Helen

working draft

My mother, who died yesterday, told only half a story
half a life through muffled sighs -
her English Tea Biscuits
scattered about her crossword puzzles
what was that word - or this
but these are not the words I use - or know

My mother, who would rarely let slip a laugh, or tear
read Whitman - stooped by the bookcase
uncommitted and sheepish
burgundy cardigan held tight
soft raspy tropes whispered this way and that
for no one - it seemed

her jesters abandoned halfway through a triumph
a heartache almost uttered -
never revealed - or hinted at

storms

So you're a storm chaser now

of all things

you on the playground bench
content

chasing storms
and fierce skies now

you - facing downward
still

still

so you're racing now
chasing the blood orange that peeks around the lofty steeple

you on that tattered swing
shuffling your feet

too still

and you scoff at the lightening now
shaking it off
mocking it's distance

you're safe now

or indifferent

or sick of  stillness

dim

There's  something about those days called drab -
drab to some -
"dim" - I prefer
and  relish them

vague, and unassuming
and opaque
shielding the noise and sharpness
of the universe

so they don't comment on every flower
and butterfly
and they don't tell stories in the clouds
and the dingy whiteness can tire

but still, I can breathe
and take cover from those days
too splendid and eager -
and go about things.

Almost the Moon

It turned out not to be the moon
against the backdrop of the little humble dinner
and of course I knew this

What moon had I seen of such stature
looming crisp and perfect and poised
against a hungry sky

but being in no hurry to know
I lightened each time I swerved
down that road - towards my maybe moon

full of promise and awe
clean and luminous and brilliant
like the cathedral window it was

it's not always the right time for truth
and never during the gift of a perfect moon
celestial or otherwise

and lest it be thought I was deprived of that moon -
perhaps -
but it was almost the moon
and I gasped just the same.

gray

I like the hard gray days
soft inside and no one calling
and stillness

The steely drenched days
wrapping around the hours 

speechless.

About a Pink Moon

It was embarrassing asking if it was the moon out there
and more so, that it had given me a fright
sitting  as it did
low on the sea - pink and full and only just visible

but I wasn't sure -nor sure that I cared  to know
as if  it might come at me
being level - as we were
each at the edge of the sea, or so it seemed

me on my side, she on hers
and she - so much more equipped, round as she was
to tumble over the sea
careening in pink voluptous bounces
dwarfing sails, and children, fast and effortlessly

and putting out the day.

Before the Morning

You could forget this part of the world
before the morning
This part when the coolness even in the dead of summer
 reminds you that you are alone

For now anyway

You could forget, certainly,
that the lights and the height
and the traffic didn't come with the world
That this is it

For now

And you rarely remember that you are still afraid
or that you long for sameness
that you will-away the early hours you had craved
that in spite of your speed...

 you would devour comfort.