Perseid Meteor Showers

Thursday, September 27, 2012

Here's to the coming Harvest Moon!


Harvest Moon – The Mockingbird Sings In The Night

No sky could hold
so much light –
and here comes the brimming,
the flooding and streaming
out of the clouds
and into the leaves,
glazing the creeks,
the smallest ditches!
And so many stars!
The sky seems stretched
like an old black cloth;
behind it, all
the celestial fire
we ever dreamed of!
And the moon steps lower,
quietly changing
her luminous masks, brushing
everything as she passes
with her slow hands
and soft lips –
clusters of dark grapes,
apples swinging like lost planets,
melons cool and heavy as bodies –
and the mockingbird wakes
in his hidden castle;
out of the silver tangle
of thorns and leaves
he flutters and tumbles,
spilling long
ribbons of music
over forest and river,
copse and cloud –
all heaven and earth –
wherever the white moon
fancies her small wild prince –
field after field after field.

Mary Oliver

Saturday, September 22, 2012

Happy Autumnal Equinox!



A Pot of Red Lentils

simmers on the kitchen stove.
All afternoon dense kernels
surrender to the fertile
juices, their tender bellies
swelling with delight.

In the yard we plant
rhubarb, cauliflower, and artichokes,
cupping wet earth over tubers,
our labor the germ
of later sustenance and renewal.

Across the field the sound of a baby crying
as we carry in the last carrots,
whorls of butter lettuce,
a basket of red potatoes.

I want to remember us this way—
late September sun streaming through
the window, bread loaves and golden
bunches of grapes on the table,
spoonfuls of hot soup rising
to our lips, filling us
with what endures.


Wednesday, September 19, 2012

To my Mom, with love, on her 79th birthday!

Smoke in Our Hair


The scent of burning wood holds
the strongest memory.
Mesquite, cedar, piñon, juniper,
all are distinct.
Mesquite is dry desert air and mild winter.
Cedar and piñon are colder places.
Winter air in our hair is pulled away,
and scent of smoke settles in its place.
We walk around the rest of the day
with the aroma resting on our shoulders.
The sweet smell holds the strongest memory.
We stand around the fire.
The sound of the crackle of wood and spark
is ephemeral.
Smoke, like memories, permeates our hair,
our clothing, our layers of skin.
The smoke travels deep
to the seat of memory.
We walk away from the fire;
no matter how far we walk,
we carry this scent with us.
New York City, France, Germany—
we catch the scent of burning wood;
we are brought home.

Ofelia Zepeda

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

C.D. Wright x 2



Lake Echo, Dear

Is the woman in the pool of light   
really reading or just staring   
at what is written

Is the man walking in the soft rain   
naked or is it the rain   
that makes his shirt transparent

The boy in the iron cot   
is he asleep or still
fingering the springs underneath

Did you honestly believe   
three lives could be complete

The bottle of green liquid   
on the sill is it real

The bottle on the peeling sill   
is it filled with green

Or is the liquid an illusion   
of fullness

How summer’s children turn   
into fish and rain softens men

How the elements of summer
nights bid us to get down with each other   
on the unplaned floor

And this feels painfully beautiful   
whether or not
it will change the world one drop

   ***
 

Personals

Some nights I sleep with my dress on. My teeth
are small and even. I don't get headaches.
Since 1971 or before, I have hunted a bench
where I could eat my pimento cheese in peace.
If this were Tennessee and across that river, Arkansas,
I'd meet you in West Memphis tonight. We could
have a big time. Danger, shoulder soft.
Do not lie or lean on me. I'm still trying to find a job
for which a simple machine isn't better suited.
I've seen people die of money. Look at Admiral Benbow. I wish
like certain fishes, we came equipped with light organs.
Which reminds me of a little known fact:
if we were going the speed of light, this dome
would be shrinking while we were gaining weight.
Isn't the road crooked and steep.
In this humidity, I make repairs by night. I'm not one
among millions who saw Monroe's face
in the moon. I go blank looking at that face.
If I could afford it I'd live in hotels. I won awards
in spelling and the Australian crawl. Long long ago.
Grandmother married a man named Ivan. The men called him
Eve. Stranger, to tell the truth, in dog years I am up there.

C.D. Wright