From the Kitchen Table
Peg Sweeney
From the Kitchen Table Peg Sweeney
Foxflower Farm
Copyright Š 2009 by Peg Sweeney Cover painting: From the Kitchen Table by Peg Sweeney Book Design: Virginia Anstett Printing: Rainbow Press
Table of Contents One Moment, Please! v Poem for Peg Sweeney vi To a Friend 1 Shane 2 The Center 3 In Art Class 4 Our Journey 4 Death by Cancer 5 Caught 6 To Ann Talcott 8 A Good Hair Day 9 Tradition 10 Summer 12 The Blue Sundress 13 Lilac Time 14 Blue – The Keepers House 15 Light Source 16 Sea Garden 17 Sinbad 18 Idaho 19 Pure Air 20 Return Trip, the Bath 22 Life Lines 23 To Joe 24 Who We Are 25 Love Knot 25 Lullabye to Tucker 26 Manitoba Night Prairie 27 October Birthday 28 Indian Summer 30 Winter – The White Page 31 An Ode to March 32 Sweet Taste 33 Shadow Poem 34
High Noon 34 Honor to the Earth, Wishes to the Sky 35
iv
One Moment, Please! We hang words, like ribbons on empty branches to find our way back But there are places that ask nothing else of us but to breathe John Dofflemyer Poems from Dry Creek, Starhaven 2003
v
Poem for Peg Sweeney The new old house where Peg lives now is level, more or less. The fine pine floors are flat. They shine. Everything else is tilted: the barn is a little up-hill. The field where the horses graze tilts down. It slants away toward water, where the neighbor’s sheep graze, and drink, some months of the year. The horses drift down from the barn as if gravity were just another mouthful of fresh green grass. Across the road, another field tilts another way, gently, easing from another hill to the same river, farther along. This one, unfenced except by trees, belongs to deer, sometimes, just quietly, appearing out of the woods. Beyond the stream, the mountain slants up steeply, pulling the gaze upward – then even higher – a surprise! – vi
up to where the mountain has lifted shreds of mist. They seem to drift upward the way the horses drift downward, finding their natural place, near a river or a mountain top. Peg works with horses, but her poems drift upward like the colors, and the mists, and the visitor’s eyes, up the mountain that kept on calling her until she came. Nan Malone 1987
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Sisters
Oil painting by Peg Sweeney
To a Friend Your words heal, not unlike hands. Their warmth reaching to the deepest marrow within her mind. Freeing thoughts once strained and pulled, like muscles, overused or abused. Your words, stretching out over time; quietly, steadily giving back one’s very soul to the self. Healing words like healing hands, a gift from a greater spirit.
1
Shane February 13, 2008 – May 15, 2008
Star child? Sun child? Child of the Moon? You were but a whisper on our lips a flutter in the warmth of a womb. The crystal caught the mountain’s light as I let your spirit go back to a saner world. My expectant heart wept, for you were already loved. Star child? Sun child? Child of the Moon? Your faint whisper will linger now carried, like a feather, down the mountainside on the gentle breezes of spring.
2
The Center Out the window door lilacs bloom in wild scented profusion. Apple blossoms frame the bright green meadow setting a velvet stage for the returning deer. Old wicker rocker, newly painted, is placed on the porch. Its ample seat ready to welcome friends and animals. A grandchild calls from miles away to tell of radishes we planted in March now, bright red, and ready to eat. Lingering, I watch an infant open tiny hands, wrapping them around a grandmother’s thumb, eyes and voices meeting, each holding tightly to new lives so recently found. Out the window door lilacs bloom now, the scent filling the air. Gathering an armful, I place them carefully in the center of my room.
3
In Art Class In art class six women paint putting color on canvas We see each others hopes and dreams appearing in color music or silence, talk The gentle voice of the teacher – bringing to light where we are going. We smile and wonder as we give life again, to ourselves and each other –
Our Journey Words and vision blow in on dry western winds, women in a circle reaching for the sky, touching Earth. I celebrate our journey with the ancient horse spirits. Namaste
4
Death by Cancer Death flirted and courted me fluttering as a butterfly on my closed eyelids, reaching a hand to caress and pet my breast planting its darkness within. Death made love to me promising freedom from pain and fear offering peace, quiet; I still wanted to dance between earth and moon filled with light wildly free. Death’s dance was filled with darkness, a slow lingering melody beckoning me across ice black floors, a lover’s embrace clutching my breast. I planted my arms encircling the full moon. We whirled wild and filled with yellow light. I could not, would not dance with death.
5
Caught Another friend, caught in mid-life Her breasts caressed, loved, suckled, fill now with cancer – How to look at the offending part, once so loved, remembering the young girl – nervous, unsure to wear a bra or not was she ready, big enough teased by her brothers. These breasts were used to tantalize and tease adolescent youths – Hours were spent trying on bathing suits, her mother critically censoring which one to buy, what showed too much, always, a part of how to look, how to dress. Later, caressed by a lover, a husband, suckled by children The beauty of the soft places and brown nipples reflecting in the mirror as she undressed.
6
Now, cut with the surgeon’s knife sliced from her body Does the surgeon weep for her for all women under his knife does he remember his mother or his lover’s firm breast pressing against his body? Perhaps he can’t cry for if he did he might not be able to stop.
7
To Ann Talcott Tonight it grows late a summer breeze smelling of rain fills the open windows. I brush dogs late at night fussing over each one’s beautiful coat, admiring deep amber eyes. In my head I see her, my friend, bald, oxygen in a clear plastic tube, she looks so small in her now too-big bed. I want to hold her tell her, it will be alright, I can’t, it’s a lie – Instead, I brush the dogs see the color in their eyes. It’s so easy to reassure them as the thunder moves in on summer winds.
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A Good Hair Day I need a Good Hair day Bright skies, warm sun A mood to sing to – Then I’m brave, bolder Check the calendar – One month or less Tonight in the tub I’ll do it – Favorite Bath oils patchouly soap – I let my hands caress, Feel my breasts for the pre-scribed inspection Finger tips alert to changes ready brave – re examine all clear! I slide down, dunk my head under water and come up singing.
9
Tradition Passover Matzo crunches in my mouth. Its unleaven taste enhanced with chopped chicken livers, stirred and cooked by my mother, the recipe memorized added to by her own touch. It will take me years to get it right, only then because I watched. Jewish girls always watched, following tradition; spreading newspapers to keep the floor clean. Making rugelah, rolling dough, tasting, adding, talking, watching. Sweet red wine filled the Passover cups bitter herbs burned our lips. The smell of brisket and noodles cooking filled the house. Boys always answered the Questions, Why is this night different from any other night? Girls watched, knowing the answers and coaching careless brothers and cousins.
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Passover, sweet memories of families coming together. Mother cooking, baking days ahead. Her hugs more frequent now, caught in the magic of tradition passing it down to a daughter who watched.
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Summer Fireflies light her way to the barn tonight The little dog tried to catch one, well out of her reach. The hayfields were filled with endless blinking light. She laughed at their wondrous dance, surely it was the elves and fairies she read about when small lighting her way through the darkness of the night.
12
The Blue Sundress I wore a blue sundress blue, as the softest summer sky it hung loose and free and matched the color of my eyes. I can see it on me, or off of me, lying on green grass, thrown carelessly by a lover. Whispering, dancing in the summer meadow grass Fireflies were everywhere the blue dress lay against the green grass while my lover’s tanned hands touched white breasts. I would stretch my toes and touch my dress Was I in love with the summer, the blue, the way my body felt in that dress or with the man – Part of earth and sky all was magic the man, summer heat the blue of a sundress when alone I would dance in the yard, in the blue dress a woman – child.
13
Lilac Time We wantonly picked the heavy scented lilacs laying their budded branches upon the sweet grass, filling the orchard space – with more blossoms, wine, and each other. We became as heady as the flowering trees. Lifetimes and seasons slipped out of our grasp. The lilacs and apple blossoms were too full of bloom The grass, too green All within the circle had been stolen or picked when overripe.
14
Blue – the Keepers House I filled myself with the blue light of salt water. Thru panes of old window glass I saw water everywhere, a cove, beach, islands. The white of the keepers house Blue water below – rock bound. The water filled my dry places. Water heals, blue heals I longed to be a vessel to bring the blue water home to fill the empty spaces the silence.
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Light Source The light changed becoming crystallized. Water reached the shore in great finger holds. Blueberry bushes ran along the road’s edge climbing up into long rocky fields. Time was lost in clothes blowing on a line. Old houses flying flags. White porches decked with red geraniums. Indeed what can I tell you of light and air wind, water and sky. Time turned inside out and upside down. Watches, clocks, faceless. Children running free on beaches washed by endless time. Time so finally lost it is found. Summer Maine
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Sea Garden
Her garden grows squared by the keepers house and sea. Lettuce, parsley, lavender, flowers to brighten her table. The island’s covered with raspberries, rose hips, pine and rock. A grassy path, like a blanket, parts the island down the middle, people clamor up steps from the landing and over a gentle knoll light, wind, sky, and sea all change. The light house, stark white sits on solid gray green rock waves crash below as high tide surges against the island. The garden grows, soon gas lights will flicker on all becomes clear and simple light years away from the other side.
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Sinbad July 1991
The dark hulled boat awaits us in the harbor. Its polished wooden deck and mast catch the late day sun. The wind blows hard, we look seaward hoping the small gale will last until we’re off. Slowly, obediently we motor out of Camden Harbor, beyond Curtis Island sails let out, filling up, we scramble to the starboard side. This boat was made for wind its wooden bow rides the waves proudly masts stretch and flex. We sail on time and wind lost to the changing light. Pulpit harbor, safe, snug welcomes us at dusk. Four fools jump into the frosty ocean before dinner. A Maine sunset, scarlet purple ribbons across the sky. Our small bunks beckon with warm sleeping bags. the hatchways window displays a palette of stars. Quiet, four friends sleep, rocked in a wooden boat called Sinbad. 18
Peg Sweeney, with husband Paul, raised five children in the Litchfield hills of Connecticut and the Colorado mountains. She lives in Sharon, Connecticut under a mountain where the horses are. Peg has always believed in the healing power of horses. Thirty-one years ago she founded Litchfield Little Britches, a riding program for children with special needs. With the love and encouragement of family and friends, this, her first poetry book, is a journey of the heart.
Peg’s new pony, Lemony Snicket
Foxflower Farm Sharon, Connecticut