Hand Over Fist

Hand over fist

He's making money
Hand over fist
Like a sailor hauling on a line
Raising an anchor, or a sail
Buying and selling
Fuel, food, land,
Politicians

It doesn't matter
Where the rope or the profit
Comes from.
Where the endless coils
And by-products land.
There is only the rhythm of hauling it in
Addictive,
Unstoppable

He could be
Raising a sail to the very moon,
Or weighing the anchor
That holds the earth
Constant in her orbit.
Buying grain patents,
Watersheds,
Governments, and principalities

Who knows
What will happen to us all
When he comes to the end of his rope

Will the impossible world sail
Reach the top of the mast,
Grow taut, and
Catch some cosmic wind,
Carrying us off into the stars?

What then,
When everything is his, 
Food, water,
Continents, seas and air
And there is nothing else left
To own?

Who knows
What will become of him
When hand, then fist have nothing to grasp
When he must remember
How to unclench impossibly strong fingers
Letting go
Opening his palms
To shared
Moon and stars,
Air, water and still-warm bread

Reincarnation

Reincarnation

After this life is done,
I imagine
Each of us
Like actors
Walking off after our final scene
To the more muted light
Of some celestial green room

There we will
Shed our lives
Like heavy brocades,
Cocktail dresses, wigs,
Overalls, or Roman togas

We will fold them neatly, or hang them carefully
In some great wardrobe
And
If we are truly enlightened
Make the gentle,
Sunlit climb
To the after life of our chosen gods

If we are not yet ready
Still in need of improvement, perhaps,
As many of us
Regrettably will be,
I expect that we will be re cast
In some edifying role

Imagine our surprise
When some deity
Or angel
In the interest of simplicity,
Justice and humor
Changes our circumstances
Entirely
By shifting one, chromosome

Cool

Cool

You are
Cool,
Always enough room
Between you
And other people,
Friends, and strangers
For a breeze to brush through
Never the warmth
Of close bodies

Always a skim of ice
Over the still pool
Of your heart, soul and inmost thoughts
Transparent,
Untouchable through solid cool
It's all about the exterior

The mirrors over your eyes,
Black elegance of
Jeans and jacket fitting close,
Devouring any revealing light
Sliding curiosity off
Like snow

Where will you go for warmth
To share the brush of bodies,
Break the ice,
And make that first awkward move
Revealing humanity
And allowing
For the hot blush
Of imperfection?

Drowning

Drowning

Must the water hold
Identical chill,
Tug with the same irresistible weight
At your swiftly filling boots?
Must the curled, green wave
Drink the air from your lungs
With the self-same
Casual, icy slap,
Sending you to rest on
The very bones
Of that other drowned man

Well past the point of return
You remained certain that you were stronger,
A better person, more wise,
Protected by God
Until

You reached the bottom, resting beside
The one you refused to pull
To safety,
Scorning
His weakness,

Only now,
Have you come to understand
finally knowing the bitter truth of salt water,
Tide, currant and
Human frailty

Learning, too late
Lessons
That would have saved both
Of your lives

Fascination

His favorite gift
Was the old toaster oven
Unplugged,

Standing at the coffee table,
Face serious with
Intent pleasure of exploration,
We got a sense
Of how he would look
Years later, reading Chaucer or
Designing a system of
Sea walls and sluices
For a coastal city.

Now and then,
Delighted laughter
Opened his mouth, wide,
showing the first early teeth.
This was even better
Than the clash of pots under the kitchen counter,
the Kleenex box with its endless banners
Drawn forth and floated
On the whimsical air.

Open, close, clang of catch,
Rattle of pull-out racks,
Stuffing crumpled wrapping paper,
Crackling, full,
Pulling it noisily out,
And stuffing again

While we
Talked over his head,
Smiled to see him
So engrossed
Used this time of intent
Distraction to address more adult interest,
For a moment,
Then
Returned to our wonder
At this apple of our eyes

All the while,
The shiny,
New, plastic extravaganza
Of toys
The latest books,
The art work, clothing and other
Costly gifts of the day
Languished
On the sunlit floor.

https://fbcdn-sphotos-f-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-prn2/1492235_727593484802_1789994160_o.jpg?dl=1

Change is Good?

Who said
That change is good?

Was he desperate?
At the end of the road, where only
Going over the bank,
Scrabbling through the underbrush,
Held hope

Was she a prophet,
Knowing the beauty
And inevitability of the new road,
Beyond the massive landslide,
Stretching toward
Mist-gold cities,
Sure
With the portent
Of God in her veins

Or perhaps a fool,
Revving his engine
To beat the odds and
Take the blind curve
At speed
On that narrow, unfamiliar road
In his raging, irrational need
To get ahead.

The phrase must have come
From one of these,
Or perhaps from some unholy
Combination of two or even
All three.

For the rest of us,
If we are honest,
Change is like the patch of ice
Under the tires,
No knowing
If we will keep to the road
As we fishtail
Flashing past insubstantial guardrails, and
The perilous drop
Toward an oncoming log truck,
Or perhaps careening helplessly
Into the gentle arms
Of a pristine snow bank.
Shot with diamonds
In the morning sun.

Public Transportation Sonnet

Public Transportation Sonnet

I have not read the signs and portents right
I missed the vital deviation, so
Although I wish with all my grumpy might
I have to go where I am forced to go
My close-planned day is stood upon its head
And non to blame but my misguided glance
If I had been more careful when I read . . .
But I was rushing in my usual dance
To get things done, no matter what the cost
So here I sit with naught to do, but wait
While all that precious waking time is lost
Annoyed and helpless, frustrated and late
But busses travel when and where they will
Whether or not we have the time to kill.

　

　

Midwinter

Tart scent of tangerines,
Scorched, wet wool,
Fresh cut greens
And shortbread baking

Hands parched, and winter rough
Bright cold face
Stamp and puff
Bones stiff and aching

We pass these sun-starved days
Inward turned
To quiet ways
Of warmth and making

The earth is fallow now
Shrouded, still
Snow burdened bough
But not yet breaking

We count the cold dark days
With hand work
And sugar glaze
Until spring's waking

We bring the sunshine in
boxed, sweet sun
Juice on the chin
Gold for the taking

Tart Scent of tangerines,
Scorched wet wool
fresh cut greens
And shortbread baking

True Confessions of a Happy Poet

True Confessions of a Happy Poet.

I have great friends,
Smart, fierce
Loyal, quirky and odd,
Kind, fun people
Trustworthy
Mostly clean,
If not brave and reverent

I know
This doesn't leave me open
To inspirational angst and pain
Preferred diet
Of poets

I even love my siblings
So different in lives and tastes,
We would never have met
Except for our rearing
Under the same roof

Shockingly, I like to spend time
With my strong willed,
Generous, mother
And enjoy the company
Of my ex husband
As long as we don't share living space.

I know,
These are poor credentials for an artist
who should write of great conflict
And dire trauma.

But sometimes,
Not often enough,
Life is good
And language
In all of its glory, should not be meant
Only for the cadences of despair

How else
Do we encourage the good
If we can not sing praise
To the people we love
And the joy
They bring us.

　

The Road to the Corner

The Road To the Corner.
　

I remember the road to the corner,
First road out
If ever
I was going to leave.

I walked it whenever
I needed
Air, darkness and solitude

　
Down to the brook,
Then up the rise by the pasture gate
Along the flats edged with raspberries,
Past the butternut tree,
And sweeping view of the valley
To the main road,
To the world beyond
Where I would turn,
Not ready yet
For the longer journey

　
On nights, loud with spring peepers
Moonlit nights of brilliant snow and smoke-breath cold,
Or warm windy October nights, rustling with dried leaves
I would walk it alone

　
Sometimes
Needing more space and time
I would leave the gravel
For dew-wet grass
To sit on a bale of hay,
Or fence rail,
Listening to chimney swifts and crickets
Cupping a firefly briefly in my hand
Wishing for that simple past
Of early childhood
Already missed and mourned
From the awkward
Desert island of adolescence

　
Sometimes
Throwing back my head
Pouring out ballads
To the distant stars
Because no one
Was listening to my song
in this remote place.

　
Yearning ahead
To love,
Acceptance
Comfort within my own skin
Promised
By worried, wise parents

　
Both past and future
On that lonely road,
Felt inaccessible as the moon
And close as the breath of a breeze
Against my cheek
As they still do.
They still do.

In the End

In the End

"It's about the same in the end,"
He said
" Depending on when the end is, of course"

He spoke of cars,
Whether to buy or lease,
From the dealership down the road.
He was, for the most part
A practical, detail man
Not tending to the profound
Or poetic.

But in the silence that followed
His casual, wry comment,
His words circled each of us,
Conjuring countless judgments,
Calculations,
Wild guesses and wishful hopes

From shoes to lovers,
Appliances to careers,
How much of the choosing
Was due to careful thought,
What measure of impulse and hunch
Wishful thinking,
Or impatience and fatigue

And how many
Of the costly, desired and transitory
People, places and things
In our lives
Had anything to do with care
Or carelessness
In the choosing,
In the unforeseeable
End

The Leap

The Leap

The trapeze artist
Soars out
Into star spangled space
Hands reaching
For her partner
to shape an arc of
Trusting exhilarated flight

Without a net,
A powerful accord
Lies in the space between
Where hands meet,
Grip and swing
Above the awe-struck crowd
As those hands have done
Night after night

Sure that this leap is right
We soar like that
Forgetting for one reckless moment
That we have never practiced
This intertwining of fates,
Don't yet possess
Timing, skill and Strength
For the upward swing

Sometimes
We learn the miraculous
Interchange of flight and
Trust
At high altitude

Sometimes
We swing out
First flight in glittering tights
To find the catch trap,
The trusted partner
Had other plans for the evening
and we dangle
By our ankles
Above the crowd.

Sun Worshiper

Sun Worshiper

In this season of low clouds
And snow squalls
The sun's diminished
Pewter smear of light lies
Low on the horizon
Giving little away

Listless
Without nourishment of light,
I narrow life down
In these December days
Living in short spans
Between dark and dark again

I inhabit the small arc
Of daylight
Between long swells of
Cold bottomless night
Doing what I must
In the waking valley
Between waves of primal sleep

Wrapped in down and wool
To venture out
I don't go far,
Returning quickly home
To purchased heat and light

Now and them
clouds of early winter
Fly before the north west wind
Sun pours in my window
Turning me like a blossom
To works of color, music
Creation and industry

In the rare blue-gold light
I remember
what will come

There will be no need
To light lamps
Wear wool
Or ration spirit and will
Taken so sparingly now
From this weakened sun.

When the earth turns
To spring and summer
There will be
Light, warmth, and life
In abundance
 

Old People

Old People

I always thought
Florida was for old people

I could see it through my young
Scornful eyes,
Signs for early bird specials and
Shuffleboard
Frumpy clothing on time worn bodies
Ambling down the beach
Blue haired women
Making cautious right hand turns
In big, slow cars

I laughed quietly
To hear over-loud geezers
Reminiscing at the bar
About when this land was great.

I smiled with patronizing indulgence
At paunchy men, arms wrapped lovingly
Around silver haired wives
Dancing to the music of their long ago youth,
Played by other paunchy guys
With comb-overs
Who still had that swing.

How did I
Walk into this place,
Sandals over my socks
To hear old guys
Playing Nitty Gritty Dirt Band and Eagles songs
To sit reminiscing
About the glories of our flights to the moon
Back in the day
Over two dollar drafts and
Half-price peel-and-eat shrimp

Packing

Packing

What should I take on this short journey?
Clothing for warm weather,
Swim suit, sandals
A book or two,
Whatever I can't find,
Or don't wish to buy along the way

Taking all that I need
In one small bag,
Wondering
Why I require so much more at home
Than when traveling

More clothes than I will ever need,
Even in this four season climate
More amusements,
Unused yarn, books, music
More food, Furniture
And time saving devices

What if I were leaving for good?
Had to take all that I would need
Forever?

I like to think
I could travel a longer road
With fewer things,
Moving lightly,
Looking out at the world,
People and places,
Not peering inward
To the stuff that clutters
My time and thought

Ruck sack of food and clothing,
Sturdy shoes,
Fiddle slung somewhere near the bed roll

Stopping to chat with the
Old man at his gate
Play a tune for dancing children
In a spring meadow
Noticing the tender subtleties in newly green hillsides

Then moving on
Carrying everything on my back,
Easy stride, covering slow, observant miles,
All the while, still having the breath
To sing.

Half Tasking

My friend Alan introduced me to the term "half tasking" once when a phone call and a dropped casserole converged.  This morning my friend Ron said "you can't save time.  You only spend it."
Thanks guys.

Half Tasking

He had always
Saved time,
Doing two, sometimes three things
At once.

He believed
If he did this with small things,
Cleaning,
cooking, sorting mail,
He could spend those hoarded moments
For contemplation, entertainment,
Love,

So he cooked dinner
While paying bills,
And when the phone rang,
He didn't hesitate.
After all,
Even a novice juggler
Can keep three balls in the air.

His girlfriend had not had a good day,
He listened sympathetically,
Stirring sizzling potatoes,
Murmuring condolences as he
Tallied the entries
In his check book

When the numbers didn't add up,
He must have missed something.
How long
Had she been waiting
For his response?

He began his apology
As he pulled the burning potatoes
From the stove,
But the smoke alarm
Swept his words away

By the time he
Stood on a chair,
Covered the alarm with a plastic bag,
And, in the deep, sudden silence, 
Picked up the phone to apologize
She was gone.

Oxymoron

Oxymoron

In the midst of the
Heady, philosophic 
Conversation
She said
"He is cosmically Grounded"

The phrase caught us all by surprise.
First, the humorous
Oxymoron,

Then
The vivid image,
As we each saw him.
Sturdy, battered work boots
Planted firmly
On nothing
Compact form in jeans and
Plaid shirt,
Pleasant, smiling face,
Brown hair, graying beard,
Against a backdrop of black space, and
Infinite stars.

Like what's his name,
Standing in space
With his lever,
Moving the world.

　

Struck

Struck

I was struck by an idea this morning.
Not like being hit by a baseball  bat,
Like the one that nailed me yesterday
Thank god!
That one laid me up for the day,
Trying to think it through
Make sense of it.

This one was like the gentle,
Swift blow i remember
From a childhood game
Of  "duck, duck, goose"

Still, I wanted to get up
And chase it around.
Catch it
Before it sat down
And left me
Unanswered
Unresolved.

Such blows to the mind
From the light slap,
The gentle nudge,
To the open ended smack of a
Bold new  concept
Demand attention

Otherwise
I cease to feel them at all
Even when they bear down on me
Horn blaring
Tires squealing
And I
Have no where to go
At all
No resilience
And am squashed flat
By a speeding,
Negligent
Idea.

The Burrito of My Hopes and Wishes

The Burrito of my Hopes and Wishes

My horoscope said
Today would be
The burrito of my hopes and wishes.

The warm, soft, lightly browned tortilla,
Filled to bursting
With everything I've ever wanted,
Or will want.

Pulled pork, substantial as wealth,
A little messy, but life is like that.
Green picante, and a dash of habanero,
Bold and interesting,
Painful now and then, you know how peppers are,
Cheese, melting and bubbly,
Holding it all together,
Security and flavor combined.

Lettuce and tomatoes
Giving the semblance of health at least
And luscious guacamole,
Sour cream, more salsa, olives,
For those hopes and wishes
I haven't even thought of
Yet.

Parable of the Wooden Duck

The Parable of the Wooden Duck.

Teetering on the edge
Of the whirlpool
They are playing a game
Three year old children  testing the adults
"Look how close to the edge
We can play!"

I too am on that edge
Not by choice,
A wooden duck
With wheels, whose
String is tied loosely
Around a fat wrist.

The children call to one another
High pitched cries of excitement
Joy in rebellion,
Loud,
To carry over the deafening waters,

"Look how close I am!
"See me hop on one foot
"I'm not scared
"You can't make me

They dance,
Sure that they can not fall,
They
have this safety line
Attached to a
Reliable old wooden duck

And I
Wonder when
All of us will
Fall into the punishing waters
Because I know
That I am a duck on wheels
With no traction
Or power to
Pull us to safety

Nor can I quack caution
Over their shrill
Voices
Or the roar of water
Crashing on rock
I am made of wood, for Gods sake!

Reason
Has no place here,
Only
A dance
On the edge of destruction
And a wooden duck,
Wishing
That the god damned string
Would break

Transformation

Transformation.

I remember when I was a frog,
How could I forget my big bulging eyes,
Long red fly-catching tongue
Turned out in an elegant green suit
With a spotless, white front.
Hopping from door to door
On black swim fins.

Through some incantation,
Almost year and a day later,
Poetic as a Celtic folk tale,
I was magicked into a princess.
Clad in gorgeous gold silk
And crown, of course.
Walking regally through the village.

Each year,
Amid a haunting of ghosts, warriors
Even a Superman or two.
I would make the progress,
Showing off some transfomation or other.

Once or twice, it snowed.
Always bare branches creaked overhead
Like bones.
I don't ever remember clear twilight or star lit sky
And it got dark earlier
In our princess/ghost/frog days,

As we went from door to door.
We knew everyone along the way,
As they had known us,
Forever.
But they pretended
to be surprised,
And gratifyingly
Impressed.

Mrs. Stuart made popcorn balls
Mrs Hatch dipped tooth cracking candied apples,
And the Lockes, Farrs,
Hartigans, Hardys, and Davises
And even old,
Scary Mr Hare,
Dropped candy into our bags
And pennies into UNICEF boxes.

Our high voices called to one another
In child greed
At the Root Beer Barrels,
Milky Ways,
Grasshoppers
and
Red Hots,

Anxiety came only
From poorly placed eye holes, 
Or
The smothered adult laughter
at our early attempts
To become something
Other than we were.

Everything Will Be All Right

Everything Will Be All Right

First
It was the tooth
Cracked beyond repair
Sudden shot of pain
Quelled by drugs,
Not
A good sign.

 Then
Squirrels, tap dancing
In the attic
Rearranging insulation
To their liking
Contemplating a snack on the wiring
Preparing to raise a family

Then the roof,
Dripping water through its riddled
Weather tortured surface
To dampen water colors
And books
Stealthily
Relying on denial
To avoid detection.

 The furnace came next
With a series of feints,
Playing dead,
Limping
Leaking
Unsure of whether
To live or die

And today
The computer
Presenting its grey
Enigmatic
Blank screen
No other color or sign
Of life

My horoscope today
reads cheerfully
Everything
Will be all right

Today the tooth comes out
The plumber has begun
His magic
In the cellar
And I think
The exterminator is due
To evict the squirrels

The roof
Was tidied up last week

And perhaps
The next time I turn on the computer
There  will be  a reassuring glow,
 Followed by messages of
Harmony, plenty, justice and
World peace
On the radiant
Screen.

Barnard Mountain

Barnard Mountain

　
The road up Barnard Mountain
Had just been paved
And as we saw it,
The steep winding ascent
Owed us

　
We had conquered the summit
Young legs straining,
Lungs burning,
Refusing to get off and walk,
Front wheels
Weaving and wobbling with the climb.

　
How could we deny
That smooth black pavement,
Still breathing the horse sweat
Scent of new asphalt.
Yellow racing stripes down the center line

　
Only headlong descent
Could cool us,
And balance 
Our labor

　
Looking back, I know,
Only one stick,
Or pebble,
And we would have flown
Disastrously
Adults had been telling us such things
For years,
　

But there were no wise grown ups here
Only Immortal,
Invincible youth
At the top of the hill,
Handlebars,
Pointing front tires down the curving descent,
Letting the ancient discovery
Of the wheel have it's way.  
　

Arcing gracefully like birds,
Faster
And faster,
Shouting and singing,
Joy and terror.

　
At the bottom,
We needed the full strength of our brakes
And the long flats
To come to rest safely

　
Spent,
Pedaling toward home,
And the staid future
We were
Paid in full for the climb

The Gift

Gifts

The day began
With a gift
Secretly given
So accurate
That I was sure I knew
The giver

Poems
By a favorite writer
Hard bound,
New, and signed
Still in the bookstore bag,
tucked in the mail box between dusk
And cold, early morning
Aimed straight
At a new, bright
Love

In the course of the day
I asked
Working my way
Through the suspects
Queries
Leading nowhere

Other loves swept me
From the search
Music,
 dancers,
friends
So the mystery remained
Unresolved

Finally I recognized
The great gift

In seeking,
I had to walk
among all of the friendships
old, new,
generous and wise
Traveling in a short time
Among the kindness
That has grown around me
While I was
Struggling
And making it all
So complicated

Done with Summer

Shivering, without a coat
Just stepping onto the porch
For a moment,
 I test the bitter October air

Face and hands, exposed
Are the first to fall
But turtleneck and jeans
Put up only the slightest resistance
to the goose bump breeze.

Stoic, at first,
I stand on the porch
Thinking to adjust
To this chill-down world

The sky holds snow,
 No flakes yet,
But soon. . . .

The yard is  littered
with curled brown leaves
 Bright globes  of apples,
Worm eaten below the sheltering grass
Go to waste
 I am done with pies, and sauce

I lost interest in the flower beds
Back in the monsoon that was July,
Now gray, gold and rust stalks,
Dried blooms,
Seed pods of flowers and weeds, entangled,
Rattle
In the mean spirited breeze

My house mate's cat
Stalks across the yard,
Disdainful tail.
Straight but for the half inch
Quirk of annoyance,
Arched back, as if to put as much distance
Between white belly and cold earth
As possible.
 Offended yowl,
Wishing his people
Had never left the warmth
Of South Carolina
Wanting to be in and warm
And to hell with stoicism!

Together
We turn from
The cold, neglected yard
I open the door
And the cat and I
Enter the cocoon of the house
Where we will wait
For warmth,
And the rebirth of spring

The Grocery List

The Grocery List

If you are going to the store,
Yes,
I do need
A few things.

Popcorn, onions,
Bread, health care,
For all,
The generic is fine.
A half gallon of
Milk, whole, not 2 %

Coffee
A new roof.
These are urgent, by the way.
As is cat food,
Canned salmon Friskies
Or he won't eat it.

AA batteries,
Fresh tomatoes,
Hand soap,
True Love
I don't care about looks,
Has to be smart,
And know how to laugh
Or it just won't work.
The serious stuff tends to fall apart around here.
Garlic,
Olive oil

Chocolate, unsweetened for baking,
And
If you can find it,
A little good government. 
But
Neither of these have been in stock lately.

Payment?
Here's my grocery money
For this week,
And did you need my eye teeth
Ouch!
My first born son? Sorry,
I haven't one.
My right arm? 
Here you go.

That
Should be
All

Abby and the Goddess

For my sister's dog, Abby who died this fall.  She was quite a girl, and we'll miss her, even though the gum and Kleenex are now safe.

 

Abby and the Goddess

 

That girl always had attitude
A real bitch she was
Burrowing and growling under the covers
Of my nephew's forbidden bed,
Preferring the food of other dogs
To her own
Always.

Vengeful,
 Home alone.
She would feed her resentment
On Kleenex
Or gum from the Goddess's
Belongings.

Drama queen,
She used every muscle
Ears
 Springing, folding and drooping,
To the rattle of food in the dish,
The voice of the Goddess
The sound of Her car

Rat tail
Blurring with excitement
Or low and tight with remorse,
After being caught

On the living room couch

Brown, muscled body
Quivering
On dancing,
Claw tap toes
Squirting out the door
After a neighborhood cat.

And she loved the goddess
In her passionate
Worshipful way

Dancing
Her most joyful rattling footwork
For She who gave food,
Love,
judgment

Singing her most prayerful songs
For the one who opened doors
And called
When it was time to come home

And burying nose,
And body when permitted
In the lap
Where love and comfort
Flowed
In both directions,
As it was needed.

Playing with Fire

Playing with Fire

A thousand match heads
In a pipe,
A neat idea
For boys
On the cusp of puberty,

Looking for
Excitement
Rebellion,
A shaking loose of the
Same old
Same old.

Toying with fire,
The hottest element of all.
Combining loud, bright, fear, and lawlessness.
Hotter even,
Than the sex
They dreamed about.

They headed for the park
Laughing,
Talking loud and big,
Anticipating
The thrill of loud noise
And
Startled bystanders.

But in the back seat
Of the old car.
Jostling all of those bits of sulfur
On his lap
Between two admiring friends,
Friction, spark,
Before the planned moment of surprise,
And the game was up.

We shake our heads
in disbelief
How could they be so foolish,

Yet we do it all the time,
Casually,
Boastfully even,
With fast cars,
High finance,
Extramarital affairs
And atomic bombs.

Giddy
With challenge and risk
Arrogant
Sure of our own skill
And judgment.

Thinking that we need
That extra
Juice of power and adrenalin
Right up to the moment
Of the premature
Blast.

　

River Mirror Time

River Mirror Time

Winter river,
Light, reflects off
Almost-frozen water,
Blue grey, sluggish channel
Framed by snow.
The mirror clouded,
The future uncertain.

Along the bank,
Red brier tangles
Above snow,
Above water.
Golden grasses,
Dried, to light lifelessness,
Blow in the wind
That knifes down valley.

Spring river
Shallow margins reflect
The spectrum
Of new green
Tight, rusty green buds not yet uncurled. 
Briers sprouting gold/green leaves
Blue green grasses,
Bent with spring rain and new life,
And only the barest ripples
Of wind on water
Separate river blue
From blue sky.

Time passes along
The river, in motion
Changing
From dormant ice
To living green
And back to ice

Standing on the bank,
I watch the river. 
I too am in motion,
Changing,
With the passage of seasons
I too am reflected
In the
River,
Mirror,
Time

Why I Have Never Trusted Math

Why I Have Never Trusted Math

　
Perhaps it began
When I was small,
In the days of the spirit copier
lavender numbers on a math work sheet
Faint at best,
Made fainter still by thrift

　
Pale ghosts of sixes
Could fade
To fives under my straining eyes,
Changing the outcome
Of a third grade math problem
Dramatically

　
Even in junior high,
With crisply printed text books
Decimal points
Winked in and out
With the slightest shift in the angle of light
On the white page.
　

By the time I reached algebra,
I had no faith
In the figures on the blackboard
Calculations changing
Chameleon like
With the disappearance, or magical insertion of
A small punctuation mark
An eight, deflecting fluorescent light
From its right hand curves could
So easily become a three.
　

And in chemistry,
The delicate line on a slide rule
Wiggling ever so slightly
Transforming my calculations
Into errors,
Careless work,
Failing grades.

　
Even now, I comprehend,
But mistrust
The principles of percentages
And averages

　
These days
It seems a fine mistrust,
Worth cultivating even

　
When
Bankers
Can not explain
How the subtraction
Happened,
Where billions of dollars
Of other people's money went

　
How can I possibly believe the math
Of politicians
Who insist
That the wealthy suffer unbearably
Under a modest tax increase,
Yet the child going to bed hungry
Has lost nothing
With the subtraction of Food Stamps.

　
And must I really believe
Advertisers
When they tell me
How out of step I am
By being in the minority
Failing
To own a television
Smart phone
Or gun

Small Town Education

Growing up in a small town
We learn
 Everything
About our neighbors.

It begins on the first day of school.
Sitting in little desks, learning
How to spell cat,
Add two and two, and
Who wears hand me downs
What is packed in lunch boxes,
Who
 Has head lice
Or wets their pants

We see each other at  all of the one-shot
Necessities  in town
Gas station
Grocery store, pharmacy,
Town dump

Early on, we understand the meaning
Of the make and age of a car,
Contents of a grocery cart
Or
Bottles discarded
Or furniture or toys
Scavenged from
Saturday morning
Trash.

By the time we pick teams
For field hockey
Or lean against the bleachers
Trying to act sexy and casual
At junior high dances
We know who
Is who.

There is a progression
From seeing,
To reading meaning
Into the details,
To the all-important decision
Of what to do with the knowledge.

Here where there are less than
Four thousand of us
Selling gas and groceries,
Cutting hair, cleaning houses,
Cooking at the diner,
Fixing each other's broken stuff,
We need one another
Too much
To isolate ourselves in
 Embarrassment or judgment

Gated communities
Only work
Where you didn't go through acne, school lunch
Bus rides to ball games
And crushes on the same girl
With the cleaning crew
And guard

We know our neighbors'
Food and drink
Love and fear
Only as well as they know our own

And are too exposed
To throw mud
Unless we are willing
To get showered equally in wet
Common
Earth

When Faith and Memory Are Not Enough

When Faith and Memory Are Not Enough

"I miss him."
he said
Simple, undecorated grief
Stripped of brave
rationalization,
Tears shining in starlight.

No help
from the faith
of reunion
beyond.

Here and now
He is gone,
Beyond touch,
sight,
or even
the electronic pathways
we have laid
to cover vast distances.

Nor is memory
of any real help.
yet.

Later,
perhaps it will stretch
a bridge
to a smile.
echo of a joke,
a shared misadventure
a bear hug
The footing
back along those shared paths
made comfortable with time.

But now
Those images
are not strong enough
Nor can they reach across
the chasm
Stepping out on them
is treacherous
and will be
for a time

Now he must
allow
the simple grief
Tears under stars.
Missing the solid
real
Flesh
and blood.

Whirlwind

Whirlwind.

In my walk
From kitchen to bedroom
and back,
The landscape changed. 
The apples,
deep red in the tree outside the window,
The golden, russet and orange
of back yard leaves
Disappeared
in rain and whirlwind.

The crazed water/air hurled itself
across the valley,
Wrenching leaves and apples
from trees,
Driving everything, headlong
against the house,
A viking berserker,
Bruised air,
Bleeding rain,
Heedless,
Pillaging the gold and rubies
of autumn.

This morning,
in the calm air,
Bare branches cling
to a few scraps of gold
like refugees, holding
shreds of past lives,
A torn robe, 
A photograph.

Beneath the trees,
the mud is slippery
with leaves,
Color pounded out of them,
Taken by force.
No golden rustling carpet
Laid gently down
by a loving breeze.
Not this time.

　

The Fall of the Empire

What does the fall of an empire look like?  Heck of a thing to think about while washing dishes, but here you have it. 

The Fall of the Empire

　

"We should have seen it coming
I suppose"
He said, leaning on his shovel.
His weary eyes looked out
From a face
lined with recent, sudden sorrow.
　

The hands on rough wood
were nicked and bruised,
Silvered with the scar tissue
of recently healed blisters.
Desk job hands
forced to harsher labor.

　
Wiping sweat from his brow
with what had once been a fine linen handkerchief, 
his words falling,
Crisp edged consonants,
Grammar unthinking, unerring

　
"we flew so high,
Well fed, well educated,
Well married,
Isolated by our walls
and our laws

　
"We saw no need to educate
or care for the poor.
We had earned our wealth
And wished to keep it

"Then there were the foreign wars.
Paid for by the taxes and sons
of the poor, and those of us in the middle,
petty bureaucrats, shop keepers,
Accountants like myself.
The truly wealthy guarded their own
With bribes,
And laws, bought and sold.
　

"Somehow,
although we saw it happening,
and were ourselves beginning to fray around the edges,
we couldn't stop
clinging to our superiority,
keeping up appearances
at all costs.

　
"All the while,
the ranks of the desperate ones
quietly swelled
Land, sons, hope all gone,
Sick, poor
Taught no logic or civil discourse,
they cursed us
in graceless, blunt rage
Were bridled now and again
for some wealthy robber baron's cynical use,
Hatred and lies used
to turn the beast like a bit and spurs.

　
"As they watched us
through the iron lace work of our gates,
Squandering wealth
on foods and amusements
they could never hope to enjoy
How could they fail to take the bit
between their teeth,
Crossing the frozen river to lay waste
to our wealth, art and learning
in that evil winter in the year of our lord,
four hundred and six/

Fall Color

Fall Color

October morning
in my small town,
I walk to the drug store
passing brick facades
and the grey bulk of city hall.

Even on this sunny day,
the trees on the hillside are
deep muted bronze,
Not the flamboyant colors
Chinese dragon golds and reds
I crave.

Under fluorescent lights,
along aisles of mundane
necessities,
I pick up a few items,
pay at the register
where the cashier and I
wish each other a bland "nice day."

Just as I open the door out
to Main Street,
He/she is there,
Pink feather boa
Black and pink hat frothy with fabric
or more feathers? 
I am not sure,
as I am unsure of his/her gender
And a black sheath of a dress,
satin or some other
sleek fabric.

Our encounter is too brief for details,
or conversation
But I smile
Glad of the vibrant, whimsical
Fall color.

　

　

Where did the Sun go?

Where did the Sun Go?
It was here a minute ago.
I knew right where
to lay my hands on it's warmth
pouring in through the window.

But now it's gone,
mislaid while I attended indoor tasks,
Not even noticing when bright gold was
buried in the fog of an autumn morning.

And now,
None of my scrabbling around
out under the billowing mist
will help. 

If only I could recall,
as October tips
into November,
How fleeting that warm gold is,
Slanting champagne light on
a late autumn afternoon

While I
lose myself on needless
indoor tasks
that could easily wait
for rain and midwinter dark.
Squandering
All of that living gold.

Natural Selection

Every fall
We would hear them
Down in the lower field
Hurling sheep insults at one another
I only watched what followed
All of that bellowing
Once
I had to see to believe.
Two rams at 50 paces
Launching into the bobbing run of sheep
Colliding at full speed, head on
With a crack!
Then reeling apart
To do it
Again.

After that, I didn't need
Or want
To look
But every autumn
I could hear the boasting,
And the colliding heads,
like the crack of the bat,
Even in the garden
On the far side of the house.

Now as I watch
Persistent, painful, fruitless
conflicts play out
Old, head cracking patterns between
Spouses, politicians, countries,
That crack reverberates
In my mind
And I am reminded of natural selection
Among sheep

Unnatural Consequences

As the congressman looked down
each morning,
He saw his belly
inching out over the tips
of his polished dress shoes.
No workout at the gym changed things

　
It had worked
when he first came to Washington.

Then the fat had been easy to put on,
luncheons, dinners,
drinks
with colleagues
and of course lobbyists.

The gym had helped then
And he had learned
to pace himself,
Taking more cash
than meals
and insisting on only the best when he ate and drank,
Quality, not quantity.

　
But now his belly was constantly growing
and firm,
Despite the workouts
Even eating less did nothing.
God knows
food wasn't appealing these days
Not even the delicacies

But even
When he felt the first fluttering kick
He didn't understand

His high priced doctor did though
After all
It was only a matter of time
The Congressman had sold himself
so often
to so many

Paternity would be complicated
Big oil,
Pharmaceuticals
Monsanto
Investment banking,
The gun lobby?
Which one among many
could it be?

They would probably know
When the baby arrived
By what it required
Money wasn't much of a clue.
Of course
They all screamed for that.

Drug use was common
among the pharmaceutical children
And the fossil fuel kids
all had terrible flatulence
And the Genetically modified kids
had identity issues
Neither fish nor fowl
and the gun kids are never, ever
satisfied with toys. 
Best to keep the guns locked up
until you know.

No there was no chance of ending the pregnancy
That ended
With last year's vote
But you never could see
why choice mattered.
Until now.

Blueberries

Blueberries


 
















The color,
Just that summer-luscious
Ripe, sky blue
Made me reach out,
expecting to pluck
sweet, round fruit.

But my hands
met cool, thin leaves,
And when their angle changed,
under the brush of my finger tips,
I interrupted that blue,
summer dream.

Red leaves,
Already touched by frost
Sharing memories
With the
Vivid, September sky.

Asking the Unanswerable

Tears burn to hear
Of a girl,  not yet a woman,
Keeping an infant still
so he will not be shot,
Because they were killing babies too.

To hear the words
of a poet*
who poured out his life
so beautifully
in verse,
so hideously in blood.

I tremble
at the random acts,
Innocents, terrified,
wounded,
slaughtered
By the hot, thoughtless
fire of jihad.

I ask the unanswerable questions.
What God wishes such offerings?
Prefers blood to poetry,
Dead children
to live ones, running, laughing?
Murderous piety
to frivolous, loving
abundance?

What God,
And in what horrific world
would that God
earn such passionate, violent,
grim,
obedience?
What world?
What God

*Kofi Awoonor

Mistaken Identity

About ten years ago, these incidents actually happened.  No one died, but it was a near thing.

Mistaken Identity

"No, I am not his mother!"
I said
As the woman pointed, insisting
that my son was on the beach
Just there

It was her third declaration
Followed by my third denial
although
No cock would crow.
on this late summer afternoon
Because I didn't deny truth
as Peter had

As my husband walked under the trees along the shore
I looked at his ageless face
and wondered what changes
had made my own seem so old.

This had happened before,
Just weeks before
A customer buying dinner,
But he was
more easily convinced
and embarrassed.
once he heard my terse denial

Today, under bright sun
I could not convince
this strong-willed
tactless woman
Never truly brought to believe
that I knew spouse from son

Anger and laughter
ran side by side
Until laughter won,
For the moment

But with only four years difference
even with black hair
no silver thread at all
And unlined face,

How could I look so alike,
to be his blood kin,
yet so much older
How did they see such resemblance,
yet such difference.
as if I had been
transformed, chameleon-like
to accommodate him
And given up my youth and self
to make the change

Wishful Thinking

Wishful thinking

My thoughts are full
of wishes this morning

Not all of them
Large, or unlikely


I wish
the September sun would warm
enough for my fingers to
play tunes at the farmers market
That the $85.
I think I may still be owed
would come in
before the
micro burst of dental bills

I wish fervently, with a little desperation even
That the young tenants will be able
and willing
to keep paying rent


I visit the
ever present wish
close to my heart,
for requited love
maybe today . . .

And upon hearing the morning news
Send out a fierce wish,
closer to a curse
For a dose of justice to the
Self satisfied powerful who
Could do with a year or two of poverty
For a revelation among
Industrialists
Perhaps as they stand in flooded homes
Or on some private, oil ravaged beach
that maybe the planet is more important than
profit

As I wish,
dreaming,
drinking coffee,
Thanks be, I circle back
To smaller wishes
For sun on a day
when it is promised
For good food
and music
Which I can make with
only the tiniest
divine intervention

Advice is Not Confirmation

There are times when the answer you get doesn't go with the question you asked.  

Advice is not Confirmation.

"An I on the right path?"
I ask two travelers,
who look
to have passed this way before.
Their boots sturdy and worn,
their packs, tidy
and spare on straight, lean backs.

They answer with suggestions
For my hike,
detailed and kindly meant
And I listen
and nod patiently

Yes,
That shelter sounds most excellent,
And I will be sure to carry water
on that section of trail,
I know it's been dry.
And I'll look for that splendid view point
you mentioned.

My patience thins
as they add more advice.

Of course
I do have flashlight,
sleeping bag and good socks,
And yes, the first aid kit as well,
for emergencies

But all I really asked
Was for reassurance.
That the splash of paint on that rock
does mark the trail,
That the star, glimpsed through passing clouds
is the true one,
Confirmation that I am not
altogether lost.

　

　

Changing Season

Changing Season

Apples litter the side yard
and the nearby street
scenting the neighborhood when
Pressed under the wheels of
passing cars.

Trees on the nearby hillside
lose their deep green,
fading at first,
then brightening to gold
under heavy bellied rain clouds

The nights lengthen,
And under clear stars touched with frost
I bring plants in from the porch
to clutter the hallway.

And in the late dawn,
the furnace makes its
first, rumbling entry,
Filling the house with the faint scent
of fuel, hot metal
and disturbed mold and must,

The cat chases mice
who know what is coming
and take risks
Seeking perilous shelter
from the oncoming cold.
migrating indoors,

Even as thin ragged Vees of geese
cry and fly
following the river.
east and south.
in their greater migration.

It always used to feel too early,
The dying of green,
The coming of cold.
The early stars
and late sunrises. 
And the great and small migrations.

I don't take the changes
as I used to though.

When the hills are bare,
but for the dark spruce
and lingering ragged bits of gold
and rust,
I find I love the resting,
fallow time,

I have license to slow down,
to dream,
sit still with the cat,
or a book or poem,

To walk slowly under dripping trees,
Taking the time to see
the colors
that once only looked brown,
To name the lavenders, reds, rusts, sage and deep greens,
and know
How much I have missed
in my
hasty
grumpy,
impatience with,
subtlety and change.

When We Become the Clan Elders

When We Become the Clan Elders

　

When we become the clan elders
Sitting in rocking chairs
Shelling speckled beans
For the winter stews,

　
When the young ones
Weary of their chasing, climbing
and hiding games
Gather, lulled by the gentle rustle of empty husks
and thud of polished
beans in the bowl

　
They will sit, wide eyed,
and ask us about
The time
before

　
Back when snow lay thick in winter
and a bucket of water
left out over night
would be made into a
thick walled cylinder of ice
that would hold a candle for weeks
of winter darkness

　
Back when the summer rains were gentle
and only rarely tore plants,
and never trees, from the ground
in their violence
And there was equal measure of sun and rain
during the three months
which they now know for 
the constant drumming of monsoon rain

　
Back when the big coastal cities
Thrived,
Full of people, commerce and art
Yet un-drowned.

　
Some wise child
will always ask
When?
When did you know the Change was coming?

　
And we ponder,
as our hands pop bean pods
and slide hard, speckled pellets into the waiting bowl

　
Was it the year the temperature soared
to summer heat
during the spring lambing,
The year of the two big floods?
The first of the hurricanes to drown lower Manhattan?
The summer the fields around the cabin were ankle deep in water?

　
We hesitate before answering,
In part
because we are unsure of when
the warning signs were too clear to ignore,
but mostly because we know that
the next question will be
The one we can not answer.

　
Why?
Why didn't you do something,
When you knew?
When there was still time?


　

　

Frost Warning

Frost warning.

Last night
I brought the tender plants in,
Standing on the porch,hefting terracotta pots
in a quick, chilly triage,
Rosemary,
for lamb roasts in winter,
Jasmine
for the hope of one more sweet scented profusion of white, 
And aloe.
for it's thick spikes, full of healing salve
on my careless cook's hands.

The impatiens
I left in the ground
rooted, immovable,
Too fragile to cover,
cheerful blooms fated to die
soon or late
no matter what.

The air was crisp
as I balanced pots
and opened the door
into warmth and shelter
and bid goodbye to
the gleaming blooms
across the way.

This morning, the impatiens
still bloomed,
succulent leaves, still green.
I gave a silent thank you
and apology
for the choice I had made,
and for the weeds,
looming on all sides.

We give the tender ones
more care when we can,
the hot house plant
the tomatoes even

Until they are too difficult
to protect or save.
or the return
is too small
given the effort of nurture.

Thyme, mint
and asters
will thrive without such help

The Brussels sprouts will
demand the cold,
frost touched green globes
on their stalks,
And some of the apples,
which in spring
sent forth tender blossoms
perilously close to the last frost,
will only ripen to sweetness
after they have felt
the sharp, crisp cold
on taut, blushing skins.

When is there a need?
When is it deserved?
when is it unwanted?

I am glad that I
am only a minor goddess
of a porch garden,
and a small patch
of neglected flowers.

Such decisions on a larger scale,
a family garden, even
let alone a child,
or planet,
would leave me
standing on the porch
in the cold,
weighing the aloe pot in my hand.

　

　

The Spider's Web

I am amazed at the small beauties in nature, even along a sidewalk on my way home from town.  I just have to keep looking.

The Spider's Web

The spider's web hung on the deep green needles
of the hedge,
Beaded with dew,
a delicate mesh, fine as cheese cloth.
A silver weaving made overnight
for some spider's harvest,
A beautiful snare.

Why so regular, neat,
spiraling out precisely?
Does the spider know how exact
her engineering?
The threads, working outward,
each rectangle in a circle, matching it's mate,
Each circle, just enough wider to accommodate
the growing radius.

Does she
view the neat lines
the dew drops, turning her work to silver
there,
just where she thought they would
with a sculptor's critical eye

I look at her work
with my amateur artist's eye,
and can not believe
that her only goal
is the death of a blundering gnat
or hapless fly.
as she builds so precisely
on a night
when the dew will work magic
on her fine,
gossamer weaving.

The Toothache

The Toothache

The ache came in waves,
Startlingly strong
with nothing to stop it
but time.

The relief when it passed,
a brief wash of peace and pleasure,
intense,
almost soporific,
A warm blanket,
A soft resting place.

Then a settling back
to where pain was forgotten
and life went on.
Only a faint wariness
of the next twinge
Certain to arrive
Sharp and sudden.

How like loss,
that quick, acid wash of grief
A death
A lost love
lime juice finding the cut,
bringing sudden tears,
before fading into daily routine.

Then
Catching the breath
Surprising,
not in it's presence,
but in its capricious,
painful coming
and going and
coming
again.

Entropy of Harvest

 

Today I went to my brother's farm to harvest, process and freeze corn, a process that took me from early morning until late afternoon.  Amazing what you think up when you are handling upwards of 200 ears of corn. 

Entropy. Of harvest

The tall stalks and broad, deep green leaves
 were wet with last night's rain
 as I made my way,
 rustling down
 the dim fecund aisle
Plants taller than my head
 thrusting out fat, full
 ripe ears
 for the picking

My bag grew heavy as I ripped
 full-eared corn from stalk,
Then made my way to the cart,
Bounty tumbling pale green leaves,
 tipped with silk turning from blond
 to russet, ripe.

 Later, I  reached for ear after ear
Pulling husk from cob
Building neat stacks of butter yellow ears,
 with even, sweet kernels
And carelessly discarding husks,
In a haphazard pile
Untidy as the boudoir
Of some beauty who will only
 wear all of the shades of summer green,
And can not decide
without tumbling the contents of her closet
 on floor and bed,

Later still,
I drop ears in boiling water.
 where they darken a little
 to the yellow of spring daffodils
And soften a little,
 ready for the severing knife
 cutting cob from kernel

Tens of  thousands of kernels
in neat bags for winter eating,
Thousands of husks
for the goats
 Hundreds of empty cobs
 Scattered for the chickens
All
returning to the earth
one day.

Heat Lightning

Heat Lightning

Lightning floods the towering thunderheads,
Cloud bursting
lavender through translucent vapor,
then brilliant
camera flash of un-obscured light,
Leaving spots before our eyes.

Is it a friction of ice and water?
unstable energy, electrons, ions?
We are unsure,
and guess at the science
between bolts.

They come in an instant,
spreading color
and uneven light, dull to brilliant,
from the eastern ridge
to the southwestern tree line,
All in the blink of our
startled, mystified eyes,
Leaving us
in star edged darkness.

There is no thunder,
The entire show is
Miles high
Counties away,
Too far from where we sit in the warm night air,
for even a faint rumble to reach us.

The evening is still,
but for loud, late summer crickets
and our lazy, quiet conversation,
Wondering.
"What makes the lightning?
"Why can't we hear it tonight?"
"Will the storm come?"
"Has that lightning hit the ground somewhere?"

Our questions stray from the clouds,
even as we continue to gaze
at the wonder of light.
"How can they deny global warming? "
"Did that marriage last only four months?"
"Are bears getting more aggressive?"
"Will the corn be eaten by raccoons?"

We can't know,
what causes
the violence of the storms,
of polarizing positions,
passions,
aggressions, or theft.

And our asking voices,
rise and are lost
before they reach
the high, lightning-brilliant
clouds,
or
anyone who can hear
and answer.

　

The Relativity of Conscience

The Relativity of Conscience

Sometimes
I wake in the middle of the night
The day's concerns
elbowing in
Too forceful to allow
sleep

Perhaps this happens
because there is no room 
in the daytime world
To slow down the action,
Re-work the outcome,
Say what I really want
or mean to say,

But here in the long
empty hours
Without tasks or distractions,
Only the sleeping cat at my feet
I can replay
The bills I haven't paid,
The meeting I was supposed to arrange, but haven't
The stupid argument with my neighbor,
The hurtful comment I let slip,
The visit I didn't make to a grieving friend,

Only in that dark, dream border
Can I sometimes,
put things right,
Though not always.

If I am truly fortunate,
I find the words, or
Decide on the path
that can bring me to resolution
in the light of day.
Then, I can fall unresisting,
down into deep,
unthinking
slumber.

Sometimes I can only
Change the replay in my mind.
In a waking dream, imagining
the might have been,
letting it carry me to
uneasy slumber,

I wonder
How do the men
Who caused financial ruin among thousands of families
through accounting games.
Who took the bribe for the
shoddy building that collapsed on school children,
Ordered the bombing of a residential neighborhood,
get back to sleep at night?

Do they build painstaking,
waking dreams of a better world?
or do they simply
Sleep untroubled
through someone else's shattered
night?

Waiting to Dance

Did any of us
Ever
go to a dance in junior high
and feel popular,
or sexy?

Who were
Those beautiful, girls
Who knew
how to put on make up,
had long, shining hair
and needed to wear a bra.

Were there really
gorgeous boys?
Tall,
or at least taller than the girls,
Athletic. Curly haired?
And which of them could rely on
a strong, deep voice that didn't crack
Just as he asked her to dance?

And who among us
Did not have pimples and anxiety?
Did have members of the opposite sex
Swarming around us like bees
In the apple orchard in May?

Ask any of us,
Honest now that those years are far behind,
And we will shake our heads.

"I was a fat, little boy.". He recalls
"the girls would see me, losing the race to choose partners,
And would scatter."

"I was taller than anyone else
At a dance." she said.
"my mother told me I was too tall to marry."

"I had thick, coke bottle bottom glasses" I said.
"and was called four eyes."

And all of us fell silent,
Remembering those awkward
Lonely moments
Which still
Haunt us in our late, middle age.
Still catch us,

Sitting,
Hiding, anxious,
Behind that same
polished mask
of happy self assurance
that all of us wore,

Small wonder we thought
that the others around us
were sexy, shining, and perfect
We all hid ourselves so well,

Even now,
When the music begins,
We are still convinced
that we are the only ones,
waiting
For the fat little boy with the kind smile,
the tall girl with the laughing eyes
To ask us to dance

On my 55th Birthday

On my 55th Birthday


How did years pass
in such quantity
with such stealth?

My memory
stretches behind me
like the sea shore,
The mist creeping silently
obscuring the moment
when I came out of the salt water
and began to walk along the arc.
A long narrow meeting
of packed sand and water
subject to shifting tides
and waves,

Voices mingle in the surf,
changed by the fine droplets of mist.
clear calls
from childhood out of sight,
muffled voices and creak of  oar locks
of boats that have left the shore
long ago.

The hard packed sand is littered
with stories, changed like driftwood,
honed, clean, smooth
Simplified
by the repeated waves of telling
and re-telling

Empty shells of past loves,
held to the ear
Roar their distant passion.

And millions of grains of sand,
people, places, cities, gardens
moments of kindness, warm hollows in which to rest
looking out at the sea, 
or cold, sharp grit of sorrow
and small griefs,

I walk the beach,
taking pleasure in the warm, rough sand,
the beautiful shapes of shell and wood,
the play of waves,

Now and then,
I scrape beach tar from my feet,
or spit out the sand which invades my picnic sandwich,
grating between my teeth.
Sometimes a rogue wave drenches me
from head to toe,

Mostly
I look ahead,
failing to notice the mist,
closing in behind,
and the uncannily long stretch
of sand on which I have left
tide-washed footprints.

The Tunes Between Dark and Dawn

Forest, a banjo player at last night's session told me about a player from Appalachia, one of the older fellows who explained the use of modal tunes.  It had to be a poem.

 

The Tunes Between Dark and Dawn

 

I have always loved

the modal tunes,

neither sunny, warm major,

nor cold, winter night minor,

bitter sweet, between

 

Notes climbing the scale, beginning in different places,

on the second or fifth or sixth step,

of the rough-hewn, uneven staircase of the scale.

twisting a melody

into some different pathway

to another land

A startling full step to a natural,

not the expected, predictable half.

 

The fiddler,

 taking the unexpected leap,

turning the awkward distance between notes

into something graceful,

haunting,

 

When I asked him what these tunes were for,

his face lit up with a smile.

 

"These were the tunes we played

Only 

in the hour before dawn,

between night and day.

When everything waits."

 

I picture a man

sitting in the door of a cabin,

with a candle, perhaps,

pale, tiny light among

ancient trees

and more ancient mountains.

He cradles a fiddle, wrapped carefully, like a child,

in cloth.

 

Before the day begins

of work, building, hunting, growing

crops or children, he sits

alone in candle light.

 

The cloth he unwraps tenderly

has kept away

the sullen drizzle of Scotland,

the salt water on the deck of a voyaging ship,

the damp heat of the southern mountain summer.

The wood of the fiddle, dark with generations of age,

the bow hair yellowed,

 

And then, the notes, touched by

Scotland, Africa,

and Cherokee voices

with their grace, and bitter sweet surprise

rise

to greet the morning star,

and then

the sun.

The Key

Jim helped me to figure it out.
　

Our high school janitor,
He was built like a fireplug.
Face
showing the rugged tracks
of fifty-odd years of booze
cigarettes
and casually arrogant treatment
at the hands of
high school students,
and any others who thought themselves
better educated,
dressed, or financed.

Jim liked to chat
about his days working in the toy factory
now long gone, abandoned
Complain of his back pain,
from moving desks, mopping floors,
hauling buckets,
Or comment with vigor and pith
on the rude habits of high school students,
boys and girls alike,
in bathroom use
and the odorous contents of their lockers.

　
Jim noticed who saw him
and who didn't,

There were those who demanded,
that he open the gym right now,
refill the paper towels, this instant,
Who looked
Somewhere beyond his stocky body,
Green coveralls
And mop bucket
To more important things
　

For those
Jim would make himself visible
by the simple magic of obstruction.
Surly, brief, un apologies
"No one said I could let you in."
"Have to finish this first."
"Don't have the key to the storage room on me."

But if they saw
his fatigue and hard work,
heard
his complaints and stories,
recognized
when he was busy and
needed a moment
to finish a floor
or put away a mop bucket.
Asked, even with a please,
acknowledged
with a thank you,
Jim would have the paper products,
the smile,
the key.

　
They could be trusted
to treat people
and property
right.
And for them,
Jim would open doors.

So when my date
Brusquely placed his order,
demanding rare meat,
extra vegetables, and
speed,
From the tired
smiling waitress
without the barest courtesy

Then
Turned back to me
Face transforming into a lover's smile,
Something in my heart
slipped away.
　

How could I love such a man,
to whom some people are not visible,
for whom Jim
Would not have produced the key
and opened the door.

Across the Border

Across the Border

There was an easy joy there.
across the border.

It began with the chaos of camping
along the river park,
tents and cars 
tarps, chairs, tables, filling in
like puzzle pieces to a
jigsaw tightness.
Friends calling across the hoods of cars,
hugging around tent poles
and lines,
Children slipping between.
"You know you are at a festival"
said Rob
"When you see your first naked baby
run by."

Perhaps the clothing,
that frumpy elegance
that you only find
in another country.
Leggings,
shapeless shifts
short dresses,
long shorts
Brightened with a hat,
A silk scarf,
flowers.
Anything could be worn
in combination
with anything else.
And here, across the border,
no familiar eyes,
to whom we have given the power
of judgement.
just color and comfort among strangers.

I am sure the language
had to do with it as well
For those of us from away
smiles and gestures,
and the occasional word or phrase,
sometimes remembered from school
or not.
source of laughter.
Conveying only that which was
Necessary,
Polite,
Joyful. 
All fine reasons to speak.
in any language.

And of course,
the music,
bows lift the tune 
and bring down the beat.
breath blown into flutes, through bellows
giving voice to wood and silver
chords, lightly, fiercely struck on strings
beat and melody.
Fingers flying
feet tapping out
the insistent
Da Ga DA!
We are here!
We are joy!
We are song!

　

Sunset

I went to see "20 steps from Stardom" last night.  It's a wonderful film about the great backup singers, Darlene Love, Merry Clayton, Lisa Fischer, who worked with everyone who was anyone.  After the movie, the other women in my book group and I stood on the steps of the theater chatting with friends, joking about being singers, and about needing the right outfits for the job. 
On the way home, this came to mind.

Sunset

In the blaze of sunset,
Walking home from a movie about
incandescent singers,
Darlene Love,
Merry Clayton,
Lisa Fischer.

"could have beens"
pile like thunderheads in the west.

Self pitying, I think
"I am too old."
When were poetry,
music,
art,
put away like that silk outfit
from Thailand
that no longer fits.

"I will never sing toe to toe
with Mick Jagger"

Then, as I watch,
the sun
blazes against the thunderheads,
shooting them with molten gold, with fire.

In the hours of my life's day
it is sunset.
And only myself to blame
if all I see are the might have been
clouds.

Strangers
passing on the sidewalk
hear my song 
to the molten clouds.
"the night is young!"

The Barrens

If life gives you writer's block . . .

The Barrens

In the barrens,
sometimes the spring
rises out of the rocks,
sparkles
with promise
then disappears
without a trace.

Somehow
it's worse,
that sparkle of hope,

The barren rock
at least
was honest

Now,
hearing the faint
drip of a word
I seek more words,
but the poem
stays hidden
stubborn
beneath rock.

Ear to the ground,
I almost hear it
rushing

But no,
it is only the effect
of ear to shell,
not the sea,
nor underground river,
but air,
dry
empty.

Paintings from Rain

These are two paintings from the rainy week at the cabin.  The views are to the east and west on an evening after torrential rain with a sky still threatening, and mist in the valleys.

Trampoline

The names have been changed, but the scenario is real.

A fraction of a second after my fist connected, I thought "I am in so much trouble now."

It was High school, senior year, phys ed class, and we were taking turns on the trampoline.

I was generally terrible at phys ed. I am legally blind, and as a natural consequence, was the last one chosen for teams. I had been hit in the face with volleyballs and basketballs, missed easy softball pitches and filled the lonely wing position in field hockey, running miles and never seeing the ball.

The trampoline was great. It didn't come at me at 20 miles an hour. I knew where it was, and I knew my own body, and loved the power of flight given me by the springy webbing. I could tuck and land on my back, and spring upright. I could do front flips and jack knifes, and I liked to think I did them reasonably gracefully.

The trampoline didn't bring out best behavior though. High school students are cocky, determined to be clever and to come out on top of the heap. The opportunity for taunts among the six spotters waiting, watching, and sometimes catching a fellow athlete, was too rich with possibilities. The taunts were unmerciful and widely applied.


"Nice shorts Steve!"
"Need to wash that T shirt Dennis?"
"Hey Brenda, on your back, not your butt!"
"Hard to touch your toes, ain't it George."


I was uncomfortable with the taunts. I'd been subjected to so many of them over the years: "four eyes" "Clarence the Cross Eyed Lion" "cross eyed pecker head" I knew the casual meanness hurt me, and I really didn't want to do that to someone else.

For some of the boys, in particular, nothing was sacred, even poor pregnant Jane Miller who defiantly jumped on the trampoline, well into her 5th month. The boys speculated obscenely on possible fathers or shouted; "You trying to pop that thing out on the trampoline?" Finally Jane was plucked from school and sent to the Lund Home for Unwed Mothers, and other victims were found.

No one taunted Michael though. He was big, over six feet tall, and he did the taunting. He also hogged the trampoline, going well over his two minute limit and refusing to get off.

I was waiting, next in line, on a day when he was particularly "hoggish" People were beginning to grumble, although probably not on my behalf. I was definitely one of the lower life forms in gym, and didn't expect people to defend my interests, but there were other people in line after me, and class would end before they got their turns at this rate.


Finally Michael got down off the trampoline and I climbed on.

I started with some warm up jumps, and suddenly there was added tension on the trampoline. I shot up in the air, higher than I'd expected, and was glad of the spotters around the edges when I came down. Although I didn't miss, the bounce still wasn't right, and I wasn't sure where I'd be flung next.

I realized that I had company. When I looked over my shoulder, I realized that Michael had climbed back on the trampoline, and was smiling in a self satisfied way. His weight had tensed the webbing, and changed the bounce dramatically

I was frightened, which he'd expected, hence the grin. I was also well and truly pissed off, which he had not expected.

"GET OFF!" I grated through clenched teeth.

To my surprise, he did.

I jumped off after him, and as he backed away from the trampoline and my obvious rage, I hauled off, swung high with my fist and hit him in the face. Not a slap, a punch.

I was sure he would kill me. And then I would be yelled at.

Neither happened.

Michael turned and walked quickly to the boys locker room, hand to his bleeding nose.
The teacher followed to make sure he was OK, but never commented on the incident.

My classmates held me in awe. I had definitely come out on top of the heap.

I was mortified at what I'd done. I'd tamped down that rage for so long, and breaking that control shocked me to my core.

Several years after graduation, Michael came out to my parents house to do some excavating work. I was nervous, thinking he'd remember that I was the chick who gave him a bloody nose, but he didn't show any recognition. Maturity? Pride? Memory? who knows?

I will never forget that white hot rage, so surprising and close to the surface. And so easily let loose.

The Ride Home from Camp

"Do you think he'll be able to see out the back?" I asked as Carol and I stuffed the last of the bedding into Doug's van.

"That's what mirrors are for." Carol huffed as she squeezed in one more pillow.

The back of Doug's van was full of musical instruments, extra bedding for campers who forgot their own, coolers, now empty of yogurt, half and half and juice, damp camping gear, dirty clothes, folding stools, and other odds and ends left after a rainy June week of running a music camp.

Carol and I walked slowly back to the kitchen and main hall, weary after 6 days of late nights and early mornings. The last sweep, literally, was under way, then we would have a quick board meeting and photo and be on the road home.

"Who's gonna take the lost and found box?" Chris asked.

"I think there's room in the van." I said recklessly. Since I was the person with the master email list on my computer, people were most likely to be in touch with me about their missing treasures.

Too weary to do much more than set a date for a phone check in, and to sit in a line of rocking chairs, bleary eyed, for a board photo, we then hugged one another and headed back to the parking lot.

The lost and found did indeed fit into the back of the van, but not in its box, There just wasn't room for something that big, so I used a grocery bag. Then Doug and I climbed in front and we headed out.

We didn't talk much at first. We'd been checking in all week, about housing, workshop spaces, concert set up, rain locations, scholarship workers, camp volunteers, bathroom cleanliness and more. We didn't have the heart to listen to music either, having had such a grand week of it. Car talk was on the radio, reminding us that we were heading back into the world on a Saturday.  Time had bent and stretched so much over the past week that we were grateful of the reminder.

Eventually we started remembering moments, the thunderstorm when Stephanie was playing that wild Quebecois tune in concert, the ridiculous incident of the wheelbarrow, the great porch session with the young folks, the Dobro/Pipe duo we'd witnessed the afternoon before,

We traveled slowly. Doug isn't a fast driver anyway, something I appreciate, and on this ride he knew that his judgement was somewhat impaired.  As he put it "I got nine hours of sleep . . . over the past two nights."  We missed the turn in Hinesburg and instead of heading for the Williston entrance to Interstate 89, we wandered into Williston suburbia.

Then we started seeing yard sale signs.   We missed the turn for the first one, but caught the next one. We wandered into a neighborhood and prowled through books, dishes, bicycle trainers, bureaus, video recorders and more, grateful that the van was too full to purchase much.  We were definitely not at our most savvy on this jaunt.

As we meandered through huge houses on small lots on artfully curving streets, we debated going back to the first yard sale, the one we'd missed.

"No." Doug said. "Men don't back track to yard sales."

But when we popped back out on the main road, we were south of that first yard sale, so we made the turn and shopped some more. We chatted with the sellers at this one. Doug pointed out that there were a lot of heart shaped items for sale, and asked if this was significant. When Bill, a neighbor came by with a bushel basket to sell, I made decorating recommendations. Doug asked about a bicycle, and bought a colander, I bought some dishes, which made it difficult for me to find a place to put my feet when we got back on the road.

Then we started seeing signs for the airport, which meant we weren't where we really wanted to be. It didn't matter though. We were mellow, I had a neat butter keeper, and Doug had a new colander. We turned right, then right again, and lo and behold, we came to an entrance to I 89. I'm not sure I was with it enough to even notice when we got on the interstate, but there we were.

The conversation came and went. What did we plan to do with the week, once we had caught up on sleep and laundry? What were we going to do without music in our lives 24/7? Should we go to the Waterbury Flea Market?   Now and then we would gleefully remind each other of our great butter keeper and colander purchases.  Did I say we were sleep deprived?.

As we neared Montpelier, we remembered more serious, wonderful things, how we had worked as a team with some of our best musical friends, how Todd's energy had propelled him as head dish washer for every meal, how Carol had kept us all relatively level headed in meetings, and had run the camp store profitably, and how Chris had hopped in to rearrange housing, and deal with many small fires as they came up. How Doug himself had managed a group of teen scholarship workers , lightly harnessing his willing workers, managing complaints of campers with polite humor, how I'd churned out coffee and breakfast each day.

We had done something remarkable, and as we hauled coolers, bedding, clothing, camping gear, musical instruments and the lost and found into my house, we smiled at one another in dazed euphoria.

We had done a fine, complicated and intense work together, and we were still friends.