Whatever waits

We meant to spend the night on Lake Isabel 

but made a wrong turn 

and now the light on the mountain 

burns rust 

then old rose and 

soon a very dark 

wine. 

Should we turn back,  

try again,

keep going 

on this pretty road,

the one walling this river

with boulders 

that rolled down from the sky

like a horde of moons?

Should we stop at this inn 

with a view of the river 

rushing toward all 

that is waiting? 

We do. 

All night the river 

rams the rocks. 

We hear the purling, 

the tumbling, the crashing

them toward 

what is waiting, what

will keep waiting.

We drown in our sleep 

through that all-night 

dash into all that 

is waiting, waiting. 

We bow to this wrong turn--

it is a gift 

on our journey into

all that awaits.

When my son's car pulls up next to mine, waves of stink blast from his open window into mine

The driver's goofy smile tells

he does not remember 

     he spent 

last Christmas eve in jail 

     for another DUI

so I pull away without a word—

      run from thoughts that

chase me on the freeway 

     and all the rest of my life--

thoughts 

of what I might have said 

to change his mind, 

    to adjust his life--

to change this goddamned 

    ball game.  

Let him hit bottom, people say.  

     Let this abandoned building buckle, 

let all the junk catch fire

     and when the smoke clears, 

watch him rebuild 

      from ground up; 

watch him rise from ash like

     a brand new stadium,

watch him make those MVP

     home runs again.  

Near the pond

This bowl of oatmeal looks pathetic 

and I'm the one who prepares it for him.  

It waits and cools on the table 

as my love is wheeled down the hall

to our breakfast room.  

Bits of dried apple and puffs 

of cinnamon drift on

this mush the way 

lotus and spatterdock 

float on the pond.  

His eyes fall on it. 

The spoon and napkin wait 

for him to take the usual four bites 

though I hope he will eat it all this time. 

My love is so thin. 

But not his face. 

Still boned and squared.  

Not his hair: still full, still thick 

as sweetflag around the pond.  

But oh God he is so thin. 

He is disappearing--

a twig on which a few 

last blooms cling-- 

these last moments 

of summer.

They have learned patience

 Terrifying to live on this earth 

with so many

gods out to get you. 

      One day on the deck, the god 

of gods pleasures your skin

    but tomorrow sends

the god of ice 

     to swig you down. 

Then the storm god 

     frowns and your house shakes,

thudding on the roof.

     The cammellias bend and tremble.  

You want to save them but 

     the planters roll on the patio,

 your wind chimes scream

    from their perches.   

So wrap yourself in wool, think 

     of all the strays, human and other, 

hoping they find cover, thinking 

     there but for the grace of God....

thinking of your cousin off the ventilator 

     after 28 days, being wheeled home by her man, 

himself limping, wheezing;  

thinking of the ambulance that came

      for your neighbor, wondering what 

jaws sprang overnight in his

    yard-- just a day ago, you see him place 

 a Christmas tree in his green bucket.  

     How easily he wielded that nine-footer.  

Somewhere hills are caving, 

     there are mud slides.  Somewhere a car 

is crossing a line. 

      A virus gains power.  

Traumas creeping up behind us.  

     Striking. Out of the blue.

Out of sublime sunshine. 

     Picking a moment in their own time. 

The gods have patience. 

 

Spirit among spirits

Walking along Limantour beach,

a sumner day in winter

thinking, not thinking.  

Salmon drawn year after year 

spooning eggs in this open mouth

of fresh stream and salty  tide--

but how do they find 

this nest again?

Do they smell its spit

like wolves smell rabbits 

in the snow 

or an Eskimo spots a bear

in shades of white?

So many kinds of knowing  

closed off to me 

yet I love to wander, 

a spirit among spirits--

my bed a mere

stopover 

on the way 

to another world.

.  

You raise the boy in privilege

You raise him in privilege 

advantages galore:

private school 

forgiveness respect 

love and more

rains down 

from heaven:

the star athlete

star artist too

talent brains 

galore, 

even more--

it's almost unfair 

how much mana

smiles down on this 

one small life. 

And then a wind comes 

down and flips 

this life into a field 

and it all gives way 

like a fence blown 

down in the storm. 

How odd to hear him

rap on your window 

when the moon is low 

and see that face white  

and blank as snow, 

to see him bagging cans 

from the bins in the park

to see him thin as a reed

with eyes that spark  

like campfires in the dark;

that sun drenched boy   

of soccer fame sagging 

like some

abandoned 

house 

and the riddle 

of why 

and how 

will not let 

his father sleep 

one full night.

My friend's brother commits suicide

I know why 

they make themselves die. 

It's when the truth 

whips through their 

bodies 

that someone is never coming back

the war will never end

and the money ran out

and they are sleepless

and the man loves someone else

and they failed to castle when they 

could have,

and they believed that story 

and will be full of promise not

again and 

there's nowhere to send 

their hope.

It is when the truth,

like biting into 

milkweed,

cuts off the taste 

of sweetness.

There is a sharp indrawn 

breath

when they must decide 

to exhale 

now or never. 

Yes I do

The truth is I do not believe

     in magic, 

miracles, 

ghosts, souls--

      all that jazz.  

Yet when a hundred herons 

     sitting still 

on the edge of the shore 

      suddenly rise as one 

in a blur of down moving 

      in slow, slow beats 

blocking sky in their storm 

      of snow,  

I do, yes, 

yes I do 

     sense wings move in me.

I do 

     feel a swooping down 

from clifftops.

I do

      feel my body in that updraft 

soaring 

      toward the moon 

and what is left

      of me 

on this empty beach 

      is but a tiny cloud,

a mere idea

     on which good fortune dusts 

a sweet, sweet down. 

My teen boy moans......

 Our teen boy claims:

 On the hour his handsome face 

droops below its perfect bone line,

he will kill himself--

so unable to bear life 

without glacier taut skin--without 

the tangled dark hedges

thickening head to limb. 

It would have been easy 

to fall on my knees in tears

to recal my own youth, 

when the cells of this body

loaded up like bee hives 

with clear honey,

when my own eyes beamed 

from stars within, 

not yet being a moist-eyed widow 

staring out from heaps of stones 

lathered in froth along the shore--

not yet sitting like a living memorial 

with a fault line carved 

on my heart--without 

this fierce longing

to blend with the lavender 

of sky and sea,

all sadness gone 

from this throat.

But the feeing passes. 

This boy, this figure of beauty, 

believes one day he 

will will smash himself

against the kitchen wall 

like an empty wine bottle.

 Oh Just wait, I tell him,

Watch how long--with what heart-- 

your shaky hand clasps that bottle.

Thank you for the brilliance

 Oh constellations, thank you

for all the life 

    you spit out from 

      your ancient 

                          furnace.

Even our lowly beetle 

        pushing balls of dung 

        across the ground 

        steers its course by 

                    your miracle light.  

Thank you for the brilliance 

          you splatter across what 

            seems to us an 

                        endless sky.  

And though

this bright snow moon 

          may be a minor work 

          for you,  its light 

            shines in a billion 

                  spoony eyes tonight. 

And along earth's dimmest 

            shores, crabs right now 

            spin rock bits

                          into pearls. 

Proof

 Here high in the woods 

warm softly dark 

light keeps changing 

venue and shape, 

leaking streaks along 

some lucky branches 

in between 

blinding super nova flashes 

make my body tingle

under their sudden spell--

stop me in its thrall--

which is why 

I come here to worship 

this sleigh of hand,

to feel this power over 

the mundane, to bow 

to impossibility, to inevitable, 

to eternal, to sense my life 

as one branch on one tree 

in endless forests, 

a tiny part 

of the full story 

of a seed igniting 

in a blur of heat 

growing roots, heft, height 

not knowing  

what will happen next, 

that being a mystery 

or quantum mechanics, 

meaning we sense profound 

things that have no proof

outside the heart.  

Death Valley: What is the reason?

Moon, I come so far 

to be dazzled 

        but not by you. 

I come for the Milky Way,

for its points of light 

      sprayed across the sky.

But your ancient mask glows 

wide its tranquil mist 

over rocky hills, 

    these salty flats of

Death Valley--the darkest place 

on earth except on

nights when you

illuminate all--

even the atmosphere, 

     even the solitude.

In your light I feel this earth--

its vastness, its great unknown, 

all its ancient dust blown

on these battered stones.

     But not a reason for it. 

Waiting for miracles

It will take a miracle, 

the nurse

texts 

of Sue.  

And the day 

gives more 

to mourn. 

Mel's text dings: 

Off life support.

His miracle 

did not come.  

Jan got final radiation.

Her voice 

without weight:

It will take 

a miracle

The arc of life leans 

toward 

the ground.  

All alleys flow 

to nothing.  

The wind 

will 

carry us.