Great Barrier Reef

This picture is of glass sculpture in Tacoma, Washington and reminds me of both a reef and glaciers. I love the artist Chihuly's celebration of nature's diversity and extravagance. 

Great Barrier Reef

When I read the headlines that
the Great Barrier Reef
is dead or dying
I think how can I miss something
I have never known?
Can I lament coral when I have
never swam above its lacy forests,
never seen even one of its inhabitants,
not the seventeen kinds of snakes nor six turtles,
couldn’t tell the difference between
the loggerhead or leatherback or flatback,
the green sea, hawksbill, or Olive Ridley.
It is the same longing my retinas have
for the chalky aquamarine veins in glaciers,
my eardrums reverberate to creaking moans,
even though I haven't been to Alaska or Antartica.

Here where I live,
I miss the thunder of buffalo herds
across the Eastern Washington plains,
miss being surrounded by trees
my clan could barely encircle
while holding hands.
It is estimated up to 87 percent
of the old-growth forest
in the Pacific Northwest is gone.
I miss the smell of salmon carcasses,
rivers jumping alive.

I wonder when people
lived before air travel or television,
before National Geographic magazine and Magellan,
if the Aztec considered the hush of a Celtic forest,
if the Englander dreamt of
blue corn ripening in August sun.
Deep in DNA, they must have.
The expiration of the Douglas Fir
is the inhalation of the African elephant,
the North American bald eagle
drinks from the Amazon. 

when i learned that january is named for janus

I have been on a mood rollercoaster lately, from depressed to angry to resigned, hugs if that sounds familiar. Perhaps it is the stages of grief. Today's poem is settling on random, which is an improvement. 2017 let's go :)

when i learned that january is named for janus


the roman god of open doors.
yes. but.
i am trying to write from a
less ethnocentric and more multicultural perspective
and not assume everyone had to
break ice for their chickens to drink this morning,
or are putting away christmas decorations,
or use a gregorian calendar
or care about the origin of english words,
but damn,
i am
a pacific northwestern american
day timer toting poultry owner
divining meaning from cinnamon sprinkles
on an eggnog latte procured at a corporately owned
coffee chain that has leather chairs
near the door which are cozy
and sells pumpkin bread whose moistness
makes me feel everything will be ok.

rituals can be anything,
in this post modern dis/utopia.
each morning i drink a cup of
earl gray tea as though i am the
queen of england, when i shower
i am under a waterfall on a hawaiian island.
i have the privilege of consuming both global and local,
the wherewithal to recognize mediocrity
as magical for which i am beyond thankful.

to ringbringsingstring in the new year
my daughters and i walked to a totem pole yesterday.
it is on a strange property near our house
with a pond and clearing,
there is a large summer camp style picnic table
and the painted pole.
the wooden stacked animals are important to list,
they are also global and local,
from top to bottom:
1. monkey holding a yellow cat
2. large bird, albatross or eagle
3. salmon (two swimming in opposite directions)
4. large bird, albatross or eagle
5. frog

we don’t know who owns this land,
there is a creek, and there had been
maintenance since we visited last new years,
tools stacked against a shed,
a burn pile in the center of the field.
i mention the spot because it is wild and imaginative
and perhaps someday we will not be allowed there.
here is the list of our resolutions in no particular order:
1. to be liked
2. to not lose those we care about
3. to be in the present moment
4. to say yes to opportunity
5. to be supple and warm and forgiving
6. to become a fashion model
7. to notice and mention positive aspects

the young want to be famous and live forever.
my fourteen year old asks me if i could be any age
which would i want.
i hope to always be able to say, this one.
even at 100.
for now i cite 2 working hips, 1.5 good knees.
perhaps at 100, i will list,
1 pumping heart.
she'd settle for 25, because she could drink
and still look amazing.
i don’t want to be famous anymore,
well i would take it, under certain circumstances.
but more i want to be
useful. to matter to a handful of people.

we wrote the wishes on tissue,
turquoise the color of pinatas,
it was left over from christmas
i’d bought it to cut out snowflakes to decorate windows.
we burned our list and watched the fire
devour the paper, it smoldered with purpose,
doing its job as we humans do ours,
smoldering with purpose,
creating and destroying and looking for
beginnings again.

i need to go back to janus,
he is symbolic of thresholds,
birth, journeys and time.
his image is carved with two heads,
one face looking forward and one looking back,
poised between past and future,
the guardian at the gate of heaven.
the romans believed the beginning
of anything was an omen for the whole,
thus it was customary to begin the year with well wishes
and cakes of spelt and
honey and figs, gifts of gold coins.
i chose to make love and eat well and
be as nice as i possibly could to my children.

one of my favorite writers
(yes, you helen, if you are reading)
uses no capitals.
not even when referring to herself,
her punctuation is also disconcerting
with a * or ) or # thrown in,
but in the best way, like an accordion
in klezmer music.
i copied her lack of hierarchy this poem,
it was sublime, one less thing to keep track of.
i’ll go back to the shift key and big letters
but only after finding something else
somewhere else in my life
to let go of.

Year of Nectar

Farewell 2016! Top of the year to you!

Year of Nectar

I called this year,
year of nectar,
(italicized font required),
preemptively
thinking I could leapfrog living,
with its rind and pith.
I wanted to avoid hard frost,
assure aqueducts of spring water,
abundant sun and leaf shine,
but citrus canker and sooty mold came anyway,
for me electoral, familial,
custodial, financial, bacterial
oh and a bum knee :)

This year was glass after glass of grapefruit,
the juice bitter but you know it is
better for you.
We want things to be easy,
to be given front row parking,
but sometimes there are puddles,
there are holes in our solesouls,
our hems drag.
I watch other mortals
and wonder how they keep at it,
and yet I am asked,
how do you manage it all?
Do I?
Most evenings at six,
I am putting on my pajamas.

It is said how you do one thing
is how you do everything.
This poem is a perfect example.
Two stanzas to write and talk
and soothe myself into safety.
I am often under the table singing
“It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to”
but wait, a party,
people I love are here,
I really do like cake, let me cry a little
and then I would love to blow out the candles
and wishes, yes, I have lots of those.

I considered this year
how you come into this world,
is how you come into anything.
For me, anesthetized, forceps,
hospital stay because I was jaundiced,
reluctant young mother.
It was early December, in Baltimore,
snow falling, Christmas decorations
in the shops and windows.

No wonder the holidays slay me,
I imagine my mum almost fifty years ago,
anxious and afraid,
stuffed with me as a turkey dinner,
Of course, I panic
when x-mas tree lots colonize corners,
all my life I have been like her,
Mary looking for an inn.
The moon was waxing to full, evenly cleaved.
An astrologer claims half full
is the height of creative action.
I have been swimming underwater
(the anesthesia),
I am rescuing a mermaid
(my mother has beautiful green eyes),
toward the shore where there is a luau
(my ambition and projects).
We think these things don’t matter,
that we came into being like the latest doll,
in cellophaned boxes lining toy shelves,
but we arrive with lineages,
links, the ink pretty close to dry.
It all matters—
your birth story, your parents’ story,
the moon and season,
the latitude and longing-itude.

A year of anticipated ambrosia,
but first, another graduate-schoolism.
Our brain uploads negative experiences
five to seven times stronger than happy ones.
We need to tie a bow on our joy,
in therapy talk, amplify and reframe,
in my walk, gratify and up our game.
Nectar, yes as from sweet orange,
neroli nuggets—
I got engaged! And bought a house!
And started a master's program!
My daughter finished high school!
I went around Italy on a cruise ship that
had self portrait paintings of Rembrandt
on each landing! I took selfies with the
colosseum in Rome as the backdrop!
My daughter traveling alone stayed safe,
she texted pictures of stone cottages
and parking lots of bicycles!

The man I love proposed in the middle of a river.
His eyes are June morning blue,
his heart is that of Joseph and Jesus.
My teenagers didn’t always ignore me,
lingered sometimes to talk in my bedroom.
I held hands with a homeless woman
after giving her five dollars.
I wore wool gloves and her hands were cold.
I regret not giving the gloves to her,
but next time I will,
I hadn’t thought of it until just now.

Place at the Table

Winter solstice today, it always seems an oddity that just as winter officially begins the light returns. Genius and thank goodness.

Place at the Table


Let someone new
come to dinner this holiday,
your inner dead beat son,
your inherent pregnant
teenage daughter,
take his coat,
pull up the footstool for her.

Even if it is only you
and your wife at Denny’s
because the kids are all grown
and have moved from your small town,
ask for a booth, let others slide in.
Welcome “High Water,” you at age eight
who grew so fast your pants were too short,
do you remember climbing trees?
“Little Sis” with the pigtails, and pink barrettes,
she has missed you.

If you are already at a gathering,
excavate those oldtimers
with those little baby tongs
used to grab sugar cubes,
pluck some sweet aspect of you
that is your unfamiliar.
If the beast in you has gone missing,
wear a fur hat in his honor.
When you speak with another
over the appetizers,
even if you discussing the weather
or your favorite football team,
imagine their multitudes.

They come anyway.
I have pet named my exiled Beloved.
She is twenty-one and wears
a crop top with low waisted jeans.
If I don’t save some sparkly for her,
she will flirt with your husband
and finish off the Kahlua.
There is a reason your brother’s kids
irritate the hell out of you
or your mother-in-law makes
you want to stab yourself
with the meat thermometer.

There is nothing wrong,
there is nowhere to go,
you feel lonely because you are not all there.
No one else needs to arrive
except your true natures,
the banished and belittled ones,
all who have been unwelcome and forgotten.
Pull up some chairs, closest to the fire.

Mosh Pit

Such short days lately and deep darkness. I hope this finds you finding your inner light.

Mosh Pit

I think of it sometimes, 
when my adolescent son and I
are going angry at it.

I crave punk rockers,
the threat of spilt beer,
combat boots, the smell

of hairspray, clove cigarettes.
It was 1985, I was seventeen.
There was mostly
mostly

a civility to the violence,
it was chaos contained,
they’d let the girls in sometimes.

Around and around we stomped and pushed,
the whirling dervish of slight danger,
soothed something.

Bands like Black Flag and Suicidal Tendencies
screamed from the stage in downtown Sacramento,
I adored and feared them all.

Bare chests, black eyeliner
a place for anarchy and angst,
It felt to so good to knock against,

to raise my fists with the others
and know when the music stopped
it would be over.

Forty-ninth Birthday Poem

The moon, half full and waxing tonight is the same as it was when I was born. It is fun to check out the moon's phase when you arrived in this world, your power time every month!

Forty-ninth Birthday Poem


I have been saying
“I am turning forty nine soon”
for almost a year.
Racing toward half a century,
I am a hound straining at the hunt of it,
hoping at fifty I become
finally a fox, want to be lithe,
bounding, bushy tail, a must.

Forty nine is a bit awkward
like ages fifteen or twenty, a cusping year.
I will be in class on the actual date,
studying counseling, specifically that day
something called Bowen theory.
Bowen believed that managing
our anxiety is the single most
effective thing we can do to improve
our health, happiness and relationships.
He also stressed it is important to stay connected
to our families of origin, not to change them,
but because they hold our histories
and we are social animals, in the same way are
bands of monkeys and schools of fish.
Because of Bowen I am calling my mother more,
and not apologizing for baths
in the evening, taken with epsom salts.

As part of my schooling,
I am filling out self assessments
rating how differentiated, relationally attuned,
courageously curious and intentional I am.
I feel my curriculum should be
required in seventh grade
instead of pre-algebra or what schools
so call social studies.

Therapy should also be mandatory,
ideally by my therapist,
a man who is seventy eight.
I like doing the math, thirty years,
where will I be in three decades?
Hopefully I will be like him.
He uses the "f" word a lot
and rubs pot oil called “Flow”
on his arthritic wrist and tells poor souls like me,
“you are not alone anymore, sweetie”
and “that sounds like it was really hard.”
If I am lucky I will have loved/lived/learned
enough to say this the way he does,
so my clients feel their heart
hinges swing open and shed tears
they have needed to cry for lifetimes.

I have another older mentor in my life.
Ten years my senior, he is my guitar teacher
and I calculate with him also.
If I practice a half hour most days for ten
years, I will possibly sound more than decent.
My teacher has long hair and an elaborately
sculpted beard, both he dyes shoe polish black.
These men reflect some shift,
my previous therapist said if he wasn’t ethically bound
not to, he would sleep with me
and my former guitar teacher
admitted to masturbating before our lesson.
Perhaps it is the grey I am wearing,
and wool, big sheepy sweaters,
in hues of dry stones.
I think it is that I am finally growing up,
not needing everyone to want me.

Adulthood looks like dressing for comfort
and writing the poems that want to be written
instead of what I think others want to hear
(a spate of sad ones lately).
Yes, I am anxious for fifty,
but my striving is less a straight line
more a circle, a nautilus curl, a narwal’s whorl.
I am reading a journal I wrote when I was twenty one,
good god, I am still the same girl.
Still seeking transcendence in the arms of a man,
still worried about my weight,
still crazy in love with trees and words,
still pausing for sunsets,
still looking for stillness.
I imagine it now like a summer pond,
soothing and welcoming on the surface,
alive and light below. 

High School Parking Lot

It amazes me how similar my son's high school parking lot is to mine thirty years ago. Better hair now :)

High School Parking Lot


There are so many hormones in the air,
I feel I could get pregnant
as I idle in my conservative coupe
waiting for my son.
Next to me in a white lowered sedan,
bass pumping, rap blaring,
I hear the word suck and
one that rhymes with rock,
a term so naughty I can barely say it
with the bedroom door closed.
The passenger is pumping his fists,
thrusting his hips,
he knows all the lines,
he’s got all the moves.

It is a rumble every afternoon,
there are screeches and burning rubber often,
hoods up and tailgate parties,
there are clusters of pick-ups
in the back row, chew wads large enough
to dam the dikes of Holland.
School buses heave out of the lot
while others arrive delivering teams of
padded and girdled gladiators.
Even the kids who don’t fit in
do it with flare, a boy with a bowtie,
a goth girl with torn tights and violet hair.
Yes, there is pain here, ennui and ecstasy,
but even ambivalence is displayed with passion.
Every day is the final contest in a talent show.

How did we adults become so homogenized,
all of us waiting in line at Costco
in baseball caps and yoga pants?
I can’t remember the last time
I wore face paint or a tutu.
It has been decades since I played tug of war
or shook a pom pom or broke up a girl fight.
Why don’t we carry instruments
like the band kids or tote gym bags,
wield tennis rackets and have ankles with tan lines?
When did we stop kicking balls
under stadium lights?

Even as they pose and wear the latest brands,
teenagers are bullshit detectors,
divining rods for authenticity.
They see right through us,
know where we have sacrificed
our souls for safety,
traded mystery for mediocrity.
As I wait surrounded by cars
crammed with cussing and crazed passengers,
I pray they don’t make eye contact
lest I melt into puddles of shame
or explode into confetti-like longing.

To be fair there are a few adults
with a surge in their step.
I play tennis next to a quartet of doubles,
they have knee braces and thick middles
and laugh more than they volley,
when I arrive for my music lesson,
a woman with silver hair and a guitar
across her back nods with encouragement.
With them in mind, I say a silent prayer
as I wait in line behind cars with no mufflers,
tend your fires wild ones,
so you don’t burn it all now.

Thanks getting please Poem

Dear readers, I am most most thankful for you! Bless you and yours and ours!

Thanks getting please Poem


I always screw up the pecan pie.
Under or over cooked,
no eggs once,
then there was the year I was down
on corn syrup and used agave.
I came by it honestly.
One of my major memories
of holidays was my mother
almost bashing my stepdad on the head
with a stack of just about to set the table plates.
She stopped herself short
and ran into the master bedroom crying.

At almost forty-nine
I feel I should be over my childhood,
but my inner girl,
she shows up whining about
the flavor of sparkling cider,
she sees all the men watching football
and wants a piggy back ride.

After threatening to go out for
Chinese food next year,
after envying those who bag it and hike all day,
I prepare five pies and then
sit in the bathtub and weep
as the smell of crust and custard turns acrid.
I wonder what if I don’t feel better?
and submerge under deep waters.
Marianas, Maria,
origin of the name Mary is bitter, beloved, rebellious.
Trench, trenchant is most often an adjective,
sharp or keen, penetrating.

I learned recently that our oldest
most vulnerable just born
and baby parts have seniority,
as they have been with us the longest.
Cootchie coo, yes, mine took
the corner office with the biggest windows.
I was just told our unhealed places
are like folders on the desktop of our computer
and won’t go away until we open them.

I want to double click my personal items
labelled isolation, abandonment, disregard.
I want to clean up our collective files
called prejudice, injustice, discrimination,
race and sex and gender and all
judge others because they are different than you isms.
I want a piggy and horsey and carousel and
magic carpet and
humpback whale and elephant,
in this time of too much and too little,
please, me and all peoples, let us ride.
I don't want to do it all, have to be it all,
have some not get any at all,
want this life to give enough,
be a thanks you’re welcome poem.

Mixer

Another poem for my kiddos regarding racism. It is more serious now, with hormones and awareness surging. 

Mixer


For a wedding present I was given
a KitchenAid mixer,
refrigerator white and solid as a battleship.
It shows the dirt, in its seams
gathers brownie mix, egg and flour.
Seven children have used it.

There is an age they each want to
move the lever controlling the speed,
from one to two to three to four,
a time when four is not fast enough.
They have all asked what happens
if you stick the wooden spoon
in among the spokes of the mixing blade.

My adult life began with
a sewing machine, mixer, baby clothes,
not on street corners in protests,
not on foreign continents like
I thought it might have.
So I brought the world to me,
gathered shelves and shelves of books,
adopted two sons from Ethiopia,
embraced an Ethiopian foster daughter
from a home of slammed doors
and hurting hearts.

These dark skinned three are heckled
on the bus ride home from school,
“Come here little nigga.”
A student who is half black
teases them the most,
reminding us our banished places
wield the sharpest weapons.
My son wants to beat the boy up.
I tell him no, you cannot use
violence to stop violence.
You don’t know how this is, Mom.

I don’t.
I only know not to over mix
the batter for blueberry muffins,
to remember to add leavening.

Long ago I released the luxury
of wishing I was given
the "ice blue" hued KitchenAid,
the color is so pretty,
like the sky in a postcard. 

An Election is Not the Super Bowl

I am in the second stage of grief, anger, following the election. Yes, I will pray for Donald Trump to evolve into a compassionate and effective leader. I will send light and try to see the big picture and the perfection in the Universe and all those things, but for now, it feels important to leave this one on the field. 

An Election is Not the SuperBowl


Fuck you,
media and television
for giving attention to Donald Trump
in the first place and
for the fact I almost
clicked on a Yahoo article
showing Melania Trump’s
outfit the night of the election
with the teaser that perhaps
wearing white was a faux pas.
Fuck me that I care
about anybody’s fashion
when their husband says
he’ll log the National Parks.

Fuck you Trump
to claim you are
making our nation great again.
Great like when
we practiced genocide,
killing millions of
Native Americans to get it?
Great like when we used slaves
to farm our crops
and build our railroads?
Great when descendants of those slaves
are discriminated against
and fill our prisons?
Great when we sell arms
and wage senseless wars?
Great as in having no health care
and homeless living on the streets?

Fuck you who berate liberals because
“they vote with how they feel”
when feeling for others
is the hallmark of being human,
because hearts should bleed
when peoples are oppressed
and the environment is not safe guarded. 
Fuck me for wishing and
wringing my hands, for hoping
any political party could make up
for my own apathy, fuck me
for not knowing my neighbors
and clothes shopping when I am bored,
for thinking voting for my beliefs alone
was doing enough,
fuck me for sitting back
on the sidelines to watch.

Fall Flare

We are at the tale end of fall, which has its own poignant beauty. I love when the leaves are sparser, like ornaments. I hope this finds you with all things wonderful and pumkin-y. My indulgence is pumpkin spiced lattes and if I am feeling extra worthy/low/anxious or hangry (hungry/angry), a slice of pumpkin bread too!

Fall Flare

I am trying to learn
the language of leaves,
each seems an illuminated page
from a manuscript
that was penned before my time.
Everyone is in on this,
tree bark darkens,
crisp as consonants,
lichen and fern plump,
tender as vowels.
On sidewalks and in gutters
sunshine captured confetti,
punctuation of the gods.

Once wet, the leaves,
like moist tissue paper,
surrender their will,
they are gilded shrouds
on stone and branch.
The driveway is no longer
a dull suburban semi circle,
now flecked with gold,
it is a moat of memory
reminding us of ancestors,
houses become gilded,
we are on horseback, clothed in capes.

It is a Homecoming dance on the hillsides,
this year, gowns of cranberry are in fashion.
Were the maples as red last year?
Did I have cataract surgery
while I was sleeping?

Has every autumn before this been ho hum?
This is the only one my son
urgently pointed out the window,
Mom look at the leaves falling!
as though we lived in Florida
and it was his first snowstorm.
A mother dropped off her child
and asked if I’d seen the October moon,
“it looks like a taco shell!”

This season, everyone is poet and mystic,
especially the coyotes loping at twilight,
the squirrels twitching with
purpose and prayer.
I ask the furry ones for tutelage,
how to be with such beauty,
but the dog, with his scent
ten thousand times stronger than mine,
is too busy with bouquets
of leaf mulch to answer.
We are living the color wheel,
attending marriages,
the grooms and brides are hues
named Kelly and Titian, Scarlet and Sapphire.

I once heard people don’t like poetry
because it asks us to be vulnerable.
Perhaps such is why we avoid nature as well,
for when the clouds lift
the sky is at once
every stained glass window,
the horizon almost too benevolent to bear.

When I Answered “Tender”

This poem is a follow up to one I wrote some time ago about answering "good" when asked how I was. The picture was one taken about four years ago when I was hanging out with girlfriends for an evening. I love how we change. Today I am tender and not drinking much, a sip here or there, instead of a bottle :)

When I Answered “Tender”


"Tender" I said to the cashier
at the local grocery
who was working the express lane,
who expressively and expressly
asked me how I was.
In the time it took for her to
scan an avocado,
I decided to see what would happen
if I was honest,
to not answer fine or good,
as I always do.

Taking stock of my day,
I considered my nerves and children,
my partner and town,
the moon, tides and leaves falling,
the early darkening sky.
I could have answered,
sensitive, soft, open, holding,
but tender seemed to catch them all.

There was a woman stacking
cans of soda with purpose
behind me, and I could see
the cashier trying to decide
how to best respond
and not knowing how, shared,
“Oh, I always answer
excellent if I am at work,
and awesome if I am at home.”

I took in the grocer's perfectly
dyed and curled hair,
her husky, no nonsense voice,
forearms toned from hoisting
gallons of milk and 20 lb bags of pet food
onto revolving belts and into shopping carts.
I thought surely we didn’t come from
the same family, have the same schooling,
hail from the same planet.

All kinds of pathy and pithy
and pity flashed in her eyes,
not my intention at all,
rather I was taking a stab
at living more authentically.
I felt ashamed,
wanted to suck the murky gas of truth
back into my mouth and swallow.

As I loaded my car,
I pondered, how to best honor us both,
after all, the market is not a walk in clinic
at mental health services.
I needed to wrap it up for her,
the way she smartly packed my paper bag,
should have grounded our interaction,
the way she put my heavy items on the bottom,
to let her know I wouldn’t
be needing a mop,
no clean up at register one.

Next time I might tell her
I am salty as a bag of chips,
sweet as the sixteen kinds
of sugar on aisle six.
Today I could have chosen
tender as the marinated rib eye in the deli,
tender as the ripe pears you have on special,
tender, tender as a slice of your artisan
sourdough apricot walnut bread,
both the first and last bite. 

When Someone Subscribes to My Poems

Dear faithful readers, thank you for bearing with me, three poems in a row about my writing, two about my subscriptions. It is with great weight and wonder that I get a new subscriber. Thank you!

When Someone Subscribes to My Poems


From my inbox to retina,
past voice box
to ventricle,
each new signup
moves into my heart.
They rearrange the furniture,
bring a potted plant perhaps,
a stack of jazz records,
change the drapes
stretched over sternum.

A sudden council of
“ilities” assemble-
responsibility,
humility,
fragility,
culpability.
I am asked to raise
my right hand,
pledge again
the solemn oath.

Words are sheep
wanted to be shepherded,
lines are birds
poised for flight.
A pen is a staff
guiding and prodding,
a piece of paper is the sky,
gessoed to receive
light and shadow.

We must live as if
each moment,
how we put ourselves out there,
from parking spots to blog posts,
dearly matters.
We must live as if
there are boundless
beginnings.

I do best to imagine
each new reader,
is as eager as me,
and forgiving
as I aspire to be,
wanting the world
with equal urgency,

whispering
just say it,
say it, say it.

Why I Write at Haven House

Every Tuesday I write for an hour at a foster teen shelter called Haven House, as I have mentioned before. Most weeks there are new kids, and I usually see the kids once, rarely, I might get a second or third chance. I am including two poems here, the second one I wrote to a seventeen year old named Jackson after he seemed surprised I remembered his name (the third time I saw him). I never got the chance to give him the poem as he was gone the fourth week, but I tried to get it forwarded to his case worker. The poem pictured, made out of magnetic poetry by a girl, floored me, as much of their work does.

Why I Love Writing at Haven House


Because it’s one of the scariest things I do.

Because even though I am a grown up,
I still long for people to like me
and foster teens don’t have
lots of reasons to like people.
I love writing at Haven House
because the kids care about each other,
it’s not just I want a home,
it’s I want a home for everyone.
Because the kids there have seen things
and done things and most importantly,
had things done to them
but still get excited about High Chews candy
and going on “ride alongs”
and they all, all of them, yearn for a family.
Because they make me long to do
something searing and holy with my life
and because afterwards when I have
gathered together poetry far braver
than I myself have written,
I get in my car, face flushed
from the heat of holding for one hour,
their lives, and my life having known them,
split open.

 

Remembering Jackson


Yes,
I remembered your name,
Jackson.
And a dozen other details about you.
You have a girlfriend in Kelso,
who is clean and expects you to be.
You have a grandmother
in Portland who you hoped
you could live with,
but she wasn’t approved
because her husband,
your grandpa, died a year ago
and she is still grieving.
You were going to help her
remodel her house.

I remembered you didn’t want to write,
but the first time you wrote a little
and the second time
you wrote a little bit more
and the third time you didn’t
need me to prompt you,
you were a foreman finishing the job.

You have really nice eyes,
they are deep and alive,
they are curious and thirsty,
when I think of you,
I see them first,
under your baseball cap,
which is over messy hair.

I remember you go back to drugs
as soon as you leave the shelter
and you don’t want to anymore
but you don’t know how to stop
and I remember wanting to help
you, but not knowing how either.

So many of us don’t know how...

how to change, love, how to heal, hope,
yet some of us, sometimes we do,
we change, we love, we heal, we hope.
I wanted to remember to tell you that.

Because My Daughter Subscribed to My Website

This poem is the culmination of sharing from my trip to Europe, where my daughter is staying to travel and work for several months before coming back to go to college next fall. On our journey, we visited many many beautiful churches, my offerings were always the same, to be more like Mother Mary and for my girl to be safe. I feel so incredibly blessed to have shared a bit of her new adventures! The poem explains this week's tardiness :) 

Because My Daughter Subscribed to My Website


When my daughter asked if she could receive my weekly poems, 
wanting another way to stay connected
when she travelled in Europe,
I want to tell her she might
not always enjoy me in her inbox.
As her older brother got them for some time
but now when I mention a posted poem
he looks at me blankly
while I try, and try not to, make him feel guilty.

Today I learned about a communication
tool called “direct address,”
which is opening a door and walking through it
instead of slipping slyly under the crack.
When I refer to my writing with my son,
instead of “you probably didn’t see it...”
I might say, “I am curious why you
aren’t reading my poems anymore?”
Which is scary as fuck.
Because what if he simply doesn’t like them.

It is this fear since my girl signed on,
that has kept me from flying my poem
on the flagpole labelled Wednesday,
as I have every midweek
almost without fail for the last six years,
because suddenly it seemed so much
was at stake, her liking them, her liking me,
my desire she finds my living useful
and wonderful and inspiring-full.
I want to be her Louvre,
each image I hang as tactile
as Monet’s painted waterlilies,
each turn of phrase as unexpected
as a cafe on a side street in Paris.

I wish I could walk first, before her,
and make sure there are no trip wires,
pluck fruit from trees
to peel and section for her,
to still protect and nourish, even though I have forced
her to navigate craters of genetics and upbringing,
a land mine termed divorce,
even as I will continue to dig
potholes named selfishness and distraction.

No audience is more sacred or worthy,
no favorite author or movie star,
no president or dignitary,
not even my sons, for they cannot
learn from me how to be female,
but my daughter has and she will,
for now through only my words,
which abandon me as I look at my keyboard.

Yet my heart does not desert me,
so quaking it is with her shy and strong
dive into this glittering pool called life.
I will hit send,
with the same hope and gravity
as I said goodbye at the airport,
what if, dear god, this is my last chance,
our last hug, the last time my sweet girl...
I will release with one hand
and reach for her with the other,
knowing the world is
feathered,
enough.

Cruise Ship, 2016

I always hesitate to post poems that are social or cultural commentary, but I feel they are important as well. I am returning home tomorrow after an incredible adventure of which I was truly blessed to have been given by my dear mother, a cruise around the Mediterranean. I travelled with my mom and my just-graduated-from-high-school daughter, sister and niece. I loved exploring new countries and questioned as well the impact of large scale tourism on community. I apologize for posting later than Wednesday, getting to the internet has been intermittent :)

Cruise Ship, 2016


I visited countries I didn’t know existed,
Dubrovnik and Montenegro,
cities named Corfu and Taormina.
At meals we had choices from prune juice to sushi,
tenderloin and tapioca,
we were waited on by Philippino
and Indonesian cooks and concierges
chosen for their hardworking ethic and friendly smiles.

In the halls we caught glimpses
of life outside our Neptune suite,
no balcony for Asha, our maid, who skyped
his young daughter he wouldn’t see for eight months.
We poured into cities like Amalfi and Sicily,
toward the end I would not make eye contact
with hosts holding menus in narrow alleys,
preferring something closer to port,
cheaper and easier, the stalls with fries and a beer
thrown in with lasagne and caprese sandwiches.
By the time I was approached
by a third immigrant selling handbags and beaded bracelets,
I was hardened as marble used in the Pieta.

In the Pieta, Mary looked far too young
as she mourned her thirty-three-year old Jesus,
where were the wrinkles between her brows,
the sagging skin and breasts?
Breasts were underrepresented in antiquity,
usually only one portrayed, as though someone
pulled down a peasant top,
nipples only hinted at under draped linen.
In Renaissance art everyone
looked like they hit the gym,
even the baby angels had muscles.
There were no vaginas however,
I missed them, and erect penises,
so flaccid and small on the David-like statues.
At the Vatican we were thrilled to see
a lady with a vapor pen
taking a drag as we walked by the Basilica.
We sat in the Saint Mark's Square in Venice
and pointed out fashion dos and don’ts.

I wished I’d brought my my linen pants
and didn’t like my inability to read signs
or knowing how transit works.
At my lowest moments,
I missed Starbucks and Target,
give me an Applebees, an SUV,
a parking lot and my big screen TV.
I bought wooden spoons from a man
who threw one on the cobblestones
to prove it wouldn’t break.
“They think we are criminals” he said
“but we don’t cut down the olive tree
only harvest the dead wood.”
I thought I was the criminal,
as most of the shopkeepers
and waiters seemed weary of us,
like cows we walked off the gangway,
we ruminated over their offerings
of lace and limoncello, masks and ceramic,
gelato and colored glass,
took selfies in churches built
to celebrate the survival of the plague.
In the evening we returned to our Titanic teat,
with its casino and chocolate turn downs,
to hand and bath towels
shaped as elephants and monkeys.

Every where I went I wondered,
what was this land like before airplane and train,
before turbines could float football fields.
I learned I would have to go back far before
the industrial revolution to find harmony,
what we considered the dawn of civilization
brought as much hardship and harmony as today.
Displayed before me in paintings,
frescos and statues,
the smooth skin of Adams
stood on the heads of bearded heathens,
aristocrats with feathers in velvet caps
stepped upon peasants and slaves.
I was both soothed and sickened,
realizing I am not the only imperialist.
Dotting Italy’s coast are relics of watchtowers
once manned by residents
to warn of invading barbarians,
and yet in some strange new world order
here we touristas were,
ransacking culture and community
as we clogged their ports,
their descendants, having guided us in.

Hashtag Human

I am in Italy on a cruise! My biggest indulgence and souvenir is to draw. I have always said I wanted to know how and I am finding like most things, the way to learn is simply by doing :) This poem is a bit silly, but I find people on their phones lots in Europe as well as in America. I have to pay for internet and it has been a lovely forced respite, allowing time for colored pencils and paper. I find drawing is similar to writing poetry, an exercise in distilling things to their essence.

Hashtag Human


Are we just
a face
or a look?
when is the last time
we read a book?
a consumer or creator,
a hater or traitor,
thumbs up or a frown,
leave a commentor,
social media
can be coma or mentor
#followforfollow
#likeforlike

A post and a pin
swivel and kin
#instagood
#instamood

Their new baby!
She’s on a trip,
he’s gotten ripped!
Life in capsules,
a little bit of tweet
how we remember
life is sweet
#beastmode
#blessed

A pound of connection,
long and lost,
symbol for small scaffolding
look at me, hope you see
#loveme#findme

Look up, tuck it away,
be the couple on a date
with no screens in the way.
<3 the ones you are with,
the ground beneath you,
the sky and tree
#worthy
#lifeiswhatyoumakeit
# thedevilisinthedose
 

Praying in Barcelona

I am in Spain! I have the blessings of traveling with my daughter, mother, sister and niece. We went to La Sagrada Familia today, a cathedral of profound beauty and whimsy. 

Praying in Barcelona


I am at the La Sagrada Familia,
a church conceived of by Gaudi,
an architect slash mystic
slash genius slash madman
who studied honeycombs
and tree trucks for strength,
creating one of the first cathedrals
of its scale without buttresses.
He covered the exterior with tiles reminiscent of marigolds
as the fields where the church was to be built
were dotted with them.

There are placards suggesting silencia
and a graphic of lips pursed with a finger on them
for the universal quiet sign,
but the chapel is being finished
a hundred years after Gaudi’s death,
there are hammers and machinery
cutting and polishing,
there are people wielding selfie sticks
where votives were intended.

The church is a caliente mess from the outside,
a child’s drip castle
crossed with gothic ornateness,
besieged by small sculpted animals.
In the center, it is a scandal the way
Jesus is on the cross hung under
a parasol that looks like it should
cover a tiki bar, fake grapes hanging
just out of Jesus’s reach.

The gate keeper to the temporary
praying area at first dismissed me,
I looked not serious enough with my
iPhone and short dress,
I wondered if the makeshift pews full of women
who looked like stuffed manicotti,
middle aged and bearing gold crosses,
were given the same cold shoulder.

I rebelliously closed my eyes
and shut out the chaos that surrounded me
as well as preceded me here,
an international flight,
a lightning storm at six am this morning,
the small apartment I am staying at
on the boulevard where every motor bike
sounded like an alarm clock,
my mother snoring next to me.

Jesus looked like I felt on the airplane
when I took a quarter of a Xanax
to sleep but couldn’t, the first time I had tried
such a drug, the result being not slumber,
but my skin melted,
it was tough to swallow
and my ankles swelled with edema.
Jesus felt this I thought,
the body’s drag to the earth
but also I sensed, 
sitting under the stained glass kaleidoscope,
as his flesh descended,
a portal opened in his chest,
an ascension of spirit.

Gaudi was run over by a streetcar
long before his cathedral was finished.
In his later years, consumed by the glory
of his visions, he released all vanity,
and dressed like a beggar
and was assumed to be one,
when struck he received no care
and was unrecognized and died swiftly thereafter.

To reach Spain from the United States,
I crossed continents and a sea,
carried a carry on suitcase, and also regret,
for events in my life I wished recently had gone better.
I offered it up in the nave that was not.
Jesus still speaks if you will listen,
there fist bumping Gaudi,
in a church reminiscent of Disneyland,
he replied
the way you are,
the way it went down,
perfect.

Forage

Every year in September I feel an urge to harvest...apples on the roadside and I imagine a cider press. Most years like this, I feel too busy...this poem a vicarious pleasure :)

Forage


In an apartment parking lot
where chubby dogs are walked by chubby owners,
who sometimes smoke cigarettes,
flicked ash on flecked pavement,
near the industrial trash bins,
in the medium between parking stalls,
I heard thock, thock, thock,
at regular intervals.

So many questions
I didn’t stop to answer.
Was it a squirrel as I assumed?
Really dropping acorns?
Why did I think, way to go champ,
as though squirrels are only male?
Was he/she gathering early?
Do they really fill their squirrelly cheeks?
Have a nest with a larder?
Why is my squirrel knowledge
scanty and from children’s books?

I didn’t investigate, not wanting to disturb
I rationalized, but really I was
anxious to get on the road ahead of traffic.
But all the way as I drove,
I envied the little bugger,
not having to go to the grocery
as I was headed, no pacing the aisles
deliberating what’s for dinner.

I have a taste of it when I let
the pantry get bare,
a can of garbanzo beans
and sardines on a heel of bread for supper.
I have let my car stay in the shop,
don’t fill the washing machine
so I wear the jeans at the bottom of the drawer.
So liberating sometimes
to affix the last stamp,
to make an envelope
out of paper and tape.

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.