For my father, long after his stroke
He is the shining knight of my youth,
donning dark blue polyester baseball shorts.
My provider, my protector, in a
pseudo fu-manchu style mustache
dribbling down his chin like
moss on an oak tree.
He is a rugged outdoorsman,
sending me up tree stands and
digging with bare hands in the moist,
crumbly dirt of the garden in search
of worms that twist and writhe when
pierced with the metal barb of a fish hook.
The man who taught me to love sitting around a camp fire, drinking cheap canned beer, eating hot…
Begin a novel with poetry
They are here. Brief, fleeting images poking at me like
impatient children; an antique cadence to the salt air rushing
past, the seductive give of pine needles beneath my feet, a
rumble of fog on the horizon waiting for the call to march ashore.
I witness them all in the moment, but they urge me into
the past, to a story yet written. Forbidden love, desperation, broken
bodies, whispered devotions lost to the tsunami of time. A classic tale
told time and time again — the way they touched in the shadows
of civility, met…
a poem about revenge
Boudicca (also known as Boadicea) of the British Celtic Iceni tribe of East Anglia (Eastern England) led a rebellion against the Roman army in 60 CE after being flogged in the streets and her daughters raped. They successfully defeated (destroyed perhaps is more like it) 3 settlements — not taking prisoners but slaughtering anyone left behind (a total of almost 80,000 people). They were defeated in the Battle of Watling Street, themselves losing about 80,000 people. Boudicca, who had spurred on her troops from a chariot, her daughters by her side, drank poison rather than be…
my personal Dia dé los Muertos story
I didn’t have time to be devastated. My intended home birth turned into a ‘non-emergency’ cesarean in about two hours. My fluid was very low, and the baby was barely responding. So we took some deep breaths and down to the OR we went.
She didn’t come out crying, and through my morphine haze, I could tell there was some concern. But then they lay my baby next to my face, wrapped snug in her hospital blanket. I spoke quietly to her, and she opened her eyes for the first time.
I find the discrepancies between our morals
at times too much to bear
See, I don’t think a child should ever be put in a cage
no excuse or attempted reasoning could ever
light any spark of justification
I couldn’t put my dog in a cage
The moment he raised an arm to his chest,
hand cocked just so at the wrist,
in an angle reminiscent of
poorly told school yard jokes
should have been enough to put you off
When our dignity was assaulted by callous bragging of where he likes to grab women a vision of your fist…
How and Why to Document These Times
We are over six months and far too many deaths into a pandemic, and the numbers are rising. Places that have opened are closing again with this rise. People are out of work, out of money, and quickly running out of sanity.
The United States election is weeks away. Already white boys with guns and big trucks circle peaceful farmer’s markets in quiet northern California towns, a glimpse of the tantrum they will throw if the sitting president has to be pulled kicking and screaming from the White House.
Wildfires are ravaging forests…
I dreamt of fires and tornadoes
the unsettledness of 2020 seeping deep
into my bones, forecasts of imminent lightning
strikes bearing down on us shadow a birthday
celebration and school year transition
fear, concern, planning occupy my quiet thoughts
I’ve seen enough pictures, heard enough stories,
I can’t shake the images of burnt cars rotting
on roads out of town, their passengers long
since silenced by the flames
mentally, I pack the car, dogs and cats surround the children, I pray, if it comes to it, the horses will be calm enough to load, Our essentials exist in the form…
here I stand, not unaccompanied, in desperation
of smoke-infused lungs, orange skies, and abandoned
livestock, my youngest could not sleep with her grief
for the chickens left behind
There is no one left to fight this fire.
They are all battling flames elsewhere,
We are all battling flames somewhere,
The world is on fire!
We are exhausted from our fights
worn down with the persistent tendrils of inferno,
everywhere we turn now there are new sparks
alighting the tinder around us
and those who set the match need only
sit and watch
So I think of the redwood…
My mother-in-law sent me a book recently, Begin Again, a biography of James Baldwin, written by Eddie S. Glaude Jr. The name flittered around in my memories for a moment but came up empty. I never learned about James Baldwin in my predominantly White Midwestern public school.
Usually a fast reader, I am only now an introduction and one chapter deep. The information, sentiment, and history on these pages have already split open a chasm of insight for me into the terrifying resurgence of overt racism on social media, the news, and in the streets. …
The tranquil blue water blankets
the scene before me
spray from the blow holes of gray whales
scatter across the blue wonder
their bodies gliding heavily, yet
gracefully through the water,
slipping across the surface for a brief
view of their ancient backs
their presence recalls a magical time faintly
remembered in the freshness of morning
or under the gaze of the full moon,
pink and round and glorious
rising to a cloudy sunset
A flock of small birds flies by,
the gentle beating of their wings like
the sound of a light rain on
a canopy of trees