If I Was an Instrument

Researching this poem, I spent a half hour watching a man on YouTube explain the wonders of the humble oboe. Ode to YouTube might be my next poem. Great tenderness these days, I hope this finds you well <3 <3 <3

If I was an Instrument


I’d be the oboe.
From primordial dawn
it is the seminal strand of orange,
the first nod from a nightingale
before she sets to singing.
A strand of pearls pulled slowly
from a black velvet box.

I like starting things off
but soon lose interest.
The oboe lays the table,
then hangs out in the kitchen
sipping sherry while everyone eats.

It is thoughtful,
not requiring torque from the musician,
no turn of the head
as prescribed by the cocky violin,
even for the flute you must
nearly back out of the driveway.

The folksy guitar
asks for bell bottoms,
the electric for tattoos and an amp.
The hulking piano requires a moving
company, the cello and bass
insist on their own airline seat.
The saxophone demands a hat for tips,
the trumpet a company for taps.

You can straight,
legs open, sternum stretch.
Chakra charging
from throat to crotch,
fingers intent over heart strings.
The mouthpiece is like holding a pen
or barrette, a cigarette.

Once made from boxwood, as were bagpipes,
now fashioned from African Blackwood!
46 keys of nickel silver!
Most professionals make their own reeds,
they use two at once!

I like how it comes apart
and is compact like a small rifle.
You could charge into battle holding it,
orchestral bayonet.
I would develop lung capacity
like an olympia swimmer,
be able to serenade the rats out of a city,

I think of the fellatio I could offer
all that practice with
flutter tongue
trill
vibrato
crescendo.

Statistics Class FOUND Poem

This is a poem I wrote the third day of statistics module for graduate school! Read the capitals!

Statistics Class FOUND Poem


approach SIGNIFIGANCE
discuss what MAY HAVE HAPPENED.
can we make it more RIGOROUS
are there VARIABLES WE DIDN’T
CONTROL FOR.

DEVIANT. POTENT.

IF YOU BELIEVE not reaching IS
credible, reliable, TRANSFERABLE.

SATURATEd.  AGGREGATivE.

small sample size equals varying results
THERE IS AN AFFECT.
these were neglected
BIAS data
science IS A DISCIPLINE
with implicit bias, delineate.

test says she is PREGNANT
WITH another case
MORE TOLERANT OF false POSITIVES.
You can look at that later,
IF YOU WANT.

unethical to TELL PEOPLE
THEY HAVE IT, if they don’t
A TRUE STATE,
fail to reject the null hypothesis
YOU can’t do it PERFECTly.

On Cleaning White Beans

I don't have an intro for this one, sending a hug :)

On Cleaning White Beans

They appeared on a shelf in my pantry
no doubt a purchase from a bin at the coop,
long forgotten. A poor lot,
many are misshapen and discolored
some obvious mung and mold.

It is a hectic morning
and I plan to soak them overnight
for soup tomorrow.
But now I am standing at the stove
resentful of sorting.
For such a mundane task,
I am too important, too busy.

I think of the hard boiled eggs
sold peeled at the deli,
the pomegranate seeds
offered hermetically sealed,
perfect popcorn kernels, 
shelled nuts of many kinds.
Perhaps machines do it all now,
the hearty sinking to the bottom
in some wind tunnel,
robotic hands count and choose.

I think of men and women idle in bars
and coffee shops, children playing
Candy Crush on their smart phones.
So many labors no longer needed
in modern society-
no more winnowing and mucking,
sifting and plucking.

It is surprisingly satisfying
to pull out the nasties.
I am suddenly purposeful,
my duty for once unambiguous-
Whole and hale! Pass or fail!

The beans are small as baby’s teeth,
smooth as pebbles at the seashore.
I imagine women around a blanket,
the crop harvested and dried,
children helping until games tempt.
There would be chatter and laughter,
the sun high overhead
or rain,
rhythmic upon a simple roof. 

On Mindfulness

This picture is one of my favorites. I wish I could send you the smell of the Magnolia flower, hopefully you know it!

On Mindfulness


I can do it for a few minutes
floating through the food coop
marveling at produce,
beets are garnet hearts,
leeks are magic wands.

Time becomes a hula hoop,
fellow shoppers sprout wings and halos.
Time becomes scaffolding between
the misty mountains, Past and Present
no longer called Regret and Worry
nor even Nostalgia and Hope,
they are now just Now and Now.

But then once in my car in the parking lot,
I am chowing organic cheese puffs
and chugging bottled kombucha.
I am cutting off a driver to make a green light.

A new age guru proclaims
we avoid three minutes of pain
with three decades of addiction.
I think bullshit on the math
but nod at the theory.

I ponder porno and war,
what if we really stopped and watched
and felt and listened to one another.

It is windy out.
The cedar boughs are
fine fingers with lace sleeves.
Once high on mushrooms I saw
such trees reach out to caress me.
Today when I am still I can see them
pausing, waiting for me to reach back.

It is muscular in the beginning,
to pause and focus, to allow and receive,
to look for the space between in and exhale.

There are moments like that in a symphony,
the violinists and cellists must pull back the bow.
Even in pop music don’t you want me baby,
there is a chance between
chorus and verse, the bridge.

I manage it sometimes, for a second,
oh my god I am driving a car,
there are two brown flecks
in my daughter's right blue eye.
This morning there was a little cream left,
my son and I watched as we poured it into tea,
cumulus clouds against a dark sky.


 

My Son Hands Me His Last Tooth

I had some wifi issues last night and couldn't post. The poem is better for extra tweaking :) 

My Son Hands Me His Last Tooth


They fall out quickly,
leaving the way childhood does,
one day you are able to hold hands
in the grocery, the next they are
hanging a few steps behind.
I love how the molars exit without fanfare,
the way puberty arrives
a pimple, a mood, a crush.

Do you want this? he asks.
For some time he’d left
others under his pillow in vain.
The tooth fairy has long been outed
but I keep the ruse going
except he has to remind me.
I fetch a Wow! and five dollars,
pittance for something so central.

What do you do with them anyway?
Oh sometimes I save them in my jewelry drawer.
I say this to make him feel
that next to diamond and gold,
silver and stone, his enamel,
even his rejected is worthy.

The tooth looks airy as popcorn,
like a piece of popcorn evenly cleaved.
The core of dried blood is like the
brown shiny kernel, both once one or two cells,
vegetable and animal,
then
glorious differentiation, into eyeballs
and sweet starch, roots and bones.

He is my sixth child and I wish
I could blame my lack of ceremony
on busyness, the way the baby books
for subsequent children are often started and abandoned,
but there have been dozens of teeth over the decades
I stealthily gathered in the night,
most I can’t account for.

There are so many passages
barely marked, uncelebrated rites like
weaning, potty training, first walking
up to puberty, sixteenth birthdays, graduations.
I lack a larger context,
have no extended family rituals to replicate,
am dwarfed by deciding
what to have for dinner every night.

Should we have Italian, Mexican,
Chinese, sushi, Thai?
Should we celebrate St. Patricks Day
and Cinco De Mayo?
My adopted children are Ethiopian
and face a double loss.
As do their adopted friends from Ghana
who looked forward to getting a fried egg
on their everyday rice for their birthdays.
It takes a village to gather the eggs
and observe with wonder,
a community to render the profane, sacred.

I am a cultural orphan tempted
to culturally appropriate,
wish I could give this boy a rattle made with his teeth
in a ceremony around a fire.
I lament he was not taken by the men
for a vision quest,
returned and introduced as a man.

My son’s ivories are larger than those of
children that travelled my womb,
his dark curly hair and brown skin
are similarly novel,
but my longing for his wholeness,
the way he stirs my heart is familiar.

All I have managed to give him-
(and I pray it is enough)
is a turn to the earth,
to the passages of time and season,
candles at solstice,
blooming branches in spring.
I point out first stars and sunsets.
He is the first to show me
the river is swollen with rain
or a bald eagle
or the moon as it rises, points to the sky,
the circle pearly and white. 

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.