Spiritus

In the name of the father.

Little by little 

in the name of the holy

I will remember.

I’m not hearing any 

more deathbed apologies 

Better do it now. 

And the son and the 

Holy Spirit New England 

don’t apologize. 

                        © Karen E. Joyce 2021

   

            Karen Joyce  5/31/21

Spirit

Little by little

In the name of the holy 

I will remember. 

Rain

Inward turning, sigh

Accepting what moment is

still there still, still here. 

                    © Karen E. Joyce 2021

Legendary

I walked by her house again last night

    windows twilight grey, empty

        two beige porch chairs missing.

At home ordered the legendary
Italian rum cake bright with red and green peaks.

First known by a young, unyielding daughter,
probably seven or eight.

        Winning the cake by appeal, tears and will
            --a skill used later to get milk and bread
                from the local corner store, on the bill.

The exotic, odd taste and thrill 

        of something new, forbidden. 

Still.

Two beige chairs tossed by the bin.

No goodbyes, no farewell.

When the cake arrives tomorrow,

I will set aside a slice –

and savor the taste of the

bitter-sweet cream.

                    © Karen Joyce 6/1/21

Winter Haiku

Maybe it’s about 

moving on after fifteen

 

years in the hinterland

      ©  Karen Joyce  11/21/20

November 2020

November:

Woke up falling, wet

1963 again 

Deep nightmaring wail

        © Karen Joyce 11/23/20

                    

 

"Wait" poem by Galway Kinnell

"Wait"

Wait, for now.

Distrust everything, if you have to.

But trust the hours. Haven’t they

carried you everywhere, up to now?

Personal events will become interesting again.

Hair will become interesting.

Pain will become interesting.

Buds that open out of season will become lovely again.

Second-hand gloves will become lovely again,

their memories are what give them

the need for other hands. And the desolation

of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness

carved out of such tiny beings as we are

asks to be filled; the need

for the new love is faithfulness to the old.

Wait.

Don’t go too early.

You’re tired. But everyone’s tired.

But no one is tired enough.

Only wait a while and listen.

Music of hair,

Music of pain,

music of looms weaving all our loves again.

Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,

most of all to hear,

the flute of your whole existence,

rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.

~Galway Kinnell

A poem in response to Dorothy Allison's essay

A poem in response to Dorothy Allison's essay: A Question of Class.

For Dorothy.

Courage, humor and love

Simply disappear

In the politics of They.

Despair must be lived

In a world that despises the weak.

They who hold dominion

Overcome and deny.

The impulse to forget/remember

Those who disappear into:

One pair of eyes

One set of hands

--Heard by no one.

Our tears form the ground notes

In a howling cadence of

What will not change 

In the world of We.

Courage soul: learn to wield.

         © Karen Joyce 2019

Spring: A Work in Progress

Spring: A Work in Progress

You are not broken - you are part of a whole universe

Humanity.

The fear of losing ground

Baseless, vulnerable and afraid.

Looking out the patio door

I am lost in the unity of the wind, green freeness,

Trees, my father

A continuum.

Plugging in, topsy-turvy

An angel on my shoulder

Stay in place, safe exploring gentleness, grace.

~Karen Joyce  04/2019

Perfection is never wasted in the moment - for those who are grieving still

Perfection Wasted

And another regrettable thing about death

is the ceasing of your own brand of magic,

which took a whole life to develop and market --

the quips, the witticisms, the slant

adjusted to a few, those loved ones nearest

the lip of the stage, their soft faces blanched

in the footlight glow, their laughter close to tears,

their tears confused with their diamond earrings,

their warm pooled breath in and out with your heartbeat,

their response and your performance twinned.

The jokes over the phone. The memories

packed in the rapid-access file. The whole act.

Who will do it again? That's it: no one;

imitators and descendants aren't the same.

--John Updike

Breathe 2017

Bereavement 

Just for today I'm going to treat myself with kindness

A lot easier said then done

How did we get here?

B r e a t h e.

        © Karen Joyce 2017