FRAMEWORK
After “Father becomes a scaffolding”
—Poem by Ruth Daigon
Father
becomes
a scaffolding
on which we climb
toward our tallest selves,
Mother
is
shout-
ing
below,
be
care-
ful . . .
but we
are climbing Father,
one foot on his shoulder—
one foot in his eye—and
grabbing the ropes of his
hair to reach the platform
of ourselves, and now we
reach for the horizon.
LIMITATIONS
After Window in Düsseldorf (1912)
—Painting by Giacomo Balla
In a room, an un-curtained window
facing a piece of wall
On the sill, a pair of binoculars
with no fingerprints:
the wall is the view—
bleak on bleak.
Why stare that far
into the nothing staring back?
If the blind could see,
would they settle for this?
(prev. pub. in Hidden Oak, 2007)
WHITE DISTRACTION
High as the troubled sky,
a bridge of sighs,
climbed
stone by stone
for ultimate decision:
the bitter view.
Grief comes here to ponder:
feel the dismal distance,
cause no interruption
of the winds.
The other buildings
share their gloom and watch.
Go back . . . or leap . . . .
a seagull soars in white distraction.
LULLABY
After Young Moe, 1928 by Paul Klee
A small bird on a field of temporary music emerges in a
composition of light which is being painted on a canvas
with a child who watches from a small distance to match
the scope of the bird that did not know of its existence.
Soon everything will fall into place, but for now, silence
chooses a color out of the spectrum to wear against twi-
light, which is a time for calling forth the fears of the day.
The sharp voice of the mother is calling the child, but the
child wants to stay in the blend of time and the perfectly
balanced moment before the bird begins to sing its final
song of time’s duration. This is the moment when every-
thing fits the intention and the direction that every force
of thought and action has caused. The hidden child closes
its eyes and listens. The next moment remembers none of it.
(prev. pub. in Medusa's Kitchen, 2016)
NO LONGER MOUNTAIN
(Rumi)
There must have been some reason to climb
this small hill, the one you called
a mountain.
It had
a tall tree;
it had the sun;
it had the sky
all around.
It had all
the distance
which was
everywhere.
It had the view
you wanted;
it had the dare.
There was
this praise
to earn
and who to tell it to.
It would be
yours,
this climb
for need or vanity—this old
crumple-of-a-mountain, shrunken to a hill.
TOWARD
Up against the mountain
where the climb is high,
I hear the old sweet cry
of the crying bird.
It knows
how I aspire
and why.
It flies aloft
even as I
climb
below.
It’s not
the wings
I need,
I am
too slow.
It’s not
for reach.
The climb is all I know.
____________________
RUBAI
I’m even now—my life and I in rhyme—
I’ve climbed life’s lonely mountain. What a climb.
My birth and death lie balanced on the scale.
I’ve satisfied the gods that gave me time.
(prev. pub. in Poets' Forum Magazine, 2003)
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
AUTUMN QUESTIONS
—Joyce Odam
What is today?
Today is the little climb
toward tomorrow.
What is tomorrow?
The light gone out—
the last caress of sorrow.
____________________
Many thanks to Joyce Odam on this day of the Autumn Equinox, as she sends her skillful poetry about our Seed of the Week, “Hills to Climb”, along with last-of-summer flower photos. Our new Seed of the Week is “Lies”. Send your poems, photos & artwork about this (or any other) subject to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs, though, and for a peek at our past ones, click on “Calliope’s Closet”, the link at the top of this column, for plenty of others to choose from.
____________________
—Medusa
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
