1 Are You Listening?
Constance Hodder
Two Tin Cans
Two tin cans hold taut
the cord between us,
a tight rope for
children’s secrets to cross.
Old telephone booth
beside a grave yard,
conduit to the dead for
the living’s confessions.
Put your ear to the can,
a coin in the payphone,
for I too have secrets
to whisper, to confess.
Are you listening?
I will tell my tales through
the air on a heart string,
send them sailing on the wind,
to fall like leaves at your feet.
Rake them up and jump in
like a child, or leave them
swirling among the graves,
the dead will always listen.
A Blue Jay: Self Portrait part one
A blue jay sings atop
the branch of a paper birch
before a luminous azure sky.
How often I have gazed through
this temple window.
A blue jay soars above
the expansive indigo Lake
sky mirrored on calm waters.
How often I have prayed at
this living altar.
A blue jay flies up
the cliff on Blueberry Hill
so high heaven can be seen.
How often I have reached to
touch the face of God.
Long Dry Grasses Sing: Self Portrait part two
Long dry grasses sing,
blown one way, then the other.
Divide for a tawny cat
stalking through the cover.
Pads across dampened sand,
leaps atop a rock.
Surveys white capped lake,
gulls bobbing in a flock.
Wind dies with setting sun,
water reflects the glow.
Cat wanders back through
grasses now woven gold.
Tall Sunflowers: Self Portrait part three
Tall sunflowers,
garden giants,
golden petals grace
black gleaming faces,
sun followers.
At summer’s end
heads hang heavy,
mature with seed,
bend to survey
garden’s harvest.
Stems bow in prayer
goldfinch whispers,
“tomorrow comes”
plucks a seed,
then flies away.
Snow soon covers
fallen remnants,
memory of sun
secured in seed,
waiting in soil.
Tucked In a Drawer: Self Portrait part four
Tucked in a drawer,
too old to be of use,
lies a pile of hankies,
laced with memories.
Each one unfolded,
its wrinkled face smoothed,
telling tales of tears,
farewells and broken hearts.
Delicate fabric,
whiteness yellowed grey,
colors faded, worn thin
that veil of passing.
Lovingly refolded,
no longer a piece
of today, tucked safely
back into yesterday.
This Gravel Road : Self Portrait part five
This gravel road is
long, hot, and dusty.
I keep walking on.
My feet are tired,
my shoes worn.
I have walked this road
a lifetime. They say
all roads come to an end.
Down the way there is
a bend in sight.
Along this timeworn road,
I gather flowers,
their beauty wilting
in my hands being
dropped, one by one.
I look behind. They say
never look back but
now there’s a path of
flowers to follow
when my soul returns.
The Child Laughs Aloud
The child laughs aloud,
not bubbling up
or holding back, but
erupting like Vesuvius.
There was a time,
when I too could laugh
without restraint,
tears rolling down.
This was before
I grew up, standing tall,
assured in the fact,
I knew something.
Uncertainty and fear,
now bend my spine.
Searching for answers,
my eyes grow blind.
Look up, my head says.
What should I see?
Pray, my heart says.
What do I ask for?
I hear the child,
laughter peeling like a bell,
resounding inside me,
an answer, a prayer.
The Down Arrow Glows Red
The down arrow glows red.
As the door slides open,
I step in, press LL.
People move aside, we descend.
I have been so tired.
My skin smells rusty.
I laugh imagining
myself as the tin man,
rusting when he cried.
The elevator stops
on every floor. People
get off. I reach the
lowest level, alone.
I have been so very tired.
The doctor does not laugh,
orders tests, procedures.
Then calls me saying, “Sorry
to tell you this on the phone”.
I exit down in the bowels
of the earth, following signs
that point to the tunnel.
My steps echo as I walk.
Cancer makes you tired.
My husband brings me in
for surgery. We hold hands
knowing love’s strength,
and life’s fragility.
Florescent light floods the hall.
Tiles line the narrow path,
just wide enough for the
ill and dying to pass.
I could sleep forever.
They cut out the cancer,
removing my uterus.
Womanhood a memory
I will have to forget.
The tunnel is long, twisted.
At each turn I think
this must be the end.
There is no end, it stretches on.
Curls Go With Girls
“Curls go with girls” mother taught,
pin curling my straight hair.
By morning my girlishness
was revealed. The ads taught:
“Amp up your luscious lips.”
“A dab of gloss gives you a
plumper pout.” “False eye lashes,
glam bam!” Ideal beauty revealed.
Wear makeup to feel confident,
camouflage your imperfections,
fix your face. After all,
the mirror never lies.
With good grooming, plain girls
transform into nubile maidens,
ready for seduction.
Mother, was this your goal?
Grooming builds relationships,
leading to manipulation,
exploitation and abuse,
with no choice but to follow.
From the first time the glass slipper
is tried on, the soul is locked
into a turret to await
a fairy godmother.
“A woman without paint
is like food without salt”
the Roman Plautus taught.
What about curls?
I Was Born in Winter
I was born in winter.
Janus the gatekeeper
looking forward and back.
Grandfather’s ghost prayed
beside my bed.
The hairs on my head are
numbered, as are my days.
Past and future entwined
like stars whose light is seen
beyond their death.
In the woods stands an oak
bowed under the weight of
a fallen comrade, held aloft.
I too cannot let go of
those gone before.
They still can be heard in
my voice, seen in my face,
alive within my bones.
Like Lot’s wife, I cannot help
but look back.
When time’s gate swings shut
and life ends, only bones
will remember my name.
Look up, you will find me
in the stars.
On the eve of my 69th birthday
He Lies On My Lap
He lies on my lap,
curled like a comma,
dividing now, from then,
his head tucked to tail,
no beginning or end.
Like Regulus, the cat,
star in Leo’s constellation,
who prowled the night sky,
as the child in the womb,
swam through darkness.
Starlight born around her,
sixty-nine light years ago,
bathed the babe in brightness,
before and thereafter,
as old as she is new.
In a Dark Swirl of Wind
In a dark swirl of wind,
a tree fell leaving a
hollow in the canopy.
The crash was never heard.
There must have been a
splintering groan as it
let go of the earth and sky,
the sun, wind, and rain.
No one witnessed life passing.
You left us that way,
avoiding long goodbyes,
slipping off on your own.
When time calls our name
do we chose to let go,
or does the earth let loose
from under our roots?
That dark swirl of wind
may need to snatch me up,
refusing to let go
I’ll fall with a crash.
As a Child I Believed
As a child I believed,
wind was all I needed,
to make my dime-store kite fly,
if only I could run faster.
My kite would swoop and spin,
turn and dive into the ground.
I would try again and again,
until the kite crumpled.
The bus made its final stop,
dropping her at the Home,
to live out her days, in the
company of strangers.
She sat marooned with others,
powerless, mirroring despair.
Reaching out, she grasped the hands
of those seated beside her.
A tail on a kite helps it fly,
adding drag, pulling it
in the wind’s direction.
If only I had understood,
that kind of power. As the
World Trade Center tower burned,
when there was no escape,
strangers held hands and jumped.
I see a kite flying high,
bright against the blue sky,
reaching its way toward heaven,
its tail trailing toward earth.
So You Crossed the Finish Line
So, you crossed the finish line.
They congratulated you,
said you would be missed,
then locked the door.
So, you checked the time on
the watch you no longer need,
loaded up your memories,
and drove off into the sunset.
So, is that the end,
roll the credits,
the screen turns black,
everyone files out but you?
So?
If I Do Not Write It Down
If I do not write it down,
will I ever see the truth?
So many words go past us,
we skim with our ears the fat
that coats our toast, fries our eggs,
but will never sustain us.
Like an e-visit to the doctor,
who never sets eyes on us,
nods and says “Amen” at church
to assure God Incarnate
that He is known and loved
but will be passed on the street.
So I write down the words,
trying to see their reflection
off the wide lined paper,
that draws on the letters from
youth, traced over and over,
then graded on penmanship.
I stand before you fearful
that my lack of substance will
be discovered and paraded
round for all to see and mock.
So I’ve hidden away words
that may follow me to the grave.
Before that day of cremation,
I try not to look back while boldly
stepping forward, writing the words
that once were secreted away,
my sight blurred and clouded,
so only now, I start to see.
Time Has Set Me Apart
Time has set me apart.
On the street the child calls,
“Hey, old lady”. I don’t look up,
my eyes are on my path.
You take one step, then another.
Each step brings you closer.
Each step, farther away.
The walk is uneven.
That first step, precarious,
a missed step, disastrous.
I have a fear of falling.
I have a fear of failure.
You can practice falling
so no bones are broken.
Should you practice failure,
so you can stand again?
Time warns me to watch my step.
My bones are fragile.
The path calls “Hey, old lady”.
This time I look ahead.
Welcomed in the Doorway
Welcomed in the doorway,
perches on a chair,
smiles same as ever,
Illusions to portray.
Well-worn gifted sweater,
hole opens under arm,
too late now to sew it,
onerous to maintain.
Every day, efforts made,
tries to make things last,
another coat of paint,
glue to mend a crack.
Endlessly the edges fray,
nothing stays the same,
time seems to accelerate,
marching to decay.
Helped into a jacket,
hugged fondly at the door,
loved for what once was,
ghost of what remains.
She Listens to Her World
She listens to her world
reading lips, gestures, eyes irritation.
Hears it all
but not the words in her head.
There is a drought
not colored red on a map. A dearth.
Her mouth dry, tongue parched
lips cracked.
When she speaks, dust flies out
like a car leaving down a gravel road.
It happened gradually
over years. Everyone remembered
when words rained down.
No one noticed when it slowed
to sprinkle then stopped.
Temporal lobe aphasia they said
abandoning her to memory.
She listens
SLAPS the table. That was understood.
The Woman Tips Her Coiffed Do
The woman tips her coiffed do,
smiling as she polishes,
her table to a glossy shine,
mirroring her image.
“Isn’t that a nice reflection on you?”
the Pledge commercial asks me.
Taught to dust back in the sixties,
you’d think I’d polish mine,
but my table shines with gravy
and greasy fingerprints too.
No amount of lemon polish
or elbow grease is going
to shine it like a mirror,
nor would I want it to.
My reflection is mine alone,
built on years of living,
life filled with memories,
brings back “nice” reflections.
Family gathered all together,
Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners,
roast beef as well as gravy,
licked from greasy fingers.
The Curtain Goes Up
The curtain goes up.
Scenes from yesterday,
memorized by heart,
replay in my mind. I remember.
Warehouse windows stuck shut.
Struggling to open them,
the studio heating up
like an oven. I remember.
You opened those windows,
fresh air flowed through, blowing
away deceit, the hands
around my neck. I remember.
Golden curtains billowing
on windows filled with sunlight,
the breeze cooling sweat from
our languid bodies. I remember.
Life flows through these windows.
One day the scene will end,
curtains fall, lights go dark.
Will I still remember?
Even now, my eyes grow dim.
When I no longer see,
slide open the window,
so I feel the breeze, and remember.
I Believe it was October
I believe it was October
when the long thin arms of
autumn sunlight stretched
across fields of dry grass.
Wind blew through remains
of corn stubble refuse,
stirring clouds of dust
that hung suspended.
Late in the day, your face shaded
by the thin worn curtain,
damp with sweat, glowed with
knowledge of our longings.
Where do I find myself now,
wrapped in your arms or
watching in the failing light,
shoes covered in dust?
Old Abandoned Farm House
Old abandoned farm house,
weather beaten, stripped bare,
windows stare out blankly
through fractured panes.
The front door boarded shut,
telling no tales. Not stopping
the curious who are drawn
to peer inside its decay.
I refuse to look through
those dark broken windows,
afraid of waking the ghost
still lurking there.
Haunted with memory
of a duplicitous grin,
devouring young women
to fill its rotten hollow.
Instead, I chose to stand
back in the shadows to watch
as this house is burnt down.
I’m drawn to watch the flames.
I am a Desert Owl
I am a desert owl,
looking for shelter,
flying over burning sands,
without a place to land.
I am a pelican in the wilderness,
tearing at my breast,
hearing children cry,
without a bite to eat.
I am an owl among ruins,
searching for creation,
finding desolation,
without a way back.
I am a sparrow in darkness,
watching through the night,
alone on a rooftop,
waiting for light.
Oh, Sweet Gift
Oh, sweet gift of sleep,
our bed a boat set adrift.
You lay warm against my back,
breath moves hairs on my neck.
The battle over pain and loss,
finally, at rest.
In the early hours,
the leviathan circles.
Heard over roiling waters
echoes from the past,
“Just shoot me. Throw me in.”
Ancient timbers groan.
Oh, sweet gift of life, time
blows us farther out to sea.
“I wish I was dead” was said
in pain, giving way to anger,
frustration preparing
a watery grave.
Your arms, a life preserver,
pull me to safety.
My body surrenders,
sleep washes our yesterdays,
love keeps us afloat.
Life and time still move
with the tide.
Hard Wooden Doors
Hard wooden doors
hinges creak apart
dim light filters
stained glass panes
suspended cross.
Solitary.
Hard wooden pews
groan under stress
echoes emptiness
loss, life’s questions
death’s conclusion.
Hallowed answer.
Hard garden bench
sunflowers sway
geese circle south
dusk envelopes
consummate peace.
Sanctuary.
My Life
My life is a Word Find.
Searching for “FATE”.
Discovering “FAITH”.
Looking for “HEAVEN”.
Finding “HAVE”.
Four Walls
Four walls a fortress
sometimes turn prison,
thick walls of heat
close in on me.
I dive out the door,
swim through humidity,
gasping like a
woman drowning.
Under a tree’s shade
my mind empties out,
worries fade away,
hands hang limp.
Verdant leaves droop,
a pale moth lands,
tree toads doze,
cicadas hiss.
On this hot summer day
I have no direction,
I have no goals,
I have no cares.
I breathe in,
I breathe out.
That’s enough.
The Curtains Part
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window, down the drive.
The school bus passes below.
No children live here anymore.
The curtains part as she peers out
through the window to the barn.
Metal doors clang in the wind.
No one works there anymore.
The curtains part as she opens
the window. Fresh air fills the room.
Dust dances in the sunlight.
Smiling, she writes down this poem.