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. |