Winter Morning, -13°

Waking up in longjohns and socks

under so many quilts your body hurts,

windows rattling in the winds

and puffs of snow sprinkling

the sill and the floor beneath—

you fire up the stove with dry cobs and oak,

lean into it and rub your hands,

your mind unsettled by the linoleum rug

which won’t lie still. When a squall hits broadside,

the rug rises, billows. You press a foot and pump it slowly,

feel it push back against your toes

too soft for something that cold,

spongy as moss beside a spring.

Pants and shirt now, then ham and red-eye gravy,

eggs, yesterday’s biscuits, 

coffee as hot as you can take it

while three feet away snow won’t melt.

Last fall’s venison in the freezer is warmer than this,

but you’re not that dead, not yet. There are chores out there,

and at the mill logs whose frozen hearts

will make a four-foot blade cut a crooked track.

Into as many layers as will fit.

Wrap a towel around your head,

another around your neck,

walk to the door. Beneath your feet

you feel the rug rippling

and you think of summer

and a field of clover

rising and falling, rising and falling,

and how every green and growing thing will die.

              © David Black, 2017

White clover in the meadow
Photo by Steve Daniels, UK
from Wikimedia Commons

Chance

Life is messy and irrational.

I make a plan, just to watch it fall apart.

So I concentrate on doable things,

sort out the dirtiness of real life

from the spotless world of my imagination,

even as these incompatible things

sow seeds of madness

in my burning, buzzing brain.

  

I try to distract myself

by looking at dancing birds,

I spend the day picnicking,

but cannot stop the seeds from sprouting.

Beautiful life and hope

are destroyed 

by a stroke of bad luck,

by lack of money,

or the cultural tide

crashing against the cliff face of reality.

I feel threatened by the power of my will

and take a break from struggle.

I listen to hit songs,

study my successful peers,

read a person’s character by his garb.

I dismiss words and smirks.

I let things pass.

Cultish servitude to the past is gone:

today I worship Chance.

I no longer mistake a coincidence

for self-conscious Providence.

I create order out of chaos,

make a superior plan

from the debris of salvaged ideas— 

and watch the new plan fall apart.

Chance is blind.

© Helen Kanevsky, 2017

Waves from the Indian Ocean crash against the cliffs of Eagle Gorge,
Kalbarri National Park, Western Australia
Photo by Gypsy Denise
from Wikimedia Commons

Giving/Receiving

Oh, the lessons we must learn

Because we have to grow.

Oh, the message given when young

That you know must be changed.

“You are to give of yourself,

So reach out and help those less fortunate.”

“Be benevolent and give a helping hand.”

“Be strong and reach down to lift others up.”

“Don’t let others see you cry

Because that means you’re weak.”

And so your life follows those paths,

Until one day a cardboard box stands in your way,

And you fall into awareness.

The depths of the hole

Feel like an upside-down world.

You must reach out and ask for help.

You must allow others to help you.

Simple chores are too much for you,

And you must sit and watch while others work for you.

You cry because you feel so vulnerable,

And you don’t know how to accept.

But you learn the lessons

Of allowing others the giving gift,

And you sit and see the rainbows

That were always there to see.

So you now can give the gift of giving

To others as you sit quietly to receive.

What a gift!

        © Hilda Ward, 2017

Nurse tending patient in Kettering hypertherm cabinet
WPA photo taken in New Orleans, U.S. Marine Hospital
from Wikimedia Commons 

Butterfly and Flower

1 

Butterfly loves Flower; Flower doesn’t love back.

B: They say be like the flower is:

aloof… but I need the sweetness 

over and over.

I can’t stay away 

or stop the sipping.
I am never full.

F: I cannot be the butterfly 

who insatiably worships.

I open. I give.

That’s enough for me. 

Drained, I fade inward,

notice the fullness.

2 

Butterfly is fed; Flower is fertilized.

B: In the night I cling to tree bark,

dreaming of colors, 

sugar on my tongue

over and over.

Dreams are not enough 

and I am empty. 

F: In the night, I close. It’s peaceful.

I think I’ll not open again 

to make sweet pretense

for needy tongues.

I fill myself up

and I am changing. 

© Laura Seale, 2016

Monarch butterfly with Milkweed
Photo by Tony Russell