PIONEER CAFE, MONTANA MORNING

Ladies of a Certain Age,

girls no more

except in the heart:

What Life has given,

you have taken

despite the dreams you had,

intentions and resistance:

Age acquiring resilience

for survival's sake

when life is hard

or dull beyond endurance.

Power's in the circle

around the cafe table

every morning every day

except Sundays maybe:

Ladies, older, aging

socialize despite

because of Life;

finding, making,

sharing, building power

'round this table

this gathering of resilience

endurance, amusement--

Even, some days, joy!

The Pert Young Thing,

trailing young good-looking Fella--

full of certainty, resolve,

and years-to-come--

prances past

in her low-cut denims,

bouncing perm of wild curls...

Spares not a glance

towards the Ladies of A Certain Age.

Her dreams

her angers

her determination

not yet tested, not yet tried

nor slapped around by Life--

as long as Fella's true

and things continue

looking up.

The Ladies come and go;

Pull in the extra chair as needed.

The conversation does not lag--

not often, anyway, does

the stream of interaction fail,

fall into gaps of

pensive individuality

for just an instant,

before the shield of gossip,

cheery news, and practicalities--

Solidarity--

asserts itself again.

There is no evil spoken

at this early hour

over coffee, cream,

the solace of bacon and

well-buttered toast,

oatmeal with raisins...

No, in the morning

hope and cheer

and charity prevail.

The Ladies of a Certain Age

observe the Pert Young Thing--

They may judge or not

but do not doubt

her chair is waiting.

2009                                                                     

APRICOTS GROWING WILD

Sweet, sweet, wild fruit
in the first heat of the day
in the desert--
Cool and sweet,
unlooked-for treat
in the desert morning,
an oasis.

Nectar, glowing,
sweet as light,
and chill, from the night--
Cool and sweet delight
heralded by wasps drunk
with pleasure. 

They do not sting,
I do not kill--
Sweet truce
in the first heat of the day
in the desert.

copyright 1983  by CLRedding

AUTUMN STORM

I've always thought this one comes off best when imagined read aloud in Garrison Keillor's  voice

The earth does what it does
and always has--

Storm bellowing,
Flood rushing,
And the reeds bend;
Trees sway and sometimes
go roots up;
The waters wild
sweep the land
forgetting former banks
erasing dams
the diligent beaver built.

_____________________


The tempest swoops in
off the ocean
where it trained,
charging like a heavyweight
out of his corner,
Knocks
the ancient weather vane a-tizzy,
sets the ponies running in the wind;
Slaps
the last of autumn's fire
off the swaying trees--
Leaves and later
weather vane as well
fly on the wind,
ponies whipped up
as wild, as rambunctious
as the lashing rains.

Squirrels
in tree-top nests disrupted
learn suddenly to fly
and small birds hide
as best they can
and the cats
of roaming disposition 
come inside
where we, close-huddled
by the fireplace,
hope that the wood 
already in the house
will be enough;
candle lanterns ready,
and flashlights
close to hand, 
with extra batteries...

The kids are energised,taking it in turns,cranking on the newold fangled swamp-radiothat never needs a battery replaced,and praying for a sudden coldand maybe feet of snow,and make extravagant plans...

Even when the blast
exhausts itself
to fitful gusts
and wanders off,
the rain drums on,
a flat percussive
shingle-drenching
crevice-seeking
drumming over-head...

The water fills
the hollows of the land
and saturates the soil,
drives out small rodents
from their earth;
The dog is whining
that, in fact,
he'd rather not go out
today
but must, he must,
oh dear, he really must,
and now, yes NOW!
and not alone...

And the water buckets down:
drumming, drumming,
finally lulling
the last of us to sleep,
that flashlight by the bed...

The dawn comes
luminous and calm--
as if the weather
never had a single
brutal thought,
never blustered,
never raged,
never came in reeling
like a drunk,
never loosed the ponies
nor beat the land to
sodden helplessness...

The day comes on
gently, cheerful,
a little apologetic
for the night-time's fuss,
and because the light's
today a little harsher
through trees stripped and stark
their columns etched and dark,
still gleaming with the wet...

Birds sing,
Squirrels scold,
Cats consider going out,
The dog is bouncing at the door!

The kids are disappointed
not really getting
what disaster is...

And someone must go out
and find the weather vane
then climb up on the misty roof
and put it back again
onto its naked pole.

copyright 2007  by  CL Redding

LONG ISLAND SUMMERS

I’d go back
for just a moment,
perhaps as long
as one day and a night,
enough, I think,
to relish what I loved
about Long Island summers:

Scents of ragweed,
seared grasses,
almost-too-sweet roses
in the heavy summer air…

Glittering waters,

hot, hot sand
and tiny shells
hiding in the drying
seaweed margin of the tide…

Early mornings
sun like a glowing peach
soft-lit hazy cool
’til nearly 10…

And thunderstorms
some afternoons
that bruise the air
and break the back
of humid heat’s oppression…

Cicada-noisy nights,

lit here and there

by sudden
silent sparks
of spectral yellow, green
and random
like imaginings
or magic,
to be captured
briefly
in a jar…

It’s the fireflies I miss the most…

copyright  July 2006 by CLRedding
 

THE CROW

How do I know me?
Can I count the ways?

No, really,

Can I?

Ups and downs 
and ins and outs...
so many of me
there seem to be
I can hardly 
sort them all
keep them straight
give time
attention
energy
in fair divide.

Who speaks? 

Which one of me
today
is most distraught
determined
driven by a feeling,
by a cause...?

Who of myselves
chooses 
what look to wear today,
what colors
style
fabrics and designs?

Am we bold today?
Or only in the morning--
shy by afternoon
and angry
with the setting sun?

Talk-radio 
or jazz or pop
or Beethoven
as I drive...?
Unless I stay at home
fixed to the screen--
the one I fill 
with word and image, 
or mezzed by
the one that simply 
spews at me,
to its own ends
of greed and need
and all the habits of 
established memes...


Biography 
is just the facts,
events recalled,
commented on,
considered,
from a distant place
and through 
the smoke of time.

Poetry 
is the soul
enmeshed in 
brain both right and left,
struggling to bridge
the gap between
the wordless senses
and the linear mind:

to wrap in words
persistant need
of the self
desiring deeply
the intimacy 
of being 
really known
and thereby loved...

Revealing
that which intellect
can only analyze
or wit contrive
or nagging voice belabor

SEE
ME
PLEASE!

Crying out in image,
tone and timbre,
broadcasting
pieces of the puzzle
to a world
of readers
players
dancers
do-ers...
but few, 
I fear, 
inclining
to be
puzzle-piecers.

I am one of those 
puzzled by the pieces-- 
my own 
as much as any--
who works a little 
on this patch
of color or design
that seems to match...
then wanders off
to puzzle out 
this other batch of pieces...
or another, 
or this other one...

like a crow
distracted by each gleam
of every thing
that turns into the light
and for an instant shines...

copyright 2008 by CL Redding