Sample Poems by M.J. Iuppa

Artifacts

From the worn treads of my shoes
clots of mud come loose
and fall onto the plank floor.

Fragrance of earth, remnants,
last straw of winter–
visible marks shrinking to questions.

I can’t say why, but
pinch a piece to feel its powder
crumble between my fingertips.

Grit I brush onto my pants,
a gesture to keep whoever’s missing
within reach.

The Season of Mud

Waking early, before the burble of birds percolates
into full song, before the lake sky awash in the belly

color of trout brightens to blue, I see everything
drying out. We may get a head start

at our slow age, turning over the gardens,
preparing the raised beds for this year’s

casual crop of just what we need:
two to four kinds of every vegetable found

ripe and ready in seed catalogs.

It’s those must have plump orange tomatoes
and creamy white eggplants that tempted us

when snow filled our windowsills,
and we could barely make our way out back–

Drifts cresting like ocean waves,
but that was weeks ago . . .

Now bundled packets in yesterday’s mail,
and we’ve quit complaining.

A good sign, since we have so much work to do.

Button

Today, I lost a navy blue enameled button off my shirt
and I worried . . .

No larger than a juju, this button, the perfect one,
the knob of opening and closing . . .

Somewhere between picking up my sister at the airport
and the threshold of my dying brother’s bedroom,
it was gone . . .

Slipped away like a shadow in April’s twitching daylight.
I can’t replace it. Not with a collar button’s tightness, nor
with a last button’s afterthought . . . I fidget.

My brother tells my sister that we’ve missed her . . .

He tells me I have four buttons left.

The Crab Apple Tree

This morning, after night’s steady drizzle, the warm May air
is utterly still– and in that stillness in the back yard, the aging

crab apple’s bright pink petals seduce our middling minds
to look up into the tree’s crown and see ruby-throated

hummingbirds candling blossoms, sparks of light,
like birthday wishes caught in the frenzy of hands

clapping– and suddenly more bluster– blue jays
and cardinals toppling headlong into somersaults,

chasing each other limb to limb, scattering a spray of petals
that spin crazily onto the ground, leaving us a brief trail–

before we’re doomed to another season’s whispering
green shadows.

Translation

What survives without leaving a trace?
The hall clock’s second hand keeps proper rhythm,

the tic, tic leans back to trim the seconds
of good standing. You are here, they say, living

within a mind that lives within the body.
What was it? Your pupils narrow.

Again, the absence of divine touch;
The hellish swirl of contradictions.

Your offspring busy,
their hands touching everything.

How you hated to be picked on.
Crows at the window looking in.

The Daydream

Rain soaked, overgrown—
parsley, catnip, mint—

arching over the pond’s short reach—a canopy
of green flecked with timid white blossoms

and bees drowsing in sweetness
that’s offered like a quiet gesture—

Come here and sit still—
glimpse beneath this lush shade—

the water quivers like a daydream,
living inside, living outside,

the yearning of goldfish—
so many lips kissing the tranquil surface.