there for you?
Gloria in Excelsis.
The Child cries alone
and we looked away.
Wind Howled in the Night
Wind howled in the night,
rain came down in torrents.
I awoke to birds singing
but heard you did not.
You who loved bright beads,
delighted in wearing a rainbow
of mismatched socks.
Who laughed so hard, we cried.
Every day birds take time
to sing out their hearts.
Do they do this to
let go of sorrow?
Intellectual disability,
a label about knowing less but
understanding more about
how vital it is to sing.
After the clouds blew off,
the sun shone this morning.
Despite this, the day didn’t
seem as bright without you.
Elise
Elise stands tall
On straight thin legs.
“I am almost ten”
she states.
That’s five plus five,
I marvel.
Elise stands proud.
“I don’t like sports.
I like music”
she reports.
What’s your instrument?
I question.
Elise never wavers.
“I like to sing”.
She stands tall
almost 10.
I listen,
bent with age.
In awe of youth.
Singing!
The Saga of Heavenly Hash
I know you remember
that evening so many years ago
in South Minneapolis
like yesterday.
Sitting side by side
on the porch front stoop
too hot to sit inside
the evening light fading.
Our hearts were one
as we poured out our
thoughts, hopes, and dreams
souls united from the start.
You on my left with your
deep tan and deeper insights.
Me with my long unshaven legs
and optimistic innocence.
The evening etched into memory
all because of two spoons
and a half gallon of ice cream
that disappeared as night set in.
Watering Trees
I remember
you as a young boy
going out to the field
with your father
to water trees.
He planted those trees
to protect the soil
creating shelter
for our home.
The trees grew tall
and you grew tall.
Now I see you
protecting your family
creating shelter
for your home.
Your son now
will need to learn
from you how to
water trees.
On The First Day
On the first day in June
the sky was brilliant blue,
so crystal clear it ran
through an icy stream
you could dip your cup into
and drink until you burst.
Life giving water flowing
over the forehead of
a newborn held so closely
by his father that their
hearts beat together as one
under a brilliant blue sky.
The Sky Darkened
The sky darkened with clouds.
Water sprinkled like rain
from the hands of the priest,
who draped the casket with
a white blanket as if
he was tucking in bed
his cold sleeping child.
In this tender action,
our loss too was covered,
not unlike a Band-Aid
hiding a weeping wound,
or newly laid tile
over old linoleum,
though neither captures it.
More like the first snowfall,
covering fallen leaves,
bare patches of dead grass,
fields of brown corn stubble,
suddenly cloaked in
white sparkling brilliance,
a paradise to behold.
We know what lies beneath,
sleeping through this season,
waiting till snow melts away,
verdant leaves bursting forth,
grass springing green overnight,
corn growing tall to harvest,
hope breaking through darkness.
CNN Reports: Colorado Reels after Deadly LGBTQ Club Shooting
He Was Only Four
He was only four
when he told his mother
he was a boy.
Then God said, ”Let us make man…
He/him “was a light in my life
with so much more life to give.”
in our own image, after our likeness…
She/her “was an amazing mother
with a huge heart.”
He created he/him, she/her, they/them.
He/him “was kind, willing to go out
of his way to help others.”
He created them.
She/her “was loving, caring, and sweet.
Everyone loved her.”
And it was so.”
He/him “found a community he loved
where he could really shine.”
We wept.
Her Hands Stretched Wide
Her hands stretched wide
across a growing belly,
searching for hope’s dance,
love’s secret within.
Seeing the unseen,
knowing the unknown,
bound eternally,
in blood and bone.
Hope denied, buried,
grave without a name,
sorrow never resting
stretches out its hands.
Blood will never see,
secrets within the vein,
bone will never hear,
a name only whispered.
My Hands Cradle
My hands cradle
the calabash,
scrubbing clean its
mottled brown skin.
Stretched tight over
a rounded belly,
its moisture lost,
dried seeds wait.
Coping with loss
is life’s journey,
was said as we
tied netted beads.
Around their hulls,
transforming gourds
into shakere,
beaded rattles.
A shake giving
voice to the hollow
bewitching beat
of the gourd dance.
“Ready to go,
ready to die”,
chant the rattle’s
ancient cadence.
Within its hollow,
loss and life lie
cradled together,
ready to sing.
At Thanksgiving
At Thanksgiving,
grief and sorrow,
took their place around the table,
on either side of gratitude.
At Christmas,
hope and joy,
joined in the festive celebration,
inviting remembrance to take a seat.
Easter is yet a mystery,
your face unseen,
known only in our hearts and bones.
We hold a place for you.
A Father’s Letter, June 25, 1974
“Honey we love you very much. We know you are going to have times of loneliness…”
I remember being small,
lost in a sea of legs.
Searching and sobbing,
you scooping me up.
“and times of foreboding.”
I remember being scared,
in shock after mother was shot.
Waiting side by side,
you consoling me.
“When these times come, pray to God.”
I remember being a bride,
walking down an aisle
on your arm having learned
love endures.
“When all else fails…”
I remember the sorrow,
you not knowing my name.
Then your heart sang out
calling ‘sweetheart’.
“You are not alone. Your ever-loving, Dad”
I remember your passing,
my glimpse of your spirit.
The message received,
love never fails.
My Father’s Stockings
He passed away
narrowly alone in
nursing home bed
once surrounded
by family
left now
in peace.
He may have worn stockings
to warm bony
cold blue feet
but the next morning
when we returned
only the bare
striped mattress
remained.
My father was
a clean man
who washed out
his stockings nightly
hanging them to dry
on the towel rack.
Something he learned to do
surrounded by brothers
with dirty feet.
We cleaned out
his drawers
his closet
his photos
leaving with bags
of a used life. Useful.
This for daughter
this for son,
this for donations
this for garbage.
The stockings
for donation laid
on top of the heap
for days
then seeing
their worn heels
their prickly
elastic tops
were placed
in the garbage.
One pair never
passed on but
remains in my
sock drawer
silently awaiting
hands that
hold turn
and remember
the man.
Two Deer
Two deer lay side by side
on an island of grass,
surrounded by snow,
waiting for sunrise.
I watched from my window,
delighted with their ease,
blessed to be included
In this landscape we share.
A bald eagle watched,
perched high atop a tree,
messenger of prayers
between souls now and past.
How do the departed slip
past the sleeping deer,
past the morning sunrise,
past our out stretched hands?
On the eagle’s wings
their spirit soars, not past,
within the landscape
of our shared existence.
Never far, always near,
joined with us, sharing love,
joy, sorrow, and prayers,
sunrises and sunsets.
Under Cover of Lipstick
Under cover of lipstick,
she took on the world.
Fire Engine Red, I teased her,
a nineteen-sixties siren.
Left behind her mark on
coffee cups and children’s cheeks,
giving life to her pale lips,
igniting a glowing smile.
That hid sorrow well until
the undertaker applied it
for the final time after which
those lips sealed the secret.
You told us he died,
such a long time ago,
crying to keep him buried,
but behind those tears, he lived.
Did you lie to protect us
or to protect yourself?
Sometimes what is apparent,
is nothing more than a ghost.
I rub the lipstick off my cheek,
still covering the truth.
and Death Shall Have No
and Death shall have no
dominion but time,
time is an open wound
never healing, picked
raw in secret.
Five years now have passed.
Seeing your face in
anguish etched into
memory that stands
frozen, helpless.
Time holds me captive.
Richness of happy days.
Poverty of loss.
Death’s dominion grips
what time is left.
Thanksgiving is past.
Snow blankets a frozen
world not dead, at rest,
awaiting rebirth,
awaiting hope.
I Laid My Hand
I laid my hand
against your cheek
holding what remained.
Your face etched
in memory as
life ebbed away.
A tree branch flung
my glasses off,
far into the snow.
Blinded I searched,
until my heart
began to see.
Three days you walked
through the valley
shadowed by death.
Goodness and mercy
followed, while bedside,
I sat helpless.
Looking in a mirror
my heart now sees
our reflection.
I lay my hand
against my cheek,
holding what remains.
I Thought of You
I thought of you today.
Snow has melted away
from the burial mound
of grass clippings you left.
Things seem unfinished
that never had an end.
Why ask why, when there’ll
never be an answer?
This is what I know from
all my years of living.
Pain cannot be treated
with a Band-Aid and a kiss.
Too much insulation
stops a house from breathing.
Crumpled paper cannot
keep china from cracking.
Closing your eyes will not
shut out the world.
I thought of the cabin.
Plywood covering the doors
and windows has not stopped
squirrels from getting in.
You shut your eyes when life
became unbearable.
Winter ended. Spring began.
The grass grows green again.
The Table Stands Empty
In a cavernous silence
the table stands empty.
Yellow leaves drift down
covering its surface.
Yesterday we sat there
feasting on colors
of light and love spinning
a cocoon together.
Within its snug safety
dark places opened.
The work of our hands
became the work of our hearts.
Today we awaken,
bright colors painted,
strong baskets woven,
awaiting butterflies.
Colors
Colors cascade
from hands of
friend to friend.
Delighted like girls,
bonded like women,
who know places
not all hearts
have found
together.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:14.422505
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-4",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-5
|
3 Your Voice Was Heard
Constance Hodder
In the Silence
In the silence, at day’s end,
looking over the meadow,
I hear you say,
“You should work the land”.
Great Grandfather,
You were a logger.
You were a farmer.
I am not. What is our connection
now a century past?
At the end of the road at Red Top,
I tried to find you.
Your sawmill, gone.
Tall tamaracks, gone.
Even sawdust
blown away.
What remained was the soil,
sewn with your sweat,
sewn with your dreams,
I found you there,
Your love of this land.
Great Grandfather,
We share a kinship
with each other,
with the land.
I plant trees
to remember,
those gone before
whose roots grow
deep in my bones.
Your voice was heard.
I could not leave Red Top
without something
to hold onto.
I collected a branch
from an old oak tree
you may have rested against,
in the silence, at day’s end.
My Grandmother Was Clever
My grandmother was clever,
she could tat a collar of lace,
make a doll out of a handkerchief,
and beat me at tiddlywinks.
In the end of her days, she was
heard conversing with her mother,
who passed when she was eight,
time’s veil having worn thin.
Today was warm and sunny,
I took my sandwich outside,
to eat at the picnic table,
and found you were there.
So we ate side by side,
mine peanut butter with jelly,
yours peanut butter with mayo.
Are you surprised I remembered?
Together for that moment,
eating with the sun on our backs,
yesterday as today,
without a breath between them.
Sorrow replaced by wonder
that time’s passage is not
terminal, only limited
by how we part the veil.
Gloria
Gloria is gone.
Covid stole her,
while we looked away.
Chickadee lies still
in the garden,
while we looked away.
Gloria asked angels
to lift her foot
as she stepped off.
Tiny bird entombed
between my hands,
Were angels there for you?
Gloria in Excelsis.
The Child cries alone
and we looked away.
Wind Howled in the Night
Wind howled in the night,
rain came down in torrents.
I awoke to birds singing
but heard you did not.
You who loved bright beads,
delighted in wearing a rainbow
of mismatched socks.
Who laughed so hard, we cried.
Every day birds take time
to sing out their hearts.
Do they do this to
let go of sorrow?
Intellectual disability,
a label about knowing less but
understanding more about
how vital it is to sing.
After the clouds blew off,
the sun shone this morning.
Despite this, the day didn’t
seem as bright without you.
Elise
Elise stands tall
On straight thin legs.
“I am almost ten”
she states.
That’s five plus five,
I marvel.
Elise stands proud.
“I don’t like sports.
I like music”
she reports.
What’s your instrument?
I question.
Elise never wavers.
“I like to sing”.
She stands tall
almost 10.
I listen,
bent with age.
In awe of youth.
Singing!
The Saga of Heavenly Hash
I know you remember
that evening so many years ago
in South Minneapolis
like yesterday.
Sitting side by side
on the porch front stoop
too hot to sit inside
the evening light fading.
Our hearts were one
as we poured out our
thoughts, hopes, and dreams
souls united from the start.
You on my left with your
deep tan and deeper insights.
Me with my long unshaven legs
and optimistic innocence.
The evening etched into memory
all because of two spoons
and a half gallon of ice cream
that disappeared as night set in.
Watering Trees
I remember
you as a young boy
going out to the field
with your father
to water trees.
He planted those trees
to protect the soil
creating shelter
for our home.
The trees grew tall
and you grew tall.
Now I see you
protecting your family
creating shelter
for your home.
Your son now
will need to learn
from you how to
water trees.
On The First Day
On the first day in June
the sky was brilliant blue,
so crystal clear it ran
through an icy stream
you could dip your cup into
and drink until you burst.
Life giving water flowing
over the forehead of
a newborn held so closely
by his father that their
hearts beat together as one
under a brilliant blue sky.
The Sky Darkened
The sky darkened with clouds.
Water sprinkled like rain
from the hands of the priest,
who draped the casket with
a white blanket as if
he was tucking in bed
his cold sleeping child.
In this tender action,
our loss too was covered,
not unlike a Band-Aid
hiding a weeping wound,
or newly laid tile
over old linoleum,
though neither captures it.
More like the first snowfall,
covering fallen leaves,
bare patches of dead grass,
fields of brown corn stubble,
suddenly cloaked in
white sparkling brilliance,
a paradise to behold.
We know what lies beneath,
sleeping through this season,
waiting till snow melts away,
verdant leaves bursting forth,
grass springing green overnight,
corn growing tall to harvest,
hope breaking through darkness.
CNN Reports: Colorado Reels after Deadly LGBTQ Club Shooting
He Was Only Four
He was only four
when he told his mother
he was a boy.
Then God said, ”Let us make man…
He/him “was a light in my life
with so much more life to give.”
in our own image, after our likeness…
She/her “was an amazing mother
with a huge heart.”
He created he/him, she/her, they/them.
He/him “was kind, willing to go out
of his way to help others.”
He created them.
She/her “was loving, caring, and sweet.
Everyone loved her.”
And it was so.”
He/him “found a community he loved
where he could really shine.”
We wept.
Her Hands Stretched Wide
Her hands stretched wide
across a growing belly,
searching for hope’s dance,
love’s secret within.
Seeing the unseen,
knowing the unknown,
bound eternally,
in blood and bone.
Hope denied, buried,
grave without a name,
sorrow never resting
stretches out its hands.
Blood will never see,
secrets within the vein,
bone will never hear,
a name only whispered.
My Hands Cradle
My hands cradle
the calabash,
scrubbing clean its
mottled brown skin.
Stretched tight over
a rounded belly,
its moisture lost,
dried seeds wait.
Coping with loss
is life’s journey,
was said as we
tied netted beads.
Around their hulls,
transforming gourds
into shakere,
beaded rattles.
A shake giving
voice to the hollow
bewitching beat
of the gourd dance.
“Ready to go,
ready to die”,
chant the rattle’s
ancient cadence.
Within its hollow,
loss and life lie
cradled together,
ready to sing.
At Thanksgiving
At Thanksgiving,
grief and sorrow,
took their place around the table,
on either side of gratitude.
At Christmas,
hope and joy,
joined in the festive celebration,
inviting remembrance to take a seat.
Easter is yet a mystery,
your face unseen,
known only in our hearts and bones.
We hold a place for you.
A Father’s Letter, June 25, 1974
“Honey we love you very much. We know you are going to have times of loneliness…”
I remember being small,
lost in a sea of legs.
Searching and sobbing,
you scooping me up.
“and times of foreboding.”
I remember being scared,
in shock after mother was shot.
Waiting side by side,
you consoling me.
“When these times come, pray to God.”
I remember being a bride,
walking down an aisle
on your arm having learned
love endures.
“When all else fails…”
I remember the sorrow,
you not knowing my name.
Then your heart sang out
calling ‘sweetheart’.
“You are not alone. Your ever-loving, Dad”
I remember your passing,
my glimpse of your spirit.
The message received,
love never fails.
My Father’s Stockings
He passed away
narrowly alone in
nursing home bed
once surrounded
by family
left now
in peace.
He may have worn stockings
to warm bony
cold blue feet
but the next morning
when we returned
only the bare
striped mattress
remained.
My father was
a clean man
who washed out
his stockings nightly
hanging them to dry
on the towel rack.
Something he learned to do
surrounded by brothers
with dirty feet.
We cleaned out
his drawers
his closet
his photos
leaving with bags
of a used life. Useful.
This for daughter
this for son,
this for donations
this for garbage.
The stockings
for donation laid
on top of the heap
for days
then seeing
their worn heels
their prickly
elastic tops
were placed
in the garbage.
One pair never
passed on but
remains in my
sock drawer
silently awaiting
hands that
hold turn
and remember
the man.
Two Deer
Two deer lay side by side
on an island of grass,
surrounded by snow,
waiting for sunrise.
I watched from my window,
delighted with their ease,
blessed to be included
In this landscape we share.
A bald eagle watched,
perched high atop a tree,
messenger of prayers
between souls now and past.
How do the departed slip
past the sleeping deer,
past the morning sunrise,
past our out stretched hands?
On the eagle’s wings
their spirit soars, not past,
within the landscape
of our shared existence.
Never far, always near,
joined with us, sharing love,
joy, sorrow, and prayers,
sunrises and sunsets.
Under Cover of Lipstick
Under cover of lipstick,
she took on the world.
Fire Engine Red, I teased her,
a nineteen-sixties siren.
Left behind her mark on
coffee cups and children’s cheeks,
giving life to her pale lips,
igniting a glowing smile.
That hid sorrow well until
the undertaker applied it
for the final time after which
those lips sealed the secret.
You told us he died,
such a long time ago,
crying to keep him buried,
but behind those tears, he lived.
Did you lie to protect us
or to protect yourself?
Sometimes what is apparent,
is nothing more than a ghost.
I rub the lipstick off my cheek,
still covering the truth.
and Death Shall Have No
and Death shall have no
dominion but time,
time is an open wound
never healing, picked
raw in secret.
Five years now have passed.
Seeing your face in
anguish etched into
memory that stands
frozen, helpless.
Time holds me captive.
Richness of happy days.
Poverty of loss.
Death’s dominion grips
what time is left.
Thanksgiving is past.
Snow blankets a frozen
world not dead, at rest,
awaiting rebirth,
awaiting hope.
I Laid My Hand
I laid my hand
against your cheek
holding what remained.
Your face etched
in memory as
life ebbed away.
A tree branch flung
my glasses off,
far into the snow.
Blinded I searched,
until my heart
began to see.
Three days you walked
through the valley
shadowed by death.
Goodness and mercy
followed, while bedside,
I sat helpless.
Looking in a mirror
my heart now sees
our reflection.
I lay my hand
against my cheek,
holding what remains.
I Thought of You
I thought of you today.
Snow has melted away
from the burial mound
of grass clippings you left.
Things seem unfinished
that never had an end.
Why ask why, when there’ll
never be an answer?
This is what I know from
all my years of living.
Pain cannot be treated
with a Band-Aid and a kiss.
Too much insulation
stops a house from breathing.
Crumpled paper cannot
keep china from cracking.
Closing your eyes will not
shut out the world.
I thought of the cabin.
Plywood covering the doors
and windows has not stopped
squirrels from getting in.
You shut your eyes when life
became unbearable.
Winter ended. Spring began.
The grass grows green again.
The Table Stands Empty
In a cavernous silence
the table stands empty.
Yellow leaves drift down
covering its surface.
Yesterday we sat there
feasting on colors
of light and love spinning
a cocoon together.
Within its snug safety
dark places opened.
The work of our hands
became the work of our hearts.
Today we awaken,
bright colors painted,
strong baskets woven,
awaiting butterflies.
Colors
Colors cascade
from hands of
friend to friend.
Delighted like girls,
bonded like women,
who know places
not all hearts
have found
together.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:14.486775
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-5",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-6
|
3 Your Voice Was Heard
Constance Hodder
In the Silence
In the silence, at day’s end,
looking over the meadow,
I hear you say,
“You should work the land”.
Great Grandfather,
You were a logger.
You were a farmer.
I am not. What is our connection
now a century past?
At the end of the road at Red Top,
I tried to find you.
Your sawmill, gone.
Tall tamaracks, gone.
Even sawdust
blown away.
What remained was the soil,
sewn with your sweat,
sewn with your dreams,
I found you there,
Your love of this land.
Great Grandfather,
We share a kinship
with each other,
with the land.
I plant trees
to remember,
those gone before
whose roots grow
deep in my bones.
Your voice was heard.
I could not leave Red Top
without something
to hold onto.
I collected a branch
from an old oak tree
you may have rested against,
in the silence, at day’s end.
My Grandmother Was Clever
My grandmother was clever,
she could tat a collar of lace,
make a doll out of a handkerchief,
and beat me at tiddlywinks.
In the end of her days, she was
heard conversing with her mother,
who passed when she was eight,
time’s veil having worn thin.
Today was warm and sunny,
I took my sandwich outside,
to eat at the picnic table,
and found you were there.
So we ate side by side,
mine peanut butter with jelly,
yours peanut butter with mayo.
Are you surprised I remembered?
Together for that moment,
eating with the sun on our backs,
yesterday as today,
without a breath between them.
Sorrow replaced by wonder
that time’s passage is not
terminal, only limited
by how we part the veil.
Gloria
Gloria is gone.
Covid stole her,
while we looked away.
Chickadee lies still
in the garden,
while we looked away.
Gloria asked angels
to lift her foot
as she stepped off.
Tiny bird entombed
between my hands,
Were angels there for you?
Gloria in Excelsis.
The Child cries alone
and we looked away.
Wind Howled in the Night
Wind howled in the night,
rain came down in torrents.
I awoke to birds singing
but heard you did not.
You who loved bright beads,
delighted in wearing a rainbow
of mismatched socks.
Who laughed so hard, we cried.
Every day birds take time
to sing out their hearts.
Do they do this to
let go of sorrow?
Intellectual disability,
a label about knowing less but
understanding more about
how vital it is to sing.
After the clouds blew off,
the sun shone this morning.
Despite this, the day didn’t
seem as bright without you.
Elise
Elise stands tall
On straight thin legs.
“I am almost ten”
she states.
That’s five plus five,
I marvel.
Elise stands proud.
“I don’t like sports.
I like music”
she reports.
What’s your instrument?
I question.
Elise never wavers.
“I like to sing”.
She stands tall
almost 10.
I listen,
bent with age.
In awe of youth.
Singing!
The Saga of Heavenly Hash
I know you remember
that evening so many years ago
in South Minneapolis
like yesterday.
Sitting side by side
on the porch front stoop
too hot to sit inside
the evening light fading.
Our hearts were one
as we poured out our
thoughts, hopes, and dreams
souls united from the start.
You on my left with your
deep tan and deeper insights.
Me with my long unshaven legs
and optimistic innocence.
The evening etched into memory
all because of two spoons
and a half gallon of ice cream
that disappeared as night set in.
Watering Trees
I remember
you as a young boy
going out to the field
with your father
to water trees.
He planted those trees
to protect the soil
creating shelter
for our home.
The trees grew tall
and you grew tall.
Now I see you
protecting your family
creating shelter
for your home.
Your son now
will need to learn
from you how to
water trees.
On The First Day
On the first day in June
the sky was brilliant blue,
so crystal clear it ran
through an icy stream
you could dip your cup into
and drink until you burst.
Life giving water flowing
over the forehead of
a newborn held so closely
by his father that their
hearts beat together as one
under a brilliant blue sky.
The Sky Darkened
The sky darkened with clouds.
Water sprinkled like rain
from the hands of the priest,
who draped the casket with
a white blanket as if
he was tucking in bed
his cold sleeping child.
In this tender action,
our loss too was covered,
not unlike a Band-Aid
hiding a weeping wound,
or newly laid tile
over old linoleum,
though neither captures it.
More like the first snowfall,
covering fallen leaves,
bare patches of dead grass,
fields of brown corn stubble,
suddenly cloaked in
white sparkling brilliance,
a paradise to behold.
We know what lies beneath,
sleeping through this season,
waiting till snow melts away,
verdant leaves bursting forth,
grass springing green overnight,
corn growing tall to harvest,
hope breaking through darkness.
CNN Reports: Colorado Reels after Deadly LGBTQ Club Shooting
He Was Only Four
He was only four
when he told his mother
he was a boy.
Then God said, ”Let us make man…
He/him “was a light in my life
with so much more life to give.”
in our own image, after our likeness…
She/her “was an amazing mother
with a huge heart.”
He created he/him, she/her, they/them.
He/him “was kind, willing to go out
of his way to help others.”
He created them.
She/her “was loving, caring, and sweet.
Everyone loved her.”
And it was so.”
He/him “found a community he loved
where he could really shine.”
We wept.
Her Hands Stretched Wide
Her hands stretched wide
across a growing belly,
searching for hope’s dance,
love’s secret within.
Seeing the unseen,
knowing the unknown,
bound eternally,
in blood and bone.
Hope denied, buried,
grave without a name,
sorrow never resting
stretches out its hands.
Blood will never see,
secrets within the vein,
bone will never hear,
a name only whispered.
My Hands Cradle
My hands cradle
the calabash,
scrubbing clean its
mottled brown skin.
Stretched tight over
a rounded belly,
its moisture lost,
dried seeds wait.
Coping with loss
is life’s journey,
was said as we
tied netted beads.
Around their hulls,
transforming gourds
into shakere,
beaded rattles.
A shake giving
voice to the hollow
bewitching beat
of the gourd dance.
“Ready to go,
ready to die”,
chant the rattle’s
ancient cadence.
Within its hollow,
loss and life lie
cradled together,
ready to sing.
At Thanksgiving
At Thanksgiving,
grief and sorrow,
took their place around the table,
on either side of gratitude.
At Christmas,
hope and joy,
joined in the festive celebration,
inviting remembrance to take a seat.
Easter is yet a mystery,
your face unseen,
known only in our hearts and bones.
We hold a place for you.
A Father’s Letter, June 25, 1974
“Honey we love you very much. We know you are going to have times of loneliness…”
I remember being small,
lost in a sea of legs.
Searching and sobbing,
you scooping me up.
“and times of foreboding.”
I remember being scared,
in shock after mother was shot.
Waiting side by side,
you consoling me.
“When these times come, pray to God.”
I remember being a bride,
walking down an aisle
on your arm having learned
love endures.
“When all else fails…”
I remember the sorrow,
you not knowing my name.
Then your heart sang out
calling ‘sweetheart’.
“You are not alone. Your ever-loving, Dad”
I remember your passing,
my glimpse of your spirit.
The message received,
love never fails.
My Father’s Stockings
He passed away
narrowly alone in
nursing home bed
once surrounded
by family
left now
in peace.
He may have worn stockings
to warm bony
cold blue feet
but the next morning
when we returned
only the bare
striped mattress
remained.
My father was
a clean man
who washed out
his stockings nightly
hanging them to dry
on the towel rack.
Something he learned to do
surrounded by brothers
with dirty feet.
We cleaned out
his drawers
his closet
his photos
leaving with bags
of a used life. Useful.
This for daughter
this for son,
this for donations
this for garbage.
The stockings
for donation laid
on top of the heap
for days
then seeing
their worn heels
their prickly
elastic tops
were placed
in the garbage.
One pair never
passed on but
remains in my
sock drawer
silently awaiting
hands that
hold turn
and remember
the man.
Two Deer
Two deer lay side by side
on an island of grass,
surrounded by snow,
waiting for sunrise.
I watched from my window,
delighted with their ease,
blessed to be included
In this landscape we share.
A bald eagle watched,
perched high atop a tree,
messenger of prayers
between souls now and past.
How do the departed slip
past the sleeping deer,
past the morning sunrise,
past our out stretched hands?
On the eagle’s wings
their spirit soars, not past,
within the landscape
of our shared existence.
Never far, always near,
joined with us, sharing love,
joy, sorrow, and prayers,
sunrises and sunsets.
Under Cover of Lipstick
Under cover of lipstick,
she took on the world.
Fire Engine Red, I teased her,
a nineteen-sixties siren.
Left behind her mark on
coffee cups and children’s cheeks,
giving life to her pale lips,
igniting a glowing smile.
That hid sorrow well until
the undertaker applied it
for the final time after which
those lips sealed the secret.
You told us he died,
such a long time ago,
crying to keep him buried,
but behind those tears, he lived.
Did you lie to protect us
or to protect yourself?
Sometimes what is apparent,
is nothing more than a ghost.
I rub the lipstick off my cheek,
still covering the truth.
and Death Shall Have No
and Death shall have no
dominion but time,
time is an open wound
never healing, picked
raw in secret.
Five years now have passed.
Seeing your face in
anguish etched into
memory that stands
frozen, helpless.
Time holds me captive.
Richness of happy days.
Poverty of loss.
Death’s dominion grips
what time is left.
Thanksgiving is past.
Snow blankets a frozen
world not dead, at rest,
awaiting rebirth,
awaiting hope.
I Laid My Hand
I laid my hand
against your cheek
holding what remained.
Your face etched
in memory as
life ebbed away.
A tree branch flung
my glasses off,
far into the snow.
Blinded I searched,
until my heart
began to see.
Three days you walked
through the valley
shadowed by death.
Goodness and mercy
followed, while bedside,
I sat helpless.
Looking in a mirror
my heart now sees
our reflection.
I lay my hand
against my cheek,
holding what remains.
I Thought of You
I thought of you today.
Snow has melted away
from the burial mound
of grass clippings you left.
Things seem unfinished
that never had an end.
Why ask why, when there’ll
never be an answer?
This is what I know from
all my years of living.
Pain cannot be treated
with a Band-Aid and a kiss.
Too much insulation
stops a house from breathing.
Crumpled paper cannot
keep china from cracking.
Closing your eyes will not
shut out the world.
I thought of the cabin.
Plywood covering the doors
and windows has not stopped
squirrels from getting in.
You shut your eyes when life
became unbearable.
Winter ended. Spring began.
The grass grows green again.
The Table Stands Empty
In a cavernous silence
the table stands empty.
Yellow leaves drift down
covering its surface.
Yesterday we sat there
feasting on colors
of light and love spinning
a cocoon together.
Within its snug safety
dark places opened.
The work of our hands
became the work of our hearts.
Today we awaken,
bright colors painted,
strong baskets woven,
awaiting butterflies.
Colors
Colors cascade
from hands of
friend to friend.
Delighted like girls,
bonded like women,
who know places
not all hearts
have found
together.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:14.551318
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-6",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-7
|
3 Your Voice Was Heard
Constance Hodder
In the Silence
In the silence, at day’s end,
looking over the meadow,
I hear you say,
“You should work the land”.
Great Grandfather,
You were a logger.
You were a farmer.
I am not. What is our connection
now a century past?
At the end of the road at Red Top,
I tried to find you.
Your sawmill, gone.
Tall tamaracks, gone.
Even sawdust
blown away.
What remained was the soil,
sewn with your sweat,
sewn with your dreams,
I found you there,
Your love of this land.
Great Grandfather,
We share a kinship
with each other,
with the land.
I plant trees
to remember,
those gone before
whose roots grow
deep in my bones.
Your voice was heard.
I could not leave Red Top
without something
to hold onto.
I collected a branch
from an old oak tree
you may have rested against,
in the silence, at day’s end.
My Grandmother Was Clever
My grandmother was clever,
she could tat a collar of lace,
make a doll out of a handkerchief,
and beat me at tiddlywinks.
In the end of her days, she was
heard conversing with her mother,
who passed when she was eight,
time’s veil having worn thin.
Today was warm and sunny,
I took my sandwich outside,
to eat at the picnic table,
and found you were there.
So we ate side by side,
mine peanut butter with jelly,
yours peanut butter with mayo.
Are you surprised I remembered?
Together for that moment,
eating with the sun on our backs,
yesterday as today,
without a breath between them.
Sorrow replaced by wonder
that time’s passage is not
terminal, only limited
by how we part the veil.
Gloria
Gloria is gone.
Covid stole her,
while we looked away.
Chickadee lies still
in the garden,
while we looked away.
Gloria asked angels
to lift her foot
as she stepped off.
Tiny bird entombed
between my hands,
Were angels there for you?
Gloria in Excelsis.
The Child cries alone
and we looked away.
Wind Howled in the Night
Wind howled in the night,
rain came down in torrents.
I awoke to birds singing
but heard you did not.
You who loved bright beads,
delighted in wearing a rainbow
of mismatched socks.
Who laughed so hard, we cried.
Every day birds take time
to sing out their hearts.
Do they do this to
let go of sorrow?
Intellectual disability,
a label about knowing less but
understanding more about
how vital it is to sing.
After the clouds blew off,
the sun shone this morning.
Despite this, the day didn’t
seem as bright without you.
Elise
Elise stands tall
On straight thin legs.
“I am almost ten”
she states.
That’s five plus five,
I marvel.
Elise stands proud.
“I don’t like sports.
I like music”
she reports.
What’s your instrument?
I question.
Elise never wavers.
“I like to sing”.
She stands tall
almost 10.
I listen,
bent with age.
In awe of youth.
Singing!
The Saga of Heavenly Hash
I know you remember
that evening so many years ago
in South Minneapolis
like yesterday.
Sitting side by side
on the porch front stoop
too hot to sit inside
the evening light fading.
Our hearts were one
as we poured out our
thoughts, hopes, and dreams
souls united from the start.
You on my left with your
deep tan and deeper insights.
Me with my long unshaven legs
and optimistic innocence.
The evening etched into memory
all because of two spoons
and a half gallon of ice cream
that disappeared as night set in.
Watering Trees
I remember
you as a young boy
going out to the field
with your father
to water trees.
He planted those trees
to protect the soil
creating shelter
for our home.
The trees grew tall
and you grew tall.
Now I see you
protecting your family
creating shelter
for your home.
Your son now
will need to learn
from you how to
water trees.
On The First Day
On the first day in June
the sky was brilliant blue,
so crystal clear it ran
through an icy stream
you could dip your cup into
and drink until you burst.
Life giving water flowing
over the forehead of
a newborn held so closely
by his father that their
hearts beat together as one
under a brilliant blue sky.
The Sky Darkened
The sky darkened with clouds.
Water sprinkled like rain
from the hands of the priest,
who draped the casket with
a white blanket as if
he was tucking in bed
his cold sleeping child.
In this tender action,
our loss too was covered,
not unlike a Band-Aid
hiding a weeping wound,
or newly laid tile
over old linoleum,
though neither captures it.
More like the first snowfall,
covering fallen leaves,
bare patches of dead grass,
fields of brown corn stubble,
suddenly cloaked in
white sparkling brilliance,
a paradise to behold.
We know what lies beneath,
sleeping through this season,
waiting till snow melts away,
verdant leaves bursting forth,
grass springing green overnight,
corn growing tall to harvest,
hope breaking through darkness.
CNN Reports: Colorado Reels after Deadly LGBTQ Club Shooting
He Was Only Four
He was only four
when he told his mother
he was a boy.
Then God said, ”Let us make man…
He/him “was a light in my life
with so much more life to give.”
in our own image, after our likeness…
She/her “was an amazing mother
with a huge heart.”
He created he/him, she/her, they/them.
He/him “was kind, willing to go out
of his way to help others.”
He created them.
She/her “was loving, caring, and sweet.
Everyone loved her.”
And it was so.”
He/him “found a community he loved
where he could really shine.”
We wept.
Her Hands Stretched Wide
Her hands stretched wide
across a growing belly,
searching for hope’s dance,
love’s secret within.
Seeing the unseen,
knowing the unknown,
bound eternally,
in blood and bone.
Hope denied, buried,
grave without a name,
sorrow never resting
stretches out its hands.
Blood will never see,
secrets within the vein,
bone will never hear,
a name only whispered.
My Hands Cradle
My hands cradle
the calabash,
scrubbing clean its
mottled brown skin.
Stretched tight over
a rounded belly,
its moisture lost,
dried seeds wait.
Coping with loss
is life’s journey,
was said as we
tied netted beads.
Around their hulls,
transforming gourds
into shakere,
beaded rattles.
A shake giving
voice to the hollow
bewitching beat
of the gourd dance.
“Ready to go,
ready to die”,
chant the rattle’s
ancient cadence.
Within its hollow,
loss and life lie
cradled together,
ready to sing.
At Thanksgiving
At Thanksgiving,
grief and sorrow,
took their place around the table,
on either side of gratitude.
At Christmas,
hope and joy,
joined in the festive celebration,
inviting remembrance to take a seat.
Easter is yet a mystery,
your face unseen,
known only in our hearts and bones.
We hold a place for you.
A Father’s Letter, June 25, 1974
“Honey we love you very much. We know you are going to have times of loneliness…”
I remember being small,
lost in a sea of legs.
Searching and sobbing,
you scooping me up.
“and times of foreboding.”
I remember being scared,
in shock after mother was shot.
Waiting side by side,
you consoling me.
“When these times come, pray to God.”
I remember being a bride,
walking down an aisle
on your arm having learned
love endures.
“When all else fails…”
I remember the sorrow,
you not knowing my name.
Then your heart sang out
calling ‘sweetheart’.
“You are not alone. Your ever-loving, Dad”
I remember your passing,
my glimpse of your spirit.
The message received,
love never fails.
My Father’s Stockings
He passed away
narrowly alone in
nursing home bed
once surrounded
by family
left now
in peace.
He may have worn stockings
to warm bony
cold blue feet
but the next morning
when we returned
only the bare
striped mattress
remained.
My father was
a clean man
who washed out
his stockings nightly
hanging them to dry
on the towel rack.
Something he learned to do
surrounded by brothers
with dirty feet.
We cleaned out
his drawers
his closet
his photos
leaving with bags
of a used life. Useful.
This for daughter
this for son,
this for donations
this for garbage.
The stockings
for donation laid
on top of the heap
for days
then seeing
their worn heels
their prickly
elastic tops
were placed
in the garbage.
One pair never
passed on but
remains in my
sock drawer
silently awaiting
hands that
hold turn
and remember
the man.
Two Deer
Two deer lay side by side
on an island of grass,
surrounded by snow,
waiting for sunrise.
I watched from my window,
delighted with their ease,
blessed to be included
In this landscape we share.
A bald eagle watched,
perched high atop a tree,
messenger of prayers
between souls now and past.
How do the departed slip
past the sleeping deer,
past the morning sunrise,
past our out stretched hands?
On the eagle’s wings
their spirit soars, not past,
within the landscape
of our shared existence.
Never far, always near,
joined with us, sharing love,
joy, sorrow, and prayers,
sunrises and sunsets.
Under Cover of Lipstick
Under cover of lipstick,
she took on the world.
Fire Engine Red, I teased her,
a nineteen-sixties siren.
Left behind her mark on
coffee cups and children’s cheeks,
giving life to her pale lips,
igniting a glowing smile.
That hid sorrow well until
the undertaker applied it
for the final time after which
those lips sealed the secret.
You told us he died,
such a long time ago,
crying to keep him buried,
but behind those tears, he lived.
Did you lie to protect us
or to protect yourself?
Sometimes what is apparent,
is nothing more than a ghost.
I rub the lipstick off my cheek,
still covering the truth.
and Death Shall Have No
and Death shall have no
dominion but time,
time is an open wound
never healing, picked
raw in secret.
Five years now have passed.
Seeing your face in
anguish etched into
memory that stands
frozen, helpless.
Time holds me captive.
Richness of happy days.
Poverty of loss.
Death’s dominion grips
what time is left.
Thanksgiving is past.
Snow blankets a frozen
world not dead, at rest,
awaiting rebirth,
awaiting hope.
I Laid My Hand
I laid my hand
against your cheek
holding what remained.
Your face etched
in memory as
life ebbed away.
A tree branch flung
my glasses off,
far into the snow.
Blinded I searched,
until my heart
began to see.
Three days you walked
through the valley
shadowed by death.
Goodness and mercy
followed, while bedside,
I sat helpless.
Looking in a mirror
my heart now sees
our reflection.
I lay my hand
against my cheek,
holding what remains.
I Thought of You
I thought of you today.
Snow has melted away
from the burial mound
of grass clippings you left.
Things seem unfinished
that never had an end.
Why ask why, when there’ll
never be an answer?
This is what I know from
all my years of living.
Pain cannot be treated
with a Band-Aid and a kiss.
Too much insulation
stops a house from breathing.
Crumpled paper cannot
keep china from cracking.
Closing your eyes will not
shut out the world.
I thought of the cabin.
Plywood covering the doors
and windows has not stopped
squirrels from getting in.
You shut your eyes when life
became unbearable.
Winter ended. Spring began.
The grass grows green again.
The Table Stands Empty
In a cavernous silence
the table stands empty.
Yellow leaves drift down
covering its surface.
Yesterday we sat there
feasting on colors
of light and love spinning
a cocoon together.
Within its snug safety
dark places opened.
The work of our hands
became the work of our hearts.
Today we awaken,
bright colors painted,
strong baskets woven,
awaiting butterflies.
Colors
Colors cascade
from hands of
friend to friend.
Delighted like girls,
bonded like women,
who know places
not all hearts
have found
together.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:14.617989
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-7",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-8
|
3 Your Voice Was Heard
Constance Hodder
In the Silence
In the silence, at day’s end,
looking over the meadow,
I hear you say,
“You should work the land”.
Great Grandfather,
You were a logger.
You were a farmer.
I am not. What is our connection
now a century past?
At the end of the road at Red Top,
I tried to find you.
Your sawmill, gone.
Tall tamaracks, gone.
Even sawdust
blown away.
What remained was the soil,
sewn with your sweat,
sewn with your dreams,
I found you there,
Your love of this land.
Great Grandfather,
We share a kinship
with each other,
with the land.
I plant trees
to remember,
those gone before
whose roots grow
deep in my bones.
Your voice was heard.
I could not leave Red Top
without something
to hold onto.
I collected a branch
from an old oak tree
you may have rested against,
in the silence, at day’s end.
My Grandmother Was Clever
My grandmother was clever,
she could tat a collar of lace,
make a doll out of a handkerchief,
and beat me at tiddlywinks.
In the end of her days, she was
heard conversing with her mother,
who passed when she was eight,
time’s veil having worn thin.
Today was warm and sunny,
I took my sandwich outside,
to eat at the picnic table,
and found you were there.
So we ate side by side,
mine peanut butter with jelly,
yours peanut butter with mayo.
Are you surprised I remembered?
Together for that moment,
eating with the sun on our backs,
yesterday as today,
without a breath between them.
Sorrow replaced by wonder
that time’s passage is not
terminal, only limited
by how we part the veil.
Gloria
Gloria is gone.
Covid stole her,
while we looked away.
Chickadee lies still
in the garden,
while we looked away.
Gloria asked angels
to lift her foot
as she stepped off.
Tiny bird entombed
between my hands,
Were angels there for you?
Gloria in Excelsis.
The Child cries alone
and we looked away.
Wind Howled in the Night
Wind howled in the night,
rain came down in torrents.
I awoke to birds singing
but heard you did not.
You who loved bright beads,
delighted in wearing a rainbow
of mismatched socks.
Who laughed so hard, we cried.
Every day birds take time
to sing out their hearts.
Do they do this to
let go of sorrow?
Intellectual disability,
a label about knowing less but
understanding more about
how vital it is to sing.
After the clouds blew off,
the sun shone this morning.
Despite this, the day didn’t
seem as bright without you.
Elise
Elise stands tall
On straight thin legs.
“I am almost ten”
she states.
That’s five plus five,
I marvel.
Elise stands proud.
“I don’t like sports.
I like music”
she reports.
What’s your instrument?
I question.
Elise never wavers.
“I like to sing”.
She stands tall
almost 10.
I listen,
bent with age.
In awe of youth.
Singing!
The Saga of Heavenly Hash
I know you remember
that evening so many years ago
in South Minneapolis
like yesterday.
Sitting side by side
on the porch front stoop
too hot to sit inside
the evening light fading.
Our hearts were one
as we poured out our
thoughts, hopes, and dreams
souls united from the start.
You on my left with your
deep tan and deeper insights.
Me with my long unshaven legs
and optimistic innocence.
The evening etched into memory
all because of two spoons
and a half gallon of ice cream
that disappeared as night set in.
Watering Trees
I remember
you as a young boy
going out to the field
with your father
to water trees.
He planted those trees
to protect the soil
creating shelter
for our home.
The trees grew tall
and you grew tall.
Now I see you
protecting your family
creating shelter
for your home.
Your son now
will need to learn
from you how to
water trees.
On The First Day
On the first day in June
the sky was brilliant blue,
so crystal clear it ran
through an icy stream
you could dip your cup into
and drink until you burst.
Life giving water flowing
over the forehead of
a newborn held so closely
by his father that their
hearts beat together as one
under a brilliant blue sky.
The Sky Darkened
The sky darkened with clouds.
Water sprinkled like rain
from the hands of the priest,
who draped the casket with
a white blanket as if
he was tucking in bed
his cold sleeping child.
In this tender action,
our loss too was covered,
not unlike a Band-Aid
hiding a weeping wound,
or newly laid tile
over old linoleum,
though neither captures it.
More like the first snowfall,
covering fallen leaves,
bare patches of dead grass,
fields of brown corn stubble,
suddenly cloaked in
white sparkling brilliance,
a paradise to behold.
We know what lies beneath,
sleeping through this season,
waiting till snow melts away,
verdant leaves bursting forth,
grass springing green overnight,
corn growing tall to harvest,
hope breaking through darkness.
CNN Reports: Colorado Reels after Deadly LGBTQ Club Shooting
He Was Only Four
He was only four
when he told his mother
he was a boy.
Then God said, ”Let us make man…
He/him “was a light in my life
with so much more life to give.”
in our own image, after our likeness…
She/her “was an amazing mother
with a huge heart.”
He created he/him, she/her, they/them.
He/him “was kind, willing to go out
of his way to help others.”
He created them.
She/her “was loving, caring, and sweet.
Everyone loved her.”
And it was so.”
He/him “found a community he loved
where he could really shine.”
We wept.
Her Hands Stretched Wide
Her hands stretched wide
across a growing belly,
searching for hope’s dance,
love’s secret within.
Seeing the unseen,
knowing the unknown,
bound eternally,
in blood and bone.
Hope denied, buried,
grave without a name,
sorrow never resting
stretches out its hands.
Blood will never see,
secrets within the vein,
bone will never hear,
a name only whispered.
My Hands Cradle
My hands cradle
the calabash,
scrubbing clean its
mottled brown skin.
Stretched tight over
a rounded belly,
its moisture lost,
dried seeds wait.
Coping with loss
is life’s journey,
was said as we
tied netted beads.
Around their hulls,
transforming gourds
into shakere,
beaded rattles.
A shake giving
voice to the hollow
bewitching beat
of the gourd dance.
“Ready to go,
ready to die”,
chant the rattle’s
ancient cadence.
Within its hollow,
loss and life lie
cradled together,
ready to sing.
At Thanksgiving
At Thanksgiving,
grief and sorrow,
took their place around the table,
on either side of gratitude.
At Christmas,
hope and joy,
joined in the festive celebration,
inviting remembrance to take a seat.
Easter is yet a mystery,
your face unseen,
known only in our hearts and bones.
We hold a place for you.
A Father’s Letter, June 25, 1974
“Honey we love you very much. We know you are going to have times of loneliness…”
I remember being small,
lost in a sea of legs.
Searching and sobbing,
you scooping me up.
“and times of foreboding.”
I remember being scared,
in shock after mother was shot.
Waiting side by side,
you consoling me.
“When these times come, pray to God.”
I remember being a bride,
walking down an aisle
on your arm having learned
love endures.
“When all else fails…”
I remember the sorrow,
you not knowing my name.
Then your heart sang out
calling ‘sweetheart’.
“You are not alone. Your ever-loving, Dad”
I remember your passing,
my glimpse of your spirit.
The message received,
love never fails.
My Father’s Stockings
He passed away
narrowly alone in
nursing home bed
once surrounded
by family
left now
in peace.
He may have worn stockings
to warm bony
cold blue feet
but the next morning
when we returned
only the bare
striped mattress
remained.
My father was
a clean man
who washed out
his stockings nightly
hanging them to dry
on the towel rack.
Something he learned to do
surrounded by brothers
with dirty feet.
We cleaned out
his drawers
his closet
his photos
leaving with bags
of a used life. Useful.
This for daughter
this for son,
this for donations
this for garbage.
The stockings
for donation laid
on top of the heap
for days
then seeing
their worn heels
their prickly
elastic tops
were placed
in the garbage.
One pair never
passed on but
remains in my
sock drawer
silently awaiting
hands that
hold turn
and remember
the man.
Two Deer
Two deer lay side by side
on an island of grass,
surrounded by snow,
waiting for sunrise.
I watched from my window,
delighted with their ease,
blessed to be included
In this landscape we share.
A bald eagle watched,
perched high atop a tree,
messenger of prayers
between souls now and past.
How do the departed slip
past the sleeping deer,
past the morning sunrise,
past our out stretched hands?
On the eagle’s wings
their spirit soars, not past,
within the landscape
of our shared existence.
Never far, always near,
joined with us, sharing love,
joy, sorrow, and prayers,
sunrises and sunsets.
Under Cover of Lipstick
Under cover of lipstick,
she took on the world.
Fire Engine Red, I teased her,
a nineteen-sixties siren.
Left behind her mark on
coffee cups and children’s cheeks,
giving life to her pale lips,
igniting a glowing smile.
That hid sorrow well until
the undertaker applied it
for the final time after which
those lips sealed the secret.
You told us he died,
such a long time ago,
crying to keep him buried,
but behind those tears, he lived.
Did you lie to protect us
or to protect yourself?
Sometimes what is apparent,
is nothing more than a ghost.
I rub the lipstick off my cheek,
still covering the truth.
and Death Shall Have No
and Death shall have no
dominion but time,
time is an open wound
never healing, picked
raw in secret.
Five years now have passed.
Seeing your face in
anguish etched into
memory that stands
frozen, helpless.
Time holds me captive.
Richness of happy days.
Poverty of loss.
Death’s dominion grips
what time is left.
Thanksgiving is past.
Snow blankets a frozen
world not dead, at rest,
awaiting rebirth,
awaiting hope.
I Laid My Hand
I laid my hand
against your cheek
holding what remained.
Your face etched
in memory as
life ebbed away.
A tree branch flung
my glasses off,
far into the snow.
Blinded I searched,
until my heart
began to see.
Three days you walked
through the valley
shadowed by death.
Goodness and mercy
followed, while bedside,
I sat helpless.
Looking in a mirror
my heart now sees
our reflection.
I lay my hand
against my cheek,
holding what remains.
I Thought of You
I thought of you today.
Snow has melted away
from the burial mound
of grass clippings you left.
Things seem unfinished
that never had an end.
Why ask why, when there’ll
never be an answer?
This is what I know from
all my years of living.
Pain cannot be treated
with a Band-Aid and a kiss.
Too much insulation
stops a house from breathing.
Crumpled paper cannot
keep china from cracking.
Closing your eyes will not
shut out the world.
I thought of the cabin.
Plywood covering the doors
and windows has not stopped
squirrels from getting in.
You shut your eyes when life
became unbearable.
Winter ended. Spring began.
The grass grows green again.
The Table Stands Empty
In a cavernous silence
the table stands empty.
Yellow leaves drift down
covering its surface.
Yesterday we sat there
feasting on colors
of light and love spinning
a cocoon together.
Within its snug safety
dark places opened.
The work of our hands
became the work of our hearts.
Today we awaken,
bright colors painted,
strong baskets woven,
awaiting butterflies.
Colors
Colors cascade
from hands of
friend to friend.
Delighted like girls,
bonded like women,
who know places
not all hearts
have found
together.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:14.693448
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-8",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-9
|
3 Your Voice Was Heard
Constance Hodder
In the Silence
In the silence, at day’s end,
looking over the meadow,
I hear you say,
“You should work the land”.
Great Grandfather,
You were a logger.
You were a farmer.
I am not. What is our connection
now a century past?
At the end of the road at Red Top,
I tried to find you.
Your sawmill, gone.
Tall tamaracks, gone.
Even sawdust
blown away.
What remained was the soil,
sewn with your sweat,
sewn with your dreams,
I found you there,
Your love of this land.
Great Grandfather,
We share a kinship
with each other,
with the land.
I plant trees
to remember,
those gone before
whose roots grow
deep in my bones.
Your voice was heard.
I could not leave Red Top
without something
to hold onto.
I collected a branch
from an old oak tree
you may have rested against,
in the silence, at day’s end.
My Grandmother Was Clever
My grandmother was clever,
she could tat a collar of lace,
make a doll out of a handkerchief,
and beat me at tiddlywinks.
In the end of her days, she was
heard conversing with her mother,
who passed when she was eight,
time’s veil having worn thin.
Today was warm and sunny,
I took my sandwich outside,
to eat at the picnic table,
and found you were there.
So we ate side by side,
mine peanut butter with jelly,
yours peanut butter with mayo.
Are you surprised I remembered?
Together for that moment,
eating with the sun on our backs,
yesterday as today,
without a breath between them.
Sorrow replaced by wonder
that time’s passage is not
terminal, only limited
by how we part the veil.
Gloria
Gloria is gone.
Covid stole her,
while we looked away.
Chickadee lies still
in the garden,
while we looked away.
Gloria asked angels
to lift her foot
as she stepped off.
Tiny bird entombed
between my hands,
Were angels there for you?
Gloria in Excelsis.
The Child cries alone
and we looked away.
Wind Howled in the Night
Wind howled in the night,
rain came down in torrents.
I awoke to birds singing
but heard you did not.
You who loved bright beads,
delighted in wearing a rainbow
of mismatched socks.
Who laughed so hard, we cried.
Every day birds take time
to sing out their hearts.
Do they do this to
let go of sorrow?
Intellectual disability,
a label about knowing less but
understanding more about
how vital it is to sing.
After the clouds blew off,
the sun shone this morning.
Despite this, the day didn’t
seem as bright without you.
Elise
Elise stands tall
On straight thin legs.
“I am almost ten”
she states.
That’s five plus five,
I marvel.
Elise stands proud.
“I don’t like sports.
I like music”
she reports.
What’s your instrument?
I question.
Elise never wavers.
“I like to sing”.
She stands tall
almost 10.
I listen,
bent with age.
In awe of youth.
Singing!
The Saga of Heavenly Hash
I know you remember
that evening so many years ago
in South Minneapolis
like yesterday.
Sitting side by side
on the porch front stoop
too hot to sit inside
the evening light fading.
Our hearts were one
as we poured out our
thoughts, hopes, and dreams
souls united from the start.
You on my left with your
deep tan and deeper insights.
Me with my long unshaven legs
and optimistic innocence.
The evening etched into memory
all because of two spoons
and a half gallon of ice cream
that disappeared as night set in.
Watering Trees
I remember
you as a young boy
going out to the field
with your father
to water trees.
He planted those trees
to protect the soil
creating shelter
for our home.
The trees grew tall
and you grew tall.
Now I see you
protecting your family
creating shelter
for your home.
Your son now
will need to learn
from you how to
water trees.
On The First Day
On the first day in June
the sky was brilliant blue,
so crystal clear it ran
through an icy stream
you could dip your cup into
and drink until you burst.
Life giving water flowing
over the forehead of
a newborn held so closely
by his father that their
hearts beat together as one
under a brilliant blue sky.
The Sky Darkened
The sky darkened with clouds.
Water sprinkled like rain
from the hands of the priest,
who draped the casket with
a white blanket as if
he was tucking in bed
his cold sleeping child.
In this tender action,
our loss too was covered,
not unlike a Band-Aid
hiding a weeping wound,
or newly laid tile
over old linoleum,
though neither captures it.
More like the first snowfall,
covering fallen leaves,
bare patches of dead grass,
fields of brown corn stubble,
suddenly cloaked in
white sparkling brilliance,
a paradise to behold.
We know what lies beneath,
sleeping through this season,
waiting till snow melts away,
verdant leaves bursting forth,
grass springing green overnight,
corn growing tall to harvest,
hope breaking through darkness.
CNN Reports: Colorado Reels after Deadly LGBTQ Club Shooting
He Was Only Four
He was only four
when he told his mother
he was a boy.
Then God said, ”Let us make man…
He/him “was a light in my life
with so much more life to give.”
in our own image, after our likeness…
She/her “was an amazing mother
with a huge heart.”
He created he/him, she/her, they/them.
He/him “was kind, willing to go out
of his way to help others.”
He created them.
She/her “was loving, caring, and sweet.
Everyone loved her.”
And it was so.”
He/him “found a community he loved
where he could really shine.”
We wept.
Her Hands Stretched Wide
Her hands stretched wide
across a growing belly,
searching for hope’s dance,
love’s secret within.
Seeing the unseen,
knowing the unknown,
bound eternally,
in blood and bone.
Hope denied, buried,
grave without a name,
sorrow never resting
stretches out its hands.
Blood will never see,
secrets within the vein,
bone will never hear,
a name only whispered.
My Hands Cradle
My hands cradle
the calabash,
scrubbing clean its
mottled brown skin.
Stretched tight over
a rounded belly,
its moisture lost,
dried seeds wait.
Coping with loss
is life’s journey,
was said as we
tied netted beads.
Around their hulls,
transforming gourds
into shakere,
beaded rattles.
A shake giving
voice to the hollow
bewitching beat
of the gourd dance.
“Ready to go,
ready to die”,
chant the rattle’s
ancient cadence.
Within its hollow,
loss and life lie
cradled together,
ready to sing.
At Thanksgiving
At Thanksgiving,
grief and sorrow,
took their place around the table,
on either side of gratitude.
At Christmas,
hope and joy,
joined in the festive celebration,
inviting remembrance to take a seat.
Easter is yet a mystery,
your face unseen,
known only in our hearts and bones.
We hold a place for you.
A Father’s Letter, June 25, 1974
“Honey we love you very much. We know you are going to have times of loneliness…”
I remember being small,
lost in a sea of legs.
Searching and sobbing,
you scooping me up.
“and times of foreboding.”
I remember being scared,
in shock after mother was shot.
Waiting side by side,
you consoling me.
“When these times come, pray to God.”
I remember being a bride,
walking down an aisle
on your arm having learned
love endures.
“When all else fails…”
I remember the sorrow,
you not knowing my name.
Then your heart sang out
calling ‘sweetheart’.
“You are not alone. Your ever-loving, Dad”
I remember your passing,
my glimpse of your spirit.
The message received,
love never fails.
My Father’s Stockings
He passed away
narrowly alone in
nursing home bed
once surrounded
by family
left now
in peace.
He may have worn stockings
to warm bony
cold blue feet
but the next morning
when we returned
only the bare
striped mattress
remained.
My father was
a clean man
who washed out
his stockings nightly
hanging them to dry
on the towel rack.
Something he learned to do
surrounded by brothers
with dirty feet.
We cleaned out
his drawers
his closet
his photos
leaving with bags
of a used life. Useful.
This for daughter
this for son,
this for donations
this for garbage.
The stockings
for donation laid
on top of the heap
for days
then seeing
their worn heels
their prickly
elastic tops
were placed
in the garbage.
One pair never
passed on but
remains in my
sock drawer
silently awaiting
hands that
hold turn
and remember
the man.
Two Deer
Two deer lay side by side
on an island of grass,
surrounded by snow,
waiting for sunrise.
I watched from my window,
delighted with their ease,
blessed to be included
In this landscape we share.
A bald eagle watched,
perched high atop a tree,
messenger of prayers
between souls now and past.
How do the departed slip
past the sleeping deer,
past the morning sunrise,
past our out stretched hands?
On the eagle’s wings
their spirit soars, not past,
within the landscape
of our shared existence.
Never far, always near,
joined with us, sharing love,
joy, sorrow, and prayers,
sunrises and sunsets.
Under Cover of Lipstick
Under cover of lipstick,
she took on the world.
Fire Engine Red, I teased her,
a nineteen-sixties siren.
Left behind her mark on
coffee cups and children’s cheeks,
giving life to her pale lips,
igniting a glowing smile.
That hid sorrow well until
the undertaker applied it
for the final time after which
those lips sealed the secret.
You told us he died,
such a long time ago,
crying to keep him buried,
but behind those tears, he lived.
Did you lie to protect us
or to protect yourself?
Sometimes what is apparent,
is nothing more than a ghost.
I rub the lipstick off my cheek,
still covering the truth.
and Death Shall Have No
and Death shall have no
dominion but time,
time is an open wound
never healing, picked
raw in secret.
Five years now have passed.
Seeing your face in
anguish etched into
memory that stands
frozen, helpless.
Time holds me captive.
Richness of happy days.
Poverty of loss.
Death’s dominion grips
what time is left.
Thanksgiving is past.
Snow blankets a frozen
world not dead, at rest,
awaiting rebirth,
awaiting hope.
I Laid My Hand
I laid my hand
against your cheek
holding what remained.
Your face etched
in memory as
life ebbed away.
A tree branch flung
my glasses off,
far into the snow.
Blinded I searched,
until my heart
began to see.
Three days you walked
through the valley
shadowed by death.
Goodness and mercy
followed, while bedside,
I sat helpless.
Looking in a mirror
my heart now sees
our reflection.
I lay my hand
against my cheek,
holding what remains.
I Thought of You
I thought of you today.
Snow has melted away
from the burial mound
of grass clippings you left.
Things seem unfinished
that never had an end.
Why ask why, when there’ll
never be an answer?
This is what I know from
all my years of living.
Pain cannot be treated
with a Band-Aid and a kiss.
Too much insulation
stops a house from breathing.
Crumpled paper cannot
keep china from cracking.
Closing your eyes will not
shut out the world.
I thought of the cabin.
Plywood covering the doors
and windows has not stopped
squirrels from getting in.
You shut your eyes when life
became unbearable.
Winter ended. Spring began.
The grass grows green again.
The Table Stands Empty
In a cavernous silence
the table stands empty.
Yellow leaves drift down
covering its surface.
Yesterday we sat there
feasting on colors
of light and love spinning
a cocoon together.
Within its snug safety
dark places opened.
The work of our hands
became the work of our hearts.
Today we awaken,
bright colors painted,
strong baskets woven,
awaiting butterflies.
Colors
Colors cascade
from hands of
friend to friend.
Delighted like girls,
bonded like women,
who know places
not all hearts
have found
together.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:14.769920
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-9",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-10
|
3 Your Voice Was Heard
Constance Hodder
In the Silence
In the silence, at day’s end,
looking over the meadow,
I hear you say,
“You should work the land”.
Great Grandfather,
You were a logger.
You were a farmer.
I am not. What is our connection
now a century past?
At the end of the road at Red Top,
I tried to find you.
Your sawmill, gone.
Tall tamaracks, gone.
Even sawdust
blown away.
What remained was the soil,
sewn with your sweat,
sewn with your dreams,
I found you there,
Your love of this land.
Great Grandfather,
We share a kinship
with each other,
with the land.
I plant trees
to remember,
those gone before
whose roots grow
deep in my bones.
Your voice was heard.
I could not leave Red Top
without something
to hold onto.
I collected a branch
from an old oak tree
you may have rested against,
in the silence, at day’s end.
My Grandmother Was Clever
My grandmother was clever,
she could tat a collar of lace,
make a doll out of a handkerchief,
and beat me at tiddlywinks.
In the end of her days, she was
heard conversing with her mother,
who passed when she was eight,
time’s veil having worn thin.
Today was warm and sunny,
I took my sandwich outside,
to eat at the picnic table,
and found you were there.
So we ate side by side,
mine peanut butter with jelly,
yours peanut butter with mayo.
Are you surprised I remembered?
Together for that moment,
eating with the sun on our backs,
yesterday as today,
without a breath between them.
Sorrow replaced by wonder
that time’s passage is not
terminal, only limited
by how we part the veil.
Gloria
Gloria is gone.
Covid stole her,
while we looked away.
Chickadee lies still
in the garden,
while we looked away.
Gloria asked angels
to lift her foot
as she stepped off.
Tiny bird entombed
between my hands,
Were angels there for you?
Gloria in Excelsis.
The Child cries alone
and we looked away.
Wind Howled in the Night
Wind howled in the night,
rain came down in torrents.
I awoke to birds singing
but heard you did not.
You who loved bright beads,
delighted in wearing a rainbow
of mismatched socks.
Who laughed so hard, we cried.
Every day birds take time
to sing out their hearts.
Do they do this to
let go of sorrow?
Intellectual disability,
a label about knowing less but
understanding more about
how vital it is to sing.
After the clouds blew off,
the sun shone this morning.
Despite this, the day didn’t
seem as bright without you.
Elise
Elise stands tall
On straight thin legs.
“I am almost ten”
she states.
That’s five plus five,
I marvel.
Elise stands proud.
“I don’t like sports.
I like music”
she reports.
What’s your instrument?
I question.
Elise never wavers.
“I like to sing”.
She stands tall
almost 10.
I listen,
bent with age.
In awe of youth.
Singing!
The Saga of Heavenly Hash
I know you remember
that evening so many years ago
in South Minneapolis
like yesterday.
Sitting side by side
on the porch front stoop
too hot to sit inside
the evening light fading.
Our hearts were one
as we poured out our
thoughts, hopes, and dreams
souls united from the start.
You on my left with your
deep tan and deeper insights.
Me with my long unshaven legs
and optimistic innocence.
The evening etched into memory
all because of two spoons
and a half gallon of ice cream
that disappeared as night set in.
Watering Trees
I remember
you as a young boy
going out to the field
with your father
to water trees.
He planted those trees
to protect the soil
creating shelter
for our home.
The trees grew tall
and you grew tall.
Now I see you
protecting your family
creating shelter
for your home.
Your son now
will need to learn
from you how to
water trees.
On The First Day
On the first day in June
the sky was brilliant blue,
so crystal clear it ran
through an icy stream
you could dip your cup into
and drink until you burst.
Life giving water flowing
over the forehead of
a newborn held so closely
by his father that their
hearts beat together as one
under a brilliant blue sky.
The Sky Darkened
The sky darkened with clouds.
Water sprinkled like rain
from the hands of the priest,
who draped the casket with
a white blanket as if
he was tucking in bed
his cold sleeping child.
In this tender action,
our loss too was covered,
not unlike a Band-Aid
hiding a weeping wound,
or newly laid tile
over old linoleum,
though neither captures it.
More like the first snowfall,
covering fallen leaves,
bare patches of dead grass,
fields of brown corn stubble,
suddenly cloaked in
white sparkling brilliance,
a paradise to behold.
We know what lies beneath,
sleeping through this season,
waiting till snow melts away,
verdant leaves bursting forth,
grass springing green overnight,
corn growing tall to harvest,
hope breaking through darkness.
CNN Reports: Colorado Reels after Deadly LGBTQ Club Shooting
He Was Only Four
He was only four
when he told his mother
he was a boy.
Then God said, ”Let us make man…
He/him “was a light in my life
with so much more life to give.”
in our own image, after our likeness…
She/her “was an amazing mother
with a huge heart.”
He created he/him, she/her, they/them.
He/him “was kind, willing to go out
of his way to help others.”
He created them.
She/her “was loving, caring, and sweet.
Everyone loved her.”
And it was so.”
He/him “found a community he loved
where he could really shine.”
We wept.
Her Hands Stretched Wide
Her hands stretched wide
across a growing belly,
searching for hope’s dance,
love’s secret within.
Seeing the unseen,
knowing the unknown,
bound eternally,
in blood and bone.
Hope denied, buried,
grave without a name,
sorrow never resting
stretches out its hands.
Blood will never see,
secrets within the vein,
bone will never hear,
a name only whispered.
My Hands Cradle
My hands cradle
the calabash,
scrubbing clean its
mottled brown skin.
Stretched tight over
a rounded belly,
its moisture lost,
dried seeds wait.
Coping with loss
is life’s journey,
was said as we
tied netted beads.
Around their hulls,
transforming gourds
into shakere,
beaded rattles.
A shake giving
voice to the hollow
bewitching beat
of the gourd dance.
“Ready to go,
ready to die”,
chant the rattle’s
ancient cadence.
Within its hollow,
loss and life lie
cradled together,
ready to sing.
At Thanksgiving
At Thanksgiving,
grief and sorrow,
took their place around the table,
on either side of gratitude.
At Christmas,
hope and joy,
joined in the festive celebration,
inviting remembrance to take a seat.
Easter is yet a mystery,
your face unseen,
known only in our hearts and bones.
We hold a place for you.
A Father’s Letter, June 25, 1974
“Honey we love you very much. We know you are going to have times of loneliness…”
I remember being small,
lost in a sea of legs.
Searching and sobbing,
you scooping me up.
“and times of foreboding.”
I remember being scared,
in shock after mother was shot.
Waiting side by side,
you consoling me.
“When these times come, pray to God.”
I remember being a bride,
walking down an aisle
on your arm having learned
love endures.
“When all else fails…”
I remember the sorrow,
you not knowing my name.
Then your heart sang out
calling ‘sweetheart’.
“You are not alone. Your ever-loving, Dad”
I remember your passing,
my glimpse of your spirit.
The message received,
love never fails.
My Father’s Stockings
He passed away
narrowly alone in
nursing home bed
once surrounded
by family
left now
in peace.
He may have worn stockings
to warm bony
cold blue feet
but the next morning
when we returned
only the bare
striped mattress
remained.
My father was
a clean man
who washed out
his stockings nightly
hanging them to dry
on the towel rack.
Something he learned to do
surrounded by brothers
with dirty feet.
We cleaned out
his drawers
his closet
his photos
leaving with bags
of a used life. Useful.
This for daughter
this for son,
this for donations
this for garbage.
The stockings
for donation laid
on top of the heap
for days
then seeing
their worn heels
their prickly
elastic tops
were placed
in the garbage.
One pair never
passed on but
remains in my
sock drawer
silently awaiting
hands that
hold turn
and remember
the man.
Two Deer
Two deer lay side by side
on an island of grass,
surrounded by snow,
waiting for sunrise.
I watched from my window,
delighted with their ease,
blessed to be included
In this landscape we share.
A bald eagle watched,
perched high atop a tree,
messenger of prayers
between souls now and past.
How do the departed slip
past the sleeping deer,
past the morning sunrise,
past our out stretched hands?
On the eagle’s wings
their spirit soars, not past,
within the landscape
of our shared existence.
Never far, always near,
joined with us, sharing love,
joy, sorrow, and prayers,
sunrises and sunsets.
Under Cover of Lipstick
Under cover of lipstick,
she took on the world.
Fire Engine Red, I teased her,
a nineteen-sixties siren.
Left behind her mark on
coffee cups and children’s cheeks,
giving life to her pale lips,
igniting a glowing smile.
That hid sorrow well until
the undertaker applied it
for the final time after which
those lips sealed the secret.
You told us he died,
such a long time ago,
crying to keep him buried,
but behind those tears, he lived.
Did you lie to protect us
or to protect yourself?
Sometimes what is apparent,
is nothing more than a ghost.
I rub the lipstick off my cheek,
still covering the truth.
and Death Shall Have No
and Death shall have no
dominion but time,
time is an open wound
never healing, picked
raw in secret.
Five years now have passed.
Seeing your face in
anguish etched into
memory that stands
frozen, helpless.
Time holds me captive.
Richness of happy days.
Poverty of loss.
Death’s dominion grips
what time is left.
Thanksgiving is past.
Snow blankets a frozen
world not dead, at rest,
awaiting rebirth,
awaiting hope.
I Laid My Hand
I laid my hand
against your cheek
holding what remained.
Your face etched
in memory as
life ebbed away.
A tree branch flung
my glasses off,
far into the snow.
Blinded I searched,
until my heart
began to see.
Three days you walked
through the valley
shadowed by death.
Goodness and mercy
followed, while bedside,
I sat helpless.
Looking in a mirror
my heart now sees
our reflection.
I lay my hand
against my cheek,
holding what remains.
I Thought of You
I thought of you today.
Snow has melted away
from the burial mound
of grass clippings you left.
Things seem unfinished
that never had an end.
Why ask why, when there’ll
never be an answer?
This is what I know from
all my years of living.
Pain cannot be treated
with a Band-Aid and a kiss.
Too much insulation
stops a house from breathing.
Crumpled paper cannot
keep china from cracking.
Closing your eyes will not
shut out the world.
I thought of the cabin.
Plywood covering the doors
and windows has not stopped
squirrels from getting in.
You shut your eyes when life
became unbearable.
Winter ended. Spring began.
The grass grows green again.
The Table Stands Empty
In a cavernous silence
the table stands empty.
Yellow leaves drift down
covering its surface.
Yesterday we sat there
feasting on colors
of light and love spinning
a cocoon together.
Within its snug safety
dark places opened.
The work of our hands
became the work of our hearts.
Today we awaken,
bright colors painted,
strong baskets woven,
awaiting butterflies.
Colors
Colors cascade
from hands of
friend to friend.
Delighted like girls,
bonded like women,
who know places
not all hearts
have found
together.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:14.839666
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-10",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-11
|
3 Your Voice Was Heard
Constance Hodder
In the Silence
In the silence, at day’s end,
looking over the meadow,
I hear you say,
“You should work the land”.
Great Grandfather,
You were a logger.
You were a farmer.
I am not. What is our connection
now a century past?
At the end of the road at Red Top,
I tried to find you.
Your sawmill, gone.
Tall tamaracks, gone.
Even sawdust
blown away.
What remained was the soil,
sewn with your sweat,
sewn with your dreams,
I found you there,
Your love of this land.
Great Grandfather,
We share a kinship
with each other,
with the land.
I plant trees
to remember,
those gone before
whose roots grow
deep in my bones.
Your voice was heard.
I could not leave Red Top
without something
to hold onto.
I collected a branch
from an old oak tree
you may have rested against,
in the silence, at day’s end.
My Grandmother Was Clever
My grandmother was clever,
she could tat a collar of lace,
make a doll out of a handkerchief,
and beat me at tiddlywinks.
In the end of her days, she was
heard conversing with her mother,
who passed when she was eight,
time’s veil having worn thin.
Today was warm and sunny,
I took my sandwich outside,
to eat at the picnic table,
and found you were there.
So we ate side by side,
mine peanut butter with jelly,
yours peanut butter with mayo.
Are you surprised I remembered?
Together for that moment,
eating with the sun on our backs,
yesterday as today,
without a breath between them.
Sorrow replaced by wonder
that time’s passage is not
terminal, only limited
by how we part the veil.
Gloria
Gloria is gone.
Covid stole her,
while we looked away.
Chickadee lies still
in the garden,
while we looked away.
Gloria asked angels
to lift her foot
as she stepped off.
Tiny bird entombed
between my hands,
Were angels there for you?
Gloria in Excelsis.
The Child cries alone
and we looked away.
Wind Howled in the Night
Wind howled in the night,
rain came down in torrents.
I awoke to birds singing
but heard you did not.
You who loved bright beads,
delighted in wearing a rainbow
of mismatched socks.
Who laughed so hard, we cried.
Every day birds take time
to sing out their hearts.
Do they do this to
let go of sorrow?
Intellectual disability,
a label about knowing less but
understanding more about
how vital it is to sing.
After the clouds blew off,
the sun shone this morning.
Despite this, the day didn’t
seem as bright without you.
Elise
Elise stands tall
On straight thin legs.
“I am almost ten”
she states.
That’s five plus five,
I marvel.
Elise stands proud.
“I don’t like sports.
I like music”
she reports.
What’s your instrument?
I question.
Elise never wavers.
“I like to sing”.
She stands tall
almost 10.
I listen,
bent with age.
In awe of youth.
Singing!
The Saga of Heavenly Hash
I know you remember
that evening so many years ago
in South Minneapolis
like yesterday.
Sitting side by side
on the porch front stoop
too hot to sit inside
the evening light fading.
Our hearts were one
as we poured out our
thoughts, hopes, and dreams
souls united from the start.
You on my left with your
deep tan and deeper insights.
Me with my long unshaven legs
and optimistic innocence.
The evening etched into memory
all because of two spoons
and a half gallon of ice cream
that disappeared as night set in.
Watering Trees
I remember
you as a young boy
going out to the field
with your father
to water trees.
He planted those trees
to protect the soil
creating shelter
for our home.
The trees grew tall
and you grew tall.
Now I see you
protecting your family
creating shelter
for your home.
Your son now
will need to learn
from you how to
water trees.
On The First Day
On the first day in June
the sky was brilliant blue,
so crystal clear it ran
through an icy stream
you could dip your cup into
and drink until you burst.
Life giving water flowing
over the forehead of
a newborn held so closely
by his father that their
hearts beat together as one
under a brilliant blue sky.
The Sky Darkened
The sky darkened with clouds.
Water sprinkled like rain
from the hands of the priest,
who draped the casket with
a white blanket as if
he was tucking in bed
his cold sleeping child.
In this tender action,
our loss too was covered,
not unlike a Band-Aid
hiding a weeping wound,
or newly laid tile
over old linoleum,
though neither captures it.
More like the first snowfall,
covering fallen leaves,
bare patches of dead grass,
fields of brown corn stubble,
suddenly cloaked in
white sparkling brilliance,
a paradise to behold.
We know what lies beneath,
sleeping through this season,
waiting till snow melts away,
verdant leaves bursting forth,
grass springing green overnight,
corn growing tall to harvest,
hope breaking through darkness.
CNN Reports: Colorado Reels after Deadly LGBTQ Club Shooting
He Was Only Four
He was only four
when he told his mother
he was a boy.
Then God said, ”Let us make man…
He/him “was a light in my life
with so much more life to give.”
in our own image, after our likeness…
She/her “was an amazing mother
with a huge heart.”
He created he/him, she/her, they/them.
He/him “was kind, willing to go out
of his way to help others.”
He created them.
She/her “was loving, caring, and sweet.
Everyone loved her.”
And it was so.”
He/him “found a community he loved
where he could really shine.”
We wept.
Her Hands Stretched Wide
Her hands stretched wide
across a growing belly,
searching for hope’s dance,
love’s secret within.
Seeing the unseen,
knowing the unknown,
bound eternally,
in blood and bone.
Hope denied, buried,
grave without a name,
sorrow never resting
stretches out its hands.
Blood will never see,
secrets within the vein,
bone will never hear,
a name only whispered.
My Hands Cradle
My hands cradle
the calabash,
scrubbing clean its
mottled brown skin.
Stretched tight over
a rounded belly,
its moisture lost,
dried seeds wait.
Coping with loss
is life’s journey,
was said as we
tied netted beads.
Around their hulls,
transforming gourds
into shakere,
beaded rattles.
A shake giving
voice to the hollow
bewitching beat
of the gourd dance.
“Ready to go,
ready to die”,
chant the rattle’s
ancient cadence.
Within its hollow,
loss and life lie
cradled together,
ready to sing.
At Thanksgiving
At Thanksgiving,
grief and sorrow,
took their place around the table,
on either side of gratitude.
At Christmas,
hope and joy,
joined in the festive celebration,
inviting remembrance to take a seat.
Easter is yet a mystery,
your face unseen,
known only in our hearts and bones.
We hold a place for you.
A Father’s Letter, June 25, 1974
“Honey we love you very much. We know you are going to have times of loneliness…”
I remember being small,
lost in a sea of legs.
Searching and sobbing,
you scooping me up.
“and times of foreboding.”
I remember being scared,
in shock after mother was shot.
Waiting side by side,
you consoling me.
“When these times come, pray to God.”
I remember being a bride,
walking down an aisle
on your arm having learned
love endures.
“When all else fails…”
I remember the sorrow,
you not knowing my name.
Then your heart sang out
calling ‘sweetheart’.
“You are not alone. Your ever-loving, Dad”
I remember your passing,
my glimpse of your spirit.
The message received,
love never fails.
My Father’s Stockings
He passed away
narrowly alone in
nursing home bed
once surrounded
by family
left now
in peace.
He may have worn stockings
to warm bony
cold blue feet
but the next morning
when we returned
only the bare
striped mattress
remained.
My father was
a clean man
who washed out
his stockings nightly
hanging them to dry
on the towel rack.
Something he learned to do
surrounded by brothers
with dirty feet.
We cleaned out
his drawers
his closet
his photos
leaving with bags
of a used life. Useful.
This for daughter
this for son,
this for donations
this for garbage.
The stockings
for donation laid
on top of the heap
for days
then seeing
their worn heels
their prickly
elastic tops
were placed
in the garbage.
One pair never
passed on but
remains in my
sock drawer
silently awaiting
hands that
hold turn
and remember
the man.
Two Deer
Two deer lay side by side
on an island of grass,
surrounded by snow,
waiting for sunrise.
I watched from my window,
delighted with their ease,
blessed to be included
In this landscape we share.
A bald eagle watched,
perched high atop a tree,
messenger of prayers
between souls now and past.
How do the departed slip
past the sleeping deer,
past the morning sunrise,
past our out stretched hands?
On the eagle’s wings
their spirit soars, not past,
within the landscape
of our shared existence.
Never far, always near,
joined with us, sharing love,
joy, sorrow, and prayers,
sunrises and sunsets.
Under Cover of Lipstick
Under cover of lipstick,
she took on the world.
Fire Engine Red, I teased her,
a nineteen-sixties siren.
Left behind her mark on
coffee cups and children’s cheeks,
giving life to her pale lips,
igniting a glowing smile.
That hid sorrow well until
the undertaker applied it
for the final time after which
those lips sealed the secret.
You told us he died,
such a long time ago,
crying to keep him buried,
but behind those tears, he lived.
Did you lie to protect us
or to protect yourself?
Sometimes what is apparent,
is nothing more than a ghost.
I rub the lipstick off my cheek,
still covering the truth.
and Death Shall Have No
and Death shall have no
dominion but time,
time is an open wound
never healing, picked
raw in secret.
Five years now have passed.
Seeing your face in
anguish etched into
memory that stands
frozen, helpless.
Time holds me captive.
Richness of happy days.
Poverty of loss.
Death’s dominion grips
what time is left.
Thanksgiving is past.
Snow blankets a frozen
world not dead, at rest,
awaiting rebirth,
awaiting hope.
I Laid My Hand
I laid my hand
against your cheek
holding what remained.
Your face etched
in memory as
life ebbed away.
A tree branch flung
my glasses off,
far into the snow.
Blinded I searched,
until my heart
began to see.
Three days you walked
through the valley
shadowed by death.
Goodness and mercy
followed, while bedside,
I sat helpless.
Looking in a mirror
my heart now sees
our reflection.
I lay my hand
against my cheek,
holding what remains.
I Thought of You
I thought of you today.
Snow has melted away
from the burial mound
of grass clippings you left.
Things seem unfinished
that never had an end.
Why ask why, when there’ll
never be an answer?
This is what I know from
all my years of living.
Pain cannot be treated
with a Band-Aid and a kiss.
Too much insulation
stops a house from breathing.
Crumpled paper cannot
keep china from cracking.
Closing your eyes will not
shut out the world.
I thought of the cabin.
Plywood covering the doors
and windows has not stopped
squirrels from getting in.
You shut your eyes when life
became unbearable.
Winter ended. Spring began.
The grass grows green again.
The Table Stands Empty
In a cavernous silence
the table stands empty.
Yellow leaves drift down
covering its surface.
Yesterday we sat there
feasting on colors
of light and love spinning
a cocoon together.
Within its snug safety
dark places opened.
The work of our hands
became the work of our hearts.
Today we awaken,
bright colors painted,
strong baskets woven,
awaiting butterflies.
Colors
Colors cascade
from hands of
friend to friend.
Delighted like girls,
bonded like women,
who know places
not all hearts
have found
together.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:14.909171
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-11",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-12
|
3 Your Voice Was Heard
Constance Hodder
In the Silence
In the silence, at day’s end,
looking over the meadow,
I hear you say,
“You should work the land”.
Great Grandfather,
You were a logger.
You were a farmer.
I am not. What is our connection
now a century past?
At the end of the road at Red Top,
I tried to find you.
Your sawmill, gone.
Tall tamaracks, gone.
Even sawdust
blown away.
What remained was the soil,
sewn with your sweat,
sewn with your dreams,
I found you there,
Your love of this land.
Great Grandfather,
We share a kinship
with each other,
with the land.
I plant trees
to remember,
those gone before
whose roots grow
deep in my bones.
Your voice was heard.
I could not leave Red Top
without something
to hold onto.
I collected a branch
from an old oak tree
you may have rested against,
in the silence, at day’s end.
My Grandmother Was Clever
My grandmother was clever,
she could tat a collar of lace,
make a doll out of a handkerchief,
and beat me at tiddlywinks.
In the end of her days, she was
heard conversing with her mother,
who passed when she was eight,
time’s veil having worn thin.
Today was warm and sunny,
I took my sandwich outside,
to eat at the picnic table,
and found you were there.
So we ate side by side,
mine peanut butter with jelly,
yours peanut butter with mayo.
Are you surprised I remembered?
Together for that moment,
eating with the sun on our backs,
yesterday as today,
without a breath between them.
Sorrow replaced by wonder
that time’s passage is not
terminal, only limited
by how we part the veil.
Gloria
Gloria is gone.
Covid stole her,
while we looked away.
Chickadee lies still
in the garden,
while we looked away.
Gloria asked angels
to lift her foot
as she stepped off.
Tiny bird entombed
between my hands,
Were angels there for you?
Gloria in Excelsis.
The Child cries alone
and we looked away.
Wind Howled in the Night
Wind howled in the night,
rain came down in torrents.
I awoke to birds singing
but heard you did not.
You who loved bright beads,
delighted in wearing a rainbow
of mismatched socks.
Who laughed so hard, we cried.
Every day birds take time
to sing out their hearts.
Do they do this to
let go of sorrow?
Intellectual disability,
a label about knowing less but
understanding more about
how vital it is to sing.
After the clouds blew off,
the sun shone this morning.
Despite this, the day didn’t
seem as bright without you.
Elise
Elise stands tall
On straight thin legs.
“I am almost ten”
she states.
That’s five plus five,
I marvel.
Elise stands proud.
“I don’t like sports.
I like music”
she reports.
What’s your instrument?
I question.
Elise never wavers.
“I like to sing”.
She stands tall
almost 10.
I listen,
bent with age.
In awe of youth.
Singing!
The Saga of Heavenly Hash
I know you remember
that evening so many years ago
in South Minneapolis
like yesterday.
Sitting side by side
on the porch front stoop
too hot to sit inside
the evening light fading.
Our hearts were one
as we poured out our
thoughts, hopes, and dreams
souls united from the start.
You on my left with your
deep tan and deeper insights.
Me with my long unshaven legs
and optimistic innocence.
The evening etched into memory
all because of two spoons
and a half gallon of ice cream
that disappeared as night set in.
Watering Trees
I remember
you as a young boy
going out to the field
with your father
to water trees.
He planted those trees
to protect the soil
creating shelter
for our home.
The trees grew tall
and you grew tall.
Now I see you
protecting your family
creating shelter
for your home.
Your son now
will need to learn
from you how to
water trees.
On The First Day
On the first day in June
the sky was brilliant blue,
so crystal clear it ran
through an icy stream
you could dip your cup into
and drink until you burst.
Life giving water flowing
over the forehead of
a newborn held so closely
by his father that their
hearts beat together as one
under a brilliant blue sky.
The Sky Darkened
The sky darkened with clouds.
Water sprinkled like rain
from the hands of the priest,
who draped the casket with
a white blanket as if
he was tucking in bed
his cold sleeping child.
In this tender action,
our loss too was covered,
not unlike a Band-Aid
hiding a weeping wound,
or newly laid tile
over old linoleum,
though neither captures it.
More like the first snowfall,
covering fallen leaves,
bare patches of dead grass,
fields of brown corn stubble,
suddenly cloaked in
white sparkling brilliance,
a paradise to behold.
We know what lies beneath,
sleeping through this season,
waiting till snow melts away,
verdant leaves bursting forth,
grass springing green overnight,
corn growing tall to harvest,
hope breaking through darkness.
CNN Reports: Colorado Reels after Deadly LGBTQ Club Shooting
He Was Only Four
He was only four
when he told his mother
he was a boy.
Then God said, ”Let us make man…
He/him “was a light in my life
with so much more life to give.”
in our own image, after our likeness…
She/her “was an amazing mother
with a huge heart.”
He created he/him, she/her, they/them.
He/him “was kind, willing to go out
of his way to help others.”
He created them.
She/her “was loving, caring, and sweet.
Everyone loved her.”
And it was so.”
He/him “found a community he loved
where he could really shine.”
We wept.
Her Hands Stretched Wide
Her hands stretched wide
across a growing belly,
searching for hope’s dance,
love’s secret within.
Seeing the unseen,
knowing the unknown,
bound eternally,
in blood and bone.
Hope denied, buried,
grave without a name,
sorrow never resting
stretches out its hands.
Blood will never see,
secrets within the vein,
bone will never hear,
a name only whispered.
My Hands Cradle
My hands cradle
the calabash,
scrubbing clean its
mottled brown skin.
Stretched tight over
a rounded belly,
its moisture lost,
dried seeds wait.
Coping with loss
is life’s journey,
was said as we
tied netted beads.
Around their hulls,
transforming gourds
into shakere,
beaded rattles.
A shake giving
voice to the hollow
bewitching beat
of the gourd dance.
“Ready to go,
ready to die”,
chant the rattle’s
ancient cadence.
Within its hollow,
loss and life lie
cradled together,
ready to sing.
At Thanksgiving
At Thanksgiving,
grief and sorrow,
took their place around the table,
on either side of gratitude.
At Christmas,
hope and joy,
joined in the festive celebration,
inviting remembrance to take a seat.
Easter is yet a mystery,
your face unseen,
known only in our hearts and bones.
We hold a place for you.
A Father’s Letter, June 25, 1974
“Honey we love you very much. We know you are going to have times of loneliness…”
I remember being small,
lost in a sea of legs.
Searching and sobbing,
you scooping me up.
“and times of foreboding.”
I remember being scared,
in shock after mother was shot.
Waiting side by side,
you consoling me.
“When these times come, pray to God.”
I remember being a bride,
walking down an aisle
on your arm having learned
love endures.
“When all else fails…”
I remember the sorrow,
you not knowing my name.
Then your heart sang out
calling ‘sweetheart’.
“You are not alone. Your ever-loving, Dad”
I remember your passing,
my glimpse of your spirit.
The message received,
love never fails.
My Father’s Stockings
He passed away
narrowly alone in
nursing home bed
once surrounded
by family
left now
in peace.
He may have worn stockings
to warm bony
cold blue feet
but the next morning
when we returned
only the bare
striped mattress
remained.
My father was
a clean man
who washed out
his stockings nightly
hanging them to dry
on the towel rack.
Something he learned to do
surrounded by brothers
with dirty feet.
We cleaned out
his drawers
his closet
his photos
leaving with bags
of a used life. Useful.
This for daughter
this for son,
this for donations
this for garbage.
The stockings
for donation laid
on top of the heap
for days
then seeing
their worn heels
their prickly
elastic tops
were placed
in the garbage.
One pair never
passed on but
remains in my
sock drawer
silently awaiting
hands that
hold turn
and remember
the man.
Two Deer
Two deer lay side by side
on an island of grass,
surrounded by snow,
waiting for sunrise.
I watched from my window,
delighted with their ease,
blessed to be included
In this landscape we share.
A bald eagle watched,
perched high atop a tree,
messenger of prayers
between souls now and past.
How do the departed slip
past the sleeping deer,
past the morning sunrise,
past our out stretched hands?
On the eagle’s wings
their spirit soars, not past,
within the landscape
of our shared existence.
Never far, always near,
joined with us, sharing love,
joy, sorrow, and prayers,
sunrises and sunsets.
Under Cover of Lipstick
Under cover of lipstick,
she took on the world.
Fire Engine Red, I teased her,
a nineteen-sixties siren.
Left behind her mark on
coffee cups and children’s cheeks,
giving life to her pale lips,
igniting a glowing smile.
That hid sorrow well until
the undertaker applied it
for the final time after which
those lips sealed the secret.
You told us he died,
such a long time ago,
crying to keep him buried,
but behind those tears, he lived.
Did you lie to protect us
or to protect yourself?
Sometimes what is apparent,
is nothing more than a ghost.
I rub the lipstick off my cheek,
still covering the truth.
and Death Shall Have No
and Death shall have no
dominion but time,
time is an open wound
never healing, picked
raw in secret.
Five years now have passed.
Seeing your face in
anguish etched into
memory that stands
frozen, helpless.
Time holds me captive.
Richness of happy days.
Poverty of loss.
Death’s dominion grips
what time is left.
Thanksgiving is past.
Snow blankets a frozen
world not dead, at rest,
awaiting rebirth,
awaiting hope.
I Laid My Hand
I laid my hand
against your cheek
holding what remained.
Your face etched
in memory as
life ebbed away.
A tree branch flung
my glasses off,
far into the snow.
Blinded I searched,
until my heart
began to see.
Three days you walked
through the valley
shadowed by death.
Goodness and mercy
followed, while bedside,
I sat helpless.
Looking in a mirror
my heart now sees
our reflection.
I lay my hand
against my cheek,
holding what remains.
I Thought of You
I thought of you today.
Snow has melted away
from the burial mound
of grass clippings you left.
Things seem unfinished
that never had an end.
Why ask why, when there’ll
never be an answer?
This is what I know from
all my years of living.
Pain cannot be treated
with a Band-Aid and a kiss.
Too much insulation
stops a house from breathing.
Crumpled paper cannot
keep china from cracking.
Closing your eyes will not
shut out the world.
I thought of the cabin.
Plywood covering the doors
and windows has not stopped
squirrels from getting in.
You shut your eyes when life
became unbearable.
Winter ended. Spring began.
The grass grows green again.
The Table Stands Empty
In a cavernous silence
the table stands empty.
Yellow leaves drift down
covering its surface.
Yesterday we sat there
feasting on colors
of light and love spinning
a cocoon together.
Within its snug safety
dark places opened.
The work of our hands
became the work of our hearts.
Today we awaken,
bright colors painted,
strong baskets woven,
awaiting butterflies.
Colors
Colors cascade
from hands of
friend to friend.
Delighted like girls,
bonded like women,
who know places
not all hearts
have found
together.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:14.977855
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-12",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-13
|
3 Your Voice Was Heard
Constance Hodder
In the Silence
In the silence, at day’s end,
looking over the meadow,
I hear you say,
“You should work the land”.
Great Grandfather,
You were a logger.
You were a farmer.
I am not. What is our connection
now a century past?
At the end of the road at Red Top,
I tried to find you.
Your sawmill, gone.
Tall tamaracks, gone.
Even sawdust
blown away.
What remained was the soil,
sewn with your sweat,
sewn with your dreams,
I found you there,
Your love of this land.
Great Grandfather,
We share a kinship
with each other,
with the land.
I plant trees
to remember,
those gone before
whose roots grow
deep in my bones.
Your voice was heard.
I could not leave Red Top
without something
to hold onto.
I collected a branch
from an old oak tree
you may have rested against,
in the silence, at day’s end.
My Grandmother Was Clever
My grandmother was clever,
she could tat a collar of lace,
make a doll out of a handkerchief,
and beat me at tiddlywinks.
In the end of her days, she was
heard conversing with her mother,
who passed when she was eight,
time’s veil having worn thin.
Today was warm and sunny,
I took my sandwich outside,
to eat at the picnic table,
and found you were there.
So we ate side by side,
mine peanut butter with jelly,
yours peanut butter with mayo.
Are you surprised I remembered?
Together for that moment,
eating with the sun on our backs,
yesterday as today,
without a breath between them.
Sorrow replaced by wonder
that time’s passage is not
terminal, only limited
by how we part the veil.
Gloria
Gloria is gone.
Covid stole her,
while we looked away.
Chickadee lies still
in the garden,
while we looked away.
Gloria asked angels
to lift her foot
as she stepped off.
Tiny bird entombed
between my hands,
Were angels there for you?
Gloria in Excelsis.
The Child cries alone
and we looked away.
Wind Howled in the Night
Wind howled in the night,
rain came down in torrents.
I awoke to birds singing
but heard you did not.
You who loved bright beads,
delighted in wearing a rainbow
of mismatched socks.
Who laughed so hard, we cried.
Every day birds take time
to sing out their hearts.
Do they do this to
let go of sorrow?
Intellectual disability,
a label about knowing less but
understanding more about
how vital it is to sing.
After the clouds blew off,
the sun shone this morning.
Despite this, the day didn’t
seem as bright without you.
Elise
Elise stands tall
On straight thin legs.
“I am almost ten”
she states.
That’s five plus five,
I marvel.
Elise stands proud.
“I don’t like sports.
I like music”
she reports.
What’s your instrument?
I question.
Elise never wavers.
“I like to sing”.
She stands tall
almost 10.
I listen,
bent with age.
In awe of youth.
Singing!
The Saga of Heavenly Hash
I know you remember
that evening so many years ago
in South Minneapolis
like yesterday.
Sitting side by side
on the porch front stoop
too hot to sit inside
the evening light fading.
Our hearts were one
as we poured out our
thoughts, hopes, and dreams
souls united from the start.
You on my left with your
deep tan and deeper insights.
Me with my long unshaven legs
and optimistic innocence.
The evening etched into memory
all because of two spoons
and a half gallon of ice cream
that disappeared as night set in.
Watering Trees
I remember
you as a young boy
going out to the field
with your father
to water trees.
He planted those trees
to protect the soil
creating shelter
for our home.
The trees grew tall
and you grew tall.
Now I see you
protecting your family
creating shelter
for your home.
Your son now
will need to learn
from you how to
water trees.
On The First Day
On the first day in June
the sky was brilliant blue,
so crystal clear it ran
through an icy stream
you could dip your cup into
and drink until you burst.
Life giving water flowing
over the forehead of
a newborn held so closely
by his father that their
hearts beat together as one
under a brilliant blue sky.
The Sky Darkened
The sky darkened with clouds.
Water sprinkled like rain
from the hands of the priest,
who draped the casket with
a white blanket as if
he was tucking in bed
his cold sleeping child.
In this tender action,
our loss too was covered,
not unlike a Band-Aid
hiding a weeping wound,
or newly laid tile
over old linoleum,
though neither captures it.
More like the first snowfall,
covering fallen leaves,
bare patches of dead grass,
fields of brown corn stubble,
suddenly cloaked in
white sparkling brilliance,
a paradise to behold.
We know what lies beneath,
sleeping through this season,
waiting till snow melts away,
verdant leaves bursting forth,
grass springing green overnight,
corn growing tall to harvest,
hope breaking through darkness.
CNN Reports: Colorado Reels after Deadly LGBTQ Club Shooting
He Was Only Four
He was only four
when he told his mother
he was a boy.
Then God said, ”Let us make man…
He/him “was a light in my life
with so much more life to give.”
in our own image, after our likeness…
She/her “was an amazing mother
with a huge heart.”
He created he/him, she/her, they/them.
He/him “was kind, willing to go out
of his way to help others.”
He created them.
She/her “was loving, caring, and sweet.
Everyone loved her.”
And it was so.”
He/him “found a community he loved
where he could really shine.”
We wept.
Her Hands Stretched Wide
Her hands stretched wide
across a growing belly,
searching for hope’s dance,
love’s secret within.
Seeing the unseen,
knowing the unknown,
bound eternally,
in blood and bone.
Hope denied, buried,
grave without a name,
sorrow never resting
stretches out its hands.
Blood will never see,
secrets within the vein,
bone will never hear,
a name only whispered.
My Hands Cradle
My hands cradle
the calabash,
scrubbing clean its
mottled brown skin.
Stretched tight over
a rounded belly,
its moisture lost,
dried seeds wait.
Coping with loss
is life’s journey,
was said as we
tied netted beads.
Around their hulls,
transforming gourds
into shakere,
beaded rattles.
A shake giving
voice to the hollow
bewitching beat
of the gourd dance.
“Ready to go,
ready to die”,
chant the rattle’s
ancient cadence.
Within its hollow,
loss and life lie
cradled together,
ready to sing.
At Thanksgiving
At Thanksgiving,
grief and sorrow,
took their place around the table,
on either side of gratitude.
At Christmas,
hope and joy,
joined in the festive celebration,
inviting remembrance to take a seat.
Easter is yet a mystery,
your face unseen,
known only in our hearts and bones.
We hold a place for you.
A Father’s Letter, June 25, 1974
“Honey we love you very much. We know you are going to have times of loneliness…”
I remember being small,
lost in a sea of legs.
Searching and sobbing,
you scooping me up.
“and times of foreboding.”
I remember being scared,
in shock after mother was shot.
Waiting side by side,
you consoling me.
“When these times come, pray to God.”
I remember being a bride,
walking down an aisle
on your arm having learned
love endures.
“When all else fails…”
I remember the sorrow,
you not knowing my name.
Then your heart sang out
calling ‘sweetheart’.
“You are not alone. Your ever-loving, Dad”
I remember your passing,
my glimpse of your spirit.
The message received,
love never fails.
My Father’s Stockings
He passed away
narrowly alone in
nursing home bed
once surrounded
by family
left now
in peace.
He may have worn stockings
to warm bony
cold blue feet
but the next morning
when we returned
only the bare
striped mattress
remained.
My father was
a clean man
who washed out
his stockings nightly
hanging them to dry
on the towel rack.
Something he learned to do
surrounded by brothers
with dirty feet.
We cleaned out
his drawers
his closet
his photos
leaving with bags
of a used life. Useful.
This for daughter
this for son,
this for donations
this for garbage.
The stockings
for donation laid
on top of the heap
for days
then seeing
their worn heels
their prickly
elastic tops
were placed
in the garbage.
One pair never
passed on but
remains in my
sock drawer
silently awaiting
hands that
hold turn
and remember
the man.
Two Deer
Two deer lay side by side
on an island of grass,
surrounded by snow,
waiting for sunrise.
I watched from my window,
delighted with their ease,
blessed to be included
In this landscape we share.
A bald eagle watched,
perched high atop a tree,
messenger of prayers
between souls now and past.
How do the departed slip
past the sleeping deer,
past the morning sunrise,
past our out stretched hands?
On the eagle’s wings
their spirit soars, not past,
within the landscape
of our shared existence.
Never far, always near,
joined with us, sharing love,
joy, sorrow, and prayers,
sunrises and sunsets.
Under Cover of Lipstick
Under cover of lipstick,
she took on the world.
Fire Engine Red, I teased her,
a nineteen-sixties siren.
Left behind her mark on
coffee cups and children’s cheeks,
giving life to her pale lips,
igniting a glowing smile.
That hid sorrow well until
the undertaker applied it
for the final time after which
those lips sealed the secret.
You told us he died,
such a long time ago,
crying to keep him buried,
but behind those tears, he lived.
Did you lie to protect us
or to protect yourself?
Sometimes what is apparent,
is nothing more than a ghost.
I rub the lipstick off my cheek,
still covering the truth.
and Death Shall Have No
and Death shall have no
dominion but time,
time is an open wound
never healing, picked
raw in secret.
Five years now have passed.
Seeing your face in
anguish etched into
memory that stands
frozen, helpless.
Time holds me captive.
Richness of happy days.
Poverty of loss.
Death’s dominion grips
what time is left.
Thanksgiving is past.
Snow blankets a frozen
world not dead, at rest,
awaiting rebirth,
awaiting hope.
I Laid My Hand
I laid my hand
against your cheek
holding what remained.
Your face etched
in memory as
life ebbed away.
A tree branch flung
my glasses off,
far into the snow.
Blinded I searched,
until my heart
began to see.
Three days you walked
through the valley
shadowed by death.
Goodness and mercy
followed, while bedside,
I sat helpless.
Looking in a mirror
my heart now sees
our reflection.
I lay my hand
against my cheek,
holding what remains.
I Thought of You
I thought of you today.
Snow has melted away
from the burial mound
of grass clippings you left.
Things seem unfinished
that never had an end.
Why ask why, when there’ll
never be an answer?
This is what I know from
all my years of living.
Pain cannot be treated
with a Band-Aid and a kiss.
Too much insulation
stops a house from breathing.
Crumpled paper cannot
keep china from cracking.
Closing your eyes will not
shut out the world.
I thought of the cabin.
Plywood covering the doors
and windows has not stopped
squirrels from getting in.
You shut your eyes when life
became unbearable.
Winter ended. Spring began.
The grass grows green again.
The Table Stands Empty
In a cavernous silence
the table stands empty.
Yellow leaves drift down
covering its surface.
Yesterday we sat there
feasting on colors
of light and love spinning
a cocoon together.
Within its snug safety
dark places opened.
The work of our hands
became the work of our hearts.
Today we awaken,
bright colors painted,
strong baskets woven,
awaiting butterflies.
Colors
Colors cascade
from hands of
friend to friend.
Delighted like girls,
bonded like women,
who know places
not all hearts
have found
together.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:15.043547
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-13",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-14
|
3 Your Voice Was Heard
Constance Hodder
In the Silence
In the silence, at day’s end,
looking over the meadow,
I hear you say,
“You should work the land”.
Great Grandfather,
You were a logger.
You were a farmer.
I am not. What is our connection
now a century past?
At the end of the road at Red Top,
I tried to find you.
Your sawmill, gone.
Tall tamaracks, gone.
Even sawdust
blown away.
What remained was the soil,
sewn with your sweat,
sewn with your dreams,
I found you there,
Your love of this land.
Great Grandfather,
We share a kinship
with each other,
with the land.
I plant trees
to remember,
those gone before
whose roots grow
deep in my bones.
Your voice was heard.
I could not leave Red Top
without something
to hold onto.
I collected a branch
from an old oak tree
you may have rested against,
in the silence, at day’s end.
My Grandmother Was Clever
My grandmother was clever,
she could tat a collar of lace,
make a doll out of a handkerchief,
and beat me at tiddlywinks.
In the end of her days, she was
heard conversing with her mother,
who passed when she was eight,
time’s veil having worn thin.
Today was warm and sunny,
I took my sandwich outside,
to eat at the picnic table,
and found you were there.
So we ate side by side,
mine peanut butter with jelly,
yours peanut butter with mayo.
Are you surprised I remembered?
Together for that moment,
eating with the sun on our backs,
yesterday as today,
without a breath between them.
Sorrow replaced by wonder
that time’s passage is not
terminal, only limited
by how we part the veil.
Gloria
Gloria is gone.
Covid stole her,
while we looked away.
Chickadee lies still
in the garden,
while we looked away.
Gloria asked angels
to lift her foot
as she stepped off.
Tiny bird entombed
between my hands,
Were angels there for you?
Gloria in Excelsis.
The Child cries alone
and we looked away.
Wind Howled in the Night
Wind howled in the night,
rain came down in torrents.
I awoke to birds singing
but heard you did not.
You who loved bright beads,
delighted in wearing a rainbow
of mismatched socks.
Who laughed so hard, we cried.
Every day birds take time
to sing out their hearts.
Do they do this to
let go of sorrow?
Intellectual disability,
a label about knowing less but
understanding more about
how vital it is to sing.
After the clouds blew off,
the sun shone this morning.
Despite this, the day didn’t
seem as bright without you.
Elise
Elise stands tall
On straight thin legs.
“I am almost ten”
she states.
That’s five plus five,
I marvel.
Elise stands proud.
“I don’t like sports.
I like music”
she reports.
What’s your instrument?
I question.
Elise never wavers.
“I like to sing”.
She stands tall
almost 10.
I listen,
bent with age.
In awe of youth.
Singing!
The Saga of Heavenly Hash
I know you remember
that evening so many years ago
in South Minneapolis
like yesterday.
Sitting side by side
on the porch front stoop
too hot to sit inside
the evening light fading.
Our hearts were one
as we poured out our
thoughts, hopes, and dreams
souls united from the start.
You on my left with your
deep tan and deeper insights.
Me with my long unshaven legs
and optimistic innocence.
The evening etched into memory
all because of two spoons
and a half gallon of ice cream
that disappeared as night set in.
Watering Trees
I remember
you as a young boy
going out to the field
with your father
to water trees.
He planted those trees
to protect the soil
creating shelter
for our home.
The trees grew tall
and you grew tall.
Now I see you
protecting your family
creating shelter
for your home.
Your son now
will need to learn
from you how to
water trees.
On The First Day
On the first day in June
the sky was brilliant blue,
so crystal clear it ran
through an icy stream
you could dip your cup into
and drink until you burst.
Life giving water flowing
over the forehead of
a newborn held so closely
by his father that their
hearts beat together as one
under a brilliant blue sky.
The Sky Darkened
The sky darkened with clouds.
Water sprinkled like rain
from the hands of the priest,
who draped the casket with
a white blanket as if
he was tucking in bed
his cold sleeping child.
In this tender action,
our loss too was covered,
not unlike a Band-Aid
hiding a weeping wound,
or newly laid tile
over old linoleum,
though neither captures it.
More like the first snowfall,
covering fallen leaves,
bare patches of dead grass,
fields of brown corn stubble,
suddenly cloaked in
white sparkling brilliance,
a paradise to behold.
We know what lies beneath,
sleeping through this season,
waiting till snow melts away,
verdant leaves bursting forth,
grass springing green overnight,
corn growing tall to harvest,
hope breaking through darkness.
CNN Reports: Colorado Reels after Deadly LGBTQ Club Shooting
He Was Only Four
He was only four
when he told his mother
he was a boy.
Then God said, ”Let us make man…
He/him “was a light in my life
with so much more life to give.”
in our own image, after our likeness…
She/her “was an amazing mother
with a huge heart.”
He created he/him, she/her, they/them.
He/him “was kind, willing to go out
of his way to help others.”
He created them.
She/her “was loving, caring, and sweet.
Everyone loved her.”
And it was so.”
He/him “found a community he loved
where he could really shine.”
We wept.
Her Hands Stretched Wide
Her hands stretched wide
across a growing belly,
searching for hope’s dance,
love’s secret within.
Seeing the unseen,
knowing the unknown,
bound eternally,
in blood and bone.
Hope denied, buried,
grave without a name,
sorrow never resting
stretches out its hands.
Blood will never see,
secrets within the vein,
bone will never hear,
a name only whispered.
My Hands Cradle
My hands cradle
the calabash,
scrubbing clean its
mottled brown skin.
Stretched tight over
a rounded belly,
its moisture lost,
dried seeds wait.
Coping with loss
is life’s journey,
was said as we
tied netted beads.
Around their hulls,
transforming gourds
into shakere,
beaded rattles.
A shake giving
voice to the hollow
bewitching beat
of the gourd dance.
“Ready to go,
ready to die”,
chant the rattle’s
ancient cadence.
Within its hollow,
loss and life lie
cradled together,
ready to sing.
At Thanksgiving
At Thanksgiving,
grief and sorrow,
took their place around the table,
on either side of gratitude.
At Christmas,
hope and joy,
joined in the festive celebration,
inviting remembrance to take a seat.
Easter is yet a mystery,
your face unseen,
known only in our hearts and bones.
We hold a place for you.
A Father’s Letter, June 25, 1974
“Honey we love you very much. We know you are going to have times of loneliness…”
I remember being small,
lost in a sea of legs.
Searching and sobbing,
you scooping me up.
“and times of foreboding.”
I remember being scared,
in shock after mother was shot.
Waiting side by side,
you consoling me.
“When these times come, pray to God.”
I remember being a bride,
walking down an aisle
on your arm having learned
love endures.
“When all else fails…”
I remember the sorrow,
you not knowing my name.
Then your heart sang out
calling ‘sweetheart’.
“You are not alone. Your ever-loving, Dad”
I remember your passing,
my glimpse of your spirit.
The message received,
love never fails.
My Father’s Stockings
He passed away
narrowly alone in
nursing home bed
once surrounded
by family
left now
in peace.
He may have worn stockings
to warm bony
cold blue feet
but the next morning
when we returned
only the bare
striped mattress
remained.
My father was
a clean man
who washed out
his stockings nightly
hanging them to dry
on the towel rack.
Something he learned to do
surrounded by brothers
with dirty feet.
We cleaned out
his drawers
his closet
his photos
leaving with bags
of a used life. Useful.
This for daughter
this for son,
this for donations
this for garbage.
The stockings
for donation laid
on top of the heap
for days
then seeing
their worn heels
their prickly
elastic tops
were placed
in the garbage.
One pair never
passed on but
remains in my
sock drawer
silently awaiting
hands that
hold turn
and remember
the man.
Two Deer
Two deer lay side by side
on an island of grass,
surrounded by snow,
waiting for sunrise.
I watched from my window,
delighted with their ease,
blessed to be included
In this landscape we share.
A bald eagle watched,
perched high atop a tree,
messenger of prayers
between souls now and past.
How do the departed slip
past the sleeping deer,
past the morning sunrise,
past our out stretched hands?
On the eagle’s wings
their spirit soars, not past,
within the landscape
of our shared existence.
Never far, always near,
joined with us, sharing love,
joy, sorrow, and prayers,
sunrises and sunsets.
Under Cover of Lipstick
Under cover of lipstick,
she took on the world.
Fire Engine Red, I teased her,
a nineteen-sixties siren.
Left behind her mark on
coffee cups and children’s cheeks,
giving life to her pale lips,
igniting a glowing smile.
That hid sorrow well until
the undertaker applied it
for the final time after which
those lips sealed the secret.
You told us he died,
such a long time ago,
crying to keep him buried,
but behind those tears, he lived.
Did you lie to protect us
or to protect yourself?
Sometimes what is apparent,
is nothing more than a ghost.
I rub the lipstick off my cheek,
still covering the truth.
and Death Shall Have No
and Death shall have no
dominion but time,
time is an open wound
never healing, picked
raw in secret.
Five years now have passed.
Seeing your face in
anguish etched into
memory that stands
frozen, helpless.
Time holds me captive.
Richness of happy days.
Poverty of loss.
Death’s dominion grips
what time is left.
Thanksgiving is past.
Snow blankets a frozen
world not dead, at rest,
awaiting rebirth,
awaiting hope.
I Laid My Hand
I laid my hand
against your cheek
holding what remained.
Your face etched
in memory as
life ebbed away.
A tree branch flung
my glasses off,
far into the snow.
Blinded I searched,
until my heart
began to see.
Three days you walked
through the valley
shadowed by death.
Goodness and mercy
followed, while bedside,
I sat helpless.
Looking in a mirror
my heart now sees
our reflection.
I lay my hand
against my cheek,
holding what remains.
I Thought of You
I thought of you today.
Snow has melted away
from the burial mound
of grass clippings you left.
Things seem unfinished
that never had an end.
Why ask why, when there’ll
never be an answer?
This is what I know from
all my years of living.
Pain cannot be treated
with a Band-Aid and a kiss.
Too much insulation
stops a house from breathing.
Crumpled paper cannot
keep china from cracking.
Closing your eyes will not
shut out the world.
I thought of the cabin.
Plywood covering the doors
and windows has not stopped
squirrels from getting in.
You shut your eyes when life
became unbearable.
Winter ended. Spring began.
The grass grows green again.
The Table Stands Empty
In a cavernous silence
the table stands empty.
Yellow leaves drift down
covering its surface.
Yesterday we sat there
feasting on colors
of light and love spinning
a cocoon together.
Within its snug safety
dark places opened.
The work of our hands
became the work of our hearts.
Today we awaken,
bright colors painted,
strong baskets woven,
awaiting butterflies.
Colors
Colors cascade
from hands of
friend to friend.
Delighted like girls,
bonded like women,
who know places
not all hearts
have found
together.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:15.108160
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-14",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-15
|
3 Your Voice Was Heard
Constance Hodder
In the Silence
In the silence, at day’s end,
looking over the meadow,
I hear you say,
“You should work the land”.
Great Grandfather,
You were a logger.
You were a farmer.
I am not. What is our connection
now a century past?
At the end of the road at Red Top,
I tried to find you.
Your sawmill, gone.
Tall tamaracks, gone.
Even sawdust
blown away.
What remained was the soil,
sewn with your sweat,
sewn with your dreams,
I found you there,
Your love of this land.
Great Grandfather,
We share a kinship
with each other,
with the land.
I plant trees
to remember,
those gone before
whose roots grow
deep in my bones.
Your voice was heard.
I could not leave Red Top
without something
to hold onto.
I collected a branch
from an old oak tree
you may have rested against,
in the silence, at day’s end.
My Grandmother Was Clever
My grandmother was clever,
she could tat a collar of lace,
make a doll out of a handkerchief,
and beat me at tiddlywinks.
In the end of her days, she was
heard conversing with her mother,
who passed when she was eight,
time’s veil having worn thin.
Today was warm and sunny,
I took my sandwich outside,
to eat at the picnic table,
and found you were there.
So we ate side by side,
mine peanut butter with jelly,
yours peanut butter with mayo.
Are you surprised I remembered?
Together for that moment,
eating with the sun on our backs,
yesterday as today,
without a breath between them.
Sorrow replaced by wonder
that time’s passage is not
terminal, only limited
by how we part the veil.
Gloria
Gloria is gone.
Covid stole her,
while we looked away.
Chickadee lies still
in the garden,
while we looked away.
Gloria asked angels
to lift her foot
as she stepped off.
Tiny bird entombed
between my hands,
Were angels there for you?
Gloria in Excelsis.
The Child cries alone
and we looked away.
Wind Howled in the Night
Wind howled in the night,
rain came down in torrents.
I awoke to birds singing
but heard you did not.
You who loved bright beads,
delighted in wearing a rainbow
of mismatched socks.
Who laughed so hard, we cried.
Every day birds take time
to sing out their hearts.
Do they do this to
let go of sorrow?
Intellectual disability,
a label about knowing less but
understanding more about
how vital it is to sing.
After the clouds blew off,
the sun shone this morning.
Despite this, the day didn’t
seem as bright without you.
Elise
Elise stands tall
On straight thin legs.
“I am almost ten”
she states.
That’s five plus five,
I marvel.
Elise stands proud.
“I don’t like sports.
I like music”
she reports.
What’s your instrument?
I question.
Elise never wavers.
“I like to sing”.
She stands tall
almost 10.
I listen,
bent with age.
In awe of youth.
Singing!
The Saga of Heavenly Hash
I know you remember
that evening so many years ago
in South Minneapolis
like yesterday.
Sitting side by side
on the porch front stoop
too hot to sit inside
the evening light fading.
Our hearts were one
as we poured out our
thoughts, hopes, and dreams
souls united from the start.
You on my left with your
deep tan and deeper insights.
Me with my long unshaven legs
and optimistic innocence.
The evening etched into memory
all because of two spoons
and a half gallon of ice cream
that disappeared as night set in.
Watering Trees
I remember
you as a young boy
going out to the field
with your father
to water trees.
He planted those trees
to protect the soil
creating shelter
for our home.
The trees grew tall
and you grew tall.
Now I see you
protecting your family
creating shelter
for your home.
Your son now
will need to learn
from you how to
water trees.
On The First Day
On the first day in June
the sky was brilliant blue,
so crystal clear it ran
through an icy stream
you could dip your cup into
and drink until you burst.
Life giving water flowing
over the forehead of
a newborn held so closely
by his father that their
hearts beat together as one
under a brilliant blue sky.
The Sky Darkened
The sky darkened with clouds.
Water sprinkled like rain
from the hands of the priest,
who draped the casket with
a white blanket as if
he was tucking in bed
his cold sleeping child.
In this tender action,
our loss too was covered,
not unlike a Band-Aid
hiding a weeping wound,
or newly laid tile
over old linoleum,
though neither captures it.
More like the first snowfall,
covering fallen leaves,
bare patches of dead grass,
fields of brown corn stubble,
suddenly cloaked in
white sparkling brilliance,
a paradise to behold.
We know what lies beneath,
sleeping through this season,
waiting till snow melts away,
verdant leaves bursting forth,
grass springing green overnight,
corn growing tall to harvest,
hope breaking through darkness.
CNN Reports: Colorado Reels after Deadly LGBTQ Club Shooting
He Was Only Four
He was only four
when he told his mother
he was a boy.
Then God said, ”Let us make man…
He/him “was a light in my life
with so much more life to give.”
in our own image, after our likeness…
She/her “was an amazing mother
with a huge heart.”
He created he/him, she/her, they/them.
He/him “was kind, willing to go out
of his way to help others.”
He created them.
She/her “was loving, caring, and sweet.
Everyone loved her.”
And it was so.”
He/him “found a community he loved
where he could really shine.”
We wept.
Her Hands Stretched Wide
Her hands stretched wide
across a growing belly,
searching for hope’s dance,
love’s secret within.
Seeing the unseen,
knowing the unknown,
bound eternally,
in blood and bone.
Hope denied, buried,
grave without a name,
sorrow never resting
stretches out its hands.
Blood will never see,
secrets within the vein,
bone will never hear,
a name only whispered.
My Hands Cradle
My hands cradle
the calabash,
scrubbing clean its
mottled brown skin.
Stretched tight over
a rounded belly,
its moisture lost,
dried seeds wait.
Coping with loss
is life’s journey,
was said as we
tied netted beads.
Around their hulls,
transforming gourds
into shakere,
beaded rattles.
A shake giving
voice to the hollow
bewitching beat
of the gourd dance.
“Ready to go,
ready to die”,
chant the rattle’s
ancient cadence.
Within its hollow,
loss and life lie
cradled together,
ready to sing.
At Thanksgiving
At Thanksgiving,
grief and sorrow,
took their place around the table,
on either side of gratitude.
At Christmas,
hope and joy,
joined in the festive celebration,
inviting remembrance to take a seat.
Easter is yet a mystery,
your face unseen,
known only in our hearts and bones.
We hold a place for you.
A Father’s Letter, June 25, 1974
“Honey we love you very much. We know you are going to have times of loneliness…”
I remember being small,
lost in a sea of legs.
Searching and sobbing,
you scooping me up.
“and times of foreboding.”
I remember being scared,
in shock after mother was shot.
Waiting side by side,
you consoling me.
“When these times come, pray to God.”
I remember being a bride,
walking down an aisle
on your arm having learned
love endures.
“When all else fails…”
I remember the sorrow,
you not knowing my name.
Then your heart sang out
calling ‘sweetheart’.
“You are not alone. Your ever-loving, Dad”
I remember your passing,
my glimpse of your spirit.
The message received,
love never fails.
My Father’s Stockings
He passed away
narrowly alone in
nursing home bed
once surrounded
by family
left now
in peace.
He may have worn stockings
to warm bony
cold blue feet
but the next morning
when we returned
only the bare
striped mattress
remained.
My father was
a clean man
who washed out
his stockings nightly
hanging them to dry
on the towel rack.
Something he learned to do
surrounded by brothers
with dirty feet.
We cleaned out
his drawers
his closet
his photos
leaving with bags
of a used life. Useful.
This for daughter
this for son,
this for donations
this for garbage.
The stockings
for donation laid
on top of the heap
for days
then seeing
their worn heels
their prickly
elastic tops
were placed
in the garbage.
One pair never
passed on but
remains in my
sock drawer
silently awaiting
hands that
hold turn
and remember
the man.
Two Deer
Two deer lay side by side
on an island of grass,
surrounded by snow,
waiting for sunrise.
I watched from my window,
delighted with their ease,
blessed to be included
In this landscape we share.
A bald eagle watched,
perched high atop a tree,
messenger of prayers
between souls now and past.
How do the departed slip
past the sleeping deer,
past the morning sunrise,
past our out stretched hands?
On the eagle’s wings
their spirit soars, not past,
within the landscape
of our shared existence.
Never far, always near,
joined with us, sharing love,
joy, sorrow, and prayers,
sunrises and sunsets.
Under Cover of Lipstick
Under cover of lipstick,
she took on the world.
Fire Engine Red, I teased her,
a nineteen-sixties siren.
Left behind her mark on
coffee cups and children’s cheeks,
giving life to her pale lips,
igniting a glowing smile.
That hid sorrow well until
the undertaker applied it
for the final time after which
those lips sealed the secret.
You told us he died,
such a long time ago,
crying to keep him buried,
but behind those tears, he lived.
Did you lie to protect us
or to protect yourself?
Sometimes what is apparent,
is nothing more than a ghost.
I rub the lipstick off my cheek,
still covering the truth.
and Death Shall Have No
and Death shall have no
dominion but time,
time is an open wound
never healing, picked
raw in secret.
Five years now have passed.
Seeing your face in
anguish etched into
memory that stands
frozen, helpless.
Time holds me captive.
Richness of happy days.
Poverty of loss.
Death’s dominion grips
what time is left.
Thanksgiving is past.
Snow blankets a frozen
world not dead, at rest,
awaiting rebirth,
awaiting hope.
I Laid My Hand
I laid my hand
against your cheek
holding what remained.
Your face etched
in memory as
life ebbed away.
A tree branch flung
my glasses off,
far into the snow.
Blinded I searched,
until my heart
began to see.
Three days you walked
through the valley
shadowed by death.
Goodness and mercy
followed, while bedside,
I sat helpless.
Looking in a mirror
my heart now sees
our reflection.
I lay my hand
against my cheek,
holding what remains.
I Thought of You
I thought of you today.
Snow has melted away
from the burial mound
of grass clippings you left.
Things seem unfinished
that never had an end.
Why ask why, when there’ll
never be an answer?
This is what I know from
all my years of living.
Pain cannot be treated
with a Band-Aid and a kiss.
Too much insulation
stops a house from breathing.
Crumpled paper cannot
keep china from cracking.
Closing your eyes will not
shut out the world.
I thought of the cabin.
Plywood covering the doors
and windows has not stopped
squirrels from getting in.
You shut your eyes when life
became unbearable.
Winter ended. Spring began.
The grass grows green again.
The Table Stands Empty
In a cavernous silence
the table stands empty.
Yellow leaves drift down
covering its surface.
Yesterday we sat there
feasting on colors
of light and love spinning
a cocoon together.
Within its snug safety
dark places opened.
The work of our hands
became the work of our hearts.
Today we awaken,
bright colors painted,
strong baskets woven,
awaiting butterflies.
Colors
Colors cascade
from hands of
friend to friend.
Delighted like girls,
bonded like women,
who know places
not all hearts
have found
together.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:15.183378
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-15",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-16
|
3 Your Voice Was Heard
Constance Hodder
In the Silence
In the silence, at day’s end,
looking over the meadow,
I hear you say,
“You should work the land”.
Great Grandfather,
You were a logger.
You were a farmer.
I am not. What is our connection
now a century past?
At the end of the road at Red Top,
I tried to find you.
Your sawmill, gone.
Tall tamaracks, gone.
Even sawdust
blown away.
What remained was the soil,
sewn with your sweat,
sewn with your dreams,
I found you there,
Your love of this land.
Great Grandfather,
We share a kinship
with each other,
with the land.
I plant trees
to remember,
those gone before
whose roots grow
deep in my bones.
Your voice was heard.
I could not leave Red Top
without something
to hold onto.
I collected a branch
from an old oak tree
you may have rested against,
in the silence, at day’s end.
My Grandmother Was Clever
My grandmother was clever,
she could tat a collar of lace,
make a doll out of a handkerchief,
and beat me at tiddlywinks.
In the end of her days, she was
heard conversing with her mother,
who passed when she was eight,
time’s veil having worn thin.
Today was warm and sunny,
I took my sandwich outside,
to eat at the picnic table,
and found you were there.
So we ate side by side,
mine peanut butter with jelly,
yours peanut butter with mayo.
Are you surprised I remembered?
Together for that moment,
eating with the sun on our backs,
yesterday as today,
without a breath between them.
Sorrow replaced by wonder
that time’s passage is not
terminal, only limited
by how we part the veil.
Gloria
Gloria is gone.
Covid stole her,
while we looked away.
Chickadee lies still
in the garden,
while we looked away.
Gloria asked angels
to lift her foot
as she stepped off.
Tiny bird entombed
between my hands,
Were angels there for you?
Gloria in Excelsis.
The Child cries alone
and we looked away.
Wind Howled in the Night
Wind howled in the night,
rain came down in torrents.
I awoke to birds singing
but heard you did not.
You who loved bright beads,
delighted in wearing a rainbow
of mismatched socks.
Who laughed so hard, we cried.
Every day birds take time
to sing out their hearts.
Do they do this to
let go of sorrow?
Intellectual disability,
a label about knowing less but
understanding more about
how vital it is to sing.
After the clouds blew off,
the sun shone this morning.
Despite this, the day didn’t
seem as bright without you.
Elise
Elise stands tall
On straight thin legs.
“I am almost ten”
she states.
That’s five plus five,
I marvel.
Elise stands proud.
“I don’t like sports.
I like music”
she reports.
What’s your instrument?
I question.
Elise never wavers.
“I like to sing”.
She stands tall
almost 10.
I listen,
bent with age.
In awe of youth.
Singing!
The Saga of Heavenly Hash
I know you remember
that evening so many years ago
in South Minneapolis
like yesterday.
Sitting side by side
on the porch front stoop
too hot to sit inside
the evening light fading.
Our hearts were one
as we poured out our
thoughts, hopes, and dreams
souls united from the start.
You on my left with your
deep tan and deeper insights.
Me with my long unshaven legs
and optimistic innocence.
The evening etched into memory
all because of two spoons
and a half gallon of ice cream
that disappeared as night set in.
Watering Trees
I remember
you as a young boy
going out to the field
with your father
to water trees.
He planted those trees
to protect the soil
creating shelter
for our home.
The trees grew tall
and you grew tall.
Now I see you
protecting your family
creating shelter
for your home.
Your son now
will need to learn
from you how to
water trees.
On The First Day
On the first day in June
the sky was brilliant blue,
so crystal clear it ran
through an icy stream
you could dip your cup into
and drink until you burst.
Life giving water flowing
over the forehead of
a newborn held so closely
by his father that their
hearts beat together as one
under a brilliant blue sky.
The Sky Darkened
The sky darkened with clouds.
Water sprinkled like rain
from the hands of the priest,
who draped the casket with
a white blanket as if
he was tucking in bed
his cold sleeping child.
In this tender action,
our loss too was covered,
not unlike a Band-Aid
hiding a weeping wound,
or newly laid tile
over old linoleum,
though neither captures it.
More like the first snowfall,
covering fallen leaves,
bare patches of dead grass,
fields of brown corn stubble,
suddenly cloaked in
white sparkling brilliance,
a paradise to behold.
We know what lies beneath,
sleeping through this season,
waiting till snow melts away,
verdant leaves bursting forth,
grass springing green overnight,
corn growing tall to harvest,
hope breaking through darkness.
CNN Reports: Colorado Reels after Deadly LGBTQ Club Shooting
He Was Only Four
He was only four
when he told his mother
he was a boy.
Then God said, ”Let us make man…
He/him “was a light in my life
with so much more life to give.”
in our own image, after our likeness…
She/her “was an amazing mother
with a huge heart.”
He created he/him, she/her, they/them.
He/him “was kind, willing to go out
of his way to help others.”
He created them.
She/her “was loving, caring, and sweet.
Everyone loved her.”
And it was so.”
He/him “found a community he loved
where he could really shine.”
We wept.
Her Hands Stretched Wide
Her hands stretched wide
across a growing belly,
searching for hope’s dance,
love’s secret within.
Seeing the unseen,
knowing the unknown,
bound eternally,
in blood and bone.
Hope denied, buried,
grave without a name,
sorrow never resting
stretches out its hands.
Blood will never see,
secrets within the vein,
bone will never hear,
a name only whispered.
My Hands Cradle
My hands cradle
the calabash,
scrubbing clean its
mottled brown skin.
Stretched tight over
a rounded belly,
its moisture lost,
dried seeds wait.
Coping with loss
is life’s journey,
was said as we
tied netted beads.
Around their hulls,
transforming gourds
into shakere,
beaded rattles.
A shake giving
voice to the hollow
bewitching beat
of the gourd dance.
“Ready to go,
ready to die”,
chant the rattle’s
ancient cadence.
Within its hollow,
loss and life lie
cradled together,
ready to sing.
At Thanksgiving
At Thanksgiving,
grief and sorrow,
took their place around the table,
on either side of gratitude.
At Christmas,
hope and joy,
joined in the festive celebration,
inviting remembrance to take a seat.
Easter is yet a mystery,
your face unseen,
known only in our hearts and bones.
We hold a place for you.
A Father’s Letter, June 25, 1974
“Honey we love you very much. We know you are going to have times of loneliness…”
I remember being small,
lost in a sea of legs.
Searching and sobbing,
you scooping me up.
“and times of foreboding.”
I remember being scared,
in shock after mother was shot.
Waiting side by side,
you consoling me.
“When these times come, pray to God.”
I remember being a bride,
walking down an aisle
on your arm having learned
love endures.
“When all else fails…”
I remember the sorrow,
you not knowing my name.
Then your heart sang out
calling ‘sweetheart’.
“You are not alone. Your ever-loving, Dad”
I remember your passing,
my glimpse of your spirit.
The message received,
love never fails.
My Father’s Stockings
He passed away
narrowly alone in
nursing home bed
once surrounded
by family
left now
in peace.
He may have worn stockings
to warm bony
cold blue feet
but the next morning
when we returned
only the bare
striped mattress
remained.
My father was
a clean man
who washed out
his stockings nightly
hanging them to dry
on the towel rack.
Something he learned to do
surrounded by brothers
with dirty feet.
We cleaned out
his drawers
his closet
his photos
leaving with bags
of a used life. Useful.
This for daughter
this for son,
this for donations
this for garbage.
The stockings
for donation laid
on top of the heap
for days
then seeing
their worn heels
their prickly
elastic tops
were placed
in the garbage.
One pair never
passed on but
remains in my
sock drawer
silently awaiting
hands that
hold turn
and remember
the man.
Two Deer
Two deer lay side by side
on an island of grass,
surrounded by snow,
waiting for sunrise.
I watched from my window,
delighted with their ease,
blessed to be included
In this landscape we share.
A bald eagle watched,
perched high atop a tree,
messenger of prayers
between souls now and past.
How do the departed slip
past the sleeping deer,
past the morning sunrise,
past our out stretched hands?
On the eagle’s wings
their spirit soars, not past,
within the landscape
of our shared existence.
Never far, always near,
joined with us, sharing love,
joy, sorrow, and prayers,
sunrises and sunsets.
Under Cover of Lipstick
Under cover of lipstick,
she took on the world.
Fire Engine Red, I teased her,
a nineteen-sixties siren.
Left behind her mark on
coffee cups and children’s cheeks,
giving life to her pale lips,
igniting a glowing smile.
That hid sorrow well until
the undertaker applied it
for the final time after which
those lips sealed the secret.
You told us he died,
such a long time ago,
crying to keep him buried,
but behind those tears, he lived.
Did you lie to protect us
or to protect yourself?
Sometimes what is apparent,
is nothing more than a ghost.
I rub the lipstick off my cheek,
still covering the truth.
and Death Shall Have No
and Death shall have no
dominion but time,
time is an open wound
never healing, picked
raw in secret.
Five years now have passed.
Seeing your face in
anguish etched into
memory that stands
frozen, helpless.
Time holds me captive.
Richness of happy days.
Poverty of loss.
Death’s dominion grips
what time is left.
Thanksgiving is past.
Snow blankets a frozen
world not dead, at rest,
awaiting rebirth,
awaiting hope.
I Laid My Hand
I laid my hand
against your cheek
holding what remained.
Your face etched
in memory as
life ebbed away.
A tree branch flung
my glasses off,
far into the snow.
Blinded I searched,
until my heart
began to see.
Three days you walked
through the valley
shadowed by death.
Goodness and mercy
followed, while bedside,
I sat helpless.
Looking in a mirror
my heart now sees
our reflection.
I lay my hand
against my cheek,
holding what remains.
I Thought of You
I thought of you today.
Snow has melted away
from the burial mound
of grass clippings you left.
Things seem unfinished
that never had an end.
Why ask why, when there’ll
never be an answer?
This is what I know from
all my years of living.
Pain cannot be treated
with a Band-Aid and a kiss.
Too much insulation
stops a house from breathing.
Crumpled paper cannot
keep china from cracking.
Closing your eyes will not
shut out the world.
I thought of the cabin.
Plywood covering the doors
and windows has not stopped
squirrels from getting in.
You shut your eyes when life
became unbearable.
Winter ended. Spring began.
The grass grows green again.
The Table Stands Empty
In a cavernous silence
the table stands empty.
Yellow leaves drift down
covering its surface.
Yesterday we sat there
feasting on colors
of light and love spinning
a cocoon together.
Within its snug safety
dark places opened.
The work of our hands
became the work of our hearts.
Today we awaken,
bright colors painted,
strong baskets woven,
awaiting butterflies.
Colors
Colors cascade
from hands of
friend to friend.
Delighted like girls,
bonded like women,
who know places
not all hearts
have found
together.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:15.250057
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-16",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-17
|
3 Your Voice Was Heard
Constance Hodder
In the Silence
In the silence, at day’s end,
looking over the meadow,
I hear you say,
“You should work the land”.
Great Grandfather,
You were a logger.
You were a farmer.
I am not. What is our connection
now a century past?
At the end of the road at Red Top,
I tried to find you.
Your sawmill, gone.
Tall tamaracks, gone.
Even sawdust
blown away.
What remained was the soil,
sewn with your sweat,
sewn with your dreams,
I found you there,
Your love of this land.
Great Grandfather,
We share a kinship
with each other,
with the land.
I plant trees
to remember,
those gone before
whose roots grow
deep in my bones.
Your voice was heard.
I could not leave Red Top
without something
to hold onto.
I collected a branch
from an old oak tree
you may have rested against,
in the silence, at day’s end.
My Grandmother Was Clever
My grandmother was clever,
she could tat a collar of lace,
make a doll out of a handkerchief,
and beat me at tiddlywinks.
In the end of her days, she was
heard conversing with her mother,
who passed when she was eight,
time’s veil having worn thin.
Today was warm and sunny,
I took my sandwich outside,
to eat at the picnic table,
and found you were there.
So we ate side by side,
mine peanut butter with jelly,
yours peanut butter with mayo.
Are you surprised I remembered?
Together for that moment,
eating with the sun on our backs,
yesterday as today,
without a breath between them.
Sorrow replaced by wonder
that time’s passage is not
terminal, only limited
by how we part the veil.
Gloria
Gloria is gone.
Covid stole her,
while we looked away.
Chickadee lies still
in the garden,
while we looked away.
Gloria asked angels
to lift her foot
as she stepped off.
Tiny bird entombed
between my hands,
Were angels there for you?
Gloria in Excelsis.
The Child cries alone
and we looked away.
Wind Howled in the Night
Wind howled in the night,
rain came down in torrents.
I awoke to birds singing
but heard you did not.
You who loved bright beads,
delighted in wearing a rainbow
of mismatched socks.
Who laughed so hard, we cried.
Every day birds take time
to sing out their hearts.
Do they do this to
let go of sorrow?
Intellectual disability,
a label about knowing less but
understanding more about
how vital it is to sing.
After the clouds blew off,
the sun shone this morning.
Despite this, the day didn’t
seem as bright without you.
Elise
Elise stands tall
On straight thin legs.
“I am almost ten”
she states.
That’s five plus five,
I marvel.
Elise stands proud.
“I don’t like sports.
I like music”
she reports.
What’s your instrument?
I question.
Elise never wavers.
“I like to sing”.
She stands tall
almost 10.
I listen,
bent with age.
In awe of youth.
Singing!
The Saga of Heavenly Hash
I know you remember
that evening so many years ago
in South Minneapolis
like yesterday.
Sitting side by side
on the porch front stoop
too hot to sit inside
the evening light fading.
Our hearts were one
as we poured out our
thoughts, hopes, and dreams
souls united from the start.
You on my left with your
deep tan and deeper insights.
Me with my long unshaven legs
and optimistic innocence.
The evening etched into memory
all because of two spoons
and a half gallon of ice cream
that disappeared as night set in.
Watering Trees
I remember
you as a young boy
going out to the field
with your father
to water trees.
He planted those trees
to protect the soil
creating shelter
for our home.
The trees grew tall
and you grew tall.
Now I see you
protecting your family
creating shelter
for your home.
Your son now
will need to learn
from you how to
water trees.
On The First Day
On the first day in June
the sky was brilliant blue,
so crystal clear it ran
through an icy stream
you could dip your cup into
and drink until you burst.
Life giving water flowing
over the forehead of
a newborn held so closely
by his father that their
hearts beat together as one
under a brilliant blue sky.
The Sky Darkened
The sky darkened with clouds.
Water sprinkled like rain
from the hands of the priest,
who draped the casket with
a white blanket as if
he was tucking in bed
his cold sleeping child.
In this tender action,
our loss too was covered,
not unlike a Band-Aid
hiding a weeping wound,
or newly laid tile
over old linoleum,
though neither captures it.
More like the first snowfall,
covering fallen leaves,
bare patches of dead grass,
fields of brown corn stubble,
suddenly cloaked in
white sparkling brilliance,
a paradise to behold.
We know what lies beneath,
sleeping through this season,
waiting till snow melts away,
verdant leaves bursting forth,
grass springing green overnight,
corn growing tall to harvest,
hope breaking through darkness.
CNN Reports: Colorado Reels after Deadly LGBTQ Club Shooting
He Was Only Four
He was only four
when he told his mother
he was a boy.
Then God said, ”Let us make man…
He/him “was a light in my life
with so much more life to give.”
in our own image, after our likeness…
She/her “was an amazing mother
with a huge heart.”
He created he/him, she/her, they/them.
He/him “was kind, willing to go out
of his way to help others.”
He created them.
She/her “was loving, caring, and sweet.
Everyone loved her.”
And it was so.”
He/him “found a community he loved
where he could really shine.”
We wept.
Her Hands Stretched Wide
Her hands stretched wide
across a growing belly,
searching for hope’s dance,
love’s secret within.
Seeing the unseen,
knowing the unknown,
bound eternally,
in blood and bone.
Hope denied, buried,
grave without a name,
sorrow never resting
stretches out its hands.
Blood will never see,
secrets within the vein,
bone will never hear,
a name only whispered.
My Hands Cradle
My hands cradle
the calabash,
scrubbing clean its
mottled brown skin.
Stretched tight over
a rounded belly,
its moisture lost,
dried seeds wait.
Coping with loss
is life’s journey,
was said as we
tied netted beads.
Around their hulls,
transforming gourds
into shakere,
beaded rattles.
A shake giving
voice to the hollow
bewitching beat
of the gourd dance.
“Ready to go,
ready to die”,
chant the rattle’s
ancient cadence.
Within its hollow,
loss and life lie
cradled together,
ready to sing.
At Thanksgiving
At Thanksgiving,
grief and sorrow,
took their place around the table,
on either side of gratitude.
At Christmas,
hope and joy,
joined in the festive celebration,
inviting remembrance to take a seat.
Easter is yet a mystery,
your face unseen,
known only in our hearts and bones.
We hold a place for you.
A Father’s Letter, June 25, 1974
“Honey we love you very much. We know you are going to have times of loneliness…”
I remember being small,
lost in a sea of legs.
Searching and sobbing,
you scooping me up.
“and times of foreboding.”
I remember being scared,
in shock after mother was shot.
Waiting side by side,
you consoling me.
“When these times come, pray to God.”
I remember being a bride,
walking down an aisle
on your arm having learned
love endures.
“When all else fails…”
I remember the sorrow,
you not knowing my name.
Then your heart sang out
calling ‘sweetheart’.
“You are not alone. Your ever-loving, Dad”
I remember your passing,
my glimpse of your spirit.
The message received,
love never fails.
My Father’s Stockings
He passed away
narrowly alone in
nursing home bed
once surrounded
by family
left now
in peace.
He may have worn stockings
to warm bony
cold blue feet
but the next morning
when we returned
only the bare
striped mattress
remained.
My father was
a clean man
who washed out
his stockings nightly
hanging them to dry
on the towel rack.
Something he learned to do
surrounded by brothers
with dirty feet.
We cleaned out
his drawers
his closet
his photos
leaving with bags
of a used life. Useful.
This for daughter
this for son,
this for donations
this for garbage.
The stockings
for donation laid
on top of the heap
for days
then seeing
their worn heels
their prickly
elastic tops
were placed
in the garbage.
One pair never
passed on but
remains in my
sock drawer
silently awaiting
hands that
hold turn
and remember
the man.
Two Deer
Two deer lay side by side
on an island of grass,
surrounded by snow,
waiting for sunrise.
I watched from my window,
delighted with their ease,
blessed to be included
In this landscape we share.
A bald eagle watched,
perched high atop a tree,
messenger of prayers
between souls now and past.
How do the departed slip
past the sleeping deer,
past the morning sunrise,
past our out stretched hands?
On the eagle’s wings
their spirit soars, not past,
within the landscape
of our shared existence.
Never far, always near,
joined with us, sharing love,
joy, sorrow, and prayers,
sunrises and sunsets.
Under Cover of Lipstick
Under cover of lipstick,
she took on the world.
Fire Engine Red, I teased her,
a nineteen-sixties siren.
Left behind her mark on
coffee cups and children’s cheeks,
giving life to her pale lips,
igniting a glowing smile.
That hid sorrow well until
the undertaker applied it
for the final time after which
those lips sealed the secret.
You told us he died,
such a long time ago,
crying to keep him buried,
but behind those tears, he lived.
Did you lie to protect us
or to protect yourself?
Sometimes what is apparent,
is nothing more than a ghost.
I rub the lipstick off my cheek,
still covering the truth.
and Death Shall Have No
and Death shall have no
dominion but time,
time is an open wound
never healing, picked
raw in secret.
Five years now have passed.
Seeing your face in
anguish etched into
memory that stands
frozen, helpless.
Time holds me captive.
Richness of happy days.
Poverty of loss.
Death’s dominion grips
what time is left.
Thanksgiving is past.
Snow blankets a frozen
world not dead, at rest,
awaiting rebirth,
awaiting hope.
I Laid My Hand
I laid my hand
against your cheek
holding what remained.
Your face etched
in memory as
life ebbed away.
A tree branch flung
my glasses off,
far into the snow.
Blinded I searched,
until my heart
began to see.
Three days you walked
through the valley
shadowed by death.
Goodness and mercy
followed, while bedside,
I sat helpless.
Looking in a mirror
my heart now sees
our reflection.
I lay my hand
against my cheek,
holding what remains.
I Thought of You
I thought of you today.
Snow has melted away
from the burial mound
of grass clippings you left.
Things seem unfinished
that never had an end.
Why ask why, when there’ll
never be an answer?
This is what I know from
all my years of living.
Pain cannot be treated
with a Band-Aid and a kiss.
Too much insulation
stops a house from breathing.
Crumpled paper cannot
keep china from cracking.
Closing your eyes will not
shut out the world.
I thought of the cabin.
Plywood covering the doors
and windows has not stopped
squirrels from getting in.
You shut your eyes when life
became unbearable.
Winter ended. Spring began.
The grass grows green again.
The Table Stands Empty
In a cavernous silence
the table stands empty.
Yellow leaves drift down
covering its surface.
Yesterday we sat there
feasting on colors
of light and love spinning
a cocoon together.
Within its snug safety
dark places opened.
The work of our hands
became the work of our hearts.
Today we awaken,
bright colors painted,
strong baskets woven,
awaiting butterflies.
Colors
Colors cascade
from hands of
friend to friend.
Delighted like girls,
bonded like women,
who know places
not all hearts
have found
together.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:15.314235
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-17",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-18
|
3 Your Voice Was Heard
Constance Hodder
In the Silence
In the silence, at day’s end,
looking over the meadow,
I hear you say,
“You should work the land”.
Great Grandfather,
You were a logger.
You were a farmer.
I am not. What is our connection
now a century past?
At the end of the road at Red Top,
I tried to find you.
Your sawmill, gone.
Tall tamaracks, gone.
Even sawdust
blown away.
What remained was the soil,
sewn with your sweat,
sewn with your dreams,
I found you there,
Your love of this land.
Great Grandfather,
We share a kinship
with each other,
with the land.
I plant trees
to remember,
those gone before
whose roots grow
deep in my bones.
Your voice was heard.
I could not leave Red Top
without something
to hold onto.
I collected a branch
from an old oak tree
you may have rested against,
in the silence, at day’s end.
My Grandmother Was Clever
My grandmother was clever,
she could tat a collar of lace,
make a doll out of a handkerchief,
and beat me at tiddlywinks.
In the end of her days, she was
heard conversing with her mother,
who passed when she was eight,
time’s veil having worn thin.
Today was warm and sunny,
I took my sandwich outside,
to eat at the picnic table,
and found you were there.
So we ate side by side,
mine peanut butter with jelly,
yours peanut butter with mayo.
Are you surprised I remembered?
Together for that moment,
eating with the sun on our backs,
yesterday as today,
without a breath between them.
Sorrow replaced by wonder
that time’s passage is not
terminal, only limited
by how we part the veil.
Gloria
Gloria is gone.
Covid stole her,
while we looked away.
Chickadee lies still
in the garden,
while we looked away.
Gloria asked angels
to lift her foot
as she stepped off.
Tiny bird entombed
between my hands,
Were angels there for you?
Gloria in Excelsis.
The Child cries alone
and we looked away.
Wind Howled in the Night
Wind howled in the night,
rain came down in torrents.
I awoke to birds singing
but heard you did not.
You who loved bright beads,
delighted in wearing a rainbow
of mismatched socks.
Who laughed so hard, we cried.
Every day birds take time
to sing out their hearts.
Do they do this to
let go of sorrow?
Intellectual disability,
a label about knowing less but
understanding more about
how vital it is to sing.
After the clouds blew off,
the sun shone this morning.
Despite this, the day didn’t
seem as bright without you.
Elise
Elise stands tall
On straight thin legs.
“I am almost ten”
she states.
That’s five plus five,
I marvel.
Elise stands proud.
“I don’t like sports.
I like music”
she reports.
What’s your instrument?
I question.
Elise never wavers.
“I like to sing”.
She stands tall
almost 10.
I listen,
bent with age.
In awe of youth.
Singing!
The Saga of Heavenly Hash
I know you remember
that evening so many years ago
in South Minneapolis
like yesterday.
Sitting side by side
on the porch front stoop
too hot to sit inside
the evening light fading.
Our hearts were one
as we poured out our
thoughts, hopes, and dreams
souls united from the start.
You on my left with your
deep tan and deeper insights.
Me with my long unshaven legs
and optimistic innocence.
The evening etched into memory
all because of two spoons
and a half gallon of ice cream
that disappeared as night set in.
Watering Trees
I remember
you as a young boy
going out to the field
with your father
to water trees.
He planted those trees
to protect the soil
creating shelter
for our home.
The trees grew tall
and you grew tall.
Now I see you
protecting your family
creating shelter
for your home.
Your son now
will need to learn
from you how to
water trees.
On The First Day
On the first day in June
the sky was brilliant blue,
so crystal clear it ran
through an icy stream
you could dip your cup into
and drink until you burst.
Life giving water flowing
over the forehead of
a newborn held so closely
by his father that their
hearts beat together as one
under a brilliant blue sky.
The Sky Darkened
The sky darkened with clouds.
Water sprinkled like rain
from the hands of the priest,
who draped the casket with
a white blanket as if
he was tucking in bed
his cold sleeping child.
In this tender action,
our loss too was covered,
not unlike a Band-Aid
hiding a weeping wound,
or newly laid tile
over old linoleum,
though neither captures it.
More like the first snowfall,
covering fallen leaves,
bare patches of dead grass,
fields of brown corn stubble,
suddenly cloaked in
white sparkling brilliance,
a paradise to behold.
We know what lies beneath,
sleeping through this season,
waiting till snow melts away,
verdant leaves bursting forth,
grass springing green overnight,
corn growing tall to harvest,
hope breaking through darkness.
CNN Reports: Colorado Reels after Deadly LGBTQ Club Shooting
He Was Only Four
He was only four
when he told his mother
he was a boy.
Then God said, ”Let us make man…
He/him “was a light in my life
with so much more life to give.”
in our own image, after our likeness…
She/her “was an amazing mother
with a huge heart.”
He created he/him, she/her, they/them.
He/him “was kind, willing to go out
of his way to help others.”
He created them.
She/her “was loving, caring, and sweet.
Everyone loved her.”
And it was so.”
He/him “found a community he loved
where he could really shine.”
We wept.
Her Hands Stretched Wide
Her hands stretched wide
across a growing belly,
searching for hope’s dance,
love’s secret within.
Seeing the unseen,
knowing the unknown,
bound eternally,
in blood and bone.
Hope denied, buried,
grave without a name,
sorrow never resting
stretches out its hands.
Blood will never see,
secrets within the vein,
bone will never hear,
a name only whispered.
My Hands Cradle
My hands cradle
the calabash,
scrubbing clean its
mottled brown skin.
Stretched tight over
a rounded belly,
its moisture lost,
dried seeds wait.
Coping with loss
is life’s journey,
was said as we
tied netted beads.
Around their hulls,
transforming gourds
into shakere,
beaded rattles.
A shake giving
voice to the hollow
bewitching beat
of the gourd dance.
“Ready to go,
ready to die”,
chant the rattle’s
ancient cadence.
Within its hollow,
loss and life lie
cradled together,
ready to sing.
At Thanksgiving
At Thanksgiving,
grief and sorrow,
took their place around the table,
on either side of gratitude.
At Christmas,
hope and joy,
joined in the festive celebration,
inviting remembrance to take a seat.
Easter is yet a mystery,
your face unseen,
known only in our hearts and bones.
We hold a place for you.
A Father’s Letter, June 25, 1974
“Honey we love you very much. We know you are going to have times of loneliness…”
I remember being small,
lost in a sea of legs.
Searching and sobbing,
you scooping me up.
“and times of foreboding.”
I remember being scared,
in shock after mother was shot.
Waiting side by side,
you consoling me.
“When these times come, pray to God.”
I remember being a bride,
walking down an aisle
on your arm having learned
love endures.
“When all else fails…”
I remember the sorrow,
you not knowing my name.
Then your heart sang out
calling ‘sweetheart’.
“You are not alone. Your ever-loving, Dad”
I remember your passing,
my glimpse of your spirit.
The message received,
love never fails.
My Father’s Stockings
He passed away
narrowly alone in
nursing home bed
once surrounded
by family
left now
in peace.
He may have worn stockings
to warm bony
cold blue feet
but the next morning
when we returned
only the bare
striped mattress
remained.
My father was
a clean man
who washed out
his stockings nightly
hanging them to dry
on the towel rack.
Something he learned to do
surrounded by brothers
with dirty feet.
We cleaned out
his drawers
his closet
his photos
leaving with bags
of a used life. Useful.
This for daughter
this for son,
this for donations
this for garbage.
The stockings
for donation laid
on top of the heap
for days
then seeing
their worn heels
their prickly
elastic tops
were placed
in the garbage.
One pair never
passed on but
remains in my
sock drawer
silently awaiting
hands that
hold turn
and remember
the man.
Two Deer
Two deer lay side by side
on an island of grass,
surrounded by snow,
waiting for sunrise.
I watched from my window,
delighted with their ease,
blessed to be included
In this landscape we share.
A bald eagle watched,
perched high atop a tree,
messenger of prayers
between souls now and past.
How do the departed slip
past the sleeping deer,
past the morning sunrise,
past our out stretched hands?
On the eagle’s wings
their spirit soars, not past,
within the landscape
of our shared existence.
Never far, always near,
joined with us, sharing love,
joy, sorrow, and prayers,
sunrises and sunsets.
Under Cover of Lipstick
Under cover of lipstick,
she took on the world.
Fire Engine Red, I teased her,
a nineteen-sixties siren.
Left behind her mark on
coffee cups and children’s cheeks,
giving life to her pale lips,
igniting a glowing smile.
That hid sorrow well until
the undertaker applied it
for the final time after which
those lips sealed the secret.
You told us he died,
such a long time ago,
crying to keep him buried,
but behind those tears, he lived.
Did you lie to protect us
or to protect yourself?
Sometimes what is apparent,
is nothing more than a ghost.
I rub the lipstick off my cheek,
still covering the truth.
and Death Shall Have No
and Death shall have no
dominion but time,
time is an open wound
never healing, picked
raw in secret.
Five years now have passed.
Seeing your face in
anguish etched into
memory that stands
frozen, helpless.
Time holds me captive.
Richness of happy days.
Poverty of loss.
Death’s dominion grips
what time is left.
Thanksgiving is past.
Snow blankets a frozen
world not dead, at rest,
awaiting rebirth,
awaiting hope.
I Laid My Hand
I laid my hand
against your cheek
holding what remained.
Your face etched
in memory as
life ebbed away.
A tree branch flung
my glasses off,
far into the snow.
Blinded I searched,
until my heart
began to see.
Three days you walked
through the valley
shadowed by death.
Goodness and mercy
followed, while bedside,
I sat helpless.
Looking in a mirror
my heart now sees
our reflection.
I lay my hand
against my cheek,
holding what remains.
I Thought of You
I thought of you today.
Snow has melted away
from the burial mound
of grass clippings you left.
Things seem unfinished
that never had an end.
Why ask why, when there’ll
never be an answer?
This is what I know from
all my years of living.
Pain cannot be treated
with a Band-Aid and a kiss.
Too much insulation
stops a house from breathing.
Crumpled paper cannot
keep china from cracking.
Closing your eyes will not
shut out the world.
I thought of the cabin.
Plywood covering the doors
and windows has not stopped
squirrels from getting in.
You shut your eyes when life
became unbearable.
Winter ended. Spring began.
The grass grows green again.
The Table Stands Empty
In a cavernous silence
the table stands empty.
Yellow leaves drift down
covering its surface.
Yesterday we sat there
feasting on colors
of light and love spinning
a cocoon together.
Within its snug safety
dark places opened.
The work of our hands
became the work of our hearts.
Today we awaken,
bright colors painted,
strong baskets woven,
awaiting butterflies.
Colors
Colors cascade
from hands of
friend to friend.
Delighted like girls,
bonded like women,
who know places
not all hearts
have found
together.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:15.378654
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-18",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-19
|
3 Your Voice Was Heard
Constance Hodder
In the Silence
In the silence, at day’s end,
looking over the meadow,
I hear you say,
“You should work the land”.
Great Grandfather,
You were a logger.
You were a farmer.
I am not. What is our connection
now a century past?
At the end of the road at Red Top,
I tried to find you.
Your sawmill, gone.
Tall tamaracks, gone.
Even sawdust
blown away.
What remained was the soil,
sewn with your sweat,
sewn with your dreams,
I found you there,
Your love of this land.
Great Grandfather,
We share a kinship
with each other,
with the land.
I plant trees
to remember,
those gone before
whose roots grow
deep in my bones.
Your voice was heard.
I could not leave Red Top
without something
to hold onto.
I collected a branch
from an old oak tree
you may have rested against,
in the silence, at day’s end.
My Grandmother Was Clever
My grandmother was clever,
she could tat a collar of lace,
make a doll out of a handkerchief,
and beat me at tiddlywinks.
In the end of her days, she was
heard conversing with her mother,
who passed when she was eight,
time’s veil having worn thin.
Today was warm and sunny,
I took my sandwich outside,
to eat at the picnic table,
and found you were there.
So we ate side by side,
mine peanut butter with jelly,
yours peanut butter with mayo.
Are you surprised I remembered?
Together for that moment,
eating with the sun on our backs,
yesterday as today,
without a breath between them.
Sorrow replaced by wonder
that time’s passage is not
terminal, only limited
by how we part the veil.
Gloria
Gloria is gone.
Covid stole her,
while we looked away.
Chickadee lies still
in the garden,
while we looked away.
Gloria asked angels
to lift her foot
as she stepped off.
Tiny bird entombed
between my hands,
Were angels there for you?
Gloria in Excelsis.
The Child cries alone
and we looked away.
Wind Howled in the Night
Wind howled in the night,
rain came down in torrents.
I awoke to birds singing
but heard you did not.
You who loved bright beads,
delighted in wearing a rainbow
of mismatched socks.
Who laughed so hard, we cried.
Every day birds take time
to sing out their hearts.
Do they do this to
let go of sorrow?
Intellectual disability,
a label about knowing less but
understanding more about
how vital it is to sing.
After the clouds blew off,
the sun shone this morning.
Despite this, the day didn’t
seem as bright without you.
Elise
Elise stands tall
On straight thin legs.
“I am almost ten”
she states.
That’s five plus five,
I marvel.
Elise stands proud.
“I don’t like sports.
I like music”
she reports.
What’s your instrument?
I question.
Elise never wavers.
“I like to sing”.
She stands tall
almost 10.
I listen,
bent with age.
In awe of youth.
Singing!
The Saga of Heavenly Hash
I know you remember
that evening so many years ago
in South Minneapolis
like yesterday.
Sitting side by side
on the porch front stoop
too hot to sit inside
the evening light fading.
Our hearts were one
as we poured out our
thoughts, hopes, and dreams
souls united from the start.
You on my left with your
deep tan and deeper insights.
Me with my long unshaven legs
and optimistic innocence.
The evening etched into memory
all because of two spoons
and a half gallon of ice cream
that disappeared as night set in.
Watering Trees
I remember
you as a young boy
going out to the field
with your father
to water trees.
He planted those trees
to protect the soil
creating shelter
for our home.
The trees grew tall
and you grew tall.
Now I see you
protecting your family
creating shelter
for your home.
Your son now
will need to learn
from you how to
water trees.
On The First Day
On the first day in June
the sky was brilliant blue,
so crystal clear it ran
through an icy stream
you could dip your cup into
and drink until you burst.
Life giving water flowing
over the forehead of
a newborn held so closely
by his father that their
hearts beat together as one
under a brilliant blue sky.
The Sky Darkened
The sky darkened with clouds.
Water sprinkled like rain
from the hands of the priest,
who draped the casket with
a white blanket as if
he was tucking in bed
his cold sleeping child.
In this tender action,
our loss too was covered,
not unlike a Band-Aid
hiding a weeping wound,
or newly laid tile
over old linoleum,
though neither captures it.
More like the first snowfall,
covering fallen leaves,
bare patches of dead grass,
fields of brown corn stubble,
suddenly cloaked in
white sparkling brilliance,
a paradise to behold.
We know what lies beneath,
sleeping through this season,
waiting till snow melts away,
verdant leaves bursting forth,
grass springing green overnight,
corn growing tall to harvest,
hope breaking through darkness.
CNN Reports: Colorado Reels after Deadly LGBTQ Club Shooting
He Was Only Four
He was only four
when he told his mother
he was a boy.
Then God said, ”Let us make man…
He/him “was a light in my life
with so much more life to give.”
in our own image, after our likeness…
She/her “was an amazing mother
with a huge heart.”
He created he/him, she/her, they/them.
He/him “was kind, willing to go out
of his way to help others.”
He created them.
She/her “was loving, caring, and sweet.
Everyone loved her.”
And it was so.”
He/him “found a community he loved
where he could really shine.”
We wept.
Her Hands Stretched Wide
Her hands stretched wide
across a growing belly,
searching for hope’s dance,
love’s secret within.
Seeing the unseen,
knowing the unknown,
bound eternally,
in blood and bone.
Hope denied, buried,
grave without a name,
sorrow never resting
stretches out its hands.
Blood will never see,
secrets within the vein,
bone will never hear,
a name only whispered.
My Hands Cradle
My hands cradle
the calabash,
scrubbing clean its
mottled brown skin.
Stretched tight over
a rounded belly,
its moisture lost,
dried seeds wait.
Coping with loss
is life’s journey,
was said as we
tied netted beads.
Around their hulls,
transforming gourds
into shakere,
beaded rattles.
A shake giving
voice to the hollow
bewitching beat
of the gourd dance.
“Ready to go,
ready to die”,
chant the rattle’s
ancient cadence.
Within its hollow,
loss and life lie
cradled together,
ready to sing.
At Thanksgiving
At Thanksgiving,
grief and sorrow,
took their place around the table,
on either side of gratitude.
At Christmas,
hope and joy,
joined in the festive celebration,
inviting remembrance to take a seat.
Easter is yet a mystery,
your face unseen,
known only in our hearts and bones.
We hold a place for you.
A Father’s Letter, June 25, 1974
“Honey we love you very much. We know you are going to have times of loneliness…”
I remember being small,
lost in a sea of legs.
Searching and sobbing,
you scooping me up.
“and times of foreboding.”
I remember being scared,
in shock after mother was shot.
Waiting side by side,
you consoling me.
“When these times come, pray to God.”
I remember being a bride,
walking down an aisle
on your arm having learned
love endures.
“When all else fails…”
I remember the sorrow,
you not knowing my name.
Then your heart sang out
calling ‘sweetheart’.
“You are not alone. Your ever-loving, Dad”
I remember your passing,
my glimpse of your spirit.
The message received,
love never fails.
My Father’s Stockings
He passed away
narrowly alone in
nursing home bed
once surrounded
by family
left now
in peace.
He may have worn stockings
to warm bony
cold blue feet
but the next morning
when we returned
only the bare
striped mattress
remained.
My father was
a clean man
who washed out
his stockings nightly
hanging them to dry
on the towel rack.
Something he learned to do
surrounded by brothers
with dirty feet.
We cleaned out
his drawers
his closet
his photos
leaving with bags
of a used life. Useful.
This for daughter
this for son,
this for donations
this for garbage.
The stockings
for donation laid
on top of the heap
for days
then seeing
their worn heels
their prickly
elastic tops
were placed
in the garbage.
One pair never
passed on but
remains in my
sock drawer
silently awaiting
hands that
hold turn
and remember
the man.
Two Deer
Two deer lay side by side
on an island of grass,
surrounded by snow,
waiting for sunrise.
I watched from my window,
delighted with their ease,
blessed to be included
In this landscape we share.
A bald eagle watched,
perched high atop a tree,
messenger of prayers
between souls now and past.
How do the departed slip
past the sleeping deer,
past the morning sunrise,
past our out stretched hands?
On the eagle’s wings
their spirit soars, not past,
within the landscape
of our shared existence.
Never far, always near,
joined with us, sharing love,
joy, sorrow, and prayers,
sunrises and sunsets.
Under Cover of Lipstick
Under cover of lipstick,
she took on the world.
Fire Engine Red, I teased her,
a nineteen-sixties siren.
Left behind her mark on
coffee cups and children’s cheeks,
giving life to her pale lips,
igniting a glowing smile.
That hid sorrow well until
the undertaker applied it
for the final time after which
those lips sealed the secret.
You told us he died,
such a long time ago,
crying to keep him buried,
but behind those tears, he lived.
Did you lie to protect us
or to protect yourself?
Sometimes what is apparent,
is nothing more than a ghost.
I rub the lipstick off my cheek,
still covering the truth.
and Death Shall Have No
and Death shall have no
dominion but time,
time is an open wound
never healing, picked
raw in secret.
Five years now have passed.
Seeing your face in
anguish etched into
memory that stands
frozen, helpless.
Time holds me captive.
Richness of happy days.
Poverty of loss.
Death’s dominion grips
what time is left.
Thanksgiving is past.
Snow blankets a frozen
world not dead, at rest,
awaiting rebirth,
awaiting hope.
I Laid My Hand
I laid my hand
against your cheek
holding what remained.
Your face etched
in memory as
life ebbed away.
A tree branch flung
my glasses off,
far into the snow.
Blinded I searched,
until my heart
began to see.
Three days you walked
through the valley
shadowed by death.
Goodness and mercy
followed, while bedside,
I sat helpless.
Looking in a mirror
my heart now sees
our reflection.
I lay my hand
against my cheek,
holding what remains.
I Thought of You
I thought of you today.
Snow has melted away
from the burial mound
of grass clippings you left.
Things seem unfinished
that never had an end.
Why ask why, when there’ll
never be an answer?
This is what I know from
all my years of living.
Pain cannot be treated
with a Band-Aid and a kiss.
Too much insulation
stops a house from breathing.
Crumpled paper cannot
keep china from cracking.
Closing your eyes will not
shut out the world.
I thought of the cabin.
Plywood covering the doors
and windows has not stopped
squirrels from getting in.
You shut your eyes when life
became unbearable.
Winter ended. Spring began.
The grass grows green again.
The Table Stands Empty
In a cavernous silence
the table stands empty.
Yellow leaves drift down
covering its surface.
Yesterday we sat there
feasting on colors
of light and love spinning
a cocoon together.
Within its snug safety
dark places opened.
The work of our hands
became the work of our hearts.
Today we awaken,
bright colors painted,
strong baskets woven,
awaiting butterflies.
Colors
Colors cascade
from hands of
friend to friend.
Delighted like girls,
bonded like women,
who know places
not all hearts
have found
together.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:15.442888
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-19",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-20
|
3 Your Voice Was Heard
Constance Hodder
In the Silence
In the silence, at day’s end,
looking over the meadow,
I hear you say,
“You should work the land”.
Great Grandfather,
You were a logger.
You were a farmer.
I am not. What is our connection
now a century past?
At the end of the road at Red Top,
I tried to find you.
Your sawmill, gone.
Tall tamaracks, gone.
Even sawdust
blown away.
What remained was the soil,
sewn with your sweat,
sewn with your dreams,
I found you there,
Your love of this land.
Great Grandfather,
We share a kinship
with each other,
with the land.
I plant trees
to remember,
those gone before
whose roots grow
deep in my bones.
Your voice was heard.
I could not leave Red Top
without something
to hold onto.
I collected a branch
from an old oak tree
you may have rested against,
in the silence, at day’s end.
My Grandmother Was Clever
My grandmother was clever,
she could tat a collar of lace,
make a doll out of a handkerchief,
and beat me at tiddlywinks.
In the end of her days, she was
heard conversing with her mother,
who passed when she was eight,
time’s veil having worn thin.
Today was warm and sunny,
I took my sandwich outside,
to eat at the picnic table,
and found you were there.
So we ate side by side,
mine peanut butter with jelly,
yours peanut butter with mayo.
Are you surprised I remembered?
Together for that moment,
eating with the sun on our backs,
yesterday as today,
without a breath between them.
Sorrow replaced by wonder
that time’s passage is not
terminal, only limited
by how we part the veil.
Gloria
Gloria is gone.
Covid stole her,
while we looked away.
Chickadee lies still
in the garden,
while we looked away.
Gloria asked angels
to lift her foot
as she stepped off.
Tiny bird entombed
between my hands,
Were angels there for you?
Gloria in Excelsis.
The Child cries alone
and we looked away.
Wind Howled in the Night
Wind howled in the night,
rain came down in torrents.
I awoke to birds singing
but heard you did not.
You who loved bright beads,
delighted in wearing a rainbow
of mismatched socks.
Who laughed so hard, we cried.
Every day birds take time
to sing out their hearts.
Do they do this to
let go of sorrow?
Intellectual disability,
a label about knowing less but
understanding more about
how vital it is to sing.
After the clouds blew off,
the sun shone this morning.
Despite this, the day didn’t
seem as bright without you.
Elise
Elise stands tall
On straight thin legs.
“I am almost ten”
she states.
That’s five plus five,
I marvel.
Elise stands proud.
“I don’t like sports.
I like music”
she reports.
What’s your instrument?
I question.
Elise never wavers.
“I like to sing”.
She stands tall
almost 10.
I listen,
bent with age.
In awe of youth.
Singing!
The Saga of Heavenly Hash
I know you remember
that evening so many years ago
in South Minneapolis
like yesterday.
Sitting side by side
on the porch front stoop
too hot to sit inside
the evening light fading.
Our hearts were one
as we poured out our
thoughts, hopes, and dreams
souls united from the start.
You on my left with your
deep tan and deeper insights.
Me with my long unshaven legs
and optimistic innocence.
The evening etched into memory
all because of two spoons
and a half gallon of ice cream
that disappeared as night set in.
Watering Trees
I remember
you as a young boy
going out to the field
with your father
to water trees.
He planted those trees
to protect the soil
creating shelter
for our home.
The trees grew tall
and you grew tall.
Now I see you
protecting your family
creating shelter
for your home.
Your son now
will need to learn
from you how to
water trees.
On The First Day
On the first day in June
the sky was brilliant blue,
so crystal clear it ran
through an icy stream
you could dip your cup into
and drink until you burst.
Life giving water flowing
over the forehead of
a newborn held so closely
by his father that their
hearts beat together as one
under a brilliant blue sky.
The Sky Darkened
The sky darkened with clouds.
Water sprinkled like rain
from the hands of the priest,
who draped the casket with
a white blanket as if
he was tucking in bed
his cold sleeping child.
In this tender action,
our loss too was covered,
not unlike a Band-Aid
hiding a weeping wound,
or newly laid tile
over old linoleum,
though neither captures it.
More like the first snowfall,
covering fallen leaves,
bare patches of dead grass,
fields of brown corn stubble,
suddenly cloaked in
white sparkling brilliance,
a paradise to behold.
We know what lies beneath,
sleeping through this season,
waiting till snow melts away,
verdant leaves bursting forth,
grass springing green overnight,
corn growing tall to harvest,
hope breaking through darkness.
CNN Reports: Colorado Reels after Deadly LGBTQ Club Shooting
He Was Only Four
He was only four
when he told his mother
he was a boy.
Then God said, ”Let us make man…
He/him “was a light in my life
with so much more life to give.”
in our own image, after our likeness…
She/her “was an amazing mother
with a huge heart.”
He created he/him, she/her, they/them.
He/him “was kind, willing to go out
of his way to help others.”
He created them.
She/her “was loving, caring, and sweet.
Everyone loved her.”
And it was so.”
He/him “found a community he loved
where he could really shine.”
We wept.
Her Hands Stretched Wide
Her hands stretched wide
across a growing belly,
searching for hope’s dance,
love’s secret within.
Seeing the unseen,
knowing the unknown,
bound eternally,
in blood and bone.
Hope denied, buried,
grave without a name,
sorrow never resting
stretches out its hands.
Blood will never see,
secrets within the vein,
bone will never hear,
a name only whispered.
My Hands Cradle
My hands cradle
the calabash,
scrubbing clean its
mottled brown skin.
Stretched tight over
a rounded belly,
its moisture lost,
dried seeds wait.
Coping with loss
is life’s journey,
was said as we
tied netted beads.
Around their hulls,
transforming gourds
into shakere,
beaded rattles.
A shake giving
voice to the hollow
bewitching beat
of the gourd dance.
“Ready to go,
ready to die”,
chant the rattle’s
ancient cadence.
Within its hollow,
loss and life lie
cradled together,
ready to sing.
At Thanksgiving
At Thanksgiving,
grief and sorrow,
took their place around the table,
on either side of gratitude.
At Christmas,
hope and joy,
joined in the festive celebration,
inviting remembrance to take a seat.
Easter is yet a mystery,
your face unseen,
known only in our hearts and bones.
We hold a place for you.
A Father’s Letter, June 25, 1974
“Honey we love you very much. We know you are going to have times of loneliness…”
I remember being small,
lost in a sea of legs.
Searching and sobbing,
you scooping me up.
“and times of foreboding.”
I remember being scared,
in shock after mother was shot.
Waiting side by side,
you consoling me.
“When these times come, pray to God.”
I remember being a bride,
walking down an aisle
on your arm having learned
love endures.
“When all else fails…”
I remember the sorrow,
you not knowing my name.
Then your heart sang out
calling ‘sweetheart’.
“You are not alone. Your ever-loving, Dad”
I remember your passing,
my glimpse of your spirit.
The message received,
love never fails.
My Father’s Stockings
He passed away
narrowly alone in
nursing home bed
once surrounded
by family
left now
in peace.
He may have worn stockings
to warm bony
cold blue feet
but the next morning
when we returned
only the bare
striped mattress
remained.
My father was
a clean man
who washed out
his stockings nightly
hanging them to dry
on the towel rack.
Something he learned to do
surrounded by brothers
with dirty feet.
We cleaned out
his drawers
his closet
his photos
leaving with bags
of a used life. Useful.
This for daughter
this for son,
this for donations
this for garbage.
The stockings
for donation laid
on top of the heap
for days
then seeing
their worn heels
their prickly
elastic tops
were placed
in the garbage.
One pair never
passed on but
remains in my
sock drawer
silently awaiting
hands that
hold turn
and remember
the man.
Two Deer
Two deer lay side by side
on an island of grass,
surrounded by snow,
waiting for sunrise.
I watched from my window,
delighted with their ease,
blessed to be included
In this landscape we share.
A bald eagle watched,
perched high atop a tree,
messenger of prayers
between souls now and past.
How do the departed slip
past the sleeping deer,
past the morning sunrise,
past our out stretched hands?
On the eagle’s wings
their spirit soars, not past,
within the landscape
of our shared existence.
Never far, always near,
joined with us, sharing love,
joy, sorrow, and prayers,
sunrises and sunsets.
Under Cover of Lipstick
Under cover of lipstick,
she took on the world.
Fire Engine Red, I teased her,
a nineteen-sixties siren.
Left behind her mark on
coffee cups and children’s cheeks,
giving life to her pale lips,
igniting a glowing smile.
That hid sorrow well until
the undertaker applied it
for the final time after which
those lips sealed the secret.
You told us he died,
such a long time ago,
crying to keep him buried,
but behind those tears, he lived.
Did you lie to protect us
or to protect yourself?
Sometimes what is apparent,
is nothing more than a ghost.
I rub the lipstick off my cheek,
still covering the truth.
and Death Shall Have No
and Death shall have no
dominion but time,
time is an open wound
never healing, picked
raw in secret.
Five years now have passed.
Seeing your face in
anguish etched into
memory that stands
frozen, helpless.
Time holds me captive.
Richness of happy days.
Poverty of loss.
Death’s dominion grips
what time is left.
Thanksgiving is past.
Snow blankets a frozen
world not dead, at rest,
awaiting rebirth,
awaiting hope.
I Laid My Hand
I laid my hand
against your cheek
holding what remained.
Your face etched
in memory as
life ebbed away.
A tree branch flung
my glasses off,
far into the snow.
Blinded I searched,
until my heart
began to see.
Three days you walked
through the valley
shadowed by death.
Goodness and mercy
followed, while bedside,
I sat helpless.
Looking in a mirror
my heart now sees
our reflection.
I lay my hand
against my cheek,
holding what remains.
I Thought of You
I thought of you today.
Snow has melted away
from the burial mound
of grass clippings you left.
Things seem unfinished
that never had an end.
Why ask why, when there’ll
never be an answer?
This is what I know from
all my years of living.
Pain cannot be treated
with a Band-Aid and a kiss.
Too much insulation
stops a house from breathing.
Crumpled paper cannot
keep china from cracking.
Closing your eyes will not
shut out the world.
I thought of the cabin.
Plywood covering the doors
and windows has not stopped
squirrels from getting in.
You shut your eyes when life
became unbearable.
Winter ended. Spring began.
The grass grows green again.
The Table Stands Empty
In a cavernous silence
the table stands empty.
Yellow leaves drift down
covering its surface.
Yesterday we sat there
feasting on colors
of light and love spinning
a cocoon together.
Within its snug safety
dark places opened.
The work of our hands
became the work of our hearts.
Today we awaken,
bright colors painted,
strong baskets woven,
awaiting butterflies.
Colors
Colors cascade
from hands of
friend to friend.
Delighted like girls,
bonded like women,
who know places
not all hearts
have found
together.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:15.507192
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-20",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-21
|
3 Your Voice Was Heard
Constance Hodder
In the Silence
In the silence, at day’s end,
looking over the meadow,
I hear you say,
“You should work the land”.
Great Grandfather,
You were a logger.
You were a farmer.
I am not. What is our connection
now a century past?
At the end of the road at Red Top,
I tried to find you.
Your sawmill, gone.
Tall tamaracks, gone.
Even sawdust
blown away.
What remained was the soil,
sewn with your sweat,
sewn with your dreams,
I found you there,
Your love of this land.
Great Grandfather,
We share a kinship
with each other,
with the land.
I plant trees
to remember,
those gone before
whose roots grow
deep in my bones.
Your voice was heard.
I could not leave Red Top
without something
to hold onto.
I collected a branch
from an old oak tree
you may have rested against,
in the silence, at day’s end.
My Grandmother Was Clever
My grandmother was clever,
she could tat a collar of lace,
make a doll out of a handkerchief,
and beat me at tiddlywinks.
In the end of her days, she was
heard conversing with her mother,
who passed when she was eight,
time’s veil having worn thin.
Today was warm and sunny,
I took my sandwich outside,
to eat at the picnic table,
and found you were there.
So we ate side by side,
mine peanut butter with jelly,
yours peanut butter with mayo.
Are you surprised I remembered?
Together for that moment,
eating with the sun on our backs,
yesterday as today,
without a breath between them.
Sorrow replaced by wonder
that time’s passage is not
terminal, only limited
by how we part the veil.
Gloria
Gloria is gone.
Covid stole her,
while we looked away.
Chickadee lies still
in the garden,
while we looked away.
Gloria asked angels
to lift her foot
as she stepped off.
Tiny bird entombed
between my hands,
Were angels there for you?
Gloria in Excelsis.
The Child cries alone
and we looked away.
Wind Howled in the Night
Wind howled in the night,
rain came down in torrents.
I awoke to birds singing
but heard you did not.
You who loved bright beads,
delighted in wearing a rainbow
of mismatched socks.
Who laughed so hard, we cried.
Every day birds take time
to sing out their hearts.
Do they do this to
let go of sorrow?
Intellectual disability,
a label about knowing less but
understanding more about
how vital it is to sing.
After the clouds blew off,
the sun shone this morning.
Despite this, the day didn’t
seem as bright without you.
Elise
Elise stands tall
On straight thin legs.
“I am almost ten”
she states.
That’s five plus five,
I marvel.
Elise stands proud.
“I don’t like sports.
I like music”
she reports.
What’s your instrument?
I question.
Elise never wavers.
“I like to sing”.
She stands tall
almost 10.
I listen,
bent with age.
In awe of youth.
Singing!
The Saga of Heavenly Hash
I know you remember
that evening so many years ago
in South Minneapolis
like yesterday.
Sitting side by side
on the porch front stoop
too hot to sit inside
the evening light fading.
Our hearts were one
as we poured out our
thoughts, hopes, and dreams
souls united from the start.
You on my left with your
deep tan and deeper insights.
Me with my long unshaven legs
and optimistic innocence.
The evening etched into memory
all because of two spoons
and a half gallon of ice cream
that disappeared as night set in.
Watering Trees
I remember
you as a young boy
going out to the field
with your father
to water trees.
He planted those trees
to protect the soil
creating shelter
for our home.
The trees grew tall
and you grew tall.
Now I see you
protecting your family
creating shelter
for your home.
Your son now
will need to learn
from you how to
water trees.
On The First Day
On the first day in June
the sky was brilliant blue,
so crystal clear it ran
through an icy stream
you could dip your cup into
and drink until you burst.
Life giving water flowing
over the forehead of
a newborn held so closely
by his father that their
hearts beat together as one
under a brilliant blue sky.
The Sky Darkened
The sky darkened with clouds.
Water sprinkled like rain
from the hands of the priest,
who draped the casket with
a white blanket as if
he was tucking in bed
his cold sleeping child.
In this tender action,
our loss too was covered,
not unlike a Band-Aid
hiding a weeping wound,
or newly laid tile
over old linoleum,
though neither captures it.
More like the first snowfall,
covering fallen leaves,
bare patches of dead grass,
fields of brown corn stubble,
suddenly cloaked in
white sparkling brilliance,
a paradise to behold.
We know what lies beneath,
sleeping through this season,
waiting till snow melts away,
verdant leaves bursting forth,
grass springing green overnight,
corn growing tall to harvest,
hope breaking through darkness.
CNN Reports: Colorado Reels after Deadly LGBTQ Club Shooting
He Was Only Four
He was only four
when he told his mother
he was a boy.
Then God said, ”Let us make man…
He/him “was a light in my life
with so much more life to give.”
in our own image, after our likeness…
She/her “was an amazing mother
with a huge heart.”
He created he/him, she/her, they/them.
He/him “was kind, willing to go out
of his way to help others.”
He created them.
She/her “was loving, caring, and sweet.
Everyone loved her.”
And it was so.”
He/him “found a community he loved
where he could really shine.”
We wept.
Her Hands Stretched Wide
Her hands stretched wide
across a growing belly,
searching for hope’s dance,
love’s secret within.
Seeing the unseen,
knowing the unknown,
bound eternally,
in blood and bone.
Hope denied, buried,
grave without a name,
sorrow never resting
stretches out its hands.
Blood will never see,
secrets within the vein,
bone will never hear,
a name only whispered.
My Hands Cradle
My hands cradle
the calabash,
scrubbing clean its
mottled brown skin.
Stretched tight over
a rounded belly,
its moisture lost,
dried seeds wait.
Coping with loss
is life’s journey,
was said as we
tied netted beads.
Around their hulls,
transforming gourds
into shakere,
beaded rattles.
A shake giving
voice to the hollow
bewitching beat
of the gourd dance.
“Ready to go,
ready to die”,
chant the rattle’s
ancient cadence.
Within its hollow,
loss and life lie
cradled together,
ready to sing.
At Thanksgiving
At Thanksgiving,
grief and sorrow,
took their place around the table,
on either side of gratitude.
At Christmas,
hope and joy,
joined in the festive celebration,
inviting remembrance to take a seat.
Easter is yet a mystery,
your face unseen,
known only in our hearts and bones.
We hold a place for you.
A Father’s Letter, June 25, 1974
“Honey we love you very much. We know you are going to have times of loneliness…”
I remember being small,
lost in a sea of legs.
Searching and sobbing,
you scooping me up.
“and times of foreboding.”
I remember being scared,
in shock after mother was shot.
Waiting side by side,
you consoling me.
“When these times come, pray to God.”
I remember being a bride,
walking down an aisle
on your arm having learned
love endures.
“When all else fails…”
I remember the sorrow,
you not knowing my name.
Then your heart sang out
calling ‘sweetheart’.
“You are not alone. Your ever-loving, Dad”
I remember your passing,
my glimpse of your spirit.
The message received,
love never fails.
My Father’s Stockings
He passed away
narrowly alone in
nursing home bed
once surrounded
by family
left now
in peace.
He may have worn stockings
to warm bony
cold blue feet
but the next morning
when we returned
only the bare
striped mattress
remained.
My father was
a clean man
who washed out
his stockings nightly
hanging them to dry
on the towel rack.
Something he learned to do
surrounded by brothers
with dirty feet.
We cleaned out
his drawers
his closet
his photos
leaving with bags
of a used life. Useful.
This for daughter
this for son,
this for donations
this for garbage.
The stockings
for donation laid
on top of the heap
for days
then seeing
their worn heels
their prickly
elastic tops
were placed
in the garbage.
One pair never
passed on but
remains in my
sock drawer
silently awaiting
hands that
hold turn
and remember
the man.
Two Deer
Two deer lay side by side
on an island of grass,
surrounded by snow,
waiting for sunrise.
I watched from my window,
delighted with their ease,
blessed to be included
In this landscape we share.
A bald eagle watched,
perched high atop a tree,
messenger of prayers
between souls now and past.
How do the departed slip
past the sleeping deer,
past the morning sunrise,
past our out stretched hands?
On the eagle’s wings
their spirit soars, not past,
within the landscape
of our shared existence.
Never far, always near,
joined with us, sharing love,
joy, sorrow, and prayers,
sunrises and sunsets.
Under Cover of Lipstick
Under cover of lipstick,
she took on the world.
Fire Engine Red, I teased her,
a nineteen-sixties siren.
Left behind her mark on
coffee cups and children’s cheeks,
giving life to her pale lips,
igniting a glowing smile.
That hid sorrow well until
the undertaker applied it
for the final time after which
those lips sealed the secret.
You told us he died,
such a long time ago,
crying to keep him buried,
but behind those tears, he lived.
Did you lie to protect us
or to protect yourself?
Sometimes what is apparent,
is nothing more than a ghost.
I rub the lipstick off my cheek,
still covering the truth.
and Death Shall Have No
and Death shall have no
dominion but time,
time is an open wound
never healing, picked
raw in secret.
Five years now have passed.
Seeing your face in
anguish etched into
memory that stands
frozen, helpless.
Time holds me captive.
Richness of happy days.
Poverty of loss.
Death’s dominion grips
what time is left.
Thanksgiving is past.
Snow blankets a frozen
world not dead, at rest,
awaiting rebirth,
awaiting hope.
I Laid My Hand
I laid my hand
against your cheek
holding what remained.
Your face etched
in memory as
life ebbed away.
A tree branch flung
my glasses off,
far into the snow.
Blinded I searched,
until my heart
began to see.
Three days you walked
through the valley
shadowed by death.
Goodness and mercy
followed, while bedside,
I sat helpless.
Looking in a mirror
my heart now sees
our reflection.
I lay my hand
against my cheek,
holding what remains.
I Thought of You
I thought of you today.
Snow has melted away
from the burial mound
of grass clippings you left.
Things seem unfinished
that never had an end.
Why ask why, when there’ll
never be an answer?
This is what I know from
all my years of living.
Pain cannot be treated
with a Band-Aid and a kiss.
Too much insulation
stops a house from breathing.
Crumpled paper cannot
keep china from cracking.
Closing your eyes will not
shut out the world.
I thought of the cabin.
Plywood covering the doors
and windows has not stopped
squirrels from getting in.
You shut your eyes when life
became unbearable.
Winter ended. Spring began.
The grass grows green again.
The Table Stands Empty
In a cavernous silence
the table stands empty.
Yellow leaves drift down
covering its surface.
Yesterday we sat there
feasting on colors
of light and love spinning
a cocoon together.
Within its snug safety
dark places opened.
The work of our hands
became the work of our hearts.
Today we awaken,
bright colors painted,
strong baskets woven,
awaiting butterflies.
Colors
Colors cascade
from hands of
friend to friend.
Delighted like girls,
bonded like women,
who know places
not all hearts
have found
together.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:15.571382
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-21",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-22
|
3 Your Voice Was Heard
Constance Hodder
In the Silence
In the silence, at day’s end,
looking over the meadow,
I hear you say,
“You should work the land”.
Great Grandfather,
You were a logger.
You were a farmer.
I am not. What is our connection
now a century past?
At the end of the road at Red Top,
I tried to find you.
Your sawmill, gone.
Tall tamaracks, gone.
Even sawdust
blown away.
What remained was the soil,
sewn with your sweat,
sewn with your dreams,
I found you there,
Your love of this land.
Great Grandfather,
We share a kinship
with each other,
with the land.
I plant trees
to remember,
those gone before
whose roots grow
deep in my bones.
Your voice was heard.
I could not leave Red Top
without something
to hold onto.
I collected a branch
from an old oak tree
you may have rested against,
in the silence, at day’s end.
My Grandmother Was Clever
My grandmother was clever,
she could tat a collar of lace,
make a doll out of a handkerchief,
and beat me at tiddlywinks.
In the end of her days, she was
heard conversing with her mother,
who passed when she was eight,
time’s veil having worn thin.
Today was warm and sunny,
I took my sandwich outside,
to eat at the picnic table,
and found you were there.
So we ate side by side,
mine peanut butter with jelly,
yours peanut butter with mayo.
Are you surprised I remembered?
Together for that moment,
eating with the sun on our backs,
yesterday as today,
without a breath between them.
Sorrow replaced by wonder
that time’s passage is not
terminal, only limited
by how we part the veil.
Gloria
Gloria is gone.
Covid stole her,
while we looked away.
Chickadee lies still
in the garden,
while we looked away.
Gloria asked angels
to lift her foot
as she stepped off.
Tiny bird entombed
between my hands,
Were angels there for you?
Gloria in Excelsis.
The Child cries alone
and we looked away.
Wind Howled in the Night
Wind howled in the night,
rain came down in torrents.
I awoke to birds singing
but heard you did not.
You who loved bright beads,
delighted in wearing a rainbow
of mismatched socks.
Who laughed so hard, we cried.
Every day birds take time
to sing out their hearts.
Do they do this to
let go of sorrow?
Intellectual disability,
a label about knowing less but
understanding more about
how vital it is to sing.
After the clouds blew off,
the sun shone this morning.
Despite this, the day didn’t
seem as bright without you.
Elise
Elise stands tall
On straight thin legs.
“I am almost ten”
she states.
That’s five plus five,
I marvel.
Elise stands proud.
“I don’t like sports.
I like music”
she reports.
What’s your instrument?
I question.
Elise never wavers.
“I like to sing”.
She stands tall
almost 10.
I listen,
bent with age.
In awe of youth.
Singing!
The Saga of Heavenly Hash
I know you remember
that evening so many years ago
in South Minneapolis
like yesterday.
Sitting side by side
on the porch front stoop
too hot to sit inside
the evening light fading.
Our hearts were one
as we poured out our
thoughts, hopes, and dreams
souls united from the start.
You on my left with your
deep tan and deeper insights.
Me with my long unshaven legs
and optimistic innocence.
The evening etched into memory
all because of two spoons
and a half gallon of ice cream
that disappeared as night set in.
Watering Trees
I remember
you as a young boy
going out to the field
with your father
to water trees.
He planted those trees
to protect the soil
creating shelter
for our home.
The trees grew tall
and you grew tall.
Now I see you
protecting your family
creating shelter
for your home.
Your son now
will need to learn
from you how to
water trees.
On The First Day
On the first day in June
the sky was brilliant blue,
so crystal clear it ran
through an icy stream
you could dip your cup into
and drink until you burst.
Life giving water flowing
over the forehead of
a newborn held so closely
by his father that their
hearts beat together as one
under a brilliant blue sky.
The Sky Darkened
The sky darkened with clouds.
Water sprinkled like rain
from the hands of the priest,
who draped the casket with
a white blanket as if
he was tucking in bed
his cold sleeping child.
In this tender action,
our loss too was covered,
not unlike a Band-Aid
hiding a weeping wound,
or newly laid tile
over old linoleum,
though neither captures it.
More like the first snowfall,
covering fallen leaves,
bare patches of dead grass,
fields of brown corn stubble,
suddenly cloaked in
white sparkling brilliance,
a paradise to behold.
We know what lies beneath,
sleeping through this season,
waiting till snow melts away,
verdant leaves bursting forth,
grass springing green overnight,
corn growing tall to harvest,
hope breaking through darkness.
CNN Reports: Colorado Reels after Deadly LGBTQ Club Shooting
He Was Only Four
He was only four
when he told his mother
he was a boy.
Then God said, ”Let us make man…
He/him “was a light in my life
with so much more life to give.”
in our own image, after our likeness…
She/her “was an amazing mother
with a huge heart.”
He created he/him, she/her, they/them.
He/him “was kind, willing to go out
of his way to help others.”
He created them.
She/her “was loving, caring, and sweet.
Everyone loved her.”
And it was so.”
He/him “found a community he loved
where he could really shine.”
We wept.
Her Hands Stretched Wide
Her hands stretched wide
across a growing belly,
searching for hope’s dance,
love’s secret within.
Seeing the unseen,
knowing the unknown,
bound eternally,
in blood and bone.
Hope denied, buried,
grave without a name,
sorrow never resting
stretches out its hands.
Blood will never see,
secrets within the vein,
bone will never hear,
a name only whispered.
My Hands Cradle
My hands cradle
the calabash,
scrubbing clean its
mottled brown skin.
Stretched tight over
a rounded belly,
its moisture lost,
dried seeds wait.
Coping with loss
is life’s journey,
was said as we
tied netted beads.
Around their hulls,
transforming gourds
into shakere,
beaded rattles.
A shake giving
voice to the hollow
bewitching beat
of the gourd dance.
“Ready to go,
ready to die”,
chant the rattle’s
ancient cadence.
Within its hollow,
loss and life lie
cradled together,
ready to sing.
At Thanksgiving
At Thanksgiving,
grief and sorrow,
took their place around the table,
on either side of gratitude.
At Christmas,
hope and joy,
joined in the festive celebration,
inviting remembrance to take a seat.
Easter is yet a mystery,
your face unseen,
known only in our hearts and bones.
We hold a place for you.
A Father’s Letter, June 25, 1974
“Honey we love you very much. We know you are going to have times of loneliness…”
I remember being small,
lost in a sea of legs.
Searching and sobbing,
you scooping me up.
“and times of foreboding.”
I remember being scared,
in shock after mother was shot.
Waiting side by side,
you consoling me.
“When these times come, pray to God.”
I remember being a bride,
walking down an aisle
on your arm having learned
love endures.
“When all else fails…”
I remember the sorrow,
you not knowing my name.
Then your heart sang out
calling ‘sweetheart’.
“You are not alone. Your ever-loving, Dad”
I remember your passing,
my glimpse of your spirit.
The message received,
love never fails.
My Father’s Stockings
He passed away
narrowly alone in
nursing home bed
once surrounded
by family
left now
in peace.
He may have worn stockings
to warm bony
cold blue feet
but the next morning
when we returned
only the bare
striped mattress
remained.
My father was
a clean man
who washed out
his stockings nightly
hanging them to dry
on the towel rack.
Something he learned to do
surrounded by brothers
with dirty feet.
We cleaned out
his drawers
his closet
his photos
leaving with bags
of a used life. Useful.
This for daughter
this for son,
this for donations
this for garbage.
The stockings
for donation laid
on top of the heap
for days
then seeing
their worn heels
their prickly
elastic tops
were placed
in the garbage.
One pair never
passed on but
remains in my
sock drawer
silently awaiting
hands that
hold turn
and remember
the man.
Two Deer
Two deer lay side by side
on an island of grass,
surrounded by snow,
waiting for sunrise.
I watched from my window,
delighted with their ease,
blessed to be included
In this landscape we share.
A bald eagle watched,
perched high atop a tree,
messenger of prayers
between souls now and past.
How do the departed slip
past the sleeping deer,
past the morning sunrise,
past our out stretched hands?
On the eagle’s wings
their spirit soars, not past,
within the landscape
of our shared existence.
Never far, always near,
joined with us, sharing love,
joy, sorrow, and prayers,
sunrises and sunsets.
Under Cover of Lipstick
Under cover of lipstick,
she took on the world.
Fire Engine Red, I teased her,
a nineteen-sixties siren.
Left behind her mark on
coffee cups and children’s cheeks,
giving life to her pale lips,
igniting a glowing smile.
That hid sorrow well until
the undertaker applied it
for the final time after which
those lips sealed the secret.
You told us he died,
such a long time ago,
crying to keep him buried,
but behind those tears, he lived.
Did you lie to protect us
or to protect yourself?
Sometimes what is apparent,
is nothing more than a ghost.
I rub the lipstick off my cheek,
still covering the truth.
and Death Shall Have No
and Death shall have no
dominion but time,
time is an open wound
never healing, picked
raw in secret.
Five years now have passed.
Seeing your face in
anguish etched into
memory that stands
frozen, helpless.
Time holds me captive.
Richness of happy days.
Poverty of loss.
Death’s dominion grips
what time is left.
Thanksgiving is past.
Snow blankets a frozen
world not dead, at rest,
awaiting rebirth,
awaiting hope.
I Laid My Hand
I laid my hand
against your cheek
holding what remained.
Your face etched
in memory as
life ebbed away.
A tree branch flung
my glasses off,
far into the snow.
Blinded I searched,
until my heart
began to see.
Three days you walked
through the valley
shadowed by death.
Goodness and mercy
followed, while bedside,
I sat helpless.
Looking in a mirror
my heart now sees
our reflection.
I lay my hand
against my cheek,
holding what remains.
I Thought of You
I thought of you today.
Snow has melted away
from the burial mound
of grass clippings you left.
Things seem unfinished
that never had an end.
Why ask why, when there’ll
never be an answer?
This is what I know from
all my years of living.
Pain cannot be treated
with a Band-Aid and a kiss.
Too much insulation
stops a house from breathing.
Crumpled paper cannot
keep china from cracking.
Closing your eyes will not
shut out the world.
I thought of the cabin.
Plywood covering the doors
and windows has not stopped
squirrels from getting in.
You shut your eyes when life
became unbearable.
Winter ended. Spring began.
The grass grows green again.
The Table Stands Empty
In a cavernous silence
the table stands empty.
Yellow leaves drift down
covering its surface.
Yesterday we sat there
feasting on colors
of light and love spinning
a cocoon together.
Within its snug safety
dark places opened.
The work of our hands
became the work of our hearts.
Today we awaken,
bright colors painted,
strong baskets woven,
awaiting butterflies.
Colors
Colors cascade
from hands of
friend to friend.
Delighted like girls,
bonded like women,
who know places
not all hearts
have found
together.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:15.637116
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-22",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-23
|
3 Your Voice Was Heard
Constance Hodder
In the Silence
In the silence, at day’s end,
looking over the meadow,
I hear you say,
“You should work the land”.
Great Grandfather,
You were a logger.
You were a farmer.
I am not. What is our connection
now a century past?
At the end of the road at Red Top,
I tried to find you.
Your sawmill, gone.
Tall tamaracks, gone.
Even sawdust
blown away.
What remained was the soil,
sewn with your sweat,
sewn with your dreams,
I found you there,
Your love of this land.
Great Grandfather,
We share a kinship
with each other,
with the land.
I plant trees
to remember,
those gone before
whose roots grow
deep in my bones.
Your voice was heard.
I could not leave Red Top
without something
to hold onto.
I collected a branch
from an old oak tree
you may have rested against,
in the silence, at day’s end.
My Grandmother Was Clever
My grandmother was clever,
she could tat a collar of lace,
make a doll out of a handkerchief,
and beat me at tiddlywinks.
In the end of her days, she was
heard conversing with her mother,
who passed when she was eight,
time’s veil having worn thin.
Today was warm and sunny,
I took my sandwich outside,
to eat at the picnic table,
and found you were there.
So we ate side by side,
mine peanut butter with jelly,
yours peanut butter with mayo.
Are you surprised I remembered?
Together for that moment,
eating with the sun on our backs,
yesterday as today,
without a breath between them.
Sorrow replaced by wonder
that time’s passage is not
terminal, only limited
by how we part the veil.
Gloria
Gloria is gone.
Covid stole her,
while we looked away.
Chickadee lies still
in the garden,
while we looked away.
Gloria asked angels
to lift her foot
as she stepped off.
Tiny bird entombed
between my hands,
Were angels there for you?
Gloria in Excelsis.
The Child cries alone
and we looked away.
Wind Howled in the Night
Wind howled in the night,
rain came down in torrents.
I awoke to birds singing
but heard you did not.
You who loved bright beads,
delighted in wearing a rainbow
of mismatched socks.
Who laughed so hard, we cried.
Every day birds take time
to sing out their hearts.
Do they do this to
let go of sorrow?
Intellectual disability,
a label about knowing less but
understanding more about
how vital it is to sing.
After the clouds blew off,
the sun shone this morning.
Despite this, the day didn’t
seem as bright without you.
Elise
Elise stands tall
On straight thin legs.
“I am almost ten”
she states.
That’s five plus five,
I marvel.
Elise stands proud.
“I don’t like sports.
I like music”
she reports.
What’s your instrument?
I question.
Elise never wavers.
“I like to sing”.
She stands tall
almost 10.
I listen,
bent with age.
In awe of youth.
Singing!
The Saga of Heavenly Hash
I know you remember
that evening so many years ago
in South Minneapolis
like yesterday.
Sitting side by side
on the porch front stoop
too hot to sit inside
the evening light fading.
Our hearts were one
as we poured out our
thoughts, hopes, and dreams
souls united from the start.
You on my left with your
deep tan and deeper insights.
Me with my long unshaven legs
and optimistic innocence.
The evening etched into memory
all because of two spoons
and a half gallon of ice cream
that disappeared as night set in.
Watering Trees
I remember
you as a young boy
going out to the field
with your father
to water trees.
He planted those trees
to protect the soil
creating shelter
for our home.
The trees grew tall
and you grew tall.
Now I see you
protecting your family
creating shelter
for your home.
Your son now
will need to learn
from you how to
water trees.
On The First Day
On the first day in June
the sky was brilliant blue,
so crystal clear it ran
through an icy stream
you could dip your cup into
and drink until you burst.
Life giving water flowing
over the forehead of
a newborn held so closely
by his father that their
hearts beat together as one
under a brilliant blue sky.
The Sky Darkened
The sky darkened with clouds.
Water sprinkled like rain
from the hands of the priest,
who draped the casket with
a white blanket as if
he was tucking in bed
his cold sleeping child.
In this tender action,
our loss too was covered,
not unlike a Band-Aid
hiding a weeping wound,
or newly laid tile
over old linoleum,
though neither captures it.
More like the first snowfall,
covering fallen leaves,
bare patches of dead grass,
fields of brown corn stubble,
suddenly cloaked in
white sparkling brilliance,
a paradise to behold.
We know what lies beneath,
sleeping through this season,
waiting till snow melts away,
verdant leaves bursting forth,
grass springing green overnight,
corn growing tall to harvest,
hope breaking through darkness.
CNN Reports: Colorado Reels after Deadly LGBTQ Club Shooting
He Was Only Four
He was only four
when he told his mother
he was a boy.
Then God said, ”Let us make man…
He/him “was a light in my life
with so much more life to give.”
in our own image, after our likeness…
She/her “was an amazing mother
with a huge heart.”
He created he/him, she/her, they/them.
He/him “was kind, willing to go out
of his way to help others.”
He created them.
She/her “was loving, caring, and sweet.
Everyone loved her.”
And it was so.”
He/him “found a community he loved
where he could really shine.”
We wept.
Her Hands Stretched Wide
Her hands stretched wide
across a growing belly,
searching for hope’s dance,
love’s secret within.
Seeing the unseen,
knowing the unknown,
bound eternally,
in blood and bone.
Hope denied, buried,
grave without a name,
sorrow never resting
stretches out its hands.
Blood will never see,
secrets within the vein,
bone will never hear,
a name only whispered.
My Hands Cradle
My hands cradle
the calabash,
scrubbing clean its
mottled brown skin.
Stretched tight over
a rounded belly,
its moisture lost,
dried seeds wait.
Coping with loss
is life’s journey,
was said as we
tied netted beads.
Around their hulls,
transforming gourds
into shakere,
beaded rattles.
A shake giving
voice to the hollow
bewitching beat
of the gourd dance.
“Ready to go,
ready to die”,
chant the rattle’s
ancient cadence.
Within its hollow,
loss and life lie
cradled together,
ready to sing.
At Thanksgiving
At Thanksgiving,
grief and sorrow,
took their place around the table,
on either side of gratitude.
At Christmas,
hope and joy,
joined in the festive celebration,
inviting remembrance to take a seat.
Easter is yet a mystery,
your face unseen,
known only in our hearts and bones.
We hold a place for you.
A Father’s Letter, June 25, 1974
“Honey we love you very much. We know you are going to have times of loneliness…”
I remember being small,
lost in a sea of legs.
Searching and sobbing,
you scooping me up.
“and times of foreboding.”
I remember being scared,
in shock after mother was shot.
Waiting side by side,
you consoling me.
“When these times come, pray to God.”
I remember being a bride,
walking down an aisle
on your arm having learned
love endures.
“When all else fails…”
I remember the sorrow,
you not knowing my name.
Then your heart sang out
calling ‘sweetheart’.
“You are not alone. Your ever-loving, Dad”
I remember your passing,
my glimpse of your spirit.
The message received,
love never fails.
My Father’s Stockings
He passed away
narrowly alone in
nursing home bed
once surrounded
by family
left now
in peace.
He may have worn stockings
to warm bony
cold blue feet
but the next morning
when we returned
only the bare
striped mattress
remained.
My father was
a clean man
who washed out
his stockings nightly
hanging them to dry
on the towel rack.
Something he learned to do
surrounded by brothers
with dirty feet.
We cleaned out
his drawers
his closet
his photos
leaving with bags
of a used life. Useful.
This for daughter
this for son,
this for donations
this for garbage.
The stockings
for donation laid
on top of the heap
for days
then seeing
their worn heels
their prickly
elastic tops
were placed
in the garbage.
One pair never
passed on but
remains in my
sock drawer
silently awaiting
hands that
hold turn
and remember
the man.
Two Deer
Two deer lay side by side
on an island of grass,
surrounded by snow,
waiting for sunrise.
I watched from my window,
delighted with their ease,
blessed to be included
In this landscape we share.
A bald eagle watched,
perched high atop a tree,
messenger of prayers
between souls now and past.
How do the departed slip
past the sleeping deer,
past the morning sunrise,
past our out stretched hands?
On the eagle’s wings
their spirit soars, not past,
within the landscape
of our shared existence.
Never far, always near,
joined with us, sharing love,
joy, sorrow, and prayers,
sunrises and sunsets.
Under Cover of Lipstick
Under cover of lipstick,
she took on the world.
Fire Engine Red, I teased her,
a nineteen-sixties siren.
Left behind her mark on
coffee cups and children’s cheeks,
giving life to her pale lips,
igniting a glowing smile.
That hid sorrow well until
the undertaker applied it
for the final time after which
those lips sealed the secret.
You told us he died,
such a long time ago,
crying to keep him buried,
but behind those tears, he lived.
Did you lie to protect us
or to protect yourself?
Sometimes what is apparent,
is nothing more than a ghost.
I rub the lipstick off my cheek,
still covering the truth.
and Death Shall Have No
and Death shall have no
dominion but time,
time is an open wound
never healing, picked
raw in secret.
Five years now have passed.
Seeing your face in
anguish etched into
memory that stands
frozen, helpless.
Time holds me captive.
Richness of happy days.
Poverty of loss.
Death’s dominion grips
what time is left.
Thanksgiving is past.
Snow blankets a frozen
world not dead, at rest,
awaiting rebirth,
awaiting hope.
I Laid My Hand
I laid my hand
against your cheek
holding what remained.
Your face etched
in memory as
life ebbed away.
A tree branch flung
my glasses off,
far into the snow.
Blinded I searched,
until my heart
began to see.
Three days you walked
through the valley
shadowed by death.
Goodness and mercy
followed, while bedside,
I sat helpless.
Looking in a mirror
my heart now sees
our reflection.
I lay my hand
against my cheek,
holding what remains.
I Thought of You
I thought of you today.
Snow has melted away
from the burial mound
of grass clippings you left.
Things seem unfinished
that never had an end.
Why ask why, when there’ll
never be an answer?
This is what I know from
all my years of living.
Pain cannot be treated
with a Band-Aid and a kiss.
Too much insulation
stops a house from breathing.
Crumpled paper cannot
keep china from cracking.
Closing your eyes will not
shut out the world.
I thought of the cabin.
Plywood covering the doors
and windows has not stopped
squirrels from getting in.
You shut your eyes when life
became unbearable.
Winter ended. Spring began.
The grass grows green again.
The Table Stands Empty
In a cavernous silence
the table stands empty.
Yellow leaves drift down
covering its surface.
Yesterday we sat there
feasting on colors
of light and love spinning
a cocoon together.
Within its snug safety
dark places opened.
The work of our hands
became the work of our hearts.
Today we awaken,
bright colors painted,
strong baskets woven,
awaiting butterflies.
Colors
Colors cascade
from hands of
friend to friend.
Delighted like girls,
bonded like women,
who know places
not all hearts
have found
together.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:15.703867
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/your-voice-was-heard/#chapter-284-section-23",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/
|
4 Captivated, I Listen
Constance Hodder
Sheltered Beneath the Pines
Sheltered beneath the pines,
I hear a voice calling.
First the sound of breath,
becoming a moan,
to a cry,
to a sigh,
to silence.
Captivated, I listen
again to the breath,
the moan,
the cry,
the sigh,
silence.
Is that the wind I hear
or the song of the trees?
A song of sorrow or joy,
of loss or ecstasy,
wind stroking branches
carrying seed aloft.
I am answered with silence,
my body embraced by wind.
One exists only
in the arms of the other
like wind in tree’s song.
Stepping Outside
Stepping outside, escaping
the chaos of day,
I cross into the dark
sanctum of the night.
Enclosed within its black veil
the whirlwind stills,
agitation falls away
leaving only peace.
Certainly not quiet,
in the flashlight beam bugs dance
to the love song of the toads
trilling and croaking.
A bear lumbers through the brush,
coyotes howl in the distance,
this is their territory,
we are but interlopers.
An oak branch bumps my head,
I trip over its root,
a June bug collides with me
crossing its path.
Oh, to be one with the night,
at home within this realm,
instead of a trespasser
in my own domain.
We are but visitors
of darkness as with the light,
our footprints left behind,
wash away with rain.
One day we will be welcomed
into darkness, at home
growing roots with the oak,
flying with the June bugs.
After a Storm
After a storm, air swims of worms
struggling from wet earth to breathe.
Amphibious fragrance fills ones
nostrils raised like a dog catching
a whiff of what passed before.
Awakening connections
to the primitive soul that danced
in the rain with head raised high
catching drops on a parched tongue,
tasting life’s sweet nectar.
Heeding the siren’s call to
return to the sea to swim amidst
creatures who shy from the stranger
that raises its head from the surf
to breathe the scent of moist earth.
Scraps of Paper
Scraps of paper
blown on the wind,
land to drift on
the glassy pond.
They are rescued
from the water
like sacred scrolls
treasure maps.
Birch bark layers
curl in my hands,
white to tan skins
vented to breathe.
Without words,
secret messages,
or directions,
they tell a tale.
Of a canoe,
skimming across
a glassy pond to
the pull of paddles.
A living poem,
breathing through bark,
a Paper Birch’s
legacy.
Mothers Rise at Night
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
listening for their with a gleam of light
children’s calls. on the dark horizon.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
hearing the cries painting the land
of the hungry. with a lambent glow.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
to hold their hungry in dazzling brilliance
ones to their breast. setting the sky ablaze.
Mothers rise at night
to the moon’s call
cradling their babies.
Mothers rise at night
to bathe their souls in
the moon’s radiance.
Mothers rest their babies The moon rests at dawn
back down as they rise in the glow of the rising
in the morning light. sun on the horizon.
Two Trees
Two trees stand afield as fog
on a golden wave rolls in.
Twilight enlivens the glow
until darkness fades to grey.
When did the hummingbirds leave?
Summer gives way to winter.
Days grow short. The light dims
swallowed by eternal nights.
I so hunger for color.
Will the hummingbirds return?
Oh, to be a whirling maple
casting crimson leaves to the
wind, releasing my spirit
from its earthly restraints.
Walking Toward Home
Walking toward home at sunset
I pass beneath a birch
on a brilliant carpet
of amber leaves who
once danced with the wind.
Now lay spent where time
once was and is no more.
A place apart where
flesh and blood fall away,
breath becomes spirit.
Enveloped in a golden glow
I awaken within
a sacred realm of light
filled with joy beyond
my understanding.
Surrounded with peace,
I wait in awed silence
as night closes the veil.
I walk home in darkness,
light still within me.
Enraptured
Enraptured
wooded paths entry
to worlds set apart
revealing secret
inner wonders.
Enveloped
evergreens enshrine
cavern carpeted
with amber needled
radiance.
Encased
milkweed pods enclose
silken parachuted
seeds awaiting flight
on the wind.
Enchanted
mushrooms encircle
fairy ring of lore.
Stumble inside to
dance with elves.
Entangled
grass thimble en-laced
nest of hummingbird
skillfully woven
to vanish.
Enlightened
quest to encounter
divine mysteries
simply revealed on
nature’s path.
Three Olive Finches
On a grey December dawn
three olive finches sit frozen
on the feeder facing east
in solemn silence.
Watching out the window
I too am caught under the spell
of a quiet moment of
prayer without words.
The crisp morning softens as
first rays of sunlight reach over
the horizon caressing
the frigid birds.
They turn now in unison
to feast together on seed
having witnessed the divine
in warmth and light.
Wind Buffets the Trees
Wind buffets the trees,
tossing branches wildly,
flailing leaves strain their
slender connections.
I’m blinded by its force,
tangled hair whips my face,
upset by an argument,
unable to move ahead.
Dry yellow leaves fly out,
expelled amid hardy ones.
Fall’s long shadow cast over,
what remains of summer.
Solstice has passed, days grow short,
darkness lengthens into night.
Consequence of a long life,
is knowing what comes next.
I steady myself against
a swaying tree, praying
it has been made stronger,
by wind that buffets it.
Tiny Nuthatch
Tiny nuthatch picks a seed,
flies to the power pole,
perching upside down
places it in a hole.
It’s acrobatic skills
captivate this watcher.
His instinctual need
to prepare for winter.
Nearby is a downy
who sees the cache
flies to the power pole
boldly plucks out the seed.
Every season has its time
to reap, to feast, to starve.
Survival for those who
look ahead and those who watch.
As Night Falls
As night falls, darkness
moves in around me.
Standing alone, breath held,
listening……..waiting.
How does one explain
the presence of owls?
Flying on silent wings,
so quiet, they have
been mistaken for
spirits of the dead.
How does one explain
the presence of the dead?
Their voice as a dream,
a glimpse out of sight,
an improbable
answer to prayer.
How does one explain
the presence of prayer?
An owl calling out,
silhouetted in the
moonlight to his love,
stars circling above.
Tales in Snow
Trudging through snow
on a winter morning
recounts a story of those
who have gone before
leaving messages behind.
Squirrel tracks
pattern the frozen snow
like inverse braille
directing the mice below to
where feeder seeds lie.
Rabbit tracks
cluster under low branches
along with grouse and pheasant
paused in sheltered grottoes
to scan the horizon.
Deer hooves
make deep impressions
along with trailing foot
like exclamation marks
declaring caution.
Coyote prints
tracking their prey
thicken the plot
follow the narrative left
behind by the vulnerable.
Darkening clouds
promise fresh snow
starting a new chapter
of tales of those in print
who passed before.
A Curl of Brown Leaf
A curl of brown leaf
spins into the air,
released from its bond
by a gust of wind.
It twists and turns in
jubilant dance before
falling back down to
return to the soil.
No one notes its passage
except for dreamers,
who yearn to fly free
untethered from earth.
Soaring through clouds,
spun in a whirlwind,
letting go of matter,
sun, rain, and being.
Before tumbling back,
into arms of the wind,
set down to rest in
the field of leaves.
Unless the wind
desires once more,
to dance with leaves in
a swirl of ecstasy.
Diving Into the Lake
Diving into the lake
she emerges to float
weightlessly drifting
taking in the vast sky.
Within that blue expanse
an eagle circles high
flaps its wings then glides
on the air looking down.
Captured in that moment
a transcendence of self
gliding weightless along
the two become one.
Like the water and sky
they share the horizon,
communion of spirits
together soaring free.
Dark Comes Early
Dark comes early
Snow coats land
Trees stand stark
Trunks hold up
Starry sky.
Sharp cold air
Breath forms clouds
Wading through
Deep snow drifts
Steps muffled.
Moonlit field
Stag stands still
Watching me
Watching him
Sees beyond.
Looking Into the Darkness
Looking into the darkness,
she lifts her head, ears erect,
listening to sounds that
arouse her primal instincts.
Catching a scent in the air,
her nose drops to the ground,
follows it through the brush,
snaking through the tall grass.
Suddenly, she drops and rolls,
twisting back and forth,
disguising her odor with
a wild animal essence.
Leaping to her feet, the wolf
emerges from noble ancestry,
who stalked its prey, killed,
and howled with the pack.
Gazing up, the predator
sees in me the first woman,
who threw meat scraps to the pack,
from the fire, as they drew near.
Wagging her tail, she turns,
remembers the way home,
her bowl of kibble, soft bed,
and fireplace to dream beside.
In the Dead of Winter
In the dead of winter,
sun recedes behind bare trees,
temperatures plummet. Bundled,
Tara and I head out.
Thick snow blankets the brush.
Shelter for field mice,
Hide and Seek for Tara,
whose nose probes the mounds.
Leaping off the suet,
a fat squirrel escapes
in a powdery spray.
Tara strains at her leash.
In the grey dying light,
darkness replaces beauty,
stealing my attention,
invading my thoughts.
Last night, unable to sleep,
I slipped into your room,
laid my hand on your cheek,
listened to your breath.
I looked into the abyss,
felt its icy slope.
While you slept soundly,
my world started to slide.
In the dead of winter,
field mice lay hidden,
squirrels watch from afar.
Tara and I turn back.
Bitter Winter
Bitter winter.
Below zero
engine stalls.
Emotions
hibernate.
Cold takes hostage.
Tightly
bound by
parka, and wrapped scarf
mummified.
Perspective narrows,
senses
grow numb.
Deaf, blind, and mute,
darkness descends.
Deeply cocooned.
Sunlight
slips in,
melting despair,
awakening hope.
It’s All Was Talked About
It’s all was talked about,
how winter stole spring away,
those April showers bringing
only snow and dashed hopes.
Not a pretty subject for poems,
the long cold winter of
desolation and despair,
so bleak, it hurt to live.
To cope, emotions were
secreted in dark dens
like black bears deep in sleep,
their hearts barely beating.
Each day had to be faced
with grim resolution,
even the day spring came
my parka worn like a shroud.
Sun filtered through bare trees
drawing me like a moth to flame.
Turning toward the warmth with
eyes closed, red light streamed in.
Ice melted from my heart,
my frozen spirit thawed,
feelings stumbled out
of their gloomy cave.
May showers brought new growth,
hummingbirds returned along
with enough hope to store
until life’s next winter.
Drawn into the Forest
Drawn into the forest,
troubled with loss and grief,
drought, disease, destruction.
Trees respond, ‘Our roots run deep’.
Swept high into branches,
a shared communion of
breath and expiration,
life’s fragility.
When the soul departs from flesh
will it be lost in a void,
falling into an abyss
of nothingness nowhere?
‘Death brings transformation.
Our ashes sift deep in soil
to be fed by sweet rain,
nurtured by warm sunshine’.
‘We are seedlings of spirit
resurrected, reaching
to the light on new limbs
raised in praise toward heaven’.
At sunrise, feel the warmth.
As rain falls, taste its sweetness.
Reach out toward heaven,
pray roots run deep.
Quietly the Snow Falls
Quietly the snow falls.
Its feathery flight hushed
as it blankets the ground.
I stop and listen to
the music of silence.
With eyes closed, I raise my
face to the sky. Flakes coat
my cheeks, my nose, my lashes,
melt down my neck in a
frozen baptism.
I am aware of my
heart beating in my ears,
my breathing in and out,
my smallness within this
greatness, apart and a part.
Paradise may be far off, but
there is peace in this place
where distance disappears
as snow fills the silence
between heaven and earth.
Sandhill Cranes Returned
Sandhill cranes returned.
Their haunting calls echo
through the still bare trees
and frozen swamp of time.
We shout, “Welcome back,”
as spring breaks winter’s
strangle hold on us,
our bones begin to dance.
Grief no longer runs
like blood from my pen.
New birth and hope sprout
on the blank page.
The predator still lurks,
snow and cold remain
a certain threat but
death has loosed its grip.
Cranes fly above us,
giving their immortal cry
heard since time’s beginning,
“I am…I am…I am”.
Across the Linen Cloth
Across the linen cloth,
petals from the bouquet
lay scattered, red as blood,
dripping from wilted stems.
Snow continues to fall,
spring disguised as winter,
leaving life standing bare,
stealing what days remain.
Heard through worn carpet,
seen through frosted pane,
memories burnt for warmth,
leave in wisps of smoke.
Across the sky before dawn,
the waning crescent rises,
fades away to nothing,
then becomes new once more.
Wind Sings Through Trees
Wind sings through trees
swinging branches,
thunder rumbles,
in harmony.
Clouds swirl above
turning inky grey,
temperature drops,
as sky ignites.
Rain splashes down
soaking this poem,
washing the words,
clean off the page.
Wind sings on as
in the beginning,
words become flesh,
living with us.
Crying our tears,
singing our songs,
dancing with us,
out in the rain.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:15.789622
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-1
|
4 Captivated, I Listen
Constance Hodder
Sheltered Beneath the Pines
Sheltered beneath the pines,
I hear a voice calling.
First the sound of breath,
becoming a moan,
to a cry,
to a sigh,
to silence.
Captivated, I listen
again to the breath,
the moan,
the cry,
the sigh,
silence.
Is that the wind I hear
or the song of the trees?
A song of sorrow or joy,
of loss or ecstasy,
wind stroking branches
carrying seed aloft.
I am answered with silence,
my body embraced by wind.
One exists only
in the arms of the other
like wind in tree’s song.
Stepping Outside
Stepping outside, escaping
the chaos of day,
I cross into the dark
sanctum of the night.
Enclosed within its black veil
the whirlwind stills,
agitation falls away
leaving only peace.
Certainly not quiet,
in the flashlight beam bugs dance
to the love song of the toads
trilling and croaking.
A bear lumbers through the brush,
coyotes howl in the distance,
this is their territory,
we are but interlopers.
An oak branch bumps my head,
I trip over its root,
a June bug collides with me
crossing its path.
Oh, to be one with the night,
at home within this realm,
instead of a trespasser
in my own domain.
We are but visitors
of darkness as with the light,
our footprints left behind,
wash away with rain.
One day we will be welcomed
into darkness, at home
growing roots with the oak,
flying with the June bugs.
After a Storm
After a storm, air swims of worms
struggling from wet earth to breathe.
Amphibious fragrance fills ones
nostrils raised like a dog catching
a whiff of what passed before.
Awakening connections
to the primitive soul that danced
in the rain with head raised high
catching drops on a parched tongue,
tasting life’s sweet nectar.
Heeding the siren’s call to
return to the sea to swim amidst
creatures who shy from the stranger
that raises its head from the surf
to breathe the scent of moist earth.
Scraps of Paper
Scraps of paper
blown on the wind,
land to drift on
the glassy pond.
They are rescued
from the water
like sacred scrolls
treasure maps.
Birch bark layers
curl in my hands,
white to tan skins
vented to breathe.
Without words,
secret messages,
or directions,
they tell a tale.
Of a canoe,
skimming across
a glassy pond to
the pull of paddles.
A living poem,
breathing through bark,
a Paper Birch’s
legacy.
Mothers Rise at Night
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
listening for their with a gleam of light
children’s calls. on the dark horizon.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
hearing the cries painting the land
of the hungry. with a lambent glow.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
to hold their hungry in dazzling brilliance
ones to their breast. setting the sky ablaze.
Mothers rise at night
to the moon’s call
cradling their babies.
Mothers rise at night
to bathe their souls in
the moon’s radiance.
Mothers rest their babies The moon rests at dawn
back down as they rise in the glow of the rising
in the morning light. sun on the horizon.
Two Trees
Two trees stand afield as fog
on a golden wave rolls in.
Twilight enlivens the glow
until darkness fades to grey.
When did the hummingbirds leave?
Summer gives way to winter.
Days grow short. The light dims
swallowed by eternal nights.
I so hunger for color.
Will the hummingbirds return?
Oh, to be a whirling maple
casting crimson leaves to the
wind, releasing my spirit
from its earthly restraints.
Walking Toward Home
Walking toward home at sunset
I pass beneath a birch
on a brilliant carpet
of amber leaves who
once danced with the wind.
Now lay spent where time
once was and is no more.
A place apart where
flesh and blood fall away,
breath becomes spirit.
Enveloped in a golden glow
I awaken within
a sacred realm of light
filled with joy beyond
my understanding.
Surrounded with peace,
I wait in awed silence
as night closes the veil.
I walk home in darkness,
light still within me.
Enraptured
Enraptured
wooded paths entry
to worlds set apart
revealing secret
inner wonders.
Enveloped
evergreens enshrine
cavern carpeted
with amber needled
radiance.
Encased
milkweed pods enclose
silken parachuted
seeds awaiting flight
on the wind.
Enchanted
mushrooms encircle
fairy ring of lore.
Stumble inside to
dance with elves.
Entangled
grass thimble en-laced
nest of hummingbird
skillfully woven
to vanish.
Enlightened
quest to encounter
divine mysteries
simply revealed on
nature’s path.
Three Olive Finches
On a grey December dawn
three olive finches sit frozen
on the feeder facing east
in solemn silence.
Watching out the window
I too am caught under the spell
of a quiet moment of
prayer without words.
The crisp morning softens as
first rays of sunlight reach over
the horizon caressing
the frigid birds.
They turn now in unison
to feast together on seed
having witnessed the divine
in warmth and light.
Wind Buffets the Trees
Wind buffets the trees,
tossing branches wildly,
flailing leaves strain their
slender connections.
I’m blinded by its force,
tangled hair whips my face,
upset by an argument,
unable to move ahead.
Dry yellow leaves fly out,
expelled amid hardy ones.
Fall’s long shadow cast over,
what remains of summer.
Solstice has passed, days grow short,
darkness lengthens into night.
Consequence of a long life,
is knowing what comes next.
I steady myself against
a swaying tree, praying
it has been made stronger,
by wind that buffets it.
Tiny Nuthatch
Tiny nuthatch picks a seed,
flies to the power pole,
perching upside down
places it in a hole.
It’s acrobatic skills
captivate this watcher.
His instinctual need
to prepare for winter.
Nearby is a downy
who sees the cache
flies to the power pole
boldly plucks out the seed.
Every season has its time
to reap, to feast, to starve.
Survival for those who
look ahead and those who watch.
As Night Falls
As night falls, darkness
moves in around me.
Standing alone, breath held,
listening……..waiting.
How does one explain
the presence of owls?
Flying on silent wings,
so quiet, they have
been mistaken for
spirits of the dead.
How does one explain
the presence of the dead?
Their voice as a dream,
a glimpse out of sight,
an improbable
answer to prayer.
How does one explain
the presence of prayer?
An owl calling out,
silhouetted in the
moonlight to his love,
stars circling above.
Tales in Snow
Trudging through snow
on a winter morning
recounts a story of those
who have gone before
leaving messages behind.
Squirrel tracks
pattern the frozen snow
like inverse braille
directing the mice below to
where feeder seeds lie.
Rabbit tracks
cluster under low branches
along with grouse and pheasant
paused in sheltered grottoes
to scan the horizon.
Deer hooves
make deep impressions
along with trailing foot
like exclamation marks
declaring caution.
Coyote prints
tracking their prey
thicken the plot
follow the narrative left
behind by the vulnerable.
Darkening clouds
promise fresh snow
starting a new chapter
of tales of those in print
who passed before.
A Curl of Brown Leaf
A curl of brown leaf
spins into the air,
released from its bond
by a gust of wind.
It twists and turns in
jubilant dance before
falling back down to
return to the soil.
No one notes its passage
except for dreamers,
who yearn to fly free
untethered from earth.
Soaring through clouds,
spun in a whirlwind,
letting go of matter,
sun, rain, and being.
Before tumbling back,
into arms of the wind,
set down to rest in
the field of leaves.
Unless the wind
desires once more,
to dance with leaves in
a swirl of ecstasy.
Diving Into the Lake
Diving into the lake
she emerges to float
weightlessly drifting
taking in the vast sky.
Within that blue expanse
an eagle circles high
flaps its wings then glides
on the air looking down.
Captured in that moment
a transcendence of self
gliding weightless along
the two become one.
Like the water and sky
they share the horizon,
communion of spirits
together soaring free.
Dark Comes Early
Dark comes early
Snow coats land
Trees stand stark
Trunks hold up
Starry sky.
Sharp cold air
Breath forms clouds
Wading through
Deep snow drifts
Steps muffled.
Moonlit field
Stag stands still
Watching me
Watching him
Sees beyond.
Looking Into the Darkness
Looking into the darkness,
she lifts her head, ears erect,
listening to sounds that
arouse her primal instincts.
Catching a scent in the air,
her nose drops to the ground,
follows it through the brush,
snaking through the tall grass.
Suddenly, she drops and rolls,
twisting back and forth,
disguising her odor with
a wild animal essence.
Leaping to her feet, the wolf
emerges from noble ancestry,
who stalked its prey, killed,
and howled with the pack.
Gazing up, the predator
sees in me the first woman,
who threw meat scraps to the pack,
from the fire, as they drew near.
Wagging her tail, she turns,
remembers the way home,
her bowl of kibble, soft bed,
and fireplace to dream beside.
In the Dead of Winter
In the dead of winter,
sun recedes behind bare trees,
temperatures plummet. Bundled,
Tara and I head out.
Thick snow blankets the brush.
Shelter for field mice,
Hide and Seek for Tara,
whose nose probes the mounds.
Leaping off the suet,
a fat squirrel escapes
in a powdery spray.
Tara strains at her leash.
In the grey dying light,
darkness replaces beauty,
stealing my attention,
invading my thoughts.
Last night, unable to sleep,
I slipped into your room,
laid my hand on your cheek,
listened to your breath.
I looked into the abyss,
felt its icy slope.
While you slept soundly,
my world started to slide.
In the dead of winter,
field mice lay hidden,
squirrels watch from afar.
Tara and I turn back.
Bitter Winter
Bitter winter.
Below zero
engine stalls.
Emotions
hibernate.
Cold takes hostage.
Tightly
bound by
parka, and wrapped scarf
mummified.
Perspective narrows,
senses
grow numb.
Deaf, blind, and mute,
darkness descends.
Deeply cocooned.
Sunlight
slips in,
melting despair,
awakening hope.
It’s All Was Talked About
It’s all was talked about,
how winter stole spring away,
those April showers bringing
only snow and dashed hopes.
Not a pretty subject for poems,
the long cold winter of
desolation and despair,
so bleak, it hurt to live.
To cope, emotions were
secreted in dark dens
like black bears deep in sleep,
their hearts barely beating.
Each day had to be faced
with grim resolution,
even the day spring came
my parka worn like a shroud.
Sun filtered through bare trees
drawing me like a moth to flame.
Turning toward the warmth with
eyes closed, red light streamed in.
Ice melted from my heart,
my frozen spirit thawed,
feelings stumbled out
of their gloomy cave.
May showers brought new growth,
hummingbirds returned along
with enough hope to store
until life’s next winter.
Drawn into the Forest
Drawn into the forest,
troubled with loss and grief,
drought, disease, destruction.
Trees respond, ‘Our roots run deep’.
Swept high into branches,
a shared communion of
breath and expiration,
life’s fragility.
When the soul departs from flesh
will it be lost in a void,
falling into an abyss
of nothingness nowhere?
‘Death brings transformation.
Our ashes sift deep in soil
to be fed by sweet rain,
nurtured by warm sunshine’.
‘We are seedlings of spirit
resurrected, reaching
to the light on new limbs
raised in praise toward heaven’.
At sunrise, feel the warmth.
As rain falls, taste its sweetness.
Reach out toward heaven,
pray roots run deep.
Quietly the Snow Falls
Quietly the snow falls.
Its feathery flight hushed
as it blankets the ground.
I stop and listen to
the music of silence.
With eyes closed, I raise my
face to the sky. Flakes coat
my cheeks, my nose, my lashes,
melt down my neck in a
frozen baptism.
I am aware of my
heart beating in my ears,
my breathing in and out,
my smallness within this
greatness, apart and a part.
Paradise may be far off, but
there is peace in this place
where distance disappears
as snow fills the silence
between heaven and earth.
Sandhill Cranes Returned
Sandhill cranes returned.
Their haunting calls echo
through the still bare trees
and frozen swamp of time.
We shout, “Welcome back,”
as spring breaks winter’s
strangle hold on us,
our bones begin to dance.
Grief no longer runs
like blood from my pen.
New birth and hope sprout
on the blank page.
The predator still lurks,
snow and cold remain
a certain threat but
death has loosed its grip.
Cranes fly above us,
giving their immortal cry
heard since time’s beginning,
“I am…I am…I am”.
Across the Linen Cloth
Across the linen cloth,
petals from the bouquet
lay scattered, red as blood,
dripping from wilted stems.
Snow continues to fall,
spring disguised as winter,
leaving life standing bare,
stealing what days remain.
Heard through worn carpet,
seen through frosted pane,
memories burnt for warmth,
leave in wisps of smoke.
Across the sky before dawn,
the waning crescent rises,
fades away to nothing,
then becomes new once more.
Wind Sings Through Trees
Wind sings through trees
swinging branches,
thunder rumbles,
in harmony.
Clouds swirl above
turning inky grey,
temperature drops,
as sky ignites.
Rain splashes down
soaking this poem,
washing the words,
clean off the page.
Wind sings on as
in the beginning,
words become flesh,
living with us.
Crying our tears,
singing our songs,
dancing with us,
out in the rain.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:15.867548
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-1",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-2
|
4 Captivated, I Listen
Constance Hodder
Sheltered Beneath the Pines
Sheltered beneath the pines,
I hear a voice calling.
First the sound of breath,
becoming a moan,
to a cry,
to a sigh,
to silence.
Captivated, I listen
again to the breath,
the moan,
the cry,
the sigh,
silence.
Is that the wind I hear
or the song of the trees?
A song of sorrow or joy,
of loss or ecstasy,
wind stroking branches
carrying seed aloft.
I am answered with silence,
my body embraced by wind.
One exists only
in the arms of the other
like wind in tree’s song.
Stepping Outside
Stepping outside, escaping
the chaos of day,
I cross into the dark
sanctum of the night.
Enclosed within its black veil
the whirlwind stills,
agitation falls away
leaving only peace.
Certainly not quiet,
in the flashlight beam bugs dance
to the love song of the toads
trilling and croaking.
A bear lumbers through the brush,
coyotes howl in the distance,
this is their territory,
we are but interlopers.
An oak branch bumps my head,
I trip over its root,
a June bug collides with me
crossing its path.
Oh, to be one with the night,
at home within this realm,
instead of a trespasser
in my own domain.
We are but visitors
of darkness as with the light,
our footprints left behind,
wash away with rain.
One day we will be welcomed
into darkness, at home
growing roots with the oak,
flying with the June bugs.
After a Storm
After a storm, air swims of worms
struggling from wet earth to breathe.
Amphibious fragrance fills ones
nostrils raised like a dog catching
a whiff of what passed before.
Awakening connections
to the primitive soul that danced
in the rain with head raised high
catching drops on a parched tongue,
tasting life’s sweet nectar.
Heeding the siren’s call to
return to the sea to swim amidst
creatures who shy from the stranger
that raises its head from the surf
to breathe the scent of moist earth.
Scraps of Paper
Scraps of paper
blown on the wind,
land to drift on
the glassy pond.
They are rescued
from the water
like sacred scrolls
treasure maps.
Birch bark layers
curl in my hands,
white to tan skins
vented to breathe.
Without words,
secret messages,
or directions,
they tell a tale.
Of a canoe,
skimming across
a glassy pond to
the pull of paddles.
A living poem,
breathing through bark,
a Paper Birch’s
legacy.
Mothers Rise at Night
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
listening for their with a gleam of light
children’s calls. on the dark horizon.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
hearing the cries painting the land
of the hungry. with a lambent glow.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
to hold their hungry in dazzling brilliance
ones to their breast. setting the sky ablaze.
Mothers rise at night
to the moon’s call
cradling their babies.
Mothers rise at night
to bathe their souls in
the moon’s radiance.
Mothers rest their babies The moon rests at dawn
back down as they rise in the glow of the rising
in the morning light. sun on the horizon.
Two Trees
Two trees stand afield as fog
on a golden wave rolls in.
Twilight enlivens the glow
until darkness fades to grey.
When did the hummingbirds leave?
Summer gives way to winter.
Days grow short. The light dims
swallowed by eternal nights.
I so hunger for color.
Will the hummingbirds return?
Oh, to be a whirling maple
casting crimson leaves to the
wind, releasing my spirit
from its earthly restraints.
Walking Toward Home
Walking toward home at sunset
I pass beneath a birch
on a brilliant carpet
of amber leaves who
once danced with the wind.
Now lay spent where time
once was and is no more.
A place apart where
flesh and blood fall away,
breath becomes spirit.
Enveloped in a golden glow
I awaken within
a sacred realm of light
filled with joy beyond
my understanding.
Surrounded with peace,
I wait in awed silence
as night closes the veil.
I walk home in darkness,
light still within me.
Enraptured
Enraptured
wooded paths entry
to worlds set apart
revealing secret
inner wonders.
Enveloped
evergreens enshrine
cavern carpeted
with amber needled
radiance.
Encased
milkweed pods enclose
silken parachuted
seeds awaiting flight
on the wind.
Enchanted
mushrooms encircle
fairy ring of lore.
Stumble inside to
dance with elves.
Entangled
grass thimble en-laced
nest of hummingbird
skillfully woven
to vanish.
Enlightened
quest to encounter
divine mysteries
simply revealed on
nature’s path.
Three Olive Finches
On a grey December dawn
three olive finches sit frozen
on the feeder facing east
in solemn silence.
Watching out the window
I too am caught under the spell
of a quiet moment of
prayer without words.
The crisp morning softens as
first rays of sunlight reach over
the horizon caressing
the frigid birds.
They turn now in unison
to feast together on seed
having witnessed the divine
in warmth and light.
Wind Buffets the Trees
Wind buffets the trees,
tossing branches wildly,
flailing leaves strain their
slender connections.
I’m blinded by its force,
tangled hair whips my face,
upset by an argument,
unable to move ahead.
Dry yellow leaves fly out,
expelled amid hardy ones.
Fall’s long shadow cast over,
what remains of summer.
Solstice has passed, days grow short,
darkness lengthens into night.
Consequence of a long life,
is knowing what comes next.
I steady myself against
a swaying tree, praying
it has been made stronger,
by wind that buffets it.
Tiny Nuthatch
Tiny nuthatch picks a seed,
flies to the power pole,
perching upside down
places it in a hole.
It’s acrobatic skills
captivate this watcher.
His instinctual need
to prepare for winter.
Nearby is a downy
who sees the cache
flies to the power pole
boldly plucks out the seed.
Every season has its time
to reap, to feast, to starve.
Survival for those who
look ahead and those who watch.
As Night Falls
As night falls, darkness
moves in around me.
Standing alone, breath held,
listening……..waiting.
How does one explain
the presence of owls?
Flying on silent wings,
so quiet, they have
been mistaken for
spirits of the dead.
How does one explain
the presence of the dead?
Their voice as a dream,
a glimpse out of sight,
an improbable
answer to prayer.
How does one explain
the presence of prayer?
An owl calling out,
silhouetted in the
moonlight to his love,
stars circling above.
Tales in Snow
Trudging through snow
on a winter morning
recounts a story of those
who have gone before
leaving messages behind.
Squirrel tracks
pattern the frozen snow
like inverse braille
directing the mice below to
where feeder seeds lie.
Rabbit tracks
cluster under low branches
along with grouse and pheasant
paused in sheltered grottoes
to scan the horizon.
Deer hooves
make deep impressions
along with trailing foot
like exclamation marks
declaring caution.
Coyote prints
tracking their prey
thicken the plot
follow the narrative left
behind by the vulnerable.
Darkening clouds
promise fresh snow
starting a new chapter
of tales of those in print
who passed before.
A Curl of Brown Leaf
A curl of brown leaf
spins into the air,
released from its bond
by a gust of wind.
It twists and turns in
jubilant dance before
falling back down to
return to the soil.
No one notes its passage
except for dreamers,
who yearn to fly free
untethered from earth.
Soaring through clouds,
spun in a whirlwind,
letting go of matter,
sun, rain, and being.
Before tumbling back,
into arms of the wind,
set down to rest in
the field of leaves.
Unless the wind
desires once more,
to dance with leaves in
a swirl of ecstasy.
Diving Into the Lake
Diving into the lake
she emerges to float
weightlessly drifting
taking in the vast sky.
Within that blue expanse
an eagle circles high
flaps its wings then glides
on the air looking down.
Captured in that moment
a transcendence of self
gliding weightless along
the two become one.
Like the water and sky
they share the horizon,
communion of spirits
together soaring free.
Dark Comes Early
Dark comes early
Snow coats land
Trees stand stark
Trunks hold up
Starry sky.
Sharp cold air
Breath forms clouds
Wading through
Deep snow drifts
Steps muffled.
Moonlit field
Stag stands still
Watching me
Watching him
Sees beyond.
Looking Into the Darkness
Looking into the darkness,
she lifts her head, ears erect,
listening to sounds that
arouse her primal instincts.
Catching a scent in the air,
her nose drops to the ground,
follows it through the brush,
snaking through the tall grass.
Suddenly, she drops and rolls,
twisting back and forth,
disguising her odor with
a wild animal essence.
Leaping to her feet, the wolf
emerges from noble ancestry,
who stalked its prey, killed,
and howled with the pack.
Gazing up, the predator
sees in me the first woman,
who threw meat scraps to the pack,
from the fire, as they drew near.
Wagging her tail, she turns,
remembers the way home,
her bowl of kibble, soft bed,
and fireplace to dream beside.
In the Dead of Winter
In the dead of winter,
sun recedes behind bare trees,
temperatures plummet. Bundled,
Tara and I head out.
Thick snow blankets the brush.
Shelter for field mice,
Hide and Seek for Tara,
whose nose probes the mounds.
Leaping off the suet,
a fat squirrel escapes
in a powdery spray.
Tara strains at her leash.
In the grey dying light,
darkness replaces beauty,
stealing my attention,
invading my thoughts.
Last night, unable to sleep,
I slipped into your room,
laid my hand on your cheek,
listened to your breath.
I looked into the abyss,
felt its icy slope.
While you slept soundly,
my world started to slide.
In the dead of winter,
field mice lay hidden,
squirrels watch from afar.
Tara and I turn back.
Bitter Winter
Bitter winter.
Below zero
engine stalls.
Emotions
hibernate.
Cold takes hostage.
Tightly
bound by
parka, and wrapped scarf
mummified.
Perspective narrows,
senses
grow numb.
Deaf, blind, and mute,
darkness descends.
Deeply cocooned.
Sunlight
slips in,
melting despair,
awakening hope.
It’s All Was Talked About
It’s all was talked about,
how winter stole spring away,
those April showers bringing
only snow and dashed hopes.
Not a pretty subject for poems,
the long cold winter of
desolation and despair,
so bleak, it hurt to live.
To cope, emotions were
secreted in dark dens
like black bears deep in sleep,
their hearts barely beating.
Each day had to be faced
with grim resolution,
even the day spring came
my parka worn like a shroud.
Sun filtered through bare trees
drawing me like a moth to flame.
Turning toward the warmth with
eyes closed, red light streamed in.
Ice melted from my heart,
my frozen spirit thawed,
feelings stumbled out
of their gloomy cave.
May showers brought new growth,
hummingbirds returned along
with enough hope to store
until life’s next winter.
Drawn into the Forest
Drawn into the forest,
troubled with loss and grief,
drought, disease, destruction.
Trees respond, ‘Our roots run deep’.
Swept high into branches,
a shared communion of
breath and expiration,
life’s fragility.
When the soul departs from flesh
will it be lost in a void,
falling into an abyss
of nothingness nowhere?
‘Death brings transformation.
Our ashes sift deep in soil
to be fed by sweet rain,
nurtured by warm sunshine’.
‘We are seedlings of spirit
resurrected, reaching
to the light on new limbs
raised in praise toward heaven’.
At sunrise, feel the warmth.
As rain falls, taste its sweetness.
Reach out toward heaven,
pray roots run deep.
Quietly the Snow Falls
Quietly the snow falls.
Its feathery flight hushed
as it blankets the ground.
I stop and listen to
the music of silence.
With eyes closed, I raise my
face to the sky. Flakes coat
my cheeks, my nose, my lashes,
melt down my neck in a
frozen baptism.
I am aware of my
heart beating in my ears,
my breathing in and out,
my smallness within this
greatness, apart and a part.
Paradise may be far off, but
there is peace in this place
where distance disappears
as snow fills the silence
between heaven and earth.
Sandhill Cranes Returned
Sandhill cranes returned.
Their haunting calls echo
through the still bare trees
and frozen swamp of time.
We shout, “Welcome back,”
as spring breaks winter’s
strangle hold on us,
our bones begin to dance.
Grief no longer runs
like blood from my pen.
New birth and hope sprout
on the blank page.
The predator still lurks,
snow and cold remain
a certain threat but
death has loosed its grip.
Cranes fly above us,
giving their immortal cry
heard since time’s beginning,
“I am…I am…I am”.
Across the Linen Cloth
Across the linen cloth,
petals from the bouquet
lay scattered, red as blood,
dripping from wilted stems.
Snow continues to fall,
spring disguised as winter,
leaving life standing bare,
stealing what days remain.
Heard through worn carpet,
seen through frosted pane,
memories burnt for warmth,
leave in wisps of smoke.
Across the sky before dawn,
the waning crescent rises,
fades away to nothing,
then becomes new once more.
Wind Sings Through Trees
Wind sings through trees
swinging branches,
thunder rumbles,
in harmony.
Clouds swirl above
turning inky grey,
temperature drops,
as sky ignites.
Rain splashes down
soaking this poem,
washing the words,
clean off the page.
Wind sings on as
in the beginning,
words become flesh,
living with us.
Crying our tears,
singing our songs,
dancing with us,
out in the rain.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:15.953476
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-2",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-3
|
4 Captivated, I Listen
Constance Hodder
Sheltered Beneath the Pines
Sheltered beneath the pines,
I hear a voice calling.
First the sound of breath,
becoming a moan,
to a cry,
to a sigh,
to silence.
Captivated, I listen
again to the breath,
the moan,
the cry,
the sigh,
silence.
Is that the wind I hear
or the song of the trees?
A song of sorrow or joy,
of loss or ecstasy,
wind stroking branches
carrying seed aloft.
I am answered with silence,
my body embraced by wind.
One exists only
in the arms of the other
like wind in tree’s song.
Stepping Outside
Stepping outside, escaping
the chaos of day,
I cross into the dark
sanctum of the night.
Enclosed within its black veil
the whirlwind stills,
agitation falls away
leaving only peace.
Certainly not quiet,
in the flashlight beam bugs dance
to the love song of the toads
trilling and croaking.
A bear lumbers through the brush,
coyotes howl in the distance,
this is their territory,
we are but interlopers.
An oak branch bumps my head,
I trip over its root,
a June bug collides with me
crossing its path.
Oh, to be one with the night,
at home within this realm,
instead of a trespasser
in my own domain.
We are but visitors
of darkness as with the light,
our footprints left behind,
wash away with rain.
One day we will be welcomed
into darkness, at home
growing roots with the oak,
flying with the June bugs.
After a Storm
After a storm, air swims of worms
struggling from wet earth to breathe.
Amphibious fragrance fills ones
nostrils raised like a dog catching
a whiff of what passed before.
Awakening connections
to the primitive soul that danced
in the rain with head raised high
catching drops on a parched tongue,
tasting life’s sweet nectar.
Heeding the siren’s call to
return to the sea to swim amidst
creatures who shy from the stranger
that raises its head from the surf
to breathe the scent of moist earth.
Scraps of Paper
Scraps of paper
blown on the wind,
land to drift on
the glassy pond.
They are rescued
from the water
like sacred scrolls
treasure maps.
Birch bark layers
curl in my hands,
white to tan skins
vented to breathe.
Without words,
secret messages,
or directions,
they tell a tale.
Of a canoe,
skimming across
a glassy pond to
the pull of paddles.
A living poem,
breathing through bark,
a Paper Birch’s
legacy.
Mothers Rise at Night
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
listening for their with a gleam of light
children’s calls. on the dark horizon.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
hearing the cries painting the land
of the hungry. with a lambent glow.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
to hold their hungry in dazzling brilliance
ones to their breast. setting the sky ablaze.
Mothers rise at night
to the moon’s call
cradling their babies.
Mothers rise at night
to bathe their souls in
the moon’s radiance.
Mothers rest their babies The moon rests at dawn
back down as they rise in the glow of the rising
in the morning light. sun on the horizon.
Two Trees
Two trees stand afield as fog
on a golden wave rolls in.
Twilight enlivens the glow
until darkness fades to grey.
When did the hummingbirds leave?
Summer gives way to winter.
Days grow short. The light dims
swallowed by eternal nights.
I so hunger for color.
Will the hummingbirds return?
Oh, to be a whirling maple
casting crimson leaves to the
wind, releasing my spirit
from its earthly restraints.
Walking Toward Home
Walking toward home at sunset
I pass beneath a birch
on a brilliant carpet
of amber leaves who
once danced with the wind.
Now lay spent where time
once was and is no more.
A place apart where
flesh and blood fall away,
breath becomes spirit.
Enveloped in a golden glow
I awaken within
a sacred realm of light
filled with joy beyond
my understanding.
Surrounded with peace,
I wait in awed silence
as night closes the veil.
I walk home in darkness,
light still within me.
Enraptured
Enraptured
wooded paths entry
to worlds set apart
revealing secret
inner wonders.
Enveloped
evergreens enshrine
cavern carpeted
with amber needled
radiance.
Encased
milkweed pods enclose
silken parachuted
seeds awaiting flight
on the wind.
Enchanted
mushrooms encircle
fairy ring of lore.
Stumble inside to
dance with elves.
Entangled
grass thimble en-laced
nest of hummingbird
skillfully woven
to vanish.
Enlightened
quest to encounter
divine mysteries
simply revealed on
nature’s path.
Three Olive Finches
On a grey December dawn
three olive finches sit frozen
on the feeder facing east
in solemn silence.
Watching out the window
I too am caught under the spell
of a quiet moment of
prayer without words.
The crisp morning softens as
first rays of sunlight reach over
the horizon caressing
the frigid birds.
They turn now in unison
to feast together on seed
having witnessed the divine
in warmth and light.
Wind Buffets the Trees
Wind buffets the trees,
tossing branches wildly,
flailing leaves strain their
slender connections.
I’m blinded by its force,
tangled hair whips my face,
upset by an argument,
unable to move ahead.
Dry yellow leaves fly out,
expelled amid hardy ones.
Fall’s long shadow cast over,
what remains of summer.
Solstice has passed, days grow short,
darkness lengthens into night.
Consequence of a long life,
is knowing what comes next.
I steady myself against
a swaying tree, praying
it has been made stronger,
by wind that buffets it.
Tiny Nuthatch
Tiny nuthatch picks a seed,
flies to the power pole,
perching upside down
places it in a hole.
It’s acrobatic skills
captivate this watcher.
His instinctual need
to prepare for winter.
Nearby is a downy
who sees the cache
flies to the power pole
boldly plucks out the seed.
Every season has its time
to reap, to feast, to starve.
Survival for those who
look ahead and those who watch.
As Night Falls
As night falls, darkness
moves in around me.
Standing alone, breath held,
listening……..waiting.
How does one explain
the presence of owls?
Flying on silent wings,
so quiet, they have
been mistaken for
spirits of the dead.
How does one explain
the presence of the dead?
Their voice as a dream,
a glimpse out of sight,
an improbable
answer to prayer.
How does one explain
the presence of prayer?
An owl calling out,
silhouetted in the
moonlight to his love,
stars circling above.
Tales in Snow
Trudging through snow
on a winter morning
recounts a story of those
who have gone before
leaving messages behind.
Squirrel tracks
pattern the frozen snow
like inverse braille
directing the mice below to
where feeder seeds lie.
Rabbit tracks
cluster under low branches
along with grouse and pheasant
paused in sheltered grottoes
to scan the horizon.
Deer hooves
make deep impressions
along with trailing foot
like exclamation marks
declaring caution.
Coyote prints
tracking their prey
thicken the plot
follow the narrative left
behind by the vulnerable.
Darkening clouds
promise fresh snow
starting a new chapter
of tales of those in print
who passed before.
A Curl of Brown Leaf
A curl of brown leaf
spins into the air,
released from its bond
by a gust of wind.
It twists and turns in
jubilant dance before
falling back down to
return to the soil.
No one notes its passage
except for dreamers,
who yearn to fly free
untethered from earth.
Soaring through clouds,
spun in a whirlwind,
letting go of matter,
sun, rain, and being.
Before tumbling back,
into arms of the wind,
set down to rest in
the field of leaves.
Unless the wind
desires once more,
to dance with leaves in
a swirl of ecstasy.
Diving Into the Lake
Diving into the lake
she emerges to float
weightlessly drifting
taking in the vast sky.
Within that blue expanse
an eagle circles high
flaps its wings then glides
on the air looking down.
Captured in that moment
a transcendence of self
gliding weightless along
the two become one.
Like the water and sky
they share the horizon,
communion of spirits
together soaring free.
Dark Comes Early
Dark comes early
Snow coats land
Trees stand stark
Trunks hold up
Starry sky.
Sharp cold air
Breath forms clouds
Wading through
Deep snow drifts
Steps muffled.
Moonlit field
Stag stands still
Watching me
Watching him
Sees beyond.
Looking Into the Darkness
Looking into the darkness,
she lifts her head, ears erect,
listening to sounds that
arouse her primal instincts.
Catching a scent in the air,
her nose drops to the ground,
follows it through the brush,
snaking through the tall grass.
Suddenly, she drops and rolls,
twisting back and forth,
disguising her odor with
a wild animal essence.
Leaping to her feet, the wolf
emerges from noble ancestry,
who stalked its prey, killed,
and howled with the pack.
Gazing up, the predator
sees in me the first woman,
who threw meat scraps to the pack,
from the fire, as they drew near.
Wagging her tail, she turns,
remembers the way home,
her bowl of kibble, soft bed,
and fireplace to dream beside.
In the Dead of Winter
In the dead of winter,
sun recedes behind bare trees,
temperatures plummet. Bundled,
Tara and I head out.
Thick snow blankets the brush.
Shelter for field mice,
Hide and Seek for Tara,
whose nose probes the mounds.
Leaping off the suet,
a fat squirrel escapes
in a powdery spray.
Tara strains at her leash.
In the grey dying light,
darkness replaces beauty,
stealing my attention,
invading my thoughts.
Last night, unable to sleep,
I slipped into your room,
laid my hand on your cheek,
listened to your breath.
I looked into the abyss,
felt its icy slope.
While you slept soundly,
my world started to slide.
In the dead of winter,
field mice lay hidden,
squirrels watch from afar.
Tara and I turn back.
Bitter Winter
Bitter winter.
Below zero
engine stalls.
Emotions
hibernate.
Cold takes hostage.
Tightly
bound by
parka, and wrapped scarf
mummified.
Perspective narrows,
senses
grow numb.
Deaf, blind, and mute,
darkness descends.
Deeply cocooned.
Sunlight
slips in,
melting despair,
awakening hope.
It’s All Was Talked About
It’s all was talked about,
how winter stole spring away,
those April showers bringing
only snow and dashed hopes.
Not a pretty subject for poems,
the long cold winter of
desolation and despair,
so bleak, it hurt to live.
To cope, emotions were
secreted in dark dens
like black bears deep in sleep,
their hearts barely beating.
Each day had to be faced
with grim resolution,
even the day spring came
my parka worn like a shroud.
Sun filtered through bare trees
drawing me like a moth to flame.
Turning toward the warmth with
eyes closed, red light streamed in.
Ice melted from my heart,
my frozen spirit thawed,
feelings stumbled out
of their gloomy cave.
May showers brought new growth,
hummingbirds returned along
with enough hope to store
until life’s next winter.
Drawn into the Forest
Drawn into the forest,
troubled with loss and grief,
drought, disease, destruction.
Trees respond, ‘Our roots run deep’.
Swept high into branches,
a shared communion of
breath and expiration,
life’s fragility.
When the soul departs from flesh
will it be lost in a void,
falling into an abyss
of nothingness nowhere?
‘Death brings transformation.
Our ashes sift deep in soil
to be fed by sweet rain,
nurtured by warm sunshine’.
‘We are seedlings of spirit
resurrected, reaching
to the light on new limbs
raised in praise toward heaven’.
At sunrise, feel the warmth.
As rain falls, taste its sweetness.
Reach out toward heaven,
pray roots run deep.
Quietly the Snow Falls
Quietly the snow falls.
Its feathery flight hushed
as it blankets the ground.
I stop and listen to
the music of silence.
With eyes closed, I raise my
face to the sky. Flakes coat
my cheeks, my nose, my lashes,
melt down my neck in a
frozen baptism.
I am aware of my
heart beating in my ears,
my breathing in and out,
my smallness within this
greatness, apart and a part.
Paradise may be far off, but
there is peace in this place
where distance disappears
as snow fills the silence
between heaven and earth.
Sandhill Cranes Returned
Sandhill cranes returned.
Their haunting calls echo
through the still bare trees
and frozen swamp of time.
We shout, “Welcome back,”
as spring breaks winter’s
strangle hold on us,
our bones begin to dance.
Grief no longer runs
like blood from my pen.
New birth and hope sprout
on the blank page.
The predator still lurks,
snow and cold remain
a certain threat but
death has loosed its grip.
Cranes fly above us,
giving their immortal cry
heard since time’s beginning,
“I am…I am…I am”.
Across the Linen Cloth
Across the linen cloth,
petals from the bouquet
lay scattered, red as blood,
dripping from wilted stems.
Snow continues to fall,
spring disguised as winter,
leaving life standing bare,
stealing what days remain.
Heard through worn carpet,
seen through frosted pane,
memories burnt for warmth,
leave in wisps of smoke.
Across the sky before dawn,
the waning crescent rises,
fades away to nothing,
then becomes new once more.
Wind Sings Through Trees
Wind sings through trees
swinging branches,
thunder rumbles,
in harmony.
Clouds swirl above
turning inky grey,
temperature drops,
as sky ignites.
Rain splashes down
soaking this poem,
washing the words,
clean off the page.
Wind sings on as
in the beginning,
words become flesh,
living with us.
Crying our tears,
singing our songs,
dancing with us,
out in the rain.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:16.026921
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-3",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-4
|
4 Captivated, I Listen
Constance Hodder
Sheltered Beneath the Pines
Sheltered beneath the pines,
I hear a voice calling.
First the sound of breath,
becoming a moan,
to a cry,
to a sigh,
to silence.
Captivated, I listen
again to the breath,
the moan,
the cry,
the sigh,
silence.
Is that the wind I hear
or the song of the trees?
A song of sorrow or joy,
of loss or ecstasy,
wind stroking branches
carrying seed aloft.
I am answered with silence,
my body embraced by wind.
One exists only
in the arms of the other
like wind in tree’s song.
Stepping Outside
Stepping outside, escaping
the chaos of day,
I cross into the dark
sanctum of the night.
Enclosed within its black veil
the whirlwind stills,
agitation falls away
leaving only peace.
Certainly not quiet,
in the flashlight beam bugs dance
to the love song of the toads
trilling and croaking.
A bear lumbers through the brush,
coyotes howl in the distance,
this is their territory,
we are but interlopers.
An oak branch bumps my head,
I trip over its root,
a June bug collides with me
crossing its path.
Oh, to be one with the night,
at home within this realm,
instead of a trespasser
in my own domain.
We are but visitors
of darkness as with the light,
our footprints left behind,
wash away with rain.
One day we will be welcomed
into darkness, at home
growing roots with the oak,
flying with the June bugs.
After a Storm
After a storm, air swims of worms
struggling from wet earth to breathe.
Amphibious fragrance fills ones
nostrils raised like a dog catching
a whiff of what passed before.
Awakening connections
to the primitive soul that danced
in the rain with head raised high
catching drops on a parched tongue,
tasting life’s sweet nectar.
Heeding the siren’s call to
return to the sea to swim amidst
creatures who shy from the stranger
that raises its head from the surf
to breathe the scent of moist earth.
Scraps of Paper
Scraps of paper
blown on the wind,
land to drift on
the glassy pond.
They are rescued
from the water
like sacred scrolls
treasure maps.
Birch bark layers
curl in my hands,
white to tan skins
vented to breathe.
Without words,
secret messages,
or directions,
they tell a tale.
Of a canoe,
skimming across
a glassy pond to
the pull of paddles.
A living poem,
breathing through bark,
a Paper Birch’s
legacy.
Mothers Rise at Night
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
listening for their with a gleam of light
children’s calls. on the dark horizon.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
hearing the cries painting the land
of the hungry. with a lambent glow.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
to hold their hungry in dazzling brilliance
ones to their breast. setting the sky ablaze.
Mothers rise at night
to the moon’s call
cradling their babies.
Mothers rise at night
to bathe their souls in
the moon’s radiance.
Mothers rest their babies The moon rests at dawn
back down as they rise in the glow of the rising
in the morning light. sun on the horizon.
Two Trees
Two trees stand afield as fog
on a golden wave rolls in.
Twilight enlivens the glow
until darkness fades to grey.
When did the hummingbirds leave?
Summer gives way to winter.
Days grow short. The light dims
swallowed by eternal nights.
I so hunger for color.
Will the hummingbirds return?
Oh, to be a whirling maple
casting crimson leaves to the
wind, releasing my spirit
from its earthly restraints.
Walking Toward Home
Walking toward home at sunset
I pass beneath a birch
on a brilliant carpet
of amber leaves who
once danced with the wind.
Now lay spent where time
once was and is no more.
A place apart where
flesh and blood fall away,
breath becomes spirit.
Enveloped in a golden glow
I awaken within
a sacred realm of light
filled with joy beyond
my understanding.
Surrounded with peace,
I wait in awed silence
as night closes the veil.
I walk home in darkness,
light still within me.
Enraptured
Enraptured
wooded paths entry
to worlds set apart
revealing secret
inner wonders.
Enveloped
evergreens enshrine
cavern carpeted
with amber needled
radiance.
Encased
milkweed pods enclose
silken parachuted
seeds awaiting flight
on the wind.
Enchanted
mushrooms encircle
fairy ring of lore.
Stumble inside to
dance with elves.
Entangled
grass thimble en-laced
nest of hummingbird
skillfully woven
to vanish.
Enlightened
quest to encounter
divine mysteries
simply revealed on
nature’s path.
Three Olive Finches
On a grey December dawn
three olive finches sit frozen
on the feeder facing east
in solemn silence.
Watching out the window
I too am caught under the spell
of a quiet moment of
prayer without words.
The crisp morning softens as
first rays of sunlight reach over
the horizon caressing
the frigid birds.
They turn now in unison
to feast together on seed
having witnessed the divine
in warmth and light.
Wind Buffets the Trees
Wind buffets the trees,
tossing branches wildly,
flailing leaves strain their
slender connections.
I’m blinded by its force,
tangled hair whips my face,
upset by an argument,
unable to move ahead.
Dry yellow leaves fly out,
expelled amid hardy ones.
Fall’s long shadow cast over,
what remains of summer.
Solstice has passed, days grow short,
darkness lengthens into night.
Consequence of a long life,
is knowing what comes next.
I steady myself against
a swaying tree, praying
it has been made stronger,
by wind that buffets it.
Tiny Nuthatch
Tiny nuthatch picks a seed,
flies to the power pole,
perching upside down
places it in a hole.
It’s acrobatic skills
captivate this watcher.
His instinctual need
to prepare for winter.
Nearby is a downy
who sees the cache
flies to the power pole
boldly plucks out the seed.
Every season has its time
to reap, to feast, to starve.
Survival for those who
look ahead and those who watch.
As Night Falls
As night falls, darkness
moves in around me.
Standing alone, breath held,
listening……..waiting.
How does one explain
the presence of owls?
Flying on silent wings,
so quiet, they have
been mistaken for
spirits of the dead.
How does one explain
the presence of the dead?
Their voice as a dream,
a glimpse out of sight,
an improbable
answer to prayer.
How does one explain
the presence of prayer?
An owl calling out,
silhouetted in the
moonlight to his love,
stars circling above.
Tales in Snow
Trudging through snow
on a winter morning
recounts a story of those
who have gone before
leaving messages behind.
Squirrel tracks
pattern the frozen snow
like inverse braille
directing the mice below to
where feeder seeds lie.
Rabbit tracks
cluster under low branches
along with grouse and pheasant
paused in sheltered grottoes
to scan the horizon.
Deer hooves
make deep impressions
along with trailing foot
like exclamation marks
declaring caution.
Coyote prints
tracking their prey
thicken the plot
follow the narrative left
behind by the vulnerable.
Darkening clouds
promise fresh snow
starting a new chapter
of tales of those in print
who passed before.
A Curl of Brown Leaf
A curl of brown leaf
spins into the air,
released from its bond
by a gust of wind.
It twists and turns in
jubilant dance before
falling back down to
return to the soil.
No one notes its passage
except for dreamers,
who yearn to fly free
untethered from earth.
Soaring through clouds,
spun in a whirlwind,
letting go of matter,
sun, rain, and being.
Before tumbling back,
into arms of the wind,
set down to rest in
the field of leaves.
Unless the wind
desires once more,
to dance with leaves in
a swirl of ecstasy.
Diving Into the Lake
Diving into the lake
she emerges to float
weightlessly drifting
taking in the vast sky.
Within that blue expanse
an eagle circles high
flaps its wings then glides
on the air looking down.
Captured in that moment
a transcendence of self
gliding weightless along
the two become one.
Like the water and sky
they share the horizon,
communion of spirits
together soaring free.
Dark Comes Early
Dark comes early
Snow coats land
Trees stand stark
Trunks hold up
Starry sky.
Sharp cold air
Breath forms clouds
Wading through
Deep snow drifts
Steps muffled.
Moonlit field
Stag stands still
Watching me
Watching him
Sees beyond.
Looking Into the Darkness
Looking into the darkness,
she lifts her head, ears erect,
listening to sounds that
arouse her primal instincts.
Catching a scent in the air,
her nose drops to the ground,
follows it through the brush,
snaking through the tall grass.
Suddenly, she drops and rolls,
twisting back and forth,
disguising her odor with
a wild animal essence.
Leaping to her feet, the wolf
emerges from noble ancestry,
who stalked its prey, killed,
and howled with the pack.
Gazing up, the predator
sees in me the first woman,
who threw meat scraps to the pack,
from the fire, as they drew near.
Wagging her tail, she turns,
remembers the way home,
her bowl of kibble, soft bed,
and fireplace to dream beside.
In the Dead of Winter
In the dead of winter,
sun recedes behind bare trees,
temperatures plummet. Bundled,
Tara and I head out.
Thick snow blankets the brush.
Shelter for field mice,
Hide and Seek for Tara,
whose nose probes the mounds.
Leaping off the suet,
a fat squirrel escapes
in a powdery spray.
Tara strains at her leash.
In the grey dying light,
darkness replaces beauty,
stealing my attention,
invading my thoughts.
Last night, unable to sleep,
I slipped into your room,
laid my hand on your cheek,
listened to your breath.
I looked into the abyss,
felt its icy slope.
While you slept soundly,
my world started to slide.
In the dead of winter,
field mice lay hidden,
squirrels watch from afar.
Tara and I turn back.
Bitter Winter
Bitter winter.
Below zero
engine stalls.
Emotions
hibernate.
Cold takes hostage.
Tightly
bound by
parka, and wrapped scarf
mummified.
Perspective narrows,
senses
grow numb.
Deaf, blind, and mute,
darkness descends.
Deeply cocooned.
Sunlight
slips in,
melting despair,
awakening hope.
It’s All Was Talked About
It’s all was talked about,
how winter stole spring away,
those April showers bringing
only snow and dashed hopes.
Not a pretty subject for poems,
the long cold winter of
desolation and despair,
so bleak, it hurt to live.
To cope, emotions were
secreted in dark dens
like black bears deep in sleep,
their hearts barely beating.
Each day had to be faced
with grim resolution,
even the day spring came
my parka worn like a shroud.
Sun filtered through bare trees
drawing me like a moth to flame.
Turning toward the warmth with
eyes closed, red light streamed in.
Ice melted from my heart,
my frozen spirit thawed,
feelings stumbled out
of their gloomy cave.
May showers brought new growth,
hummingbirds returned along
with enough hope to store
until life’s next winter.
Drawn into the Forest
Drawn into the forest,
troubled with loss and grief,
drought, disease, destruction.
Trees respond, ‘Our roots run deep’.
Swept high into branches,
a shared communion of
breath and expiration,
life’s fragility.
When the soul departs from flesh
will it be lost in a void,
falling into an abyss
of nothingness nowhere?
‘Death brings transformation.
Our ashes sift deep in soil
to be fed by sweet rain,
nurtured by warm sunshine’.
‘We are seedlings of spirit
resurrected, reaching
to the light on new limbs
raised in praise toward heaven’.
At sunrise, feel the warmth.
As rain falls, taste its sweetness.
Reach out toward heaven,
pray roots run deep.
Quietly the Snow Falls
Quietly the snow falls.
Its feathery flight hushed
as it blankets the ground.
I stop and listen to
the music of silence.
With eyes closed, I raise my
face to the sky. Flakes coat
my cheeks, my nose, my lashes,
melt down my neck in a
frozen baptism.
I am aware of my
heart beating in my ears,
my breathing in and out,
my smallness within this
greatness, apart and a part.
Paradise may be far off, but
there is peace in this place
where distance disappears
as snow fills the silence
between heaven and earth.
Sandhill Cranes Returned
Sandhill cranes returned.
Their haunting calls echo
through the still bare trees
and frozen swamp of time.
We shout, “Welcome back,”
as spring breaks winter’s
strangle hold on us,
our bones begin to dance.
Grief no longer runs
like blood from my pen.
New birth and hope sprout
on the blank page.
The predator still lurks,
snow and cold remain
a certain threat but
death has loosed its grip.
Cranes fly above us,
giving their immortal cry
heard since time’s beginning,
“I am…I am…I am”.
Across the Linen Cloth
Across the linen cloth,
petals from the bouquet
lay scattered, red as blood,
dripping from wilted stems.
Snow continues to fall,
spring disguised as winter,
leaving life standing bare,
stealing what days remain.
Heard through worn carpet,
seen through frosted pane,
memories burnt for warmth,
leave in wisps of smoke.
Across the sky before dawn,
the waning crescent rises,
fades away to nothing,
then becomes new once more.
Wind Sings Through Trees
Wind sings through trees
swinging branches,
thunder rumbles,
in harmony.
Clouds swirl above
turning inky grey,
temperature drops,
as sky ignites.
Rain splashes down
soaking this poem,
washing the words,
clean off the page.
Wind sings on as
in the beginning,
words become flesh,
living with us.
Crying our tears,
singing our songs,
dancing with us,
out in the rain.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:16.162528
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-4",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-5
|
4 Captivated, I Listen
Constance Hodder
Sheltered Beneath the Pines
Sheltered beneath the pines,
I hear a voice calling.
First the sound of breath,
becoming a moan,
to a cry,
to a sigh,
to silence.
Captivated, I listen
again to the breath,
the moan,
the cry,
the sigh,
silence.
Is that the wind I hear
or the song of the trees?
A song of sorrow or joy,
of loss or ecstasy,
wind stroking branches
carrying seed aloft.
I am answered with silence,
my body embraced by wind.
One exists only
in the arms of the other
like wind in tree’s song.
Stepping Outside
Stepping outside, escaping
the chaos of day,
I cross into the dark
sanctum of the night.
Enclosed within its black veil
the whirlwind stills,
agitation falls away
leaving only peace.
Certainly not quiet,
in the flashlight beam bugs dance
to the love song of the toads
trilling and croaking.
A bear lumbers through the brush,
coyotes howl in the distance,
this is their territory,
we are but interlopers.
An oak branch bumps my head,
I trip over its root,
a June bug collides with me
crossing its path.
Oh, to be one with the night,
at home within this realm,
instead of a trespasser
in my own domain.
We are but visitors
of darkness as with the light,
our footprints left behind,
wash away with rain.
One day we will be welcomed
into darkness, at home
growing roots with the oak,
flying with the June bugs.
After a Storm
After a storm, air swims of worms
struggling from wet earth to breathe.
Amphibious fragrance fills ones
nostrils raised like a dog catching
a whiff of what passed before.
Awakening connections
to the primitive soul that danced
in the rain with head raised high
catching drops on a parched tongue,
tasting life’s sweet nectar.
Heeding the siren’s call to
return to the sea to swim amidst
creatures who shy from the stranger
that raises its head from the surf
to breathe the scent of moist earth.
Scraps of Paper
Scraps of paper
blown on the wind,
land to drift on
the glassy pond.
They are rescued
from the water
like sacred scrolls
treasure maps.
Birch bark layers
curl in my hands,
white to tan skins
vented to breathe.
Without words,
secret messages,
or directions,
they tell a tale.
Of a canoe,
skimming across
a glassy pond to
the pull of paddles.
A living poem,
breathing through bark,
a Paper Birch’s
legacy.
Mothers Rise at Night
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
listening for their with a gleam of light
children’s calls. on the dark horizon.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
hearing the cries painting the land
of the hungry. with a lambent glow.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
to hold their hungry in dazzling brilliance
ones to their breast. setting the sky ablaze.
Mothers rise at night
to the moon’s call
cradling their babies.
Mothers rise at night
to bathe their souls in
the moon’s radiance.
Mothers rest their babies The moon rests at dawn
back down as they rise in the glow of the rising
in the morning light. sun on the horizon.
Two Trees
Two trees stand afield as fog
on a golden wave rolls in.
Twilight enlivens the glow
until darkness fades to grey.
When did the hummingbirds leave?
Summer gives way to winter.
Days grow short. The light dims
swallowed by eternal nights.
I so hunger for color.
Will the hummingbirds return?
Oh, to be a whirling maple
casting crimson leaves to the
wind, releasing my spirit
from its earthly restraints.
Walking Toward Home
Walking toward home at sunset
I pass beneath a birch
on a brilliant carpet
of amber leaves who
once danced with the wind.
Now lay spent where time
once was and is no more.
A place apart where
flesh and blood fall away,
breath becomes spirit.
Enveloped in a golden glow
I awaken within
a sacred realm of light
filled with joy beyond
my understanding.
Surrounded with peace,
I wait in awed silence
as night closes the veil.
I walk home in darkness,
light still within me.
Enraptured
Enraptured
wooded paths entry
to worlds set apart
revealing secret
inner wonders.
Enveloped
evergreens enshrine
cavern carpeted
with amber needled
radiance.
Encased
milkweed pods enclose
silken parachuted
seeds awaiting flight
on the wind.
Enchanted
mushrooms encircle
fairy ring of lore.
Stumble inside to
dance with elves.
Entangled
grass thimble en-laced
nest of hummingbird
skillfully woven
to vanish.
Enlightened
quest to encounter
divine mysteries
simply revealed on
nature’s path.
Three Olive Finches
On a grey December dawn
three olive finches sit frozen
on the feeder facing east
in solemn silence.
Watching out the window
I too am caught under the spell
of a quiet moment of
prayer without words.
The crisp morning softens as
first rays of sunlight reach over
the horizon caressing
the frigid birds.
They turn now in unison
to feast together on seed
having witnessed the divine
in warmth and light.
Wind Buffets the Trees
Wind buffets the trees,
tossing branches wildly,
flailing leaves strain their
slender connections.
I’m blinded by its force,
tangled hair whips my face,
upset by an argument,
unable to move ahead.
Dry yellow leaves fly out,
expelled amid hardy ones.
Fall’s long shadow cast over,
what remains of summer.
Solstice has passed, days grow short,
darkness lengthens into night.
Consequence of a long life,
is knowing what comes next.
I steady myself against
a swaying tree, praying
it has been made stronger,
by wind that buffets it.
Tiny Nuthatch
Tiny nuthatch picks a seed,
flies to the power pole,
perching upside down
places it in a hole.
It’s acrobatic skills
captivate this watcher.
His instinctual need
to prepare for winter.
Nearby is a downy
who sees the cache
flies to the power pole
boldly plucks out the seed.
Every season has its time
to reap, to feast, to starve.
Survival for those who
look ahead and those who watch.
As Night Falls
As night falls, darkness
moves in around me.
Standing alone, breath held,
listening……..waiting.
How does one explain
the presence of owls?
Flying on silent wings,
so quiet, they have
been mistaken for
spirits of the dead.
How does one explain
the presence of the dead?
Their voice as a dream,
a glimpse out of sight,
an improbable
answer to prayer.
How does one explain
the presence of prayer?
An owl calling out,
silhouetted in the
moonlight to his love,
stars circling above.
Tales in Snow
Trudging through snow
on a winter morning
recounts a story of those
who have gone before
leaving messages behind.
Squirrel tracks
pattern the frozen snow
like inverse braille
directing the mice below to
where feeder seeds lie.
Rabbit tracks
cluster under low branches
along with grouse and pheasant
paused in sheltered grottoes
to scan the horizon.
Deer hooves
make deep impressions
along with trailing foot
like exclamation marks
declaring caution.
Coyote prints
tracking their prey
thicken the plot
follow the narrative left
behind by the vulnerable.
Darkening clouds
promise fresh snow
starting a new chapter
of tales of those in print
who passed before.
A Curl of Brown Leaf
A curl of brown leaf
spins into the air,
released from its bond
by a gust of wind.
It twists and turns in
jubilant dance before
falling back down to
return to the soil.
No one notes its passage
except for dreamers,
who yearn to fly free
untethered from earth.
Soaring through clouds,
spun in a whirlwind,
letting go of matter,
sun, rain, and being.
Before tumbling back,
into arms of the wind,
set down to rest in
the field of leaves.
Unless the wind
desires once more,
to dance with leaves in
a swirl of ecstasy.
Diving Into the Lake
Diving into the lake
she emerges to float
weightlessly drifting
taking in the vast sky.
Within that blue expanse
an eagle circles high
flaps its wings then glides
on the air looking down.
Captured in that moment
a transcendence of self
gliding weightless along
the two become one.
Like the water and sky
they share the horizon,
communion of spirits
together soaring free.
Dark Comes Early
Dark comes early
Snow coats land
Trees stand stark
Trunks hold up
Starry sky.
Sharp cold air
Breath forms clouds
Wading through
Deep snow drifts
Steps muffled.
Moonlit field
Stag stands still
Watching me
Watching him
Sees beyond.
Looking Into the Darkness
Looking into the darkness,
she lifts her head, ears erect,
listening to sounds that
arouse her primal instincts.
Catching a scent in the air,
her nose drops to the ground,
follows it through the brush,
snaking through the tall grass.
Suddenly, she drops and rolls,
twisting back and forth,
disguising her odor with
a wild animal essence.
Leaping to her feet, the wolf
emerges from noble ancestry,
who stalked its prey, killed,
and howled with the pack.
Gazing up, the predator
sees in me the first woman,
who threw meat scraps to the pack,
from the fire, as they drew near.
Wagging her tail, she turns,
remembers the way home,
her bowl of kibble, soft bed,
and fireplace to dream beside.
In the Dead of Winter
In the dead of winter,
sun recedes behind bare trees,
temperatures plummet. Bundled,
Tara and I head out.
Thick snow blankets the brush.
Shelter for field mice,
Hide and Seek for Tara,
whose nose probes the mounds.
Leaping off the suet,
a fat squirrel escapes
in a powdery spray.
Tara strains at her leash.
In the grey dying light,
darkness replaces beauty,
stealing my attention,
invading my thoughts.
Last night, unable to sleep,
I slipped into your room,
laid my hand on your cheek,
listened to your breath.
I looked into the abyss,
felt its icy slope.
While you slept soundly,
my world started to slide.
In the dead of winter,
field mice lay hidden,
squirrels watch from afar.
Tara and I turn back.
Bitter Winter
Bitter winter.
Below zero
engine stalls.
Emotions
hibernate.
Cold takes hostage.
Tightly
bound by
parka, and wrapped scarf
mummified.
Perspective narrows,
senses
grow numb.
Deaf, blind, and mute,
darkness descends.
Deeply cocooned.
Sunlight
slips in,
melting despair,
awakening hope.
It’s All Was Talked About
It’s all was talked about,
how winter stole spring away,
those April showers bringing
only snow and dashed hopes.
Not a pretty subject for poems,
the long cold winter of
desolation and despair,
so bleak, it hurt to live.
To cope, emotions were
secreted in dark dens
like black bears deep in sleep,
their hearts barely beating.
Each day had to be faced
with grim resolution,
even the day spring came
my parka worn like a shroud.
Sun filtered through bare trees
drawing me like a moth to flame.
Turning toward the warmth with
eyes closed, red light streamed in.
Ice melted from my heart,
my frozen spirit thawed,
feelings stumbled out
of their gloomy cave.
May showers brought new growth,
hummingbirds returned along
with enough hope to store
until life’s next winter.
Drawn into the Forest
Drawn into the forest,
troubled with loss and grief,
drought, disease, destruction.
Trees respond, ‘Our roots run deep’.
Swept high into branches,
a shared communion of
breath and expiration,
life’s fragility.
When the soul departs from flesh
will it be lost in a void,
falling into an abyss
of nothingness nowhere?
‘Death brings transformation.
Our ashes sift deep in soil
to be fed by sweet rain,
nurtured by warm sunshine’.
‘We are seedlings of spirit
resurrected, reaching
to the light on new limbs
raised in praise toward heaven’.
At sunrise, feel the warmth.
As rain falls, taste its sweetness.
Reach out toward heaven,
pray roots run deep.
Quietly the Snow Falls
Quietly the snow falls.
Its feathery flight hushed
as it blankets the ground.
I stop and listen to
the music of silence.
With eyes closed, I raise my
face to the sky. Flakes coat
my cheeks, my nose, my lashes,
melt down my neck in a
frozen baptism.
I am aware of my
heart beating in my ears,
my breathing in and out,
my smallness within this
greatness, apart and a part.
Paradise may be far off, but
there is peace in this place
where distance disappears
as snow fills the silence
between heaven and earth.
Sandhill Cranes Returned
Sandhill cranes returned.
Their haunting calls echo
through the still bare trees
and frozen swamp of time.
We shout, “Welcome back,”
as spring breaks winter’s
strangle hold on us,
our bones begin to dance.
Grief no longer runs
like blood from my pen.
New birth and hope sprout
on the blank page.
The predator still lurks,
snow and cold remain
a certain threat but
death has loosed its grip.
Cranes fly above us,
giving their immortal cry
heard since time’s beginning,
“I am…I am…I am”.
Across the Linen Cloth
Across the linen cloth,
petals from the bouquet
lay scattered, red as blood,
dripping from wilted stems.
Snow continues to fall,
spring disguised as winter,
leaving life standing bare,
stealing what days remain.
Heard through worn carpet,
seen through frosted pane,
memories burnt for warmth,
leave in wisps of smoke.
Across the sky before dawn,
the waning crescent rises,
fades away to nothing,
then becomes new once more.
Wind Sings Through Trees
Wind sings through trees
swinging branches,
thunder rumbles,
in harmony.
Clouds swirl above
turning inky grey,
temperature drops,
as sky ignites.
Rain splashes down
soaking this poem,
washing the words,
clean off the page.
Wind sings on as
in the beginning,
words become flesh,
living with us.
Crying our tears,
singing our songs,
dancing with us,
out in the rain.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:16.237514
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-5",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-6
|
4 Captivated, I Listen
Constance Hodder
Sheltered Beneath the Pines
Sheltered beneath the pines,
I hear a voice calling.
First the sound of breath,
becoming a moan,
to a cry,
to a sigh,
to silence.
Captivated, I listen
again to the breath,
the moan,
the cry,
the sigh,
silence.
Is that the wind I hear
or the song of the trees?
A song of sorrow or joy,
of loss or ecstasy,
wind stroking branches
carrying seed aloft.
I am answered with silence,
my body embraced by wind.
One exists only
in the arms of the other
like wind in tree’s song.
Stepping Outside
Stepping outside, escaping
the chaos of day,
I cross into the dark
sanctum of the night.
Enclosed within its black veil
the whirlwind stills,
agitation falls away
leaving only peace.
Certainly not quiet,
in the flashlight beam bugs dance
to the love song of the toads
trilling and croaking.
A bear lumbers through the brush,
coyotes howl in the distance,
this is their territory,
we are but interlopers.
An oak branch bumps my head,
I trip over its root,
a June bug collides with me
crossing its path.
Oh, to be one with the night,
at home within this realm,
instead of a trespasser
in my own domain.
We are but visitors
of darkness as with the light,
our footprints left behind,
wash away with rain.
One day we will be welcomed
into darkness, at home
growing roots with the oak,
flying with the June bugs.
After a Storm
After a storm, air swims of worms
struggling from wet earth to breathe.
Amphibious fragrance fills ones
nostrils raised like a dog catching
a whiff of what passed before.
Awakening connections
to the primitive soul that danced
in the rain with head raised high
catching drops on a parched tongue,
tasting life’s sweet nectar.
Heeding the siren’s call to
return to the sea to swim amidst
creatures who shy from the stranger
that raises its head from the surf
to breathe the scent of moist earth.
Scraps of Paper
Scraps of paper
blown on the wind,
land to drift on
the glassy pond.
They are rescued
from the water
like sacred scrolls
treasure maps.
Birch bark layers
curl in my hands,
white to tan skins
vented to breathe.
Without words,
secret messages,
or directions,
they tell a tale.
Of a canoe,
skimming across
a glassy pond to
the pull of paddles.
A living poem,
breathing through bark,
a Paper Birch’s
legacy.
Mothers Rise at Night
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
listening for their with a gleam of light
children’s calls. on the dark horizon.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
hearing the cries painting the land
of the hungry. with a lambent glow.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
to hold their hungry in dazzling brilliance
ones to their breast. setting the sky ablaze.
Mothers rise at night
to the moon’s call
cradling their babies.
Mothers rise at night
to bathe their souls in
the moon’s radiance.
Mothers rest their babies The moon rests at dawn
back down as they rise in the glow of the rising
in the morning light. sun on the horizon.
Two Trees
Two trees stand afield as fog
on a golden wave rolls in.
Twilight enlivens the glow
until darkness fades to grey.
When did the hummingbirds leave?
Summer gives way to winter.
Days grow short. The light dims
swallowed by eternal nights.
I so hunger for color.
Will the hummingbirds return?
Oh, to be a whirling maple
casting crimson leaves to the
wind, releasing my spirit
from its earthly restraints.
Walking Toward Home
Walking toward home at sunset
I pass beneath a birch
on a brilliant carpet
of amber leaves who
once danced with the wind.
Now lay spent where time
once was and is no more.
A place apart where
flesh and blood fall away,
breath becomes spirit.
Enveloped in a golden glow
I awaken within
a sacred realm of light
filled with joy beyond
my understanding.
Surrounded with peace,
I wait in awed silence
as night closes the veil.
I walk home in darkness,
light still within me.
Enraptured
Enraptured
wooded paths entry
to worlds set apart
revealing secret
inner wonders.
Enveloped
evergreens enshrine
cavern carpeted
with amber needled
radiance.
Encased
milkweed pods enclose
silken parachuted
seeds awaiting flight
on the wind.
Enchanted
mushrooms encircle
fairy ring of lore.
Stumble inside to
dance with elves.
Entangled
grass thimble en-laced
nest of hummingbird
skillfully woven
to vanish.
Enlightened
quest to encounter
divine mysteries
simply revealed on
nature’s path.
Three Olive Finches
On a grey December dawn
three olive finches sit frozen
on the feeder facing east
in solemn silence.
Watching out the window
I too am caught under the spell
of a quiet moment of
prayer without words.
The crisp morning softens as
first rays of sunlight reach over
the horizon caressing
the frigid birds.
They turn now in unison
to feast together on seed
having witnessed the divine
in warmth and light.
Wind Buffets the Trees
Wind buffets the trees,
tossing branches wildly,
flailing leaves strain their
slender connections.
I’m blinded by its force,
tangled hair whips my face,
upset by an argument,
unable to move ahead.
Dry yellow leaves fly out,
expelled amid hardy ones.
Fall’s long shadow cast over,
what remains of summer.
Solstice has passed, days grow short,
darkness lengthens into night.
Consequence of a long life,
is knowing what comes next.
I steady myself against
a swaying tree, praying
it has been made stronger,
by wind that buffets it.
Tiny Nuthatch
Tiny nuthatch picks a seed,
flies to the power pole,
perching upside down
places it in a hole.
It’s acrobatic skills
captivate this watcher.
His instinctual need
to prepare for winter.
Nearby is a downy
who sees the cache
flies to the power pole
boldly plucks out the seed.
Every season has its time
to reap, to feast, to starve.
Survival for those who
look ahead and those who watch.
As Night Falls
As night falls, darkness
moves in around me.
Standing alone, breath held,
listening……..waiting.
How does one explain
the presence of owls?
Flying on silent wings,
so quiet, they have
been mistaken for
spirits of the dead.
How does one explain
the presence of the dead?
Their voice as a dream,
a glimpse out of sight,
an improbable
answer to prayer.
How does one explain
the presence of prayer?
An owl calling out,
silhouetted in the
moonlight to his love,
stars circling above.
Tales in Snow
Trudging through snow
on a winter morning
recounts a story of those
who have gone before
leaving messages behind.
Squirrel tracks
pattern the frozen snow
like inverse braille
directing the mice below to
where feeder seeds lie.
Rabbit tracks
cluster under low branches
along with grouse and pheasant
paused in sheltered grottoes
to scan the horizon.
Deer hooves
make deep impressions
along with trailing foot
like exclamation marks
declaring caution.
Coyote prints
tracking their prey
thicken the plot
follow the narrative left
behind by the vulnerable.
Darkening clouds
promise fresh snow
starting a new chapter
of tales of those in print
who passed before.
A Curl of Brown Leaf
A curl of brown leaf
spins into the air,
released from its bond
by a gust of wind.
It twists and turns in
jubilant dance before
falling back down to
return to the soil.
No one notes its passage
except for dreamers,
who yearn to fly free
untethered from earth.
Soaring through clouds,
spun in a whirlwind,
letting go of matter,
sun, rain, and being.
Before tumbling back,
into arms of the wind,
set down to rest in
the field of leaves.
Unless the wind
desires once more,
to dance with leaves in
a swirl of ecstasy.
Diving Into the Lake
Diving into the lake
she emerges to float
weightlessly drifting
taking in the vast sky.
Within that blue expanse
an eagle circles high
flaps its wings then glides
on the air looking down.
Captured in that moment
a transcendence of self
gliding weightless along
the two become one.
Like the water and sky
they share the horizon,
communion of spirits
together soaring free.
Dark Comes Early
Dark comes early
Snow coats land
Trees stand stark
Trunks hold up
Starry sky.
Sharp cold air
Breath forms clouds
Wading through
Deep snow drifts
Steps muffled.
Moonlit field
Stag stands still
Watching me
Watching him
Sees beyond.
Looking Into the Darkness
Looking into the darkness,
she lifts her head, ears erect,
listening to sounds that
arouse her primal instincts.
Catching a scent in the air,
her nose drops to the ground,
follows it through the brush,
snaking through the tall grass.
Suddenly, she drops and rolls,
twisting back and forth,
disguising her odor with
a wild animal essence.
Leaping to her feet, the wolf
emerges from noble ancestry,
who stalked its prey, killed,
and howled with the pack.
Gazing up, the predator
sees in me the first woman,
who threw meat scraps to the pack,
from the fire, as they drew near.
Wagging her tail, she turns,
remembers the way home,
her bowl of kibble, soft bed,
and fireplace to dream beside.
In the Dead of Winter
In the dead of winter,
sun recedes behind bare trees,
temperatures plummet. Bundled,
Tara and I head out.
Thick snow blankets the brush.
Shelter for field mice,
Hide and Seek for Tara,
whose nose probes the mounds.
Leaping off the suet,
a fat squirrel escapes
in a powdery spray.
Tara strains at her leash.
In the grey dying light,
darkness replaces beauty,
stealing my attention,
invading my thoughts.
Last night, unable to sleep,
I slipped into your room,
laid my hand on your cheek,
listened to your breath.
I looked into the abyss,
felt its icy slope.
While you slept soundly,
my world started to slide.
In the dead of winter,
field mice lay hidden,
squirrels watch from afar.
Tara and I turn back.
Bitter Winter
Bitter winter.
Below zero
engine stalls.
Emotions
hibernate.
Cold takes hostage.
Tightly
bound by
parka, and wrapped scarf
mummified.
Perspective narrows,
senses
grow numb.
Deaf, blind, and mute,
darkness descends.
Deeply cocooned.
Sunlight
slips in,
melting despair,
awakening hope.
It’s All Was Talked About
It’s all was talked about,
how winter stole spring away,
those April showers bringing
only snow and dashed hopes.
Not a pretty subject for poems,
the long cold winter of
desolation and despair,
so bleak, it hurt to live.
To cope, emotions were
secreted in dark dens
like black bears deep in sleep,
their hearts barely beating.
Each day had to be faced
with grim resolution,
even the day spring came
my parka worn like a shroud.
Sun filtered through bare trees
drawing me like a moth to flame.
Turning toward the warmth with
eyes closed, red light streamed in.
Ice melted from my heart,
my frozen spirit thawed,
feelings stumbled out
of their gloomy cave.
May showers brought new growth,
hummingbirds returned along
with enough hope to store
until life’s next winter.
Drawn into the Forest
Drawn into the forest,
troubled with loss and grief,
drought, disease, destruction.
Trees respond, ‘Our roots run deep’.
Swept high into branches,
a shared communion of
breath and expiration,
life’s fragility.
When the soul departs from flesh
will it be lost in a void,
falling into an abyss
of nothingness nowhere?
‘Death brings transformation.
Our ashes sift deep in soil
to be fed by sweet rain,
nurtured by warm sunshine’.
‘We are seedlings of spirit
resurrected, reaching
to the light on new limbs
raised in praise toward heaven’.
At sunrise, feel the warmth.
As rain falls, taste its sweetness.
Reach out toward heaven,
pray roots run deep.
Quietly the Snow Falls
Quietly the snow falls.
Its feathery flight hushed
as it blankets the ground.
I stop and listen to
the music of silence.
With eyes closed, I raise my
face to the sky. Flakes coat
my cheeks, my nose, my lashes,
melt down my neck in a
frozen baptism.
I am aware of my
heart beating in my ears,
my breathing in and out,
my smallness within this
greatness, apart and a part.
Paradise may be far off, but
there is peace in this place
where distance disappears
as snow fills the silence
between heaven and earth.
Sandhill Cranes Returned
Sandhill cranes returned.
Their haunting calls echo
through the still bare trees
and frozen swamp of time.
We shout, “Welcome back,”
as spring breaks winter’s
strangle hold on us,
our bones begin to dance.
Grief no longer runs
like blood from my pen.
New birth and hope sprout
on the blank page.
The predator still lurks,
snow and cold remain
a certain threat but
death has loosed its grip.
Cranes fly above us,
giving their immortal cry
heard since time’s beginning,
“I am…I am…I am”.
Across the Linen Cloth
Across the linen cloth,
petals from the bouquet
lay scattered, red as blood,
dripping from wilted stems.
Snow continues to fall,
spring disguised as winter,
leaving life standing bare,
stealing what days remain.
Heard through worn carpet,
seen through frosted pane,
memories burnt for warmth,
leave in wisps of smoke.
Across the sky before dawn,
the waning crescent rises,
fades away to nothing,
then becomes new once more.
Wind Sings Through Trees
Wind sings through trees
swinging branches,
thunder rumbles,
in harmony.
Clouds swirl above
turning inky grey,
temperature drops,
as sky ignites.
Rain splashes down
soaking this poem,
washing the words,
clean off the page.
Wind sings on as
in the beginning,
words become flesh,
living with us.
Crying our tears,
singing our songs,
dancing with us,
out in the rain.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:16.311309
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-6",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-7
|
4 Captivated, I Listen
Constance Hodder
Sheltered Beneath the Pines
Sheltered beneath the pines,
I hear a voice calling.
First the sound of breath,
becoming a moan,
to a cry,
to a sigh,
to silence.
Captivated, I listen
again to the breath,
the moan,
the cry,
the sigh,
silence.
Is that the wind I hear
or the song of the trees?
A song of sorrow or joy,
of loss or ecstasy,
wind stroking branches
carrying seed aloft.
I am answered with silence,
my body embraced by wind.
One exists only
in the arms of the other
like wind in tree’s song.
Stepping Outside
Stepping outside, escaping
the chaos of day,
I cross into the dark
sanctum of the night.
Enclosed within its black veil
the whirlwind stills,
agitation falls away
leaving only peace.
Certainly not quiet,
in the flashlight beam bugs dance
to the love song of the toads
trilling and croaking.
A bear lumbers through the brush,
coyotes howl in the distance,
this is their territory,
we are but interlopers.
An oak branch bumps my head,
I trip over its root,
a June bug collides with me
crossing its path.
Oh, to be one with the night,
at home within this realm,
instead of a trespasser
in my own domain.
We are but visitors
of darkness as with the light,
our footprints left behind,
wash away with rain.
One day we will be welcomed
into darkness, at home
growing roots with the oak,
flying with the June bugs.
After a Storm
After a storm, air swims of worms
struggling from wet earth to breathe.
Amphibious fragrance fills ones
nostrils raised like a dog catching
a whiff of what passed before.
Awakening connections
to the primitive soul that danced
in the rain with head raised high
catching drops on a parched tongue,
tasting life’s sweet nectar.
Heeding the siren’s call to
return to the sea to swim amidst
creatures who shy from the stranger
that raises its head from the surf
to breathe the scent of moist earth.
Scraps of Paper
Scraps of paper
blown on the wind,
land to drift on
the glassy pond.
They are rescued
from the water
like sacred scrolls
treasure maps.
Birch bark layers
curl in my hands,
white to tan skins
vented to breathe.
Without words,
secret messages,
or directions,
they tell a tale.
Of a canoe,
skimming across
a glassy pond to
the pull of paddles.
A living poem,
breathing through bark,
a Paper Birch’s
legacy.
Mothers Rise at Night
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
listening for their with a gleam of light
children’s calls. on the dark horizon.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
hearing the cries painting the land
of the hungry. with a lambent glow.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
to hold their hungry in dazzling brilliance
ones to their breast. setting the sky ablaze.
Mothers rise at night
to the moon’s call
cradling their babies.
Mothers rise at night
to bathe their souls in
the moon’s radiance.
Mothers rest their babies The moon rests at dawn
back down as they rise in the glow of the rising
in the morning light. sun on the horizon.
Two Trees
Two trees stand afield as fog
on a golden wave rolls in.
Twilight enlivens the glow
until darkness fades to grey.
When did the hummingbirds leave?
Summer gives way to winter.
Days grow short. The light dims
swallowed by eternal nights.
I so hunger for color.
Will the hummingbirds return?
Oh, to be a whirling maple
casting crimson leaves to the
wind, releasing my spirit
from its earthly restraints.
Walking Toward Home
Walking toward home at sunset
I pass beneath a birch
on a brilliant carpet
of amber leaves who
once danced with the wind.
Now lay spent where time
once was and is no more.
A place apart where
flesh and blood fall away,
breath becomes spirit.
Enveloped in a golden glow
I awaken within
a sacred realm of light
filled with joy beyond
my understanding.
Surrounded with peace,
I wait in awed silence
as night closes the veil.
I walk home in darkness,
light still within me.
Enraptured
Enraptured
wooded paths entry
to worlds set apart
revealing secret
inner wonders.
Enveloped
evergreens enshrine
cavern carpeted
with amber needled
radiance.
Encased
milkweed pods enclose
silken parachuted
seeds awaiting flight
on the wind.
Enchanted
mushrooms encircle
fairy ring of lore.
Stumble inside to
dance with elves.
Entangled
grass thimble en-laced
nest of hummingbird
skillfully woven
to vanish.
Enlightened
quest to encounter
divine mysteries
simply revealed on
nature’s path.
Three Olive Finches
On a grey December dawn
three olive finches sit frozen
on the feeder facing east
in solemn silence.
Watching out the window
I too am caught under the spell
of a quiet moment of
prayer without words.
The crisp morning softens as
first rays of sunlight reach over
the horizon caressing
the frigid birds.
They turn now in unison
to feast together on seed
having witnessed the divine
in warmth and light.
Wind Buffets the Trees
Wind buffets the trees,
tossing branches wildly,
flailing leaves strain their
slender connections.
I’m blinded by its force,
tangled hair whips my face,
upset by an argument,
unable to move ahead.
Dry yellow leaves fly out,
expelled amid hardy ones.
Fall’s long shadow cast over,
what remains of summer.
Solstice has passed, days grow short,
darkness lengthens into night.
Consequence of a long life,
is knowing what comes next.
I steady myself against
a swaying tree, praying
it has been made stronger,
by wind that buffets it.
Tiny Nuthatch
Tiny nuthatch picks a seed,
flies to the power pole,
perching upside down
places it in a hole.
It’s acrobatic skills
captivate this watcher.
His instinctual need
to prepare for winter.
Nearby is a downy
who sees the cache
flies to the power pole
boldly plucks out the seed.
Every season has its time
to reap, to feast, to starve.
Survival for those who
look ahead and those who watch.
As Night Falls
As night falls, darkness
moves in around me.
Standing alone, breath held,
listening……..waiting.
How does one explain
the presence of owls?
Flying on silent wings,
so quiet, they have
been mistaken for
spirits of the dead.
How does one explain
the presence of the dead?
Their voice as a dream,
a glimpse out of sight,
an improbable
answer to prayer.
How does one explain
the presence of prayer?
An owl calling out,
silhouetted in the
moonlight to his love,
stars circling above.
Tales in Snow
Trudging through snow
on a winter morning
recounts a story of those
who have gone before
leaving messages behind.
Squirrel tracks
pattern the frozen snow
like inverse braille
directing the mice below to
where feeder seeds lie.
Rabbit tracks
cluster under low branches
along with grouse and pheasant
paused in sheltered grottoes
to scan the horizon.
Deer hooves
make deep impressions
along with trailing foot
like exclamation marks
declaring caution.
Coyote prints
tracking their prey
thicken the plot
follow the narrative left
behind by the vulnerable.
Darkening clouds
promise fresh snow
starting a new chapter
of tales of those in print
who passed before.
A Curl of Brown Leaf
A curl of brown leaf
spins into the air,
released from its bond
by a gust of wind.
It twists and turns in
jubilant dance before
falling back down to
return to the soil.
No one notes its passage
except for dreamers,
who yearn to fly free
untethered from earth.
Soaring through clouds,
spun in a whirlwind,
letting go of matter,
sun, rain, and being.
Before tumbling back,
into arms of the wind,
set down to rest in
the field of leaves.
Unless the wind
desires once more,
to dance with leaves in
a swirl of ecstasy.
Diving Into the Lake
Diving into the lake
she emerges to float
weightlessly drifting
taking in the vast sky.
Within that blue expanse
an eagle circles high
flaps its wings then glides
on the air looking down.
Captured in that moment
a transcendence of self
gliding weightless along
the two become one.
Like the water and sky
they share the horizon,
communion of spirits
together soaring free.
Dark Comes Early
Dark comes early
Snow coats land
Trees stand stark
Trunks hold up
Starry sky.
Sharp cold air
Breath forms clouds
Wading through
Deep snow drifts
Steps muffled.
Moonlit field
Stag stands still
Watching me
Watching him
Sees beyond.
Looking Into the Darkness
Looking into the darkness,
she lifts her head, ears erect,
listening to sounds that
arouse her primal instincts.
Catching a scent in the air,
her nose drops to the ground,
follows it through the brush,
snaking through the tall grass.
Suddenly, she drops and rolls,
twisting back and forth,
disguising her odor with
a wild animal essence.
Leaping to her feet, the wolf
emerges from noble ancestry,
who stalked its prey, killed,
and howled with the pack.
Gazing up, the predator
sees in me the first woman,
who threw meat scraps to the pack,
from the fire, as they drew near.
Wagging her tail, she turns,
remembers the way home,
her bowl of kibble, soft bed,
and fireplace to dream beside.
In the Dead of Winter
In the dead of winter,
sun recedes behind bare trees,
temperatures plummet. Bundled,
Tara and I head out.
Thick snow blankets the brush.
Shelter for field mice,
Hide and Seek for Tara,
whose nose probes the mounds.
Leaping off the suet,
a fat squirrel escapes
in a powdery spray.
Tara strains at her leash.
In the grey dying light,
darkness replaces beauty,
stealing my attention,
invading my thoughts.
Last night, unable to sleep,
I slipped into your room,
laid my hand on your cheek,
listened to your breath.
I looked into the abyss,
felt its icy slope.
While you slept soundly,
my world started to slide.
In the dead of winter,
field mice lay hidden,
squirrels watch from afar.
Tara and I turn back.
Bitter Winter
Bitter winter.
Below zero
engine stalls.
Emotions
hibernate.
Cold takes hostage.
Tightly
bound by
parka, and wrapped scarf
mummified.
Perspective narrows,
senses
grow numb.
Deaf, blind, and mute,
darkness descends.
Deeply cocooned.
Sunlight
slips in,
melting despair,
awakening hope.
It’s All Was Talked About
It’s all was talked about,
how winter stole spring away,
those April showers bringing
only snow and dashed hopes.
Not a pretty subject for poems,
the long cold winter of
desolation and despair,
so bleak, it hurt to live.
To cope, emotions were
secreted in dark dens
like black bears deep in sleep,
their hearts barely beating.
Each day had to be faced
with grim resolution,
even the day spring came
my parka worn like a shroud.
Sun filtered through bare trees
drawing me like a moth to flame.
Turning toward the warmth with
eyes closed, red light streamed in.
Ice melted from my heart,
my frozen spirit thawed,
feelings stumbled out
of their gloomy cave.
May showers brought new growth,
hummingbirds returned along
with enough hope to store
until life’s next winter.
Drawn into the Forest
Drawn into the forest,
troubled with loss and grief,
drought, disease, destruction.
Trees respond, ‘Our roots run deep’.
Swept high into branches,
a shared communion of
breath and expiration,
life’s fragility.
When the soul departs from flesh
will it be lost in a void,
falling into an abyss
of nothingness nowhere?
‘Death brings transformation.
Our ashes sift deep in soil
to be fed by sweet rain,
nurtured by warm sunshine’.
‘We are seedlings of spirit
resurrected, reaching
to the light on new limbs
raised in praise toward heaven’.
At sunrise, feel the warmth.
As rain falls, taste its sweetness.
Reach out toward heaven,
pray roots run deep.
Quietly the Snow Falls
Quietly the snow falls.
Its feathery flight hushed
as it blankets the ground.
I stop and listen to
the music of silence.
With eyes closed, I raise my
face to the sky. Flakes coat
my cheeks, my nose, my lashes,
melt down my neck in a
frozen baptism.
I am aware of my
heart beating in my ears,
my breathing in and out,
my smallness within this
greatness, apart and a part.
Paradise may be far off, but
there is peace in this place
where distance disappears
as snow fills the silence
between heaven and earth.
Sandhill Cranes Returned
Sandhill cranes returned.
Their haunting calls echo
through the still bare trees
and frozen swamp of time.
We shout, “Welcome back,”
as spring breaks winter’s
strangle hold on us,
our bones begin to dance.
Grief no longer runs
like blood from my pen.
New birth and hope sprout
on the blank page.
The predator still lurks,
snow and cold remain
a certain threat but
death has loosed its grip.
Cranes fly above us,
giving their immortal cry
heard since time’s beginning,
“I am…I am…I am”.
Across the Linen Cloth
Across the linen cloth,
petals from the bouquet
lay scattered, red as blood,
dripping from wilted stems.
Snow continues to fall,
spring disguised as winter,
leaving life standing bare,
stealing what days remain.
Heard through worn carpet,
seen through frosted pane,
memories burnt for warmth,
leave in wisps of smoke.
Across the sky before dawn,
the waning crescent rises,
fades away to nothing,
then becomes new once more.
Wind Sings Through Trees
Wind sings through trees
swinging branches,
thunder rumbles,
in harmony.
Clouds swirl above
turning inky grey,
temperature drops,
as sky ignites.
Rain splashes down
soaking this poem,
washing the words,
clean off the page.
Wind sings on as
in the beginning,
words become flesh,
living with us.
Crying our tears,
singing our songs,
dancing with us,
out in the rain.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:16.384177
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-7",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-8
|
4 Captivated, I Listen
Constance Hodder
Sheltered Beneath the Pines
Sheltered beneath the pines,
I hear a voice calling.
First the sound of breath,
becoming a moan,
to a cry,
to a sigh,
to silence.
Captivated, I listen
again to the breath,
the moan,
the cry,
the sigh,
silence.
Is that the wind I hear
or the song of the trees?
A song of sorrow or joy,
of loss or ecstasy,
wind stroking branches
carrying seed aloft.
I am answered with silence,
my body embraced by wind.
One exists only
in the arms of the other
like wind in tree’s song.
Stepping Outside
Stepping outside, escaping
the chaos of day,
I cross into the dark
sanctum of the night.
Enclosed within its black veil
the whirlwind stills,
agitation falls away
leaving only peace.
Certainly not quiet,
in the flashlight beam bugs dance
to the love song of the toads
trilling and croaking.
A bear lumbers through the brush,
coyotes howl in the distance,
this is their territory,
we are but interlopers.
An oak branch bumps my head,
I trip over its root,
a June bug collides with me
crossing its path.
Oh, to be one with the night,
at home within this realm,
instead of a trespasser
in my own domain.
We are but visitors
of darkness as with the light,
our footprints left behind,
wash away with rain.
One day we will be welcomed
into darkness, at home
growing roots with the oak,
flying with the June bugs.
After a Storm
After a storm, air swims of worms
struggling from wet earth to breathe.
Amphibious fragrance fills ones
nostrils raised like a dog catching
a whiff of what passed before.
Awakening connections
to the primitive soul that danced
in the rain with head raised high
catching drops on a parched tongue,
tasting life’s sweet nectar.
Heeding the siren’s call to
return to the sea to swim amidst
creatures who shy from the stranger
that raises its head from the surf
to breathe the scent of moist earth.
Scraps of Paper
Scraps of paper
blown on the wind,
land to drift on
the glassy pond.
They are rescued
from the water
like sacred scrolls
treasure maps.
Birch bark layers
curl in my hands,
white to tan skins
vented to breathe.
Without words,
secret messages,
or directions,
they tell a tale.
Of a canoe,
skimming across
a glassy pond to
the pull of paddles.
A living poem,
breathing through bark,
a Paper Birch’s
legacy.
Mothers Rise at Night
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
listening for their with a gleam of light
children’s calls. on the dark horizon.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
hearing the cries painting the land
of the hungry. with a lambent glow.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
to hold their hungry in dazzling brilliance
ones to their breast. setting the sky ablaze.
Mothers rise at night
to the moon’s call
cradling their babies.
Mothers rise at night
to bathe their souls in
the moon’s radiance.
Mothers rest their babies The moon rests at dawn
back down as they rise in the glow of the rising
in the morning light. sun on the horizon.
Two Trees
Two trees stand afield as fog
on a golden wave rolls in.
Twilight enlivens the glow
until darkness fades to grey.
When did the hummingbirds leave?
Summer gives way to winter.
Days grow short. The light dims
swallowed by eternal nights.
I so hunger for color.
Will the hummingbirds return?
Oh, to be a whirling maple
casting crimson leaves to the
wind, releasing my spirit
from its earthly restraints.
Walking Toward Home
Walking toward home at sunset
I pass beneath a birch
on a brilliant carpet
of amber leaves who
once danced with the wind.
Now lay spent where time
once was and is no more.
A place apart where
flesh and blood fall away,
breath becomes spirit.
Enveloped in a golden glow
I awaken within
a sacred realm of light
filled with joy beyond
my understanding.
Surrounded with peace,
I wait in awed silence
as night closes the veil.
I walk home in darkness,
light still within me.
Enraptured
Enraptured
wooded paths entry
to worlds set apart
revealing secret
inner wonders.
Enveloped
evergreens enshrine
cavern carpeted
with amber needled
radiance.
Encased
milkweed pods enclose
silken parachuted
seeds awaiting flight
on the wind.
Enchanted
mushrooms encircle
fairy ring of lore.
Stumble inside to
dance with elves.
Entangled
grass thimble en-laced
nest of hummingbird
skillfully woven
to vanish.
Enlightened
quest to encounter
divine mysteries
simply revealed on
nature’s path.
Three Olive Finches
On a grey December dawn
three olive finches sit frozen
on the feeder facing east
in solemn silence.
Watching out the window
I too am caught under the spell
of a quiet moment of
prayer without words.
The crisp morning softens as
first rays of sunlight reach over
the horizon caressing
the frigid birds.
They turn now in unison
to feast together on seed
having witnessed the divine
in warmth and light.
Wind Buffets the Trees
Wind buffets the trees,
tossing branches wildly,
flailing leaves strain their
slender connections.
I’m blinded by its force,
tangled hair whips my face,
upset by an argument,
unable to move ahead.
Dry yellow leaves fly out,
expelled amid hardy ones.
Fall’s long shadow cast over,
what remains of summer.
Solstice has passed, days grow short,
darkness lengthens into night.
Consequence of a long life,
is knowing what comes next.
I steady myself against
a swaying tree, praying
it has been made stronger,
by wind that buffets it.
Tiny Nuthatch
Tiny nuthatch picks a seed,
flies to the power pole,
perching upside down
places it in a hole.
It’s acrobatic skills
captivate this watcher.
His instinctual need
to prepare for winter.
Nearby is a downy
who sees the cache
flies to the power pole
boldly plucks out the seed.
Every season has its time
to reap, to feast, to starve.
Survival for those who
look ahead and those who watch.
As Night Falls
As night falls, darkness
moves in around me.
Standing alone, breath held,
listening……..waiting.
How does one explain
the presence of owls?
Flying on silent wings,
so quiet, they have
been mistaken for
spirits of the dead.
How does one explain
the presence of the dead?
Their voice as a dream,
a glimpse out of sight,
an improbable
answer to prayer.
How does one explain
the presence of prayer?
An owl calling out,
silhouetted in the
moonlight to his love,
stars circling above.
Tales in Snow
Trudging through snow
on a winter morning
recounts a story of those
who have gone before
leaving messages behind.
Squirrel tracks
pattern the frozen snow
like inverse braille
directing the mice below to
where feeder seeds lie.
Rabbit tracks
cluster under low branches
along with grouse and pheasant
paused in sheltered grottoes
to scan the horizon.
Deer hooves
make deep impressions
along with trailing foot
like exclamation marks
declaring caution.
Coyote prints
tracking their prey
thicken the plot
follow the narrative left
behind by the vulnerable.
Darkening clouds
promise fresh snow
starting a new chapter
of tales of those in print
who passed before.
A Curl of Brown Leaf
A curl of brown leaf
spins into the air,
released from its bond
by a gust of wind.
It twists and turns in
jubilant dance before
falling back down to
return to the soil.
No one notes its passage
except for dreamers,
who yearn to fly free
untethered from earth.
Soaring through clouds,
spun in a whirlwind,
letting go of matter,
sun, rain, and being.
Before tumbling back,
into arms of the wind,
set down to rest in
the field of leaves.
Unless the wind
desires once more,
to dance with leaves in
a swirl of ecstasy.
Diving Into the Lake
Diving into the lake
she emerges to float
weightlessly drifting
taking in the vast sky.
Within that blue expanse
an eagle circles high
flaps its wings then glides
on the air looking down.
Captured in that moment
a transcendence of self
gliding weightless along
the two become one.
Like the water and sky
they share the horizon,
communion of spirits
together soaring free.
Dark Comes Early
Dark comes early
Snow coats land
Trees stand stark
Trunks hold up
Starry sky.
Sharp cold air
Breath forms clouds
Wading through
Deep snow drifts
Steps muffled.
Moonlit field
Stag stands still
Watching me
Watching him
Sees beyond.
Looking Into the Darkness
Looking into the darkness,
she lifts her head, ears erect,
listening to sounds that
arouse her primal instincts.
Catching a scent in the air,
her nose drops to the ground,
follows it through the brush,
snaking through the tall grass.
Suddenly, she drops and rolls,
twisting back and forth,
disguising her odor with
a wild animal essence.
Leaping to her feet, the wolf
emerges from noble ancestry,
who stalked its prey, killed,
and howled with the pack.
Gazing up, the predator
sees in me the first woman,
who threw meat scraps to the pack,
from the fire, as they drew near.
Wagging her tail, she turns,
remembers the way home,
her bowl of kibble, soft bed,
and fireplace to dream beside.
In the Dead of Winter
In the dead of winter,
sun recedes behind bare trees,
temperatures plummet. Bundled,
Tara and I head out.
Thick snow blankets the brush.
Shelter for field mice,
Hide and Seek for Tara,
whose nose probes the mounds.
Leaping off the suet,
a fat squirrel escapes
in a powdery spray.
Tara strains at her leash.
In the grey dying light,
darkness replaces beauty,
stealing my attention,
invading my thoughts.
Last night, unable to sleep,
I slipped into your room,
laid my hand on your cheek,
listened to your breath.
I looked into the abyss,
felt its icy slope.
While you slept soundly,
my world started to slide.
In the dead of winter,
field mice lay hidden,
squirrels watch from afar.
Tara and I turn back.
Bitter Winter
Bitter winter.
Below zero
engine stalls.
Emotions
hibernate.
Cold takes hostage.
Tightly
bound by
parka, and wrapped scarf
mummified.
Perspective narrows,
senses
grow numb.
Deaf, blind, and mute,
darkness descends.
Deeply cocooned.
Sunlight
slips in,
melting despair,
awakening hope.
It’s All Was Talked About
It’s all was talked about,
how winter stole spring away,
those April showers bringing
only snow and dashed hopes.
Not a pretty subject for poems,
the long cold winter of
desolation and despair,
so bleak, it hurt to live.
To cope, emotions were
secreted in dark dens
like black bears deep in sleep,
their hearts barely beating.
Each day had to be faced
with grim resolution,
even the day spring came
my parka worn like a shroud.
Sun filtered through bare trees
drawing me like a moth to flame.
Turning toward the warmth with
eyes closed, red light streamed in.
Ice melted from my heart,
my frozen spirit thawed,
feelings stumbled out
of their gloomy cave.
May showers brought new growth,
hummingbirds returned along
with enough hope to store
until life’s next winter.
Drawn into the Forest
Drawn into the forest,
troubled with loss and grief,
drought, disease, destruction.
Trees respond, ‘Our roots run deep’.
Swept high into branches,
a shared communion of
breath and expiration,
life’s fragility.
When the soul departs from flesh
will it be lost in a void,
falling into an abyss
of nothingness nowhere?
‘Death brings transformation.
Our ashes sift deep in soil
to be fed by sweet rain,
nurtured by warm sunshine’.
‘We are seedlings of spirit
resurrected, reaching
to the light on new limbs
raised in praise toward heaven’.
At sunrise, feel the warmth.
As rain falls, taste its sweetness.
Reach out toward heaven,
pray roots run deep.
Quietly the Snow Falls
Quietly the snow falls.
Its feathery flight hushed
as it blankets the ground.
I stop and listen to
the music of silence.
With eyes closed, I raise my
face to the sky. Flakes coat
my cheeks, my nose, my lashes,
melt down my neck in a
frozen baptism.
I am aware of my
heart beating in my ears,
my breathing in and out,
my smallness within this
greatness, apart and a part.
Paradise may be far off, but
there is peace in this place
where distance disappears
as snow fills the silence
between heaven and earth.
Sandhill Cranes Returned
Sandhill cranes returned.
Their haunting calls echo
through the still bare trees
and frozen swamp of time.
We shout, “Welcome back,”
as spring breaks winter’s
strangle hold on us,
our bones begin to dance.
Grief no longer runs
like blood from my pen.
New birth and hope sprout
on the blank page.
The predator still lurks,
snow and cold remain
a certain threat but
death has loosed its grip.
Cranes fly above us,
giving their immortal cry
heard since time’s beginning,
“I am…I am…I am”.
Across the Linen Cloth
Across the linen cloth,
petals from the bouquet
lay scattered, red as blood,
dripping from wilted stems.
Snow continues to fall,
spring disguised as winter,
leaving life standing bare,
stealing what days remain.
Heard through worn carpet,
seen through frosted pane,
memories burnt for warmth,
leave in wisps of smoke.
Across the sky before dawn,
the waning crescent rises,
fades away to nothing,
then becomes new once more.
Wind Sings Through Trees
Wind sings through trees
swinging branches,
thunder rumbles,
in harmony.
Clouds swirl above
turning inky grey,
temperature drops,
as sky ignites.
Rain splashes down
soaking this poem,
washing the words,
clean off the page.
Wind sings on as
in the beginning,
words become flesh,
living with us.
Crying our tears,
singing our songs,
dancing with us,
out in the rain.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:16.460996
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-8",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-9
|
4 Captivated, I Listen
Constance Hodder
Sheltered Beneath the Pines
Sheltered beneath the pines,
I hear a voice calling.
First the sound of breath,
becoming a moan,
to a cry,
to a sigh,
to silence.
Captivated, I listen
again to the breath,
the moan,
the cry,
the sigh,
silence.
Is that the wind I hear
or the song of the trees?
A song of sorrow or joy,
of loss or ecstasy,
wind stroking branches
carrying seed aloft.
I am answered with silence,
my body embraced by wind.
One exists only
in the arms of the other
like wind in tree’s song.
Stepping Outside
Stepping outside, escaping
the chaos of day,
I cross into the dark
sanctum of the night.
Enclosed within its black veil
the whirlwind stills,
agitation falls away
leaving only peace.
Certainly not quiet,
in the flashlight beam bugs dance
to the love song of the toads
trilling and croaking.
A bear lumbers through the brush,
coyotes howl in the distance,
this is their territory,
we are but interlopers.
An oak branch bumps my head,
I trip over its root,
a June bug collides with me
crossing its path.
Oh, to be one with the night,
at home within this realm,
instead of a trespasser
in my own domain.
We are but visitors
of darkness as with the light,
our footprints left behind,
wash away with rain.
One day we will be welcomed
into darkness, at home
growing roots with the oak,
flying with the June bugs.
After a Storm
After a storm, air swims of worms
struggling from wet earth to breathe.
Amphibious fragrance fills ones
nostrils raised like a dog catching
a whiff of what passed before.
Awakening connections
to the primitive soul that danced
in the rain with head raised high
catching drops on a parched tongue,
tasting life’s sweet nectar.
Heeding the siren’s call to
return to the sea to swim amidst
creatures who shy from the stranger
that raises its head from the surf
to breathe the scent of moist earth.
Scraps of Paper
Scraps of paper
blown on the wind,
land to drift on
the glassy pond.
They are rescued
from the water
like sacred scrolls
treasure maps.
Birch bark layers
curl in my hands,
white to tan skins
vented to breathe.
Without words,
secret messages,
or directions,
they tell a tale.
Of a canoe,
skimming across
a glassy pond to
the pull of paddles.
A living poem,
breathing through bark,
a Paper Birch’s
legacy.
Mothers Rise at Night
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
listening for their with a gleam of light
children’s calls. on the dark horizon.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
hearing the cries painting the land
of the hungry. with a lambent glow.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
to hold their hungry in dazzling brilliance
ones to their breast. setting the sky ablaze.
Mothers rise at night
to the moon’s call
cradling their babies.
Mothers rise at night
to bathe their souls in
the moon’s radiance.
Mothers rest their babies The moon rests at dawn
back down as they rise in the glow of the rising
in the morning light. sun on the horizon.
Two Trees
Two trees stand afield as fog
on a golden wave rolls in.
Twilight enlivens the glow
until darkness fades to grey.
When did the hummingbirds leave?
Summer gives way to winter.
Days grow short. The light dims
swallowed by eternal nights.
I so hunger for color.
Will the hummingbirds return?
Oh, to be a whirling maple
casting crimson leaves to the
wind, releasing my spirit
from its earthly restraints.
Walking Toward Home
Walking toward home at sunset
I pass beneath a birch
on a brilliant carpet
of amber leaves who
once danced with the wind.
Now lay spent where time
once was and is no more.
A place apart where
flesh and blood fall away,
breath becomes spirit.
Enveloped in a golden glow
I awaken within
a sacred realm of light
filled with joy beyond
my understanding.
Surrounded with peace,
I wait in awed silence
as night closes the veil.
I walk home in darkness,
light still within me.
Enraptured
Enraptured
wooded paths entry
to worlds set apart
revealing secret
inner wonders.
Enveloped
evergreens enshrine
cavern carpeted
with amber needled
radiance.
Encased
milkweed pods enclose
silken parachuted
seeds awaiting flight
on the wind.
Enchanted
mushrooms encircle
fairy ring of lore.
Stumble inside to
dance with elves.
Entangled
grass thimble en-laced
nest of hummingbird
skillfully woven
to vanish.
Enlightened
quest to encounter
divine mysteries
simply revealed on
nature’s path.
Three Olive Finches
On a grey December dawn
three olive finches sit frozen
on the feeder facing east
in solemn silence.
Watching out the window
I too am caught under the spell
of a quiet moment of
prayer without words.
The crisp morning softens as
first rays of sunlight reach over
the horizon caressing
the frigid birds.
They turn now in unison
to feast together on seed
having witnessed the divine
in warmth and light.
Wind Buffets the Trees
Wind buffets the trees,
tossing branches wildly,
flailing leaves strain their
slender connections.
I’m blinded by its force,
tangled hair whips my face,
upset by an argument,
unable to move ahead.
Dry yellow leaves fly out,
expelled amid hardy ones.
Fall’s long shadow cast over,
what remains of summer.
Solstice has passed, days grow short,
darkness lengthens into night.
Consequence of a long life,
is knowing what comes next.
I steady myself against
a swaying tree, praying
it has been made stronger,
by wind that buffets it.
Tiny Nuthatch
Tiny nuthatch picks a seed,
flies to the power pole,
perching upside down
places it in a hole.
It’s acrobatic skills
captivate this watcher.
His instinctual need
to prepare for winter.
Nearby is a downy
who sees the cache
flies to the power pole
boldly plucks out the seed.
Every season has its time
to reap, to feast, to starve.
Survival for those who
look ahead and those who watch.
As Night Falls
As night falls, darkness
moves in around me.
Standing alone, breath held,
listening……..waiting.
How does one explain
the presence of owls?
Flying on silent wings,
so quiet, they have
been mistaken for
spirits of the dead.
How does one explain
the presence of the dead?
Their voice as a dream,
a glimpse out of sight,
an improbable
answer to prayer.
How does one explain
the presence of prayer?
An owl calling out,
silhouetted in the
moonlight to his love,
stars circling above.
Tales in Snow
Trudging through snow
on a winter morning
recounts a story of those
who have gone before
leaving messages behind.
Squirrel tracks
pattern the frozen snow
like inverse braille
directing the mice below to
where feeder seeds lie.
Rabbit tracks
cluster under low branches
along with grouse and pheasant
paused in sheltered grottoes
to scan the horizon.
Deer hooves
make deep impressions
along with trailing foot
like exclamation marks
declaring caution.
Coyote prints
tracking their prey
thicken the plot
follow the narrative left
behind by the vulnerable.
Darkening clouds
promise fresh snow
starting a new chapter
of tales of those in print
who passed before.
A Curl of Brown Leaf
A curl of brown leaf
spins into the air,
released from its bond
by a gust of wind.
It twists and turns in
jubilant dance before
falling back down to
return to the soil.
No one notes its passage
except for dreamers,
who yearn to fly free
untethered from earth.
Soaring through clouds,
spun in a whirlwind,
letting go of matter,
sun, rain, and being.
Before tumbling back,
into arms of the wind,
set down to rest in
the field of leaves.
Unless the wind
desires once more,
to dance with leaves in
a swirl of ecstasy.
Diving Into the Lake
Diving into the lake
she emerges to float
weightlessly drifting
taking in the vast sky.
Within that blue expanse
an eagle circles high
flaps its wings then glides
on the air looking down.
Captured in that moment
a transcendence of self
gliding weightless along
the two become one.
Like the water and sky
they share the horizon,
communion of spirits
together soaring free.
Dark Comes Early
Dark comes early
Snow coats land
Trees stand stark
Trunks hold up
Starry sky.
Sharp cold air
Breath forms clouds
Wading through
Deep snow drifts
Steps muffled.
Moonlit field
Stag stands still
Watching me
Watching him
Sees beyond.
Looking Into the Darkness
Looking into the darkness,
she lifts her head, ears erect,
listening to sounds that
arouse her primal instincts.
Catching a scent in the air,
her nose drops to the ground,
follows it through the brush,
snaking through the tall grass.
Suddenly, she drops and rolls,
twisting back and forth,
disguising her odor with
a wild animal essence.
Leaping to her feet, the wolf
emerges from noble ancestry,
who stalked its prey, killed,
and howled with the pack.
Gazing up, the predator
sees in me the first woman,
who threw meat scraps to the pack,
from the fire, as they drew near.
Wagging her tail, she turns,
remembers the way home,
her bowl of kibble, soft bed,
and fireplace to dream beside.
In the Dead of Winter
In the dead of winter,
sun recedes behind bare trees,
temperatures plummet. Bundled,
Tara and I head out.
Thick snow blankets the brush.
Shelter for field mice,
Hide and Seek for Tara,
whose nose probes the mounds.
Leaping off the suet,
a fat squirrel escapes
in a powdery spray.
Tara strains at her leash.
In the grey dying light,
darkness replaces beauty,
stealing my attention,
invading my thoughts.
Last night, unable to sleep,
I slipped into your room,
laid my hand on your cheek,
listened to your breath.
I looked into the abyss,
felt its icy slope.
While you slept soundly,
my world started to slide.
In the dead of winter,
field mice lay hidden,
squirrels watch from afar.
Tara and I turn back.
Bitter Winter
Bitter winter.
Below zero
engine stalls.
Emotions
hibernate.
Cold takes hostage.
Tightly
bound by
parka, and wrapped scarf
mummified.
Perspective narrows,
senses
grow numb.
Deaf, blind, and mute,
darkness descends.
Deeply cocooned.
Sunlight
slips in,
melting despair,
awakening hope.
It’s All Was Talked About
It’s all was talked about,
how winter stole spring away,
those April showers bringing
only snow and dashed hopes.
Not a pretty subject for poems,
the long cold winter of
desolation and despair,
so bleak, it hurt to live.
To cope, emotions were
secreted in dark dens
like black bears deep in sleep,
their hearts barely beating.
Each day had to be faced
with grim resolution,
even the day spring came
my parka worn like a shroud.
Sun filtered through bare trees
drawing me like a moth to flame.
Turning toward the warmth with
eyes closed, red light streamed in.
Ice melted from my heart,
my frozen spirit thawed,
feelings stumbled out
of their gloomy cave.
May showers brought new growth,
hummingbirds returned along
with enough hope to store
until life’s next winter.
Drawn into the Forest
Drawn into the forest,
troubled with loss and grief,
drought, disease, destruction.
Trees respond, ‘Our roots run deep’.
Swept high into branches,
a shared communion of
breath and expiration,
life’s fragility.
When the soul departs from flesh
will it be lost in a void,
falling into an abyss
of nothingness nowhere?
‘Death brings transformation.
Our ashes sift deep in soil
to be fed by sweet rain,
nurtured by warm sunshine’.
‘We are seedlings of spirit
resurrected, reaching
to the light on new limbs
raised in praise toward heaven’.
At sunrise, feel the warmth.
As rain falls, taste its sweetness.
Reach out toward heaven,
pray roots run deep.
Quietly the Snow Falls
Quietly the snow falls.
Its feathery flight hushed
as it blankets the ground.
I stop and listen to
the music of silence.
With eyes closed, I raise my
face to the sky. Flakes coat
my cheeks, my nose, my lashes,
melt down my neck in a
frozen baptism.
I am aware of my
heart beating in my ears,
my breathing in and out,
my smallness within this
greatness, apart and a part.
Paradise may be far off, but
there is peace in this place
where distance disappears
as snow fills the silence
between heaven and earth.
Sandhill Cranes Returned
Sandhill cranes returned.
Their haunting calls echo
through the still bare trees
and frozen swamp of time.
We shout, “Welcome back,”
as spring breaks winter’s
strangle hold on us,
our bones begin to dance.
Grief no longer runs
like blood from my pen.
New birth and hope sprout
on the blank page.
The predator still lurks,
snow and cold remain
a certain threat but
death has loosed its grip.
Cranes fly above us,
giving their immortal cry
heard since time’s beginning,
“I am…I am…I am”.
Across the Linen Cloth
Across the linen cloth,
petals from the bouquet
lay scattered, red as blood,
dripping from wilted stems.
Snow continues to fall,
spring disguised as winter,
leaving life standing bare,
stealing what days remain.
Heard through worn carpet,
seen through frosted pane,
memories burnt for warmth,
leave in wisps of smoke.
Across the sky before dawn,
the waning crescent rises,
fades away to nothing,
then becomes new once more.
Wind Sings Through Trees
Wind sings through trees
swinging branches,
thunder rumbles,
in harmony.
Clouds swirl above
turning inky grey,
temperature drops,
as sky ignites.
Rain splashes down
soaking this poem,
washing the words,
clean off the page.
Wind sings on as
in the beginning,
words become flesh,
living with us.
Crying our tears,
singing our songs,
dancing with us,
out in the rain.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:16.544889
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-9",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-10
|
4 Captivated, I Listen
Constance Hodder
Sheltered Beneath the Pines
Sheltered beneath the pines,
I hear a voice calling.
First the sound of breath,
becoming a moan,
to a cry,
to a sigh,
to silence.
Captivated, I listen
again to the breath,
the moan,
the cry,
the sigh,
silence.
Is that the wind I hear
or the song of the trees?
A song of sorrow or joy,
of loss or ecstasy,
wind stroking branches
carrying seed aloft.
I am answered with silence,
my body embraced by wind.
One exists only
in the arms of the other
like wind in tree’s song.
Stepping Outside
Stepping outside, escaping
the chaos of day,
I cross into the dark
sanctum of the night.
Enclosed within its black veil
the whirlwind stills,
agitation falls away
leaving only peace.
Certainly not quiet,
in the flashlight beam bugs dance
to the love song of the toads
trilling and croaking.
A bear lumbers through the brush,
coyotes howl in the distance,
this is their territory,
we are but interlopers.
An oak branch bumps my head,
I trip over its root,
a June bug collides with me
crossing its path.
Oh, to be one with the night,
at home within this realm,
instead of a trespasser
in my own domain.
We are but visitors
of darkness as with the light,
our footprints left behind,
wash away with rain.
One day we will be welcomed
into darkness, at home
growing roots with the oak,
flying with the June bugs.
After a Storm
After a storm, air swims of worms
struggling from wet earth to breathe.
Amphibious fragrance fills ones
nostrils raised like a dog catching
a whiff of what passed before.
Awakening connections
to the primitive soul that danced
in the rain with head raised high
catching drops on a parched tongue,
tasting life’s sweet nectar.
Heeding the siren’s call to
return to the sea to swim amidst
creatures who shy from the stranger
that raises its head from the surf
to breathe the scent of moist earth.
Scraps of Paper
Scraps of paper
blown on the wind,
land to drift on
the glassy pond.
They are rescued
from the water
like sacred scrolls
treasure maps.
Birch bark layers
curl in my hands,
white to tan skins
vented to breathe.
Without words,
secret messages,
or directions,
they tell a tale.
Of a canoe,
skimming across
a glassy pond to
the pull of paddles.
A living poem,
breathing through bark,
a Paper Birch’s
legacy.
Mothers Rise at Night
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
listening for their with a gleam of light
children’s calls. on the dark horizon.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
hearing the cries painting the land
of the hungry. with a lambent glow.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
to hold their hungry in dazzling brilliance
ones to their breast. setting the sky ablaze.
Mothers rise at night
to the moon’s call
cradling their babies.
Mothers rise at night
to bathe their souls in
the moon’s radiance.
Mothers rest their babies The moon rests at dawn
back down as they rise in the glow of the rising
in the morning light. sun on the horizon.
Two Trees
Two trees stand afield as fog
on a golden wave rolls in.
Twilight enlivens the glow
until darkness fades to grey.
When did the hummingbirds leave?
Summer gives way to winter.
Days grow short. The light dims
swallowed by eternal nights.
I so hunger for color.
Will the hummingbirds return?
Oh, to be a whirling maple
casting crimson leaves to the
wind, releasing my spirit
from its earthly restraints.
Walking Toward Home
Walking toward home at sunset
I pass beneath a birch
on a brilliant carpet
of amber leaves who
once danced with the wind.
Now lay spent where time
once was and is no more.
A place apart where
flesh and blood fall away,
breath becomes spirit.
Enveloped in a golden glow
I awaken within
a sacred realm of light
filled with joy beyond
my understanding.
Surrounded with peace,
I wait in awed silence
as night closes the veil.
I walk home in darkness,
light still within me.
Enraptured
Enraptured
wooded paths entry
to worlds set apart
revealing secret
inner wonders.
Enveloped
evergreens enshrine
cavern carpeted
with amber needled
radiance.
Encased
milkweed pods enclose
silken parachuted
seeds awaiting flight
on the wind.
Enchanted
mushrooms encircle
fairy ring of lore.
Stumble inside to
dance with elves.
Entangled
grass thimble en-laced
nest of hummingbird
skillfully woven
to vanish.
Enlightened
quest to encounter
divine mysteries
simply revealed on
nature’s path.
Three Olive Finches
On a grey December dawn
three olive finches sit frozen
on the feeder facing east
in solemn silence.
Watching out the window
I too am caught under the spell
of a quiet moment of
prayer without words.
The crisp morning softens as
first rays of sunlight reach over
the horizon caressing
the frigid birds.
They turn now in unison
to feast together on seed
having witnessed the divine
in warmth and light.
Wind Buffets the Trees
Wind buffets the trees,
tossing branches wildly,
flailing leaves strain their
slender connections.
I’m blinded by its force,
tangled hair whips my face,
upset by an argument,
unable to move ahead.
Dry yellow leaves fly out,
expelled amid hardy ones.
Fall’s long shadow cast over,
what remains of summer.
Solstice has passed, days grow short,
darkness lengthens into night.
Consequence of a long life,
is knowing what comes next.
I steady myself against
a swaying tree, praying
it has been made stronger,
by wind that buffets it.
Tiny Nuthatch
Tiny nuthatch picks a seed,
flies to the power pole,
perching upside down
places it in a hole.
It’s acrobatic skills
captivate this watcher.
His instinctual need
to prepare for winter.
Nearby is a downy
who sees the cache
flies to the power pole
boldly plucks out the seed.
Every season has its time
to reap, to feast, to starve.
Survival for those who
look ahead and those who watch.
As Night Falls
As night falls, darkness
moves in around me.
Standing alone, breath held,
listening……..waiting.
How does one explain
the presence of owls?
Flying on silent wings,
so quiet, they have
been mistaken for
spirits of the dead.
How does one explain
the presence of the dead?
Their voice as a dream,
a glimpse out of sight,
an improbable
answer to prayer.
How does one explain
the presence of prayer?
An owl calling out,
silhouetted in the
moonlight to his love,
stars circling above.
Tales in Snow
Trudging through snow
on a winter morning
recounts a story of those
who have gone before
leaving messages behind.
Squirrel tracks
pattern the frozen snow
like inverse braille
directing the mice below to
where feeder seeds lie.
Rabbit tracks
cluster under low branches
along with grouse and pheasant
paused in sheltered grottoes
to scan the horizon.
Deer hooves
make deep impressions
along with trailing foot
like exclamation marks
declaring caution.
Coyote prints
tracking their prey
thicken the plot
follow the narrative left
behind by the vulnerable.
Darkening clouds
promise fresh snow
starting a new chapter
of tales of those in print
who passed before.
A Curl of Brown Leaf
A curl of brown leaf
spins into the air,
released from its bond
by a gust of wind.
It twists and turns in
jubilant dance before
falling back down to
return to the soil.
No one notes its passage
except for dreamers,
who yearn to fly free
untethered from earth.
Soaring through clouds,
spun in a whirlwind,
letting go of matter,
sun, rain, and being.
Before tumbling back,
into arms of the wind,
set down to rest in
the field of leaves.
Unless the wind
desires once more,
to dance with leaves in
a swirl of ecstasy.
Diving Into the Lake
Diving into the lake
she emerges to float
weightlessly drifting
taking in the vast sky.
Within that blue expanse
an eagle circles high
flaps its wings then glides
on the air looking down.
Captured in that moment
a transcendence of self
gliding weightless along
the two become one.
Like the water and sky
they share the horizon,
communion of spirits
together soaring free.
Dark Comes Early
Dark comes early
Snow coats land
Trees stand stark
Trunks hold up
Starry sky.
Sharp cold air
Breath forms clouds
Wading through
Deep snow drifts
Steps muffled.
Moonlit field
Stag stands still
Watching me
Watching him
Sees beyond.
Looking Into the Darkness
Looking into the darkness,
she lifts her head, ears erect,
listening to sounds that
arouse her primal instincts.
Catching a scent in the air,
her nose drops to the ground,
follows it through the brush,
snaking through the tall grass.
Suddenly, she drops and rolls,
twisting back and forth,
disguising her odor with
a wild animal essence.
Leaping to her feet, the wolf
emerges from noble ancestry,
who stalked its prey, killed,
and howled with the pack.
Gazing up, the predator
sees in me the first woman,
who threw meat scraps to the pack,
from the fire, as they drew near.
Wagging her tail, she turns,
remembers the way home,
her bowl of kibble, soft bed,
and fireplace to dream beside.
In the Dead of Winter
In the dead of winter,
sun recedes behind bare trees,
temperatures plummet. Bundled,
Tara and I head out.
Thick snow blankets the brush.
Shelter for field mice,
Hide and Seek for Tara,
whose nose probes the mounds.
Leaping off the suet,
a fat squirrel escapes
in a powdery spray.
Tara strains at her leash.
In the grey dying light,
darkness replaces beauty,
stealing my attention,
invading my thoughts.
Last night, unable to sleep,
I slipped into your room,
laid my hand on your cheek,
listened to your breath.
I looked into the abyss,
felt its icy slope.
While you slept soundly,
my world started to slide.
In the dead of winter,
field mice lay hidden,
squirrels watch from afar.
Tara and I turn back.
Bitter Winter
Bitter winter.
Below zero
engine stalls.
Emotions
hibernate.
Cold takes hostage.
Tightly
bound by
parka, and wrapped scarf
mummified.
Perspective narrows,
senses
grow numb.
Deaf, blind, and mute,
darkness descends.
Deeply cocooned.
Sunlight
slips in,
melting despair,
awakening hope.
It’s All Was Talked About
It’s all was talked about,
how winter stole spring away,
those April showers bringing
only snow and dashed hopes.
Not a pretty subject for poems,
the long cold winter of
desolation and despair,
so bleak, it hurt to live.
To cope, emotions were
secreted in dark dens
like black bears deep in sleep,
their hearts barely beating.
Each day had to be faced
with grim resolution,
even the day spring came
my parka worn like a shroud.
Sun filtered through bare trees
drawing me like a moth to flame.
Turning toward the warmth with
eyes closed, red light streamed in.
Ice melted from my heart,
my frozen spirit thawed,
feelings stumbled out
of their gloomy cave.
May showers brought new growth,
hummingbirds returned along
with enough hope to store
until life’s next winter.
Drawn into the Forest
Drawn into the forest,
troubled with loss and grief,
drought, disease, destruction.
Trees respond, ‘Our roots run deep’.
Swept high into branches,
a shared communion of
breath and expiration,
life’s fragility.
When the soul departs from flesh
will it be lost in a void,
falling into an abyss
of nothingness nowhere?
‘Death brings transformation.
Our ashes sift deep in soil
to be fed by sweet rain,
nurtured by warm sunshine’.
‘We are seedlings of spirit
resurrected, reaching
to the light on new limbs
raised in praise toward heaven’.
At sunrise, feel the warmth.
As rain falls, taste its sweetness.
Reach out toward heaven,
pray roots run deep.
Quietly the Snow Falls
Quietly the snow falls.
Its feathery flight hushed
as it blankets the ground.
I stop and listen to
the music of silence.
With eyes closed, I raise my
face to the sky. Flakes coat
my cheeks, my nose, my lashes,
melt down my neck in a
frozen baptism.
I am aware of my
heart beating in my ears,
my breathing in and out,
my smallness within this
greatness, apart and a part.
Paradise may be far off, but
there is peace in this place
where distance disappears
as snow fills the silence
between heaven and earth.
Sandhill Cranes Returned
Sandhill cranes returned.
Their haunting calls echo
through the still bare trees
and frozen swamp of time.
We shout, “Welcome back,”
as spring breaks winter’s
strangle hold on us,
our bones begin to dance.
Grief no longer runs
like blood from my pen.
New birth and hope sprout
on the blank page.
The predator still lurks,
snow and cold remain
a certain threat but
death has loosed its grip.
Cranes fly above us,
giving their immortal cry
heard since time’s beginning,
“I am…I am…I am”.
Across the Linen Cloth
Across the linen cloth,
petals from the bouquet
lay scattered, red as blood,
dripping from wilted stems.
Snow continues to fall,
spring disguised as winter,
leaving life standing bare,
stealing what days remain.
Heard through worn carpet,
seen through frosted pane,
memories burnt for warmth,
leave in wisps of smoke.
Across the sky before dawn,
the waning crescent rises,
fades away to nothing,
then becomes new once more.
Wind Sings Through Trees
Wind sings through trees
swinging branches,
thunder rumbles,
in harmony.
Clouds swirl above
turning inky grey,
temperature drops,
as sky ignites.
Rain splashes down
soaking this poem,
washing the words,
clean off the page.
Wind sings on as
in the beginning,
words become flesh,
living with us.
Crying our tears,
singing our songs,
dancing with us,
out in the rain.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:16.631246
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-10",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-11
|
4 Captivated, I Listen
Constance Hodder
Sheltered Beneath the Pines
Sheltered beneath the pines,
I hear a voice calling.
First the sound of breath,
becoming a moan,
to a cry,
to a sigh,
to silence.
Captivated, I listen
again to the breath,
the moan,
the cry,
the sigh,
silence.
Is that the wind I hear
or the song of the trees?
A song of sorrow or joy,
of loss or ecstasy,
wind stroking branches
carrying seed aloft.
I am answered with silence,
my body embraced by wind.
One exists only
in the arms of the other
like wind in tree’s song.
Stepping Outside
Stepping outside, escaping
the chaos of day,
I cross into the dark
sanctum of the night.
Enclosed within its black veil
the whirlwind stills,
agitation falls away
leaving only peace.
Certainly not quiet,
in the flashlight beam bugs dance
to the love song of the toads
trilling and croaking.
A bear lumbers through the brush,
coyotes howl in the distance,
this is their territory,
we are but interlopers.
An oak branch bumps my head,
I trip over its root,
a June bug collides with me
crossing its path.
Oh, to be one with the night,
at home within this realm,
instead of a trespasser
in my own domain.
We are but visitors
of darkness as with the light,
our footprints left behind,
wash away with rain.
One day we will be welcomed
into darkness, at home
growing roots with the oak,
flying with the June bugs.
After a Storm
After a storm, air swims of worms
struggling from wet earth to breathe.
Amphibious fragrance fills ones
nostrils raised like a dog catching
a whiff of what passed before.
Awakening connections
to the primitive soul that danced
in the rain with head raised high
catching drops on a parched tongue,
tasting life’s sweet nectar.
Heeding the siren’s call to
return to the sea to swim amidst
creatures who shy from the stranger
that raises its head from the surf
to breathe the scent of moist earth.
Scraps of Paper
Scraps of paper
blown on the wind,
land to drift on
the glassy pond.
They are rescued
from the water
like sacred scrolls
treasure maps.
Birch bark layers
curl in my hands,
white to tan skins
vented to breathe.
Without words,
secret messages,
or directions,
they tell a tale.
Of a canoe,
skimming across
a glassy pond to
the pull of paddles.
A living poem,
breathing through bark,
a Paper Birch’s
legacy.
Mothers Rise at Night
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
listening for their with a gleam of light
children’s calls. on the dark horizon.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
hearing the cries painting the land
of the hungry. with a lambent glow.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
to hold their hungry in dazzling brilliance
ones to their breast. setting the sky ablaze.
Mothers rise at night
to the moon’s call
cradling their babies.
Mothers rise at night
to bathe their souls in
the moon’s radiance.
Mothers rest their babies The moon rests at dawn
back down as they rise in the glow of the rising
in the morning light. sun on the horizon.
Two Trees
Two trees stand afield as fog
on a golden wave rolls in.
Twilight enlivens the glow
until darkness fades to grey.
When did the hummingbirds leave?
Summer gives way to winter.
Days grow short. The light dims
swallowed by eternal nights.
I so hunger for color.
Will the hummingbirds return?
Oh, to be a whirling maple
casting crimson leaves to the
wind, releasing my spirit
from its earthly restraints.
Walking Toward Home
Walking toward home at sunset
I pass beneath a birch
on a brilliant carpet
of amber leaves who
once danced with the wind.
Now lay spent where time
once was and is no more.
A place apart where
flesh and blood fall away,
breath becomes spirit.
Enveloped in a golden glow
I awaken within
a sacred realm of light
filled with joy beyond
my understanding.
Surrounded with peace,
I wait in awed silence
as night closes the veil.
I walk home in darkness,
light still within me.
Enraptured
Enraptured
wooded paths entry
to worlds set apart
revealing secret
inner wonders.
Enveloped
evergreens enshrine
cavern carpeted
with amber needled
radiance.
Encased
milkweed pods enclose
silken parachuted
seeds awaiting flight
on the wind.
Enchanted
mushrooms encircle
fairy ring of lore.
Stumble inside to
dance with elves.
Entangled
grass thimble en-laced
nest of hummingbird
skillfully woven
to vanish.
Enlightened
quest to encounter
divine mysteries
simply revealed on
nature’s path.
Three Olive Finches
On a grey December dawn
three olive finches sit frozen
on the feeder facing east
in solemn silence.
Watching out the window
I too am caught under the spell
of a quiet moment of
prayer without words.
The crisp morning softens as
first rays of sunlight reach over
the horizon caressing
the frigid birds.
They turn now in unison
to feast together on seed
having witnessed the divine
in warmth and light.
Wind Buffets the Trees
Wind buffets the trees,
tossing branches wildly,
flailing leaves strain their
slender connections.
I’m blinded by its force,
tangled hair whips my face,
upset by an argument,
unable to move ahead.
Dry yellow leaves fly out,
expelled amid hardy ones.
Fall’s long shadow cast over,
what remains of summer.
Solstice has passed, days grow short,
darkness lengthens into night.
Consequence of a long life,
is knowing what comes next.
I steady myself against
a swaying tree, praying
it has been made stronger,
by wind that buffets it.
Tiny Nuthatch
Tiny nuthatch picks a seed,
flies to the power pole,
perching upside down
places it in a hole.
It’s acrobatic skills
captivate this watcher.
His instinctual need
to prepare for winter.
Nearby is a downy
who sees the cache
flies to the power pole
boldly plucks out the seed.
Every season has its time
to reap, to feast, to starve.
Survival for those who
look ahead and those who watch.
As Night Falls
As night falls, darkness
moves in around me.
Standing alone, breath held,
listening……..waiting.
How does one explain
the presence of owls?
Flying on silent wings,
so quiet, they have
been mistaken for
spirits of the dead.
How does one explain
the presence of the dead?
Their voice as a dream,
a glimpse out of sight,
an improbable
answer to prayer.
How does one explain
the presence of prayer?
An owl calling out,
silhouetted in the
moonlight to his love,
stars circling above.
Tales in Snow
Trudging through snow
on a winter morning
recounts a story of those
who have gone before
leaving messages behind.
Squirrel tracks
pattern the frozen snow
like inverse braille
directing the mice below to
where feeder seeds lie.
Rabbit tracks
cluster under low branches
along with grouse and pheasant
paused in sheltered grottoes
to scan the horizon.
Deer hooves
make deep impressions
along with trailing foot
like exclamation marks
declaring caution.
Coyote prints
tracking their prey
thicken the plot
follow the narrative left
behind by the vulnerable.
Darkening clouds
promise fresh snow
starting a new chapter
of tales of those in print
who passed before.
A Curl of Brown Leaf
A curl of brown leaf
spins into the air,
released from its bond
by a gust of wind.
It twists and turns in
jubilant dance before
falling back down to
return to the soil.
No one notes its passage
except for dreamers,
who yearn to fly free
untethered from earth.
Soaring through clouds,
spun in a whirlwind,
letting go of matter,
sun, rain, and being.
Before tumbling back,
into arms of the wind,
set down to rest in
the field of leaves.
Unless the wind
desires once more,
to dance with leaves in
a swirl of ecstasy.
Diving Into the Lake
Diving into the lake
she emerges to float
weightlessly drifting
taking in the vast sky.
Within that blue expanse
an eagle circles high
flaps its wings then glides
on the air looking down.
Captured in that moment
a transcendence of self
gliding weightless along
the two become one.
Like the water and sky
they share the horizon,
communion of spirits
together soaring free.
Dark Comes Early
Dark comes early
Snow coats land
Trees stand stark
Trunks hold up
Starry sky.
Sharp cold air
Breath forms clouds
Wading through
Deep snow drifts
Steps muffled.
Moonlit field
Stag stands still
Watching me
Watching him
Sees beyond.
Looking Into the Darkness
Looking into the darkness,
she lifts her head, ears erect,
listening to sounds that
arouse her primal instincts.
Catching a scent in the air,
her nose drops to the ground,
follows it through the brush,
snaking through the tall grass.
Suddenly, she drops and rolls,
twisting back and forth,
disguising her odor with
a wild animal essence.
Leaping to her feet, the wolf
emerges from noble ancestry,
who stalked its prey, killed,
and howled with the pack.
Gazing up, the predator
sees in me the first woman,
who threw meat scraps to the pack,
from the fire, as they drew near.
Wagging her tail, she turns,
remembers the way home,
her bowl of kibble, soft bed,
and fireplace to dream beside.
In the Dead of Winter
In the dead of winter,
sun recedes behind bare trees,
temperatures plummet. Bundled,
Tara and I head out.
Thick snow blankets the brush.
Shelter for field mice,
Hide and Seek for Tara,
whose nose probes the mounds.
Leaping off the suet,
a fat squirrel escapes
in a powdery spray.
Tara strains at her leash.
In the grey dying light,
darkness replaces beauty,
stealing my attention,
invading my thoughts.
Last night, unable to sleep,
I slipped into your room,
laid my hand on your cheek,
listened to your breath.
I looked into the abyss,
felt its icy slope.
While you slept soundly,
my world started to slide.
In the dead of winter,
field mice lay hidden,
squirrels watch from afar.
Tara and I turn back.
Bitter Winter
Bitter winter.
Below zero
engine stalls.
Emotions
hibernate.
Cold takes hostage.
Tightly
bound by
parka, and wrapped scarf
mummified.
Perspective narrows,
senses
grow numb.
Deaf, blind, and mute,
darkness descends.
Deeply cocooned.
Sunlight
slips in,
melting despair,
awakening hope.
It’s All Was Talked About
It’s all was talked about,
how winter stole spring away,
those April showers bringing
only snow and dashed hopes.
Not a pretty subject for poems,
the long cold winter of
desolation and despair,
so bleak, it hurt to live.
To cope, emotions were
secreted in dark dens
like black bears deep in sleep,
their hearts barely beating.
Each day had to be faced
with grim resolution,
even the day spring came
my parka worn like a shroud.
Sun filtered through bare trees
drawing me like a moth to flame.
Turning toward the warmth with
eyes closed, red light streamed in.
Ice melted from my heart,
my frozen spirit thawed,
feelings stumbled out
of their gloomy cave.
May showers brought new growth,
hummingbirds returned along
with enough hope to store
until life’s next winter.
Drawn into the Forest
Drawn into the forest,
troubled with loss and grief,
drought, disease, destruction.
Trees respond, ‘Our roots run deep’.
Swept high into branches,
a shared communion of
breath and expiration,
life’s fragility.
When the soul departs from flesh
will it be lost in a void,
falling into an abyss
of nothingness nowhere?
‘Death brings transformation.
Our ashes sift deep in soil
to be fed by sweet rain,
nurtured by warm sunshine’.
‘We are seedlings of spirit
resurrected, reaching
to the light on new limbs
raised in praise toward heaven’.
At sunrise, feel the warmth.
As rain falls, taste its sweetness.
Reach out toward heaven,
pray roots run deep.
Quietly the Snow Falls
Quietly the snow falls.
Its feathery flight hushed
as it blankets the ground.
I stop and listen to
the music of silence.
With eyes closed, I raise my
face to the sky. Flakes coat
my cheeks, my nose, my lashes,
melt down my neck in a
frozen baptism.
I am aware of my
heart beating in my ears,
my breathing in and out,
my smallness within this
greatness, apart and a part.
Paradise may be far off, but
there is peace in this place
where distance disappears
as snow fills the silence
between heaven and earth.
Sandhill Cranes Returned
Sandhill cranes returned.
Their haunting calls echo
through the still bare trees
and frozen swamp of time.
We shout, “Welcome back,”
as spring breaks winter’s
strangle hold on us,
our bones begin to dance.
Grief no longer runs
like blood from my pen.
New birth and hope sprout
on the blank page.
The predator still lurks,
snow and cold remain
a certain threat but
death has loosed its grip.
Cranes fly above us,
giving their immortal cry
heard since time’s beginning,
“I am…I am…I am”.
Across the Linen Cloth
Across the linen cloth,
petals from the bouquet
lay scattered, red as blood,
dripping from wilted stems.
Snow continues to fall,
spring disguised as winter,
leaving life standing bare,
stealing what days remain.
Heard through worn carpet,
seen through frosted pane,
memories burnt for warmth,
leave in wisps of smoke.
Across the sky before dawn,
the waning crescent rises,
fades away to nothing,
then becomes new once more.
Wind Sings Through Trees
Wind sings through trees
swinging branches,
thunder rumbles,
in harmony.
Clouds swirl above
turning inky grey,
temperature drops,
as sky ignites.
Rain splashes down
soaking this poem,
washing the words,
clean off the page.
Wind sings on as
in the beginning,
words become flesh,
living with us.
Crying our tears,
singing our songs,
dancing with us,
out in the rain.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:16.704646
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-11",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-12
|
4 Captivated, I Listen
Constance Hodder
Sheltered Beneath the Pines
Sheltered beneath the pines,
I hear a voice calling.
First the sound of breath,
becoming a moan,
to a cry,
to a sigh,
to silence.
Captivated, I listen
again to the breath,
the moan,
the cry,
the sigh,
silence.
Is that the wind I hear
or the song of the trees?
A song of sorrow or joy,
of loss or ecstasy,
wind stroking branches
carrying seed aloft.
I am answered with silence,
my body embraced by wind.
One exists only
in the arms of the other
like wind in tree’s song.
Stepping Outside
Stepping outside, escaping
the chaos of day,
I cross into the dark
sanctum of the night.
Enclosed within its black veil
the whirlwind stills,
agitation falls away
leaving only peace.
Certainly not quiet,
in the flashlight beam bugs dance
to the love song of the toads
trilling and croaking.
A bear lumbers through the brush,
coyotes howl in the distance,
this is their territory,
we are but interlopers.
An oak branch bumps my head,
I trip over its root,
a June bug collides with me
crossing its path.
Oh, to be one with the night,
at home within this realm,
instead of a trespasser
in my own domain.
We are but visitors
of darkness as with the light,
our footprints left behind,
wash away with rain.
One day we will be welcomed
into darkness, at home
growing roots with the oak,
flying with the June bugs.
After a Storm
After a storm, air swims of worms
struggling from wet earth to breathe.
Amphibious fragrance fills ones
nostrils raised like a dog catching
a whiff of what passed before.
Awakening connections
to the primitive soul that danced
in the rain with head raised high
catching drops on a parched tongue,
tasting life’s sweet nectar.
Heeding the siren’s call to
return to the sea to swim amidst
creatures who shy from the stranger
that raises its head from the surf
to breathe the scent of moist earth.
Scraps of Paper
Scraps of paper
blown on the wind,
land to drift on
the glassy pond.
They are rescued
from the water
like sacred scrolls
treasure maps.
Birch bark layers
curl in my hands,
white to tan skins
vented to breathe.
Without words,
secret messages,
or directions,
they tell a tale.
Of a canoe,
skimming across
a glassy pond to
the pull of paddles.
A living poem,
breathing through bark,
a Paper Birch’s
legacy.
Mothers Rise at Night
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
listening for their with a gleam of light
children’s calls. on the dark horizon.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
hearing the cries painting the land
of the hungry. with a lambent glow.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
to hold their hungry in dazzling brilliance
ones to their breast. setting the sky ablaze.
Mothers rise at night
to the moon’s call
cradling their babies.
Mothers rise at night
to bathe their souls in
the moon’s radiance.
Mothers rest their babies The moon rests at dawn
back down as they rise in the glow of the rising
in the morning light. sun on the horizon.
Two Trees
Two trees stand afield as fog
on a golden wave rolls in.
Twilight enlivens the glow
until darkness fades to grey.
When did the hummingbirds leave?
Summer gives way to winter.
Days grow short. The light dims
swallowed by eternal nights.
I so hunger for color.
Will the hummingbirds return?
Oh, to be a whirling maple
casting crimson leaves to the
wind, releasing my spirit
from its earthly restraints.
Walking Toward Home
Walking toward home at sunset
I pass beneath a birch
on a brilliant carpet
of amber leaves who
once danced with the wind.
Now lay spent where time
once was and is no more.
A place apart where
flesh and blood fall away,
breath becomes spirit.
Enveloped in a golden glow
I awaken within
a sacred realm of light
filled with joy beyond
my understanding.
Surrounded with peace,
I wait in awed silence
as night closes the veil.
I walk home in darkness,
light still within me.
Enraptured
Enraptured
wooded paths entry
to worlds set apart
revealing secret
inner wonders.
Enveloped
evergreens enshrine
cavern carpeted
with amber needled
radiance.
Encased
milkweed pods enclose
silken parachuted
seeds awaiting flight
on the wind.
Enchanted
mushrooms encircle
fairy ring of lore.
Stumble inside to
dance with elves.
Entangled
grass thimble en-laced
nest of hummingbird
skillfully woven
to vanish.
Enlightened
quest to encounter
divine mysteries
simply revealed on
nature’s path.
Three Olive Finches
On a grey December dawn
three olive finches sit frozen
on the feeder facing east
in solemn silence.
Watching out the window
I too am caught under the spell
of a quiet moment of
prayer without words.
The crisp morning softens as
first rays of sunlight reach over
the horizon caressing
the frigid birds.
They turn now in unison
to feast together on seed
having witnessed the divine
in warmth and light.
Wind Buffets the Trees
Wind buffets the trees,
tossing branches wildly,
flailing leaves strain their
slender connections.
I’m blinded by its force,
tangled hair whips my face,
upset by an argument,
unable to move ahead.
Dry yellow leaves fly out,
expelled amid hardy ones.
Fall’s long shadow cast over,
what remains of summer.
Solstice has passed, days grow short,
darkness lengthens into night.
Consequence of a long life,
is knowing what comes next.
I steady myself against
a swaying tree, praying
it has been made stronger,
by wind that buffets it.
Tiny Nuthatch
Tiny nuthatch picks a seed,
flies to the power pole,
perching upside down
places it in a hole.
It’s acrobatic skills
captivate this watcher.
His instinctual need
to prepare for winter.
Nearby is a downy
who sees the cache
flies to the power pole
boldly plucks out the seed.
Every season has its time
to reap, to feast, to starve.
Survival for those who
look ahead and those who watch.
As Night Falls
As night falls, darkness
moves in around me.
Standing alone, breath held,
listening……..waiting.
How does one explain
the presence of owls?
Flying on silent wings,
so quiet, they have
been mistaken for
spirits of the dead.
How does one explain
the presence of the dead?
Their voice as a dream,
a glimpse out of sight,
an improbable
answer to prayer.
How does one explain
the presence of prayer?
An owl calling out,
silhouetted in the
moonlight to his love,
stars circling above.
Tales in Snow
Trudging through snow
on a winter morning
recounts a story of those
who have gone before
leaving messages behind.
Squirrel tracks
pattern the frozen snow
like inverse braille
directing the mice below to
where feeder seeds lie.
Rabbit tracks
cluster under low branches
along with grouse and pheasant
paused in sheltered grottoes
to scan the horizon.
Deer hooves
make deep impressions
along with trailing foot
like exclamation marks
declaring caution.
Coyote prints
tracking their prey
thicken the plot
follow the narrative left
behind by the vulnerable.
Darkening clouds
promise fresh snow
starting a new chapter
of tales of those in print
who passed before.
A Curl of Brown Leaf
A curl of brown leaf
spins into the air,
released from its bond
by a gust of wind.
It twists and turns in
jubilant dance before
falling back down to
return to the soil.
No one notes its passage
except for dreamers,
who yearn to fly free
untethered from earth.
Soaring through clouds,
spun in a whirlwind,
letting go of matter,
sun, rain, and being.
Before tumbling back,
into arms of the wind,
set down to rest in
the field of leaves.
Unless the wind
desires once more,
to dance with leaves in
a swirl of ecstasy.
Diving Into the Lake
Diving into the lake
she emerges to float
weightlessly drifting
taking in the vast sky.
Within that blue expanse
an eagle circles high
flaps its wings then glides
on the air looking down.
Captured in that moment
a transcendence of self
gliding weightless along
the two become one.
Like the water and sky
they share the horizon,
communion of spirits
together soaring free.
Dark Comes Early
Dark comes early
Snow coats land
Trees stand stark
Trunks hold up
Starry sky.
Sharp cold air
Breath forms clouds
Wading through
Deep snow drifts
Steps muffled.
Moonlit field
Stag stands still
Watching me
Watching him
Sees beyond.
Looking Into the Darkness
Looking into the darkness,
she lifts her head, ears erect,
listening to sounds that
arouse her primal instincts.
Catching a scent in the air,
her nose drops to the ground,
follows it through the brush,
snaking through the tall grass.
Suddenly, she drops and rolls,
twisting back and forth,
disguising her odor with
a wild animal essence.
Leaping to her feet, the wolf
emerges from noble ancestry,
who stalked its prey, killed,
and howled with the pack.
Gazing up, the predator
sees in me the first woman,
who threw meat scraps to the pack,
from the fire, as they drew near.
Wagging her tail, she turns,
remembers the way home,
her bowl of kibble, soft bed,
and fireplace to dream beside.
In the Dead of Winter
In the dead of winter,
sun recedes behind bare trees,
temperatures plummet. Bundled,
Tara and I head out.
Thick snow blankets the brush.
Shelter for field mice,
Hide and Seek for Tara,
whose nose probes the mounds.
Leaping off the suet,
a fat squirrel escapes
in a powdery spray.
Tara strains at her leash.
In the grey dying light,
darkness replaces beauty,
stealing my attention,
invading my thoughts.
Last night, unable to sleep,
I slipped into your room,
laid my hand on your cheek,
listened to your breath.
I looked into the abyss,
felt its icy slope.
While you slept soundly,
my world started to slide.
In the dead of winter,
field mice lay hidden,
squirrels watch from afar.
Tara and I turn back.
Bitter Winter
Bitter winter.
Below zero
engine stalls.
Emotions
hibernate.
Cold takes hostage.
Tightly
bound by
parka, and wrapped scarf
mummified.
Perspective narrows,
senses
grow numb.
Deaf, blind, and mute,
darkness descends.
Deeply cocooned.
Sunlight
slips in,
melting despair,
awakening hope.
It’s All Was Talked About
It’s all was talked about,
how winter stole spring away,
those April showers bringing
only snow and dashed hopes.
Not a pretty subject for poems,
the long cold winter of
desolation and despair,
so bleak, it hurt to live.
To cope, emotions were
secreted in dark dens
like black bears deep in sleep,
their hearts barely beating.
Each day had to be faced
with grim resolution,
even the day spring came
my parka worn like a shroud.
Sun filtered through bare trees
drawing me like a moth to flame.
Turning toward the warmth with
eyes closed, red light streamed in.
Ice melted from my heart,
my frozen spirit thawed,
feelings stumbled out
of their gloomy cave.
May showers brought new growth,
hummingbirds returned along
with enough hope to store
until life’s next winter.
Drawn into the Forest
Drawn into the forest,
troubled with loss and grief,
drought, disease, destruction.
Trees respond, ‘Our roots run deep’.
Swept high into branches,
a shared communion of
breath and expiration,
life’s fragility.
When the soul departs from flesh
will it be lost in a void,
falling into an abyss
of nothingness nowhere?
‘Death brings transformation.
Our ashes sift deep in soil
to be fed by sweet rain,
nurtured by warm sunshine’.
‘We are seedlings of spirit
resurrected, reaching
to the light on new limbs
raised in praise toward heaven’.
At sunrise, feel the warmth.
As rain falls, taste its sweetness.
Reach out toward heaven,
pray roots run deep.
Quietly the Snow Falls
Quietly the snow falls.
Its feathery flight hushed
as it blankets the ground.
I stop and listen to
the music of silence.
With eyes closed, I raise my
face to the sky. Flakes coat
my cheeks, my nose, my lashes,
melt down my neck in a
frozen baptism.
I am aware of my
heart beating in my ears,
my breathing in and out,
my smallness within this
greatness, apart and a part.
Paradise may be far off, but
there is peace in this place
where distance disappears
as snow fills the silence
between heaven and earth.
Sandhill Cranes Returned
Sandhill cranes returned.
Their haunting calls echo
through the still bare trees
and frozen swamp of time.
We shout, “Welcome back,”
as spring breaks winter’s
strangle hold on us,
our bones begin to dance.
Grief no longer runs
like blood from my pen.
New birth and hope sprout
on the blank page.
The predator still lurks,
snow and cold remain
a certain threat but
death has loosed its grip.
Cranes fly above us,
giving their immortal cry
heard since time’s beginning,
“I am…I am…I am”.
Across the Linen Cloth
Across the linen cloth,
petals from the bouquet
lay scattered, red as blood,
dripping from wilted stems.
Snow continues to fall,
spring disguised as winter,
leaving life standing bare,
stealing what days remain.
Heard through worn carpet,
seen through frosted pane,
memories burnt for warmth,
leave in wisps of smoke.
Across the sky before dawn,
the waning crescent rises,
fades away to nothing,
then becomes new once more.
Wind Sings Through Trees
Wind sings through trees
swinging branches,
thunder rumbles,
in harmony.
Clouds swirl above
turning inky grey,
temperature drops,
as sky ignites.
Rain splashes down
soaking this poem,
washing the words,
clean off the page.
Wind sings on as
in the beginning,
words become flesh,
living with us.
Crying our tears,
singing our songs,
dancing with us,
out in the rain.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:16.777727
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-12",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-13
|
4 Captivated, I Listen
Constance Hodder
Sheltered Beneath the Pines
Sheltered beneath the pines,
I hear a voice calling.
First the sound of breath,
becoming a moan,
to a cry,
to a sigh,
to silence.
Captivated, I listen
again to the breath,
the moan,
the cry,
the sigh,
silence.
Is that the wind I hear
or the song of the trees?
A song of sorrow or joy,
of loss or ecstasy,
wind stroking branches
carrying seed aloft.
I am answered with silence,
my body embraced by wind.
One exists only
in the arms of the other
like wind in tree’s song.
Stepping Outside
Stepping outside, escaping
the chaos of day,
I cross into the dark
sanctum of the night.
Enclosed within its black veil
the whirlwind stills,
agitation falls away
leaving only peace.
Certainly not quiet,
in the flashlight beam bugs dance
to the love song of the toads
trilling and croaking.
A bear lumbers through the brush,
coyotes howl in the distance,
this is their territory,
we are but interlopers.
An oak branch bumps my head,
I trip over its root,
a June bug collides with me
crossing its path.
Oh, to be one with the night,
at home within this realm,
instead of a trespasser
in my own domain.
We are but visitors
of darkness as with the light,
our footprints left behind,
wash away with rain.
One day we will be welcomed
into darkness, at home
growing roots with the oak,
flying with the June bugs.
After a Storm
After a storm, air swims of worms
struggling from wet earth to breathe.
Amphibious fragrance fills ones
nostrils raised like a dog catching
a whiff of what passed before.
Awakening connections
to the primitive soul that danced
in the rain with head raised high
catching drops on a parched tongue,
tasting life’s sweet nectar.
Heeding the siren’s call to
return to the sea to swim amidst
creatures who shy from the stranger
that raises its head from the surf
to breathe the scent of moist earth.
Scraps of Paper
Scraps of paper
blown on the wind,
land to drift on
the glassy pond.
They are rescued
from the water
like sacred scrolls
treasure maps.
Birch bark layers
curl in my hands,
white to tan skins
vented to breathe.
Without words,
secret messages,
or directions,
they tell a tale.
Of a canoe,
skimming across
a glassy pond to
the pull of paddles.
A living poem,
breathing through bark,
a Paper Birch’s
legacy.
Mothers Rise at Night
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
listening for their with a gleam of light
children’s calls. on the dark horizon.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
hearing the cries painting the land
of the hungry. with a lambent glow.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
to hold their hungry in dazzling brilliance
ones to their breast. setting the sky ablaze.
Mothers rise at night
to the moon’s call
cradling their babies.
Mothers rise at night
to bathe their souls in
the moon’s radiance.
Mothers rest their babies The moon rests at dawn
back down as they rise in the glow of the rising
in the morning light. sun on the horizon.
Two Trees
Two trees stand afield as fog
on a golden wave rolls in.
Twilight enlivens the glow
until darkness fades to grey.
When did the hummingbirds leave?
Summer gives way to winter.
Days grow short. The light dims
swallowed by eternal nights.
I so hunger for color.
Will the hummingbirds return?
Oh, to be a whirling maple
casting crimson leaves to the
wind, releasing my spirit
from its earthly restraints.
Walking Toward Home
Walking toward home at sunset
I pass beneath a birch
on a brilliant carpet
of amber leaves who
once danced with the wind.
Now lay spent where time
once was and is no more.
A place apart where
flesh and blood fall away,
breath becomes spirit.
Enveloped in a golden glow
I awaken within
a sacred realm of light
filled with joy beyond
my understanding.
Surrounded with peace,
I wait in awed silence
as night closes the veil.
I walk home in darkness,
light still within me.
Enraptured
Enraptured
wooded paths entry
to worlds set apart
revealing secret
inner wonders.
Enveloped
evergreens enshrine
cavern carpeted
with amber needled
radiance.
Encased
milkweed pods enclose
silken parachuted
seeds awaiting flight
on the wind.
Enchanted
mushrooms encircle
fairy ring of lore.
Stumble inside to
dance with elves.
Entangled
grass thimble en-laced
nest of hummingbird
skillfully woven
to vanish.
Enlightened
quest to encounter
divine mysteries
simply revealed on
nature’s path.
Three Olive Finches
On a grey December dawn
three olive finches sit frozen
on the feeder facing east
in solemn silence.
Watching out the window
I too am caught under the spell
of a quiet moment of
prayer without words.
The crisp morning softens as
first rays of sunlight reach over
the horizon caressing
the frigid birds.
They turn now in unison
to feast together on seed
having witnessed the divine
in warmth and light.
Wind Buffets the Trees
Wind buffets the trees,
tossing branches wildly,
flailing leaves strain their
slender connections.
I’m blinded by its force,
tangled hair whips my face,
upset by an argument,
unable to move ahead.
Dry yellow leaves fly out,
expelled amid hardy ones.
Fall’s long shadow cast over,
what remains of summer.
Solstice has passed, days grow short,
darkness lengthens into night.
Consequence of a long life,
is knowing what comes next.
I steady myself against
a swaying tree, praying
it has been made stronger,
by wind that buffets it.
Tiny Nuthatch
Tiny nuthatch picks a seed,
flies to the power pole,
perching upside down
places it in a hole.
It’s acrobatic skills
captivate this watcher.
His instinctual need
to prepare for winter.
Nearby is a downy
who sees the cache
flies to the power pole
boldly plucks out the seed.
Every season has its time
to reap, to feast, to starve.
Survival for those who
look ahead and those who watch.
As Night Falls
As night falls, darkness
moves in around me.
Standing alone, breath held,
listening……..waiting.
How does one explain
the presence of owls?
Flying on silent wings,
so quiet, they have
been mistaken for
spirits of the dead.
How does one explain
the presence of the dead?
Their voice as a dream,
a glimpse out of sight,
an improbable
answer to prayer.
How does one explain
the presence of prayer?
An owl calling out,
silhouetted in the
moonlight to his love,
stars circling above.
Tales in Snow
Trudging through snow
on a winter morning
recounts a story of those
who have gone before
leaving messages behind.
Squirrel tracks
pattern the frozen snow
like inverse braille
directing the mice below to
where feeder seeds lie.
Rabbit tracks
cluster under low branches
along with grouse and pheasant
paused in sheltered grottoes
to scan the horizon.
Deer hooves
make deep impressions
along with trailing foot
like exclamation marks
declaring caution.
Coyote prints
tracking their prey
thicken the plot
follow the narrative left
behind by the vulnerable.
Darkening clouds
promise fresh snow
starting a new chapter
of tales of those in print
who passed before.
A Curl of Brown Leaf
A curl of brown leaf
spins into the air,
released from its bond
by a gust of wind.
It twists and turns in
jubilant dance before
falling back down to
return to the soil.
No one notes its passage
except for dreamers,
who yearn to fly free
untethered from earth.
Soaring through clouds,
spun in a whirlwind,
letting go of matter,
sun, rain, and being.
Before tumbling back,
into arms of the wind,
set down to rest in
the field of leaves.
Unless the wind
desires once more,
to dance with leaves in
a swirl of ecstasy.
Diving Into the Lake
Diving into the lake
she emerges to float
weightlessly drifting
taking in the vast sky.
Within that blue expanse
an eagle circles high
flaps its wings then glides
on the air looking down.
Captured in that moment
a transcendence of self
gliding weightless along
the two become one.
Like the water and sky
they share the horizon,
communion of spirits
together soaring free.
Dark Comes Early
Dark comes early
Snow coats land
Trees stand stark
Trunks hold up
Starry sky.
Sharp cold air
Breath forms clouds
Wading through
Deep snow drifts
Steps muffled.
Moonlit field
Stag stands still
Watching me
Watching him
Sees beyond.
Looking Into the Darkness
Looking into the darkness,
she lifts her head, ears erect,
listening to sounds that
arouse her primal instincts.
Catching a scent in the air,
her nose drops to the ground,
follows it through the brush,
snaking through the tall grass.
Suddenly, she drops and rolls,
twisting back and forth,
disguising her odor with
a wild animal essence.
Leaping to her feet, the wolf
emerges from noble ancestry,
who stalked its prey, killed,
and howled with the pack.
Gazing up, the predator
sees in me the first woman,
who threw meat scraps to the pack,
from the fire, as they drew near.
Wagging her tail, she turns,
remembers the way home,
her bowl of kibble, soft bed,
and fireplace to dream beside.
In the Dead of Winter
In the dead of winter,
sun recedes behind bare trees,
temperatures plummet. Bundled,
Tara and I head out.
Thick snow blankets the brush.
Shelter for field mice,
Hide and Seek for Tara,
whose nose probes the mounds.
Leaping off the suet,
a fat squirrel escapes
in a powdery spray.
Tara strains at her leash.
In the grey dying light,
darkness replaces beauty,
stealing my attention,
invading my thoughts.
Last night, unable to sleep,
I slipped into your room,
laid my hand on your cheek,
listened to your breath.
I looked into the abyss,
felt its icy slope.
While you slept soundly,
my world started to slide.
In the dead of winter,
field mice lay hidden,
squirrels watch from afar.
Tara and I turn back.
Bitter Winter
Bitter winter.
Below zero
engine stalls.
Emotions
hibernate.
Cold takes hostage.
Tightly
bound by
parka, and wrapped scarf
mummified.
Perspective narrows,
senses
grow numb.
Deaf, blind, and mute,
darkness descends.
Deeply cocooned.
Sunlight
slips in,
melting despair,
awakening hope.
It’s All Was Talked About
It’s all was talked about,
how winter stole spring away,
those April showers bringing
only snow and dashed hopes.
Not a pretty subject for poems,
the long cold winter of
desolation and despair,
so bleak, it hurt to live.
To cope, emotions were
secreted in dark dens
like black bears deep in sleep,
their hearts barely beating.
Each day had to be faced
with grim resolution,
even the day spring came
my parka worn like a shroud.
Sun filtered through bare trees
drawing me like a moth to flame.
Turning toward the warmth with
eyes closed, red light streamed in.
Ice melted from my heart,
my frozen spirit thawed,
feelings stumbled out
of their gloomy cave.
May showers brought new growth,
hummingbirds returned along
with enough hope to store
until life’s next winter.
Drawn into the Forest
Drawn into the forest,
troubled with loss and grief,
drought, disease, destruction.
Trees respond, ‘Our roots run deep’.
Swept high into branches,
a shared communion of
breath and expiration,
life’s fragility.
When the soul departs from flesh
will it be lost in a void,
falling into an abyss
of nothingness nowhere?
‘Death brings transformation.
Our ashes sift deep in soil
to be fed by sweet rain,
nurtured by warm sunshine’.
‘We are seedlings of spirit
resurrected, reaching
to the light on new limbs
raised in praise toward heaven’.
At sunrise, feel the warmth.
As rain falls, taste its sweetness.
Reach out toward heaven,
pray roots run deep.
Quietly the Snow Falls
Quietly the snow falls.
Its feathery flight hushed
as it blankets the ground.
I stop and listen to
the music of silence.
With eyes closed, I raise my
face to the sky. Flakes coat
my cheeks, my nose, my lashes,
melt down my neck in a
frozen baptism.
I am aware of my
heart beating in my ears,
my breathing in and out,
my smallness within this
greatness, apart and a part.
Paradise may be far off, but
there is peace in this place
where distance disappears
as snow fills the silence
between heaven and earth.
Sandhill Cranes Returned
Sandhill cranes returned.
Their haunting calls echo
through the still bare trees
and frozen swamp of time.
We shout, “Welcome back,”
as spring breaks winter’s
strangle hold on us,
our bones begin to dance.
Grief no longer runs
like blood from my pen.
New birth and hope sprout
on the blank page.
The predator still lurks,
snow and cold remain
a certain threat but
death has loosed its grip.
Cranes fly above us,
giving their immortal cry
heard since time’s beginning,
“I am…I am…I am”.
Across the Linen Cloth
Across the linen cloth,
petals from the bouquet
lay scattered, red as blood,
dripping from wilted stems.
Snow continues to fall,
spring disguised as winter,
leaving life standing bare,
stealing what days remain.
Heard through worn carpet,
seen through frosted pane,
memories burnt for warmth,
leave in wisps of smoke.
Across the sky before dawn,
the waning crescent rises,
fades away to nothing,
then becomes new once more.
Wind Sings Through Trees
Wind sings through trees
swinging branches,
thunder rumbles,
in harmony.
Clouds swirl above
turning inky grey,
temperature drops,
as sky ignites.
Rain splashes down
soaking this poem,
washing the words,
clean off the page.
Wind sings on as
in the beginning,
words become flesh,
living with us.
Crying our tears,
singing our songs,
dancing with us,
out in the rain.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:16.850837
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-13",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-14
|
4 Captivated, I Listen
Constance Hodder
Sheltered Beneath the Pines
Sheltered beneath the pines,
I hear a voice calling.
First the sound of breath,
becoming a moan,
to a cry,
to a sigh,
to silence.
Captivated, I listen
again to the breath,
the moan,
the cry,
the sigh,
silence.
Is that the wind I hear
or the song of the trees?
A song of sorrow or joy,
of loss or ecstasy,
wind stroking branches
carrying seed aloft.
I am answered with silence,
my body embraced by wind.
One exists only
in the arms of the other
like wind in tree’s song.
Stepping Outside
Stepping outside, escaping
the chaos of day,
I cross into the dark
sanctum of the night.
Enclosed within its black veil
the whirlwind stills,
agitation falls away
leaving only peace.
Certainly not quiet,
in the flashlight beam bugs dance
to the love song of the toads
trilling and croaking.
A bear lumbers through the brush,
coyotes howl in the distance,
this is their territory,
we are but interlopers.
An oak branch bumps my head,
I trip over its root,
a June bug collides with me
crossing its path.
Oh, to be one with the night,
at home within this realm,
instead of a trespasser
in my own domain.
We are but visitors
of darkness as with the light,
our footprints left behind,
wash away with rain.
One day we will be welcomed
into darkness, at home
growing roots with the oak,
flying with the June bugs.
After a Storm
After a storm, air swims of worms
struggling from wet earth to breathe.
Amphibious fragrance fills ones
nostrils raised like a dog catching
a whiff of what passed before.
Awakening connections
to the primitive soul that danced
in the rain with head raised high
catching drops on a parched tongue,
tasting life’s sweet nectar.
Heeding the siren’s call to
return to the sea to swim amidst
creatures who shy from the stranger
that raises its head from the surf
to breathe the scent of moist earth.
Scraps of Paper
Scraps of paper
blown on the wind,
land to drift on
the glassy pond.
They are rescued
from the water
like sacred scrolls
treasure maps.
Birch bark layers
curl in my hands,
white to tan skins
vented to breathe.
Without words,
secret messages,
or directions,
they tell a tale.
Of a canoe,
skimming across
a glassy pond to
the pull of paddles.
A living poem,
breathing through bark,
a Paper Birch’s
legacy.
Mothers Rise at Night
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
listening for their with a gleam of light
children’s calls. on the dark horizon.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
hearing the cries painting the land
of the hungry. with a lambent glow.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
to hold their hungry in dazzling brilliance
ones to their breast. setting the sky ablaze.
Mothers rise at night
to the moon’s call
cradling their babies.
Mothers rise at night
to bathe their souls in
the moon’s radiance.
Mothers rest their babies The moon rests at dawn
back down as they rise in the glow of the rising
in the morning light. sun on the horizon.
Two Trees
Two trees stand afield as fog
on a golden wave rolls in.
Twilight enlivens the glow
until darkness fades to grey.
When did the hummingbirds leave?
Summer gives way to winter.
Days grow short. The light dims
swallowed by eternal nights.
I so hunger for color.
Will the hummingbirds return?
Oh, to be a whirling maple
casting crimson leaves to the
wind, releasing my spirit
from its earthly restraints.
Walking Toward Home
Walking toward home at sunset
I pass beneath a birch
on a brilliant carpet
of amber leaves who
once danced with the wind.
Now lay spent where time
once was and is no more.
A place apart where
flesh and blood fall away,
breath becomes spirit.
Enveloped in a golden glow
I awaken within
a sacred realm of light
filled with joy beyond
my understanding.
Surrounded with peace,
I wait in awed silence
as night closes the veil.
I walk home in darkness,
light still within me.
Enraptured
Enraptured
wooded paths entry
to worlds set apart
revealing secret
inner wonders.
Enveloped
evergreens enshrine
cavern carpeted
with amber needled
radiance.
Encased
milkweed pods enclose
silken parachuted
seeds awaiting flight
on the wind.
Enchanted
mushrooms encircle
fairy ring of lore.
Stumble inside to
dance with elves.
Entangled
grass thimble en-laced
nest of hummingbird
skillfully woven
to vanish.
Enlightened
quest to encounter
divine mysteries
simply revealed on
nature’s path.
Three Olive Finches
On a grey December dawn
three olive finches sit frozen
on the feeder facing east
in solemn silence.
Watching out the window
I too am caught under the spell
of a quiet moment of
prayer without words.
The crisp morning softens as
first rays of sunlight reach over
the horizon caressing
the frigid birds.
They turn now in unison
to feast together on seed
having witnessed the divine
in warmth and light.
Wind Buffets the Trees
Wind buffets the trees,
tossing branches wildly,
flailing leaves strain their
slender connections.
I’m blinded by its force,
tangled hair whips my face,
upset by an argument,
unable to move ahead.
Dry yellow leaves fly out,
expelled amid hardy ones.
Fall’s long shadow cast over,
what remains of summer.
Solstice has passed, days grow short,
darkness lengthens into night.
Consequence of a long life,
is knowing what comes next.
I steady myself against
a swaying tree, praying
it has been made stronger,
by wind that buffets it.
Tiny Nuthatch
Tiny nuthatch picks a seed,
flies to the power pole,
perching upside down
places it in a hole.
It’s acrobatic skills
captivate this watcher.
His instinctual need
to prepare for winter.
Nearby is a downy
who sees the cache
flies to the power pole
boldly plucks out the seed.
Every season has its time
to reap, to feast, to starve.
Survival for those who
look ahead and those who watch.
As Night Falls
As night falls, darkness
moves in around me.
Standing alone, breath held,
listening……..waiting.
How does one explain
the presence of owls?
Flying on silent wings,
so quiet, they have
been mistaken for
spirits of the dead.
How does one explain
the presence of the dead?
Their voice as a dream,
a glimpse out of sight,
an improbable
answer to prayer.
How does one explain
the presence of prayer?
An owl calling out,
silhouetted in the
moonlight to his love,
stars circling above.
Tales in Snow
Trudging through snow
on a winter morning
recounts a story of those
who have gone before
leaving messages behind.
Squirrel tracks
pattern the frozen snow
like inverse braille
directing the mice below to
where feeder seeds lie.
Rabbit tracks
cluster under low branches
along with grouse and pheasant
paused in sheltered grottoes
to scan the horizon.
Deer hooves
make deep impressions
along with trailing foot
like exclamation marks
declaring caution.
Coyote prints
tracking their prey
thicken the plot
follow the narrative left
behind by the vulnerable.
Darkening clouds
promise fresh snow
starting a new chapter
of tales of those in print
who passed before.
A Curl of Brown Leaf
A curl of brown leaf
spins into the air,
released from its bond
by a gust of wind.
It twists and turns in
jubilant dance before
falling back down to
return to the soil.
No one notes its passage
except for dreamers,
who yearn to fly free
untethered from earth.
Soaring through clouds,
spun in a whirlwind,
letting go of matter,
sun, rain, and being.
Before tumbling back,
into arms of the wind,
set down to rest in
the field of leaves.
Unless the wind
desires once more,
to dance with leaves in
a swirl of ecstasy.
Diving Into the Lake
Diving into the lake
she emerges to float
weightlessly drifting
taking in the vast sky.
Within that blue expanse
an eagle circles high
flaps its wings then glides
on the air looking down.
Captured in that moment
a transcendence of self
gliding weightless along
the two become one.
Like the water and sky
they share the horizon,
communion of spirits
together soaring free.
Dark Comes Early
Dark comes early
Snow coats land
Trees stand stark
Trunks hold up
Starry sky.
Sharp cold air
Breath forms clouds
Wading through
Deep snow drifts
Steps muffled.
Moonlit field
Stag stands still
Watching me
Watching him
Sees beyond.
Looking Into the Darkness
Looking into the darkness,
she lifts her head, ears erect,
listening to sounds that
arouse her primal instincts.
Catching a scent in the air,
her nose drops to the ground,
follows it through the brush,
snaking through the tall grass.
Suddenly, she drops and rolls,
twisting back and forth,
disguising her odor with
a wild animal essence.
Leaping to her feet, the wolf
emerges from noble ancestry,
who stalked its prey, killed,
and howled with the pack.
Gazing up, the predator
sees in me the first woman,
who threw meat scraps to the pack,
from the fire, as they drew near.
Wagging her tail, she turns,
remembers the way home,
her bowl of kibble, soft bed,
and fireplace to dream beside.
In the Dead of Winter
In the dead of winter,
sun recedes behind bare trees,
temperatures plummet. Bundled,
Tara and I head out.
Thick snow blankets the brush.
Shelter for field mice,
Hide and Seek for Tara,
whose nose probes the mounds.
Leaping off the suet,
a fat squirrel escapes
in a powdery spray.
Tara strains at her leash.
In the grey dying light,
darkness replaces beauty,
stealing my attention,
invading my thoughts.
Last night, unable to sleep,
I slipped into your room,
laid my hand on your cheek,
listened to your breath.
I looked into the abyss,
felt its icy slope.
While you slept soundly,
my world started to slide.
In the dead of winter,
field mice lay hidden,
squirrels watch from afar.
Tara and I turn back.
Bitter Winter
Bitter winter.
Below zero
engine stalls.
Emotions
hibernate.
Cold takes hostage.
Tightly
bound by
parka, and wrapped scarf
mummified.
Perspective narrows,
senses
grow numb.
Deaf, blind, and mute,
darkness descends.
Deeply cocooned.
Sunlight
slips in,
melting despair,
awakening hope.
It’s All Was Talked About
It’s all was talked about,
how winter stole spring away,
those April showers bringing
only snow and dashed hopes.
Not a pretty subject for poems,
the long cold winter of
desolation and despair,
so bleak, it hurt to live.
To cope, emotions were
secreted in dark dens
like black bears deep in sleep,
their hearts barely beating.
Each day had to be faced
with grim resolution,
even the day spring came
my parka worn like a shroud.
Sun filtered through bare trees
drawing me like a moth to flame.
Turning toward the warmth with
eyes closed, red light streamed in.
Ice melted from my heart,
my frozen spirit thawed,
feelings stumbled out
of their gloomy cave.
May showers brought new growth,
hummingbirds returned along
with enough hope to store
until life’s next winter.
Drawn into the Forest
Drawn into the forest,
troubled with loss and grief,
drought, disease, destruction.
Trees respond, ‘Our roots run deep’.
Swept high into branches,
a shared communion of
breath and expiration,
life’s fragility.
When the soul departs from flesh
will it be lost in a void,
falling into an abyss
of nothingness nowhere?
‘Death brings transformation.
Our ashes sift deep in soil
to be fed by sweet rain,
nurtured by warm sunshine’.
‘We are seedlings of spirit
resurrected, reaching
to the light on new limbs
raised in praise toward heaven’.
At sunrise, feel the warmth.
As rain falls, taste its sweetness.
Reach out toward heaven,
pray roots run deep.
Quietly the Snow Falls
Quietly the snow falls.
Its feathery flight hushed
as it blankets the ground.
I stop and listen to
the music of silence.
With eyes closed, I raise my
face to the sky. Flakes coat
my cheeks, my nose, my lashes,
melt down my neck in a
frozen baptism.
I am aware of my
heart beating in my ears,
my breathing in and out,
my smallness within this
greatness, apart and a part.
Paradise may be far off, but
there is peace in this place
where distance disappears
as snow fills the silence
between heaven and earth.
Sandhill Cranes Returned
Sandhill cranes returned.
Their haunting calls echo
through the still bare trees
and frozen swamp of time.
We shout, “Welcome back,”
as spring breaks winter’s
strangle hold on us,
our bones begin to dance.
Grief no longer runs
like blood from my pen.
New birth and hope sprout
on the blank page.
The predator still lurks,
snow and cold remain
a certain threat but
death has loosed its grip.
Cranes fly above us,
giving their immortal cry
heard since time’s beginning,
“I am…I am…I am”.
Across the Linen Cloth
Across the linen cloth,
petals from the bouquet
lay scattered, red as blood,
dripping from wilted stems.
Snow continues to fall,
spring disguised as winter,
leaving life standing bare,
stealing what days remain.
Heard through worn carpet,
seen through frosted pane,
memories burnt for warmth,
leave in wisps of smoke.
Across the sky before dawn,
the waning crescent rises,
fades away to nothing,
then becomes new once more.
Wind Sings Through Trees
Wind sings through trees
swinging branches,
thunder rumbles,
in harmony.
Clouds swirl above
turning inky grey,
temperature drops,
as sky ignites.
Rain splashes down
soaking this poem,
washing the words,
clean off the page.
Wind sings on as
in the beginning,
words become flesh,
living with us.
Crying our tears,
singing our songs,
dancing with us,
out in the rain.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:16.924469
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-14",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-15
|
4 Captivated, I Listen
Constance Hodder
Sheltered Beneath the Pines
Sheltered beneath the pines,
I hear a voice calling.
First the sound of breath,
becoming a moan,
to a cry,
to a sigh,
to silence.
Captivated, I listen
again to the breath,
the moan,
the cry,
the sigh,
silence.
Is that the wind I hear
or the song of the trees?
A song of sorrow or joy,
of loss or ecstasy,
wind stroking branches
carrying seed aloft.
I am answered with silence,
my body embraced by wind.
One exists only
in the arms of the other
like wind in tree’s song.
Stepping Outside
Stepping outside, escaping
the chaos of day,
I cross into the dark
sanctum of the night.
Enclosed within its black veil
the whirlwind stills,
agitation falls away
leaving only peace.
Certainly not quiet,
in the flashlight beam bugs dance
to the love song of the toads
trilling and croaking.
A bear lumbers through the brush,
coyotes howl in the distance,
this is their territory,
we are but interlopers.
An oak branch bumps my head,
I trip over its root,
a June bug collides with me
crossing its path.
Oh, to be one with the night,
at home within this realm,
instead of a trespasser
in my own domain.
We are but visitors
of darkness as with the light,
our footprints left behind,
wash away with rain.
One day we will be welcomed
into darkness, at home
growing roots with the oak,
flying with the June bugs.
After a Storm
After a storm, air swims of worms
struggling from wet earth to breathe.
Amphibious fragrance fills ones
nostrils raised like a dog catching
a whiff of what passed before.
Awakening connections
to the primitive soul that danced
in the rain with head raised high
catching drops on a parched tongue,
tasting life’s sweet nectar.
Heeding the siren’s call to
return to the sea to swim amidst
creatures who shy from the stranger
that raises its head from the surf
to breathe the scent of moist earth.
Scraps of Paper
Scraps of paper
blown on the wind,
land to drift on
the glassy pond.
They are rescued
from the water
like sacred scrolls
treasure maps.
Birch bark layers
curl in my hands,
white to tan skins
vented to breathe.
Without words,
secret messages,
or directions,
they tell a tale.
Of a canoe,
skimming across
a glassy pond to
the pull of paddles.
A living poem,
breathing through bark,
a Paper Birch’s
legacy.
Mothers Rise at Night
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
listening for their with a gleam of light
children’s calls. on the dark horizon.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
hearing the cries painting the land
of the hungry. with a lambent glow.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
to hold their hungry in dazzling brilliance
ones to their breast. setting the sky ablaze.
Mothers rise at night
to the moon’s call
cradling their babies.
Mothers rise at night
to bathe their souls in
the moon’s radiance.
Mothers rest their babies The moon rests at dawn
back down as they rise in the glow of the rising
in the morning light. sun on the horizon.
Two Trees
Two trees stand afield as fog
on a golden wave rolls in.
Twilight enlivens the glow
until darkness fades to grey.
When did the hummingbirds leave?
Summer gives way to winter.
Days grow short. The light dims
swallowed by eternal nights.
I so hunger for color.
Will the hummingbirds return?
Oh, to be a whirling maple
casting crimson leaves to the
wind, releasing my spirit
from its earthly restraints.
Walking Toward Home
Walking toward home at sunset
I pass beneath a birch
on a brilliant carpet
of amber leaves who
once danced with the wind.
Now lay spent where time
once was and is no more.
A place apart where
flesh and blood fall away,
breath becomes spirit.
Enveloped in a golden glow
I awaken within
a sacred realm of light
filled with joy beyond
my understanding.
Surrounded with peace,
I wait in awed silence
as night closes the veil.
I walk home in darkness,
light still within me.
Enraptured
Enraptured
wooded paths entry
to worlds set apart
revealing secret
inner wonders.
Enveloped
evergreens enshrine
cavern carpeted
with amber needled
radiance.
Encased
milkweed pods enclose
silken parachuted
seeds awaiting flight
on the wind.
Enchanted
mushrooms encircle
fairy ring of lore.
Stumble inside to
dance with elves.
Entangled
grass thimble en-laced
nest of hummingbird
skillfully woven
to vanish.
Enlightened
quest to encounter
divine mysteries
simply revealed on
nature’s path.
Three Olive Finches
On a grey December dawn
three olive finches sit frozen
on the feeder facing east
in solemn silence.
Watching out the window
I too am caught under the spell
of a quiet moment of
prayer without words.
The crisp morning softens as
first rays of sunlight reach over
the horizon caressing
the frigid birds.
They turn now in unison
to feast together on seed
having witnessed the divine
in warmth and light.
Wind Buffets the Trees
Wind buffets the trees,
tossing branches wildly,
flailing leaves strain their
slender connections.
I’m blinded by its force,
tangled hair whips my face,
upset by an argument,
unable to move ahead.
Dry yellow leaves fly out,
expelled amid hardy ones.
Fall’s long shadow cast over,
what remains of summer.
Solstice has passed, days grow short,
darkness lengthens into night.
Consequence of a long life,
is knowing what comes next.
I steady myself against
a swaying tree, praying
it has been made stronger,
by wind that buffets it.
Tiny Nuthatch
Tiny nuthatch picks a seed,
flies to the power pole,
perching upside down
places it in a hole.
It’s acrobatic skills
captivate this watcher.
His instinctual need
to prepare for winter.
Nearby is a downy
who sees the cache
flies to the power pole
boldly plucks out the seed.
Every season has its time
to reap, to feast, to starve.
Survival for those who
look ahead and those who watch.
As Night Falls
As night falls, darkness
moves in around me.
Standing alone, breath held,
listening……..waiting.
How does one explain
the presence of owls?
Flying on silent wings,
so quiet, they have
been mistaken for
spirits of the dead.
How does one explain
the presence of the dead?
Their voice as a dream,
a glimpse out of sight,
an improbable
answer to prayer.
How does one explain
the presence of prayer?
An owl calling out,
silhouetted in the
moonlight to his love,
stars circling above.
Tales in Snow
Trudging through snow
on a winter morning
recounts a story of those
who have gone before
leaving messages behind.
Squirrel tracks
pattern the frozen snow
like inverse braille
directing the mice below to
where feeder seeds lie.
Rabbit tracks
cluster under low branches
along with grouse and pheasant
paused in sheltered grottoes
to scan the horizon.
Deer hooves
make deep impressions
along with trailing foot
like exclamation marks
declaring caution.
Coyote prints
tracking their prey
thicken the plot
follow the narrative left
behind by the vulnerable.
Darkening clouds
promise fresh snow
starting a new chapter
of tales of those in print
who passed before.
A Curl of Brown Leaf
A curl of brown leaf
spins into the air,
released from its bond
by a gust of wind.
It twists and turns in
jubilant dance before
falling back down to
return to the soil.
No one notes its passage
except for dreamers,
who yearn to fly free
untethered from earth.
Soaring through clouds,
spun in a whirlwind,
letting go of matter,
sun, rain, and being.
Before tumbling back,
into arms of the wind,
set down to rest in
the field of leaves.
Unless the wind
desires once more,
to dance with leaves in
a swirl of ecstasy.
Diving Into the Lake
Diving into the lake
she emerges to float
weightlessly drifting
taking in the vast sky.
Within that blue expanse
an eagle circles high
flaps its wings then glides
on the air looking down.
Captured in that moment
a transcendence of self
gliding weightless along
the two become one.
Like the water and sky
they share the horizon,
communion of spirits
together soaring free.
Dark Comes Early
Dark comes early
Snow coats land
Trees stand stark
Trunks hold up
Starry sky.
Sharp cold air
Breath forms clouds
Wading through
Deep snow drifts
Steps muffled.
Moonlit field
Stag stands still
Watching me
Watching him
Sees beyond.
Looking Into the Darkness
Looking into the darkness,
she lifts her head, ears erect,
listening to sounds that
arouse her primal instincts.
Catching a scent in the air,
her nose drops to the ground,
follows it through the brush,
snaking through the tall grass.
Suddenly, she drops and rolls,
twisting back and forth,
disguising her odor with
a wild animal essence.
Leaping to her feet, the wolf
emerges from noble ancestry,
who stalked its prey, killed,
and howled with the pack.
Gazing up, the predator
sees in me the first woman,
who threw meat scraps to the pack,
from the fire, as they drew near.
Wagging her tail, she turns,
remembers the way home,
her bowl of kibble, soft bed,
and fireplace to dream beside.
In the Dead of Winter
In the dead of winter,
sun recedes behind bare trees,
temperatures plummet. Bundled,
Tara and I head out.
Thick snow blankets the brush.
Shelter for field mice,
Hide and Seek for Tara,
whose nose probes the mounds.
Leaping off the suet,
a fat squirrel escapes
in a powdery spray.
Tara strains at her leash.
In the grey dying light,
darkness replaces beauty,
stealing my attention,
invading my thoughts.
Last night, unable to sleep,
I slipped into your room,
laid my hand on your cheek,
listened to your breath.
I looked into the abyss,
felt its icy slope.
While you slept soundly,
my world started to slide.
In the dead of winter,
field mice lay hidden,
squirrels watch from afar.
Tara and I turn back.
Bitter Winter
Bitter winter.
Below zero
engine stalls.
Emotions
hibernate.
Cold takes hostage.
Tightly
bound by
parka, and wrapped scarf
mummified.
Perspective narrows,
senses
grow numb.
Deaf, blind, and mute,
darkness descends.
Deeply cocooned.
Sunlight
slips in,
melting despair,
awakening hope.
It’s All Was Talked About
It’s all was talked about,
how winter stole spring away,
those April showers bringing
only snow and dashed hopes.
Not a pretty subject for poems,
the long cold winter of
desolation and despair,
so bleak, it hurt to live.
To cope, emotions were
secreted in dark dens
like black bears deep in sleep,
their hearts barely beating.
Each day had to be faced
with grim resolution,
even the day spring came
my parka worn like a shroud.
Sun filtered through bare trees
drawing me like a moth to flame.
Turning toward the warmth with
eyes closed, red light streamed in.
Ice melted from my heart,
my frozen spirit thawed,
feelings stumbled out
of their gloomy cave.
May showers brought new growth,
hummingbirds returned along
with enough hope to store
until life’s next winter.
Drawn into the Forest
Drawn into the forest,
troubled with loss and grief,
drought, disease, destruction.
Trees respond, ‘Our roots run deep’.
Swept high into branches,
a shared communion of
breath and expiration,
life’s fragility.
When the soul departs from flesh
will it be lost in a void,
falling into an abyss
of nothingness nowhere?
‘Death brings transformation.
Our ashes sift deep in soil
to be fed by sweet rain,
nurtured by warm sunshine’.
‘We are seedlings of spirit
resurrected, reaching
to the light on new limbs
raised in praise toward heaven’.
At sunrise, feel the warmth.
As rain falls, taste its sweetness.
Reach out toward heaven,
pray roots run deep.
Quietly the Snow Falls
Quietly the snow falls.
Its feathery flight hushed
as it blankets the ground.
I stop and listen to
the music of silence.
With eyes closed, I raise my
face to the sky. Flakes coat
my cheeks, my nose, my lashes,
melt down my neck in a
frozen baptism.
I am aware of my
heart beating in my ears,
my breathing in and out,
my smallness within this
greatness, apart and a part.
Paradise may be far off, but
there is peace in this place
where distance disappears
as snow fills the silence
between heaven and earth.
Sandhill Cranes Returned
Sandhill cranes returned.
Their haunting calls echo
through the still bare trees
and frozen swamp of time.
We shout, “Welcome back,”
as spring breaks winter’s
strangle hold on us,
our bones begin to dance.
Grief no longer runs
like blood from my pen.
New birth and hope sprout
on the blank page.
The predator still lurks,
snow and cold remain
a certain threat but
death has loosed its grip.
Cranes fly above us,
giving their immortal cry
heard since time’s beginning,
“I am…I am…I am”.
Across the Linen Cloth
Across the linen cloth,
petals from the bouquet
lay scattered, red as blood,
dripping from wilted stems.
Snow continues to fall,
spring disguised as winter,
leaving life standing bare,
stealing what days remain.
Heard through worn carpet,
seen through frosted pane,
memories burnt for warmth,
leave in wisps of smoke.
Across the sky before dawn,
the waning crescent rises,
fades away to nothing,
then becomes new once more.
Wind Sings Through Trees
Wind sings through trees
swinging branches,
thunder rumbles,
in harmony.
Clouds swirl above
turning inky grey,
temperature drops,
as sky ignites.
Rain splashes down
soaking this poem,
washing the words,
clean off the page.
Wind sings on as
in the beginning,
words become flesh,
living with us.
Crying our tears,
singing our songs,
dancing with us,
out in the rain.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:16.997273
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-15",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-16
|
4 Captivated, I Listen
Constance Hodder
Sheltered Beneath the Pines
Sheltered beneath the pines,
I hear a voice calling.
First the sound of breath,
becoming a moan,
to a cry,
to a sigh,
to silence.
Captivated, I listen
again to the breath,
the moan,
the cry,
the sigh,
silence.
Is that the wind I hear
or the song of the trees?
A song of sorrow or joy,
of loss or ecstasy,
wind stroking branches
carrying seed aloft.
I am answered with silence,
my body embraced by wind.
One exists only
in the arms of the other
like wind in tree’s song.
Stepping Outside
Stepping outside, escaping
the chaos of day,
I cross into the dark
sanctum of the night.
Enclosed within its black veil
the whirlwind stills,
agitation falls away
leaving only peace.
Certainly not quiet,
in the flashlight beam bugs dance
to the love song of the toads
trilling and croaking.
A bear lumbers through the brush,
coyotes howl in the distance,
this is their territory,
we are but interlopers.
An oak branch bumps my head,
I trip over its root,
a June bug collides with me
crossing its path.
Oh, to be one with the night,
at home within this realm,
instead of a trespasser
in my own domain.
We are but visitors
of darkness as with the light,
our footprints left behind,
wash away with rain.
One day we will be welcomed
into darkness, at home
growing roots with the oak,
flying with the June bugs.
After a Storm
After a storm, air swims of worms
struggling from wet earth to breathe.
Amphibious fragrance fills ones
nostrils raised like a dog catching
a whiff of what passed before.
Awakening connections
to the primitive soul that danced
in the rain with head raised high
catching drops on a parched tongue,
tasting life’s sweet nectar.
Heeding the siren’s call to
return to the sea to swim amidst
creatures who shy from the stranger
that raises its head from the surf
to breathe the scent of moist earth.
Scraps of Paper
Scraps of paper
blown on the wind,
land to drift on
the glassy pond.
They are rescued
from the water
like sacred scrolls
treasure maps.
Birch bark layers
curl in my hands,
white to tan skins
vented to breathe.
Without words,
secret messages,
or directions,
they tell a tale.
Of a canoe,
skimming across
a glassy pond to
the pull of paddles.
A living poem,
breathing through bark,
a Paper Birch’s
legacy.
Mothers Rise at Night
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
listening for their with a gleam of light
children’s calls. on the dark horizon.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
hearing the cries painting the land
of the hungry. with a lambent glow.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
to hold their hungry in dazzling brilliance
ones to their breast. setting the sky ablaze.
Mothers rise at night
to the moon’s call
cradling their babies.
Mothers rise at night
to bathe their souls in
the moon’s radiance.
Mothers rest their babies The moon rests at dawn
back down as they rise in the glow of the rising
in the morning light. sun on the horizon.
Two Trees
Two trees stand afield as fog
on a golden wave rolls in.
Twilight enlivens the glow
until darkness fades to grey.
When did the hummingbirds leave?
Summer gives way to winter.
Days grow short. The light dims
swallowed by eternal nights.
I so hunger for color.
Will the hummingbirds return?
Oh, to be a whirling maple
casting crimson leaves to the
wind, releasing my spirit
from its earthly restraints.
Walking Toward Home
Walking toward home at sunset
I pass beneath a birch
on a brilliant carpet
of amber leaves who
once danced with the wind.
Now lay spent where time
once was and is no more.
A place apart where
flesh and blood fall away,
breath becomes spirit.
Enveloped in a golden glow
I awaken within
a sacred realm of light
filled with joy beyond
my understanding.
Surrounded with peace,
I wait in awed silence
as night closes the veil.
I walk home in darkness,
light still within me.
Enraptured
Enraptured
wooded paths entry
to worlds set apart
revealing secret
inner wonders.
Enveloped
evergreens enshrine
cavern carpeted
with amber needled
radiance.
Encased
milkweed pods enclose
silken parachuted
seeds awaiting flight
on the wind.
Enchanted
mushrooms encircle
fairy ring of lore.
Stumble inside to
dance with elves.
Entangled
grass thimble en-laced
nest of hummingbird
skillfully woven
to vanish.
Enlightened
quest to encounter
divine mysteries
simply revealed on
nature’s path.
Three Olive Finches
On a grey December dawn
three olive finches sit frozen
on the feeder facing east
in solemn silence.
Watching out the window
I too am caught under the spell
of a quiet moment of
prayer without words.
The crisp morning softens as
first rays of sunlight reach over
the horizon caressing
the frigid birds.
They turn now in unison
to feast together on seed
having witnessed the divine
in warmth and light.
Wind Buffets the Trees
Wind buffets the trees,
tossing branches wildly,
flailing leaves strain their
slender connections.
I’m blinded by its force,
tangled hair whips my face,
upset by an argument,
unable to move ahead.
Dry yellow leaves fly out,
expelled amid hardy ones.
Fall’s long shadow cast over,
what remains of summer.
Solstice has passed, days grow short,
darkness lengthens into night.
Consequence of a long life,
is knowing what comes next.
I steady myself against
a swaying tree, praying
it has been made stronger,
by wind that buffets it.
Tiny Nuthatch
Tiny nuthatch picks a seed,
flies to the power pole,
perching upside down
places it in a hole.
It’s acrobatic skills
captivate this watcher.
His instinctual need
to prepare for winter.
Nearby is a downy
who sees the cache
flies to the power pole
boldly plucks out the seed.
Every season has its time
to reap, to feast, to starve.
Survival for those who
look ahead and those who watch.
As Night Falls
As night falls, darkness
moves in around me.
Standing alone, breath held,
listening……..waiting.
How does one explain
the presence of owls?
Flying on silent wings,
so quiet, they have
been mistaken for
spirits of the dead.
How does one explain
the presence of the dead?
Their voice as a dream,
a glimpse out of sight,
an improbable
answer to prayer.
How does one explain
the presence of prayer?
An owl calling out,
silhouetted in the
moonlight to his love,
stars circling above.
Tales in Snow
Trudging through snow
on a winter morning
recounts a story of those
who have gone before
leaving messages behind.
Squirrel tracks
pattern the frozen snow
like inverse braille
directing the mice below to
where feeder seeds lie.
Rabbit tracks
cluster under low branches
along with grouse and pheasant
paused in sheltered grottoes
to scan the horizon.
Deer hooves
make deep impressions
along with trailing foot
like exclamation marks
declaring caution.
Coyote prints
tracking their prey
thicken the plot
follow the narrative left
behind by the vulnerable.
Darkening clouds
promise fresh snow
starting a new chapter
of tales of those in print
who passed before.
A Curl of Brown Leaf
A curl of brown leaf
spins into the air,
released from its bond
by a gust of wind.
It twists and turns in
jubilant dance before
falling back down to
return to the soil.
No one notes its passage
except for dreamers,
who yearn to fly free
untethered from earth.
Soaring through clouds,
spun in a whirlwind,
letting go of matter,
sun, rain, and being.
Before tumbling back,
into arms of the wind,
set down to rest in
the field of leaves.
Unless the wind
desires once more,
to dance with leaves in
a swirl of ecstasy.
Diving Into the Lake
Diving into the lake
she emerges to float
weightlessly drifting
taking in the vast sky.
Within that blue expanse
an eagle circles high
flaps its wings then glides
on the air looking down.
Captured in that moment
a transcendence of self
gliding weightless along
the two become one.
Like the water and sky
they share the horizon,
communion of spirits
together soaring free.
Dark Comes Early
Dark comes early
Snow coats land
Trees stand stark
Trunks hold up
Starry sky.
Sharp cold air
Breath forms clouds
Wading through
Deep snow drifts
Steps muffled.
Moonlit field
Stag stands still
Watching me
Watching him
Sees beyond.
Looking Into the Darkness
Looking into the darkness,
she lifts her head, ears erect,
listening to sounds that
arouse her primal instincts.
Catching a scent in the air,
her nose drops to the ground,
follows it through the brush,
snaking through the tall grass.
Suddenly, she drops and rolls,
twisting back and forth,
disguising her odor with
a wild animal essence.
Leaping to her feet, the wolf
emerges from noble ancestry,
who stalked its prey, killed,
and howled with the pack.
Gazing up, the predator
sees in me the first woman,
who threw meat scraps to the pack,
from the fire, as they drew near.
Wagging her tail, she turns,
remembers the way home,
her bowl of kibble, soft bed,
and fireplace to dream beside.
In the Dead of Winter
In the dead of winter,
sun recedes behind bare trees,
temperatures plummet. Bundled,
Tara and I head out.
Thick snow blankets the brush.
Shelter for field mice,
Hide and Seek for Tara,
whose nose probes the mounds.
Leaping off the suet,
a fat squirrel escapes
in a powdery spray.
Tara strains at her leash.
In the grey dying light,
darkness replaces beauty,
stealing my attention,
invading my thoughts.
Last night, unable to sleep,
I slipped into your room,
laid my hand on your cheek,
listened to your breath.
I looked into the abyss,
felt its icy slope.
While you slept soundly,
my world started to slide.
In the dead of winter,
field mice lay hidden,
squirrels watch from afar.
Tara and I turn back.
Bitter Winter
Bitter winter.
Below zero
engine stalls.
Emotions
hibernate.
Cold takes hostage.
Tightly
bound by
parka, and wrapped scarf
mummified.
Perspective narrows,
senses
grow numb.
Deaf, blind, and mute,
darkness descends.
Deeply cocooned.
Sunlight
slips in,
melting despair,
awakening hope.
It’s All Was Talked About
It’s all was talked about,
how winter stole spring away,
those April showers bringing
only snow and dashed hopes.
Not a pretty subject for poems,
the long cold winter of
desolation and despair,
so bleak, it hurt to live.
To cope, emotions were
secreted in dark dens
like black bears deep in sleep,
their hearts barely beating.
Each day had to be faced
with grim resolution,
even the day spring came
my parka worn like a shroud.
Sun filtered through bare trees
drawing me like a moth to flame.
Turning toward the warmth with
eyes closed, red light streamed in.
Ice melted from my heart,
my frozen spirit thawed,
feelings stumbled out
of their gloomy cave.
May showers brought new growth,
hummingbirds returned along
with enough hope to store
until life’s next winter.
Drawn into the Forest
Drawn into the forest,
troubled with loss and grief,
drought, disease, destruction.
Trees respond, ‘Our roots run deep’.
Swept high into branches,
a shared communion of
breath and expiration,
life’s fragility.
When the soul departs from flesh
will it be lost in a void,
falling into an abyss
of nothingness nowhere?
‘Death brings transformation.
Our ashes sift deep in soil
to be fed by sweet rain,
nurtured by warm sunshine’.
‘We are seedlings of spirit
resurrected, reaching
to the light on new limbs
raised in praise toward heaven’.
At sunrise, feel the warmth.
As rain falls, taste its sweetness.
Reach out toward heaven,
pray roots run deep.
Quietly the Snow Falls
Quietly the snow falls.
Its feathery flight hushed
as it blankets the ground.
I stop and listen to
the music of silence.
With eyes closed, I raise my
face to the sky. Flakes coat
my cheeks, my nose, my lashes,
melt down my neck in a
frozen baptism.
I am aware of my
heart beating in my ears,
my breathing in and out,
my smallness within this
greatness, apart and a part.
Paradise may be far off, but
there is peace in this place
where distance disappears
as snow fills the silence
between heaven and earth.
Sandhill Cranes Returned
Sandhill cranes returned.
Their haunting calls echo
through the still bare trees
and frozen swamp of time.
We shout, “Welcome back,”
as spring breaks winter’s
strangle hold on us,
our bones begin to dance.
Grief no longer runs
like blood from my pen.
New birth and hope sprout
on the blank page.
The predator still lurks,
snow and cold remain
a certain threat but
death has loosed its grip.
Cranes fly above us,
giving their immortal cry
heard since time’s beginning,
“I am…I am…I am”.
Across the Linen Cloth
Across the linen cloth,
petals from the bouquet
lay scattered, red as blood,
dripping from wilted stems.
Snow continues to fall,
spring disguised as winter,
leaving life standing bare,
stealing what days remain.
Heard through worn carpet,
seen through frosted pane,
memories burnt for warmth,
leave in wisps of smoke.
Across the sky before dawn,
the waning crescent rises,
fades away to nothing,
then becomes new once more.
Wind Sings Through Trees
Wind sings through trees
swinging branches,
thunder rumbles,
in harmony.
Clouds swirl above
turning inky grey,
temperature drops,
as sky ignites.
Rain splashes down
soaking this poem,
washing the words,
clean off the page.
Wind sings on as
in the beginning,
words become flesh,
living with us.
Crying our tears,
singing our songs,
dancing with us,
out in the rain.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:17.070354
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-16",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-17
|
4 Captivated, I Listen
Constance Hodder
Sheltered Beneath the Pines
Sheltered beneath the pines,
I hear a voice calling.
First the sound of breath,
becoming a moan,
to a cry,
to a sigh,
to silence.
Captivated, I listen
again to the breath,
the moan,
the cry,
the sigh,
silence.
Is that the wind I hear
or the song of the trees?
A song of sorrow or joy,
of loss or ecstasy,
wind stroking branches
carrying seed aloft.
I am answered with silence,
my body embraced by wind.
One exists only
in the arms of the other
like wind in tree’s song.
Stepping Outside
Stepping outside, escaping
the chaos of day,
I cross into the dark
sanctum of the night.
Enclosed within its black veil
the whirlwind stills,
agitation falls away
leaving only peace.
Certainly not quiet,
in the flashlight beam bugs dance
to the love song of the toads
trilling and croaking.
A bear lumbers through the brush,
coyotes howl in the distance,
this is their territory,
we are but interlopers.
An oak branch bumps my head,
I trip over its root,
a June bug collides with me
crossing its path.
Oh, to be one with the night,
at home within this realm,
instead of a trespasser
in my own domain.
We are but visitors
of darkness as with the light,
our footprints left behind,
wash away with rain.
One day we will be welcomed
into darkness, at home
growing roots with the oak,
flying with the June bugs.
After a Storm
After a storm, air swims of worms
struggling from wet earth to breathe.
Amphibious fragrance fills ones
nostrils raised like a dog catching
a whiff of what passed before.
Awakening connections
to the primitive soul that danced
in the rain with head raised high
catching drops on a parched tongue,
tasting life’s sweet nectar.
Heeding the siren’s call to
return to the sea to swim amidst
creatures who shy from the stranger
that raises its head from the surf
to breathe the scent of moist earth.
Scraps of Paper
Scraps of paper
blown on the wind,
land to drift on
the glassy pond.
They are rescued
from the water
like sacred scrolls
treasure maps.
Birch bark layers
curl in my hands,
white to tan skins
vented to breathe.
Without words,
secret messages,
or directions,
they tell a tale.
Of a canoe,
skimming across
a glassy pond to
the pull of paddles.
A living poem,
breathing through bark,
a Paper Birch’s
legacy.
Mothers Rise at Night
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
listening for their with a gleam of light
children’s calls. on the dark horizon.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
hearing the cries painting the land
of the hungry. with a lambent glow.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
to hold their hungry in dazzling brilliance
ones to their breast. setting the sky ablaze.
Mothers rise at night
to the moon’s call
cradling their babies.
Mothers rise at night
to bathe their souls in
the moon’s radiance.
Mothers rest their babies The moon rests at dawn
back down as they rise in the glow of the rising
in the morning light. sun on the horizon.
Two Trees
Two trees stand afield as fog
on a golden wave rolls in.
Twilight enlivens the glow
until darkness fades to grey.
When did the hummingbirds leave?
Summer gives way to winter.
Days grow short. The light dims
swallowed by eternal nights.
I so hunger for color.
Will the hummingbirds return?
Oh, to be a whirling maple
casting crimson leaves to the
wind, releasing my spirit
from its earthly restraints.
Walking Toward Home
Walking toward home at sunset
I pass beneath a birch
on a brilliant carpet
of amber leaves who
once danced with the wind.
Now lay spent where time
once was and is no more.
A place apart where
flesh and blood fall away,
breath becomes spirit.
Enveloped in a golden glow
I awaken within
a sacred realm of light
filled with joy beyond
my understanding.
Surrounded with peace,
I wait in awed silence
as night closes the veil.
I walk home in darkness,
light still within me.
Enraptured
Enraptured
wooded paths entry
to worlds set apart
revealing secret
inner wonders.
Enveloped
evergreens enshrine
cavern carpeted
with amber needled
radiance.
Encased
milkweed pods enclose
silken parachuted
seeds awaiting flight
on the wind.
Enchanted
mushrooms encircle
fairy ring of lore.
Stumble inside to
dance with elves.
Entangled
grass thimble en-laced
nest of hummingbird
skillfully woven
to vanish.
Enlightened
quest to encounter
divine mysteries
simply revealed on
nature’s path.
Three Olive Finches
On a grey December dawn
three olive finches sit frozen
on the feeder facing east
in solemn silence.
Watching out the window
I too am caught under the spell
of a quiet moment of
prayer without words.
The crisp morning softens as
first rays of sunlight reach over
the horizon caressing
the frigid birds.
They turn now in unison
to feast together on seed
having witnessed the divine
in warmth and light.
Wind Buffets the Trees
Wind buffets the trees,
tossing branches wildly,
flailing leaves strain their
slender connections.
I’m blinded by its force,
tangled hair whips my face,
upset by an argument,
unable to move ahead.
Dry yellow leaves fly out,
expelled amid hardy ones.
Fall’s long shadow cast over,
what remains of summer.
Solstice has passed, days grow short,
darkness lengthens into night.
Consequence of a long life,
is knowing what comes next.
I steady myself against
a swaying tree, praying
it has been made stronger,
by wind that buffets it.
Tiny Nuthatch
Tiny nuthatch picks a seed,
flies to the power pole,
perching upside down
places it in a hole.
It’s acrobatic skills
captivate this watcher.
His instinctual need
to prepare for winter.
Nearby is a downy
who sees the cache
flies to the power pole
boldly plucks out the seed.
Every season has its time
to reap, to feast, to starve.
Survival for those who
look ahead and those who watch.
As Night Falls
As night falls, darkness
moves in around me.
Standing alone, breath held,
listening……..waiting.
How does one explain
the presence of owls?
Flying on silent wings,
so quiet, they have
been mistaken for
spirits of the dead.
How does one explain
the presence of the dead?
Their voice as a dream,
a glimpse out of sight,
an improbable
answer to prayer.
How does one explain
the presence of prayer?
An owl calling out,
silhouetted in the
moonlight to his love,
stars circling above.
Tales in Snow
Trudging through snow
on a winter morning
recounts a story of those
who have gone before
leaving messages behind.
Squirrel tracks
pattern the frozen snow
like inverse braille
directing the mice below to
where feeder seeds lie.
Rabbit tracks
cluster under low branches
along with grouse and pheasant
paused in sheltered grottoes
to scan the horizon.
Deer hooves
make deep impressions
along with trailing foot
like exclamation marks
declaring caution.
Coyote prints
tracking their prey
thicken the plot
follow the narrative left
behind by the vulnerable.
Darkening clouds
promise fresh snow
starting a new chapter
of tales of those in print
who passed before.
A Curl of Brown Leaf
A curl of brown leaf
spins into the air,
released from its bond
by a gust of wind.
It twists and turns in
jubilant dance before
falling back down to
return to the soil.
No one notes its passage
except for dreamers,
who yearn to fly free
untethered from earth.
Soaring through clouds,
spun in a whirlwind,
letting go of matter,
sun, rain, and being.
Before tumbling back,
into arms of the wind,
set down to rest in
the field of leaves.
Unless the wind
desires once more,
to dance with leaves in
a swirl of ecstasy.
Diving Into the Lake
Diving into the lake
she emerges to float
weightlessly drifting
taking in the vast sky.
Within that blue expanse
an eagle circles high
flaps its wings then glides
on the air looking down.
Captured in that moment
a transcendence of self
gliding weightless along
the two become one.
Like the water and sky
they share the horizon,
communion of spirits
together soaring free.
Dark Comes Early
Dark comes early
Snow coats land
Trees stand stark
Trunks hold up
Starry sky.
Sharp cold air
Breath forms clouds
Wading through
Deep snow drifts
Steps muffled.
Moonlit field
Stag stands still
Watching me
Watching him
Sees beyond.
Looking Into the Darkness
Looking into the darkness,
she lifts her head, ears erect,
listening to sounds that
arouse her primal instincts.
Catching a scent in the air,
her nose drops to the ground,
follows it through the brush,
snaking through the tall grass.
Suddenly, she drops and rolls,
twisting back and forth,
disguising her odor with
a wild animal essence.
Leaping to her feet, the wolf
emerges from noble ancestry,
who stalked its prey, killed,
and howled with the pack.
Gazing up, the predator
sees in me the first woman,
who threw meat scraps to the pack,
from the fire, as they drew near.
Wagging her tail, she turns,
remembers the way home,
her bowl of kibble, soft bed,
and fireplace to dream beside.
In the Dead of Winter
In the dead of winter,
sun recedes behind bare trees,
temperatures plummet. Bundled,
Tara and I head out.
Thick snow blankets the brush.
Shelter for field mice,
Hide and Seek for Tara,
whose nose probes the mounds.
Leaping off the suet,
a fat squirrel escapes
in a powdery spray.
Tara strains at her leash.
In the grey dying light,
darkness replaces beauty,
stealing my attention,
invading my thoughts.
Last night, unable to sleep,
I slipped into your room,
laid my hand on your cheek,
listened to your breath.
I looked into the abyss,
felt its icy slope.
While you slept soundly,
my world started to slide.
In the dead of winter,
field mice lay hidden,
squirrels watch from afar.
Tara and I turn back.
Bitter Winter
Bitter winter.
Below zero
engine stalls.
Emotions
hibernate.
Cold takes hostage.
Tightly
bound by
parka, and wrapped scarf
mummified.
Perspective narrows,
senses
grow numb.
Deaf, blind, and mute,
darkness descends.
Deeply cocooned.
Sunlight
slips in,
melting despair,
awakening hope.
It’s All Was Talked About
It’s all was talked about,
how winter stole spring away,
those April showers bringing
only snow and dashed hopes.
Not a pretty subject for poems,
the long cold winter of
desolation and despair,
so bleak, it hurt to live.
To cope, emotions were
secreted in dark dens
like black bears deep in sleep,
their hearts barely beating.
Each day had to be faced
with grim resolution,
even the day spring came
my parka worn like a shroud.
Sun filtered through bare trees
drawing me like a moth to flame.
Turning toward the warmth with
eyes closed, red light streamed in.
Ice melted from my heart,
my frozen spirit thawed,
feelings stumbled out
of their gloomy cave.
May showers brought new growth,
hummingbirds returned along
with enough hope to store
until life’s next winter.
Drawn into the Forest
Drawn into the forest,
troubled with loss and grief,
drought, disease, destruction.
Trees respond, ‘Our roots run deep’.
Swept high into branches,
a shared communion of
breath and expiration,
life’s fragility.
When the soul departs from flesh
will it be lost in a void,
falling into an abyss
of nothingness nowhere?
‘Death brings transformation.
Our ashes sift deep in soil
to be fed by sweet rain,
nurtured by warm sunshine’.
‘We are seedlings of spirit
resurrected, reaching
to the light on new limbs
raised in praise toward heaven’.
At sunrise, feel the warmth.
As rain falls, taste its sweetness.
Reach out toward heaven,
pray roots run deep.
Quietly the Snow Falls
Quietly the snow falls.
Its feathery flight hushed
as it blankets the ground.
I stop and listen to
the music of silence.
With eyes closed, I raise my
face to the sky. Flakes coat
my cheeks, my nose, my lashes,
melt down my neck in a
frozen baptism.
I am aware of my
heart beating in my ears,
my breathing in and out,
my smallness within this
greatness, apart and a part.
Paradise may be far off, but
there is peace in this place
where distance disappears
as snow fills the silence
between heaven and earth.
Sandhill Cranes Returned
Sandhill cranes returned.
Their haunting calls echo
through the still bare trees
and frozen swamp of time.
We shout, “Welcome back,”
as spring breaks winter’s
strangle hold on us,
our bones begin to dance.
Grief no longer runs
like blood from my pen.
New birth and hope sprout
on the blank page.
The predator still lurks,
snow and cold remain
a certain threat but
death has loosed its grip.
Cranes fly above us,
giving their immortal cry
heard since time’s beginning,
“I am…I am…I am”.
Across the Linen Cloth
Across the linen cloth,
petals from the bouquet
lay scattered, red as blood,
dripping from wilted stems.
Snow continues to fall,
spring disguised as winter,
leaving life standing bare,
stealing what days remain.
Heard through worn carpet,
seen through frosted pane,
memories burnt for warmth,
leave in wisps of smoke.
Across the sky before dawn,
the waning crescent rises,
fades away to nothing,
then becomes new once more.
Wind Sings Through Trees
Wind sings through trees
swinging branches,
thunder rumbles,
in harmony.
Clouds swirl above
turning inky grey,
temperature drops,
as sky ignites.
Rain splashes down
soaking this poem,
washing the words,
clean off the page.
Wind sings on as
in the beginning,
words become flesh,
living with us.
Crying our tears,
singing our songs,
dancing with us,
out in the rain.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:17.144409
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-17",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-18
|
4 Captivated, I Listen
Constance Hodder
Sheltered Beneath the Pines
Sheltered beneath the pines,
I hear a voice calling.
First the sound of breath,
becoming a moan,
to a cry,
to a sigh,
to silence.
Captivated, I listen
again to the breath,
the moan,
the cry,
the sigh,
silence.
Is that the wind I hear
or the song of the trees?
A song of sorrow or joy,
of loss or ecstasy,
wind stroking branches
carrying seed aloft.
I am answered with silence,
my body embraced by wind.
One exists only
in the arms of the other
like wind in tree’s song.
Stepping Outside
Stepping outside, escaping
the chaos of day,
I cross into the dark
sanctum of the night.
Enclosed within its black veil
the whirlwind stills,
agitation falls away
leaving only peace.
Certainly not quiet,
in the flashlight beam bugs dance
to the love song of the toads
trilling and croaking.
A bear lumbers through the brush,
coyotes howl in the distance,
this is their territory,
we are but interlopers.
An oak branch bumps my head,
I trip over its root,
a June bug collides with me
crossing its path.
Oh, to be one with the night,
at home within this realm,
instead of a trespasser
in my own domain.
We are but visitors
of darkness as with the light,
our footprints left behind,
wash away with rain.
One day we will be welcomed
into darkness, at home
growing roots with the oak,
flying with the June bugs.
After a Storm
After a storm, air swims of worms
struggling from wet earth to breathe.
Amphibious fragrance fills ones
nostrils raised like a dog catching
a whiff of what passed before.
Awakening connections
to the primitive soul that danced
in the rain with head raised high
catching drops on a parched tongue,
tasting life’s sweet nectar.
Heeding the siren’s call to
return to the sea to swim amidst
creatures who shy from the stranger
that raises its head from the surf
to breathe the scent of moist earth.
Scraps of Paper
Scraps of paper
blown on the wind,
land to drift on
the glassy pond.
They are rescued
from the water
like sacred scrolls
treasure maps.
Birch bark layers
curl in my hands,
white to tan skins
vented to breathe.
Without words,
secret messages,
or directions,
they tell a tale.
Of a canoe,
skimming across
a glassy pond to
the pull of paddles.
A living poem,
breathing through bark,
a Paper Birch’s
legacy.
Mothers Rise at Night
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
listening for their with a gleam of light
children’s calls. on the dark horizon.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
hearing the cries painting the land
of the hungry. with a lambent glow.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
to hold their hungry in dazzling brilliance
ones to their breast. setting the sky ablaze.
Mothers rise at night
to the moon’s call
cradling their babies.
Mothers rise at night
to bathe their souls in
the moon’s radiance.
Mothers rest their babies The moon rests at dawn
back down as they rise in the glow of the rising
in the morning light. sun on the horizon.
Two Trees
Two trees stand afield as fog
on a golden wave rolls in.
Twilight enlivens the glow
until darkness fades to grey.
When did the hummingbirds leave?
Summer gives way to winter.
Days grow short. The light dims
swallowed by eternal nights.
I so hunger for color.
Will the hummingbirds return?
Oh, to be a whirling maple
casting crimson leaves to the
wind, releasing my spirit
from its earthly restraints.
Walking Toward Home
Walking toward home at sunset
I pass beneath a birch
on a brilliant carpet
of amber leaves who
once danced with the wind.
Now lay spent where time
once was and is no more.
A place apart where
flesh and blood fall away,
breath becomes spirit.
Enveloped in a golden glow
I awaken within
a sacred realm of light
filled with joy beyond
my understanding.
Surrounded with peace,
I wait in awed silence
as night closes the veil.
I walk home in darkness,
light still within me.
Enraptured
Enraptured
wooded paths entry
to worlds set apart
revealing secret
inner wonders.
Enveloped
evergreens enshrine
cavern carpeted
with amber needled
radiance.
Encased
milkweed pods enclose
silken parachuted
seeds awaiting flight
on the wind.
Enchanted
mushrooms encircle
fairy ring of lore.
Stumble inside to
dance with elves.
Entangled
grass thimble en-laced
nest of hummingbird
skillfully woven
to vanish.
Enlightened
quest to encounter
divine mysteries
simply revealed on
nature’s path.
Three Olive Finches
On a grey December dawn
three olive finches sit frozen
on the feeder facing east
in solemn silence.
Watching out the window
I too am caught under the spell
of a quiet moment of
prayer without words.
The crisp morning softens as
first rays of sunlight reach over
the horizon caressing
the frigid birds.
They turn now in unison
to feast together on seed
having witnessed the divine
in warmth and light.
Wind Buffets the Trees
Wind buffets the trees,
tossing branches wildly,
flailing leaves strain their
slender connections.
I’m blinded by its force,
tangled hair whips my face,
upset by an argument,
unable to move ahead.
Dry yellow leaves fly out,
expelled amid hardy ones.
Fall’s long shadow cast over,
what remains of summer.
Solstice has passed, days grow short,
darkness lengthens into night.
Consequence of a long life,
is knowing what comes next.
I steady myself against
a swaying tree, praying
it has been made stronger,
by wind that buffets it.
Tiny Nuthatch
Tiny nuthatch picks a seed,
flies to the power pole,
perching upside down
places it in a hole.
It’s acrobatic skills
captivate this watcher.
His instinctual need
to prepare for winter.
Nearby is a downy
who sees the cache
flies to the power pole
boldly plucks out the seed.
Every season has its time
to reap, to feast, to starve.
Survival for those who
look ahead and those who watch.
As Night Falls
As night falls, darkness
moves in around me.
Standing alone, breath held,
listening……..waiting.
How does one explain
the presence of owls?
Flying on silent wings,
so quiet, they have
been mistaken for
spirits of the dead.
How does one explain
the presence of the dead?
Their voice as a dream,
a glimpse out of sight,
an improbable
answer to prayer.
How does one explain
the presence of prayer?
An owl calling out,
silhouetted in the
moonlight to his love,
stars circling above.
Tales in Snow
Trudging through snow
on a winter morning
recounts a story of those
who have gone before
leaving messages behind.
Squirrel tracks
pattern the frozen snow
like inverse braille
directing the mice below to
where feeder seeds lie.
Rabbit tracks
cluster under low branches
along with grouse and pheasant
paused in sheltered grottoes
to scan the horizon.
Deer hooves
make deep impressions
along with trailing foot
like exclamation marks
declaring caution.
Coyote prints
tracking their prey
thicken the plot
follow the narrative left
behind by the vulnerable.
Darkening clouds
promise fresh snow
starting a new chapter
of tales of those in print
who passed before.
A Curl of Brown Leaf
A curl of brown leaf
spins into the air,
released from its bond
by a gust of wind.
It twists and turns in
jubilant dance before
falling back down to
return to the soil.
No one notes its passage
except for dreamers,
who yearn to fly free
untethered from earth.
Soaring through clouds,
spun in a whirlwind,
letting go of matter,
sun, rain, and being.
Before tumbling back,
into arms of the wind,
set down to rest in
the field of leaves.
Unless the wind
desires once more,
to dance with leaves in
a swirl of ecstasy.
Diving Into the Lake
Diving into the lake
she emerges to float
weightlessly drifting
taking in the vast sky.
Within that blue expanse
an eagle circles high
flaps its wings then glides
on the air looking down.
Captured in that moment
a transcendence of self
gliding weightless along
the two become one.
Like the water and sky
they share the horizon,
communion of spirits
together soaring free.
Dark Comes Early
Dark comes early
Snow coats land
Trees stand stark
Trunks hold up
Starry sky.
Sharp cold air
Breath forms clouds
Wading through
Deep snow drifts
Steps muffled.
Moonlit field
Stag stands still
Watching me
Watching him
Sees beyond.
Looking Into the Darkness
Looking into the darkness,
she lifts her head, ears erect,
listening to sounds that
arouse her primal instincts.
Catching a scent in the air,
her nose drops to the ground,
follows it through the brush,
snaking through the tall grass.
Suddenly, she drops and rolls,
twisting back and forth,
disguising her odor with
a wild animal essence.
Leaping to her feet, the wolf
emerges from noble ancestry,
who stalked its prey, killed,
and howled with the pack.
Gazing up, the predator
sees in me the first woman,
who threw meat scraps to the pack,
from the fire, as they drew near.
Wagging her tail, she turns,
remembers the way home,
her bowl of kibble, soft bed,
and fireplace to dream beside.
In the Dead of Winter
In the dead of winter,
sun recedes behind bare trees,
temperatures plummet. Bundled,
Tara and I head out.
Thick snow blankets the brush.
Shelter for field mice,
Hide and Seek for Tara,
whose nose probes the mounds.
Leaping off the suet,
a fat squirrel escapes
in a powdery spray.
Tara strains at her leash.
In the grey dying light,
darkness replaces beauty,
stealing my attention,
invading my thoughts.
Last night, unable to sleep,
I slipped into your room,
laid my hand on your cheek,
listened to your breath.
I looked into the abyss,
felt its icy slope.
While you slept soundly,
my world started to slide.
In the dead of winter,
field mice lay hidden,
squirrels watch from afar.
Tara and I turn back.
Bitter Winter
Bitter winter.
Below zero
engine stalls.
Emotions
hibernate.
Cold takes hostage.
Tightly
bound by
parka, and wrapped scarf
mummified.
Perspective narrows,
senses
grow numb.
Deaf, blind, and mute,
darkness descends.
Deeply cocooned.
Sunlight
slips in,
melting despair,
awakening hope.
It’s All Was Talked About
It’s all was talked about,
how winter stole spring away,
those April showers bringing
only snow and dashed hopes.
Not a pretty subject for poems,
the long cold winter of
desolation and despair,
so bleak, it hurt to live.
To cope, emotions were
secreted in dark dens
like black bears deep in sleep,
their hearts barely beating.
Each day had to be faced
with grim resolution,
even the day spring came
my parka worn like a shroud.
Sun filtered through bare trees
drawing me like a moth to flame.
Turning toward the warmth with
eyes closed, red light streamed in.
Ice melted from my heart,
my frozen spirit thawed,
feelings stumbled out
of their gloomy cave.
May showers brought new growth,
hummingbirds returned along
with enough hope to store
until life’s next winter.
Drawn into the Forest
Drawn into the forest,
troubled with loss and grief,
drought, disease, destruction.
Trees respond, ‘Our roots run deep’.
Swept high into branches,
a shared communion of
breath and expiration,
life’s fragility.
When the soul departs from flesh
will it be lost in a void,
falling into an abyss
of nothingness nowhere?
‘Death brings transformation.
Our ashes sift deep in soil
to be fed by sweet rain,
nurtured by warm sunshine’.
‘We are seedlings of spirit
resurrected, reaching
to the light on new limbs
raised in praise toward heaven’.
At sunrise, feel the warmth.
As rain falls, taste its sweetness.
Reach out toward heaven,
pray roots run deep.
Quietly the Snow Falls
Quietly the snow falls.
Its feathery flight hushed
as it blankets the ground.
I stop and listen to
the music of silence.
With eyes closed, I raise my
face to the sky. Flakes coat
my cheeks, my nose, my lashes,
melt down my neck in a
frozen baptism.
I am aware of my
heart beating in my ears,
my breathing in and out,
my smallness within this
greatness, apart and a part.
Paradise may be far off, but
there is peace in this place
where distance disappears
as snow fills the silence
between heaven and earth.
Sandhill Cranes Returned
Sandhill cranes returned.
Their haunting calls echo
through the still bare trees
and frozen swamp of time.
We shout, “Welcome back,”
as spring breaks winter’s
strangle hold on us,
our bones begin to dance.
Grief no longer runs
like blood from my pen.
New birth and hope sprout
on the blank page.
The predator still lurks,
snow and cold remain
a certain threat but
death has loosed its grip.
Cranes fly above us,
giving their immortal cry
heard since time’s beginning,
“I am…I am…I am”.
Across the Linen Cloth
Across the linen cloth,
petals from the bouquet
lay scattered, red as blood,
dripping from wilted stems.
Snow continues to fall,
spring disguised as winter,
leaving life standing bare,
stealing what days remain.
Heard through worn carpet,
seen through frosted pane,
memories burnt for warmth,
leave in wisps of smoke.
Across the sky before dawn,
the waning crescent rises,
fades away to nothing,
then becomes new once more.
Wind Sings Through Trees
Wind sings through trees
swinging branches,
thunder rumbles,
in harmony.
Clouds swirl above
turning inky grey,
temperature drops,
as sky ignites.
Rain splashes down
soaking this poem,
washing the words,
clean off the page.
Wind sings on as
in the beginning,
words become flesh,
living with us.
Crying our tears,
singing our songs,
dancing with us,
out in the rain.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:17.228745
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-18",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-19
|
4 Captivated, I Listen
Constance Hodder
Sheltered Beneath the Pines
Sheltered beneath the pines,
I hear a voice calling.
First the sound of breath,
becoming a moan,
to a cry,
to a sigh,
to silence.
Captivated, I listen
again to the breath,
the moan,
the cry,
the sigh,
silence.
Is that the wind I hear
or the song of the trees?
A song of sorrow or joy,
of loss or ecstasy,
wind stroking branches
carrying seed aloft.
I am answered with silence,
my body embraced by wind.
One exists only
in the arms of the other
like wind in tree’s song.
Stepping Outside
Stepping outside, escaping
the chaos of day,
I cross into the dark
sanctum of the night.
Enclosed within its black veil
the whirlwind stills,
agitation falls away
leaving only peace.
Certainly not quiet,
in the flashlight beam bugs dance
to the love song of the toads
trilling and croaking.
A bear lumbers through the brush,
coyotes howl in the distance,
this is their territory,
we are but interlopers.
An oak branch bumps my head,
I trip over its root,
a June bug collides with me
crossing its path.
Oh, to be one with the night,
at home within this realm,
instead of a trespasser
in my own domain.
We are but visitors
of darkness as with the light,
our footprints left behind,
wash away with rain.
One day we will be welcomed
into darkness, at home
growing roots with the oak,
flying with the June bugs.
After a Storm
After a storm, air swims of worms
struggling from wet earth to breathe.
Amphibious fragrance fills ones
nostrils raised like a dog catching
a whiff of what passed before.
Awakening connections
to the primitive soul that danced
in the rain with head raised high
catching drops on a parched tongue,
tasting life’s sweet nectar.
Heeding the siren’s call to
return to the sea to swim amidst
creatures who shy from the stranger
that raises its head from the surf
to breathe the scent of moist earth.
Scraps of Paper
Scraps of paper
blown on the wind,
land to drift on
the glassy pond.
They are rescued
from the water
like sacred scrolls
treasure maps.
Birch bark layers
curl in my hands,
white to tan skins
vented to breathe.
Without words,
secret messages,
or directions,
they tell a tale.
Of a canoe,
skimming across
a glassy pond to
the pull of paddles.
A living poem,
breathing through bark,
a Paper Birch’s
legacy.
Mothers Rise at Night
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
listening for their with a gleam of light
children’s calls. on the dark horizon.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
hearing the cries painting the land
of the hungry. with a lambent glow.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
to hold their hungry in dazzling brilliance
ones to their breast. setting the sky ablaze.
Mothers rise at night
to the moon’s call
cradling their babies.
Mothers rise at night
to bathe their souls in
the moon’s radiance.
Mothers rest their babies The moon rests at dawn
back down as they rise in the glow of the rising
in the morning light. sun on the horizon.
Two Trees
Two trees stand afield as fog
on a golden wave rolls in.
Twilight enlivens the glow
until darkness fades to grey.
When did the hummingbirds leave?
Summer gives way to winter.
Days grow short. The light dims
swallowed by eternal nights.
I so hunger for color.
Will the hummingbirds return?
Oh, to be a whirling maple
casting crimson leaves to the
wind, releasing my spirit
from its earthly restraints.
Walking Toward Home
Walking toward home at sunset
I pass beneath a birch
on a brilliant carpet
of amber leaves who
once danced with the wind.
Now lay spent where time
once was and is no more.
A place apart where
flesh and blood fall away,
breath becomes spirit.
Enveloped in a golden glow
I awaken within
a sacred realm of light
filled with joy beyond
my understanding.
Surrounded with peace,
I wait in awed silence
as night closes the veil.
I walk home in darkness,
light still within me.
Enraptured
Enraptured
wooded paths entry
to worlds set apart
revealing secret
inner wonders.
Enveloped
evergreens enshrine
cavern carpeted
with amber needled
radiance.
Encased
milkweed pods enclose
silken parachuted
seeds awaiting flight
on the wind.
Enchanted
mushrooms encircle
fairy ring of lore.
Stumble inside to
dance with elves.
Entangled
grass thimble en-laced
nest of hummingbird
skillfully woven
to vanish.
Enlightened
quest to encounter
divine mysteries
simply revealed on
nature’s path.
Three Olive Finches
On a grey December dawn
three olive finches sit frozen
on the feeder facing east
in solemn silence.
Watching out the window
I too am caught under the spell
of a quiet moment of
prayer without words.
The crisp morning softens as
first rays of sunlight reach over
the horizon caressing
the frigid birds.
They turn now in unison
to feast together on seed
having witnessed the divine
in warmth and light.
Wind Buffets the Trees
Wind buffets the trees,
tossing branches wildly,
flailing leaves strain their
slender connections.
I’m blinded by its force,
tangled hair whips my face,
upset by an argument,
unable to move ahead.
Dry yellow leaves fly out,
expelled amid hardy ones.
Fall’s long shadow cast over,
what remains of summer.
Solstice has passed, days grow short,
darkness lengthens into night.
Consequence of a long life,
is knowing what comes next.
I steady myself against
a swaying tree, praying
it has been made stronger,
by wind that buffets it.
Tiny Nuthatch
Tiny nuthatch picks a seed,
flies to the power pole,
perching upside down
places it in a hole.
It’s acrobatic skills
captivate this watcher.
His instinctual need
to prepare for winter.
Nearby is a downy
who sees the cache
flies to the power pole
boldly plucks out the seed.
Every season has its time
to reap, to feast, to starve.
Survival for those who
look ahead and those who watch.
As Night Falls
As night falls, darkness
moves in around me.
Standing alone, breath held,
listening……..waiting.
How does one explain
the presence of owls?
Flying on silent wings,
so quiet, they have
been mistaken for
spirits of the dead.
How does one explain
the presence of the dead?
Their voice as a dream,
a glimpse out of sight,
an improbable
answer to prayer.
How does one explain
the presence of prayer?
An owl calling out,
silhouetted in the
moonlight to his love,
stars circling above.
Tales in Snow
Trudging through snow
on a winter morning
recounts a story of those
who have gone before
leaving messages behind.
Squirrel tracks
pattern the frozen snow
like inverse braille
directing the mice below to
where feeder seeds lie.
Rabbit tracks
cluster under low branches
along with grouse and pheasant
paused in sheltered grottoes
to scan the horizon.
Deer hooves
make deep impressions
along with trailing foot
like exclamation marks
declaring caution.
Coyote prints
tracking their prey
thicken the plot
follow the narrative left
behind by the vulnerable.
Darkening clouds
promise fresh snow
starting a new chapter
of tales of those in print
who passed before.
A Curl of Brown Leaf
A curl of brown leaf
spins into the air,
released from its bond
by a gust of wind.
It twists and turns in
jubilant dance before
falling back down to
return to the soil.
No one notes its passage
except for dreamers,
who yearn to fly free
untethered from earth.
Soaring through clouds,
spun in a whirlwind,
letting go of matter,
sun, rain, and being.
Before tumbling back,
into arms of the wind,
set down to rest in
the field of leaves.
Unless the wind
desires once more,
to dance with leaves in
a swirl of ecstasy.
Diving Into the Lake
Diving into the lake
she emerges to float
weightlessly drifting
taking in the vast sky.
Within that blue expanse
an eagle circles high
flaps its wings then glides
on the air looking down.
Captured in that moment
a transcendence of self
gliding weightless along
the two become one.
Like the water and sky
they share the horizon,
communion of spirits
together soaring free.
Dark Comes Early
Dark comes early
Snow coats land
Trees stand stark
Trunks hold up
Starry sky.
Sharp cold air
Breath forms clouds
Wading through
Deep snow drifts
Steps muffled.
Moonlit field
Stag stands still
Watching me
Watching him
Sees beyond.
Looking Into the Darkness
Looking into the darkness,
she lifts her head, ears erect,
listening to sounds that
arouse her primal instincts.
Catching a scent in the air,
her nose drops to the ground,
follows it through the brush,
snaking through the tall grass.
Suddenly, she drops and rolls,
twisting back and forth,
disguising her odor with
a wild animal essence.
Leaping to her feet, the wolf
emerges from noble ancestry,
who stalked its prey, killed,
and howled with the pack.
Gazing up, the predator
sees in me the first woman,
who threw meat scraps to the pack,
from the fire, as they drew near.
Wagging her tail, she turns,
remembers the way home,
her bowl of kibble, soft bed,
and fireplace to dream beside.
In the Dead of Winter
In the dead of winter,
sun recedes behind bare trees,
temperatures plummet. Bundled,
Tara and I head out.
Thick snow blankets the brush.
Shelter for field mice,
Hide and Seek for Tara,
whose nose probes the mounds.
Leaping off the suet,
a fat squirrel escapes
in a powdery spray.
Tara strains at her leash.
In the grey dying light,
darkness replaces beauty,
stealing my attention,
invading my thoughts.
Last night, unable to sleep,
I slipped into your room,
laid my hand on your cheek,
listened to your breath.
I looked into the abyss,
felt its icy slope.
While you slept soundly,
my world started to slide.
In the dead of winter,
field mice lay hidden,
squirrels watch from afar.
Tara and I turn back.
Bitter Winter
Bitter winter.
Below zero
engine stalls.
Emotions
hibernate.
Cold takes hostage.
Tightly
bound by
parka, and wrapped scarf
mummified.
Perspective narrows,
senses
grow numb.
Deaf, blind, and mute,
darkness descends.
Deeply cocooned.
Sunlight
slips in,
melting despair,
awakening hope.
It’s All Was Talked About
It’s all was talked about,
how winter stole spring away,
those April showers bringing
only snow and dashed hopes.
Not a pretty subject for poems,
the long cold winter of
desolation and despair,
so bleak, it hurt to live.
To cope, emotions were
secreted in dark dens
like black bears deep in sleep,
their hearts barely beating.
Each day had to be faced
with grim resolution,
even the day spring came
my parka worn like a shroud.
Sun filtered through bare trees
drawing me like a moth to flame.
Turning toward the warmth with
eyes closed, red light streamed in.
Ice melted from my heart,
my frozen spirit thawed,
feelings stumbled out
of their gloomy cave.
May showers brought new growth,
hummingbirds returned along
with enough hope to store
until life’s next winter.
Drawn into the Forest
Drawn into the forest,
troubled with loss and grief,
drought, disease, destruction.
Trees respond, ‘Our roots run deep’.
Swept high into branches,
a shared communion of
breath and expiration,
life’s fragility.
When the soul departs from flesh
will it be lost in a void,
falling into an abyss
of nothingness nowhere?
‘Death brings transformation.
Our ashes sift deep in soil
to be fed by sweet rain,
nurtured by warm sunshine’.
‘We are seedlings of spirit
resurrected, reaching
to the light on new limbs
raised in praise toward heaven’.
At sunrise, feel the warmth.
As rain falls, taste its sweetness.
Reach out toward heaven,
pray roots run deep.
Quietly the Snow Falls
Quietly the snow falls.
Its feathery flight hushed
as it blankets the ground.
I stop and listen to
the music of silence.
With eyes closed, I raise my
face to the sky. Flakes coat
my cheeks, my nose, my lashes,
melt down my neck in a
frozen baptism.
I am aware of my
heart beating in my ears,
my breathing in and out,
my smallness within this
greatness, apart and a part.
Paradise may be far off, but
there is peace in this place
where distance disappears
as snow fills the silence
between heaven and earth.
Sandhill Cranes Returned
Sandhill cranes returned.
Their haunting calls echo
through the still bare trees
and frozen swamp of time.
We shout, “Welcome back,”
as spring breaks winter’s
strangle hold on us,
our bones begin to dance.
Grief no longer runs
like blood from my pen.
New birth and hope sprout
on the blank page.
The predator still lurks,
snow and cold remain
a certain threat but
death has loosed its grip.
Cranes fly above us,
giving their immortal cry
heard since time’s beginning,
“I am…I am…I am”.
Across the Linen Cloth
Across the linen cloth,
petals from the bouquet
lay scattered, red as blood,
dripping from wilted stems.
Snow continues to fall,
spring disguised as winter,
leaving life standing bare,
stealing what days remain.
Heard through worn carpet,
seen through frosted pane,
memories burnt for warmth,
leave in wisps of smoke.
Across the sky before dawn,
the waning crescent rises,
fades away to nothing,
then becomes new once more.
Wind Sings Through Trees
Wind sings through trees
swinging branches,
thunder rumbles,
in harmony.
Clouds swirl above
turning inky grey,
temperature drops,
as sky ignites.
Rain splashes down
soaking this poem,
washing the words,
clean off the page.
Wind sings on as
in the beginning,
words become flesh,
living with us.
Crying our tears,
singing our songs,
dancing with us,
out in the rain.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:17.302889
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-19",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-20
|
4 Captivated, I Listen
Constance Hodder
Sheltered Beneath the Pines
Sheltered beneath the pines,
I hear a voice calling.
First the sound of breath,
becoming a moan,
to a cry,
to a sigh,
to silence.
Captivated, I listen
again to the breath,
the moan,
the cry,
the sigh,
silence.
Is that the wind I hear
or the song of the trees?
A song of sorrow or joy,
of loss or ecstasy,
wind stroking branches
carrying seed aloft.
I am answered with silence,
my body embraced by wind.
One exists only
in the arms of the other
like wind in tree’s song.
Stepping Outside
Stepping outside, escaping
the chaos of day,
I cross into the dark
sanctum of the night.
Enclosed within its black veil
the whirlwind stills,
agitation falls away
leaving only peace.
Certainly not quiet,
in the flashlight beam bugs dance
to the love song of the toads
trilling and croaking.
A bear lumbers through the brush,
coyotes howl in the distance,
this is their territory,
we are but interlopers.
An oak branch bumps my head,
I trip over its root,
a June bug collides with me
crossing its path.
Oh, to be one with the night,
at home within this realm,
instead of a trespasser
in my own domain.
We are but visitors
of darkness as with the light,
our footprints left behind,
wash away with rain.
One day we will be welcomed
into darkness, at home
growing roots with the oak,
flying with the June bugs.
After a Storm
After a storm, air swims of worms
struggling from wet earth to breathe.
Amphibious fragrance fills ones
nostrils raised like a dog catching
a whiff of what passed before.
Awakening connections
to the primitive soul that danced
in the rain with head raised high
catching drops on a parched tongue,
tasting life’s sweet nectar.
Heeding the siren’s call to
return to the sea to swim amidst
creatures who shy from the stranger
that raises its head from the surf
to breathe the scent of moist earth.
Scraps of Paper
Scraps of paper
blown on the wind,
land to drift on
the glassy pond.
They are rescued
from the water
like sacred scrolls
treasure maps.
Birch bark layers
curl in my hands,
white to tan skins
vented to breathe.
Without words,
secret messages,
or directions,
they tell a tale.
Of a canoe,
skimming across
a glassy pond to
the pull of paddles.
A living poem,
breathing through bark,
a Paper Birch’s
legacy.
Mothers Rise at Night
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
listening for their with a gleam of light
children’s calls. on the dark horizon.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
hearing the cries painting the land
of the hungry. with a lambent glow.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
to hold their hungry in dazzling brilliance
ones to their breast. setting the sky ablaze.
Mothers rise at night
to the moon’s call
cradling their babies.
Mothers rise at night
to bathe their souls in
the moon’s radiance.
Mothers rest their babies The moon rests at dawn
back down as they rise in the glow of the rising
in the morning light. sun on the horizon.
Two Trees
Two trees stand afield as fog
on a golden wave rolls in.
Twilight enlivens the glow
until darkness fades to grey.
When did the hummingbirds leave?
Summer gives way to winter.
Days grow short. The light dims
swallowed by eternal nights.
I so hunger for color.
Will the hummingbirds return?
Oh, to be a whirling maple
casting crimson leaves to the
wind, releasing my spirit
from its earthly restraints.
Walking Toward Home
Walking toward home at sunset
I pass beneath a birch
on a brilliant carpet
of amber leaves who
once danced with the wind.
Now lay spent where time
once was and is no more.
A place apart where
flesh and blood fall away,
breath becomes spirit.
Enveloped in a golden glow
I awaken within
a sacred realm of light
filled with joy beyond
my understanding.
Surrounded with peace,
I wait in awed silence
as night closes the veil.
I walk home in darkness,
light still within me.
Enraptured
Enraptured
wooded paths entry
to worlds set apart
revealing secret
inner wonders.
Enveloped
evergreens enshrine
cavern carpeted
with amber needled
radiance.
Encased
milkweed pods enclose
silken parachuted
seeds awaiting flight
on the wind.
Enchanted
mushrooms encircle
fairy ring of lore.
Stumble inside to
dance with elves.
Entangled
grass thimble en-laced
nest of hummingbird
skillfully woven
to vanish.
Enlightened
quest to encounter
divine mysteries
simply revealed on
nature’s path.
Three Olive Finches
On a grey December dawn
three olive finches sit frozen
on the feeder facing east
in solemn silence.
Watching out the window
I too am caught under the spell
of a quiet moment of
prayer without words.
The crisp morning softens as
first rays of sunlight reach over
the horizon caressing
the frigid birds.
They turn now in unison
to feast together on seed
having witnessed the divine
in warmth and light.
Wind Buffets the Trees
Wind buffets the trees,
tossing branches wildly,
flailing leaves strain their
slender connections.
I’m blinded by its force,
tangled hair whips my face,
upset by an argument,
unable to move ahead.
Dry yellow leaves fly out,
expelled amid hardy ones.
Fall’s long shadow cast over,
what remains of summer.
Solstice has passed, days grow short,
darkness lengthens into night.
Consequence of a long life,
is knowing what comes next.
I steady myself against
a swaying tree, praying
it has been made stronger,
by wind that buffets it.
Tiny Nuthatch
Tiny nuthatch picks a seed,
flies to the power pole,
perching upside down
places it in a hole.
It’s acrobatic skills
captivate this watcher.
His instinctual need
to prepare for winter.
Nearby is a downy
who sees the cache
flies to the power pole
boldly plucks out the seed.
Every season has its time
to reap, to feast, to starve.
Survival for those who
look ahead and those who watch.
As Night Falls
As night falls, darkness
moves in around me.
Standing alone, breath held,
listening……..waiting.
How does one explain
the presence of owls?
Flying on silent wings,
so quiet, they have
been mistaken for
spirits of the dead.
How does one explain
the presence of the dead?
Their voice as a dream,
a glimpse out of sight,
an improbable
answer to prayer.
How does one explain
the presence of prayer?
An owl calling out,
silhouetted in the
moonlight to his love,
stars circling above.
Tales in Snow
Trudging through snow
on a winter morning
recounts a story of those
who have gone before
leaving messages behind.
Squirrel tracks
pattern the frozen snow
like inverse braille
directing the mice below to
where feeder seeds lie.
Rabbit tracks
cluster under low branches
along with grouse and pheasant
paused in sheltered grottoes
to scan the horizon.
Deer hooves
make deep impressions
along with trailing foot
like exclamation marks
declaring caution.
Coyote prints
tracking their prey
thicken the plot
follow the narrative left
behind by the vulnerable.
Darkening clouds
promise fresh snow
starting a new chapter
of tales of those in print
who passed before.
A Curl of Brown Leaf
A curl of brown leaf
spins into the air,
released from its bond
by a gust of wind.
It twists and turns in
jubilant dance before
falling back down to
return to the soil.
No one notes its passage
except for dreamers,
who yearn to fly free
untethered from earth.
Soaring through clouds,
spun in a whirlwind,
letting go of matter,
sun, rain, and being.
Before tumbling back,
into arms of the wind,
set down to rest in
the field of leaves.
Unless the wind
desires once more,
to dance with leaves in
a swirl of ecstasy.
Diving Into the Lake
Diving into the lake
she emerges to float
weightlessly drifting
taking in the vast sky.
Within that blue expanse
an eagle circles high
flaps its wings then glides
on the air looking down.
Captured in that moment
a transcendence of self
gliding weightless along
the two become one.
Like the water and sky
they share the horizon,
communion of spirits
together soaring free.
Dark Comes Early
Dark comes early
Snow coats land
Trees stand stark
Trunks hold up
Starry sky.
Sharp cold air
Breath forms clouds
Wading through
Deep snow drifts
Steps muffled.
Moonlit field
Stag stands still
Watching me
Watching him
Sees beyond.
Looking Into the Darkness
Looking into the darkness,
she lifts her head, ears erect,
listening to sounds that
arouse her primal instincts.
Catching a scent in the air,
her nose drops to the ground,
follows it through the brush,
snaking through the tall grass.
Suddenly, she drops and rolls,
twisting back and forth,
disguising her odor with
a wild animal essence.
Leaping to her feet, the wolf
emerges from noble ancestry,
who stalked its prey, killed,
and howled with the pack.
Gazing up, the predator
sees in me the first woman,
who threw meat scraps to the pack,
from the fire, as they drew near.
Wagging her tail, she turns,
remembers the way home,
her bowl of kibble, soft bed,
and fireplace to dream beside.
In the Dead of Winter
In the dead of winter,
sun recedes behind bare trees,
temperatures plummet. Bundled,
Tara and I head out.
Thick snow blankets the brush.
Shelter for field mice,
Hide and Seek for Tara,
whose nose probes the mounds.
Leaping off the suet,
a fat squirrel escapes
in a powdery spray.
Tara strains at her leash.
In the grey dying light,
darkness replaces beauty,
stealing my attention,
invading my thoughts.
Last night, unable to sleep,
I slipped into your room,
laid my hand on your cheek,
listened to your breath.
I looked into the abyss,
felt its icy slope.
While you slept soundly,
my world started to slide.
In the dead of winter,
field mice lay hidden,
squirrels watch from afar.
Tara and I turn back.
Bitter Winter
Bitter winter.
Below zero
engine stalls.
Emotions
hibernate.
Cold takes hostage.
Tightly
bound by
parka, and wrapped scarf
mummified.
Perspective narrows,
senses
grow numb.
Deaf, blind, and mute,
darkness descends.
Deeply cocooned.
Sunlight
slips in,
melting despair,
awakening hope.
It’s All Was Talked About
It’s all was talked about,
how winter stole spring away,
those April showers bringing
only snow and dashed hopes.
Not a pretty subject for poems,
the long cold winter of
desolation and despair,
so bleak, it hurt to live.
To cope, emotions were
secreted in dark dens
like black bears deep in sleep,
their hearts barely beating.
Each day had to be faced
with grim resolution,
even the day spring came
my parka worn like a shroud.
Sun filtered through bare trees
drawing me like a moth to flame.
Turning toward the warmth with
eyes closed, red light streamed in.
Ice melted from my heart,
my frozen spirit thawed,
feelings stumbled out
of their gloomy cave.
May showers brought new growth,
hummingbirds returned along
with enough hope to store
until life’s next winter.
Drawn into the Forest
Drawn into the forest,
troubled with loss and grief,
drought, disease, destruction.
Trees respond, ‘Our roots run deep’.
Swept high into branches,
a shared communion of
breath and expiration,
life’s fragility.
When the soul departs from flesh
will it be lost in a void,
falling into an abyss
of nothingness nowhere?
‘Death brings transformation.
Our ashes sift deep in soil
to be fed by sweet rain,
nurtured by warm sunshine’.
‘We are seedlings of spirit
resurrected, reaching
to the light on new limbs
raised in praise toward heaven’.
At sunrise, feel the warmth.
As rain falls, taste its sweetness.
Reach out toward heaven,
pray roots run deep.
Quietly the Snow Falls
Quietly the snow falls.
Its feathery flight hushed
as it blankets the ground.
I stop and listen to
the music of silence.
With eyes closed, I raise my
face to the sky. Flakes coat
my cheeks, my nose, my lashes,
melt down my neck in a
frozen baptism.
I am aware of my
heart beating in my ears,
my breathing in and out,
my smallness within this
greatness, apart and a part.
Paradise may be far off, but
there is peace in this place
where distance disappears
as snow fills the silence
between heaven and earth.
Sandhill Cranes Returned
Sandhill cranes returned.
Their haunting calls echo
through the still bare trees
and frozen swamp of time.
We shout, “Welcome back,”
as spring breaks winter’s
strangle hold on us,
our bones begin to dance.
Grief no longer runs
like blood from my pen.
New birth and hope sprout
on the blank page.
The predator still lurks,
snow and cold remain
a certain threat but
death has loosed its grip.
Cranes fly above us,
giving their immortal cry
heard since time’s beginning,
“I am…I am…I am”.
Across the Linen Cloth
Across the linen cloth,
petals from the bouquet
lay scattered, red as blood,
dripping from wilted stems.
Snow continues to fall,
spring disguised as winter,
leaving life standing bare,
stealing what days remain.
Heard through worn carpet,
seen through frosted pane,
memories burnt for warmth,
leave in wisps of smoke.
Across the sky before dawn,
the waning crescent rises,
fades away to nothing,
then becomes new once more.
Wind Sings Through Trees
Wind sings through trees
swinging branches,
thunder rumbles,
in harmony.
Clouds swirl above
turning inky grey,
temperature drops,
as sky ignites.
Rain splashes down
soaking this poem,
washing the words,
clean off the page.
Wind sings on as
in the beginning,
words become flesh,
living with us.
Crying our tears,
singing our songs,
dancing with us,
out in the rain.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:17.377448
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-20",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-21
|
4 Captivated, I Listen
Constance Hodder
Sheltered Beneath the Pines
Sheltered beneath the pines,
I hear a voice calling.
First the sound of breath,
becoming a moan,
to a cry,
to a sigh,
to silence.
Captivated, I listen
again to the breath,
the moan,
the cry,
the sigh,
silence.
Is that the wind I hear
or the song of the trees?
A song of sorrow or joy,
of loss or ecstasy,
wind stroking branches
carrying seed aloft.
I am answered with silence,
my body embraced by wind.
One exists only
in the arms of the other
like wind in tree’s song.
Stepping Outside
Stepping outside, escaping
the chaos of day,
I cross into the dark
sanctum of the night.
Enclosed within its black veil
the whirlwind stills,
agitation falls away
leaving only peace.
Certainly not quiet,
in the flashlight beam bugs dance
to the love song of the toads
trilling and croaking.
A bear lumbers through the brush,
coyotes howl in the distance,
this is their territory,
we are but interlopers.
An oak branch bumps my head,
I trip over its root,
a June bug collides with me
crossing its path.
Oh, to be one with the night,
at home within this realm,
instead of a trespasser
in my own domain.
We are but visitors
of darkness as with the light,
our footprints left behind,
wash away with rain.
One day we will be welcomed
into darkness, at home
growing roots with the oak,
flying with the June bugs.
After a Storm
After a storm, air swims of worms
struggling from wet earth to breathe.
Amphibious fragrance fills ones
nostrils raised like a dog catching
a whiff of what passed before.
Awakening connections
to the primitive soul that danced
in the rain with head raised high
catching drops on a parched tongue,
tasting life’s sweet nectar.
Heeding the siren’s call to
return to the sea to swim amidst
creatures who shy from the stranger
that raises its head from the surf
to breathe the scent of moist earth.
Scraps of Paper
Scraps of paper
blown on the wind,
land to drift on
the glassy pond.
They are rescued
from the water
like sacred scrolls
treasure maps.
Birch bark layers
curl in my hands,
white to tan skins
vented to breathe.
Without words,
secret messages,
or directions,
they tell a tale.
Of a canoe,
skimming across
a glassy pond to
the pull of paddles.
A living poem,
breathing through bark,
a Paper Birch’s
legacy.
Mothers Rise at Night
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
listening for their with a gleam of light
children’s calls. on the dark horizon.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
hearing the cries painting the land
of the hungry. with a lambent glow.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
to hold their hungry in dazzling brilliance
ones to their breast. setting the sky ablaze.
Mothers rise at night
to the moon’s call
cradling their babies.
Mothers rise at night
to bathe their souls in
the moon’s radiance.
Mothers rest their babies The moon rests at dawn
back down as they rise in the glow of the rising
in the morning light. sun on the horizon.
Two Trees
Two trees stand afield as fog
on a golden wave rolls in.
Twilight enlivens the glow
until darkness fades to grey.
When did the hummingbirds leave?
Summer gives way to winter.
Days grow short. The light dims
swallowed by eternal nights.
I so hunger for color.
Will the hummingbirds return?
Oh, to be a whirling maple
casting crimson leaves to the
wind, releasing my spirit
from its earthly restraints.
Walking Toward Home
Walking toward home at sunset
I pass beneath a birch
on a brilliant carpet
of amber leaves who
once danced with the wind.
Now lay spent where time
once was and is no more.
A place apart where
flesh and blood fall away,
breath becomes spirit.
Enveloped in a golden glow
I awaken within
a sacred realm of light
filled with joy beyond
my understanding.
Surrounded with peace,
I wait in awed silence
as night closes the veil.
I walk home in darkness,
light still within me.
Enraptured
Enraptured
wooded paths entry
to worlds set apart
revealing secret
inner wonders.
Enveloped
evergreens enshrine
cavern carpeted
with amber needled
radiance.
Encased
milkweed pods enclose
silken parachuted
seeds awaiting flight
on the wind.
Enchanted
mushrooms encircle
fairy ring of lore.
Stumble inside to
dance with elves.
Entangled
grass thimble en-laced
nest of hummingbird
skillfully woven
to vanish.
Enlightened
quest to encounter
divine mysteries
simply revealed on
nature’s path.
Three Olive Finches
On a grey December dawn
three olive finches sit frozen
on the feeder facing east
in solemn silence.
Watching out the window
I too am caught under the spell
of a quiet moment of
prayer without words.
The crisp morning softens as
first rays of sunlight reach over
the horizon caressing
the frigid birds.
They turn now in unison
to feast together on seed
having witnessed the divine
in warmth and light.
Wind Buffets the Trees
Wind buffets the trees,
tossing branches wildly,
flailing leaves strain their
slender connections.
I’m blinded by its force,
tangled hair whips my face,
upset by an argument,
unable to move ahead.
Dry yellow leaves fly out,
expelled amid hardy ones.
Fall’s long shadow cast over,
what remains of summer.
Solstice has passed, days grow short,
darkness lengthens into night.
Consequence of a long life,
is knowing what comes next.
I steady myself against
a swaying tree, praying
it has been made stronger,
by wind that buffets it.
Tiny Nuthatch
Tiny nuthatch picks a seed,
flies to the power pole,
perching upside down
places it in a hole.
It’s acrobatic skills
captivate this watcher.
His instinctual need
to prepare for winter.
Nearby is a downy
who sees the cache
flies to the power pole
boldly plucks out the seed.
Every season has its time
to reap, to feast, to starve.
Survival for those who
look ahead and those who watch.
As Night Falls
As night falls, darkness
moves in around me.
Standing alone, breath held,
listening……..waiting.
How does one explain
the presence of owls?
Flying on silent wings,
so quiet, they have
been mistaken for
spirits of the dead.
How does one explain
the presence of the dead?
Their voice as a dream,
a glimpse out of sight,
an improbable
answer to prayer.
How does one explain
the presence of prayer?
An owl calling out,
silhouetted in the
moonlight to his love,
stars circling above.
Tales in Snow
Trudging through snow
on a winter morning
recounts a story of those
who have gone before
leaving messages behind.
Squirrel tracks
pattern the frozen snow
like inverse braille
directing the mice below to
where feeder seeds lie.
Rabbit tracks
cluster under low branches
along with grouse and pheasant
paused in sheltered grottoes
to scan the horizon.
Deer hooves
make deep impressions
along with trailing foot
like exclamation marks
declaring caution.
Coyote prints
tracking their prey
thicken the plot
follow the narrative left
behind by the vulnerable.
Darkening clouds
promise fresh snow
starting a new chapter
of tales of those in print
who passed before.
A Curl of Brown Leaf
A curl of brown leaf
spins into the air,
released from its bond
by a gust of wind.
It twists and turns in
jubilant dance before
falling back down to
return to the soil.
No one notes its passage
except for dreamers,
who yearn to fly free
untethered from earth.
Soaring through clouds,
spun in a whirlwind,
letting go of matter,
sun, rain, and being.
Before tumbling back,
into arms of the wind,
set down to rest in
the field of leaves.
Unless the wind
desires once more,
to dance with leaves in
a swirl of ecstasy.
Diving Into the Lake
Diving into the lake
she emerges to float
weightlessly drifting
taking in the vast sky.
Within that blue expanse
an eagle circles high
flaps its wings then glides
on the air looking down.
Captured in that moment
a transcendence of self
gliding weightless along
the two become one.
Like the water and sky
they share the horizon,
communion of spirits
together soaring free.
Dark Comes Early
Dark comes early
Snow coats land
Trees stand stark
Trunks hold up
Starry sky.
Sharp cold air
Breath forms clouds
Wading through
Deep snow drifts
Steps muffled.
Moonlit field
Stag stands still
Watching me
Watching him
Sees beyond.
Looking Into the Darkness
Looking into the darkness,
she lifts her head, ears erect,
listening to sounds that
arouse her primal instincts.
Catching a scent in the air,
her nose drops to the ground,
follows it through the brush,
snaking through the tall grass.
Suddenly, she drops and rolls,
twisting back and forth,
disguising her odor with
a wild animal essence.
Leaping to her feet, the wolf
emerges from noble ancestry,
who stalked its prey, killed,
and howled with the pack.
Gazing up, the predator
sees in me the first woman,
who threw meat scraps to the pack,
from the fire, as they drew near.
Wagging her tail, she turns,
remembers the way home,
her bowl of kibble, soft bed,
and fireplace to dream beside.
In the Dead of Winter
In the dead of winter,
sun recedes behind bare trees,
temperatures plummet. Bundled,
Tara and I head out.
Thick snow blankets the brush.
Shelter for field mice,
Hide and Seek for Tara,
whose nose probes the mounds.
Leaping off the suet,
a fat squirrel escapes
in a powdery spray.
Tara strains at her leash.
In the grey dying light,
darkness replaces beauty,
stealing my attention,
invading my thoughts.
Last night, unable to sleep,
I slipped into your room,
laid my hand on your cheek,
listened to your breath.
I looked into the abyss,
felt its icy slope.
While you slept soundly,
my world started to slide.
In the dead of winter,
field mice lay hidden,
squirrels watch from afar.
Tara and I turn back.
Bitter Winter
Bitter winter.
Below zero
engine stalls.
Emotions
hibernate.
Cold takes hostage.
Tightly
bound by
parka, and wrapped scarf
mummified.
Perspective narrows,
senses
grow numb.
Deaf, blind, and mute,
darkness descends.
Deeply cocooned.
Sunlight
slips in,
melting despair,
awakening hope.
It’s All Was Talked About
It’s all was talked about,
how winter stole spring away,
those April showers bringing
only snow and dashed hopes.
Not a pretty subject for poems,
the long cold winter of
desolation and despair,
so bleak, it hurt to live.
To cope, emotions were
secreted in dark dens
like black bears deep in sleep,
their hearts barely beating.
Each day had to be faced
with grim resolution,
even the day spring came
my parka worn like a shroud.
Sun filtered through bare trees
drawing me like a moth to flame.
Turning toward the warmth with
eyes closed, red light streamed in.
Ice melted from my heart,
my frozen spirit thawed,
feelings stumbled out
of their gloomy cave.
May showers brought new growth,
hummingbirds returned along
with enough hope to store
until life’s next winter.
Drawn into the Forest
Drawn into the forest,
troubled with loss and grief,
drought, disease, destruction.
Trees respond, ‘Our roots run deep’.
Swept high into branches,
a shared communion of
breath and expiration,
life’s fragility.
When the soul departs from flesh
will it be lost in a void,
falling into an abyss
of nothingness nowhere?
‘Death brings transformation.
Our ashes sift deep in soil
to be fed by sweet rain,
nurtured by warm sunshine’.
‘We are seedlings of spirit
resurrected, reaching
to the light on new limbs
raised in praise toward heaven’.
At sunrise, feel the warmth.
As rain falls, taste its sweetness.
Reach out toward heaven,
pray roots run deep.
Quietly the Snow Falls
Quietly the snow falls.
Its feathery flight hushed
as it blankets the ground.
I stop and listen to
the music of silence.
With eyes closed, I raise my
face to the sky. Flakes coat
my cheeks, my nose, my lashes,
melt down my neck in a
frozen baptism.
I am aware of my
heart beating in my ears,
my breathing in and out,
my smallness within this
greatness, apart and a part.
Paradise may be far off, but
there is peace in this place
where distance disappears
as snow fills the silence
between heaven and earth.
Sandhill Cranes Returned
Sandhill cranes returned.
Their haunting calls echo
through the still bare trees
and frozen swamp of time.
We shout, “Welcome back,”
as spring breaks winter’s
strangle hold on us,
our bones begin to dance.
Grief no longer runs
like blood from my pen.
New birth and hope sprout
on the blank page.
The predator still lurks,
snow and cold remain
a certain threat but
death has loosed its grip.
Cranes fly above us,
giving their immortal cry
heard since time’s beginning,
“I am…I am…I am”.
Across the Linen Cloth
Across the linen cloth,
petals from the bouquet
lay scattered, red as blood,
dripping from wilted stems.
Snow continues to fall,
spring disguised as winter,
leaving life standing bare,
stealing what days remain.
Heard through worn carpet,
seen through frosted pane,
memories burnt for warmth,
leave in wisps of smoke.
Across the sky before dawn,
the waning crescent rises,
fades away to nothing,
then becomes new once more.
Wind Sings Through Trees
Wind sings through trees
swinging branches,
thunder rumbles,
in harmony.
Clouds swirl above
turning inky grey,
temperature drops,
as sky ignites.
Rain splashes down
soaking this poem,
washing the words,
clean off the page.
Wind sings on as
in the beginning,
words become flesh,
living with us.
Crying our tears,
singing our songs,
dancing with us,
out in the rain.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:17.453186
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-21",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-22
|
4 Captivated, I Listen
Constance Hodder
Sheltered Beneath the Pines
Sheltered beneath the pines,
I hear a voice calling.
First the sound of breath,
becoming a moan,
to a cry,
to a sigh,
to silence.
Captivated, I listen
again to the breath,
the moan,
the cry,
the sigh,
silence.
Is that the wind I hear
or the song of the trees?
A song of sorrow or joy,
of loss or ecstasy,
wind stroking branches
carrying seed aloft.
I am answered with silence,
my body embraced by wind.
One exists only
in the arms of the other
like wind in tree’s song.
Stepping Outside
Stepping outside, escaping
the chaos of day,
I cross into the dark
sanctum of the night.
Enclosed within its black veil
the whirlwind stills,
agitation falls away
leaving only peace.
Certainly not quiet,
in the flashlight beam bugs dance
to the love song of the toads
trilling and croaking.
A bear lumbers through the brush,
coyotes howl in the distance,
this is their territory,
we are but interlopers.
An oak branch bumps my head,
I trip over its root,
a June bug collides with me
crossing its path.
Oh, to be one with the night,
at home within this realm,
instead of a trespasser
in my own domain.
We are but visitors
of darkness as with the light,
our footprints left behind,
wash away with rain.
One day we will be welcomed
into darkness, at home
growing roots with the oak,
flying with the June bugs.
After a Storm
After a storm, air swims of worms
struggling from wet earth to breathe.
Amphibious fragrance fills ones
nostrils raised like a dog catching
a whiff of what passed before.
Awakening connections
to the primitive soul that danced
in the rain with head raised high
catching drops on a parched tongue,
tasting life’s sweet nectar.
Heeding the siren’s call to
return to the sea to swim amidst
creatures who shy from the stranger
that raises its head from the surf
to breathe the scent of moist earth.
Scraps of Paper
Scraps of paper
blown on the wind,
land to drift on
the glassy pond.
They are rescued
from the water
like sacred scrolls
treasure maps.
Birch bark layers
curl in my hands,
white to tan skins
vented to breathe.
Without words,
secret messages,
or directions,
they tell a tale.
Of a canoe,
skimming across
a glassy pond to
the pull of paddles.
A living poem,
breathing through bark,
a Paper Birch’s
legacy.
Mothers Rise at Night
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
listening for their with a gleam of light
children’s calls. on the dark horizon.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
hearing the cries painting the land
of the hungry. with a lambent glow.
Mothers rise at night The moon rises at night
to hold their hungry in dazzling brilliance
ones to their breast. setting the sky ablaze.
Mothers rise at night
to the moon’s call
cradling their babies.
Mothers rise at night
to bathe their souls in
the moon’s radiance.
Mothers rest their babies The moon rests at dawn
back down as they rise in the glow of the rising
in the morning light. sun on the horizon.
Two Trees
Two trees stand afield as fog
on a golden wave rolls in.
Twilight enlivens the glow
until darkness fades to grey.
When did the hummingbirds leave?
Summer gives way to winter.
Days grow short. The light dims
swallowed by eternal nights.
I so hunger for color.
Will the hummingbirds return?
Oh, to be a whirling maple
casting crimson leaves to the
wind, releasing my spirit
from its earthly restraints.
Walking Toward Home
Walking toward home at sunset
I pass beneath a birch
on a brilliant carpet
of amber leaves who
once danced with the wind.
Now lay spent where time
once was and is no more.
A place apart where
flesh and blood fall away,
breath becomes spirit.
Enveloped in a golden glow
I awaken within
a sacred realm of light
filled with joy beyond
my understanding.
Surrounded with peace,
I wait in awed silence
as night closes the veil.
I walk home in darkness,
light still within me.
Enraptured
Enraptured
wooded paths entry
to worlds set apart
revealing secret
inner wonders.
Enveloped
evergreens enshrine
cavern carpeted
with amber needled
radiance.
Encased
milkweed pods enclose
silken parachuted
seeds awaiting flight
on the wind.
Enchanted
mushrooms encircle
fairy ring of lore.
Stumble inside to
dance with elves.
Entangled
grass thimble en-laced
nest of hummingbird
skillfully woven
to vanish.
Enlightened
quest to encounter
divine mysteries
simply revealed on
nature’s path.
Three Olive Finches
On a grey December dawn
three olive finches sit frozen
on the feeder facing east
in solemn silence.
Watching out the window
I too am caught under the spell
of a quiet moment of
prayer without words.
The crisp morning softens as
first rays of sunlight reach over
the horizon caressing
the frigid birds.
They turn now in unison
to feast together on seed
having witnessed the divine
in warmth and light.
Wind Buffets the Trees
Wind buffets the trees,
tossing branches wildly,
flailing leaves strain their
slender connections.
I’m blinded by its force,
tangled hair whips my face,
upset by an argument,
unable to move ahead.
Dry yellow leaves fly out,
expelled amid hardy ones.
Fall’s long shadow cast over,
what remains of summer.
Solstice has passed, days grow short,
darkness lengthens into night.
Consequence of a long life,
is knowing what comes next.
I steady myself against
a swaying tree, praying
it has been made stronger,
by wind that buffets it.
Tiny Nuthatch
Tiny nuthatch picks a seed,
flies to the power pole,
perching upside down
places it in a hole.
It’s acrobatic skills
captivate this watcher.
His instinctual need
to prepare for winter.
Nearby is a downy
who sees the cache
flies to the power pole
boldly plucks out the seed.
Every season has its time
to reap, to feast, to starve.
Survival for those who
look ahead and those who watch.
As Night Falls
As night falls, darkness
moves in around me.
Standing alone, breath held,
listening……..waiting.
How does one explain
the presence of owls?
Flying on silent wings,
so quiet, they have
been mistaken for
spirits of the dead.
How does one explain
the presence of the dead?
Their voice as a dream,
a glimpse out of sight,
an improbable
answer to prayer.
How does one explain
the presence of prayer?
An owl calling out,
silhouetted in the
moonlight to his love,
stars circling above.
Tales in Snow
Trudging through snow
on a winter morning
recounts a story of those
who have gone before
leaving messages behind.
Squirrel tracks
pattern the frozen snow
like inverse braille
directing the mice below to
where feeder seeds lie.
Rabbit tracks
cluster under low branches
along with grouse and pheasant
paused in sheltered grottoes
to scan the horizon.
Deer hooves
make deep impressions
along with trailing foot
like exclamation marks
declaring caution.
Coyote prints
tracking their prey
thicken the plot
follow the narrative left
behind by the vulnerable.
Darkening clouds
promise fresh snow
starting a new chapter
of tales of those in print
who passed before.
A Curl of Brown Leaf
A curl of brown leaf
spins into the air,
released from its bond
by a gust of wind.
It twists and turns in
jubilant dance before
falling back down to
return to the soil.
No one notes its passage
except for dreamers,
who yearn to fly free
untethered from earth.
Soaring through clouds,
spun in a whirlwind,
letting go of matter,
sun, rain, and being.
Before tumbling back,
into arms of the wind,
set down to rest in
the field of leaves.
Unless the wind
desires once more,
to dance with leaves in
a swirl of ecstasy.
Diving Into the Lake
Diving into the lake
she emerges to float
weightlessly drifting
taking in the vast sky.
Within that blue expanse
an eagle circles high
flaps its wings then glides
on the air looking down.
Captured in that moment
a transcendence of self
gliding weightless along
the two become one.
Like the water and sky
they share the horizon,
communion of spirits
together soaring free.
Dark Comes Early
Dark comes early
Snow coats land
Trees stand stark
Trunks hold up
Starry sky.
Sharp cold air
Breath forms clouds
Wading through
Deep snow drifts
Steps muffled.
Moonlit field
Stag stands still
Watching me
Watching him
Sees beyond.
Looking Into the Darkness
Looking into the darkness,
she lifts her head, ears erect,
listening to sounds that
arouse her primal instincts.
Catching a scent in the air,
her nose drops to the ground,
follows it through the brush,
snaking through the tall grass.
Suddenly, she drops and rolls,
twisting back and forth,
disguising her odor with
a wild animal essence.
Leaping to her feet, the wolf
emerges from noble ancestry,
who stalked its prey, killed,
and howled with the pack.
Gazing up, the predator
sees in me the first woman,
who threw meat scraps to the pack,
from the fire, as they drew near.
Wagging her tail, she turns,
remembers the way home,
her bowl of kibble, soft bed,
and fireplace to dream beside.
In the Dead of Winter
In the dead of winter,
sun recedes behind bare trees,
temperatures plummet. Bundled,
Tara and I head out.
Thick snow blankets the brush.
Shelter for field mice,
Hide and Seek for Tara,
whose nose probes the mounds.
Leaping off the suet,
a fat squirrel escapes
in a powdery spray.
Tara strains at her leash.
In the grey dying light,
darkness replaces beauty,
stealing my attention,
invading my thoughts.
Last night, unable to sleep,
I slipped into your room,
laid my hand on your cheek,
listened to your breath.
I looked into the abyss,
felt its icy slope.
While you slept soundly,
my world started to slide.
In the dead of winter,
field mice lay hidden,
squirrels watch from afar.
Tara and I turn back.
Bitter Winter
Bitter winter.
Below zero
engine stalls.
Emotions
hibernate.
Cold takes hostage.
Tightly
bound by
parka, and wrapped scarf
mummified.
Perspective narrows,
senses
grow numb.
Deaf, blind, and mute,
darkness descends.
Deeply cocooned.
Sunlight
slips in,
melting despair,
awakening hope.
It’s All Was Talked About
It’s all was talked about,
how winter stole spring away,
those April showers bringing
only snow and dashed hopes.
Not a pretty subject for poems,
the long cold winter of
desolation and despair,
so bleak, it hurt to live.
To cope, emotions were
secreted in dark dens
like black bears deep in sleep,
their hearts barely beating.
Each day had to be faced
with grim resolution,
even the day spring came
my parka worn like a shroud.
Sun filtered through bare trees
drawing me like a moth to flame.
Turning toward the warmth with
eyes closed, red light streamed in.
Ice melted from my heart,
my frozen spirit thawed,
feelings stumbled out
of their gloomy cave.
May showers brought new growth,
hummingbirds returned along
with enough hope to store
until life’s next winter.
Drawn into the Forest
Drawn into the forest,
troubled with loss and grief,
drought, disease, destruction.
Trees respond, ‘Our roots run deep’.
Swept high into branches,
a shared communion of
breath and expiration,
life’s fragility.
When the soul departs from flesh
will it be lost in a void,
falling into an abyss
of nothingness nowhere?
‘Death brings transformation.
Our ashes sift deep in soil
to be fed by sweet rain,
nurtured by warm sunshine’.
‘We are seedlings of spirit
resurrected, reaching
to the light on new limbs
raised in praise toward heaven’.
At sunrise, feel the warmth.
As rain falls, taste its sweetness.
Reach out toward heaven,
pray roots run deep.
Quietly the Snow Falls
Quietly the snow falls.
Its feathery flight hushed
as it blankets the ground.
I stop and listen to
the music of silence.
With eyes closed, I raise my
face to the sky. Flakes coat
my cheeks, my nose, my lashes,
melt down my neck in a
frozen baptism.
I am aware of my
heart beating in my ears,
my breathing in and out,
my smallness within this
greatness, apart and a part.
Paradise may be far off, but
there is peace in this place
where distance disappears
as snow fills the silence
between heaven and earth.
Sandhill Cranes Returned
Sandhill cranes returned.
Their haunting calls echo
through the still bare trees
and frozen swamp of time.
We shout, “Welcome back,”
as spring breaks winter’s
strangle hold on us,
our bones begin to dance.
Grief no longer runs
like blood from my pen.
New birth and hope sprout
on the blank page.
The predator still lurks,
snow and cold remain
a certain threat but
death has loosed its grip.
Cranes fly above us,
giving their immortal cry
heard since time’s beginning,
“I am…I am…I am”.
Across the Linen Cloth
Across the linen cloth,
petals from the bouquet
lay scattered, red as blood,
dripping from wilted stems.
Snow continues to fall,
spring disguised as winter,
leaving life standing bare,
stealing what days remain.
Heard through worn carpet,
seen through frosted pane,
memories burnt for warmth,
leave in wisps of smoke.
Across the sky before dawn,
the waning crescent rises,
fades away to nothing,
then becomes new once more.
Wind Sings Through Trees
Wind sings through trees
swinging branches,
thunder rumbles,
in harmony.
Clouds swirl above
turning inky grey,
temperature drops,
as sky ignites.
Rain splashes down
soaking this poem,
washing the words,
clean off the page.
Wind sings on as
in the beginning,
words become flesh,
living with us.
Crying our tears,
singing our songs,
dancing with us,
out in the rain.
|
pressbooks
|
2025-03-22T05:09:17.527135
|
04-9-2023
|
{
"license": "Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/",
"url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/chapter/captivated-i-listen/#chapter-286-section-22",
"book_url": "https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/whattimeisleft/front-matter/foreward/",
"title": "What Time is Left",
"author": "Constance Hodder",
"institution": "",
"subject": "Poetry, Poetry by individual poets"
}
|
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