—Poetry by Cynthia Bernard,
South of San Francisco, CA
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
MYCELIA
Eucalyptus trees stand
in stark isolation—
mandated social distancing
to reduce fire danger.
A colony of fungi
works for wages around their roots,
taking their salary in carbohydrates,
captured sunlight.
The workers spin long threads,
mycelia, which connect to the fungi
of nearby trees and plants—
a cellular communication network.
How did it feel to the trees, then,
to have their neighbors
cut down, dug up, sliced,
and hauled away?
Was it like an amputation,
or like having a best friend
move far away
with no forwarding address?
Were they shocked?
Do they mourn?
Did they howl in outrage,
a silent mycelial scream?
Are they howling still?
(prev. pub. in formidable women sanctuary,
September 2022)
Eucalyptus trees stand
in stark isolation—
mandated social distancing
to reduce fire danger.
A colony of fungi
works for wages around their roots,
taking their salary in carbohydrates,
captured sunlight.
The workers spin long threads,
mycelia, which connect to the fungi
of nearby trees and plants—
a cellular communication network.
How did it feel to the trees, then,
to have their neighbors
cut down, dug up, sliced,
and hauled away?
Was it like an amputation,
or like having a best friend
move far away
with no forwarding address?
Were they shocked?
Do they mourn?
Did they howl in outrage,
a silent mycelial scream?
Are they howling still?
(prev. pub. in formidable women sanctuary,
September 2022)
Mycelia
LONGING
Like the cylinder of ashes
when a cigarette is lit
then forgotten, like the slight
ruby tinge of unwashed wine
glasses, or the barest trace
of your scent on the sheets,
like the paper-cut sting
of brusque words
when you said good-bye,
the palest ghost of what was
and what wasn’t
haunts me sometimes.
I wanted to love that person,
the one I wished you were,
but I hadn’t yet learned how—
and you weren’t.
Like the cylinder of ashes
when a cigarette is lit
then forgotten, like the slight
ruby tinge of unwashed wine
glasses, or the barest trace
of your scent on the sheets,
like the paper-cut sting
of brusque words
when you said good-bye,
the palest ghost of what was
and what wasn’t
haunts me sometimes.
I wanted to love that person,
the one I wished you were,
but I hadn’t yet learned how—
and you weren’t.
GOOD THING
Good thing I’ve got two shoulders
on a bad day when my right arm
can’t even pick up a towel.
Used to be easy to wash
a pan, brush my hair, pull on
a sleeve, and applying deodorant
didn’t turn me into a contortionist.
Never thought twice about turning
a doorknob, carrying
a cup of tea, walking
downhill, rolling from side to side.
Always thought I’d want
to go on forever, but if
the worst days become
my every day, I
don’t know.
Never thought anything would
stop me, but the right
shoulder, the left
knee, my hips, both hands.
Moderate to severe degenerative
changes said the doctor, you can see
it on the x-rays; I can
feel it in my days. Don’t
want it, can’t change it, and
here it is.
My beloved weaves his fingers
through mine, drawing me close.
My heart welcomes him but my
fingers cannot and we have to
find another way to intertwine.
(prev. pub. in MockingOwl Roost, September 2022)
Good thing I’ve got two shoulders
on a bad day when my right arm
can’t even pick up a towel.
Used to be easy to wash
a pan, brush my hair, pull on
a sleeve, and applying deodorant
didn’t turn me into a contortionist.
Never thought twice about turning
a doorknob, carrying
a cup of tea, walking
downhill, rolling from side to side.
Always thought I’d want
to go on forever, but if
the worst days become
my every day, I
don’t know.
Never thought anything would
stop me, but the right
shoulder, the left
knee, my hips, both hands.
Moderate to severe degenerative
changes said the doctor, you can see
it on the x-rays; I can
feel it in my days. Don’t
want it, can’t change it, and
here it is.
My beloved weaves his fingers
through mine, drawing me close.
My heart welcomes him but my
fingers cannot and we have to
find another way to intertwine.
(prev. pub. in MockingOwl Roost, September 2022)
ON FINDING MY POETIC VOICE AT 68
When winter approaches,
once-beflowered vines
will have endured summer’s drought
and, desiccated, fallen to the earth below,
to be picked over by chattering birds
then trampled by sneakered feet
and an assortment of paws.
But there will have been a time, perhaps October,
an in-between, a twilight,
when the flowers have spent their loveliness
and their skeletons droop like deflated balloons,
when arthritic branches still trace their silhouettes
against tree trunks of weathered wood,
and weary roots, approaching their long hibernation,
still send sustenance up the xylem
and out to the branches.
Then, every so often,
a blossom will emerge
in solitary splendor—
penultimate offering,
the almost final verse.
(prev. pub. in Last Leaves Literary Journal,
October 2022.)
When winter approaches,
once-beflowered vines
will have endured summer’s drought
and, desiccated, fallen to the earth below,
to be picked over by chattering birds
then trampled by sneakered feet
and an assortment of paws.
But there will have been a time, perhaps October,
an in-between, a twilight,
when the flowers have spent their loveliness
and their skeletons droop like deflated balloons,
when arthritic branches still trace their silhouettes
against tree trunks of weathered wood,
and weary roots, approaching their long hibernation,
still send sustenance up the xylem
and out to the branches.
Then, every so often,
a blossom will emerge
in solitary splendor—
penultimate offering,
the almost final verse.
(prev. pub. in Last Leaves Literary Journal,
October 2022.)
A’SAILIN’
‘T’would seem quite true I never was
the captain of this ship,
though in my youth I did believe
in charting my own trip.
But Master Time has made it clear
how lowly is my rank.
I’ve silver locks and aching limbs
and soon I’ll walk the plank.
One thing I’ve learned as days go by
a‘sailin’ life’s rough seas:
It doesn’t work to push against
what comes upon the breeze.
For when I tried to turn the tide,
instead the tide turned me;
the Sea of Life dictates for us
in ways we can’t foresee.
‘T’is true that we are powerless
to stop waves high and low,
but we can choose to welcome both
the pleasure and the woe.
And so this ship does carry me
through seas both sweet and tart.
When I embrace my life, I live
with full, contented heart.
(This ballad was originally published in
Your Daily Poem, December 30, 2022.)
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
It is best as one grows older to strip oneself of possessions, to shed oneself downward like a tree, to be almost wholly earth before one dies.
—Sylvia Townsend Warner, Lolly Willowes
____________________
Cynthia Bernard is a woman in her late sixties who is finding her voice as a poet after many decades of silence. A long-time classroom teacher and a spiritual mentor, she lives and writes on a hill overlooking the ocean, about 20 miles south of San Francisco. Welcome to the Kitchen, Cynthia, and don’t be a stranger! Two of Cynthia’s poems may be found on yesterday’s post at http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2023/03/free-dreaming.html.
This afternoon at 2pm, Avid Reader in Sacramento features Jodi Angel and Josh Fernandez. Then this evening, 6pm, Escritores del Nuevo Sol/Writers of the New Sun and Barrio Café in Sacramento present an evening of poetry and stories in Spanish, plus open mic. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.
____________________
—Medusa
‘T’would seem quite true I never was
the captain of this ship,
though in my youth I did believe
in charting my own trip.
But Master Time has made it clear
how lowly is my rank.
I’ve silver locks and aching limbs
and soon I’ll walk the plank.
One thing I’ve learned as days go by
a‘sailin’ life’s rough seas:
It doesn’t work to push against
what comes upon the breeze.
For when I tried to turn the tide,
instead the tide turned me;
the Sea of Life dictates for us
in ways we can’t foresee.
‘T’is true that we are powerless
to stop waves high and low,
but we can choose to welcome both
the pleasure and the woe.
And so this ship does carry me
through seas both sweet and tart.
When I embrace my life, I live
with full, contented heart.
(This ballad was originally published in
Your Daily Poem, December 30, 2022.)
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
It is best as one grows older to strip oneself of possessions, to shed oneself downward like a tree, to be almost wholly earth before one dies.
—Sylvia Townsend Warner, Lolly Willowes
____________________
Cynthia Bernard is a woman in her late sixties who is finding her voice as a poet after many decades of silence. A long-time classroom teacher and a spiritual mentor, she lives and writes on a hill overlooking the ocean, about 20 miles south of San Francisco. Welcome to the Kitchen, Cynthia, and don’t be a stranger! Two of Cynthia’s poems may be found on yesterday’s post at http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2023/03/free-dreaming.html.
This afternoon at 2pm, Avid Reader in Sacramento features Jodi Angel and Josh Fernandez. Then this evening, 6pm, Escritores del Nuevo Sol/Writers of the New Sun and Barrio Café in Sacramento present an evening of poetry and stories in Spanish, plus open mic. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.
____________________
—Medusa
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in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
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