Dear Ethel,

I remember you saying that if Jesus showed up
unexpectedly for an afternoon visit, you would
serve him whatever was on the counter––
chicken soup? apple pie? And you were sure
he wouldn’t complain if one of the younger cats
who hadn’t yet learned the social graces
climbed up the side of his white robe, maybe
catching some skin along the way.

Now it’s been years since you left to meet
the guest of your vision, who sipped his soup
and ate his pie, unbothered by the cat who
gained the table and began to share soup
and pie. Jesus rose to give over his seat
while he moved closer to you for coffee
and you to him to share your apple pie.

The Winter of Pneumonia

The winter I had pneumonia
the body-I was teetering. Hanging
between heaven and hell,
I couldn’t move a pinkie finger.

Call Kathleen, I told my husband.
She knew the room between life
and death, and if anyone could
stay the dark angel, it was she.

Through sweat-soaked flannel
of nightgowns, pajamas, day after
day, night after night, weeks
of wild coughing, crazy to catch

some breath between spasms––
water and juice, juice and water
food out of the question, ’til
my husband baked a chocolate

cream pie, and the healing began.
Six months gone, I consigned pneu-=
monia to the rumble seat, and good
health itself took over the steering wheel.

Father’s Day

At 6 o’clock in the morning the phone rings.
He has not been asleep or dreaming, but is
nevertheless in a somewhat hypnotic state.

In his mind’s eye he sees the man
swimming hard across the channel,
body resisting the pull of the tide.

Arm over arm, feet a-paddle, driving
driving across the water. He watches
and wonders what he sees.

The swimmer reaches the far bank,
climbs out of the water to stand up-
right, and turns, his arms in the air

victorious. I made it, he says aloud.
The man, his father, knows his son
and answers the phone, only to find him gone.

The North End

My first book of poems, The North End, has been released by North Country Press in Unity, Maine. Anyone interested can order from the publisher at:

http://www.northcountrypress.com/the-north-end.html

Or order from Amazon or through your favorite indie bookstore.

Thanks,

Judith

In the Woods

A Japanese study revealed forest landscapes are therapeutic and reduce stress.

Steady yourself with trees.
Grasp the lower branches and hold on.
Yes, like that. Greet the hemlock
without fear. (Think Socrates.)

You can pass through a woods
entire this way, going from tree
to tree over rough ground,
your moving-forward steps

inevitable in a life lived beyond
the steps of what you’ve called
your home, and on to the home
on the other side of this great
woods you have already entered.

(Don’t even think about turning back.)
Even now the sun is gone; darkness
settles like an old friend into your
common soul. Steady yourself
now with the presence of trees.

Notice for Penobscot Bay, Maine

The ferry to Vinalhaven is cancelled
today. At a distance I wonder who or
what in the natural world is responsible
for the delay––the gale that has blown
for three days, lifting towers of gray
waves? Sickness? Death?
All old friends
to island dwellers who roll the dice
each day of life on this rocky ledge,
and on this green sea, where they
and fish are meet to tell their stories.

After a Morning Among the English Poets

My head is full of poetry not my own.
With Tennyson’s Sir Bedivere I mourn
for Arthur, going forth in his black barge,
his bloodied head resting in the lap of a queen,
barely alive but admonishing us
to pray for his immortal soul.

Herrick admonishes in other words,
to gather rosebuds while we may
for tomorrow those very same flowers
will die, as one day so will you and I.

But then to Donne, stripped bare of career
for love of a girl. He speaks hope to her
and so to us:

If our two loves be one, or thou and I
Love so alike that none do slacken, none can die.

And Then?

Just that quick––snap!––dissolution.
A post-it note into the fire.
Crackle. Snap. Gone. Done.
Over. It’s over, and so are you.

No more wakings and sleepings
now. The die is cast. It’s over.

Cleanse yourself while you live.
Read in the Book once a day.
Remember to forgive yourself
as well as others.

What happens after is not your
concern. A post-it note consigned
is what I’m saying.

Thoughts During a Snow Squall

Thoughts During a Snow Squall

The last of March blows wildly in
from the North, freezing us with a cold
and cleansing breath. Not ready to concede
the season to skipping lambs, it faces head
on the full-grown Aries.

Tired of painful cold, I yet covet the pure
company of this sudden snow. Not a little
in love with death, the prospect of blooming
life can overwhelm. An unnamed woman
slipped under the river’s ice last week

after setting down her cellphone.
Life can become too much of a good thing.
She has entered the river––as will we all––
a prophetic action beyond recall.

How It Was When My Mother Died: Epilogue

Chapter 19 of How It Was When My Mother Died concludes this collection of interviews.

I thank the women for their stories, which have proven timeless. My tears flowed readily, a witness to that timelessness as I typed in the stories after all these years. The effect of a mother’s death on one’s life is timeless. It goes on in thought and dream, even as she goes on, as she continues to be in her life as it is now.

Last thoughts from several of these motherless women …

Of her Finnish mother Aino, Hannah observed, “She was just always there and then she wasn’t.”

Janet remembered the first snow after her mother Rosina had died. “There was something about the ground freezing and the snow covering her. It was so final. That first winter was very hard.”

And Mariaelana’s thoughts are meaningful for many of us who have lost our mothers. “I feel like an archeologist when they dig. I feel like I’m the top layer, the foundation for my children. I am on top of my mother and my grandmother. Now it’s my turn. I need to know my past. I need to let my children know their past. It’s what’s embedded in them. I hope I’m good soil for them to set their roots in.”

Good soil indeed. Our mothers gave us the gift of life. May we all be good soil for the seeds planted in us and meant to grow, bud, blossom and be fruitful. Even as our mothers gave us life, may we do likewise for others as we can.

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