A guest in my mother's house

Into the depths of darkness
my mother turns,
turns her back on life
to journey an unseen path.
Turns her back on me, a guest now
in her vacant house.
A visitor, insecure,
uncomfortable on the hard
Puritan pew I inherited.

Though I sleep in her bed, eat
from her dishes,
I am outside looking in
to when
I was mothered
however awkwardly,
to when
I worshiped her competence,
courage, independence.
To when
I released, at last,
my resentment and anger

I squat by the pond

In response to Human Being's challenge to write a poem using a list of words (as many as possible) she has extracted from various comments on her blogpost, I submit the following.

Her list of words is: grateful, life, rocks, a pile, resonates, understanding, appreciating, childlike, tapestry, self, listen, breath, blessings, beneath and survive.

A Pile of Rocks

Childlike, I squat by the pond,
listen to the frogs,
breathe in the tapestry of nature's blessings.
Beneath my feet, earth trembles,
fire, water, wind and rocks
resonate, quake, flare and blow.
Life, so complex yet so simple.

For Rent

Unusual structure near beach:
two arms, fingers beringed.
Two legs, feet bare.
Grey head packed with memories.
Trunk contains well-worn life enhancing systems
though lacks a heart.
But you can get them cheap at Job Lot.
No smoking, pets okay.
Suitable for one person.
$800/month, heat included.
Available now. Lease. References.
Only the serendipitous need apply.

Edge

Day after day
I do nothing
but sit in the yard and watch
the marsh water rise and fall,
listen to the hour toll in the village steeple,
watch the kayakers in bright colors
paddle quietly among ducks and swans.

If only I could accept myself,
the being I am
I would be in paradise.

The Poet Makes It Looks So Easy

Words that hum

taut lines

an effortless bridge from image to image

at the end, the aha.

But me

I get a few good line breaks,

a metaphor, a clever image,

a poignant note,

correct spelling even.

Apparently solid and firm.

Later,

like night dreams at sunrise,

snowflakes on the window pane,

the words dissolve

and I am left with cross outs and arrows

false starts and a furrowed brow,

letters scattered across the page

like noodles for alphabet soup.

Heron

We both startle:
I from the flutter of wings
against water,
she from the grate of my boot
on pavement.
Without a backward glance
seeking shelter, she rises
from the stream, flies low
over the grasses
fleeing,
while I sit on the bench and stare
at the water, regretting my noisy self.

A Touch of Spring

The snow melts
rivulets run down the side of the road
birds chirp
a distant chain saw, the fall of the tree
the rush of the overfull river
my feet squelch in the mud
I breathe in the clean mountain side air
And thank mother nature for this respite
from the cold isolation of winter.