April 12 2022

 Upon the land where I was a child

poppies and lupine now paint the hills

in a wash of Monet brush color

For my friends still there

overlooking the swells and folds

where scrub oaks emerge from cracked rocks

grey green with lichen 

this scene unfolds like the beloved familiar setting of a favorite play

Here in what had been sandy shaded bosque

not too long ago

transformed to neighborhoods 

the new oak begins to leaf out

slender catkins following

a companion will be needed if there are to be acorns 

unless the stirring winds bring pollens 

all the way from the botanical gardens 

that always seem so close

but are hardly close enough to form a grove 

We can give up half the driveway and plant another nearby

just as my father spaded the driveway at home

turning over the clover he had planted in the arid soil

so he could experiment with plantings from other continents 

my favorites were the pair of dogwoods nearest the house

tiny violets spreading beneath them

tendrils of grape vines tangled with themselves in another spot

now that I wander his garden in my mind

I restore the fishpond and rice paper plants replaced with orange trees

jump down the seven stairs to the second lawn

as I did in dreams

preparing to fly 

#NAPOWRIMO

On Filial Love

 We speak of love as unconditional 

caught up in yearnings as in an ocean wave

gliding through it 

riding its smooth face 

face we cannot see 

tossed like debris within it until we rise choking 

hardly breathing

dashed 

energized

humbled by this power to overtake us 

How cruel and casual we can be as to filial love

people who are given to us by the architecture of life

siblings taken for granted or worse 

ignored and despised

for simply being themselves 

unconditional love? 

parents who can’t fail to disappoint 

hovering like taut angels

disappearing into lives of their own

caught up in another wave than ours

our children

never aware how carefully we release them like baby sea turtles to cross the sand to their ocean 

Who among us does not pass through decades

without heart shattering

loss can happen over morning coffee

grinding into a perception that someone is not giving enough

shares too much

cannot find a container for their emotive binges

insists on pouring themselves into you

until your own life is so full of their self absorbed angst it enters you as poison

you declining to quaff the arsenic brew felt as rejection 

abandonment 

that thing they insist they always felt from you 

you who worked at a distant desk 

not present when they cried until their little skins turned purple 

they still try to purge themselves of this heart stomped feeling decades later

your choice your mistake your lack of love your abandonment 

It is said that in the end we are alone

meaning we cross a final threshold releasing any hand we hold

some ends happen long before natural death

at times the hands simply let go

having lost that accepting touch 

time’s tides mercilessly separate us

In my life there are those I have profoundly disappointed

nearly everyone close has felt the blunt edge of my imperfections 

it becomes easier now to forgive them 

their endless writings of my inadequate love

love that has matured into the fine weave of being unconditional 

yet is perceived as clearly

not enough 

whereas it is sadly imperfect 

not necessarily tuned to their same key

having been written on the windows in yesterday’s mist

love letters lingering in the much mended heart

#NAPOWRIMO

April 10

 It was fairy tales that laid out the real world

that golden reflections in the pond

concealed 

monstrous creatures that hovered below the surface 

but listen to the story

within the lake is the lady

in her hand, the sword 

Beneath the earth

spine of the dragon 

sleeping now 

sleeping until human hand grasps sword

Myths reveal the hero’s journey 

also Narcissus by the pond

in love with his reflection 

The bard remembers Ophelia

sister of Laertes 

laying herself in the water until it consumes her

Within that story poison is poured into ears

much as in our world today

If you have read and heard the tales

these few words may conjure 

hoofbeats on powdered dirt

a handful of pomegranate seeds

fairy song in the forest primeval

And possibly the voice of your mother

reading you into slumber

with voices of the ages

#NaPoWriMo

April 9 2022

 After all those years in the rainforest 

discovering there was a carpet of plant weavings under the soil 

inches deep

connecting everything

I thought I understood the secret life of plants 

After the pandemic pause including two  summers in the high desert scrub

juniper and piñon 

twisted amidst thorny cacti 

more than anything the trees called out to me 

Here close to the river there are cottonwoods that glisten

long armed branch of ash and elm 

pistache red as autumn lipstick 

in their season

for me, it became cherry and oak

Montmorency for the pies 

aspen grove by the sidewalk 

surprising purple flowers of desert willow 

I prepared for the trees by reading 

seeing their pictures

I visited them in the arboretums

and still I had no idea 

of the flowers of the oak tree

or even of the tiny tender new leaves of the aspen

My appreciation for spring had to do with the color chartreuse 

unfurling of giant fern fronds

appearance of daffodils above the ground 

swollen streams 

Behind the house a pair of doves

have adopted us

they come around when I am outside

the dog watches them silently

Even in town 

seemingly defined by asphalt and concrete 

we live in the embrace of all living things

#NaPoWriMo

April 8 2022

 Within the archive of the familiar

there are treasures

there was a time when I trusted the world more

maybe you did too 

This image is from then 

the before times 

when even the skies 

were painted with optimism 

I saw myself then

an image captured 

resting in the vault 

my colors had not yet faded

face rounded not yet gaunt

There had been wretchedness before

Ellen’s brother killed in Khe Sahn 

my father, death rolling over him as he lay on the old sofa

savage blows to the heart before I was old enough to vote

Now I can see backwards 

around corners 

see when I believed we could change the world 

see when I believed we could choose better futures 

What remains after all that came before

is this

you and I, we write our own story 

yes, our lives happen around us

there is much beyond our touch

and yet and still

when we choose the words to say what we are

the entire language is spread before us

In the song we sang

words described us lifting our feet up

setting them down hard 

stomping the grapes of wrath into wine

truth marching on

to overcome

that is our one job

our reward, the ineffable natural world

where twice a day the sky is alight

where mighty trees bloom out in cascades of tiny flowers

laughter has no words

hope lives 

love conquers 

peace is finding a way 

#NaPoWriMo

April 7 2022

 The time of happening is here

sun has rediscovered its purpose 

in waking up the fruit trees

prodding vines into looking alive again

stolid stodgy oak has the tiniest leaves 

apple blossoms went from one to many

all in one day

The time of miracles is here

and to think once I thought

those only had happened in times before I was alive 

remembering then

in the newness of being

fairies and elves upon the land

The time of glassy mornings is here

there might be ice fringes

more likely air crisp in the dawn

afternoons nap warm

evenings with winking fireflies 

pink skies 

star drenched nights 

promises intended to be fulfilled 

true spring

#NaPoWriMo

These things that matter

 I saw the corner of a room

in a photograph

distinctly bronze

(one of my most prized colors)

sheets of mica hang by the window 

old heavy dark metal Cuban kind fan

sits on the floor 

There is old glass 

teapots, one Japanese

the other graceful pale antler colored ceramic

Two sculptures

horizontal twigs and vertical metal

illuminated as if by crystal filtered sunlight

Yesterday I wanted to come home with a certain crystal 

a single garnet big as a loquat 

it would have gone onto a tray

in the corner with my pewter goblet

tarot wrapped in blue habotai silk

wand carved from desert willow

juniper scent candle poured into cement cup

These things that matter 

tell a small part of our story

one poem among many

remind us how we are different 

how we are alike 

The only photo I display of a person 

Robert stands in front of a sculpture in Big Sur

slightly larger than person sized of lovers in white marble

he holds his guitar 

built by Lester DeVoe

his elbow matches the curve of a knee

his head follows the line of an elbow

his knee opposite her knee

a step lower

the guitar repeats the lines of heads and shoulders above

in the right corner spikes of agave balance the curves that ascend vertically 

These things that matter 

in their certain ways

the garnet, from when I was a child

bedroom corner table covered with rocks 

there are garnets here now

necklace of faceted stones 

still, not the natural stone with its own facets 

deeply red like a translated heart 

you can hold in your hand

#NaPoWriMo

April 4 2022

 Once we lived on the lip of a volcano

evidence of the living earth

hot sulphur breath

restless stirrings vibrating land beneath our feet

I cannot think of that moving earth

without seeing hula

graceful hands describing liquid rock

emerging in lower Puna

Cracks opened in the sidewalks

hot volcano breath emerged

then fountains of red 

about to make rivers to the sea

It was the ultimate act of becoming

fierce, relentless 

earth making and earth breaking

healed skin hard lava scars thirty feet deep

We lived there ten years

through sixty thousand earthquakes

there were tsunamis

nature showing off any old time

Now we have a quiet house

on a plain street

in the middle of the old city

here we celebrate becoming 

tamely 

with trowels and pecan shells

we watch for the trees to bud

flowers to open

over the quiet earth

There will be wildflowers 

Robert will finish the wall

there will be grapes

lavender will bloom 

We went from hundreds of trees

in the rainforest

to this silent lonely oak 

six aspen out beyond the wall

tender leaves beginning to open

I am ready for nature’s calmer drama

even though I made peace with the trembling earth 

even though I belonged to the lonely island 

and the island to me

as proof look into my heart

listen to the mele 

be the undulating land itself a moment

feet joined with the rhythms of home

#NaPoWriMo

In Memoriam

 In the latter months 

of pandemic year 2020

we gave up expectations 

Fully wrapped in the uncertainty 

we became travelers along empty highways 

it was the land without people

Into the loneliness 

once wild land bearing remnants 

artifacts of travel 

hardy desert weeds grown through concrete where you could have bought gas in another time

We rolled along during The Pause

through the twilight zone between the before and the after

Feeling ourselves near the finish

that time when the pandemic fades into just another piece of history

we mark the moment the official pandemic deaths in this country surpasses one million 

May their spirits find sanctuary 

within the mountain folds

upon the lonely winds

rest within herb steeped shadows

of this our continent

lux aetеrna, luceat eis …

requiem aeternam dona eis domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis

*final words are from Rutter Requiem

On Becoming

 He did not expect to live that long

they said of the hundred year old man

would that age be something 

you plan out

notes on the paper calendar

Age being something that happens 

time flows around you 

a sacred wind sloughing off 

what you are seen to be

wind that bends you into supplication 

Do not be misled

thinking age creeps up

as it envelopes you there is a roar

your skin cannot keep you enclosed

you feel your soul becoming restless

most of all

you become conscious 

there is no undoing of mistakes

As bones once broken howl in rain

those parts that could not heal 

without scars

show up in dreams 

unrequited love notes from your own self

demanding your embrace before the end of all and everything 

#NaPoWriMo

#joinme

Replenish the Earth

 Replenish the earth

Let our language set direction

Neither rubbish nor garbage

remains of tomatoes

shreds of uneaten lettuce 

cobs of corn, fallen leaves

wishing to become fertile soil

Simple to give back to the earth

what we do not eat 

what falls from trees

trees that speak through the compacted traces of what once greened the surround

trees know dirt

Earth feels trussed 

entrapped

bound by asphalt ribbons 

her breathing inhibited with concrete masks

her pores overcoated by too much everything 

Replenish the earth

darken the soil 

get generous with peels 

soggy coffee grounds

wilted daffodils 

Make new dirt! 

#NaPoWriMo

#compost

Front of the House

In the front of our house

a courtyard is forming

what used to be there 

gone 

what used to be there

had been worse than emptiness 

soil covered with a barrier upon which gravel lay

In the front of our house

there is now emerald lawn

Wildflowers have tiny green tops in one corner

Over there, an apple tree spreads arms tipped with buds

Here, the stoic oak has not found spring

Lilacs give birth to green buds and tiny tight promises of flowers and fragrance

In the front of our house 

circles of smooth basalt pebbles 

Quartz and pretty little marbles 

looking like agates 

will be laid in cement for a path 

curving past the fountain to the door

In front of our house

grape vines teeter in their cartons

awaiting arch 

arch in need of heavy footings

Garden of becoming 

within walls 

walls to hold away shards of chaos

chaos created by people

by people not even here

Outside the garden wall here

once mighty Rio Grande

has pulled back 

defined now the narrow riparian ribbons

While inside the garden wall

sand soil shows river was here

here before the chaos 

churning through this desert 

creating green edges to everything 

#NaPoWriMo

National Poetry Writing Month

A poem a day in April