These places along which we’ve laughed

Getting further down the line

of what I’ve called my life

I find that many things

that seemed of ponderous importance

make no difference at all

Whereas what really matters is

the times we’ve laughed —

the way they make a path

down which its easy

to laugh again, catching each other’s eyes

at the top of a giggle,

opening up the corridor

through which joy can bubble —

joy and belonging and some

wonderful forgiveness

for any former blaming

These places along which we’ve laughed

define the ways we know each other,

give the flavor of our family

where we come back, so eagerly, to drink.

©Wendy Mulhern

August 31, 2017

Private Conversations

1.

The wind in my ears

as we rode through the rain

on our bikes — a whistle it made

with my hair or my jacket,

that only I could hear

2.

The sun on my head

(just a square, just there)

as I napped on the couch

on the screened porch —

silent but warmly expressive

3.

Various unexplained hungers —

my stomach demanding

but not specifying —

well who does it think it is anyway?

Why should I listen to it?

©Wendy Mulhern

August 30, 2017

Red Right Returning

The Island wraps me

in a cocoon of gray,

warm strong wind on the ferry,

steel sparkles from a partly shrouded sun

Though my loyalties have drifted,

though I don’t boast of ownership,

won’t brag about partaking

in night swims and sunset sails

Still the pull of family is strong,

and the wind is part of it,

as is the kinship with other ferry riders,

whom I don’t know,

as are the salty swells out of the east,

rocking the boat as it docks,

splashing the waves on the rocks,

speaking the rhythms of home.

©Wendy Mulhern

August 29, 2017

Use of Voice

It seems reasonable

that at this time of life

I come to the place

where my personal issues

are solved, where I no longer stress

over image or performance,

no longer ever feel down,

discouraged, ashamed

There is, after all, much to do

in standing up for the free voice

of everyone, for the triumph of Spirit

over all obstacles, for the grand dissolving

of all that touts itself as power

but doesn’t shelter.

Only what serves life

gets to live. Only what liberates

deserves a voice.

©Wendy Mulhern

August 29, 2017

Morning Dip

Cold water is no problem

once you get used to it,

especially as sun warms

despite the breeze

Eventually full submersion

is well worth it

for the layers and layers of sparkle —

clear water, sun reflection, skin tingles,

wind drying, shadow dancing,

sand shifting softly under feet

and freshness that endures throughout the day.

©Wendy Mulhern

August 26, 2017

Today (in sum)

Evening creeps, almost unseen,

into the room,

today’s triumphs soften

and its brilliance cools

It's been an unassuming day,

but graced with a sense of rightness,

bathed in holy light,

rinsed in the comfort

of dawning goodness,

everything as it belongs

People come back from their festivals

where they went, hoping to be changed,

and maybe they are,

and maybe from here

we’ll amazingly

find ourselves uniting

in the dignity of every blessed day.

©Wendy Mulhern

August 25, 2017

My Bicycle’s Rhythms Make Songs for Me

(which sing to me while I am resting)

The one to the many,

the many to one,

a way to find livelihood

under this sun

and still have integrity

when you are done —

it’s a puzzle, yes it’s a puzzle

The guy on the trail

with a guitar and flute

must have found a nook somewhere

along the slough,

I hear snatches of singing wafting down,

twangy, not clearly in tune

I’m charmed by the willow and wind,

fronds with their soft invitation,

decorous, gentle, still leaving distance,

me hoping they will swing closer

Some big fish

makes mysterious flops

in the water —

the ripples are dancing,

the shadows are, too —

as for me, it’s time to head home.

©Wendy Mulhern

August 24, 2017

Old Man

Your demands upon my time

are not exacted through command

or through complaint, but simply

by your presence — you’re awake

and need protecting from a fall,

you’re asleep, and need changing

These simple things I do —

your meals, your cleaning,

and my bad piano playing

to make you feel at home,

though I didn’t feel that way at first,

I find they are no problem

They have, in fact, a certain lift,

when I see you contented,

when I feel you at peace.

©Wendy Mulhern

August 23, 2017

Eclipse

Eclipse is come and gone

and what I have to show for it

is some hours of easy friendship

and some moments in the sun,

a touch of coolness, but no more darkness

than the bright and dark of clouds in half the sky

— kids surprised to hear that it was over

I turn my focus

to the light that can’t be dampened,

can’t be obstructed,

can’t be snuffed out,

I turn my gaze

to the light that lights up light,

that shows me

where I am today.

©Wendy Mulhern

August 22, 2017

Quarter Turn

August takes a charming turn,

strong warm wind rattling

the early fallen dried leaves

orchestrating clouds for the sun’s

dance of veils, its radiant reveals

echoed in the shimmer of the trees

It tastes of something slightly serious,

a little exciting, 

acceleration of increasing slope

down the season’s shoulder

It’s still summer, sun-warmed ripe blackberries

invoking pie all along the trail, and everyone

is hurriedly laying down memories,

like putting the summer’s fruits by,

catching the sweetness

so it can keep them warm

when winter comes.

©Wendy Mulhern

August 20, 2017

Crisis at the Poem Front

Yesterday I thought

What if I stopped?

What if I just didn’t

write any more poems?

Why do I do this?

Who do I do it for?

What if, finally, after

almost seven years,

I’ve run out of juice?

What if, in fact,

I ran out some time ago

and the words have just been

limping along, because they’re 

used to it, and don’t really know

what else to do?

So I considered

the release of not needing

to find my daily poem,

at least, not needing to

because of some agreement

that I made

I think the words

would miss each other

if they didn’t come together.

I think I would miss them

if they were gone.

©Wendy Mulhern

August 19, 2017

Past the Midpoint

Ducks meander by the muddy bank

in the milfoiled water

breaking up reflections

with their Vs and circling ripples

The day’s gray stillness

amplifies the sound of engines.

Small birds chirp

under that canopy.
detritus of mindlessness
notwithstanding

We, too, chirp on,

as if we had no part

in the grand clearing,

as if (as indeed)

all we have is today.

©Wendy Mulhern

August 17, 2017

Addiction

Too long I have been sucking on

the sugar-water, straining for the

drug of fulfillment, threading through

the tightly wound dendritic channels

of what I thought of

as my heart and soul

but really was the craving

of a self-looped story

for its own rehashing,

for its expected end

Too long I’ve acted, feeling

that I had no choice,

in modes of movement

that kicked me into corners

with stagnant air that I could barely breathe

And though I feel I’d need to throw out everything

to leave it, (everything! — my friends, my loves,

my sense of worth and purpose)

I’m also sensing this is what I need to do —

free fall at the mercy

of what I hope will bear me up

so I can be lifted,

so I can be real.

©Wendy Mulhern

August 16, 2017

photo by Edward Mulhern

The Big Room

They came out into the big room

where the light

from the circle’s glow

served to diffuse the memory

of where they came from,

the narrow passage ways,

the dogged competition,

the rationed light awarded skimpily

to just a few

The things they strived for —

what were they anyway?

Their disappointments

softly erased,

their great achievements

oddly forgettable

and now forgotten

in this new place.

©Wendy Mulhern

August 14, 2017

This Goodness

This is a slow learning,

to unclasp the grip

let hands relax

let go of trying

to hoard a share of good,

enough, perhaps

to shield me from my fears

This is a slow learning —

in time the breath grows deeper,

there are more before the gasp —

I start to find the space

to take in calm

This goodness is not mine to own,

to pull inside, to hold, to use

to stop the gaps within

Instead this goodness

is what holds me

and sweeps on through,

filling up all the emptiness,

flooding out the fear

as much for everyone

as for anyone 

(me too)

slow or fast,

right here.

©Wendy Mulhern

August 13, 2017

Seeking our Truth

(a bicycle song)

We seek it in the loneliness,

we seek it in the kindness,

and the bright chinks in stories’ walls

that lead us up from blindness

and in the shining memories

with embers that remind us

times of play,

times of laughing raucous play

We wish to ground, we wish to fly,

we seek the perfect union,

we thought we wanted glory

but we really craved communion,

the words were fine but what was wow

was when we put the tune in,

and we could sing,

we could really sing

We battle down the myths

that box us in our little walls,

each at our place of passion

till the massive structure falls

and what we didn’t dare believe

is obvious to all —

we are joy,

we are made of joy.

©Wendy Mulhern

August 12, 2017