November 2017
Penny Harter
penhart@2hweb.net
penhart@2hweb.net
I'm a poet and writer living in the South Jersey shore area. I moved here from North Jersey in January of 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 occasional 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 blog: http://penhart.wordpress.com and my website: www.2hweb.net/penhart. My newest books are Recycling Starlight and The Resonance Around Us: http://mountainsandriverspress.org/TitleView.aspx
Of Light
In her age, my mother saw an immense
angel-hand, palm down, hovering over her,
felt comforted by that radiant presence.
The cells of our bodies broadcast an invisible
length of the spectrum—an elusive aura caught
in a random photograph—halo shimmering
not unlike those glowing globes seen darting
around a room where a haunting is rumored,
or the faint emanations of spirit wavering at
the foot of the bed. Born from dark matter
and star stuff—light flickers in us for a while,
speaks the hidden language of our flesh
before the angels take it back, before galaxies,
gone now but still burning through millennia,
can welcome it home.
They’re Coming Back
She’s coming back, the man in the nursing home
told my friend about his recently dead wife. Really!
She’s coming back, and so is my wife.
She’s gonna appear right here at my room door.
Yours gonna be home when you get there. Have faith.
They’re coming back. You know it, and so do I!
Soon it will be the holidays, holy-days, painful
lonely days—an empty chair yawning at the head
of the formerly festive dinner table.
Who will make the perfect gravy or bake this year’s
apple pie or cake, steaming cinnamon and sugar?
Who will carve the turkey, the ham, the roast?
This morning a woman in our grief support group
just lost her second husband. Risky to have cared
again. Scary to have opened her scarred heart.
Out there the autumn trees have finally begun
to turn, scarlet and gold arcing over the road
like stained glass cathedrals embracing sunlight.
Leaves die as the days wane, lengthening nights
robbing them of green. They fall into the long dark,
the barren cold—but then the light again.
Whose Newborn
Whose newborn has surfaced in my dream
toward waking? And where is her mother?
I bend over her bassinet, coo at her,
peer into her eyes—piercing blue with
occasional clouds wandering through.
Today, the sky is brilliant, the mountains
a red rock cradle for the weight of all that
indigo. Ravens spiral above some riddle
dead among the sagebrush, and their
hoarse cries echo on the morning wind.
A baby born with the sky in her eyes,
cumulus meandering by—may she
be healthy, may she be strong as the
mountain, clear as the stream that
carves the canyon. May she be me.
In her age, my mother saw an immense
angel-hand, palm down, hovering over her,
felt comforted by that radiant presence.
The cells of our bodies broadcast an invisible
length of the spectrum—an elusive aura caught
in a random photograph—halo shimmering
not unlike those glowing globes seen darting
around a room where a haunting is rumored,
or the faint emanations of spirit wavering at
the foot of the bed. Born from dark matter
and star stuff—light flickers in us for a while,
speaks the hidden language of our flesh
before the angels take it back, before galaxies,
gone now but still burning through millennia,
can welcome it home.
They’re Coming Back
She’s coming back, the man in the nursing home
told my friend about his recently dead wife. Really!
She’s coming back, and so is my wife.
She’s gonna appear right here at my room door.
Yours gonna be home when you get there. Have faith.
They’re coming back. You know it, and so do I!
Soon it will be the holidays, holy-days, painful
lonely days—an empty chair yawning at the head
of the formerly festive dinner table.
Who will make the perfect gravy or bake this year’s
apple pie or cake, steaming cinnamon and sugar?
Who will carve the turkey, the ham, the roast?
This morning a woman in our grief support group
just lost her second husband. Risky to have cared
again. Scary to have opened her scarred heart.
Out there the autumn trees have finally begun
to turn, scarlet and gold arcing over the road
like stained glass cathedrals embracing sunlight.
Leaves die as the days wane, lengthening nights
robbing them of green. They fall into the long dark,
the barren cold—but then the light again.
Whose Newborn
Whose newborn has surfaced in my dream
toward waking? And where is her mother?
I bend over her bassinet, coo at her,
peer into her eyes—piercing blue with
occasional clouds wandering through.
Today, the sky is brilliant, the mountains
a red rock cradle for the weight of all that
indigo. Ravens spiral above some riddle
dead among the sagebrush, and their
hoarse cries echo on the morning wind.
A baby born with the sky in her eyes,
cumulus meandering by—may she
be healthy, may she be strong as the
mountain, clear as the stream that
carves the canyon. May she be me.
© 2017 Penny Harter
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to tell him or her. You might say what it is about the poem that moves you. Writing to the author is the beginning of community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -FF