Two Poems by Ricki Mandeville

What Endures

 

The notions of trees when seasons turn, 

as even now, at half past fall, the sycamores 

have curled their leaves like old men’s hands. 

And the stubbornness of stars, though stars have 

always seemed too haughty with their faint, cold light. 

And wind—eternal mad sculptor—whisking crumbs

of pyramids across oceans, powdering

them against stark cliffs, blind skyscrapers. 

 

Does the soil in my garden hold a memory 

of roots, of rain, as I crumble it in my palm?

Trees, stars, mad wind, black earth all endure. 

And what of love; does it?  Even when 

the heartless wind empties my hands of it, 

does a bit of it remain—a taste, a trace?

 

 

Rains

 

At 5 a.m. rain wakes me, boughs outside

the window going wild in northwest wind: 

gnarled horses galloping crazily in place

while you twitch and murmur in dregs of sleep.

In an hour, the wind will lift my hair, trail it

like yellow paint across the sullen canvas sky. 

You’ll drag your hands through the damp wilds of it,  

weave it through your knuckles, hold it like pale rags 

next to my face, press your thumbs to my cheekbones, 

say everything but goodbye & my eyes will leak

rain enough to drown every poem I’ve written.

I will clench my teeth against the wind 

and watch your jacket, darkened at the shoulders, 

disappearing down the pot-holed road. 

 

Ricki Mandeville is an editor, poet and dreamer fortunate enough to live near the ocean in Huntington Beach, California, where, on the best days, the tide washes up a love sonnet which she has no choice but to write. Her poems have appeared in Comstock Review, San Pedro River Review, Pea River Journal and many other publications.