Sonnet for Car Riders

Every week day afternoon I go to a middle school to pick up my granddaughter. I wait in the car rider line for about a half an hour, and in order to pass time, I have been reading my ragged paperbook of Elizabeth Bishop’s poems. My goodness I had forgotten how skilled she was! I particularly love her objective perspectives. She looks deeply into a thing and sees so many details. She is unafraid to use a variety of forms. I love her musicality, her internal rhymes, alliteration, and assonance. Elizabeth Bishop’s work exerts a strong influence on “Sonnet for Car Riders.”

Sonnet for Car Riders

Drops of rain on the windshield glisten
With sunlight smeared through clouds. I listen
To colors, smoke gray tassels in wind.
West to east bloated clouds send
Sliced light across blue sky,
Moon slivers of sky, ribbons of sky.
Shifting shapes yield to wind and sun.
Gray clouds toss marbles as they run
Like children, tied to changing seasons.
They run without searching for reasons
To spill marbles on my windshield.
The drops run down, distort the field.
Children run, slice light and fly,
Holding backpacks high to stay dry.

February 7, 2024

Waiting

We recently experienced a snowstorm followed by a wet winter mix and severe cold a few days later. Most of us were confined to our houses for several days. At first I loved the snowfall but within a couple of days I was ready for sunshine to melt the snow so I could drive! The week inside my house felt like a succession of waiting events. For the snow to stop, for the second storm, for melting. As I waited, I thought about the way we wait in everyday life. I do wonder how much time we spend waiting. This poem emerged from my waiting and my thinking about waiting. And maybe from my boredom after about three days of being snowbound.

WAITING

We wait. We wait.
We wait for the first snowstorm with significant accumulation.
We wait for it to fall and pile up.
A fine dust of snow that doesn’t stop.
Seven and a half inches.
Dry fluffy snow.
Better for sledding than snowballs.
A slice of white bread on the picnic table.
We wait for the snow to stop.
For the school system to announce snow days.
For the squirrels to pop their heads up from tunnels in the snow.
For the temperature to drop to zero.
For the sun to melt the snow on our cars.
For icicles to drip.
Most of the week has been about waiting
for the next thing,
which is more of the same thing.
Cold. Ice. Squirrels, hungry for maple seeds, digging in the snow.

Waitier. The ancient word suggests
foreboding, danger, hostility.
We mean no harm.
We tap our feet.
We sit in the doctor’s office.
We lean on our carts in the checkout line.
We pick up our children.
We curse and sigh in a traffic jam.
It’s not our turn yet, but it will be.
We wait.
We linger.
We hold on.
We pause.
We expect an outcome.

The Bible calls us to wait for God.
To bind together.
To stand in hope and trust.
To grow in faith.

We wait. We wait.

-Pamela Dilmore, January 28, 2024

We’ll See

The phrase, “We’ll See” presents so much ambiguity, and I am intrigued by ambiguity. I decided to write a poem based on the phrase after I heard a friend use it several times in response to his mother’s questions during a recent phone call. Light is supposed to help us see, right? Yet, sometimes too much light blinds our vision.

We’ll See

“We’ll see.” The quote sounds parental,
meant to defer a request rather than deny it,
yet most kids know the answer is “No.”
 Truth is, the speaker of this phrase doesn’t know.
Nobody ever knows what’s in the future.
The best we can do is guess
what it will bring.
What do I see? God only knows.
More drought and unseasonable warmth.
Yellow maple leaves.
A few red leaves clinging to the dogwood branches.
Past, present, future melt together.

A hymn, “Immortal, Invisible, God Only Wise”
uses blinding images of light to talk about God,
who we cannot see. So we sing.
Light inaccessible hid from our eyes.
The splendor of light hides God,
silent as light.
Angels veil their sight.
It is as though we gaze at something in front of a window.
We cannot see it because there is too much light.
The hymn asks God to help us see.
The promise is “We’ll see.”

-Pamela Dilmore

November 4, 2023

Tepid Coffee

Life is not exactly boring for me, but since my heart surgery in June, I have been trying to live and recover in healthy ways and to eliminate emotional and physical stress. I am glad to be alive! However, a few days ago as I sat in my writing chair and sipped my coffee, I wrote this poem.

Tepid Coffee

These days my sensitive tooth feels the pain of
too much warmth or cold when I drink anything.
Sips and gulps of hot coffee cause pain.
My coffee has to cool a bit before I can drink it.
But I like hot coffee!

Life is the same.
Sitting somewhere in the middle
feels so much safer than than sitting with
fear or sadness or joy,
even joy.

I drink all my tepid coffee.

-Pamela Dilmore

 October 12, 2023

Sleeping Cat

I have a handsome black cat named Bebe who is a senior like me. He spends most of his days napping in a variety of places. One of his favorite spots is the corner of the couch in the living room. Occasionally Bebe awakens from his naps, meows, then surprises me with a burst of energy. Since I experience writing as revelation, I wonder what the cat metaphor represents. A poem. The creative process. A truth. A glimpse of beauty. I don’t know. I am just glad the cat wakes up every now and then.

SLEEPING CAT

My black cat sleeps in the corner of the couch
intensity and energy subdued for most of the day,
like mine.  Aging takes a toll on thought and movement.
My thought curls like the cat
stretches, flops over on its back, pushes
out its paws, then settles into a lighter snooze.
My cat awakens, rises from his corner,
saunters through the house meowing for attention. 

-Pamela Dilmore 

Remember Your Baptism

The beginning of a new year invokes a call to look forward and to make resolutions for new behaviors. In my church, we often look backwards in a service that invites us to remember our baptism. Many of us were so young when we were baptized that we do not recall the actual event. Remembering goes beyond the individual events. It draws upon the images of water and its powers of life and death. We recall the primal images of water and the biblical stories that use them in order to find and reclaim meaning for our lives. Remembering energizes us and moves us forward.

Remember Your Baptism

Drove to church on a foggy Sunday morning
Vowing to pay attention, to remember, to be thankful
To put together again hope and love
And celebrate a God-claimed identity.
The gray day teases a promise of rain.
Blue and green cloths splash over the altar.
“Use these colors” said our pastor,
“To help us remember water, life, and growth.”
I remember.  I love blue and green.
 A primal energy flows through the colors,
Precedes the biblical stories of water,
Puts them together again in baptism.
Is remembering living in a promise?
Be thankful. Rain ticks on the window.

RESTORATION

I experience the process of writing as a process of discovery. An insight, image, or idea emerges that I did not know about until I wrote it. I wrote “Restoration” during the holidays, and discovered an odd little juxtaposition between the technical tools I use and the natural world.

Restoration

Revving up my laptop took over an hour.
Today I start the restoration.
Clear viruses and malware from the machine.
Check it to see if it works.
Use the programs I pay for.
As with most things in life,
Restoration requires a bit of structured thought and process.

A cold front blows in.
Wind bends the heavenly bamboo.
A hard line of rain whitens the view.
Hard to believe I saw a rainbow this morning.
Rising sunlight broke apart the bands of color
Curving in the approaching wall of rain.
The rainbow came and went so quickly,
Almost a flash,
Like time or hope.                                                  

Looking over the top of my computer,
Watching weather through the window.
The year has turned.
Sun teases out the world’s colors and
The deep blue of unclouded sky.

Christmas Clutter

I found a poem I wrote about cluttering up my house with Christmas. Every year during the beginning of Advent, I dutifully pull out the Christmas decorations from storage in an attic closet. I store everything (except the tree, of course) in five-gallon plastic buckets I once used for canoeing because the buckets are much easier to haul up and down my stairs. Every year the ritual is the same. Empty the buckets. Set out the decorations. Then, near Epiphany, put everything back into the buckets and store them again. Why? It is awkward work and at age seventy-five, I don’t have the strength I had when I was younger. I do it, though, because the Christmas clutter tells a story and colors my house with kaleidoscopic hope.

Christmas Clutter

Every year Christmas clutters the house.
The tree, nativity scenes, wreathes, ceramic candles,
decorative tins, and a faux crystal church require space.
I must move other things out of the way.
Most of the year two kerosene lanterns, pottery,
and a philodendron grace the mantel. On the wall above,
a green ocean crashes on dark rocks.
Below the mantel, more rocks, a fountain in a crockery bowl,
and a tall candle anchor the hearth.
But I have to make space for Christmas.

I rearrange furniture to make room for the tree,
remove the ocean painting to hang a wreath,
push pottery to the back of the mantel
to make room for the nativities. The philodendron stays.
In the center of the mantel, I position a blue ceramic Baby Jesus
and surround him with the other blue pieces –
Mary, Joseph, kings, shepherds, camels, donkeys, sheep –
and two glass angels holding guitars.
On the ends, I place two tiny ceramic nativity scenes
and a three dimensional, pop-up nativity card.
Variations on a theme. My mantel is filled with the story.
Jesus is born four times.

I stand one last piece in an empty space
behind the blue nativity scene,
A tall angel dressed in blue and purple robes
watches over the telling scenes
and supports a globe of light with her wings.
Good thing. It’s dark outside.
And maybe a little too dark in here,
in this newly cluttered space.
Tonight is winter solstice,
the longest, darkest night of the year.

WATCHING SNOW

I have avoided writing about life during the pandemic because writing about it seems as boring as sitting inside my house in a lockdown to avoid catching the Covid-19 virus. My family and I are making safe choices by wearing masks and social distancing, and so far, we are healthy. In my time alone inside my house, I notice that I sit in my recliner beside the fireplace and look out the window almost daily. Today, we had a little bit of snow! Such a small event, but it inspired me.

Watching Snow

First a few stray flakes fall,
then a flurry, a curtain blowing in a window.
This year, in a warmer winter,
the snow shower is an anomaly.
Watching it fills the grinding quiet
of this room where I sit
avoiding exposure to a pandemic.
The snow shower is a happening that supersedes
the day’s goals. I stop. I gaze out the window.
I watch snow ruffle in the air.
I watch my neighbor’s privet hedge turn from dark green
to white and wonder if these veils will accumulate on the ground.
The snow slackens.
I breathe in the morning chill,
lean back in my chair and smile.

Boscobel and 19th

Nature and history bump shoulders in this poem about my neighborhood.

Boscobel Street and 19^th

I sit on my deep front porch
and lean into a flash of meaning,
on the edge of knowing the evening.
Lightening bugs glitter up out of the grass.
Summer cricket sounds undergird
the hiss of passing cars on 19^th street.
A breeze lifts maple leaves and portends evening rain.
One small shower passed through today,
washed the streets, and left shreds
of vapor rising from the asphalt.

Boscobel. Beautiful woods.
Cherokee hunters roamed these hills,
hunted game drawn to salt licks near the Cumberland River.
Wealthy families lived in mansions long demolished.
Working people lived in these
Victorian frame houses and craftsman bungalows.
Prostitutes and drug dealers linger on some streets.
People with no homes live in tents
beneath interstate overpasses.
Memories of the old mansions persist
in the neighborhood names:
Boscobel, Fatherland, Lockeland Springs.
Artists, musicians, and urban professionals
buy houses and resurrect them.

The Tennessean reports a lower crime rate for East Nashville.
Last night the police arrested a neighbor across the street.
I assume someone made a domestic violence report.
The girlfriend’s clothes are stacked in piles on the porch.
She is moving out.
The neighbors say they both have problems with drugs.
I heard no fighting, but three police cars are parked outside his house.
“Well, just let me lock my door!” I heard him say.

Dogs bark in the distance.
The evening settles into darkness.
Some things remain the same.
The hum of crickets.
The buzz of evening rain.