From The Treehouse: New Poems by Mary/Ernie O'Dell

View from the Top

I climbed my first tree before I was five. Got stuck. Screamed. Daddy had to walk two miles home from work in the middle of a hot West Virginia afternoon and rescue me. Like a cat, I finally learned not to climb down head-first. For the next XX years (I'd say how many, but no one would believe it) I spent time in the tops of trees, where I learned some of life's most important skills -- and pleasures. I'd say what they were (and are) but that would be telling. And you know what they say -- writers should show, not tell. So kick off your shoes and shimmy on up. Join me here surrounded by blue sky and little green leaves. Bring a book if you like, or a notebook. The apples up here are crisp and ripe and free for the picking.

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

New Poems by Mary/Ernie O'Dell

WATCHING IT ALL

She sees the world as chaos overrun
with miracles – the way we heal,
how we hone each other’s rough spots
to bearable nubs -- creek rock polished
by eons of flowing water,
that water spangled by light spiking
through leaves shot with insect speckles,
miniscule mandibles having worked their art.

She grows misty seeing a puddle open
to rain, a fat man in galluses
smiling at his wraith of a wife
or a runny-nosed kid
bent down to tie his brother’s shoe.

LIAR-BIRDS

They say you should tell the truth
so here it is.
A single dove on a wire
then, raincrow
calling somewhere.
Too hot to walk but I go anyway.
In the interest of truth
I must say I’m not sure if raincrow
was just my daddy’s name for a dove.
How’s that for truth.
I’ve never told it before.
I miss him.
I miss my daddy and I miss
his talk of raincrows.
I have missed the raincrows
until lately when they came again
like lost letters found.

Out here, heat.
More truth: the dog doesn’t care,
squirrels move about in the heat.
Out here, kids hand in hand
up the street toward the pool.
A balding man and his woman
cut across the park.
The raincrow’s calling
but it isn’t about to rain.

THE WIDOW COMES ALIVE

Deep in the cells
lies instinct
thrumming the quick
the vivre
a taut thread burning
through grief’s forever.
The patient knot of Never Again
softens
unfurling
as time’s finger
tamps tight.

She glows.