Drive Home

Drive Home


Today, I was driving home to you
Today, evening commute on the highway
Winter’s sun already darkening a sunset
a deepening rose over our town
I was driving home to you

Leaning Tree by CC Willow

As I did two years ago,
I was already anticipating our conversation,
How I would tell you of my day,
Of the morning staff meeting and Deb’s leaving
And the afternoon’ doctor appointment
And how I hate change
And of how my car needs a brake job
& your car needs its winter tires.
I knew the words you would say
As you finished the last preparations of dinner.
You said them two years ago
Or something similar.
I could smell you in the new van.
My hand felt how yours would curve
Around it, your thumb a brush across the palm.
And then, two miles out of Keizer, I remembered.

Two years ago, I came home to you.
But not since.


Ariel
Nov 26, 2012

After Your Death

Solitude is cruel;

A lone tree, when the wind blows,

desires the forest.

Ariel

Jan 8, 2012

Zoe's concert

I’m sitting where I was

Suppose to sit last year.

Ariel

Dec 2, 2011

Anniversary

I’m not sure I have learned my lessons;

the ache has not lessened but expanded.

Your absence takes up so much room -

A year – you are not camping.

I know- I remember that whispering hospital;

urging you back, and at times you did.

But you couldn’t stay. And so I lied to you.

            I said I would be okay.

Promised. You could go.

And I’m not. Even now

I feel like one on life support.

“Just get through the day. Just get through”

but at night the sound of you doesn’t breathe

And I lay there, waiting for them to start again.

Pretend you’re just gone camping.

The money is gone; I have not learned to budget.

Food is often take-out; still do not have the habit of cooking.

My phone reminds me to put out the trash can,

Pay the bills, buy groceries. I cling to it.

And at night – I have not learned to sleep

Without the breath of your sound.

Ariel

Nov 30, 2011

The Surviving Spouse

Dead brown cracked leather -weathered

stiff - layers of drying mud on soles.

Laces frayed, my hands still grasp them -

draw them around hooks, pull them tight

as they envelop aching feet; our day

is not done.  The sunrise dies and I

lower myself into the dank crawl space

searching out the burst rusted pipe;

the corrupted water softening the leather

but its chill and moistened rot permeates,

ensuring I will never lose its rank entropy

Ariel

Nov 4, 2011

House Equals Home

“People with no hope are easy to control”

The walls have survived your passing.

They still surround; the doors still open.

The wood has absorbed your breaths

and daily exhale it into still air.

The floor still presses against your footsteps;

the curtains attempt to shield you yet from the sun.

Your last book still waits for your fingers;

the imprints still show you sitting in your chair

To a house, time does not exist;

we always exist there, our movements

fixed in it’s memories as a constant now.

Every inch filled, sealed with existing.

Don’t ask it to forget, don’t ask it to be aware

if I’m to survive your passing.

Let us exist every moment of our life as if in a loop

and daily exhale it into still air.

Ariel

Nov 3, 2011

Forming Again

Running errands,

They are forming again.

The air

            Humid

            Cold

You can get lost in this

            This ache

Ariel

Oct 8, 2011

October's Blackberrires

There’s nothing I can do for crying eyes
spent & dry as october’s blackberries;
Husband, didn’t you live for me?
MyLord, rascal , scoundrel, spade;
didn’t it all turned out in the end richtig?
Happiness happens sometimes, doesn’t it?

Happiness happens sometimes, doesn’t it?
Even, in those years of crying eyes,
when nothing solid between us could be richtig;
those Marches we cut back too hard on the blackberries
hacking away at them with hedge clippers and spades -
Husband, didn’t you live for me?

Husband, didn’t you live for me;
Happiness happens sometimes, doesn’t it?
Though sometimes it’s a dull edge of a spade
Still, you again started wiping my crying eyes,
Rubbed my bruises dark as blackberries,
Said, without me, the world would not be richtig.

I wait for life to speed up, become normal, become richtig;
oh, My Husband, didn’t you live for me?
It’s like holding breath waiting for ripening blackberries;
Remind me - happiness happens sometimes, doesn’t it?
I rub my drying, no-longer-crying, eyes;
longing and loneliness rains down in spades

The long file bites the metal flat of hoes and spades;
The ritual sharpening will make them work richtig,
The silver slivers will fall out of my crying eyes.
Still … Husband, didn’t you live for me?
Happiness happens sometimes, doesn’t it?
In the evening I gather the sun-warmed blackberries.

I walk past the over-ripe blackberries,
Put away the sleeping hoes & spades;
Happiness happens sometimes, doesn’t it?
Insulate the house tight and richtig;
(Husband, didn’t you live for me?)
how do I stop the crying eyes?

Crying eyes, spent & dry as october’s blackberries;
Husband, didn’t you live for me? Your leaving cut like a spade;
Nothing is alles richtig.  Happiness happens sometimes, doesn’t it?

Ariel
April 9, 2011

The Day Your Cat Died

Tomorrow another September begins
the leaves will begin to flame,
but there will never
be another like this.
I’ve been sifting
through the ashes,
forgetting I still burn,
still char,
still disintegrate;
my heart blackened on the edges
but the center burns white.

The days begin to shorten and
the nights turn chill;
what can I say
about September
that hasn’t been said
before?<

But this time will
be the first September;
not fresh
but accepting,
not new but a
different shade
a different temperature –
a flame you could hold
your hand above.

We began
the countdown in August.
Three weeks ago
I packed your jackets.
Two weeks
your shirts.
One – your pants pulled
off the hanger and folded.

Now I send you your cat, she’s missed you.
She’s turned cold.

My August
is a strange amalgam;
part only me,
part still “us”.
When I’m alone
I toss & turn in the ashes
‘til I fade with dawn’s ember;
during the days, I scatter myself,
at times remembering
I scattered you in June.

This was supposed to be a love poem.

Tomorrow September begins;
my year burning towards this
multi-hued
Fall.
Fade.

December comes.


Ariel
Aug 31, 2011

Salem, Oregon

Because I am not sleepy,

            I have the skin of a quince

that has spent its life wrinkled;

            inside the quince

I am drawn in. I cannot tell when

            a finger reaches in

and scratches the atoms

            of the chest, sometimes

a tattoo will bring the knee

into my strap

or the yellow scabs falling

            on the dirty floor are stars.

Beginning to itch each other

            out of their drifting cloak,

all the clocks I have known

have been chambered by the fog

and the locks crossing the docks

at night.

Ariel

April 10, 2011

Trees on Memaloose Road
CC Willow

based on Jacksonville, Vermont by Jason Shinder

Those Damned Danish Red Shoes

"In the  afternoon the old lady heard from everybody that Karen had worn red shoes. She said that it was a shocking thing to do, that it was very improper, and that Karen was always to go to church in future in black shoes, even if they were old". ~ Hans Christian Anderson, The Red Shoes

Now that I am a widow,

bring me those Danish Red Shoes

that I, in my dulled grief, may dance

and, be-spelled, remember the pull of life.

I don’t want my feet to ever stop

their desperate desire

their frantic life-prolonging steps;

I want to dance fairy-like through fields and meadows,

Through dreary rain or day’s hot sun, night and day,

I want to dance through the brambles and briars

that tear at my limbs.

Bring me no angels;

bring me those Danish Red Shoes.

For I am afraid in my everyday black shoes

that I have already stopped moving,

stopped thinking,

stopped dreaming,

stopped caring,

stopped being vain and hopeful.

For you see, ’tho my mind is drooping with mourning

my heart continues to dance.

To love, it has not died.

But with my feet stilled, it has been silenced

            and it grows cold and mortal

and my hands want to curve around warm flesh

            without feeling guilty.

I want to dance fey through streets & buildings,

Through dreary rain or day’s hot sun, night and day,

I want to dance, though the vines and thorns

tear at my limbs.

Bring me no angels to save my life;

Bring me those damned Danish Red Shoes.

Ariel

June 4, 2011

On the Other Hand

On her right hand

            Five circlets of silver

Claimed her fingers

            Celtic weavings clasped

Saucy amethyst, healing the soul

            And catching the eye

Soothing gleaming moonstone

            To reveal what was to reveal

Tiny green citrine

            To overcome the sadness

Worked weavings of protections, faith

            Or frivolous pieces purchased on whim.

On her left hand

            Only four worked bands

Thumb & fingers; silver of course

            more defenses against the pain.

Blue aventurine, more amethyst

            More aid – as if they could relieve.

As if they could distract from the pale skin

            Left on her barren third finger.

Ariel

May 5 2011

To My Step-Daughter

You let too much water flow under the bridge;
The water keeps rising, your indifference is washing it away.
You think I will be there later to help, like some kicked puppy
You have always assumed wrong, thinking if I had shown no teeth
I had none. I am willing to let you flow away, your head bobbing
in the demanding current. You are an adult now – if you insist
on refusing my hand, it’s up to you to swim or drown. You see,
your father had thought he built a strong enough bridge, one
that could withstand your eroding dismissal. The only thing
he left for you to inherit was me. It was up to only you
to disinherit. In the flood of grief, I admit my heart has never been
yours; you’re too rough with hearts given you, but my hand was.
And you left it red and bloodied. Swim or drown.
How could I love you?


Ariel
April 28, 2011

Losing

I’ve never felt so many layers of pain;
my chest is left dried out, shell heavy clay

I’m too heavy to move, too heav to care
Too buried in the weight of these clay days.

Buried in heavy voices, cries given
Clamorous tones as they dig through the haze

I’ve been here before, though not buried so deep

Ariel

April 28, 2011

Missing Time

Brief I close my eyes;
Who will open them again?
Where? Where did you go?

Ariel
April 22, 2011

Brief Cry

Bent over in defeat
back hunched over, abandoned,
brown sweater elbows planted on keyboard tray
to cradle face, buried in diminished hands
a quick thought, reminder of my beloved.
a brief silent cry.


Ariel
April 20, 2011

Plum In April

Plum
mourning –
deep plum mourns –
plum covers our bed;
I am draped in plum, my husband,
some think me bold plum, saucy plum, inappropriate;
you would have seen lilac darken
plum as they age, drop,
dying plum.
I plum.
Mourn.


Ariel
April 18, 2011

Questioning Purpose

Lord
I don’t
know what You
want from me; how can
You expect me to fly with my
body so weak? So Preoccupied? So limiting?
just standing & walking most times
take all my effort,
all my will.
And yet …
Lord,
Perhaps
You don’t expect me
To fly. You did not give me wings.
You gave me two legs & a sense of rightness when I
Stand. Perhaps all you want for me
Is to walk, not run.
Just one foot,
Another.
Walk.

Ariel
April 18, 2011

How I Carry You

At grief support, they gave me

a piece of petrified stone,

polished, to comfort me;

I wrote “adventure” on it, for that is how

I want to remember you –

or so I said.

But that stone speaks so much more to me;

when we would creek-walk

you would pick up stones, wet so they looked polished,

all their colors revealed,

mused as to their stories and how it ended up there.

wood, rock. water.

A palm size fragment

shaped by nature.

This stone tells your story

though it never cradled in your hand;

it started as wood, malleable,

the sapling grew, a child of the earth

lived in forests – as you did when you ran

breathing scents of douglas fir.

It was a companion of deer, of elk, of bear.

And when pressure came to bear down on it,

it became more stable, more solid

changing its substance but not its body

Its grain is still there

but it will not give way.

Then polished, all it’s color, its grain revealed

 as if just picked up from the water.

Wood. Stone. Water:

transient into something almost eternal

that would endure.

I imagine that it is a fragment of you

nestled in my palm;

That is how I remember you.

Ariel

April 5, 2011

emet

Every day I die

lose my soul as my body decays

back to cosmic dust

Every day I lose myself still further among entropy;

and death is not a peaceful act

no relaxation, no lessening of cares.

My body heaves, hunkers, shudders -

a whirl storm of ground matter & mud

and then I must re-gather,

find the core of me disintegrated

among the molecular debris.

It was not always a solo act, I forgot that -

how you would take my chilled body into your arms,

fed me warmth back into my muscles,

engraved the glyphs on my forehead -

Children. Home. Love. Work.

Invoked my names,

whispered to me all the pestilence

that would befall my continued death;

leaving me no choice but to choose again

to live. A conscious act of will -

to rein my traitorous body back under control:

it is not always a solo act. I forgot that.

Today, as I lay dying,

I looked for you,

that North Star of what is solid;

this was not meant to be a solo act

nor one I wanted to define myself with every day -

wondering what version of me will be birthed today,

what transformation this time, what will split off,

diminished by what memory,

what knowledge will be left behind

in the debris.

This can’t be a solo act;

pulling back the dead like a golem.

I needed you to write

the glyphs on my forehead;

Children. Home. Love. Work.

I need someone to write the glyphs,

to call me by my names and pull me back -

cohesive, layer by layer, as Ariel sorts.

(It is not a spinning of the wheel;

it is reweaving the tears in the cloth,

it is burning - then rising from the ashes, the mud,

it is a passing of the torch.)

This can’t be a solo act.

Ariel

April 2, 2011

* In some tales, a golem is inscribed with Hebrew words that keep it animated. The word emet (אמת, "truth" in the Hebrew language) written on a golem's forehead is one such example. The golem could then be deactivated by removing the aleph (א) in emet, thus changing the inscription from 'truth' to 'death' (met מת, "dead").

What Got You Here

It was the backstage flirting that led to this point,

trying to angle a weekend date

with the brown-haired minor character;

the rules of which dictated

a playful aside to Wild Bill

A flirt that led to a Friday night

that led to a week and a month

and a summer and housekeys

that led to a December night

twenty years later

watching your curtain.*

Ariel

April 1, 2011

*  "Annie, Get Your Gun", Chemeketa Theater Spring 1991

Prayer Shawl

Worn carpet, smelling of

body sweat & animals,

bright red shawl – soft soft yarn –

draped over bowed head;

this is a ritual since December

Feet on carpet. Knees on raised stair.

Low tune from the heater as warm

current brushes thigh, back;

keeps cold from distracting.

Forehead resting on mattress,

palms clasp.

I do not pray for my sins;

            that would be dishonest.

I do not pray for your sins;

that would be arrogant.

I pray for the courage of another day

            and the company of angels.

Ariel

April 1, 2011

Birches at Blowout Creek
CC Willow

Better Off Divorced?

We would have been better off divorced,

we would have stayed friends.

Then there would be that chance each day

of meeting you in the grocery store, at the Café.

We would pause and get caught up on each other's day

like we used to do when you would pick me up for lunch -

discuss our sons, the grandchildren,

make plans for the next school holiday with them,

you naturally taking the whole day off, me carving out time to join.

You would describe your itinerary for spring break –

where the girls’ would insist on camping,

where Ronan would be able to run.

We would discuss what equipment you need

and whether it was in the attic or at your place still

(the camping equipment naturally considered community property still

and we would swap it back and forth).

I would need to call you to get the canoe on top of the van

for you know I’m too short and the aluminum too unwieldy.

Weekends you would let me know of an upcoming game, any rainy day movie,

any event requiring a Nana in attendance.

And on theater day, we would meet at your daughter’s house,

divvying up the kids; you taking the toddler for a rough & tumble Guys Day

while the girls and I went to see this month’s play.

You would meet us for ice cream after.

We would have taken my van in October to Setniker’s Farm,

for it fits the car seats, the stroller and any pumpkins they choose

and the cookie crumbs brush out.

Our oldest probably would have moved in with you,

sharing whatever tiny apartment you felt suited your practical needs –

or you would have moved in with him.

Our youngest, still in college, would have stayed home with me;

I would have insisted. You know I don’t like an empty house.

We would have traveled to auditions and rehearsals together

for you dislike wasting money & gas.

You would have dropped the old dog off with me when you head to the forest.

Watch the house for me when I’m out of town;

you and the two boys batching it –

playing chess, moving furniture out of the way when you wrestle

as if you still live here.

If the pipes burst, you would have come over –

grousing and complaining – but showing up and with your tools.

Insist on teaching me how to repair a pipe

for the eventuality of when you’re not there.

Like now.

I would have been happier as an ex-wife

than I am as a widow.

Ariel

March 3, 2011

Who Will Not Be Home

I can’t wake from the nightmare you are dead.

I dream of you

smelling the forest on your skin,

have conversations we never had,

like last night’s conversation on the history of our valley;

who owned the land before,

what they farmed,

your Washingtonian twang posing questions

as you do when your country mind ponders and dreams,

holding my hand as you drove

your thumb brushing against my palm.

It was Halloween, the smell of fallen leaves and wood smoke

combined in the car with your immediate scent,

strong like it has been every year.

We talked about who will stay and who will not be home,

who will open the door.

You pulled into our driveway in the afternoon light

and then asked our son to park the car.

Now it morning and I wake still to winter’s chill,

an empty bed,

fall still eight months away;

your absence from my dream a sharp pressure,

my lungs emptied of you.

I throw my arm over my eyes

trying to will myself back into the dream

but I already know the futility of it;

there is no more conversations with you

You now exist only in pictures, in poems

and dreams.

And I must live within this nightmare.

Ariel

February 26, 2011

Lower Creek Camp
CC Willow

Winter's Horizon

We’re driving down the road

          we wandered with you

simply because we wandered it

          with you;

          the weather no deterrent.

When the road detoured uphill

we followed, as you had,

past waterfalls, full with winters runoff

walked into forests now winnowed with snow;

we can still discern your footsteps

          where you pulled over

          where we held hands

          where you looked into the horizon

          where we talked of the coming year.

We didn’t know then

          the window was closing;.

Who could have shut out

          the chill of death?

Ariel

December 22, 2010

Waiting Room II

I am walking through the land of dim lights

through the sparten halls of muffled noises;

walking away from your room -

that room -

that we are both living in

the smell of body sweat and distillation

we are both living in this waiting room.

                                      

Me - wondering What? When? How

will I know?

I - not knowing if

you wonder

and if so - what?

It distills down to not knowing

as I hold your hand

waiting on the choice I think you would want

and knowing

you will have to live

or die

with it. Muffled fears kept dim

close in, holding my heart in

this waiting room, this holding pattern.

Who do I trust

when I don't trust myself.

You held that trust

held it in your capable hands

those hands that held my baby’s

held your grandbabies.

You trusted me with this decision.

I'm feeling time leach away

draining, as I impotently move your muscles

as I impotently watch

your eyes, searching in the dim lights -

hot and feverish cool & quiet like now.

as I impotently wish my face will hold your eyes.

As I impotently wait for a sign

I can hold as progress

It is the added significance of December

that has me doubting

that sends me walking away

the waiting that slips time away from us

holding your hands

when I want to hold time still

repair it

repair you,

as I impotently watch you not holding,

you not waiting,

you slipping away.

Ariel

December 11, 2010

Pumping

Watching your heart on the monitor,

how it pushes the dark fluid

stretches its walls out and down

like a tidal pool among slender rib rocks.

The blood, dark & translucent fluid,

pouring, flowing into its first chamber

rolls along the top extension roof

reaches out and somersaults down

and under, seeking entry into the next.

Like smoke in the glass - swirls & eddies.

I find my heart taking on that same pattern;

Pumping. Flow, Roll under. Pumping. Flow. Roll under.

It's comforting, a strong heartbeat, decisive push

watch it over & over like a tide coming in.

I can almost hear its drum-thrumm,

feel it's waves under my palm, flesh warm.

Then the image shifts - End Of Roll -

and remember. This is just a recording.

Machines around you, playing soft dings and alarms,

none watching, matching the rhythm I just watched.

Ariel

Dec 9, 2010

Behind Closed Eyes

Behind closed eyes he sleeps

His arms, that climbed mountains, lax.

Victim to a modern betrayer -

Himself - he failed to reach his potion in time

And I, his queen, waits - no Lovers Kiss does waken

No Lovers Kiss brings rose to his cheeks

Nor breaks the spell of his sleeping.

Behind closed eyes he sleeps

He is now cast as my Sleeping Beauty,

My Prince and my Beast.

Yet there is no modern Repunz,

Antibiotic can only ward off the infection

Not bring him back and wake the castle.

Morphine can only dull the pain

Not defeat the dragon.

And as much as I shake him there is no

Poison apple stuck in his throat.

Behind closed eyes he sleeps

I call out his name as though through a mirror

"MyLord, wake up" varying  its tone & inflection

Like some sorcerers apprentice - "MyLord,

Open your eyes" Our kingdom is rapidly failing

And Fairies do not exists in your world.

Alas, I have not devised a happy ending for my Prince.

And so he lays sleeping, a machine breathing

Reality into his lungs, Needles

Thinner than Rumplestiltskin's gold

Conjure up food and water through his hands.

His chamber: an ice cave to battle fever's fire.

And I, his Queen, watch impotently

Unable to wake him with a Lover's Kiss

As he slowly loses the battle

Behind closed eyes.

Ariel

Dec 9, 2010

The last theater production, Arrin was involved in was " So Snow White" and his grandaughter's were in the play. So fairy tales were often the theme at home that year.  While he was in a coma, a DVD of the play was played often as an attempt that the girls' voices would keep his spirits up.

During MRI

While the words have started flowing again

they are not comforting words

They slither on the parameter of my thoughts.

They suspect platitudes,

question best guesses.

Demand facts that are elusive at best.

They are wrapping around my heart;

thin layers of slender insectoid silk, building layers,

muffling and slowing the beat.

Sixth day and more was expected.

I want his voice,

            even raised in anger.

I want his fists

            to clench and raise.

I want him

            to rip away the tubes.

I want to feel

            this is not

                        an empty wish.

I want to look at inhabited eyes.

Ariel

Dec 9, 2010

E R

Could not let you go.

Please forgive me, as you lay,

me begging you"Wake!"

 

Ariel

Dec 4, 2010

The Day After Your Death

The day you died

The world slowed down.

The day you died

Objects lost their familiar substance;

Colors dulled, deprived of your presence.

The sun shone longer and

The day took longer to end.

Flowers curled up in their grief

And God ceased being our savior and withdrew.

The day you died

Sunset was without its glory.

The day after your death

The sunrise had no comforting preamble.

The birds forgot how to sing;

They sat on the ground, steadily pulling out feathers.

The day after your death

Winds died, leaving the earth stagnant

No clouds formed to shelter from the sun;

Crops withered and died with no seed.

Workers walked off their jobs;

Cities were abandoned and left to decay,

Newspaper blew away like dried-out leaves.

The day after your death

Books stopped telling their stories.

A week after your death

The moon stopped pulling on the seas;

The waves silenced and were no more.

The water became as quiet as a discarded tomb.

All the dolphins sat listless on the surface;

There were no fish to interest them.

The whales stopped their migrations and love songs,

Sank to where their eyes no longer needed to open.

Rock stopped being ground down.

A week after your death

The ice increased its fall.

A year after your death

The swollen sun pulled our planet into its skin;

Dust-filled wastelands burning away in yellow flames.

Cities, no more than crumbled downs, steamed and dissolved.

Sol, with no stabilizing force, then slips

Drawn to its neighbor and scatters gravity fields.

The cataclysm spread throughout the sky;

Red giants swallowing new nebulae.

A year after your death.

Verifying that which you suspected –

Everything really did revolve around you.

Ariel

Aug 12, 2010

I wrote this a few months earlier. Don't you hate fore-shadowing in life?

Happened on Fifth Floor

I've been dropping everything

            spilling everything

since admittance

so fustrated even my fingers won't work

            feet refuse to cooperate.

doesn't matter how stern my will or thought -

"don't do that" results in my "doing that"

I saw it happening before it happened

my dinner brought to me like a precious gift

mongolian stirfry, a mish-mash of meat, brocoli, carrots

slippery noodles

sesame oil

thin sterofoam box holding the reserve

on top I sat a small plate,

this night's portion I had heated,

I saw it happening, the small box slowly slipping

away & down out of my hand,

reached up for the soccor-mom-save

            and then my foot

drugged the carpet, echoed the pull of gravity on the box

pitching me forward (slow mo for the viewing

pleasure of those waiting) the small plate

flipping over and landing on top of

the warm noodles, elegantly flipping open the box

like a skydiver's parachute so it landed empty

the stirfry now surrounded me

and I, hungry and surrendered, could only look

at the food I must now throw away,

I saw it happening, watched the stain

of sesame oil leak onto the carpet,

saw that nothing was salvageble.

I picked up the traitorous box

used my fingers as a rake and scooped up

the man'age of meat, too embarrased to lift

my head - a Wife who could not be trusted with food -

even children made less mess. I saw it happening

before it happened. my hands, no longer

needing to be active in the joke

perfunctedly performed their chore as I knelt

with lowered head. this was the first food for many hours -

too afraid to miss the Doctors' evaluation before.

I saw it happening before it happened

and failed to stop it. and now

I would go hungry, an unforeseen

punishment. accepted it even

as my mind railed "unfair!"

straightened myself up

with my staining burden

to find a Daughter,

her hand holding a few dollars

"here", she said, "I heard.

let me buy you dinner"

how did that happen?

Ariel

Dec 9, 2010