A Repeat for Myth Lovers: The Second Lamentation of Demeter by Mary Kendall ~ (Poetry and Myth)

Posted on January 26, 2026 by Mary Kendall

As a follow up to my last blog, I’m reblogging this second lamentation that dates back to November 4, 2014.

Which classic myth would YOU choose to write a poem about? What grabs your mind and heart both?

The Second Lamentation of Demeter

Narcissus, 1912 by John William Waterhouse

Persephone’s abduction by Hades is swift, violent and over so quickly that no one hears her scream except for Hecate, a goddess who helps Demeter find out where she has gone. Could there be anything worse for a mother than to lose a child? Demeter’s grief is profound. This is the Second Lamentation of Demeter.

The Rape of Proserpine, Hans Von Aachen, 1587

The Abduction of Persephone, Hans Von Aachen, 1587

To hear me read this poem, please click on the link below and wait a few seconds for it to begin.

The Second Lamentation of Demeter

The earth groaned, then opened briefly.
That’s all it took.

He appeared out of nowhere
Like a wild flume of fire,

The flickering golden chariot with
Four black stallions at full gallop.

He sprang upon her so quickly
That when the earth closed back

Upon itself like a wound healed over,
All that was left was a circlet of flowers

That she and the daughters of Oceanus
Had been stringing together. Irises, roses,

Violets, hyacinths, and the faded blossoms
Of sweet narcissus plucked by her hand.

The scar in the earth and grasses torn apart
Were all that told the story.

I always knew he watched her…
I sensed when he was around.

Clouds gathered overhead,
Shadows clothing him in darkness,

Hades,
To whom sunlight is a stranger.

My sweet Persephone is gone now,
Gone with him.

O, horror…
My sweet child is his.

Persephone’s abduction is well represented in art. It is my personal opinion that one need look no further than the magnificent sculpture done by Bernini in 1622. The details of the hands and arms as well as the force and resistance between their two bodies is powerful. Persephone’s tear stained cheek tells us more than any words can.

Gian Lorenzo Bernini, The Rape of Proserpina, 1622, Galleria Borghese in Rome

Gian Lorenzo Bernini, The Abduction of Persephone, 1622, Galleria Borghese in Rome

(detail)

Some Thoughts on Turning to Myth: Looking back at “The First Lamentation of Demeter ~ (Poetry and Myth)”

Posted on January 8, 2026 by Mary Kendall

A Note to My Readers:

Here it is January 2026. My blog has been quiet this year for a number of reasons too long to list. But the most obvious reason is that of a block or mental ‘resistance’ to writing. Last year in 2024, I turned to sharing a few older poems of mine that I love. It was a good reminder to me of why I loved writing.

Today, WordPress showed me my latest stats. I rarely look at these anymore, but one thing I notice each time I see an update is that some of the poems I wrote relating to classical myths seem to be accessed the most. I wonder if, in this sad and tumultuous world and country (mine being the USA), we turn to mythology to find answers to timeless questions that appear and reappear over a lifetime. Who are we and why are we here? What is it we are looking for? What really matters? I am now 79. Those questions and many more have come up time and time again, and the answers have been quite varied over eight decades. What do you, dear reader, think? Why do we cling to myths and tales from long ago and from cultures we know only though history books, literature or art? I’d love to know what you think.

To honor some of these poems, I’m going to post my two Lamentations of Demeter, one at a time. To save some work, I’ll post the whole original poet from my blog. I hope you find some meaning in each of them or perhaps a way to think of something beyond our wild world of today.

British Museum GR 1885.3-16.1 (Terracotta C 529), AN34724001

Here is the original 2014 posting:

I’ve been looking over my writing notebooks written a while back but unread by anyone other than myself or my husband. The myths of Demeter and her daughter, Persephone, fascinate many including me. For a number of reasons these myths seem to appeal especially to women. Many of the great living women poets have written brilliant poems about Persephone (e.g., Louise Glück and Eavan Boland). The story is timeless.

In today’s poem I’ve written a Lamentation of Demeter. Demeter, the goddess of the harvest and grains, is often referred to as the mother-goddess since she represents fertility on earth. Her importance is indisputable. When she mourns for her missing daughter, Persephone (who has been abducted by Hades and taken down into the underworld by force) the seasons stop. Things stop growing and the earth begins to die before Persephone’s father, Zeus, intervenes. You know the story, but it is worth re-reading if you haven’t read any mythology for a while.

Demeter statue in front of my gym in Hillsborough, North Carolina

So what is a lamentation? The Oxford English Dictionary defines it simply: “The passionate expression of grief or sorrow; weeping.” Anyone who has grieved knows instinctively what it is to lament the loss of someone who is dearly loved. The feeling is painful and deep, and I think this resonates within us all. Demeter mourned her daughter’s abduction to a point where the earth nearly perished. This poem begins with her not yet knowing all that has happened. I picture her as a mother desperate to know what has happened to her child.

This is one of two lamentations of Demeter I’ve written. The second will follow at some point.

Demeter

To listen to an audio recording of me reading this poem, click on the link below and wait a few seconds for it to begin:

The First Lamentation of Demeter

How is it that I don’t know where she has gone?

I warned her.

I told her time and time again not to trust them,
that there were those who so longed for her
they would stop at nothing.

And who was right?

Like all girls her age, she could be headstrong,
believing her own mother too old
to understand those yearnings.

I warned her.

Last night I watched the dog star rise up.
Its magnificent beams were like beacons
that might lead me to my lost child.

Why is it the stars are silent?

O, Sirius, your brilliant rays reach down
to us and yet your silence is puzzling.
Surely you saw where she went, my only child.

Will no one tell me where my Persephone has gone?

Sea birds ride the thermals

Posted on December 12, 2024 by Mary Kendall

A tanka published in
Gusts No. 40, Contemporary Tanka, Canada,
fall/winter 2024

sea birds
ride the thermals
beyond steep chalk cliffs—
I wonder what they hear
in the swirling wind

Scent of beeswax

Posted on April 15, 2023 by Mary Kendall

I am still catching up with published poetry. Blithe Spirit is the publication of the British Haiku Society. They selected two haiku and two tanka of mine to publish in the winter issue.

Blithe Spirit Fall/Winter Issue 2022

brevity
the ripeness
of a pear

children
fragile as blossoms
learning to let go

fragrant spices, each
with a story to tell,
a bit of this, dash of that
my pen moves as if
propelled by a stranger

scent of beeswax
melting as we draw
invisible designs
on our pysanky eggs—
forgotten childhood

Forgiveness . . . (a tanka for meditation)

Posted on August 5, 2022 by Mary Kendall

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Published in red lights, volume 18, no. 2, June 2022

with healing hands
placed over my heart,
I hear its whispering
voice between beats—
forgive, forgive, forgive

~~~

Screen Shot 2022-08-05 at 2.51.57 PM

Some Poems for Ukraine

Posted on August 4, 2022 by Mary Kendall

Two tanka recently published in Red Lights,
Volume 18, no. 2, June 2022

with ruins, rubble
and death on the news,
we learn their names—
Mariupol & Lviv,
Bucha and Donbas

image after image of
bombed out buildings and corpses –
far away in my corner, prayers
& more prayers that you will
always rise from the ashes

ukraine-gc49e105c4_640

Image by bookdragon from Pixabay

a red-bellied woodpecker (tanka)

Posted on March 8, 2021 by Mary Kendall

Redlights, Volume 17, No. 1, January 2021

a red-bellied woodpecker
flaunts his drumming skills—
below his tree I pause
to feel his thunder,
to hear his words

Half-light (a tanka sequence)

Posted on August 25, 2020 by Mary Kendall

Milkweed by James DeMers (pixabay.com)

These tanka were written during the quarantine of Covid-19. My thanks to editor/poet, Marilyn Hazelton, for persuading me to combine some tanka into a tanka sequence. A really good editor is priceless. It’s always an honor to have poems included in Redlights. Click on the link below if you care to hear me read it.

Half-light

August morning
just before the katydids
begin to sing . . .
the lake finally calm
with no ripples

milkweed seeds
scatter straight from
the cottony pod ~
such freedom to go
anywhere, everywhere

a spoon slowly stirs
cream into coffee
those quiet moments
when we lose
all sense of now

arm in arm
we walk together –
forty years & more miles
than either of us
can count

half-light—
walking in fog
where nothing is seen
but somehow we trust
it’s still all there

Red Lights, Summer Issue 2020

Chokecherry

Posted on June 20, 2020 by Mary Kendall

the slow hiss
and sudden pop
of a pinecone in fire—
admitting the mistake
is a first step

had you lived
we’d almost be twins,
two sisters
so close in time
we nearly touched

this urge
to turn and walk away
chokecherry

Kokako 32, 2020, a journal of the New Zealand Poetry Society
My thanks to the editors of Kokako for publishing all three poems.

Loneliness . . . (three tanka)

Posted on January 24, 2019 by Mary Kendall

Blithe Spirit, Journal of the British Haiku Society,
Volume 28 Number 4, November 2018

Three tanka were published in Blithe Spirit this past November:

Snow Landscape by Hans Braxmeier

winter woodland

bereft of birdsong

with your passing

even clear days

are shadowed

Photo by Frantisek Krejci

together so long

we seem to finish

one another’s sentences,

fluent in the pauses

of each other’s mind

Universe by Gerd Altmann

loneliness

comes and goes,

dancing around

my mind

with two left feet

Black swan . . . (haiku)

Posted on October 15, 2018 by Mary Kendall

cattails, October 2018 Issue

The Official Journal of the United Haiku and Tanka Society

black swan

the beauty

in difference

Credit:Bournemouth News / Rex Features

I urge all of you to read the full issue of cattails, which you can download as a pdf here: http://cattailsjournal.com/currentissue.html

Rain patter . . .(3 tanka)

Posted on October 3, 2018 by Mary Kendall

Three tanka published in one my very favorite journals.

GUSTS No. 28, Contemporary Tanka
(fall/winter 2018)

pounding rains

& the peonies are lost –

how did I miss

your pallor, your reticence

that last day?

turning from pale gold

to dusky violet

our last embrace

so certain

so final

rain patter

on windows –

just when it seems

the darkness is over

it all begins again

YIRtnskUQyitIZ2kaY+Q2Q_mini_1464

Wild apple (some senryu)

Posted on September 28, 2018 by Mary Kendall

Three senryu and one haiga appeared in Prune Juice, Journal of Senryu, Kyoka, Haibun & Haiga, Issue 25, July 2018.

wild apple–
one bite is all
it took

inertia–
a thin coat of dust
on his burial urn

cloud cover–
darkness brewing
in daddy’s words

the sudden diagnosis haiga

My thanks to editor, Steve Hodge.

Cover Art: Happy Monk by Jerry Dreesen

Paper and dolls…(tanka)

Posted on December 31, 2017 by Mary Kendall

Two tanka of mine appeared in the last issue of Ribbons, the journal of the Tanka Society of America.

Ribbons, Fall 2017: Volume 13, Number 3

still collecting dolls
into her old age
a special name for each –
and one story
she refused to tell

Tanka Café, Fall 2017: theme was “paper”

a book propped
by the pillow on my knees,
page after page
I ease into someone
else’s life

The first line of ‘us’

Posted on March 31, 2017 by Mary Kendall

Gusts, Contemporary Tanka, one of my favorite print journals, arrived here in London this week. Edited by Kozue Uzawa, the journal is a publication of Tanka Canada. The tanka are placed on the page under a category heading such as “life,” “scent,” “moon,” or “relationships.” Many of my favorite tanka poets appear in this journal, and of course it’s always great to discover new poets or poets whose work I don’t know. The overall quality and standard is very high, and this makes for excellent reading and rereading. I’m pleased to say that three of my tanka appear in Gusts, no. 25, Contemporary Tanka, Spring/Summer 2017. I hope you enjoy reading them.

FullSizeRender

watching clouds
begin to drift
from your soft sable brushes –
you make the sky bluer
than blue, not grey

the shivery silk
of your words
slips around me –
the first line of us
now written

all that time waiting
to hear from you
I ascend the stairway
of a deserted station,
pale Freesias in hand

These three tanka were written by Mary Kendall, (c) 2017,
Gusts, no. 25, Contemporary Tanka, Spring/Summer 2017

A flurry of poems…

Posted on December 21, 2016 by Mary Kendall

The fall issue of cattails is out at last. Due to a big switch around of editors, the September issue was delayed and is now published in December. What a big issue it is, full of so many poems to read. Many of my favorite poets are in this issue and there are some who are new to me still to be discovered.

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I have two haiku included in this issue:

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first blossoms –
I tell myself this year
will be different

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daybreak …
the birds wake us
song by song

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and a few senryu:

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long yawns …
breathing in
his boredom

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zafu zabuton zazen zzzzz

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plus one tanka:

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long ago I heard
the sound of wuthering wind
blowing through the night –
a bleakness so forlorn,
a loneliness bereft of words

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My thanks to all the editors of cattails for their hard work. I cannot begin to imagine the number of hours it takes to put together something this substantial.

Mask Maker

Posted on October 29, 2016 by Mary Kendall

Who are we really? We can present ourself to the world in many ways, and we do. It’s been quite a while since I posted a longer poem on my blog, so today I offer you a poem called “Mask Maker.” It was written to an ekphrastic prompt on Rattle a few months back, but it was not selected. The two winning poems were brilliant and should have been chosen.

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What’s great about writing to a good prompt is how an image can pull all sorts of ideas from us. The prompt was a picture of several sets of hands modeling in clay. I toyed with the idea for quite some time and discarded two other poems until I settled on the one that grew into this poem.

Mask Maker

Do you like this mask, the one I made

so carefully, molding it to the contours

of my face so it looks just like me?

I wear it day after day, occasionally

slipping it off and refashioning it a bit.

It changes as I change.

I was four when I made the first mask—

out of mud from the bare earth in the yard.

It blocked my fear, and hid my thoughts.

I was invisible to the world, hidden behind

this new cover. No one noticed when I wore it,

so I kept it on, and it protected me.

Once it nearly shattered during that long fall

down the stairs that he never spoke about.

Dazed, I woke up and checked the mask.

It was the one thing that hadn’t been hurt.

After that I knew I needed it to keep me safe,

to keep me quiet, to keep me out of the way.

When I closed my eyes, I could imagine it was

no longer a mask but just me, unseen by him.

It made me look like a normal girl, a good girl.

After many years and many masks, I became

quite good at molding a mask so flawlessly thin,

so delicate, transparent as a butterfly wing.

It was easy to slip on, and no one could tell

what was real and what was not, even up close.

It worked, and that’s all I ever wanted.

There is a small secret I learned from making

masks and wearing them day and night:

You must believe it’s you and not a mask.

It is you, but a different you, a you that won’t

cry out or tell secrets or even cringe too much

when unexpected blows come (and they do).

Close your eyes now. Imagine yourself this

way—in control and protected from the world,

safe from everything you fear, hidden far away

behind this lovely mask where you can watch

what’s going on, where you can be vigilant,

and where you are the real you only you can see.

Picking ripe figs . . . (a haiku)

Posted on October 14, 2016 by Mary Kendall

screen-shot-2016-10-14-at-11-03-48-am

Picking up a feather . . . (a tanka)

Posted on October 14, 2016 by Mary Kendall

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hospice…

Posted on June 5, 2016 by Mary Kendall

The Heron’s Nest, Volume XVIII, Number 2: June 2016

1-hospice haiku

Two New Haiga

Posted on June 4, 2016 by Mary Kendall

June has brought with it the publication of some excellent journals. I love being able to read through them and enjoy the poems. Some are haiku, haiga, senryu or haibun, and others are tanka, tanka art or tanka prose. Hours and hours of fine reading that will stretch into the whole month of June.

I’ve been fortunate to have a number of small poems published this month. I’ll post these by type and by publication over the next week. Today I will begin with two haiga that were published in the newest issues of cattails, the publication of the United Haiku and Tanka Society.

Lilac haiga

poet's walk

Both haiga were published in the May 2016 edition of cattails, collected works of the United Haiku and Tanka Society.

Woodsmoke…

Posted on March 5, 2016 by Mary Kendall

This haiku has just appeared in The Heron’s Nest, a distinguished journal of haiku. For me, as a first time poet in this journal, it is a truly great honor for which I’m thankful.

My poem is on page 11 of The Heron’s Nest: http://www.theheronsnest.com/March2016/haiku-p11.html

winter night—

the curl of woodsmoke

takes flight

woodsmoke

I hope some of you will click the link to The Heron’s Nest to read the full issue of wonderful haiku from around the world.

pen divider

Note: photo is in the public domain (found linked with many sources online)

Bits & Pieces

Posted on January 27, 2016 by Mary Kendall

I had three haiku published in issue #61 of hedgerow, a journal of small poems last week.

old nest box…
a flurry of blue birds
before the snow

(hedgerow #61)

roasted chestnuts–
how could I forget
your laughter?

(hedgerow #61)

my dog leaps
into still night water
to fetch the moon

(hedgerow #61)

fountain pen 1

Charlotte’s Story: Haiku for Wilbur by Mary Kendall (ME, IN FICTION Poetry and Prose Series)

Posted on January 10, 2016 by Mary Kendall

Silver Birch Press

Charlottes-Web-Terrific-Garth-Williams1 Charlotte’s Story: Haiku for Wilbur
by Mary Kendall

“My Words”

my words—
who knew what a story
we’d become?

“First Friend”

a friend—
something my kind
never knew

“The Unexpected”

new friend—
silken parachutes in spring wind
bestow surprises

“Silken Words”

silken words…
hearts woven together
in their own story

“Some Pig”

little did they know
how special you were—
some pig!

“Terrific”

a real friend
who accepted me as I am…
terrific!

“Radiant”

just knowing
you have a good friend…
this radiant heart

“I Told You”

out of nowhere
grows the best thing…
kindness of spirit

“Humble”

humble—
your kindness of heart
my friend

“The Fair”

harvest moon—
who knew how high
we’d fly?

“Templeton”

even a rat
can help a friend..
who knew?

“My Time”

time for rest
my voice a whisper
…alone now

“Good-bye”

no need to worry—
our memories will live on
in your heart

“Death”

View original post 261 more words

Reflections on a new year…

Posted on December 31, 2015 by Mary Kendall

2015 year's ending

Swallows: Three Haiku

Posted on November 17, 2015 by Mary Kendall

Today, on Ekphrastic: writing and art on art and writing, as part of their 20 poem challenge, I have three haiku to go with a gorgeous picture of swallows.

To read the poems and see the art in the original publication, please click on this link:

http://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic/swallows-by-mary-kendall

The artwork is “Swallows” by Benjamin Chee Chee

Ekphrastic 2 Swallows

(1)

frail beauty—

scissoring the sky

on indigo wings

(2)

hope . . . soaring on wingless winds

(3)

taking leave—

gathering courage

as you fly

pocket_watch_buried_in_the_shallow_beach_AFR-IJ-14804

My thanks to editor, Lorette C. Luzajic, for including these haiku.

Love Poems: After Forty Years (more tanka this week and a haiga, too)

Posted on November 15, 2015 by Mary Kendall

In my last posting, I mentioned that this was a week of poems being published. Last time it was two tanka in Ribbons, this time it is two other tanka…and one haiga in a very beautiful and favorite journal of mine: hedgerow: a journal of small poems. Editor Caroline Skanne produces this publication weekly (it goes out on Friday afternoon, a highlight of the week for so many of us). This issue is #55. I’ll provide a link to the journal at the end of this posting so you can go and read all the other wonderful poems and visit mine. I’m so proud to be included with so many excellent poets.

My two tanka here are love poems. My husband and I were married in 1978, but we’ve been together for forty years. Where does the time go?

After Forty Years

you take my hand
when we walk together…
the last leaves
nearly
gone

a single glance
from your grey eyes
shifts
my world—
the earthquake of you

The haiga published in hedgerow #55 originally appeared in this blog. I am thrilled to have it officially published in an edited journal of this caliber. Here it is.

Meditation Haiga (glass table)

I hope you all enjoy these poems. If you have a favorite, let me know.

When you have time, please visit the journal these were published in:

hedgerow #55, posted on November 13, 2015: https://hedgerowpoems.wordpress.com/2015/11/13/55/

Salted Feathers

Posted on October 29, 2015 by Mary Kendall

To listen to an audio of me reading this poem, just click on the link below. Give it a few seconds, and it will start.

Salted Feathers

I was four when you told me the story
that if someone wanted to capture a bird
they must sprinkle its tail with salt.

We went outside, salt shaker in hand,
not sure what we really planned to do.
In the end, it was a tiny sparrow foraging

for fallen seeds or tiny insects on the other
side of the chain link fence at the back
of the yard. You told me to go ahead and

sprinkle it. My hand would not fit through
the opening link square with the shaker.
Blindly I tossed a spray of salt that landed

more on you and me than any place else.
The little bird was spared, and he continued
rummaging around in the grasses, indifferent

to the plans made by two small girls who
had no real idea what it was to take away
the gift of flight. No salted feathers for him.

All I remember now is that I felt something
happen inside when the little bird looked
at me and, in the way of all birds, off it flew.

Drifting Along…

Posted on October 20, 2015 by Mary Kendall

Today I feel a deep pride and happiness that a poem that has taken 15 years to complete has been published in one of my favorite poetry journals–The Whirlwind Review. This journal has a focus poetry following a spiritual path, and the current issue has a theme of journeying. That made it a perfect place to submit this poem, Drifting Along. My deepest thanks goes to editor, Jill Jepson, herself a writer I greatly admire.

New Zealand is a land far away from my own, but it is a spiritual homeland of sorts. After visiting there in July 2000, a twenty-five year silence in my writing of poetry ended after a spiritual experience I had on South Island. The beauty of the country and the kindness and friendliness of the people made this a trip I will never forget.

The link to the poem: http://www.writingthewhirlwind.net/Kendall.html

Audio: If you care to listen to me read this poem (and I hope you will–this is one of my most favorite poems), click on the link below. Give it a few seconds to load.

Drifting Along

. Visiting Waitomo Caves, New Zealand

There are moments when I wonder if one day
I will drift too far, too deep into my mind,
a world where fragmented thoughts,
memories and feelings might be lost forever.

The last trip.
A one-way ticket.

Traveling halfway around the world, we are
in New Zealand, the land of Aotearoa,
‘the land of the long white cloud.’ Driving
south, we arrive in the Maori heartland.

From Rotorua with its dizzying sulfuric scent,
we hike past brilliant springs, steaming lakes
and hot, bubbling mud pools where it seems
as if the underworld might hover just below
the surface of this ancient thermal valley.

One morning we go to see Pōhutu Geyser.
After a while, I wander from the path only to be
unexpectedly splashed by a small spurt of water
that was invisible until I came too close.

The Maori guide tells me that I’ve been blessed
by the spirits. Brushing off the still warm spray
of water, I hope she is right. I want to believe.

Driving through this world of rolling green
volcanic hills, we finally reach the Waitomo Caves.
As we wait for our boat, I feel a pulse in the land—
I know we are standing on sacred ground.

With our inner clocks all timed out, we begin
the dark journey into the heart of the cavern
Skimming silently through the still waters,
the young boatman leads us far into the blackness
of a cave that tunnels in so far, we lose all light
and sense of where we are. Our eyes now adjust
to this obsidian underworld, and it seems that
we have begun to cross into unending nighttime.

Everyone in the boat is silent. To be this close
to the infinite expanse of darkness,
to transcend time and self—this is a place
for stillness…and so it is.

With only the lapping of water against the boards,
the boat slips along. Although we came here
knowing what was hidden in this hollow, no one
is prepared for the full beauty of what is there.

I look up and see endless strings of glowworms—
glowworms hanging so high up, they become
numberless strands of summer stars—pale green fires
in these underground heavens whose ghostly translucence
leaves me feeling as if I am asleep somewhere,
not wanting to wake up from this ethereal place
in which I float between two worlds.

The boat glides quietly in the gentle sway of water,
and it is then that I begin to fear we have drifted too far.

I can remember no way back.

No signposts.
No markers.
No trail of crumbs.

My thanks to the New Zealand Tourist Bureau for the magnificent pictures shown above.

An Autumnal Moment

Posted on October 16, 2015 by Mary Kendall

Some Small Poems for the Autumnal Equinox

Posted on September 23, 2015 by Mary Kendall

This morning I woke up knowing a change was in the air. With intermitent gusts of wind, my garden feels different. From my porch where I sit writing this, I hear cardinals talking to one another in soft chirpy sounds, not full song. A nuthatch scampers up and down the tree trunks hoping to find a tasty insect for its mid-morning snack. What is clearer though is the background sound–the small insects that hum and buzz in notes I can’t clearly discern. All I hear is a constant high pitched sound–but it is a soft sound, not the commanding songs the cicadas sing. A chickadee now scolds someone, probably my dog who is suddenly interested in wandering in our back woods.

The breeze comes and goes. Wind chimes sing their beautiful songs. Leaves shudder and flow in the wind, then settle down to stillness. A large robin sits in the birdbath drinking in the water, probably for the last time before it makes its long migration down to southern Florida. Now a flock of crows jeers at something, most likely the red-tailed hawk that lives nearby. And since I’ve sat here long enough, a single butterfly sips from the last flowers of the purple buddleiah bush. It is a yellow swallowtail and probably the very last one I will see this year. There have been no others all week. A female cardinal visits the other bird bath. Luckily these beautiful red birds don’t migrate from here. They will stay all winter long, and I will put birdseed out for them each day.

Autumn has always been my favorite season since I was a little girl. I grew up in the northern climate of Buffalo, New York where the lake winds brought the strong Canadian coolness and fall was often upon us in early September. Not so here down south. Here, North Carolina weather can change in an hour. We can have this first taste of fall and tomorrow might bring back the heat of summer.

Life in the United States changes with this season since children return to school, vacations are pretty much over, and everyone settles in. I find myself cooking soups once again. Last night I made Italian Wedding Soup, a perfectly delicious way to welcome the change in seasons.

Fall or autumn? I grew up calling it ‘fall’ and with the obvious falling of leaves, that word makes good sense, but the poetic side of me loves the word ‘autumn.’ I love saying the word, hearing it, feeling it on the tongue. Autumn is delicious! And ‘autumnal’ is divine. Who can resist the beauty of this season? Not me.

Here are three other poems–two tanka and one haiku– to welcome this special season and day of the autumnal equinox.

daylight
and nighttime
in a slow dance—
tomorrow one
will lead

autumnal equinox…
the moment when day
matches night

autumn’s equinox
when time is equal—
if only one day
people
could be like this

A Poem for 9/11: Against the Evidence…

Posted on September 11, 2015 by Mary Kendall

9/11 Memorial

On September 11, 2001 I was far from retirement and very much still teaching in the Lower School. Sometime mid-morning, I had a short break and took a walk to the office where I heard the news that the first tower had fallen. We all know what happened next. We all remember what we were doing that morning.

Life changed then for all of us in this country. I recall the many conversations among teachers and staff about how to explain the horrendous news to the children (ours were grades 1-4), how to answer questions, how to help worried and anxious parents.

I remember the next day when we all gathered around the flag pole and watched as the flag was raised to half-staff, and some thoughful words we spoken and we shared our minute of silence and then sang the National Anthem.

I remember looking at the small children, tears finding their way down my cheeks (and those of all the faculty, it seemed) realizing the world of all these little ones was forever and irrevocably changed.

That night, after dinner, I sat outside in my garden. The weather was fine in the early September evening down in North Carolina. I watched the clouds float by in the sky, and I listened to the birds. I wrote a poem.

It is this poem I offer you today, fourteen years later. The poem is unaltered except for adding three lines to the second to last stanza later. I’m posting this on my blog on 9/11/15. Fourteen years after that horrible day, and our world feels far more out of control, far more filled with hatred and distrust of all who “aren’t like us” both here and abroad. The news has been filled with the tragic pictures of refugees, especially the unforgettable picture of the small toddler whose dead body lay on the sand at the edge of the water. Again we all wonder why it is men and women can’t live in peace.

Here is my poem. It won’t change the world. It won’t do much of anything in fact. Very few will ever read it. Yet, still, I offer it to you and hope that each of us can, in our own way, pray for peace today and every day.
.

If you care to listen to me read this poem, please click on the link below and wait a few seconds for the recording to begin.

.
In Memoriam, September 11, 2001

Against the evidence I will continue
to hope when there is no reason to hope.
Against the evidence I will continue
to search for life among the piles of rubble.
Against the evidence I will continue
to believe there is goodness in hearts when it seems
all else lies corrupted in darkness.

For in the hours that held madness,
in the hours of chaos and death,
as the billowing smoke darkened the skies
and the hearts of all people, there came
the night sky with air blowing clean,
revealing the stars that sit in their cold thrones
watching all of this without judgment.

Against the evidence I will continue
to find beauty in the dusky slate-colored sky.
Against the evidence I will continue
to find reasons to offer hope to a young child who cries.
Against the evidence I will continue
to look past the senselessness and try to find meaning
where there is none right now.

For in the days ahead there will be scenes
that the heart can simply not fathom,
sounds that ears would rather not hear,
sights that shatter our innocence
and feelings of inviolable space.

And the stars sitting in their cold thrones
watch down on us and now begin to weep
for the sadness of what man can do to man.
And the stars, as they see us, continue to burn,
their own surfaces fired with blue-flamed explosions,
the heat of their hearts now filled to bursting
as they watch, as they sit, as they shine
from those thrones so distant, so far above

Against the evidence I will continue
to find brilliance in the soft silvered stars.
Against the evidence I will continue
to look for their fiery tears falling down
on a world filled with terror and pain.
Against the evidence I will continue
to believe that one day it will all end.

Written on September 12, 2001 by Mary Kendall

Dove photo by Merlune

On the fence

Posted on September 3, 2015 by Mary Kendall

Fence ~ Photograph by Randy Baker (c) 2015

Randy Baker is a friend who loves the southern countryside and captures it beautifully in his photographs. Like many, he considers his pictures to be “just photos” and not art. He is modest about his talents for capturing beauty in a split-second shot. To me, this is art at its best.

I’ve held on to this picture all summer. It’s such a simple picture, and yet it is a perfect picture. Its subject is straight-forward–it’s a photo of a fence in the countryside. Yes, there are lots of fences. But look closely at this picture. The most noticeable feature is the upright stake, but it’s not just a pre-milled wooden stake. It’s a section of a tree still covered in bark. It also has a section that once was part of a limb and now appears to be almost a mouth sharing its thoughts with us on this cloudy summer day. The texture, the color of the bark, and then the color and texture around it in the grass and the wild flowers to the right and the cut and fallen grasses in front–all of these make it a photo you want to study for a long. I have certainly done just that.

This picture also made me want to re-read Robert Frost’s wonderful poem, The Mending Wall. I spent a whole morning reading and rereading that magificent poem and then reading some critical interpretations of it. I left refreshed and in still very much in awe of Frost’s brilliance. No wonder everyone remembers that poem or at least the famous lines it has given us. So this picture also gave me this–a little detour into rereading one of the great American poems that I hadn’t picked up in decades.

But Randy’s picture is not of a wall in need of repair or mending. It is a wall made of air, wire and wood. An entirely different type of barrier from a stone wall. The purpose is the same–it demarcates land ownership, and it keeps something out–or in. That is what got this poetic mind going.

What does a fence really do?

Here are my responses to the question of what a fence is or might be. I’ve looked at this picture so many times, and this single picture has inspired quite a few poems. These are very brief poems–sketches in verse, plus there is one poem about fences as a metaphor for our own need to be guarded at times.

the only real fence is in my head

on the fence—
am I in
or am I out?

Clichés abound
when it comes
to fences.

And here is a poem for all of us who guard our hearts so closely:

.
My Fence

What do they —or you—
know about my fence,
and how carefully
I chose to build it?

Can you guess
how long
it took to build it?

A lifetime of habit,
carefully constructed
and often hidden habits,

a life spent half in fear
of being judged
unkindly, unfairly,

with malice
in another heart.

Note: I would like to thank Randy Baker for allowing me to use this beautiful photograph that he took in the beautiful mountains of Virginia. It is a picture I would like to have framed and hanging near my writing desk. Randy, your pictures are always inspiring and bring a clarity to both the mind and heart. Thank you so much.

Summer Poem 1~

Posted on July 6, 2015 by Mary Kendall

Here in the southern part of the USA, thunder and lightning are not uncommon in summer. Days can be very hot and humid, and late afternoon lightning storms often break up the quiet of the day. Rain, when it comes, often fails to bring relief but instead adds to the high humidity. Still, there are times when just listening to the thunder and seeing the clouds grow thick and dark overhead becomes a magical experience. My friend, Jeanna Clever List, took this photograph while her family was on vacation on the coast of North Carolina. Its drama and beauty is truly exceptional.

My thanks, Jeanna, for allowing me to use your beautiful photograph to complete my haiga.

A Girl Who Wished for an Elegant ‘e’ by Mary Kendall (All About My Name Poetry Series)

Posted on July 4, 2015 by Mary Kendall

I am both delighted and honored that Silver Birch Press selected a poem of mine for their wonderful series of ‘All About My Name’ poems. The whole series of Name Poems is well worth reading…so please do just that!

Silver Birch Press

A Girl Who Wished for an Elegant ‘e’
by Mary Kendall

1. My Name

My name at birth was Mary Ann.
Grandpa called me Manya.
The old Polish mid-wife called me Marisha.
Daddy called me Marishka.
Momma called me Mary Ann.
Not one felt right to me.

I was six and my names felt wrong.
I was a nameless princess
in my child’s dreamy mind.
It was a lot like finding Cinderella,
fitting the perfect foot into the slipper,
only no prince would rename me.
I had to do it by myself.

2. A Plan

Once I learned to read and write,
the problem became clear.
Mary Ann looked too plain,
like a little cat without a curlicue tail.
It just didn’t balance.

I knew if I could add an ‘e’ to Ann, it
would become the beautiful Mary Anne.
A name worthy of me. Oh, I had such dreams!

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June Haiku 2

Posted on June 26, 2015 by Mary Kendall

weathered wood—

memories of youth

drifting away

Old Boat ~ Photograph by Mike Keville, (c) 2015

The theme of old, worn wood (see June Haiku 1) continues in this poem. Amazing how beautiful things retain their magic despite age.

My thanks to photographer, Mike Keville, for allowing me to use his gorgeous boat photograph for this haiku. The textures and colours of this photo inspire many poems.

Two Small Poems

Posted on June 8, 2015 by Mary Kendall

Two poems of mine were just published in the May 2015 issue of ‘cattails,’ the lovely online publication of the United Haiku and Tanka Society. I am truly honored once again by being included in the company of such excellent poets. My thanks to all of the editors, and especially to the main editor, an’ya.

Cattails

and the other poem is a haiku:

Rosehips by Midori

petals fall—
we gather rosehips thinking
only of tea

~

Photo by Tanya of Lovely Greens Blog

Tanka on a May Morning

Posted on May 9, 2015 by Mary Kendall

In the past five months I have been studying my much beloved tanka, haiku and small poems in order to become a better writer. Writers–and poets–need to keep growing as they go. As part of my interest in these lovely small poem forms, I have joined a number of exception online groups of poets who post their own writing. On several of the sites, “prompts” are given and sometimes a picture is given. People respond as they wish or not. Often comments are given. I can’t tell you what a thrill it is to get a “like” or even a comment by one of these poets who are so gifted and accomplished tanka and/or haiku poets, but even without the ‘likes,’ it feels wonderful to be a little more confident about sharing poems publicly. This morning, I’m posting several tanka I wrote this week to specific prompts.

1 [prompt: celebration of color]

Photograph (c) Kristin Sanderson

scribbles

of scarlet red

in the shrubs—

two cardinals

take flight

[prompt: full moonrise, unforgettable moon]

Photography (c) by Cab Treadway

cloud masquerade

tonight—

the moon is hidden

from your

wanton gaze

3 [prompt: how you share your journey]

old cobblestones

so hard to cross—

without speaking

I take your arm

and we walk on

4 [prompt: flutes..music…]

sweet song

hidden in the plum tree–

a nightengale

gives itself

away

Frozen Moments

Posted on March 31, 2015 by Mary Kendall

FROZEN MOMENTS

It doesn’t matter that your words were shouted
In a peal of sparking anger, anger spewed
In moon-white flames tinged with flicks—
Sapphire blue and poppy red and yellow.

Burning so hot and fast, those thoughts
Consumed themselves and all
Nearby, including what remained
Of hope
For change…
Your change,
Your transformation.

And when the fire burned down,
All that was left were the ashes of your anger.

Small chars of memories…
Frozen moments of who you were…
Once—
Long Ago.

Unable to forgive—even yourself,
You are locked in the ice of stagnation,
The ice of inner struggle.

Frozen fire—
No thaw,
No shift,
No change.
No redemption.

Frozen
Moments
Forever.

Sounds of Summer Evenings by Mary Kendall (Where I Live Poetry & Photography Series)

Posted on March 16, 2015 by Mary Kendall

I’m so excited to have a poem of mine included in the “Where I Live Poetry and Photography Series’ by Silver Birch Press. They have published two other poems of mine in other series, and It is always an honor to be included among their marvelous poetry selections. Thank you, Silver Birch Press!
.
Wherever you live, no matter where you might be, nighttime in summer reveals a very different world of sound. During the day we hear birds, breezes, people, mowers, airplanes, cars or sometimes just bees and hummingbird wings. At night, however, we must totally rely on our hearing to grasp all the different sounds that play out in the night chorus. Here in the south, in North Carolina where I live, summer nights are especially noisy. From frogs and owls to whipoorwills and katydids, there are times when it is absolutely deafening. I wish I had the expertise to identify all the different frogs our small garden pond must be home to. There is one frog that sounds much like what I imagine an alien creature would be like—high-pitched, very shrill and almost dizzying in its persistent song. It’s irritating enough to go inside.

.
Then there are the “call and response” night singers. I love those most of all. I can sit a long while listening to them. Occasionally I hear an owl, but lately it seems there are fewer around. I remember when we regularly had barred owls nesting in our woodland garden. Catching sight of one was always impressive, but hearing one in the middle of the night was truly haunting. I love to sit outside in our screened-in porch when it is dark. The dog often comes and sits with me listening and keeping me company. She makes no sound herself, knowing that we are the polite and attentive audience to this vast chorus of night.

.

Here is an audio recording of me reading this poem. Just click on the link below, wait a few seconds, and it will begin.

.

Silver Birch Press

Sounds of Summer Evenings
by Mary Kendall

Sometimes at night I sit outside
In the screened-in porch out back.

In the darkness, the rustling leaves
Of the tall beech trees are blowing.

The katydids call to one another,
An evening of antiphonal refrain.

On nights when a heavy rain falls,
All you can hear are the tireless frogs

Chorusing in the garden pond.
The deep lone bass, the shrill soprano,

This diverse and discordant choir
Seems to be one of rhapsodical joy.

And then there are times when an owl
Soundlessly lands in a nearby tree

And startles me with its resonant call,
Letting me know it’s now on watch.

Two times more it calls, low and deep.
I rise and go, time now for me to sleep.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: Northern by birth, I have lived for more than 35 years in North Carolina. Our summer nights are…

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Meditation on the Moment

Posted on March 13, 2015 by Mary Kendall

The following poem of mine, “Meditation on the Moment” was originally published in a book called, True Belonging: Mindful Practices to Help You Overcome Loneliness, Connect with Others, and Cultivate Happiness (c) 2011 by Jeffrey Brantley, MC, DFAPA and Wendy Millstine.

Dr. Jeffrey Brantley was my first meditation teacher in the Duke Integrative Medicine MBSR program. His wife, Mary Brantley, introduced me to the practice of Metta (Loving Kindness). Through both of these teachers my life was forever changed in a most beautiful way. I wrote this poem for Dr. Brantley and he first used it in meditation classes and later asked to publish it in his book. This was an honor I will always hold very close to my heart.

Meditation on the Moment

When I am ready,
I close my eyes
and focus on the breathing;
awareness of air
passing through the nose
down through the body;
the belly rises, falls,
rises again ~
its slow rhythm
setting the tone.

Next, focus on the body,
accepting it for once
as it is right now,
here in this moment,
for the moment
is all we have.

Breathing in,
breathing out,
shoulders soft,
no striving
to get somewhere
for there is no place
to be but here.

No judging of self,
simply letting it be
in the moment
for the moment.

Rain pounds against the glass
this February evening.
The image begins with sound
transforming into a thought.

Raindrops falling,
each one perfectly formed
but then releasing,
allowing itself to lose
what it was alone,
becoming instead
part of something more.

167929__the-rain-drops-the-branch_t

Poem by Mary Kendall, 2007

Sky the color of hyacinths…

Posted on March 7, 2015 by Mary Kendall

~ ~

I’m still very new as a haiku poet, so it is with caution that I’ve ventured out to try an actual haiga. A haiga combines art and a haiku. Since I lack all painterly skills, I’m combining my haiku with a photo that I love. I’ve done this in a slightly similar way on my blog with tanka and some autumn haiku. However, I consider this to be my very first true haiga.

What is Haiga?

“Haiga is a Japanese concept for simple pictures combined with poetry, usually meaning haiku. In Basho’s time, haiga meant a brushed ink drawing combined with one of his single poems handwritten as part of the picture. In our day and age, haiga can be watercolor paintings, photographs or collages with a poem of any genre that is integrated into the composition. Sometimes the poem is handwritten or it can be computer generated, depending on the artist’s taste.” (This definition of haiga is by the poet, Jane Reichhold on her website, Ah Ha! Poetry.)

Note on Photograph:

This beautiful photograph is by an Icelandic photographer known to me only as KariK on Flickr. It was posted and thus copyrighted in (c) 2011. It has been posted thousands of times online and almost never with an attribution to him. By doing a ‘backward’ image search I was able to find him on flickr. His photographs, most of nature, are magnificent. This is what he wrote for this particular picture (translated from Icelandic):

Reykjanestá: This location is unique for the fact that there can see the ocean ridge walk on 1 and, Mid-Atlantic Ridge, which separates the prefabricated North America and Europe.

KariK, (c) 2011

The Eagles Have Landed…

Posted on February 20, 2015 by Mary Kendall

800px-bald_eagle_fish

THE DECORAH EAGLES…JOIN THE FAN CLUB!

The eagles landed some time ago and have carefully rebuilt and replenished their nest. I am referring to the now famous Deborah Eagles out in Iowa. For several years now, I’ve been one of their fans watching the live camera feed. The first egg has been laid, and the camera is showing mom sitting on it as the wild winds blow past here high up in a cottonwood tree.

The first egg was laid a day ago. It will hatch in 35-39 days if all goes well.

Watch it, if you dare. You just might get hooked on this fascinating bit of eavesdropping.

Raptor Resource Project Decorah Eagle Cam, Decorah, IA

***LIVE CAMERA LINK: http://www.raptorresource.org/falcon_cams/decorah_eagle_xcel.html

The following information comes from a main site, The Deborah Eagles: http://www.thedecoraheagles.com:

Bob Anderson, the founder and director of Raptor Resource Project, operates the organization from the town of Decorah.

For more information about the Decorah Eagles, browse to their UStream live camera link, and scroll down below the camera feed. You will find many links, with lots to read about them there.

http://www.ustream.tv/decoraheagles

Raptor Resource Project Information

There is no better place to go for information about the Decorah Eagles, or eagles in general, than the forums of the Raptor Resource Project. Chat and Forum Moderators, who volunteer for RRP, have put together an excellent collection of information. Here is the link to that page:
http://www.raptorresource.org/forum/index.php/board,31.0.htmlThis next link is to the blog of the Raptor Resource Project. On this blog they post recent information, as well as useful and interesting facts:
http://raptorresource.blogspot.com/

The Raptor Resource Project also maintains a Facebook page and posts most information and updates there as well. That page can be viewed without a Facebook account. Follow this link:
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Raptor-Resource-Project/103786266324668

[All citations from: http://www.thedecoraheagles.com]

I first watched them in 2011 and was fascinated by the eagles but also by the avid eagle watchers. I learned more about eagles and raptors than I thought I would. For instance, this first egg that was just laid will hatch in 35-39 days. These particular nesting eagles have been very successful, very attentive parents. If you have children or grandchildren, nieces or nephews or if you teach, I can’t recommend this more highly. Technology gives us a beautiful glimpse into the world of these powerful, beautiful birds.

And, since this is my poetry blog, here’s my poem that I wrote for the first eagles I watched learning to fly. Hard to imagine that they need to “learn” but they do indeed. My poem is dedicated to the eagles.

And Then It Flew

Older by only days, the first-born eagle
Was the first to branch, the first to fly~

Young eyes studying the world beyond the tree,
It now stood on a limb, lifting its wings over

And over, learning how to battle erratic gusts,
Learning how to channel the waiting wind,

Understanding now what it would be like to fly.
Again and again, those powerful wings fluttered,

Starting and stopping, gaining strength and nerve,
Gathering courage for that first awkward jump

Until one morning it lifted off the branch and flew,
Joining its parents in capturing the wind, trusting

That once it had made that leap, it too would fly.

His first flight.

On Growing Old Together, a Love Poem

Posted on February 14, 2015 by Mary Kendall

This love poem was written for my husband. We met in 1974, forty years ago. It really does seem like last year. Growing older together has been a gift to both of us. We have shared so much and grown so much. Love is the one constant in the equation we call life.

This poem is dedicated to my beloved husband and to all who have loved and been loved.

The link below will give you the option of hearing me read the poem. Click on it if you wish to listen. (It takes a few seconds to begin.)

On Growing Old Together

Will you scatter me over water
or throw me to the winds,
letting me float away?

Will your ashes mingle
with mine one day
when you too are gone?
Ashes to ashes…

Will you take my hand again
and hold me close against the wind?
Will your eyes always smile with mine?
Dust to dust…

Will our hearts travel as one
no matter where that might be?
Will our love be forever?
Ashes to ashes, Soul to Soul.

Two Hearts Beat as One by Alexandru 1988

Dream Time 1

Posted on February 10, 2015 by Mary Kendall

I’m working on a series of poems based on dreams. The draft is tentatively titled, Dream Time.

For years I didn’t dream. Oh, I know I did. Science can prove we dream. I just didn’t remember them at all. When my doctor put me on a new medication, a surprising side effect was very vivid dreams. Colorful dreams, strange dreams, confusing dreams, and beautiful dreams. I loved this unexpected gift, and so I have been working on cultivating how to recall dreams. We all know that dreams are quickly lost upon awakening. If they aren’t written down or recalled consciously, they float back to where they came from.

I’d like to share one of these dream poems today. This poem is loosely based on a very strange dream I had about chasing a bus. It was very disorienting to say the least. Of course, I checked dream meanings online, and I read that to dream of missing a bus is a very common dream. It tells of someone not sure of the path in which they are headed or if they missed an opportunity by hesitating, or even perhaps that they are faltering in a relationship. But none of these fits my dream of being lost in a city I know but looking totally different. A city in which no one can tell me its name or the direction in which they are heading. Please remember the poem is not a literal retelling of the dream as a journal would do. It is a poem and thus a product of the imagination.

The Missed Bus

Dream Time 1 ~ The Missed Bus

The missed bus
pulls away
from the curb,
picking up speed
faster than I can run.

In my sleep I am able
not only to run fast
but shout loudly enough
in a stranger’s voice
that might be heard
if only the driver
would catch
a glimpse of me
in the mirror
as I chase
the departing bus
on a street
I don’t know,
in a direction
of which
I am unaware.

Running so fast,
shouting
until my voice
gravels to a rasp,
my legs and arms
feather darkly
and suddenly lift up.

I am flying
above the bus

waiting for it
to stop or even slow,

but it speeds on
its course.

Sailing down
I see it is empty,
hurtling fast
somewhere,
nowhere,
unguided, and
with lowering wings
I fly into the open
side window,

my fingers emerging
from dusky feathers

I grasp the wheel
in desperation,
my foot able
to hit the break.

The stop is sudden,
my head rolls
forward fast
into the glass.

Only silence,
and absolute
stillness
now,

the wind
speaks of
something
I can’t
quite hear.

I awake
in my bed, heart
pounding,
head throbbing,
dizzy,
relieved.

Outside,
in the tall tree
the crow
watches
from his branch.
Even he is silent
for once.

Morning starts
to erase the night,
and the mist
begins to thin
in parts.

A new day
is waiting.

Longing for the Winter Sun

Posted on February 1, 2015 by Mary Kendall

Ever since I began this blog in late July, 2014, I’ve noticed how often I am inspired by beautiful photographs I come across. Word Press photography blogs are some of my favorites, but photographs appear elsewhere, too. Harald Illsinger’s beautiful nature photographs never fail to dazzle his fans and friends, and that includes me. This picture above is one he labeled, ‘Longing for Winter Sun Light.’

Mid-winter can be dreary, dark, depressing for so many of us. This picture is the antidote to all of that. The colors are so brilliant that our eyes can’t stop looking at this picture without murmuring something about how magical it is or how much like a painting it is. This is one photograph I would love to have sitting before me at my writing desk. Thank you, Harald, for allowing me to use this brilliant picture. Your elegant Viennese light is very special indeed.

Longing for the Winter Sun

river running roughly
winter chill set in

deep, deep
into the bones

waiting for warmth,
cold winter light

sun frozen in place,
color splashed

across the water;
the swans are quiet,

now nestled deep
in the grasses,

this simple knowing
when land offers

respite, relief
from wild waves

and frigid ripples,
river running deep

Remembering Winter Wash Days

Posted on January 30, 2015 by Mary Kendall

Laundry Day
by Andrew Wyeth

How many of you readers remember the scent of clothes and sheets dried outside in summer? That fragrance is something you never forget. All the fabric softeners in the world can’t duplicate it. In our busy world clothes dryers are something we all use. I can’t imagine hanging clothes out to dry at my stage of life. However, while we are living in London, our flat has a nice washer/dryer combination unit. British machines are very difference from American ones. This one is smaller and takes much, much longer to run a cycle. The dryer often leaves clothes slightly damp. Luckily the flat is well equipped and we have two small folding laundry hangers where I can hang things out to finish drying. I don’t mind doing this at all. It reminds me of my childhood when we always hung laundry outside out of necessity. Even in cold, cold weather.

The following poem was written a few years back for a prompt on PoetsOnline (see http://www.poetsonline.org) about laundry. While several poets chose the metaphorical allusions of hanging one’s laundry out or dirty laundry, the prompt evoked in me a sharp image of having to scramble to pull half-frozen clothing off the line before the snow came.

ON WINTER WASH DAYS

On winter wash days, those on the cusp
of warmth, we hung out the clothes
with numb fingers, feeling the curtain
of clouds closing in.

Those were the days when the sun
often hid, and the cold never left at all.

Fabric froze hard, and dresses
and shirts grew solid and stiff.
Rows of sheets, towels and clothes
waved wildly, like pages of a book
flapping in the wind.

In late afternoon, we took it all down,
clothespins snapping shut as each piece
was pulled, placed in the wicker
basket and taken inside.

The darkness closed in early
those mid-winter days, the
evening star sometimes rising
before the icy moon.

Burnt Toast

Posted on January 23, 2015 by Mary Kendall

Marcel Proust had his fragrant shell-shaped madeleine and linden flower tea. I have my burnt toast.

How often have you found that a simple smell can carry you back in time or far away? It happens to all of us, the sense of smell being strongly linked to evoking memories. Scientists can now prove this through brain scans, but artists and psychiatrists have long noted how taste and smell work with long-past memories far more than other senses. Proust says it so eloquently:

“When from a long distant past nothing subsists, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered, taste and smell alone, more fragile but enduring, more unsubstantial, more persistent, more faithful, remain poised a long time, like souls, remembering, waiting, hoping, amid the ruins of all the rest; and bear unflinchingly, in the tiny and almost impalpable drop of their essence, the vast structure of recollection.”

For Proust, it wasn’t simply the beautiful shape of the madeleine, but the smell and taste of the madeline dipped in the linden flower tea that brought back a flood of memories.

The other morning as I waited for two eggs to boil, I made some toast. It was lovely whole grain bread bought in a farmer’s market here in London. I cut the slice a bit unevenly, and I think it was this that caused the bread to stay down too long in the toaster. I smelled it before I noticed the smoke. The bread was burnt. Feeling annoyed that I hadn’t caught this in time, I grabbed a knife and began to scrape the charred layer from the toast. You can guess where I am going with this, can’t you? In a split second or two a long forgotten memory came flooding back from my early childhood. The poem, “Burnt Toast” was written later in the week. Interestingly, as I wrote each draft, I imagined the smell of the burnt toast over and over.

burning toast

Burnt Toast

I burnt the toast.
The butter knife
rasped across
the too dark toast.
Sooty crumbs
flurried down
into the sink,
and the smell
of blackened bread
brought back memories
of momma doing this,
scraping the bad away.

Hazel eyes twinkling,
she’d tell us the burnt part
would whiten our smiles,
and we’d always laugh
at this silly joke,
never quite sure
if it might not be true.

But one lost slice
was one less meal,
and she was unwavering.
We would never
know the hunger
that hovered close by.

Even to this day,
I have a strange fondness
for slightly charred bits of food,
my mother always standing there,
at the edges of my memory.

burnt_toast430x300

Winter Moon Haiku

Posted on January 6, 2015 by Mary Kendall

Winter Moon Haiku

These haiku were first published PoetsOnline in response to a prompt for winter haiku. In the summer of 2011, I was contacted by the American composer, Paul Carey, who asked permission to use the haiku for a commissioned composition. These were used as lyrics for “Winter Moon” by Paul Carey, a piece for women’s chorus in 2011. The work was premiered on December 8, 2011 by the Clark College Women’s Choir (directed by April Duvic).

Sadly, I’ve never gotten to hear the musical piece since I’m on the east coast and Clark College is in Vancouver, Washington. It would be my dream to get a download of that performance, but enough time has passed that I believe that won’t happen. Still, it was a true honor to be asked to use my haiku in a composition.

I’ve decided to post these haiku today because yesterday was the first full moon of the new year, 2015. Often called the Wolf Moon or Old Moon, the full moon is always a magnicent display for us to observe. I have always felt I could write more freely and easily during a full moon, though I have no proof of that. It’s just a gut feeling of a single poet. Because these were published as part of a composition, the haiku won’t appear in any journals, so I’d like to share them with the readers of this blog. Otherwise they lie dormant in my poetry folder along with so many of their friends.

I offer good wishes to each of you for the new year.

night snow

boughs dreaming

of first blossoms

Fog filled woods~

even the winter moon

has lost its way

a winter walk

footprints

tell no tales

the blue moon

silently closes the door

upon the year

A Simple Love Poem

Posted on January 1, 2015 by Mary Kendall

Since my last posting, my husband and I have flown across the Atlantic and are settling into the faculty flat in Winston House, Bedford Square, London. Quite a beautiful place to live for four months ago. Some of my readers know all about this because they followed my travel blog (Bedford Square + 2), which will continue on a non-Word Press platform. If you are curious, you can find it through this link: http://marykendall2.blogspot.co.uk

We lived here two years ago, spending the spring term and following it with five weeks on the continent. This time ’round we will be here for four months. The flight was, for once, not too bad way back in coach class. The pilot surprised us all by taking off exactly on time and arriving at Heathrow Airport 50 minutes early. For real.

Jet-lag is something that seems to get worse with age, and both of us fell fast asleep at 10 pm on New Year’s Eve. At the stroke of midnight we both woke to what sounded like an awful ruckus. It took only a few seconds to figure out it was the fireworks along the Thames. From our windows we couldn’t see the fireworks directly. What we did see was the sky turning beautiful shades of pink, green, purple, white…and flashes of sparkling white rockets. By sticking my head out the window I figured out that I could see some of the fireworks and those were dazzling enough to me in my exhausted state.

(we didn’t see this from our window, but the sky was quite similar)

After about 12 minutes of this sound and light show in this ancient city, my husband quickly fell back to sleep while I remained wide awake for an hour. It gave me some quiet time to make a cup of tea, sit down in the darkened living area and think about our many visits to the UK and to London in particular.

Our first trip to London and England was back in 1977 when we were young and energetic enough to walk absolutely everywhere. Another summer we spent about a month in London following a month in Oxford where R. did research, and I enjoyed exploring parks, museums, shops, streets. In 1989, we brought the first group of students over on this Honors London program sponsored by my husband’s university. We lived in Hampstead that year, and we loved it. Our son was in nursery school, so I made friends of some spectacular women. The Heath was there for daily walks and our local library was next door to the Keats house. After we checked out our books, my little son and I would go sit in the garden of the Keats House and read stories together. It didn’t ever get better than that for me. Sometimes simple acts or simple gestures are better than anything.

In 2013, we returned to London and were housed in beautiful Winston House that now is home for this London Honors program. It was a very wonderful time for us and for the students. We’ve kept in touch with many of them. And now, in 2015, we are unexpectedly back again for four months. A new group of students will arrive on January 10th, and the term will have begun.

I will continue my travel blog if anyone is interested. Since this blog is devoted to my poetry writing practice, I thought I’d begin the new year with an old poem. I published it in 2013 in my Bedford Square + 2 blog as a Valentine’s gift to my husband. Since his teaching and research have given us both so many wonderful stays in this beautiful country, I’d like to share a very simple love poem I wrote for him. Love is not tied to a single day or week or year, and sometimes simple things like strolling in a beautiful place help you reaffirm your love and relationship.

If you might like to listen to me reading the poem, simply click on the link below. It takes a few seconds to begin.

Taking Your Arm

I took your arm for the first time in so many years.
Was it the cold damp air that made me reach out?
Was it the need to feel safe in the noisy city streets?

Slipping my fingers into the crook of your arm,
the warmth of your soft wool coat was comforting.
I felt grounded and balanced by your strength.

Through the busy London streets we walked,
much of it in silence, a silence built on
knowing that words aren’t always necessary.

I glanced down at our booted feet. Our steps
kept time, first left, then right, left, then right,
finding the rhythm of these unknown streets.

For RDK, London, February 14, 2013
Originally published on Bedford Square + 2
http://marykendall2.blogspot.co.uk/2013/02/a-simple-valentine-for-one-i-love.html

This Sacred Place

Posted on December 23, 2014 by Mary Kendall

THIS SACRED PLACE

There is a place near here I like to sit,
a place where the slanted rays of winter sun

warm the bare trees; where water drips
into the pond trickling notes of a wordless song.

Sitting with silence, the mind begins to quiet and
breathing settles. Thoughts come, then disappear,

and equanimity envelops me with a healing spirit,
the soul of this bare winter woodland.

Wild Water ~ Three Tanka

Posted on December 18, 2014 by Mary Kendall

Wild Water: Three Tanka

1.

throughout the long day

the wild water crashes

again and again—

memories of you silently

slip under water

2.

as evening comes

the tide begins to swell

in the empty sound,

one lone boat

longing to set sail

3.

foghorn rasping

deep and low—

a bleak song

of ships surrendering

to savage waves

Moments of Gold

Posted on December 14, 2014 by Mary Kendall

flapping

five times twice

he hovers

over the pale swans

in a shimmering dance

golden feather 10

Frosted Rosebud

Posted on December 11, 2014 by Mary Kendall

Frosted rosebud
caught in the night,

Awakening to the fog
of a December dawn.

This sweet pale rosebud
delicately iced over,

Thin slick of frost
lightly brushed on

As if an angel chose
to paint, capturing

The morning’s canvas
where season changes

To season, autumn
turning into winter,

Short days giving in
to long nights of silence

As your fragile calyx
gives you up to the day.

Small Poems of Grief

Posted on December 5, 2014 by Mary Kendall

Grief, by iosatel, (c) 2014, The Obvious and Hidden blog: http://theobviousandhidden.com/2014/11/04/grief/

only the bereaved know
they needn’t speak in whispers,

grief is never
completely silenced

rush of water
a broken branch drifts by
what will be left?

Unending days of darkness
that never let you forget.

Saturated, as if the clouds
had wrung themselves out
all at once, watching what
would then ensue

sitting at the window
watching the rain
despondent days
of unexhausted sadness
trying to let go

forgetting you
was never an option

grief exhausts
but holds on,
rain continues
to fall

thirty-five years and still I mourn you,
sometimes waking and imagining you there

darkness deepens
into the black of night

lightning signals
thunder cracks,

but it is the loss of you
who took your life
that makes me ask
why it had to be

~~~

My Note of Thanks to the photographer, Iosatel, for his beautiful picture, Grief, which was first posted on his blog, The Obvious and the Hidden on 4/11/14. This photograph is copyrighted (c) 2014 by the artist himself.

I Wish I could Undo…

Posted on November 30, 2014 by Mary Kendall

“Broken Mirror” by Edward Van Helgen @ deviantart.com

For quite a few years now, one of my favorite poetry sites online has been POETSONLINE (see http://poetsonline.org). This site introduced me to presenting poetry online for others to read and it also taught me what fun it can be to write to a specific prompt. The site’s administrator, Ken Ronkowitz, has several blogs, several of which focus on poetry. His prompts are always very well thought out, amply illustrated with poetic examples, they never fail to offer a good challenge to both an experienced writer or someone new to writing poetry. This past summer, Ken presented an interesting prompt that began with Carl Sandburg’s poem, “Mag”:

“The prompt this time out was to write a poem about a negative wish (or wishes) – a wish to undo, wishes that change the past. Those are the wishes that pull you right back to the present and have you thinking about the future.”

The poems written in response to the prompt were published this fall. I wanted to share mine here on my own poetry blog to reach a broader audience. I think the problem is poor self-esteem and distorted sense of self-worth isn’t uncommon in women in America. I struggled with it all my life and just when I think I’m in control, something might happen and make me backslide. I’d say that 97% of the time, my rational self is in control and keeps that negative thinking in check. I do regret having wasted so much of my life feeling inadequate or not worthy of being valued in so many ways. I know I’m not alone. I hope any person reading this poem will think about it and someone they know who struggles with this issue and perhaps, do something to help her (or him) learn to embrace their own self-worth.

Self-portrait in colored pencil

If you’d like to listen to the poem, click on the link below and wait a few seconds for the audio to begin.

I Wish I Could Undo…

All the time
I wasted waiting for life to happen,
As if there would be a perfect moment
When the stars aligned just so,
Or my sails swiftly caught the wind,
And the ivory moon was full.

I thought it would just happen.

All the time
I wasted loathing who I am:
Never good enough, smart enough,
Thin enough, clever enough,
And if that weren’t already enough,
I somehow felt that if I said it enough,
I really might be transformed,
Emerging a butterfly and not a moth.

I would be smarter, beautiful, wittier,
And I’d dance with agile grace.
At last it became quite apparent:
I would never be ‘enough’ for me.

All that time
I wasted wishing myself away.
If only I could undo all of that,
And take back time…and use it well.
I’d whisper a simple incantation
To my younger self:

You were enough, more than enough
In your very own way.

Apple in Mirror

First published on PoetsOnline.org under “Negative Wishes,” August 2014

Donut Dog ~ a Visual Poem

Posted on November 30, 2014 by Mary Kendall

Katy, my donut dog, deep in sleep.

One of the great joys in life is owning a dog you absolutely adore. For me that is my sweet seven year old yellow Labrador retriever, Katy. We got Katy as a one year old rescue dog from the wonderful rescue group, Saving Grace, in North Carolina. She surprised us by chewing just about everything including more than one down-filled pillow. (Did you know that a down pillow contains a million and a half down feathers? Neither did I until I had to clean up the ‘snow filled’ house on several occasions.) Seriously, we quickly found out that this bundle of energy needed really long, hard exercise. For Katy, this came in the activity of fetching. Even today she still runs so fast that people comment on it. And she fetches until you stop throwing the tennis ball. My neighbors are used to dropping off bags of used tennis balls, all for Katy’s pleasure. She definitely has her fans. Who can resist a lovely, very silly dog who won’t live without her beloved tennis ball?

This poem is my tribute to my dear Katy. As you can see from the picture above, she loves to curl up like a donut (what dog doesn’t love this position?).

Donut Dog by Mary Kendall

Eye on the prize!

A ball is always close by.

Even old tennis balls need a nap.

The Broken Promise: Orpheus and Eurydice, poem by Mary Kendall (Mythic Poetry Series)

Posted on November 26, 2014 by Mary Kendall

A second poem of mine in the Silver Birch Press Mythic Poetry Series! I’m delighted they selected this one.

I’ve done an audio clip of me reading this poem. Click below if you care to listen.

Silver Birch Press

The Broken Promise: Orpheus and Eurydice
by Mary Kendall

If only he had kept his promise, she’d be there.
All it took was one glance, a quick turn,
a meeting of the eyes and then she vanished.

How long did he stand there staring at where she had been?
When did he realize that she was lost to him forever?

How sad the stars were that night,
tumbling through the black sky
in mournful arcs;
even the moon turned its face away.

As he lead her out toward the ledge,
did she gasp at her unsure footing?
She with her snake-born limp,
trying hard to keep pace through dark tunnels
winding up to the craggy precipice?
Was this what tempted him to look?

His glance came so naturally,
that of the husband who worried
his wife might stumble and fall.
His trust in her never wavered and yet
he looked…

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The End of Autumn

Posted on November 21, 2014 by Mary Kendall

“In my End is my Beginning”

The End of Autumn

How could we pass through autumn
without thinking about life.

Life and death.

Life and birth.

Birth and death.

The book ends of our existence
with pauses of space in between
waiting for us to write the chapters
that will fill the empty volume
that eventually defines a life.

These photos were taken by me at the Duke Hospice at The Meadowlands in Hillsborough, North Carolina. This hospice is set on an old farmstead in rural Orange county. The hospice and grounds are a wonderful gift to all who pass through.

Quotation embroidered by Mary, Queen of Scots

Quotation embroidered and worn by Mary, Queen of Scots

Dining with the Woodpeckers

Posted on November 14, 2014 by Mary Kendall

While visiting my brother and his wife this summer in East Aurora, New York, we experienced a truly wonderful and unexpected visit from three pileated woodpeckers at the suet feeder Jim had filled. His wife, Paulett, said the woodpeckers were frequent visitors to their lovely back garden. This was a first for me. Although I’ve been an on again, off again birdwatcher for most of my adult life, I’ve only seen one pileated woodpecker in person before. Seeing three at the same time was simply brilliant. Watching their acrobatics as they fed on the suet, flew back and forth to peck at a tree, and generally manoeuvered their rather large bodies in amazinglying agile ways was pure delight. After a feeding frenzy, they flew away and it felt amazingly still and empty where they had been. Much like a visit with beloved family and friends, the ‘after’ part comes all too soon and leaves a void in our hearts. This poem is dedicated to Jim and Paulett, two of the kindest and most caring people I know. Thank you for sharing your home, your family and your amazing woodpeckers with us.

Dining with the Woodpeckers

In the late August garden
The quiet afternoon now

Comes to a languorous close.
Out of nowhere, a flash of red,

Bright scarlet crests crowning
Zebra-patterned feathers.

Three Pileated woodpeckers
Begin to feast at the suet feeder,

Fluttering, flying tree to tree,
Tree to feeder, alternately

Pecking at thick maple bark,
Then shifting to soft silky suet.

The youngest, now the size of its parents,
Joins in to grab his share, and father

And mother dutifully give way.
For a few Cirque des Oiseaux moments

All three woodpeckers hang right side up
And upside down, their brilliant red heads

Flash like stop lights in the early evening sun.
We sit around the table eating an early supper

And sipping local wine. Conversation drifts
As we watch in these avian acrobatics.

Just as quickly as they arrived, so soon are
They are gone. More wine is poured,

Seconds of hot buttered corn and fresh
Heirloom garden tomatoes are passed

From one to the other. Like the birds,
We share this meal together, enjoying

The richness of what the day has given.
A light wind blows the leaves outside,

A beautiful evening for us to be together
Knowing that summer will end all too soon.

Picture by Beth Brandkamp

Water Song

Posted on November 8, 2014 by Mary Kendall

Water Song

Water, the color of night,
so very still
not even a wave
breaks the glass surface.

Fear is sometimes
like this, submerged
so far it is hidden
from the conscious self,
safely buried
and unable to rise
to the top again.

Dark thoughts swim
against the current
of common sense, but
they meet no resistance
that far down.

The Second Lamentation of Demeter ~ (Poetry and Myth)

Posted on November 4, 2014 by Mary Kendall

Narcissus, 1912 by John William Waterhouse

The Abduction of Persephone, Hans Von Aachen, 1587

To hear me read this poem, please click on the link below and wait a few seconds for it to begin.

The Second Lamentation of Demeter

The earth groaned, then opened briefly.
That’s all it took.

He appeared out of nowhere
Like a wild flume of fire,

The flickering golden chariot with
Four black stallions at full gallop.

He sprang upon her so quickly
That when the earth closed back

Upon itself like a wound healed over,
All that was left was a circlet of flowers

That she and the daughters of Oceanus
Had been stringing together. Irises, roses,

Violets, hyacinths, and the faded blossoms
Of sweet narcissus plucked by her hand.

The scar in the earth and grasses torn apart
Were all that told the story.

I always knew he watched her…
I sensed when he was around.

Clouds gathered overhead,
Shadows clothing him in darkness,

Hades,
To whom sunlight is a stranger.

My sweet Persephone is gone now,
Gone with him.

O, horror…
My sweet child is his.

Gian Lorenzo Bernini, The Abduction of Persephone, 1622, Galleria Borghese in Rome

(detail)

The First Lamentation of Demeter ~ (Poetry and Myth)

Posted on November 1, 2014 by Mary Kendall

British Museum GR 1885.3-16.1 (Terracotta C 529), AN34724001

Demeter statue in front of my gym in Hillsborough, North Carolina

So what is a lamentation? The Oxford English Dictionary defines it simply: “The passionate expression of grief or sorrow; weeping.” Anyone who has grieved knows instinctively what it is to lament the loss of someone who is dearly loved. The feeling is painful and deep, and I think this resonates within us all. Demeter mourned her daughter’s abduction to a point where the earth nearly perished. This poem begins with her not yet knowing all that has happened. I picture her as a mother desperate to know what has happened to her child.

This is one of two lamentations of Demeter I’ve written. The second will follow at some point.

Demeter

To listen to an audio recording of me reading this poem, click on the link below and wait a few seconds for it to begin:

The First Lamentation of Demeter

How is it that I don’t know where she has gone?

I warned her.

I told her time and time again not to trust them,
that there were those who so longed for her
they would stop at nothing.

And who was right?

Like all girls her age, she could be headstrong,
believing her own mother too old
to understand those yearnings.

I warned her.

Last night I watched the dog star rise up.
Its magnificent beams were like beacons
that might lead me to my lost child.

Why is it the stars are silent?

O, Sirius, your brilliant rays reach down
to us and yet your silence is puzzling.
Surely you saw where she went, my only child.

Will no one tell me where my Persephone has gone?

Four Late October Small Poems

Posted on October 27, 2014 by Mary Kendall

dusk winds weave
seed pods in silken strings
spirits dancing

morning’s breath
slips by so silently
a shiver of frost

perhaps a portent
of what winter will bring
this woven white light

just as a cloud forms
and suddenly dissipates
so a thought begins

Weaving Light 13 (c) 2012 by Karen McRae

These beautiful photographs of Goat’s-beard seed heads are by the very talented Karen McRae. They appear on her blog: The Frayed Edges of Waking August 12, 2012 by Karen McRae) http://drawandshoot.me/2012/08/12/the-frayed-edges-of-waking/

Many thanks, Karen, for allowing me to use your breathtaking photos that inspired these four small poems.

~ Mary ~

Weaving Light 11 (c) 2012 by Karen McRae

When a Heart Breaks

Posted on October 13, 2014 by Mary Kendall

I’m not sure where this poem came from. It just happened. I was thinking about the sad loss of butterflies this summer and what that might mean to our environment, our gardens, our enjoyment of nature. Somehow, from that line of thought to the poem…well, how does one explain where things are born? I hope you enjoy this poem.

An audio of me reading this poem is available at the link below. Give it a few seconds to begin.

When a Heart Breaks

Did you ever consider a heart is like a chrysalis?
Perfectly wrapped round and round, silken strands
layered one upon the other, locked together
in a solid embrace of fragile fibers.

This is what the heart is.

When a heart breaks, no one picks through
the fibers trying to separate the strands.
Yet it can be undone so easily.

Words can unravel it so quickly that it spins
like a frenzied top, leaving behind a trail
of weakened strings, no longer useful to anyone.

Icarus II (Poetry and Myth)

Posted on October 12, 2014 by Mary Kendall

If you care to listen to me read the poem, just click on the link below and wait a few seconds for it to begin:

Icarus II

The hardest part was letting you go,
knowing that once you sailed so high
it would be impossible not to try again.

With each pass you made, you soared
higher, more effortlessly; sweet-scented
beeswax noticeable as the air grew warmer.

Arms outstretched as if embracing the sun,
you changed course and flew even closer
before you shifted abruptly, a quick turning

of wings, now fighting the unexpected wind
with young muscles tensed and determined
to hold the course.

The descent was swift.
A feather fell
and then another.

Icarus I, poem by Mary Kendall (Mythic Poetry Series)

Posted on October 10, 2014 by Mary Kendall

Click on the link below if you’d like to hear me reading this poem. Give it a few seconds to begin.

Silver Birch Press

ICARUS I
by Mary Kendall

September was ready to slip into October
and autumn skies were filled with color

Clusters of clouds
suddenly dissolved
and let the sun peer through

I imagined you as Icarus taking a risk
and trying to fly high above your depression,

gliding for a while like a broad-winged hawk,
the cool air making you unaware

of just how close
to the sun
you flew

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: The story of Icarus has always fascinated me. I think as long as people have lived, some have always wished they could fly like the birds. There are so many beautiful paintings and drawings of this classic myth, but in my mind’s eye I see only the simple picture of water with a feather floating on it—a reminder of how easily a dream and a life can come to an end. My Icarus poems were written when…

View original post 187 more words

Daybreak (2)

Posted on October 2, 2014 by Mary Kendall

Yes, this is the second time you’ve seen this picture in my blog. It was posted with a poem, Daybreak, in late August and now it reappears to accompany a second poem it also inspired, Daybreak II. A single picture on paper, on the screen or in the memory has a powerful, persuasive control of our imagination. This beautiful photo by my friend and photographer, Yolanda Litton, has done just that.

Early Morning at Bagnegrole (Photograph by Yolanda Litton)

I’ve included an audio clip of me reading the poem. Click on the link below and wait a few seconds.

Daybreak (2)

Waking up in at daybreak in the south of France
Is as if I were stepping into someone else’s life.

So far from my own home, this wistful morning fog
Rises slowly to reveal a house of soft honeyed stone.

The slope of a sharply pitched roof holds a tall chimney
Where the swifts are now resting after a long evening hunt.

Somewhere a rooster crows with the energy that only
The young can bring to a new day. Out of nowhere,

A soft gray cat tip-toes by, looks up at me and blinks
Its eyes in that inscrutable feline way and disappears.

I stand here leaning on the windowsill, wondering
What my life would be like had I been born here.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafts up from
The kitchen below. One lone church bell rings

Calling its faithful to prayer. But nature’s beauty
Is my religion, my serenity, my salvation, my Eden.

An Autumn Long Gone ~ a Reverie

Posted on September 28, 2014 by Mary Kendall

An Autumn Long Gone ~ a Reverie (prose poem)

An audio of me reading this prose poem can be heard by clicking the link below. It will take a few seconds for the sound to begin.

It was the year we lived in London, some 25 years ago, when autumn began like any other autumn. The fall, the changing, the color shifting, the soft breezes, the sporadic thick fog and the leaves dancing, even floating upward at times. What I hadn’t anticipated, being so far north for the first time, was how short the days grew. How dark it became earlier and earlier all during that autumn. The days were ‘closing in.’ That’s what they called it, and I loved that phrase. It brought a certain comfort of pulling heavy curtains closed and shutting out the darkness. It was a time for wearing coats and warm sweaters, and I dressed my son in practical English clothing and soft grey mittens while he ran ahead enjoying what was left of the day. He was only three, but he knew the delight in using what was left of the day’s sunlight. I learned to enjoy the simple pleasures around me that came with this quiet season. Victoria plums were my new delight. They appeared at the Greengrocer’s shop just as autumn set in, later replaced by apples—Bramley and Cox’s Orange Pippins, names that twirled on the tongue and tasted as good. Burning leaves were an unexpected, half-loved sensory pleasure. The smoke was pungent, but it brought back memories of childhood. I loved even the rasp of raking, bamboo or metal combs gathering leaves in sacred piles waiting their turn to be sacrificed in an autumnal pyre. In the English light, I found the colors were softer, quieter than the brilliance of New England woodlands. Each morning I left my son at school and then walked through Hampstead Heath. I found my own favorite route through woods and meadows up to the large ponds. Purchasing a single cup of tea that warmed my hands, I made my way to that empty bench that faced the pond. I thought about all the people it had held before. And every day without fail a lone Scottish piper played his bagpipes as if on cue. Each day I sat and listened. A world so far from my own. From where he stood near the peak of Parliament Hill, the mournful songs became a wordless chanting, charging the air with a lamentation to this closing season, every day briefer, softer than the day before.

Lost in Reverie (c) 2014 by Isotel, The Obvious and Hidden blog on WordPress (with her permission)

Four Autumn Haiku

Posted on September 23, 2014 by Mary Kendall

Today is the first day of autumn, and for my writing practice in the next few weeks I’ll begin a series of autumn or fall poems. This is my favorite season, my soul season. I’ve done a few different types of haiku ranging from traditional 17 syllables to a poem in a single line. Do you have a favorite?

biting into a Victoria plum, such guilty pleasure

spent blossoms–
the last swallowtail
sips alone

the season’s first soup
almost ritually cooked
stirs our senses

sweet windfall apples…
bruised memories
autumn of long ago

Modern English language haiku are not always seventeen syllables. A haiku can be many things, but always it is a brief poem with a strong image that evokes a season and a moment of time captured simply in lyrical language. Scroll to the bottom of today’s blog to find a list of essential qualities of haiku.

The following list from the wonderful journal, Heron’s Nest, lists important qualities that make a haiku.

Here are some qualities we find essential to haiku:

Present moment magnified (immediacy of emotion)
Interpenetrating the source of inspiration (no space between observer and observed)
Simple, uncomplicated images
Common language
Finding the extraordinary in “ordinary” things
Implication through objective presentation, not explanation: appeal to intuition, not intellect
Human presence is fine if presented as an archetypical, harmonious part of nature (human nature should blend in with the rest of nature rather than dominate the forefront)
Humor is fine, if in keeping with “karumi” (lightness) – nothing overly clever, cynical, comic, or raucous
Musical sensitivity to language (effective use of rhythm and lyricism)
Feeling of a particular place within the cycle of seasons

The First Coyote

Posted on September 10, 2014 by Mary Kendall

The First Coyote

Shadowed by trees, it was alert,
Watching those on the porch.
Tall, thin, a knife sharp gaze,
This coyote knew its way around.

The startled man cradled the cat
And called the nervous dogs back
Inside the house, far away from
This lurker in the evening woods.

Was it waiting for a squirrel or
Rabbit? You couldn’t tell this far
Away, yet clearly it was patient
And after tonight’s dinner.

How else could it survive
If not for foraging here and
There, waiting for a quick
Capture, meat for a day or two.

This was the first coyote seen
In the neighborhood, and now
I open the window late at night
To listen to it sing to the moon.

Anniversary Poem

Posted on September 3, 2014 by Mary Kendall

Anniversary Poem

~ a poem for RDK on our 36th anniversary Wedding_rings

Even now I can picture
walking into the old chapel
that September afternoon,
with everyone neatly gathered
and quietly waiting.

Already the sun had turned
its warm autumnal face;
its oblique angle hinting
that change would come.

An infinite circle of gold,
rings delicately engraved
from you to me,
from me to you.
September 3, 1978.

Vows were shared.
Rings exchanged.

Some expected sonnets,
but sonnets were never read.
Our vows were simple,
our love was there.

All we needed was a promise
to love, honor and be there
for one another.

Always.
And we have.

Daybreak (1)

Posted on August 29, 2014 by Mary Kendall

I have included an audio clip of me reading the poem, Daybreak. To hear it, simply click on the link below and wait a few seconds for it to begin.

Early Morning at Bagnegrole (Photograph by Yolanda Litton)

Daybreak

The garden at daybreak.
Before the sun dares
to unveil the dawn.

Clouds and birds.
Dew glimmering
on grass.

Stillness.

Blurred trail of bats
filing into the attic
for rest.

Clouds bloom.
Birds now singing.
Morning shadows lead the way.

My thanks to friend and photographer, Yolanda Litton, for her beautiful photograph from the south of France. Seeing it inspired this poem after bringing back memories of my own travel to Provence.

Willow Branches

Posted on August 11, 2014 by Mary Kendall

Boston Public Garden

The weeping willow is perhaps one of the loveliest trees of all. It certainly plays an important part of many myths and legends in different cultures, and it has stories linking it with full moons, protection and inspiration. I have always loved willows. One of my fondest memories is of living in Cambridge and walking through the Boston Public Gardens when the willows were out in full. On a hot day, you could sit under one and feel ten degrees cooler. The were also among the earliest trees to leaf in spring.

Old Tombstone with Weeping Willow

In the old, old cemetaries of Boston and Cambridge, willows adorned gravestones and iron work going back to Colonial times.

Lovely Iron Gate with Willow

In the beautiful North Carolina community in which I live there was once a beautiful lotus pond with a magnificent willow overlooking it. One night the tree came crashing down. Later the pond dried up and the lotuses were no more. This poem began quite some time ago, but it, too, lay dormant until I pulled out a forgotten draft of the first three stanzas. Strange how that can be–sometimes returning to a poem that was left unfinished so long ago is suddenly the very thing you need.

~ ~

Click on the link below if you’d like to listen to me reading this poem. It will take a few seconds before the clip begins so please be patient.

Weeping Willow Tree

Willow Branches

They said it was the drought that did it.
Too many summers the pond dried up,
Even the lotus pods soon went dormant.

Rainstorms came that June: day after
Day the rain flooded the nearby creek
And filled the small pond you graced.

It was just too much and all too fast.
In the night you fell, your shallow roots
Rudely ripped out of the raw wet earth.

The old gardener pulls up in his truck,
Walks over with chain saw in hand,
Ready to dismember branches and trunk.

I ask if I might take a few willow wands.
He waits patiently and watches as I
Cut three long sticks of fallen green.

I thank him and walk away. He nods,
and smiles wryly after me, at the whimsy
Of a stranger who was passing by.

The chain saw shrieks as it starts
On its ruthless task as I continue
By on my walk, recalling a story I love.

Carrying sticks of willow for protection,
Orpheus, singer of sweet songs and poems,
Wandered in dark and silent Hades.

We know the ending, how Eurydice
Was soon lost forever. But the willow gifted
Orpheus with music, songs so beautiful

Even the wild and rowdy winds stopped
Blowing to listen to his broken heart. With
Orpheus’ death, the lyre lay silenced.

Over the chain saw’s tuneless humming,
I picture the willow’s nocturnal passing,
And I weep for all who are lost too soon.

Meadow Song

Posted on August 1, 2014 by Mary Kendall

This poem began in a meadow up in the Scottish Highlands while my husband and I were visiting the ruins of a castle. He went inside to explore further, but I chose to stay behind and linger in the beautiful summer fields. As you have probably experienced yourself, this frequently leads the imagination to so many new places. It also presents an opportunity for a simple sensory awareness meditation. Just standing there looking and listening is a spiritual act in itself.

The challenge for me in this poem was to use a repeating word (“listen”) to create both mood and cadence in the lines. The decision to complete the poem with a repeating line (or couplet) was a very different way to close my own lyrical love song to nature.

[Note: the following two paragraphs were added here several months later when the poem was published by Dagda Publishing Company.]

On 3 March 2015, Dagda Publishing Company, a publisher of poetry and literature based in Nottingham, UK, featured this poem in their blog. It was a real honor to have had my poem chosen by this excellent publisher. This is what they had to say about the poem:

Today’s featured poem, and the first one in March, is this one from Mary Kendall. Inspired by a trip to Scotland, this piece has a naturalistic theme to it, and we feel is just perfect for this time of year, as we start to escape the cold and dark of winter and crawl toward summer and longer days. Musing upon the sounds of nature and imagining a song being sung by the choir of trees, flowers and the meadow itself, this piece has a touch of magical realism to it, of there being something fantastical just behind the ordinary and everyday. A poem full of the wonder of nature and the sense of being away from the familiarity of one’s normal life, we hope you enjoy this poem by Mary Kendall.

An audio clip of me reading this poem is included below. Click on the link below to hear it. It will take a few seconds to begin.

Meadow Song

Have you ever been a few thousand miles from somewhere,
standing in meadow of sweet grass or barley and thistles,
bright pink bells of foxglove swaying in the wind,
and then you stop, just standing still and listening;
listening to the wind song of the leaves and grasses.

I asked them to tell me the words they sang to those
who stopped to listen. They heard me and replied,
but I could not understand what it was they said.

I waited and waited until the wind resumed its blowing,
the grasses their gentle whispering;
the leaves sang loudest of all, and I listened.
I listened the while.

I listened until the song ended,
and then I went on my way.
So far from home.
So far from home.

Heartwood

Posted on July 29, 2014 by Mary Kendall

A friend and former teaching colleague of mine, Patti Hardee Donnelly, is a superb photographer whose work I’ve long admired. A small offshoot of her photography has been her finding small HEARTS in many forms in nature and in life. I am often surprised, frequently amused, and always delighted by what Patti comes across in her daily life. This summer she posted this beautiful picture of an old tree stump she came across very early one morning on her daily run. I was mesmerized by the beauty of it, the color and texture and most of all by the image I saw within the heart. I know that if I had been walking that path that morning, I would have totally missed this beautiful creation of nature.

Thank you, Patti, for your amazing photo and talent. It immediately inspired me to write this poem, which is dedicated to you.

I’ve recorded an audio of me reading this poem. To hear it, simply click on the link below. It will take a few seconds before it begins.

Heartwood
~for Patti Hardee Donnelly

This heartwood is no more
Than a bit of grey crackling,
More a silvered wood fungus

Than what was once the lifeline
Of a tree, an umbilical hotline
From the sun to the leaves

Down to roots fastened in earth.
Now this aging heart of wood
Reveals elegant scalloped wings,

An angel dancing, a floor
Made of rough pine straw
Softening her delicate steps.

In the silence of morning,
I glimpsed an angel,
But you found her heart.

Back to Edinburgh

Posted on July 25, 2014 by Mary Kendall

Here is my reading of the poem, Back to Edinburgh:

Back to Edinburgh

We walk through the hidden streets of this city,
The second day of spring and the wind gusts hard.
People stop and wince, cupping their ears for warmth.
The news said blustery winds up to 25 mph,
And it feels as if we might tumble down the street.

Looking for simple woolen hats to pull down
Over our frigid heads, we stop at a Royal Mile shop.
I select gray, and you opt for black. I am grateful
That your good felt hat is safe back at the hotel.

The street is so rich in history that it feels as if
It could reach out and grab us by the arms,
Pulling us down a small wynd or narrow close
That has a story to share,

And in the late afternoon gloaming,
We might be wind swept and turned around
Into some other time.

It could happen you know.

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Published in red lights, volume 18, no. 2, June 2022

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Two tanka recently published in Red Lights, Volume 18, no. 2, June 2022

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The Heron’s Nest, Volume XVIII, Number 2: June 2016

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Drifting Along . Visiting Waitomo Caves, New Zealand

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What is Haiga?

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Raptor Resource Project Information

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Two tanka recently published in Red Lights,
Volume 18, no. 2, June 2022

Drifting Along

. Visiting Waitomo Caves, New Zealand