Poetry by Cheryl Della Pelle
Aurelia Field at The Longhorn Cafe
I am Aurelia Field
and when I drink I drink
Irish Whiskey, long and lean,
and when the music stops,
a hand slides down
with a green paper in it,
I recognize a ticket, a monetary prize
for a momentary song,
but not this time,
this time I push the buttons,
backlit neon orange
and know this time the song will last
beyond the last call,
I hear it still, hear it?
Back home the night tosses me gently
on the waves of clean sheets.
In my sleep I push away auburn hair
reeking with smoke. Tomorrow I will
wash it and remember
stories told of slave ships to Connecticut
and ghosts who roam Litchfield mansions,
remember crooked rails
and a straight ahead need to connect
life to life
while someone invisible sits alone,
having forgotten how to speak,
how to know when to say
“I am here.”
The Button Box
A rusted blue harlequin, his smile faded,
chipped at the corners, emblazons the top
of the tin box.
Before opening a good shake rattles old buttons;
I know them, each one,
and as the lid pops off, the smell of quiet dust
drifts out;
it is the attic above the back stairway
that leads to boxes of books, plastic curtains
that with a breath would disintegrate,
and a forgotten drying rack stands naked.
It is always warm in the attic, and dry,
and I always know who I am there
or who I was.
As I sit at a child's table, on a very small chair
and look out the gable window that overlooks the
garden you used to tend,
I cannot let it go,
someplace, maybe it is here,
but it doesn't have to be the last time I breathe
the air of my childhood, no, I need only remember
to take down your old button box, pry off the lid,
select a favorite button
and hold you in my hand.
When the Ravens Assemble
black feathers pour out of the sky,
swoop down from crags in rock-face
to take a big, black bird-shape.
Raven speaks in a commanding voice
gathers his tribe for a conference
and tells of how the blue sky loves itself.
No matter who is watching, a large female
shakes out her loose feathers,
and a nearby woman tidies up her house that
holds her life.
Two elders stride through tall grass,
bow black heads together in confidence,
speak about the location of a fresh deer carcass.
When I walk out later, green grass holds
shook feathers as thin black banners
that remind me to pay attention to Raven,
To take a raucous message back into myself
where many worlds whirl in the great dance,
where we are called to learn how to fly,
and to then get on with it, fly, fly, fly.
Coming and Going
among the Trees
November wind tunnels down the fire-trail,
underfoot, horse droppings mush into mud,
a shot-gun blasts the nearby wood
as I worry the good of my red coat.
Keep walking. I spit out mantra words
that pierce through chill air,
some syllables fall onto shit,
heel them, grind them in good
know here they will grow fast.
Stray seeds of prayers and faint hopes
all beg for the ground,
all mingle blood and water.
I keep walking straight as the pines
who brush a cheek, grab a pull of hair
and speak so slowly,
sometimes it takes all day to hear one word.
They rush out green. I run a breath out.
"Find the cost of freedom, buried in the ground.
Mother Earth will swallow you, lay your body
down."
Song. Sung. Signs in the wilderness
point to a life of saplings bent,
stripped of tender bark from deer rubs.
God help us, those itchy antlers.
For a woman who keeps walking,
a rapid heartbeat is only the beginning.
Sleep Flying
My hair is black as ravens feathers
and my name is Ellsworth.
I walk wherever I go
unless I choose to fly.
It is faster
and how it feels, how it is,
oh, this is not able to be said.
You tumble over yourself
as the stream tumbles over rocks.
Tonight, after rising onto two feet,
you will jump-fly, now.
Run fast, jump and use your arms
like they were wings. See.
You are rising, moving up.
Very good.
As you come down, the ground
will meet you gently,
as if you are a fallen leaf.
Remember this
and use it wisely.
You are not special,
you merely know better, clearer,
The Jewelrymaker
Dear Fithian, when we met in the vineyard,
under a September canopy of hardwoods,
you manned a booth selling photographs
shrunk and decoupaged to mylar.
While curious ladies swarmed,
a riotous orange maple leaf
fastened to velvet fixed my eyes,
I drew my fingers over the smooth surface.
We bartered pin for poem,
safely giving ourselves away.
Your elegant hand on a thin envelope
speaks of connections spoken and unspoken,
conversation to pick up,
the one when I said, "I paint to be color."
Thought, but did not say, "One day I will
roll naked across white canvas,
hairs and pores picking up pigments,
like a lost language. Oil paint
on my breath will beg a smeary kiss
skidding off onto pliant cheeks."
These are things I write to you
but you are not my lover
so they stay here, passing my husband's eyes,
who bids me to follow any trail,
as long as I return to him.
This is hard. The reigning in to one path.
Choice shaped by familiar skin,
giving enough and not enough.
If I met you with red-gloved hands,
how could we resist?
Today I am dangerous
and can smash a world to bits.
For Martha von Rohminger
A sunny porch lifts a hooded face onto
last rays,
I could say I am lonely, empty in a spot,
I could say I miss you.
No one walked through straight pines
as slowly as you and holly hocks fell
into your apron, clipped heads in full bloom,
perfect, no breath;
we sat on cracked wooden steps,
young knees, bony knees,
clear brown legs, freckled weathered legs,
this was us,
your deft hands fashioned dolls from blossoms
and cast a spell over my pony-tailed head.
"Laugh a lot" you said. I have tried not
to waste a single petal of your wisdom,
tortured and true, dug out of garden dirt
To Shoot A Coyote
You wake me with a twisted howl,
not the clear hawoo that rises cleanly,
A choke of torment catches my throat,
eyes strain the dark room for a reason