Friday, September 05, 2014

The Magic Maps of Imagination

—Poems and Photos by Martie Odell Ingebretsen, Sacramento


From the open door
the last trace of summer
is the garden hose
snaking between knee-high dandelions
and sweet peas gone to seed,
air, tinged with the scent
of gasoline and flowers,
leaves, dancing down the street
with a wily breeze
as crows mark the minutes,
timed to an intimate knowledge
of some unfathomable clock.

While the door is open
you can let in the magic
maps of imagination,
browse, in lines of words,
wonder, is the melodrama
a footstep's crunch
away from becoming
or a tapping foot and dog's bark away
from balancing
the straight back of self assurance
and the gentle slope of being content,
with the churning of doubt
and the longing to change.

While the door is open
you can wait for a poem to enter
(as Summer necks openly with Fall)
whose meaning cannot be thoughtlessly
introduced into a conversation
or nonchalantly thrown
in hopes that the retriever can make
its meaning clear,
or you can close this last
vestige of summer door,
and catch the poem waiting effortlessly
on your shoulder,
with the patina of humanity
dulling its brilliance,
winking one mischievous eye.


The sky has turned thick
and ominous with blackbirds

She hears the calling of the crows
as a portent of change

Are the clouds holding
the sky captive?

Let go of summer evening’s
ache of last twilight
and close the door
on sweet and long dusk
now is the month of falling fallow
and it rustles with giving and taking

so say the dancing leaves

Heart to the keyboard
she plays the clouds and crows
a riot of life
where fingers are birds themselves
and feel the sun slant in the window
to touch the shoulder
variegated and dappled

How hold on to the light
when the sky is dark?

A strong thing      a love song
fed with sweet small things
change comes quietly
just a notch over
where truth has always been

She will roll up her jeans
admitting at last that it's ok
to be as tall as she really is


As the first breath squirms,
then sirens
across the lap of beginning,
hear the fragile power
that is life.

a candle’s flame
blown out in dark clouds
of hatreds careless and despicable.

the spirit that began
before time cut the umbilical cord
and freedom became a feeling.

Fragile falls,
it bends and melts
and will never be again.
But, the life force,
the spirit that builds joy
from a foundation that hugs compassion,
grows stronger.

And when a circle is formed
of hand touching hand,
there is no measure of its strength,
for it is indestructible.

From the open door
the crows argue with the sky
and I listen in awe
as an airplane softly roars
into my understanding
that life goes on.

I hear commitment,
it feels like the breath of spirit,
it feels like power.


A hawk called in fly-by across the blue
and suddenly the sun closed down
with a dog barking the neighborhood gate
sounding alarm       too soon not too late

All my skin was wind wise
and in the place of feathers and questions
I draped my sheer portent     determined to close only clouds
and ease into something that I don’t know yet

But I feel it coming like a slow train
beating out a rhythm
calling to my lack of rain
with fresh fill of some song it is bursting
and I can almost sing along

Then like some sweet minute never meant to end
it’s gone and I am all alone again

Today's LittleNip:

Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.

―Albert Camus