Author Archives: Wendy

My Bicycle’s Rhythms Make Songs for Me

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(which sing to me while I am resting)

The one to the many,
the many to one,
a way to find livelihood
under this sun
and still have integrity
when you are done —
it’s a puzzle, yes it’s a puzzle

The guy on the trail
with a guitar and flute
must have found a nook somewhere
along the slough,
I hear snatches of singing wafting down,
twangy, not clearly in tune

I’m charmed by the willow and wind,
fronds with their soft invitation,
decorous, gentle, still leaving distance,
me hoping they will swing closer

Some big fish
makes mysterious flops
in the water —
the ripples are dancing,
the shadows are, too —
as for me, it’s time to head home.

©Wendy Mulhern
August 24, 2017

Old Man

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Your demands upon my time
are not exacted through command
or through complaint, but simply
by your presence — you’re awake
and need protecting from a fall,
you’re asleep, and need changing

These simple things I do —
your meals, your cleaning,
and my bad piano playing
to make you feel at home,
though I didn’t feel that way at first,
I find they are no problem

They have, in fact, a certain lift,
when I see you contented,
when I feel you at peace.

©Wendy Mulhern
August 23, 2017

Eclipse

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Eclipse is come and gone
and what I have to show for it
is some hours of easy friendship
and some moments in the sun,
a touch of coolness, but no more darkness
than the bright and dark of clouds in half the sky
— kids surprised to hear that it was over

I turn my focus
to the light that can’t be dampened,
can’t be obstructed,
can’t be snuffed out,
I turn my gaze
to the light that lights up light,
that shows me
where I am today.

©Wendy Mulhern
August 22, 2017

Quarter Turn

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August takes a charming turn,
strong warm wind rattling
the early fallen dried leaves
orchestrating clouds for the sun’s
dance of veils, its radiant reveals
echoed in the shimmer of the trees

It tastes of something slightly serious,
a little exciting,
acceleration of increasing slope
down the season’s shoulder

It’s still summer, sun-warmed ripe blackberries
invoking pie all along the trail, and everyone
is hurriedly laying down memories,
like putting the summer’s fruits by,
catching the sweetness
so it can keep them warm
when winter comes.

©Wendy Mulhern
August 20, 2017

Crisis at the Poem Front

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Yesterday I thought
What if I stopped?
What if I just didn’t
write any more poems?

Why do I do this?
Who do I do it for?
What if, finally, after
almost seven years,
I’ve run out of juice?

What if, in fact,
I ran out some time ago
and the words have just been
limping along, because they’re
used to it, and don’t really know
what else to do?

So I considered
the release of not needing
to find my daily poem,
at least, not needing to
because of some agreement
that I made

I think the words
would miss each other
if they didn’t come together.
I think I would miss them
if they were gone.

©Wendy Mulhern
August 19, 2017

Past the Midpoint

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Ducks meander by the muddy bank
in the milfoiled water
breaking up reflections
with their Vs and circling ripples

The day’s gray stillness
amplifies the sound of engines.
Small birds chirp
under that canopy,
detritus of mindlessness
notwithstanding

We, too, chirp on,
as if we had no part
in the grand clearing,
as if (as indeed)
all we have is today.

©Wendy Mulhern
August 17, 2017

Addiction

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Too long I have been sucking on
the sugar-water, straining for the
drug of fulfillment, threading through
the tightly wound dendritic channels
of what I thought of
as my heart and soul
but really was the craving
of a self-looped story
for its own rehashing,
for its expected end

Too long I’ve acted, feeling
that I had no choice,
in modes of movement
that kicked me into corners
with stagnant air that I could barely breathe

And though I feel I’d need to throw out everything
to leave it, (everything! — my friends, my loves,
my sense of worth and purpose)
I’m also sensing this is what I need to do —
free fall at the mercy
of what I hope will bear me up
so I can be lifted,
so I can be real.

©Wendy Mulhern
August 16, 2017

The Big Room

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They came out into the big room
where the light
from the circle’s glow
served to diffuse the memory
of where they came from,
the narrow passage ways,
the dogged competition,
the rationed light awarded skimpily
to just a few

The things they strived for —
what were they anyway?
Their disappointments
softly erased,
their great achievements
oddly forgettable
and now forgotten
in this new place.

©Wendy Mulhern
August 14, 2017

This Goodness

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This is a slow learning,
to unclasp the grip
let hands relax
let go of trying
to hoard a share of good,
enough, perhaps
to shield me from my fears

This is a slow learning —
in time the breath grows deeper,
there are more before the gasp —
I start to find the space
to take in calm

This goodness is not mine to own,
to pull inside, to hold, to use
to stop the gaps within

Instead this goodness
is what holds me
and sweeps on through,
filling up all the emptiness,
flooding out the fear
as much for everyone
as for anyone
(me too)
slow or fast,
right here.

©Wendy Mulhern
August 13, 2017

Seeking our Truth

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(a bicycle song)

We seek it in the loneliness,
we seek it in the kindness,
and the bright chinks in stories’ walls
that lead us up from blindness
and in the shining memories
with embers that remind us
times of play,
times of laughing raucous play

We wish to ground, we wish to fly,
we seek the perfect union,
we thought we wanted glory
but we really craved communion,
the words were fine but what was wow
was when we put the tune in,
and we could sing,
we could really sing

We battle down the myths
that box us in our little walls,
each at our place of passion
till the massive structure falls
and what we didn’t dare believe
is obvious to all —
we are joy,
we are made of joy.

©Wendy Mulhern
August 12, 2017