from the kitchen table

From theKitchen Table

Peg Sweeney

From the Kitchen Table

Peg Sweeney

Foxflower Farm

Copyright © 2009 by Peg Sweeney

Cover painting: From the Kitchen Table by Peg Sweeney

Book Design: Virginia AnstettPrinting: Rainbow Press

Table of Contents

One Moment, Please! v

Poem for Peg Sweeney vi

To a Friend 1Shane 2The Center 3In Art Class 4Our Journey 4Death by Cancer 5Caught 6To Ann Talcott 8A Good Hair Day 9Tradition 10Summer 12The Blue Sundress 13Lilac Time 14Blue – The Keepers House 15Light Source 16Sea Garden 17Sinbad 18Idaho 19Pure Air 20Return Trip, the Bath 22Life Lines 23To Joe 24Who We Are 25Love Knot 25Lullabye to Tucker 26Manitoba Night Prairie 27October Birthday 28Indian Summer 30Winter – The White Page 31An Ode to March 32Sweet Taste 33Shadow Poem 34

High Noon 34

Honor to the Earth, Wishes to the Sky 35

iv

One Moment, Please!

We hang words, like ribbonson empty branchesto find our way back

But there are placesthat ask nothing else of usbut to breathe

John DofflemyerPoems from Dry Creek, Starhaven 2003

v

Poem for Peg Sweeney

The new old house where Peg lives nowis level, more or less.The fine pine floors are flat.They shine.Everything else is tilted:the barn is a little up-hill.

The field where the horses grazetilts down.It slants awaytoward water,where the neighbor’s sheepgraze, and drink,some months of the year.The horses drift down from the barnas if gravitywere just another mouthfulof fresh green grass.

Across the road,another field tilts another way,gently,easing from another hillto the same river,farther along.This one,unfenced except by trees,belongs to deer,sometimes,just quietly, appearingout of the woods.Beyond the stream,the mountain slants up steeply,pulling the gaze upward –then even higher – a surprise! –

vi

up to where the mountain has liftedshreds of mist.They seem to drift upwardthe way the horses driftdownward,finding their natural place,near a riveror a mountain top.

Peg works with horses,but her poemsdrift upward like the colors,and the mists,and the visitor’s eyes,up the mountainthat kept on calling heruntil she came.

Nan Malone1987

vii

Sisters Oil painting by Peg Sweeney

1

To a Friend

Your words heal,not unlike hands.Their warmthreaching to thedeepest marrowwithin her mind.Freeing thoughtsonce strained and pulled,like muscles,overused or abused.

Your words,stretching out over time;quietly, steadilygiving back one’svery soulto the self.

Healing words likehealing hands,a gift from a greater spirit.

ShaneFebruary 13, 2008 –

May 15, 2008

Star child?Sun child?Child of the Moon?You were but a whisperon our lipsa flutter in thewarmth of a womb.

The crystal caughtthe mountain’s lightas I let your spirit goback to a saner world.My expectant heart wept,for you were already loved.

Star child?Sun child?Child of the Moon?Your faint whisperwill linger nowcarried, like a feather,down the mountainsideon the gentle breezesof spring.

2

The Center

Out the window doorlilacs bloom inwild scented profusion.Apple blossoms framethe bright green meadowsetting a velvet stagefor the returning deer.

Old wicker rocker,newly painted,is placed on the porch.Its ample seat readyto welcome friends and animals.A grandchild calls frommiles awayto tell of radishes we planted in Marchnow, bright red, and ready to eat.

Lingering, I watch an infantopen tiny hands, wrapping themaround a grandmother’s thumb,eyes and voices meeting,each holding tightly to new livesso recently found.

Out the window door lilacs bloom now,the scent filling the air.Gathering an armful,I place them carefullyin the center

of my room.

3

In Art Class

In art classsix women paintputting color on canvasWe see each othershopes and dreamsappearing in colormusic or silence, talkThe gentle voice of theteacher – bringing to lightwhere we are going.We smile and wonderas we give life again,to ourselves andeach other –

Our Journey

Words and visionblow in on drywestern winds,women in a circlereaching for the sky,touching Earth.I celebrate our journeywith the ancient horse spirits.

Namaste

4

Death by Cancer

Death flirted and courted mefluttering as a butterflyon my closed eyelids,reaching a handto caress and pet my breastplanting its darkness within.Death made love to mepromising freedom from pain and fearoffering peace, quiet;

I still wanted to dancebetween earth and moonfilled with lightwildly free.Death’s dance wasfilled with darkness,a slow lingering melodybeckoning meacross ice black floors,a lover’s embraceclutching my breast.

I planted myarms encircling the full moon.We whirledwild and filled with yellow light.I could not, would notdance with death.

5

Caught

Another friend, caughtin mid-lifeHer breasts caressed, loved,suckled, fill nowwith cancer –How to look at the offending part,once so loved,remembering the young girl –nervous, unsureto wear a bra or notwas she ready, big enoughteased by her brothers.

These breasts were usedto tantalize and teaseadolescent youths –Hours were spent trying onbathing suits, her mothercritically censoring whichone to buy, what showed too much,always, a part of howto look, how to dress.

Later, caressed by a lover,a husband, suckledby childrenThe beauty of the soft placesand brown nipplesreflecting in themirror as she undressed.

6

Now, cut with the surgeon’s knifesliced from her bodyDoes the surgeon weep for herfor all women under his knifedoes he remember his motheror his lover’s firm breastpressing against his body?Perhaps he can’t cryfor if he didhe might not be ableto stop.

7

To Ann Talcott

Tonight it grows latea summer breezesmelling of rainfills the open windows.

I brush dogs lateat nightfussing over each one’sbeautiful coat,admiring deep amber eyes.In my head I seeher, my friend, bald,oxygen in a clear plastic tube,she looks so smallin her now too-big bed.I want to hold hertell her, it will be alright,I can’t, it’s a lie –

Instead, I brush the dogssee the color in their eyes.It’s so easy to reassure themas the thunder moves inon summer winds.

8

A Good Hair Day

I need a Good Hair dayBright skies, warm sunA mood to sing to –Then I’m brave, bolderCheck the calendar –One month or lessTonight in the tubI’ll do it –

Favorite Bath oilspatchouly soap –I let my hands caress,Feel my breastsfor the pre-scribed inspectionFinger tips alert to changesready brave – re examineall clear!I slide down, dunk my headunder waterand come up singing.

9

Tradition

Passover Matzo crunchesin my mouth.Its unleaven tasteenhanced withchopped chicken livers,stirred and cookedby my mother, the recipememorized added toby her own touch.It will take me yearsto get it right,only then because I watched.Jewish girls always watched,following tradition;spreading newspapers to keepthe floor clean.Making rugelah, rolling dough,tasting, adding, talking, watching.

Sweet red winefilled the Passover cupsbitter herbs burned our lips.The smell of brisket and noodles cookingfilled the house.Boys always answered the Questions,Why is this night different fromany other night?Girls watched, knowingthe answers and coachingcareless brothers and cousins.

10

Passover, sweet memoriesof families coming together.Mother cooking, bakingdays ahead.Her hugs more frequent now,caught in the magic of traditionpassing it downto a daughter who watched.

11

Summer

Fireflies light her wayto the barn tonightThe little dog tried tocatch one, well out of her reach.The hayfields were filledwith endless blinking light.She laughed at their wondrousdance, surely it wasthe elves and fairies sheread aboutwhen smalllighting her way throughthe darkness of the night.

12

The Blue Sundress

I wore a blue sundressblue, as the softest summer skyit hung loose and freeand matched the colorof my eyes.

I can see it on me,or off of me, lying ongreen grass, throwncarelessly by a lover.Whispering, dancingin the summer meadow grassFireflies were everywherethe blue dress lay againstthe green grasswhile my lover’s tannedhands touched white breasts.

I would stretch my toesand touch my dressWas I in love with thesummer, the blue, the waymy body felt in that dressor with the man –Part of earth and skyall was magicthe man,summer heatthe blue of a sundresswhen alone I would dancein the yard, in the blue dressa woman – child.

13

Lilac Time

We wantonly picked theheavy scented lilacslaying their budded branchesupon the sweet grass,filling the orchard space –with more blossoms,wine, and each other.We became as heady asthe flowering trees.Lifetimes and seasonsslipped out of our grasp.

The lilacs and apple blossomswere too full of bloomThe grass, too greenAll within the circlehad been stolen or pickedwhen overripe.

14

Blue – the Keepers House

I filled myselfwith the blue lightof salt water.Thru panes of old window glassI saw water everywhere,a cove, beach, islands.The white of the keepers houseBlue water below – rock bound.

The water filled my dry places.Water heals, blue healsI longed to be a vesselto bring the blue water hometo fill the empty spacesthe silence.

15

Light Source

The light changedbecoming crystallized.Water reached the shorein great finger holds.Blueberry bushes ranalong the road’s edgeclimbing up into longrocky fields.Time was lostin clothes blowing on a line.Old houses flying flags.White porches deckedwith red geraniums.

Indeed what canI tell youof lightand airwind, water and sky.Time turned inside outand upside down.Watches, clocks, faceless.Children running freeon beaches washedby endless time.Time so finally lostit is found.

SummerMaine

16

Sea Garden

Her garden growssquared by the keepers houseand sea.Lettuce, parsley, lavender,flowers to brightenher table.The island’s covered withraspberries, rose hips, pineand rock.A grassy path, like a blanket, partsthe island down the middle,people clamor up steps from the landingand over a gentle knolllight, wind, sky, and seaall change.The light house, stark whitesits on solid gray green rockwaves crash below as high tidesurges against the island.The garden grows,soon gas lights will flicker onall becomes clear and simplelight years away fromthe other side.

17

SinbadJuly 1991

The dark hulled boatawaits us in the harbor.Its polished wooden deckand mast catchthe late day sun.The wind blows hard,we look seawardhoping the small galewill last untilwe’re off.Slowly, obediently we motorout of Camden Harbor,beyond Curtis Islandsails let out, filling up,we scramble to the starboard side.This boat was made for windits wooden bowrides the waves proudlymasts stretch and flex.We sail on time and windlost to the changing light.Pulpit harbor, safe, snug welcomesus at dusk.Four fools jump intothe frosty ocean before dinner.A Maine sunset, scarletpurple ribbons across the sky.Our small bunks beckon withwarm sleeping bags.the hatchways windowdisplays a palette of stars.Quiet, four friends sleep,rocked in a wooden boatcalled Sinbad.

18

Peg Sweeney, with husband Paul, raised fivechildren in the Litchfield hills of Connecti-cut and the Colorado mountains. She livesin Sharon, Connecticut under a mountainwhere the horses are.

Peg has always believed in the healingpower of horses. Thirty-one years ago shefounded Litchfield Little Britches, a riding

program for children with special needs.With the love and encouragement of family and friends, this,

her first poetry book, is a journey of the heart.

Foxflower FarmSharon, Connecticut

Peg’s new pony, Lemony Snicket