Saint-Louis-en-l'Île

I trace her streets
in strides of thoughtful musings –
and in them
haunt the hushed and quiet cross streets
that bounce the sounds of
high heeled steps
from one high window
to the next
to be lost in the geraniums
drifting down
from window sills.


The Rue Saint Louis en l’Île -
splitting the island
into two irresistible halves -
spills over with
the glimmer of pastries and cheeses
behind polished windows,
the smell of warm chocolate from a spice seller,
marionettes dangling in laughing poses,
shop fronts with dim treasures within,
sounds echoing
and then muffled as corners are turned,
denim passing Chanel,
tourists wielding cameras
as ancient family patriarchs
disappear
behind carved oaken doors.

A church with jewel box grandeur within
cloaked in grim, grey stone -
active even in repose -
gazing down
in a maternal benevolence
onto an ice cream café
filled with laughing strangers
and redolent of cups of café crème.


Beneath tall silent houses
reflecting onto the Seine’s rippling surface
and tree limbs bending over stone quais,
fishermen huddle with rods extended
turning a blind eye to
the sunbather nearby...
tearing a baguette
to eat with cheese, figs and
a slice of crisp buttery chocolate…


The undertow that pulls
me back…


the timeworn pavements that call…
the undeniable, unrelenting grasp
that filled my senses to the brim
as I walked her sidewalks
and breathed her exhaled breezes
still beckons me…


Her stones took seed within me -
flowering in such a way
that no vases are enough
to contain the blossoms
of each smell,
each sight,
each taste remembered.


Wonderful - the Eiffel Tower views.
Graceful with magnificent ease - the curling stairs of Notre Dame
with gargoyles leaning at elbow
and clouds brushing angels wings….


But my thoughts linger
along the Quai d’Orléans
and letting them drift back

my heart rests.

Written 6-28-10

The Price Of Love

I see them

as they pass by me on the street,

smile over a church aisle,

wave from captured photos…

every day…

young,

vulnerable,

and longing to be mature…

to be protected… held close…

cherished and chosen…

desiring freedom….longing to be released,

liberated,

without restraint.

To soar beyond exacting, unbending barriers

yet rest surrounded by solicitude and tender worry…

We all struggle and itch

to shed the snug binding skin

that enwraps us from birth.

We wrestle with the emerging wings

that endeavor to break

free.

Then there comes that day

when we become aware

that we are walking down

a silent pathway -

that we clutch our arms close

to our panting breasts

and ache for the arms that will enfold us…

To find the touch and embrace

that will keep us

and tether our feet

groundward –

To locate the eyes that

will tender forgiveness –

The heart that beats

for Truth –

is a search that

whispers & beckons

us forward.

And our search

becomes

relevant…

relentless…

real…

The cost

is extravagantly

minimal.

To give ourselves

to the Giver

is - in itself -

without measure

or price

yet costs us

everything.

Everything

that is

us.

Written 6-25-10

irretrievable to all but the heart

moments fall though my fingers

sifting and silky

like sand

soft

almost liquid to the touch

glistening

luminous

particles

blowing & scattering

when the breeze pushes through

falling far from me

lost to time

irretrievable

to all but the heart

there

stamped

on my memory

in colors

and faces

not forgotten

in voices

and words spoken

in fingertips brushing my hand

and laughter like melody

in my mind

Written 11-29-07

On The Street Behind My Office - #3 - The Corner House

We drove up
and it was all new –
my dress, your suit,
our house,
our love.

We laughed at our sheer and perfect luck.

It was neat red brick -
high-gabled,
dormers looking down
onto quiet, rustling tree boughs
and scalloped woodwork
bright with fresh paint.

I walked into the kitchen
and when I looked at the gleaming, bare floor
and walls,
the new white stove
and the round-topped little refrigerator
with it’s shining, frigid shelves –
all I could see
was the table we’d have
and it would be heaped with food,
and the faces around it
would be varying smaller shades
of you
and me.

A week into the house,
you pulled up in that new car.
And I squealed with surprise
and hugged your neck.
We drove around the block
and down the street -
and didn’t come back
until after midnight
and kisses and hamburgers
under the starry skies
at Centennial Park.

I couldn’t decide between
daffodils and tulips for the front walk
and so I planted both.
And the second spring
they made me giddy
with a hundred glancing tints
of red and yellow.

We had 20 perfect winters and falls -
cozy inside,
with you and me
alone.
But it was always
Enough -
and more -
it was plentiful.

But there came a summer
when the blooming stopped.
And you were silent and still.

I stood alone
in the front hall
after the service
and the quiet pounded
on my eardrums.
It clattered across the tree-canopied back yard
and as I locked the gate
behind that mellowed & weathered black car,
I knew that purring old engine
would never feel the touch
of a key again.

They offer me laughable sums now.
But I refuse.
Both for the house
And car now overgrown with vines
and bricked in by lanky trees-of-heaven.
It will never move again.
And neither will I.

I will wait.

Occasionally stepping outside
to let the wind sift through my hair,
now white and thin.
I smell the tulips
and the daffodils.
And they call to me to embrace them.
It’s hard to reach them beside the front walk,
but I am happy
to know they are there
and to smell their presence.

Yes, within this corner house -
I have been -
and am -
happy.
Full and complete.
And I smile
into the sunshine
as it passes over.


Written 10-5-06 about the elderly lady in the house across the street from the back of my office

On The Street Behind My Office - #2 - The Cart Goes Slowly

The cart goes slowly…
Carefully
Before me.
I pick my way among the tree limbs
And past storm-swollen gutters…
Through sunshine
And starlight…
Scattering dry leaves
And then along summer grass-edged sidewalks.

From the concrete cracks stare faces
And I search to recognize
Their eyes
And catch their voices…

But they are silent.

There was a time
In a high-walled Warsaw courtyard
When my barrow brimmed
With wooden toys
Bright with paint.
My grandfather carved them all.
Horses, soldiers and rifles
To fight the Prussians.
We sat together under the elms
And I watched the accurate power
As his hands formed armies.

My cart of goods
Went before me later
Down the new-found sanctuary
Of Parisian boulevards and cobbled backstreets,
My family clustered in a topmost flat
Recounting stories
Of what safety might
Feel like and sound like
And taste like
To our thirsty lips.
My grandfather’s hands
Became mine
And wood blossomed into cabinets,
Chair legs became solid,
Table tops glistening and new.

And I met my Sophie
Walking in the Trocadéro.
Ebony hair and eyes of café noir.
We stood under the canopy
And promised forever.

Then I pushed a laughing little girl
Her curls danced and her lips sang
And I tried not to see
The angry banners
That flew from doorways and flagpoles
And my little girl
On a trip that was closed to me
In a train boxcar
With a hundred small hands holding
Other small hands.

We came to the States
My Sophie and I.
And I pushed her in an invalid chair
Watching the tears
Falling into her still, thin, empty hands
As we walked and we walked.
Too late to start again.
No more laughing lips
And dancing curls.

Now I walk alone.
But I walk every day.
Sun or rain…
No matter.
When my hands find the handle
I discover
That they are all still there
When I walk
With the cart before me.


Written in April of 2005 about an older man and his daily walks along the sidewalk of the street at the back of my office building

On The Street Behind My Office - # 1 - My House

When the sun shines
I feel it,
See it,
Smell it.
On the leaves nearby and the pavement around
Where I live.
When the rains come and the storms that
Fall from Heaven like
Blinding avalanches of sound & sight -
Pelting, heavy raindrops,
Or hail,
Wet and cold,
Or hot with seeping, steaming, sticky fingers –
It pounds the roof
And streaks the windows
And rocks the floor
And trembles my bed…
And I hold on to everything and wonder;
Will this be It?
The End?

People pass my house in the daytime
And I watch and wonder
About their lives.
Students with books and bags and cups of Starbucks.
Women in suits and walking shoes.
Men carrying leather cases along with their guarded faces.
Where do they work?
And how do they live?
What do they do with each day’s
Empty mornings falling to hollow noons
And diving into the fearful tunnel of night?
They see me and I know
That they wonder the same
Of me.
It’s written on their faces
As we regard each other
Through my windows.

But my house is the worst
By night.
Cold – I cannot find enough warmth.
Hot – Afraid to open windows for air.
Rainy – Sometimes it leaks.
The fear cannot be shaken
That unknown, unseen eyes
Observe me, study me, plot against me
As I shudder,
Locked within.
I look around me
And the dark of night
Cloaks my blinking, straining, burning eyes.
Often I wish the streetlights were nearer…
But then remember
That I picked this place
Because of its velvety darkness and quiet shades.

Sleep is elusive – always. Ever.
What hands may unlock and open my house?
What instruments may break a window
And close my consciousness
Forever.
And take the things
I have so carefully saved,
and packed,
and need.

When I lock the doors
And walk somewhere to find something to eat,
I turn a corner and look behind me.

There it is.

But will it be when I return?
What if it is taken? Stolen?
With everything that I have left in this world?

It’s possible.
The theft of my home.
Simple hot-wiring would do it.

And then, what?


Written 2-14-05 about the homeless man living in a car parked on the street at the back of my office building

Where He Is

Caught inside the blessing

I wait to see

how it will unfold.

Cool breeze,

cicadas,

a bird calls

from above,

and I listen

hearing only

His goodness,

the feeling of His

faithful Breath

upon my cheek -

lifting my hair.

"Where is He?"

they demand.

And I puzzle at

their inability

to find Him.

He vibrates

everywhere

and fills the music

of voices

lifting from a

raucous playground.

He is contrasting colors

and shifting light

through

fragrant

leaves.

He is Lord

of the Universe

but stops

to smile at me

from

my husband's

eyes.

Written 9-21-2006 2:35pm on a bench on the Scarritt grounds

The Fray

End of August

hot, dry, torpid

waiting for rain

praying for coolness

to enter on silent

burnt crimson leaves.

I listen to the wind

washing the heavy green leaves

high above –

traffic muted, though near

life teeming just outside

my sights.

I’ll stop and listen

one minute more

& then re-enter

the fray.

August 25, 2006

The Pianist

Notes spilling from hands
Like a fountain
Liquid and light-drenched
Or a stream tumbling over mountain rocks
And crashing into a valley below,
Gathering speed & force
And then slowing to
Melt smoothly
Over valley stones broad and glistening.

The notes come from His hands
And spin through human fingers -
Untangling -
Freeing themselves -
Released into the earth’s air.

The Giver of all good things -
The Creator of beauty -
And dancing lights –
And heavenly sounds -

How grateful we are!

8-1-08

A Collection Of Last Glances

A collection of last glances
formulated for remembrance -
a smile,
a wave,
a laugh,
a gentle face in repose
crowned in salt & pepper softness…

I’ve gathered them over the years,
wondering which would be the last,
the most treasured,
the dearest image left
shimmering on the surface
of my mind.

But there isn’t a last
or a best
or a favorite.

They all stand together -
treasures in a row -
like burnished pearls
strung on cords of memory
or rare leather-bound editions
lined along shelves of finest wood.

I’ll keep them close
to my heart
and pull them out
when I need them.

And it won’t matter
which happened when -
what was first
or last
or years ago –

But that I have been blessed
to be the collector.


8-22-07 - In honor of my sweet mother-in-law