EARTHBORNE ONLINE POETRY MAGAZINE

Grandma’s Harmonica

 

Sometimes it lives on high shelf

            above her white kitchen sink

                        between nail file and silver letter opener

 

Sometimes it’s tucked in her apron pocket

            when she shakes it out, taps it against her thigh

                        out fly crumbs, thready fuzz

 

Sometimes when we coax her to play a ditty

            her curved hands mold around and it seems her limber

                        wrists are forever inventing new ways to dance

 

Sometimes she breathes into it softly

            trying for an effect

                        one phrase over and over

 

Sometimes thin penetrating tones

            a violin feeling

                        float about for a time

 

Sometimes she makes harmonica cry like a bagpipe

            round holy chords like an organ

                        bitter skirl like grandpa’s reed pipe

 

Sometimes she plays waltzes from the Old Country

            pinches her lips, gently taps right foot one-two-three

                        linoleum answers under soft beat of her shoe

 

Sometimes her eyebrows lift and drop to fast rhythms

            And she begins to dance around pine kitchen table

                        in a trance, a dream, back across the ocean and

 

 

Sometimes we begin to imitate her leanings and whirls

            follow her hips, whistle wind through our pursed lips

                        hold easy-to-carry-harmonica in our empty hands

 

 

 

 

 

It’s a place, a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light*

 

Hills brown from arsenic

in copper smelter town

but most spring times

land shouts with grass

loved by winter snow melt

 

One April morning

I saunter to school

late surviving dew

sits on young grass

bristles under rising sun

warmth creeps into beckoning ground

pushes yellow dandelions up

shapes a fertile verse

 

I turn familiar corner

Mike’s gas station

reeks used oil

burnt garbage soaks me

with unwanted whiffs

smelter’s smoke drifts down

chokes John’s bakery spice

 

Another corner

bends into crowded alley

kids badger, yell, giggle

crowd around for attention

some mumble sluggishly on

hand bell rings from school yard

familiar morose whistle

signals men to morning shift

 

I know I must hurry but

my eyes fill with delight

a shaft of light so clear

it seems made of bone

falls on church cross

incandescent

I stand still

bemused by beauty

remarkable that I find it

remarkable

 

*First line from Steinbeck’s Cannery Row

 

In Joy

 

            It starts

            with a piercing

            sensation

keeps flickering in like a tide

if you ask for a smell

I would say grandma’s strudel

If you ask for a sound

I would say dawn tweeting of chickadees

But it is also a feeling

            Like a surprise

that smiles, paints itself wider

I giggle and whoop

my eyes pool with delight

ears listen for more clues then

slowly

effortlessly

like a waterfall of sunlight, it

            Becomes a pleasure

that opens up inside of me

and who ever I am

I feel alive

for this little while

I think of mom’s lilac bush

it’s nature to bloom

to even be happy

to make me happy

and my imagination

 begins to alight everywhere

soft afterglow clings to valley hills

a hawk’s mystical wing-glide

neighbor’s courageous garden

dear friends eating away my sorrow

precious family embroidering me

into our life-doily

            All become a pleasure

            then keep me

            company

            inside joy

 

 

 

 

 

To Do Lists

 

Who doesn’t make

lists of chores

grocery supplies

birthday cards to send

 

an idea for a poem

and glue them to cluttered desk

tape them on steamed bathroom mirror

bookmark them in People Magazine?

 

And who doesn’t want to

be organized

productive

connected, famous

 

crossing out each task

a straight line, a check

a black scribble 

an erased memory

 

feeling relieved

lighter

satisfied

superior?

 

And who doesn’t

scratch out a finished task

need- to- remember promise

a must-read book

 

only to discard

the crumpled, disfigured

worn list 

and begin again?