Veronica's Garden

I originally started this blog to promote my novel, Post Rock Limestone Caryatids. Now I write essays and poetry about everything, including the Flint Hills, healing, parenting, etc. WARNING: emotional content, sometimes intense. Read at own risk of feeling.

Tag: poetry

Neptune Direct

Dear friend, at last you return.
Now I visit your dark Dreaming,
two eyes closed, the third open.

I find myself on fertile ground,
painting the laundromat yellow,
evading the wasps on the back porch.
And here is my grand old house,
which I’d forgotten I owned.
This time I’ll take the children to the attic
to explore and choose small treasures,
this time I’ll move in for good.
I’ve sent my dead mother to enjoy
a tea party with the ladies who teach
manners. At a music festival,
an old friend hands me an envelope,
something psychoactive.
Sandwiches of taco meat and
butterscotch pudding are served.
On one side, a girl with her pet beaver
on a leash, on my other side, a boy
recording sounds with his camera.

O Divine Neptune, I sink, a stone,
into your watery depths.
Never leave me again,
in that dreamless sleepless bleak
of your retrograde.







Where The Wall Meets The Floor

Bugs come in through cracks around the windows and doors
and probably also along the line where the wall meets the floor.
Seal up the cracks? Trade crickets for gnats.

Bugs come in, and they draw spiders
like a movie star trails friends,
prey and predator inextricable.
Spiders make webs, eat bugs, leave tiny black and white spots
on the floor, lay eggs, make many more tinier spiders,
make lots more webs.

A Sisyphean task, keeping the webs down, endless sweeping.
But even if you closed the door and walked away and
did not enter that room for many years, the process would continue,
if not intensify. There’s no avoiding it. Nothing to do

but keep sweeping. Scrub those tiny black spots.
Keep an eye out for webs. They’re all around the windows and doors,
also along the line where the wall meets the floor.

Vulture Girl Drives Through a Rainbow

(Note from Veronica: Here’s a quaint poem from Rachel, who lived back in the early twenty-first century, in the days of casual driving. I like to think we might have been friends, had we lived in the same time. I share with her a love of rainbows and vultures.)

Vulture Girl Drives Through a Rainbow

I’m driving to town, going to the bank to fix some problems,
looking for a place to sell some watches which I have
recently inherited. There were too many to keep, though
I am wearing on my wrist one very elegant, oversized (for me,
small of wrist, as it is said was also my ancestor who has unknowingly
bestowed upon me his collection of watches) timepiece which
uses the natural movement of my body as its power
source. Automatic seems too rote a word for this fine thing.
I’m appreciating perhaps for the first time the admiration
some carry for a watch. I open my heart to let go.
To hold tightly to a fine, precision time-measuring
device, oh, too cruel the irony. I imagine
that my barely-known ancestor, the one with the small wrists
like myself, a former doctor who saw lives end as well as begin,
was a man of enough wisdom to enjoy a nice watch simply.

There is a new force in me of late, or an absence of something
which was once there, a dissipation of attachment to the material
which formerly held me. Ever clumsy at transformation, I have been
assured that my ancestor would have approved of my
changing these fine things to pure medium of exchange.
It is fitting. I’ve long claimed the vulture as my totem,
feathery escort to the next place, teacher of the love of the end,
which marks the beginning. I’ve never loved life more than now,
this year closing to fall, but I intend to love it simply.
May I be eaten by vultures when I no longer inhabit my body.
There is no death.

I’m driving to town on a sunny mid-afternoon,
and I see a rainbow, which is uncharacteristic for this place,
a place where sun, rain, and horizon synchronize and synthesize rainbows
casually as a summer storm, but late in the day, as the rain
clears over before the sun sets. Today there has been no rain.
The rainbow growing brighter. Will I move through it?
Which I believe is impossible, or rather
that it is not how one usually sees rainbows. Anything
is possible. Anything is possible. The rainbow is always there,
always everywhere, a phenomenon of the sun and earth and
her atmosphere, of light and waves and air, of sphericality.
The eye being only one part of many, which happens to catch the
visibility, upon occasion, of an event which is always happening.

Driving and watching this rainbow, growing brighter, closer,
I see rain from the clouds behind it, rain
which hasn’t fallen on my home today, and, being in
the east, will not. This is uncharacteristic, as storms
move west to east. Driving into a storm which
quickly changes from tiny sprinkles to big plopping drops,
wipers wiping as fast as they go, the
rainbow no longer visible, or visible only behind.
A freak storm, manifesting on the other side of me
from where it never was.

Driving out of the rain, it’s only been a few miles and
it dissipates back to droplets, then the windshield is dry.
Then vultures, a hundred or more, gliding
high, high, neat rows as if in formation. They ride the heat
rising off the highway, or the currents in front of a storm.
They always leave earlier than other migrants,
well before the freeze: they need the warm air
to lift them to flight. Year after year I’ve missed
their autumn leaving, only noticed they were gone.
I’d sought fruitlessly to study the midwestern leg of their long,
long, migration to where the seasons turn upside down.
O blessed day, today I am selling off
the watches and seeing a rainbow and high up the
vultures, circling slowly to the south. O blessed blessed
creatures who see air, effortless gliders, dark eaters of that
which is left behind, my heart beating gratitude for your
luscious, lovely gift.


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