And more…

The computer

Computating won’t

Free my heart

From incubating

Thoughts and ruminations

Making me a more or less

Executor to anyone

So less myself

Undone

A poet without poetry

A walker who can’t run

It has begun

The faucet is open

And now the water

Must run

That is how it is with

Poetry written by a

Lover of words

Not for their meaning

Only but for their sound

Completely

Poetry is for this writer

A bridge over troubled

Water

A Pillar Poem

Saturday, March 21, 2009

It drew me to itself

Like a room reserved

The song of surprise

In the spring of simply

Non-winter when the

Weather is cold and

Raw and undecided

In its efforts to allow

The sun a more prominent

Place. The bird, this

Morning bird whose

Ancestors have known

The time and no matter

The feel of spring; there

Is a subtler urgency

That moves beyond this

Human ability to know

Just where the demarcation

Line is --

Not air not flame not sea

Not ground

The lark has returned

And so too the robin’s song

There is nothing grander

No orchestra, no concert hall

Can remand, in this time, us to

Our prison cells of info-tainment

Where distribution of gems that

Court the ego’s restoration may

Calm the nerves of a higher order

Of tantilation. It will not happen

Now that we can be reached

On some soul level except

Maybe the lark and robin

Who hold on to a stronger

Claim of flame and sea and

Ground and air --

Yank my heart of all despair.

Getting Things Right

Dad had died and I had his violin; I decided to take

lessons. One of the bank tellers where I worked

mentioned her aunt was a music teacher. She gave

private piano and violin lessons. Her name was

Margaret Bailey and she lived on Bailey Road just

off the Back Caribou Road where the stretch was

hilly farmland, quiet and crispy cold in the winter

time and sweet and sunny in spring and summer. I

would drive from our place on Main Street in

Presque Isle and take the old road that was curved

and hilly and come to the bottom of a long incline,

which was the crossroad where Bailey cut through

Caribou, turn left and drive about another quarter

mile to the old farm house -- big and white.

Margaret lived there with her sister Maud. I was in

my twenties then, Margaret must have been

pushing sixty, and Maud Thaw was widowed and

surely pushing eighty. She was stooped over with

a dowager's hump and had been a school teacher

for many decades. She was always smiling. Maud

moved much slower than Margaret, who was a spit

fire, full of loud laughter and burning energy. She

had married her music, her flowers and her dog

Fenriese, who barked ferociously every time I

drove into the yard.

Week after week for three years, I went for my

lesson. Margaret and I exchanged muffin recipes,

and Maud would calm Fenriese by petting him and

having him lie down beside her at her feet on the

kitchen floor, while we sat at the table sampling

muffins before the lesson.

Margaret was enthusiastic and positive about my

progress on the violin and never once berated me

for my lack of practicing, but encouraged me time

and again , feeding me new music pieces, enticing

me with "Danny Boy" and "Liebestraume" and

"My Wild Irish Rose." She played piano and I

played my pieces on violin. She would say, "Next

week, we'll play a duet. I'll play violin with you."

We managed to have fun even though I remained

recalcitrant as a musician.

Conditions

Nothing to be done except the saying Yes to

the definitions -- those handed to me and

those I make up for myself.

These defining patterns are the perimeters,

the map, the borders, the box, the area I

navigate, function, live. Some of it is

chosen, some not.

But this is home -- conscious and

unconscious.

These trees are my trees. These streets are

my streets. These people are my people.

The studio apartment in which I bathe and

cook and write and sleep; this man I love --

whom I have chosen and who chose me;

and the something bigger who chose us

both.

In School

The school of life! Perhaps, it's all about

learning the principle of the thing -- the

issue -- the cause.

Term limits, for instance. Sometimes it's

important to vote on principle.

If we want a democracy, and the people

who voted voted against term limits, but

the incumbent still overturned the term

limits so that he could run again in the

election, and he was rich enough to

convince many influential folk to encourage

their constituency to vote for him on the

basis of the good he was able to accomplish

-- and perhaps he is the better candidate, but

the way in which he went about running

again defeats all that I value, then I vote on

principle.

But, I learned that in the school of life and

hanging out with social justice minded

people who were against war because

human beings get killed in wars.

Noticing

She wore a navy blue dress that flared. There was

a wide red belt around her waist, which emphasized

the flare in the dress and her feminine figure, which at

that time was more trim then in later years. She wore

red high-heeled shoes and carried a red leather handbag

that matched the shoes. She wore a navy blue hat with a

brief net veil that came down just below her eyes and nose

and her gloves were navy blue.

Mom was careful about every detail of her appearance

and mine and Dad’s too. She straightened his tie; he

liked that. He cared about his appearance too.

I wore a yellow princess style coat with a yellow hat that

also had a brief veil coming down in front of my face. I wore

white see thorough nylon gloves and black patent leather

shoes and white socks. The coat had a row of yellow buttons

with just a touch of pink in them and there was pink in the

coat’s collar. I held a small black patent leather purse.

Dad wore a light beige suit and brown shoes. His tie was

wide against his starched white shirt. There was beige and

brown in the tie and a small gold tie clasp kept it in place

and centered on his shirt when his jacket was buttoned or

unbuttoned. We were pleased with the way we looked.

Mom wore her favorite perfume, “My Sin” by Lanvin. It was

a small gold bottle about the size of her lipstick container. The

the bottle top was black. And the image drawn into the gold

bottle was of two very tiny figures – one on its knees and the

other stooped over it in a kind of seated round position – as if

the scene were of a penitent and confessor. The robe of the

confessor engulfed the smaller penitent figure as if a pardoning

were taking place.

Mom wore bright red lipstick, and her hair was dark brown.

Dad had grey salt and pepper hair, very shiny in the sun.

My hair, blond originally, was turning into light brown. It was

shiny and shoulder length in a pageboy with bangs.

We were off to church on a Sunday morning in Soldier Pond.

A Time Cut Off From Time

“A Time Cut Off From Time”

DeAnn Louise Daigle AWW 10/14/09

That’s how it felt when I went to Fran’s place out in Mattituck on Long Island. We did whatever she felt like doing or we did nothing at all. I ran a few errands for her or defrosted her little refrigerator. It was our time together and as the end grew closer, she told me how much she looked forward to my coming on the weekends.

There was no knowing how long Fran would live after she renounced the chemo and radiation. The pain grew bolder and she fed herself her own meds. Fiercely independent, she maintained control for as long as she could. Hospice grew tired of her calling them. She was afraid of being alone, I’m sure. She knew I’d come whenever she wanted me to, but she would send me away too – wanting me to go back to the city. She’d be okay.

“Let me know,” I’d tell her. “You know I’ll come.” I used up all my sick time and personal days from work and I was hoping to hang on to my vacation days. But, I had those for her as well if she wanted and needed me to come out to her.

I guess I’ll always feel I could have done more, I should have gone out there to be with her, but I needed my job too.

Because she wasn’t a close enough relative I couldn’t take a leave of absence to be with her. But, I would have stayed anyway if she needed me to. She didn’t want me. She kept saying, she was saving me for later.

But, the weekends were ours. I grew to looking forward to spending time with Fran. She was easy to be with. She probably held back on her meds so that she’d be alert enough for us to go riding. She had to give up her driving – a really big deal, but she did it. She was brave and so dear. I drove her van. We went to the shore – the sound, the bay, and on good days and when Jim was free to come, we went to the South Fork to see the ocean.

I tweaked her big toe. “I’ll see you soon, Baby Doll,” were my last words to her when Jim and I left the hospital on Sunday. I spoke with her briefly on Monday. “I love you very much,” I told her on Monday afternoon. “Who said that?” She responded on the other end of the line. “DeAnn,” I said. “Tell her I love her very much too.” “I will,” I said. She was confused from all the morphine, I knew.

On Tuesday morning I called her. “I can’t talk right now,” she said. “I’ll call later, Sweetie,” I said. When I called she was asleep.

On Wednesday, I waited and called the nurses’ station when I knew they would have checked in on her. “She’s resting comfortably.” “Thank you,” I said.

At 11:20 A.M., Dr. Emanuele called, “Fran went to heaven at 11 this morning.”