Lemons

What are you going to do

With those lemons?

Oh, those are left over from

When I made lemon bars.  It was

Cheaper to buy a bag of six (maybe).

They’re sitting in the fridge going bad.

Three lemons, in the bottom left drawer

Sitting on quart-sized yogurt tubs,

Mocking me each time I swing

Open the refrigerator door,

Their withering peel darker

And more brittle every time

I give in and acknowledge

Them, taunting me with the truth

That eventually I will face the

Shame of tossing them into the trash.

(Have you still not set up a

Compost jar in the kitchen?)

Decay tries to mask the scent of

Real homemade lemon bars.

I finally had made some

And they were just right.

Due Diligence

Due Diligence

Nights during my childhood, I was on duty.

Muscles tense, I memorized the exact

Position of my ankles, wrists, the hair

Limp across my neck, certain that the

Precision of my pose would shield

Me, my parents, my brothers and sisters

From catastrophe.  Each breath was

Allowed a measure of freedom to escape

But only to return with intelligence

Of the invisible kitchen, stairwell,

Basement.  I analyzed every nuance

Of scent, scrutinizing particles of air

For telltale whiffs of smoke, wondering

If it was time to get up and check.

Because I was reassured by the same

Vigilance that kept me awake and

Petrified, I was engaged in an ever-looping

Dialogue that had no off ramp.  Is there a fire

In the house,  quietly overtaking my family

Or can I relax now and fall asleep?

June 8, 2011

Poem: Graduation

Graduation

First light slips into view so subtly

We have to recite the evidence of

Invisible contours emerging

To believe that black sky has

Given way to coral-washed gray.

We turn to gather up our

History before we get going

But miss some moments.

Though they hovered interminably

During the space between

Yesterday and today, it seems

They have escaped unnoticed.

As we look behind ourselves again

I see your form rise without hesitation

And stride directly into the morning.

May 7, 2011

Mary Biddle

Poem: Prayer for Balance

Prayer for Balance

(Learning the Discipleship Dance)

So much gravity, so much sky, as I learn to step this dance,

The ground either offering support or waiting to slap me.

I try to find a focal point to stabilize my efforts; even

Then I vacillate - do I site a near point or one in the distance?

I can hold the hand of a friend in her sick bed, but I cannot touch

The wounded faces in images gleaming from my backlit

Screen of whole families weakened to blank stares by hunger.

I am treated to 11-year-old boys showing their class the cha-cha,

But see that a mother in Arizona cries for dreams snatched away.

My cup overflows with your church, their embrace my support,

Yet a young woman in Haiti who survived a childhood of neglect

Cannot face another day fearing that the world might collapse.

Who is my neighbor? was not – is not –a rhetorical question.

When everything I touch and eat and rest upon has been

Built on the back of a sister or brother who hasn’t been deemed

Worthy of the privileges I never earned but enjoy every day, I know

I must reach out to those who cannot see my friendship but seek it. 

As I lean forward, give me the hand of a neighbor to steady my steps.

May 3, 2011

Mary Biddle

Poem: Fighting Fire

Fighting Fire

Forest fire seems an absurdly benign term for these                        

Raging, all-consuming hydra-headed beasts. 

The Young Men of Mann Gulch hardly had time to

Name what a wily monster it was that faced them when

Life was sucked away or otherwise devoured by

Sky-high scorching, leaping vacuums and hillside-wide walls of flame. 

All they thought they knew about such fire was useless. 

It turns out that instinct, raw and reflexive,

Offered escape if they could trust it, trust him.

Start a fire and lie down in the middle of it.  You’ll be safe.

He knew it, he yelled it with all the force he had, but

He could not convince his colleagues to join him so they were overcome,

A stopped watch the timeless record of their fruitless flight, and

He survived. 

Their last-second histories have become a textbook – analyzed,

Digitized and digested, blackened screams silently

Tucked away, deep in the belly of the beast.

April 28, 2011

Mary Biddle

Poem: Next Evening

Next Evening

The night before was spent at a poetry reading – We had

Spacious rooms, scoured wood floors and trim and

Gourmet chocolates – but the filling was too sweet.

The words were savory, multi-colored, bright, each speaker

Tossing surprises that we clasped contentedly to our laps.

Narratives, having been forged in the fire of memory, had

Annealed, been set aside, and now sat cool in our hands.

These were followed by meditations exhaled after steady,

Cleansing breaths of focused listening, study and walks

Through urban nature reserves, deep pockets of contemplation.

All thrilled the voice within me

Leaving a quivering string reverberating

Still twenty-four hours later so now I’m

Taking up what was only shared in past tense as

A challenge today and again today

I will write a poem

Saying yes to my desires and what I see

Putting down the clutter of to-do so I can be

April 24, 2011

Mary Biddle

Old Poems

The five poems below were written from three to eleven years ago.  I'm too lazy to make a separate post for each one.  If you're interested in reading them, happy scrolling! 

Lamentation at a Son’s First Novel

(Goodbye to the Hundred Acre Wood)

I wasn’t prepared

For your perfunctory wave

As you passed me by

Eyes sweeping tabletops and empty chairs

Searching with singular focus for

Your book.

Your book!

Yesterday

Your book

Was what you brought

To me

To read.

Yesterday

I

Was introducing

You

To a world

I

Loved.

Yesterday

We walked along

A country lane

Breathing warm, easy air

You telling me your thoughts about God

I reveling in a

Christopher Robin

Moment.

Yesterday

I was blind

To the road I walked

Leading you

Toward

Today.

Mary Davis Biddle

Mirage

Driving between rows

Of winter stubble …

A massive, brown figure

Is announced

In the field on my right.

It’s the size of a small bear–

Perhaps a fugitive cow?

The rural rorschach

Calls to me,

Playing with my

Longing for

Something significant to

Rise out of the ancient

Soil and claim

Kinship with me.

As the principal

Of an imagined ballet

Its form

Segues fluidly from

Animate to mechanical

Being.

Now,

The closer I’m drawn

Toward the figure,

The more resistant

I am

To see

The flat,

Objective truth: 

A rusty metal drum

From my neighbor’s

Fire pit

Has blown

Across the road

And into the field.

Mary Davis Biddle

Plenty of Light

Before my day’s work

The first light comes

In quiet coolness

Through the southern window,

Illuminating in grey the sky

Behind leafless trees

At the near horizon.

Limbs spread

About halfway toward open palm,

Fingertips up,

They stand patiently behind

The plum thicket, still a black mass

Without distinction of branches or

Declaration of which come

From which set of roots.

After breakfast

In full morning sunshine,

Just west of the plums,

A dusting of snow

Surrounds a seven-foot pine

Beneath a pale blue sky. 

Closer to my window

Individual blades of grass,

Gleaming with melted snow,

Claim their right to

The spotlight of my gaze.

At dusk,

Returning to my seat,

I know the air and soil reverberate

With bird songs,

A passing car,

The dog’s meandering path

Where she notarized

Chipmunk trash and the boys’

Footsteps to the school bus.

My window darkens now

After time spent

Here and away,

Though outside there is still

Plenty of light.

Mary Davis Biddle

Preparing for Fruit

In the orchard for the first time

Fresh from viewing a training film

Supplied by the co-op extension

She prunes last year’s superfluous growth.

Exhilarated by her daring to learn-and-do

She feels like a medical student

Cutting into a patient for the first time.

Those branches asserted their right to grow

Through last summer’s muggy, hot haze.

Stretching determinedly toward sunlight,

They flaunted their energetic talent

Demurely shaping positive and negative space.

Glibly she denies their ambition, pursuing

Her vision of fruit – autumn’s reward.

She recites her mantra, “Once I’m sure

I’ve gone too far, that will be enough” but

Dark humor from the tilting edge

Provides no balm for ignorance.

She cuts a little more, blind to the risk of

Open wounds at the stubs of branches

Begging all assailants enter.

When finally she’s worn out, chaff of a

Novice’s blade lies scattered across the ground.

Limbs vibrant with sap this morning

Are discarded leftovers by noon.

They’ll be hauled to the burn pile at evening,

Another adventure if she dares.  She thinks

She will leave the fire for another day. 

Mary Davis Biddle with thanks to Oleta Davis Miller

Voices Found

Women gather strength into wicker baskets

Heaving to a free hip

A basket filled with

Voices

Telling stories

Of climbing crabapple trees

Pulling knees toward searching hands

Boosting core weight freely over

Freckled taupe bark

Voices

Woven from a brown-eyed gaze

Swinging skyward to

Dutch elms

Escorting pockets of light

Through pendulum leaf mazes

Voices

Whispered among spider webs in windows

Speaking private names that

Bridge two beings

Unconsciously and completely

Voices

Remembered though

Long hidden under layers of

Doubt and fear

Voices

Heard in a chorus of sisters

Singing, Listening, Singing

Voices found

Women gather strength

Mary Davis Biddle