California Roll

A Trip to Death?

Death Valley Haiku

From lava dust heaped, pressed and tilted, rocks and cracks color round the plain.   No break to flatness till hills unfrill in yellow peach, rust—call such death?
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All new, who knew?

Deep connections are vital to me. Writing does that for me. When I can't tell people what I'm experiencing (because they're at work or shopping or seeing relatives), I can do ti this way.

Besides, even when I'm with people, I'm not sure they want to hear - or can understand and respond gently - to my intense feelings. These feelings swell and erupt often in this holiday season.

to a new city where no one knows or cares
for you, but Writing this poem on Sunday helped me understand what I felt and why. As I identified with the feelings I'm supposing Mary had on her travels, I no longer felt alone and came to a place of trust and contentment.

Poetry is my attempt to connect with you. I would love hearing a comment back - brief as it may be - after you read this.

All new, who knew?

Mary, soft and tender,
did you ache like me
to tell your stories?
After the angel spoke

of life within your womb,
and curious stares became cold glares,
as your secret further and further protruded,
did you ache to tell your story?

Mary so young (thirteen?) and vulnerable,
sent far from your mother's embrace,
to cousin Liza's place, how did that foreign
cot feel? eating others' meals? Did your faith vanquish

disgrace? Did you cry for your mother's gaze?
Mary, soft and full, when hormones made you
frail, who—what did you tell? Jehovah gave you
cousin Liza—a prophetess, she believed who swelled

your belly wide; she also bore one headed for
early demise. Mary tender and wise, you ride
with Joe beside you, to Bethlehem where no
one knows your name, but when time comes,

angels sing and shepherds bring
their sleepy sheep. Did the stable
owner hear or care? With babe in arms,
still you tell little to neighbor or baker—

you know the other Joseph
of old, who told his brothers his God-sent
dreams of glory. When envy and hate grew,
his beautiful coat didn’t save him.

You come with husband and Jesus to the temple
for the sacrifice Moses told to do—surprise: Simon
greets you as Mother of the Messiah. He tells,
“A sword will cut your heart.” You grapple

with your babe’s end from the start. Your fears you tell
to no one but Joe. For months he searches day
to day for ways to garner wages—you pray. Desperate,
did you know wise men would come with gifts

you need? Warned by an angel, you must flee from Herod
the king. So you tender gifts for the two-week long Egypt
road. In secret you leave, losing bed, neighbors, and
friends again, and go to Egypt, become a stranger

with few who know your God, your tongue.
You keep within who you know your son
will grow to be, your questions and your hope
in the promise of the angels’ song,

Mary, you make me wonder.

Two Spring Songs

    It's 11:20 pm and tomorrow I leave at 5:15 am for the airport.  Getting eight hours of sleep is usually a priority for me, but I promised you - and myself - to put these poems up today.  So I'm doing it!

Reflections while at Filoli Gardens
`   

He's smiling at me in every circle of ruffles --
those bright tipped rings
of coral and pink,
                    camelias --

by thousands He's shouting joy, decking
those branches with bows
to celebrate, to sing
delight over me.
------------------------
Any ideas for a name for the poem above?

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Like That

Make me like that bench -- no longer
new, unmarred, no longer
wholly shiny or even just solid
brown, but make me grey
with spots of green growing,
mottled
with beige and black, lines
lacing their weigh down my length.

This bench
survives
in rain, sun, fog, wind.
It's felt the heft and edges
of overalled weary workers
as well as satin
of gowned gentility.
It's a sturdy, upright.
A stable, weathered
repose. So make me
a beauty so.

And now it's 11:40 after this rewrite and I don't mind!  With my writing efforts lately given mainly to novel-making, I'd forgotten how much I love playing with little words and lines - the fun of making poetry.

A Place to Hear God

    On Sunday my 19-year-daughter and my husband ventured out on bikes into the glorious California spring- warm, but not hot and trees everywhere you look bedecked with blossoms.  I like to bike, but can't keep up with them, so I found a fun adventure for myself. After a previous weekend with TWO parties, I knew the artist within needed nurturing, through nature and solitude.
    So I drove to FILOLI (a must see for anyone visiting the SF peninsula; it's a mansion and gardens which have now become a public trust).  I took with me Bible, journal and a few books which would help me listen to God.  Sunday visitors of all ages and races were wandering everywhere. But I found a bench underneath an oak just starting to put out its little leaves, blossoms having died. In front of me a similarly gnarled oak tree lifted out it's branches. I hear from my eldest that though oak trees exist in New York, not the kind we have here on the coast where branches burr and turn and twist, reminding me somehow of a very old person's gnarled limbs.
    As I wrote two drafts of poems, it was like God was speaking to the depths of my soul.  I've wrestled lately with self-rejection as some of my intense emotionality has come to the surface. God spoke to me of his love through two objects within sight, one man-made; one made by him. - bench and a Camellia tree.
    Here we go - OOPS!  Time's up. Time to end my four-day hiatus from novel-writing.  I promise two poems for you tomorrow.

Acrobatic Balance

Shanghai Circus                                                                                                                                            Honolulu, HI
   (written January 21)

She stands on stage and though she's slender and a bright pink halter bra bares her midriff, our eyes, full of wonder and suspense, focus on her head and above.  More exactly, we're fascinated by her nose.

From it a slender plastic tube rises up to a platter in the air.  On it she balances two goblets, then two more and two more. Two beautiful women keep handing one more to each of her two hands, stretched out at either side.

After wavering and teetering, she balances a vase of flowers on center above three stories of goblets set on platters. We think she will stop. She does not.  One more and one more until there's some thirty on atop.  All the while some thousands of pairs of eyes are on her, willing her to succeed.

Amazed at what she dares, I  flash on what I've failed to attempt for fear I cannot balance.  Suddenly I know it's okay to try – an audience is rooting for me.  Breath drawn in, watching, they're happy just if I take one more goblet and lift it up.  Whether those who focus on me are friends or angels, I know their hearts cheer me on.

Coming Far

I've gone from home but funny,
what wakens me -- tall liquid
ambers with leaves turning red, gold, drifting down
stir much within.

Mother collected foliage. Sometimes I find leaves
pressed, dry, faded to straw between hymnal pages,
She used to sing as she elbowed  a blackened pot. Her
melody drifts down now, "I Come to the Garden Alone.."

In my own yard I hear rustles of a presence.
Chirps speak, not she who spread
discarded bread on a fence ledge where
birds feasted.  While walking among

redwood giants, I glimpse a dull olive
canvas tent, smell sweet pork 'n beans heating
on a kelly green stove and I hunger. On this hot
October afternoon near the one year mark, I thirst

and find at camp's fountain a dark bar, the semi-
sweet she weekly bought, and a new soda,
       Henry Weinhard's.
Now I loosen its cap, discover its cherry scent, taste,
bubbles like I once drank perched on a bar stool beside

her.  I'm far, far
from home, yet sweet,
bitter-sweet home still travels
with me.

Those Eyes

Those Eyes

 
As warm chocolate on a goosebump morning
or a frappuccino on a pearls-of-sweat afternoon,
his liquid large brown eyes soothed me.
Now they are only a memory.
 
The first years when his big red tongue sallied out,
I pursed my lips, turned my chin up, cringed.
Dog licks – yuck . . .  but that hurt
in his eyes eventually compelled my changing,
 
trained me to take his slobbery kisses.
When I came home, he'd bark, venture out
past the kitchen despite my constant scoldings.
Seeing, touching, kissing was all that counted.
 
If I swept by with shopping bags he'd retreat
to his crate, until I remembered a touch, a word
for him. My morning sweetness and awakening
was the coffee of his eyes.
 
If I forgot the caress and warm words
he'd sulk – nose down, paws crossing,
praying.  So he gifted, and pestered,
with his incessant desire for me
 
as I was, whether in chic black dress,
or smelly gym clothes. He worshiped
still whether it was treats, stories or tears,
mistakes or trophies I brought home.
 
His second gift? A presence. 
Those chocolate eyes
followed me.  His desire
an infatuation never ending,
until his eyes closed yesterday.
 

Hearing

You can hear the whisper of leaves in the wind,
the caws of the dark grackle, despite
the steady growl of engines on the four-lane nearby
and the claaks of the bridges planks as the cars pass over.

You can hear the whisper of the wind in the trees,
despite the jet's zoom overhead.  And I can hear
God's small voice despite clutching claws of greed
and loud caws of my human need.

Windows

God, please wash the windows of my heart

I can't see out.  Smudges, water drip marks,

smashed flies, baked on crap.

Please, God, wash the windows

of my heart. So others can see

clearly in to me and I can see truly

what's there without.

View Changes

View Changes

To us first-timers,  the fifth floor view dazzles.

From the hospital lobby the city below shines

as just-washed crystal.  Two spires –

resembling old-style Christmas tree bulbs–

point heavenwards.  Out the other window

two red H's, rising out of a blue bay, hold up

curves, a way to far horizons, wonder and play.

We're ushered to an office and wait

for the new doctor – a woman, slim and kind.

A report, questions and answers are not enough.

The expert's hands probe my friend –

neck, shoulders, abdomen. 

“You can feel them yourself, if you push

just right  – not too hard, not too light,”

My friend too feels those nodes.

She must learn lymphoma's way. 

Though it grows slow now, it can

transform.  When it mutates and runs fast,

radiation,  chemicals, must blast away.

A mere forty, she's climbed

Kilimanjaro, expected more.

“Ten years after diagnosis is the average life.”

The doctor's words shatter our glass house, cut

down decades to months and weeks, promise

days of doctor's visits, poison pills, becoming weak.

Now the lobby's windows

open on a transformation: fog muting

the sapphire waters, obscuring

proud towers of the Golden Gate. 

A church's twin steeples stand

unrelenting, despite our pleas.

The view from here

will never be the same.