Ellen Porter
12/30/07
The Shadow of a Rabbit

On my blue lined paper
before I etch ink into permanence

there is a rabbit
nibbling the fringes;

the shadow of a
white rabbit

ears risen in content
whiskers whispering safety.

There is nothing more visible
nothing left to etch in permanence.

Only the shadow of a rabbit
singing in the wet grass.


Ellen Porter
12/31/07
The Shadow of Sea Birds

The shadow of sea birds
wings its way across my paper
pristine in early morning mist.

The shadow exchanges daybreak for evening
eucalyptus stark against the falling sun
nests of heron weathering the years
braced against windstorm and hail.

Old Sol,
two fingers up from the horizon
gives back lighting to a
squadron of great blues
like pterodactyl
coming to nest.

Lower still, the formation
of pelicans gliding
inches above the waves,
dipping now and then for
a throatful of water and fish.

If I should change places
with this shadow of birds
on poet’s paper,
in devastation I would
lose my heart's ease:
waiting and watching.

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.


Ellen Porter
7/25/07
The Sentinel

I have not dared to go see it yet,
since the storm,
the sentinel pine, towering, leaning,
sheltering the sunken garden.

So suddenly,
yesterday it was healthy
bearing cones, ornaments hanging,
brown and seeded from greening fingers.
And today it is dead, those seeds
its only hope of future generation.

The storm was unexpected
centered in this garden, in this home.
The lightening blackened a clock on the wall,
asserting its power, stopping time on edge.

But worse, striking, it burned through
the heart of the pine.
Branches hang loose
making it dangerous to lie beneath it,
staring into its shadows, its lights.

And what of the shade it offers;
what of the darkened corner of
garden where small animals
make their homes, their hunting grounds?
And, oh, the birds.

Ellen Porter
2/21/08
Some Winter Days

There are winter days
I never go outside:
no caps or mittens
taken from their pegs.
I curl up like a
turtle warding off
irritation,
and from some deep place
under my blanket,
I catch glimpses of
tortoise shell and snow.


Ellen Porter
2/26/08
The Doing of Things

There are three ways
to get things done
now that I am sick.
I didn’t go outside all day yesterday,
but needed to make my bed,
fill my eating bowl and
fetch my water.

There are some things
that some days
I can do myself
and I feel useful and strong.
I must do what I can to
still feel alive.

There are some things
that some days
I need to ask help
in the doing.
I ask and it is given.
I feel grateful but lazy.
Can I forgive myself the asking?

There are some things
that some days
you do for me without words.
Both know I am unable.
I weep inside at my disability
and at the greatness of your love.


Ellen Porter
12/19/07
The early morning chronicle of poems

needing to be read
not confined to a notebook
to be burned later
at my cremation,
Susan gathered together,
she excited and reverent,
and brought them to the screen:
a computer capable of light and life.

And seventy-two people
dipped into my words
found hope or despair.
And the chronicles lived on
fresher than the world news,
shining benign and malevolent,
read into the steady vitality
of the souls of strangers.

Ellen Porter
2/13/06
Return

Twelve blackbirds
huddle on a wire
warming their feet.

I journey below
entering, leaving
the city.

My thoughts circle and dip
thighs tattoo a rhythm
fingers explore
rubbing one another
smooth as stone.

Each trip it is the same.
I travel the overpass
the blackbirds
wait.



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
7/10/08
Daisies

Quick little daisies never seen the light
but reddened by wind and drying air.

But you dance about the dunes
wet and hot.
You dance, dance and leap
leaving not a tempo too short or
a stripe to memorize.

Now I am here alone,
alone beyond all questioning or answering.
In the next few days or across a week or tow
I will meet my maker
My wonderous, breathtaking maker
And then I will be wholly and totally
myself.

Evening Primrose

The dying don't need much sleep/
I don't mean the ones in bed
propped on pillows,
turned side to side
waiting for their final breath.
The ones who traverse the chasm
between two worlds.
I mean walking doomed
who still have choices.

I have always coveted my sleep
and have risen late
pulled from darkness
to the stark and waiting day.

But now in these new weeks
my body unfolds at five:
the mirror surprise of evening primrose.
I ascend easily
visit the still quiet skeleton
of a sleeping house.
Seven hours are fertile enough
to plant the dreams I need.
For now
the magnet force of dawn
holds more delight
than the fathomless deep
where no compass
finds due north.
I balance day and night
on tiptoe.

A Hermit Holds My Heart
Ellen Porter
Benetvision

The Monastery Gardener

She says with no self-doubt
whatsoever
that crows are taking over the world.
Standing among vining tomatoes
in ground long worked by hand
bag upon bag of musty autumn leaves
urging clay, six inches down,
to yield fruit,
she peers skyward
listening to the raucous noise
and bows her head.

She is a Benedictine and
Benedict had an affinity for ravens--
one saving him from a poisonous bit of bread--
but she does not pray to Benedict.
She wishes no benediction on these birds.
She kneels to the ground
plotting the demise of this skyful of crows,
thieving tomatoes.
She bides her time and
pulls up a handful of weeds.
At least this enemy
can be met on equal ground.

A Hermit Holds My Heart
Ellen Porter
Benetvision

Prognosis

The cancer lurks
holding my lung captive
growing slowly
a glacier inching along
leaving behind my shattered breath.

They tell me I will
likely die of something else,
some complication, not unexpected
but sudden.

And so I wait.

On bad days I spend time
gathering hymns and psalms
for my funeral.
Yet, this morning I felt
not invincible
but suspended in time.
I ordered antibiotics
for the cleaning of my teeth,
bought two pairs of black shoe laces
though I only have one pair of lacing shoes,
and an eight pack of Dial soap,
gold, unscented.

I genuflect to the inner wisdom
and wave away
the white coated men.

A Hermit Holds My Heart
Ellen Porter
Benetvision