Magic
is forever present,
waits each moment
that lies between
then and now.
Is never at fault
when poet
fails to see
because her
Me
has become
a Wall
far too tall
to look beyond,
much to wide
to slip around,
and far too deep
to crawl beneath.
Elizabeth Crawford 10/31/09
(SL, thanks for the deeply needed inspiration. I agree that every author has certain taboo words, one of mine is tears, and you won’t find it in this one.)
She cooked it herself.
Sliced away fragile
threads
that had always held it in place,
kept it safe,
secure in its cavity chamber.
Had to break a few stubborn bones
but managed, without too much damage,
to set it free, get it to stand alone.
Sautéed it with a bit of butter,
turning it frequently so it browned
evenly, then let it simmer in its own juices
with a few drops of vintage wine,
while she created succulent side dishes
out of nothing but hope-filled wishes
and fine-lined dreams.
Sprinkled in a bit of this,
a dash of that,
tossed it all with a vinaigrette
of fancy verbiage, a touch or two
of regret for fuller flavor.
Then sat alone
at the table she’d set,
waiting for a single guest
who would never know
he’d been
invited.
Elizabeth Crawford 9/30/09
Several days ago, my younger sister and I were talking about the delightful way our grandchildren see the world around them and then say what they see. She told me about her three year-old granddaughter and how she tattles on herself by telling her Mom that she is going to be ‘red’ today. I told her about my then four year old granddaughter and the cloud factories, and the poem I had written about it.
A few days later, while doodling yet another image, I wasn’t particularly pleased at what was happening on the paper, but continued because it was there to do. As I was finishing the image, I flipped the sketchbook sideways to see if that might alter my negative response. What I found was a cloud factory. I love it when that happens.
My granddaughter is now twelve, perhaps going on 35.
Cloud Factories
(for Katie at age 4)
Air was bitter cold,
intense with sunlight on snow,
as we drove up Hwy 43.
You told me how important
it was that everyone should
look to see something pretty,
like clouds that were bunny
rabbits, chasing clowns
with baggy pants and funny
flapping shoes. Little girls
running after soft baby chicks,
with their long hair streaming
out behind them.
I looked to see black and white
smoke stacks chugging, while
you saw little girls chasing hugs
blown on the wind, created
by “cloud factories.”
Later, driving into the city,
I saw a billboard that declared,
“Depression is the major cause of suicide.”
Not today. Today, I’m learning
how to hug a little girl
with long dark curls
streaming out behind her.
Elizabeth Crawford 12/2001
This is the image I found inside my sketchbook when I flipped it on its side.
Cloud Factory 8/27/09
She gave me life
over sixty years ago.
Now we move together
through this final phase
of her journey.
She is tired, fragile,
and often forgets
things, like names,
ages of her great-grandchildren,
or how to turn on
the steam iron
she uses to press
her pants.
I have become
just one more container
for her memories
as she sifts through
pages of years
like a photo album
she no longer remembers
painstakingly putting
together.
She weeps quietly
sometimes, because she
knows she can no longer
grasp certain facts
or how to find them.
Is not ashamed
to ask for that information
as we walk alongside
one another, talk softly
of other days,
when she taught me
how to be whatever
I have become.
Just as she teaches
me in this present moment,
how to let go
things that were once
so important, so heavy
with caring, shows me
how to travel without
baggage, how to forget,
yet not be
forgotten.
Elizabeth Crawford 8/4/09
This is an old piece revisited and revised.
Inside The Closet
That moment hangs,
locked away
from time’s sepia stain,
keeping a place for itself,
disconnected
from other connective
links, as though wrapped
in transparent cellophane
of dry cleaner’s bag,
unaffected by textures
of all other seasons.
Reaching,
mental fingers brush
against it, inner eye
rushes to still,
caught by clarity
of cut and color.
No matter the years
or number of changes,
for unknowing time,
am wrapped captive
by coarse but clinging
fabric, moving again
within folds of that
tangled perfect fit.
Elizabeth Crawford 7/28/09
Mobility and freedom
beckon, move forward
on four wheels.
Find self frozen
in paths of slowness,
wanting to anticipate
smallest possibilities.
Afraid to contemplate
larger ones, heart
slows, then speeds up
like vehicle
with clogged valves,
or faulty exhaust
system. Revs
at idle, then sputters
when given slightest
hope, stroke
of green light
that winks from top
of hill, where road
disappears
around unknowable
curves that branch
into future.
Whoever said
anticipation was half
the pleasure, was totally
misguided. Blind-sided
by map of imagination,
hit and run down,
never seeing
that reality
also moves on four wheels
and owns a much
larger engine.
Elizabeth Crawford 7/21/09
Remember the first time
I realized I might never again
feel the weight of a man
resting against me. Loss,
sharp and heavy rising
from belly to chest, expanding
until ribs might crack.
On occasion, that thought
still surfaces, swims to shore
leaving light footprints
on sandy beach as they move
inland, where
a hawk drops from her perch
and earth reaches to swallow.
She unfolds her wings,
unwinds the wind, becomes one
with air that surrounds her.
Slow rhythmic circles of lazy
pleasure celebrate fact
that she can:
Fly alone.
Solitary.
Singular.
Hawk would laugh at absurdity
of words I used to fear,
until she appeared to imprint
her pattern across my years.
She is, I am.
“This,” she would tell me,
“is all that matters.”
*Originally published in Splitting Darkness: Poems by Elizabeth Crawford
from depth,
very near center
of being,
comes calm
clear voice
of reason.
Weaving tale,
knit from bits
and pieces
of worn old story.
Suddenly
made different
by slight of hand
skew,
now offering
bright new
meaning.
Elizabeth Crawford 6/17/09
The last time I was here, I offered the reader a Mandala instead of a poem, and hints about the source of its creation. Also wrote how a Mandala is another kind, or type of poetry, an idea that brought me deep pleasure. At the end of the post, I said that there was little chance of coming up with a poem that would contain all of that.
Today, I came here, intending to offer a poem written two years ago, at about this same time period. Instead, read the last post and began to hear the words of the poem I had stated couldn’t be written. I love synchronicity, especially the kind that moves within the creative process. Was also reminded of that old piece of advice that things happen when they are supposed to happen: You don’t need the ticket until you get on the train.
This is the Mandala and the poem. Again, the design was created by Marc Bove and his site can be found by clicking on any of the images within my Mandala Gallery.
Blue Nowhere
Blue Nowhere
Deep into blue
of knowing, I
am no longer home
to anyone
who might crassly
interrupt.
Colors create
own web of meaning,
wheels within wheels
making truer definitions
of moments both
past and present.
Like soft flannel shirt
flung across shoulders,
pattern of light
sheds warmth
of understanding,
tickles pleasured places
of mind, where widsom
waits its time
to be found
in ever deepening
shadows.
Elizabeth Crawford 6/8/09
