writing and sharing from Ithaca NY
This week I learned that “Old Stones Understand” received an honorable mention from the Royal Dragonfly Book Awards in the poetry category! For a first effort, I’m pleased with this recognition for my little collection of poems, and grateful to Shanti Arts Publishing for the nomination.
Royal Dragonfly, each year, makes awards across a wide range of publication types and genres – 66 in all. Worth checking out if you’re a new author!
My shoes celebrate the forest floor
weeks ago they crunched the leaves on this path
loud and delectable
homemade potato chips for the feet
and today the frozen mud, like clay
yielding in its satisfying way
as I move through these trees again
asking in each season
whether strangers who know your secrets
are really strangers at all?
The hemlocks know what I wonder
as together we lean over the cliff,
all our branches stretching for
the first flakes of snow.
I want to know
will they come as big fat kisses
that wet my cheeks?
As gossamer angels
resting on my eyelashes?
Or fast and furious,
not able to clean this world fast enough
but trying all the more?
In 2009, just after Halloween, I flew to Tucson to be with my dad. His second wife, Lynn, had passed away just a week or so before. The day before my return coincided with the All Souls Procession, a celebration of life that defies description. It really does. It’s a giant, moving party-as-parade that ends with performances and the ceremony described in this poem – and it was a very fitting way to end a somewhat unorthodox but perfect week and to reflect on her passing and life and death more generally.
This poem tried to sum it up. It appears in my collection Old Stones Understand by Shanti Arts Press. (c) 2021.
That night in November
we released what was gone
but that we had not ceased holding:
loved ones who stopped needing their bodies
things that didn’t serve
pets who still romped behind shadows of trees,
old habits.
And you and I, we took the slips
of shiny paper
and wrote her name.
I imagined peace where her shaky hands
and liver
had once been.
The acrobats lifted the cauldron full of papers
high into the sky
And lit them on fire
but instead of falling
they twinkled and flew away into the night,
tiny prayers
on kites with endless strings.
It is not the way of leaves to care about how they fall. It doesn’t matter whether there are heavy, thunder-filled clouds overhead or miles of bright blue and sunshine. A leaf doesn’t cry out in pain if a harsh wind tugs it from its twig nor does it giggle with mischief if it manages to break free on its own. A leaf doesn’t fret over which is better— to swoop down in a wild, swirling canopy, a rustling riot of yellow magic with hundreds of others, or to flutter demurely to the ground in a quiet, private moment. No leaf even considers holding on, resisting its destiny, its part in the inevitable pattern. For the leaf, simply letting go is the thing. -from Old Stones Understand, (c) 2021, Shanti Arts Publishing
A brown cardinal baby
nestled in the crook
of our back porch trumpet vine
invisible until her big red dad returned
again and again
bearing grubs to nourish
and maybe soothe
after her important launch.
Later in Target
a mom scouring aisles
her own fledgling just new in a dorm
the store shelves
bare of what she really sought:
Comfort. Love.
Courage for a newly flown almost-man
His deepening voice still soft around the edges
What can she do?
Settle for a really good pillow
or favorite snacks, deep breaths
the vein in her forehead
carrying the same tension as the frantic
to-and-fro of a parent bird
No rest.
Just utter faith it will be enough
while there they go, strong and confident
like we’ve always believed
yet never quite been ready for.
Do birds feel it too?
Who can say
at the dawn of a birthday?
If we are born with goodness and trust
what remains after so much laundering
of oneself?
Live. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
When I was young
I had a blanket, white with pink and blue flowers
cotton with satin edging pink and soft and shiny
comfort to a small cheek on a dark night.
Her name was Mary.
Mary Soft Blanket.
By the time I was 25
she was rough, flower pattern worn and washed away
satin long since ripped and discarded
still fit for sunbathing
on a sunny day
in a meadow of bees and blueberries.
Now she lives in a basket
at the back of a closet under the stairs
other blankets since bought and discarded
it’s been 50 years
I think of her goodness
and wonder what lingers in me.
Live. Wash. Rinse.
And now – repair.
Feel for softness beneath my rough
listen for remnants of goodness and trust
and then
only repeat what feels well and true.
I tried an experiment today. I wrote six short stream-of-consciousness type poems as the day went on. The first two were written yesterday, but the second one got rewrote a bit, and then today, others came and went – and the last one was done during a thunderstorm. It was fun to play with trying to connect them. Happy summer, 2021!
Venturing Out
The platform is high
but out it she ventures
will she just take the dive?
No – she pads back to the center
where the board is less shaky
head full of conjecture
on staying or going
she could use a mentor
to weigh out her choices
or maybe protect her
from the others, just waiting
to see how this adventure
will turn in the wind
will she sink or else swim?
Or will she back down
start all over again?
Her eyes to the sky
she takes a big breath
tastes the flavor of courage
when you’re scared half to death
she dashes to the end
of the board, out ahead,
feels air through her hair
hears her heart not her head.
Flying or falling, either way, it’s exquisite
the victory of choice when life comes
and you live it.
5/27/2021
What’s really fun? When your people let you know that they’ve received their copies of your new book! These little surprise posts have been popping up on my Facebook feed all month, and I am humbled by and grateful for the reminders of all the kind people I have in my life. These images are from just a few of those posts.
The Spring Writes Literary Festival, hosted by our local Community Arts Partnership will be virtual again this year, and it’s coming up soon – May 5th through May 16th. There are over 40 events and over 100 writers! Check out the schedule here. I’ll be sharing poems in two readings, the 14th and 15th.
Sign up to hear some great people share their powerful and moving words! The festival is free but they appreciate donations.
In the meantime, Old Stones Understand is available through my publisher, Shanti Arts, through Amazon.com, BarnesandNoble.com, and two local booksellers that also use Bookshop.org, which is a small-business alternative to big box if you prefer that.
The day I was killed
while doing my job
was a normal day
in my American skin
that is to say
my Chinese American skin
my nonwhite skin
and a taxpaying skin
and a kind one
and a skilled one
and an everyday one
and a valuable one
unless your day
in your American skin
which to say
your white male skin
and an aching one
and a violent one
and a privileged one
and an everyday one
and a more valuable one…
must be a more valuable one
because your bad day
means more than my life
and seven other lives
and that’s just what happens
when you have a bad day.
And when someone with skin
more like yours
with contempt for skin
more like mine
holds the privilege
of holding the microphone
of holding the attention
of the rest of the country
and will talk of my killer
that poor poor man
and his sad bad day
“It’s just what happened”
while I remain nameless
but I am Xiaojie
I was two days from 50
I was a mom
I owned two businesses
I was a citizen
I was a friend
And I was a target.
Stacey Murphy __ Poems