New Year’s Day, La Honda

 

New Year’s Day, La Honda

Sun
so low but
welcome, so welcome

Planter box
bulbs within, stirring
days after solstice

Yellow toy truck
among fallen leaves
Child in college

Cracked window glass
last summer’s
tennis ball

Barbecue grate
black sizzle
icy to touch

Chimney smoke
she’s my neighbor
so warm

Redwood bark
furry sinews
to the heavens

Sunbeam shafts
through branches
blessings

A spider swings
by silver thread
pondering: up or down?

On the deer path
wild turkeys trot, heads high
with dignity

Chimney bricks jumbled,
mossed where they’ve lain
since the earthquake,
home to lizards

Toyon shrub
bright red berries
feasting waxwings

Wooden loveseat
rotten, unsafe for sitting
exhausted by love?

Ceramic urn
her ashes scattered
now vintage rainwater
wiggling nymphs

Coyote
ears perk
flash gone

Utility pole
fate of straight trees
lifting wires
pulse, nerves

Garbage can
upside down
so I lift and—
turtle eggs glisten!
so set it back, shelter
until spring

……

From my book Foggy Dog

 First published in Nature Writing

Children never shut the door

 

Children never shut the door

except when they slam it.
Muddy-paw dogs run through the house.
A dove lost, confused, flaps against the skylight.
From the turkey in the oven we hear
spits and gurgles. No gobbles.

In broad daylight Uncle Olaf and Aunt Gerta
strip to skivvies and soak in the hot tub.
The children join them.
The dogs want. We say NO!
They ignore us and jump in.
Then out. Then shake.

Grampa and his girlfriend Jennifer arrive
on a two-seater bicycle from fifteen miles away.
Grampa is eighty and has no hair.
Jennifer hugs everybody, especially the dogs.
We smile. We bring towels.

Uncle Simon on a stepladder catches
the dove in a hanky. We all make calming
coo-coo-coo sounds as he carries it gently,
so gently outside. Opens the hanky.
The dove flies to the nearest tree. Clutches
a branch. Head-bobs toward us. Thankful.

Now let’s hold hands around the table,
close our eyes. Squeeze (gently)
the hand you’re holding.
Let go, like a dove.
Amen.

……

First published in New Verse News
photo by Molnar Szabolcs Erdely

Offerings

 

Offerings

One gone morning
in that puttering Volkswagen
from shotgun seat you touched my hand:
“I think I’m pregnant — just now,”
because you could sense right away.
Two years later that boy is an adventure
each hour, each minute.

Christmas Eve, while washing dishes
I hear a screech. First instinct, first fright,
I check the boy. Here, napping.
Next I check the road. A dog hit by a car.
By the time I can run to it, ten more cars
have passed thump-thump, front-rear,
thump-thump. Ten times. Nobody stops.
I pull the black body off the road,
remove the collar, call the the owner.
He arrives in a classic MG, says
“It’s an expensive Labrador. Was.”
Corpse too large for the car’s trunk,
together we lift to the passenger seat.

I take a bath. Dog blood on my hands.
These tears could fill the tub.
Nobody stopped. The boy, safe.
You scrub my back.

Behind our cottage a branch fell off the pine,
an offering. That limb we set upright
and decorate with cookies, popcorn, cranberries.
In the bedroom you light candles.
Soft night. Soft light. Soft.

Christmas Day, from beneath the makeshift tree
we unwrap offerings. Gifts. Mostly simple,
home-made. He’s okay with them, not thrilled.

We drive to the beach. This the boy loves —
a giant sandbox with windswept driftwood,
stinky kelp like giant fettuccine. Foamy tongues
of surf advance, touch our toes, retreat.
Dogs play. Suddenly your eyes flicker.
Without a word you reach for my hand.
Just now. You can sense right away.
An offering, a gift, a blessing.

……

This was Christmas 1977. The boy is now 47, the girl who first sparked on the midnight between Christmas Eve and Christmas Day is now 45. I wrote the poem only recently. Sometimes I’m slow to understand the events of my life. Through poetry, I find meanings. 

Driftwood photo by Katevn, tree branch photo by Joshua Choate

Steps to Closing the Cabin at Silver Lake

 

Steps to Closing the Cabin at Silver Lake

Remove palettes of dock still slimy
with summer, leave only a stub.
With friends toast the beefy sunset
from rare to well-done to salted with stars.
Walk friends up trail to cars, sidestep worried
glances, say you’re fine, say goodbye.
Listen as loons beseech, locate,
gather their lovers. Be fine.

Awaken to half a gray moon in half a gray night.
Equinox. Fog. Half everything, dark.
Bury compost, burn burnables, drain the pipes.
Store the hummingbird feeder, all gone south.
Bike a final ride among hills once cleared
as dairy pastures, now reborn as deep woods,
maple to hemlock toppling old stone fences,
a century of Adirondack second growth.
Wonder if the heart has second growth.

Return by bike to the stub. Strip,
jump, gasp in bone-chill, swim briefly
as your penis shrinks to peanut,
as testicles try to re-enter your torso.

Dress warmly. Walk through a final inspection.
Linger next to a little glass jug
where she would leave wildflowers.
Watch as a bumblebee yellow and black
drops with a thump from the sky,
crawls the windowsill with fuzzy grit
seeking color, entry, warmth. Imagine
on ragged wings, you fly.

……

First published in Sheila-Na-Gig. Thank you editor Hayley Haugen.
photo by David Mark

Omaha, U.S.A.

 

Omaha, U.S.A.

She says she’s from Omaha
so I tell her I passed through once on a hitchhike and—
Wait, she says,
what do you mean ‘on a hitchhike’?

She has a friendly heart-shaped smile
so I explain I was just bumming around
on Christmas break from college and—
Wait, she says,
you didn’t go home for Christmas?

So I explain I was in search of real America
when a trucker dropped me downtown near the river,
an old brick building with a sign ROOMS $3
but the little man at the window demands $4.50
to stay all night, the $3 would be for an hour.
I only have $4.75 to my name but I pay and—
Wait, she says,
why didn’t you have more money?

So I explain how finding real America,
I thought, was fistfights and factories and I was
searching for fossilized ciggie butts of Kerouac and
Cassady still littering roadside ditches—
Wait, she says,
who is Kerouac and Cassady?

Real Americans, I say, which maybe I wished I was.
My hotel room was a putrid mattress,
one thin blanket, broken window, door without a lock,
froze my ass, not much sleep with shouting all night
and somebody peed on my door—
Wait, she says,
did you see any other part of Omaha?

Her eyes look sad with big brown pity.
No, I say, I hit the road before sunrise.
Wow, she says,
If you went to my house
my parents might hate you
but as my friend they’d make you a bed
and I promise they’d serve you
some good grass-fed Nebraska beef.

Is that the real America? I ask.
Sheesh, she says,
Did you find anything better?

,,,,,,

From my book Random Saints
First published in Verse-Virtual

Wolf, Wildlife Refuge

 

Wolf, Wildlife Refuge

Gandy the tawny wolf picks me
from a crowd of gawkers at the fence,
leans in sniffing, studying. Gus the keeper says
Gandy’s keying on your aftershave.
Nope. I’m gray-bearded, unshaven.

I ask if Gandy is an old wolf.
You’re very perceptive, Gus says.
Nope. Saw it in his movements. Stiff like mine.

I seem the only one engaging Gus or Gandy
while spectators aim phones, capturing us
in digital cages.

Gus says wolves can smell cancer or arthritis,
helps them select which moose
to cull from the herd.

Gus says good old Gandy still acts like
the alpha wolf, hates competition.
They keep him penned separately
so no one gets mauled.

Folks standing near me edge away.
Gandy steps to the fence.
From his throat, a low growl.
His snout is like an anvil.
My joints ache.
And Gandy stares at me. Hard.

……

From my book Random Saints
First published in Red Eft Review—thank you editor Corey Cook.
photo by Stafford Green

Ugliness

 

Ugliness

Cold day in a cool city
she walks without shoes
down Telegraph Hill.
Stops at a shattered
bottle outside Cafe
Trieste. Stoops, plucks
with delicate fingers
green spits of glass. Drops
them into a white paper bag.

People stop, stare. Maybe
mental? She’s unconcerned,
gathering glass, barefoot in a
wool dress, legs unshaved.
Pimples cluster, spatter
her face. A body heavy,
not stylish. A smile
of inner peace.

Three young men
pause, snicker.
“Hey!” one shouts.
“Don’t you know you’re ugly?”
They laugh. She’s
humming, gathering
broken glass.

……

First published in Red Eft Review—thank you editor Corey Cook

Ski Cabin

 

Ski Cabin

Naked, sipping wine under stars
among snowy mountain silhouettes,
air so silent, our breath crackles coming in,
then floats out in frosty clouds.

Fully tenderized, we step dripping
from hot tub to deck where fingertips
on doorknob discover
frigid metal, and…
locked out.
A self-locking door!
Towels and clothes left inside for warmth.
Barefoot in snow we try each window,
and try again. Our bodies are steaming.

Already we shiver.
“Maybe the neighbors have a key,” I say.
We are on a cul-de-sac of four cabins,
all dark. Would they rise out of bed,
turn on the porch light and open the door
to a man clothed only in goosebumps,
shaking, hopping ankle-deep in snow?
They could call the police
while we freeze to death
because where is the nearest cop
in the Sierra Nevada at midnight?
And what is the jail sentence
for public inadvertent nudity?

I fear frost-bite in delicate regions.
“I’ll have to break a window,” I say.
Triple-glaze, I see.
“Please be careful,” she says shivering, gasping.
“I’ll stand back and throw a rock,” I say,
and do, with strength I didn’t know I had
heaving a hunk of stone the size of a football
which makes an astonishing sound
like a gunshot of glass.

“Watch your step,” she says.
In the pitch-black I can’t tell shards from
pine cones but at first footfall something
pricks, draws blood, as a
floodlight erupts from the cabin next door.
A young man stands in the doorway
wearing only a sweatshirt (Nevada Wolf Pack)
while holding a baseball bat,
and then a young woman’s voice
from behind him says “Put away
the bat, Deion, and help them.”
The woman steps out wearing flip-flops,
a bathrobe, and says, “You don’t look like
the bad guys. Come in and get warm.”

And that is how we meet our new friends
Deion and Kimani who are just normal folks
because, really,
wouldn’t you do the same?

……

From my book Random Saints
First published in Roanoke Review—thank you editor Erin Keating
Photo by Pete Linforth
Note: Yes, truly we got locked out after a midnight soak near Donner Lake. At least this time nobody was eaten...

My Daughter Says

 

My Daughter Says

My daughter says
every tree has a soul.
Some are good, some are bad.
But always, a soul.
My daughter is young enough
to know these things.

My daughter says
some trees have a spirit.
(Only the good trees.)
People, too.
She is old enough
to say these things.

Guided by spirit, we can grow
from the crack in a boulder.
We can lift sidewalks.
We bend and yet are strong.
We flower, we bear fruit, we give seed.
We are where the raccoon sleeps,
the hawk nests, the monkeys play.

Without the spirit we twist,
we wither, we break.
With the spirit our roots take hold.
My daughter knows. So young, so old.

……

From my book Foggy Dog
First published in Dove Tales
photo by Lars Nissen

My Father the Chemist

 

My Father the Chemist

“Difference is the ionic bond of marriage”
said my father. Yes, he’d talk that way.
He meant disagreements, anger,
the electrostatic attraction
of oppositely charged ions.

Mom belted out I don’t wanna play in your yard
or fingered a delicate Moonlight Sonata
while Dad couldn’t sing Happy Birthday
except monotone. Deaf to music.

She died.
He conducted research in blood clotting chemistry
so when his transient ischemic attacks began
he understood perfectly.
Told no one.

After, I found lab notes, self-observation
he’d jotted on a yellow pad with shaky hand:
TIA # 4 Date: 09/09/75 Time: 17:45
Music: — / / ... / / — ... / / —

Near death came music
which he scribbled as dashes and slashes and dots.
Then no scribbles for the fifth and final attack
but that night as he died alone in his bed
by moonlight surely she sang
Welcome, come play in my yard
and he heard, pulled to her bond.

…..

First published in Allegro. Thank you Sally Long, editor
Note: The photo is from the 1930s, my father as a young man in a lab long before I came onto the planet. 'I don't want to play in your yard' was a popular song in sheet music written by Henry W Petrie and Philip Wingate.

Frantic Woman

 

Frantic Woman

Tires of my pickup grip the mountain
over patches of ice.
Road is narrow, cars few. From the rear,
headlights cut through mist.
Coming fast.

On a curve without hesitation
the BMW passes. Eyes meet
so near we could almost touch hands.
Blonde, beautiful,
with a clenched jaw.
Her sedan swerves on the glaze,
fishtails out of control —
cutting me off.

I crush the brake pedal.
Wheels lock and slide.
My white truck bearing a rack of lumber
glides friction-free
like a windblown cloud
to the guard rail and crunches
to a stop
at the edge of a precipice.
Toolboxes slam-bang against the back of the cab
while redwood two-by-sixes break free
of straps and hurtle over the hood
down the side of the canyon.

Oblivious, obsessed,
she and her sedan recover traction,
disappear like a cruise missile
around a bend
to go someplace important.

I shut off the motor. Close
my eyes. Breathing.
Loving the fact that I breathe.
If ever I see her somewhere,
maybe she’s buying a latte,
what shall I say?

……

From my book Foggy Dog
First published in The Literary Nest—thank you editor Pratibha Kelapure
Photo by Christoph Muller

If they gave a Nobel Prize

 

If they gave a Nobel Prize

for obscene wealth
this man would be on the short list
but I can’t complain, after all he hired me
to build a cabinet with, ahem, discretion,
if you catch my drift, and to style it
with a certain je ne sais quoi of bullshit
that appeals to men who have a genius for money.

So I work with my assistant, Jamal, who
has a genius for unlocking magic in trees.
Jamal’s lineage, uncommon. He’s a shaman.
Together we apply rare imported hardwoods,
afromosia to bubinga to zebrawood
crafting a glass-fronted showcase
to display exquisite ivory carvings
which for top dollar we swear never to mention
because, perhaps, it is less than legal
to slaughter protected animals.

In the final assembly atop Nob Hill
Jamal in a trance mumbles mutterings
to exotic lumber. I don’t ask why or how
when the wood starts to tremble in our hands,  
to burn scorch marks on my fingertips
but maybe that’s the essence
of je ne sais quoi.

A week of peace. Then comes the night
of full moon in San Francisco
when beasts arise out of cabinets.
Walrus, elephant, narwhal
burst the glass, smash the furniture,
running amok and afar
chased by security guards
across the Golden Gate.
My check has cleared, Jamal was paid.
It is not our problem.

……

From my book Foggy Dog
First published in MOON Magazine
photo by Chris 1010 on pixabay

How to Make a Walking Stick

 

How to Make a Walking Stick

Find a branch that has fallen from a tree.
Ask the tree if you may use this wood.
Wait for the answer (sometimes trees are slow).
Listen to the call of the crow, the bark of the fox.
If crow or fox speak, they speak for the tree,
and the answer is Yes.
Or if no animal calls, if no wind rustles,
but if the tree does not say No,
thank the tree for providing this solid stake.
Grasp the wood, rough in your palm.
It will warm to your blood.
It will wear smooth at your touch.
It will bear your weight.
Thank the tree once more.
Now, with stick, walk away.

If on the other hand when
you ask the tree may you use this branch,
if the tree says No,
stop right there.
Why would you walk farther?
You have found a talking tree.

…..

From my book Foggy Dog
First published in MOON magazine. Thank you Leslee Goodman, editor
photo by Tyler Lastovich

Her breasts

 

Her Breasts           

The white-haired doddering gentle old man
in the crushing silence of the public library
blinking through spectacles
writes with shaking hands
in a pocket notebook
unaware that he is muttering to himself
Her breasts… her breasts…

Eyes peer over books. Pencils pause
except the old man's. Fingers
mark pages. We await,
expectant, puzzled. He has pulled a dusty volume
from the shelf of his memory
and, still writing, whispers, hissing
Her breasts…

I want to know: was it in moonlight?  
Hurried? Forbidden?
Dear woman, do you know that after half a century
not only your lover but a whole reading room
of men and women are sharing — are in awe of —
your stunning warmth
Her breasts! Her breasts!

……

From my book Random Saints
photo by Monica Volpin