She did not realize that
she had spent her entire
discretionary time on one person.
When that one person disappeared

She realized how rich she actually

was without him.

Rather like a lollipop. Sucks until you’re over them.

There is some type of infectious optimism
in the people of Oregon–
Our rig breaks down, so the mechanic,
who is probably young enough to be our son,
can not get the work done in a day–
He invites us over–we camp in his field
we play with his goats, llamas, and dogs,
we have Mexican food from the Dundee diner
and go to the cinema to watch
The Lone Ranger while
the mechanic and his help make us whole.

And when the sun goes down
and the girls are finished swimming
and the neighbor’s goat is properly
penned in and fed,
we have a fireworks show–
no one cares that it’s a day late.

And in the morning, everyone gets back
to work to fix the coach, except for
Isabelle, the kid goat, and Jasper, the hound.
And it takes longer than they thought,
so the goat and dog go find some shade
and lollygag around for a few hours.

And when dusk comes again, everything is fixed
Except for the goat that needs to have its
foot bandaged–seems it wrestled with the fence
or Mango the chihuahua who thinks he’s an Australian
Shepherd.

And everything is calm, and the blueberries ripen
daily. One must be happy here in the summer

amid all this green.

Retired from two careers. At sixty-two,
Lost his retirement when Monkey Wards
Went belly up—spent thirty-five years
Fixing old televisions, worn out refrigerators,
Broken mixers.

That is when he found the bees. Hive after hive
Of honeybees transported in winter to California’s
Central valley—seven trips in ten days once from Montana
To Modesto. That lasted until Argentina decided
To export their hives. Outsourced.

Now, an eighty-something year old living
In the back lot of the RV park, repairing
Old sprinklers and stopping by our rig
To chat and forget the state of the union
That seems to have forgotten him.

He remembers that the bees huddle together
During the thirty below winters near Great Falls.
I love his stories. We huddle for awhile.

Then his wife calls him back.
Still serving the queen bee long after
Dusk.

That lion, the one with the thorn in its paw—
How’d that get there, anyway, that thorn?

And what’s that kid’s name? Aesop knew.
You know, the boy who pulled out that thorn
and was no sooner forgotten as we all
fell in love with the lion. We all remember
the lion.

But I wonder, how did that infamous
thorn so conveniently find its way
into that paw garnering all of our
Sympathy for that rat…I mean cat?

No one tells that story.

Perhaps the lion left Pyongyang on a
freighter, a trade for three North Korean
children, and ended up in the wilds
of some sub-Saharan desert
in fast pursuit of a pokey canine pup
owned by a great Mauritanian warlord.

Entering the thick brush beneath a Red Acacia

on the scent of that pokey little puppy

(who himself had come sniffing
innocently for rice pudding),
our Pantera leo may have crouched silently.

No one would have been there to record

the bloody demise of the pooch—

that moment when Jung Poo (oh, let’s just call

him that for fun) leaped forward to sink
his chiseled canines deep into the puppy’s
adorableness, and inadvertently and rather
unremarkably landed smack dab
on one of the smallest Acacia thorns in the thicket—
Jung Poo, heavy with that lust for fresh meat
would not be deterred.

Just thereafter is when the little Greek tike

might have wandered by spying the beast, who sat

licking Pokey’s life juice from its chops.
Cunningly, the cat flashed the pricked paw,
and probably gazed up sheepishly with those
puppy-dog fed eyes, stealing our and
Androcles’ heart.

As for the latter part of the tale,
The part when Androcles is thrown
into the lion’s den only to face Jung Poo,
who greets him kindly in that public
forum completing the tale of how mercy

is often reciprocal?

Don’t be fooled.  A lion is a lion,

and Aesop told fables.

Patsy made a daring leap from
Four feet up she propelled her torso
Off the seat to land, then tumble
Onto the wood-chipped earth.
She’d half expected a mouthful
Of tanbark.

Dirty mouth, potty mouth,
Soap and bitters wash it out
Learn your lesson before you
Speak—you cannot retract
A single word, not a single
Word.

So swing away, you little miss,
There’s not much time to fit
This in—Summer will in short
Be gone and you will wish
That you had played a little
Nicer with the gentle boy
From down the way.

She might have spared
Her tongue a tad had she known
That words could hurt.
She could not bare embarrassment
So she pushed him with all
Her girly might,
Then let fly
A few quick words, proving
Far, far worse than the dusty
Grit of playground dirt.

Seems that people are legitimately surprised
That rain showers in California actually happen
Sometimes even in June. Like today,
Rain bathed us all. No one, not I especially,
Complained. On the contrary, those looking saw
smiles on the garden mall streets,
in the bookstore where people actually
paid cash for print copies of books–
real books. And I, I bought another
of Billy’s books of poetry for a friend
but felt almost like an adulterer…
One does not give a book
of poetry on a rainy day in June
To just anyone. And the tears came
But raindrops camouflaged them
Beautifully.

I had only said it once before,
out loud, I mean, not actually to
the person
So, when I said it to you, it was
a risk–and I, risk averse.

I would take it back now
if I could
Because the pain is now
unbearable–
I should like to wall myself up
the way Montressor did to Fortunado–
Yes, bricked in for saying,
“I love you.”

Put it on and dance away
Wrap your arms in joyful play
Forget that people like to say,
“Girls just wanna have fun!”

Have some, will ya?

 

Born somewhere in the middle of the pack
he learned early to fend for himself.
Cleaned chicken coops and gathered eggs,
Saved his pennies for his first date
With the girl whom he would soon marry–
He took her to the fair, he did; even won her a teddy bear
(an American original); spent his
weekly salary on the outing. Proposed,
and then three children later, he
began to show them that integrity means
working hard, spending within
one’s means, repairing broken things,being true to one’s word.

He models still that helping others more often
then helping self brings joy; putting family first,
smiling even in the face of hardship,
working for decades in an often thankless job,
and then finding some fulfillment in teaching
during his retirement years–continue to frame

his being.

Just how

watching vigil over his then ill seventy something
wife and before that an ailing brother
taught his children what real love looks like.
Always giving more than is asked.
Providing a home for a struggling child,
fixing the old cars of every needy friend,
finding more joy in a fishing pole, a pack
of frozen anchovies, and a Pepsi than the richest man on earth finds
in his fleet of automobiles or his caviar and champagne
satisfies any true definition of success.

He, still smiling, texts his granddaughters about
silly things like when will they be weeding his garden or washing his car
because he knows a little “real work” is good for the soul,
and he smiles when he hears about his grandson’s motocross victories,

but even broader when his son calls for advice about a

blown head gasket (yes, talks about car parts could persist for hours)

because helping his adult children navigate hard personal
struggles, always with a kind word, a calm assurance
that when they do what is right, it will all work out
in the end, seems to bring him happiness, too

At least they like to believe that.

And now when someone happens by,
a visitor perhaps to my home,
they see his picture and ask,
“Who is that?”

And I say, “There is a Man.”
A great one.
My father.

This morning, like many mornings in mid June,
Begins with the relaxing moments of alone.
Alone, the time and space of zero proximity,
The reminder of Herman Hesse’s “Alein,”
The streets empty, the ways abandoned,
Yet the travels good, peaceful–it’s not a lonely
aloneness, but rather the peaceful, quiet
of the river and surrounding trees

with their flitting leaves bathed by early morning sun,

its rays making the body stretch and
inhale the good air of this coastal valley,

and then,
The realization that any work done today
is done by choice not obligation
That writing a poem to greet the day
Is as good as sleeping or doing the laundry
And when the rest of the family wakes
The day will bustle with summer travel
preparations or children and grandchildren
and the whole day will end back here, alone
in peace with the words.

Somewhere they are enjoying a lovely
dinner of seafood and linguine
while the one person in the party,
who either dislikes or is allergic
to fish, cringes at the blessed meal that
could so quickly send her to the
hospital or mortuary.

“But have no fear,” her son
proclaims. “Batman is here,”
with his black cape and knightly
steed to save her from
the briny beasts that haunt
her dreams and make her
wish she had been born
a grizzly, or at least a very
smart dog that wanders around
the acreage looking for
Christopher Robin,
or at least Michael Caine,
to whom it owes its
undying loyalty–
unlike the humans she
now knows.

Never thought I’d say this:
I can not make nice with you.
I’ll fix what I can,
I’ll do my part,
But you, you need to meet
me somewhere in the middle–
I promise not to make that middle
near quicksand,
over a fire,
under a falling bridge.

Why is it different this time?
Perhaps, I’ve aged–
or learned,
learned that giving in,
apologizing when I have
done nothing wrong,
accepting blame to soothe
your own bruised ego
Landed me squarely
alone, empty, and set up
for another round of
disappointment.
Perhaps I have learned
that allowing you to dominate
weakens you–
You, like the king of your lion’s
pride, owning the world
and caring little for others–
but time will win.
What kind of loser will
you be then?

Oh, Emilia. You did not choose
wisely.

Reflecting on this year, or really the past 10 months, I have come to realize that there is some type of fire that I must have needed to walk through.  If the kiln’s flame burns away impurities in order to leave that glossy glaze-shine on ceramic works, then my weak self must have needed to be purged as things have reached maximum Celsius as of a couple of days ago.  I won’t bore you with the details, but I should like to leave some of this yuck on the page here rather than carry it around any longer.  Warning:  Don’t read further if you’re looking for a pick-me up.

Early in the school year, a young girl took her own life.  What followed and is still following is a sordid tale of family strife and uncovered violence in the days preceding her death that has triggered all kinds of impossible emotional confrontations for myself and for many of the people around me.

Today, it is less than a week until students and staff are off on their summer hiatus.  I, too, will head for time with my family in July and then a couple of self-indulgent weeks learning and working with Billy Collins at Stony Brook University in Southampton, New York.  My mother, who has finally recovered, will go with me for some fun times, and for that I am eternally grateful.  I have lots of fodder for poetry, so I hope the writing  is rich.  If it’s not, heaven help me.  I hope that the fire begins to die down, I hope the glaze seals in any more oozing wounds , I hope I make it to another day in some way having grown and learned something besides how to quell erupting pain.  I’m including two letters I received this week from students I taught last year in English–in good years I would find notes like these so gratifying; good kids they are to have taken time to write these kind words. I don’t include them as a boast–for me, this year, they are hard reminders of what I gave up. As Aristotle says, “We cannot learn without pain,”  so I will, however much I may dread it, give this new role another shot, a clean slate on August 1.  Maybe next year will be better.  No more Masters/Admin classes, my daughter will be coming to the school, we are looking forward to a wedding of my son and his fiance, and through marriage we are gaining two beautiful new grandchildren. How lucky should I count myself? After what feels like a non-stop year of moral torture, it will be a relief to let it go.

Is it possible to feel both
about the same topic or person,

I think not.

So, which is it?
Do you feel nothing, like the cold
stone washed over continually by

the ebb and flow of the ocean’s tide,
Or is it that burning but unexplainable
feeling like the northern lights
“those queer sights”
that you cannot face, but
in rejection of what is known,

sear your soul despite no flame?

The dichotomy dictates a truth
resting somewhere in the middle.
When you grow up, you’ll find it.
Maybe you’ll find yourself in the same
place.

I’ll be somewhere else, wondering how,

exactly, to stop begging the question.

Who’d a thunk that being a nerd
would someday be c’est chic?
I mean, really.
It used to be a derogatory label,
something unwanted. Maybe
Bill Gates made it known,
Fox’s Alex Keaton made it knowable,
and Intercollegiate a capella groups
made being a nerd desirable?
Well, maybe not.
But nerdville, or the state of reveling
in one’s own love of learning,
love of something unique
something perhaps not entirely popular,
no longer will be tossed around
so lightly. Pocket-protected brainiacs and
poetry lovers may simply find
their way less cluttered by the hurling
of the word, while true nerds,
those who don’t mind or feel threatened
by the labels of others will reclaim
the word from the wanna be nerds
who feign love of literature or math
but who clamor to be campus all-stars
joining fraternities and sororities
not to serve, but to find acceptance.

Those accused of being
one, ought to decide if they owe thanks
or apologies to those who rightfully
deserve the title.

Nerds love the irony
of being cool.

We think our kids are just an extension of us—

What folly that is, how vain.

 

When born, they conjure within us

Awe. 

As they grow, we realize

They are not us—they are more,

They are the greatest teachers

We could ever have,

Even when they are scribbling

With ball point pens on the kitchen wall,

throwing tantrums

In the produce isle,

Cheating on their math

Test. 

 

Somehow, they learn to please us, yet

Know exactly how to hurt us.

And we, we smile through it. 

When they stay out too late,

Or call at midnight to say

they’ve wrecked the car,

Or lost their keys, or need some money,

We quickly remember when they

Said “Happy Mother’s Day” or can I help?

Wait, have they ever us asked that?

But they have done plenty.

They have

Proudly shown us their drawings,

Brought home good grades, or at least

Nice comments from the teacher,

Helped a friend who needs their time,

They call their sister or tell their brother

They love them.

Remember the time they helped out

The food pantry or the blood or bone marrow drive

Or taught art to the kindergarten class,

Or did magic tricks at the children’s hospital?

People think parents had something to do

With that.  Children do good works in

The world, which we, the parents, often

Receive credit. 

 

We were as surprised as anyone.

 

They are their own selves. They love, hurt,

help, honor, make mistakes and make the

world better.

 

They are so human and that, I suppose,

Is how they are just like us.

It strikes me as odd
To move on from you

You, who my spirit knew
Were once—maybe in some former life
Or different dimension—
Connected to me.

The grand archer or better yet the universe
May slingshot us back around, our paths
crossing yet again,
The tail of Haley’s Comet kissing our parted
Paths. Perhaps we will find a more normalized
Friendly way to be—perhaps I’ll be younger,
Perhaps I will have evolved into a better
Being.

Or maybe, we will end forever.

Such a difficult possibility
To accept.
By ending you will find new
Beginnings—ones you never ever
Thought you were looking for—
And I, well, I will follow the rainbow
Toward the light that created it
And maybe be surprised to find a golden soul
Sitting next to a pot of un-conditionality.

I have none in race cars, grunge rock, nor butterfly collections
And I could not care less about hairstyles, Warren Buffet, or chemistry.
I’m absolutely sure I will never enjoy baiting a hook again,
And I’d rather cut my thumb off than go to a party where women
in stilettos downplay their intelligence
I do, however, like my own car, some classic rock, and butterflies
that are still alive.
And I do fix my hair each morning and like to be able to do that, and Buffet’s
influence on Bill Gates is admirable, and cooking is chemistry as is
my connection to certain people I love.
I’m happy my father loves to fish because I’m happy
when he is,
And while I’d still rather never attend one of “those” kinds of parties,
I’m envious of women who look so damn beautiful–obviously not envious enough
to try on, buy, or least of all wear that modern form of foot-binding,
but some of those ladies are rightfully gorgeous.
Nonetheless, I think I’ll keep my thumb for now
and find a past time elsewhere
perhaps here on the page.

Titles often speak for themselves.
In this case, it is my daughter
who, obsessed with cartoon critters
and anime heroes, begs just thirty
more minutes of a night that
wanted to end an hour ago.
And I, I say “Okay, stay up,”
because tonight she remains
young, a kid, and I would always
rather have her in this space
than in that land of teenage angst,
lost early 20s, or somewhere
searching for her childhood
that I may have in some way
stolen had I said, “Off to bed,
you Charizard loving lady.”

Mid-June and Saturday night still feels
oddly quiet; the kids play noiselessly in the street
while the weather teases with summer-like
breezes. Tourists in Omaha begin packing
for their turn on our beach front porch.

So what is it about this late spring
that causes not just the young lovers
to profess their naive adoration or
to find themselves lollygaging
for hours on park fairways
making daisy chains and promises
that will most likely not be kept?
All quietly wishing for the perfect
world that happens only
in Jay Gatsby’s dreams.

There must be a perfectly plausible
planetary alignment explanation for
what happens in May; all of the drama,
emotional upheaval that
young and old people feel.

Or maybe, the earth tilts, the gravity
shifts, and the once known paths
need to be re-forged through the
young minds while wise men
among us watch in amazement
as the sun sets on their youth
and the youngsters
don’t even see it coming.

Maybe time slips unnoticed
And tomorrow is 2015, 2020,
a long time from now, but youth
can not see it; they cannot see
time skipping past them,
laughing at their thoughtlessness.

It’s not like you have a broken arm
or leg that limps along
Or that you did not leave the trash
Piled on the table there.
You did.
You also left your rubbish
at my door the last time you visited.
But I did not mind because
I figured you’d be back to pick
it up–or at least say you were
sorry for dumping it there.

Actually, I much prefer you
leaving your trash
than you just leaving.

Why is it that when I’m angry,
I smile? I smile when I’m sad, too-
and frustrated, annoyed, amused–
Oh, that would make sense,
forget amused.

But I did not smile when the hand
went up to silence me;
I did not smile when the good friend
turned away, when the dog died, when
the cat was eaten by the coyote.

Perhaps I am just not capable of being
mad enough or sad enough
or steel beam hard.
Perhaps the power to smile through
pain, laugh at my own neurosis,
observe the broken vase and see
the variety of mosaic pieces
and the new beautiful possibilities,
is the only real gift I have…
I should be grateful.

Often, though, I wish I could
sing instead.

Replacing old tires makes
Me think about those I know
Who easily replace people,
After all, there are plenty of
People in the world
To meet and befriend in a lifetime.

But perhaps, we grow stronger when
what we have come here to learn
comes through the folks
We often take for granted,
Those we now know
Even better than we might have wished.
Endured their imperfections,
Witnessed their shortcomings,
Pointed out the parsley in their teeth,
The open fly, the wrinkled collar.
Called their bluffs, felt their pain,
Laughed at their youthful naiveté.
Maybe we can only learn about
Ourselves when we persist,
Run along side, hang in there
With them, our people.
As we reflect in their failures and successes
We learn because
We are not made of rubber.

Where do those old tires go anyway?
Piled in mounds south of Modesto
Waiting for the chance to be recycled,
Waiting like the people we throw away,
Who, once as perfect as the new people we meet,
Wonder how they found themselves
Laying atop the heap of old tires
Ready to be shredded or burned
When our use for them diminishes.

Oh how so.

It arrived like a love letter
or an innocuous request
for interviews about the next prom
or help with an essay.
The digital chime announced the Trojan horse
that bore the weaponry of this personal war,
The weapons more powerful than
bombs laden with fleshets,
the ammunition merely words.

The next time you feel the need to
unleash your anathemas on me,
perhaps check your facts.
Perhaps check to see
if you know anything at all.
Do not tell me that I could have
made a difference as you
attack like a blood-sucking leech
feeding on all of our pain.

I have known pain.
Your words are not capable
of hurting me.

Have a nice day, pal.

Slight, as in thin and fragile–
not as in the stealthy, magician’s
sleight where one card disappears
deep into the deck only to be found
in the pocket of the man sitting in the third row,
the man, who, shocked himself by the discovery,
claims he stands amazed then sits back down.

I stand next to a slight man
with slight hands, thin fingers,
jet black hair, a sleight
personality
and he says to me, “Ma’am,
you have my card in your pocket.”
And I reach in and pull out
a card, not the ace of spades,
but a “get out of jail free.”

So, I thanked him
and left.

If he had looked, he would have seen
a Tommy Bahama palm tree and four
lighthouse photos from Cape Hatteras
all ringing halos around the stacks of unfinished manuscripts and
bits of poetry that clutter her mind
as much as they clutter the binders full of one liners waiting
for their shot at stardom in a little poem
about a very naughty boy who kept telling
his mother he was good
but then who sneaks out nightly
to head to the movies with
Tom Wingfield,
then buy a taco from the
taco truck
on the corner of Vermont and 17th. before
heading to the Opium den
in Koreatown.

But he’d have to look fast, because the lights
are dimming quickly and the whole show
will be over before he realizes it,
and she will have moved on to another world,
another time, another metro station.

She danced on the head of Billy’s pin*,
Unencumbered by the weight of conscience,
fear of rejection, too much ice cream.

When it was time to go,
she flapped her wings and
set off to New York City
or maybe southwest
to San Diego.

But, perhaps her assignment
shifted to the south of France
creating wind currents for
cliff divers in the Gorges de Verdun
Or she may flap particularly hard
to the right and end up at
the pediatric ward
of a hospital in Nebraska
To swing dance opposite Lily Donn
As she readies for her
bone marrow transplant.

Once, I saw a duck lift off the river
right on the wet precipice
of Niagra Falls,
Like this angel on a mission.
Perhaps I need to change directions, too.
Avoid the cliff and head back
to Billy’s sewing room,
find that pin,
and invite his angel friend
over for peppermint tea,
stories about her dog, and a dance
to happy jazz.

*”Questions About Angels” by Billy Collins
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/176044

Her flipflops kicked up sand as she
turned off the wide beach-hugging sidewalk
just off 17th Avenue at Venice Beach–
Another California winter.
No need for sweaters or sunscreen
today. Just another moment
in Paradise–
And Sheryl Crow wrote a song
And America travels Ventura Highways
And blonde bombshells in pink bikinis
tease marajuana vendors,
leather sales clerks,
and one-legged muscle men
because fun is relative
and tomorrow the youthful strides
will be replaced by suburban
duldrums, and midlife crisis
will romanticize the beauty of
what is the most woeful festival
of wandering souls.

And Maggie will get back into her
Six-year-old SUV, drive
eight hours north to her cookie-cutter
job in her cookie cutter life
and count her blessings the
way no one ever has because
at home, in a quiet corner of her
room, she creates worlds
filled with magic and heroes
and endless summer days
that make winter in LA feel
mediocre.

Maggie, a girl with a dream,
Drove south for a while
Until the sun set
And darkness called her home.

Not that Descartes waxed wrong,
but being and thinking
deviate.
The first, a matter entirely not up to itself
The second,
Impossible without about.

One cannot think oneself into existence,
But one can think oneself out.

If I think about you,
I am human.

If I love you,
I am a slave
to thought.

And the red balloon
launched into flight
Just before dawn
raised her golden head
and sleep changed
thought to dreams.

Ah, to dream.
There’s that nasty
rub.

This modern term, often just a heart shaped
graphic or a certain bending of the fingers,
reminds me that love always finds
new ways to express itself
like the child I met yesterday,
a sweet little boy with a love of
Batman so great that he gave his
new comic book to his nurse, saying,
“Take this home to your little boy
so when he has to come to a hospital,
he’ll have the Cape Crusader with him.”
It’s almost religious, that kind of love.

And then there’s the broken heart;
The un-hearted.
Bleeding with no way to bind itself.

Unconquerable. It celebrates aloud
And in silence
Every step from first
To her aged last. That love,
Takes every pain without
Reserve
Waits for word without
Resentment
No other love accepts that
Role.
No other love has that
Patience.

Chicken scratch fills up the page,

unlike the characters these keystrokes make–

So when errors appear

They disappear

Almost.

Not stuck in cyberspace, but imprinted nonetheless

Until someone burns the paper

Or writes over it making new marks,

Creating new meaning,

Hiding mistakes forever.

Who said, “It wasn’t that they won or lost…”
Lied, for sure.
Winning is all that matters
In games like this.
But anticipating the win
Is nearly as much fun as
the win itself, no?
I’ve driven to work on Monday morning
a million times in my head
listening to the winners hailed
and the memories of the game,
every glorious pass and fumble,
bouy me up
for whatever unpleasantries
await.

No one can take that away.

Thanks for the game,
either way, team.

It sounded poetic in a carnivourous kind of way,
that while beer-battered cod made for nice pairings
with chips, halibut, the giant sea floor sucker,
with its mild, milk white texture is more delectable–

Like the right man often eclipses the good man,
Like the destination arrived at alone,
Like the understudy to Daniel Day Lewis

Logic is surreal. Daniel Day Lewis is no
bottom feeder, and I
no lover of fish nor poetics.

It’s not a mistake, that comma.
Just like the pause I made
When he asked me
if I had something I wanted to
to ask him. And I did,
but I dared not.

Or the break in the silence
when someone coughs,
clears his throat,
swallows hard because
the silence nearly gags
him.

Or the stillness when one
goes from sleeping to wakefulness,
the change in the breathing
that clues us that consciousness
has returned, albeit fuzzy.

So the what, the thing that
makes me pause, is the day.
Today.

We woke to inaugural parades,
Blanco’s “One Today,”
(He knows the relevance
even for the toddler who will
not remember the day, but
will for her entire life think
she does because her parents
and her teachers will make remarks
about a date when she was alive
and she’ll think she had something
to do with it–and she will have,
but not in the way she thinks.

And that today,
is what I mean.

My dog Bosco is cool, but his sister Penny
who suffered a broken back,
who now gallops around neighborhood trees
playing hide-and-go-seek with her litter mate,
reminds me that pain is temporary
until we die
And that even cold mornings feel warm
when we just go for it out the gate.

And then there is the boy,
who I’m watching turn into a man
one stumble or stride at a time
who inspires me to find myself
within the art of Billy Collins
or the hopefulness of everyday
encounters, to be happy just because.

And the clouds, yes, they inspire me,
as I see the soft formations
above the redwood spires and think to myself,
“to soar up there with JLS
might be worth a try.”

And then, of course, sound.
The comfort of the furnace in the morning,
the slapping together of dying leaves
on an afternoon in fall,
the constant spilling of the river’s spoils
and the rock’s response.

But none so constant an inspriration
as the pens themselves.
They wait patiently for their chance
to speak, yet sometimes
wish they’d kept their ink
to themsleves.
It is their generosity
that inspires me the most–

apologies to the beauty of the world.

Just as deadly as his Mama
He bit me when I wasn’t looking–
Turned my blood to water
Dripping like rain through
my struggling heart
bleeding me out in no time at all.
And he did not know
Because there’s no way
he could.

And the anti-venom did
little to settle things down
And I rested my head on the
foot of the bed
And remembered the day
I wanted to go for a hike
And instead met his
python unexpectedly.

Small victories, like 350 poems,
seem worth the moment
to reflect on the joy they help
remember, the pain they help
forget, the love they help
grow. In words, through these,
the rhythms flow
as life, one waking moment
at a time, shapes, molds,
files, chips away at the human
vaneer exposing our
vulnerable beings
or surprising even ourselves
at the strength of the core.
350 more may just release
the Krakken, or at least,
make sleeping possible.

Imminently.

Can a single word be a poem?
Can a haiku represent the image,
the loss of a child,
the magic of a moment?

Can the pressing word
conjure palpable feelings?

It’s coming.

Imminently.

She wonders if it ever gets better
If morning’s forgetfulness
can erase hard feelings, ugly evening
exchanges, bitter words left
burrowing through inner mind
making even more permanent
her desire for peace, calm,
solitude if necessary.

I looked over at you and just past you,
beyond your shiny espresso eyes no longer
shielded by that bullet proof glass, to
images of other men who remain
mounted on the wood panelled walls,
whose stares dot the dusty photographs.  These native
California sons, their brown hats and dirty
moustaches melt like chocolate shavings
into the coffee bean roaster and the sienna burlap bags
that make up Orchard Valley’s decor–
And while Billy may have remembered the orange
of the citrus and the bean thingy and vinegar jar
more clearly than the person with whom he sat-
I, from the other side of humanity, saw you–
the perfect joy of many lives, your utter sense of youthful
exuberance captured in the grand laugh.
Contemplative moments as we talk of women, futures,
puppy dog perfections,
and mundane amazements brought on by
the differneces in an iphone 4 and 5–
as your world becomes smaller and larger
at the same time.
And I, like Billy only in this way,
will always remember the moment.
Even when I forget the name of the shop,
or the vacant stare of the pachuco who began
as a farm hand and ended up on the
walls of the coffeeshop, I will remember
you and what you are becoming,
you, who saw the horizon,
and chose to fly instead of climb.

*Billy Collins wrote “This Much I Do Remember”  which a friend shared with me; yes, the friend at the coffeeshop.

She walked out to the well to collect a pail of water
And there, beneath the willow sat the artist
detailing and defining his daily life drawing–
Today, a stick bug had found his way
amid the ferns to the very relative looking
rose stems, now bare except for the thorns.

She stopped and watched the image emerge
as the artist’s pencil brought life to the page.
The insect moved ever so slightly
to improve its profile–this may be the one
shot at fame it might ever enjoy–
and the surrounding flowers blushed
their finest colors for they, too, saw
the fleeting moments as their chance
to be remembered if only through
the comingled colors of the artist’s
palatte–

And not long after, the artist packed his things
but not before peeling off the page from his
sketch book and handing it to the little girl.
“For you,” he smiled. “Now, don’t forget why
you came down this way,” he pointed to the well.

She folded the paper ever so slightly so as not
to put a crease in the stick bug’s portrait,
And the artist departed.

Years later, the litle girl, now quite
old but not yet senile,
found the sketch in an old poetry book.
She remembered the stick bug’s preening
And the little posies all posing so prettily,
and the artist, a man she’d known for years,
now gone elsewhere to sketch.

‘Tis difficult not to be cliché
on evenings such as this—
Auld Lang Syne, a midnight swoon,
Times Square countdowns, too,
Fill the eve with nostalgia sweet,
With cherished thoughts of you.

How much we laughed or shared a word
It matters not that much–
Because of you my heart is full
My blessings, all unearned.

May this coming year bring happiness
The sweetest joys that ring
From steeples tall and meadows vast
From stages, classrooms, kitchen chairs
I’ll toast you darling things!

Writing, whether for practical or impractical purposes,
Keeps me company.
In the late winter solstice evenings
Or early morning autumn hours,
On holidays or ordinary ones,
Words become proxy friends
Sharing happy news, calming
Frustration’s tears,
sealing memories, creating order.

Today’s words tell stories of impatience
As the day slides away, unproductively
And tomorrow, the end of the New Year
Promises nothing but the same old
Same old.
But then, almost without warning,
Revived words leap onto the page
Challenging me to figure it out,
Get thinking, doing, creating,
Plot, persuade, plead,
Until, like a magician’s swift hand,
They convince me–
that it matters, the thought; that
Words set revolutions afire,
Bind lovers, and lay us to rest.

So, I write again tonight
Because if I didn’t, there would
Only be darkness out of which
Comes nothing or no one. And
whether the words are read or
Sit silently, alone on the page,
They hold my hopes, joys, fears
They will not betray me if I weild them
respectfully–with care.

It doesn’t really matter what day it is.
The symbolism is lost on me;
I look around, wound up in the horrific world
of Capitalism’s greed–
Then, I catch sight of a tiny,
giggly girl-child, a sparkle in her
mocha velvet eyes, as she spies
the chocolate lab puppy, red bow tied neatly
around the scruff of its neck wiggling
its hind legs excitedly within the undersized
Red fleece stocking
Until, finally,
the recognition–

Her very own thing to love–

She loves it more than anything
Because she has not yet learned to love.

Even her parents whom she thinks she loves
Because she relies on them,
are not loved, not like how I love my
Parents for the good people that
I know them to be. The puppy
She loves purely for she can tend it
And it will love her back without judgment.

So, it doesn’t matter what day it is
Because love, no matter when it was born,
Finds a way to remind me
That regardless of when it begins,
Takes a lifetime to appreciate.

Efforts to be Pennywise
Fail miserably at this time of year
I fall quickly into the fallacy
That gifts are things; that things matter.
When quietly, I crave nothing other
than a kind word,
a nod toward my existance,
a common smile.
What is it in us that makes us love things?
If I could give them all away, my things,
Most would go to the landfill.
Then, of course, my daughter might want
my jewelry.
My son might want
my camera.
The dogs will want the leftover
half of my Subway Italian sandwich.

As I head to sleep,
I wonder what the world will bring
to you–
you deserve those things so much more than I–
but you don’t want them either.
So, I’ll drive the van outside your window
And you can escape–
Or, throw the things out to me
And I’ll deliver them

elsewhere.

Words mean nothing now.
Loss of these innocents, even Lowell could not imagine*
In the two thousand and twelfth year of grace
When twenty babies left this plain
Despite the selfless sacrifices of their protectors,
Love of their parents, teachers, God,
Words bring no comfort, no solitude,
No explanation worth believing

And the caring mourn, and the injured
Turn away—unable to cope with what
They have known existed all along
And no one believes that good can come from this
Perhaps a good cry, a wailing at the wall,
A heart broken by the bitter bullets
Of a Broken Boy bent on breaking
Heart after heart after heart.

Even leaders of the great nations
Can only repeat that which we all
Want to know, to remember:
“Dawn Hocksprung and Mary Sherlach,
Vicki Soto, Lauren Russeau,
Rachel Davino and Anne Marie Murphy;
….Charlotte, Daniel, Olivia, Josephine,
Ana, Dylan, Madeline, Catherine, Chase,
Jesse, James, Grace, Emilie, Jack, Noah,
Caroline, Jessica, Benjamin,
Avielle, Allison, God has called them all home.”~

And now the words begin to swirl
The great life-breathers
That restore our memories,
Recall our very loves, their very lives
Make it sweet to think of them still
And light up our lives forever.

*Poet Robert Lowell writes in his poem “The Holy Innocents”:

The world out-Herods Herod; and the year / The nineteen-hundred forty-fifth of grace, / Lumbers with losses up the clinkered hill / Of our purgation; and the oxen near / The worn foundations of their resting-place, / The holy manger where their bed is corn / And holly torn for Christmas. If they die, / As Jesus, in the harness, who will mourn? / Lamb of the shepherds, Child, how still you lie.

~President Obama’s speech at prayer vigil for Newtown shooting victims, Dec. 16, 2012

Rarely, do I take a ride this far
on a morning with work and holidays pressing
so close upon my mind
But the fawn I see, scouring the exposed
grasses, hurrying to eat before the next snowfall
reminds me that survival
appears differently depending
on one’s vantage point,
what one has escaped from,
what one is preparing for.

And the big brown eyes
look downward and then back again
wondering, “Am I safe here?”
And the camera clicks and the fawn,
in a rush to beat winter,
scratches his behind and goes back
to surviving just as I turn the car
around headed off
to do the same.

“Swinging out the school doors
on my way home from a final night class, where,
I learn how to be a better servant
From peers who know more or less
than I do…
And professors, who sit watching,
evaluating, with no real life experience;
soldiers who have never fought
mothers without children
men without courage.

“And the chill in the air brings
me a comfort like the feelings
of fear, love, relief
which I have not felt in a long while.”

And then she walks to her car
With a friend who says, “Calm down,”
before he, himself, roars….