Anam Cara Forest
A Spiritual Wonderland
Come sit by the brook and listen for the rhyme of my soul--
a whimsical waltz of words!
The secret of the lyric is in the trickling flow
as it washes over the moss-covered stone.
My Poetry (remember to turn off the music at the bottom of the page if you would like to hear the recordings)
Clam Chowder on Friday Afternoons
Like clam chowder on Friday afternoons,
chunky with a quiet simmer –
a child glazes over a ceramic edge.
She thought about
the words,
then took a puckered sip…
lifting,
careful not to burn
the heart.
She knew things,
before the dip of the spoon,
heard them
in the shell of her mind,
saw them
after the death of the clam,
felt them
in the bed of her spirit.
It warmed,
but left bumps on her tongue,
sitting,
raised,
distinguished from the red.
Her Mama always said,
She is such a special child;
always eating clam chowder
on Friday afternoons.
Edging another rotation, she wondered
where they went…
the words
that were stuck between the organs.
Maybe the heated broth would jog them...
or look to Merriam-Webster
under special
and see if they loosen.
Discovery
Exhaling,
before my lids
bow over
to sleep.
Inhaling,
in my dreams
and releasing
realities.
The rhythm
of the heart
is a metronome
of healing.
Words are reborn
in the tick and the tock...
shooting like stars
to the fingertips
and beyond.
Ah, I found you ...
in the arc of the S
the circle of the O
the raising of the U
the angle of the L...
Awaken and breathe!
Clasped
Their hands were held,
clasped
in the Maternal Sea,
adhered by the same blood
that can be traced
to accented lands.
Born, Rose and Emily,
Summer, 1900, 2:15 pm then 2:30,
inside a brownstone with a tilted sign-
1312 Brockhurst Way.
Their mirrored profile
displayed in whitewashed frames
lined the feather-dusted stairs
to lace-draped bassinets.
Tuesday,
their day at the park,
swinging by oak pedestals
knotted with remedial carvings…
Sisters forever, 1909,
they swayed with pocketed identities.
Their Grandmother nods to their exploration -
pinafores curtsy
as lighthouse pastels flash to a Victorian sandbox.
Laughter emits a signal; sails return to mast,
Time to go, Ladies.
The girls beg for ambrosial treats
during a carriage ride
back to the tilted sign.
A carousel spins and greets them
at the door of O’Dell’s Confections.
As now a need fulfilled,
divinity stained smiles
doze on a nurturing lap.
They wake to tomorrow’s templates…
Sisters return, 1984.
Settling in for a gifted ritual -
a 4’Oclock Tea,
milk steams symmetrical silhouettes.
An aproned lady redresses their cotton blue-green eyes,
her hand slides a worn banister,
still dusting portraitures of antiquity.
Frayed hemlines waltz a turn
to a window’s ledge,
the twin shadows now painted
in the view.
Beyond…
the channel flows , a bridge
ascends,
descending
to perforation -
clasped.