A Winter Poem from my Past

My mom passed away after I had barely published a single poem, and before I had completed any of my novels. So it gives me great joy that some 20 years later, an old poem that she loved of mine has finally found a home in the 2022 edition of Northern Narratives. An ode to Orion:

 

In Seasons of Snow 

 

 I waited for you

At the edge of a lake,

A frozen space

Outside the city’s glare.

Earthbound, I scrambled down

An ice-glossed jetty—

Searched crisp-gemmed skies

That only winter keeps.

 

My eyes snagged

On the loop of your belt,

Three stars strong.

My mist tinged bright

By moon

As I sounded you out

Off a single breath:

Orion.

 

Pursuer of the Pleiades,

Scorpion’s stalker,

Giant Hunter—

I, too, have become

A huntress, and in

Seasons of snow

I ransack the stars

To flesh you out.

 

I would be your Artemis—

But my arrow would be no accident,

Nor tipped with killing head.

Accept my heart into your breast,

A weak ember next to your fierce

Magnitude of light, yet even so

I would add my high-shot scintilla

To the bonfire of your strength.

I'm not this girl anymore. I've aged, or rather edged, more into weariness than wonder as the years have piled on. But I hope my heart will never forget the starlit gladness thrown into the sky by nature every night. My mom had a beautiful Rabindranath Tagore quote I try to always remember: "If you cry when the sun is gone, you won't see the stars." 

As this year ends, may we all find those little starry joy-gems in our life that rekindle our hearts. 

Pearled Thoughts

I've always adored pearls, those shiny gossamer sea moons that bedew one with an ineffable shimmer! I never feel prettier than bedecked in pearl strands and pearl-embroidered chiffon and tulle. I imagine Primrose wears fairy shifts much like these for her everyday use:

*(pictures taken at YDBN, Kirkwood Mall, Bismarck)! 

I have no practical use for a pearl-gown, but pearls are never practical...

They are no more and no less than ethereal orbs holding the wishes of countless humans. 

Emily Dickinson knew full well that "gem tactics" may be learned from the making of our own pearls, just as sands may one day become semiprecious jewels.

The Sharp Cut

I am thrilled that my poem "The Sharp Cut" was chosen by Northern Narratives for publication in Issue 6! It touches on a feeling that has only pierced deeper with the passing of the years. 

 

 “The children who swallow the star are the poets—

like Yeats or Tolkien—who become wanderers 

between two worlds.”–Colin Wilson

 

 I throw these words out

like ground-down diamond dust

for all the children who once

gleefully gulped star beams,

and yet now find their shadows

time-bound, stretching far and away

into grown-up bones and days

where worn skin barely holds heart

inside anymore—

Just don’t forget

the sharp cut of clean rays

across the glad blue of you, or the slide

of starlight through dark and dreams

thick with possibility and the rich

twinkle of questions

once—

You dared to ask the universe.

*If you can still wonder,

you may wander

yet again.