WELCOME TO 30 POEMS IN 30 DAYS
Fundraiser for Center for New Americans
I’m jumping in to support the Center for New Americans and jump-starting my creative juices with the project. This fundraiser supports free English classes for immigrants. Language is a primary means of connecting with one another. Please support increasing connection and belonging with your pledge! Thank you so much to those who have donated!
Daily poems are a bit like babies - they may start small and weak but can sparkle with magic and perhaps, eventually, impact the world. Support these upcoming Baby Poems to support a World of Welcome with CNA.
My Work
Scroll down to see my work.
And, I can use your help! As the month of November winds down, I have reached the fundraising minimum for two things: I am invited to read one of my poems (on Zoom), Thursday, Dec. 12th at 7:00 PM and either that poem, or another of my choosing, will be published in the anthology for 2024 Poetry 30 in 30 Project. Please let me know which poem(s) stick with you! (ellenjreich@gmail.com)
30 Poems in 30 days - November 2024
#30
Poem for the 'Save the Chubby Unicorns' T-Shirt
She knows
she is a mythical creature.
Nobody
understands her.
They assume
she is ordinary.
Average.
Often seen in captivity
though she lives in the wild,
feasting
on leaves, grasses and
branches.
She is drawn to mud,
alert to hunters.
Rare
but deadly
if they come upon the herd.
She hides her true
unicorn identity
because,
safety,
you know.
What good is
a mythical creature
if you are caged,
exalted,
or killed?
She hides
her magnificence
and
her magic,
remaining in disguise
on the savannah.
#29
Two Hundred Years into a Dumpster
The hum
of sound
is loud enough to hear
inside.
It is not inside
my head
in an imaginary way.
The metal arm
with an articulating elbow,
wrist,
and a hand
of two, board-like
fingers
picks up pieces
of destroyed life,
cut into circles
too heavy to lift
unassisted.
Clasp, rotate, extend, raise.
Similar to the jaws of life.
On reflection, perhaps not.
That mechanical assist
pries, insists, forces
an opening
to extract what we treasure,
to save life.
This behemoth,
also operated by a man,
but at a distance
from his dead quarry
slowly removes
remnants of what was
once
a magnificent life.
The hum
has ended.
The air
is silent.
#28
After
Dear Pop,
I raged at you
during my teens.
I longed for you
the years before that.
At least, I think I did.
I didn't know you
despite your nightly presence.
Dinners like clockwork at 7:00
after a scotch on the rocks
with Mom
in the library.
I didn't think you knew me.
Two years after you died
at the dinner table,
after I cleared the roast beef
and was slicing the banana bread
from Sara Lee, still in the foil pan.
Two years after that sigh
that wasn't a sigh.
When Mom stood at the end
of the table, literally
wringing her hands.
My competent, independent, mother,
repeating
to your slumped shoulders, lowered head,
sagging torso,
"Tell me what to do, Morty!
Tell me what to do!"
her voice taught, frozen, burning,
over and over.
I grabbed the phone
calling 911.
I yelled for my brother
temporarily at the other end of the house.
I attempted CPR
on your unconscious body
still sitting on the chair.
An hour later,
two at the most,
we were back home
without you.
Mom and I believed
you
came to say goodbye
in the form of that odd
moth-butterfly
butterfly-moth
large, in shades of brown
planted on the center of our front steps,
from that night until the funeral
two days later.
A winged creature
that sat sentinel
gently
opening and closing its wings.
Through the humid heat of July
night and day and night,
through the afternoon downpour,
through the good intentions of my brothers,
moving you to a branch of Rhododendron
beyond flowering
still visible from the front hall window.
Safe from unexpected grieving
visitors
who might not know
to look down.
There weren't many
visitors
in those first 24 hours
but there weren't none.
Dead Friday night,
a Shabbat we didn't know
was Shabbat,
but you would have known
when you were a child.
Revered at an overflowing service
Sunday afternoon
at a funeral home
because we had no synagogue
or church.
That moth-butterfly, butterfly-moth,
the symbol of you
only Mom and I believed in
was gone
that day.
You were gone.
I longed for a visit from you.
In my dreams.
In another sign.
I believed it was possible.
I had read Raymond Moody
earlier that very year.
I believed.
Perhaps I longed for you
too much, too hard,
and this prevented an otherworldly visit.
Like meditation,
effort
derails the experience.
Two years after that night
less a couple of months
May not July
I was but a week from graduation.
Suspended in time,
there, but not,
future expansive
present
still painful.
I opened my mail as I walked through the student center.
Aunt Floss had written.
A first and only letter.
Like you, sending me a single letter
to summer camp, ten years before,
because I begged,
discarding Mom's claim that her
near daily letters
were really from both of you.
The closing said so, "Love, Mom and Pop."
As if that made it true.
You wrote me one
almost illegible note in your doctor scrawl,
inscrutable in meaning, too.
I think you wrote to tell me
you weren't a letter writer.
It would be normal to have also told me
you loved me.
You probably did, but
that's not part of the memory
of the only letter
you wrote to me in the entire 19 years you had
with me.
Aunt Floss, your only surviving sister,
(Judy died before I was born; I knew nothing about her, though I carried her name)
wrote me a warm letter of congratulation
on my Vassar graduation.
"Your father," she wrote to me,
"Would always tell me how proud he was of you.
Every time he called."
Two years after you died
my tears stopped my legs,
Why?
Why, why, why
didn't you ever tell
me,
your forever, only, and
bereft daughter.
#27
A Rabbit
A stone rabbit
pauses.
Nose raised,
ears back,
resting along his spine
at a perfect forty-five degrees.
Forever sniffing
searching
for foe
or food.
Frozen in place,
having no life at all.
#26
Dads and Doughnut Trees
He said it
to our sons
because his dad
said it to him.
I don't recall
laughing
at the Doughnut Tree
stories.
Was I tired?
Jaded?
Unhappy with life?
I was impatient,
maybe bored,
with the Doughnut Tree
joke.
And.
Family lore,
stories,
lived or imagined,
weave the history
that helps bind us
through time.
Katrina and the Waves
cranked up, belting
"Walking on Sunshine"
full blast
every year
as we crossed the humped bridge
from the endless Coastal Plain
onto Emerald Isle.
A soul-numbing drive
morphing into joy.
That one.
That one I treasure.
#25
The Broadest Kind of Trans
What do we want our
men
to be?
Strong!
What do we want our
women
to be?
Loving!
Why on earth would we
not
want all people
to be both?
#24
The Building Bully
is
deceptively
petite.
#23
He's due.
Overdue, in fact.
Not here at all.
No sign of him.
The refrigerator needs
tending.
The door sucks closed
with such force
I can no longer open it.
We need access.
A crowbar
is overkill
and, of course,
not necessary.
He is due.
#22
The Mourning Dove
She settles
on the black, wrought iron chair,
puffed and comfortable.
#21
A Delicate Balance
They love
and trust
their pup.
They adore
their child.
The pup licks
the boy,
hands,
ears,
face.
The boy
pats
pulls
and sometimes
mouths
the pup.
As a mother who was
wound too tight
I mirror their lead,
with a smile,
while contracting my heart
with worry.
#20
Improvement
Were it so easy
to repair our broken
world
as it is to mop
a dirty floor.
#19
Holy Resistance
I consider
my Best Self:
Who do I want
to be?
And, even more perplexing:
What is this
Alleged God
to me?
I answer both
the same
with
The List:
Connection
Compassion
Courage
Confidence
Calm
Clarity
Curiosity
Creativity
Patience
Persistence
Perspective
Playful
Presence
These are the Attributes.
These are the Intentions.
If I can call these forth,
I can begin a Holy Resistance
to their opposites.
#18
Impermanence
Impermanence
is inevitable.
In theory
this truth invites us
to hold the day, our things,
our loves,
lightly.
In theory
we can love fully,
whole-heartedly,
and not splinter
into a thousand shards of pain
when our beloved
is gone.
In theory
we can delight in our
beloveds, like
brilliant autumn leaves,
a low tide,
a rainbow.
Transient and
intensely beautiful,
a full moon,
a winter season,
a single perfect day
from sunrise to sunset.
Most days
we live our impermanence
with as little consequence
as a button coming loose and
falling away
under a desk, or
into a sidewalk crack.
We scour the soap scum
and scoop the stray hairs
from the shower.
We feed the dog
who will be gone in six years.
But we do not know
that future day
as we scoop kibble
and sneak him
bits of cheese from the
evening's tacos.
Our human hearts
are not made for
this impermanence gig.
If there is no afterlife
Can we ever love enough
every day
in the moments
to survive the losses?
That is the theory,
they say,
for fully living.
Loving fully.
#17
Numbers
I have one grandchild
one husband
one dog.
I have two sons
two daughters
in-law
two brothers.
Today
I have three hearts
one broken
one grieving
one numb.
#16
The Gate
He pushed open the back door
and rushed around the corner
of the rental.
Almost kicking up the California dust
like the Road Runner
as he dashed,
muttering.
I pause my Zoom,
ask
Is everything okay?
The gate,
he says,
The gate was open.
It doesn't matter
really
that I double-checked
my hands
and the latch
only an hour ago.
I checked poorly.
It did not latch
completely.
Nothing happened
but
disaster
could have happened.
Sometimes
the smallest of things
is the only thing
between one world
and a wholly different life.
#15
Mothering Boys
I watch this baby boy,
not yet a year
but almost walking,
in the arms of his
mother.
He flops against her should with
joyous abandon
then nestles against her breasts
as he considers
returning to his nap.
She savors all he is
all he offers
all he needs
all he takes.
He is my grandson,
his father,
my son.
Does she think about
the day he
will be a man
with a wife and child
of his own?
Delighting
in the infinite present
will last her a lifetime
and flavor her joy
as her little one
changes, grows, rebels,
comes home,
nourishing her heart with
yearning,
satisfaction,
surprises
and joy.
So much joy.
#14
Flowers on a Doorstep
My stone cottage
is surrounded by tall Eastern White Pines,
wide Pin Oaks
and slender Birch trees.
Halfway up the mountain
a gravel road winds
back and forth,
widely curving.
No hairpin turns here.
The solitude invites
rabbits, deer and foxes,
possums and racoons.
Sometimes bears too,
lumbering,
deceptively magnetic
for the stray tourist.
I live alone
in my stone cottage,
me and two dogs:
a Corgi and a Coon Hound.
Weeks can go by
without seeing another
human,
unless I go to the village
in my perennially dusty
Subaru.
I can still walk
the five miles down
but my legs and back will give me
a week of regret
if I walk home.
This morning, as the mist
lingers above the dew,
fingers of light teasing
the tips of the pines,
the ground glows
from within
which is not possible
but happens anyway.
My front door is heavy
Mahogony,
I think,
with an arch
as gentle as the road,
a strong iron handle
and matching knocker
that sits silent.
All proudly wear a patina of age.
This door hums a quiet welcome
to friends and strangers.
I am naturally solitary
yet oddly appreciate this grace.
No one comes to my door,
not one person
in the last
four years.
This morning, I open that
lovely portal
dividing
my inner and outer
sanctuaries,
eager to bathe
my bare feet in the mist.
There
on my stone stoop,
three steps up
from the slate walk
sits a riotous bouquet.
A simple glass jar,
more likely from pickles
than jam,
cradles a spray of ruffled pink Peonies,
Queen Anne's Lace
and slender arms of Honeysuckle.
My breath catches
My chest tightens
My tears spill.
This beautiful mystery
stops time.
I don't want
to discover the facts.
I do want
to live in this moment of magic.
Please,
I inwardly
beg,
please
let there be magic.
#13
“Angel of the Get-Through“
Your arms flail
punching the air
as your core
hidden in baby belly
throws your hips
away from the task
at hand.
Your eyelashes glisten
with your frustration
and your nose bubbles
just a little.
This is simply
not
what you want to happen
now.
Your voice wails with
anger
that you cannot
control your world and
stop
the terrible thing
that is happening anyway.
Hitching breath
your damp cheek rests
on my shoulder
your body limp against my
strength and care
and you surrender to the
love
that will carry you
through
all you must endure.
#12
Some Kind of Dismay
The day begins
with an invitation to
spiral.
That sounds risky,
dangerous
even,
if she means
tumble down
spinning into
the super cycle
of heat
driving all
life-giving moisture
away.
She might mean
entering
the mysterious
magical
fractal
of curved geometry.
A pathway
to heaven
not hell.
Circling around,
the same, yet
slightly different.
Higher
reaching toward the stars.
#11
Broken
My favorite pottery cup
shattered.
Not the coffee mug I loved
with its cream colored
rounded belly
and the handle that curved so gently,
graceful and solid.
I loved that one too
using it almost daily
for coffee and tea and
the occasional hot chocolate.
I managed that destruction
because I believed
it could be replaced.
Other strong, comforting mugs
existed,
some in my corner cupboard
some yet to be found.
I did not mourn my broken mug.
This cup
lies shattered on the floor,
opinions dissecting the pieces.
Was the breaking necessary?
Was it a faulty cup?
Could it be fixed?
Should it be fixed?
This shaper of the formless
was a chalice.
A vessel for wine
or water
at our Passover Seder.
Not Elijhah's cup,
but Miriam's.
It too was earthy,
rounded
solid
grounded and ethereal
blessed
for sanctified use.
Elevating the soil,
the clay
the mud
into Holy Hands.
Is this one irreplaceable?
Have we gone too far?
#10
The Day After the Day
I have no words.
Does that count
as a poem?
If I try harder
I feel an abyss
of the unknown.
How bad might it get?
Do those who celebrate
today
embrace what I fear?
Or
do they not see it,
Or
not believe it?
An abyss of the unknown.
#9
Election Day
We collectively
hold our breath
tonight.
And perhaps tomorrow and
the next day and
maybe
the week or two
after that.
We will sip the air,
but mostly we won't
breathe.
We barely allow oxygen
to reach our diaphragms
but allow just enough.
Because we want
to live,
we want others
to live,
we want our country
to live.
We vote for flexibility,
inclusion, and
kindness.
We fear
they vote for contraction,
exclusion, and
rules of ruin.
We fear each other.
We argue about
facts.
We try to remember to
breathe.
#8
Waltzing Matilda
Coming home from my first school dance
Seventh grade
the first year of Junior High
(not Middle School in those days).
A dark, crunchy October night
my mom and oldest brother
in the green, wood-paneled station wagon
came to fetch me.
Why was Eric there?
Self-absorbed
and crushed to the core of my 12-year-old heart
I started to cry.
Did we use the term "Wallflower"?
No one had asked me to dance.
In those days
we waited for the boys
to do the asking.
One boy did ask
near the end of the night.
I felt humiliated
dancing with him.
Chubby, pimply and sweaty,
I pined for Steve or Chris or
whoever made the list of heart throb boys.
A hot anger sparked.
fed by fingers of shame, true,
as my mother ignored me and seemed
irritated by my boy-tears.
We were back home
before I understood.
Before she said.
Freddy, our 15-year-old dachshund,
Freddy, who had been with the family
since the month Eric was born,
Freddy had been killed by a car.
He was blind,
He was deaf,
Old Short Hill Road was always busy, and
We had no fence.
Still
I couldn't shake my heartbreak of the evening
but no one was available to hold the pieces
of my shattered self-esteem.
Their hearts were fully broken
Mine was diverted and invested
in illusions.
Our family of five
sat in silence
the rest of the night
watching an old black and white movie,
"On the Beach" with Gregory Peck.
The closing melody
"Waltzing Matilda"
now and forever
breaks my heart.
The submarine descends.
The slow strains of
unidentified pain,
remain.
[https://youtu.be/UAwI5ONywME?feature=shared]
#7
The Sacred Two
The process of expansion
began
like the Big Bang
but silent
as a thistle in the breeze.
The Sacred One
grows within
The Sacred One.
A time-lapse photograph
we watch
the stem peek through
the earth,
push toward the light
unfurl its curl
of delicate green.
Is this Koru
one with the earth?
Part of the soil
that feeds its soul
or not?
Mother Earth
is One
and Mother Earth
contains multitudes.
I am mother.
My daughter
breathes from my blood
until she departs
her first world
of darkness and nurture.
Pushing toward the light
she unfurls her chubby limbs
The cord is cut
Yet the ties are never
ever
severed.
She is of me
as long as I breathe.
I love her and
send her care packages
of yoga cards and matcha.
She unfurls again,
more slowly through time,
no camera capture,
nourished by sunlight
and rain
and career choices.
Struggling to survive
yearning to thrive
submerged in floodwaters of mud.
She continues, my sacred treasure,
fattening her roots,
strengthening her spine,
and marveling at the unseen muscle
in her deepest core.
My Sacred One
now grows her own
Sacred One.
Yet
the questions persist.
#6
My muscles melt in the sun
Like butter easing into toast.
My nose twitches
at the thought
of crispy, chewy, glistening bites.
A fantasy
as the best I can gather
are the barest of crumbs.
I dream of toast.
My ears relax too,
soothed by the targeted warmth
from the window to the sky.
Natural repose
is still high alert
for me.
I hear all.
And I dream of toast.
#5
Mattie & Claire
My sister hates me
because I never stop talking,
or so she says.
Because I never complete a single thought,
she claims.
But I do! I just have lots of thoughts
and the world is complicated
so my words expand.
My sister hates me
because I'm skinny;
she seems to admire that and loathe me
in the same breath.
But I'd give anything for hips,
that hourglass of femininity.
I eat chips and cakes,
maybe not a whole cake
but multiple slices
at one sitting.
And still, at 63, I have the hips of a 13-year-old boy.
My sister hates me
because she's found Jesus
and I've walked away.
I believe Jesus is everywhere
but she thinks he only lives on the cross.
And I hate my sister
though I try so hard not to,
because she has two kidneys that are a perfect match
for my husband.
Yet she clings to both
without remorse.
And he withers a little more
each day
as his body fails.
And all the chips and cake in the world
will give me neither
hips
nor a kidney
I might give to my husband.
#4
The days
stretch and turn
in a drumbeat
of terror
Or is that the nights?
Unknown
Unsure
Weeping
Sweeping
Circling the drain.
Dawn is promised
around the next corner.
The dark
is a maze.
The light
a labyrinth.
The center
a refuge.
Trust
Step
Again
And again
You are safe
If you trust
and
Continue
#3
Fatigue
clawing like hands
from a grave
Lids
scratchy and sulky
A longing to sink
back into the earth
deeply
with finality
and satisfaction
Instead
dry leaves skitter
along the surface
skipping
from worn stone
to gnarled roots
and back again.
#2
The mind fades
The heart expands
Is it possible
to love too much?
Do we need the mind
to rein in
the heart?
Perhaps
Age
allows the heart
to reign over
the mind,
if we let it.
#1
Head Start
Can I
jump the gun
lift my heals,
my arms
arced high above my head
fingers steepled
Can I
slice through
the waters
ahead of my peers
beyond the reach
of those determined
to pull me under
Can I
find my allies
if no one else
knows
it's a relay?