Ellen Porter
10/11/07
Against the Banana Tree

An old toothless man
sits on the ground
resting his back against
a banana tree.
He clings to one foot
with both hands
trying to suck his big toe.

I say to Hafiz
there is so much to be done
to facilitate the meeting of
the soul and the Beloved.
How can he sit there
trying to suck his toe?
It’s a disgrace.

Hafiz laughs and answers
By watching the man and judging
what are you doing to ensure
a meeting with the Beloved?

With that, Hafiz sits down
beside the toothless old man
and tries to suck his big toe.
He looks at me and grins.
He opens his mouth large
as a carved pumpkin
and shouts

LIGHTEN UP!


Ellen Porter
12/14/07
Deception

Poems have blossomed
in response to the great poets:
Rumi, Ryoken, Hafiz.
But these words are imitation:
a sparrow singing
to sound like a red-winged blackbird.

Sometimes a close likeness,
but the song is never true.
The love I pen is not honest
for friends or the homeless or the birds.
I change day to day in my illness
and refuse visitors.
Save one or two, I would
rather be alone.

Perhaps it is the greatest sin of all
to pretend to be a lover of souls
when in fact my heart grows dark and weary.


Ellen Porter
11/19/07
Hospice

I step into hospice,
and after twenty years
give up the tedious, painful, ignominious fight.

I float here, memorizing my days
my numbered, peaceful moments of pure joy.

There is no shame here, strangling my spirit
like kudzu in Southern trees.
Only resignation, a grateful relaxation
of body, a jelly fish washed to shore,
waiting to breathe, with the next wave,
its burden of water.

I do not hurry toward death
but like an alley cat
I peek around the corner
curiosity rustling my mind.


Ellen Porter
5/25/07
Morning Song
(after Mary Oliver)

I rise late this morning
and go to my chair,
dawn unfolding like a lazy flower.
The daily bird is halfway
through her song,
calling, calling other birds,
the stray raccoon, the city cats, the rhymer.
I breathe deeply,
hoping to catch the bit
of dawn I missed.
Somewhere in the
intermittent light
the elusive poet
lingers.


Ellen Porter
10/13/07
respiration

my lung
heaped with ashes
radiation burned
yet i breathe
with dignity
i breathe

my lung
air polished
and spit out again
i breathe
a jar of oxygen
i breathe

my lung
and the blackness
of my lung
repudiates normalcy
damns intimacy
to sugared fluff
but yet
i breathe
and again
and again
i breathe


Ellen Porter
12/01/07
the house boat

the house boat
nearly abandoned by sunrise
hugs the dock, shackled with rope and chain.
on the tether post, high enough to meet the river-tide’s demands,
a flowering egret waits stone still
spying through water for silvery fins:
early morning breakfast.
if there is a tenant there,
skipper of the house on logs,
a blond and freckled man, perhaps,
he might know more than any other
the egret’s stare,
the whole world floating and echoing on water.


Ellen Porter
11/11/07
To Mary Oliver

She says she is
less useful than a tare
or a sparrow

she who sustains
the words flowing
from my spirit to paper.

If I could meet her
at the tide pool edge
of the sea

I would tell her
the magnitude of her gift,
this poet,
and she would not believe.

Ellen Porter
10/18/07
After Reading Rumi

“Friend, our closeness is this: anywhere you
put your foot, feel me in the firmness under you.”

Stepping from stone to mossy stone
pulled toward ocean breakers;
too close, I am drenched in salted spray
too careful, I am left arid, shriveling.

This is what it is like
loving a friend or the Beloved
a fragile line, narrow as string
leading ever closer to the sea
to the center.


Ellen Porter
12/10/07
december gift

A cardboard box arrives, fed ex,
from california to erie.

i smell it, shake it softly
slit its edges with a sharpened blade.

tangerines! perfect globes,
sweet juice running through eager fingers
peeling ever so easily.

the Beloved has remembered me dearly:
seeded gift of white December.


Ellen Porter
11/16/07
Hospice

All morning, phone calls
inquiring after my death.

Have I come these twenty years
fighting the cells dividing
amongst themselves, malignant,
have I come this far to a place
of no alternatives
where everything points graveward?

There is a shuddering behind my
single breast
as I seek out the word “hospice.”
I cannot promise six more months,
nor can I deny the possibility of years.

I chat with doctors
as though I were a stranger,
uninvolved, and when I am finished
I abandon the receiver
stow away the debris of information
and return to a novel
where death is daily fare.


Ellen Porter
11/29/07
Migration

The geese flying south,
the Mariposas winging flight
to that specific eucalyptus branch…
I do not understand this pulling of the moon
but I know it is true.

I can feel the tugging along
the soft musculature
of my arms and legs,
a fleeing back to safe haven.
It is not something I plan,
not a whim to be guided.

But like the butterfly
I am drawn by instinct
away from my pen and ink
away, into silence and separation.


Ellen Porter
10/12/07
Reluctance

The hammock rocks gently
in the autumn rustle of air
its bed damp from yesterday’s drizzle.
I do not lie down.

Early October
and I should be grateful
for these precious few days of
lapis sky and gliding sun.
But my heart cries rebellion
as I see in the image snapped behind my eyes:
the ropes and netting folded in,
the poles, cold iron against
reluctant fingers.
It must come down,
come down
and yet I stand staring
daring another Indian summer.


Ellen Porter
19/19/07
The Dog and Rumi

Visiting overnight
with neighboring monks
I rise well after dawn
skip matins, but not breakfast,
and then feed on Rumi.

Rumi likes dogs;
from them he learns lessons in
humility and faithfulness
as from a beloved friend.,

I would like to be Rumi’s dog
stretched out like a pelt
on my blanket
feigning sleep,
secretly absorbing his holy wisdom
to toss back to him later,
a mute but eager disciple.


Ellen Porter
12/17/07
to demetrius dumm osb

so many theories, laws, theologies
tempting the rational ones
down a path that promises
god.

why make the Beloved so
inaccessible?

all that is needed
is a heart full of love
and an open hand.

Ellen Porter
11/15/07
Aesthetics

Question:
I have no right to say
I am seeking God.
I do not let go of
the dross of this world.
I cling to
the blackbird, chrysanthemums,
the running stream, and my blue quilt.
How can I say
I yearn for the Beloved
while I harbor
this haven of delights?

Answer:
Your haven of delights,
the colors of autumn leaves,
the twirling of rabbit whiskers,
the neighborhood street cat;
these all are children
of your Beloved.
Do not stray too far,
searching.
You will miss your Friend
lurking in the backyard


Ellen Porter
12/02/07
Death By Cancer (for MB)

Death is slow in coming;
my body disintegrating piece by piece.

I do not mind the topic of death
except in leaving you.
My pride—
not affected by this dying—
lets me think I am indispensable.

Death is slow in coming;
I do not know how to untangle our souls.
I find myself inhabiting solitude—
all but you, cast off for silence sake.


Ellen Porter
12/12/07
Homeless and Keen

Homeless and keen,
Rose,
addicted to her thirty street-wise cats and
addicted to begging.

We see her pushing along
her shopping cart filled
with fast food
cat food
and all her earthly rags.
Back bent and knees bowed from malnutrition
she walks along the tracks
wrapped in winter pain

to our back door.
She leaves her finger on the bell
until, half deafened, we call to her.
She needs toilet paper for the cats’ box
and $200 for rent.
We give her the toilet paper and
send her away.

Every day she comes
and each day we fall short.
Our choice:
logic and psychology or
the blistering Beatitudes of Christ.


Ellen Porter
11/08/07
longing for the beloved

to my beloved
i sing a melody of longing
my body grows large
waxing in sloth
i am ill with malaise

come to me and cleanse me
fill my heart with the balm of your heart
enliven me even as i die
my body hides itself in shame
i have lost all beauty
o beloved, regard me
and stay close by


Ellen Porter
9/18/07
Redwood and Pine

She is visiting from California
where redwood trees enfold
shadowed air within their sacred groves.

I take her to my holy place
a garden, secluded like Eden
with promises of heaven.

I lie in my hammock
as she wanders.
She grows taller, shaggier,
green needles resting on her shoulders,
prickling her hair.
She walks from tree to tree,
pulling up the roots her feet have set down,
to plod, inviting each new tree
to meet her redwood essence.

I watch her stop before the
sentinel pine,
touch its lightning-struck trunk
and whisper to it tree-to-tree.
“We have survived consuming fire.
Don’t give up your generations;
We will survive again.”
She leaves the tang of
redwood in her wake.


Ellen Porter
11/18/07
The Dance

Throw out your pen and
precious paper
and come dance with me.

Hafiz knows the difference
between grief and muddled fear.

So give me your hand
and we will spin some
joy into your sorry body.

You may fool yourself into loneliness
but I can see you clearly
behind the eyes of the Beloved.

Don’t fret over when you’re going or where.

Start your feet shuffling
and give Hafiz a piece of your waning fire.


Ellen Porter
12/14/07
To Be Told

I was told I have six months to live,
though for the oncologist and nurse and medium
it is just a guess like
how many days of autumn
the leaves will fall before
the sycamore is bare and the
brilliant colors line its
shadows like a shroud.

I wonder what there is to fear
now that death takes me
in its grip and rattles me senseless.

What is there to protect
from a sleepy bear cub and its mother?
from the slippery edge of a glacial crevasse?
from a gun on the inner city wall?

Death is so close, so inevitable;
does my adrenaline still flow?
Will I try to save my life up till
the moment of my final breath?
Or will I finally relax:
no fear, no anticipation,
no urgency to earn and enter heaven?

Ellen Porter
12/13/07
A Song to Ann, Once Again

I remember years ago
your black ebony eyes
your dread-locked hair.

What can a white woman say
that will not offend?

I whispered aloud to you
"Toni Morrison"
and waited for your acknowledgment of
the Nobel Prize for literature.
You did not know, and I told you.

Rippling down your flat abdomen
and your straight back was
a pride you could not share with
this white woman.

I told you that you were the only one I knew
who would care.
I was wrong of course.
But care you did.

I wished my skin was dark
and that we could rejoice that night
black to black,
no history of oppression,
joy rising in us
like bird of paradise.


Ellen Porter
12/06/07
Day Care

Still autumn
the playground steeped in snow.
Not one child with wet feet.
They push their foreheads
against window glass,
breathe blind shadows,
then turn and run across
the room of treasures
trading cold white for a book with pictures
of a playground steeped in snow.


Ellen Porter
11/22/07
Heart Song

In mystery it is written on my heart:
the clack-clack of autumn-black branches,
the music of ocean stones rolled in a watery crevice,
the pitiful voice of a hungry city cat.
In mystery these are written on my heart.

In joy it is written on my heart:
the silent glide of moonlight through the pines,
the first born crocus, contracting upward through still icy soil,
the tender smile, half hidden, by a cantankerous old man.
In these, joy is written on my heart.

In mystery these are written on my heart.
In joy these are written on my heart.
In mystery and joy my heart is full.


Ellen Porter
9/14/07
Living in the Wilds

Some poets live in the wilds
their eyes and ears and fingertips
moving over the trees like Braille.
They see deer whose wide open eyes
look back at the poet who
has befriended all the world,
and when the moon slides
silent across the skies
a doe puts its gentle muzzle in the poet’s
still and bewildered hand.
But never taming the wild,
these poets meander through beauty and darkness
crafting verse, word by feral word.

I, too, live in the wilds and try to write,
my eyes and ears and sensate heart
edging across the running sidewalks
as I slip past the crack houses
where addicts seek their own wilderness
their own wavering moons.

I see the prostitutes
their costumed bodies, like manikins,
displaying their wares in the shining night’s glow.

In my wilderness, wildflowers and tufts of grass,
sparse and brave,
push through cement slits, the sidewalks
offering their own paltry beauty.
I, too, find poems
tucked inside the city’s wilderness.
I wonder, could we sanitize the city wilds?
Does the inner-city poet hold
a different responsibility?
What verse is there
that can capture and tame this darkness?
Would any one of us be redeemed
by some enigmatic, tumbled word?


Ellen Porter
12/03/07
Rain

Is it raining?
Yes, very hard.
Did you look out the window?
Yes, it’s wet and dark.

I may be playing up sympathy
or maybe not. But in my bodily disease
I am still capable of looking out my own window.

I ease to the window ledge
find dust, left over from yesterday’s cleaning,
and a spider web—nobody home.
The latch is strained against moist wood
and I cannot loosen it to raise the window.

I breathe heavily and return to my chair.
Is it raining?
Yes, very hard.
I was at the window
but didn’t see any rain.

Your lesson for today:
Do not expect to see outdoors
when your vision focuses on
the window’s edge.


Ellen Porter
10/2/07
The China Garden

The hope rises,
a heron taking flight,
as we tease our appetites
our mouths imagining
the food our bodies yearn to taste

and then we give away
our power of choice
and with reverence
ask the chef to
give us what we need.

He is diffident in social skills
and bends his head
to view his fingers.
He has loved one of us
(now bone and ashes in an urn)
as his absent father,
long dead,
may have been loved by him.

The purity of his amazing soul singing
out to our souls,
he chooses perfectly
what will nourish us tonight.


Ellen Porter
10/4/07
Through the Rising Wind

My lung is getting better
the doctors tell me, marveling.
But as I shuffle from the car
my breath cannot find purchase

and I hunger and tussle
relying, but not faithfully,
on nose and mouth
this God-given airway.

I will never run again
but in mind’s taut attention
I feel dry wheat
whispering against young legs.

I remember running, sliding the dirt paths
through post-card golden poppies and sweet lupine
the call of red-winged blackbirds singing
harmony to the ocean’s tunes.

Remembering defibrillates the senses
vision, sound and touch
but nothing more precious than the memory of air
as I tumble through the rising wind.

Ellen Porter
11/24/07
A Rented Canoe

A rented canoe
does not suggest efficiency
but rather a haphazard
attempt to stay above water.

Paddles dip close to turtles
lined up like school children
on a sunken tree, one last
plaything.

The lagoons stagger under
a new strangulation of reeds.
Soon there will be no corridor
of water to turn a boat.

But the beaver will remain,
the school-master heron
supervising no one with one hidden
one decorative leg.

The canoe floats in circles:
our ineffective rowing.
We are diminished by foolishness
to learning the deep kept secrets
of turtle, beaver and bird.


Ellen Porter
9/20/07
Crow

Late morning I lie
under the sentinel pine
my hair a wilderness

of green, brown, golden
needles, and my feet wrapped
around with tree dust.

A crow, black shadows for wings
opening, fluttering, pretending
to take flight, but

watching the ground, screaming
its displeasure with
my annoying presence

and secretly, seductively,
its heart as red and divided as a pomegranate,
studies, curled at my side,
the cat.


Ellen Porter
9/22/07
Hanging By Hand and Foot
(after Hafiz)

Ellen,
why are you hanging
by hand and foot
from the lower branches
of the walnut tree,
your bum exposed,
waiting to be smacked?

Why not get out of the tree and
make yourself invisible?
Then follow the laughter of the Beloved
while She tries to figure out
what in the world
you are doing.


Ellen Porter
11/15/07
listen to this

listen to this;
it is true.
i do not know the names of trees
this far east, lake erie,
except the sycamore.
i remember the sycamore in my neighbor’s
yard in California:
it traces the shape of leaves,
leaves the sound of whittling wind
in my ear.

but i do not know the other names.
i only know that some turn
glimmering red and gold
while others hang on to green
as though they might die from changing.

listen to this;
it is true.
if i were an eastern tree
i would be almost ready
to shed my leaves, burnished
with vivid color.
if only i were sure of spring
the black branches of winter would clack-clack,
but hold no terror.


Ellen Porter
10/25/07
Poem

The pen tumbles from my hand
as I consider the progression
of cancer in this
wild and willful body.

The dawning hours of inking
leave me
sterile with worry.

Is it not possible that
words might curtail
the indomitable growth,
that creation alone
might meet the hungering dark?

I take up pen
and squeeze the poem
perhaps to glean some phrase
some line
to convert this piercing destruction
into light.


Ellen Porter
10/07/07
The Cat
(after Hafiz)

I am tumbling around
in my chair
like the unobservable
cycle of wash and rinse.

Even Hafiz is troubled today.

The cat–the one we adopted from the streets
as our personal guardian–
was found stiff and dead
like a floundered fish
or a broken bough.

I see no reason for this death
except she hissed at
one too many friends.

Even Hafiz saw her sharp little teeth
bared for thunder.


Ellen Porter
11/20/07
These Embers Burning

These embers
burning in my knee
might brighten into flame again
the inner wicked pain is
no sweet agony.

My mind dabbles at the edges
I, no dilettante of pain
but a new-come visitor
eager to meander other rooms.

The drug begins to take effect
the ice digs deep into the swollen skin.
I do not know the cause of
this unwelcome guest, this ache
but I will not unbolt the door again.

Ellen Porter
11/23/07
A Glimpse of the Godhead

Religion, so often a failed endeavor,
finds growing room, unconventional,
through the poet’s loose-lipped pen.

It is rare that the Beloved
slips and slides away from the beginner’s heart,
but rather, She cajoles, guiding toward
a glimpse of the Godhead—
a furtive glance—
not enough to kill the poet
but to give her courage to stretch her reach
beyond the glorious spread of sycamore,
snow, the sun lending color to all the earth.

Religion, so far, unconventional,
leads the poet, not toward law and decree,
but to a burst of light
soft and passionate
running through her hungering soul.


Ellen Porter
10/31/07
Counterpoint

The joy of the day
comes in great sizzling moments of delight:
the golden, crimson autumn trees
trembling in the sun
the lift of blackbird wings
beneath rivulets of wind
the counterpoint of cloud and sky

And in these dazzling moments of vast beauty
I hold you ever tighter against my skin—
you do not recognize the teetering of my soul

One day I will have loved you
so much
that your loss, through my death or yours
or the fracture of daily time
will leave me empty, utterly still,
mourning

You do not mourn what you haven’t loved

Then only the trees, the blackbirds,
the thunderous sky
will remain.


Ellen Porter
11/27/07
hand in hand

i do not love
with bodily passions
pushing their way into
utter chaos

it is so limiting

i prefer to stray
along ocean’s hem
or mountain’s skirt
hand in hand,
our friendship so woven
it needs neither body
nor soul to speak.

some would call me repressed
but there are a few
who understand that celibacy
brings within reach
the crashing din of ocean
the mountain’s thunderous reply.

these, our beautiful bodies,
hand in hand
receive together
the passion of nature gone
ecstatically wild


Ellen Porter
11/12/07
late in love


our love, my dearest friend
comes late in life
mere moments of dazzling joy

against the backdrop of a stage
where in this shortened moment—
the winter of my days—

we enact the final scenes
rather than the play’s beginnings.
the love we tender will

break us, shatter us
like ice, splintered by a rock
on fragile water,

this my body,
broken open,
bereft.


Ellen Porter
Patient and Caregiver: A Poem For Only Two

Last night moaning
kept me awake
trembling, nearly fainting,
unusual pain,
my own groans
forbidding breath.

So is this how it is to die?
A slow slippery dip
into suffering?

Perhaps worst of all
there is the constant need
to be attended. Often
without the asking,
needs anticipated
and service given.
And again, often
I ask for more:
a glass of water, a chair moved
to suit my desires,
assistance in pulling on my jeans.

Last night proved to me
my hospice need.
I journey on and I journey on.


Ellen Porter
10/05/07
The Calm Out of Chaos
(after Rumi)

Someone sleeps in bed;
I rise in solitude.
Mine will be the greater silence.

Mouth closed
my heart blooms;
God and moonlight enter.

Sweetness fills me;
the calm out of chaos.
Nothing more to do
but, all day,
welcome silence and the Beloved.


Ellen Porter
10/20/07
There is a Pool

There is a pool, unexplored
in the center of my being—
not in my heart alone
but in lung and legs and brain.
There is a pool there
and I wander its edges.

Light green and brittle grass
give way to my footsteps.
When I drop in a stone
there are no ripples but
only surface, mirror, sheen.

I am afraid to bend down
to bend down and trail
fingers through the water
like bait.

This water, I say, bending down,
this water houses crabs,
cancer unformed and scuttling.
And bending down I dare
to wash one finger,
and I feel the legs of crabs
grabbing, pinching, playing out my life.

Ellen Porter
11/03/07
A Few Ditties

We fear one may be missing.
But overhead among the quilts
all three cats: smug together.
They grin, watching us worry.

………………………………….

The few birds left in November
sound worried in the chilly trees.
They lean eagerly into migration.

…………………………………..

We are not far north
but winter promises ice and snow.
Still tepid, the breeze trickles
through my open window,
and, too early, I pull my blue shawl from
a seasonal drawer.


Ellen Porter
11/17/07
Corn Woman

Before I knew my Beloved
I walked casually
through the soldier straight
lines of corn.
Each stalk rose
hiding its secret delights.
I was happy then,
no yearning was awake in me.

Then suddenly,
years later, I felt the
tug of God.
I walked the fields again
looking down toward
dark and fertile ground,
up at rain-expectant sky.
And I knew it was some
mystery I sought,
some corn woman.

And years later still,
I longed for this Beloved,
searched row upon row
stalk by stalk.
And I found her in the corn
and the pregnant sky.
I turned my spirit-face inward
and discovered her waiting,
ever in my soul.


Ellen Porter
11/09/07
Growing Room

This pen in my hand
this blue lined paper
these are all I have
except my impending death.

Pen and fine paper
receive the senses of my heart.
I draw the letters of fear
and know trembling within.

Sorrow fills my hand and wrist
at the enormity of what
will be left behind.

One tiny drop of peace
in the palm of each hand.
I open my fists
drop my pen.

Palms up I pray to the Beloved
and offer this awkward solace
growing room.


Ellen Porter
Known So Well

I wonder what I know so well
as the great poet knows the woods and sea.
She names each birdsong, each weed and flower
and how they move through this astounding world.

Perhaps it is this body of decay
inhabited by a foreign foe—
cancer—
played out in breast and fragile tissue.
There is my poetic attention.
I know this physicality so well,
the name of each struggling breath,
of fluids flowing against my wild imagination,
and I am learning how to wander
through a disintegrating world.

Is it enough, the nuances of myself
to scatter ink on paper
and call it
poem?


Ellen Porter
12/07/97
Passing

If I should pass today
across the ragged edge of earth time,
I would find myself, a grasp of
mistletoe in one hand, looking for
A suitable lintel under which to linger
for a yuletide kiss.

I would scrape open my window
frozen with screws and caulking
against seasonable drafts and,
sticking my head into winter
feel snowflakes on my neck
and snowflakes on my tongue.

I would light a fire behind the grating
and dry my fingers, warm my ears,
drift into a fragile nap, smiling
in my sleep.

And then, sated with this world,
I would simply let go
and, curious and peaceful and calm
step across the boundaries of earth time
to learn what replaces snowflakes and
kisses, and fires.


Ellen Porter
9/12/07
The Art Museum

Until midmorning
the museum was closed.
The pictures hung,
portraits stealing glances at each other.
No human eyes to look
save those of the janitor
as he swept the carpets,
dusted the frames.

And then the doors were opened.
I wandered, looking;
whirling with Van Gogh’s skies
dipping with water lilies of Monet.

Then I saw him,
standing firm as a defiant child
hands fisted at his sides
staring at Picasso’s Guernica.
His rounded face and epicanthic folds
defined his syndrome.
And as I watched him
watching the horse scream
tears came flowing from those slanted eyes
running to his lips, his chin.
Silent tears.

With my eyes, normal, glancing,
seeing what I was expected to see,
I backed away, not to disturb.
This museum, that chaotic scene
lent ownership to the boy.
My self-appreciation
rose as bile in my throat,
I dared not look again.


Ellen Porter
11/05/07
the winds and stars

Sophia, ancestor of wisdom
you wander wild paths
at my side

i yearn for you
inhabit my heart

you wander wild paths
and teach me the winds and stars
you are generous with your holy wisdom

i yearn for you
encircle my soul

you teach me the winds and stars
you walk at my side
never again will i be satisfied
wandering this astounding world alone

inhabit me
encircle me
generous wisdom of my hungry soul

Ellen Porter
5/16/07
Choice Conversation

She is speaking to me
across the table,
fudge-smeared bowls, sticky glasses in between:
after-supper talk.
Behind me, other companions
jabber and laugh.
I cannot hear
what she is saying.
I tell her twice,
I cannot hear.
She forces her voice
and asks a probing question.

Soon I will have hearing aids,
forms molded in perfect silence.
Will that end
the superfluous chatter
of undetermined noise
like Morse code,
heard, received, scrambled?
Dare I hope to hear
the missing grain of wisdom?


Ellen Porter
8/24/07
Generosity

Sr. Mary Margaret has seen
more than eighty years,
her face dissolved in wrinkles
running like dry river beds.
.
She comes to protest at the street corner
holding her sign high and waving
at cars that honk their approval:
Stop executions in Pennsylvania.

I saw her at the monastery,
passing the opening elevator door.
A blind sister emerged and Mary Margaret
casually took her hand and
they walked together, going always the same direction.
“We may end up in separate places, but the way
there is not too long—
just a brief detour.”

She goes to prison each week to weave peace with the inmates.
She reads with children, volunteers as driver.

She prays through her feet
grounded in god light, never sacrificing another to her oblations.
She prays early, ministers late.

Some call her saint,
a prayer embodied.
Others, so used to her they do not see.
But we will feel her absence as she ripens,
as we remember, honoring her life
and celebrating her passage.
It would not matter to her,
merely a distraction,
honoring and celebrating now.


Ellen Porter
7/4/07
July Fourth 2007

The night meets full dark
and the crowd looms
crouching like a hunting cat
paralyzed with waiting
breathing in the memories of childhood
keeping possibilities of disappointment at bay.

And then the burst
of colored light and sound:
fountains, comets, spirals.
The people shout their satisfied approval.

A child, awed by colors,
cries out against the noise
stuffing her ears with small fists
and waiting in trepidation and longing
for the next creation.

On and on, light surprises
sounding blasts of canon fire.
And then in sudden, mighty climax
it is over.
Dimmed stars brighten. Smoke dispels.
The feast day ended.

Muted, the crowd,
hardly remembering their country’s revolution,
crawls sated toward their homes and beds
striving toward Independence Day, yet again.


Ellen Porter
8/29/07
Prints of the Living

Afternoons beg your strength
the later day dripping energy
like a spring gone summer still.

And evening has no energy to spill.
You walk when you have to go there
across the tender grass leaving prints of
the living in your wake.

But morning, still shadows of night
waiting in the corners of curtain,
chattering beyond the glass pane,
You feel again the brief promise of life

knowing it will not kindle flame
but will keep you walking, will keep you
anchored to the trilling soil

until the sun pierces midday heights,
loses the shadows of maple and pine,
and reminds you, the full

conflagration of the solar orb,
that your small spark flickers
like a wayward firefly.


Ellen Porter
6/19/07
The Revenant

We walk the roadway
smooth and wide
his fingers webbed with mine.
I relax against his breath
the pull of the moon
equal for each of us.

He is tall
loose in the shoulders
brown in shirt.

There is no friendship I would rather have
and yet I cannot give myself away.
He wants to claim me
wants us to belong each to each.
But I cannot surrender
the whole of my fabric
to anyone.

Can he compromise
these three days--
long, monogamous and his--
giving me sacred time unclaimed
to honor the call of faithfulness
to my self?

And as we walk
we ponder.
How can two be three?


Ellen Porter
1/15/08
Samuel and the Beloved

Yahweh called to Samuel and the boy ran to Eli and said, “I am here.” Eli said, “I have not called you. Go back to sleep.”

Last night the alarm
sounded on the porch
three times.
With each
the wiggle of fear
fluttered strong.

I thought I heard the calling of my name.

Twice more, the alarm.
The police came
to find paper snowflakes,
a child’s project,
glittering out motion to the sensors.

Again I felt the calling.
And a third time.

The Beloved has a funny way
of getting your attention:
Samuel! “Here I am.”
Ellen! “I am here my Friend; you called me.”

I still do not know the purpose of this call,
but I wait, ready,
beckoning to God’s desire.

There is some doubt
about the truth of
this extraordinary story,
yet who, on a bet,
would not answer to
the calling of their name?