Where I live the road is the sidewalk

 

Where I live the road is the sidewalk

Slim for cars, wide for walking.
Me and my dog step to the side
for a Harley that stops.

Helmeted, hairy,
a man with a woman in tandem
asks directions to Apple Jacks,
our local dive bar. I begin to explain,
pause looking up as a Cooper’s hawk
pursued by a blue jay passes silently overhead
almost near enough to touch.
A spirit so large seems closer than true.

Jays of smaller spirit harass hawks.
Harass, in fact, everything.

My dog once pounced playfully killing
a fledgling jay that dropped from a nest
hopping not yet able to fly,
the dog momentarily puzzled
though not saddened by the death.

Sorry, I say to the Harley pair,
I was watching a hawk.
Yes, the man says, a beauty.
We share this random bond an instant
as the Cooper seeming to scowl
settles on a branch ahead.

Patiently eating grass the dog waits,
jay still squawking . Man and I resume
the giving and taking of directions.
Hawk with a shrug of feathers takes wing.
Man woman and I lift our heads,
a posture not of prayer but of worship,
and we watch.

……

First published in Windfall—thank you editors Bill Siverly and Michael McDowell.

Chachoo

 

Chachoo

Croaks like a crow,
scar on the throat like an implanted worm,
he’s looking for work, for strictly cash.
Up north the season is short, labor is precious.
Everybody has nicknames.
I say we’ll try you out, call you Chachoo for the voice.
Already got Petey with PTSD, Iggy the Inuit warrior.

First day Chachoo moves dirt, carries lumber.
Next day he’s walking the top plate
balanced like a bird setting trusses, no fear.
Short, squat, strong as two men in one body.

Every noon a skinny girl brings
a hot salmon sandwich
and they sit together, quiet.
In sunshine his body sweats
like a cold glass of Coca Cola.
Any man tries to talk to the girl, eye contact,
Chachoo jumps in his face like a grizzly.

Friday before Labor Day, job done.
A dark cloud, cold wind. Could be snow.
Chachoo is tossing scraps in the dumpster,
final cleanup when the deputy’s car pulls up front.
Warrant from Louisiana, name, photo.
Never heard of him, we say
because good work is good work.
A single leather glove, all they find.

A year later, in a warm city — hey!
Chachoo’s daughter near the bus station.
I give her cash, tell her it’s back pay which it is.
“I’ll see he gets it,” she says.
“Did he really kill a man?”
Her eyes, deep brown, so wet.
“He was protecting me.”
I tell her: “All they found was his glove.”
“He don’t need it.”
Then like Chachoo, she’s gone.

In the back of my truck, under a toolbox,
sits that glove. Fingertips frayed, palm solid.
He don’t need it. We all do.

……

First published in Anti-Heroin Chic
Photo by me. My glove.

Hello Sawdust

 

Hello Sawdust

Hello sawdust.
I’m well. I’m back.
Taste of tannin,
scent of sap,
tickle of fine grit
after rehab pain
through every portal
you awaken my brain.

Powder of sun ray,
powder of fog’s drip,
powder of soil thrust
through roots to the sky,
hot breath of the forest
you complete my healing.
Such a feeling!

Sing to me the rhythm of craft.
Guide my fingers, the work will flow.
Sing, sawdust.
Hello!

……

First published in Snapdragon
photo by Lazar Catt

Note: Several years ago I came down with a near-wipeout of an illness that laid me up for many weeks. When finally I felt strong enough to work, it was an outdoor deck repair, a gorgeous day in May fresh after rain, and the first nose-full of sawdust was like a jolt of joy. So that night, I wrote this poem.

Stay safe, little house

 

Stay safe, little house

Stay safe, little house.
You are the home I built
where I've lived 40 years.
You raised 3 children,
5 generations of dogs
amid a redwood forest.
I hope to die here,
but not in a wildfire.
I'm out tonight
along with thousands,
friends and neighbors
evacuated, watching the news
with hearts breaking.
I pray for them.
And you, little house.
Stay safe.

……

On August 19, 2020 I had to flee an oncoming wildfire, my beloved redwoods aflame. That same evening as smoke billowed from the mountain, I wrote this poem from the safety of my daughter’s house surrounded by amazing grandchildren. Stay safe,  dear reader.

because a redwood grove

 

 

 

because a redwood grove

because naturally upon entering
    you lower your voice
because through branches on high
    fluffs of fog drift
    in shafts of sunlight
because you’ve met this feeling
    in cathedral, mosque, temple

because a redwood seems always
    to know what it’s doing

because your body feels small
because your spirit grows large

because a redwood with its power
    will never preach
    makes no demands
    sips from the clouds
    swallows the sunlight
    shelters the chipmunk, the owl, you
because a redwood takes the long view

because the redwood withstands flame
    has kinship to stone, to river and earth
    to the patience of stars
    to the holy

because you forgot the question
    but a redwood grove
    is the answer

……

First published on a billboard in Kew Gardens, London

Sparkling Shana

 

Sparkling Shana

Shana learns young to raise herself.
To smile for survival.
Mom sings in LA nightclubs,
loves cats and gin and lunatic theories, also men
who stink of tobacco but pay the rent.
They don’t treat Shana kindly.

Mom has a plan to save the world
though she can’t explain except to Ronald Reagan
so Mom rides a bus from LA to the White House,
a call from the DC jail: You be good, Shana.
I’ll be back as soon as I can.

Shana rides in Grandad’s pickup across deserts
to Texas where she finds kindness and horses
until a pinto tosses her onto her spine.
Then Grandad’s new woman hisses He’s mine.

Shana hitches to Frisco where she’s a bent flower
in bright clothing. With Texan good sense by day
she works as a secretary to a garbage company,
insurance benefit. Nights, it’s like a costume party.

Weekends, no costume at the beach
with killer weed and wearing a smile when
she meets a man on horseback who clicks. Like love.
He’s lacking in kindness but Shana follows for a year
until the drugs go crazy — his for fun, hers for pain.
He gets prison, big time. She gets
probation and a baby girl.

Two years on welfare, an insult but keeping clean
and with the innate wisdom of a survivor
she marries her chiropractor. Not love, not exactly,
not at first. No click. But it’s kindness.

Later, love.
Now she manages the office. Her back
has never felt better. In school the little girl blossoms,
grows tall, so smart. See Shana smile.

More often than we might think,
the grinding of the earth creates a diamond.
Lovely. Hard. Sometimes flawed.
And she sparkles.

……

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

thistles with thorns
make lovely flowers

Why is air?

 

Why is air?

Because air fills
where nothing is.

Because wind is air that is moving.
It pushes the clouds across the sky.

Because clouds are water floating in air.
The water falls as rain
and the earth becomes mud
and then worms come out and play.
Careful! Don’t step on worms.

Because worms are alive. They eat earth.
They breathe air, drink water.

Because you make me explain
the simple poetry of everyday life.

Because life with you is my earth, water, sky.
Thank you for asking why.

……

First published in Your Daily Poem. Thank you editor Jayne Jaudon Ferrer.
Note: I wrote this poem in 1979 to the wide-eyed boy in a box in this photo.