On Location - a poem.

Over a sea of tan, blue and green 

crowded with a thousand printed words

naming towns, forests, parks
and every conceivable landmark

is a giant red arrow
emblazoned with the words You Are Here
pointing to one particular obscure spot

with no road leading up to it
and no road leading away
so that I merely know Where I Am right now.

I decide that is enough.

-Ellen H.
Written 3 days past due date with my second baby.

Humility at the Hearth - a poem.

Lighting a fire, the skill
fueling humankind's survival for thousands of years,
proves a tenuous task for me to learn
in the propane age of first-world America on the grid.
Husband patiently instructs me again
how to construct the logs inside our new wood stove
then to light the kindling, then to wait for smaller logs to catch—
and my insecurity jumps out to burn him
before he has a chance to shut the grate.

Show me a new word once and I'll never forget the spelling,
give me a Wikipedia page on the extraction process for opium poppies
and I'll eloquently sum it up a month later—
but teach me to change a bike tire,
show me how to reignite the pilot light on the hot water heater,
instruct me on amping a djembe with a microphone on a well-labeled stage—
and I will scramble the order, miss the details, and pout
when you slowly show me again three more times.

I contend that I am not learning-challenged,
I am only procedurally-challenged— but I cringe
at the thought of taking notes and referring back to them,
the nerdy academic again,
to simply warm the basement on a chilly winter evening,
well-educated pride heating my cheeks.

I can only hold my biting tongue
when a coworker asks again how to spell "pterygium"
to type it into the diagnosis search box,
since I know the pronunciation omits the starting "p"—
and say a silent thanks for my patient partner for holding his
when I ask for help yet again
to stoke that darn wood stove.

—Ellen H.

Consequences of a water hog- a poem.

Neighbor waters lawn day and night all summer long
recreating lush Midwest in dry West despite
a record fire season.
Is frivolous water use naïve or brazen?
Hasn't he heard the consequences of being
a water hog?
My side of the fence is brown and crunchy by July
but I survey it with pride knowing I have stewarded
my water well.

In fall, neighbor summons me suddenly,
"You like apples? My wife makes apple pie and such,"
gruffly handing me a bursting bag of fruit.
Like Joseph in Egypt before the famine, Neighbor Dave
has cultivated his crop all along to bless those around him,
gifting gorgeous apples like it's his calling —
to a naïve, judgmental neighbor.


— Ellen H.

Fish eye and I - a poem.

Cartoon fish eye and I

meet again because hair detangler

only comes for kids.

Everything for women is scented yet

L'Oreal juvenile pear smell distinct

as it wafts across the store aisle.
I no longer have a soft scalp or

a low tolerance for pain

but my hair is just as prone to break.

Brush it gently after shower then that’s it

Set it once then it's set forever

every ponytail a tale from then on

all dents are stories made obvious

from my hairdos for the last two or three days.

Is only my hair so fragile still?

Did everybody else grow out of this? 

Are I love you's and cuddles only for the young as well?

Books before bed, a helping hand for sunscreen?
Did we all grow up but some not grow out 

of showing the dents of our history

hearts on our sleeve? Or some of us just

power through and break many strands? 

Are others lucky enough to toughen with age?
My unspoken questions linger before me

Fish eye does not blink,

does not resolve my solitude

in the kids' detangler section.

--Ellen H.

Summer and Right Now - a poem.

[A personal true story.]

“This summer I’d like to ask you out for ice cream.”

On the phone, the steady tenor soothes my ears,

coaxes a semester’s worth of knots from my neck.

After scholastic stress and a personal life akin to a soap opera

—though mine has far less cleavage—

this guy asks me to go for ice cream.

The promise of that future, innocent joy

surprises me, refreshes me.

As soon as I hear the sweet offer,

my answer melts down my chin as quickly as the treat: Yes.

Yes… then, and again, and sooner-if-it-were-possible!

Any promise of joy with him briefly erases

the incredible space between us,

that gulf containing 800 miles,

a year apart in age,

and the long months between spring and summer,

so my answer is still yes.

I imagine his broad smile to my response,

his frame a tall tree to lean into.

After college woes and social drama, his appeal
of innocence, romance and rest are everything I crave.

He embodies these things easily,

but with the best of youth
balanced with the firm intention of adulthood,

so that I know not just what he stands for,

but who it is that’s standing there, on the other end.

I repeat my answer, emphatic,

“Yes. I’d really like that.”

He had said this summer,

but I could start right now.

--Ellen H. 
[For my love.] 

Starry-eyed girl - a poem.

[Experimenting with more poetic styles and voices, and unearthing old ones. I found a short fiction story I wrote at a writing workshop years ago, and distilled a poetic version from bits of lines within it. I prefer poetry and real life over fictional stories, but this little series was fun to piece together.]

☆

Young couple strolling in the quiet street outside,

cool air dimly lit by gentle white of stars

mingled with warm amber of street lamps—

It was then that she broke up with him.

Ending this teenage tryst made him slump

and his eyes no longer hold their glow,

she could almost hear him breaking.
He squeezed her hand; she let go.

☆☆

Racing home, her heart now out of reach

for a casual fisher. Soon she’d be
casting in the constellations
for her dreams of ambition and adventure.

The partner was an optional,

interchangeable role, fading
into her greater heroine tale.

☆☆☆

Despite the chill of spring,
she left her bedroom window ajar.

Through leaves of the elm outside,
she glimpsed Orion and forgave herself
for missing him. Because of tonight,
she perceived more clearly who she would be

in years to come. For rivers may change course

from season to season, but constellations

keep their shape for eons.

--Ellen H.

Hum of Creation - an ekphrastic poem.

[Ekphrastic poems are pieces inspired by a piece of art. Here is one of mine, the painting introduced to me at a poetry workshop years ago. Enjoy!]

“Hum of Creation”

from Remedios Varo's painting “Embroidering the Earth's Mantle"

While a tempest brews outside,

rumbling, and shudders;

Inside, nimble fingers bob, weave and flutter.

Light filters gray through slit windows

of secreted stone tower;

Swish of sleeves and whir of looms

provide ambience every hour.

I look up from my looming work

at my golden-haired siblings;

Though we look alike,

as youngest I jam the yarn-strings.

To keep rhythm with the others

I sing softly as I work

to the monk’s hymn-like incantations

that in my ears do lurk.

For my sisters and I create this mantle

that spills down o’er the world

but the Chanter’s tones infuse the Life Force

into the fabric so artfully twirled.

Though I am the novice,

our work flows steadily on;

It is our trade to provide the ground

that earthly beings shall tread upon.

And though I would not exchange our lots—

those fragile mortals with me—

I do often wonder on

the varied lives they'll lead.

But I will never know them

for when our creative work is done,

we will rest up in the heavens

as starry Sisters, Seven in Constellation.

But work and wait – that eternal fate

for us has not yet come—

and I smile to hear these golden maidens

join me in my hum.

--Ellen H.

*Notes: It was my idea to connect this painting with the seven Pleiades (Seven Sisters constellation); not the painter's (that we know of). Different ancient mythologies say they were the daughters of Atlas or Zeus, set in the sky as stars for burial or to protect them from a pursuer. “The loss of one of the sisters, Merope, in some myths may reflect an astronomical event wherein one of the stars in the Pleiades star cluster disappeared from view by the naked eye.”

And, of another painting of the Pleiades sisters: “Interestingly it shows each connected with their corresponding star by a thread, here perhaps representing the process by which they were turned into stars."

Stormy King - a poem.

Storming in, a dark presence
overshadows the valley.
Denizens look up and flee in terror,
into their shelters in the ground.
Everyone scurries to haul away their scraps,
most more than they can handle.
The thunder of my big leather boot and giant’s voice
threatens to blot out the sun and squish
the sandbox ant colony.

A frenzy of black bodies
with no visible pattern or plan,
makes me laugh. I am the ruler high and mighty
upon my mountaintop seat
at the edge of the sandbox,
and I revel in my power.
All that work for these desert pioneers
struggling to erect their homestead
at this desolate outpost,
only to expand to outposts more and more remote:
the sidewalk, the driveway, the neighbor’s front stoop.
They would civilize and conquer--
but not so easily with my kingly interference.

Suddenly, a rumble above me
from quickly darkening clouds
roiling in the wind-whipped sky above.
I grumble in defeat,
humbled as I desert my throne
to seek shelter from the rain.

--Ellen H.

Piled Up: Prayers of a Desperate Mother - a poem.

Note: This poem continues my exploration of a monologue-style poetry featuring a narrator who is not myself.

I just hope that these aching prayers don’t go to waste—

piled up at Your door

like newspapers when the resident’s away,

graying and disintegrating below

while the new ones plop on top.

It hurts my feelings, you know—

Is Anyone even home?

Or arranged like Christmas presents

that You just shoved in a closet,

wrapped in a hundred pretty ways,

looking lost when Christmas decor is taken down

but not them. Not them.

Eager shininess loses festivity, breeds confusion.
Did You forget to open them, God?
I wrapped them just for You!

Don’t save them as keepsakes—

what they contain I care most about.

Receive them, unwrap them, redeem!

Or like warm goodies left on Your stoop,

baked fresh with care.

Don’t You dare repackage them as day-olds

and profit on them secondhand!

Or at least haven’t I been the persistent widow

going before the judge—

pesky enough that he grants her petition

just to make her go away?
Haven’t I at least been her?

I want this soul to find You,

I know it’s what You want

even with free will, there’s more that You could do—

Bring believing friends, reflective moments

a cherished memory or a bizarre encounter

to make divine love inescapable, irresistible.

But years go by, and no such things occur (that I hear).

So, discouraged though I am,

not knowing what else to do, I go on piling

papers,

presents,

pecan rolls,

petitions,

—whatever my prayers resemble most—

at Your door...

in hopes for something more.

 
©Ellen H.

Valley Fever - a poem.

Note: Most of my poems are autobiographical non-fiction in first person. Lately though, I've gotten ideas for poems featuring narrators whom aren't myself, more of a sort of Monologues by fictional characters. The following poem is in this almost-theatrical style, and perhaps I'll share more like this in the future. This is still "real life" however, in that the sickness called Valley Fever is a real condition caused by a fungus found in the soil that can turn into a harmful respiratory infection.

Valley Fever

They say the earth is helpful, healthful,

good for your body and soul

but I say that a poison runs in her veins

less obvious and less useful than petroleum.

They say that the ground can grow no harm,

if it’s a plant, it’s probably good,

if it’s from the soil, it probably will do you well…

except tetanus and

except this fever in my lungs

a deadly, silent, fungus of the earth

and those who work her ground are most vulnerable to it,

like a smothering, revolting relative with toxic breath

who pulls you in when she hugs you then

blows a hot wind over your face

stirring up the dirt and you can’t help but breathe it in

only to discover much later that you can’t breathe at all

because her venomous legacy is growing in your lungs...

Some call it Valley Fever

All I know is that Mother Earth is not the benevolent nurturer

all the ads and bohemians love to tell you

but rather one who builds weapons against us

or at least lets parasites quite insidious

grow beneath her nails

unseen, unchecked

and when you get too close to her

she scratches you

They call the Earth their Mother

but I say let’s call her a Wicked Step-Mother

© Ellen H. 2018 

© Ellen H. 2015

I Remember the Pines - a poem.

Some time ago on this blog, I shared a writing exercise about an early childhood memory that involved walking to preschool with my mother. Here is the more polished, poetic version of that in honor of Mother's Day.

I Remember the Pines

In a memory so old it’s nearly a dream,

but so true its details don't fade,

I recall pine-scented walks

hand-in-hand with my mother.

We were walking to Saint Patrick’s Catholic Church—

for non-Catholic preschool attenders like me—

happily.

Those walks with my mother were precious:

mornings of pine-scented quiet,

so close to home we just walked

but me still too young to go by myself.

I especially recall how

we didn’t have to hold hands—

but we did anyway.

First we came to a stand of carefully planted pine trees,

already old,

a wall of protection between our quaint, safe neighborhood

and the business part of town.

At this dead-end street, there was no sidewalk;

we just stepped over the curb

to the earthen deer path the last twenty feet

to the empty parking lot

leading to the back door of the church classroom.

I’ve always liked trees:

maybe those pine trees started it all?

They stood even taller

to my young eyes,

majestic and special, like little Swiss Heidi’s

for whom the swishing of needle-laden branches in the breeze

became a very nostalgic sound.

Those raised near the coast

may fondly remember the ocean’s pounding surf,

but I, a Wisconsin girl through-and-through,

remember the pines.

Maybe I go back to this memory

just to squeeze my mother’s hand again,

to look up and say, “Thank you for this walk,

thank you for your part in my love of trees,

of morning walks and

quiet neighborhoods.”

I see now that it was an end of an era

of me living at home,

leaving the special last-kid-at-home stage

just before my entrance into a much longer era

of full time school.

Now looking back, it’s encouraging to realize

my memory is not ever of her crying,

never of her holding me back

from going to school, nor from growing up,

but rather of her quietly holding my hand…

taking me there.

-Ellen H.

-->

Of Old - a poem

I am used to missing you.
It is not a new feeling—
years as friends-apart now surpass
our friends-together years.
I will always love you
and I will always miss you,
almost as if you were dead—
except it’s reciprocal
like two friends

buried in adjacent plots,
together in spirit yet
permanently separated.
I don’t get off the phone
and miss you “anew” but “of old”—
all over again. I am relegated to it.
I am used to missing you.
But not so used to it
that I don’t.

- Ellen H.
[I'm in a phase of going through old poems and reworking them as well as writing more new ones. Time away can bring fresh inspiration!]

Spines like Flowers - a poem

O bless your brave spine
so tall, so straight
like a stem in a vase

I'd water that spine
that stick-straight stem
and pray it won't bend

Unlike the tulip
Fix your eyes above
Keep your head up, love

O bless your brave spine
belly in tight, such strong height...
May it hold you up through another long night.


- Ellen H.

“Neologism” - a poem

ne·ol·o·gism, noun:  a newly coined word or expression.

"Neologism"

He says it’s not a word

I say let’s adopt it

and make it one

enthusiastically take it in and spoil it

because it’s cute and it deserves to belong somewhere

I wasn’t even there

when he heard her use it

but I don’t care

I will take it under my poetic wing and snuggle it

and declare

I like it.

Can we keep it?

--Ellen H.

"Without" - a poem

I'm not exciting, not terribly memorable--
even my body seems to know this.
So if my face is marred beyond recognition
in some freak accident
and they need to identify me,
I'm letting you know now--
I don't have any tattoos,
just take my right hand and turn it palm up,
find the mole there.
That's my most unique feature,
a boring mole on my right palm
that's lost its pigment over the years.

This mole is the way I learned right from left as a kid,
like when playing the childhood game Twister.
I'd look down at my palm to see
if it did or didn't have the spot.
This became a habit, checking my palm
for any directional situation.

By comparison, my left palm is smooth.
I'm left-handed, by the way,
and thinking about it now, it's so fitting:
I'm not exciting, even my body knows this,
and though my handedness makes me a minority,
I have learned to identify myself
by the hand without, as the one marked
by the lacking.

--Ellen H.

New Assorted Poems

I finished typing up and working on some poems I've been saving on my phone, from inspired walks and at-home thoughts, from the last year. Now it's time to share them. Enjoy! 

JETS
Two jets diverge in a sky, and I-
I think of my father,
when I would announce to him at sunset,
after examining the wide mountain view from our house,
"It's a two jet night,"
for example, as if the number of jets
determined the evening's destiny,
like lines on one's palm, or
like the sailor's red sky.
We knew secretly that this was a totally arbitrary
judge of the night
but he accepted this game and its pretend omens
and that I was too old to be playing it at all
so now, as I see two jets on an evening horizon
and think of him,
it has real meaning after all.


QUESTIONS FOR BABIES
My baby likes all the toys with tags on them
and I told her that's how we know they're not real:
real animals don't have the tags.
I wonder if she'll ever try to check?

My baby plays with all our household things,
like zippers and shoelaces and my wedding ring,
which she twiddles with when she nurses.
I wonder if she'll have an affinity to that ring
when she grows up, but not remember why?


SNOW RESTS
Fresh, crisp winter snow
sits like a musical top hat rest
on the garden fence wire
but the heavy, wet spring snow
hangs from that wire
like the longer musical rest,
weighted down by
                                 twice the moisture


CHILDLIKE FAITH
God clips his toenails
and I can prove it to you:
last night I saw a curved white sliver in the sky
too thin to be the moon.
And angels have brown lipstick,
here's how I learned:
I have freckles on my cheeks
in the shape of kisses.
And I know my baby loves me
without ever hearing the words:
for she snuggles her tired head on my chest
and says Mama when she wakes.

---

Now here's to writing even more poems in 2018!
--Ellen H.

So My Passion Doesn't Burn You - a spoken word poem.

Someone said journaling

is just another kind of navel-gazing,

attaching guilt to this activity.

Then I see

I’m more Peaceful Person than Steam-rolling Babbler

when I put half my words on paper

and not in people’s ears or bottling them up where

they bulge out my eyes and wrestle for air

then punch me in the throat.

In TV’s Parks & Rec, I’m the Leslie Knope:

mission-minded leader yet

steam-rolling pusher to get

what she wants, not listening when she’s upset, 

but not intentionally mean. She’s just passionate.

That’s it, passionate. 

My passion is like an eager waiter rushing to serve you

a mug of hot coffee filled to the brim,

meant to be

invigorating, pleasant, filling,

but when hustled to you, it sloshes and spills-

sloppy, painful, unwanted,

a mess in your lap

instead of a warmth in your belly

so that I wish I’d never brought it to you

at all. 

That’s why I journal,

so my passion doesn’t burn you and all

I touch but keeps doing good

while staying where it should.

Some people run to live, some ride to live-

well I, I write to live 

at peace in my own mind and body,

passionate yet wise in community.

-Ellen H. 

Mindfulness - a poem.

Walking out to the garage after an autumn rain,
I notice my black and white rain boots
stepping between soaking yellow oak leaves
on the sidewalk dotted with recent rain drops.
Sun shines anew and the air is humid for once,
thickened and warm like a friendly hug,
scented by damp earth.
It's too bad I can't enjoy it-
my brain sternly cuts in to remind me-
Life has too much worry and burden and sadness
to linger in such a luxury

as the present moment.

Like The Movies - a poem.

(Have you seen the movie Matilda, based on the children's book by Roald Dahl, about the girl who could move things with her eyes? The movie Mr. Holland's Opus, about a band teacher who really  wants to write a grand piece of music? Amadeus, about the talented but irreverent Mozart, as told by the jealous composer Salieri? I was recently struck how art, academia and hardship often make people want to be the best, not just good... or maybe that's just me? There's a reason extraordinary people make for good movies. Anyway, here's a poem I distilled from these thoughts.) 

In the book,
Matilda's telekinetic powers vanish
after the genius skips a few grades
and her awful family skips town,
her mind no longer bored,
her spirit no longer oppressed.

But not in the movie.
She keeps them in that.
Because it's more fun that way.
Because we want to be
special,
extraordinary,

like Salieri wanted to be Mozart
(but there can only be one Mozart).
Like Mr. Holland wanted to write an opus
but his life impacted more
through ordinary influence
of teaching his students
and loving his family,
so the people became his Magnum Opus.
We too miss that being
skillful and present in the moment
are more valuable.

Still we dream of being
special,
extraordinary,
having a magical talent
to separate Us
from the common moviegoers.
Because it's just more fun
to be the only one
to tip over a glass of water
from ten feet away.

The Author and The Shepherd -- a poem.

You're the Author of my faith
and You've got a plan to perfect it!
You're the designer of my way,
then You guard and You protect it.

You're the Shepherd of Your people,
Your eye is on each one.
You won't let me wander far
before You call me, guide me, overcome.

I may try to plan it out,
I may try to dream it up,
but You O Lord direct my steps,
You ordain the way for us.

You're the Author and the Shepherd,
You outline my life-to-be,
then You take my hand and walk,
never to forsake me.

Continue Your good work--
I love what You've foreseen.
Keep me close on the path with You,
it's far better than I dreamed! 

--Ellen H.

(In honor of my Grandma Avis, who passed away years ago, but whose legacy of sweetly written poems and prayers lives on in my heart.)