Pre-Dawn

Morning has its faithfulness,

and even before dawn

as the gibbous moon still shines,

the turkeys are set off

by any other sound — the geese,

another flock of turkeys,

tiny songbirds, the occasional duck

Even before dawn

cars and trucks are trundling

down Marcola road along the river

We are up earlier

than our rustic lives would order,

preparing for errands in town

and to get back to planting

before the rain.

©Wendy Mulhern

March 13, 2020

Feet Feels

My feet suddenly remember

how they tingle in damp grass —

my toes stretch and grasp the feeling

and I consider

taking off my socks and going out

It is as they remember —

a little colder, maybe,

and the grass bends flatter underfoot.

There are fir cones in the grass,

small birds trilling from afar,

and soft socks to return to 

in the house.

©Wendy Mulhern

February 22, 2020

As night closed in

It’s too dark to see my words

but not too dark to see

how the light falls on the page,

the glow along the center line

where it slopes in, and the orange cast

of the nightlight catching the curve

It was too late to find a poem that night,

shadow shapes showing where the words were

but not enough of thought

to pull it through.

©Wendy Mulhern

January 31, 2020

Winding Down

The rain outside sings a duet

with the clothes dryer in the other room,

sounds of wetness and of drying

sharing certain similarities,

ticks that are not quite rhythmic,

a repetition of random

Our orbits in the house

intersect sometimes

but mostly we are silent

in our own pursuits,

winding down the evening,

shoring ourselves up

against unraveling. 

©Wendy Mulhern

January 27, 2020

A lesser day

Before the day devolves

to winter evening’s sodden dark,

before the sun withdraws

and dusk and rain take over,

let its singularity and freshness make their mark,

let me take in all they have to offer

And let me not forget

the simple happiness 

of a place to be,

a place with warmth, 

a place with windows,

a place with everything I need

Though unmomentous,

this is not a lesser day,

though unpretentious,

it is still enough. 

©Wendy Mulhern

January 26, 2020

Always an option

Today I thought about how

silence could be an option

in the early fading away

of light from the windows,

in the random lamplit reading

of books most often looked at but untouched

upon my shelves — basketry, house design,

Anglo-Welsh poetry, mushrooms —

I could stay silent

for this, another night like any,

not try to add any insights to the world

(as if that were what I do anyway)

I could have stayed silent,

but then there was this.

©Wendy Mulhern

January 10, 2020

I don’t know

We watched the water change.

No sun to set, but gray and russet

tones darkened, something less than wind

ruffled the water, pleating the reflections,

bringing the lighter and the darker

lines across the surface

I don’t know where to put this,

you said. I don’t know where 

to put anything,

not here, not anywhere.

I don’t know why I’m crying.

©Wendy Mulhern

January 3, 2020

Sorrow

Sorrow has its season,

not as master, but as shadow,

a reminder of emptiness

and the song that fills it

Sorrow brings us 

down through the wet passage

of echoes, dark shiny walls

and the sound of dripping

We will know how deep we are

as sorrow plumbs us.

We’ll come out richer

on the other side.

©Wendy Mulhern

December 30, 2019

Low Points

It isn’t bad

to have to cry

in spite of how

the sun has spun

the grass heads into gold

and wind has gently ruffled ducks

and all in all 

it was a fine day

These low points

come in sometimes

like nomad clouds

that mass and gather

and move through —

They will go as silently

as they came. Either today

or tomorrow — whether

bringing rain or not.

Either the sun will melt them

or bright laughter

will chase them off. 

©Wendy Mulhern

December 27, 2019

Prosaic

What makes a day prosaic?

Surely it’s not a quality of light

or the result of designated tasks,

or the company kept

or the internal landscape of my mind

All of these are full of poetry,

each, when focused, accesses a portal

opening, kaleidoscopic,

to infinity

Maybe it’s the flurry,

the attention taken

by stringed disparate tasks —

how they get loaded

in the barrel of efficiency

and lobbed forth —

how then I fail to feel

the gravity, and poetry, of each.

©Wendy Mulhern

December 16, 2019

De-Wimpification

I spent almost a week

like one of those yard ornaments

with no air blowing through it —

flat on the ground, an odd distortion

to its shape

Today I switched the air back on,

sat up, stood, walked with power,

owned my state

…in which condition

I felt much clearer,

less cold, stronger, and able

to face the day and do what’s needed

It’s good to remember

I have this choice —

it’s not my air

but I can turn it on.

©Wendy Mulhern

November 30, 2019

Closure

The prospect of departure

is like wood settling in to the fire,

causing a quickening of flames —

our actions burn warmer

though there is less fuel

to work with

We will do what we can

and leave when we have to.

There is power and comfort

in closure.

We’ll savor the silence

before the next act.

©Wendy Mulhern

November 21, 2019

Bed of Acceptance

At the end of our day,

size of remaining tasks notwithstanding,

we have to acknowledge

what was accomplished —

two vehicles saved

from the ravages of mice

(at least for now)

and some flickers of clarity

rising up in the firelight

as we considered

our past and future course

Now I can hold you

in the love that offers

a bed of acceptance

like coals hold the wood in the fire —

whatever you may think of your life

can be transmuted, offered up as warmth,

rendered translucent in the service

of that which glorifies us all.

©Wendy Mulhern

November 19, 2019

A Vow

Considering a vow of internal silence,

I practice. Let my times proceed

without a narrative, let me take things in

constructing no instructions,

let me see people

without drawing conclusions.

In the ensuing quiet

I may hear

the jokes the ravens tell

across the hills.

©Wendy Mulhern

November 18, 2019

Novice

I still am a novice at fire,

as it reminds me, morning and evening,

demanding my humble attentiveness,

first in the building

and then in the watching

what the first flicker will do

I look for the rushing of flames,

the roaring of yellow filling the firebox,

I look for the holes where it falters,

I seek to provide what it needs

As reward, I’m provided

with myriad metaphors

curling and licking,

warming my thought —

fire within takes on a new meaning,

lighting my day with its art.

©Wendy Mulhern

November 15, 2019

Day off, in town

Though I talk about

techniques for survival,

I really mean

ways to maintain joy —

there is a level

where it amounts to the same thing

And it’s easy to find uplift

in the faces of young fathers

and their children,

in reachings out for connection,

in all these things that

right now

are of utmost importance to people,

however fleetingly they catch

the light-elixir that sustains us all.

©Wendy Mulhern

November 12, 2019

This Morning

I looked out the window

and thought of how the names

of colors (or lack of names)

affect the way we see,

and prayer and fasting

and what it means to believe

I tended the fire

and drank my tea

and considered what it means

to lose all faith in death,

and what life is

if it’s not temporal

Outside the ravens

were droll and musical,

the cat was eager for my lap,

and if I’m able to cast out demons,

I’m also willing. I take that with me

into my day.

©Wendy Mulhern

October 21, 2019

Visitation

I say no to this cat

but she proves I’m not serious,

pushing her way nose first

into my lap,

waving her tail in my face 

We compromise —

she gets to stay here

if she sits still,

if she lets me write

As for the mind of cats —

she must think it very strange,

all the little things I find

to busy myself — pointless things,

when I could be affording her a lap,

reveling in mammal warmth,

feeling the sunshine

There is a place

for butterscotch fur

and a tail that waves just so,

and a secret hunting side

to keep sheathed,

except for a touch of needle claws

against my thighs.

©Wendy Mulhern

October 12, 2019

After Work

It’s twilight and the colors fade —

the cat I’m petting

now the same shade

as my hands, my sleeve

She doesn’t like my writing

so she pushes her cold nose

against my hand, my pen, my book.

The visual texture of fur, of firs,

blends into similarity,

I can’t see my words

The turkeys in the trees are quiet now,

I hear crickets, and homebound traffic,

this cat is warm but the air grows colder —

time for a transition.

©Wendy Mulhern

October 2, 2019

The Season Turns

I lit a fire this morning,

up before dawn,

before the sun slowly glowed

through the fog

Hot water rippled from the kettle

for my tea, the cabin

filled with warmth by then,

daylight peaking in

Later, for awhile,

the sun warmed everything it touched,

but evening finds us hoarding warmth,

holding close to heat sources,

seeking to absorb enough

to ease us through the night.

©Wendy Mulhern

October 1, 2019