tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30128752011-12-14T19:12:36.553-08:00Poet's StaffPoet's Staff is a collection of the poetry and art of Fran SbrocchiFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comBlogger671100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-1153320234992940142006-07-19T07:42:00.000-07:002006-07-20T17:05:12.306-07:00We will dance togetherand bring down the lightand in time of darknessthe birdswill sing down the dawn.Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-1145088114623775062006-04-15T01:01:00.000-07:002006-04-15T01:01:54.913-07:00Winter DecisionI wait for summerfor forgivingThe wind neither forgetsnor knows forgivenessYou may lie under stars but I will touch thick green growth on trunkswhere vast trees darken swamps and in a far place swing my hammockBanked snowdeepens beneath the eavesI read a seed catalogFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-1140866267354789012006-02-25T03:16:00.000-08:002006-02-25T03:17:52.840-08:00Leaderfound Pandora's secret boxopened itNext day he sent a thousand soldier boysto collect butterfliesEggs already laid larvaehave eaten the wheatOur peoplesleep in the streetsfor fearof retributionFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-1140332584731466652006-02-18T23:02:00.000-08:002006-02-18T23:03:04.863-08:00We will dance togetherand bring down the lightand in time of darknessthe birdswill sing down the dawn.Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-1140331915007041162006-02-18T22:48:00.000-08:002006-02-18T22:51:55.016-08:00Her collection of small boxessome quite emptygrows:heart shaped lacquer, a miniature of a miniature painting,a collection of seashells under a tiny framea surround of exquisitean emptiness contains no new wordsa place for mini memoriesShe knowsher life has become a very small oasisin a world of fearful things.Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-1131418393838265202005-11-07T18:52:00.000-08:002005-11-07T18:53:13.846-08:00River Frog SongAs the road curvedat the base of the mountainby the river, I leaptleapt into the riverI lay, I liecrystal among stonesThe skin of the river frog is greensmoothwet and smoothcool, his splayed foot touches stonehis hands delicatetouch weightless, listeningListening under his green skinI felt his bones, delicatebones, weightless againstmy heaviness, wide touchingfrail handstender, Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-1127189111979007952005-09-19T21:04:00.000-07:002005-09-19T21:05:11.986-07:00The wisdom of silenceI tread a secret pathwayfearfullyand knowing nothing of this placeFlowers bloom on either sidebut thesemishapen blossom have no scentLong branches bar my stepsI trip and fallrun swiftly knowing no end to thisStrange birds whistle and callcry wild cry freethese are birds of color not of songThe voice of the rivers watersmutteroaths? or instructions? all flowfrom the high Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-1121128544492489442005-07-11T17:35:00.000-07:002005-07-11T17:35:44.496-07:00A green gateopens to a world of greena quiet place save for the song of tiny birdsa butterfly gentlyfloating on the summer windtouches your foreheada blessingFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-1120653520393431572005-07-06T05:37:00.000-07:002005-07-06T05:38:40.396-07:00Weeping BirchWhispering leaves of silver touch her silken centre and the long trailing branches form a circle to shelter a place secure a place for my dreaming a place to remember and to listen for the sound of your voice Here, where I knew you you come once more to tell me your music will come to me in springtime.Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-1120350332629643942005-07-02T17:24:00.000-07:002005-07-02T17:25:32.633-07:00Words for Heather and DarrylHeather who has been our friend we send you love and for the one you love all courage Hold close to memory to all the talk and trails that you have walked together through the years You gave us a place to know to find each other Painters and poets makers and garden lovers northland to the farthest southern shore You've gathered us from all who love you let the raven Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-1116980802179261662005-05-24T17:24:00.000-07:002005-05-24T17:26:42.180-07:00Poetry is, because it is the natural waythe breath, the rhythmthe language of the body and the mindFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-1114697217387382842005-04-28T07:06:00.000-07:002005-04-28T07:06:57.386-07:00Winding Back Tonight the word slips and slides the corridors of memory the threads don't meet, the weave's askew warp and weft have been distended I circle and yet I cannot find the center. I knew that passage long ago and held it firm , taped the eccentric word into its proper place and told it well but now it disappears. Lonely, that's it, the reason's clear enough I've lost that bit because Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-1114697116472686602005-04-28T07:04:00.000-07:002005-04-28T07:05:16.473-07:00Hold fast my lovefor we are growing oldwalk with my hand in yourslove me in the morningas the dawn breaksHold fast my lovefor without youI cannot becomplete For me the only mirror needed to consult is my face reflected in my love's eyes and knowing that he sees himself in mineFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-1114559978314661522005-04-26T16:58:00.000-07:002005-04-26T16:59:38.313-07:00Memory ShadowsTime, grow colda silver day wide whippedclouds unfold move to the eastWeary the memoryfades into darknessShadow embracesthe lonely spaceStone walledgarden turns to greyDry stockswhisper togetherwait for the winter windbend, break, decayRooted in deep earthin a stranger’s placeshe makes her shadowsFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-1113217700918198602005-04-11T04:06:00.000-07:002005-04-11T04:08:20.920-07:00LeavingShe walked slowly bare toes curling into soft eartha yellow dandelion in each handShe touched the dandelion to her nose and madeher nose all yellow put out a small tongueand tasted the shining dewdropShe climbed the hill beside her houseand saw long wire fencestelephone polesand far across dark fieldsa water towerLater, later when she had learnedto count, and tell direction she could nameFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-1111822311127435702005-03-25T15:32:00.000-08:002005-03-25T23:31:51.133-08:00new dolphin#6AB85 new dolphin#6AB85 Posted by: fransb.Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-1111540434096985492005-03-22T17:13:00.000-08:002005-03-22T17:13:54.096-08:00The Ivory FishhookShe tosses the necklacetoo many memories attach themselvesto colourful fakescollected as they travelledThis one’s a carving, a hooka Maori chief made for her, a fish, a fishing man—tall or is it that all menwere tall when she stood close?He had not kissed her, merelymoved hands over bonegently as if the bit of hornwere breastsFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-1111290278930979772005-03-19T11:46:00.000-08:002005-03-19T19:44:38.936-08:00Fran by Fran Posted by: fransb Fran by FranFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-1111288546068900402005-03-19T11:17:00.000-08:002005-03-19T19:15:46.070-08:00Luminosity Posted by: fransb LuminosityFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-1111288367787382162005-03-19T11:12:00.001-08:002005-03-19T19:12:47.793-08:00Desert noon Posted by: fransb Desert noonFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-1111288329424932722005-03-19T11:12:00.000-08:002005-03-19T19:12:10.926-08:00Desert noon Desert noon Posted by: fransb.Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-1111288167052167532005-03-19T11:09:00.000-08:002005-03-19T19:09:27.056-08:00Meditation Posted by: fransb MeditationFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-1111233535202758382005-03-19T03:57:00.000-08:002005-03-19T03:58:55.203-08:00A practice charita:Food festival for friendsOysters on shells an old loveMarinara on fresh pastaa picnic on the Adriaticwith red wine and memoryFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-1104193318750446132004-12-27T16:20:00.000-08:002004-12-27T16:21:58.750-08:00Photograph sitting on a ledge
She smiles over a mug of coffee
A glass
empty and transparent
are there no marks?
She sings a magpie
She is singing
the magpie
Where is the pen
stroking white paper?
Why is he drinking
out of a delicate
china cup?
I am a small
square pane of glass
looking at you
looking
through me
Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-1101520499538219292004-11-26T17:54:00.000-08:002004-11-26T17:54:59.540-08:00Poem in Hot Summer
No fog in the morning
Air dry
plants wither
I water the grapevine
and touch hovea blooms
A new petunia has vivid red edges and a deep purple centre
I think I would like to have a sleep in that centre
The edges dance in the wind and I would like to dance again
I am withered by the sear of age
My hair is brittle
Why are white hairs brittle and the red so flexible?
A Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-1087356500334929202004-06-15T20:27:00.000-07:002004-06-15T20:28:20.333-07:00In memory of Heather Morton Tracey
poet and friend
Last summer she came to the poet's circle
a flash of colour, a yellow frock
a crown of flowers
a long necklace dangling
bright earrings
Knowing full well what lay ahead
Today we read her last poem
remembering laughter
and believing as we read
the final line: that she was going
into the light.
Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-1082375987553034332004-04-19T04:57:00.000-07:002004-04-19T05:03:43.903-07:00Old photos
How does she begin this year
the year that is her eightieth
will she remember how it was
to leave her
mother's womb
and become?
Who is this smiling child?
Where did she belong?
Will she travel far
or be a stay-at-home?
Her memoirs seem a pile
of long disposables and yet she clings
to all that past.
Yesterday, this morning
she filed another year into a binding
trying to tie herself
Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-1081167524102566262004-04-05T05:18:00.000-07:002004-04-05T05:22:22.513-07:00This week I have not written
I have fallen in love
with color
the color I can make
with the new pen
the magic of choice
the hand that I cannot quite control
weaves a strange pattern
on my delicate screen
I follow the trail
made by the silver pen
but in the end
strike close
and do not keep
this tenuous effort
Will it let me gain
that treasured sense
of control?
or will this tracing
Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-1077776555589906262004-02-25T22:21:00.000-08:002004-02-25T22:25:22.170-08:00Television 2004
So little time left
that I waste
the days
the evenings are long
television beneath contempt
An hour tonight spent
wondering how badly
a story could be written
before
the show
diedFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-1075557355792435182004-01-31T05:54:00.000-08:002004-01-31T05:58:07.780-08:00Invasion
Intruder
at my window
harmless?
perhaps
Was it my "no!"?
my face?
the alarm?
He ran
but I still see him
looking
through my glass
into my lifeFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-1073957811175989702004-01-12T17:36:00.000-08:002004-01-12T17:38:39.046-08:00
Mountain Born
Conceived at the base of the mountain
her changeling child
knew
when he grew old enough
he must return
leaving his earth mother
mourning
Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-1066264009429968402003-10-15T17:25:00.000-07:002003-10-15T17:26:49.276-07:00 Crone
at computer
defying technicalities
Crone
in garden
defying gastropods
Crone
at funeral
wears red hat
Crone
at summer picnic
dances a mazurka
Crone
being
CronelogicalFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-1062034927725538042003-08-27T18:42:00.000-07:002003-08-27T18:42:07.623-07:00This morning, reading a story about a friend who has an ancient
lemon tree, I returned to a poem I wrote long ago, a story told me, of memory,
of lonliness, and so I post, in love.
Small Exile
Fingers of cold rain
click across the window
curtains shudder
“My sheets are clean and winter apples
are sweet—they let me have one yesterday.
I liked it.
Tony would have liked Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-1061421057372599822003-08-20T16:10:00.000-07:002003-08-20T16:10:57.376-07:00Gram's Day
I spend the morning without excuse
being lazy
a lay-abed
reading a book that has no special meaning
I did, however, make excuse
my inner parts
were mumbling
and the hot water bottle feels good
Like a small child
that does not want to go to school
I cuddled back
waiting
for sympathy
Knowing I deserved
nothing
Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-1061354276810681412003-08-19T21:37:00.000-07:002003-08-19T21:39:28.490-07:00Today
I cannot write
the poem, a mist over water
drifted
at dawn across the ocean's width
and, reaching edge,
sank
into morning.Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-881350412003-01-27T19:29:00.000-08:002003-01-30T18:11:57.000-08:00Roy Jacobstein in his poem
Chartreuse
Speaks of "memories precise hue"
What is the precise hue of memory?
Is it the color I have forgotten?
Is it golden fields of yellow flowers
or the dark brown of new-turned earth?
Turning poplar leaves told us
that soon world's white diamonds would glisten
in the breath of winter silence?
Recall the depth of blue that undershades
the pines, waft of Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-850514492002-11-25T04:52:00.000-08:002002-11-25T04:52:36.723-08:00
Woman Song
I wouldn’t know how to greet you
My knees are roughened
by kneeling before you
I wish that I could turn
away from your touch
I want to know your distance
to know distance.
I know only desire
wanting
and waiting
I walk in darkness
the hot sun is memory
waiting your coming
but distance is too great
and the ancient vessel
is lost.
I hear the trumpeting
of the long-necked swan
but Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-848644292002-11-21T03:24:00.000-08:002002-11-21T03:24:54.626-08:00Count ghosts
I count my ghosts in blood
ancestral strengths
disastrous and delicate traces
of grandmothers from a hundred generations
Count ghosts
count wild men who sailed
Atlantic storms
or far around the Cape
Count ghosts of farm wives
alone on prairie emptiness
weeping memory
of distant homes
and bright rose gardens
Ghosts of a peasant past
blend with proper merchant greed
poverty’s painFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-839392242002-11-02T17:40:00.000-08:002002-11-02T17:40:32.013-08:00
Mist comes and goes on a mountain
Peter
Mist comes and goes
I hear your name
so foreign
the name you gave me
I still bear
and place
beside my fathers'.
We lived
together
in that tiny house
I learned
your touch
and what it meant
to be a woman
wife.
And you, I think
a tenderness
you had not known.
I waited
in the afternoons
for you
for your stories
for wild new words
that you found
in yourFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-830090332002-10-15T04:29:00.000-07:002002-10-15T04:29:43.140-07:00October 14, 2002
In the dark cavern the old god is laughing
the dragon is loosed and his red breath is rising
Weep, weep as your dancing
moves through the streets
weep as you move through the valley of darkness
weep as you go forth where maids will be maidens
weep as your lovers lie in the streets
weep for the broken bones of your lovers
the young men, the joyous, the dancers
the breath of the Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-819378322002-09-21T21:12:00.000-07:002002-09-21T21:12:57.473-07:00
“They will not come. They will not ask.”.
Too delicate
this tripping of the keys
This dance that needs no other task.
A ballet of notes
a single toe
touches the stage.
Slender,move to a distant place.
The watcher treads a heavier space
listens and moves
without a trace
sunshine? the shadows
heed him not
nor notice when he leaves.
The ever-circling
leaves his face, his word
the old master Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-812321392002-09-06T05:06:00.000-07:002002-09-06T05:06:24.333-07:00
Previous Next
Back to record list
Record 2 of 8
Illusion
Frances Arnett Sbrocchi
Pain reminds her
of the need for memory
It soon will be time to get these
things in order
She has known
for this past year
that words slip carelessly
outside the fence
Words, she thinks,
are becoming elusive
and the one that is missing
is the one she needs
Words sometimes get
mixed into each other
Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-800618332002-08-10T01:57:00.000-07:002002-08-10T01:57:18.996-07:00
Nadi Market
Women weaving
sitting together on bare earth
in the market
Their long feet hold the yellow ends
of rushes
Baskets grow
in swift hands
I squatted beside them
leaving my friend
to bargain further down the lane
Content here adding my chatter
I wish that I could stay
They talk of children
of next day
of washing
and of gathering the long
pandunas leaves-a task for boys
Mother talkFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-800617642002-08-10T01:52:00.000-07:002002-08-10T01:52:39.773-07:00Island Boat Stop
A basket for mundane uses
I do not see its maker’s hands
but buy it from women
who neither smile nor weave
These women
sell trinkets to tourists
who come to stare at poverty
and go home feeling the strength
of masters
Children on this island
play at being children
but look at us
as old men do
Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-800056062002-08-08T18:11:00.000-07:002002-08-08T18:11:01.856-07:00
On a son’s birthday
I read and read and sleep and read again
the words fly past
sometimes I forget the page I turned just ten minutes ago.
I write and the words slip away
my hand no longer holds a pen
or memory
I wander and my feet
no longer find the old path
where poplars dropped their leaves
I think, I try to think
about the day you were born
but that too fades
My son, I remember that Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-799773392002-08-08T04:23:00.000-07:002002-08-08T04:23:05.626-07:00
With David and Jim
in the bush
They tell me to step carefully
These flowers are very tiny
a donkey orchid with tall ears
grandmother’s bonnet
bacon and eggs
kangaroo paw
cat’s paw
old lace
and smoke bush
common earthly names
for exquisite jewels
One tiny round of green
on green
is a trap
What living thing
can be so small
to be caught
in these jaws?
Bottle brush
and peppermint
A yellow Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-799772762002-08-08T04:20:00.000-07:002002-08-08T04:20:19.810-07:00Mayne Island
The sea grey and still,
as the wind ceased the heron waited
his dark eye ready for the silver flash
I watched the swift ending
from where the dark log sheltered me
I began to move, clamboring over ancient rocks
and twisted timbers
white timbers bleached by summer sun
and winter tide.There were ropes of dank weed
writhing on the sand, and tracks
of some small animal I didn’t not Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-799330692002-08-07T05:11:00.000-07:002002-08-07T05:11:23.140-07:00Once in a month of roses
I walked alone
I came to a tall stone wall
and wondered how I could go on
I came to an opening
an unlocked gate
entered the secret place
a land of swift streams
tall ancient trees
and pathways strewn with memory
where I found soft-spoken strangers
who welcomed me
showed me through their country
a language
a voice
a word to take home forever
Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-781711052002-06-25T02:42:00.000-07:002002-06-25T02:42:19.540-07:00
Snow Child
My day's decision: Snowflakes
cold
wet
were an unpleasantness
that I intended to forego
Later I learned to walk on crusted
snow
and felt danger:
I could fall through
to silence
and I
was a talkative
Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-781709532002-06-25T02:32:00.000-07:002002-06-25T02:32:42.123-07:00The Naming
I do not know
If you are Katharine
or K.T.
or Kakky whose mother
tells of her dancing
I know only your name
that was chosen by queens
until someone
named you shrew
and you
dancing in your garden
did not resist
Shrewd shrouded
a worm spun silk
among poplar leaves
and the cottonwood sap sticks
to your tongue
bitter as cherries
Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-114002932002-04-02T19:44:00.000-08:002002-04-02T19:48:10.000-08:00Dry season
I've read and written
all this long afternoon
Drought seems forever
I know flood waters lie
over tops of bushes
in desert places
I try to believe
a city by the sea
can soak rain
into her bones
when winter come
A Reply
Williams spoke
of a woman’s world
of crossed sticks stopping
thought
I wondered
(thinking it quite
probable)
if a woman
had Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-110573242002-03-23T21:05:00.000-08:002002-03-23T21:05:12.050-08:00Negative space
Snow on a wide field bounded by distant horizon
or a fence but this fence post is angled to the plane
barbed wire stretches into a trap for last year's rolling thistle
next year's weed
A pile of snow with a blow-hole Some small animal
whose name I do not know is hiding here
Is it a weasel waiting for a foolish venturer?
A ring of tracks a pattern in the snow
ChildrenFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-102529222002-02-28T21:28:00.000-08:002002-02-28T21:28:48.776-08:00Icycles
A long and quiet day-the heat still coming in on the east-north eastern wind-I rest in the sun and try to remember yesterday--and yesterday's dreaming. Reality is sometimes hard to sort, or to recall--that is the cold of snow as it eats into the fingers of the woolen gloves, or what the mountain wind does to one's skin, or the pain of exposed ears although the days were bright enough.Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-90824392002-01-26T20:24:00.000-08:002002-02-01T19:16:12.000-08:00 No fog in the morning
Air dry
plants wither
I water the grapevine
hovea blooms
A new petunia has vivid red edges and a deep purple centre
I think I would like to have a sleep in that centre
The edges dance in the wind and I would like to dance again
I am withered by the sear of age
My hair is brittle
Why are white hairs brittle and the red so flexible?
A spider web caught my shoe
so Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-90527482002-01-25T16:57:00.000-08:002002-01-25T16:57:41.613-08:00I come to this place once again
directed by the woodling's pointed branch
a place, familiar, but the path
is overgrown and, I must recall
my own footsteps. In childhood
it was easier in the long-lasting snow
of northern winter I could simply place
each overshoe into yesterdays
and reach my goal.
I'll stay close to the carraganaFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-90329652002-01-25T03:00:00.000-08:002002-01-25T03:00:27.696-08:00A tree is tradition, reaching far
into our story, for its leaves
have printed shadows on the earth
where we are dreaming. Do dreams
of ancestral loving come alive in
each years birthing? Are thoughts
surviving wintry winds still passing
into the summer shade?
Will you remember, in the blood?
the bone? the tales earth told?
Will the tree spirits whisper
now, as they did then, the pain
Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-90329492002-01-25T02:59:00.000-08:002002-01-25T02:59:33.540-08:00It seemed so necessary to capture
all the stories before those old ones
were forgotten but now that we
are old ourselves I keep wondering
if it is better just to drift down
to the sea where water remembers
nothing and we become part
of the everchanging pattern
without shape or desire to change
We are and have always been
drifting drifting and circling
changing with the entry of newerFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-84538822002-01-06T03:54:00.000-08:002002-01-06T03:54:27.600-08:00Filling the Writing Bowl
An empty bowl
an empty house?
I've polished Christmas for another year.
The lists are made
The cake has been eaten
I find myself
staring onto a blank white page
the candle wick has been blackened
the thread of my days loops and twists
and does not know direction
for this is the place
wherein I wait
for messages
and time
We'll walk
and watch the paper Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-82720822001-12-30T02:43:00.000-08:002001-12-30T02:43:42.120-08:00Empty Draws
Empty by accident, this small square disk
waits
waits for my awakened thought
but sleep prevails
I nod and shut my mind
to all voices
Where do I seek the lucid flame
the voice is quiet
Perhaps I must go back
go back
beyond this age
this place
this comfortable spot
and find a path
more rugged
and learn to strive
against the verity
that makes the broad plateau
so easyFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-81622442001-12-24T04:04:00.000-08:002001-12-24T04:04:44.000-08:00Her climbing
She walked slowly
bare toes curling into soft earth
a yellow dandelion in each hand
She touched the dandelion to her nose and made
her nose all yellow put out a small tongue
and tasted the shining dewdrop
on the other one
She climbed the hill beside her house
and saw the long wire fences
the telephone poles
and far across the dark fields
the water tower
Later, later Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-38102412001-05-26T19:32:00.000-07:002001-05-26T19:32:07.970-07:00Saskatchewan
I walk at dawn across the hills
and wonder why they call them "Hollow hills"
For these hills have no caverns at their base
rich black earth encrusted over clay
they cling close to earth's ancient rock.
Pine edges the horizon. Voluptuous earth
supports a hundred kinds of seed
now harvest is over
Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-35478142001-05-08T05:35:00.000-07:002001-05-08T05:37:40.776-07:00Chelsea
There is a haunting in old houses
a haunting born of feet
that trod old floors
as though the scent
of all those stories lies
beneath each board
that creaks and tells of makers
and of those who dwelt
these London streets
Old houses carry in their bones
tales that the children
told each other, songs
sung by mothers, widows tears
and the long rumours
of the years but more
Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-35313652001-05-07T05:35:00.000-07:002001-05-07T14:20:59.176-07:00Recollection I did not know you when we met and yet I shared your bed for forty years and now that you are gone I still cannot find that inner space where you lived beside me I try to remember your touch your smile and to forget my failure Jacaranda season Young swallows practice first flight in ever-widening circlings against the coming dark It was jacaranda season your wild spirit flew I Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-34156312001-04-28T23:07:00.000-07:002001-04-28T23:08:16.046-07:00MY DOGSoldier bit me.Soldier picks me up.Soldier is my dog.I don’t want to go home.I want to finish my big hole.I don’t like Soldier any more.Soldier is big.Soldier is boss.Soldier bit me on my collar.Soldier always bites my collar.Soldier made me come home.Soldier is a bad, bad dog.I hit Soldier on the head.Soldier made me come home.Soldier always makes me come home.Daddy, please tell Soldier Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-33743492001-04-25T22:54:00.000-07:002001-04-25T22:54:50.583-07:00I have danced in the womb in the soft womb of earth I have entered the circle I have been renewed My belly is filled my hear beats to the rhythm I shall green I shall go forth over the red land I shall eat I shall enter her daughters My children will be born to honour for I have danced in the womb in the soft red womb These are my sisters the name-givers the walkers the sisters have given name toFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-33551202001-04-24T18:58:00.000-07:002001-04-25T06:42:38.666-07:00Photograph sitting on a ledgeShe smiles over a mug of coffeeA glassempty and transparentare there no marks?She sings a magpieShe is singingthe magpieWhere is the penstroking white paper?Why is he drinkingout of a delicatechina cup?I am a small square pane of glasslooking at youlookingthrough me ParentsWhen I was old enoughto learn about genesI wantedto sort them neatlyinto two pilesand take only Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3012875.post-33442142001-04-24T04:05:00.000-07:002001-04-24T04:09:44.653-07:00DreamI spend my hourswaitingI do not know what I am waiting fornot as I did when youngand waitinga phone call for a new jobor train to someplace ?Waiting is nowfor the inevitableHow timewill comeand how?On soft paws? Will he make printson newly painted walks?Will I know when time has comeor will I be in some strange silent place.walled in?Will he spider across the floorreach me in silence?I Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.com