A Random Saint Rides the Bus

 

A Random Saint Rides the Bus

With a face of wretched scars like layered pond scum
in the seat beside me she says without prompting
    “I teach seventh grade social studies
    because I love to bend a mind like molten metal
    before it cools hard. Hm. Hm-mum.”

She hums one, two notes like commas
as she talks — tuning her thoughts.
    “My cubs, that age, the hormones hit so hard
    you can hear their heartbeats.
    Beat-beat, so loud.
    Hm. Hm hm.
    My cubs, every day they navigate among the flotsam.
    Just look at this bus. What they deal with.
    And you and me, right? Because
    we’re all riding on this bus. Hm-mum.

    “My cubs don’t know their values.
    They may not know their own gender.
    It’s a race to develop personal integrity
    before the peer group kills them. Hm.
    They need somebody who will listen to their heartbeats.
    Somebody must say ‘Yes that’s right’
    or ‘No that’s absolutely wrong’
    though mostly what I say is ‘There’s no absolute here’
    but I love those emerging souls and maybe
    I help shape them in some small way. Hm. Hm.

    “You wonder what happened to my face?
    One of my cubs threw acid.
    One of my lost ones.
    Hm hm hm.”

A thin gold chain around her neck,
a gold cross upon her chest.
    “Here’s my stop” she says.
    “Have a great day.”

……

From my book Random Saints
First published in MOON Magazine
Painting by Sarah White

Some things he won’t say

 

Some things he won’t say

How the woodsmoke of stoves
on a chilly morning catches
in cobwebs of fog
fluffing redwood and fir
to be split by hawks
or stirred by swarming crows,
then shattered by blue jays
who scold, who disapprove of silence,
who in fact disapprove of him, her, everything.

How she would thrill to the call of thrush
like folksongs of the forest
and she would squeeze his hand a little tighter
sharing the delight. No need to say
but he’s sure somehow she’s near,
she’s watching.

……

First published in Allegro March 2021
photo by Hannah Grace

Kindred Spirits

 

Kindred Spirits

I give my daughter, age one
who can draw better than walk
a pad of Post-its,
the tiny ones.

She crayon-scribbles
strange designs
and peels from pad
to place on walls,
on books and boxes of cereal,
under the toothpaste tube,
inside boots.

A year later, moving out,
cleaning up,
behind the clothes dryer
I find a mouse nest
woven of grass, of dryer lint,
lined by her Post-its
gathered by mice
for their gallery
of delight.

……

First published in Your Daily Poem

WARNING: Do not remove this notice under penalty of awe

 

WARNING: Do not remove this notice
under penalty of awe

The wood for this cradle
grew in a forest that may contain nuts.
And fuzzy caterpillars.
For sure spiders and skunks.
Once we saw a puma.
All efforts have been made to exclude
from this package any nuts, skunks, pumas
but — just in case — open with caution.

The fragrance of these cedar boards
with lingering motes of sawdust
may cause mind-altering effects
such as peacefulness, a holy spirit,
or euphoria not unlike, we hope, the spark
that made this cradle necessary.
Inhale responsibly.

The planks for this cradle
come from trees that beheld
centuries of natural history — the owl,
the bear, the Sasquatch — cycles of the hunt,
of courtship, betrayal, magic, plunder.
Learn from this lumber. Embrace myth.
Guide the story unfolding,
the wonder of this cradle,
this child.

……

From my book Foggy Dog
First published in Allegro—thank you editor Sally Long

Autopsy of a Douglas Fir

 

Autopsy of a Douglas Fir

In your bleeding cross-section I count
three centuries of wooden wisdom
since that mother cone dropped
on soil no one owned.
Black bears scratched backs
against your young bark. Ohlone
passed peacefully on their path
to the waters of La Honda Creek.

In my lifetime you groaned.
Your bark filled with beetles.
Woodpeckers drilled, feasted.
Needles, whole limbs—you shed
your clothes, stood naked.
I cut your flesh.  

You walloped the earth, creating a trench
two hundred feet long where you lie.
As you fell in your fury
you destroyed my tomatoes,
smashed the daffodils,
snapped a dogwood.

Better you crush my garden than my house
which did not exist nor any of this town
when you first advanced one tender green.
I want to believe the sawtooth less cruel
than another winter of storms.

All good fathers must fall.
Your children surround you,
waving, blocking the light.
My children count rings,
hands sticky with sap.

……

From my book Foggy Dog

Homeless Encampment

 

Homeless Encampment

Excuse me, sir,
but did you once
sixty years ago
come upon three cub scouts
in blue uniforms wandering lost in a small forest
fearing bears in the underbrush, vultures in the sky
and you guided us to daylight
where no one had missed us?
Oh. Well, anyway,
let me give you a beer.

Pardon me, ma’am,
but did you once
substitute-teach a high school English class
the subject was poetry but you only knew limericks
and the class was in stitches;
you made us promise not to tell
but they never hired you again?
Oh. Well, anyway,
let me give you a beer.

So sorry, sir,
but did you once
as a night watchman come upon
a boy and a girl kissing without clothing
in the factory shadow in your flashlight beam
and you said “Don’t make a mess”
and moved on?
Oh. Well, anyway,
let me give you a beer. Three beers
and I’ll show you pictures of some
fine little messes, grown big and gone away.

……

From my book Random Saints
First published in MOON Magazine—thank you editor Leslee Goodman
photo by Stephen Marc

Nov 22

 

Nov 22

My brother with dementia
outside a bakery arrested for peeing
into a newspaper rack and forgetting
to refasten his pants which brings him
not to a police station but a hospital
where I find him and take custody.
The nurse asks the standard questions
to see if he is oriented such as ‘Who is president?’
‘That asshole.’
‘Which asshole?’
‘Um—the ugly one.’
‘What year is it today?’
[Shrug.]
‘What month is it?’
[Shrug.]
‘Do you know what the day is?’
‘No, what?’
‘Today is Thursday, November twenty-second.’
‘They shot him.’
‘Who?’
‘The president. They shot him.’
The young nurse is puzzled.
‘Kennedy,’ I explain.
‘Well,’ says the nurse, ‘do you know where you are?’
‘Yes,’ my brother says, ‘I’m in the fucking hospital.’
The nurse smiles. ‘Okay, you may go.’
‘They shot him,’ he mutters all the way home.
Because some things you never forget.

……

Your Spirit is a Shadow

 

Your Spirit is a Shadow

Your spirit is a shadow
    lingering
        made of light

Your spirit is a shadow
    growing longer
        into night

Your spirit is a shadow
    none can capture
        all can see

Your spirit is a shadow
        set free

A note about “Your Spirit is a Shadow” —
I was my brother’s caretaker for his final years.
He hated religion, loved philosophy.
We would argue about spirit.
I said we all have a spirit that lives on after we die.
He wasn’t buying it and kept challenging me:
“What is spirit? What do you mean?”  
I told him your spirit is like a shadow
except instead of darkness we cast light.
As the sunset neared on his life,
I could sense his spirit growing larger.
He denied it to the end and I love him for that.

He visits me when I sleep
and he is scowling, shaking his head.

……

From my book Random Saints
photo by me

On Call

 

On Call

I am in bed, midnight, when the doctor calls.
She says my brother is in the Highland Hospital
Emergency Room with high blood sugar,
dehydration, another stroke.
    She wants guidelines.

Dementia.
He cannot feed himself or even smile.
Yet he lights up whenever I arrive —
    you can sense it in his eyes.

As a child I chased after him on a tricycle.
He taught me baseball, rebellion, girls.
Taught me to drive our old Studebaker.
    Now he leads on this new path.

My breath is barely willing to convey the words:
“No heroic measures. Do not resuscitate."
“Okay,” the doctor says, "what about
    a feeding tube?"

When the heart stops, it is as if
the body has decided to die—right now.
But if the body cannot swallow?  
Confused, inarticulate, he slowly starves.
    Who decided that?

To the black bedroom a soft light comes,
headlights passing. Rain is dripping.
Dogs are sleeping on the floor,
one with a gentle snore.
My wife, head propped on hand,
lies on her side, watching. In this quiet night
with the doctor’s breath in my ear
I am an incompetent god,
    but the only one on call.

……

From my book Random Saints
First published in Verse-Virtual—Firestone Feinberg, editor
Watercolor by Ray Hendershot

I am Building a Brace

 

I am Building a Brace

I am building a brace for the front porch
of my brother who is on the other side
of that door listening with headphones
to a recording of Chinese poetry
(in Mandarin, which he understands)
while he is dying, slowly,
brain cell by brilliant brain cell
in that rocking chair whose joints
are creaking, coming undone.

He no longer remembers his phone number
or how to count change at the grocery store.
He is in denial of any problem
as he grows younger, ever younger
shedding years like snake skins
while the crack in the porch grows wider,
ever wider, so out here in rain
I set four-by-fours upright as posts,
I lift four-by-eights as beams on my shoulder
    gripped by my hands
    pushing with my legs
    transferred through my spine
    anchored by my feet
as the useless joists of the deck
drop termite shit onto my eyebrows
like taunts of children:
    nya nya you can’t fix this.
But I can brace it for a while.

Long enough, at least
for my brother to forget ten languages.
I will repair that rocking chair.
I will buy diapers, rubber sheets,
install grab bars in the shower.
I won’t let his porch collapse.
I simply won’t.

……

From my book Random Saints
First published in Verse-Virtual
Photo by me of my brother Ed

Note: I wrote this poem after a hard day at my brother’s house. The porch, and my brother Ed, held on for a long time.