Snail’s Pace

And in the ponderous time

it seems to take

to do the simple tasks,

may we gain experience

in presence, and in gratitude,

in noticing, in overcoming

And how we find our rhythm

with all the things that don’t need clocks,

that arc along the day

according to their own grace,

the kiss of rain or sun

enough to crown their deeds.

©Wendy Mulhern

April 10, 2018

Transition

Wind blows the rain

through the night,

through the trees,

through the memories

of the day’s events

and intermittent ponderings

The night is long,

the times of waking frequent,

bones and thoughts

surface restless between dreams

When I fed the old man

my mouth opened with his,

closed with his around the spoon,

my lips together

as I slipped it from his mouth,

imagining the sustenance,

the lubrication,

his mouth moving like tortoises’

and scallops’

In the sun-washed morning

in the kitchen

you taste the aura of a new day —

you want to wrap us all in it,

you want us to bask in light

and multiply the brightness.

©Wendy Mulhern

October 22, 2017

Of Life and Plans

Life has its own plans,

so they say,

squirrel in the hawthorn

bobbing the ends of branches

as the dark day prepares

to roll toward darker

and the old man,

not amenable to our schedule,

still sits at the table with his tea,

not drinking much,

though the clock ticks

and the hands circle round

I may turn frequently

in my seat,

looking for the next thing,

but life is right here

working out its own design.

©Wendy Mulhern

October 12, 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

A Word

And as to why a word would lurk,

coming to mind, out of context,

amid no other thoughts,

I had no notion

But there it was again,

“spavined” — a word 

I’ve never used,

a word I had to look up

when I found it

in someone else’s poem

Not that there’s no context

for such a word

in details of my life

but just — I wasn’t thinking it

yet there it was.

So this time I considered,

maybe this word has come to mind

for something in my life desiring soothing,

something wanting affirmation, not disposal,

something I can lift to be redeemed

In the simple, sweet, and peaceful way

of all redemption,

in the way of

“ask, and you receive.”

©Wendy Mulhern

June 20, 2017

Letting Him Go

We first relax

and then begin

to take our tentacles out

of your father’s life

We called them love

but they were something else.

We felt our love required them

but (on further thought)

our meddling 
does not improve his life

We take out the tentacles

so he can die if he wants,

and if what he wants to do

is ride the currents

of his own volition

wherever they may take him, well

This is what we also had to do

to free our children. So now

you’re treating him like an adult,

my daughter said. Letting him decide

what he wants to do

Oh yes. To learn again:

Love is not exerting

what we think is best for them —

love holds on

while also letting go.

©Wendy Mulhern

June 12, 2017

Thinking it Through

After a while

we started to think we wanted

that one bright slice of day

we couldn’t have

We began to tire

of building our time around it

though it was quite reasonable —

Who, after all, is free

of all obligations?

And even if we were free,

the same discontent

that dogs us now

would nibble around our edges

in some other way

and try to take

this same kind of chomp

out of our satisfaction.

So no. Regroup and reconsider.

The victory, the release,

will not be from demanded time,

but from the sense of deprivation.

We can always have enough.

We are always given

just what we need.

©Wendy Mulhern

June 10, 2017

One Daily Poem Under the Wire

Midnight threatens

to overcome the day —

I can keep working

up to its threshold

but it will be tomorrow then

and what I accomplish

will no longer add to

today’s to dos' ta-dahs

No matter. My life cares little

about calendars these days.

I have to think hard sometimes

about what day it is.

Just me and the rhythms

of someone who’s left time behind

and the progress that scribbles

bright and rushing

outside all the lines.

©Wendy Mulhern

June 4, 2017

Home Where You Are

I want to go home, he says.

This is home, I say,

and then I pause, and ask,

what would make it feel like home

to you?

It takes a few times of asking,

then he says, it doesn’t matter —

anywhere there are two or more persons

to receive you.

Well, that’s all right, I say,

because we are here. There are three of us.

This is your home.

I feel a little uneasy,

because I have used a bit of force

in an issue of hygiene. 

Perhaps it felt hostile.

I do my best, now,

to fill this living space

with the glow of home,

to be one who receives him

as well as one who puts him to bed.

©Wendy Mulhern

January 14, 2017