Dilemma II

Dilemma II

When I last opened the door

We just stood there,

Looking at each other

Over the threshhold.

I asked her in.

She declined, mumbling

Something about having

Been alone too long.

So I shut the door.

(Well, truth be known,

I just nudged it barely to...)

Of course, I kept my eye on her

Through the peephole. I felt

A bit like Alice...

And she looked back

Over her shoulder at me.

And here we are again.

She’s there again on the step.

I have opened the door a crack more.

“Slowly.”

“Keep your head.”

“Slow down your heart.”

I would like to step out,

Take her hand, and stroll down

Through the garden gate to

Wherever it leads.

Even if it led nowhere,

we would have gone there together.

Revision

Autumn Rush

Leaves begin to turn and fall,

Pile against the fence,

Scatter against the wall.

I think of you this time of year..

August in my heart,

September in my ear.

This winter will be cold--

Trees stripped, without cheer,

And I am growing old

Without you here.

© Anne 2008

Dilemma

Dilemma

In my mind

Love is waiting at my doorstep.

The porch light is on.

Shall I leave the safety chain on?

Or just throw the door open

And say, “Come in.”

Perhaps just knowing someone

Is there...

By the lilies

By the rosemary

By the hibiscus

Flowering in the heat

Is enough...

© Anne 2009

Tarot Confession

Tarot Confession

Deep down inside, past the masks, 

far beneath the brave exterior,

I still believe in magic.

I see the Magician, 

standing before his altar table,

calling my lover to me.

I can see the Knight of Swords, 

in full armor, charging in with sword drawn,

to insure that my dreams come true.

I can see the Ace of Cups,

and the chalice in the outstretched hand

is always meant for me.

And I stay poised, on the edge,

looking blithely into the sky,

Ever and always The Fool.

© Anne 2009

Karmic Lament

This poem is based on the archetype of the Wounded Healer.

Karmic Lament

I have opened so many doors

For others to walk through;

I have loved so often and well;

I have forgiven so many times

That the leafy shreds I use

To bind my wounds are worn as well and

Sigh for my deliverance.

Love, deliver me so that

I may be enveloped in your comfort;

Hold me in your lap.

This time, open the door for me;

Welcome me to surrender.

Welcome me to the care

Of a loving trust, for I cry,

Kneeling, bruised, weeping from

Wounds that seep so slowly

My breath is but a sutured sob.

And know, Love, that I cannot do

Again what I know I must.

© 2007 Anne

And I didn't. I pulled the arrow out and my wound is healing. Adios to that archetype.

25 May 2010 For my Mother

My Mother passed away 6 years ago today. She was 86. She was an All-American Leo, born 19 August 1918. Mom was popular AND kind. She was head cheerleader in high school, something I didn’t learn until she was 80; a woman came up to her in a restaurant and thanked her for being so nice to her in high school. The woman said she lived on a farm out of town and that Mom was the only girl who would talk with her. Mom attended Texas Tech in 1936, when there was only a men’s dorm and a women’s dorm--and a tunnel between the two, but the Dust Bowl drove her out of Lubbock. She married my Dad in 1939 and I was born in May of 1941. Six months later, Dad went overseas, ended up in Africa with malaria, and didn’t return until 1945. We lived during those years with my great-grandmother, Martha Washington Pouncey Post, at 1205 East Main Street in Gatesville, Texas. I used to sit in the swing on the side porch while my Mom curled my long blonde hair into long ringlets. But I also remember sitting in the window seat and watching the convoys of soldiers stream down Main in endless ribbons of khaki.
Mom’s sisters and her brother lived a few blocks down with my grandmother, as their husbands were also overseas; my uncle was still in junior high. We were truly a society of women--Southern women--who held it all together during those tough times
Mother was a lover of poetry, so part of my fondness for poetry stems from having heard her all my life reciting various passages of poetry as she went about her daily routine. Her favorite poem was “Maude Muller.” She knew The Bible and was readily equipped with a verse for any occasion. She was also an accomplished pianist, and as part of my reward for dusting the piano each Saturday morning--besides my 50-cent-a-week allowance--she would sit down and play my favorite Chopin or Beethoven. While Mother could read music and took lessons for many years, she could also play by ear and played all of the standards from the War Years as well as a mean boogie-woogie. She also loved the music we were growing up with--Elvis, Santana, Led Zeppelin. Her first concert was a Santana extravaganza. My Mother’s love and support for me--in the midst of my triumphs or defeats, joy or despair--never flagged. She never judged...She simply observed. Not a day passes that I don’t miss her, but she seems to know when things get tough, and she makes her presence known in some way. She was and is the Best Mother in the world.

The Rock

The Rock

I was just thinking
How strange it was
To have loved a rock in the garden…
To have stared at it, examined it,
Studied its eccentricities,
To have felt that I knew it
Sitting in its place for so long…
And then one unexpected day
To have stumbled over it,
Knocked it askew,
Hurt my toe, and
To have discovered the soil
Clinging to its underside,
The mould,
The beetles scurrying underneath,
Finally exposed.
The dark underside.
© Anne 2008