Turning

~ for Patrick

It was the elegant way his hair swelled from his temples,

fell to frame the broad rock of his forehead, the way

his teeth clamped on a cigar, there at the lathe while curls

of rosewood dropped to the floor, helpless and fragrant,

black cinders of ebony flew up and speckled his beard, and

those goggles he wore, the imprints they left above his ears.

            Strangeness I could sink into like a long bath.

It was the click of his old house’s black iron latches,

twist of the narrow stairs that disclosed the upstairs

as a country apart from the rooms below. And it

was the dark third floor landing under the eaves,

with its dank, sprung love seat, the busy desperation

of squirrels trapped between the floorboards. It was

when he asked me to stay for breakfast -- overdone

scrambles, toast, on a chipped plate. I sipped black

coffee while, from the roof, a whippoorwill turned

its mad song like a wheel, circling, almost shouting.

Copyright Cathy Larson Sky (poem first appeared in Pinesong, North Carolina Poetry Society Awards, 2019) Photo of Patrick by Cathy Larson Sky. Whipporwill by eBird.

Moon Speaks

In the rhyme, the cow jumps over me,

her udder wagging a milk milk rain.

A blasted cat saws music on a violin.

A little mongrel snickers, a dish elopes

with a piece of flatware. It’s not easy

being confined by nursery twaddle.

Know who I am.

I pull and the sea rises to meet. Gulls,

pelicans fly low, looking for a quick

fish, schools of plenty. On the other

side of Earth, oceans swell, expand,

strain to escape gravity. What push-

pull there is in me. What tit for tat.

I’m that urge that dissolves, as butter

slides, into nooks and crannies of a break-

fast crumpet, its tiny hollows designed

to net desires. If you like, smear with

raspberry, cherry, currant jams. Eat.

Delicious with tea and cream.

Come.

Slip into my blue-tinted shadows, into

the fable of you. Whisper spider web

riddles and water spells, read messages

in wet stones. Count your unborn grand-

children in the lines of your palm.

Mornings, wash your face in the dew,

find luminous new ways to be.

Hope’s a white kitten chasing its tail.

Look.

A pale rose sprouts between your brows.

Poem copyright cathy larson sky 2019
Photo credits:

Photo by chuttersnap on Unsplash     The full yellow mooon

Photo by Jonathan Pielmayer on Unsplash   The jam on toast

Photo by michael podger on Unsplash   The spider web

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash  The rose

FIDDLE SAYS

Fiddle Says

Play me.

Give me your bones and blood, your bow

so I may remember when sap ran through

me. When my tallest limbs aspired toward

heaven. And my leaves conspired with

light to spackle the forest floor with gold.

When root-weary giants leaned against their

neighbors’ groaning trunks until lightning

delivered, with a crack, its coup de gras.

Remind me how in the darkness creatures

came, cloaked in their hides, to drink at the

stream. The deer came on tiptoe, moving

as one body. Foxes shattered the night with

quick screams. And the black bear’s heavy

tread made me shudder, in case my flesh  

might be ripped by its claws. Show me

how the birds lit on my boughs and gave

me their song. How in springtime tree frogs

mimicked the voice of my heart and randy

squirrels chattered and loved, filling my

branches with play. My shape is awkward.

But tuck me under your chin. If your wrist

and elbow go numb, if your fingers cramp,

play on. A touch of pain sweetens the music.

(Words and images copyright Cathy Larson Sky, 2018)

HELPFUL HINTS FROM IRISH GIRLFRIENDS

All the following advice was offered me by Irish women when I lived in or visited in Ireland. Some bits were related aloud, others I learned by observing.
                                       
                                 ***********

When someone knocks on the door or rings the doorbell, stop everything. Quietly go peek through the side window to see if it’s the priest or someone else you’d like to make think you are not home.

Since he’s given you your lovely house and children, don’t bother to ask where the husband’s been when he doesn’t come home at night.

If he tells you what sounds like a lie, pretend you don’t notice.

If you can’t afford to stand a round, don’t go to the pub with your friends.

If you want to go along anyway, say you can’t drink because you’re not feeling well and you’re content to nurse this wee glass of lemonade.

If you are going visiting in cold weather, make sure your jumper is thick enough to hide your nipples.

If someone tells you to call at seven, don’t phone them at seven. You should show up at seven.

If you have waited for the heater repair man for 3 hours and have to pick up the kids at school and want to know if he came while you were away go ask the cashier at the shop by the foot of your street.

If you have good fortune, hide it. Begrudgers have big ears.

If someone says “it doesn’t matter” if you show up or not and you are caught in traffic and don’t show up expect that person never to speak to you again.

At a music session, if you are asked to sing a song, never say yes. Say “I couldn’t.”

Wait for a chorus of, “Sure you will. Give us a song.” If this response is half-hearted, then continue to demur. If the response escalates to “Go on. You will now. You will" say “I will give it a try” and sing.

If you want to be considered a lady, never say fuckin. Substitute feckin.  Ex: “He’s a feckin eejit” instead of “he’s a fuckin eejit.”

If someone is labeled very cute it doesn’t mean he or she is attractive. It means crafty, sneaky.

If you meet a known cute person at a pub with their drunk mates who’s acting overly friendly and tries to draw you out in conversation, do not respond. This person is trying get you to do or say things they can slag you for, sometimes when you are only steps away so you get a nice earful of it.

If you have this experience, stay composed and say to yourself “Feck you and the horse you rode in on you feckin eejit go get yourself a feckin life or better yet go feck yerself.”

                                                         

Cathy Larson Sky   03/16/2018

all photos by Cathy: 1.Grafton Street, Dublin, 1996  2. Ennis Bungalow, 1994  3. Pub sign in Ennis, 1994  4. Grafton Street, Dublin, 1996  5. Detail from St. Francis Friary, Ennis, 1996


HAPPY SAINT PATRICK'S DAY

ABOUT ALEX, ABOUT LOVE

His name was Alex. In the 1970s I was a preschool teacher at the Narragansett Parents’ Cooperative School on the seacoast of Rhode Island. Alex needed us in a unique way. He had a congenital heart condition. His parents and his doctors couldn’t operate on his heart until he was big enough to withstand it. He was 3, going on 4.

Alex’s older brother Jess went to the primary class, upstairs, with the bigger kids. He walked with a strut, leading with his chest, arms swinging fisted at his sides. His brown hair was tight and curly, giving him the look of a bull calf. But Alex was small, pale and thin. The tiny blue veins in his forehead and wrists were visible. My co-teacher Sue and I, plus volunteer parents, took turns rocking him in the big chair in the corner of the playroom when he was drowsy from his medication or just having a down day.

“Can you take Alex for a while?”

We’d wrap him in a blanket. I spent hours watching Alex’s face as he dozed with his eyelids half-closed. His eyes were the shade of a midwinter sky, gray and soft. His pupils would move lazily as he dreamed. Was Alex flying somewhere? Love poured from me, from each of us, as we held him. No one ever said “love him.” Nobody had to.

Alex’s Mom was named Mary Ann. She had to work full time, as her husband did, to save for Alex’s surgery and his high medical bills. She trusted all of us to look after him and we did. Sometimes I babysat for Alex and Jess at their home.

This is my sketch of Alex from 1977. He always wore a too-big baseball hat and a turtleneck sweater. 

I left the Parents’ Co-op to do other things. A couple of years later I was at a convenience store and saw Jess swagger by my aisle with a bag of Doritos. Another kid was behind him, a little shorter, but with the same barrel chested, belligerent stride. The image of his brother. I blinked. Alex? 

The kid gave me a blank look. Those grey eyes. He was Alex alright. A healthy, thriving version of the wan boy I’d held in my arms for almost a year. But he didn’t recognize me. “It’s Cathy. Don’t you know me?” Alex walked on. The boys were with their father. They took their places next to him at the cashier’s line, their backs to me.

Little kids forget when they get big. Almost-6 is eons away from almost-4. The surgery had been successful. Alex was well. But I felt ripped off. Where was my reward for my part in this miracle? For all that love? 

I recall the hours I spent with my kids when they were babies, glued to the spot where they slept, never tiring of gazing at them. Maybe this utter surrender to our infants, of memorizing their scent, their sounds, every aspect of face and body is a tribal act. A claiming. We will always be able to identify them instantly, pick them out in any gathering of children. Something else seems to grow from this vigil – a protective urge that refuses to fade, long past the time that kids become adults. Love is probably the best instinct we possess. And it calls on the best in us, often demanding a lot of work to achieve its goals.

I had loved Alex. Warmth and protection radiated from me during those dedicated, daily rocking chair hours. But I hadn’t understood, as a young woman, that the ability to love is in itself a privilege. I hadn’t the wisdom to realize that the Alex-sighting at the convenience store was, in itself, my reward for the time I’d given him. And he had given me. His image seems, in this bleak February, a bittersweet reminder of the power of Love.

    ( Words and images copyright Cathy Larson Sky)

Our Journey with Parkinson's

Early this summer I shared a poetry reading with a colleague and mentor, Pat Riviere Seel at the local library. We had a few sweet attendees, including my husband, Patrick. I had written a new love poem for him, and as I read it, I looked out at his face. It was completely blank, a strange sort of stare. I kept reading, trying not to take his expression to heart, but it wasn't until his diagnosis not long afterward, that I learned the effect is called "Parkinson's Mask."

We had known that something was wrong for a long time. Patrick's increasing muscular weakness, his fumbling over simple tasks, his depression, what did it mean? We feared it was dementia, so when the neurologist diagnosed him in July we were not unhappy. 

We drove directly to a Dunkin' Donuts and talked over coffee and honey dipped crullers, holding hands I remember saying "At least I am not going to lose you. Whatever happens, you will still be all there. You will be you." I have watched my Aunt Margaret slip away from me because of dementia; she doesn't know who I am any more, and it has broken my heart (as many of you with similar experiences will understand).

As months have gone by we have had time to make room for Parkinson's in our lives. We have been learning as the symptoms increase. Our lives are going to change. I recently reached out for help with You Caring. If you would like to lend a hand, please forward the link  PATRICK'S YOU CARING WEBSITE  to a few of your friends, particularly musicians who know Pat and me, who might be interested.

In love and friendship, Cathy

POETRY FOR SAMHAIN

The poet at Samhain

Samhain is the old Celtic name for All Hallows’ Eve, October 31^st

Dragon of my self-admiration,

the time for roaring is over.

Come with me to winter’s cave.

If you wish, I will whisper, down

the tunnel of your hoary ear,

praise for your lavender

and bottle-green scales, 

the gyrations of your

your whipping tongue --

but you must be still.

Tame your breath, warm the small

wood creatures below the hawthorn;

observe robins courting the holly tree,

eager for red fruit to soften, mature.

Marvel while snowflakes float

and whirl, tumble from invisible 

nets in a cobalt sky.

Listen while children sing

in bright, piping voices.

Watch as the light from

their candles threads, winking,

through the groves at midnight.

All of this will happen without you:

The trees, brown sticks in the snow,

will worship the icy silence.

The branch’s trickling song will persevere

beneath silvery panes.

Emerald mosses, soft and wet,

will cling to granite and quartz, 

spread fingers through

furrows in the damp

bark of the leaning oak

who guards the spring.

Poetry by Cathy Larson Sky from her chapbook Blue egg, my heart (Finishing Line Press, 2014) 
Paintings by the famous Sulamith Wulfing
Photos by Cathy Larson Sky, from the family land in Spruce Pine, NC.