blue

blue

blue

blue

blue

the firn beneath 

finally shatters 

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.)

 

       

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

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

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

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

poem 76

 

poem 75

 

poem 74

 miracles

 

a three night

early june freeze

then two weeks on

a desiccating and deadly

one-fifteen

one-twelve

one-fourteen

one-ten

days on days

pepper flowers wilt

and fall unloved

cucumbers and squash

languish under

hasty set shady arches

tomato vines burn

themselves entwined on

scorching metal frames

bees nowhere to be seen

 

 

one honeybee found lumbering

from flowers to water dish

over days on end

more bees come

breaking the grievous silence

honey cutter wild bumble

teeny and blimpy

solitary and hivers

humming raucously

sleeping in flowers

under leaves

in cedars maples pines

under roots a damp haven

a cutters’ paradise

as i water they land

in my sparse white hair

momentarily sharing

pausing on my shoulders

before impatient zzz’s  

push me away

poem 73

[now what to do]

 

squash and cucumbers

push open black wire gates

meant to protect not imprison

the wide lush leaves

startling yellow flowers

gleaming powerful tendrils

twining and lifting and triumphal

seemingly unaware

fragility forgotten in precious moments 

striving beneath summer’s

full moon and blazing sun

dreaming with no thought

of raking hooves claws teeth

raccoon skunk and opossum

 

[no way to warn them]

poem 72

Sweet Scales Irrevocably Tipped

 

how is it we bid farewell

not knowing what lies beyond

witless we empty the well

as if our soundings play true

not hollow knocks on death’s door

goodbye water goodbye

 

as if we ignore don’t know

what comes next already arrives

tomorrow just there just there

when we tell ourselves big lies

our children’s green world burning

goodbye water goodbye

 

somewhere else far flung beyond

earth submerges her shores her cliffs

her meadows her bays our homes

our ruin hot greed melting

ice beneath entire islands

goodbye goodbye goodbye

poem 71, v.3

Itza wants Peace

whatever that means

late at night she wakes

in urgency

in cramping muscles  

in doomness

[i tell her doomness is not a word]

and she insists

rants and raves

that whatever

letters one pulls together

are words—words as if                

poem 71

Itza wants Peace

whatever that means

late at night

she wakes in

urgent cramps

muscles parched in doomness

[i tell her doomness is not a word]

she insists rants raves

that whatever letters

one pulls together to express are words

—words as if

poem 70

sky rumbles

bombers streak

Itza stares

beyond blue

layers shift

fire out once

more streaks tear

home strip fuel

up fill up

rip southward

again and

Itza pins

wire frames shut

hands aching

startling thought

terrible

how what saves

douses homes

forests fields

skills planes born

of dropping

red hot death

somewhere else

poem 69

our most reliable harvest

rocks of all sizes

sharp edged

multitudes jammed

in loose fines

 

only now after a lifetime

digging prying hauling

complaining

only now i understand

your precious nature

 

how beautifully you stack up

and stay put [for the most part]

how you keep our steep land

and not let it slide away

in stormy muddy slurries

 

your rings of stability

rubble walls holding

soil and tomatoes

basil and onions

garlic and artichokes

 

how you catch fragile choke fronds

how you give their knotted roots

something to grasp

so they can hold their thick stalks tall

so their heavy heads might chase the sun