Sea Stone Poetry

2011-04-27T10:01:00.001-04:00

as the fog lifts

this April morning

so do all these prayers

for my grandson yet born

may they heal his tiny life

We have been shaken with news that the baby my youngest daughter carries (she is 21 weeks) has some sort of kidney anomaly--a blockage in the urethra that is causing urine to back up into the bladder and kidneys. She has yet to see the pedia-urologist at Children's Hospital in Boston, so the specifics are not yet known. But there was mention of kidney damage, dialysis and even transplants. I have, of course, done as much self-educating as I could on the internet, and found that each case can vary from mild to severe in its outcome, so we will just wait to hear what the specialist has to say. Meanwhile, we will take all the prayers we can that his tiny urinary system heals itself. Sometimes, this is the case, as the baby grows.

So please say a prayer for tiny baby Adrian to heal, to develop and to grow strong. And pray for his parents Jennifer and Jose that they may be strong and blessed. Thank you.

2011-04-22T17:27:00.000-04:00

feel the walls

caving

even as daffodils

open their bright sunny faces

in my direction

Guess I've been wrangling with a bit of depression these days. It becomes more evident when I'm not even stirred deep inside by things like daffodils blooming and birds making nests. It's as if nothing stirs me, thus my dry spell in writing. Feels like everything is swirling around me and I have no real tether on anything! Very frustrating and hopeless. Keep wondering how did I get here and what can I do to get out, or at least point my old self in the direction of survival. Wow, how many times have I had to push back walls? Guess I'll find a way. Mean time, it may be my only material for writing.

2011-03-22T10:09:00.002-04:00

struggling
to find hidden words
for poems
all these purple crocus's
breaking through victorious

Ah, the victory of breaking through! Don't quite know where or how to begin to jump-start my poetry again so I am starting here.

Feeling rather dried up since last summer-the feelings, the emotions, the rawness of everything in hibernation. Numbed. And my every day physical life too jumbled, caring for others and putting my own needs and career aside. But it is where I am and what I need to do right now, and it is not forever.

Still, I sorely recognize the need to make space for me somewhere, somehow this spring. I need to get walking and writing back into my life to feel that small victory that the crocus feels! And so, that is my goal this spring. Not to publish or even write anything great. Just to write--every day. And so we begin again, in a small and humble place.

PS. My mother's room is finally cleaned out! My daughter who lives downstairs is expecting a baby in September and will use Mama's room as a nursery! Mama would be pleased :)

2010-05-17T14:28:00.000-04:00

even one year later
I struggle
to part with her things--
lipsticks and combs and intimates
a driver's license with her smiling face

It's been 13 months since my mom died and even though I've rented out the apartment downstairs to my newlywed daughter, my mother's room remains full of her things. I tried to go through her closet last summer, and I actually did succeed in bagging up some clothes to donate to the Salvation Army, but that was as far as I got. When it came to her drawer full of intimates, clothes she often wore and things like her lipstick and comb, I just felt stuck. I don't know how other people do it. Every time I think about throwing out these things, I tear up and tell myself I'm just not ready. And maybe that's all it is--a case of being ready.

I've gone into the room periodically over the last year with intentions of doing just a little, but I get stuck--stuck looking through things, stuck on memories, stuck with indecision and some times, stuck with talking to my mother, wherever she may be.

The problem is that the room has become more crowded by boxes of my parent's other belongings, from when I cleaned out the apartment--things I wasn't quite sure what to do with. So now it's a matter of being overwhelmed. But I think I'm ready--to at least begin. My plan is to go in once a week and accomplish one small thing, and if I get stuck on something, I leave it.

It's funny. No one has even offered to help me. Maybe they know it's just something I'm going to have to do myself. I sure have had to do a lot of things for myself in this world. Especially now that my mom is gone! But I know I'll get it done eventually, because I'm strong and determined, just like my mom.

2010-03-28T14:39:00.002-04:00

daffodils
in bloom again
last days
of my mother
up from my heart spring

It's that time of year, and here I am reliving all the painful days of last spring-my father's falls and trips to rehab, my mother's decline, the hair cut, the trip to the hospital and losing her so quickly as the earth warmed and the flowers bloomed. I think it is good to remember, although a little painful. I don't want those days to ever be lost. I am grateful for the poems I wrote and the photos I took during that time. And of course, I am grateful I was there to help my mother leave this world.

Those fitful crazy out-of-my-control months spring from my heart as soon as all the signs of spring return, I remember it was all I could do to keep up with the swiftness in which events unfolded, all the while, trying to hold onto the smallest moments along the way. The recovery has been long. I am just beginning to feel like I've got my own feet beneath me again and that I can begin to make my days my own again. Grief and healing is such a process.

I have begun work on a tanka book dedicated to both my parents. I have titled it "pink geraniums and whirligigs"--two things from my childhood that represent both my mother and my father for me. I want it to have poems about them that I've written as well as poems that represent what they've instilled in me, perhaps also some old photos of them both. I want it to be a collection that honors my parents and where I come from. I don't know if this has ever been done in tanka, but for me it seems natural and necessary.

2010-02-04T09:28:00.002-05:00

how the stark cry
of one high-flying gull
in the winter sky
can return me to that safe-haven place
I roamed as a child

How I love my town in the winter! It is such a place of refuge for me, a place to reflect and gain solace. My day just isn't complete without a peaceful walk along the frozen beach, plowing headstrong into an icy north wind, or standing at the very place where the white-capped waves collapse onto the empty beach.

This morning (26 degrees), on my way to the beach, I heard the crystal clear cry of a gull high above me and was amazed at how this one sound that goes back to my earliest memories, could meld all the years of my life together into one. There was something very centering about it, something that touched the core of me, that made all the chaos of daily life just fall away. I felt safe and happy with simply existing.

I guess it is even deeper than that. Words, sometimes, are so limiting; I guess that is what I like so about tanka--the ability for so few words to carry nuances and ideas and emotions in between the lines that escape language! There is a feeling, or a suggestion in the poem that can be understood, but not explained.

Amazing how a single moment-winter, walking in the cold on my way to the beach and the sound of a gull's cry-can transform a moment--a moment captured in 5 little lines.

2010-01-19T09:15:00.002-05:00

papa's valentine

comes to me this day

of missing mama

beneath a winter gray sky

and cool swirls of snow

It is a constant ache-this quiet grief that gets carried along from day to day inside my heart, sometimes big and sometimes small, but always in the foreground, never letting me forget that life is forever different, forever changed without my mother. Just a continuous feeling of grief and loss that can't be shared.

So when my father (who turns 87 this Friday), who relies so much on me, who I am constantly caring for and giving to, said he had something for me yesterday when I was visiting, I all at once became a little girl again. In the midst of his bingo game he had me open this hand-made valentine with pink and red hearts glued all over the front, and written inside was "To my daughter, with all my love, Papa." I kissed him and thanked him, trying not to cry and he says "A little keepsake for you to remember me by."

For me, the valentine was all the love my parents wrapped me in from the day I was born-and finally I felt it again-what I had been missing since my mother's death- that wonderful love that can fill up my heart like nothing else.

It's almost as if my mother was sending her love through my father-at least that's how it felt to me.

2010-01-03T11:16:00.002-05:00

a new year
a fresh snow
birds
beneath the feeder
counting their blessings

What a year it has been! Probably one of the busiest years of my life-filled with both great sadness and also great joy. The year began with the loss of David's good friend, Don, succumbed to cancer. February and March were consumed with my father and his two falls, in and out of hospitals and rehabs, all the while my mom's health failing, and then her unexpected death in April. Next came great transition-moving my father into an assisted living facility and going through my parents belongings. So busy caring for my father, visiting him every day, doing his laundry and meds, and still planning a bridal shower and an August wedding for my daughter. This was followed by the birth of my first grandson in October and then the wedding of my other daughter!

What I have learned is that these great joys after my mom's death were my greatest blessing--they helped me to grieve and to heal in ways I never expected or thought possible, but I also learned to wholly cherish these experiences of joy. I always thought of grief as tears and aching. But grief is wrapped within beautiful moments as well-through smiles, and wedding kisses and the sparkling sea and my father's tears as my daughter says her vows or he holds his great grandson. Moments of great joy shared by grief. Beautiful. Remarkable.

And so I begin 2010 afraid of nothing-knowing that whatever the year brings, there lives most wonderfully joy and grief, one inside the other.

Peace and Goodness.

2009-07-14T08:23:00.014-04:00

surviving
this first summer without
my mother
watering pruning adoring
her tall and rangy geraniums

It has been exactly three months today since my mom died; in some ways it feels like years. Missing someone who has been a part of your every day since you breathed your first breath is much different than missing a guy you break up with or a best friend moved away. It is a hole deep in the pit of your being that seems to continuously ache until it gets so big you know you have to find a way to let it out and grieve or you'll simply implode.

To me, my mother and geraniums are synonymous. It is probably one of my earliest memories: the colossal pink and red flowers of the tall and rangy geraniums gracing every window sill of our tiny little house. And probably one of the first things I ever did to help my mother was to go around and water them and pick off the dead leaves how she taught me. And in those last weeks, when she grew very weak, she was asking me to do it for her again. Three months later, I find great solace and comfort in this simple act. Instead of missing her, caring for her geraniums makes me feel close to her. It is one of the many small ways I have found to survive yet one more summer's day without her.

2009-05-13T11:51:00.013-04:00

like a child
I am lost and looking
for my mama
between stark white apple blossoms
bees come alive

It has been one month now since my mother has died and I still cannot believe she is gone. Every day I am plagued by this need to find her--somewhere--anywhere--in the wind, in the flowers, beside her grave, sitting in her chair, in the smell of her clothes hanging in her closet or in the pictures stacked up on my desk that tell the story of her life. I am lost without her and looking, like I did when I was a child, for that safe touch, that familiar face, that soothing tone in her voice, right up until the day she passed. What bothers me most is not knowing WHERE she is. Everyone has their ideas: she's in heaven, she's with her parents now, she's preparing a place for us, she's with Jesus, she's inside of you, she's in your heart, she's in the birds that sing or the flowers that bloom or she's right beside you looking over you--but the truth is, these are all just guesses. Where is my mama really? Where has she gone? How can she just not "be" anymore? She was the love of my life, and I miss her with every breath.

2009-04-25T10:12:00.009-04:00

this twelfth day
of mourning my mother
I drop tiny
black poppy seeds
into a warm softening earth

It all happened so fast I am left numb. We brought Mama to the hospital on the night of April 8; she was diagnosed with cancer the next day and died on Tuesday, April 14 at 1:00pm while I held her hand. Heartbroken, but also grateful for the days I was able to sit with her, stroke her hair and bring her comfort,love and peace. I have suffered many painful losses in my life, but none compare to this; my mother has been my biggest inspiration and my best friend for all my days. In every small thing that I do, even in planting these poppies (one of my mom's favorite flowers), I am reminded that life as I know it will never be the same.

This is the link to her obituary which I had the privilege of writing:

Shirley M. Bouchie

2009-04-04T15:51:00.004-04:00

cutting
mama’s fine white hair
this windy spring day
our time together
slowly falling to the floor

My father is in rehab now and making very slow progress, but I know he is in good care so this at least eases my mind. My mother, however, seems failing every day; it is as if she is slipping from my hands just like the pieces of hair falling to the floor. Cutting her hair this morning seemed such an intimate gesture, such a simple task and I wanted so badly for it to be perfect. Ah, but nothing in life is perfect these days; hour by hour, I find myself letting it in, then letting it go, all these imperfections, all these big things and little things I have no control over--even my shabby, uneven pathetic attempt at a haircut. But as Mama says, perfect or not, "at least it's out of my eyes".

The Tanka Process

2009-03-31T06:24:00.010-04:00

spring rain
I start a warm fire
for my mother
who sits in darkness
shivering for my father

rainy spring day
what else but this fire
to warm
my poor mother alone
and shivering for my father

rainy spring day
what else but this fire
to warm
my poor mother
alone and chilled without my father

rainy spring day
what else but this fire
to warm
my mother alone
and chilled without my father

1. First, I begin with the subject, this vivid moment in my day: it is a rainy Monday and I am caught between taking care of both my parents, one in a hospital 30 miles away, 86 years old, with a fractured neck and fractured hip; the other housebound, 82 years old, alone all day and missing my father. I do various tasks for my mother before I'm off to visit my father, but lighting a wood fire in the fireplace seems to have the greatest significance, like I am bringing light and warmth to her dark and lonely day.

2. A few things about my first draft don't quite work for me, mostly its stark wording, so I change the format to read as a question. This works to show my personal role in trying to change my mother's mood. I have emptied her trash, brought her water and washed a few dishes, but none of those things really transform this gloomy, lonely morning for her the way the fire does.

3. The third draft only makes a slight change. I have not been happy with the word "shivering" since I began. I replace it with "chilled" because it conveys more emotion and mood--of the day, the situation, my mother's physical state and my emotional state. For me, it becomes the key word in the poem, the word that binds and connects to all other elements. When a word like this comes into play in any tanka, it strengthens the poem and brings it from good to better. I also change "for" to "without" to indicate the absence of my father for both of us. The only decision I struggle with is whether or not the word "alone" should drop down to the last line.

4. In the next draft, I streamline. I don't need to label my mother "poor"-that just strikes me as pathetic, and the poem speaks for itself, no need to conjure up sympathy. I also decide "alone" is best to use on the same line as "my mother" to describe her state. Quite clearly she is not "alone" if I am there, yet this is her mood. I also like putting "chilled without my father" on a separate line to indicate more than just my mother is "chilled" without him--it sets the mood of the entire poem.

My tanka don't always come to life in just four drafts; sometimes there are six or even more. This tanka seemed fairly easy to me, maybe because it was written so close to the actual moment, and seemed already to have a life of its own. Sometimes it happens this way.

2009-03-29T12:00:00.001-04:00

Good Harbor Beach, Summer 1961

2009-03-28T12:49:00.002-04:00

driving home
from the hospital
this same vision
of my father on a white sand beach
young and handsome in the summer sun

My father is in the hospital again. He fell in the bathroom early Thursday morning,was knocked unconscious and taken by ambulance. He fractured both his neck and his pelvic bone. So here we go again. David asked me this morning how I slept last night, and I was ashamed to answer "good"; maybe it was because of all the emotions or just knowing that my father was in good hands, or maybe because for the first time in more than the two weeks since he came home from rehab, I didn't have to sleep with an ear pressed to the floor. Whatever it was, I felt quite guilty to have slept at all when my father is laying once again in the hospital in pain. I started crying and wondering where we went wrong, how this could have happened and what I could have done to prevent it.

This poem comes from this re-occuring vision of my father on Good Harbor beach, in his swim trunks, head full of dark curly hair, tanned and wearing sun glasses. It is this picture of youth and vitality that keeps coming to me, this memory of a time when life seemed simple and safe and really perfect in many ways. I am just so sad to see my father lose his youth and with it so many other things we take for granted; like our smooth skin, our dark hair, our spry legs, our clarity of mind, and that feeling that we have so many endless sunny days ahead of us. In this vision of my father, he is younger than I am today. Ah, this letting go of people and of ourselves is such an ongoing process. But I'm trying hard to keep myself in the moment where joy is always stirring.

2009-03-24T19:25:00.004-04:00

waiting for my father
to find words that never come
about a dream
the empty bird feeder swinging
in the manic March wind

The mind doesn't just go all at once the doctor explained; it comes and goes, up and down, he said making a wavy line with his finger in mid air. After spending the whole day with my father, I thought he was off to bed, when he turned around, came back to his chair without his walker, sat down and asked, "tell me, what do I do when I have a dream?" A dream? Do you mean a bad dream? "Like the other night," he started to explain, "I had this dream . . ." and that was all he could say. For 10 minutes or so, I watched him struggle to tell me about this phantom dream that he was asking me to help him with, but I couldn't help him, except to say, "we all have crazy dreams now and again, Papa, but they're only dreams." I could see it come to him a few times, then disappear quicker than he could get the words off his lips, and the frustration was unbearable. Here was my father, the man who had protected me my entire life, the man who I went to when I had a bad dream, looking to me to help him. I sent him off to bed, helpless, hoping he could forget about it and find peace, then came upstairs to pour a glass of wine and cry. Some times this is the only thing to do.

2009-03-21T15:24:00.005-04:00

reprieve
between the seaweed
covered rocks
in the rivulets of ocean there
beneath this new spring sun

Small signs of spring are everywhere and they lend such grace to these difficult days, serving as a clear reminder to me that beauty is still found everywhere in everything no matter what. My father is home, but my life is now consumed with his care. His cognitive abilities have declined to the point that simple tasks are difficult, like tying shoes and buttoning buttons and sometimes with finding the right words. I spend a lot of my time preparing meals, cleaning, shopping, doing laundry, giving meds and calling doctors but I find the most energy is spent in keeping both my parents spirits up. I choose my words carefully; I teeter between helping him so he doesn't struggle and retreating so he doesn't feel helpless; I explain things in simple terms; I talk about the bigger world; to my mom I teach patience and acceptance and most of all, I just love love love. Today I walked around with that Ziggy Marley song in my head, "Love is my Religion" and it really has become the case. With love, nothing seems a chore or an inconvenience. However, I have really come to savor those moments I steal for myself, like walking to the beach with the dog, noticing every small turn of the tide. And here, among the rocks, I soak up the beauty, I store the happiness, and I bring it home to my parents to brighten these days in their lives.

2009-03-02T16:39:00.013-05:00

after visiting papa
this eighth day in rehab
snow spinning circles
on my windshield
all the years coming to this

My father had a fall two weeks ago, and thankfully, nothing was broken; he just has a very bad bruise. These past two weeks have been exhausting, emotional, hilarious, humbling and very enlightening. One of life's great learning experiences I guess you could say.

It has been especially difficult because my mother is unable to visit with him, so I have taken on that primary role, not only visiting with him every day, but talking with therapists and nurses, signing papers, doing laundry, changing batteries in hearing aides etc etc etc. But the best part is just sitting and talking with him. My father is an incredibly gentle and kind man who has had an incredible life. He has stories and songs and memories, of childhood and coming here from Nova Scotia, of the war in Japan, becoming an American citizen on Espirito Santo in the Pacific, of meeting my mother, of singing to me when I was a baby, his favorite old movies and so many more.

I have also learned so much about myself by talking with and watching my father and how he has coped with this disruption in his life. He is patient and accepting and filled with gratitude for everyone taking care of him--the people at the rehab just adore him. And he has so much compassion! This morning, his therapist had a scratchy throat so he shared his Riccola honey-lemon throat drops with her. Everyday, there is another story. Some of them are funny, some endearing, but always, they are something to pay attention to.

So, I am trying to emulate my dear father (who just turned 86) and accept what each day brings. Learning to avoid resistance really is the key to happiness. When we learn to just accept the day given to us, and that which we cannot change or control, we let go of the anxieties and open ourselves to joy.

And so we go ahead, my father and I, one day at a time, enjoying what it brings, good or bad, and finding joy in the little things that make up a day in a life. And what I have found is that every stage of life has its amazing gifts, for us living them, and for those living them with us.

Oh, and in case I didn't mention it, I am suddenly very grateful to have not found a job.

2009-02-18T14:31:00.005-05:00

Seven of my tanka are featured in the Spring 2009 issue of simply haiku--check it out!
Very cool!

simply haiku/tanka by Annette Mineo

2009-02-17T19:59:00.004-05:00

on my knees
wiping muddy paw prints
from the kitchen tiles
sun spots hinting spring
my parents another day older

Change. Life is just whizzing along; it waits for no one, no thing, and no plan of mine. I love seeing the changing light, the sun moving closer to the earth, the days growing longer, the golden tones returning--but, at the same time, there is a sadness. As time moves on ahead things are left behind--I still don't have a job or a sense of where I belong, my days are never productive enough, my parents seem older and more frail with each passing day, my kids are struggling with jobs and bills and school loans, and there seems nothing certain, nothing for me to wrap my heart around, except the black mud on the cool white tiles, the dog's big happy waggle, the way I feel in the afternoon winter light. Nothing but the moment. Nothing but the words. This is all there is to keep me from unraveling.

2009-02-02T16:23:00.004-05:00

restitching
and hemming up
the old resume
this balmy ground hog day
of reprieve, hope and possibility

Isn't it amazing how just a little sunshine, temps soaring into the 40's, the absence of wind along the tide line and the glorious dripping from everywhere can get under the skin, wiggle into the soul and make you believe in yourself again?

I consider myself a weather person; I guess you'd know that if you've read my blog. I don't mind the snow, or the cold, or the wind or even rain! But it was so refreshing today to have just this little taste of spring (before the snow again tomorrow . . .)! And I've just been so stuck-in-a-rut without working, I decided I'd just re-do the resume and at least take a shot at something! So I thought why not the bookstore? After all, what do I love more than books?

So that's all--just a little melting today, and a little idea about a little direction. That's all.

2009-01-21T06:39:00.002-05:00

with the world watching
as he takes the oath
tears
on every face
from the same old well of new hope

I expect yesterday will forever be a defining moment in the world's history, not just because we put into office our first African American president, but because we finally elected a president who will not be self-serving, but a true leader in every sense of the word to a nation and a people crumbling, unraveling and in need of someone who can unite us first with his oration, and secondly with his leadership that is booming with confidence, encouragement, energy, goodness and action for the good of all. And for the first time ever, we have a president that realizes his responsibility and influence on a world.

Yesterday, as I watched Obama's inaugaration, while I was of course mesmerized by his speech, and how he spoke not only to a nation, but to a world, it was the faces of the people that I will most remember, how every face, young and old, black and white, wealthy and poor, in Washington on the mall, in a church in Alabama, a bar in Boston, a school in Kenya or Indonesia glimmered with hope. And what struck me was how these tears were really all from the same place. There might be different experiences behind the tears--some might have lived through segregation, or losing their job or their home or their life savings or perhaps even a son in Iraq, but the tears of everyone, even those in other lands, were tears from the very same well--this well of new hope. You could see it in the eyes of every person--hope that this man just might be the man to unite a people and a nation and a world once and for all.

And I couldn't help but think yesterday, before Obama had even stepped foot inside the oval office, that he had already accomplished one of the most remarkable feats that any leader could--he had, with words, found a way to unite all people with one simple old fashioned, but very powerful emotion--hope. And what better emotion to have as his building block? Is it not better than anger or fear or bitterness or even pride? Hope embraces humanity--it is not self-serving or capitalistic or violent--it holds only goodness. This is a difficult time we are living in, and it will not be easy to "remake" our country, but after what I witnessed yesterday, on the faces of all the millions of people watching all over the world, I really do believe that anything is possible.

2009-01-09T17:24:00.006-05:00

day after his funeral
on the beach
the winter sun melting
the snow
eiders huddled in the surf

It has been quite a week. David's friend Don finally succumbing to the cancer on Saturday, the cooking and visiting on Sunday, visiting hours on Tuesday and the funeral on Wednesday--all this taking place more than an hour away, with snow and ice the morning of the funeral, and then right back into life as usual on Thursday. As Emily Dickinson and Robert Frost often wrote of, the living goes on. In "Out, out--" by Frost, the last line: "And they, since they/Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs." I can't say that it's quite as simple as all that, but walking on the beach the next day,I couldn't help think how life just keeps going. Of course, not without being affected. This was a close friend of David's, too young to die, leaving a wife and four children, all who very courageously spoke in the church, a church packed with friends, family and students he had taught and coached over the years--his death leaving a huge void for so many. My heart breaks for his wife, for his family and for David who has lost such a good friend, co-worker and partner. And then there were all the conversations we had had about death and what really happens to a soul after death--something I was still thinking about as I walked the beach that next day, so different than the day before, with the sun and the waves and the birds just resting off the shore. And I thought, yes, maybe we do turn to our affairs, but don't we turn to them with an even greater appreciation and renewed gusto for life itself? Doesn't death in fact teach us something about life? About its fragility, about its remarkable essence? So the world goes on the day after saying good bye to our dear friend, but not as usual--as extraordinary.

2009-01-08T11:33:00.002-05:00

found belly up
in the winter sunshine
little haiku dinghy

2008-12-26T14:57:00.008-05:00

this day after Christmas
news of his friend
losing his battle
as the great star succumbs
to blue-gray snow clouds

Oh, those mixed emotions that come the day after Christmas! We had a wonderful day, with my parents, my three kids and David's girls, but now it's over and with it today both the feelings of let-down and welcome relief. This afternoon though, all these usual sentiments have been made null and void by news of David's friend--the chemo not working, the cancer spread into the bone, and his body too weak to continue with the treatment. It's been a long battle and he's still not ready to give up but nothing about this news is hopeful. David and I today, as snow clouds move in, doing nothing but letting go of any complaints and counting our many blessings.

2008-12-21T15:06:00.003-05:00

this third day
of whirling Christmas snow
and still
no magic in my heart
no rest for this unhinged mind

As you can tell by the poem, I am still struggling with not working and the anxieties and doubts that come with this feeling of displacement. And while I was quite looking forward to enjoying this holiday season, I am finding that my personal struggles are impinging. I am seeking the magic and the joy to no avail.

Yesterday, a glimpse. I stumbled across Penny Harter's heartfelt message on Curtis Dunlap's "Blogging Along Tobacco Road" (if you aren't familiar, you really must check it out) and it touched me like nothing else has this Christmas season. Penny, after having just lost her husband, poet Bill Higginson, reminds us that life is full of magical moments by relaying a dream she had about Bill. It is beautiful. Penny ends by saying "may we all be reminded that both in sorrow and in joy, we should strive to celebrate the blessing of being here on this old planet, and the opportunity to share both the blessings and challenges of our lives with one another."

Ah yes, a little perspective on the magic and joy of just being.

2008-12-09T15:00:00.005-05:00

this dark day
of snow flakes flying
and birds hiding
I scatter seed outside my door
hoping for a friend

This not working thing is for the birds! (ha! no pun intended) My energies are so diffused that I feel lost and restless, wandering through my days, so one of the things I've been doing is looking for the birds! I've always been a bird lover and never really had the time to befriend them. So I went online (another of the many diverse and useless things I do with my free time)and read up on backyard birding, what kinds of seed attracts which kinds of birds, what feeders to use and where to hang them, and various other tips. So far I've hung several different feeders (one I made myself!) all around my house but still no birds. One site said that the birds are pretty content with foraging in the fall, but when the winter sets in, they should find their way to me and my feeders. Ah, what a glorious day that will be!

2008-11-15T08:59:00.003-05:00

even this ocean fog
can't insulate me
from these sickening waves
of uncertainty
this threshold I must pass over

Always with change, there is this nagging feeling that comes over you all through the day, maybe six, seven times or more. It is this awful feeling of displacement, this sensation that the floor beneath you might not be there at any moment. Self-doubt, uncertainty, and fear about who I really am, what my true purpose is and how I will survive--all wrapped into one--but not at every moment of the day. There are also some very lucid moments of certainty, of confidence, of being propelled towards a greater purpose even without knowing exactly what that is--a belief in myself and the bigger picture, a surrendering to fate.

walking through
this thick morning fog
my hair curling
in all the wrong places
I surrender

2008-11-10T13:38:00.004-05:00

the day after
quitting my job
up early
hoping to glimpse
the rising sun

Relief and hope. Fear and possibility. Sadness and excitement. These are just some of the mixed emotions I have been feeling after walking out on my position as a salon coordinator this past Friday. One emotion I have not experienced is regret. I left completely confident and decided in my decision. I cannot reveal the details of what lead to my sudden resignation--but let's just say I finally reached my breaking point and was compelled to leave for the sake of my own health and well-being.

So I am now on the threshold of a new beginning--of what I don't know. But for now, I am on the wagon of decompression. It is a time to walk more, read more, cook more, visit with my parents more, write more and just open myself up to peace and to possibilty.

Meanwhile, if anyone sees a help wanted ad for a "professional tanka poet", please give me a call!

2008-10-17T19:41:00.003-04:00

there is even joy
isn't there
in the last light
as it touches the points
of every picket along the fence

Just received word this week that this poem, published in the Summer 2008 issue of Ribbons, has been chosen as the "Member's Choice Tanka" to be published in the Autumn 2008 issue of Ribbons.

Surprised, elated, honored.

Thank you to Bob Lucky, the previous winner, for distinguishing my poem out of the 50 that were published in this issue's Tanka Cafe under the theme "epiphany."

2008-10-12T19:09:00.006-04:00

my mother content
to just sit inside waiting
on death
as leaves on all the trees
turn their brilliant royal shades

My mother has my entire life been both my biggest inspiration and my biggest supporter.

If I had to use words to describe the woman I think she has been in this world (not just words a daughter uses to describe a mother), I would use words like "strong" and "tough" and "courageous"; maybe "individual", "energetic" and "athletic"; "persevering", "generous" and "philanthropic". My mother has survived wars, an alcoholic first marriage, divorce before it was accepted, cancer twice and some other ugly experiences we'll leave alone. When I think of her from my childhood, I remember her as someone who took in strays (both animals and people), tended to geraniums and rose bushes like she did children, walked through blizzards to get to work, read stacks and stacks of books and wore whatever she wanted and looked great doing it.

My mother is not dying any more than we are all dying; it's more that she has given up and in some ways that is even more painful for a daughter who has been completely enamored with her. Active well into her seventies, my mother ran before the sun came up every morning, in every weather, but within the last 5 years, her legs have become crippled and she has a tough time even walking about the house, which now she has confined herself to. She lives downstairs from me so I often visit and try to bring my world to her; we discuss politics, my job, the weather, books and my father's grocery shopping mishaps. Mostly, I am trying to bring her out of the darkness of discouragement that comes with old age and its physical decline.

But it is difficult. I want her to experience life. I want her to find a way to embrace these late days in her life; I want her to put on her own royal colors. I want her to find joy in simply being.

2008-09-22T10:25:00.003-04:00

three small birds
rising up from out the bush
quiet as butterflies
both touching my heart and escaping it
like three small poems

This poem written this morning after a sunless, September walk with the dog--the nearness of these birds, their grace and stillness so raw, so meaningful, yet so beyond words. Often, I like to think I am so present, so in the moment and aware of the world around me, and then, it just catches me, by surprise. Out of nowhere, something so small, something I hadn't counted on just comes to me, like a little gift from god, so that I am touched, literally, somewhere in my soul, like god quickly stroking a feather across it, and I feel, in that single instant, one with the world around me, so that I'm left with this feeling of knowing both everything and nothing.

Maybe that was a little deep for a blog entry--but these are the experiences that my tanka come from--they are the rawest of moments, the smallest, seemingly insignificant at times--moments of deep insight, even if I'm not all together certain what that insight is.

For me, this moment, as consequently, this poem, come on a day where I am doubting myself and my poetry. Leafing through bundles of poems this morning, trying to choose a handful for submission, and finally giving up, certain that they are all rubbish, that none actually capture what I had meant--and then this experience--this small little encounter with the quiet angel-like birds, and I know in my heart that I must scribble poems, and that these poems must have some small place in this world, just like the birds that came so near my soul this September morning.

2008-08-07T17:12:00.005-04:00

in the midst
of the Caribbean
the skies open
lightening crashing so near
death startles the life in me

Just back from a cruise packed with wonderful moments and vivid memories of turquoise waters, white sand beaches, colorful flowers and birds and buildings, interesting people and landscapes and what do I choose to write about?--a thunderstorm in the middle of the Caribbean while we were on the top deck of the ship somewhere between Curacao and St. Maarten. Apparently, they are in their "hurricane" time, and even though there were no hurricanes or tropical storms in the forecast, this is the time of year they typically experience their unsettled, rainy weather, and so, almost every night, and at least once a day, we had a thunderstorm.

This thunderstorm was a doozy, yet it didn't keep people out of the pools or the jacuzzis to our surprise--at least until lightening struck the ship, or was diverted by a lightening rod. It was quite loud and just across the deck from us! Scary, but exciting! And so close to death, it reminded me of life and how precious and fleeting it is. It gave me a genuine sense of aliveness. Life is not about "getting" but about "experiencing". I was reading "the untethered soul" by Michael A. Singer while on vacation which just deepened my own philosophies about this journey we call life, and while this was occurring, I had no fear at all (me who was as a young girl absolutely petrified of thunder storms)--I saw it only as an amazing experience that I was allowed to witness, here on the planet earth in the middle of the Caribbean sea with David and 3,000 other souls I didn't know from Adam. Just an experience that I'll probably remember for a very long time.

2008-06-29T15:30:00.003-04:00

after the theater
strolling the art shops with you
at pink June dusk
the boaters all coming in
summer on their sleeves

This poem was written to commemorate the beginning of this summer; after seeing a play at the Gloucester Stage Company with friends (Billy Bishop Goes to War), we strolled down the artist colony of Rocky Neck and enjoyed a dinner at the Madfish as all the boaters were coming in to dock for the evening.

Sometimes, it is a challenge to fit everything you want into a tiny 5 line tanka. It is at times a struggle between what I see, what I feel and what is most important. The concrete: strolling, all the little art shops, the sun going down, the smell of the wharves, the boaters, the people, the pink beach roses lining the tiny streets. The concept: that this is just the beginning of summer, a first taste, an experience that we both remember and anticipate, and this one day, falling somewhere in the middle. So, have I completely captured what I wanted to in this poem? No. I really wanted the beach roses in there, and maybe the feel of these little shops that look like fish shacks full of expensive paintings, but maybe those are other poems, all on their own.

When finding a subject for tanka, it is imperative that you decide on what you want to say and pare down what you have to make it work. It is also wise to scribble down several different tanka from one single experience; several different versions or possibilities; perhaps the one you hadn't thought of will simply appear several tankas into it. Sometimes, my best tanka come from this practice.

The above poem is not a first attempt but it may not be the last either. With some play, I may find a better expression. Sometimes, I will draft a series of up to ten tanka; then maybe weeks later, after letting them sit, I will come back and recognize something in one of them that's really exceptional and worth more attention. Or maybe a newer, clearer version will stream through just from re-reading. It happens occasionally that a tanka comes into being all at once and perfect on the first try, but for the most part, this is how it happens--the words are worked, the lines are worked, the images are refined and so on. But this is, indeed, the allure of it; this is the art.

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2008-05-31T19:46:00.003-04:00

this week before
her high school graduation
with lilacs heavy
in purple bloom
her mother's last breath

This poem is written in memoriam of Nancy Higgins, a woman I knew as a client of the salon these past seven years, but who I also came to know as a mother, an art teacher and a woman much like myself. Nancy died last week, at her home beside the sea, after battling gastric cancer these past two years. I am stunned by the loss of such a beautiful, vibrant soul before her time, my thoughts filled with her soft, sincere words, her lithe body and her warm, heartfelt smile. And my heart aches for her two beautiful daughters, one in college (having taken this last semester off to spend it with her mother), and the younger just one week shy of graduating high school. Two beautiful girls who will proceed from here, encountering each of life's milestones, as well as those small everyday moments, without a mother to share them with.

I will never forget Nancy slipping me--me, just the hair salon receptionist--a 5$ bill, and thanking me for "always being so sweet and so pleasant on the phone." As if she could sense how under-appreciated I was feeling on my job at the time, Nancy went on to tell me that I made a difference, if not to everyone I scheduled appointments for, greeted at the door, smiled at, brought coffee to or helped choose a shampoo, to her. She said, "I love you, Annette. I just love you." I recall tears pooling in my eyes with her sincere acknowledgment.

I never had the chance to know Nancy outside of the salon, the way I wished I had; I didn't go to her house in her last days, as lilacs were blooming all over town, but I did arrange for a stylist to come to her home, do her hair and lift her spirits, and I did think of her every day, and recall her words and her kindnesses that went far beyond that first time that she tipped me--the receptionist--and I did think of her daughters when I heard the news that she had passed, and when I picked lilacs for the kitchen counter, I thought of her light and it filled me with gratitude for even knowing her in the small way that I did. I love you Nancy. I just love you.

2008-05-04T13:13:00.007-04:00

leafing through
black and whites of her father
on the waterfront
the longing of a little girl
in mama's blue eyes

This poem was written last spring, but it stings the same as all my spring poems, with the loss of my grandparents. Funny, you would think the fall would do this, but it's the spring that most connects me to my grandparents, maybe because my memories of them are mostly connected to the outdoors, their yard, the spring and things coming to life; Grampa's vegetable garden and Nana's flower gardens.

I lost them both when I was still a teenager and my memories are good ones. But, as my mother shared with me these photos of my grandfather, then a young, dark handsome man, working on the waterfront where he shipped large blocks of granite that were quarried here in Rockport to places as far away as New York City, I realized that my mother had her own memories of her parents that went back further than any of mine. That's when I saw the little girl in her eyes--a little girl missing her daddy.

She says she thinks of her parents more often these days; I suppose she misses them more than ever and that she is hoping she will meet up with them in the end, having now outlived them both in years. I find I am more and more every day preparing for the loss of my own parents even as I am enjoying their company, a few minutes here, a few minutes there, in between work and walking the dog and writing these little poems. So I listen and I laugh and I look at old photos with them, and I try to just be glad for these days, not sad.

2008-04-12T17:28:00.007-04:00

after the loving
we rake wet dead leaves
from the garden
where new life is springing
a small black snake stops and sneers

Finally, a real spring day! We woke to the birds singing, then shared love and coffee and musings about the weather, world affairs and the indignant bride-to-be and her mom in the salon yesterday for a trial raking me over with price issues (even after I had gone over all our prices at booking). Funny, how this is the first spring without one of my children in the house and David all to myself. And even though I've been in desperate mourning this past month over my last daughter's leaving, I must admit to a certain liberation in having my man all to myself. And it occurs to me, I have never lived, in my entire life, alone with a man in a romantic relationship without a child in my house! Such a new experience! Not being married, it is almost as if we are young again and just starting out! Ah, almost naughty! And that is what the snake in the garden reminded me of--the earth waking around us, a whole new world awaiting me at 46 and a feeling of excitement and youthfulness--the Garden of Eden! And even though I miss my babies, I wouldn't trade this place I'm at for anything in the world--not even the evil little beady-eyed serpeant lurking in my garden.

2008-02-10T18:05:00.001-05:00

out from the market
with popcorn for the movie
you and I
ravished by the excitement
a rushing cloud of frenzied snow

Today was one of those crazy weather days--clouds, sunshine, wind, rain, snow--and if you've been reading my blog, I need not tell you what a weather nut I am. This I get from my mother and have passed along to my children. So the weather made it the perfect day to hunker down, light a fire and watch a movie--except we had no popcorn! So with dog in tow, we drove across the street to the good old IGA and were stunned by the hurricane type squall we encountered upon leaving. Crazy crazy weather day--30 years after the Blizzard of 78! The movie? The Heartbreak Kid. Kind of silly. And go figure, the sun came out before it was half over! Gotta love New England--nothing's ever boring!

2007-12-10T16:12:00.001-05:00

all day people
come into the shop
complaining
of the plummeting temps
that raise us up another miracle

Sometimes, I find myself obsessed with a single word--a word that keeps appearing and reappearing, fusing and overlapping my concrete world and my writing world. The word of the moment is "miracle"--a tiny little word with monumental meaning.

My obsession escalated when an itunes search came up with the song "Ordinary Miracle," sung by Sarah McClachlan in "Charlotte's Web", the movie. This song is beautiful; it's a song about how life itself is a miracle happening before our eyes every single day, and because of the recurrences of things like rain drops and sun rises, we see them as "ordinary." When I stop to think about how amazing every thing is--just an ocean wave rushing in upon the beach right in front of me--I am moved to tears. Life is amazing--full of miracles--everywhere, big like the sky and small like a pine needle! What right have we to choose among them, rate them and even shun them?

And so its December, the tree is up (by some twisted miracle I don't have time to explain) and the miracles so ordinary are everywhere lighting themselves up all around me! Gratitude is the next wonderful word that comes to mind.

2007-11-17T13:56:00.001-05:00

in today's mail
a note from my professor
praising my little book
all the leaves on the trees
turning their brightest yellow

This after receiving a note in the mail from a former grad professor; how a little note like this carries with it more power and punch than its writer will ever know! Or perhaps he does, being a poet himself. Back in May, when I published "six sunflowers", I sent out a copy to the professor who helped me publish "empty baskets" my last year of Grad school. I hadn't even received so much as an email from him acknowledging he had received it, never mind a thank you. But this note was so much more than a thank you--it was an acknowledgment to me as a writer from another writer that I am indeed a writer and a good writer! It tugged hard at my heart strings that, shamelessly, I admit need tugging at once in awhile, especially now that I find myself removed from the literary circle of peers that Grad school had provided, a circle I may have taken for granted.

Anyways, the little note went on, after the never-too-late thank you, to praise the poems it contained; even listing poems he found particularly moving. But it was what he saw in the progression of my overall writing that I needed most: In the work, I really hear a voice confident in its abilities and aesthetic. When I first began work on my thesis, under this professor's direction, I wrote my own mission statement as a poet. In it, I hoped to redirect the tone of my poetry, to be more imagistic, more original and above all, more empowering. This note from my professor made me think that I had indeed achieved this and more. This mission statement was written before my discovery of tanka; tanka provided for me a forum for these things I was trying to accomplish. I didn't want to erase the hardship and despair from my poems; I wanted to establish a voice that had overcome, a voice that celebrated both the struggle itself and the beauty I had learned to rely on to lead me out from beneath it.

My professor ended by saying he expects he'll be using my poems to teach in his future classes. How could their be a higher honor from a former professor? So this poem was written to show my elation, my heart and soul felt joy, at being so acknowledged in the place inside me that matters the most and to show how a soul can be lit with so very few words. Ah, but we tankaists already know this, don't we?

2007-11-10T15:40:00.001-05:00

a sea strong wind
sends throngs of crisp leaves
tumbling up the street
so all the trees tomorrow
will be November clean and new

Nothing touches the writer in me more than a brisk fall day! Went for a walk this morning with the dog; the ocean was stirring, the wind was so strong that the sand off the beach hit me in the face as we passed; and the trees seemed to be losing their leaves before my very eyes. There is just something incredibly surreal and timeless about a deep gray-blue sky full of wind; about watching the earth shed its ornate wardrobe and become somehow starker, cleaner. I feel an awesome sense of renewal with the loss that November brings.

Needless to say, the morning inspired me to scribble out several tanka, and then I got into the Jeep with the dog and drove the entire coastline, stopping to snap pictures with my camera, of waves and gulls and the lights on Thatcher's Island. How absolutely blessed am I to live on this rugged little island! But how I wish I were a Cape Ann artist rather than a Cape Ann poet; such yearnings to be able to paint what captures my heart and speaks to my soul. Maybe someday I will find the time to take a class or two and pick up a brush, but for now, I try to translate my moods and impressions through the words of my little poems . . .

2007-09-15T10:13:00.001-04:00

rain
this dark September morning
loving the earth
better than I
looming about with my pen

Hallelujah! It's raining today! Secret: I am in love with the rain. Probably one of my biggest pet peeves (I hate that saying) is people complaining complaining complaining about the weather--the rain, the cold, the snow, the wind, the clouds, the fog . . . unless it is sunny and 75 degrees, people are just not happy! This just infuriates me because I love ALL weather--I see it as a gift from God, as an amazing array of experience, ours to embrace. What is even more distressing to me is how people associate "bad" weather with a "bad" mood. If the rain puts you in a bad mood, then you are a weak individual with little adventure and no imagination! This past Tuesday was the first rain we had had in weeks; there had been water bans on, everything was brown and parched, forest fires were popping up--and then the rain--what a blessing! Yes, the rain is a blessing, the rain is a gift, the rain is amazing--like a mother, it nourishes all living things around us--it nourishes us! People, lets get out of our little boxes and give praise to the bigger things that make our everyday experience an amazing wonder.

2007-08-26T21:03:00.001-04:00

after the show
on global warming
I shiver
sitting on the warm step
beneath a late sinking summer sky

I have always been an ecologically-minded person; and I raised my children to be the same; my son grew up to make a career out of it. But on this lazy August Sunday afternoon, after watching a program on the Discovery Channel about global warming, with my son, I felt a wave of shame come over me; somewhere along the way, even with all my attention and admiration for the natural world, and the poems it produces, I've become somewhat of a slacker. After the show, I wanted to repent and trade in my SUV in for an economical hybrid, buy organic foods, change all the lightbulbs in my house to energy savers, unplug all my unused appliances and whatever else I could to decrease my CO2 output!

So I felt ashamed, anxious and overwhelmed, but as I sat on the step, watching that big old sun I'd been taking for granted fall from that big old waning summer sky, I told myself, its never too late. Its not too late, and no effort is too small. Today, corny as it sounds, a TV show reminded me of how precious the world I write about everyday really is. And because of that, I made a new commitment to make some changes, however small, in the way I live my everyday life.

I went back into the house and turned off all the ceiling fans in all the rooms except the one I was in. Tomorrow I'm off to the store in my SUV to buy energy saving lightbulbs. On second thought, maybe I'll bike. I could use the exercise.

2007-08-22T13:50:00.001-04:00

sea stones
line my back porch railing
salmon ivory and slate
how I yearn now return
to where I found them

Seems appropriate that my first post should be a poem about 'sea stones', hence the name of this blog, and also fitting that I should retrieve one of the first tanka poems I ever wrote (with a bit of revision of course).

I like this poem because it speaks to the cyclical theme so often found in tanka, in nature and in the human experience. The older I get, the more I find myself returning to the simple things; also the more I question our taking things away from their natural places. This poem speaks to both, returning the stones to their home and also the speaker returning to the place where she found the stones, a place of beauty that can never really be kept or emulated by the kept objects. Just the same, we are all collectors and even aware of beauty's mutability, by keeping the stones we hope to be reminded of the beauty we witnessed first hand. And the cycle repeats.