Issue #20 Palette, Poetry & Prose: My Creative Process

Hints of Spring: poetry-sketches

Hello my friends!

Is it already spring where you live, or is winter finally showing signs of flagging, like it is here in the northeast? I am so excited for the warmer weather and longer days!!

In honor of Mother Nature's awe inspiring transformation, I thought I'd share a few recent poems. Some of them are about nature, often mixed with personal remembrances and experiences, and though I'm editing them a little bit more, I still consider them sketches, because they truly are a quick (10-15 min) encapsulation of whatever I'm thinking about each morning. I never write at any other time of day, and I always write before reading emails, the news, or anything else-- they're short(ish) and straight from my heart at that vulnerable time of day.

As always, I welcome your feedback! I hope something in here resonates with you, or makes you smile, or at the very least is an entertaining break from your day! ❤️~ Lise

Hints of Spring

Suddenly, overnight, the days are noticeably longer.

The blue dawn sneaks in through my bedroom window;

instead of the icy, whistling wind, I hear bird calls

in the quiet woods, and the snow yields more softly

underfoot. I realize again that nothing lasts forever.

Not even the darkest sadness, nor the most radiant

and breathtaking sunrise, not the gentle exhale

of my puppy as he slips gracefully into sleep.

My morning routine is the same: tossing

in the darkness until I can no longer tolerate

the pain. Dressing, morning meds, walking my

fuzzy friend as the morning sunrise paints the sky,

and elevates my mood. Freshly brewed coffee,

and scribbled notes on the upcoming day:

my good intentions before I can disappoint

my relentless ego.

And yet all feels different, less burdensome, despite

my fatigue and my aching body that longs for more rest.

The first hints of spring bring forth an optimism,

like a breeze bearing the scent of earth to a

landscape insulated by snow, and my shoulders

drop with relief. Finally, it’s coming.

The crest is behind us.

Snow Moon

I wake up to a landscape of glistening blue snow

out my bedroom window, and a blinding full moon

casting moonlight over the world, bathing it in mystery.

I lie here wondering, will I ever feel safe again?

Following my breath, I try to ignore the stinging in my

limbs, the desperate desire to move my body.

I hear the mechanical breathing of the house,

a soft humming, comforting, lulling my lolling mind

slowly towards the nonsense of pre-sleep...

until in the midst of swirling incoherent thoughts,

I realize I’m sitting in meditation.

Once outside in the frigid dark air, I notice the trees:

their trunks so erect, with their delicate black web

of spindly branches, sometimes touching each other,

and silently intertwining, framing the big snow moon.

I learned yesterday their bark can be sunburned

in winter, turning an unnatural pink-- nature’s complement

of their natural, mossy brownish green.

Then a slip of my boot on the ice causes me to remember:

I’m still alive, and there is still a whole world outside,

many realms, perhaps some invisible to my naïve eyes,

and this mystery, this possibility is what I grasp onto

in the dark of morning, propelling me forward,

marching into the battlefield— or the embrace— of a new day.

Snuggle Time

I wait all day long for these minutes, anticipating

the delicious half hour when he is too tired to play,

too full to beg, and too content to do anything

but sleep with his furry face buried in my lap.

And I relish it: feeling the warmth of his head,

stroking the softness of his puppy hair,

his comically huge, floppy ears that cover his eyes.

I feel his soft exhales on my leg through

his wet black nose, too big for his muzzle, which

makes him even more adorable, irresistible.

It’s a time I can never rely on, but when it happens,

I feel so grateful for life, for this world I inhabit for a blink

of an eye…. gratitude for this precious little creature

who lives side by side with me, every day,

depending on me, devoted to me, loving me unconditionally.

I could not love him more, and yet – I do.

Each minute, my love growing and flowing through

my veins, as real and sustaining and vital as blood.

Contemplations of the Human Life Span; or, The Catastrophizing of an Inflamed Brain

When I contemplate the human life span

my stomach turns with nausea for

I am but one drop of water in a wide, dark lake;

one soft puff of air in the giant atmosphere;

one small star in an infinite galaxy, so vast my

mind gropes blindly, unable to grasp its scale.

Yesterday in a split second my hand was trapped

in a metal vice, a simple accident of assemblage,

(I never read the manuals), and there I was,

wondering how to save my two fingers from being

crushed, trapped and tethered by my own doing.

I survived this, of course, (I’m typing after all)

but it could’ve been a more dire situation,

and as I’m driving to the transfer station, I’m also

simultaneously envisioning multiple gruesome

versions of my own unwelcome death:

I fall off the foot stool, crack my skull on concrete

and lay there until the swelling in my brain

mercifully lulls me into unconsciousness;

or I’m struck by a sudden heart attack,

while cooking my dinner, and my last memories

pass in front of my eyes while the green beans

burn on the stove, igniting a fire which burns the house,

and with this unpleasant thought, I say a silent prayer

(as I turn into the gate), that someone—

maybe a neighbor?—

will notice the smoke quickly and save my puppy.

And as I’m searching for a parking spot,

the stench of rotting trash filling my nostrils,

I see my middle son, unhappily burdened with

the misfortune of discovering my decomposing body

following a massive stroke, and my puppy

has soiled the new salmon colored rug,

unable to reach the great outdoor bathroom,

and oh my god, now my son is traumatized for life.

And that, I note, as I labor to throw my ridiculously

heavy bags of trash in the putrid metal container,

is the tragedy I hope most to avoid.

Please, please don’t let it be my children.

Even in my death, I want to protect them, and

ironically, the thought train of death and discovery

actually becomes the salve that soothes

my nausea, my apprehension about dying as I visualize

the beautiful, unique faces of each of my kids,

and I’m aware that my profound gratitude for them

eclipses my greatest fear of all, and is also

the only reason for my existence on this earth.

​www.liselemeland.com​