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.

Somebody's Darling

Somebody's Darling

I wake to the news
and am reminded
of a song
from the Civil War,

Victorian poetry,
full of golden curls,
kisses,
pale skin
mystery
and tender loss.

"Somebody's darling, somebody's pride."

Yes,
All of those mothers' children
Cherished,
sparking dreams
feeding hopes
labor of love,
and sleepless nights.

No matter
if they be Syrian, Egyptian,
Muslim, Christian,
gay, straight,
Sikh, Sunny,
Democrat, Republican, anarchist,
rich, poor.
boy, girl,
or at different points
on the great, warring
white, brown, golden, russet, black spectrum
of skin.

Infinite in variety,
the stuff
of some mother's labor,
hopes
and dreams

The lyric is truly Victorian,
Mothers and sons,
No mention of loving fathers,
beloved daughters,
not feminist at all,

but on this morning of wars,
political and physical,
of guns, gods and factions
food for children cut from a wealthy nation's budget,
fear,
hatred
and greed,

150 years later,
the kernel of truth
is there.

"Somebody's darling, somebody's pride
Who'll tell his mother,
where her boy
died."

Screened Porch

The screened porch

When I was small,
we sat in big wicker chairs
on the back porch,
breeze slipping through the screen,
peas pinging into a pot,
shells heaped in an emerald pile on the floor.
Peace like the golden summer light
filling the open
protected
space.

When summer thunder rolled in from the west,
I clung in terror to my mother.
No tale of giants bowling,
of the beauty of lightning,
the quenching, sweet rain
could ease my fear.
Only the curve of arms
mother cocoon
where I hid my face,
covered my ears
would do.

Now, my slumber party girlfriends and I
watch the storm march toward us,
Lightning stilts, jagged, striding from the north.
Crashing thunder, cataclysmic
We wisely
count between flash and concussion of thunder.
one . . . two . . . three.
Less than a mile away.

Rolled up in too-hot sleeping bags,
we lie on the wooden floor
tucked against the wall, away from the fine mist of rain
forced in by the wind.

We tell ghost stories,
of course,
laughing even as we flinch in the jagged light,
repeating parts of the tale,
lost in the crash of thunder.
repetition blunting the terror somehow.

Then, as the storm rumbles,
sullen 
down the valley,
we talk about boys.
tell tall tales about our own
transgressions
and conquests.

In the back pasture, sheep clip the grass with their blunt teeth,
Wind sighs through the pine trees by the garden,
fireflies dance their answer to the storm
just past,
and we sleep

In the morning, the red sun wakes us,
The misty, cool air
scented with hay and pine,
meets the musty smell of sleeping bags.

Birds call
and a lamb cries,
waking,
seeking its mother.

Too early to rise, we lie,
silent,
waiting for the day,
and for the days to come
beyond the screened porch.

　

The Pies

The Pies

Now that the grain
has been milled into flour,
the cream churned to butter,
crusts blended and rolled.

Now that the apples blended with spices
are heaped on crust,
covered with crust, fluted between thumb and finger, and baked,

At last, the golden pies
come from the ovens,
The scent of sweet, tart, spice,
comfort and home
fills the air.

Then, with slices
some slightly smaller,
some larger,
(it's hard to divide a pie equally)
the pie eaters
go their chosen ways.

One group
gathers around the table,
taking leisurely bites,
licking fingers, wiping crumbs,
smiling at neighbors
asking how the day has gone

Sharing a bite of filling with the child
eating her first pie,
a little extra crust with that smiling
old man across the table
laughing.

Others
scatter fearfully,
Singly or in small, tight groups.

They find places to barricade
jealously guarding
each uneaten slice,
tense, unsmiling, fortified
with fear.

And one guy
in a suit
and tie
offers protection,
weapons,
security systems,
pie insurance

All the while,
slyly
sliding the filling
out from between the crusts

When will the fearful ones
turn
and find the apples gone,
the crust
fallen
on soggy crust.

Fear realized
through
fear.

Early Rising

Early Rising

4:30
and the birds are tuning up.
Gray light, cooling, brightening to blue
Summer morning pulls me from sleep,
reluctant sleeper
relentless morning

It isn't that I have things to do
Not yet.
Not even the cat calling for breakfast.

Nor even
things to think through.
No pending loves,
pressing issues
or troubles.

Only those edgy,
churning,
almost grumpy
sleep devouring
would haves,
might have beens
and
if onlys.

Better to listen to chickadees,
look at the brightening clouds and sky,
and write a poem.

Nanoseconds

Nanoseconds.

This is the age
of complexity
Machines, faster than mind or body.
Technology
that outstrips our humanity.

Information
at our fingertips
data flooding like a torrent
through the thin, fragile capillaries
of our brains and muscles
and nerves

We build tall
think fast,
multi task,
split atoms
strive for perfection;
the most,
best,
first.

We are giants
by virtue of the speed
of our minds
our thumbs,
the cloud
and fiber optics.

Omnipotent fingers
on the pulse of
the grid,
national defense,
the world wide web

We are gods of time and distance,
precision, circuitry, the micro chip

And are reminded of our humanity
with the jolt
of the oncoming truck
as we look up from a text.
on the perfect,
powerful,
tiny
computer of our phone.

　

The Rain

After the road to the cabin washed 3 times, and the space between cars and cabin was ankle deep in water, we finally gave up, emptied the fridge and headed for town.  While we were there in the high meadow, listening to torrential rain, or the rushing stream, (which we had never heard from the cabin before)  playing cards, trying to enjoy the peace of the place, these thoughts filtered through my mind. 

The Rain

This is the year of the Apocalypse
movies full of fire
aliens and bombs
survivalists, and mutants

But I began to think it would end differently
Rain fell, incessantly
relentlessly
pelting fiercely

Our high field swam beneath the waters
The roof sprang a small leak
The road washed a little,
and again
a little.
Corn stood short and drowned in the fields
Plants grew green
but failed to blossom.

How did Noah feel
Day after
Day after
Day

as the rain fell
the grass began to brown in the fields
tree roots drowned and leaves dropped
roofs leaked
paths washed away
pilings sagged
tempers shortened

As he hammered away,
then went looking
for wet
bedraggled
animals

Two by two
the last,
the first.