Poems

 Place Making
 
Earthworms live in the
leaves they chew,
pulling them on down
where it’s cozy and damp.
 
They clamp on with mouth parts
and swallow them through
a conveyor belt sluice
of slimy gastric juice.
 
Then muscle momentum sends
soil parts out their bottom ends.
It piles and slowly matures
into their own worm furniture.
 
© 2010  Sharyl Green

 Underground
 
Sugar maple and Scots pine
Curled their roots
In a tango over time,
Secured in earth
From their own fallen leaves
Chewed up by earthworms
In soil factories.

© 2010  Sharyl Green

---

More Than  a Broken Arm
 
An icy patch trumped
my kinesthetic intelligence.
I slammed full force
down on my outstretched arm
in a little looking-ahead
hurry-moment,
attention away from
how I planted my feet.
 
I walked away from it
on the arm of my friend.
Deer Ridge Farm,
Townsend, Vermont,
land that I love.
 
Every joint bone organ muscle
stayed strong
except my left humerus.
Its surgical neck broke
straight across
and sent a crack up
to the northern tip.
Both parts stayed in line.
My bones photos look beautiful.
 
My arm is painterly.
Blue, yellow, green,
blood blossoming out,
a different work of art each day.
 
I cannot
crack an egg
drive a car
tie my shoes or
cut the meat on my plate.
 
I can
stir the soup
zip my jacket
wash my hair and
pour from a small pitcher.
 
I live right-handed
instead of my usual left,
rewiring my juicy brain.
 
Typing with five digits
I revise my manuscript
catching the energy
of my lead character.
I created her,
now she can help me heal.
 
This morning
I danced Nia for
nearly an hour,
left wing held
tight against my torso,
everything else in motion.
 
Tall, strong, humble.
So much more
than a broken arm.
 
Quietly I watch my own
framing of those
with a part or two out of place.
 
This I know.
We are all whole,
full, and finely tuned.

© 2015  Sharyl Green

Change in the Air 
  
A page open.
A table to myself.
A view to the place
a Cooper’s hawk flew through.
I look to where she ruffled the air.
It’s still there.
 
I, too, am a ruffler of air.
Twenty-two years gathering with
children by the south-facing bay window.
 
How will I know when to stop,
let go of the view of Nipple Top Mountain,
let go of all the bursting
moments where I want to
wheel in the media
and their microphones
to see how the air’s changed,
the molecular space
rearranged by
the brains behind
every eight and nine year old
who’s interacted
and made waves here.
  Ripples.        
        Ridable rolling ones.
             And relentless white caps.
 
I am in charge,
and I am not in charge.
And when I fly away,
ruffle buffle
left by us all
will dance on the heads of those
who enter after.

© 2010  Sharyl Green

---

A Nod to my Grandfather, Amos M. Green

So, ‘gainst thy time of need, oh soul,
  When aging stalks with fury,
The house thy dwellest in, thy life,
   Make sweet and soft and furry.
Bring in thy harvest wealth betimes,
   The body rich with dancing -
Grows stronger, as it steps and spins;
   Grows lithe, the brain enhancing.
Send out thy messengers of love
  Bring all to circle ‘round
To nod and laugh and lead the way
  Where finest thoughts abound.
Try tasks, take risks, look deep and long
  To places yet unventured.
With widening net in open arms
 Befriend those once were censored.
Seek wonder where thy first sought scorn,
 With questions fair, not judging.
Know truth wears hats of many forms
  Keep learning always nudging.
Ahead we know not what awaits,
  Our chemistry isn’t cast in stones.
Study, delight, learn others ways
  Keep calcium pumping in the bones.
Let not thy forgetting cause thee stress
  It walks with all the ages.
Make lists, reflect, let light shine through,
  Tell stories, write verse, engage us.
 
 © 2015 Sharyl Green
This poem is patterned after a poem by my paternal grandfather, Amos M. Green. I kept his rhythm and stole a few lines.