Selected Poems by Mary Sue Koeppel
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When the House Is Empty of People and Ghosts,
find the holds,
the little outcroppings you can grip.
Place your feet, one at a time, and then
push yourself in, higher and further,
and you will find the place
where you are desire and sense,
where your feet and elbows
disappear and your breath is still.
There you can make stories.
When you climb back down,
hands and feet scraping stones,
your stories will be on your back,
heavy or light.
Where your talk is full silence,
you leave markings, and if not afraid,
you can climb again, maybe tomorrow.
From Between the Bones, Poems by Mary Sue Koeppel. Canopic Publishing, 2005
December
When snow falls delicately,
like a dusting of meows
from a cat trying to get attention
but not making herself intrusive,
the human heart beats quietly,
like a steady, running purr
or the flutter of a set of
ripples on a smooth painting.
Still. There is no sound to that kind
of falling, no fright, only
gentle lapping, a little lifting,
and quiet, quiet respect.
From In the Library of Silences: Poems of Loss by Mary Sue Koeppel. Rhiannon Press, 2001
While the Wolf Walks the Edge of the Woods
someone, turning in sleep
asks who
and not expecting an answer,
turns again, and
hearing the bell clap
knows it is early, but
the sanga meets before
sun or light or warmth
The nuns kowtow
to the floor and one
wonders if they bow
to Buddha or the light
beginning to streak
through the bamboo curtain
When the light reaches
the eyelids, the sight
says open and the eye
sees the grass bending
against the palmetto
and the palmetto bending
with the robin singing
and the robin bending
to the northeaster and
the whole zangha just
chanting to the rhythm
of the gong Enough
it is enough it is
From Between the Bones, Poems by Mary Sue Koeppel. Canopic Publishing, 2005
Andante
We are not a ripping scherzo,
not allegro of vibrating dance,
certainly not presto crescendo.
No, you and I are andante -
lingering over espresso and
creamed strawberries at dusk,
andante, sometimes tremolo,
in soft, swallow-butterfly swoops,
con brio, sweet on the tongue.
From Between the Bones, Poems by Mary Sue Koeppel. Canopic Publishing, 2005
The Spine-Tailed Dog, Prowling
You've tried to strangle the spine-tailed dog
prowling since the man snapping his leather strap
streaked your young buttocks, your thighs.
You cannot squelch your fears--
fear ants will unflesh you, undertows grab you,
termites eat down your home.
You want to believe you can belly laugh,
shake stomach muscles raw.
You want resolute languor, comfort, joy.
Want unadulterated joy.
You imagine joy's tastes-- sweet Bing cherries
rolled on tongues, shared, swallowed.
Sweet purple cherries squashed on a water bed
coating breasts, toes, belly.
Yet the spine-tailed dog
jams his wet nose behind your purple knees,
under you bare neck. How will you
erase stains from your skin?
Before work. Tomorrow.
Even elbow creases will need bleaching.
From Between the Bones, Poems by Mary Sue Koeppel
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