I Owe Wild Things: A Thanks Giving

I owe wild things for my heart’s flight.
Merganser, goldeneye, goose, teal,
Returned to lift cold autumn’s kite.

Flotillas, rafted like with like
Then skitter, scattering skyward.
I owe wild things for my heart’s flight.

Fall wind, skeletal trees, this blight
Damp dread pours tears, yet now they have
Returned to lift cold autumn’s kite.

Feathered, rust, pearl gray, winged might,
Their broad boat bodies elevate.
I owe wild things for my heart’s flight.

I ride their wake high holding tight
My faith in life. Trust Love to come,
Returned to lift cold autumn’s kite.

Let loose anchor of past dark night.
These birds, their flight, my spirit soars.
I owe wild things for my heart’s flight.
Returned to lift cold autumn’s kite.

RED

(an assigned poem....I was to write the color RED)

We stopped
At the Red Roof Inn
My beau, Red,
And I.

We’d heard
It was clean, reputable.
It served
Continental breakfast in the morning.

And it was
And it did.

We checked in
Room 317
My beau, Red,
And I.

Knowing the hygiene of motel bedspreads
We carefully pulled it from the bed,
Stripped off our travel-worn clothes
And gripped each other,
Mixing hot skin,
Red tongue.
Groping a blaze of passion.

My beau, Red,
And I
Slept intermittently.
Waking to fold our bodies
One into the other.

It was around
3:30 a.m. when
Red stumbled to the toilet.

Not having memorized the room
Jammed his big toe
Into the bathroom doorway.

I heard the whimper,
The flush and
Water run into
The sink bowl.

He returned with wet washrag
I held the bloodied thing
Until it stopped throbbing warm red.

The blood, the toe, the pain
Set off another round of
Deep, probing, fleshy, wet sex.

Morning light sliced in
Under the motel
Blackout curtains,
Crept up and found
My beau, Red,
And I
Exhausted and flung
Sideways on the
King-bed.

We rose, showered, and
Stowed toothbrushes
In our travel bags.

Fingers brushed
Slightly,
Blood surged and waned.

Shut the door
Numbered 317,
Wheeled our suitcases
To the lobby.
Smiled demurely at
Our fellow motel guests.

Ate toast with red berry jam.
Sugared our coffee.

And exited
The Red Roof Inn
My beau, Red,
And I.

Ride Hard

(Revised via a monthly poetry workshop I attend, well, monthly...)

Days circle
Dawn to dark,
Dark to dawn.

Moon waxes, wanes.
Tides flood, then empty
Mud basins.
Teaming sea life
Coaxed to thrive
With incoming and
Outgoing lunar-compelled
Saltwater.

Days long with light
Slide into
Days long with night.
Sun gobbling leaves
Blossom, flourish
Die. New seasons
Lurk just behind the
Curtain.

Commit to live fully
Within the whole day,
The tidal surge,
The current season.

Ride hard
The curvature of life.


August 26, 2009

Ride Hard

Days circle
Dawn to dark
Dark to dawn

Moon waxes, wanes
Tides flood, then empty
Mud basins,
Teaming sea life
Coaxed to thrive
With incoming and
Outgoing super-charged
Saltwater.

Days long with light
Slide into
Days long with night.
Sun gobbling leaves
Blossom, flourish
Die. New seasons
Lurking just behind the
Curtain.

Commit to live fully
Within the whole day
The tidal surge
The current season.

To ride hard
The curvature of life
Again, over and around.



August 12, 2009

The Fortieth

The Fortieth

The part of the tattoo I could see looked like the rounded end of a purple hued hilt. Exposed by the unbuttoned collar of his rust-orange knit polo shirt, the elaborately handled dagger tilted right to left. The tattooed knife appeared to be aiming point blank at Carl’s heart. Carl was the good looking tall guy in our class, but he was shy. All the girls tried their best to catch his attention in high school, but couldn’t seem to get him interested. Of course, that made him all the more interesting.
Wine glasses in hand, we stood talking now, unbelievably, forty years later. We shared our life data points: college degrees, employment, marriage, children, and now grandchildren. The easy stuff discussed, we tried to find common Cheney High remembrances. But, again, Carl was the cute but quiet one. He let me blather on about the time Christy and I hid a joint in our locker and spent the entire day at school thinking we were either just too cool or about to become incarcerated juvenile delinquents. Or prom time when Kathy filled a thermos of various types of booze she pilfered from her parents liquor cabinet over the weeks prior to the dance. We drank the awful mix down with a couple of Cokes before entering the crepe-papered gym decorated for the Johnny Mathis song, “The Twelfth of Never.” (Such the high school-er’s naïveté , assuming that with enough streamers and balloons one could actually decorate and pull off an illustrated “Never”.) Carl tried to churn up a recollection of a basketball trip, but his story faded as my eyes kept slipping down to the knife-art on his chest.
“I remember you sitting in front of me in Mr. Reuben’s English class.” My eyes snapped back from the tattoo to his face.
“Ah, Mr. Reubens, the rebel teacher,” I replied trying to mask the bit of excitement in my voice. My high school heart jump started and I felt my face heat up. Had he actually remembered me? “I remember him letting us snack on our lunch during class in his room.”
“Yeah. Remember when Rolf Harris lit up a Bunsen burner and roasted a marshmallow?” he chuckled.
“How could I forget? I tell that story to this day, especially to my friends that teach high school,” I said. Oh, my God, he’s remembering me AND the marshmallow story. My face was beginning a slow burn.
“Good old Mr. Reubens. He thought it was just as funny. That couldn’t happen today with all the school rules on security and safety. Kids these days haven’t a clue as to what fun really is.”
“Yep. Our kids and now these grandkids are pretty darn structured,” I responded. “Tell me more about your children and their families.”
“Oh, you know, they live several hundred miles away from me. I don’t see them much. Their kids and their jobs keep them pretty busy.” With that, Carl stepped back and started to scan the rest of the room.
“Oh, that’s too bad. I try to keep inserting myself in to my kids family life. Probably try too hard and really piss them off on occasion. I guess there is no a perfect balance,” I replied, looking down at my half filled wine glass. When I looked up, Carl had turned.
“Nice to see you Lisa .” With that Carl stepped away and headed towards a table that looked to hold several abandoned spouses, male and female.
I stood frustrated that I hadn’t just asked the simple question, “Ah Carl? Why do you have a knife tattooed on your chest? Just curious.” If he was one of my husband’s friends, I’d have had no problem in asking. But this was Carl and I was Lisa, Lisa the seventeen year old awkward skinny girl. Lisa, the one who had a crush on Carl for three whole years in high school.
I turned and headed for the women’s room, my respite then and now. The last time I felt this way was when things got emotional at work. A fellow manager had come unglued and started screaming at me about one of my employees. I started in on a simple response, but he didn’t let up. I turned and headed straight for the restroom, walked in past the row of sinks and into a stall. There I latched the door and put my feet up on the walls and sobbed. I’d done that several times in my career. My identity hidden with my feet out of sight. If I was still in the throws of my crying jag when someone entered, I’d just flush the toilet and no one was the wiser.
I headed to the woman’s room as Lisa and with Lisa, the seventeen year old. I was again face to face with her. I slammed the stall door shut. Tucking the tail ends of my skirt under me as I sat down on the toilet seat, I pressed my feet into the closed stall door.
No tears this time, but the stack of disappointments started piling up in my brain: my career path that led nowhere, my marriage that was boring as hell, my woulda/coulda/shoulda list that was as long as my arm. It was her fault. I was still dragging around this timid teenager. She was the beacon sitting atop this miserable stack of history. It wasn’t logical that three years of one’s life could color the next forty years of living. But it was and it did.
My butt now totally numb, I dropped my feet down to the floor, stood, flushed the toilet (out of mindless habit), unlatched the door and walked back into the reunion. I spotted Kathy with a tall gin and tonic as I entered the banquet room.
“Hey Lisa, where have you been?” she asked.
“Oh, just using the restroom.” I took a breath. “ Was talking to Carl a bit earlier, though. What’s up with that tattoo? He would be the last one I’d ever imagine with body art.”
“Oh my God! You didn’t hear?” she asked. She had a bit of a slur in the question. She must have been on her third or fourth G & T.
“Hear what?” I asked, preparing myself for a bit of drunken gossip.
“Well, he was married you know.”
“Yes, I knew he married someone he met in college. They had kids. But I thought he was still married.”
“No. See that girl over there at the table with Bill?” Kathy swung her head a bit too hard in the direction of the abandoned spouse table.
“Yeah,” I spotted Kathy’s husband Bill sitting there with a couple other men and a woman.
“Well, Bill was talking to that woman, Michelle. She is Carl’s date.”
“Yes, and?” I asked, knowing that men rarely get to the good stuff.
“…and Bill said that Michelle said that Carl’s marriage ended in divorce because his wife decided that she was a lesbian and was in love with another woman.”
My jaw dropped. I was stunned and then began to doubt. First of all this information was coming from Kathy and Kathy was actually only sober during work hours, and maybe between breakfast and lunch on the weekends. Secondly, her source was Bill and, while Bill wasn’t much of a drinker, he was a guy, for heavens sake. This kind of gossip just doesn’t come from men.
“Okay, maybe. But what does that have to do with the tattoo?” I asked.
“Well, he got that tattoo after the divorce. It is a double edged sword that stretches from his shoulder, slicing into his heart. You know, metaphoricably err, metaphorably err, you know, sort of poetically,” Kathy stammered.
“Geez. That’s awful, I mean that’s incredible, I mean, oh hell, I don’t know what I mean.” I realized I’d left my wine glass in the woman’s room. “I gotta get a glass of wine. I’ll talk to you later, Kath.” I side stepped her and moved into the back of the line at the no host bar.
My mind was racing. My seventeen year old Lisa was screaming, “poor Carl!” My fifty-eight year old self was still trying to process Carl’s pain, the warping of 40 years, and my silly struggle with a long gone teenage self.
The reunion started to dwindle by 10:30 p.m.. We are getting old, I thought as I was finding my coat and purse. Our twenty year reunion went all night. I remember a bunch of us stumbling into a Denny’s for a sobering breakfast at 3:00 in the morning. But, I said a few goodbyes, told Bill to make sure he drove Kathy home, and started for the door. As I was leaving, Carl came up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder.
“It was good to see you Lisa. I’m sorry we didn’t have more time to talk, “ he said.
“Yeah. I guess we’ll just have to wait another ten years to carry on again about dear old Mr. Reubens,” I replied.
“Take care.”
“Thanks, Carl. Drive safely,” I said digging my keys out of my purse. I pushed the door open into the parking lot. Approaching my car, I pressed the unlock button on my key fob, lighting the interior of my car. Such a welcoming sight, back into the known loving arms of current living, I thought as I pulled open the car door.
Pulling out of the parking lot the classics station on my radio began playing Janice Joplin’s, Piece of My Heart. “Oh my God, this is crazy synchronicity or a message from Jesus,” I said out loud. “Break another little bit of my heart now, darling..” Seventeen year old Lisa had sung these lyrics with Janice with all the emotion she could muster; angry with Carl for not noticing her, angry with herself for not making herself noticeable, angry with the world that she couldn’t have what she thought was the most simple thing, love.
When I tripped over that last word, love, I smiled, then chuckled and then laughed and laughed and then began to cry. I had to pull into the parking lot of the all night grocery. Tears were streaming out of my eyes. I rested my forehead on the steering wheel. Love, the teenage version, so innocent, like decorating the Twelfth of Never. At seventeen it is all fluff around an empty word. My high school years spent mentally and emotionally chasing a poor boy whose affections I thought would lift me into the real grown-up world of love. Now I see this man, Carl, with his chest blaring the unhappy state of his love and his life. A dagger in the heart, a double edged sword. Such dramatics. Poor Carl crushed by lost love. My work, my family, my friends, my community all have pieces, huge hunks, of my heart. Years of living have scarred and indeed take a few deep nicks out of it. But there still is a small sweet bit that holds the fingerprints of my little seventeen year old Lisa. I can’t let her go. I can’t live without her. She is still innocent. She can still hurt, but she can still hope that there really is a place for her in that place called the Twelfth of Never, crepe paper and all.

Wiley James: Journal Entry

I’m obsessed with the letter “W”. It is my mother’s fault. She named me Riley, but the story goes a maternity ward nurse misheard and recorded my name as Wiley. My mother didn’t bother to change it back and now here I sit writing this as Wiley…last name James.
That is the other problem. I have a last name for a first name and first name for a last name. When asked, “Name please, last name first.” I say, “James, Wiley.” 90% of the time the name taker assumes I am an idiot and records me as James Wiley, not Wiley James. If not for the hearing impaired nurse the world of my name and my registration in this universe would be much less complicated.
My “W” obsession began in the first grade. The room was encircled with the upper and lower case letters of the alphabet, you know, those ball and stick letters that are printed in the classrooms of the first and second graders and then slanted into a sleeker, slanted cursive in the third, fourth, and fifth grade rooms. My first grade teacher told me she picked my desk closest to the W as I was the only one with a W name. In fact, I was the last letter in the alphabet when she lined up my fellow first grade classmates. It made me special. I loved my home in the classroom stationed right beneath the capital “W”.
By third grade I felt physically uncomfortable unless I was seated close to the W. I don’t think I realized it then, but looking back I remember the sickness in my stomach every other month when the teacher would decide to move desks in the classroom. Then came sixth grade. The green and white alphabet letters were gone. I asked the teacher where the letters were and he told me, “James, you should know your letters by now.”
“Ah, Mr. Anderson, my name is Wiley, James is my last name,” I said sheepishly.
“Oh yeah, sorry, ah, Wiley. No more penmanship, buddy. You are a sixth grader now,” he said through his fake but anxious first-year teacher toothy grin.
I missed my “W” locale. I started substituting “W” words for my un-tethered desk position. I sat by the window, by the waste basket, and the world map. My friends were kids with “W” names. There was Tommy Wilson, Wendy Wadsweller, and my best friend, William (aka Willy) Winkerton. By ninth grade it was becoming an abstraction. My papers would fill up with wavy W’s rolling to the right filling all the blue lines of the notebook paper. My only sport was wrestling. It kicked the crap out of me, but ultimately it was the only thing that got me through high school and on to college.
My parents were proud of their son, wrestling his way into a full athletic scholarship at Western Wyoming State College. I trained, starved, sweat, and bled for the tiny little “WW” emblems awarded for each match ending in my pinning m opponent. It was all about those letters.
Okay, obviously I did work through all the classes and end up with a BS degree. I managed to take 80 percent of the courses taught by “W” professors. Most of them were in the College of Engineering, thus my degree in Civil Engineering, Hydrology…. yes, I am a degreed water expert.
I’m employed by the Washoe County Water District. Specializing in water management, my job is to assure the citizens of Reno have clean water flowing out of their taps, their lawn remains green, and their cars can be washed regularly. I’m a mid level bureaucrat spending most of my day behind my desk. I long for the days when I was first hired, those hours in the field, calibrating weirs, calculating water flow, and predicting snow melt. Those were my clean water days. Now my desk has me fully immersed in waste water management. My field days are limited, but I do have a county issue bright yellow hard hat that reads, WCWWM (Washoe County Waste Water Management). I find myself gazing at it, hanging there with all its “W’s” printed in an official font.
During college I met and married Wanda. We were together long enough to spawn Wesley and Rita. Her insistence on naming Rita proved the demise of our marriage. I just couldn’t pronounce her name properly and it always came out “Wita”. Wanda believed I was rubbing her nose in her decision and made the final ultimatum. It was to be either our marriage or my love of the letter “W”. Needless to say, I’m now a single man hefting a good chunk of my paycheck from the WCWD to Wanda and the kids, Wesley and Wita.
After the divorce I decided to try therapy. Of course, I could only see “W” therapists and there were only a couple listed in the phone book. I began seeing Dr. Wendell White. I felt his approach was a bit odd. He would have me sit in front of a mirror naked and utter the letter “W” over and over again until I was too cold to go any further. Then I was to jump into a hot shower and scream, “I HATE W!” until I was warm again. His theory was to associate the cold, naked, loneliness with “W” and zap the obsession when I’d had enough of it. I practiced this exercise for 2 months and found no relief. Luckily there were no side effects to this torturous experience.
Still feeling helpless with this obsession, I started acupuncture with Dr. Wong Woo. I’d lay prone on his flat stone slab. He’d insert needles in my elbows, my neck and in the second joint of my big toe. He’d leave the room, dimming the lights. I was to visualize the little “W” critters high-tailing it out of my body via the holes pierced in my skin. For good measure, Dr. Woo would wedge open my mouth to allow any stray “W”s to find their way out of my digestive system. After 30 minutes he’d return, remove the needles and the wedge and pronounce me clean of the “W” curse.
The effects of this “W” skedaddle lasted a day or two, but would return as strong as ever. I’d find myself parked at the grocery store gazing at the sign noting Watermelon, 49 cents; at the movie theater marquee advertising the Saturday kids matinee, Willie Wonka; and in my own parking space at work, W. James, WCWD.
I write this to discover the achy source of this obsession. Who knows? Is it physiological, or psychological? Am I a victim of an odd electrical hiccup in my brain’s circuitry? It is part of me, like the bunions on my feet, the extended canine tooth in my mouth, and the single dimple on my left cheek. I admit it is an odd quirk, but I’m maybe it is harmless if I embrace it. Fighting it gives it power. Blaming my mother and my little name snafu doesn’t explain or excuse it. Perhaps it is the difference between addiction and obsession. Addiction is the fight, the battle that consumes the psyche trying to fend off the obsession. I’ll quit the fight as I’d rather live with obsession than addiction.
My thing for “W” is part of me. I like the symmetry of the letter, the inversed double hump. The “O” is boring, the “Q” too complicated, the “X” so angry, but the “W”, the luscious double dips lavishly consume the space on the page. I can’t explain it other than the calm I feel when looking at it and the peace that floods through me when I press my pen on the page and loop a string of “W’s” across the paper.
Letting it inhabit me seems, at this point, to be the best solution. I’ll let this little “W” nestle down into my being, carve out a spot in my spirit, and perhaps, in making it comfortable, it will sleep peacefully and let me realize the fullest life possible….in the universe with the other 25 letters of the alphabet.







June 25, 2009

Note: Occasionally I find a teacher victim that will let me into their room to do some writing with their students. June, 2009, I was able to work in my niece’s, Holly Albers, classroom. They were 3rd graders, the most amazing group of almost 4th graders I’ve worked with. Part of my teaching is writing a story. The story is always an adventure story involving my dog Pearl (the most lovely Bernese Mountain Dog). They give me ideas, some I take, other’s I reject, as I tell them, this will be my story. I may or may not use all the ideas. When I left after that first day, the items that we decided upon to be in the story were: a gold mine, a mining car, a secret potion, and (of course) a monster. The following is my third grade story.


The Secret of the Golden Potion


“Come on Pearl, time to go home,” I said. Yawning, I locked the door of the bakery and dropped the key in my purse. Pearl trotted along next to me as I reached into my pocket for a couple of golden cubes. We needed to set out a few more of these on the way home. My hand searched the bottom of my jacket pocket and came up with only two cubes. “Oh, oh,” I thought. “Pearl, this is the last of them. We need to go back!”

We headed for home. As we walked, a flood of memories rushed into my brain. It was only one year ago…

Pearl and left our home in Olympia in October, heading to the Northern Cascades. My objective was to take some good pictures of the fall color. I was going to use the pictures with some poetry I had been writing. By lunchtime we passed Marblemount and entered the park along the Skagit River. I registered at the ranger station, loaded my camera into my backpack, and tossed in a bottle of water, a bag of kibble for Pearl and a sandwich and apple for me. We headed up the trail into the forest.

I took a deep breath and felt the cool clean damp air rushing into my lungs. Pearl raced up and back on the trail, sniffing this and that. I’d walk past her and then she’d catch up, her feet beating the trail behind me. She’d speed past, her furry body brushing my legs as she zoomed by, on ahead to the next really good smelly thing.

Much of the forest is pine and fir. These needles are a lovely green, but stay that way all year long. I was looking for some deciduous trees with their leaves turning bright fall colors. The trail switch-backed up several steep embankments and then dropped down again to the river. It was the groves of Alder and Maple along the river that proved to have the best color. The shape of the orange, red, and yellow leaves silhouetted against the grey rock and steel blue water made beautiful pictures. I was snapping away with the camera when I realized that I had passed Pearl at the top of the bank before walking down to the river. She had not yet caught up with me.

“Pearl!” I called her and heard only the sound of breaking branches. “Stay on the trail!” I yelled. I fully expected to see the white blaze on her face emerge from the thick under-story above, but all I heard was more cracking and snapping of branches.

“That dog can be such a pain,” I thought to myself, or maybe even said it out loud. I shoved my camera back in my backpack and retraced the trail back up the hill.

“Pearl. Come here girl!” I called. I could hear more rustling coming from the uphill side of the trail just above me.

With a heavy sigh of exasperation, I walked into the brush. Carefully I tried to step around the bits of green, placing my feet on the empty spaces of the forest floor. Because I was concentrating so completely on my feet, I didn’t see Pearl as she slid into a hole on what I came to find out was an abandoned mining car. I looked up when I heard the scratch of rusty metal on metal. I stumbled through the brush and stood staring into the entrance of an abandoned mine. Two narrow gauge rails led into the darkness.

“Pearl!” I called. She turned and I saw her white face was just a few yards from the entrance. “Come here, NOW!” I yelled. She just kept staring at me. It was that look in her eyes that told me that I was about to find myself in a brand new undertaking, one that didn’t involve photographing fall colors.

I took a few steps into the cave, careful not to trip over the rails, to the little car in which Pearl was now standing. She moved a bit to the side of the car, giving me room to get in next to her. “What am I doing? This isn’t some crazy carnival ride,” I thought as I lifted my right leg into the car. Then as I was pulling my other leg in, the car lurched ahead and rolled into the dark. Faster and faster we went as gravity pulled us down and deep into the mine. Luckily I got myself into the car ducking my head just as we zoomed under a set of overhead beams.

It seemed like forever, but it was probably only about 15 seconds and we slowed, leveling out into a dimly lit chamber. There were several candles stuck in the walls. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I realized that the chamber was glimmering. The flickering candlelight reflected a golden shimmer. Wide eyed, my jaw dropped. Pearl leapt out of the car and started sniffing away.

“Pearl,” I whispered. “Come back here.” Ignoring me, she kept following her nose, which led her into a small alcove directly in front of the car. With a startled “yip” she jumped back away from the narrow slot in the golden wall.

The noise was faint, at first. But it continued to get louder and louder as a purple smoke billowed forth from the slot in the wall and the room filled quickly. By now, Pearl had returned to the wall, sniffing away, in spite of the now deafening noise of what sounded like cymbals and xylophones. Still in the car, my hands gripping the side rails, I screamed when out of the smoke a large dog-like creature appeared.

“You’ve come Pearl,” the creature growled.

“My name is not Pearl, that is my dog,” I answered nervously.

“I’m not talking to you, human, I’m talking to Pearl!” he barked.

I sat down deeper in the car. Never had I felt so helpless. Pearl and I have been in some precarious spots over the years, but I’ve always managed to get us out of harm’s way. This time it was clear. I wasn’t involved in this one. This wasn’t about me, it was about Pearl.

The wiry haired creature stood on four legs. One ear poked straight up while the other flopped to the side. He had a very large head and stubby snout making his lips move more like a human when he spoke. He was scary and funny looking at the same time. I wanted to scream AND laugh out loud even though my heart was pounding.

Pearl and the creature circled each other, head to tail to head, communicating their past experiences and present situation like dogs do when they first meet. “Don’t hurt her,” I pleaded.

“Be quiet, human,” he answered.

There wasn’t anything I could do but sit and watch. I had no escape without Pearl. She wasn’t about to leave as there was something here she needed to do and it was something I could not understand.

I settled down a bit and began to take in the glory of this chamber. The clanging metal noise had subsided when Pearl and the creature began sniffing at each other. The walls were golden, but not solid gold…more like painted with gold frosting. I reached out from the car, ran my hand across the wall, and gathered a fist full what looked like thick gold soap. I took a dab and rubbed it into my arm. Suddenly I felt calm. I wasn’t scared or nervous or mad or angry. It was weird. I didn’t feel giddy or excited either. I was relaxed and at ease.

By now Pearl and the creature were “talking” like dogs do; rubbing their heads together, nosing into each other’s ears. Pearl began to jump away from the creature playing her favorite game, “Come and Get Me.” The creature obliged running away and then lunging back at her. I couldn’t help but giggle at Pearl’s playfulness with the odd looking hairy hulk.

Tired, Pearl circled and lay down. The creature began to talk to me.

“I see you’ve experienced the golden potion,” he said. “We’ve been making this for centuries, but was interrupted when humans came and began pounding, scraping, and chipping out the gold. They are gone now and there is much work to be done, catching up with 20 years of production”

“What is this?” I asked.

“For generations my kind has been making it. We take the water from the nourishing river, pitch from the majestic trees, and gold dust from deep in the earth. We mix this all together, roll it out into big slabs, and then cut it into cubes. In the early spring when the snow has melted and the new babies are born, we come to the surface and spread the cubes all around the forest. We even go into human villages and leave cubes here and there.”

“Why? What does this do?” I asked.

“It is for the babies,” he responded.

“Babies? Why the babies?”

“Silly human, you think I’m talking about the human babies,” he said smiling at me. “It is for the animal babies. As the mother bears forage for berries in the forest, or the mother birds search for grubs, they seek out this potion. When they return to their babies, the wee ones get a little at feeding time.”

“Why? What does this do?” I asked. This was getting really weird.

“Did you feel it when you put some on your arm?” he asked.

“Feel what?” I lied. I didn’t want to let him know that I felt anything.

“You know you did,” he responded. “You felt calm didn’t you.”

“OK, yeah, I did,” I admitted.

“Don’t you think young animals are scared when they have to go out on their own to find food, or young birds are nervous about taking that first leap into the air to fly?” he asked.

“Well, I never thought about it, but yeah, I guess that would be pretty scary,” I said.

“This potion is gives them a bit of tranquility to make them realize they have the courage and confidence to make a life on their own,” he said.

I’d never thought about that, but it made sense to me.

“But why go into the human places?” I asked.

“It is for the puppies and kittens,” he said.

“Oh,” I said. My eyes welled up when he said that because I remembered when Pearl was a puppy and she cried that first night she was with me. I knew she was missing her mother, brothers and sisters.

“This makes them feel better and lets them accept and thrive with the love of their new human family,” he said. “Pearl, like all animals, knows about us. You must take a supply of cubes with you and spread it out around your town. We have so much work to do here in the forest. We haven’t been able to get to the human places.”

“I’d be more than happy to do so.” I replied.

With that, he disappeared into the slot of the wall. He reappeared with a big box of the cubes.

Wagging her tail, Pearl made one more playful leap at the creature. He smiled as he pushed the box in my direction.

“How do we get out of here?” I asked, still gripping the side rails.

“I have a system of ropes and levers that will pull the car with you both back to the surface.”

Pearl leapt in. I carefully laid the box of cubes next to her.

With a series of tugs and jerks we moved back up the rails. I looked back and saw the creature disappear through the purple smoke into the slot in the wall of that glimmering chamber.

***************

My eyes snapped back into the reality of my walk home. Pearl had run ahead and was waiting for me at the front door. She gave me a couple of woofs that meant, “Hurry up, I’m hungry.”

We went inside. I filled her dish with kibble. As she munched through her dinner bowl, I packed my backpack. We were going back, back to the chamber, back to the creature. We had to get more cubes, those of the golden potion that brings comfort, peace and love to all the world’s puppies and kittens.

Head Cleaning

I live here
In my head.

It is a messy place
Stuff strewn about.
Life memories stuck here and there
With no sense of order.
Weighty piles of past mound
Consume precious storage space.

See? Over there, a volcano of anger
Right next to it a cider cone of sadness.
Tear-water has etched canyons
Spilling out a delta of regrets.

I should again muck out the mess
Reseed the fertile ground with faith and forgiveness.

Hard work and today I don’t feel good enough about myself to put out the effort.

Untended, it all comes back.

May 12, 2009

Airless Travel

The suitcase strains
over-packed with stuff.
I tug it behind me
guide it left and right
and parade
down the concourse.

Gate 44, Flight 6534 to Houston
Gate 45, Flight 720 to Los Angeles
Gate 46, Flight 9021 to Atlanta

Gate 57, Flight 812 to Miami.

Travelers heaped on conjoined chairs
faces buried in books, briefcases, and feedbags.

Merging left into the anxious pulse
I clutch the chit and photo ID
and join the
waiting-line dance.

I nudge my wheeled partner forward,
downshift into numb wait.
Picture palm tree tresses pulled by the breeze,
grind into neutral.
Feel humid heat seep deep into my exposed limbs,
idle my engine.

Simultaneously here and there
And in fact
neither
here nor there.

April 28, 2009

Lesson from a Smug Corpse

They lie there,
Six feet under,
With a smug smile
Because they know
What
Happens
Next.

I study, pray, meditate
Dream, breathe, sweat
Retreat, listen, calculate,
Write, catalogue, and
Have no answer to
What
Happens
Next.

I live in the moment
Count my blessings
Practice the golden rule
Prepare, repair, despair, still
Clueless to
What
Happens
Next.

There below, left, abandoned.
Smeared smiles on rotting corpses.
The dearly departed previous occupants know
What
Happens
Next

happens.



An Attempt at Scientific Methods

I’ve seen gold haloed icons
Stained-glass stories
Hundreds of spires that reach
To tickle eternity.
I’ve touched centuries-old walls
Hiked remote forests
Screamed out loud, lost in vast canyons,
Laughed until I cried and
Cried and cried.

As a mad scientist
I dissect these memories frame by frame
Magnify their Technicolor images.
Culture the bits of faith
To reason the answer.

I pull the pen across this page
Thoughts appear in ink.
Content not yet considered
My eyes watch.
The mass of cells held within my skull synapse.
An anonymous exterior energy
Floods and fills my cerebral circuitry,
Washes down my arm to waiting fingers
That scribes these words:

“The life that waits
Is the glorious life that is.”





March 24, 2009

Simon Says and Other Foolishness

Survivor? Reality television? All new concepts just a few years ago. I remember reading the short review. The new television season included this bizarre format. The locale was a remote island. People, actually contestants, would live together with only the basic survival necessities. One by one they’d eliminate each other, leaving a sole survivor. That survivor would win $1 Million. Are you kidding? I could only think this show would expose the vilest aspects of humanity. Cruelty and greed would be laid bare in the savage environment, winner take all.

Above the fray, I held myself hostage from the hype. I refused to get swept into my perceived ugliness of this crass manipulation…until the final couple episodes. I dove in. I downloaded my standards and rebooted into the brand new world of reality television. Hooked, lined and sinkered….now I’m fully immersed in home/wardrobe makeovers, chef contests, fashion designer wars and, biggest of all, American Idol.

I’ve been through the AA program. I do remember the first time I really had to say, “My name is Mary and I am an alcoholic.” That was tough. But this? Admitting that Simon Cowell doesn’t really bother me, really bothers me. I have steadfast opinions such as Ryan is the annoying one. Paula is out of her league and is painful to watch. But truly, honestly, and for sure, I don’t like the audition phase when they edit in the plethora of quirky, crazy kids. But I’m hooked because I now consider myself a great judge of popular music. Really. I smile knowingly when my conclusions regarding a performance correspond to the judges (except Paula).

Step One of the AA twelve steps is admitting powerlessness to alcohol. I did this and in the doing I actually saw the door swing shut on my life with a wine bottle. But, I can’t see myself admitting the same “addiction” to American Idol. (Proof: I put the word addiction in quotes.) An alcoholic is expert in excuses and denial. “I didn’t know cooking sherry was alcohol.” I knit socks during American Idol. I am making something for goodness sakes! This is productive time.

Actually I am wondering if I’m addicted to American Idol exclusively, or the whole genre of reality television. Know who won Top Chef? I do. Hosea, the looser. He had a fling with Leah and that wasn’t right. Stephan should have won, but he was a jerk most of the time. The fun one was Carla and while she made the finals, she didn’t win and didn’t win fan fav…that was Fabio. So all in all, it was very unsatisfactory.

Then there is Clean House, every week the same deal. The “Clean House Team” arrives at the house of someone with a serious hoarding problem. They climb over and around piles of crap. The designer always argues with the homeowner over some arcane (and ugly) possession. Tearfully the homeowner pleads, “My darling doggy Marshmallow chewed off teddy’s eyes twenty years ago. I loved my little Marshy and this little bear is all I have left!” There is bargaining and the homeowner is given flooring/bedroom furniture/laptop in return for trashing teddy. The show’s crew clears out the place, sell all they can at a yard sale, truck the rest of the junk away, clean, paint, and redecorate. The occupants return ecstatic that their home has been renewed, blissfully wave goodbye to the Clean House cast. They are left to a new life, reborn and emotionally cleansed of their collecting habits. Reality? I don’t think so. These people’s homes are just the reflection of some deeper psychosis. I know it is.

So what do I get out of this? I do like to see the talent (by my definition) that emerges on American Idol. I like to believe that these twenty-somethings put themselves on the line, risking it all for their God given talent. Wow, I wish I had the nerve to do that. Top Chef contestants create masterful dishes out of thin air. In the “Quick Fire Challenge” they might have to make some tasty and artful dish out of a pile dead squid and a couple of eggs… in 30 minutes. I pride myself on my cooking skills. But taking my standard green salad from good to great means I’ve included something more colorful like radishes in the mix. Clean House? Well, that is about righteous indignation. While I may not vacuum as often as I should, I can find my way to the toilet in the middle of the night without breaking a leg on an overflowing metal file cabinet abandoned in the middle of my bedroom. These people clearly have problems I don’t have. It all makes my life look rather dull, but clean and organized.

Survivor has survived and thrived. Cruelty and greed are accepted as gamesmanship. The prize is substantial and no holds are barred. Cable TV is blanketed with copycats (Biggest Loser, The Amazing Race) and extensions on the concept of reality (Hells Kitchen, What Not to Wear, etc.). I refer to my love of American Idol as an addiction. But maybe I press this too hard. I know that life lived in a bottle is a life borrowed and not lived. When I settle down to knit, turning the heel on my latest set of socks, I need to remember that reality displayed on TV is reality borrowed, and edited, and staged. My true reality is found in the giggle of my grandchildren, the purr of my kitties, and the warmth of my dog pressing against my leg as I sit, knit, and know Simon is about to bash the next poor Idol wannabe.



March 12, 2009

Daily Decisions

Words fall out of his mouth
Drip hot on to the
Ever
Thinning
Ice

My ears scream
Stop
I can’t take another story

But on words drone
Full paragraphs finally dwindle to sentences
Sentences to few phrases
Blessedly he stops.

I stand silent
To hold my place at the table of this relationship
I have options

OPTION ONE: Interrogation

Ask dangerous questions and demands for clarification

Requires strength of purpose
Clear-headedness
To fend off angry denial

And more lies

OPTION TWO: Acceptance

Nod and crack open a smile

Requires integration of the lies and facts
Belief in the strength of the full tapestry
To hold the warp and weave of the weak strands

Of more lies

OPTION THREE: Shutdown

Lick the lies off the thinning ice

Requires living on empty air
To dull the consciousness
To stifle the thoughts

And coast to the finish line
More dead than alive

More dead than alive