Tuesday, 16 October 2018

F Fic, Non-fic

Poetry by Marianne Lyon

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marianne poetry pic

 

Wrinkles

I blow wrinkles over my steaming morning tea

stare at myself in bathroom mirror

notice how faint lines ripple along my mouth

from habit of setting my jaw

pinching my lips against the world

 

It was said that age wrinkles the body

but quitting ages the soul*

and I think of mom’s overstated word

gumption

taught to never quit

seldom did as a kid but

wonder now if my soul is aging

because I have quit

said no more, enough already

 

Does my aging soul don wrinkles?

Naively, I imagine tender lines

stroked and kissed like medicine, like cool water

but realistically there are

scars of regret and loneliness and loss

lines of enduring forces of every kind

from within and without

 

I stare at myself in bathroom mirror

touch deep creases between my eyes carefully etched

when he makes me laugh so satisfying as

a luxurious morning yawn and

I have to admit I’m fine with wrinkles

a visual text of my life

 

Don’t know if my aging soul has many more years

Sages say the soul is eternal

But I want to believe that

my soul holds lines of verses of

a few more scribbled poems

a folder of chiseled memoirs

short story lessons gleaned along the way

I’m fine with aging

I’m fine with my wrinkles

inside and out  

 

*Douglas MacArthur

Where the boundary

 

            invisibly bisects a strand of deep brush

            Chokecherry, popple, stunted oak,

            he waits*

like a contented cat

sits by local creek

I build his face

as in front of me

study his wide-set eyes

Dad seems given to dreaming

his nature world peopled with

pages of berry whiffs

familiar wind-moved leaves

talking frogs

a weaved willow

fishing basket

lays open on weedy shore

a cricket sweetens his ears

then his arm arches

hand-tied fishing pole

dances a back step

fly touches soft ripple

 

I imagine him

sauntering home

confident stride

up our alley

thick with whooping kids

junky cars on stilts

he swings his bulging basket

trout tails jut out latched top

I rush to him

imitate his perky stride

can see the stained

berry juice on his smiling lips

we reach fragrant back yard

birds sing in lilac bush

purple bunches bounce

its branches their trampoline

He strides through our exploding garden

it happens every summer

catching our meatless Friday dinner

bemused mom waits at open door

Adapted from the first line from LaRose- Louise Erdrich

 


Marianne Lyon has been a music teacher for 39 years. After teaching in Hong Kong she returned to the Napa Valley and has been published in various literary magazines and reviews. Nominated for the Pushcart Prize 2016. She is a member of the California Writers Club, Healdsburg Literary Guild. She is an Adjunct Professor at Touro University Vallejo California

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