Mary's Poetry
*************************and other writings
Welcome to my poetry page!
We are all poets, aren't we? Our very lives are filled with poetry. Some of us express our sense of the poetic the best we can on paper. Others of us express it in other ways. This is my way.
Some of you may like my poems. Some of you may not. Many of them are about pain and suffering. But they are about what I know and can honestly write about.
Writing these poems has been my way of expressing how I see the world. Sharing them is how I connect with you. I hope, in the process, you can enjoy, at the very least, the pleasure of recognition, at the most, the spirit of what I am trying to convey.
Thank you for for stopping by.
POEMS
- For Evelyn
- Abcission
- Thanksgiving
- To Survive
- Telling My Son He's Out of Remission
- He Told Me He Wished I'd Die
- Therapist at the Veteran's Hospital
- After the Funeral
For Evelyn
(1927-1945)Ghosting last night's dreams
with dust powdered feet,
skirts unravelling the wind,
we danced the country side--
wild flowers scattering green,
pebbles swaying the pond.
When your heart demanded rest
we found a poplar tree,
its leaves pale in the fading
of an old burial ground.
Sitting underneath shadows,
we leaned, each on the other,
and lifted clouds
as we listened to the music of the dead.
My girlhood friend, walking stones tonight,
I hold a vision of your burnt-orange hair,
your easy laugh,
the rapid rise and fall of your chest--
as if you were in a hurry.
in this twilight,
you are the leaves rustling,
the sea stirring,
your name a whisper
filling the universe.
I let you go.
(c) Mary Harrison,1993, pub in "Reflections"
Abscission
Sweet-talking God does not bring me back. I know.
the twisted days which led me to this cold
hospital room in a miserly bed on the sixth floor,
my closet filled with going-home clothes, the cold cream of hope
spilling from every shelf. The familiar mix of disinfectant with stale
urine is oddly reassuring, as is the constant
drip of the IV, the squeak of shoes on marble, oxygen drying my nose.
I want to believe my time will never end,
that my own personal space will forever be filled with my living,
that each new season will find me also renewed.
Now in this hour which looks so final, I just want relief. Nothing else
seems important. Shadows settle into the corridors.
Yet, like most people caught in the web of gray and white, I fear.
When the body's alarm begins to vibrate, I strain to hear.
Is it time? No! How can I envision the unthinkable?
Rain on the rooftop. Breaking light of day. Winds of March bounce off empty
limbs onto the side of the building. A leaf from last year clings.
The wail is years of aches flowing through
my blood. The agony of letting go. Already my lungs are filling with dust.
I lean into the circle of my life and my heart yearns for more
of everything even as it races toward my destiny.
In the stillness, death with its red-hot poker walks through the door.
It grabs for my heart, like a seaman bagging a fish from his net.
How many times did this old leaf dodge the backyard compost? This certain morning
my wild heart wants to be free, to ease into the warm lap of day.
And I want to think I shall have tomorrow. I will always have tomorrow.
hospital room in a miserly bed on the sixth floor,
my closet filled with going-home clothes, the cold cream of hope
spilling from every shelf. The familiar mix of disinfectant with stale
urine is oddly reassuring, as is the constant
drip of the IV, the squeak of shoes on marble, oxygen drying my nose.
I want to believe my time will never end,
that my own personal space will forever be filled with my living,
that each new season will find me also renewed.
Now in this hour which looks so final, I just want relief. Nothing else
seems important. Shadows settle into the corridors.
Yet, like most people caught in the web of gray and white, I fear.
When the body's alarm begins to vibrate, I strain to hear.
Is it time? No! How can I envision the unthinkable?
Rain on the rooftop. Breaking light of day. Winds of March bounce off empty
limbs onto the side of the building. A leaf from last year clings.
The wail is years of aches flowing through
my blood. The agony of letting go. Already my lungs are filling with dust.
I lean into the circle of my life and my heart yearns for more
of everything even as it races toward my destiny.
In the stillness, death with its red-hot poker walks through the door.
It grabs for my heart, like a seaman bagging a fish from his net.
How many times did this old leaf dodge the backyard compost? This certain morning
my wild heart wants to be free, to ease into the warm lap of day.
And I want to think I shall have tomorrow. I will always have tomorrow.
(c) Mary Harrison, October, 1996
Thanksgiving
for Mother
My mother insists on cooking the traditional meal.
She stuffs the turkey and puts it in the oven.
She peels potatoes at the kitchen sink.
A warm mist fills the room.
It softens her stiff white apron
and freshens the blooms.
As I help with the chopping and the paring, I notice
there's something about the hallows around her eyes,
the quick shallow breathing,
the squeaks and the sighs when she speaks,
the dry skin,
the hair that's spreading thin.
When it's time to leave, I'm startled
to find in my easy embrace
an old used fragile doll
who could easily come apart. If I hug her too tight
I'm afraid she might fall, along with my heart
and we'll , neither, be able to rise.
But it's not about cooking or eating,
or clearing the table and putting the kitchen to rest;
it's not talking about the weather together
or following what's familiar.
It's about bone and blood
and leavings.
Even the soft maple growing old.
(c) Mary Harrison, 1994,95,96
To Survive
Think about when you were
young and how
you dreamed of living, someday,
in a house filled with ruffles and lace
and story-book people, surrounded
by a garden radiant with blooms.
Or think about tomorrow
when you'll become wise,
lighting up the dark corners
or your time.
And you will know the world's name.
Some morning, when you wake
early, you'll sit on the porch
sipping coffee, letting the cup
warm your hands as you watch gray clouds
turn to pink.
You'll notice the sea-blue sky,
hear sun-up songs
of birds and smell the peonies.
And maybe you'll decide
that moment is all you need.
For now, just go inside and sweep.
(c) Mary Harrison, 1993,94,95,96-pub in TYPE magazine
Telling My Son He's Out of Remission
I drive through a storm
to get to his house.
His wife lets me in.
She calls for him to come out of the kitchen
He stands in the doorway of the living
room, knowing what I will say
but needing to hear the words
in order to give them life.
His wife sits, silent, in a soft chair,
half-eaten pop-corn scattered on the floor,
pages of a love story in her lap, closing.
When he sits beside me on the couch
and leans against my shoulder,
I hold him and brush back his hair.
Sheets of sorrow.
Later, we eat at the Tocorral.
(c) Mary Harrison, 1994,95,96
BACK
He Told Me He Wished I'd Die
I have driven to Rhode Island
in my blue Century Buick
to hear the tide rush in
and watch the waves.
But I'm too late.
The tide's going out;
the beach is deserted.
I press my feet deep
into the ocean bed:
pebbles and sea-weed slap
my ankles while I look
at the foaming
and listen to seagulls screeching
for food.
I have nothing to give.
Stinging cold water draws marrow
from bones
in my feet and legs,
travelling up my spine.
The hurt goes deep.
I start for shore but stop
to feel the cold again.
I need to feel
even this ache
so I'll know I'm alive.
(c)Mary Harrison, 1996-pub in Kansas Quarterly
BACK
Therapist at the Veteran's Hospital
Those last weeks, when he was a diagram
of his former self--skin seizing the bone,
eyes sinking into their sockets,
cheeks making caves,
we knew we were lovers of a special kind.
He'd reach for my hand. It's so warm,
he'd say. Then He'd shake his head
and repeat my name
as if it was the only word he knew.
He'd cry.
I'd rub his fingers
and make a nest for them.
Now, I wait at my open window,
feeling the sting of the rain. Outside
an old man in a cast stumbles
to the entrance. A young man stands
under a black umbrella.
A strong wind strips a tree
of its last leaves.
One floats to my window and sticks,
then loosens its grip,
spins on the screen,
and is taken.
(c)Mary Harrison,1994,95,96-pub Olympia Review
BACK
After the Funeral
My brother's son
none of us speaks your name.
We don't claim to understand your struggles
or even the pain we feel
at your premature death.
We blame ourselves.
And we curse the gods
who won't bring you back
out of our black sorrow.
At the plastic-covered table, we eat
from our heaped plates
while we watch the steam rise
from our lifted cups
as if sorrow could escape
from the waters of life; as if we could drink
down our personal grief:
as if these cups held the blood of communion
and could pour back into us
what we have lost.
(c)Mary Harrison, 1994,95,96
BACK
in my blue Century Buick
to hear the tide rush in
and watch the waves.
But I'm too late.
The tide's going out;
the beach is deserted.
I press my feet deep
into the ocean bed:
pebbles and sea-weed slap
my ankles while I look
at the foaming
and listen to seagulls screeching
for food.
I have nothing to give.
Stinging cold water draws marrow
from bones
in my feet and legs,
travelling up my spine.
The hurt goes deep.
I start for shore but stop
to feel the cold again.
I need to feel
even this ache
so I'll know I'm alive.
of his former self--skin seizing the bone,
eyes sinking into their sockets,
cheeks making caves,
we knew we were lovers of a special kind.
He'd reach for my hand. It's so warm,
he'd say. Then He'd shake his head
and repeat my name
as if it was the only word he knew.
He'd cry.
I'd rub his fingers
and make a nest for them.
Now, I wait at my open window,
feeling the sting of the rain. Outside
an old man in a cast stumbles
to the entrance. A young man stands
under a black umbrella.
A strong wind strips a tree
of its last leaves.
One floats to my window and sticks,
then loosens its grip,
spins on the screen,
and is taken.
(c)Mary Harrison,1994,95,96-pub Olympia Review
After the Funeral
My brother's son
none of us speaks your name.
We don't claim to understand your struggles
or even the pain we feel
at your premature death.
We blame ourselves.
And we curse the gods
who won't bring you back
out of our black sorrow.
At the plastic-covered table, we eat
from our heaped plates
while we watch the steam rise
from our lifted cups
as if sorrow could escape
from the waters of life; as if we could drink
down our personal grief:
as if these cups held the blood of communion
and could pour back into us
what we have lost.
(c)Mary Harrison, 1994,95,96
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