Sharing Sight with Monet

It happens this way …

unnamedThanks to Jacinta, Petra, and Aimee  for publishing “Eye-minded” in the Spring 2020 issue of their glorious magazine. Snapdragon: a journal of art and healing is a subscription-based publication out of Winston-Salem, NC that has been sharing art, poetry, and prose for the past six years

To my poet friends: link up with them to receive their themed calls for submissions.

With their permission, I’d like to share my poem with you.

 

Eye-minded

my poor eyesight makes me see everything in a complete fog.  – Monet

The only things I hear this summer night

are the rhythms of these lines

and my rambling mind wondering

how Monet would see my backyard.

 

If I slip my glasses off, his fog is mine.

Yellow daisies blur behind purple Blazing Stars.

White aster-clusters entwine.

Hydrangea pinks blemish above a dozen shapes

of shade beyond a smudged maple tree.

 

Beautiful, Monet would say:

this scene oozing through myopic haze.

I agree. Impressions have their charm.

 

Yesterday, the doctor said my eyes

are younger than my seventy-four.

Pressure good. Lenses holding strength.

Faint cataracts still faint. And yet …

what if one day I wake to colors melting

like Monet’s? Would I be content to trace

smudges of light reflecting on the backyard pool?

Would I remember the flicker’s orange tail,

the bumblebees feasting on lavender?

 

Since summer is on the run,

I’ll put my glasses on and mark memories

like Monet labeled tubes of paint.

I’ll even catalogue the hostas’ late leaf-scorch,

the moss-nibbled edges of lawn,

the ants circling crumbs on the patio.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Over the Moon for International Women’s Month

It happens this way …

This morning the worm moon or wolf moon or sap moon or supermoon peeked into my bedroom window. She reminded me about who really lives on this beauty in the sky.

Moon Goddess: “No man in my house!”

A man in the moon?

Give me a break!

 

They see what they want.

Myopia is no excuse.

 

It’s a culture thing.

But what’s his name? His origins?

 

Yue-Laou? Fictional.

Cain, the fratricide?

 

The gatherer of dried-out sticks

breaking Sabbath rules?

 

Last time I looked,

moonlight wasn’t punitive.

 

And tell me this:

Has he earned devotees

 

like Isis, Ishtar, Hecate,

Diana, Venus, Artemis,

 

Ixchel, Frigga, Ursula,

and a dozen more?

 

Where are temples raised

to him by other men?

 

Call me what you will,

I appeal. Ask farmers, sailors,

 

healers, seekers of fertility,

believers in the magic of rebirth.

 

Him? He’s nothing more

than craters, shadows, crevices

 

or, if you go for the absurd,

the hurdle for ambitious cows.