Ellen Porter
2/7/08
Alpenglow

It has been many years
since I have seen Mt. Whitney.
It has become a highway for hikers:
The tallest peak.
I have no desire to climb it.
In my old age I would be content
to watch from low in the
Alabama Hills
as the mountain flushes
pink in alpenglow.
The Beloved shows herself
in myriad ways.
I do not have to scale the peaks
to be in Her presence.
Ah, but I am caught up
a continent away.
What can the Beloved
possibly have for me here in Pennsylvania?


Ellen Porter
1/22/08
Drumming Circle

In a circle of burnt orange armchairs
in the convent chapel
the women—
the sisters and friends—
wait ready for
the incipient rhythm to begin.

It is mine
the cancer ridden body,
that presents itself for succor.
And so it comes to me
to start the beat.

Before hands stir
I warn
I may not have strength to lead—
that another may need to
grab the rhythm and run.

And so we begin
twelve in all;
ten women, a girl child and a baby miss.
(The young ones beat their fists into power.)
I beat in a rhythm of four
and the dark drums follow,
smoothly, evenly
until I change to patterns of three.
They stumble a bit and then
waterfall their hearts
into new falling play.

I do not need to
give away the beat.
I grow stronger
until the time to put away
drums and hearts and rhythms.
Then I bow low to the sacred
and stumble to my cell.


Ellen Porter
1/18/08
Hunger

Hunger
I cannot describe it—
even as poet—
because I have always had
a loaf of bread and a cup of milk,
accepting what seemed inevitably mine.

But ask the child
shivering in the soup kitchen line,
What is hunger?
He pretends, at first, that I am
not talking to him.
Why would an adult want to know?
Then he whirls around to face me.

“I don’t hafta be here,” he defends.
“It was my sister’s turn for dinner
so I thought I’d catch a bite here.”

Can you tell me what it is like,
being hungry?
“That’s a stupid question.
Hungry is what you feel
when you feed the last soup to the baby.
He settles into your arms
and pulls on the bottle, and waves his
fists in the air. And you see him smile.
Hunger is having a little soup
and giving it away.”


Ellen Porter
2/10/08
Morning Distress

I.

I waken with disappointment
falling through the cracks
in my heart
like leaves of the maple
beside the wandering path.

I cannot remember the dream
that spawned this distress
but it stirs my stomach
like the third cup of coffee.

I would like to lay it down
this lump of discomfort
and walk softly
along the rain-filled pot holes
of winter.


II.

Morning’s discontent
dream-born and so tedious
tamps the poet’s soul


Ellen Porter
3/19/08
Scribbled Out, Scribbled In

When I was young
I took my mother’s hand
in the warmth of winter.
I felt guilt
in the closeness of that private grasp.

Still later, the spring buds welcomed
my wayward spirit.
Watercress clings to icy banks;
drips brittle lettuce:
stalactite against
weary stalagmite.
Dripping and dripping.


Ellen Porter
1/17/08
The Democratic Process in the USA

I arrive at the polling place;
an elementary inner city school
where children and parents know squat
about the candidates.

Eight o’clock and I am tenth to vote;
the school breeds a generation of apathy.
Parents drop off their children
looking forward to having a quiet day,
but they do not stop at the polls.

Inside the volunteers fumble for my name.
(If I weren’t there to help, would I
vote another’s choices?)

The computerized voting machine and
even I, computer educated,
need to question the process.
It is not easy when
the government makes things safe.

I pull the lever to record my vote.
It grinds my crunching choices
into light and they disappear.

No paper trail.
I so regret the possibilities with
no paper trail.
Perhaps the Swiss should be called in to monitor
our one-time democratic process.


Ellen Porter
2/21/08
Truth and Friendship

Yesterday I told you the truth,
the hard words that
stung you to the bone.

And all day long
my stomach ached
while you smiled and
drew me near.

It is essential to
expose the truth
or our friendship
will be hollow as a tree,
lightning struck.

At times you grow
angry with me and
we survive it, whole.
At times I grow angry with you
and we abide,
strengthened.

You flail at me
with your tongue.
I grab at your soul
with my pen.
They are the same.

But, oh, my dearest friend
neither of us enjoy the
pain we strike in
each other’s heart.
We cry for deep-set forgiveness,
a geode broken open
to reveal its ornate, hidden crystal.