Bookworm Press

Sunday Morning in Santa Monica

(From Path of Fire, 2002)

doors open and close,
then roars on, trailing
a cloud of black smoke.
A young man leans his head
against the window pane.

stuffed with plastic bags, a woman
sits on the park bench
hunched over
her head almost touching her knees.

green lopping hat stops in front of
Callahan’s coffee shop.
He sucks on his cigar
and puffs smoke rings
delicately
toward the sky.

Years ago,
I buried my father’s ashes
in a cemetery near  Zurich.
Today, I bless
my beautiful lonely life. 

Last night, in Wettswil, Switzerland, we had a rainstorm, followed by snow and mixed in with it a huge flash of lightning and thunder. Very odd combination.

Today, the sun is shining and the sparkling snow-covered trees all of a sudden reminded me of a poem I wrote long ago. It was published as part of a poetry volume, Path of Fire, by Finishing Line Press in 2002.

I am in the process of formatting it as an ebook for Kindle.

Winter in Castaneda
(To the memory of my sister)

Climbing the stairs
from the cellar to the room
with the tile floor,
eight months later,
after the pain has softened,
after the ashes have been scattered
on the rock, after driving past the
snowy fields of Saint Gotthard,
we feel your presence
fill the spaces between our bodies.

Not yet understanding the full meaning
of this merging, of your hands
entwined in the leaves of plants,
your scent lingering in the
cedar closet, your smile
in the candle flame,
your voice trailing the crackling
of logs in the fireplace,
a sound so delicate,
we dare not move
as not to disturb it.

With each breath we take
the silent words into our hearts
and choose to believe in the
here and now
of all that was, before you left us

(Path of Fire, 2002)

It’s time for a poem. This one is by ten-year old Miranda, daughter of the brilliant author Scott Nicholson (see my blog entry about The Skull Ring, 3/3/2010). Miranda obviously walks in her father’s footsteps. She is an aspiring writer, poet, and photographer. Anybody who has ever languished during the long winter months and longed for a sign of spring can relate to this beautifully crafted poem. Enjoy!

Negative Snow

By Miranda Owen

Snow is bad.
It makes me mad.
When there’s no school,
It’s not so cool.
Sitting at my mom’s work place,
I’d really rather be in space.
Snow is cold.
The joke gets old.
It falls in your hair.
And everywhere.
Snow makes ice.
Ice brings mice.
In my house.
Traps for the mouse!
Positive I try to be.
But that job’s really not for me!
Snow please give us a break.
There’s not much more that I can take!