Here is some of the poetry I have been working on for my advanced poetry class with Daniel Mark Epstein.
A Ritual for Mabon
Adorned in russet hues, smelling of
sage, ancient myrrh and jasmine,
she begins the ritual guided by
season’s close.
Trailing fingers over Nature’s gifts
she’s awed by all that surrounds—
The rowanberries packed into rows
belly change.
Carrying a single waxy flame
she sprinkles baby’s breath through
her footsteps, bare feet sinking into
autumnal mud.
Hands work the earth, uncovering life.
Precious herbs and vines tangle
into wreaths for sisters long buried,
Not forgotten.
Her coven waits, arms open for her
approach, chanting and fanning
aromatic smoke on the fields lit
by day’s last glow.
Her face shines like the wheat.
The crisp beeps of a cashpoint
beneath my window, jar
static dreams into wakefulness.
My sheets rumple at feet too
tired to face the waiting floor,
that’s no doubt cold and rough.
“Please enter your secret number”
in Queen’s English eases
the sun’s bright morning glare.
Abruptly I’m back on long-loved
Bloomsbury streets, watching
the women was they walk to work.
Their feet shuffle across land
that once held Dickens’ footprints,
not realizing their luck.
So purposeful are the women’s strides,
their briefcases in hand, that it
seems almost a pity to disturb
Their day with my staring. Slowly
the suited backs recede into the
tangle of bodies—a rush around
the Russell Square tube. I’m left
staring at an empty space where—
A bus passes, tourists leaning
From the upper deck, eager to see
a writer’s residence. They do not know
how much more they would see
from the ground.
The Library Awakens.
The shiny disks nestled in
plastic beds sleep soundly,
forming perfect rows.
They wake slowly as drawers are pulled apart
with a great metal rumble and they
rattle their thin edges in a stretch.
Exposed to the light their spines
blend softly into each other,
concealingblacklettering.
A hand descends and pulls
a single disk away—
It’s play time.
