Betsy Retallack
Betsy Retallack began her creative journey in the mountains of western Maine and finds herself now living on the coast of Massachusetts cranking out poems while teaching music and living with her family on a hill called Poets Hill.
Stone Collector
"Heroes" October 25, 2003
Jury Duty
Haiku and Moths
Haiku and a Thousand Fold of Birds
Stones
Stone Collector
Bending
Picking up the stone
And picking the flower
And sweeping the dust from a corner
Bending so hard from the waist
Without thinking
The blood rushing
That light rays guide my fingertips
Past any conscious thought
And internally I realize something
About picking up what was let go
Perhaps I'm naïve enough to believe
Believe what the eyes perceive
And the fingertips handle
It?s a daily fondling back and forth
Between the space near the ground
To the top of the cloud
Energy extended through my limbs
And mindless erasers, forgetfulness
A grace of emptiness
That gets refilled daily
I'm a stone collector
Casting stones back out to the sea
Grabbed by a greedy wave
Touched by
The muscle of the tide
Bending earth's journey
Taking it
Womb-ward
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"Heroes" October 25, 2003
I am.
You are.
We are
Like the last delicate flower in bloom
just before the autumn killing frost.
It gently leans from its stem
drooping, bending
into the setting sun of dusk.
Innocence displayed bravely
and unknowingly of when
the final freeze will come.
It survives as it can withstanding forecasts
and hints of autumn's end,
the bridge between the living and the resting
the awakening and dormancy
of it's flora speech,
announcing its presence
unabashedly, that this will always be
the surviving seed of perennial whispers
that flow forth with life unceasingly.
Survivors
Heroes
Humble servants of earth, of soil
of admirers...like me.
Of bees, who support the endurance
in pollinating flight.
Of sun who graces with light
and shadow, color and gray.
Gray.. important for the contrast,
the sharpness of knowing the in-between
that reflects back the image
of dusk and dawn
and awakens at noon
to even the cloudiest of days.
The last breath of autumn
breathes on the delicate strength
of what is within
carrying on
through the heaving sighs
of seasons inhales and exhales.
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Jury Duty
One man standing
the knee buckling a bit
catches himself on the edge of the table
faces the jurors
faces the judge
ties and dockers defy the crime
make us believe there really is a nice guy
in every drunk
"I didn't mean to be drunk
hit and run, kill
didn't mean to
cause such a crime.
I'm no criminal."
sweater vest, slicked back hair
healthy looking jowls
distilled make-up rounding out the embalming
jump start the morticians job.
One man standing
fate rests in the jury of circumstance
already played out in some bad choice
called onion of choice
one layer after another
didn't know
the part would make a whole vegetable
the prosecution takes a bitter bite into the layers
and spits out what
was neatly arranged
rumors and fantasies
and gives pulp a new meaning.
His life really was a mess
after all
strip off the penny loafers
even the vintage coin
won't hold value for this verdict
no more bribes, no more excuses.
Nervous, I hold the weight of
his tension on my tight rope
resolve to know the truth.
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Haiku and Moths
Slivered moon star pair
Hang low pierced by heron flight
Seen solo at dusk
When you leave the golf course
through the cut in the wire fence,
there in the warm November
are millions of moths,
canopies of moths
to ask you
how your walk went
or bless you as you leave
or say a fluttering prayer
on your shoulder.
They are nymphs, fairies.
Delighted to be renewed
so late in the fall.
Wondering where the cold went
or when it will return.
Delighted you are passing through
their flutter chamber.
Transforming you as you pass through
the winged shroud
of millions.
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Haiku and a Thousand Fold of Birds
Filling trees unseen
Songs chorus loud harmony
Mystic birds of night
Is it a bird or a leaf?
What large flocks hide in these
small park trees?
The rushing sound of chirping chatter
one hundred fold,
a thousand fold.
All at once
filling the air
with no room for any other sound.
Chirping in thousands,
invisible yet deafening.
No matter how close I looked
in the dusk light
I could not tell a leaf for a bird
or the air for sound.
There was no boundary clear enough
but just the experience.
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