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Index of poems:
- December Second, Nineteen-Ninety-Something
- Documenting Moving Day, Thus Far
- feeding the dead
- Nature Burned The Leaves
- pulling from somewhere
- The Snowman In The Moon
Week-ending, bone-tired, brain-sore, multiple hour week, rendering my thoughts, bloodying the page, coagulated efforts, transcribed in mud, fingers seizing up, strained, fatigued, head full to the top, eardrums missing the beat until the doorbell rings. The tree arrives, shouldered by a strong, competent woodsman, so said the Yellow Pages, delivering as promised, a beauty, in and of itself, without decoration, standing on its own, fir falling out into the room, exactly where he left it, exploding in pine scent, as the door hits his ass, on his return to the woods. I don’t recall ordering up this full frontal ache, the renewed desire, once sought after dreams of what it must be like to turn, turn, turn towards someone special at the end of a wintery day, eyes blurred, mind shutting down, ears having heard enough, mouth paused, a sigh escaping in the shape of your name, if only I knew who you were. Hard-pressed, I force the words out; it could be longing if I must choose a feeling, put a finger to heart’s desire, measuring for a form-fit, eyes that meet halfway, lips to match thoughts, without speaking, arms through arms and leg woven to leg, keeping everything good in while the bad stuff strays. Turn, turning into, against, around and through, nearer to me than thee, another person, fresh blood, the Mr. Right for Mrs. Me, our day complete, completeness; can this be a forgotten memory? a lost dream? a still deep desire? or just another cold December night?
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Documenting Moving Day, Thus Far
© Anne Cunningham
I should have taken a picture, the camera has been in my purse, this entire time we've had left. I wish I'd documented it all, before they started taking it apart, hauling away the tangible memories of all our childhoods, each well-spent. Those who come to see Grandma now, are hurrying through, for the final time, unable to "really handle being here" afraid of what happens when she finally goes to sleep, saying they want to remember her, "like this," and that and the other times they had been together and some will never come, or have not been here in years. They keep taking bits and pieces, shoulders burdened when they arrive, arms loaded as they are leaving, a picture from the wall, a knick-knack or a paddy-whack, a favorite afghan throw, a pillow, sometimes money or jewelry, whatever fits in pocket or purse, or the pots, pans and spice rack, she probably doesn’t need …. "now." I wish I had taken a picture on Monday, before the walls beyond her bedroom became forever changed, emptied, save an occasional nail head, cobwebs, floating specks of dust marking each removal, post-haste, before time disappears, as they take the clock from the wall, leaving those of us behind who remain oblivious to the pending grief, happy to have what is left, beyond the empty spaces, left by grieving too soon. A joy is keeping us here, to say goodbye and greet grief, full in the face, perhaps in a whisper, announcing "no vital signs palpable," or maybe, "we'll just know," as we begin to make the calls, long distance, across miles, linking all of us to the fact that we loved her best, each of us, in our own way, and our goodbyes, every last one, unique and special, as she continues to move from this house to live in our hearts forever and a time.Back to top
feeding the dead
© Anne Cunningham
the grand mothers have all gone on and i find my self empowered yes wearing their love boldly and yet orphaned at best hungry from this side a scaphoid belly turned inside-out as i drop the crumbs to feed them in-between here to there too weary my own self to begin again the fruitless search for a mother's love "Everyone goes through life dropping crumbs. If you can recognize the crumbs, you can trace a path all the way back from your death certificate to the dinner and a movie that resulted in you in the first place." (Daryl Zero in "Zero Effect")Back to top
Nature Burned The Leaves
© Anne Cunningham
Moon stood witness to the seasons clashing. Trees ignited, despite her careful watch. Earth Mother released the first cold snap!. Crackling, sizzling, summer’s memory glowed. By morning, trees smoldered yellow, red and orange. Fragile, crisp remains decorated the yard. Vibrant ash free-falls stuck to our caps. Colors danced in efforts to escape our rakes. Summer’s after burn, gloriously piled for jumping.
pulling from somewhere
© Anne Cunningham
i believe you are out there,
or so i hope,
still holding my place,
as all others forsake me.
i keep pulling from somewhere,
the energy it takes,
to weather these storms,
long-gone-forever without you.
i’ve stepped a road yet higher,
than this worn path,
thinking this new vantage point,
will reveal you to me.
but i’m taxed past exhaustion,
scared beyond words,
fighting the darkness as i climb,
needing you to be there … this time.
"Footfalls echo in the memory Down
the passage which we did not take Towards
the door we never opened Into the rose-garden.
My words echo Thus, in your mind."
T.S. Elliot
The Snowman In The Moon
© Anne Cunningham
Autumn’s sky, with scissored hands, severs our relationship to Summer. Sun cowers, pared down by a routine, seasonal hatchet job, day in and out. Bright yellow moon rises in last defense, fighting against a pre-cursed Winter sky. Silver starlight peeks through ebony drapes, defining a Spring that lives in our hearts. Somber lunar shadows fall, marking spots where leaves, and then snow, will fall.
