Sap Rising

Lat year I wrote the poem, "Spring Already" in early March, this year it feels like "Spring Finally." Such a build up, I can't bear another wool sweater or sock! Hope this finds you in petals :)

Sap Rising


I worry this is madness,
on my hands and knees
scrubbing behind the toilet at midnight,
succumbing when the spice drawer riots for order
and then the poems come,
each solid as a freight car,
the train stretching as far as I can see.
I worry I am tipping into mania,
will be jumping off bridges
imagining I can fly.

This is what the maples might feel,
the dandy daffodils who organize themselves
in ready bouquets at fence posts certainly must.
The robins are crazed on the roadside,
double dare one another to fly in front of my car,
the cherry tree buds are garlands of rosaries.

I have a therapy appointment
Tuesdays at noon.
My therapist works from home,
I notice fresh shavings in the chicken coop.
I tell him my worries about genetics,
bi-polar brother, moody mother.
You haven’t lost your marbles yet he ventures,
what if you just feel it,
right now?

It is buzzy and swirly I describe.
"YOU are buzzy and swirly," he coaches.
I feel like I could shoot lasers
from my palms I shyly venture.
He coaxes, "Then shoot lasers from your palms."

When Your Lover Sports a Mullet

True story below, but I wrote it in the third person so it would have universal appeal. I hope you can relate! The picture is the flattened mohawk, circa 2014, the Seahawks won :)

When Your Lover Sports a Mullet


Perhaps he had back surgery prior
and wasn’t able to go to work,
was primarily wearing black long johns.
He cut the front of his hair
one bored afternoon between pain killers.

It was February and all winter you wore sweaters
the texture and color of dryer lint.
In vain, he asked after your sunnier palette.
And declined when you offered to trim where he couldn’t reach.

Feeling a little better, he explored
the far reaches of his closet
and attended a party wearing
an acid wash jean jacket with faux sheepskin lining,
the mullet went nicely.
You stopped wearing the dresses he loves,
black corduroys became a wardrobe staple.

You missed the back of his neck,
he craved your knees.

There was something deeper going on
than clothing and hairstyles.
You watched each other tenderly.
He started describing you as gray-ceful.
You imagined it was the eighties
and he was your high school boyfriend.

It might not seem like much
you let your loved one
wear cowboy boots or
have a baseball hat collection
that you didn’t look askance when he crafted
a mohawk to lead his team
to victory in the Superbowl.

Perhaps it is small consolation he indulged,
your phase of turquoise rings,
tolerates the menagerie of throw pillows,
the victorian nightgown you put on for cuddling.
But sometimes, more often, it is everything.

The Ghost of Mother Teresa

This picture was at a YMCA camp on Orcas Island and I don't know the artist. And....I have dropped the "f" bomb again in this poem, forgive me if you find it offensive :)

The Ghost of Mother Teresa


I imagine her and Martin Luther King Jr.
taking shots in heaven,
you were such a playah
she tsssks,
he pours her another round and
fires back, you should have let
women use birth control, you bitch.

She really hates how everyone
holds her up as the paradigm of
goodness and often including the “F” word,
What am I fucking Mother Teresa?
you mutter as a third panhandler
asks you for spare change.

I know nothing of her,
haven’t read a single biography,
only a Time magazine article
that focused on her journals
in which she admitted her desperation
having never felt the touch of Christ.
Perhaps she and I aren’t so different
doing good works for god gravy.

I could have wikipedia-ed the nun
but meditated instead
on a cushion she’d never indulge,
faux animal fur, polar bear white.
I felt myself lose fifty pounds,
breasts and thighs melted
until I was a piece of beef jerky
wrapped in a bed sheet.
I became the blue bowl of a candle flame,
the point where fire meets wick.

“It is easy to love people far away,
it is not always easy to love people close to us.”
Momma T. said, wisely.
Perhaps that is why she didn’t have
children or a lover.
Honestly anyone could do what she did,
wash wounds, spoon food into
gaping mouths, rinse, repeat.

Buddha said
“You will not be punished for your anger,
you will be punished by your anger.”
This I know too well,
arriving today at my therapist’s office
with a headache from self-flagellation.
After listening to my riff about
judging myself for not always
feeling unconditional love
he ordered me to imagine
those I was angry at
and wring their necks,
handed me an orange pillow.
I pictured the particulars,
one swan long,
the other a little linebacker.
I went through the motions weakly
while laughing.

What are you embarrassed?
I hate nice people, my therapist said,
they are so pissed inside.
What do you want to be, a damn saint?

She does, the good Mother
answered,
it was easier than this. 

A Day Without a Woman

I wish I could say I didn't post yesterday to make a statement about "A Day Without a Woman," but the truth is I got stuck trying to make a statement with my poem. Never a good thing to start out with. Hope came anyway, but naturally. Women, yes, I am a huge fan, blessings to you all who do so much!

A Day Without a Woman


I’ve tried to write this poem three ways
the first was a church potluck,
the second, the cover of a ladies’ magazine,
the third, country music with lyrics and chords.
How does one contemplate
the world without
spring and summer?

Women have fucked me up.
Women have healed me.
Women have given me life
(obviously).
They have been a source of envy,
comfort and care,
birthed some of my favorite people
(obviously)
been some of my favorite people
and written my favorite books.

They’ve also dished out disdain,
guilt, pettiness and anger
(as have I).
No one wants to be a bitch
or hide little vodka bottles in their purse
or work late and leave their kids home alone.
Yet women do these things.

I’d prefer not to imagine a day
without breasts or soprano voices,
a day without umbilical cords
or cut tulips on dining room tables
(I’d miss skirts and hugs from those
who think they need to lose thirty pounds).

How about a day without
too little compensation for caregiving,
a day without women being beaten
or used for sex,
a day without women being told
who to marry, how to dress,
what they can achieve,
how they should use their bodies,
how they must live.

I want to think about a day
when our world raises us all,
every woman and man up,
a day of equality,
a day of peace.

Self as Therapist

This is a poem I wrote recently for a graduate school project called "Self as the Therapist." I love learning how we bring our essence to everything we do, there is no experience wasted. Happy Ash Wednesday! 

Self as Therapist

Because I am a Poet
I believe that words
are magic keys to a language
deeper than speech,
that the body is a ledger,
both scribe and script.
Yes and yes,
most of us need to hear again yes,
you are well, please come,
you are welcome.
Because I am a poet
I have learned the process
of distillation, to be still,
particular poems have
been writing me for years,
in the same way small and large renderings
have taken decades to crawl
from under covers,
lifetimes to creep toward healing.

Because I am a mother,
I know that people
are soft creatures, and at eight
and eighteen and eighty,
still need beholding as though
they just filled their first lungs,
that every single day
we long to delight another,
to feel our beingness matters greatly,
to have someone say
you are just what I needed,
to have someone show us
we ourselves are just who we needed.
As a therapist who mothers
my office will be nest,
your cry will awaken
tear and milk ducts,
I will feather our time with flora and fauna,
invite angels and ancestors,
your flight is my greatest achievement.

Because I am a Lover,
I will tend your harem of beloveds
those including truth and beauty,
wild faithfulness and abandon,
purity and pleasure.
I will be top and bottom,
we will Tango, lead and follow,
there is a drum,
a bow pulled across strings,
there are pillows to plump
and curtains to hang in the sun.
I will meet you in warm blue
darkness at the
grove of forgiveness
and show you the tree branches
upon which to hang your defenses

Because I am a Wounded Healer,
a Healed (Healing) Wounder
I am guide and guided,
torch holder and circle
of darkened stones.
Let us stitch sinew
so we may hoist and host
each guest,
they arrive as a tear,
a tear, as in fabric or flesh yielding,
a moan, a memory
a stretch, some small patience,
a turn toward, a puddling,
a cupping.
Let us walk together to an altar
that has been waiting
for even
the smallest gesture
toward love. 

To the Person Who Broke Into My Car

I may have posted this poem some time ago. If so I apologize to my long time readers. It feels relevant now somehow as I contemplate the have and have nots. I cleaned it up a bit too :) 

To The Person Who Broke Into My Car


If I had known last Saturday when we were hiking
that we’d come out of the forested oasis where
every inch of ground was softly cushioned with needles and ferns,
the path springy in places, as were our moods,
that my car window had been broken
(not in sharp shards, but into bubbled molecules,
so rounded in fact that I stopped saying no the little boys
who wanted to touch it badly),
I might have written a note on the steering wheel,
something like, “Please don’t do this, it’s not worth it!”
or “YOU ARE SO MUCH BETTER THAN THIS!”

You must have noticed my minivan is ancient and dirty,
there is a rust spot near the bumper sticker which says
“Go Play Outside” which we were doing on this gorgeous day.
The other message “Buy Local” perhaps you interpreted as “Steal Local.”
You must have known it was a family car by the stuff strewn about,
a soccer ball, kids’ tennis shoes, a few granola bar wrappers.
You didn’t even nab the goodies, my mom perks-
a decent bottle of port I anticipated sharing with girlfriends on the full moon,
it was right next to a guitar tuner on the passenger seat,
and my biggest splurge of the year, Juicy Couture sunglasses on the dashboard,
the frames alone were over 100 dollars,
designer, as was the purse, I loved that little white leather bag
wore it slung over my shoulder, so proud I got it half off at Macy’s.

But you won’t know any of that, won’t know I had five children with me
and at bedtime they were afraid you might come to our home,
having our address on my license, so we double locked the doors.
I do thank you for the nudge to back up my laptop
which I have needed to do for over a year
and I’ll get a new license picture which is hopefully better than the current one.
I remember curling my hair and wearing a red blouse,
I looked like a substitute teacher, the kind kids like to torture.
You got my IPod, I hope you listen to the song which was queued up,
That I Would Be Good by Alanis Morissette, she sings,

that I would be good if I got a thumbs down,
that I would be good if I got and stayed sick,
that I would be fine even if I was fuming,
that I would be loved even if I was not myself

for you, we could now add, that I would be good, even if I steal things.

I know I shouldn’t have left valuables out in the open
as the men in my life repeatedly asked,
you left your purse where someone could see it?
which reminded me of people insinuating that because a woman
dressed provocatively, she deserved to be raped.
Yes I left it where IF you were prowling around
AND cupped your eyes against my tinted car window,
you MIGHT see the lump of it on the car floor.
Not nearly as easily as I could see the other half dozen cars flanking mine.
We were thankful you didn’t have more time
and left the diet cokes and bags of potato chips in the trunk
that we consumed while waiting for the police car which came without fanfare,
not even bothering a “whoop” of the siren or flick of blue lights,
it was a block party for a bit, other hikers stopping
to nod and politely agree that shit happens before walking on.

All told because our deductibles for theft and repair were high,
I’ll be out almost a thousand dollars to replace the thirty six bucks
you most likely turned into a few moments of euphoria.
I will spend hours ordering new checks,
tracking down accounts linked to my debit and credit cards
and go without my car for a day while the window is fixed,
all which I’d rather not do.
I would also prefer not to write this poem to you.

But I need to say,
even though I have never stolen anything since nail polish in junior high,
I have felt desperate and alone,
that I steal compliments and time and affections.
I often reach for the larger glass, the last piece of chocolate.
Every day I am not my best self, every night
I go to bed wishing I had been more generous.
I pray times get better for us both and I wish opening my wallet
you had some compassion for the life I have cobbled together,
saw the discount punch card for the gymnasium
I drop my kids off at on Saturday nights so I can have a few hours of peace,
the thrift store punch card - times can be hard for me too, buddy.
I wish you felt as I did, when I came upon a wallet on the street last year-
thumbing through the worn leather and business cards,
the gun license, an appointment reminder for an acupuncture treatment,
kinship for a man I would never know.

I hope at least you soothed
your chapped lips with my almost new Burts Bees balm
and most of all, ate the peanut M&M’s.
I had been saving that bag for three days and was so proud of myself.
When we reached the halfway point on the hike,
I remembered the bright yellow package
was even going to share with the kids-
three or four each we’d all get, tops,
but damn, I was looking forward to them.

Back Surgery, Valentine's Day

Yet another layer of love for my sweetie and I :) I hope yours was full of heart and soul :) 

Back Surgery, Valentine’s Day


When your beloved has back surgery
on Valentine’s Day
and looks at you while being wheeled off
as if he might never see you again,
you can’t show worry,
you are as clear as the bag of saline
filling an IV drip in his arm
until you are in the waiting room
where you wipe your tears.
You have a greeting card for him
a drawing of a man lifting a woman
under an umbrella, it is raining hearts.
You don’t fill it out, not because he can’t lift you
but rather you talk to other couples
and are touched by their stories,
you like to watch as people check in
at reception and listen to the solemn gravity
when the patient’s companions answer,
I will be here, I am his wife
or I am her partner, I will be staying.

When there were once neighbors to visit,
projects to tackle, too much to do,
now your schedule revolves around sleep and eating,
elimination and ice pack rotation.
It is like having a newborn again,
you both stay in pajamas
and he must be so careful,
sitting and turning, laying down,
each a minor miracle.

He watches from the couch as you do yoga.
Your spine is stiff yet comparably serpentine,
you stretch hoping you can help him,
imagine as you bend,
your discs are disco balls of light
infusing him with healing.
He asks you to take off his socks
with tinges of shame.
You apologize for your awkwardness
when the heel won’t pull smoothly.

You reminisce, anchoring his wellness
remember when we hiked to the hot springs,
made love in the dark steaming water.
You stop making love for a time
and sleeping in the same bed.
Pain becomes the portal
to a place where every easement
is celebrated, a hand on a forehead,
a movie shared on a computer,
laughter at an actor’s antics.

You look toward simpler things,
but with the same enthusiasm
you daydreamed about grandeur
like visits to Greek beaches and Italian ski resorts.
Perhaps next week if I am better we can go to
the Woodsman for dinner he offers.
Yes, you smile, that would be nice,
nice becomes more than enough.
I’ll put on a nice dress. 

When People Say I Wasn’t Close to My Brother Who Recently Died

My brother Christopher Weatherwax died December 6, 2016. I feel him close quite often. You would have really liked him, dear reader. He had a sweet, tragic, too short life. I pray he is in peace. 

When People Say I Wasn’t Close to My Brother Who Recently Died


It was true that Chris lived in Pennsylvania,
and I in Washington state.
He was eighteen years younger than me
and my half brother.
I saw him only once or twice a year.
Our lives were so different,
he a single man suffering with schizophrenia,
me a busy mother.
We didn’t exchange phone calls or texts,
emails or birthday cards.

remember Mom’s cheese quesadillas slightly burnt on the edges,
the metal baking sheet warping under the broiler,
cookie dough eaten raw from the fridge

The last time I saw him,
he was at a psychiatric hospital and doing better,
had a slight leg bob but looked straight at me,
intimately as we sat knee to knee.
My mother was bothering him to take a shower,
he’d lost weight and needed a belt.

wasn’t home the smell of dogs on carpet,
chlorine in the swimming pool, our overwatered lawn,
towels drying in the hot sun

He wanted to get a job stocking shelves
or work at a fast food place
and shared with the same enthusiasm
that I told him I am going to graduate school
and embarking upon a profession.
I didn’t feel pity for him, that his dreams of
travel and career had telescoped,
yes! I encouraged, our paths were as weighty.

we navigated knick knacks on every table top,
handmade quilts on beds and banisters,
Mom’s People magazines and shelves of novels

I resisted the temptation to reach out
and touch his hair, as I did when he was small
and had a blond halo of curls,
at thirty, it was short and light brown.
I could describe the hues in his blue/green eyes,
the intervals he would go outside for a cigarette,
that he held out hope the longest when his father/my step father
was dying of a brain tumor.

you had Mom’s beauty, your faces shaped like generosity
I was first breaking in her birth canal and had to be pulled with forceps,
you, last born, came out too quickly and barely made it to the hospital

Chris went with me to see the 9/11 monument,
we sat on the top of a double decker tour bus,
it was windy and we had makeshift plastic ponchos.
The Statue of Liberty across wet gray pavement,
across gray wet waters was a trinket,
we wanted her to loom larger.
At St. John’s church we lit red votive candles.
At the black chasms where the twin towers were,
where water poured endlessly,
we didn’t talk, but I took Chris’s arm,
let him lead me from one to another.

as teenagers we both didn't feel worthy enough,
escaped in books and television,
cigarette butts and bottles hidden in our bedrooms

I was not directly affected by his disease,
didn’t see his attempts to appease or quiet the confusion,
burning money or throwing away our mother’s crystal collection,
tossing the stones we both spent our childhoods contemplating,
rose quartz and pyrite, amethyst and obsidian.

they say you are at peace now, I thought there might
be a cure, it was difficult to manage you, I never had to

Chris called me Debbie after I insisted others use Deborah.
I let him, I liked it, I was his big sister again
and could keep him safe by reading a bedtime story,
he was just my little brother,
not a crisis, an issue, not a diagnosis,
not a tragedy, an addict, not dead on arrival.
He was an angel, as he is now
but with bigger wings, all love again,
closer than ever.

Heavy Sigh

I couldn't find the right title for this poem. It will most likely come after I press publish! 

Heavy Sigh


I keep sighing.
Audible, animal, the people around me
worry they are the cause.
It is true, one has a slipped disc,
another, a herniated heart.
I breathe deeply for them,
as in moments they can’t.

Today I was in a writing group.
The woman next to me wore lipstick
called Unicorn Tears,
her lips were metallic pastel pink.
Across from me another
had a mother of pearl turtle around her neck,
it was big, like a real baby reptile
just hatched out of a rubbery shell.
A third woman wore a scarf
woven with silver threads,
from Wal-mart, she claimed proudly. 

We think we should get happy again,
when often what is required
is sinking under for a moment,
then perhaps taking a shower,
placing one phone call
for now, just that.
Other days it is gathering symbols
for virtual talismans,
in my pockets are turtles, silver strands,
and the possibility of
release from mythical creatures.

I once heard there are orders of business-
my business, your business
and God’s business.
Current events fall in the third category.
My dear ones’ aorta and spine live in the second.
We can’t help but hyperventilate
when the world feels broken.
Mother Teresa said our work
is not to be successful, but to be faithful.
This would be our first occupation
and reminds me it is enough
to attempt love today.

I was asked by one of the writers
if the word nurturing is spelled with u-r, u-r.
I heard “Is nurturing you are, you are?”
That’s what my sighs have been saying,
you and I, because of and in spite of
our suffering, we are.

Ice Breaker

Oversharing is my super power :):)

Ice Breaker


I wish at parties or business mixers
we led off with our biggest body shame.
Hi, I have an inverted nipple
or one of my testicles hangs lower
than the other, my spine is crooked
or I fake my orgasms
or I orgasm in two seconds.
I am anorexic or don’t dance.
We could warm up with our biggest booty shame,
mine is too flat or big or round or ground,
I am constipated, unregulated.

How would the world be different
if printed on the back
of our business cards were
our greatest fears or failures,
if on the bumper of our cars,
we stated I have polyps
and my father died of colon cancer,
my brother just overdosed,
I cheated on my partner,
I have been cheated on,
I am addicted to porn.

What if when asked what do you do?
we didn’t offer our job title
but who we wanted to be when
we were six and we still
thought we could fly-
astronaut, inventor,
dog groomer, ballet dancer,
wedding cake maker,
fireman, world saver,
the goddess Persephone guiding people
out of the underworld.

Is it possible to share our greatest joy
or challenge while in the checkout line-
I am buying this six pack as I do every night,
but really I want to learn guitar,
these strawberries are for my grandson,
he is the light of my life.

What if instead of flying our national flag
or team colors outside our windows
there was a recognized hue for distress
and another for loneliness.
Could it be there are not overshares,
no toomuchinformationing.
I imagine a world where we wouldn’t cringe or blush
or shame when someone was vulnerable.
Isn’t care the chrysalis broken open,
love, the butterfly
poised for flight?

I’ll start with me, the italicized
words at one point have been true.
All felt or got better or were tolerable because...
I accepted, I healed, I forgave because...

myself and others... 
only...
only...
because...
I told someone.

In a Day

This baby of mine is now 21. Amazing. He and I have changed so much. In my last poem I said the Nile River was Brazilian. If any of you astute readers caught my error, bravo. I am still cringing :)

In a Day

The sky can be four kinds of blue,
it can snow three variations-
sand snow, slush snow, silver snow.

At lunch I remembered cheesecake
and how long since I had a piece.
Two years, it was at a local restaurant,
and infused with lavender,
as was the vodka cosmopolitan I ordered.
So much can change in a day-
a car accident, the birth of a child,
heart attack, you say no or yes.
So much can change in a year,
all of the above
and a strand knotted with yays or nays.
I don’t miss booze most hours.
I’ll go back for the first,
forkfuls of the perfect cross section,
graham crust, sweet cream,
a light violet glaze.

Today I read the word ravenous
and wondered about the black bird,
do they consider one more
shiny object an addiction,
or unapologetically squawk and swoop?
Today I stopped myself from going
again to the thrift shop,
treasure hunt of earthly artifacts,
didn't bring wool and linen to a nest already full,
bound paper, pottery, silk.

I’ve had four kinds of happiness-
good friend at the airport anticipation,
just put on pajamas contentment,
post coital blisssnuggle,
roof over my head gratitude.
I’ve had three kinds of sorrow,
missing my dead father and brother,
sucking in my stomach judgement,
helpless when others suffer.

A man once studied the raven with a shaman.
He left his family and travelled great distance
for months to crouch on hard dirt.
One day his bones became hollow
and for a few minutes his soul took flight.
Urges can leave us with such training
but we may also ask for mercy.
Lately, if I close my eyes and wait for a word,
a strength, a softening,
it comes most of the time.
I have to look away and breathe though,
as we must
when something is quite beautiful,
or how babies gaze at us
and then glance away
while their limbs and brain gather.

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.