I Dream of Being Home

I dream of being home

    and loving the sky,

the anonymous neighbor,

    the community garden.

Of being right where I

    need to be to feel

        at home.  

© Karen Joyce

June 11, 2021

Hai Coo Coo

Hai Coo Coo, Princely

Star Kat bemused; patiently

Reminds, renews us.

© Karen Joyce

January, 2022

Raconteur

Racket player stretched

So thin, invisible. When,

Where will it break you?

                        © Karen Joyce

                         January, 2022

Einfall

 Trap door.

        "Do not drift into despair"

                        Rather says.

Nexus.

        Moments of clarity,

            moments of despair

                moments of hope.    

Reprieve.

        There's something next

Nirvana.

                                            © Karen E. Joyce 2021

August Delta

More than half-way in 

to the second Covid year

Dream of rusty parts, 

caked, round, metal, hollow, grim.

The planet reels.

Hurried, then slows. Grace?

The conductor punches time.

At rest, fear returns

Then scuttles off leaving pain

As its calling card.

My final companion:

A hungry, black cat.

                                    © Karen E. Joyce 2021 

 

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