All the wrong role models

Tolstoy,  Michener, Dreiser,  Hollywood

—my mother

they all led me on with exuberant tales
of abnormal adventure. 

As if surviving a war were

a necessity

to a life well lived

As if just one or two lovers were

a squandering

of youth

as if each love must make you feel
as if your heart were a cliff

collapsing into the sea

as if you must wake up each day
in an ancient world capitol

and adventure about the ruins all day
as if you lived in an opera

as if the world were a stage
and you must play a part—
a part far from the middle of the road,

your heart flying right

into a typhoon's belly.

That’s how my newborn nerves

got fired up with unquenchable longings

and how they were sunk, too,

because something always weathers

every gain away

making unhappy endings—

          but the ending too must not be average—

there must be an orchestra, enemies,

          a great speech to the masses

—something you can take a final b
ow for.   

If I were God

I will think about life 

not death tonight

though I feel no ordinary light

because two friends 

now die nearby.


And here at home 

my spine knocks

against my bones 

and I regret

to mention it because 

others have it worse.


I am one who feels 

the world's violations

against people I love 

and that is most people.


I love most people.  

I love our species

and if I were God no child would suffer

in all the ways so sadly commonplace.


None would crouch and beg for mercy.

There would be no need 

for mercy, no idea of it.


No need to wash away 

what God says he cannot forgive in us,

what we are born into 

and must be punished for.


We forgive his cruelty because we are

terrified.

We are like the wife beaten 

to the floor

by the man who blames her 

for his rage.

We blame ourselves until living

feels like dying

and hope? 

It changes nothing.


We tell ourselves:  pray harder, 

bend deeper

yet God 

keeps receding.

Mood swings

This heart swings often in that garden where sad moods
keep their bloom no matter the season.

One never knows which way the wind will toss the seeds.

Some by the fence seem to thrive in those dark places
With roots that dig deeper in the soil. 

Relentless in their return.

And some teased toward the sun.
These you pluck for further study.

Wash and trim those darlings for a vase 

on the kitchen table.

The phone call

My retired friend chatters on the phone 

about the times we worked together.

We agree it feels very long ago.  

My friend looks fabulous for her age.  

A good decade more younger. 

Her wardrobe, makeup, manicures,

cosmetic interventions were--and are-- 

tourist attractions.  

So it shocks that she is losing her mind.  

Six times I tell her my man has died.  

And now she inquires cheerfully, 

So how’s your husband? 

I return our talk to the past she remembers still well.  

That beautiful past when my man was living 

and my friend remembered his name. 

A list poem of gratitude

 

It never occurred to me to raise crickets in a bowl just

to be serenaded every night.  

But people do that.  

The bugs sing to seduce yet keep on singing after 

every orgasm for the pure joy 

of it, I guess.  

What a world! 

I love to hear them on my evening walks but try 

not to visualize a thousand black bugs squeezing 

their hind legs together.   

How that kills my reverence!   

Tonight along the water's edge embraced 

by leafy trees of varied ethnicities, 

among them a splattering of lost marigolds.  

crickets croon to me and

a jolt of their joy rips through me.  

A jolt of privilege to walk in this lovely place 

where it is safe except for the frightened snake

& a family of raccoons rustling the brush and thistle.

My house is not in flames. 

My family not bombed. 

My son not being waterboarded.  

No army turns off my water.  

Stops the delivery of food.  

I have medicine.  

I get to go on living!

This feels like a miracle! 

Because elsewhere (you know where) 

whole families are hunted like prey.  

Even the stars above them die with less pain.

But here the oleander 

that seemed dead all winter 

is alive & abundant, well watered. 

How did I get so lucky? 

My wings rub together with the band

of crickets. 

Whom do I thank for all this? 

Ode to my thoughts at midnight

 

Stop this swirling!

Don't cook fears so burning hot

if you want them gone by dawn.

And what a waste of calories!

Thinking should have a noble purpose.

Lock out whatever chills your spine, 

whatever kicks you in the heart--

anything too bold for this late hour.

You know tomorrow they all might go

--and gladly and better so!

Poor agitated mind, stay in the mild zone.

End the day with ease.

Let precious waking time feel not so brief.

Cook thoughts of pleasure and strength.

Please.

For long life's sake.

Why I write poems

A poem plucks me from the day to day

into bygone places--

        in all their glory or distress—

but compressed--liquid flushed--

only glucose in the soft skin

of a raisin 

      pressed onto my blank page.  

I look at the mess up close,

      sometimes for the first time.

A poem can pounce from a scent

and hurl me back 

        to the high school gym.

Or leap from a song and suddenly 

      I am cutting my wedding cake again. 

I can feel it, see it, be it 

     one last time.