Monday, February 08, 2016

Human traffic

Working in the forest, cutting, sawing, dodging
No time, no money, no family
No escape.
Working in the houses, cleaning, chlorine surrounded
Digging, brick laying, walking the plank
No money, no family, no time
No escape.
My heart is hostage to fear,
My family hostage to pay,
My time goes by in years,
My children just grow without me,
Alone, always.

No escape.

Friday, September 11, 2015

In the evening

The light is almost gone
putting out the garbage
doing my recycle duty
two neat bins to drag rattle clack to the street.

The avenue is empty, no sound, no other bins there
but I have started something
and down the street the rattle clack begins
all the neighbors come out
for the Friday morning sleep.

Just a little community connection
the blue bin for milk bottles, news papers
the brown bin for left over wrappers, kitty litter and diapers
something we all do

Just one knot, one tie
one little leaf in the neighborhood language
a rattleclack thing, in the darkness
a dozen people who don't want to get up at 5 a.m. to put their garbage out.

Saturday, January 10, 2015

Posting time

So neglectful
Leaving the details of life behind like so many faeries
Bills, what's that?
But paper spiders floating around my ears leaving webs trailing over my hair.
But numbers marching over my toes distantly calling for attention I don't have to spare.
All this leads to disaster
and tired resignment to draw my consciousness
back and back to the magnifying glass so I can look for the details
so hard to find
in this vast adventure.
Who can look at ants when riding an elephant?

Monday, February 03, 2014


Who is me?
My eyes turn purple when I wear my purple sweater.
I wear Nikes with red laces.
I become part of what I do, I am an element, a blood cell, a section of a compound moving through the system with the existant around me.
I am a story, a news paper, a poem, a mother.

Catching the scent of fresh paint and lilacs.
Pushing a wheelchair full of hope colored welcomes.
Teaching reaching guiding holding.
Twisting words to fit the way into reality.
Swirling inside to match the people outside, understand, convey.

Ocean, squabbling gulls, the effects of Alkaseltzer on gulls, on me
Desert, watch for the rattle snakes but know there are more flower colors here than anywhere else in the world.
Mountain, where the sound is only in the silence.

Management style
Light blue
Wrapping the forest whilst taking care of the trees

Boys = three amazing strong hearts
Friends = with rattles in high places
Sisters = four across a web of steel

Professional organizations
Society of ethical ethics
Group of hat people in the plants
Leadership in Darkness
Heroes against heartbreak and starvation

My dogs, Axle and Zelda
My cello
The moose on the wall reflecting the wild peace
All the viking clans ever

Monday, September 23, 2013

What makes the heart soar

Hot air balloons in so many desires as they huff into the air
blow the fire whew
danger no danger
up and up and into the silence
Ripples in sheets coldness at the hearth
not warming bodies
warming air.

A house of my own
full of voices of children and grandchildren
or better, the night with heaps of sleeping love
so full, up to my hair in happiness.

The sky, the ocean
sweeping me under the vast eternity of stars
or starfish. 
Curling breezy mischief into toes, hair
What else is there
just life. Just sweet (with a little salt).

Monday, May 27, 2013

What use for children?

Send our babies in
posting C4 to trucks in secret places
throwing mortars under dusty wheels

Dark small hand
grime under chipped and broken nails
looking for candy
giving death

Child of mine child of yours
eye to eye dark and blue
whose eyes will be closed tomorrow?

Wednesday, May 08, 2013

Howie. Not a poem

Howie died.
A social worker came to my back door. I don't even remember if it was a girl or boy social worker.
"I think Howie is dead, can I use your phone," the social worker said.
I looked down those stairs to the basement, five or so steps.
Yes, Howie was dead. Somehow fell down the steps, legs and arms at an awkward angle. Blocking his own door. Stiff.
What I knew about Howie was he was a cook. He was always drunk. I went into his basement apartment sometimes to play chess and drink peppermint Schnapps out of shot glasses.
When they took him away, the bends stayed. The bent at right angles knees and elbows poked under the blanket.
But this is all tied up with the days. ...
the room mates, Charles and Byron. The quesadillas Charles would make with corn tortillas, Munster and jalapenos. 
Their young passion for photography and their darkroom in the back of the house we shared which led me to  the camera. The chemical smells of darkrooms, the dark calm patience, swish of liquid in the trays.
A Beethoven bridge between my father and my life because that's all Byron would listen to, that damn classical music. And my mom taking Byron to a Bob Dylan concert, or was it Neil Young, because I couldn't go and I can't remember why but I remember how wrong it was.
And then the more piles on until I am drowning ... the moped, the Rocky Horror nights, red curtains and red roses on the wallpaper of my room. Wooden floors.
Howie died. 
His hair stuck out all the time, long and wavy, sticking up.
Both statements are equal.
I earned my degree, then became something else, but Howie was dead all the time anyway.