Wedding Photograph

I'm sure the glamorous portrait was her idea.

The lady relished costume, the spotlight--

my mother was a monarch at heart.

She’s wearing the fur coat that saved her life:

that coat with layers of chic dresses beneath 

took up two seats and got her thrown off 

the evacuation train spitfirers blew up 

soon after it left her at the Paris station.

She melts Lana Turner-like into the camera, 

beautifully, irrationally serene, 

floating in myths, as she was prone to do, 

the myth that she will make sense of this man

so inclined to withdrawal, 
that she will uncork him, dramatize him.

And look how much she achieved their first day! 

Look at his lordly bearing! Handsome and uniformed. 

What aplomb in a man whose eyes and lips often clenched 

but here my father looks coolly past her 

across the room with only the faintest gleam of recalcitrance

in his blue eyes. 

Does he sense already the distance between them? 

The daily parade of grievances he will endure

about his bluffing, lying, drinking, 

all the other disquieting acts of  this injured soul?

And I’m in the picture too, hidden under the coat, impelled

to share their  unease, their wandering lives, 

which will prove interesting at times but never
as grand as she’s imagining here.

He died 14 years and two days before her  

and when she wailed with grief, her torrential tears

were not for him but for what might have been.

Just Another Thursday

I remember, if only barely, 
what feelings soaked the eyes

of the child I used to be when 
on that first Thanksgiving in America

I skittered to the kitchen and saw mother
stuffing cabbages with sticky clumps
 of ham and bread like Germans do.

In my mind's dimlit pantry, 
where memories cure

there stands a puzzled 5 year old 
blinking dully
at those leafy skulls.

So odd it seemed 
after weeks and weeks

of painting plump and fleecy 
fowl in school

that there in my Ohio home
Thanksgiving was just another Thursday.
Father fighting in Korea and mother
just shut the oven door 

on those lime-green cabbage heads

she fixed once a week.

Now be glad, she scolded--

nonplussed, noncomprehending--

today's the day one stuffs a thing

and that I did.

Idealist

It’s a joyful convocation, the one I dream of—

a glimmering jubilee where jolly friends and family 

clasp hands around an altar all aglow with light and silver.

All are clapping, praising, toasting

laughing and embracing, spinning 

delicious tales that kindle cheering up and down the rows.

Steaming dishes spiced and tinted as prescribed by generations

hurry down the table rousing awe and clamor as the children 

suck on fruity brews and their elders swig the beer and wine—

spiking fancies all the more.

Not a soul declines to linger after every belly has been stuffed

to remember one more wise or zesty story, swallow one more spoon

of Harvest Torte—so delighted and so thankful seems each and every one

for this communion.

And when ochre shadows finally flush the hearth,

when burning timber snaps and glistening candles drip,

my old yearnings all have faded. I am happy here just being 

knowing time is melting, melting with the whipped cream on the torte.

Pride

How old am I now?

My mother asks, her eyes do not open 

but she is awake under the lids.

Almost 79, I say. 

Soon you’ll be 79.

That’s enough. I’ve lived long enough.

Her voice bears the tone  

of one who’s just been told 

the fine coat on her arm

is not on sale, 

she must pay full price.

The tone of All right. I’ll take it.

She will not shame herself 

by asking for more or

making a scene 

when the policy 

seems so firm, 

so carved in stone.

My mother does all the talking

As I am growing up, my mother does all the talking.

She talks and talks and talks about the war. 

About the sirens and the bombs and mothers fleeing.

About children crawling out of hell and screaming. 

About the sick and old gone lost with hair on fire.

About the smell of skin and how it smolders.

About feeling crushed too tight to kneel to pray.

Nothing takes her mind off what she’s seen.

And so she must do all the talking 

and all I do is listen.

Poetry Workshop

The lead poet says, write about autumn rain now.

I can’t think about autumn rain 
in this bone-dry room,

without air or breeze, 
roasting with poet bodies.

Ok. Wait.

I’m thinking of autumn rain. 

It’s the swelling scents and tastes 
of a rainy autumn day at
Lake Chabot that I so love. 

It's inhaling the wetness,
the taste on the tongue 

of soaked eucalyptus and pine, 

of drenched concrete

and soggy scat

and drowned leaves. 

And funny how noisy splashing geese 

make rain feel wetter, kinder 

and in this showery mist life itself

feels more real, more personal.

My Living Room, Castro Valley

It is my favorite room, 

the biggest living room
I've ever had.

I walk it end to end, 

let my hand slide down the stone hearth, finger

the artful molding, 
pose before the grand windows. 

My father pushes a chair to the windows. 

For a whole day he eyes the hills 
yellow as lions
and the Bay polished as steel, 

and the etched skyline
of San Francisco, 

and left and right the bridges--

silver threads curling across the water--

and through the cloak of fog
a sword of light 
pierces the heart of Treasure Island.

He is dying and he knows it.

But he wants to buy my house.

Their Last Dinner

She wears a necklace of pearl onions

to the Bon Home Cafe

where he waits over steamed mussels, 

intensely green spinach,

and roasted pork belly.

She kisses his cheek, 

notes a scent of beef heart tartar, 

kisses him again--on his mouth, 

burning with jalapeno from,

she wonders, a duck carnitas taco?

Or crispy lamb’s tongue?

A pinot noir sits on the table,

two crystal glasses meet in the air,

the wine slides down their throats

like a cooled down rump pudding.

For you, darling, the pomegranet glazed quail? 

No, no, she asserts tartly.

The Brazilian lobster tail. 

It costs more.

Why not? He smiles wrly. 

It’s our last date.

I’ll toast to that, the tart dissolving

from her key lime voice.

Waiter! He calls.

A melon liquor as cold as this woman’s heart!

Better cold than pickled and twice-cooked! 

she retorts with a mix of raw honey 

And Korean mustard.

Ah, here they are, he smiles.

Espresso-soaked lady fingers dipped in rum.

Give me some, she demands.

He reaches between the butter

and the orange sugar biscuits, 

takes her lance-shaped fingers 

in his hands and licks them, 

One ladyfinger at a time.

Her blood thickens like creme fraiche,

her body glistens like half pears 

sunk in pools of warm bourbon.

Can we dine from time to time? he asks

with a breath of garlic 

on their walk to her car. 

No, she hisses. I’ve had enough 

of your bevy of warm beef and creamy coleslaw, 

your wild mushrooms and Ports, 

your tastings, your chilled bottles.

So be it, darling, 

his voice dripping, like butter

From skewered shrimp in lemon pepper.

She drives away vexed their hunger 

could so quickly be sated and vows

from now on to avoid cattle of any kind.

Bravo

There comes a time in the ring when the bull can’t flee

Where the bull feels safe and the matador doesn’t

Where the bull is sure and the matador isn’t

Where silence is the bull’s last refuge

And the matador’s too

When it’s time to charge if you’re the bull

And time to wave the red if you’re the man

Both lives proceed from here

Bravo

The Soldier

My father wasn’t anyone’s father 

or husband or friend.

He was a soldier.

My father waited rifle cocked
for enemies to storm the hill

or step out of  our bedrooms.

Once when I came to visit,

he cooked me dinner.

Eggplant parmesan 

with tomatoes

from his garden.

Food must be fresh.
He said this from a mist
of beer and smoke.

And then he winked 

as if we shared 

a secret knowledge.

But of course 

I barely knew him.

Ghosts of Fairmont Ridge Trail

Just beyond the Eucalyptus trees lined up

Like chorus girls with skinny arms

Holding out their skirts

The bench beckons.

A name’s carved in the wood and a title--

“lover of dogs, dancing and sunsets.”

I enjoy the company of ghosts

And talk to this one lightly: 

Did you look at the hills to the south

And think of pyramids?

Did the sky seem painted with a sponge?

The fog veils the trees, a shroud deep

with ghosts on an evening stroll.

The lover of dogs, dancing and sunsets

drifts in that mist beside me--I feel

A change in gravity.

To every question, she answers, yes---

Yes everything stays a mystery

even after death, 
yes, I'd rather feel the breeze
than be it---and always her voice
sounds much like my own.

The Better End

Pity her

whose mind

can’t flee 

the hospital

bed and 

ends there

pinned

like a bug 

beneath 

a bulb.

Envy her 

who sees

clouds 

of geese

swoop

above a lake

before 

her eyes

roll back.

A Good Mood!

If the sky were any bluer,

If my love for self much truer

If my needs were any fewer

If this moment would divide

I couldn't keep my heart inside.

Here’s a cliff above the sea

And I am on it! 

With adequate health

and adequate wealth 

and time on my hands to enjoy it.

The surf’s all sound and I’m all ear,

my life’s not perfect but this will do!

A beautiful dream that will not last

But that doesn’t spoil my view.

So this for sure I must remember 

On the day timed as my last:

Many days were lost to memory

but some like this surpass! 

Another Day

Another day slips away

into the stream 

from now to then.

On and on
the seconds flow

with little notice 
and much that’s noticed
only barely so

and even less 
remembered
and what’s
remembered

hardly fills 
a spoon and 

much of that 
regretted or

reframed 
and some

relived 
second by second. 

And so 
another day 

just slips 
away. 

The Sink

Their eyes look blank

as buttons.
They've given up.

Except one
whose eye seems

hooked on me.

Dad carves a knife,

pours oil in the pan.

Poor little beings

pumping hard 

to catch a breath.

I'm pushed aside.

I hear a whack.

Flesh deep frying
but poor little Button

is pounding harder

against the sink.

Eat! dad orders.

But I just can't,
not with Buttons
pounding ever harder

against the sink.

Puberty

My hair in the bathroom mirror 

looks longer, much

darker, sun-touched. 

Can it do that overnight? 

It sways when I cock my head

to observe my nose

--a little slope to ski on--

Some man some day will moan.

I’ve seen this face before

in magazines, on film.

The beacon eyes and blooming lips 

and cheeks as red as beets. 

But that face is mine--

unwashed, unpainted--

no subterfuge at all. 

And I’m a child, 
she’s woman!

How can this be?

I can't take my eyes off me.  

If it is me.

Jesus and I

My First Holy Communion

At St. Joseph's,

I fell in love with Jesus. 

Never heard His voice

but some of my thoughts 

were His thoughts.

I hid nothing--

could hide nothing--

from Him. 

I explained myself

constantly--

why I did this or that,

felt this or that,

wanted this or that.

Jesus always told me

what would please Him.

Sister Millicent called this

my state of grace.

Even now we talk sometimes.

You’re only an illusion, I scold.

Why can’t you be more?

I forgive you, He always says.

But I can’t forgive You, I answer
wide-eyed and fidgity, 
tho I know He understands.

My Mother's Advice

Freidel Hoermann
1919-1998

See the world.

See it while you’re young.

It’s most exciting then.

Meet many people. 

Visit many places.

Marry late. 

Those unencumbered years

expand your life the most.

And if you end like me--

A housewife with regrets

her world has shrunk--

Be one who has a past--

Your reverie

will get you through.

Do you know 

I loved Romania?

And Paris! Those hats!

My narrow escapes!

Trains I jumped at dawn!

That handsome pilot--

he poured champagne 

into my shoe and drank!

Let that happen to you.

Home Alone

I wake up 

to a quiet, 

unpeopled house

float down our long hall

toward the kitchen

my pajamas flutter

like an angel’s robe.

I reach out into the emptiness
sense something there

as if walking in the isle 

of a cathedral dense
with apparitions.

The boys went camping.

I don't miss them.

Instead I long for coffee.

I pour the dark powder

into the white filter 

as reverantly as
a priest preparing
Communion.

Then I lean against 

my white tile altar,

sipping, beholding,

following my bare feet 

into the garden. 

I hear myself humming. 

I hear myself praising the Lord.

I hear myself praying

there is a Lord 
to receive my praise, 

offered 
with so much yearning.

After This

Mount Tam

I want to live again--but not forever!
Time without end would be a bore.

Just give me ten millennia--
that will suffice I think--
to sate my curiosity,
to grow more restless,
to ready me for whatever
happens in that tick
of time before
the next conception.

Or if the worst be true,
to pare my fear
that after all this
there's only an abyss.

My Soul

Lake Chabot

Alone
beside the lake
I sense
something near
fusing me
with not me,
listening kindly,
filling
my empty self
with what is
everlasting.
In silent--
blessed--solitude,
I am at last
conjoined!

Peace of Mind

Lake Chabot

Here along Lake Chabot, 

My mind kicks off its boots, 

My soul drops its heavy pack.

Among ferns and horsetails, 

Where water gently ripples, 

my heart says ahhhh. 

Every bird song awakens me.

Every stray cloud a breath of mine.

Every cricket my own pulse.

Every leaf my own skin. 

Here the Star Thistles prompt

Knowing I will soon forget--

I am the universe and 

The universe is me. 

Center Line

Road to Yosemite 

At dusk on a two-lane road 

that curves like a Z, the

strip of paint that marks

a border between life and death

suddenly seems to glow
for me. 

How easily one can veer, 
I think. Take care.

A trespass by a hair

can spell the end 
of the road,

so to speak. 

Today's paper 
tells of a head-on 

in Wyoming
that killed three Boy Scouts, 

a toddler,  and a man 
whose car crossed 

the center line 
last night.

It’s only chance 
they strayed across 
the line just as I 
was measuring
its power
with a new
and urgent need
to keep my eyes
on it.