Sunday, April 3, 2022

Poem 81

:Teach only LOVE:
decades old mantra 
borrowed to build
my teacher self
my conductor self
my self self.
An intense focus
to hide the truths 
my foibles
character defects
traumatic childhood.
[“Oh, stop,” says my therapist self.]
 
I feel a whine whipping towards howling.
 “You try pouring Love through zoom!”
And, I do act with Love—
I feel think and act from that golden island.
Pour love and care into the cold giant flat glass screen.
I can’t feel the vibrations of others
who no longer sit near me
as they learn to play or
perform in ensemble.
I can’t smell them nor
the scent of their victories
their tensions fears hopes anger
their love or their day-to-day-ness.
I can’t hear the true tone of their note making
can’t hear the breaths
can’t touch them or hug them
or bask in the rippling, tender
vibrations of their smiles.
Nor, can they feel
the truth of my concern
over their sufferings—
the depth of my love
crushed into aerialized electrons
eeking through insulated
fragile copper wires
my tiny scattered sparks
reorganize somewhere else.
My voice chasing after
brokengarbled words and notes.
 
Somewhere there lingers
smells of morning coffee
and buttery toast
or juice or cereal or eggs
or no breakfast at all.
Where morning or afternoon
sunlight glances
diagonally through  
swirling dust motes
captured on the screen.
Motes slowly drifting
clouds sparkling minutia.
 
(I never mention this to students.
They might not understand
the beauty of life now goes on
beyond touch or taste or smell
or how I miss sneezing
after breathing them in.
They might be offended
or shamed.
I don’t know.)
 
       

Saturday, April 2, 2022

Poem 80

about the white egret
 
whose ancestors soared west
from what is called africa
to what is called south america
both vast continents deserving
definition by their natures
and original peoples
not by anglo proscription
and heinous persecution
continents
of places
of origins
of their own
 
smaller than its cousin the blue heron
the white egret evaded
extinction by diaspora
worked its way north
and west to the far coast
of what is known as california
another vastness deserving
definition only by its nature
and original peoples
not by invading brownfrocked priests
not by merchants and miners
not by pale-skinned murderers
 
the white egret
stands stark and silent
in verdant meadows
near blue herons hunting
frogs and mice and gophers
near singing red-winged blackbirds
picking at sedges and cattails
and giant red-tailed hawks riding thermals
the common white egret swallows a fish
knows land and water and sky as home
knows surviving as hope enough
knows birth flight hunting and death

Friday, April 1, 2022

Poem 79

too still the long
hours wear thin

Emily’s feathered
friend sleeps

so silently 
that i forget

her and am lost
til she flutters


Monday, February 28, 2022

Poem 78

Ukraine. 2022. Everywhere.
 
another war
my first thought
quickly extinguished
in crushing awareness
 
war ripping ravaging
forests rivers fields
explodes and implodes
is always personal
 
immediate
not another
for those waking
sleepless in hunger
freezing in cutting ice
shriven in broiling sands
swollen by jungle murk
scrubbed raw to the bones
 
never just another war
somewhere else
else other half my heart
my soul are them determined
 
the maybe ninety pound
girlwoman newly rifled
stands side-by-side
in an awkward jumbled
line of resolute courage
of soft barely not children
their books scattered 
now study war
 
grizzled veterans
insist do this not that
stay alive to kill
to stay alive
to kill to survive
to somehow live
[with what you
are about to do]
 
war's sour wash
pulls from my corners
Black Lives Matter
Native Lives Matter
All Lives Matter
everywhere wars
post wars centuries
occupation persecution
genocidal machinations
running under cover
in pure daylight
 
no wonder calloused
another war runs
a hard blanket over me
to blind deafen my bleeding heart

Monday, September 20, 2021

poem 77

circumscribed life

 

today, like every other

before today—for long enough

that i’m beginning

to forget my former life

except that life never

ceases to spin in grief

filled pools i fall through

 

today, i water veggies

and hope for courage

to water tomorrow

and hope for a harvest

as if harvesting holds

promises I dare not

explore or wish for

 

today, i schedule resechedule

online students so necessity

is met and not left gnawing

at the doors, which no longer

open to children this singing

house silenced teaching

only love online is hard

 

today, like every other—

for far too long—i drift

my fingers along the

closed dusty piano lid

and wish i could bear

to not play—the notes

rub the broken edges

 

today, like every other

the notes tear open

thinly covered wounds

while laying a new solace

a fresh layer of skin

holding me together

as if i’m about to pour away

Thursday, September 9, 2021

Sunday, August 29, 2021