Friday’s Quick Pick/Poem: She Comes into Summer

Photos by Cynthia Guenther Richardson

She tricks the eye. He is not prepared,
grace of shoulders aligned so strong,
feet of light that skim the earth
and her face, it is not what he recalls.
How it curves inside incandescent air
or is it her shine, this child soon
in flight beyond his scope of knowing?

It happens like this amid slogging
and leaping through his life, the falls
into capricious and unwise ways.
All the silt and slivers of rust mixing
with moonstone, wildflowers and luck before
he can right himself, sort what means what.
He fears he’s not made all good, done right.
Yet she still comes along. Forebears him.

When do daughters know they are
loved well or enough, he wonders,
then leans close to discern meanings
of expressions, spaces between words.
Once she was that fragile and wholly divine
he could hardly stand to hold her.
Now he peers into the well of his heart
to find her like sun glossing the waters,
like his own dreaming and her mother’s prophecy.

She comes into summer on a wind
from the west. Her fairy dress shivers
and her eyes are birds that must sing
and her trust is dispersed too easily
and he cannot watch all this changing
as she glides here and there, farther away.
But he will not cast off. Not now, nor any tomorrow.

Friday’s Passing Fancy: Poem/ A Flotsam Life

Cannon Beach-Astoria-Lg Beach, 5-17 293
Phootgraph  by Cynthia Guenther Richardson

It came to pass, the fervid dream
that claimed the imagination and remained,
captured in a design of good intention.
The boat was built in time, did run,
the sly fish were caught and sold,
and river rolled and rambled to sea
with its insistent, munificent charms.
What an abundance of days
someone had at its bow, clearing
furious whorls and blinding depths
that cultivate coldest death.
A hail life or a middling one,
the Pipe Dream prevailed with
its steadfast ways, then perhaps
mistaken for more than it was,
a good dream made sturdy but
not undaunted, not untouched.
And the weather blew in surly,
the waters bucked and battered
and our stalwart boat was rushed, beaten
until it felt it might come undone.
Near to utter lost it was, yet not forgotten.

So the Pipe Dream II was crafted to
outlast a string of lifetimes
on that river, a place of welcome,
ceaseless toil and more laughter,
the result of great laboring and love.
But not all honest work is enough,
and plans are toppled by mere slips
and that dragon of a river takes
even the best, will toss over others.
So it stands the boat is a reminder:
there is no joy like a stubborn
dream taken in hand, with the
wind song in soul and whistling in ear,
river mixing a richness in one’s blood,
a man or a woman standing tall,
strong and proud at the helm.
But it will come to pass, they will be done
one day, will be sure and finally
done, while a good old boat
will endure as it can, will go on waiting.

Cannon Beach-Astoria-Lg Beach, 5-17 284

(This boat is an old gilnetting boat, left on display as part of the history of Astoria, OR.)

 

Friday’s Quick Pick: Poem/Tulip Times

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(For my two sisters, here and gone)

It’s April so the flowers are talking to me
about the perfection of love and laughter, and
how what appears empty is in fact brimming,
the overripe clouds split by soft tearing
so that radiance gilds every upturned face.

Tulips bob in breezes, daffodils are soon passe.
Rows and rows are united in bright tonal harmony;
earthy secrets arise in potent, pure scents.
Country explodes after winter’s mad rains;
every color competes, unique, extreme in beauty.

I am thinking they are here for me today though
they bravely bloom for even those who care little.
I cup a cherry red tulip, recall a spring we three
strolled through acres ablaze, our talk like soft skeins
knitting family stories and us together with fine stitches.

Who can know that such a wealth of happiness
cannot be hoarded, only found in small gifted moments?
We had planned on more visits, farther travels
and vast outpourings of words, an abundance of flowers.
But if time has unraveled, leaving two of us behind,
our shared sister heart will not. It is made human but holy.

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Friday’s Quick Pick: Poem/My Dog at the Park

The usual motley group was there
as I passed muddy grass slopes where
everyone brings their canine companions,
then circles up to watch them romp and court.
The humans laugh and grouse, call out
to pets as if gifted or very bad children.
I paused with hands on hips, smiling.
Recalled four-leggeds Twiggy, Max and Buddy,
how they disrupted work and time with

ideas of pleasure like zigzag tag,
charging after bees or cats, howling
off-key with our music and oh, endless
petting, scratching of strange places. There
was our bribing for obedience with smelly
treats fed by hand (as if they were royalty),
palms tickled, scoured by long drippy tongues.
Our children commandeered them as beasts
to pull heavy objects, as alarms and look-outs
during high-jinks, or wept-upon confidantes
but never once did said dogs bite rudely
in reasonable protest. They adored their kids.

I vacated those memories, moved on until
there was my dream dog upon a hill–
so luxuriant a coat, that dignified stance,
such fierce beauty of the husky
desired all my life–which finally turned,
watched me gazing back, noting a minor
magnetic pull of my deep admiration.
Rather, there were squirrels, ducks, robins,
rousing scents on a breeze, a master at rest.
My longed-for sidekick observed and waited
unperturbed, best behaved, already well loved.

Friday’s Passing Fancy/Poem: Death of a Spiritual Warrior

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(In Memoriam, for Vincent)

Old Ghost Man is gone,
he’s changed his name again,
left wisdom’s better parts
to seekers, strays and nomads,
those who embrace the good path
and those who care little
how life is dreaming come awake.

He drummed it up, offered a glance
of ironic cheer, a madcap holiness
brewed from trouble, trickster spirits,
eagle feathers, cries of wildness
human or not from streets that kill
when there ought to be redemption.

Take my salvation, it’s for real free
he said,
always enough to go around.
Yes, even you white woman,

you make stones turn again,
you know what I mean, aye?

The stones named:
men, women burned down to ashes,
shattered with grief, souls stitched
with bitter roots, scoured by drugs.
But welcomed with dance and story,
given respect, they just wore down hate.
Then they rooted out places my hardness
had cracked, my tenderness hid. We traded
thundering silences, lightning’s song,
tears for small joys.

Old Ghost Man, he nodded my way,
raised his hand in greeting when some
turned backs, were stubborn doubters.
See, just walk strong and soft,
he whispered, or chanted my name
without fear, cynn-theea-a-a, 
like a swirl of painterly desert winds,
a slow ride on river’s serpent back.

Ghost Man is gone, gone, gone
he’s changed his name again
is heard in echoes, love circling ’round
he’s slipped out, moved to a better house.
Old friend, I see you now beyond
that rain shadow mountain,
untethered,
laughing and winking,
aloft.