There are pretty words,

she said,
and then there’s poetry.

There are pretty words which capture intense feeling exquisitely,

and then there’s poetry.

I suppose that I am a child of the seventies, still believing that my words are worth writing down and calling poetry.

They make sense in my head. They make sense when I hear them aloud in my head. The pretty words give voice to pieces of my heart that I can’t show otherwise and I thought that was poetry but perhaps it is just journaling. In public. Hmmm. If I threw in some random line breaks, that wouldn’t help either.

It’s true. I am someone’s great aunt.
And great aunts who write poetry are definitely a thing.
And the poetry of great aunts is cringe worthy
(and out of sync with the world, but that’s all right).
Fact: my great-niblings are truly delightful people whom I am glad to know and whom I am glad to count as mine.

Conclusion: it is a privilege to write great-aunt-poetry
and to put the pretty words in an order that pleases me
and shows a little of my heart.

Called

Woken from first sleep,
I could not tell the source of gentle light,
dawn or night-shiner,
Until, dog-enabled, I stood at the door and moon-sharp shadows
Quickened my heart.

Then I stepped outside and gasped.

The Hunter.

Right there.

Right here in my eye, his good dogs accompanying him as well,
Brighter than the moon;
Right here, answering my restlessness
With unwavering surety;
Right here in my heart.

Yes.

I am heading back outdoors now,
and if I do not return, inquire of the stars.

Sirius

Brightest in my sky just now,
I stepped out to see if he were Jupiter
But, no, there glittered his Hunter above.

Enough mist blocks out the small stars
And throws my shining ones into relief:
Hunter, faithful Hounds, Twins, The Bull with glittering red eye and Mars caught on his horn.

Thank You.

Orion

Glittered clear in the sky, low in the southeast,
The dogs not yet caught up to him.

It was so sweet to see him after nights and nights of overcast.

But it meant I was up at two:something.
So, lovely, but I did not exactly savor it.

My Girl Sgiob

Had a very hurty leg last spring.
And she’s an old gal and a surgery was not recommended.

So we healed, low and slow,
and painful
and my heart broke.

Yesterday she knew to let me lift her up into the car and back down to earth as we drove to our neighbor’s to mow her lawn.

But daily things are fine. Creaky, but fine.
This morning, she full-speed chased a squirrel.

All is well.

The Three Queens of Summer

have moved westward in their progress
and for now we have a long and genteel farewell.

They are still strong, of course, and opinionated,
and command a goodly portion of the sky.

Their word is given me:
I am to give their bard an instrument.
OK. I’m willing.
Let’s see how this pans out.

Perseids

They come to visit like long parted besties
Cousins to the reunion
To Granny’s birthday
long after she has become Great-Granny and Great-Great Granny and Ever-So-Great Granny
and has ceased to be embodied as a single woman
still they come,
cousins to the reunion,
her embodiment now.

Not where I thought I was going with this.
Hmm.
Time to listen to some stories.