Silent Trees

The summer of the rented horse
when a young child’s life was simple
we searched for dead birds everywhere
and rode around the neighborhood

When a young child’s life was simple
we cried for all the birds that died
and rode around the neighborhood
and scared the beauty shop ladies

We cried for all the birds that died
and the horse stuck its head inside
and scared the beauty shop ladies
who screamed and closed the open door

And the horse stuck its head inside
while empty trees swung in the breeze
that screamed and closed the open door
we hitched the mare to concrete blocks

While empty trees swung in the breeze
the wild wind spooked the rented horse
we hitched the mare to concrete blocks
but she broke loose and ran away

The wild wind spooked the rented horse
past the sad pile of poisoned birds
she broke the rope and ran away
back to the barn to find her stall

Past the sad pile of poisoned birds
while shop ladies watched her run by
back to the barn a mile away
with two young cowgirls in pursuit

we sit until the lights turn off
and skies grow cold as winter nights
then flash and glow with neon hues
and pulses, through the evening sky

and skies grow cold as winter nights
aurora borealis sings
and pulses through the evening sky
alaska technicolor night

aurora borealis sings
as wild wolves howl and watch the sight
alaska technicolor night
shimmering waves of green and red

as wild wolves howl and watch the sight
snow squeaks and scrunches underfoot
shimmering waves of green and red
colors shine on hair and faces

snow squeaks and scrunches underfoot
as hearts grow still this Christmas eve
colors shine on hair and faces
we see the sky as shepherds did

as hearts grow still this Christmas eve
recalling how one holy night
shepherds heard the heavenly choir
and one star shone to guide the way

recalling how one holy night
the angels sang a birthday song
and one star shone to guide the way
and creatures gathered round God’s Lamb

stranding 300 sets of veiled eyes
peering from doll’s faces glazed
with years of dust and black mold

toddler-lined shelves, babies encased in stacked in boxes
silent faux-infants with label tags affixed to arms or ankles

Aunt Clara, too unsteady to navigate the stairs, sits at the top
descends one riser at a time
until she can see the flooded basement

all her babies — damaged
she looks away
hides her tears

thirty-three years ago
policeman and pastor knocked on her door
both avoided eye contact

she sat on the landing tread then, too
awkward silence sucked the air from the room

she slumped on the steps
covered her ears to block their words

her heart broke loose from its moorings
and her mind swept away

he was a good son

no reason, a random shot
struck during his morning run

she recoiled
her only child — gone!

after–
packaged dolls begin arriving
daily, weekly, monthly
she greets each like a newborn

adopts garage sale dollies
dresses them
in hats and blue jeans
handmade dresses and bonnets
arranges them in the basement

now
all the replacement babies
ruined

they grin at her
with smiles molded into plastic faces

they stare at her like siblings of Chuckie
deformed, bleary-eyed, spotted and dirty

she never looks at them again
take them away
take them all away

Swatches of color sweep
across the rolling hills
and bask in the heat

of Indian summer,
before snow blusters
and earth slumbers

under its blanket of white.
I delight in autumn’s bold hues
before they’re lost to winter’s blight.

Rejoice, oh heart,
Embrace life’s warm palette
before crimsons and golds depart.

breeze cools
and refreshes

sun deposits
blush on cheeks

grass proclaims “Green”
before closing the season

leftover summer flowers
shout their last hurrah

migratory birds circle
in preparatory formations

October perfect

We had an opportunity to fill our hearts, share our ideas, and learn many new inspiring ways to improve out writing. I have neglected my blog for a while because sometimes life gets in the way. The tyranny of the urgent takes over and many things get set aside. I hope to be back on track in the next few months.

My writing has shifted to a novel that I am working on. Its title is White Orchid and is an amateur sleuth mystery.

I will have a poem included in a new brochure for our church. I’m excited they want to publish it. It is called the Birth of a Night Terror. More about that later.

The weather has been wonderful and I just got back from a soccer game with the grand-daughter. (they won!) The rest of the evening is mine to relax, watch the Tigers, and GVSU football from the comfort of my easy chair.

The reflection on the lake doubles the beauty I see out my window. I love October.

never fly when your brain is clouded
the crazy flight of a blinded bird
bumping into furniture and walls

never fly when your legs are broken
the crazy flight of a crippled bird
limping and dragging and failing
to become airborne

never fly when your stomach is churning
the crazy flight of a nauseous bird
bolting and cramped with unsettled innards

never fly when you are sub par

before the phone rang
and words were said

we took our shower
brushed our teeth

the coffee pot perked Peets Breakfast Blend
and we ate our oatmeal and bananas

we packed our lunches
disconnected our cell phones from the charger

today was an ordinary day

before the words were spoken
before the text message appeared on our phone

we looked at the sun rise bright and full of promise
watched sparkles on the lake

we washed breakfast dishes
and put cereal boxes away

we checked the calendar to see what was scheduled
we sat together at the table and wrote a grocery list

today was any ordinary day

before the phone rang
and the news shattered our hearts
and our plans turned into chaos

today was an ordinary day 

The Rest of the Story

the rest of the story
remains untold
unplanned

it waits in the anteroom
of untapped memory
chimera shaken into light
by unsuspected triggers

the rest of the story
hasn’t formed on the page
its words not yet called into being

words not laced
by a connecting strand
but are waiting
to be summoned out of silence
joined by a red thread
that binds them all together

I wished for death often
But now that I am at its door
I have changed my mind about the world.
It should go on; it is beautiful,
Even as a dream, filled with

color and paint dripping down my fingers
as the brush sliding across the canvas
brings my inner vision to life

it is filled with edges and softness and textures
that are worked to form vessels
from moist red clay drawn from the earth

it is the smell of hot apples
milled, separated from their seeds
turned into fresh sauce
that oozes into the bowl
to combine with sugar and cinnamon

it is the sound of small voices and whimpers
of babies
waiting for their baptism
interrupting the solemn event
to say this is all about me

it is the quiet spirit God grants
in troubling circumstances
that reassures me
I’m part of something eternal

– a beauty,
if I have ever seen one.
In the next world, should I remember
this one, I will praise it
above everything.

Irene Fridsma (2011)