Sample Poems
copyright © 2021 by Marye Gail Harrison

WAITING FOR AUGUST METEORS

At 4:30 a.m. a seventy-year-old woman parks
her car down the dark dirt road
near a meadow.                                                  
She sets up a beach recliner,
grabs a woolen blanket,
wraps her battery lantern in a red bandana
to protect her night vision.
Her thermos of coffee by her side,
she waits in quiet for shooting stars                             
from the Perseids Meteor Shower.
She’s still there
when birds awake to eastern blush.

I am that woman who loves watching stars,
who writes and paints
to share my awe and wonder.

Join me.

MERGING GALAXIES TUG

THINK ON THESE THINGS

We look in wonder and amazement
at the distant mountains as they arise before us,
or rounding a turn see the rushing waterfall
or watch a newborn baby’s hand grasp a mother’s finger.

What in us sees and feels “beauty”?
What purpose has it served for us to do so?
We understand that our larger frontal brain
combined with opposing thumb
would make us problem solvers, tool makers,
that these would benefit us and our kin. 
But how did joy in beauty fit with such practical skills?
Did what was elegantly made work better?
Who first wanted beads to wear around their necks?
And who first swapped a well-made arrow head
for a necklace of teeth and shells?
Did first humans find relief when their bodies
flooded with gentler hormones
of desire and appreciation?
Did beauty lead us to asking “how” and finding new ways?

I have heard that some crows
weave shiny objects into their nests.

I WOKE UP TROUBLED

Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder
how all those who do not write, compose or paint
can manage to escape the madness, the melancholia,
the panic fear which is inherent in the human
situation.    – Graham Greene quoted in “Heron
Dance” on February 21, 2012

I woke up too early,
put on my robe and made herbal tea.
I typed and typed
in grumpy detail.
But something made me pause
before hitting Send.
“Wait. Sleep on it,” I thought.
Then from my window in the east I saw
pale peach dawn rise above
low layers of dark clouds
and darker still woods and meadow.
Higher up in deeper blue of night sky
was crescent Moon smiling at me
both “Good night” and “Good morning.”
I smiled back and hit Save.
Went back to sleep easily.

IT STILL LOOKED LIKE WINTER  

At first in early March
the New England farm
still looked like winter –
trees were bare and fields
were matted down, dull brown.
But in the barn two-day-old pink piglets
snuggled on top of one another under a heat lamp
with momma’s snout close by, warming too.
In the shed two newborn lambs,
still wet with afterbirth, sat still,
their mother carefully cleaning them.
Other mothers visiting
hoisted their babes-in-arms higher on their hips
while reaching back to take a toddler’s hand,
showing babies to babies.
In crisp air, dusky wood smoke swirled,
mimicking rising maple sap now boiling
into syrupy treats in the sugar shack.
A richly feathered rooster strutted slowly past,
back and forth, busy pecking hens.

At home that evening it still looked like winter.
Jupiter chasing Venus overhead in a close race
cheered by passionate peepers in the wetlands
told me spring was on track.

INISHMORE

We had ferried from Galway to the Aran Islands,
where for centuries Irish Celtic Christians
retreated to the edge of their world to renew.
My roommate, young enough to be my daughter,
and I were assigned a room in the former attic
of the small harbor inn on Inishmore.
There was a large window that opened inward like a door
reaching almost to the floor.
We could step out onto the roof below.
At dusk we promptly did so.
A quiet harbor before us lay,
with busy Galway across the bay.
Slowly peddling his bike down the road,
a man led his horse trotting behind.
At bed time I waited for dark to see stars.
The Big Dipper poured sparkling familiarity.
Just like home.
I couldn’t go to sleep so finally remade my bed
with the foot for my head
so on my side I could still look out.
In the morning, I was awakened
by my guitar-playing roomie, looking angelic
after her bath, wrapped head and body
in white towels, singing,
“Mother, Mary, come to me . . .”

SOMETIMES I JUST WANT TO SIT IN THE SUN

Sometimes when the sun is pouring in my window,
I just want to sit in the sun.
I don’t want to do anything else –
not prepare my taxes, pay my bills,
clean off my desk,
straighten up from last night,
make lists, shop,
organize my photos,
visit a friend,
wash the clothes and dishes –
not weed the garden,
water my plants,
write the governor
or even call my kids.

Sometimes when the sun is pouring in my window
I’d like to think
I have a responsibility to bask in it,
to absorb the gift of light and warmth,
to hold the pleasure on behalf of humanity –
to think sitting in the sun pouring in my window
is useful,
sacred,
sufficient.

IN HIS GRANDFATHER’S ROCKING CHAIR

KINDNESS GOES SLOWLY     

Kindness goes slowly
as when a mother doesn’t say “Hurry up”

to the preschooler squatting to look
at the ants in the crack
on the walk back home
before supper.

Kindness goes slowly
as when fathers talk late
to daughters home from college
finishing up the evening
snacking together at the kitchen sink.

Kindness goes slowly
as when an aunt carefully reads
the letters from her motherless niece
and writes a weekly reply.

Kindness goes slowly
as when 90-year-old Granny
fries oysters for eight on Christmas Eve
one more time.

Kindness goes slowly
as when a friend listens a long time
without giving advice,
reaching over, instead, to take my hand.

Kindness goes slowly
as when I stretch my body
in exercise class
and hold it until the tightness eases.

Kindness goes slowly
as when I help my husband button
after the stroke, fuss over his hair,
clean his glasses and drive him
where he wants to go.

Kindness like chocolate is sweetest
savored slowly.

COVID HUG

I hugged a large tree today.
It was surprisingly satisfying.
Though it was rough and hard to grasping hands,
I reached around in tender greeting.
Harsh and scratchy against my cheek,
it called to mind prickly beards on men I’ve loved.
I held on tight,
my belly and breasts pressing close and long,
until my breath released.

LENGTHS A MOTHER WILL GO

Come September my friend will be
a first time grandma.
She just bought a tent
to travel up the coast
to see her son and grandchild
when the time comes.
She’s too old to risk
Covid travel by train or plane.
She’s not staying in motels
nor can she drive nonstop for 14 hours.
So she bought a tent.
“I have a blow-up mattress,”
she explained, “and a sleeping bag.”

SAFE TO EXPLORE