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Cardinal Points

~ Poetry By Sandra Sidman Larson

Cardinal Points

Category Archives: Weekend Weather Chapbook

My third chapbook published by Brio Press in 2011, largely poems with a theme of the seasons or events associated with the seasons

You don’t have to

26 Thursday Jan 2012

Posted by Sandra Sidman Larson in Seasons, Weekend Weather Chapbook

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go to the State Fair
to be a loyal Minnesotan,
but if you do go
You don’t have to run the gauntlet
of cotton candy vendors, get snarled
like a cat in it’s sticky yarn;
You don’t have to deny your acrophobia
and try out all the machines that are geared
to drive you up beyond a sense of return;
You don’t have to mourn a childhood
that didn’t give you the responsibility
for raising a sheep, a hog or a heifer;
You don’t have to take summer houseguests
along to show off our native crafts or contemplate
all those tiny stitches sewn into quilts;
And you certainly can skirt the fowl barn,
not cluck at chickens who are the genetic pride
of some rather odd feathery folks.
Nor do you need to rush, dodge, or fight
the crowds or take small children along, no matter
how much they plead with you to do so.
But if you go, slow down,
observe what’s going on, the multitude of people.
And look, there’s a cloud of common grackles.
Have you ever noticed anything beyond their noise?
Seen how their shiny coats refract the light
and how lovely their feathers of purple and bronze?
Now relax with long pieces of observation
cooled by the breeze off the Tilt-a-Whirl,
and take colorful flight into the afternoon.

Each

26 Thursday Jan 2012

Posted by Sandra Sidman Larson in adulthood, Seasons, Weekend Weather Chapbook

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leaf drops like
a sad heart—
the tree bared
dances
like a woman freed
from love—except
for the children
rooted
to her feet.

Late September Meeting

26 Thursday Jan 2012

Posted by Sandra Sidman Larson in Love and Lust, Seasons, Weekend Weather Chapbook

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For LP

Through a shamble of trees,
I climb the hill to meet you. Leaf-light
falls into the open weave of pines

strewn on the forest floor where seedlings
sprout and the ground breathes.
Dark spruce trees line the path. Branches,

in the wind’s way, scrape while sparrows shout
and jays speak and a squirrel calls
a warning. Then silence. I hear

ripe berries drop, and you are here—so full
of rocky contour—so full of taste—
but only for a season.

We have eaten before at some other table.
Only the sound of our eagerness,
can be heard. Soon we will depart.

The forest will start up again,
continue its own conversation.

Leaves in Fall

26 Thursday Jan 2012

Posted by Sandra Sidman Larson in Grief, Seasons, Weekend Weather Chapbook

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Cedar Lake, Minneapolis, Minnesota

i
On days like this my mother reclined
in the front yard of our house on Victor,
comfortable in her canvas chair,
supervising my dad as he stoked his fire,
and swept the riotous leaves
into the pyre as higher and higher
the fiery remains danced into the sky.

ii
On this fall day I sit by a cloud-filled lake
among crowds of cattails and ducks.
Bog berries brighten among the sweet decay of leaves.
The shriveled hands of oaks hold to themselves.
They don’t help me arrange my words
as I try to ignite the flames of bygone falls
to stir their ashes for these pages.

Before November

26 Thursday Jan 2012

Posted by Sandra Sidman Larson in Seasons, Weekend Weather Chapbook

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This afternoon is on its side,
and the trees are lit like firecrackers
shattering the smooth surface of the sky.
The hour has a voice of smoke.

The sounds of squirrels
troubling acorns bounce
ahead of me as I follow them
on the path to the lake.

I’m taking the advice
of the bookstore clerk —
Go watch the water
while it is still moving.

My three-year-old granddaughter, her first Halloween

26 Thursday Jan 2012

Posted by Sandra Sidman Larson in Childhood, Weekend Weather Chapbook

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for Natalie Katarina Larson

Pumpkins with rickrack
smiles and yellow burning
eyes line the walk. A flapping
ghost with broom feet hangs
by the front door to greet
the costumed children clutching
plastic pumpkins, black-cat grocery bags
advancing toward the unknown
of this stranger’s house.

I whisper to
the beautiful Belle
dressed in rhinestone tiara
and silvered gown,

O.K, Natalie, go ahead, knock.
She whispers back,

In a minute, Nana, I’m getting
my witch words ready.

Booba Likes the Autumn Sun in Montestigliano

26 Thursday Jan 2012

Posted by Sandra Sidman Larson in Seasons, Weekend Weather Chapbook

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Booba the cat
fur as sleek
as silk
black as any chic
Italian designer
could fashion
wears her aristocratic green eyes
two gem stones
shaped like olives
and sits by the archway
aloof.

Tidbits, perhaps
if offered.

She ignores the sun
her haughty back turned
to it.

Swish Swish
side to side
from the “c” to the “t”
her tail revealing
she is born
for
this
con
ment.
tent

All Souls Night

26 Thursday Jan 2012

Posted by Sandra Sidman Larson in Seasons, Weekend Weather Chapbook

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Pump-
kin,
keyhole eyes
burning
you bring shadow thoughts
of passing time Hallowed Being
calm unafraid faced toward
mystery instruct us
with your light
comfort us.

To Name the Color Green is a Source of Flight

26 Thursday Jan 2012

Posted by Sandra Sidman Larson in Seasons, Weekend Weather Chapbook

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Here the earth is rusted by November
all the greenery grown dry

Leaves wave a final fragile
shake and the prairie grows golden hair

The landscape, open now, no pretenses
just a hand-me-down wardrobe for earth

Soon a spool of crystals will weave
a quilt of white over the russet ground

A poem has a mission something like fall
to be open, to see fragile mystery

To accept whiteness as a cover
not as an end to words

To leave space for the return
of the first leaf shadows of spring

Down Autumn

26 Thursday Jan 2012

Posted by Sandra Sidman Larson in Grief, Life Reflections, Seasons, Weekend Weather Chapbook

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September is almost over
and the leaves are my flowers now.

Leaves are My Flowers Now, Michael Dennis Browne

Down autumn the geese are flying
in the thin blue air. Very soon
sun will slump its shoulders,
will not be seen as high
as the geese fly now.

Down autumn the geese are flying.
Daylight trails behind.
Soon we will be left
with only the distant hunter
to pierce the cold night sky.

Down autumn the geese are flying.
The leaves of my life are falling—
the red, the gold, the brown—
onto this landscape of
oak and open ground.

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