The Poet Year: Some Fantasies

While I was writing The Poet Year, it occurred to me that I almost never spent time just fantasizing anymore. So I thought I'd give it a go. Here are some of the results.

Blue Window

I'm ambling in Monet's garden.
I recognize these metal arches crowded with blooms
And the flowers reaching out from beds below,
Greeting passers-by.

How I came to be here
I do not know.
I am afraid to fly
And my Illinois home
Is a world away.
Here I am, all the same
And glad.
How and why do not press me for answers.
I am calm.

I marvel at the colors in this haven
So lovely against today's blue sky.
Monet's pink house and green shutters
Rise up as the perfect foil.

The sun is warm on my shoulders,
I wander on listening to bird conversation
And the sound of my own footfalls crunching on the path.

Looking for cooling shade,
I take a turn toward tall trees and find the pond.
I sit along its edge to trail my fingers.
I am content.

Water lilies are blooming,
Resting their beautiful faces upon the glassy surface,
Dangling their bodies in the depths.
I am jealous.

The water settles mirror smooth
And my own attire catches my eye.
The filmy white blouse, long blue skirt and odd shoes
Are not mine,
But I might have chosen them myself.
I am pleased.

I hear footsteps on the walk nearby
And look to find a straw-hatted old man
Gesturing kindly.

Mystery solved.
I smile at him,
Nod and wave.
I am to have an art lesson now
In a two-way exchange of fluent French
I never learned.

This is sugared French toast
Relished before waking;
A light-filled, bursting blue window
Created by Chagall,
Stepped into and through by me;
A sweet sleep
All cream
Dream.



I love to dance, but my dear husband is a little bit inhibited on the dance floor (maybe I am not inhibited enough), anyway one can imagine what it would be like to be of the same mind on the dance floor, just having fun, not worrying too much about doing it right or wrong, the occasional stepped on toe, etc. I have some married friends who share all kinds of imaginative fun like this together. This poem was inspired by them. The names have been changed to protect the innocent. Heehee.

Margie

Margie
Married
Another Leo,
A lion to enjoy her as lioness.
By day
They bask
In each others projected sun
And by night
In black-tie moonlight.
They move through a whirling
Instinctive dance,
Laughing at stepped on toes,
And that is the way
Two Leos
Make a
Marriage go.


Lilac Queen

Only me
Cutting lilacs in the Spring.
Feeling the sun on my cheeks,
Hearing the snap of the branch,
Then the brush of cool petals against my skin.
Breathing deeply in
Their purple, heady scent,
I am amazed by this perfectly regal perfume
Made mine
By a common bush.
Thus elevated,
I carry my basket of blooms
Back to the castle.

Admittedly, none of these flowers are lilacs, but aren't they wonderful? I love flowers.

When I was in college, I learned in English about the hidden observer in all of us, that part of ourselves that sees our lives as if from above at a slight distance. This part of me has always been pretty strong and time conscious, though previously I hadn't a name for it. Sometimes it needs taming, so I can really enter into the moment and enjoy life without worrying about that clock ticking, thus the following...


Bad Dog Shopping

Can you help me, please?
I need a leash with a muzzle
Or perhaps a curtained cage
With only a peep whole in it.

I need it for my very wayward pet.
You can see her here, I'm sure,
My harried Hidden Observer,
Resting her heavy paws on my shoulders.

She keeps stepping out of her den
Into the brightness.
See, like that, jumping
And barking,
"Night is coming."

I would turn her out,
I think I would
If I didn't need her so
To help me write
And perhaps to see and grasp and hold
Some of now for later.

Maybe I'm in the wrong shop.
Maybe what I need is a rain coat with a hood.
Then I wouldn't feel the wet
When she spills her bowl of sadness
Over moments so completely good.

Never mind.
I'll take care of it myself.

Oh, Me!
Stop dogging me!

Speaking of "bad" dogs, here is our beloved Josey after having a joyous moment of mischievous fun.

And this where I do a lot of my daydreaming...


Free Ride

A front porch swing is a lot like an airplane.
You can get in it and ride,
You can read,
You can fall asleep if you want.

It will take you places
You've been to before and want to revisit
Or to places you've never been
And can't wait to see.

Of course,
A swing is more convenient,
No packing,
No fees.

The Stair, etc.

The Stair

I'm standing in a dank and shadowy machine shed
Breathing in its earthy smell,
Gazing at a wonder,
My own spiral stair
Leading no-where.

I wished it here, I think.
Once on a rare trip into the city
I admired another such stair,
Somewhat grander of marble and metal,
But a similar curving, antique thrill.
I said out loud foolishly,
"Maybe someday,"
And amazingly before too long
My hero husband
Was rescuing a twirling "damsel in distress"
From a dying 1870s farmhouse.

God must have been listening
And took my wishing
For a prayer.

A year now
This wooden relic
Has been the stair for my air castles.

If it were to stay here
What odd fantasies might it incite
In later owners of this place?

It is too large for any earthly home
We can afford to raise
And so, I'm sure
We'll sell it to other dreamers
With deeper pockets.

I am satisfied to have owned it
For these many days,
To have imagined its possibilities.

Now practicality has spun out more realistic
Hope and plans,
I can relinquish the spiral stair
To other hands.


Gray Day

Ice
Thick and glistening gray
Weighs upon the branches
Of every tree.

Every tiny frond of evergreen
Encased, stiff and cold,
Drawn downward by its load.

Ice lays
Like sadness on the heart,
Oppressive
Heavy
Scarring

And melting away
In tears.


The Shoulder

"Writing is not a lady-like activity.
It reveals too much of who we are.
A woman needs a silken wrap of mystery
To fascinate a man,"
Advised Mamman.

But youthful, feminine
France wrote on,
Musing...

After all,
A soul can never completely
Disrobe.
A woman is forever
Modestly, mysteriously
Clothed
In newness,
Is she not?

Heartfelt words on a page
Might be just the tantalizing
Smooth, white shoulder,
The shapely bare ankle,
The very little seen
Which conjures the thought,
"If this, what more?"
That men adore.


Ice, or (Frost on the Window)

Design in one inch repeat.
Colors: Silver and Gold.
Curling feathers in crystalline print,
Feather to feather to feather,
Just touching,
Row upon row.
Perfect,
Ephemeral God cloth
Made of water and sunshine and cold.


March

The poet year is slipping by
And I
Don't want to let it go
Without the written words that make it so.

Terror and loss and war
And a possible interstate
Winding by our back door
Worry my mind.

Baby smiles and cries,
A loving husband,
A gem-house,
And extended family
Fill my time.

Still,
Only words on paper
Make the poet year
An actual happening,
History over fantasy.

March was a vacation.


Snow

Amazing to watch the snow,
Tiny flecks blowing in a white sky.
Many millions of them
Have been waylaid by our snow-fence,
Building up a crystal wall.
And many more, I see,
Passed it by
Drifting free
Across our drive
And country road,
Building up a Snow Day
To keep us home.

Our lane during a snow storm, looking back toward the old barn.