Favorite Kind of Poem to Write

Howdy! I apologize for the delay, I let my domain name run out unknowingly, whoops!  I don't know who painted this lovely, but the colors and textures remind me of dreams (all kinds).

Favorite Kind of Poem to Write

This is NOT My Favorite Kind of Poem to Write
Because I don’t know where it is going.
But there are curiosities that want witness,
Big curious things like a woman whose marriage fell apart
because her husband couldn’t live with her clutter,
all over their house colorful baskets perched,
many with the tags still on.
And medium curios,
like a family who barely communicated.
One day the dad joined the daughter
on the couch while she played video games.
From the kitchen the mother started singing hymns,
while they gamed the daughter and father joined in.

This is my favorite kind of poem to write.
Because what needs to find home, eventually does.
What needs to be elevated, will.
For me it was a TSA worker at a busy airport
who after checking my ID
directed my beau and I to the shortest line
with the flourish,  “Show em how its done,
show em how its done!”
We must say it once a week, my guy and I,
about once a week he exalts, “Show em!”
about once a week I do.

What is the meta purpose? The theme?
Something about hunger.
And safety.
We must never underestimate two, three
even four degrees of separation.
The stories in the opening paragraph are not mine,
they were told to me by a friend
yet I internalized them,
named them Misfortune and Hope.
Let’s show each other how to,
how to fill our empty baskets with hymns,
let us colorfully gather,
our clutter, our emptiness, 
lead me as I sing you into being.

This poem wants me to recall a dream,
a recurring one about rabbits.
Always too many of them, dozens of bunnies
I forgot to feed, always a petting zoo kind of feel.
Two attached their teeth to my elbows needing meat.
Of course you do I thought shaking them off.
For the first time, before guilt
knotted its rough scarf around my throat,
guides appeared to ease my nocturnal neglect.
Two sheep, one on either side,
resolutely herded me toward the exit.
They were noble and steadfast,
so gently, so assuredly, they flanked me.

Student Loan

I love this time of year for all the transitions and and beginnings!

Student Loan


As my daughter and I are filling out student loan information,
she buries her head in my lap in fear,
questioning academia, neo-liberal brainwashing,
white privilege, society and financial institutions.
She has picked her thumb until the first layer of skin is gone.
She has taken a gap year,
her gap burgeoned with French baguettes
with sanding banisters in Berlin, with livvvvvving. 
I have taken a gap life,
or so it seems being a stay-home-mom.
Who does that anymore?
Not me.

As we learn about compounding interest
in required loan counseling on the government loan website
I am testing a power outfit,
pink blouse, white skirt.
I am noticing a tea stain on the skirt’s linen fabric
as I pat my daughter’s hair,
near my daughter’s smooth cheek,
her cheek on my lap
as she at nineteen contemplates student loan debt.
This to meet boys? she quips.
This to get an education I assert.

The Word of the Day from my online Scrabble game
pops up on my phone, EXPAT.
Did you get goosebumps? I ask her.
No she answers. Me neither,
I affirm and turn back to the tutorial,
1.09% for ten years turns 5 grand into almost 9.
SO I CAN DO WHAT?! 
my girl laments, work for The Man, have no free time,
be a cog in the wheel of capitalism?
No, so you can get a job that is rewarding
and have benefits and
fulfill what Gloria Steinem asserts that
everyone needs
Both
A
Home
And
A
Journey.

After being Home my and my children’s entire lives,
I am beginning my my my my oh my journey.
My daughter considers me
when I tell her calmly to press the *submit* button
as the application is due in two hours.
How do you do it Mom?
Help us and go to grocery store again again again
and now go to school.
She wonders how I take my youngest son to football practice
and watch him bang into people for two hours.
I tuck in my blouse which tends to ride up
out of my white skirt and answer,
that part, I don’t watch.

Molt

I took a week off last cycle. It felt so decadent! Another poem about relationships, the gritty parts! 

Molt

My friend shows me her boa who is molting.
First the snakes’s eyes glaze over, thick like cataracts,
she stops eating, and moves slowly.
It can take three weeks, during which
she shies away from
the heat light, prefers cool shadow.

I am trying to find such
in the passenger seat of a Subaru
when somehow a discussion of
the smelliness of my car
initiated by my long distance relationship partner
morphs into me lamenting
I am not with someone in my hometown.
I am feeling deathly alone, all the while I am with him.
I am pushing him 900 miles away instead of 90.

The carnage reminded me of when once
a semi truck pulled up next to me at an intersection.
I knew the driver was too close and couldn't see me.
I predicted scraping metal
but could do nothing to stop it.

Hearts can break quickly
and they can suffocate
when robbed of clarity and compassion.
It takes about five minutes.
A few freeway exits hurtling toward Seattle,
two pop songs.
Afterwards I wondered why,
why did I drag my beau into my inky lair
when this morning he had
made my coffee just how I like it,
kissed me sweetly all over,
and just yesterday to a girlfriend,
I bragged I liked my independence.

Stasis is advised in recovery circles,
for at least six months after big changes.
Stopped drinking? Don’t quit your job.
Spouse admitted infidelity? 
Not the time to move to a new town.

I have been rehabilitating my whole life,
from exactly what I have never been sure.
Humanness, tender heartedness.
I need to install a snake’s operating system.
When vulnerable, shut up,
no sudden movements,
no lashing, no striking.
Slow the fuck down. 

Big Box

I can be a corporate hater. I can also be a corporate lover. Today the latter! 

Ode to the Big Box


Yes, we need little local shops,
clothiers and bakeries and gift boutiques.
I will plunk down a twenty and change at Elliot Bay Book Company
for the hardcover, Turning Homeward
written by a Seattleite about
creek restoration even though I could get the
same pulp and ink for half price on Amazon.
I don’t want to pay double, but I do.
Amazon where I buy most everything
is also a local Seattle business
and holds job fairs for thousands,
they have so many interns,
the city has added extra bus lines.
In Seattle, love our local means
embracing the monoliths Costco and Microsoft,
Nordstrom and Alaska Air.
For now, Amazon’s packages are still delivered
by a boxy brown truck and a smiling driver
who wears shorts in December.

Healthy attachment requires consistency,
support and accessibility.
As babies we test,
Is someone there and can they help me?
Starbucks employees are trained to ask of your day
and to genuinely care about the answer,
teaching few parents nowadays seem to manage.
When a Safeway grocery employee
offers to show me exactly where
the rice cakes are on aisle four,
a primal wound is tended.
My psychology professor when talking about childhoods
with not enough attachment quipped,
and we wonder why we drink so many lattes.
The teat at Target wears a red shirt and khakis,
at Best Buy, blue polos,
at Home Depot, an orange apron.
We are baby ducks still imprinting,
mirror neurons at eighty still fire away.

Most humans have a third place,
respite between home and work,
a few generations ago it was a chess board outside the corner store,
the kitchen table of an aunt or grandma,
your friend’s front porch on the walk home from the factory.
I cite certain nature trails and on those a
couple of select trees, but also also also
these days I seek that warm milky
everything is going to be ok beverage,
usually at Starbucks.
I love knowing in Everytown, U.S.A. I can find
frosted lemon loaf and a decaf Americano,
a coffee condiment bar which offers
raw sugar and lots of cream.
I also purchase people watching,
eavesdropping (yesterday a sweet teenage son and his mother).
I procure a little round table with an outlet at my heels,
chit chat about a woman's cute purse,
perhaps an appropriately flirty glance,
a clean bathroom, a girl could hardly ask for more.
I stop there in the morning to finish a poem,
I stop to regroup before picking up my kids from school,
I stop by because after writing all day
I need to put on real clothes for someone,
I stop for chocolate covered salted almonds
after being bitchy to a loved one,
they are handed to me by someone who assumes I am kind.
.
Little censors in my brain alight
when I see the Target bullseye,
Starbuck's plump mermaid is body positive,
when I was in kindergarten I drew Walmart’s yellow sun.
The world is a swish, it is a little blue bird,
an apple with a bite,
the world is full of golden arches.
People, corporations are run by people,
people who once needed their tears and asses wiped.
Most of what many hold most precious
was excellent branding and a taproot into
primitive needs for connection and comfort.
Think Santa, the Easter bunny, Valentines Day,
Oh and
Jesus. 

Nourishment

I am listening to Phil Collins song, "One More Night." All the lyrics don't apply, but l love the refrain, "give me one more night," sung over and over, which is how I feel today. 

Nourishment


My sons who are adopted
and dark skinned as teak
are learning about blackness in
post modern America from watching
a sitcom called Blackish.
The mixed race mother actress
has a mouth which morphs with
expression and because of her
I unclench my tight jaw.
The father has a sex talk with his son,
which I have not yet attempted with mine.
My family’s evening ritual of television
is not how I envisioned bonding,
in a perfect world preferring
board games, me reading chapter books.

I sometimes still need everything just so.

I attend a workshop where the sole purpose
is to listen to a speaker and notice
what is nourishing about them.
A woman who spoke about losing a friend had wild hair
I wanted to unleash from its hairband,
I could feel each strands' kinetic pull toward flight.
As a man described a row with his wife,
my heart puffed up like a frigate bird’s chest.
I discovered sustenance form voices
that sounded like schoolgirls with secrets
and one steady and potent
that could land airplanes in turbulence.

The ones I love the most, I am the least forgiving toward.

In the poor part of Tacoma the traffic lights
still dangle from single wires,
I nearly ran a red not seeing them.
The sidewalks have cracks from which dandelions grow.
And off 72nd Avenue, there is a free blueberry park
with 3,372 city-maintained bushes.
Yesterday most of the berries
were still hard and green, an old man
had a bucket half full, little bruises,
when I asked how long it took him to gather
I realized he couldn’t hear.

Even this morning I asked my partner to change.

Near my back porch a star jasmine plant is blooming.
I bought it last year and it stayed in its too tight pot
through the long hot months of summer,
its leaves turned red unnecessarily in the too tight pot in fall.
Star jasmine grows around my mother’s house.
She and I want so many things
we cannot give each other.
But she bestowed so much,
today I am with her love of flowers.
She tends hers while I neglect mine.

As soon as we parted, I wish I had listened.

I planted the bush in the ground a month ago.
The leaves are pale green
suggesting it needs something.
More water? Nitrogen?
I lack the knowledge and patience to investigate.
Still, it is bumping blooming,
tacky little pasties all over.
The fragrance changes as the sun lifts and lowers,
the fragrance changes if it has been just watered,
then it smells like children’s skin in the summer
when they have just come in from swimming.

His greatest kindness, saying my wounds made us both stronger. 

Cold Plunge

My Wednesday poems have morphed to Thursday, must be summer :)  This poem goes out to a dear brother, Stephen. 

Cold Plunge


Devil’s hole in the Breitenbush river,
white enamel bathtub outside a sauna,
wood barrel near a hot tub,
Blue Lagoon plunge into Denny creek.
I used to swim naked in the Pacific in January,
this morning a cold shower after steam.
Because you feel so alive after.

I thought this poem would be about
the increased oxygen that rushes to the skin’s surface,
the beneficial practice of jumping into discomfort
that you know is ultimately good for you,
reps for when you need to say or do something you are afraid to,
yet I received an email from dear friends who await
the call “a match has been made,”
a donor found for a double lung transplant.

Tonight I asked my partner for steak
as I am menstruating and was recently diagnosed with low iron.
While I stood at the counter
chopping vegetables for our salad,
my man pulled my panties down in a flourish,
he forgot I was bleeding.
Near me was the meat’s styrofoam packaging,
the pad soaked in blood was not unlike
the plastic liner under the meat we bought,
I felt vulnerable, embarrassed, protective.
About eating meet, I am needy, sorry, resolved.

Once a passenger in my car said “donorcycle”
when a Kawasaki Ninja roared past on a windy road,
his swerves foreshadowing the mistakes, the ambulances,
the life support, the decisions, the deadlines.
Yes. And how could someone young and not yet tethered to life,
not want to see if the bike really can hit 176 mph?

When my thirty year old schizophrenic brother died,
he was blue when they found him, which is a shame,
his lungs, inhaling two packs a day, would not have been useful
but his heart given the right brain could have healed the world.
My son asked, “When I turn 16 can I get a motorcycle?”
I answered, “God no”
flashing on cornea, kidney, lung, heart,
middle and inner ear, liver, intestine, pancreas, tissue,
valves, tendons, ligaments, bone.

Who gets a transplant is based
on “justice” and “medical utility.”
An ice cold preservative solution is flushed into
each donor organ, the organ is then packed in ice
and transported in an ordinary beverage cooler.
Every ten minutes someone is added to the transplant
waiting list. 92 transplants take place in the U.S. per day.

One organ donor can save eight lives.
My friend, who without donor lungs, will not live
is the most worthy, caring, sacrificing, giving,
hard working, taking care of his body, not smoking,
healing, hoping, I said worthy, I will say it again,
worthy, worthy, a life in proof of worthiness.

We want the poems we read to make sense.
We want life to make sense.
Sometimes they don’t.
Sometimes it doesn’t.
I am taking cold showers again,
or rather ending with cold,
at first I can’t put all of me under
and parcel myself, back, then chest,
finally head.

I hate the first few seconds,
the intake of breath so sharp
like dying might be, or living can be.
The breath the way we respond when
the phone rings, we receive news, he or she is gone,
or we found them, we lost it, them,
or we found one, her, him, them. 

Kitchen Peeves and Pleasures Haiku

I recently found some Gourmet magazines from the 90s. An article suggested roasting beets concentrates the flavor, it did! I love how cooking and kitchens have innovations and yet are mostly timeless.

Kitchen Peeves and Pleasures Haikus


time to clean the fridge
no one eats the last pickles
floating green wienies

once made bread pudding
better at the bakery
bread heels still hopeful

our shelves often bare
my partner stocks his larder
love his excesses

stinky dish towels
sour sponges keep it real
life is everywhere

syrup in pitcher
elevates a Sunday morn
kids say thank you

“there are no clean spoons!”
dish washer never emptied
each sip a new glass

Oreos and chips
packages don’t last a day
but what a good day

a sink, floor, a roof
a faucet, such luxury
knives, pointed pleasure

fruit on the counter
a scramble for new bunches
goes fast until brown

kids out of the house
naked cooking and eating
bare butts stick to chairs

from dirty, raw, dull
to julienned and plumped
cooking soothes sad, mad

the utensil drawer
must be edited often
no space for novel

soup pot on the stove
generations of comfort
all is beyond well

When I Dress For Women

This picture is my dear friend Kristin, who totally gets dressing for magic, whimsy, women and men!

When I Dress For Women


I might attempt cat’s eye glasses and caftans,
those boxy dresses whose pattern
could be traced from freezer paper,
best with embroidery, intricate handwork
only females appreciate,
eyelet is another that takes careful consideration,
as well as percale with tiny white dots.
I shape my strand of gray
into a defiant curl,
heraldry of character and certain ease.
Women notice
clogs with a naughty texture
like animal print or saddle swirls,
understand the slight nod to
cowboy bars and hot cowboys.
For gals I wear color,
a little pop on my feet,
sandals in fuschia and turquoise.
I won’t wear a bra,
allow my tummy its natural swale,
cotton panties in pale pink,
women will comment on pretty purses and
scarves, my nail polish.
With women I am safe,
sister, daughter, mother.
Nightgowns in soft fabrics are prized.

When dressing for men,
I choose color as well but near my face,
I am a flower, they with proboscis probe.
I am rouging my lips, highlighting my hips
I am high and tight,
tighter pants elicit wants,
leggings induce longings.
Breasts pushed up, waist nipped,
tummy sucked, hourglass, could be yours
sass and ass.
Heels help lengthen the leg.
For fellows, underwear in siren nylon and lace,
smaller cuts, an occasional thong.
My gray tucked behind an ear.
I aim for special, but special
in a how much is that doggie in the window way,
a see and choose me sway.
Both women and men like skirts.
I like both women and men.
For men I sleep naked,
even if my arms get cold.

Redwood

I was working on this poem yesterday but couldn't finish it until I took a walk in the forest today. I recently heard about the benefits of being in the woods. Trees emit chemicals which interact positively with our biology, boosting immunity and mood. It takes only one hour to receive the increases and the effects last a whole week! 

Redwood


Every childhood needs an oak,
like the perfect parents,
neither permissive or authoritarian
their leaves fine fish hooks in sandy soil
tickling foot flesh,
their solid trunks against tawny hills,
stoic as church pews.

Eucalyptus for childbearing,
the koala returns to suckle in the mother’s
pouch for six months,
the mother protected by fragrant garlands.
Maples can be helpful with their
leaves big as pressed palms,
and some kind of Palm,
queen and date and Chinese fan
cry for levity, fronds lifting parachutes of air.

An apple tree must be in at least one backyard,
we need crowns of blossom and bee
to climb and lean with a book in oversized laps
while our feet dangle earthward.
And Madronas to remind us of the impossible,
its bark, red as rust and papery,
begging to record our secrets,
branches dense as blue whales stretching back to the sea.

For learning how to embrace abundance,
nut and stone fruit trees
are highly recommended.
Evergreens are a must.
We need beings that don’t change too much,
don’t bend too much.
Willows are good for depression
as only reflected trauma can heal,
curly willows especially, gallows humor.

Redwoods remind us we are mystics,
their bark thick and light as
froth in cappuccinos.
Sprouts poke out of bitty burls,
like chin hair on an old woman
when she no longer gives a damn.

When I Gain Weight

My greatest marker of healing may be accepting my body despite some extra pounds. Celebrating even :)

When I Gain Weight


Thank you Kerry Gold butter
and Barbara’s jalapeño cheese puffs,
sea salt caramel chocolate (milk and dark)
a phase of fresh flour tortillas
grilled hot with oil
a hurt knee that insists I do not run.

Thank you for joining
me to my sisters and brothers
who have love handles, muffin tops,
saddle bags and swaddling,
to their double chins
substitute teacher arms
raising triple lattes.

I am untucking my shirt,
wearing all black, into accessories
like handbags and shoes,
buying the bigger truck,
spending extra time on hair and make-up.
I am testing to see if you love me for my personality.
I am my uncle with a paunch
requesting a second basket of bread,
a husky date drinking pina coladas
instead of tonic water and gin.
I am out of control, I am afraid,
I am unworthy, I am not reflected,
not seen.

Ode to you extra pounds,
humility and ground
mid-life mid-wifing
I won’t steal your husband
in my skinny jeans
won’t compete with my skinny daughters.

Blessings to abundance,
gratitude for getting to cut back,
I could survive a month on my middle,
a famine with my wiggle,
bubble wrap, protection from cats and calls.
At that certain age having to choose face over body,
smooth skin over booty
adipose disposed,
estrogen factory.
Could someone open a window,
all ways warm.

I am sleek as a seal,
I am fun to hug,
I am more to love,
I am a hot press.
I am the soft place to land,
I understand. 

Venn Diagram

So fun to rhyme sometimes! 

Venn Diagram


Think of two groups(sets) of anything and represent each
by a circle, draw the circles so they intersect.

Tiger and house cat,
democrat and republican,
slave and master, tree and table,
parish and pastor.
The table can be made of wood,
is hard, cut, crafted, beautiful perhaps.
A tree contains wood, is hard,
alive, natural, beautiful always.
Creation sheared and carded,
emotions teased into love and pain,
human interaction, either praise or complain.

Place each characteristic unique to only one set
outside of the oval.

Two eye rolling, arms crossed
teenage girls are given paper and markers.
One is a full figured, outgoing onlychild living in town,
the other is thin shy bigsister
climbing trees hanging upside down.
Within minutes they are like separated twins,
before grimaces are now grins.
Both singers, bad spellers, brown haired musicians,
they are planning a concert,
they are comparing their handwriting.

Place what the groups have in common,
their union inside the elliptical center.

Hula hoops in the Gaza strip,
all one when we skinny dip.
Everyone paired up,
the only worthy tarot suit, the spilling cups.
Red, blue and yellow,
a preschool scene.
Orange, purple, green,
diversity dream. 

Inside Poems

A day late! This picture is me running on a trail (in Crocs!) on pollen from alders :)

Inside Poems

I.
I was wearing linen pants
which bag terribly in the ass,
as linen does
especially if you have driven,
which I had, a few miles to get coffee.
And a sweater I love,
it is the light turquoise-y color of summer things,
often paired with yellow on beach towels
and plastic serving ware intended
for picnics of sandwiches and watermelon.
The top is wool and shrunk in the wash.
I like the small/tightness as it shows off my breasts,
reminiscent of a young girl who developed quickly.
My hair was clean but disheveled
from an epsom salt bath taken the night prior,
no make-up, well, lip gloss, a color called
red dahlia, I wear it for lubrication
and to make my lips blossom.
Two women were in line before me,
waxed and blonde, manicured and styled,
high heeled and big booby-ed,
one might have been a porn star,
wearing what you’d call a romper
little black shorts and sleeveless, deep V neckline,
dark roots in need of a touch up.
The other could run a cosmetic company,
crisp white blouse, pencil skirt,
her highlights perfectly woven and blended.
There were several men in the joint,
I joined them in sly looks at
backsides, silhouettes, faces
(we couldn’t not
and didn’t the women want us to,
such great genes displayed so artfully)
Were the ladies as perfect from all angles?
Yes, the ladies were.
I felt invisible, relieved,
invisible, released,
Invisible, I felt my feet on the floor.
My metatarsals couldn’t hate them for
their perfection,
not the men or the women,
not me, not for a moment.

II.

Attempting to live from
the inside of my body,
I reference
G-spot instead of clitoris,
third eye rather than retina
I am trading my frontal lobe,
for amygdala.

Forget face and hips and swagger
the brain stem is skunk cabbage,
whose flower is large and muscular as a fist,
canary, like sunshine cooled and sculpted.
The pelvic floor is a nest formed by
a dog or deer or god, circling thrice.
The backbone, that one is easiest,
a tree’s rope swing, supple with use.

The words fat or old
or ugly, dumb and lame
are poisoned arrows. I prefer plucking tendons.
There are roughly 4,000 in the human body.
I once saw a woman
make a guitar from an empty tissue box
and rubber bands, it sounded surprisingly good.

A mudra is a hand frozen in a certain position,
a prayer is wanting things to be different,
I am so over feelings.
Rather I am so over thinking about feelings.

Anger is exploding manzanita on hillsides
of red rocky soil.
Sorrow is certain birdsong at twilight
outside my bathroom window
when I run upstairs to pee before dinner.
I wonder if I would love the bird more,
the longing more, the sorrow more
if I took up birding and learned family, genus, species.

What now? is a better question than
why me?
My hands open,
can lay palm fronds. There are funerals
and births that need attending.
They can hold paint brushes that will forever be inviting,
now?

When I released life could be better
my left eye remembered a car accident,
sixteen years old, I had been drinking.
I am sorry fellow passengers and other car members
who weren’t injured but could have been,
until now I hadn't thought of you.
I was an idiot, I was a hurt child.

I want to write poems that make sense
but am being asked to put down the oars.
I do so but tell the River Captain,
I have always loved the smell of water
near the shore, especially the shore.
He nods impersonally and opens the dam.
My body is a rowboat, stolen from a bunkhouse,
what freedom now, when there is nothing any longer at stake.

Third Eye

If my third eye had a tree house! Thank you Jennifer Herm from Pinterest for this!

Third Eye

When my third eye budged it was not
what I expected
not the milky way, a choir of angels,
LSD induced swirls on
some meditation channels
nor lavender sparkly like
the bedrooms of six year old girls.
It was sealed because
of my perfectionism,
an affliction like yapping dogs
that won’t shut up even when
only their owner is at the door,
and blackberries
their barbed tendrils impossible to eradicate.

Grace is the word pivot.
I love the smell on the roadside
when the berries are in bloom,
you have to be riding a bicycle or walking
preferably when the sun is hot.
I pluck warm nuggets,
let their yielding pre-pave,
the way I want traffic and my lover’s affections,
my fondest wishes to flow.
Grace is appreciation of tenacity,
to honor the service in yipping pups
and noxious weeds.

I felt Jesus once.
A “ceremony” was required
(aka taking strange drugs)
and paying lots of money to a “healer”
(aka a white guy with eagle feathers and heart).
I laid on the floor and was crucified.
It wasn’t what I expected.
There were no thorns,
no pain. For the first time
I laughed unconsciously.

Isn’t that the way with most things,
the love of your life
wears polyester dress shirts when you
swoon over crisp cotton,
the child who gave you the most trouble
is the one visiting you in the nursing home.

The pressure in my forehead
culminated in a horn of sorts.
First
unicornian, flowing mane
in a mossy forest
then
narlwalian, I swam through dappled ice.
Finally
rhinocerian, lumbering with
solid heft and steadfastness.
Most often enlightenment isn’t about ascension,
but to feel ourselves fully on this earth. 

When the Cashier at 7-Eleven Called Me "Beautiful"

I do believe the world would be a nicer place if our greetings were such. How might we all tend one another if we began with, "Handsome" and "Dear," "Doll" and "Love" ?

When the Cashier at 7-Eleven Called Me "Beautiful"


I wasn't feeling particularly pretty
and I suspect the woman behind me in line
with greasy hair and wearing pajama bottoms
received the same salutation.
No matter, I actually blushed
and walked out of the store smiling.

My clerk was simultaneously training a worker
on an adjacent register.
She was on speed perhaps,
her efficiency almost manic
but the best part of a drug arc,
a disc jockey with two turntables,
a bartender pouring shots.
Still her goodness was genuine,
her purpose pure.

I doubt it was in the employee handbook,
to ring up gasoline and give change with such affections.
I too have offered them as easily,
holding the door for unfamiliar dears and cuties. 
I like to think of Raymond Carver's quote,
      And did you get what
      you wanted in this life?...
      And what did you want?
      To call myself Beloved,
      to feel myself Beloved on this earth.

Recently I took an ethics course for my
master's degree in counseling.
The professor advised us practicing therapists
not to tell clients we love them, 
or touch them without permission.
I took notes dutifully.
But when she lectured we ought not to
call our clients honey or sweetie,
I put down my pen questioning my career choice,
wondering what then was the point.

 

Backlog

This picture is from my dear friend Cari's art studio. She inspires me to keep creating!

Backlog


The last few weeks I have been cheating.
Instead of writing fresh poems to publish
for my weekly site, I posted saved up ones,
ones that settled a little, no body odor included.
Currently going to the grocery store feels as impossible
as flying to Stockholm to attend a rave.
So I scrounge dinner for rangy teenagers,
stretching a head of Romaine,
they don’t complain about salad again
if there are croutons and Caesar dressing.

There is one spotted banana
nobody will eat in a banana swing
my ex-husband gifted our household.
It is shiny chrome metal contraption
I hated at first, a hammock for fruit,
so silly, like those paper towel flagpoles
you soon tire of.
But somedays it is the most fun anyone is having,
a ménage à trois of puckered lime, browning banana,
one questionable avocado.
I think the cats climb on the counter
 and push them when we are all away.

Writing poetry, painting, strumming a new song
doing anything where there is a hillock,
some oomph required, requires bribes.
Second cups of tea, chocolate during,
a warm bath and tucking in early after.
I need to write a poem about rape culture
that demands a hotel room with room service.
I want to tell young people
and old people and all people
don’t put off your dreams,
not for one single day, people!
the time    j u s t    g o e s.

The highlight of my week
was a friend texting me about her own ex-husband.
She used lots of expletives referring to his backside-
dumb ass, fancy pants, ass wipe.
It was a long marriage, he is a good man.
I haven’t told anyone it was I who broke
the large crockery planter on the deck.
I won’t admit to my supervisor
I faked being sick to get out of writing with
sullen young adults.

Conspiracy theories have been a subject
of reflection with my children.
They don’t know who the Beatles are but heard
Paul McCartney died and a doppelganger is standing in.
Some say the comic Andy Kaufman
faked his death.
What would I do? I wonder.
Where would I go?
What wild imaginings would I host?
Who would I invite?
How can I do a little of it now?

Ode to the House With the Open Picture Window

I love no matter how sophisticated we get in modern society, there are basic elements like food preparation, babies and sleep we all share. 

Ode to the House With the Open Picture Window


The house had been abandoned
and then remodeled quick,
in a week given a mani and pedicure,
beauty bark, generic shrubs and a for sale sign.

It is dwarfed by the newer construction
down the road,
smaller than their three car garages,
it is a ranchette,
almost a coffee kiosk,
big as a Nike shoe box, size 13.
A starter kit, doll house.
They seem like dolls,
the man and the woman
who moved in, moving inside it.

Rather like actors
in an off off Broadway production,
the house the size of an intimate stage.
Rather like models in a painting
by Johannes Vermeer,
who worked during the 1600s in Holland
and employed less than 20 colors on his palette
using primarily eight shades.
I must list them-
lead white, yellow ochre, vermilion,
madder lake, green earth, raw umber,
ivory and bone black.

The little house is painted sage with ochre trim.
I liked to look in as I drove my kids
from their school events to our home, many evenings.
I loved that there was soft lighting,
no glow from a big screen tv.

A brick chimney belied there was a fireplace,
but from my view I saw only a butcher block island,
a man or woman alternatively standing.
I imagined potatoes and onions chopped for soup,
cheese, apples, a bottle of wine.

They reminded me of Vermeer’s Milkmaid,
a peasant at a small table
who wears coarse linen and an apron,
she tends crockery and brown bread,
pours milk from a pitcher.

One day a bassinet arrived, white and small.
Soon after thick drapes were hung,
open during the day, but closed each night.
I was so glad they hadn’t put them up
right away, yet was so happy for them,
now able to stand naked at the refrigerator,
go to their baby in pajamas,
their intimacy their own.

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.