Spring Seminar

I had this one done early this Wednesday, and forgot to push that most important last "publish" button, alas! We are enjoying spring's final lap, in the Northwest, with dogwoods, rhododendrons and cherry blossoms. the final floats in the parade!

Spring Seminar


This go round
there has been little wind
or hail storm,
the petals hang on
as though stapled and double taped,
turning brown on the edges
as new leaves nudge them to go.
It might be the first time
I have seen such a turn-
the gutters and sidewalks
yearn like blank canvases.
The result has been pom pom blooms
as big as raspberry lemon cupcakes.

How can we not be two year olds
in this bouncy house?
How can we not sprout tails
and swing from limb to limb?

And yet I am not,
a negative comment,
radioactive in my stomach, spirals
into a what-have-I-been-doing-with-
the-last-five-years
post modern privileged malaise.
I even look the word up,
a general feeling of discomfort
whose exact cause is difficult to identify.
It is used as an example in the sentence,
“a society affected by a deep cultural malaise.”
The synonyms are melancholy, depression,
ennui (from the French, it is hateful to me)
and torpor (from Latin, to be numb or sluggish),
exactly what I feel and see.

We humans fancy control,
are disappointed if life
doesn’t deliver like Starbucks-
make mine a venti, with two pumps
and room for cream,
we get fast food to save time cooking,
while at home our remaining hours
are recorded for us on DVR.

Yet outside, trapeze artists
dressed in cloud suits
pirouette under the big top,
maples are pulling out their best fringe,
the birds are using vibrato to woo us.

I am thinking of corn seeds
after recently planting
a little paper sack of them-
a baby rattle’s worth,
some ugly as decayed teeth,
plunged an inch into darkness.
Suddenly I considered
rain and earthworms, ravens
soil and sunlight.

There are teachers all around us,
but they only hold class outside.
I am writing this
because I need to remember it myself.
These are difficult days,
for the first time in human history,
we must make an effort
to connect to our animal nature,
the place where contentedness
and wonder and acceptance
are constant.

The corn seed will be broadcast by the bushel
then stripped and concentrated,
corn syrup in various permutations
lining grocery shelves.
It will also be grown in a garden,
the silky tassels shimmering in the breeze,
the tightlight green sheath
pulled back expectantly.

An Open Letter to the Man Who Killed Himself on Our Property

We never know when we create something, who it will benefit. Rest in Peace, dear Claus! 

An Open Letter to the Man Who Killed Himself on Our Property


Claus, builder of our tudor home
who toiled with your own hands
and pulled from Germanic roots,
thank you for the two by sixes you used
for framing, we feel most solid amidst these walls.

Neighbor, who rode your bicycle to visit next of doors
in the golden light of July evenings,
we learned you were beloved and friend to all,
we wave hello to others in your honor.

Father, who despaired when your daughter
dyed her hair black and seemed morose,
so far four teenagers have lived here
and three are up and coming,
they all suffer hard moments.

Hero, who installed for his heroine, a red telephone booth
and a Chronicles of Narnia lamp post,
even though we have removed those reminders,
we look through your paned glass windows,
we hear your Arthurian call among the cedars.
Infidelity and divorce were our cross to bear as well,
but we did what you weren’t able, healed and hoped again.

Builder of the barn outback for the equine Dolly,
we too tried horses and also gave them up,
yet we want you to know chickens range freely,
pecking with purpose at the green grass,
house cats bask in the sun on the walkways.
We too hear the frogs, a dove and owl.

Puller of the trigger,
the concrete of the gazebo you built and then died upon
was broken by the interim owner and piled in the woods,
we ride around these moss covered altars on our four wheeler.

Old world dreamer, your plans for happy children
running through fern and bracken happened,
we cross the threshold on the brick entrance you mortared.
Your crafting for a family’s comfort has outlived you.

Spirit of purpose and project,
like the architects still blessing the pyramids
the masons who float among the cathedrals,
with gratitude, we live your legacy.
Please stay and tell us,
what did you do about the blackberries?

I Need to Write This Poem in 30 Minutes

My favorite quote of late: "Trauma is not what happens to us, but what we hold inside in the absence of an empathetic witness." by Peter A. Levine

I Need to Write This Poem in 30 Minutes

Because that is all the teachers
who do therapeutic writing
with kids in juvenile hall or homeless shelters, have.
Only a half hour because visitation is short
and attention spans are shorter when
you are in distress.
And yet the mentors (as the teachers are called)
take trainings and travel
to places they would never usually go
to sit with youth who are considered
at risk and throw aways and unreachable,
because they receive from the kids
far more than they give.

      And because my lover is going to
      meet me in 29 minutes
      and the last time I saw him I cried
      because we wouldn’t see each other for a week
      and I wasted half our evening
      talking about people who weren’t there
      and events that happened in the past,
      plus complained how he failed me
      and sleeping next to him I dreamt of waves.

The mentors must commit to six months
in case a kid shows up a second time
because most of the adults in their life
haven’t been there. Or they have and been abusive.
It isn’t even teaching. It is sitting
with compassion and letting this place
which is only a piece of paper become
an umbrella, a telescope, a pillow, a wing.

      I am at a Starbucks, the music is grating.
      In the shared sex bathroom, the toilet
      was not flushed and the seat was up.
      I used my sandal to slam it,
      hoping there was a man waiting outside the door
      who would never again leave
      the toilet a piss plunge.

What I need to tell you is
mere minutes have made a significant
measurable quantifiable difference, someone
took surveys and conducted interviews
to learn on the page kids shared events
they had never spoken of,
the ways they were left and hurt.
Many opened up in subsequent therapy,
everyone reported it as positive
and a ten year old boy came to his next
appointment with a poignant stapled manuscript,
"The Poems of My Life."
All because someone didn’t so much teach
but witnessed, didn’t help but heard.
In some cases, that half hour was the pivot,
the sail, the wheel, the trapeze net.

      At my home I have one of these girls,
      a foster child and lately I am failing.
      I have not recently told her
      she is brilliant or beautiful,
      only rude and disrespectful and difficult
      and that I don’t know how to handle her.
      She is all those things, with worthy reasons.
      And only a few steps from the street.
      With all my good intentions and do-goodness
      I have been a walking sidewalk
      guiding her closer. This is my deepest shame.

What you need to know is these kids,
kids you would step over in doorways
and judge crooks and stoners, lost and worth losing
write just as I do, me a woman with means
and the luxury to pursue meaning.
In metaphor and stanza they share they want to do better,
forgive those who have hurt them
and have more hope than most adults I know.

      Tomorrow National Poetry Month begins-
      linked lines, penning mine and reading others
      for most of my life, has saved me.
      There was a dime on the Starbucks bathroom floor.
      Ten pennies worth of wishes,
      ten silver sparks of good fortune.
      That’s what art and music and writing is.
      I left the dime. We never know
      when we voice the unexpressed,
      what gift it might give,
      how it might save the next person.

My Kids Ask Me What We are Doing for Easter

Blessings these spring days, lovelies! 

My Kids Ask Me What We are Doing for Easter


They ask in that middle school voice
which drips with disappointment and challenge,
the same tone they use to inquire what is for dinner,
when they see I am cutting vegetables.
I lure them with honey baked ham and sweet breads,
(which my vegan teen won’t touch).
I bribe them to hunt for eggs by stuffing
plastic ones with dollars and sour gummy worms.

I hate that holidays are demarcated
most notably by a collection of flotsam
I have accumulated at the craft store.
But it is so, I hang wreaths of
styrofoam pastel eggs,
place resin molds of rabbits
flocked with green on tabletops.

When they were younger the Paas dye kits
with their tablets of compressed color were enough,
the plunk in a cup with a tablespoon of vinegar
and the little bubbles was a party,
guaranteed hours at the kitchen counter dipping and praising.

I want it to be two centuries ago
when we gathered in the town square
for a fertility feast, the baker has
provided hot cross buns,
we will give them to our daughters
and also to our sons.
I want it to be two millennium ago
and we are visiting the grave of Jesus,
finding him not stone cold but basking in sunlight.

Come children, lay down your cell phones,
remember when you were toddlers
and danced like daffodils in spring breezes.
Let’s roll the boulder from our tombs,
let’s rise from the dead like Christos.
We can plait Eostre’s golden hair,
help me weave baskets from rushes
to float our burdens upon.
All this and more is happening this Easter.
Let’s do what the maple buds and shoots in soil,
the hatchlings and frogs are doing,
somewhere, somehow let's rejoice, children, rejoice!

Slam POETRY

"Shrinking Woman" is one of my favorite slam poems of all, check it out if you can!

Slam POETRY


My kids want me to slam my poetry,
show me YouTube channels
named Button and Youth Speak
where poets, most of them under thirty,
orate in cafe-like settings, out at night,
to actual audiences who clap.

They deliver their poems with such inflection,
each word is the closing statement in a televised trail,
they could say something like
I LET my dog out last NIGHT,
and you’d think they were the president addressing the nation
ask not WHAT you can do for you dog,
but what your dog can do for YOU.
Not that anyone watches figureheads anymore,
but we might perhaps
if they paused and prosed as dramatically.

They have all their shit memorized,
something I could never do or frankly don’t care to.
I prefer the older poets,
Billy Collins or Sharon Olds, Mary Oliver
who read from actual books and
must first find their reading glasses,
usually resting on the podium.

A podium!
These cats scat in outer space,
without even a slab of wood to rest
or steady oneself upon.
Many are blue tooth miked,
not even tethered with a microphone,
electric umbilical cord.
They pace and gesture as though they
are headliners at a rock concert.
I want to fetch them back up singers
choreographed to their every pause
and raised fist, each open palm and pursed lip.

I read the transcripts of the poems,
How short they are on paper!
How less remarkable in ink!
Yet what they lack in metaphor
they make up for in chutzpah,
what they are missing in simile
they have double in drama.

Watching these shape shifters,
these cocky cadenced freaks of nature,
I DO want to slam MY poetry,
want to shake my words like martinis,
want to fry my stanzas
like strips of bacon sizzling in a hot pan,
want each line to go down like a three-pointer.

They are all so ANGRY.
As they should be.
My first poem will be about their courage,
these young plaid shirted, nose-pierced,
bandana wearing hipsters,
to share their disorders,
their oppression and hard knocks.
I will have the room uh-uh-ing and oh-yea-ing,
like we are at a gospel church
and THEY have just HEARD the good word.

The Only Way

There are some subjects upon which I feel completely humbled and inept to comment. When my partner, whose friend is the father of these children, suggested I write the weekly poem regarding last week's tragedy, I knew I could barely.

The Only Way

in the aftermath of three children dying in a house fire in Olympia

This poem is not for the dying,
having made the mightiest transition,
they have succor unknown in three dimensions.
Even though we who remain
may imagine those last moments
on an endless loop of suffering,
the children were whisked away in an instance,
their souls left before their bodies burned.

This poem is not for the parents,
who must be mighty in their outrage
must strip every blossom from every stem,
smash each stained glass window in every church,
for whom language and reason will fail,
words imploring hope and faith and grace will be meaningless,
only Mercy Mercy Mercy.

For they have been plunged into the hero's journey,
all physical realms peeled away revealing that which only
mystics and mad men, 
each and every embarked with raised fists,
have realized.
They, now knowing genocide, inferno,
war, tsunami and plague,
will sit with survivors of those
a brethren will flock to their aid.

The gods of destruction,
having wielded their machetes,
will bathe the wounds of the bereaved,
sacred texts will become breath,
revealing in invisible ink the truth between truths.
Their minds may remain at half mast,
but their hearts, who beat steady
despite heartbreak, will save them.
They, who at first will reject a single moment
of peace or pleasure,
will learn to live on in their memory,
then they will hear sweet whisperings
father, daddy, mother, mommy,
they will be shown that we never ever ever die.

This poem is for the rest of us
who pace the shore,
watching those mourning list on the mast,
not knowing the sights visible from that perch,
we, who stand below the crucifix,
deploring the crows who circle,
do not know having one’s eyes picked out
they are open to inner vision.

This poem is for us
who will imagine such ends with our own children,
who will not know what to say
and need comfort as we try to console.
This will be part of the healing.
We will call the survivors Teacher
and look to them to help us bear even the bearable.

Fish N' Chips

I am so interested in Voice, how we express ourselves in all ways, especially speech and writing. A dear friend recently got back in touch with me and I owe the Rilke and e.e. cummings poems to her. Almost thirty years ago we were young interns at an environmental firm in Santa Barbara. I am thrilled to be corresponding by email, in which her whimsical, sweet and witty style had only been enhanced with the passing years. 

Fish N’ Chips


I want my poems to be like Byron
or Keats, Shakespeare or Dickinson
published in Norton Anthologies,
poems whose themes
are debated in English classes, upper division.
They are French cuisine with wine pairings,
a seven course meal to recall for a lifetime.
Quilled pen and ink on parchment paper!

Mine are poetry for dummies,
could be published in paperback
with yellow spines-
How to Be Okay with Poor Body Image for Idiots
How to Live with Regret for the Clueless.
I labor with chisel and stone!

I wish I could come up with lines like Rilke’s
Be modest now, like a thing ripened until it is real,
so that he who began it all can feel you
when he reaches for you.
I read it three times to understand
“he” might be God and reaching for me,
how I want him to! Rilke has shown me how!

I crave cleverness like e.e.cummings,
who lived in a small studio apartment,
painting in the afternoon and writing by night,
i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)
i am never without it (anywhere i go you go,my dear;
With cummings I take off my shoes and stockings,
walk in gutters of flower petals.

God is a food critic,
one good review and you have a line out the door.
God is a sous chef at Cordon Bleu
staying after hours to perfect the seasonings
for tomorrow’s special.
My God is a fry cook at a seaside shanty,
sleeves rolled up, a dirty apron.

On a good day, we flirt under heat lamps
the fish was just caught this morning,
the batter whisks without lumps,
the vinegar has aged to sour perfection
and the potatoes are perfectly salted.

More often we hiss at each other as we bang plates,
Hurry up, the patrons are hungry I complain.
Don’t be surly he admonishes,
Deliver the goods with a smile.

On Letting My Boyfriend Buy Me Medium Underwear When I Always Wear Large

This is Body Image Awareness Week. I offer this poem and comfort to us all, all of us touched by our culture's and our own judgements. Healing, dear ones!

On Letting My Boyfriend Buy Me Medium Underwear When I Always Wear Large


I had discovered early in our relationship
it was fun to hand over the reins occasionally
and let my guy lead me.
I like following him down ski slopes
and letting him order for me in restaurants.
Until I need to wear the pants,
like when he ignored my gentle urging
that I wanted panties for Valentine’s Day.
So there we were, February 21st,
meeting after work at the outlet mall.

The only lingerie was at the Vanity Fair store,
a brand that boasted bra ads that were the wet dreams
of young men in the fifties,
now merged with Lee and Wrangler,
forgotten brands of yore
sturdy and dependable clothing,
good for roping cattle or weeding the garden,
like the underwear my lover chose.

I trotted behind him as he cased the joint,
walking past the tiers of frills in cupcake colors,
ignoring little wisps of cloth like kite strings,
stopping at the layered tables where a palette of Americana,
where he chose not one pair, but several in red, navy and gray
decorated with stars, flowers and bows,
undies befitting a front porch on the 4th of July.

He pulled on the panties to check integrity
of the elastic, flipped them over to look at the backsides.
I was thrilled with the bikini bottoms,
they were sexy but practical,
brands and styles I would have chosen for myself.
And then he asked me what size.

Medium. I said.
Despite a drawerful of larges
and even a few extra larges at home,
despite knowing in the wash they would
shrink like a wool sweater and I would not
wear them, except when I saw him
and hoped they might be quickly removed.

I hadn’t lied when after passing
rack after rack of demitasse cups
he asked me about my bra size,
36B, I offered without explanation,
knowing we weren’t in the market for bras,
although I wished I could have reported
34C, I kept this to myself.

I need you to know I fibbed after being together
for six years, that he has seen my bottom
more than I, endlessly expounds its virtues,
his embrace of my bum, my wrinkles and all of me
has been my greatest healing.
I must tell you that when we were shopping
he had just come back from the dentist
and the right side of his mouth was drooping,
I decided I would still be attracted
to him even if he had a stroke.
It is important to mention that he struggles with his weight,
has called himself “fat boy” to my objections.
In our late forties we accept
we both flip flop between beauty and beastliness.

On the phone the next day
he queried if I was wearing my new panties.
I did not say no,
they felt too tight and my tush likes to breathe.
I hesitated before lying and fabricated
they were in the wash, which was not true,
I hadn’t even removed the tags.
An hour later, I admitted my lie via text.

He called with caring and said I shouldn’t ever worry again.
Later in the conversation he mused that men would never do that.
But I argued men feel pressure to be bigger.
I could imagine a small guy choosing a medium shirt,
that I have had partners upon me caressing their biceps,
involuntarily flex, that condoms come
in sizes large, extra large and magnum.
Return them sweetie, he advised.
Even if you don’t have a receipt,
if there is a girl at the counter, she will take them back,
any woman would understand.

I remember thirty years ago the feeling of holiness I had
when I was anorexic, soft down covering my thighs.
Even though long "recovered,"
I still feel pride when the scale dips below 135,
lift my shirt to "check" my stomach,
still want to be "good" tomorrow if I eat too much today.
My sweetie comes with me to exchange the panties
where a woman cashier is training a young man.
I resist the urge to tell them both my story
when she has him type in "wrong size" into the computer,
but now I wish I had.
 

On Hearing a Siren

I said this was a month of love poems, but they want a collection all their own. I do hope you are still celebrating Valentine's Day!

On Hearing a Siren


Even though I was on a bicycle
pumping diligently up a hill,
I had a flash of wondering
do I have my registration, license?
was I speeding, ran a red light?
Sweet relief to look down at the metal frame,
a contraption that wouldn’t run out of gas or break down
(flat tire not withstanding),
I could cause no harm to my or another person.

I once read about monks who used
the telephone ring as a call to take deep breaths.
My kids and I used to say out loud “angels”
when a siren stormed by,
we liked to imagine them clearing the road,
rushing ahead to help those who were hurt.
I am of late, upon hearing loud wails, double dipping.

With the next few miles of pedaling,
I took a moral inventory
and was relieved to find my transgressions
could be listed in the distant past,
a credit report almost cleared.
Cheating once on a boyfriend, check.
Hitting a child, been there.

Boozing. More than a bit.
Stashed beer bottle under my car seat,
a quick drink in the parking lot
when my kids ran in before me to warm up
for their concert, I slunk into the theater seats
swallowing light burps.
Road pop on occasion,
a six pack cracked while my man and I
drove through forest roads to a hippie hot springs,
what fun it was to arrive to the vegetarian buffet
hamburgers and french fries, winter ale sloshing,
The biggest digression, once we got sober,
missing the slight naughtiness, the bad ass babe.

It is true, I am no longer filching
nail polish from drug stores
or lying about my whereabouts, sins of youth,
but yesterday I raised my voice at a child,
a man came to the door selling magazines
and I thought there but for fortune go I,
placing him a rung below me,
until we spoke and he mentioned scripture
reminding me as he had learned,
in our quest for translucence,
in our yearning to be a clear vessel of love,
we must first accept ours and others' humanity.

We are all ultimately forgiven,
and we can lighten the load.
It is not for self-righteousness that
I attempt the best version of myself,
yet for the selfish freedom.
I hope someday when I hear sirens come close,
I’ll think, I ain’t got nothing.

Ode to the Social Worker with Violet Hair

Love comes in so many forms! So many times we feel love for another and they never even know!

Ode to the Social Worker with Violet Hair

I wish I had love lasers
that could blast through glass and steel,
from one minivan to another,
today from mine to an old Toyota Prius
with white peeling paint, I was stuck behind
it from middle to high school.

Irritated at first at the slowness of the driver,
I rescinded at the high school
when a woman opened the back door
and helped a special needs adult
with his job, delivering inner district mail.

It took far longer than reasonable to complete
the task and I watched her
resist the impulse to speed him up,
she turned her body away and leaned against the car.

We fall in love all the time,
in the grocery store with the man in contractor overalls
at Thanksgiving who was buying cranberries
who nodded at the long line
and said, like the Dali Lama,
what can we do but breathe in and out?

It was her violet curls that made me swoon,
hair most likely gray, now defying age and reason
and the purple outfit she wore,
the tie-dyed rainbow scarf,
a get up she might have chosen
to entertain and ease her charges,
she was a grown up muppet,
a bright focus among dulled senses.

As we all do when it is love at first sight,
I projected qualities she may not have
based on her appearance,
perhaps she dressed that way
because she opted out, a rebellion never outgrown,
or smokes cigarettes when he goes to the bathroom,
is the worst office gossip.

It doesn’t really matter,
that is what love does,
distills others to the essence of the Beloved.
I welcomed Violet’s soft belly,
a ring around her middle, a lifesaver
that made me want to float down a river
with her beside me,
or curl up on her lap and have her play
with my hair,
she’d tell me everything was all right,
it’s going to be fine dear, just fine.

My Right Hip Bone Loves You

It's February, time for love poems! 

My Right Hip Bone Loves You


My left hip loves you when we are spooning
on our right sides
and my right hip loves you when we spoon left.

My fibula cherishes your tibia
when we walk arm in arm
and my ear drums strain toward your vocal chords
when you talk or laugh or moan,
even curse or cough or spit.

The senior in me delights
when you hold the menu or bottle of aspirin
out to read the fine print
and when you mentioned my long john’s
saggy bottom looked old lady-ish

and my bottom adores you
insisting, as you do, I walk up the stairs first
and when you turn me over
tell me to get on my knees.

The twelve year old girl in me
steals glances at you in fifth grade math class
and writes your last name after my first
on the underside of my paper bag book cover,

the virgin in me surrenders to you,
there is a place I didn’t know I’d saved
until I am under you.

The bitch in me loves the bastard in you,
my whore wants your pimp,
my nun prostrates before you, my priest
and my sinner washes your feet, my savior.

My beta loves your alpha,
the daughter in me is protected by you, father
the mother in me suckles you, my son.

You said we fit together like
a zipper, yes. We are a jackpot,
your tokens filling my every slot.

Klepto

Two poems in two weeks about wanting. Must be up for me, perhaps you too. I love the quote by Abraham Hicks, "Satisfied with where you are at and eager for more." I am working on the satisfied part and notice how even little yearnings clutch at me.

Klepto

It is always the weirdest things,
the latest, a little paper gift bag,
perfect for a bracelet,
dusty pink with metallic hearts,
there on a chair among a half dozen others,
spoils from my boyfriend’s daughter’s birthday,
I even thought, she’d never notice.

Magazines at medical offices,
in the last visit to the orthodontist,
Marie Claire with an article
about taking care of curly hair
and an AARP suggesting a trip to Utah,
even though I am not yet retired.

I didn’t fixate on the Tahitian pearl
on the thick gold chain of a neighbor
who looked fresh off a Ralph Lauren ad,
but lusted after her absorbent dish towels.

I want the bumper sticker from the Badlands
on the Subaru stopped in front of me,
from a girl on a bicycle,
crave her wicker basket full of lettuces.

I want to walk like a woman at the airport,
(we all put our bags down to watch her)
the swagger of some young adult men,
an Australian accent and attitude.

I want people’s pasts,
that they summered on a houseboat
or grew up with a pet rabbit,
wish I’d been on a tennis team,
that my Mom had made fondue.

If I could I’d snatch beauty marks and
certain cowlicks,
strawberry blond eyelashes and
dimples above my bottom.

All this petty wanting, coral reefs of desire,
pretty to look at,
but with sharpness that gets under the skin.

When My Children Asked if I Ever Did Cocaine

This is one of those flinchy-to-post poems, the best kind. 

When My Children Asked if I Ever Did Cocaine


We were at the dinner table and having
one of those middle school segue-y conversations,
which began when it was reported a kid
in seventh grade science class pulled a bag of weed
out of his backpack, to which my youngest child asked,
“What’s weed?”
I explained it was marijuana or pot,
a plant you smoke or eat
and it really isn’t that big a deal,
except if you use it before you are an adult
and perhaps get it laced with meth,
which is what happened to a brother of their friend,
whose Mom now visits him at juvenile hall
when not making calls to lawyers and rehabs.

When they wondered about cocaine I flashed back
almost thirty years to the college dorm room
where it all went down-
the coffee table, the certain point in the evening
when the alcohol had done its job,
making me feel pretty enough
to deserve my waterpolo-playing boyfriend,
helping me forget I had a Chemistry final in two days,
soothing me because I didn’t know my plan after graduation.
All I cared about was the explosion
when I took a straw-full into my nostril,
the expansion, feeling finally close to joy.

When posed such questions,
omission can be the missive,
but my kids are getting older,
so I downplayed that yes, I did try it,
but quickly unfolded the virtual brochure
I have created for them,
the “how not to get into drug trouble" text,
drink beer or wine, not shots or mixed drinks,
a little pot perhaps
and all this only when you are older.

I did not tell them about the clove cigarettes
I smoked on the walk home from the bus stop
or the mason jars of gin I snuck
from my parents’ liquor cabinet
before going slam dancing with punk rockers
in downtown Sacramento.
Nor did I mention the boy who picked me up late at night
in his restored Mustang and drove in the middle of road without lights
too fast down country curves, I’d watch with thrill/terror
for oncoming cars, the telephone wires glowed first.

The fast driver, who deflowered me in the back of his car,
wouldn’t look at me the next day
across the school cafeteria as he had a girlfriend.
In college, some mornings still clenching my jaw,
dawn was a judge sentencing me to another anxious day.
After bruising it up in the mosh pit,
I drove the wrong way down a one-way street
and ended up with a cheek dusted with glass.

Addiction is a demon that once birthed
never really dies, it hibernates and shape shifts.
Adolescence was blackouts and reluctant blow jobs,
in college I majored in anorexia and apprehension,
motherhood became two decades of sugar and shopping.
After my divorce,
vodka/cranberry juice in a water bottle,
skirmishes of casual sex with and without condoms.

For a long time,
I thought I was lucky,
with no DUIs or STDs,
that I got away with something,
but each shortcut to ecstasy
was at the expense of everything.
I got away until I didn’t,
until the boorish work of building a self
became the high I went after.
The hangover, the tipped domino of self doubt,
the wasted years I spent intermittently,
sometimes only mildly wasted,
I want to spare my children them.

Yes, kids, I did some things, but you shouldn’t.

Changes

I am not sure who painted this, it was in a dressing room at Dumpster Values, a vintage store in Olympia, a place David Bowie might have enjoyed. 

Changes


Yesterday I was asked if I would
be writing about David Bowie,
the iconic (It could be his first name,
how often it is used, The Iconic David Bowie)
pop star that died a few days ago.
Iconic, a person or thing regarded as a representative
symbol of something.
Bowie, boyish, bisexual, buoyant, brilliant.

The thing is I was planning on hashing out
a conversation I had with a lovely young man
at Starbucks, when I lied and told him I was married.
The nice guy initially asked about my MacBook,
when we delved into my writing and children,
he asked if I was Christian.

I hated to disappoint with I am spiritual,
and couldn’t cop to being divorced
when he stated/asked
your husband must be so supportive.
I didn’t break it to him,
as he just got married five months ago,
that I had been once as fresh and in love,
that twenty something years later it ended
although I am beyond happy with another man,
even though I never thought such was possible.

I wish instead of lying I had sang
Ch ch ch changes, turn and face the strange
as Bowie sings, as my daughter and I did
a few weeks ago when picking up on
his impending passage,
she asked how I felt about his music.
The way I know if someone has worthwhile fame,
is my seventeen-year-old girl moved upon their death...
Maya Angelou, Robin Williams touched her as well.

I have been listening to lots of law of attraction audios.
Abraham, a channelled entity speaks of dying as croaking
in order to scoff at the seriousness we humans give it.
Major Tom is merely ready
for a new pair of stiletto star boots.

I left the coffee shop feeling ashamed,
worried the sweet newlywed might google me
and my online poetry would sully his world view.
The young shoulder-padded-blush-painted
striking-a-pose Bowie offered his life and art without apology,
his teeth seemed filed to points as proof.
He testified as such in his last photo shoot,
three days from death,
dashing in a charcoal gray suit,
his grin and lunge at the camera,
deliciously, ever daring.

On Letting My Kettle Whistle

Happy New Year! This is instead of my usual resolution poem, as that tis always the same... stop worrying and have more faith. My daughter phased it well, invoking the teaching of Abraham Hicks, "to stay on my high flying disk." Here's to flying high this year!

On Letting My Kettle Whistle


It was lovely to be home alone
and sorting my bookshelves,
I honored that volumes, like people,
prefer keeping to their own.
The memoirs sip wine and commiserate,
the novels discuss movie rights,
self-help compares latest diet fads,
poetry shares last night’s dream.

It is imperative as well to
keep an author’s work together
and I was sure I had another
Mary Oliver book somewhere
as the tea kettle began to warble.

Because there was no one
to worry about bothering,
I did not attempt the slippery sock rush
across the wood floor.
The cats kept slumbering.
I recalled an author ignoring
a bunch of overripe bananas,
the liberation she felt not making bread.

So many lovely book names Mary has,
Why I Wake Early, Twelve Moons,
House of Light, A Thousand Mornings
on my shelf they sit like sisters,
brushing each other’s hair,
her book nomenclature forms half rainbow,
Red Bird, White Pine, Blue Pasture.
American Primitive escaped me,
seems the square peg in terms of titles,
but on second thought, an appropriate witness.

I was curious if something horrible might happen,
the kettle could turn into a fiery ball and explode,
the windows would break,
firetrucks come screeching to my door.
I am always so quick to cut everyone off,
my children when they fight,
my lover if he gets frustrated.
The chaos of the kettle unnerved me,
but I allowed it long enough to notice
resolution even within the utmost pitch.

Half blackened with service,
already outlasting two fancy electric numbers
and one microwave,
I could imagine the trusty teapot,
expanding beyond its structure of steel,
conjuring the strike of ancient anvil,
recollecting fusion in the earth’s iron core.
It was a circle of coyotes on a summer night,
a band of marauding high schoolers
bashing in mailboxes,
a race car rounding the last bend,
a race horse on its final lap.

When I turned off the kettle
it didn’t settle right away,
but sniveled as it exhaled,
a few feverish cries until it grew quiet,
the sounds quite human or animal,
the way I have post protested
in my lover’s arms when encouraged
to get it all out.

I remember too my second son’s long labor,
after being born sunny side up,
his head was a grape popsicle.
He cried lustfully upon entering air
and then for minutes while I held him,
aftershocks of baby anguish,
little whimpers from the long labor.

Year of Flight

Poof! Another chapter to add to the shelf! Wishing you a new years list of wonders, both lived and anticipated. Huge hugs and thanks so much for reading this turn. I will be compiling these past poems in a book as I do every year, it should be available in a few weeks. If you'd like a free paper copy, let me know! 

Year of Flight


It is subtle,
imagine an attachment halfway
down the breastbone,
now feel the gentle tug.
Flying begins there,
a few inches from the heart.
It is less about mechanics
and more about becoming weightless,
letting time, worry and remorse
be heavy layers left on the tarmac.

It helped to become a pollyanna,
I refused to end a discussion
talking about terrorists or climate change
or school shootings.
On my news reel I list the roof garden
I glimpsed in the city,
that a bike path on State Street was painted kelly green.
One day my son tells me on NPR
a bill passed to pay teachers more,
included as well monies to educate native peoples
about their heritage, taught by natives even,
there is funding for outdoor education,
the program ended with the delightful,
and today a baby whale was born in Puget Sound.

I thought to take flight I needed to starve a little,
become virtuous in flesh and soul,
there have been days,
(more like hours) when I ate only seed and husk
trying to make myself worthy.
I promised to do ten sun salutations before breakfast,
without once checking my phone.
I found it has less to do with my body,
which remains occasionally
bloated, creaky and leaky.
You must find a way to unlatch the chest cavity,
perfection not required.
Perhaps I am practicing dying a little,
but it seems more like finally living,
to take the aviator eye view,
to lift and soar.

This prose is supposed to be an annual retrospective,
a what I did during summer vacation kind of poem,
it may have been the hardest round of my life.
Years ago I asked for a daughter
and one day in April she came,
a failed adoption sort of situation,
she arrived toting a dopp kit of drama, a bedroll of blame.
Her presence nudged out some things
I hold most dear, mostly my pride.
She challenges me to holdfast
to the stronghold that love conquers all.
To make space for her required rewiring,
a garage into a bedroom,
my thoughts on what being a mother means.
I had to turn over every object, consider each
earring, sweater and book, even friends.
Houseplants as well were welcomed
for the first time in a decade,
I considered it miraculous
that I watered them every Monday.

My lover stopped boozing.
In solidarity, I,
the one without a drinking problem,
quit as well,
only to discover sobriety is a cobbled village lane,
I miss pausing at pubs,
I trip on the uneven surface.
We had to learn not to stumble at the same time,
how to be sappy
without the lube of happy hour hops.
I left him once, during the super bloody moon,
drove away not sure I would be with him again,
twenty minutes later I drove back.

I often pray before sleeping,
these days to the deceased-
to Maya Angelou, for help with my new daughter
(her energy is as colossal)
to elder grandfathers for my boys
(I need each ghost and goblin).
Aphrodite and Persephone remain
in my quiver for all matters concerning romantic love
(how to stay strong and yet yield).
I believe in calling upon animals and minerals,
weather of all kinds, this year I noticed birds.
Did they respond in kind,
only the swans, swallows, hawks and owls,
eagles, ravens, crows and egrets
that crossed my path will ever know.
Some of us have lucky numbers or
for a time ladybugs seem to show up
on our forearms as we sit in deep grass,
painted on a mug we are handed by a friend.

I must mention a dream.
I was on a beach with warm sand, a slight breeze,
an albatross approached me
wanting to make love, but I was afraid.
I remembered my one and only ayahuasca journey
where twice I had to succumb to death,
the first by a threshing machine,
the second from carpet bombing over rice paddies,
both times I turned my neck toward
the surrender as I did with this feathered beast.
As on the drug trip, once I yielded,
I was then embraced by Spirit.
It was sexual and not sexual to be taken
by the bird, I briefly became him,
felt his musculature, the buoyant boldness.

Today I asked for help with this poem
and set out to walking,
I tried a new trail by my house
and ended up crossing a seasonal creek,
came upon a clearing,
there a picnic table and brightly painted totem pole.
I’ve lived here twelve years, it seemed improbable-
the outstretched white wings of a large bird
formed a cross,
there was an owl as well and salmon swimming,
a monkey at the top, holding a small yellow cat.
I may have been trespassing,
it may be communal land I don’t know about.
Tomorrow, New Year’s Eve,
I will bring the children, pens and tissue,
a candle and snacks.
On the fine paper we will write
what we’d like to let go of,
release burdens and regrets into the river,
what we want for the new year,
we will set on fire,
letting the ash take wing.

Red at Christmas, in Haiku

I have been channeling Ms. Claus lately, tonight knee deep in wrapping! Blessings to you all this week. 

Red at Christmas, in Haiku


Spirit of Santa
the beard usually stops itching
embrace belly breaths

cranberry cuddle
knitted wool in a red throw
orgy of cardinals

pinheads on holly
among prickles are holy
christmas cactus blush

depression or drab
a scarlet scarf at the neck,
December cure all

out in the weather
everything is forgiven
we become Rudolph

red is the last spice,
the naughty among the nice
everyone needs some

believers and non
power wedge of the rainbow,
everyone climb on

bold blessing our blood
may this season remind us
each born a savior

Ode to the Percussion Section at the Christmas Concert

I am endlessly inspired by live music, especially band and orchestra concerts and feel blessed to attend so many via my children. This photo is related only in it reminds me of the beauty of many individual parts. If you are in Seattle and have a chance to visit the new Chihuly glass museum at the Seattle Center it is melody and more captured in light!

Ode to the Percussion Section at the Christmas Concert


I love to watch them,
at the high school christmas concert,
they stand in tuxedo shirts and suits,
like butlers or concierges,
like the guys making Belgium waffles
or omelets at fancy Sunday brunches,
waiting for special orders.

Behind xylophones and bass drums,
they bring solemnity to the slapsticks
and tambourines fanned out before them
all the while keeping track as the tubas and trumpets,
the clarinets and oboes dilly dally with melodies.
I love their steadfastness,
they are the cannon loaders,
field goal kickers,
the anesthesiologists and baby catchers,
counted on for moments of glory.

Look at her, the one with her hair
in a practical braid, I can see her lips moving,
more emphatically as the winds
and brass seem to drag,
she is urging them along!
And then when the sound begins to jumble,
she is steady as a metronome,
she lends them her rhythmic heart!

Behold this one whose only job
is to clash together cymbals,
a dozen notes for a whole score,
but we wait for it
with nervous expectation,
we watch and urge him on,
thank god when he is in time.

I love how some know their importance,
those who between measures keeps their instruments
lifted like golden satellite dishes
about to receive intergalactic transmission,
whose mallets are magic wands,
their biceps are taut and confidence is sure.

But I am most inspired by the shy ones,
the triangle player who is forced
to have a turn at the wood blocks,
notice how he ducks behind the chimes,
stepping forward at the very end,
smiling with us for his last few beats.

Forty Eighth Birthday Poem

This one is special, and I keep waiting to feel like a grownup!

Forty Eighth Birthday Poem


You can draw strength from numbers,
five is a scythe to slice through resistance,
zero is an open mouth,
for releasing pain and pleasure.
I like 48 a bunch,
for it is both solid and serpentine.
The four can be written two ways,
the tops not touching and it is supportive chair,
a litter to carry you,
if the tip forms a triangle, it is sail,
whisking you over obstacles.
48 is four twelves or six eights,
the eight, which is double the four...
I could go on and on,
which it does, a double helix
for infinite chances and moments.

47, a Retrospective, was
A Year of Not Drinking
(I miss beer the most after hiking,
I miss it least every morning waking clearheaded),
Year of Not Picking Up My Guitar
(it hangs by my bed and still beckons)
Year of Inviting a New Child into My Family
(I made a wish for another daughter and got one six years later)
Year of Painting My House Shades of White
(my once cinnamon office is now vanilla).

I awoke 48 with a birthday dream,
just executing a swan dive,
an Acapulco resort plunge,
which took long enough
for me to feel belly swoop
and wonder if I would fall safely into aqua water,
long enough to breathe into the fear.

Some things that are leaving me-
shortest term memory,
did I add sugar to my tea,
get the mail,
already wash my armpits?
The need to respond immediately
when someone pisses me off.
Some things that are arriving-
patent patience,
I have begun to leave the room
instead of fume.
Instead of responding right off, I have said,
I am not sure what I am feeling,
then snorted, sorted snuffed it out.
I have stopped asking why I couldn’t
have mastered this at 12, 24, 36.

I am beginning to calculate the rest of my life
not in years, but in seasons, eons, epochs.
Coming up, a decade of heavy lifting,
my sixties will be all about finish work,
then lift off and finally glide.
If I am extremely lucky, here at half life,
I will have forty plus more chances
to finally plant the bulbs I have been meaning to,
Icelandic poppy, narcissus, lemony daffodil,
at ten miles a week of hiking I could
almost walk around the globe,
from the Pacific Northwest back to Alaska.
At a steady clip of reading two books a week,
I could make it partway through
authors that start with A.
So little and so much time.

For decades I have been
missing something I owned at age four,
searching for it with ice axes and head lamps,
now I realize it is more excavation
than conquest.
Each a journey,
but the former requires no special
circumstance.
Innocence, wonder,
they have been with me all along,
sometimes in the trunk,
sometimes like a key in a magnetic case,
tucked under the bumper.

Two Advent Poems

The season is upon us! Blessings!

Two Advent Poems

I.  On Looking at Advent Calendars on Pinterest

Wanting to upgrade beyond the
cheap paper calendars,
craving large pockets for candy canes
and activity cards to foster family unity,
I took an innocent peak at Pinterest
at eleven before bed.
An hour later, trying to sleep
I tossed and turned,
visions of glue guns dancing in my head.
Suddenly this modest ritual,
this red carpet ushering in Christmas,
beckoned in twenty four permutations,
all the lifestyles I could be having.

There in little boxes on virtual boards,
from primitive to princess-y,
was my mountain cabin with mini-sleds
and cedar boughs,
the high-rise apartment with bedazzled bows.
I could live in a restored salt box in Ohio,
be folksy transferring children’s drawings,
or in Norway using wood cuts and wool felt!
I must have more children so I can make
calendars out of baby socks,
more dogs so I can employ pet toys!

At the craft store, one of two in my town,
a Pinterest board comes alive in twelve dimensions,
beckoning aisles of tiny decorations
to add to my advent creations.
All made in China, the Chinese
have become the elves for the world,
toiling all year in factories for whatever fancy
store buyers deem is this year’s fashion,
I imagine the orders for chalkboards
and reindeer! paisleys and pom poms!

It reminds me of all things internet,
suddenly instead of choosing
from rack of clothing or a shelf of shoes,
I have access to all the styles, designers
in multiple price points all over the whole world.
On Match.com my pool
of potential mates ripples indefinitely.
I could click on the perfect height and eye color,
a mate the ideal age and vocation!
A man above or below or at my exact station!
The grocery store is bad enough,
with three kinds of pizza crust,
twelve scents of deodorant,
maxi pads with and without wings.

On the Internet,
I receive a pop up add for the Inner Engineer,
a long bearded yogi
who promises if I learn twenty-one asanas
and master only one,
I will know God-consciousness.
I want to!
Become enlightened before Christmas!
Next year I’ll transcend the whole thing!


II. Recipe for Advent,
an invitation for more meaning, inspired by Rudolf Steiner

Take one small table,
cover with a white cloth,
add a wreath and four tapered candles.

The first Sunday of December
light one candle to celebrate the earth,
circle it with a few stones, crystals and shells.
For a few days notice the ground
beneath your feet,
salt when you season your food,
behold a mountain.

The second Sunday, add the next candle,
among the shells and stones,
add leaves and mosses,
walk outdoors and collect pine cones
and dried seed pods.
Blow a kiss to grasses and trees.

The third Sunday, light the third candle
to welcome the animals,
If you have a nativity scene,
place the lambs and doting cow.
Bless the finches at the feeder,
the raccoons foraging in your trash cans,
your steak if you eat it.

The fourth Sunday, light all four candles
to honor the gift of being human,
from the creche, bring Mary and Joseph,
the three wise bowing men.
Let them take shelter among the stones
and leaves and animals.
This week let every human you encounter
be your teacher, your friend.

Finally on Christmas morning,
let the Christ child arrive,
place him in the center
as you would your own babe,
as hopefully or you hoped
your own mother
and father beheld you,
now welcome everyone
with such light and love.