Author: Wendy W. Blumberg

My Untethered Horse

Wendy W. Blumberg

Beloveds

I want to tell you

A dream I had

In the darkest part

Of night

A dream so vivid

I have to believe

It was no dream

But real

 

I am riding on the back

Of an untethered horse

I too     untethered

No saddle     no stirrups

No reins

Come between us

As my hands hold to her mane

My knees pressed against

The shine of the hair

On her sides

 

Oh     I would ride free

Forever

I call to the wind

On the back of this

Untethered horse

My soul     my spirit

As free as she

Galloping on the sunlit shore

With an endless sea

Behind her

 

Then Beloveds

I wake filled with joy

Feel my spirit speak

Hear words

From my soul

Telling me

 

The untethered horse

Is my horse

She is God’s love

For me

My freedom

I can ride untethered

Free forever

 

All I must do

Is let go

Drain pools of negativity

Collected through years

Of judgmental thoughts

Judgmental words spoken aloud

Deep pain from shame

From guilt

For things that were done

Not done

Neglected     forgotten

By me

Let them pass

Through my consciousness

Like water through a sieve

 

Let go     let them go

Unto God

—September 2014

Only Love

Wendy W. Blumberg

Only Love

Enfolds this memory

Nothing else needed

Just the fields

With the rows of ripened

Wheat

Fields of gold

 

It is early afternoon

We are on a drive

Into what we call

The county

My little boy

Sits next to me

In his car seat

Looking out the

Window

I see fields

With rows of ripened

Wheat

Fields of gold

I look at my little boy’s

Head

His hair

The same color gold

As the gold of ripened

Wheat

I take the sight

Into my heart

To keep

As the years will

Surely pass

 

Yes

Only Love     only Love

Enfolds this memory

Nothing else

Nothing

Museum Hill

Wendy W. Blumberg

Do you remember

The night

We drove up Museum

Hill

To gaze into the night

Sky

Crowded with stars

An overwhelmed feeling

Of absolute awe

In our hearts

Starlight still so much

Brighter

Than light from the city

Below

City lights that would

Multiply

In years still to come

Dimming starry brilliance

From the night sky

 

Museum Hill

The Museum of Indian Arts

And Culture

The Lab of Anthropology

The Folk Art Museum

As tho asleep

Their doors locked

The silence of night

Wrapped around them

We know them well

Each with its own

Unique reason for

Existing

 

How many hours

Over twenty-seven years

Did we spend in one

Or the other

 

I don’t remember     now

How long we stayed

Looking up into that

Infinite world of stars

Maybe until our necks

Began to ache

I only remember

It was hard to leave

Ignorant astronomers

Were we

Excited to spot

Numerous shooting stars

The Big and Little Dippers

Then red Mars

And a satellite

Streaming across the sky

Amazed with the stars

Slow move of their

Positions

As the night

Moved

On

 

We left as we came

Driving down and around

The winding road

That led us around

And up

Museum Hill

Do you remember

Do you remember

I do

*starry night photo credit: Cliford Mervil

For Tigray, November 2020

Wendy W. Blumberg

Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed ordered air strikes and a ground offensive on Nov. 4 against Tigray’s local rulers for defying his authority. On Nov. 15, the air force bombed the Tigrayan capital Mekelle, killing hundreds.

 

Beloved child

Of the streets

Who has no home

To shelter in

No food to fill

Your soul

Or belly

I open wide

My heart

To you

To every child

Of the streets

So many     so many

Hungry

Abandoned     alone

I speak of

Tigray     Ethiopia

But in truth

Tigray is everywhere

On Earth

Where a child suffers

Are there different degrees

Of suffering

Different ways to suffer

It matters not

Suffering is suffering

How do we let this

Be

 

Roast Chicken (2008)

Wendy W. Blumberg

A roasted chicken

Comes out of the oven

Needing to be deboned

Skin removed     grease

Poured out of the roaster

Into an empty soup can

From the freezer

Waiting to be filled

 

This job surrounds

More than an hour

Of my afternoon

Leaves a mess

Reminds me of the president

The pile of disasters

Created by him

And his administration

As bones lie splayed

On the bottom of the roaster

Greasy skin

Against the sides

 

Afterwards

The kitchen is cleaned up

Grease can full of grease

Put back in the freezer

Chicken bones in a pot

Ready to make soup

Skin packed safely away

In a garbage pail

And the meat

Cut into pieces

For chicken salad

Order is restored

Again

 

Now

Time to clean up

The real mess

I want to vacuum

The White House

Sweep its occupants

Out the door

Hose down the Congress

Scrub the Pentagon

With soapy water

And gallons of disinfectant

Fumigate

The Department of Justice

The FBI     the CIA

Harder

Much harder

Than roasting a

Chicken

 

*Wendy crafted this poem after President Barak Obama was elected in 2008. It was first published in her 2014 collection, Reflections. I publish it today, November 8, 2020, one day after Joe Biden was declared President Elect, with a sense of hope that perhaps decency, compassion, intelligence, and sanity may return to our country, our hearts, and our homes. —Dina McQueen, blog manager

Still …

Wendy W. Blumberg

“It was the best of times

It was the worst of times”

Words Charles Dickens wrote

To begin

“A Tale of Two Cities”

It is the worst of times

In the multitude of cities

That fill the map of the

United States of America

A pandemic clogs the

Arteries

Of our country’s life

Even the word     pandemic

Brings feelings of panic

Disbelief

An avalanche

Sweeping swiftly

In and through

Every corner of our

Existence

To leave some of us

Still standing

Lives of too many

Others

Snuffed out

 

Oh my children

Never would I have

Imagined

Your world turned so

Completely

Against itself

It is difficult

So difficult

To accept the reality

Of this turmoil

 

Still—in its midst

I hear the mourning dove

Calling     calling

Still—I watch the phoebe bird

Erratically flit here     there

Catching bugs on the

Wing

The sun rises after every

Dawn

Casts a muted glow

Against my closed window

Shutters

And every late afternoon

Still—I am aware

Of a slow darkening

Sky

The Natural World

Follows its own path

 

Oh my children

Listen only to those

Who speak Truth

Follow the Light

Of your own inner

Guidance

And know with certainty

You will remain safe

And

Never led astray

 

Riot (1968)

Wendy W. Blumberg

 

 

 

We’ll weep, Black Sister, we’ll weep together

For her whose home is dust.

Charcoaled ashes from riot weather,

A bitter wind of mistrust.

Hatred lies smoldering, pungent, and deep,

Shifting like sand.

Will she have a memory to keep

In this abounding land?

Must we, like Antigone, daughter of despair,

Live without sweet reconciliation

And beyond deeds of repair?

They’ve forgotten, those men of the law’s creation,

Whom the law should heed.

They’re not for you, Sister, so we must weep.

*from Poets are the Bravest, written 1968

Pandemic—One Poet’s Moment

Wendy W. Blumberg

In this quagmire of a virus

That spreads like quicksilver

Over the country     everywhere

Yes     even before here

The world

I would write of the sadness

Concern that borders fear

Inside me

I feel with my every breath

But words are no longer

Liquid

They wrap themselves around

Tears

That speak for them

In inarticulate language

I struggle to express

 

In these weeks of reported

Illness

Reported deaths

Numbers fall into thousands

Thousands

Beyond my ability to conceive

This is real

I pray for them

Pray for the Light of the Universe

To surround every hospital

Every blessed one that cares

For the ill

Closes the eyes of the dead

Alone     alone     alone

Their families

With the rest of us

Sequestered now

At home     at home

 

-2-

Every morning

I open the shutters

Of my bedroom windows

To look up

Into the sky

Is it clear     or covered

With clouds

Is the distant hill

Distinct     or shrouded in mist

Each day is of itself

Hour follows hour

It is as it has always

Been

 

One morning

I look     I see

A new leaf     then another

And another

On the bare branches

Of the Crepe Myrtle

It is late March

Time for new leaves

To arrive on this tree

 

And they do

For everything there is a season
And a time for every matter
Under heaven.
Ecclesiastes 3.1

Truth to Tell

Wendy W. Blumberg

I Love these days

Letting go their light

Into a darkening sky

Late in an autumn’s

Afternoon

As the sun descends

Over the waiting ocean

Sends its final rays

Against the side

Of a distant hill

A canvas for many shades

Of mauve

That signal the end

Of day

 

I love the hints of

Coming night

Street lights on

House windows lit from

Within

Are there children

Around a kitchen table

Heads bent over books

Pencils in hands

Logs in a fireplace

Ready to burn away

A season’s chill

 

Then images of the many

With no place of their

Own

Nowhere to go

Push their way into my

Thoughts

Of home     of comfort

Full bellies

Stark realities of days

Growing shorter     nights longer

Colder

It is a duality of feelings

Inside me

Long in my life

Have I Loved fall’s dwindling

Days

Loved a friendly dark

Closing in

But there are two sides

To this picture

I would it were not

So

Would it were not

So

Not so

September Really?

Wendy W. Blumberg

I notice with startling

Observation

From a quick glance

Out my window

Night slowly coming in

Sky from the west

Lavender fading into darkened

Gray

This cannot be     can it?

Bright sun

Remained high in the sky

Just a minute ago     wasn’t it?

As I scooted home

My True Love

Close behind me

Both scooters very visible

Even with companionable conversation

With friends

After our meals

 

September a gentle

Month

Day and night

Live as equals

Until the Autumn Equinox

Slow as a snail     at first

Allows a darkening sky

To overcome the light

Of day

 

I am wary now

Will keep watch

Make note of when

The days fold into

Night

And know the time

Is almost here

To welcome in

October     really?