Poetry of Cherie Staples

Poetry of
Cherie Staples

photo and writings
copyright 1991-2011 Cherie Staples
reprints published by
Creations in Consciousness

contents
MYSTERIES AND MIRACLES
TO DANCE IN THE DREAM
CHANTING DRUMMING
NOVEMBER'S HOPE
DREAMING SPRING
THE HUNGER
GRACE
MAGIC'S DANCE
SIMPLE TIMES
CHICKADEES

MYSTERIES AND MIRACLES

To amber light
that glows from sun gleamed trees,

To fog blue pools
flowing up deep valleys,

To brittle corn
that rustles to the wind,

To brilliant grass
green before the snow begins.

Simple closures to growing things
With promises of next year's spring.

The roots remember and the buds.

We too remember
in the stilling of the earth

Mysteries and miracles
that move us gently to rebirth

copyright* ã 1991 Cherie Staples

TO DANCE IN THE DREAM

She came home in the late afternoon dusk
chilled to the bone from standing in cold leather shoes
while she read the words that had shouted
to her from the poster beside the green door:

WOMAN SUFFRAGE! it proclaimed;
she had stared at the words until her feet were numb.

How could that ever happen, she wondered.
Just think of all the men who would have to vote "yes"
and if they were anything like Henry...
and she couldn't bear to think of what
Henry would do if she mentioned any of these thoughts,
even if she told of this poster.

But how to get to hear the woman
who would be speaking those magic words?

One evening Henry had read the headline from the newspaper:
"Women Arrested in Suffrage Vigil"
"What makes them think they're smart enough to vote?
Good Lord, women don't have brains enough to get in from the cold;
how can they expect to be able to judge the men running for office?"

Amelia's murmured "I don't know, Henry," was just another response
in the litany of their marriage,
but she ached in the wrongness of it.

She wasn't sure if she was brave enough
to go and hear the woman speak,
but the words from the poster keened in her bones...
the right to vote...to have a voice equal to her husband's...
a voice that could be as secret
as her soul was secret from her husband.

She murmured through supper and bedtime and breakfast,
strung her courage together and left Henry a note:
"Have gone to a meeting, dear; supper will be late."

And went, listened, and fed.

The words resounded in her head as she walked homeward,
dancing in a dream of being a real person
whose thoughts at last were echoed by the others she had met
and sang with in that dusky room.

The key in the door and the greeting,
"Amelia, where have you been? I'm hungry!"
stilled her dancing thoughts.

"I went to hear a woman speak," she bravely answered.
"Not about this suffrage nonsense, I trust," was his heavy reply.
"How women can think they have brains enough to vote,
I can't imagine!"

"No, you can't," she said and walked to the kitchen and started supper.
And the words replayed in her head.

Copyright* ã 1995 Cherie Staples

CHANTING DRUMMING

The chanting
drumming
is the song of windward souls
that beat their breaths
against the rooted earth

The chanting
drumming
is the laughter
shouting out loud
beautiful chords

The chanting
drumming
is the blood sweeping
through veins and organs

The chanting
drumming
is the Mother.

Copyright* ã 1997 Cherie Staples

NOVEMBER'S HOPE

when November sings its grey
somber skies and light is gone by five
creeps into thoughts
the lush green of may
and long warm evens
to ward through the cold day

when November pales and frosts
to silver
bitter-ended leaves once green
creeps into dreams
paths that mountain-tossed
are laced with spring beauties
and greenest moss

when November ices in the edges
and calms
the wild field with a skin of snow
creeps ever a hope
that deep within the hedges
of darkest night will quicken
light and warmth to grow

Copyright* ã 1998 Cherie Staples

DREAMING SPRING

there are times when dreaming seems the only answer

when spring never comes
and the green grass grows achingly distant
the clutch of cold every morning
lingers through the day
and the northwest wind still comes from the pole

dreaming tiny mint green leaves feathering the branches
pale spring beauties topping last year's dried leaves
thrush song haunting the trees

dreaming green grass rushing to the sky
Deneb, Vega and Altair high above in the evening
warm, warm misty rains

dreaming lilacs scenting the warm breeze
the first white of shad against the darkening trees
waves of pale red reaching up the mountains

dreaming the rich, raw furrows hungry for seed
cows on fresh grass and the first mowing
heifers testing the pasture's freedom

dreaming spring
and it comes

Copyright* ã 1998 Cherie Staples

THE HUNGER

Why do women weep inside for the child
they would have been
when precious times are rotted from within
images that burden spirits so closely bound
that knottiness ties anger to the sinews

Why do women embrace the hunger
and thirst for a source that would make them
whole
seeking someone else's eyes to tell her
she is
wonderful, beautiful
gracious, and eminently lovable

Why do women embrace passivity
waiting for affirmation
waiting for love

I am who I am
don't ask me how I am if you don't want to hear
don't tell me to be quiet and wait a minute
I've waited too many minutes
I've waited a lifetime
no more

I am who I am
and I am strong
I can feed my own heart's desires
I can be in my soul and of my soul
and I am beautiful

past hope does not mean hopeless
past hope means I will and I can
not hope I can
we have surpassed hope
and we will do

we will feed ourselves
all the glorious things in the universe
for surely we deserve them
in us glory will flourish
and from us glory will abound

Copyright* ã 1998 Cherie Staples

GRACE

the strange delectable delights
each of us reach towards,
seeking out that brightest glow,
that cleanest kernel that gleams of grace

we stop, dazzled -- sight-spinning
in this commonplace, garden-variety world
confused
given a kernel, who can be ready
for the whole blooming plant

all this muttering of grace
"say grace" ah-ah-ah-men
"say, Grace, are you dancing tonight?"
say: "God give you grace and peace"
but God seems to pick and choose the
graceful and the peaceful

in the strange horrible ways of inhumanity
each of us turns away
shuttering that brightest glow
tarnishing the kernel
spotted grace
spattered grace
the harlequin who tumbles forth
shreds chill veils that shield us
creates such laughter
that we must hold each other up
wipe each other's tears
in sight-spinning, grace-gleaming
love

MAGIC'S DANCE

Tonight I wait for the animals to dance
to come slowly up the tree tunnel to the clearing
to the fresh whiteness glistering in the moonlight

tree shadows web and cloud the snow
dark echoes of the clouds swiftly skeining the sky
yet here there's a mere drift of air
the trees' still branches clasped by the new softness

I would dance tonight in the newness of the clearing
singing softly to the snow, the moon
to the rich darkness of the firs
and the fretwork of the beeches
to the animals unseen
in the magic of this moon-bright night

SIMPLE TIMES

simple times that seem like dreams
the hour between sundown and dark
when the world gathered for night
the air rich in hue
slowly slowly fading from sight

the cow path through the woods
passed by a yellow lady slipper
and trailing arbutus
once seen and never forgotten
but never found again

columbines that red and yellow
went clump by clump down to the brook
and brook that pooled and riffled
down the ravine
from one fence to the other

hard working times
when heat and sweat
and hay and juniper
and raking and stacking
and contrary cows
and rock picking was I

dream times
when the beautiful man
was in my head
and I the princess met love
come walking with the cows

where was it lost?

CHICKADEES

black white and gray
diminutive and vibrant
you come about the hemlocks
seeking sleeping insects
and tiny seeds

your phoebe whistles in january
call to spring
even in the most frigid day
your presence steadfast reminders
that winter too will pass

bright chickadees
hope is not a thought to you
prayer has no substance in your lives
the next seed
the next drop of water
the next night spent fluffed against the cold
these too somehow you know will pass

from you, though, I take hope
I can make it through the short cold days
waiting for the moment
when outside the window
singing "phoebe"
will be chickadees

*Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author
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