Seventy-two years ago today, they married
.            The woodpecker is back at the feeder
Forty-seven times they celebrated this day
.            Cardinals, male and female,
.            peck seeds on the rail
I know where they stood that morning
.            House finch, song sparrow
but cannot imagine where
.            If I step too close to the window
they’ve gone

-George Ella Lyon

I called the collection I made in college
Seven for the Winter, Seven from the Sun,
each poem as obscure as I was. I was
casting a net of sound and rhythm
but had not yet met in myself what
I wanted to catch. The net remains
on the page, intricate and empty.
I didn’t even know I wasn’t there.

-George Ella Lyon

typewriter ribbon ink and carbon copy ink, Spirit Master ink and news disaster ink, ballpoint pen ink, gel ink, Flair ink, ink from the cartridge, ink from the bottle, spilled ink, teared ink, over-filled and flowed ink, green inklings sprinkling my cream-colored sleeves, breakfast ink, supper ink, snack ink, slack ink, wish ink, dish ink, indelible ink, infallible ink, inking-along ink, scratching-off ink, don’t-you-dare ink and what-were-you-thinking ink, no-child-of-mine ink, I-don’t want-to-hear-it ink, who-do-you-think-you-are ink, just-forget-it ink and you’ll-regret-it ink, molasses ink and Niagara ink, ink drink, ink in the sink, stinking ink, clinking ink, give-me-a-little-something-in-pink ink, I’m-outta-here ink, leaving-the-atmosphere ink, let-the-presses-roll ink, hard-as-coal ink, nobody’s-fink ink, never-to-sink ink, the missing ink, the kissing ink, right-on-the-tongue ink and bright-as-the-sun ink, invisible ink, indivisible ink, where- I’m-from ink and Vietnam ink, Ink Ink Inkedy-Ink, Ink on your screen is not what you think

-George Ella Lyon

The body is astounding and finite.
I can do without all these magazines.
It is possible that I’m an anorexic writer.
Worry is not love.
I have control over just about nothing.
A friend means more than furniture.
I can find peace in the woods.
Miracles wait in dirt.
My children belong to themselves.
The truth is worth what it requires of us.

-George Ella Lyon

the grace of figure skaters
grace under pressure
the grace of God
grace before meals
Dot said, Corky, would you say grace?
And Corky said, Grace
We giggled and ate
the grace of butterflies
of a path through the woods
worn by the grace of many feet
kept clear by the grace of trail-tenders
the grace of ballerinas
of mothers at weddings
of babies crowning
the grace of otters
of elephants embracing
the mud they wallow in
of a voice that reaches, finds, and gives the ear
that note the song longs for
the grace of weeds obscuring
the grace of flowers
the grace of my cat
walking haughtily away
from the hairball she just threw up
on my newspaper
the grace of clouds laddered with sunset fire
the grace of your live eyes
receiving these words

-George Ella Lyon

.          I’m online searching for the grave of my mother’s baby brother Jack, who died before his second birthday. Around 1926, I think. Probably of diphtheria. I believe they lived in Manchester, so I google the local cemetery and am offered the chance to write a review. A review! Of the cemetery! Too quiet for my taste? Bothersome neighbors? Not suitable for horseback riding? Then, unable to descreeen myself, I google Resthaven, where the rest of the family rests, only to discover Resthaven has a Facebook page. Lord help us. What kind of status gets posted there? Are the wrens in the catalpas below my parents’ plot on Twitter? Are folks buried with their smart phones, hoping for one last text? Even at the edge of the grave I make my song. That’s from the BCP. Google it.

-George Ella Lyon

At the time I married, the bride left
the festivities in a going-away dress.
Mine was short and white (like me),
with a beige fake suede belt and fake
suede pockets. My shoes matched too!
Not just each other but those pockets.
I set out upon life’s rocky road with
outfits. And Tupperware. A note tucked
in one aqua plastic box read, “This is
a celery keeper. Happiness forever.”

-George Ella Lyon

How do you make a poem out of calendars
and phone calls? Dental appointments?
Plane tickets, parking permits, weeks spent
standing in line at the pharmacy? Like this
evidently.

You see that the calendar looks like an ice
tray, words written on each cube. You recall
the cloth-covered cord of your childhood
telephone, the operator’s nasal “Number Please,”
how in an emergency, you could actually talk
to her, a woman in front of a switchboard
downtown. Joyce Hester’s mother, in fact.
And your dentist who murdered his little
girl, then himself. No. Let’s get out of this
poem. Let’s check the mail for that parking
permit. Let’s pick up that prescription. Let’s
be a Jesus bug, pond water tight against our
filament feet.

-George Ella Lyon

There is a joy that
only arrives after grief
has been allowed in.

-George Ella Lyon

I came to the stuck place.
I nudged. I coaxed.
I mocked. Walked away.

Back at the stuck place
I cursed. I railed.
I blasted. No go.

Then I sat down
at the stuck place
and wept.

In tears
the obstacle
dissolved

or was carried
out of sight
around the bend.

I came again
to the stuck place.
Such anger! Such
righteous refusing
to budge. I won’t
give in to the stuck
place. I won’t give
in. I will it to move
I will

be stuck.

The obstacle laughed
itself loose, rolled on
downstream.

Oh, honey,
Cry      Laugh      Keep moving

-George Ella Lyon