Ellen Porter
3/02/08
A Game and Flowers
A visitor comes to my hut;
we laugh great belly laughs
and play a game with
tiny colored birds
instead of marbles.
The sun sets and
we stop our distraction.
My guest collects
a fist-full of flowers
for the table.
We feast with our eyes,
our begging bowls empty.
Ellen Porter
4/7/08
Creosote Timbers
After a day of sod-soaking rain
I return to my little cell,
my knees caked with mud
my mind with ashes.
I lean against the lintel
until the shaking of
legs and knees quiet
and I stand, never a prop
to keep me upright.
You sidle up against
my leg and profess
to be my sister.
Now don’t I know
my sister,
the one whose bed I shared
when we were young?
The one whose bed I beat
with chicken filled pillows
until we coughed and laughed
and our mother came,
crossed-mouthed with thoughts
of dry cleaning and
an inner smile?
So, is it really you?
You whose glance of mischief
keeps us upright and sedate
until, not a chicken feather
out of place,
we bow our acquaintanceship
to each other
and aim our pinfeathers
at each other,
our fathers and uncles disgusted
with our child’s play
and our aunts and mothers
softened against April’s
storms,
not one place to rest our
weary legs nor a lap
to grace our adolescent bones.
And so we dance our fatigue
along the creosote
timbers of an earlier time.
Ellen Porter
2/8/08
Geese
Driving by the library
I look for the geese
arranged by alphabet
in the grassy hollow.
They are not there.
Some rune of nature
has urged their migration
not south, but in yardage,
a half mile west.
There they are,
some tickling their
legs and tail tufts
in grassy fen
and others knee deep,
if geese have knees,
in half frozen bog.
I wonder at the ice
around their tidy ankles,
if geese have ankles.
What keeps them in that frozen bed
so close to ignorant insanity,
equidistant from the chattering wisdom of books
alphabet arranged
on the library shelves?
Ellen Porter
1/23/08
Incantation
For Christmas she gave
a flat, blue, plank of plastic
and spelled out instructions
more incantation than logic.
It takes two cups of water
seeping into the open side
of plank—warm malleable water.
Then tiny, five-year-old fingers,
ten of them,
squeezing and prodding and peeling
until the plank becomes a vase.
Two more cups of cold water,
replacing the warmer
and the shape stays rigid
for days, endless days.
I do not know what happens at night.
The child-made gift complete,
an adult, a kindly sage
brings a fistful of
daisies and queen Anne’s lace
in stately affirmation.
Ellen Porter
2/23/08
On Having Poems Accepted
For the Very First Time
I didn’t submit poems
to her magazine;
I had had my fill of rejection.
But a friend befriended her
and introduced her to my poems.
She liked them more than I
and bought three to last
a half-year.
When I read her message,
I whooped
and friends came running.
Half the pleasure of the
acceptance of poems is
the eager celebration of others.
No meditation today
only the vibrant trilling
of excitement in my stomach,
the distracting joy in my soul.
Ellen Porter
212/08
Some Small Flower of Honesty
I vow to lower my self
to the level of pure thought:
not to speak as though I know what I say,
not to speak to others as if they know less than I.
I vow to listen to the words of the elder:
not to seek recognition of honor,
not to claim friendship,
but to be quiet
to be invisible
until some small flower of honesty
blooms in my heart.
Ellen Porter
2/6/08
The Middle Way
i
I wrestle with life and death
and of course I lose.
If life comes up the conqueror
I wonder why it is so sparse.
If death triumphs
I struggle for change.
The only sacred way
is to avoid the tension altogether
and walk carefully
the middle path
amid the fading crocus.
ii
The sacred pathway
hyacinth and daffodils
fallen leaves in piles
iii
The winter moonlight
heavy with a midnight fog
saplings in the dark
Monday, April 28, 2008
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Ellen Porter
2/19/08
A Flourish of Rhythm
A circle of women
calls wisdom into their midst.
Holding drums their
fingers tremble in anticipation.
They look to the one
who is dying
look for the measuring beat
and so she begins.
A simple rhythm
sounding the full
resonance of the drum.
The stick finds center skin
and the women of wisdom follow.
The dying one adds
a flourish of rhythm
and the others accommodate
and then back again
and forward and back.
She who is dying
plays with the circle
two against three—a trick of timing.
As energy rises
she smiles as she toys playful.
In another month
still alive, still dying
they will meet
to drum again.
Ellen Porter
1/27/08
Bear
One alpine morning
I took pad and pen
and picked each stepfall
to the top of the ridge.
It was cold still,
my breath adding to the early fog.
I sat, my back resting against
an eon of granite
and waited for poetic phrases to come.
A thrashing in the scrub
several yards away,
pushing and prodding toward me.
And all I had to defend myself
from bear,
was an old green ballpoint pen
and a tablet.
I not so much decided to
remain seated
as that a paralysis of fear overtook me.
I waited; it thrashed
and came bursting into view:
huge, black, a red tongue lolling
from it’s mouth.
And then it peed in terror—
the neighbor’s large, unruly mutt.
I threw my arms around his neck
and we licked each other in giggles of delight.
Poetic words did not come that day.
Ellen Porter
3/01/08
Forgotten Lunch
When I see sycamore and pine
laced tight by windless snow
I stop to watch
white upon white
forgetting lunchtime
for memories of
earlier, destructive storms.
Smoked salmon and creamed cheese
can wait until I have my fill
of winter-heavy trees
circling the meadow
basking in the icy sun.
Ellen Porter
2/27/08
In Search of Mulberries
Searching for mulberries
I come too late in the season
but my stomach and soul
are hungry.
I munch on the bitter
needles of pine
and my feet grow
solid in the ground.
How can it be that
the Beloved sends me on
a seasonless journey?
Condescending,
Hafiz answers:
to teach you to laugh
my friend
to teach you to laugh
until the mulberry
bears fruit.
Ellen Porter
1/31/08
Of Old It Has Come To Me
It has come to me
only in honest wilderness:
the golden world.
In rocks, glistening
in thunder after rain,
in lightning not spent.
It has come down
in perfect rolling breakers
water clear enough
to magnify seals
to watch kelp,
dangling upward
from the ocean floor.
But it no longer comes,
the golden world:
perhaps the realm of adolescence.
And my heart aches
with its absence.
Oh, my heart aches.
Ellen Porter
1/26/08
snow presses deep
across the grass.
no sound
no motion
just deep resting white.
i wonder about the dirt
and all that springs from it:
does it breathe easily through its comforter
or is it intimidated by the dark;
does grass rattle beneath the cold;
do bulbs of wildflowers quiver?
i prefer to think they lie in peaceful sleep
no urge for thrusting into light;
no itching to show their colors.
if god is god
this pasture will soon enough be greening.
Ellen Porter
1/25/08
The Illusion and the Verse
I was so distracted
that I missed seeing
the full moon
rising orange and round
like a fine gourd at sunset.
My mind was on poetry,
how to come upon it unaware
and tack it to the page.
But instead it came to me
unaware and I lost both
the illusion and the verse.
2/19/08
A Flourish of Rhythm
A circle of women
calls wisdom into their midst.
Holding drums their
fingers tremble in anticipation.
They look to the one
who is dying
look for the measuring beat
and so she begins.
A simple rhythm
sounding the full
resonance of the drum.
The stick finds center skin
and the women of wisdom follow.
The dying one adds
a flourish of rhythm
and the others accommodate
and then back again
and forward and back.
She who is dying
plays with the circle
two against three—a trick of timing.
As energy rises
she smiles as she toys playful.
In another month
still alive, still dying
they will meet
to drum again.
Ellen Porter
1/27/08
Bear
One alpine morning
I took pad and pen
and picked each stepfall
to the top of the ridge.
It was cold still,
my breath adding to the early fog.
I sat, my back resting against
an eon of granite
and waited for poetic phrases to come.
A thrashing in the scrub
several yards away,
pushing and prodding toward me.
And all I had to defend myself
from bear,
was an old green ballpoint pen
and a tablet.
I not so much decided to
remain seated
as that a paralysis of fear overtook me.
I waited; it thrashed
and came bursting into view:
huge, black, a red tongue lolling
from it’s mouth.
And then it peed in terror—
the neighbor’s large, unruly mutt.
I threw my arms around his neck
and we licked each other in giggles of delight.
Poetic words did not come that day.
Ellen Porter
3/01/08
Forgotten Lunch
When I see sycamore and pine
laced tight by windless snow
I stop to watch
white upon white
forgetting lunchtime
for memories of
earlier, destructive storms.
Smoked salmon and creamed cheese
can wait until I have my fill
of winter-heavy trees
circling the meadow
basking in the icy sun.
Ellen Porter
2/27/08
In Search of Mulberries
Searching for mulberries
I come too late in the season
but my stomach and soul
are hungry.
I munch on the bitter
needles of pine
and my feet grow
solid in the ground.
How can it be that
the Beloved sends me on
a seasonless journey?
Condescending,
Hafiz answers:
to teach you to laugh
my friend
to teach you to laugh
until the mulberry
bears fruit.
Ellen Porter
1/31/08
Of Old It Has Come To Me
It has come to me
only in honest wilderness:
the golden world.
In rocks, glistening
in thunder after rain,
in lightning not spent.
It has come down
in perfect rolling breakers
water clear enough
to magnify seals
to watch kelp,
dangling upward
from the ocean floor.
But it no longer comes,
the golden world:
perhaps the realm of adolescence.
And my heart aches
with its absence.
Oh, my heart aches.
Ellen Porter
1/26/08
snow presses deep
across the grass.
no sound
no motion
just deep resting white.
i wonder about the dirt
and all that springs from it:
does it breathe easily through its comforter
or is it intimidated by the dark;
does grass rattle beneath the cold;
do bulbs of wildflowers quiver?
i prefer to think they lie in peaceful sleep
no urge for thrusting into light;
no itching to show their colors.
if god is god
this pasture will soon enough be greening.
Ellen Porter
1/25/08
The Illusion and the Verse
I was so distracted
that I missed seeing
the full moon
rising orange and round
like a fine gourd at sunset.
My mind was on poetry,
how to come upon it unaware
and tack it to the page.
But instead it came to me
unaware and I lost both
the illusion and the verse.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Ellen Porter
11/12/07
Constancy
Tomorrow I will run to Your heart
for courage and a glimmer of Your will.
Today
I will float chrysanthemums in a bowl
and will gaze silently on your beauty.
Today, tomorrow
You are my Beloved.
Do not stay far off in the desert.
Ellen Porter
12/16/07
Gratitude
Each separate spirit
weaves its own gift,
sets it free into the world
to settle fine as dandelion lace
on trees and birds, raccoons and human hearts.
Each separate gift
spins love into creation
and love upon love
the world gives back its gratitude.
Ellen Porter
10/15/07
kin
your mother gave you promises
life hard and cold as brick
but still yours to take along
promises making you
the root and seed of
your imagination.
my mother offered old poems
sweet and sticky,
honey dappled on the
bitter side of leaves.
she gave me nothing
as sibyl,
so i mark my own path
scattering anger
like bread crumbs.
Ellen Porter
11/02/07
Owl Wings
Darkest of mornings
chill whisper of autumn
I waken with the
aching call of pain.
I long for owl wings
for the antics of ouzel
played out in falling water.
I yearn for unprotected light,
my skin burning below shorts
above a tattered tee
lending an aura of strength
to my mountain-eager body.
I trace the power of these things
allowing the scent of pine,
the wizening of storm-destroyed boles,
the eternal passage of trout,
allowing them to hand me over
from pain, to beauty, to
a huge hungering for freedom.
Ellen Porter
11/19/07
Thanksgiving
I am grateful
and spin a comforter of memories:
my life, a quiet canoe
floating in steadfast water.
Morning coffee softened with milk,
the first blue-blackened sky of autumn dawn
bursting into sunrise.
Five friends, shaping a community of love,
willing to loose the strings of selfishness
to feed the family or to wash the plate.
The garden, sunken, secret, below a hedge of pines,
the ancient maple, home to squirrels, birds, a raccoon
the sweetly staining mulberries pressed
in handfuls to purple lips.
I am grateful
for myriad pleasures,
every moment memorizing its gift.
Ellen Porter
11/21/07
The Wicked Trick
Three nights consecutive I waken.
My Beloved has allowed this malicious pain.
And yet I hold to Her,
my Mother,
the One who understands
the spirals of the dark.
If She blesses this wicked trick
of blistering, binding, malignant ache
then I bow to touch my forehead
to the floor and, not praising Her,
merely seeking to understand,
I whisper, “but You love me.
What is this awful gift
given by your benevolent hand?”
Ellen Porter
1/1/08
Traveling (for Joan Chittister)
You are leaving again,
your luggage always packed
ready for departure.
This time ten days in India
and a month in Cayman to write.
Globally known, you are.
People quiver at the chance to
look you in the eye, to touch your hand,
to hear you speak and
receive your blessing.
I know you sitting on the
rocking chair, chatting about death:
mine,
or lingering around the supper table,
outwitting the other guests with
thrice-told tales of near tragedy,
always ending in a
puff of laughter
blown across table settings at you,
like those trying to extinguish candles
on a birthday cake.
You are voted most influential woman today.
I sigh, regret another accolade,
and hand you a half-eaten bag of trail mix
for your long, barely nourishing
ocean flight to Asia.
11/12/07
Constancy
Tomorrow I will run to Your heart
for courage and a glimmer of Your will.
Today
I will float chrysanthemums in a bowl
and will gaze silently on your beauty.
Today, tomorrow
You are my Beloved.
Do not stay far off in the desert.
Ellen Porter
12/16/07
Gratitude
Each separate spirit
weaves its own gift,
sets it free into the world
to settle fine as dandelion lace
on trees and birds, raccoons and human hearts.
Each separate gift
spins love into creation
and love upon love
the world gives back its gratitude.
Ellen Porter
10/15/07
kin
your mother gave you promises
life hard and cold as brick
but still yours to take along
promises making you
the root and seed of
your imagination.
my mother offered old poems
sweet and sticky,
honey dappled on the
bitter side of leaves.
she gave me nothing
as sibyl,
so i mark my own path
scattering anger
like bread crumbs.
Ellen Porter
11/02/07
Owl Wings
Darkest of mornings
chill whisper of autumn
I waken with the
aching call of pain.
I long for owl wings
for the antics of ouzel
played out in falling water.
I yearn for unprotected light,
my skin burning below shorts
above a tattered tee
lending an aura of strength
to my mountain-eager body.
I trace the power of these things
allowing the scent of pine,
the wizening of storm-destroyed boles,
the eternal passage of trout,
allowing them to hand me over
from pain, to beauty, to
a huge hungering for freedom.
Ellen Porter
11/19/07
Thanksgiving
I am grateful
and spin a comforter of memories:
my life, a quiet canoe
floating in steadfast water.
Morning coffee softened with milk,
the first blue-blackened sky of autumn dawn
bursting into sunrise.
Five friends, shaping a community of love,
willing to loose the strings of selfishness
to feed the family or to wash the plate.
The garden, sunken, secret, below a hedge of pines,
the ancient maple, home to squirrels, birds, a raccoon
the sweetly staining mulberries pressed
in handfuls to purple lips.
I am grateful
for myriad pleasures,
every moment memorizing its gift.
Ellen Porter
11/21/07
The Wicked Trick
Three nights consecutive I waken.
My Beloved has allowed this malicious pain.
And yet I hold to Her,
my Mother,
the One who understands
the spirals of the dark.
If She blesses this wicked trick
of blistering, binding, malignant ache
then I bow to touch my forehead
to the floor and, not praising Her,
merely seeking to understand,
I whisper, “but You love me.
What is this awful gift
given by your benevolent hand?”
Ellen Porter
1/1/08
Traveling (for Joan Chittister)
You are leaving again,
your luggage always packed
ready for departure.
This time ten days in India
and a month in Cayman to write.
Globally known, you are.
People quiver at the chance to
look you in the eye, to touch your hand,
to hear you speak and
receive your blessing.
I know you sitting on the
rocking chair, chatting about death:
mine,
or lingering around the supper table,
outwitting the other guests with
thrice-told tales of near tragedy,
always ending in a
puff of laughter
blown across table settings at you,
like those trying to extinguish candles
on a birthday cake.
You are voted most influential woman today.
I sigh, regret another accolade,
and hand you a half-eaten bag of trail mix
for your long, barely nourishing
ocean flight to Asia.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Ellen Porter
12/15/97
Coming Home
We trekked the mud flats
tidal low, remembering
the crushing waves
an hour past.
It was the terminus
of vacation
the boy and I running free
across the ocean’s narrow face.
We ran from starfish and anemone
from the lightning phosphorescence of plankton
the gills of fish.
We ran toward town.
Our duffels and treasures packed
we joined the unnecessary elders
and rode homeward.
I waited to tell stories to
my eager mother, my siblings
while the boy
closed his eyes, his mouth
with no one to listen
but me.
Ellen Porter
9/20/07
God is Out of Touch
after Hafiz)
Lying in the hammock
I am exhausted.
My heart
a rusted out watering can.
The Beloved is on vacation.
When will She bring back
Her ridiculous smile?
Ellen Porter
12/04/07
Kim, Trying to Visit
She waited in the airport
seven hours stolen out of
the tapestry of her day.
No black ponds to reflect
her fading reflection
back to her for safe-keeping.
No blue forget-me-nots
or golden columbine
to keep her soul attached
to her body abandoned
to cold, hard chairs
and calculated time.
She lingered with tears
for seven, nine, ten
squandered hours
and then ceded the game
and fell back in weighted sleep
on foreign, smoky pillows
of hotel reprise.
I wonder if she will ever fly
the skyways again
or if this abandonment of self
is too expensive to risk
the devastating loss of
image and the slow curling dance
of time toward death.
Ellen Porter
11/28/07
Out of Respect
If I were like another poet
I wouldn’t mind pulling on
rainproof boots, Christmas-old mittens
and beleaguering coat.
I wouldn’t mind gripping the door handle
and pushing through the icy shock
of that first bit of bitter air.
If I were like another poet
I’d go ‘round the paths
naming…that is what she does…
names the birds and trees and sticky weeds
making them her own.
And from that owning
her poems creep forth.
But, it becomes obvious,
I am not like that other poet.
My words, the trickle of my imagination,
come from belly deep, warming from the inside out.
I may never be that other poet
to whom children and poets bow obeisance,
but my words will be true,
erupting from my word-pregnant belly,
they will be true.
Ellen Porter
10/08/07
taking leave
on ordinary mornings i watch tranquil
dark ebbing toward translucent dawn
i read the poets
the great ones
fashioning words and styles and lines
for imitation’s sake
my mind quiet and long.
but today she is taking leave
my sister
and thoughts dart through the dark
like blackbirds
i will not see her soon again
my spirit churning, awaiting
her imminent departure
no time yet for the inevitable dawn
Ellen Porter
11/30/07
The Time is Coming
The time is coming
when I will no longer
seek rest and meals with assorted
strangers and well-meaning friends.
Conversations may turn to angry tirade
or tiresome accolade
and meanwhile I am dying.
Solitude is a far better trek,
the spoor of fatigue avoided.
A roomful of people
and though each one born will die
no one here has yet
and perhaps I am closest to that ascent.
Still it is best to suffer it in shadow,
testing the direction like wind off a sail.
Ellen Porter
9/19/07
You Think I am in Love
(after Hafiz)
You think I am in love
with one person
but the Beloved laughs.
She holds me by my ankles
turns me upside down and
S
H
A
K
E
S
There is enough love here
for the whole world!
12/15/97
Coming Home
We trekked the mud flats
tidal low, remembering
the crushing waves
an hour past.
It was the terminus
of vacation
the boy and I running free
across the ocean’s narrow face.
We ran from starfish and anemone
from the lightning phosphorescence of plankton
the gills of fish.
We ran toward town.
Our duffels and treasures packed
we joined the unnecessary elders
and rode homeward.
I waited to tell stories to
my eager mother, my siblings
while the boy
closed his eyes, his mouth
with no one to listen
but me.
Ellen Porter
9/20/07
God is Out of Touch
after Hafiz)
Lying in the hammock
I am exhausted.
My heart
a rusted out watering can.
The Beloved is on vacation.
When will She bring back
Her ridiculous smile?
Ellen Porter
12/04/07
Kim, Trying to Visit
She waited in the airport
seven hours stolen out of
the tapestry of her day.
No black ponds to reflect
her fading reflection
back to her for safe-keeping.
No blue forget-me-nots
or golden columbine
to keep her soul attached
to her body abandoned
to cold, hard chairs
and calculated time.
She lingered with tears
for seven, nine, ten
squandered hours
and then ceded the game
and fell back in weighted sleep
on foreign, smoky pillows
of hotel reprise.
I wonder if she will ever fly
the skyways again
or if this abandonment of self
is too expensive to risk
the devastating loss of
image and the slow curling dance
of time toward death.
Ellen Porter
11/28/07
Out of Respect
If I were like another poet
I wouldn’t mind pulling on
rainproof boots, Christmas-old mittens
and beleaguering coat.
I wouldn’t mind gripping the door handle
and pushing through the icy shock
of that first bit of bitter air.
If I were like another poet
I’d go ‘round the paths
naming…that is what she does…
names the birds and trees and sticky weeds
making them her own.
And from that owning
her poems creep forth.
But, it becomes obvious,
I am not like that other poet.
My words, the trickle of my imagination,
come from belly deep, warming from the inside out.
I may never be that other poet
to whom children and poets bow obeisance,
but my words will be true,
erupting from my word-pregnant belly,
they will be true.
Ellen Porter
10/08/07
taking leave
on ordinary mornings i watch tranquil
dark ebbing toward translucent dawn
i read the poets
the great ones
fashioning words and styles and lines
for imitation’s sake
my mind quiet and long.
but today she is taking leave
my sister
and thoughts dart through the dark
like blackbirds
i will not see her soon again
my spirit churning, awaiting
her imminent departure
no time yet for the inevitable dawn
Ellen Porter
11/30/07
The Time is Coming
The time is coming
when I will no longer
seek rest and meals with assorted
strangers and well-meaning friends.
Conversations may turn to angry tirade
or tiresome accolade
and meanwhile I am dying.
Solitude is a far better trek,
the spoor of fatigue avoided.
A roomful of people
and though each one born will die
no one here has yet
and perhaps I am closest to that ascent.
Still it is best to suffer it in shadow,
testing the direction like wind off a sail.
Ellen Porter
9/19/07
You Think I am in Love
(after Hafiz)
You think I am in love
with one person
but the Beloved laughs.
She holds me by my ankles
turns me upside down and
S
H
A
K
E
S
There is enough love here
for the whole world!
Monday, April 14, 2008
Ellen Porter
12/06/07
come to visit the dying
you came to visit me
dying
and together we urged
our memories down, back
ten years to our last meeting.
i crept along behind you
my body disintegrating,
a steamed artichoke
loosening its layers of green,
each leaf barbed against new intimacy.
Ellen Porter
10/09/07
Gleaning Frenzy
She is driving a U-Haul truck
pulling a trailer across
a continent called home,
and her heart is full of the journey
too full to reap pure and
satisfying solitude.
She is not seeking the Beloved;
she is flying head-long
toward the child of her child,
a moth tinkering with flame
no room for the void
where Love has soil to bloom.
Hafiz perches beside her
in the truck
playing with her desperate cat.
He knows if he should
leave her abandoned
she would glean frenzy
like wasps.
So I bless his absence
pray for a smooth and sudden swell,
one rapid wave licking the sandy shoal
at journey’s end,
and I thirst for his imminent return.
Ellen Porter
11/26/07
It Remains True
It remains true
that all things die:
the webbed spider
wraps its gasping housefly
in steel-strong threads;
the bear rustles up mushrooms;
and the great blue
heron or whale
spears its silvery salmon.
And yes, it remains true
that all things die.
But I would like to
eke out more time to
further prove that theory.
I would wander on
watching the eternal fall
of one creature, one potato, one forget-me-not.
And I would wander on
looking to meet a stranger friend,
not embracing death
but for a moment
flinging and dancing
free and breezy
these fortunate, uninterrupted lives.
Ellen Porter
9/11/07
One Hundred Children
One hundred poems
inked by children
school children who
write at their desks
write leaning against a tree in the sun
write flopping kitty-cornered on their beds.
Children too young to know
the pain that stains their paper.
Poems screaming out loneliness and abuse.
May they grow older
their fingers holding pens,
their longings and hopes flowering on paper.
May their loneliness and pain
turn to benign memory
as they catch them
flying by their grieving hearts.
May more poems—
poem after poem—
convert these anguished children into
strong and peaceful elders.
Ellen Porter
11/03/07
Spirit Days
Halloween, All Saints, and All Souls
beg us along to follow
the ancient spirits.
We try to tame them by
giving them names
but they are so many
and we so few.
Halloween we give up to the children.
During the day, from the
muffled schoolrooms,
they prance and hold out their bags,
delighted by their power over sweetness.
And at dusk,
walking tree to tree
they are taken up by their own ferocity.
Still, their mouths are filled with candy,
their spirits are tamed.
But those other great feasts of saints and souls
are in adult terrain.
We quickly remember our own favorite dead
and light candles.
But there are so many others,
unnamed, running ahead
turning now and then to
grin at the scrambling dark.
Ellen Porter
12/01/07
The Ten Thousand Things
My mind cannot grasp
the ten thousand things
hurtling in the chaos
crying “it is so” and
“it is not so.”
I tip sideways with
the conflict of the message
and my heart falters.
My Beloved curls sleeping
in my arms;
I struggle restlessly
against my Friend’s
wind-roughened cheek.
My Love in me;
I in my Love.
Just two of the
ten thousand things.
Ellen Porter
12/05/07
Writer’s Block
At dusk
my heart shriveled
remembering the dawn yet to come.
In the early hours
when I pick up pen and precious paper
I fear I will have no words to share
my stomach turning every which way
the dread of something ruined.
12/06/07
come to visit the dying
you came to visit me
dying
and together we urged
our memories down, back
ten years to our last meeting.
i crept along behind you
my body disintegrating,
a steamed artichoke
loosening its layers of green,
each leaf barbed against new intimacy.
Ellen Porter
10/09/07
Gleaning Frenzy
She is driving a U-Haul truck
pulling a trailer across
a continent called home,
and her heart is full of the journey
too full to reap pure and
satisfying solitude.
She is not seeking the Beloved;
she is flying head-long
toward the child of her child,
a moth tinkering with flame
no room for the void
where Love has soil to bloom.
Hafiz perches beside her
in the truck
playing with her desperate cat.
He knows if he should
leave her abandoned
she would glean frenzy
like wasps.
So I bless his absence
pray for a smooth and sudden swell,
one rapid wave licking the sandy shoal
at journey’s end,
and I thirst for his imminent return.
Ellen Porter
11/26/07
It Remains True
It remains true
that all things die:
the webbed spider
wraps its gasping housefly
in steel-strong threads;
the bear rustles up mushrooms;
and the great blue
heron or whale
spears its silvery salmon.
And yes, it remains true
that all things die.
But I would like to
eke out more time to
further prove that theory.
I would wander on
watching the eternal fall
of one creature, one potato, one forget-me-not.
And I would wander on
looking to meet a stranger friend,
not embracing death
but for a moment
flinging and dancing
free and breezy
these fortunate, uninterrupted lives.
Ellen Porter
9/11/07
One Hundred Children
One hundred poems
inked by children
school children who
write at their desks
write leaning against a tree in the sun
write flopping kitty-cornered on their beds.
Children too young to know
the pain that stains their paper.
Poems screaming out loneliness and abuse.
May they grow older
their fingers holding pens,
their longings and hopes flowering on paper.
May their loneliness and pain
turn to benign memory
as they catch them
flying by their grieving hearts.
May more poems—
poem after poem—
convert these anguished children into
strong and peaceful elders.
Ellen Porter
11/03/07
Spirit Days
Halloween, All Saints, and All Souls
beg us along to follow
the ancient spirits.
We try to tame them by
giving them names
but they are so many
and we so few.
Halloween we give up to the children.
During the day, from the
muffled schoolrooms,
they prance and hold out their bags,
delighted by their power over sweetness.
And at dusk,
walking tree to tree
they are taken up by their own ferocity.
Still, their mouths are filled with candy,
their spirits are tamed.
But those other great feasts of saints and souls
are in adult terrain.
We quickly remember our own favorite dead
and light candles.
But there are so many others,
unnamed, running ahead
turning now and then to
grin at the scrambling dark.
Ellen Porter
12/01/07
The Ten Thousand Things
My mind cannot grasp
the ten thousand things
hurtling in the chaos
crying “it is so” and
“it is not so.”
I tip sideways with
the conflict of the message
and my heart falters.
My Beloved curls sleeping
in my arms;
I struggle restlessly
against my Friend’s
wind-roughened cheek.
My Love in me;
I in my Love.
Just two of the
ten thousand things.
Ellen Porter
12/05/07
Writer’s Block
At dusk
my heart shriveled
remembering the dawn yet to come.
In the early hours
when I pick up pen and precious paper
I fear I will have no words to share
my stomach turning every which way
the dread of something ruined.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Ellen Porter
10/8/07
Caryn Departing
(after Hafiz)
Hafiz laughs.
He fingers the dark beads
of dew in his hair,
shakes his head,
spraying water like a dog
fresh from a puddle.
I watch from a distance
Caryn making ready to depart;
there is nothing I can do.
It is not a time for weeping.
Caryn and Hafiz
laughing quietly behind their hands:
they are in this together
remaining and taking leave.
Hafiz will not leave me alone.
Ellen Porter
9/22/07
For the Love of God
(after Hafiz)
The cat
eyes the company.
It doesn’t like parties.
But the Beloved
has sent it on an errand
to bring Her absolute, foolproof love
to all Her friends.
The cat
wanders the room
meanders the garden
and hisses boldly at
all it sees
save one.
That one is not a cat lover,
so it wraps its supple body
around her legs, leaving
brown and white and golden hairs.
Later,
the Beloved asks the cat
about its poor behavior
and the cat replies,
I certainly don’t know
how you pick
your
friends!
Ellen Porter
11/13/07
Into the Desert
I flee into the desert
the tip of Your shadow
my only guide.
Beloved, You are water to my thirst
bread to my hunger.
You are succor to my fear.
I need nothing else
but a glimpse of Your
scattering love.
Ellen Porter
12/02/07
On the Street
It is too bitter to lie
sun-warmed in the hammock.
Memory bids July come
but these aching muscles
this trembling skin
name December the culprit.
I take a blanket
and walk the streets
looking for I do not know what.
The street walkers
saunter to the corner, cold,
their hair splayed like a worried cat’s.
I walk the sidewalks
wrapped against winter.
They walk in a pack,
threatened by the tight fists
of the one who buys them pain.
All of us searching for I do not know what.
They do not allow for it,
but we are all sisters.
Ellen Porter
11/14/07
Some Dull Hope
The tumors,
two or more, not one
clutter my lung space
eat ferociously
the lingering air.
The doctor took
the pictures and the facts
and tried and tried
to help me understand
there is no hope
through radiating
away the alien flesh.
There are no other options left.
He slinks away from
pronouncing me hopeless
and so advises me to
humidify my room until
the window gleams wet,
sister to the sea.
Perhaps it will help my breathing.
He turns to leave,
smiling,
satisfied he has handed
me something: antidote to illness,
some dull hope.
Ellen Porter
9/15/07
The Studio
After three weeks of
dusty, heartbreaking toil
they are finished gleaning the potter’s studio.
The potter is dead.
There are glazed porcelain pots,
museum ready, left untouched
by dying hands.
There are boxes of papers, descriptions
of beauty, of glazes, of kiln mysteries.
The papers caught irreparably,
torn to confetti shreds,
the secrets lost to future generations.
There are tables and the kiln,
the petrified clay, tucked away and forgotten.
And, amid the art,
there are wok and toaster oven,
wine glasses and knives,
cases of wine and a collection of cork screws.
All is cleared out and offered
as open-handed
gifts of remembrance.
The potter’s ashes,
in an urn made for himself
by his own hand,
is carried, serendipitous to the lakeshore,
the pot to be buried with
broken shards of shattered failures,
in his final loam-rich dreaming place.
After three weeks of dusty toil
the friends are leaving,
their work completed.
I watch through the elevator window as
waist and torso and head disappear.
They have been calm blessing to our house,
blessing through death.
But they will come again and
together, we will gather round
a delectable meal
and laugh.
Ellen Porter
11/16/07
woman of color
you sat at a table
and we gathered round
sitting, our knees bumping
one another’s,
our smiles
calculated for comfort.
you sat at the table
in your elegant brown skin
and we envied ourselves
your presence.
the subject turned to poetry.
someone asked me who I read.
lucille clifton i offered as gift
and mary oliver, in balance.
The elegant woman said humpf
in surprise.
i did not dare to meet
the challenge of ownership
in her eyes.
10/8/07
Caryn Departing
(after Hafiz)
Hafiz laughs.
He fingers the dark beads
of dew in his hair,
shakes his head,
spraying water like a dog
fresh from a puddle.
I watch from a distance
Caryn making ready to depart;
there is nothing I can do.
It is not a time for weeping.
Caryn and Hafiz
laughing quietly behind their hands:
they are in this together
remaining and taking leave.
Hafiz will not leave me alone.
Ellen Porter
9/22/07
For the Love of God
(after Hafiz)
The cat
eyes the company.
It doesn’t like parties.
But the Beloved
has sent it on an errand
to bring Her absolute, foolproof love
to all Her friends.
The cat
wanders the room
meanders the garden
and hisses boldly at
all it sees
save one.
That one is not a cat lover,
so it wraps its supple body
around her legs, leaving
brown and white and golden hairs.
Later,
the Beloved asks the cat
about its poor behavior
and the cat replies,
I certainly don’t know
how you pick
your
friends!
Ellen Porter
11/13/07
Into the Desert
I flee into the desert
the tip of Your shadow
my only guide.
Beloved, You are water to my thirst
bread to my hunger.
You are succor to my fear.
I need nothing else
but a glimpse of Your
scattering love.
Ellen Porter
12/02/07
On the Street
It is too bitter to lie
sun-warmed in the hammock.
Memory bids July come
but these aching muscles
this trembling skin
name December the culprit.
I take a blanket
and walk the streets
looking for I do not know what.
The street walkers
saunter to the corner, cold,
their hair splayed like a worried cat’s.
I walk the sidewalks
wrapped against winter.
They walk in a pack,
threatened by the tight fists
of the one who buys them pain.
All of us searching for I do not know what.
They do not allow for it,
but we are all sisters.
Ellen Porter
11/14/07
Some Dull Hope
The tumors,
two or more, not one
clutter my lung space
eat ferociously
the lingering air.
The doctor took
the pictures and the facts
and tried and tried
to help me understand
there is no hope
through radiating
away the alien flesh.
There are no other options left.
He slinks away from
pronouncing me hopeless
and so advises me to
humidify my room until
the window gleams wet,
sister to the sea.
Perhaps it will help my breathing.
He turns to leave,
smiling,
satisfied he has handed
me something: antidote to illness,
some dull hope.
Ellen Porter
9/15/07
The Studio
After three weeks of
dusty, heartbreaking toil
they are finished gleaning the potter’s studio.
The potter is dead.
There are glazed porcelain pots,
museum ready, left untouched
by dying hands.
There are boxes of papers, descriptions
of beauty, of glazes, of kiln mysteries.
The papers caught irreparably,
torn to confetti shreds,
the secrets lost to future generations.
There are tables and the kiln,
the petrified clay, tucked away and forgotten.
And, amid the art,
there are wok and toaster oven,
wine glasses and knives,
cases of wine and a collection of cork screws.
All is cleared out and offered
as open-handed
gifts of remembrance.
The potter’s ashes,
in an urn made for himself
by his own hand,
is carried, serendipitous to the lakeshore,
the pot to be buried with
broken shards of shattered failures,
in his final loam-rich dreaming place.
After three weeks of dusty toil
the friends are leaving,
their work completed.
I watch through the elevator window as
waist and torso and head disappear.
They have been calm blessing to our house,
blessing through death.
But they will come again and
together, we will gather round
a delectable meal
and laugh.
Ellen Porter
11/16/07
woman of color
you sat at a table
and we gathered round
sitting, our knees bumping
one another’s,
our smiles
calculated for comfort.
you sat at the table
in your elegant brown skin
and we envied ourselves
your presence.
the subject turned to poetry.
someone asked me who I read.
lucille clifton i offered as gift
and mary oliver, in balance.
The elegant woman said humpf
in surprise.
i did not dare to meet
the challenge of ownership
in her eyes.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Ellen Porter
11/08/07
Cancer
I wander down sandy lanes
footsteps shuffling deeply
pulled closer and closer
to the sea bright air
in breaths half taken
lungs left hungering for more.
I do not know in what ways I differ
from you and from the
multitude of souls I befriend
but different I am:
in the length of my stride
the tilt of my smile
the swollen bulk of this
body I no longer know.
I take care along the sandy lane
that my feet reach forward
toward the green-waved sea
where silver fish
pull their breaths,
their gills wavering
through the salt-tongued depths.
I am drawn on
a creature of age old migration.
Ellen Porter
10/26/07
Prose Poem
For Blocking the Doors
The courageous six stand on the courthouse steps, pride and unity enlarging their hearts. Civil disobedience shouts war is not the answer.
They arrive to sit at trial and we to listen, up concrete corridors to the room with wooden pews and straight-faced men standing guard. Six hearts, still brave but shrinking softly under practiced intimidation.
The magistrate judge opens the door, enters the room as if it were her own: a gray haired woman with sympathetic hands, loving patience, unfeigned interest in these six succinct minds and yearning spirits.
We hear evidence that does not apply. But the pain, the transparent pain of the six, rises, holding the courtroom captive.
They are guilty. Even we, their orderly and eager support, even we know they are guilty but naïve and moral and impelled toward non-violent action.
They are guilty, and with tears edging down her cheeks, the magistrate judge hands out with loving truth a sentence minimal enough to bear and firm enough to bolster the necessary pride of the incarcerated six.
Ellen Porter
10/1007
Integration
is not a matter of deserving.
My father loathed Negroes
and some while before,
the grandfathers and great-grandfathers
locked their shackles around
bruised and bleeding ankles
So not a matter of deserving
but a longing to worship
the same God.
And the beautiful
black face of tribal wisdom
turns her head
dismisses me.
For centuries forgiveness must
flow one way.
There is so much to be repented.
My white body quivers,
yearning for common ground.
Is there no place for seeing
the wide and gracious wombs
in acceptance of each other’s
history and hues?
Ellen Porter
11/23/07
Of All the Obsessions
Of all the obsessions
in this sorry heart of mine
racism is hardest to define
and miserable.
Hafiz laughs at me and demands
What makes you think the Beloved is
white and comfortingly like yourself?
Maybe, in the first place
She beheld the black satin skin
of Her own reflection and said,
This is great!
You are so afraid of detecting
rejection in your own soul
that you resist walking up to
a beautiful black man,
an elegant bronze woman,
and shaking hands, and that you
resist talking like one person to another,
and that you refuse to let your feet dance
in a multicolored, smiling circle
of drums and rattles.
Your sorry heart
loses out on half the shining love
of the universe.
Ellen Porter
9/27/07
Sleep
(after Hafiz)
You are crazy
my sweet friend.
You rise in early morning—
four o’clock again today!—
and you wonder at your
fatigue.
Ellen,
Listen,
The Beloved craves
your sleep.
It is then that She scatters
poems and dreams
in your hair.
So sleep!
At night is best
but a nap at seven a.m. will do
or rocking gently
in the hammock
anytime.
The Beloved
so wants to come near
that I, Hafiz,
may have to rap you on the head,
unconscious,
so She can give Her gifts,
wholly, delightfully,
to you.
Ellen Porter
11/05/07
The Steps Toward Home
Between the steps toward home
steep enough to warrant a railing
cold and rough on children’s shoes
and the gravel laden parking lot
there is a sidewalk
to be shoveled in winter
wandered in summer
the wanderer unaware.
And beside the walk
a strip of untended garden
weeds mostly,
sticking out their spiked and sticky tongues.
But in spring a clean and infinite garden
snow drops, crocus, daffodil and hyacinth.
Today, with a token nod to November
I feel the sticky weeds
but I cannot envision
the star-laden blooms.
Ellen Porter
9/28/07
Water For Water
She made her decision slowly,
my sister,
sliding smoothly like a snake
losing its familiar skin.
She is leaving Lake Erie,
leaving behind the hard, scaly
protection of long use,
to slip
new and shimmering
along Puget Sound.
The Pacific Northwest
pulls her like a magnet—
evergreens, heron and rain—
the evermore urgent yearning
for a home of her own belongings,
and, dancing the pink joy
of laces and frills—
and growing, oh so fast—
there is the irresistible, irreplaceable
smallest offspring:
the child of her child.
I am the one left behind,
cherished like the final
ripening apricot of summer,
hanging alone,
waiting to fall or to be taken.
There is no sorrow in being last,
only a bright and startling awareness
of leaves and stems and final seeds.
11/08/07
Cancer
I wander down sandy lanes
footsteps shuffling deeply
pulled closer and closer
to the sea bright air
in breaths half taken
lungs left hungering for more.
I do not know in what ways I differ
from you and from the
multitude of souls I befriend
but different I am:
in the length of my stride
the tilt of my smile
the swollen bulk of this
body I no longer know.
I take care along the sandy lane
that my feet reach forward
toward the green-waved sea
where silver fish
pull their breaths,
their gills wavering
through the salt-tongued depths.
I am drawn on
a creature of age old migration.
Ellen Porter
10/26/07
Prose Poem
For Blocking the Doors
The courageous six stand on the courthouse steps, pride and unity enlarging their hearts. Civil disobedience shouts war is not the answer.
They arrive to sit at trial and we to listen, up concrete corridors to the room with wooden pews and straight-faced men standing guard. Six hearts, still brave but shrinking softly under practiced intimidation.
The magistrate judge opens the door, enters the room as if it were her own: a gray haired woman with sympathetic hands, loving patience, unfeigned interest in these six succinct minds and yearning spirits.
We hear evidence that does not apply. But the pain, the transparent pain of the six, rises, holding the courtroom captive.
They are guilty. Even we, their orderly and eager support, even we know they are guilty but naïve and moral and impelled toward non-violent action.
They are guilty, and with tears edging down her cheeks, the magistrate judge hands out with loving truth a sentence minimal enough to bear and firm enough to bolster the necessary pride of the incarcerated six.
Ellen Porter
10/1007
Integration
is not a matter of deserving.
My father loathed Negroes
and some while before,
the grandfathers and great-grandfathers
locked their shackles around
bruised and bleeding ankles
So not a matter of deserving
but a longing to worship
the same God.
And the beautiful
black face of tribal wisdom
turns her head
dismisses me.
For centuries forgiveness must
flow one way.
There is so much to be repented.
My white body quivers,
yearning for common ground.
Is there no place for seeing
the wide and gracious wombs
in acceptance of each other’s
history and hues?
Ellen Porter
11/23/07
Of All the Obsessions
Of all the obsessions
in this sorry heart of mine
racism is hardest to define
and miserable.
Hafiz laughs at me and demands
What makes you think the Beloved is
white and comfortingly like yourself?
Maybe, in the first place
She beheld the black satin skin
of Her own reflection and said,
This is great!
You are so afraid of detecting
rejection in your own soul
that you resist walking up to
a beautiful black man,
an elegant bronze woman,
and shaking hands, and that you
resist talking like one person to another,
and that you refuse to let your feet dance
in a multicolored, smiling circle
of drums and rattles.
Your sorry heart
loses out on half the shining love
of the universe.
Ellen Porter
9/27/07
Sleep
(after Hafiz)
You are crazy
my sweet friend.
You rise in early morning—
four o’clock again today!—
and you wonder at your
fatigue.
Ellen,
Listen,
The Beloved craves
your sleep.
It is then that She scatters
poems and dreams
in your hair.
So sleep!
At night is best
but a nap at seven a.m. will do
or rocking gently
in the hammock
anytime.
The Beloved
so wants to come near
that I, Hafiz,
may have to rap you on the head,
unconscious,
so She can give Her gifts,
wholly, delightfully,
to you.
Ellen Porter
11/05/07
The Steps Toward Home
Between the steps toward home
steep enough to warrant a railing
cold and rough on children’s shoes
and the gravel laden parking lot
there is a sidewalk
to be shoveled in winter
wandered in summer
the wanderer unaware.
And beside the walk
a strip of untended garden
weeds mostly,
sticking out their spiked and sticky tongues.
But in spring a clean and infinite garden
snow drops, crocus, daffodil and hyacinth.
Today, with a token nod to November
I feel the sticky weeds
but I cannot envision
the star-laden blooms.
Ellen Porter
9/28/07
Water For Water
She made her decision slowly,
my sister,
sliding smoothly like a snake
losing its familiar skin.
She is leaving Lake Erie,
leaving behind the hard, scaly
protection of long use,
to slip
new and shimmering
along Puget Sound.
The Pacific Northwest
pulls her like a magnet—
evergreens, heron and rain—
the evermore urgent yearning
for a home of her own belongings,
and, dancing the pink joy
of laces and frills—
and growing, oh so fast—
there is the irresistible, irreplaceable
smallest offspring:
the child of her child.
I am the one left behind,
cherished like the final
ripening apricot of summer,
hanging alone,
waiting to fall or to be taken.
There is no sorrow in being last,
only a bright and startling awareness
of leaves and stems and final seeds.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Ellen Porter
11/10/07
By My Window
By my window
I lean across my little desk
to watch the moon
half full
move through autumn-bare
sycamore branches.
I turn to go
my heart pulled by
morning obligations
and, startled,
I see in the mirror
the moon again,
wandering.
Ellen Porter
9/17/07
Feline
Settling in my hammock
I hear a squeaking
like oxygen escaping a valve.
I inhale deeply,
check my tank:
no whistle, no irritating squeal.
Then out from under
my comfortable recline
comes a cat
face black and snow
tail brown as disturbed dirt
in a garden newly planted.
She squeaks and cajoles
and jumps onto the bed
looking for food—I have none
looking for water—mine is in a bottle
looking for willing, scratching fingers.
I bump her gently to the ground.
She is no twin for my soul.
Ellen Porter
10/15/07
Insistence
Early morning
long before sunrise
I am awakened by
the longing call of love.
No friend here
in flesh;
the quiet insistence
has no other source
than the calling
and calling
of the Beloved.
Ellen Porter
11/15/07
Ochalek
Brigid, ten months,
attends vigil after vigil for peace.
Her father holds her high in the air:
her squealing laughter.
Together, they urge: Stop the War.
Under billowing blouse, her mother nurses
and the baby smiles the smile of the innocent.
And what will come of her when she is five?
Will her innocence blossom into wisdom
fresh from her parents’ souls,
or will she nurture her own glee,
the peace that passes understanding?
She waves her protesting fists in the air,
tastes them, nearly a year old.
How fortunate we are to spawn
the next generation:
Brigid and Jessie and Matt,
holding hands against the world’s inundation
Ellen Porter
11/29/07
Silence and Separation
This morning I rise early
like on so many other days.
But today my soul is ready
to turn away.
Silence and separation are
what I crave,
not soulfulness or wisdom,
not union with the Friend.
Just leave me alone to feel
the autumn wind on my coat,
the cold
battering my stubbornness.
Ellen Porter
10/12/07
The Stash of Love
If there is a secret
stash of love in my soul
no one, not even I
knows where it is hidden.
Rumi knows and understands
the mystery.
He knows he cannot find the stash,
he knows it is there for the finding:
the genesis of love
for parent and child and old uncle
all the kin from time’s beginning.
And then all the friends and
finally the enemies.
That last is where the secret lies
too hidden to be found except
in the pomegranate and the water lily,
sunrise and the roaring lion.
Ellen Porter
11/26/07
Wandering This House
Wandering this house
more mansion than hovel
I walk with predicted death.
I hear it calling
room to room
and I follow
eager
leaving fear behind.
At the moment,
the splendid moment
that I encounter its essence
death will bow to me
and I will fall
unshaken
into the embrace
of the infinite
Beloved.
11/10/07
By My Window
By my window
I lean across my little desk
to watch the moon
half full
move through autumn-bare
sycamore branches.
I turn to go
my heart pulled by
morning obligations
and, startled,
I see in the mirror
the moon again,
wandering.
Ellen Porter
9/17/07
Feline
Settling in my hammock
I hear a squeaking
like oxygen escaping a valve.
I inhale deeply,
check my tank:
no whistle, no irritating squeal.
Then out from under
my comfortable recline
comes a cat
face black and snow
tail brown as disturbed dirt
in a garden newly planted.
She squeaks and cajoles
and jumps onto the bed
looking for food—I have none
looking for water—mine is in a bottle
looking for willing, scratching fingers.
I bump her gently to the ground.
She is no twin for my soul.
Ellen Porter
10/15/07
Insistence
Early morning
long before sunrise
I am awakened by
the longing call of love.
No friend here
in flesh;
the quiet insistence
has no other source
than the calling
and calling
of the Beloved.
Ellen Porter
11/15/07
Ochalek
Brigid, ten months,
attends vigil after vigil for peace.
Her father holds her high in the air:
her squealing laughter.
Together, they urge: Stop the War.
Under billowing blouse, her mother nurses
and the baby smiles the smile of the innocent.
And what will come of her when she is five?
Will her innocence blossom into wisdom
fresh from her parents’ souls,
or will she nurture her own glee,
the peace that passes understanding?
She waves her protesting fists in the air,
tastes them, nearly a year old.
How fortunate we are to spawn
the next generation:
Brigid and Jessie and Matt,
holding hands against the world’s inundation
Ellen Porter
11/29/07
Silence and Separation
This morning I rise early
like on so many other days.
But today my soul is ready
to turn away.
Silence and separation are
what I crave,
not soulfulness or wisdom,
not union with the Friend.
Just leave me alone to feel
the autumn wind on my coat,
the cold
battering my stubbornness.
Ellen Porter
10/12/07
The Stash of Love
If there is a secret
stash of love in my soul
no one, not even I
knows where it is hidden.
Rumi knows and understands
the mystery.
He knows he cannot find the stash,
he knows it is there for the finding:
the genesis of love
for parent and child and old uncle
all the kin from time’s beginning.
And then all the friends and
finally the enemies.
That last is where the secret lies
too hidden to be found except
in the pomegranate and the water lily,
sunrise and the roaring lion.
Ellen Porter
11/26/07
Wandering This House
Wandering this house
more mansion than hovel
I walk with predicted death.
I hear it calling
room to room
and I follow
eager
leaving fear behind.
At the moment,
the splendid moment
that I encounter its essence
death will bow to me
and I will fall
unshaken
into the embrace
of the infinite
Beloved.
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