Train Windows
This is one of the "writes" from my writing group. I plan to make a little book of it with watercolor pictures at some point!
Train Windows
I’ve seen them from train windows
that sudden flicker of shadow over glass
your own face wavering and losing form
for a moment, a fraction of a moment
it’s that quick
I’ve seen them from train windows
never from a car or a bus
clunky conveyances compared
to a train
and planes fly to high
I’ve seen them from train windows
but never when I’m looking
they know when you’re ready for them
and stay away
surprise is the whole point
Surprise, with that intake of breath
and your face dissolving in the glass
and you are in the train
and outside the train
you are the train
and the clack of the tracks
your bones shifting
and the squeal of the wheels
your definitions peeling away
And you’ve never been more here
Then they’re gone
and all you can say is
I’ve seen them from train windows
©Jennifer Armstrong March 2018
A Poem for Peggy on her 95th
Peggy Lipschutz is one of the most amazing women I know. It's been such a privilege to be able to perform with her and to watch her grow as an artist and as a human being through all these decades. I couldn't be with her as she celebrated her 95th birthday, but this is the poem I wrote for her and had my sister read at the gathering.
Always New
For Peggy
Peggy at 95
still has the whole world
in her hands
I have two memories of Peggy that
sing particularly loudly in my heart
We are sitting at Blind Faith
“When did you know?” she asks us eagerly
“Did you always know you loved women
or is this new?”
She leans across the table
“What was your first kiss like?”
Meg and I are delighted
We feel like teenagers in the first
blush and wonder of love
giggle-ly and thrilled
as Peggy’s attention
paints our passion
And we gain color and glory
I am driving with Peggy
She is quiet beside me
slumped in the passenger seat
staring out the window
“Are you alright?” I ask
“Oh yes” she responds, sitting up
“I’m watching the road end.”
I look at the Maine Coastal road
winding before us, then over at Peggy
She can clearly see, I don’t see
“Look” she says
“See how the road ends at each curve
at each rise and dip.
I wish I could paint it
but as we move toward the end
it changes
It’s always a new horizon.”
I look back at the road
Now I see how the horizon line
dances and beckons
My heart leaps up in answer
There are no words for this
I sit quiet beside Peggy
watching the road end.
Jennifer Armstrong December 2013
My Sister's Birthday Poem
My sister asked me for a poem on her 60th birthday. This is what came out . . . and we both had a good laugh over it!
GRAPES
My sister is turning 60.
How to celebrate this threshold of crone hood?
“Write me a poem” she says.
“Your poems are so often profound.”
Oh lovely, no pressure,
one profound poem coming right up.
Why does an image of green grapes on paper plates
leap into my mind? I am not writing about that.
I want to write about Rebecca as
a lover of language, of logos
the right word at the right time
poetry, calligraphy, dreams.
Rebecca as world citizen
comfortably competent on any continent,
carrying her small suitcase
filled with mythos and mystery.
Listen, grapes, I’m working on a profound poem here. Go away.
Rebecca as Keeper of the Path
ministering to the soul’s unfolding
while feeling the sway of elephants beneath her
one elephant for each degree earned:
B.A. M.A. M. Div D. Min.
God damn grapes!
Fine, I’ll tell your story and then you can go away.
Two sisters, 7 and 10 home sick from school
and nestled in blankets in the front bedroom.
Green grapes glisten on white paper plates,
oh what luxury.
“Don’t touch my grapes” I warn as I head to the bathroom.
Upon my return I am astonished to see my sister’s plate is empty
while my plate is still piled high with bunches of succulent orbs.
A wild glee arises in my heart, an intoxication of power
and greed hitherto unknown to me.
I savor every last grape. No, I do not share.
I turn a deaf ear to my sister’s pleas for one, just one...
When the last grape disappears down my exultant throat
Rebecca unveils the grapes she has hidden.
Her laugh is a sword through my heart.
My hoarding of grapes is about to wreak a terrible
and immediate retribution.
My howl of anguish brings our mother thundering up the stairs.
“Rebecca what on earth are you doing to your little sister?” she cries.
What is Rebecca doing?
She is teaching the Golden Rule:
Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.
Threshold of wisdom? Ha! Those sour grapes of wrath
were a crafty crone’s lesson fifty years ago.
Happy Birthday Sister!
January 24, 2015Jennifer Armstrong