Sister in the Old Country published on Braided Way: Faces and Voices of Spiritual Practice

Sister in the Old Country

Wicklow Road, County Cavan. Sixteen,
I visit nanny Mrs. D.’s sister, who at seventy-five
still rides a bike, wears a pink flowered dress
I recognize as a hand-me-down from Mom. We sit
in the kitchen, a circle of women on metal chairs,
Christ smiling from the wall despite his bleeding heart.
She says the rosary and we repeat, Blessed is the fruit, 
full of grace, thy womb… Crones’ voices droning,
like ancient druids, echoing in the linoleum-tiled room.
Aromas of puddings, soda bread baking, mouth-watering
odor of onions, eggs, mutton, tomatoes fried in fat.
Faces like ancient stones, pale, hardened, weather-worn.
Outside, the acrid smell of burning peat, damp earth
and salt air—the sacred, encircling sea.

"What Stillness" featured on George Bilgere's Poetry Town, October 16th 2024

What Stillness

by Laura Foley

Lily pads ripple in summer breeze,
as if they bloomed for me,
revelation-white clouds float
through a divine blue sky.
No human voices break
the stillness of this hilltop pond
where I come to forget
the foolishness of homo sapiens—
where a trout leaps from the lake,
splashes shining down,
opening a glimpse into
the world below the surface.
My dog, wet from her swim
between the visible and the hidden,
shakes dots of sparkling light
from her dark coat,
forming a watery aura.
What sunlight does to water,
stillness does to us.

From Why I Never Finished My Dissertation.
Headmistress Press, 2019.

Full Tide published by Fernwood Press

Full Tide

We walked downhill
to the beach, her hand in mine,
small step, after small step.
She said Hi to the doggie on the leash,
Hi Mommy, to a woman passing
on the street, Hi Daddy, to a bearded man.
On the sand, she stared transfixed,
at the water, the slight waves,
the tide not yet pulling out.
She looked up, toward a flap of wings.
Bird, I said, pointing at the seagull,
and she mimicked, Bird,
then turned her gaze back,
to the waves’ slow slapping.
Later I sat, looking at trees below me,
a hint of haze burning off the far bay,
the world busy working and sailing,
waking, while I sat waiting as Evie napped,
that quiet Maine morning,
the full tide of grandmotherhood,
lapping my shore.

Published in Lavender Review

All of It

Remember the fluctuating sea,

morning on the beach, the sun’s

orange disk, like a porthole into divine fire.

Remember the seals, one then another,

bobbing up, as if to play, or say hello.

Remember the swim, the sharp rock,

the gash on your leg, remember

the bee sting reddening your ear,

the itch and swelling, with something

to tell the wandering mind.

Remember the hard walk, the cobblestones,

the steps on the path, remember

the church services, the vespers,

the nuns blessing your knee.

Remember the time—not long ago—

a day closed you into an ambulance,

your heart beating too fast to bear, remember

being lifted up in the air, waving goodbye,

calling out: Tell the children please.

Remember the peace in returning to dogs,

to house, to your wife Clara lit within,

remember swimming in the pond again,

in a body made new by gratitude.

What the Dead Miss featured on The Writer's Almanac

What the Dead Miss
by Laura Foley

This morning I think I see, in the light
dimpling the river’s emerald green
beneath me, the faces of my dead husband,
parents and younger sister,
feel their fingers in the fresh breeze
on my cheeks, as I breathe the diesel smell
of passing trucks, reminding me
of my need to refuel. As I hold the nozzle
in place, I watch clouds scurry
and reform, like roving ghostly crowds.
I hear music in the liquid trickling,
filling my tank to the brim,
music in my steady footsteps,
tapping percussion on pavement,
the car door closing with a click.
They say that’s what the dead miss most,
an ordinary day, spent like this.

 

“What the Dead Miss” by Laura Foley from Why I Never Finished My Dissertation. Headmistress Press © 2019. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)

The Uncut Field, featured on The Writer's Almanac

The Uncut Field
by Laura Foley

Walking the field to place a small rock
that she has painted on his grave,
my daughter asks me if he knows
that he is dead. The rock is painted
with a butterfly, red lines for wings, small dots
for yellow eyes, blue strings for legs.
Before I have a chance to muster
an answer, Nina calls out, Happy Father’s Day
to silent air. And we beat a path homeward
through dry, eye-scratching weeds.

 

“The Uncut Field” by Laura Foley from The Glass Tree. © Harbor Mountain Press, 2012. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)

Our First Summer featured on The Writer's Almanac

Our First Summer
by Laura Foley

We dined that June in Verona, Dante’s town,
drinking wine in the square, the two of us alone.
No place to stay overnight, backpacks stashed
by our knees, pensioni and hotels full, stone streets
eerie and still, my first visit to the ancient country.
Soon the opera would end, the midnight streets fill,
but by then we were gone on the next train, next town,
where at dawn we dozed on a high marble ledge
of Bologna’s cathedral, as we waited for the air to warm,
stores to open. We found an Italian wool hat for you
with button on top, a handsome cap I still have,
still marked with your sweat, the graceful curve
of your skull.

“Our First Summer” by Laura Foley from The Glass Tree. © Harbor Mountain Press, 2012. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)

Gratitude List on The Writer's Almanac, winner of The Good Books Poetry Prize, chosen by Garrison Keillor

Gratitude List

by Laura Foley

Praise be this morning for sleeping late,
the sandy sheets, the ocean air,
the midnight storm that blew its waters in.
Praise be the morning swim, mid-tide,
the clear sands underneath our feet,
the dogs who leap into the waves,
their fur, sticky with salt,
the ball we throw again and again.
Praise be the green tea with honey,
the bread we dip in finest olive oil,
the eggs we fry. Praise be the reeds,
gold and pink in the summer light,
the sand between our toes,
our swimsuits, flapping in the breeze.

"To See It" featured on Gratefulness.org

To See It

We need to separate
to see the life we’ve made,
to leave our house
where someone waits, patiently,
warm beneath the sheets;
to don layers of armor,
sweater, coat, mittens, scarf,
to stride down the frozen road,
putting distance between us,
this cold winter morning,
to look back and see,
on the hilltop, our life,
lit from inside.

https://gratefulness.org/resource/to-see-it/?utm_campaign=share_button&utm_source=facebook&utm_medium=social&fbclid=IwAR2ErBwl3t5lH-gWy0Gb7g-TwDdH4dRx4bf5M55e63WSdqBZi-ZVXhTl8C4

Live Encounters: The Mind of A Day, In NY Harbor, In the Village Store

The Mind of a Day

When you sit looking from a porch
through the mind of a day,
you see rain and sun bestowed by sky,
on each leaf and tree,
on the whole sea of living green,
clouds massing and vanishing,
breezes winging the scent of freshly-ripe lilacs,
neon-green grass blades
not yet cut this season.
You hear raindrops begin again,
each one separate from the other,
as a sky turns silver-grey,
radiant circles of light
growing in a rain puddle,
as a wind rises, rustling your hair,
equally with new-budding leaves—
the maple over your head, elm
across the street, the whole small town
among woods—so much to see,
when everything else falls away
and you’re free to look
through the mind of a day.

In New York Harbor

Though Catholic,
my father chose fire,
his ashes dispersed in saltwater—
no grave, no bones, no body
to lie beside his mother, father.

As the tide drove us seaward,
I didn’t expect the shadow
of the bronze statue,
torched and barely visible,
rising through the waves—

nor the motion of the silent craft,
engine stopped, cross-currents
pulling us back through ashes,
as if we or they were a sieve—
sure I heard his laughter.

In the Village Store

As a woman and I wait
in a snaking long line to pay,
a man cuts in front,
and she catches him, insists he retreat,
but he, angry, I assume,
from last week’s election,
the President’s drubbing,
snarls: You’re one of the damn Dems,
and Not a lady, assuming, I presume,
that she wants to embody
such an antiquated state,
while my nose twitches like a rabbit,
caught napping in a coyote den,
wondering if I must choose
a side to leap to, as a chasm opens
between the chocolate aisle and the cheese,
as she points her finger like a light saber—
screeching his ass is as big as Trump’s,
fat, I might judge,
from his eating too much beef,
as she displays her blue-jeaned posterior
like a peacock’s tail, firm and toned,
I assume, as she pats it,
from dieting and yoga,
here in Vermont,
where he likely presumes
we all vote for Bernie the socialist—
New Age heathens in want of evangelical saving,
while we profess enlightenment,
but sometimes act like orangutans
squabbling over bananas
in the wilds of Borneo.

"Year End" in DMQ Review Spring 2019

YEAR END

I want to bury him
though I doubt it’s appropriate
for a butterfly.
Perhaps I’ll climb the icy hill,
trudge through woods and slippery snow,
to place him as close as I can to sky,
in the field he would have floated over,
on his way to Mexico,
if October hadn’t been too cold for flight.
The orange-and-black-winged beauty
thrived, in his screened-in cage,
lit with purple happy lights,
and fed every day by hand,
his proboscis dipped in honey water,
until, on Christmas day,
he birthed three sacs of sperm,
a rare gift for me.
Finding no mate,
he folded his wings and died,
face pressed into the New Year’s daisy
I gave him, as a human lover might.

https://www.dmqreview.com/foleyspring-2019

"A Perfect Arc" on The Writer's Almanac


A Perfect Arc
by Laura Davies Foley

I remember the first time he dove.
He was five and we were at a swimming pool
and I said: you tip your head down as you are going in,
while your feet go up.
And then his lithe little body did it exactly right,

a perfect dive, sliding downward, arcing without a wave,
and I just stood
amazed and without words
as his blond head came up again
and today

I watched him for the longest time as he walked
firm and upright along the street,
with backpack, guitar, all he needs,
blossoming outward in a perfect arc,
a graceful turning
away from me.

“A Perfect Arc” by Laura Davies Foley from Syringa. © StarMeadow Press, 2007. Reprinted with permission. (buy now) 

http://www.garrisonkeillor.com/radio/twa-the-writers-almanac-for-february-5-2019/

"It Is Time" on The Writer's Almanac

It Is Time
by Laura Davies Foley

It is time to gather sticks of wood
so we can cook the sap that we have drawn from the earth.
We will bore holes into the maple trees,
collect buckets, stir the froth as it boils.
Then we’ll finish it on the stove in the barn.
We will do this together,
balancing the heavy iron vat,
pouring the hot syrup,
tasting the sweetness.
We did it through the pregnancies, the births.
Let’s do it once again.
And then we will cultivate the honey bees
and tend to the alfalfa in the fields.
It will be the best of times once more,
fourteen loads of fresh hay,
and my hair will be long and we will collect raspberries,
and make a pie.
The garden will yield a bumper crop of beets and basil,
and we will split wood all fall,
and stack it,
and be ready for the winter,
when you will weave a blanket on your loom
with dog hair and horse hair and my hair
and some dyed wool too.
And I will nurse the babies by the fire,
and neither of us will grow older,
and we will never forget,
and nothing will ever die.
We need to gather sticks now
and build a fire quickly,
before the season passes on,
before the field,
where you are sleeping,
blossoms.

 

“It Is Time” by Laura Davies Foley from Mapping the Fourth Dimension. © Harbor Mountain Press, 2006. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)

http://www.garrisonkeillor.com/radio/twa-the-writers-almanac-for-march-8-2019/

Verse-Virtual and Lavender Review

 

Four poems in the June issue of Verse-Virtual about Bill Foley's imprisonment by the Japanese in WW II .

Read more ->

"Cavafy" appears in Lavender Review June 2016.

 Read more ->

 "The Orchard on its Way" in DMQ Review.

The Orchard on Its Way

 

I wish it would slow,

not the train, but the ponies

shivering in a rain-soaked pasture,

a hundred geese fluttering

in a soggy field,

the eagles we saw this morning

from a station in Vermont,

their wild mating dance—

not the train, but the passing

into memory—I want it all

to last, the chimney falling

back to bricks,

the orchard on its way to bud,

the kiss you gave me

twenty miles back.

Ode to my feet

For years I've thought them queer,
hiding them
in steamy boots and sneakers,
but recently, I've begun to like
their well-worked lines, blue
veins, tapered, skinny elegance.
Funny looking, yes, oddly
protuberant, awkwardly angled,
unlike anyone else's,
models for a medieval statue's,
ancient granite feet
on a church facade,
thoroughly unmodern.
Yet, how well they climb steep cliffs,
work my slinky kayak's rudder,
how they tingle, tapping to music
across a wooden floor,
dangling below me
when I sit on high seats,
and turning pink as we wade
the cool mountain pond,
warming, as they carry me
faithfully home to rest.

 

Featured Poet, Women's Voices for Change — In this sandal season, poet Laura Davies Foley speaks of making peace with her feet, and invites us to do the same.

The Offering

These woods
on the edges of a lake
are settling now
to winter darkness.
Whatever was going to die
is gone --
crickets, ferns, swampgrass.
Bare earth fills long spaces of a field.
But look:
a single oak leaf
brown and shining
like a leather purse.
See what it so delicately offers
lying upturned on the path.
See how it reflects in its opened palm
a cup of deep, unending sky.

 

"The Offering" appears in the literary anthology, Across Borders.