Gyspy Earth: a poem

She cried at the sink

when we left-- but we

were relieved.

A week of

working through our demons,

family standoffs &

miscommunications.

On to the next town

with our yellow gypsy caravan!

Set up our tents &

put on the show,

bright colors &

sleight of hand

dazzling everyone, even

ourselves-- then,

pull up the stakes

& go again.

Eventually

the wheels will appear

to stop.

Our travels

will appear to be over,

the horizon

within our reach.

But still the world turns,

spinning in her gypsy skirt,

orbiting the ancestral fire

attended by her sisters,

dancing with the gods.

She rests in

her own rhythm,

tsunamis

earthquakes

fires

drought--

they don’t stop her because

living is moving,

only death

lies still,

& only for a moment, then

the worms rise up,

pall bearers to

a worthy grave.

The earth reclaims her own,

buries & renews

herself,

gathers up her people

travels

always

on.

-Rose Arrowsmith DeCoux, 4 July 2011

Bean Field: a poem

Bean Field

The Sun looks down with

equal interest

on woods & prairie,

Minnesota & India, on

my childhood

my future, on

Thoreau’s bean fields.

Give up--he says--

not only the first fruits

but the last; Trust

as the woods do

to the squirrel; Rejoice

in the harvest of seeds

for the birds

though your own granary

stands empty.

But what shall I do as I wait?

Make the earth say ‘beans’

instead of ‘grass’--

again I must ask

What is my grass?

Which are my beans?

I stand, now,

with hoe in hand

not knowing

which end is up or

which plant be friend

or enemy.

What am I sowing here? Or

what am I meant to tend,

Seeds having been long sown,

broken though their small husks &

reaching green &

unhesitant into the light?

My child

of course. But

he is so old!

16 months &

I think

he doesn’t need me.

Not truly for sleep or milk

he can get both food & rest

from another.

I am as an old farmer

watching the big machines

do the work that once was mine,

shared with horse &

simple plow taking

many days &

leaving me tired

& satisfied.

What now?

Progress leaves me behind

not wanting

the noisy diesel but

feeling ashamed

of my patched dungarees.

Beans, beans--

I seem to have traded them

for a cow,

traded house & home

& mother

to a strange old man

who knew my name,

who made me believe.

Now they have grown up!

Towering above me,

these bean-dreams

that seemed so

innocent & small!

They sway

carrying scents of curry,

sounds of strange music,

clinks of gold--

do I dare?

This is my harvest--

a ladder into the sky,

a green & verdant journey

to another world.

-Rose Arrowsmith DeCoux

20 June 2011