Feb 3 2024
Inspired by Marge Piercy’s “What Remains”
Now you want to be roses
or a cat
or a bird
that visits
the little house
in the big woods
and remembers
the food you shared
the hawk you saved
after its collision with the window
Now you want to be lupin
that grow wild
in blues and purples
and corals and pinks
above and below tree line
forever a flower and a seed
and beautiful
Now what remains
is the ghost in the poem
written and spoken
and languaged
Jan 22 2024
Failing to question
I know nothing of my birth
but its month, its day, its year
1958
I know the time
the place
the weight recorded
I know nothing of my mother’s labor
the drugs that managed her pain
Was she conscious or placed in the “twilight sleep” ?
Was my father in attendance?
Did she tear?
Did she breastfeed?
Did my grandmothers help?
Why do I know nothing?
I know the intimate details of others—
The pain, the 23 stitches, the midwife arriving too late,
The resolve not a make a sound,
not to scream “I don’t want to die” like the woman down the hall
The blood, the blood, the blood
the sore nipples, the aching vaginas, the leaks of urine
the scar tissue and pain with sex
Flesh and blood
Blood and flesh
and stories
told, untold
held, forgotten
unwritten, unpublished
Unloved
Around tables of card games
and burning cigarettes,
did she tell her story?
At 22, a miscarriage
At 42, the D&C
a euphemism for abortion
These facts she told me
But not their meaning
I failed to question
Jan 4, 2024
even when I pull the blankets over my head
put aside my book and turn off the light
I think of the morning
the cup of Assam tea
the perfect egg
on the perfect piece of toast
the juncos at the bird feeder
the light slipping into the darkness
the mysterious black cat with white paws
appearing and disappearing
and making me smile
Dec 16, 2023
White, white, snow quiet
Light receding, darkness still
warm winter blankets
Dec 11, 2023
She said: “Everything goes extinct.”
He made a gift of his body
to Science
this old, thin, white-haired man
The students did not know
the time or cause of death
They did not know his name
or his history
He lay before them
Naked
I will not give my body to science
she resolved
I will not give my body
to be cut and examined
to repeat an act of Michaelangelo
in the tombs of the Vatican
What is the body
without breath
without a heart that beats
without a brain that functions
without eyes and ears and nose and mouth
seeing, listening, smelling, tasting?
The Earth needs death
cries for decay, decomposition, putrefaction
and Sun
to re-seed, restore, re-materialize, reimagine
It is our After Life
the Earth
dependent on a moon and sun
that will one day
Die
and begin again
Nov 24, 2023
I am historical fiction
body of the past
books I loved
out of print
singers I loved
remembered, it seems, by only those my age
movies that entertained me
dancers that entranced me
performances that brought me to tears
interviews at the Herbst Theatre that made me laugh
Fran Lebowitz, Molly Ivens, Tom Robbins
written in my imagination
remembered
savored
and still
serendipity and discovery
of long ago writers and books I’d never known
music recaptured, made new
movies restored
dances reclaimed
interviews rebroadcast
the fluidity of life
the past, present and future
forgotten
lived
imagined
remembered
in time
Nov 13, 2023
In 1972, when I was a freshman in high school, sitting in Mr. Hunton’s General Science class, he said: If you can figure out how to put everything in the Library of Congress on the head of a pin, you will never have to work a day in your life.
I didn’t even know how to imagine what he was talking about.
And he never explained.
Oct 26, 2023
Seven Years Later
I wake before sunrise
to watch the stars disappear
I plug in the electric kettle
(my favorite appliance)
and wait for the water to boil
I stand before my shelves of teas
Kensington, Mincing Lane, Golden tip Assam
White Pomegranate, Gunpowder, Jasmine
Blackberry Sage
What tea will begin my day?
How many stellar jays will clamor for food at the bird feeder?
Will the white-crowned sparrow return
or has she continued south to her wintering place?
Will a friend call to chat
to remind us that we are still alive?
My beloved friend is seven years gone.
I know the stars are always watching
always waiting
always promising
a light in the darkness
a remembrance of all
who wake before sunrise
to love the stars
Oct 18, 2023
Inspired by Marie Howe’s “Practicing”
Always the younger
the wide-eyed
the uninitiated
What were these games they were playing?
Doctor, Kiss Kiss
Truth or Dare, Spin the Bottle
Where did they learn these games?
We did not play them at recess
not kickball
not tag
not hide and seek
not hopscotch
not four-square
not double-dutch jump rope
These were secret games
hidden from adults
behind closed doors
when parents were not looking
Oct 16, 2023
To Melissa LaHommedieu
the thing is
the shame never leaves
it never leaves
it comes flying back
on wings of someone else’s story
someone else’s shame
it’s not my shame
or her shame
or his shame
we were children
WE WERE CHILDREN
Innocent
Unmarked
Betrayed
by Adults
broken adults
adults with secrets adults
adults with all the power adults
to love and hurt
and nurture and neglect
and shame
Oct 3, 2023
She became an anglophile early.
It was all the Masterpiece period dramas
and Mysteries on PBS.
Sept 5, 2023 Thinking about my paternal grandmother’s mother who died at age 40
Sometimes I wonder
If women didn’t die young
to escape husbands
June 22, 2023 Re-creation to Margaret Atwood’s “Notes toward a Poem that can never be written”
This is the place
you would rather not know about
the darkness, the ugliness
the brutality and tears
The years upon years
of trauma, historical and present
and future
Slavery, oppression
Silence, servitude
Arrogance, power
Megalomania
And so much greed
And so much anger
And so much injustice
The lost weight of sentences
subject verb object
The lost voices of stories
The genocides
The naturecides
Everything beneath our feet
the bones, the blood
the stones of abandonment
We walk, we pray, we hope
and some escape
To live and witness
And bear their truth
June 18, 2023 Re-creation to Margaret Atwood’s “Five Poems for Grandmothers”
The stairs
became too much
Simple tasks
too much
Chicken dinners on Sundays after Church
too much
She lived with her youngest daughter’s family
three girls and a “Go Big Red” son-in-law
Until
it was too much
and she was placed in a facility
Where she
No one told me she died
No one told me about her youth
All I have is an image of her,
of her on her 98th birthday
in that sad, soul crushing place
sitting in a wheelchair
holding her tenth great grandchild
No longer able to speak
with tears running down her face
June 11, 2023 Re-creation to Margaret Atwood’s “All Bread”
When I think of bread
I think of Elie Wiesel and his father
in the crowded cattle car
on their journey to Auschwitz
witnessing a father kill his son
for a piece of stale bread thrown into the insanity
by cruel, sadistic men
who laughed
and the people
who did not fight,
who did not choose
to eat
June 10, 2023 Re-creation to Margaret Atwood’s “The Woman Makes Peace with her Faulty Heart”
Our hearts
beat
in time
in rhythm
slow while resting
faster when doing
capricious early
measured late
Our hearts
made hidden
trapped, secured,
connected to all that is vital
sometimes seen
more often unseen
the blood and the bleeding
There is always walking
and birds flying
and trees whispering
and books begging
poems waiting
and flowers in bloom
the scent of lilacs
and roses
the aroma
of rosemary and mint
We weigh, our hearts
In time
pleasure, pain
joy, sorrow
dirty dishes, leaky faucets
broken steps
A pause
A forgotten rhythm
There is no more walking
no more wanting
the cadence ends
the beat, beat, beat
stops
and we, our hearts,
are disconnected
June 7, 2023 Re-creation to Margaret Atwood’s “Landcrab I”
Is it a lie
that we are sea born?
Is our truth
found in dragons and stone?
Our shells are soft
Our claws are fingered
Our make-up
65% water
Our lives are connected
Moon, tides,
sand, dances
Mating
A long lost mirror
A forgotten secret
May 8, 2023 Re-creation to Margaret Atwood’s “A Red Shirt” (For Ruth)
Red is not pink or blue
Red is roses, poinsettias
geraniums and maple leaves in the fall
Red is a baby’s first cry
A mother’s blood
A woman’s sacrifice
A poet’s cry
that sometimes
will kill you
May 3, 2023 Re-creation to Margaret Atwood’s “Precognition”
Would that I could go back in time
Guide you away
from your neighbor’s grandfather
the bully that left a scar
the day in early June you skipped school with friends
to escape the heat and the classrooms
to go to the river and smoke pot
wade in the cooling waters
listen to Earth, Wind and Fire
feel the silt squish between your toes
Your last day
Your last act
Would that I could stop the Jeep
from rolling over and over and over
You, the only one, who did not escape
The driver, the accidental killer
The back seat passengers, injured and damaged
Never fully recovered
Would that I could go back
and beg, plead, hold up a mirror, make a sacrifice
and stop the inevitable suffering
and your mother’s drinking-herself-to-death mourning
April 24, 2023 Re-creation to Margaret Atwood’s “Torture”
The conversation stops
shifts direction
at the mention of
Larry Nassar and Jeffry Epstein
Harvey Weistein and the men who molested you
The conversation stops
when you speak of rape
the violation, the humiliation
the fear
You are ordinary
A woman who goes about her life
home, work
breakfast, lunch, dinner
laundry, cooking, cleaning
You are a woman who likes to go for walks
but never in darkness
You often think about power
about those who torture, who traumatize,
who silence
and the poets, women like Margaret, who rage against it
and continue to walk, continue to march
even in darkness
April 22, 2023 Stellar Jay Mornings
In the morning
the stellar jays
knock on my window
Are they saying “Good morning”
or are they nudging me
to steal myself from
the warmth of my blankets
from the allure of the writer
beckoning me
to read
one more sentence
one more paragraph
one more page and chapter
And where do they hide
where do they fly to
when they are not chatting
“Time to get up. Time to give us peanuts.”
I know there are others in the neighborhood
who bend to their calls
I am not the only peanut giver
I am not the only one
who wonders at their guile
April 13, 2023 Re-creation to “A Woman’s Issue”
She asks
“Who invented the word love?”
and chastity belts
and female genital mutilation
and foot binding
and bed burning
and high heeled shoes
and girdles
and burkas and chadors
She does not ask
about the before time
before the signs and symbols of things made and unmade
experienced and unexperienced
before Eve and the serpent
God and the Virgin Mary
before Zeus created Athena, from his head
She knows the answer
She is female
She is
mother, daughter, aunt, grandmother, helpmate,
Poet
And she is asking you
“Who invented the word love?”
April 12, 2023 Re-creation to Margaret Atwood’s “Postcard”
Her postcards arrive faithfully
Her tight, tiny script
tell me of the places she visits
the house of Anne Hathaway
the pueblos of the American Southwest
the temples at Angkor Wat
Piccadilly Circus
Stills
curated and framed
Visiting is not living
is not breathing
the day to day
the flotsam and jetsam, the detritus and sweat
Visiting is photographs
stolen and ordered
Her postcards do not “wish you were here”
Her postcards are her travelogue
her proof, her belief
Of a life well lived
April 10, 2023 Re-creation to Margaret Atwood’s “A Paper Bag”
You made of a paper bag
a mask
that hid your face
your smile, your nose and ears
It erased the familial
the past and patterns
that distinguished–You
it erased your skin, your eyes and chin
to reveal another you
an unknown you
empty, wordless, purblind
A story yet to unfold
A story yet to be told
Haiku
Earth sky rain sun moon
Greed is incendiary
People broken stars
April 4, 2023 Re-creation to Margaret Atwood’s “Nothing”
Does love
put blood
back in language?
Does love
change its beat,
its rhythm,
its soul?
What touches you
is what you touch
the surf pouring over your skin
the sand sticking to your feet
the salt drying on your lips
the poem that is not “nothing”
if not for love
April 3, 2023 Re-creation to Margaret Atwood’s “Eurydice”
In her bedroom
the white curtain breathes
A breeze, a whisper
seeks the open window
Come back
they beg
You have been too long gone from the noise and flesh of surface
The chatter grates
The insistence smothers
All light is not always light
All singing is not always song
There is freedom
in this silence
in this bedroom
with the open window
and the whispering breeze
April 2, 2023 Re-creation of Margaret Atwood’s “Vultures”
In nature
I have not seen a vulture
circling in flight above the remnants of carrion
Or watched the picking of flesh from bone
In movies
they do not possess the beauty of eagles
or the song of their cries
In the Himalayas, I have read,
A vulture’s role is sacred
they transport the dead, the flesh
the sin and sinless
and make a prayer
a circle that is ever life and death
April 1, Re-creation of Margaret Atwood’s “You Begin”
This is your hand
The hand that made
paintings and tiles
sketches and lithographs
etchings and collages
and sculptures in acrylic
Acrylic that yellowed, that aged
that ended in landfill
This is your hand
the hand that held mine
for a moment
that helped me
connect and disconnect
love and unlove
art and artists, and you
This is your hand
that is no longer young
as I am no longer young
no longer student, no longer enchanted, no longer little prince fox
This is your hand
once touched by mine
March 31, Re-creation to Margaret Atwood’s “A Boat”
I learn to steer
through darkness without stars
with memory
and scents of
emerging skunk cabbage
flowering clover
dying highbush cranberry
with familiarity
and mornings that taste of
Assam tea
a poached egg on toast
a slice of cantaloup
with knowing
the denseness of clouds
that hides the mountains
is mercurial
and will, in time,
Bow to the sun
that will bow to the darkness
but a darkness I know
and you know
is not always
without stars
March 30, 2023 Re-creation to Margaret Atwood’s “She”
Coiled
Silent
the sun is hot
the earth that hides
its skin is hot
I do not wonder
whether it is he or she
I only hope
that its rattle stays quiet
that I may pass
Upright and unconsidered
March 29, 2023 Re-creation to “The Woman Who Could Not Live with her Faulty Heart” by Margaret Atwood
My heart is not still
I want I don’t want
I can feel the pulse
the beat
my fingers on my wrist, my neck
Ba boom, ba boom, ba boom
I want I don’t want
I want I don’t want
Spring to come
Summer to end
Fall to hold off winter
Flowers to bloom
Faded blooms to die
Rain to fall
Snow to melt
I want
song and sky and stars
And heart, a heart
that wants and does not want
that beats and beats and beats
until the beat
and want and not want
forget its song
March 27, 2023 Re-creation to “Marsh, Hawk” by Margaret Atwood
We have lost the way in
The way of the marsh
the boggy soil
the hidden nests
the land and river colliding
the birds and beach grass calling
the earth is broken
the sky is weeping
and the marsh
the marsh that fed the heron
It is a golf course
March 26, 2023
I never thought about her being black
I only thought about her being beautiful
with a beautiful voice
and beautiful clothes
a beautiful smile
asking me
if I want to ride
in her beautiful balloon
March 5, 2023
The cold
so cold
my eyes tear
my nose leaks
and the sun refuses to warm my face
So cold
I am alone on the road
listening to the snow crunch
and my walking stick strike the ice
So cold
the blue sky and white mountains appear frozen
yet so alive
May 17, 2021
We cannot see
the child lost to suicide
the husband mean and alcoholic
the credit card debt crushing her soul
We cannot see this
while she shops for groceries
or scurries at work
or plays tennis with a friend
or stops to give directions to a stranger
We cannot see
the unseen
It hides in time and circumstance
And in the hearts who took the time to see
March 31, 2021
sometimes getting dressed
is too much to ask
the weather is wet
the snow is wild
and all i want to do is knit
October 29, 2016
All that day
I waited and waited and waited
for a phone call that never came
I was the last of her friends to know
In August we spoke
She asked “Would you ever consider moving back to the Bay Area?”
I thought the question odd
“At this moment, I can’t imagine leaving Alaska”
She did not call
but emailed
You must not be on Facebook
Bad news: I have pancreatic cancer
She promised to call on Saturday
But the call never came
“This is the day,” she told Chris
Her last day to swallow
63 in 2021
My face is falling
My face is falling
The wrinkles are everywhere
My lips are disappearing
while the hairs on my chin flourish
My neck I hide in turtlenecks and scarves
and my eyes, my once sparkling eyes, behind glasses
I look in the mirror and understand
Botox and face lifts and lip augmentation
But I’m not a mirror
And I’m not 21 or 36 or 42
My youth is still mine
But it has aged and matured
And loved and lost and laughed and let go
and quieted
My cat purrs when he sleeps on my lap
I read a book and watch a British mystery
I listen to Fresh Air and knit
I dance to Adele and sing with Doris Day
I have a long talk with a friend and play the ukulele
To live another day
To wake and walk another day
And my face is falling
and my hair is graying
and my waist is widening
and my breasts have lost their splendor
There is no mirror but life
its joys and sorrows
and one more day
One more day
Test it to Destruction
And now no one is left to tell me
the year you donated your kidney to your brother
the year the doctor removed your right breast
the year they took your uterus, your fertility, your youth
the year you gave your husband an ultimatum
Were you 30 or 40 or 50?
All water under the bridge you said at 85
“The only reliable way to find out about any relationship:
test it to destruction.”
Aging
I never thought my grandmother
was anything but beautiful
Her brilliant blue eyes
Her comforting, wobbly, wrinkled skin
Her smell like Coty face powder
Her thin, thin lips still brightened with color
The scars that were a breast, a kidney, a uterus
To my cousin she said: “She doesn’t know I’m old.”
When you’re 30, 89 is unknowable.
He was kind that way
You’ll find a pair of boots
cowboy and black
with red roses
In my closet
somewhere
the finest shoes I’ve worn
the most expensive I ever owned
Two-hundred twenty-five dollars in 1989
from a boutique on Burlingame Ave.
For nearly thirty years
they cooled my heels
re-soled, re-heeled and polished
I showed them off
Once I gave them to a girl of ten
Not a year gone and back they came
Her body and feet had grown too big
I missed not having them in my closet
They are my memories
and especially a memory of my father
Surprising me
by polishing my boots one visit
making them look new again
He was kind that way
Phone Calls
I lie to my mother—again
Must go
Meeting friends for brunch
Love you too
Did I lie to my mother again?
For Marilyn
Marilyn