beauty, poetry, reflecting

First reading

I’ve been a reader for many, many – many – years now, of course. And over the course of those years, I have also been a writer. I learned to write by reading the writing of others, I think. Words, and the sentences that hold words together, come easily to me. That particular gift allowed me to be a preacher, also. I loved reading and studying the scriptures, and over the years, I’d developed my own rhythm, a rhythm that formed the outline of my week for many years.

And I have written poetry since the days I watched my teachers carefully, studying their manners and idiosyncrasies carefully. I was a careful child, and I took that care to my studies. I faithfully memorized the poems of the great American poets in Miss Ross’ English class at Peckham Junior High School. Miss Ross gave me a great gift with her old-fashioned manner of teaching. I remember so little about her; she was an old-fashioned teacher who wore a navy blue, old-fashioned dress that was covered in little white dots, a dress that covered her knees, modestly. Was her name really Betsy Ross? I don’t know, although that’s the name I’ve carried with me all these years. I was sure she had her hair done at a beauty parlor every week. That’s how it looked to me, with my trained eye!

Every week, I studied a poet’s life and poems, and over the course of the semester I put together a book of my own, a three ringed folder with poems carefully written in my own hand, and pictures to visually bring the poems to life. I cut the pictures out of the pages of my mother’s women’s magazines. I wish I had those folders now. Those pages of poems were a treasure in my life.

The poems, the lives of the poets, the world that books and reading opened to me have been a priceless gift to my life.

But the poems that I have written and collected – not carefully, but faithfully – have formed the book that my beloved husband, Jeff, encouraged me to have printed. I am a published poet now! That’s an identity I find I will have to grow into. Like the day Jeff’s first published book appeared at our house, he and I sat down and looked over the small printed volume of my own poetry, Moments (Balboa Press, 2026).

And I have survived my first reading! Carefully planned and executed, I read aloud to a group of other humans selected poems from my collection. The room – the Edwards Room at Lake Merritt United Methodist Church, the church where I had retired from as Pastor in 2014 after a 16 year stint (not bad for a Methodist!). There was a gathered group of people, mostly folks I know, a few I did not know. A woman I’d helped with a family matter a few years after my retirement joined the group. The pastor, Sunae, had made sure a flyer had been included in each Sunday’s bulletin.

And so, I am a published poet, and I am a poet who has survived a public reading. I am grateful. A gathering of friends, of beloved folks from many years in my life, colleagues, former parishioners, and even a man I did not know arrived to sit for an hour of poetry reading! So many of my poems, many written on scraps of paper and filed away in a manila file – these many years – were now properly printed and presented for public view. The pastor and a few faithful helpers set out a nice table of simple food for after the reading. A friend brought her dog and generously agreed to handle the selling of the books, of my book, which I signed for the waiting admirers.

And so I expect that a small part of me will have to take on a new – another – identity: published poet. I’m proud that a photo of mine graces the cover. I was delighted to see who showed up to hear me read, some folks I had forgotten would be interested at all.

Now, that day is in the past. I’ve had my collection of poems published – I’m a published poet now – and I’ve had a reading. I’m out there.

poetry, remembering

I’m From…

I am from
frame flats with steep staircases, lining city streets.
Daddy’s eyes, sparkling. Momma’s worries.
Baby sister, big brother.

The smell of yeast bread as I climb the narrow steps,
cozy.
The smell of beer, always.
Cereal for breakfast,
peasant borscht for supper at five.
On the back porch, tracing Sputnik across the sky.

Shame: “we don’t say that.”

I am from
Steelworkers Union 19806,
bargaining rights and hoping for overtime.
Snow drifts. Winter winds. Slow springs, long-awaited,
lilacs in big dishes, coleus leaves, hollyhocks.

Moving – again.

I am from
up North and cooler by the Lake,
humid nights, thunderstorms crashing from west to east,
short, languid summers,
sheets fresh from drying in the sun.

I am from
hanging with the smart kids,
the Center Street library,
laughter, and lots of tears.
Anger that never cooled. Warm and loving folks.
Books. Books. Books.

Old World people and me –
tiptoeing into the New World.


“I am from,” Mary Elyn Bahlert, from Moments, published 2026

photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert, 12/2025

beauty, poetry, reflecting, Uncategorized

“I think that I shall never see

a poem lovely as a tree…” – Joyce Kilmer

One of the pleasures in my life is the pleasure of having lived in one place for many years. In 1995, Jeff and I moved to Oakland and we have stayed in Oakland, and moved into our 1915 Craftsman Home about 2005. Over those years, Jeff has worked hard to steward a beautiful garden – a garden which we enjoy every day. We have hosted many gatherings and dinners with friends here in the house – often in the garden. I expect those times of hosting have attached us even more to this place. And having lived in one place for so many years, and having seen the seasons – slow and sacred in the Bay Area – pass to us and away again all those years since 2005, I have come to know very well the passage of time in one place.

In the yard of our home are several trees that I see from one of the windows: the listing birch outside the living room, the apple tree whose trunk and branches seem to greet us – bowing – when we sit at the dining room table, the maple that shines into our bedroom window in the autumn.

I have a refrain that I say to myself often about the birch: “I love that tree and that tree loves me”. And if saying it often makes it so, then it is true: that tree loves me. Silently and with grace the tree stands and waits for me as I lounge facing the window with my morning coffee. Silently and with grace the tree has sparked my mind as I sit on the couch, writing a sermon, reading a book from the local library, chatting with Jeff. The tree is a steady and beautiful companion to my life. I’m grateful for the tree.

And if gratitude is a poem, then that tree has sparked whatever poems are resting inside me, waiting for the right time to come out.

And it’s autumn again. The slender maple outside our bedroom window is shining with the light of autumn. And the slender maple is so beautiful: a beautiful, silent, stalwart companion.

My stalwart companion in autumn. photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert, 2024

beauty, poetry, reflecting

The sky in autumn

The sky, deep, in autumn
rests deeper in the heavens,
deeper as if it has reached a peak,
the peak of color, of light,
deeper as if creator’s brush
has found the darkest color
and presented it to us for our delight.
If we are watching,
if our eyes are open, waiting with great patience,
if we are watching, waiting –
we disappear into the deepness,
we are set free from the troubles of earth,
we fly into the freedom.

Mary Elyn Bahlert, 09/15/2025

Photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert, 11/11/2020

beauty, poetry

For a moment

For a moment the city is still,
the rush of cars silent,
the air full of silence, holding
as we hold this second, we stop this second.
A towee stops, too, on the back stoop
and the cat, stealthy, climbs the steps to watch,
careful.
Then the feathered one flies past the cat.

We are waiting for the appearance -
the Blue Moon -
to show itself above the houses,
the lush summer trees,
to hold still for a moment
as we hold our breath.

---Mary Elyn Bahlert, 8/2024



photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert, 8/24

Waiting for the Blue Moon