Hawkeyes

My protectors are trailing me 

lifted on the breeze like gliders 

as I walk the deserted path 

alone. 

I have never been attacked 

but I have an imagination.

I look up, am sheltered by the dark

immense wingspan

six sentries in the sky 

watching out for me. 

This is what I imagine

as the earth greens under

a gray sky, in the still, cool air

of an early Spring dusk

when no one is walking in the woods

but me.

© 2021 Amy Wolgemuth Bordoni

Dandelion

Flashing golden in the sun 

like a buttercup or a bumblebee, 

your soft, sunny face 

recklessly jubilant 

in empty lots, 

sidewalk cracks, 

abandoned gardens. 

You love to pop up 

like a little joke in the tidiest yards. 

Homeowners yank and spray at your unyielding roots, 

but like a wild horse or a runaway train, 

there’s no stopping you, dandelion. 

Abundant and enthusiastic as the third chakra, 

you delight children everywhere 

who know your secret 

edible milky stem 

and how a friend who likes butter will glow yellow 

when your bright blossom is held 

under her chin.

At the window

Nuthatch, woodpecker, wren, cardinal 

dancing in the dormant 

forsythia 

darting and daring 

taking turns 

at the just-filled feeder 

I stand still 

two minutes 

after shuffling in slippers 

across worn wooden floors 

to marvel 

at your freedom

One more poem to end the year

What I believe 

I believe in drinking whiskey in a sunset 

or the ginger fur of a cat splayed out 

in a golden slice of afternoon. 

I believe in the constancy and comfort 

of warm yeast and apples. While 

a potted hibiscus in a backyard in Illinois 

is an act of rebellion, I believe. 

I believe there should be as many words for love 

as there are for clouds or colors. 

When you see a ghost, 

it’s best to call it by name, I believe. 

And while there is no cure for heartache, 

I believe the smallest surprises, 

like a group of ladybugs being called a loveliness, 

are a balm. 

I believe in rubber boots and garden gloves 

and chainsaws to tear down the overgrowth 

blocking my view. I believe 

the dead can feed the living 

in shredded bark and last year’s leaves 

or in what was penned by poets and prophets 

and people who loved trees. 

I believe in getting some air and taking a lap 

or another loop around the block. 

I believe in downward-facing dog. 

I believe most bad moods can be cured 

in a hammock, with a clear view of the sky. 

As difficult as it can be, I believe in rest.

© 2020 Amy Wolgemuth Bordoni

Tonight I walk with Mary Oliver

Tonight I walk with Mary Oliver 

“Attention,” she says, “is the beginning of devotion.” 

At home I slice the last ripe tomato 

Lifting each bite dressed in salt and olive oil 

to the tick of the wall clock 

3 minutes slow in the kitchen 

Like it was an 80 degree day 

Like I was barefoot 

kneeling in my crumbling garden box 

harvesting from plant to mouth 

Like a child 

A trail of juice on the counter 

Each finger licked 

Amen 

© 2020 Amy Wolgemuth Bordoni

ode to Friday

a paintbrush would tell a better story

of the leaves darkened into crisp silhouettes against the periwinkle sky

of the waxing September moon like a ghost at 7 pm

of the pinpricks of warm yellow light popping on in windows across the street 

but the picture of a Friday evening in early autumn on the back patio

dinner cleaned up, computer closed, child biking one last loop around the neighborhood

while the crickets and katydids blanket us in a bedspring chorus

can only be painted in a poem

© 2020 Amy Wolgemuth Bordoni

roses for Jody

He visits her grave
every couple weeks
and texts me photos
of the roses he leaves
in her memory.

I prefer roses in my kitchen
where I can remember her
20 times a day.

Political circus

I've written my fair share of verse about the current administration, but angry poetry isn't particularly interesting. A recent piece I read in The New Yorker about Kanye West was stranger than fiction and inspired this short poem. If you read the piece, you'll see how the poem wrote itself. My favorite kind.

West/Tidball 2024

Met his running mate
In an airport lounge
Sized her up as an online prophet
Great with kids
In touch with the divine

The religious imagination
Reads the leaves
Gives language to drought, flood and fire
Stops making God mad

Starting a religion is easier than
Running for President
Kanye shoots the moon

© 2020 Amy Wolgemuth Bordoni

Putting a child to bed

I prop the book open on my chest
and begin to read
His foot presses against my leg
soft and familiar
as a stone worn smooth by the sea
I rub his back and flutter my lashes to his
-I love you, mom
He whispers
Tears catch in my throat
I swallow them down and flip off the light
There is something every moment
to move us intensely
If we felt it all, we’d never survive


© 2020 Amy Wolgemuth Bordoni

Remember this day

My sister and I have reached 100 poems. Writing them has become such an essential part of my day, like a cup of tea in the morning or brushing my teeth at night, I can't imagine stopping. This is one of my favorites that I wrote last month. It was inspired by the poem "Be a weed" from Late Migrations by Margaret Renkl.


Remember this day

When the news feels like a blanket twisted around your head
and you are starting to panic
and lose hope that there’s a way out
to a world where everyone can breathe
Remember this day
with the kissing breeze a feather weight
tousling each bush of leaves
under the cap of morning
with the June sun so brilliant and crisp
now a soft yolk slipping
off the plate of late afternoon
with the backyard tree stretching its arms
to dance with you
across the strobed ballroom of evening
Remember this day
Remember to be
the breeze, the sun, the tree


© 2020 Amy Wolgemuth Bordoni

Ball don't lie

Pick up games on the beat-up concrete driveway
One all wiry peach-fuzz limbs
Banking his shots, to our hoots and shouts
often and unexpected
The other, lithe and newly muscled,
takes his jump shots from the street or
back to the bucket, Hail Mary-ing
for fewer points, but far more thrill
Their mother lays up like a Queen,
once a practiced athlete sidelined by desk jobs,
domestication and raising these children
who now stand reverent in the fading June sunshine
following her last shot, a sweet swish
to win the game


© 2020 Amy Wolgemuth Bordoni
photo cred: Liam Bordoni

friday haiku

soft white satin moth

just dust with wings and belly

pressing toward the light

The lilac show

The lilacs wave to me
as I wash last night’s dirty pans.

I wait for this show to begin every year. Typically,
I barely catch the opening number and the curtain falls
as I’m rushing off to catch the train,
gulping down the scented air on my way to the car.

This year I’m home for the entire act. Still,
I mourn the heady perfumed blossoms
as soon as they swell. I’m standing at the sink
every early morning, lunch, clean up
to take them in, but
they are already on their way out.

For 18 years,
this private, little wave hello
has always been
goodbye.


© 2020 Amy Wolgemuth Bordoni

Walking at twilight

Walking at twilight
under the heavy-laden
branches of late-Spring
Redbud and crabapple
and the Yoshino flowering
cherry tree
I smell from half a block away
and stand nose to lowest
blooming limb
Breathing in and in
Eyes closed
I should be barely a shadow
cloaked in the encroaching
darkness
But delight seeps out every pore
and for this moment
I am lit


© Amy Wolgemuth Bordoni

friday haiku

spoons in ice cream pints
junk TV, feet on table
stay home day fifty

The earth is happier now

The earth is happier now
I can see it in the sky
Bluest cerulean days
Inkiest, stariest nights

From California to China
fine particulate matter plummets
Wild boar roam Madrid
A peacock struts through Dubai
For the first time from Punjab
the snow peaks of the Himalayas
come into view
And Venetians look clear to the bottom of canals
to see that their houses really are
built on sand


© 2020 Amy Wolgemuth Bordoni

Artists in isolation

No one visits Monet today.
Sun rising and setting
on gothic cathedrals and vast fields of wheat
without any witness to the heavenly palette
of sherbet-like oranges and pinks.

No one visits Degas today.
Jockeys restless for action while dancers
bronzed and oiled
balance on pointe and peek around curtains
into dark and echoing hallways.

No one visit Magritte today.
A cricket, a pipe and blue sky raining down men
just ordinary objects suspended in time
in a surreal, lonely exhibit of
art imitating life imitating art.


© 2020 Amy Wolgemuth Bordoni

friday haiku

oh yellow tulip
your dainty mouth yawns wide
to lift downcast hearts

That's the life

A house cat prowls
from room to room
sleeping
eating
playing
pooping
looking for affection
no big plans
no outings on the horizon
just the quest for the perfect indoor spot
to curl up in the sun.

We used to say, man, that’s the life.

Maybe not.


© 2020 Amy Wolgemuth Bordoni

+++

Our perfect new indoor cat is definitely loving the quarantine life. Hoping to learn some things from her.

This sun-drenched day

If it wasn’t for the dead and dying
and the news of the dead and dying
and the risk of being dead and dying
If it wasn’t for not having a calling
that puts me with the dead and dying
I would bask in the afternoon sun
warming the long walk through quiet neighborhoods
sparkling through just-washed windows
streaming across the book propped on my chest

If you are among the dead and dying
or you love someone who is dead and dying
Please forgive me
Alive here soaking in the sun
getting swept away by a glorious day
that just shouldn’t be

© 2020 Amy Wolgemuth Bordoni

+++

I really enjoyed Krista Tippett's interview with Ross Gay, author of The Book of Delights (highly recommended), while I walked through the sunny streets today. A good reminder that it isn't selfish or disconnected to experience joy in sad and difficult times. It's human.