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dwright@darliawright.com
Generations
At the same time
that my mother’s mother was poor,
women were dressing for balls.
Large round mirrors glistened
before collars and fastenings.
Hattie cut her good dress down
for her oldest girl to graduate in.
At the same time
that my mother’s mother’s needle
broke in the dim light
[her six children sleeping behind curtained doors],
ladies shared opera glasses --
their diamond tiaras catching light like crystal.
At the same time
that my mother’s mother
had been so long without sugar,
the cow stretching winter feed
thinned the cream to nothing,
and there was no tea anyway,
French wine bubbled over ice-thin glasses,
spoiling silk gowns.
At the same time
that I discovered lavish antique shops --
delirious with top hats, stickpins, and satin,
swirled in romance and completely for play --
my mother cried.
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Biographic Information We
arrived in Benicia January of 1998 and fell in love with the site and the
community. Originally from Seattle Washington, I’d had enough of rain and
overcast. My husband came here to do environmental science for the Federal
Forest Service; I to write, make art, and grow tropical plants.
I sold my graphic design
company; said farewell to the Salem Writers
Artists & Publishers, Drawing Board Inc, and Oregon
Watersheds; and began
the search for my California connections. Before long
I joined Mardi Gras
Benicia to help put on their annual parade and festival;
then the Society
of Children’s Writers; and in the past year, Benicia’s
poets both at our library and at Voltaire’s cafe. I belong to Friends of
the Library, Arts Benicia, and the League of Women Voters.
Everything informs my writing
of poetry, which began in grade school and
has been my constant companion. Have three dozen published
and several
award winning poems; edited and published a chapbook
for three years in
Oregon; and am releasing a book of my poetry this fall.
Am currently retired, and mom
to four adult people and a three legged cat.
OCTOBER OAKS
The October oaks,
like black ladies in red slips,
stand
across the doorways of morning and night.
Leaves of brick tones,
knots of lace
open like a fan
shedding the pale gray light.
Midnight
Give me your back to lie upon,
your feathered wings of grace.
I rest my face
between your shoulder blades
and dream.
We are flying,
my arms around your chest
clasped
soul to soul.
I inhale, you exhale
in winged beat.
Our nights a true dark
not in fear but of stars.
Give me your back.
I lay my breast
against
your solid self.
The smell of skin,
salt taste,
then sleep.
We are safe.
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