June 2015
I'm a poet and writer living for the past six years in the South Jersey shore area. I moved here from North Jersey in 2009 after the 2008 death of my husband William J. (Bill) Higginson, author of The Haiku Handbook, to be closer to my daughter and family. I'm a mom, grandma, and sometimes poet-teacher for the NJSCA. My work has appeared in many journals, and in twenty-some books (including chapbooks). I read at the Dodge Festival in 2010, and have enjoyed two poetry residencies at VCCA (January 2011; March 2015). Please visit my website:www.2hweb.net/penhart and my blog: http://penhart.wordpress.com
Spring Blues
The thicket grown tall in the pasture
where the horses used to be glitters
in the late afternoon sun, leans toward
the field halfway down the mountainside,
now turning rosy in the slant rays.
Soon shadows descend on thicket and field
and a blue wind sweeps in from the distant
ridge. Trees moan in that wind, their roots
calling one another beneath cold soil, while
budding leaves whisper green birth.
In the photo on my wall, a single fox stands
at the edge of a rock-strewn field, head lifted,
ears alert to whatever small rustling might flash
among the wild grasses. Last night, as the blue
wind coursed in my window, I was that fox,
nostrils flaring, head tilted toward the sky,
inhaling snow melt chill from the Milky Way
as bright cold gilded my cheeks. And later, in
my dreams, old lovers came to visit, new ones
lay down in sleep beside me, and it was spring.
The Glassblower at the Renaissance Faire
Wearing gloves and safety glasses,
the tip of her pipe held far from her body,
the old woman plunges it into a glowing oven
of molten sand, extracts an incandescent glob.
Twirling it, she breathes into the long tube
until a blue globe blossoms. Twisted at the neck
and then cut loose, it joins her other planets—
a red and gold galaxy on a rough-hewn table.
Beyond the known universe, an everlasting
glassblower breathes into a crack, shaping
time and space to bubbles of molten gas,
spheres of fire, radiating galaxies.
At the Faire, lively music echoes on the wind,
dances into the glassblower’s booth. Out there,
a different music is at play, and the angels
of gravity spin between worlds.
After the Nap
I wake, disheveled, my hair hanging
into my eyes. As I brush it away, a blonde
piece detaches to float between my fingers,
gleaming like today’s chill rain.
Open the silver locket in the antique shop
to a curl from an infant head, or a token
from the beloved meant to warm forever
the lonely flesh above the heart.
Rapunzel let her hair down for a lover.
Missing you, I remember your hair—
my hand reaching out to stroke its silk
as I woke to find you beside me.
The thicket grown tall in the pasture
where the horses used to be glitters
in the late afternoon sun, leans toward
the field halfway down the mountainside,
now turning rosy in the slant rays.
Soon shadows descend on thicket and field
and a blue wind sweeps in from the distant
ridge. Trees moan in that wind, their roots
calling one another beneath cold soil, while
budding leaves whisper green birth.
In the photo on my wall, a single fox stands
at the edge of a rock-strewn field, head lifted,
ears alert to whatever small rustling might flash
among the wild grasses. Last night, as the blue
wind coursed in my window, I was that fox,
nostrils flaring, head tilted toward the sky,
inhaling snow melt chill from the Milky Way
as bright cold gilded my cheeks. And later, in
my dreams, old lovers came to visit, new ones
lay down in sleep beside me, and it was spring.
The Glassblower at the Renaissance Faire
Wearing gloves and safety glasses,
the tip of her pipe held far from her body,
the old woman plunges it into a glowing oven
of molten sand, extracts an incandescent glob.
Twirling it, she breathes into the long tube
until a blue globe blossoms. Twisted at the neck
and then cut loose, it joins her other planets—
a red and gold galaxy on a rough-hewn table.
Beyond the known universe, an everlasting
glassblower breathes into a crack, shaping
time and space to bubbles of molten gas,
spheres of fire, radiating galaxies.
At the Faire, lively music echoes on the wind,
dances into the glassblower’s booth. Out there,
a different music is at play, and the angels
of gravity spin between worlds.
After the Nap
I wake, disheveled, my hair hanging
into my eyes. As I brush it away, a blonde
piece detaches to float between my fingers,
gleaming like today’s chill rain.
Open the silver locket in the antique shop
to a curl from an infant head, or a token
from the beloved meant to warm forever
the lonely flesh above the heart.
Rapunzel let her hair down for a lover.
Missing you, I remember your hair—
my hand reaching out to stroke its silk
as I woke to find you beside me.
©2015 Penny Harter