A New Poem: Look Beyond the Trees

 This is one of a number of sky poems I've written in the last few years.

 

The sky is

my touchstone.

What lies beyond

the trees and

the white bird’s flight

is the origin

of oracles.

Sailing clouds.

Pink dawns.

Red sunsets.

The sun

breaking through

the clouds –

or not.

Mist obscuring

the hills –

or not.

Nights with constellations,

nights with the moon –

or not.

Lifting my head,

I am related

and reoriented.

Any time.

Any place.

Message received.

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Crazy Hair

When it first came back, the top front was the last to appear.  The little caps I had worn for nine months – red, lavender, blue, black - stayed on my head, keeping me warm, but more so hiding what to my mind was ugliness and the sign of my disease.  

The pounds came back, too, slowly, just as the hair did.

When the caps came off, people complimented me on my appearance and asked if I would keep my hair short.  Now, I have hated having short hair ever since high school when my unskilled or clueless hairdresser said, “You’ll never have long hair.  It’s too wavy and unruly.”  A tall girl, I felt my short wavy hair was not only unattractive, but also made me look pin-headed.  And so, in college, despite the pronouncement, I grew my hair almost to my waist.  Hippie hair was long hair, and I wanted it.  The weight of it pulled out the frizz and the curl.

 

After that, when I got rid of the long hair, what I got was "big hair." It wasn’t until mid-life that I learned about a method for cutting curly hair that left me without a big, frizzy head, and with receiving frequent compliments for my luxurious, controlled waves.

 

After two sessions of chemo, I had to have my family snip off my locks.  My daughter-in-law stepped in to help.  After I got tired of seeing short hairs all over the place, I asked my son to shave my head.  Bald.  Months and months of baldness.  Some women pull off bald heads with dignity and flair.  I was not one of them, especially with my newly gaunt face and tired eyes.

 

Chemo can be soul-killing in addition to being cancer-killing.

 

But for now, at least, that time is over.  My hair continues to grow, curlier than before, and wilder.  I don’t know what will happen with it, just as I don’t know what else my poor beleaguered body will have to deal with.  There’s not much I can do with crazy hair now, except appreciate having it and watching it grow.

 

The things we take for granted… It’s hair!  On my head!  And other places, too!

A New Poem: Patterns

 We are so fortunate to be in Hawaii long enough to get into a rhythm of daily life.  Such a gift to be here, and doing very little!

We settle in.

Morning rituals:

his walks, my writing,

daily divinations,

small offerings to

earth and sky.

Afternoon tea.

Sunsets.

Evening movies.

These are the patterns

we develop and

rest into, the rhythms

of the day.

There is comfort

in the consistency,

even knowing that

safety is nonsense.

Still, there is value

in the comfort of repetition,

as long as we do not

take any of it for granted,

as long as we know that

the security offered

by patterns is a treasure

of this moment only.

 We're in Hawaii, very close to Kealakekua Bay.  Much gratitude to our friends who sent us here.  This new poem is called A Beginning.

The dolphin pod swims into the bay

in the early morning.

A rainbow arcs across

the dawning sky.

The ocean is calm,

the air heavy.

This is a time of transition,

a liminal time in a liminal place.

It Is not meant for you

to be comfortable.

It is not for you only

to take and receive.

Offerings must be made.

Only an exchange is worthy

of the seeker.

Where the clouds touch the sea,

where the fire meets the water,

where the rocks climb to the heavens,

there you will find

what you are looking for.

There you will be made whole,

there, when you give yourself

away.

Godforsaken: A New Poem

 I just had a delightful time sharing poems with a friend, sitting on our deck.  After reading this one to her I decided maybe I could put it out a little further into the world.

Who would blame the gods 

for forsaking us now, 

given what we have done 

to what was bequeathed to us?

Yet I feel their presence, the old gods, 

the ones here at the beginning.

I sense them watching and waiting,

still filling the air with presence,

still charging the earth with fertility,

despite our efforts to poison them 

and the waters as well.

Only fire is uncorrupted, 

breaking out here and there

in the overwhelming heat 

of unnatural summers.

But its intent to cleanse 

rages out of control,

and the winds rise 

to fan the flames and

to whip storms into 

a frenzy over the seas.

Is there still time for us 

to reverse course,

to remember the gods 

of the earth and the sky,

the depths both below and above?

I want to cry out, “I won’t forsake you, 

gods of our ancestors, goddesses of my heart! 

I will honor the ancestral and the sacred.”

Maybe they will hear me, but I do not expect

them to intervene in our debacle.

It is up to us to adhere to the teachings 

that we scrabble and scratch to unearth 

below the glittering surface 

we have been taught to sanctify.

Like Rachel, I will keep my teraphim, 

my household gods, and worship 

what they stand for and embody.

What is holy is holy.

The least I can do 

is not abandon 

what I know to be true,

SoulCollage® card with my own teraphim

A New Poem: Elemental

Here is a companion piece to my last post - a poem that came out of the Writers' Intensive.

The wind is my lover.

Sometimes he sweeps my mind clean.

Sometimes he caresses my cheek.

Sometimes he is gone.

 

The water is my mother.

She rocks and holds me as if I were a child.

Unlike the wind, she is constant,

and I cannot live without her.

Every morning and evening I I look to the sky, to wind’s home

and admire its changing face.

But water is my solace.

 

Let the bed remain rumpled and unmade.

I have more important things to tend to –

the flickering candles, the morning birdsong, the blank page.

 

I once watched new land being born,

lava pouring down the pali and across the old land

to pour into the sea, creating new earth in a fanfare of pluming smoke.

Why do I think of this now?

Air and water grew lonely for fire and earth.

 

So, here they are, all assembled, my friends, my family.

Fire says, “Where would you be without me?”

Earth replies, “Show-off!”

Fire retorts, “Look who’s talking?  What do you call what you do

with springtime?”

Water flows in, “There, there everyone.”

Air breezes by, almost, but not quite, blowing out the candles.

I recently attended (on Zoom) a week-long writers' intensive with Deena Metzger.  It was wonderful and, well, intense!  Some of the writing I did was on the theme of place, which has shown up here quite a bit of late.  Here's a piece of what came out of the writing at the workshop.

Down at Glen Echo Creek, the dappled light filters down through the trees, illuminating patches of grass and brown earth layered with tangled exposed tree roots.  Cascades of bright orange nasturtiums with their round green leaves spill in profusion down the steep but short bank.  The water runs swiftly on its way down to Lake Merritt, which opens its mouth to the estuary and finally the bay.  The water burbles and sings as it hits a curve in the bank, flowing around the rocks and roots that form a tiny peninsula.  There is a green smell, part fresh and just a bit rank in  this damp and shady slice of an otherwise drying June landscape.

Sitting on rugged tree roots jutting up just above the creek, I can imagine that I am deep in the natural world.  I can avoid looking up at the green house on the other side of the fence at the top of the opposite bank.  Of course, I know that Piedmont Grocery and all the other shops on Piedmont Avenue are only a block away, but here there is a hum of insects, a few occasional bird chirps, the caw of a solitary crow.  A host of tiny insects dance on a patch of almost still water.  Down a ways on the other bank, a tumble of gray rocks rests just above the water, bearing patches of sunlight, holding and sharing their slow stories.

What do I not notice?  There are sounds of passing cars on the street only a dozen paces away and the steady drone of vehicles on the freeway a few blocks from here.  I prefer ignoring those.  There is a sudden wafting aroma of tacos.  A foghorn sounding from way down at the bay.  The knowledge that a few short blocks from here another homeless encampment has formed beyond the iron fencing the city installed to keep them from settling under the freeway overpass.  There is an ache in my left hip from sleeping uncomfortably last night.  I'd prefer ignoring that, too.  What I don't see is frequently what I turn away from.

Before I leave, I make a small offering and thank the green world and the water I am so privileged to live in and near.  I ask the water what it needs.

"Just continue to love," it says.

Walking Our Way Into Place: A New Poem

 

Huckleberry Preserve

Most days we've been walking a few miles, in our neighborhood, in other Oakland and Berkeley neighborhoods, and in the hills or along the bay.  Interestingly enough, it took the pandemic to deepen our connection to this place.

Not even ten years here,

in this strange sheltering time,

we are walking our way 

into rooting down in place.

To be on land not native

to family and tribe,

to fully live with the earth

not merely on it,

it is necessary

to know, to feel,

to honor, to love

this very land.

This is not easy

in urban places,

where the earth is burdened 

with concrete, invaded

by wires and pipes,

where lights besiege all

through the night,

and sounds of traffic

never fall into silence.

But this is the land

we live on,

this is the place

we chose.

We are required

to seek its acceptance,

to surrender our offerings,

to recognize and know

its waters, its hills,

its redwoods and pines,

its magnolias and lemons,

its goldfinches and hummingbirds,

its skunks and raccoons,

and yes,

even its rats.

This is where

our home is,

hereon the continent's

western edge.

May it truly be home.

May we know it

in our bones.

May we love it

enough.

The Western Edge

 We spent three Sunday mornings on Zoom with David Whyte exploring the mythopoetic world of the western edge of Ireland.  It was wonderful, and it set me thinking about edge dwelling.  This is a topic I've thought a lot about and dreamed a lot about (my dream group calls them "borderland dreams").  

So, here's the poem that arose out of it:

And hasn't it always been

the pull of the western edge,

so that going west has meant

heading towards your own 

boundaries?

As for us, we were born 

to the eastern edge, 

but we left the old settler shore 

that looks towards the known

as soon as we were grown 

enough to follow the call.

We had to pass through

the middle of things,

but were neither drawn 

nor allowed to stay there

for very long.

Oh, you can settle here.

We are, of course, settlers here -

interlopers, owners, usurpers.

It will never be sufficient,

but we can apologize

for ourselves and our actions,

and we can bring something

to the land.  We can know

and treat the edge place

as holy.

So, if you are here,

an edge dweller,

you are charged 

to use the edge 

to sharpen your wits,

to call forth dreams of healing,

to watch the sky at night

and at the turnings of the days,

and to love where 

you felt guided

to do your work.

And what is out there

past the waves slapping

the western shore?

Do we yearn to go 

still farther out,

towards another edge,

to the Great Beyond,

to the sea, to the sky,

to Orion's belt?

You know - Out There,

to what cannot be known.

Further.

Two Small Poems for the Season

Baby Spring

Here,

the girls call

this time of year

Baby Spring,

and it is the case

that baby leaves

have sprouted

on the young pomegranate 

and the Japanese maple.

The sun has returned

to the back deck

after its three months

of yearly absence.

Pink magnolias swell

on the tree two yards over,

while white and pink blossoms

decorate the plum trees

two houses down 

the other way.

Sitting 

in this light,

in this time,

with birds chirping

from here to there

and back, 

how could a woman not

appreciate this very day,

this very time?

The ginger plants

are dancing.

Come! the wind says.

Breathe in the fragrance

of the early blossoms

on the vine below.

Let the sun

do you good.

The green world

is offering itself

for soul healing.

Sky Seeing

The day's sky

becomes

a touchstone.

The birds, clouds,

sunrises, sunsets

summon attention,

directing mind

upwards and out.

The night's sky -

Big Dipper and Orion

(visible now in early Spring) -

evoke the Great Mystery.

Welcome,

lifted spirits

and a settled heart.

Morning in the Realm: A New Poem

Every morning I go downstairs to write, and I look out at the expansive sky, the land below the hill we live on, and over to the hill on the other side of the avenue.  There's an apartment building on that hill that often catches the first beams of sun rising over the larger hills to the east.  Sometimes I imagine the building as a castle, lit up by the dawning light.  Here's a photo in which you can get a glimpse of this place:

Why am I telling you this?  Well, the "castle" came into this small poem this week.  Really, there's nothing at all spectacular about the morning, the building, or the poem.  But I can tell you, when I manage to have mornings like this, I am truly grateful.

The sun rises
above the
eastern peaks

and lights up

the pale walls

of the castle 

on the hill.

A black bird

wings west and

suddenly drops

as it hastens,

then rights itself

and lands on top

of a spindly pine.

This is morning

in the realm,

the bluing sky 

smeared with clouds,

the regal trees still

in the calm 

morning light.

Another day begins,

and we, too,

begin again,

anew.

A New Poem: And the Wind Blew

Inauguration day felt hopeful.  Such a good thing.  I wrote this a few days before, and even with some renewed hope, I can't forget or ignore what feels true.  

And the power went out. 

The wind lifted and overturned chairs,

    bent and broke tree limbs and whole trees,

    crashed through wind chimes,

    tossed bits and pieces of things to the ground.

Was it coincidence that it was the last day of the presidency

    that also upended things,

    that plundered the earth for profit,

    that enlarged the rich and diminished the rest,

    that lied in order to sway the gullible?

Perhaps the wind came to disrupt,

    but not in the way he disrupted.

Perhaps it came from an earth

    attempting to cleanse itself and us.

Perhaps the unsettled feelings it inspired    

    were not a bad thing.

Things are unsettled, and so

    must we be.

A virus rages and mutates as we

    do not change enough, or fast enough,

    to learn the lessons of the necessary.

Will the change of power brokers be enough?

There are 400,000 dead in our land alone,

    and many deaths still to come.

Maybe mine.  Maybe yours.

Perhaps the wind was a warning

    as well as a cleansing.

Perhaps we should listen to the wind.

Strike out "Perhaps."

We should listen to the wind.

Yes

 Sometimes the poems come quickly, all of a piece.  This is one of those.

Anxiety rises and sets

like the sun.

Every day passes

like the last.

Sheltered, walking,

eating fine meals and

drinking bitter dregs.

We hold the tension,

pulled and pulling

this way and that.

Calm and safe

in an unsafe calm.

Holding on 

to a Christmas tree

past the time it should be 

tossed to the curb.

This is how we live

in the time of old age,

in the weary age,

in the world-beaten age.

This is what we have -

our hands full of salt,

our nights full of dark dreams,

our lives still shining with light.