On Taking the Stairs

I just started a Master's program in counseling. Six full days in urban Seattle, lots of stairwells!

On Taking the Stairs


There are so many reasons,
the blood rush,
the jelly legs,
you get a sense of place,
twenty floors up
without cables and electricity
you’ve earned it
penthouse pleasure.

I love seeing others,
exchange the introvert’s nod,
like to imagine
kisses in stairwells,
trumped up errands
well timed.

Even in the most sophisticated
buildings, the same innards
are exposed, mini ships' wheels,
controlling water and gas lines,
the same copper and steel,
they all smell like submarines,
sealed secrets.

Deprivation tanks,
a pause among chaos,
I pick my nose and
wrench panties from between cheeks.
I have done handstands on landings
and sung, imagining
my voice piped like cool air.

Lanyards with nametags and rank
swing like metronomes,
stairs are the great equalizer,
CEO and intern,
maid and guest,
all, moving muscle
and bone, skeleton ascent.

On Wearing White Pants at the Airport

I am engaged! This poem is dedicated to beloved Adam. Bless you.

On Wearing White Pants at the Airport


I checked myself out in the bathroom mirror
before boarding my plane,
peeking backside as no one was washing their hands.
How wide I looked and my outfit not summer chic,
as I hoped this morning when I chose it,
but crumpled, the linen creased from the car ride,
my panties chosen for their nudeness
to avoid panty lines, instead made my flesh more visible.
My hair was not smooth with this morning’s extra conditioning,
rather the gray hairs raised their hands for extra credit.

I wondered if my lover who dropped me off
and watched me walk through the sliding glass doors,
saw what I did in that florescent light-
my bottom is a shortbread biscuit, my hair a tumbleweed.
Nowhere in the reflection was last night
when I clamped my legs tight like a virgin,
him playing along like the sun
coercing a flower bud.

Perhaps because of his very love,
I left the bathroom not despising myself
as I used to do, not wanting to be the woman
ahead of me at the gate, who at twenty was a Barbie,
pert bottom perched on long legs, hair a wig maker’s muse.
The virgin ripe with longing, the woman surrendered to love,
she urged me to step forward
when they called for VIPs to board the plane,
she let me see myself, not with eyes or mirrors,
but with love, my lovers and mine.

Potato Harvest

Two weeks in a row I have delayed my poem until Thursday, bad! Dog days of summer - my homesteading son has been feeling them too, the potatoes truly helped :)

Potato Harvest


This poem could be about loss, about a summer
when clouds outlasted their spring welcome,
picnic baskets pined for blankets on lawns,
boats yawned, dull with idyll in docks.
In the first year garden, a harvest of frustrations,
thin soil and fat voles, waterlines blown,
mice discovering seed sprouts are tapas,
a chicken tractor was made of two by fours,
strong enough the birds might survive an Armageddon
but difficult to lift for gathering eggs,
an anemic blueberry yield.

This poem could be about mystery,
as while I lamented the yellowing green beans,
potato runners were thin fingers loosening soil,
blossoms were pollinated by wing and proboscis,
under moon and sunlight,
water hummed through capillaries,
leaves were chlorophyll factories
creating fiber and starch.
I am glad now for the
overcharging plumber fixing leaks
and aphids that freckled the nasturtiums.
Pleased I couldn’t tell you
what happened beyond my son cutting
sprouted potatoes into little cubes,
each with one pimpled eye,
don't know the color or size of the potato plant
and that I missed the dumpling lumps,
didn’t brush off a clump of dirt.

Some poems are about triumph,
such a tumble of it on the kitchen counter
and in boxes on the pantry floor,
potatoes in hues of bruise purple and brick red,
gold, like sunlit plaster on Italian frescos,
tubers otherworldly as meteorites
and yet familiar as stones.
Unearthing them, my homesteading son must have felt how
miners do when they hit a vein of crystal,
or how I cried in wonder when
from that rich rune of pregnancy,
he, now a man who plants things,
emerged from me.

When I Asked A Stranger About His Ring

Some of my most treasured moments are learning the story of a stranger and making a new friend.

When I Asked A Stranger About His Ring


The stone was the size of a small bird’s egg,
but the color of water in eddies in rivers
so beautiful you (briefly) want to sell everything
so you can stay at their ebullient edge.
Jade circled in gold,
“cheap then, back in the sixties” he said.

Forty-five minutes is a long time by some measure
to talk to a complete stranger.
A man, a solider who suffered an explosion
and near death, in the hospital for nearly a year and
a mental ward for four years following.
Unlike my father, who got out of serving in the Vietnam
because he was in college and married with a child.

“People think I am homeless because I am living in my van,
but last year I was able to follow the sun in the winter,
I want the mountains and the water.”
He did look the part, a few missing teeth,
a few days of white stubble,
high cheekbones, tall and lanky
from what could be assumed was hunger,
a soft spoken, slightly using aged James Taylor.

The clincher is I inquired about his ring to be charitable,
to practice what I was writing about,
a poem directed at young people in high school
about sitting with others who might be lonely.
We were at a coffee shop, four stuffed chairs around a circular table,
all three of us save him, slurping computer screens while we sipped our coffee.

I was afraid he would leave before I finished my work
so I glanced at him every so often and smiled,
willing him to hang out and yet I thought he might
truly be homeless and for some spare change was
spending the day in the warmth of the store and human contact.
I had an impending appointment, a weekly submergence in a float tank,
buoyant in salty water, blackness and silence
in which I pray for connection,
for heart opening, for inspiration.

He explained he read a book a day and exchanges
them at local used store, that he memorizes passages,
and will read anything an author writes,140 books for one.
I needed to hear about the video game he plays online
and teams with people around the world,
that he saw it as community and a social experiment,
not isolation as I blanketly judge.

In his late sixties, his wife having passed on recently,
his only son an email away in London,
even with steal rods in his neck and spine,
he was steadily giddy with his move out west,
there were still books to read and other veterans to coach
how to navigate the VA system, a feat he had perfected
by having multiple copies of his identification and medical files,
a task I cannot say I have even attempted.

Like children trading shells at the seaside we spoke.
I ignored the nagging feeling I was late for
my appointment, but he hadn’t yet shown me
the knot of scars under the skin on his wrist
or demonstrated that the hand he was warned
would lay limp forever, how it could clench and open.

My Medicine

I love thinking about all the ways we soothe and ourselves and one another. This poem is a partial picture, there are friends and kids and books and so much more :)

My Medicine


Sleep and chocolate,
eight hours and half a candy bar.
Giving second chances,
most of all to myself.

Cheese puffs,
the jalapeño ones
at the health food store
I make a bag last four days
and apples, one each day.
It might not seem important
what we eat, if we sleep,
if we try again,
but it is.

Exercise.
When my kids yell at me
it lives in muscle fiber
those stretched over scapulas,
released only by running or riding.
When I hear news about killings,
only wheel and triangle pose
remind me of goodness again,
one humanity family.

Flowers and words,
lots of different ones.
Bossy flowers,
roses and dahlias,
shy flowers,
violets and lilacs.
Brash words like
Damn and No.
Soft words like
maybe and sorry.

I Never Ate a Peach Until I Met You

Ok, a racy mid summer poem! This years collection I am calling Year of Nectar, so it fits there too!

I Never Ate a Peach Until I Met You


There had been some
sliced up, hard as apples,
fanned on a plate

but not left to soften
until they yielded under my thumb
the skin almost puckering.

I feel a rush as I watch you
bite the flesh,
as I look sometimes
when we kiss

the flash of your tongue
and teeth between your lips
and think of your mouth
other places

and once my breast slowly sucked
first glistening in peach juice, 
you pulled me into the basement,
kids raucous above us.

Now there is juice,
allowed to run down my chin,
as you modeled again

this morning when we drove,
nectar on the leather seat, 
the carpet of my minivan,
just missing your work pants.

But it was also you
who taught me to keep
napkins in my glove box

and I grabbed one,
so happy to dab
loving loving
when you spill over.
 

Sobbing at Starbucks

I love writing at coffee shops, no distractions other than a million, such as interesting patrons conversing next to me, music that I want to run from or melt into. I love this piece of art that was at a Starbucks, a cross between a mermaid and a cloth dummy used for target practice, heh, a lot like how I feel sometimes! The marks person is life, the bullets, opportunities to run and melt. Two poems in a row that plea for succor, thanks for bearing bearing with me.

Sobbing at Starbucks


I duck my head at first
to hide my tears
until I don’t.

Perhaps it is the bluesy
folk music they play
that my SoundHound
magically plucks from the ethers,
titles that speak to the poet
and meaning seeker in me,
songs like Blue Faith
on albums such as The Revival.
Also yesterday
a semi was driven into
a crowd at Bastille day in Paris
killing 80 people
and I was listened to deeply
last night and not everyone has that,
and held and not everyone
has that either.

I have a daughter who
despite my vitriol
texted me a picture
of banana bread she made
while I was gone.
It was that thumbnail,
a postage stamp reminder of her sweetness
on my phone screen
while I sipped my earl gray tea
that unlatched me.

Tears had not come
when my dear friend’s
son overdosed and died Monday.
Twenty-one years ago,
I took her pregnancy portrait-
golden light on a beach,
ivory blouse open to reveal her golden belly
and then photographed him as a baby
blue eyes even to temples,
and this world, hair halo white.

Nor did I cry with joy
when another friend
gave birth Wednesday
and I watched her four year old
who gallantly sucked in his sadness
that his parents weren’t there
to tuck him in.

None of this, not the happiness
or fear or grief, none undid me
when it was convenient
and I could go to my bedroom,
close the door, turn on the fan.
Rather here among guitar
and harmonies and the hiss
of an espresso machine
and tables full of women and men
holding business meetings,
catching up on gossip,
discussing the cool summer.

I wonder how we keep going
and don’t all run wailing
and fall on the floor
like tantrumming toddlers.
I wonder about our coping mechanisms
which work until they don’t.
I weep while patrons jockey for outlets
and check their phones and
glance toward the glass front doors.
I wonder how many of them if
invited, would,
could,
should
sit with me and sob.

Work Party

Ultimately we are all alone....except.... for guides, universal forces of good, ancestors and the curious propulsion that pushes us gently forward :) I prayed last night for help and dreamt of kind German Shepherds!

Work Party


I am lately a cause,
plenty of because,

longing for charity, beneficiary,
generosity, luminosity.

I am a Humanity craving Habitat,
two stories,

needing aide with what I begin,
&
&
&
to be home in my skin.

I want an underwriter,
grants,
endow
me
(nts)

for
a blueprint,
architects,
angels and new angles, 
foremen and forewomen

with powertools,
skilled.

And unskilled
but well meaning labor.

Don’t you see me, God?
Slick with sweat

I am ready for equity.

Ode to Disneyland

I write to you from sunny California! I hope your summer is sweet!

Ode to Disneyland


I am sitting on the ground in a faux town square,
far from the homeless on main street in my actual town,
next to me there is a baby on a father’s shoulders
she can’t be one yet,
she is blowing kisses to a princess
who waves from a faux tower
in an afternoon parade.

I am considering how the dancers are hired
and wondering if it is discrimination,
for the administration to choose
only hour-glass figured girls
who are decked out as Prince Ali’s harem
and the swarthy chimney sweeps
who twirl black brooms before Mary Poppins.
Is that forty something father
with the wife and two kids deciding
if given the opportunity
would he shag Sleeping Beauty or Cinderella?
Is the mother behind her sunglasses
fantasizing whether Aladdin or Prince Charming?

I am here with teenagers,
to save money we eat turkey legs
from vending carts for dinner,
they get headaches because they
are too stubborn to drink the lackluster
Los Angeles water from drinking fountains.
Finally I capitulate and for $3.50 each
buy them one drink a day,
they jockey for soda and spend
the time waiting in lines shaking the bottle
to bursting and then perfect
letting the carbonation out slowly,
once the flat soda is consumed they flip the bottles
and try to get them to land with the cap up.

They complain about the tedious wait
under monorails and space mountains,
circa 1950, that were built before
the invention of the computer
and I wonder what this generation will
have to show for themselves.
Yet surely there are Walts
among them, young men and women
who will solve global warming
and purify drinking water with lasers,
we will all live to 100 given their
stem cell research, their robots
will change our Depends.

Who knew when Walt drew a mouse
with exaggerated ears and his consort
in a red and white polka dotted dress,
when he coined "the happiest place on earth"
he would be able to sway even skeptics like me,
who deem nature my happy place
and upon considering a Disney vacation
would rather accidentally plunge to my death
while looking at the Grand Canyon,
or be carried out to sea while snorkeling
the Great Barrier reef,
who upon hitting “buy park hopper tickets now”
on my credit card wistfully said goodbye
to new wood floors and needed coats of house paint,
who writes this poem at a hotel
where a wifi choice is
“34 dollars 4 a fucking waffle.”

I must not consider the factory farms
to grow such turkey steroidal protein,
the light show with its bursts of greenhouse gases,
the firework finale with its clouds of sulfur and heavy metals.
Disney is the Fourth of July and Christmas
and a birthday party in Beverly Hills on steroids.
Disney is Costco and Wal-mart
having a baby and using Las Vegas as a surrogate.
It is what America does best,
super-size and overcommit,
mismanage resources and exploit base emotions,
but my goodness,
you could be a serial killer
and have your heart opened here.

Who else would hire people in their
seventies and give them a cadet jacket
so they look like royalty as they genially guide
you to your seat after an hour wait,
where else does a stuffed chipmunk
shake her booty in a parade
and then pretend to blush,
where other could you see hoards of people
in rocky road sweet clusters,
rocking sleeping babies,
people with boot casts hobbling,
grandmas with swollen ankles,
some who have had too many churros
in motorized wheelchairs
with a toddler riding like a masthead.

A little boy next to me said over twenty times
(I counted)
with each character that passed us by,
“Look Daddy, so cool, look!”
My kids who can fight over a cheese stick
were nearly arm in arm
as we trotted soaked and smiling
away from Splash Mountain.

Apology for H.

I had the blessing of writing at juvenile hall with amazing kids a few weeks ago. The prompt for the exercise was “An Apology.” I wrote this one for a girl I am fostering. We also did an exercise called “Ten Things You Don’t Know About Me.” I was most impressed by how loving and accepting these “in trouble” kids were.

Apology for H.


I am so sorry for yesterday,
you waiting in your bedroom
for me to say goodnight.
It was eleven and I had been
no snacks before dinner,
don’t use the computer,
can’t drive you now,
stop teasing
all day.

Pink fuzzy robe, turquoise
leopard print pajama bottoms,
you are at the same time
thirteen and three years old.

When you ask for me at bedtime
you are cotton candy at the fair,
that sweet.

How many nights in your life
have you not been tucked in,
how many nights even in my house
has the radio comforted you,
how many nights can someone
fall asleep after hearing no.

I am so sorry, honey.
I will try to save a little me,
a little hug, rub,
an ear to listen, a tickle,
tonight.

On Perfection, Posies in Haiku

I got these cool haiku blocks recently. My dear friend Marla helped me write this one. We meant to create a summer solstice full moon ritual, but this was as close as we got!

On Perfection, Posies in Haiku


plain white china plates
not there yet, but someday soon
I get the allure

“checking” is the word
in eating disorder speak
hand along belly

my last poem was not
perfect, four typos in all
such shame reading it

I called an author
Martial, not Marshall, he a
peace keeper to boot

I stopped covering
my mouth when I yawn, realized
cats and dogs do not

models air brushed too
their longest legs are lengthened
cellulite small curd

I assume the worst
and then deep apologize
wish I could stay sweet

because I am not
photogenic, ancestors
won’t know my lovely

new buildings are best
once landscaped with roof gardens
nature architect

try to soothe bad moods
barman wiping the counter
god with eraser

Ramadan

After writing about not having any typos last week, I then found four or more. I blame it on the blackberry cider I drank before firing off my poem. Next week I will deal with perfection, but for now, please bear with another long one :) As I was writing this poem I listened to "The Sound of Silence" by Disturbed. Very moving, if you have a chance.

Ramadan


I wanted to write a poem about my kids saying
“I am glad we are not Muslim”
as we sat down to dinner during Ramadan,
the sun still high in the sky.
I hoped to ponder the conflict with my
surly teenagers who opened the fridge
and freezer as I finished making dinner,
who ignored my request for help to speed things up
in favor of negotiating over half a bagel.
They added“And the girls take off their head scarves
as soon as they walk in the school building”
to show me they are not the only rebels.

I wanted to remember for Lent my best friend in high school
giving up M & M’s, but only the peanut ones.
And contemplate my yearning for an outer structure
some confession, sannayasa,
a call to prayer, Sunday school, bible study,
an infrastructure that backs me up
when I should think of others,
be a good person, to not waste or want too much.
I could have written about not eating meat for a week
and appreciating Muslims who will fast for fifteen
hours to remember those who do not have enough food.

And I do appreciate them. Still very much.

Instead, I am watching clips from the Orlando Sentinel
about the largest shooting
in America by a citizen, also a Muslim,
at a gay bar named Pulse in Orlando, Florida.
I am asking what happens when a book or belief
secures eternal life and happiness
if you kill in the name of your God.
I have written three poems now with this theme
Paris, Boston Marathon, Peshiwar,
with each I pray it is the last.

When this tragedy occurred
my son was reading Night by Elie Wiesel
Propped up on elbows, I reread
over his shoulder the tome
about surviving concentration camps
so my son would not feel alone
when he discovered the depths of depravity.
In Germany today there are numerous
art installations and memorials to the Holocaust’s history,
attempts at amendment the more progressive generations
knowing forgiveness is not always possible,
will not allow forgetfulness.
Similarly when couples are trying to repair
infidelity, for any chance of healing,
the one who strayed must bring up the
affairs, must shoulder the burden of vigilance.

In America our prisons are full of African Americans,
our reservations with addicted and poor tribal people,
both populations America has subjugated
in the name of progress and righteousness,
and yet our culture is slow to attempt restitution.
But we must, despite our guilt and shame,
we humans must apologize and ameliorate.
Elie Wiesel did not want to run at the urging of
the butt of a rifle, did not want to know
the smoke and stench of the furnace.

On my bedside is another book,
this about nonviolent communication.
The author, Martial Rosenberg,
argues when we coerce another even with words,
even with thought, we act violently.
At night I turn down pages and imagine
a world of requests and honesty,
shared feelings and honored core values.
Yet yesterday when I asked another son
to place a book on a table which required
half the effort it would take to toss a frisbee
at his feet, he refused.
Our conflict became a mini cold war,
as we exchanged ice chips of insolence,
mine then without pleases, his no’s, now with anger.
My mother who was visiting joined my allied forces
and yelled at my son,
“Most parents would clobber you with that book,
now respect your mother and put it on the table.”
It was a carpet bomb and I was thankful for it
and yet hated my thankfulness.

I have long frequented gay bars,
love the love and lust freely demonstrated,
the music is often better for dancing.
Two of my peak life experiences occurred
at Jake’s, the local gay dive in my small town.
First, I met the love of my life.
Second, I found a teacher I often reference,
a Native man who gathered the mostly white crowd in a circle
while the song “Halo” by Beyonce played.
He beamed as he sang the words,
I can see your halo, it’s my saving grace,
we beamed beheld in his benevolence.

I usually write to find answers,
and yet today I only search to clarify my questions.
How do we embrace a majority of peace seekers,
when a few radicals murder in their name?
How can we coexist with those who believe
fervently their evil acts are sanctioned by God?
How do we prevent the loss of innocent lives
without causing more innocence lost?
How do we in this season of renunciation,
turn toward our brothers and sisters with compassion,
some of us who have ancestors who committed
the very terror we condemn?
How can we learn to halt violence,
to say no to terror on any level,
not in my name, not my God, never.

Bandwidth

I found a typo in my last poem, let's hope this one is clean :) I don't have the bandwidth for final final editing sometimes!

Bandwidth


I never hear someone say,
“I have the bandwidth for that”
It always begins with “I don’t....”
It has become my favorite phrase,
how it absolves us of guilt or shame,
not I simply don’t want to or lack skills or am lazy.
There is no need to cover up
I would rather go to happy hour or
binge on the sixth season of reality television.
It makes our resistance seem physical
rather than a preference,
merely a cell tower that hasn’t been erected,
a satellite not yet launched.

We have become so efficient,
so accustomed to cramming,
we strategize more than Caesar
while hanging virtual gardens of Babylon,
after processing more information than
England’s Henrys combined.
Takeout has erased “I have to make dinner,”
online blogs have buggered relaxation
while reading the newspaper,
no one demurs a date on Saturday night
because they need to wash their hair.

When I hear bandwidth
I think of grosgrain ribbon,
the kind decorating straw derby hats
that men wore while playing in gazebos in parks,
trombone, shiny patent leather shoes,
pants with creases in them, couples swing dancing.
It must have taken a long time to pull all that together,
we once had to iron and used curlers,
learned to move together in time.
The females who said "my dance card is full"
as they twirled away, now twerk at raves.

I have started making a list-
I currently have no digital hertz for Facebook
no analog bits for a new App or Audible,
for podcasts or driving across town for soccer practice,
forget scrapbooking and styling my hair.
Sorry, I won’t be bundling or upgrading,
installing new software or changing servers.

Having always had trouble saying no,
I am considering a raft of cliches so I don’t have to,
my tank is on empty, my cake isn't baked,
my shoes need to be reheeled,
my metal has been shipped to China,
I pitched all my fastballs,
thank you but my bells have tolled.

My bandwidth is like the worn edging on
a beloved security blanket, reminiscent
of the song “My Favorite Things,”
like girls in white dresses with pink satin sashes,
I say yes to bright copper kettles and warm
woolen mittens, snowflakes and eyelashes,
please to books and rose gardens and bicycles.
I won’t help you move, but will organize your closet,
can’t join the board but will take on a boarder.

"I don’t have the bandwidth for that"
has replaced "my plate is full,"
both analogies that reflect the famine and fluff of life,
which is a sometimes a buffet at Las Vegas,
a french pastry shop, a u-pick berry farm.
If we are lucky, our hardest decisions
are because of too many too good things.
At times we employ a trough
slop on experiences and obligations,
and in other moments we can barely
manage a tea cup saucer,
only allowing for bergamot, two sugar cubes,
a mouthful of cream.

The Radical Act of Choosing Joy

It doesn't happen very often, but sometimes I need an extra day :) Thank you patient readers. End of the school year kid crunch! My youngest turned twelve yesterday!

The Radical Act of Choosing Joy


Nothing is as subversive
as anarchist, fascist, as a smile
nothing as socialist, communist,
leftist, conservative, libertarian
as a hug.

Sohei warriors have nothing on you,
one could spend eight hours learning
to levitate all the while cursing their master.
Architects, benefactors,
recipients on monuments and plaques,
often stand upon the poop deck,
look out the window of their penthouse
and see only masses of hunger and despair.
Only a true hero attunes to tenacity and hope.

Flowers and dogs must be employed,
winged and scurrying creatures are
absolutely required.
Cross training of stretch and walk, of bend
and percussion on kidneys and sternum,
sleep and laughter applied often, water,
both imbibed and submerged into.
Once you are supple you must
not coat yourself in teflon,
but in bubble wrap,
you invite others to pop.

To see humans as you do an Icelandic poppy
or a Newfoundland,
extraordinary in their curve and gesture,
sometimes you must call everyone
dear or hon or love or sweetie
as does a shop worker at the drug store
on her feet all day,
who takes time in the morning first with pin curls.

The man cutting you off in traffic
becomes not a prick but someone on
an imperative mission, one day
on the heels of insults,
you hurl a blessings,
God speed!
The surly child or boss
becomes your greatest teacher,
pulling your shadows out of Hefty trash bags,
like last season’s moldering clothes.
Hang it all on the line,
thank them on the heels of your curses.

You will fail, you will hourly
be petty and dismissive
a whole afternoon judging those around you
as selfish and addicts,
we must pivot, reset, reboot, reconsider,
we must snap the rubber band of patience
until our wrist blood boils,
bite our tongues when we want to
find fault until we could insert a piercing
and then most importantly, treat ourselves
to the foot massage parlor.

A gray hair in your eyebrow
and you are not old but Gandalf,
my period starting and my girls used all the pads,
tampon shoved, for the first time in a decade,
little blotter of release I reframe it.
We are all devils and false prophets,
we are all angels and elephants.
Prayer is is is is
(every poem I write is some version of this searching for)
rocket fuel, jetpacks of solace,
prayer is little Tic Tac orange mist moments
under our tongue infusions of perhaps...

Lavender grows in the sandiest soil,
bananas on the counter are gifts
from the most benevolent universe.
We must belay one another, for this
hardest, damnednest
craziest vicious and viscous act,
open our throats to whimper and moan,
to grunt and shriek,
until we are open to it, it is the hardest vein to find,
(we are junkies for anger and shame and sorrow),
let it be a trickle, then a creek, stream, ocean
what colors are your,
how will others speak of your,
will you use glitter or sequins to bedazzle your
Joy, Joy, Joy.

On Cleaning Up the Cat Barf

This picture perfectly describes living with teenagers, anarchy and love co-exisiting!

On Cleaning Up the Cat Barf


That three children told me
was in the family room,
no matter they all wanted
the cat and for solid hours
when she was a kitten
extolled her every purr and meow.

"There is someone at the door"
is another one
as if they don’t walk through it
twenty times a day as do I.
"We are out of toilet paper"
as they leave the bathroom
even though they too
could check upstairs for more rolls.

Dishes left by the television,
they pretend are mini-spaceships
left by anonymous aliens,
little balls of dirty socks
like mammoth stink bombs,
each punctuate the assumed
irrelevance of my time.
There are spiders in their dusty rooms
only I am able to escort,
and wet towels on the floor
that somehow only I have
the skills to place on towel racks.
Seems I am alone possess
opposable thumbs, far and near vision.

How lovely to live like little
rajas, czars and princes,
it must be awesome to have the train
of your gown lifted as you float through life.
I raise it often, the alternative,
to get them to contribute
requires tools I have not sharpened,
diplomacy I am too tired to attempt.

I finally understand the
indulgent grandparents,
seeking sweet revenge.
I will jack their toddlers up with candy
and return them tantrumming,
give their teenagers black coffee
and sips from my wine.
I will sit back and delight in the eye rolling,
the "oh my gods" and "whatevers"
delight they are not directed at me.

My Poems Get More Likes When They are Sexy

I figure if there are nude shots of Lisa Bonet on the internet under images, I can write about them, no?! I wanted to share I did get lilacs for Mother's Day, a bush! Never underestimate the power of suggestion (or FaceBook where I hinted to my kids, Thanks Misha and Emily :))

My Poems Get More Likes When They are Sexy


In a collection of letters
I have from my dead father,
who didn’t want his amor
to show her parents his correspondence,
he wrote in the margins and between lines
you are hot, I want to kiss you
only he said it with way more
hotness and mentioned the places
he wanted to kiss.
I was shocked when I discovered them
and they are the ones I read most.

It is tempting to so spice up
a solemn poem I penned a few weeks ago,
"An Open Letter to the Man Who
Killed Himself on My Property,"
from my low numbers,
the poem was as well social media suicide.
I should have said
"An Open Letter to the (Sexy) Man..."
it wouldn’t be a stretch,
Claus built our house with his own hands,
arousing for sure.

Similarly, my person receives more
comments when I am coquettish,
more shares when I employ suggestion,
loosening a button on my blouse
or choosing heels over flats,
which I do sometimes and yes
always to be better liked.
Yet, I try not to manipulate
the number of clicks my prose procures,
too easy to throw in a reference to my ass
to keep the readers interest,
a cheap trick to use cheap tricks.

I am pleased my readers are a randy bunch,
as I prefer such company,
if my thoughts were cartoon bubbles,
every other one would be an innuendo,
they’d be studded with stars and exclamations.
I am not sure where I want to
go with this poem, certainly not
moralizing since sex is the factory
pumping out the world, its products being
each bird and bee, each flower and tree.

Rather, I am learning the parts of us
we banish, the bitch and judge,
the hissy and hussy,
once in timeout, collude to colonize.
It is best to befriend them,
the lawyer wants our case fairly tried,
the diva vies for self care.

Even the voyeur is hoping for wholeness,
for beauty and pleasure.
Mine recently googled Lisa Bonet,
a child star from The Cosby Show.
My ogler couldn’t tell you what Lisa has been up to
for twenty years of her career,
the initial reason for the internet search,
only in images she was pictured topless
and her nipples reminded of cookies
called Bright Eyed Susans,
Hersey kisses nestled in a ring of vanilla dough.
Such fun it was to help
my mother make them.
Such a secret, my quiet giggles,
when I positioned the dark chocolate sweet.

I Miss

I wrote this poem at an amazing training I attended last Saturday. It has been a long time dream of mine to write poetry with at risk teens and a group called Pongo has been doing just that, working for years with young adults in shelters, juvenile detention centers and state institutions. This powerful quote sums up the process, "Through writing kids learn that they are not terrible people, but that terrible things happened to them." Resilience and hope are the most common outcomes of shared writing. When I wrote this poem I later thought, I miss so many more things, but I am letting this stand :)

I Miss


I got lost driving to Seattle today,
wound up under the freeway onramps,
solid battleships above me
as I straddled the old road,
train tracks shiny black licorice.
I miss times that existed before I was born,
before billboards and brightly
colored cars and clothing.
In my soul I am wearing linen,
riding on running boards,
my kids are excited about new marbles.

Instead of trading a yellow for a blue cat’s eye,
we stare at our phones, slick and rectangular
as plastic boxes holding decks of cards.
We lie together each scrolling,
our fingers are figure skaters over the
slick glass, scrolling for versions
of virtual kings and queens, aces and joker.
I miss playing cribbage with my son,
love how at a certain age he began
to move the pegs and add up points,
naturally taking charge like a man.

We forgot to put our chickens in last night.
the sound of the hunter,
neighbor dog or coyote was almost
mechanical, its blood cry.
I miss my resilience sometimes,
the way I have rallied,
once at one in the morning,
my flashlight a captured moon,
guiding me over the lawn
that needed mowing,
the long wet grass coming
over the sides of my slippers.
I will always remember how the chickens
puffed up on their perch
when I came to close and latch the door,
their little nods of thank you.

Lifting Lilacs

Thanks Adam for the title of this poem! I am still holding out for lilacs for Mother's Day, (hint hint children who sometimes read my poetry on FaceBook :)). Happy Mom's day to all you mommas!

Lifting Lilacs


The first of May and I still haven’t
a bud vase near my bed,
nor sweetness in the entryway,
no pitchers brimming with
the cream of spring.

Once contained,
like thirteen year old girls
lovely as fillies, raspberries,
puppy love and kittens,
lilacs have a short shelf life,
the leaves limp after a day or two
clusters of petals
too soon like bread crusts.

I have yet to plant my own bushes
and every year come April,
drive with envy toward town,
past old farm houses,
stalwarts against suburbia,
they are flush with fuchsia forethought,
standard issue along the wood shed.

I am not a thief
save the occasional waiting room
magazine and Halloween candy from my kids,
but I have for years now
driven at dusk, in the nick of night
and brazenly at midday
with scissors in my glovebox.

This year I spoke my illicit intentions aloud,
the extroverts in my family
suggest I knock on doors and simply ask,
don’t understand my reticence,
the plea akin to soliciting for money
or trying to convert souls.
The introverts cringe
at the whole business,
alarm me of the possibility of interacting
with another (and hostile) human.

This may be the year
we are not graced by violet,
no lacy lobes yet
as I am too tired come evening
and feel less criminal as the years pass.
I nod to them as I whiz by
and if walking, lean in,
inhale long enough
to last a whole year.

When A Man Saw Me Sniff My Armpit

How I would love to include a survey with my poems! Do you or do you not?! If you are interested in my process a bit, I also revised my poem from last week. I felt it wasn't done, but ran out of time and adding a final stanza communicated best what I really am ready for at 48! The link to it should be under this week's poem. Hugs!

When A Man Saw Me Sniff My Armpit


He was waiting for a bus
and I zipped by in my car,
having done a quick errand
after running.
I must admit I love
the odor sometimes,
like today after a sweaty run,
my face, neck and lower back
slicked with it.

It pleases me he noticed
and I hope he scratched
his behind in turn.
I want to see a woman
on the street
dig her panties out of her crack
and a man adjust his testicles.

Perhaps once home
he will lift his partner’s arm
or don tennis shoes,
eager for his body’s own
skunky scent.

I love how kids’ fingers
smell like their privates half the time
and they lick the snot off
their upper lip.
I forget when we stopped,
perhaps when we also
stopped dancing.

On Contemplating Birkenstocks at 48

Serious poems lately, and it's sandal-ish weather! This man would definitely wear Birks!

On Contemplating Birkenstocks at 48


Going shoeless in the Pacific Northwest
is not always practical,
threats of banana slugs
and wet mossy driveways.
Clogs are sometimes just too cloddy.
My Nike slides co-opted from the
family jocks are not cutting it,
nothing goes with black plastic and a white swish,
I am not Kobe Bryant or a swim coach.

It seemed time when my middle schooler asked for a pair,
she of Pink sweatshirts and Forever 21 brands,
when 17 year olds are wearing them with thong panties.
Birkenstocks have become cool again.
My vegan high schooler forages for them at Goodwill,
but then she makes boxy boy’s t-shirts
worn with wool socks and
skinny jeans look runway worthy.
She could be on their website,
like the hip young millenials with coltish bodies
and lustrous locks, not a tie-dye,
beer belly or yellow toenail in sight.
I panic I am suddenly too old to wear them.

When you let your hair go gray as I am doing,
you have to compensate in another area-
get a nose ring or attach acrylic nails,
or do you?
At almost fifty my own mum
paired long sundresses with unshaven legs,
wore Birkenstock’s in size ten and then eleven.
Bra off, a glass of wine in her hand
as she made dinner, barefoot or Birked
I loved her for that,
never wanted a coiffed and cuffed mother,
she was and is a beauty.
How am I just discovering jute and cork,
latex milk from the rubber tree!?
What might happen on a natural footbed?!

One of my favorite life coaches
is a Brit who teaches tai chi,
most of his wisdom can be
distilled to the concept of
“being in the back of your body,”
(although he pronounces it “boody”).
He suggests our wrenching and wrangling,
our diseases and dis-ease
come from trying to make things happen.
Rather be the king or queen of your life,
relax upon your throne,
let the universe bring its riches to you,
all by not leaning forward.

The first time I tried on my
mellow-fun-go-with-the-flow partner’s well
worn flip flops, I was rocked onto my heels,
my god, he is in the back! I marveled.
The Birkenstock website touts
"a deep heel cup
and recreating the experience of
walking on a gently yielding surface,"
at mid life, I am ready.