I'm a poet and writer living in the South Jersey shore area. I moved here from North Jersey in January of 2009 after the 2008 death of my husband William J. (Bill) Higginson, author of The Haiku Handbook, to be closer to my daughter and family. I'm a mom, grandma, and occasional poet-teacher for the NJSCA. My work has appeared in many journals, and in twenty-some books (including chapbooks). I read at the Dodge Festival in 2010, and have enjoyed two poetry residencies at VCCA (January 2011; March 2015). Please visit my blog: http://penhart.wordpress.com and my website: www.2hweb.net/penhart. My newest books are Recycling Starlight and The Resonance Around Us: http://mountainsandriverspress.org/TitleView.aspx
Remember me? I am the abandoned house
you dream about, the farmhouse whose
ample porch holds a row of rocking chairs.
Days, I nap by the creek in whose blue eye
my deep reflection shimmers. You have visited
me many nights, even braved my underwater
rooms where a family of dreamers gathers.
They, too, know you, have come like you
in every season to drift from room to room,
greeting one another in glad recognition.
The wind brings me news of a place called city
where dwellings live atop one another. Wind says
dreamers who go there enter cyclones of desire.
But for you—my fertile fields and peaceful waters.
Where We Are
We are always in the sky. Wherever
we are, the sky is an invisible lodger,
a tenant taking up no room at all, or
maybe all there is.
The sky pumps our blood, inflates our
lungs, and on the horizon, trees breathe.
I think of Juniper, source of Taxol, sky
chemotherapy that saved my life last year.
Sky gives us everything. The varied
moods of our atmosphere—cloud and
clear, calm and storm—pass through us
as we drift down days and nights.
I was a dream astronaut, hurling through
the black abyss of space in some tiny
capsule, stopping to hover over a world in
the great galaxy of Andromeda.
This is where you have come from,
a dream-voice said, and I believed,
looking down on a cluster of gelatinous
dwellings, almost remembering.
All my life I have been trying to go home
again—a child kneeling by a window with
my mother, awestruck by the Aurora—
forgetting that I am already there.
©2017 Penny Harter
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