Dance Me Around the Parking Lot, Bobby O

Back in those days

So long ago it seems another life

We danced to live music at the J-Bar-T,

To a jukebox in a bar in Belt,

To swaying grasses in empty fields.

But the best last waltz

In a parking lot in Helena

A Montana velvet night in August

To Donna Fargo on your car radio

When desperately I wanted to be

“The happiest girl in the whole USA”.

All these years later

You still have a poem

Of my heart, Bobby O.

When God Speaks the Word

In the beginning

            Not the beginning of god

            But the beginning of words

            Light and stars and moons

            And seas and lands and us

Some days the words hang

So thick in the air

I can hardly parse them

I feel closest to god

When I use words

Or when I pull weeds

Or plant petunias

Or knead bread dough.

It’s all one word.

At Dawn I Walked the River

At dawn I walked the banks of the Milk River

Through the wild asparagus,

River swollen with spring rain

And mountain melt-off.

I wore mute despair like a cloak.

In a few hours I would be married,

Would wear the veil hiding the lie

Of vows of love, wear smiling compliance,

Pose for pictures, cut the cake.

Nobody would know my true self.

Nobody would ask, What is the matter?

It was a question a mother might ask.

Had somebody asked, I could not have said.

Rental

Some days I feel smug, cocky

That I have diligently examined

Old beliefs, cleaned house.

Last night I had a dream.

I lived in a rental, cluttered

With old furniture, broken

Chairs, stained rugs, a spare bed.

Things I didn’t use, I didn’t see

Until a woman came to rent

An upper apartment.

What is it like here? she asked.

It’s okay. I’m used to it.

I woke up. Clearly, I’ve more work to do,

Spaces to clear, chuck the cracked leather chair,

Roll the stained rub out to the curb,

Toss things I’m storing that aren’t mine,

Old hurts, resentments, imagined history,

All renting space in my head.

It’s okay. I’m used to it, comfortable.

Who knows what my life might hold

If only there were room

To get inside the door?

Tea Party

Today I drank you with my tea,

Hot and aromatic, lightly sugared,

Caressed with milk. No bitterness

Passed between my lips. The teapot

Poured us out as one. Teacups

Held us in, defined our edges.

I drank you and you drank me.

No Stranger

I tried to run from danger,

No stranger, I. Danger, past

Or present. Tomorrow?

I run, I run treadmill loops

Head to Heart to Gut,

Struggle to stay upright, run

Away, away only to circle

Back, hide behind my door.

Danger knocks. Hide under

Comforters no comfort

From monsters in my bed.

Run, run, scared, scarred,

Collapse on my last breath.

Wobble to my knees

Pursued by ghosts of self

Until I land, bruised,

On a mirror reflecting.

In that water I held fear,

Could run no longer

But only stand and let the current

Carry me where it would.

Reflections of Sorrow,

Her face in the back window,

Tears streaming, hands splayed

In supplications, begging me

To fight a power

I could not overcome.

The room was cleared,

Drawers emptied, closets bare,

Clothing, toys, children

In garbage bags,

Stolen.

Forty years later and today

The slash through my heart

Bleeds ice shards. The danger

Is the image I see in the mirror.

Snow Monkey Plum

Dry, wrinkled, brown,

It lay on my palm.

Her eyes sparkled

As she watched me taste

The salty, bitter sweet.

I screwed up my face.

My mouth watered.

In nibbles I ate

The delicacy. You might

Like it better as tea,

She said. I stowed

The bag on my shelf.

It lay forgotten,

Until when cleaning,

I found the dusty bag.

Smells evoke that summer

The Girl from Taiwan

Gave me a special treat,

I sip with pleasure,

Salty, bitter, sweet.

The Wizard

One of the most spiritual

Films is the Wizard of Oz.

We discover we already have

All the courage, brains and heart

We need to negotiate life’s

Rough roads, even a good wizard

To call upon in touch times.

And if the old fraud behind the curtain

Is found to be human, remember,

All spiritual leaders are human.

It might be hard to understand

But even that old fraud

Can show you a bit of the way.

Once you’ve been to Oz

You cannot tell anybody about it

Because they will not believe you.

Echo

If my heart had voice

Its scream would begin

At the base of my body

And extend to join

The North Wolf’s howl

In the Night of No Moon.

I stand mute, unable

To open my throat,

To loose this chill,

A prisoner of indifference

Impaled on the pointed

Echo Echo of your silence.

Shorts

         

I.

A note left on the table,

Written by a friend;

There’s cold chicken

In the fridge.

II.

If I could change

Any of it

Would I be more?

III.

Your attitude is showing.

Pull your dress down.

IV.

The cormorant fell

From the sky,

A rag, battered

By the salty wind.

Flopsie

Hound dog ears on a rez dog body,

She had ears like dirty socks

Flopping in the wind, crossed

The River onto our farm

And Dad was none too happy.

I sneaked her table scraps.

She licked loneliness from my face.

She birthed her pups

In a river bank sandy depression.

I got real scared, like I said,

Dad was none too happy.

We loaded Flopsie and her four pups

Into the trunk of the Fairlane.

He made me come along and help.

Night. Twenty below. Dark

With only that thick blanket

Of stars to look, to see. Drove

South of Zurich, along Dead River Road,

Dumped my dog and her pups in the gravel

And drove home in silence.

No moon. Heater blasting.

On the Landing

In backgrounds of austerity

You climb them one by one

They don’t allow despair-ity

But nip them in the pun

It would not do to tread ahead

Or balance on your thumb

The rules are Never, No and Not

The only way around

Is sliding down the banister

Be careful of your fanister

Just close your breath

And hold your eyes

They’ll never notice your disguise

And when you stop you will have found

That down is up and up is down

The other way around

The Periwinkle Bowl

The periwinkle bowl

Nests on earth altar

Root crotch of red cedar

Turquoise light filters

Through lime moss curtains

I am the only person

In the forest. Crow

Perches on my right shoulder

Nuzzles my cheek

With his black head

I kneel and blood drips

From my heart suspended

Above the bowl. I dip

My fingers in the blood

And touch it to my lips

Crow lifts his beak

To my mouth and drinks a kiss

I dip a moss and wash

My face with tears

Then climb upon the wings

Of Crow and fly

Into the Center of the Earth

The Cabin

1983. Fatty offered me

His isolated cabin on the Missouri.

He’d supply food and firewood, lamp oil,

Leave me for a month-long retreat.

He said to me, You will never find peace

Until you remove outer distractions

And look within. Terrified, I refused.

Eventually I found counselors

Who drew me out, bit by bit. Always,

I held back secret places, perhaps

Secret only to myself. Half measures

Seemed giant steps to me.

Thirty-five years later, in Mexico,

By choice, I live alone in a brick cabin,

On a ranch on the outer edge

Of an inland village, my Paradise,

Surrounded by beauty so intense

That upon arising, I greet each morning

Knowing it to be a Gift, my life

Pared down to a bare simplicity.

In moments of nothingness,

Paired with dreams I’d rather not,

In essential pain, in memories ugly,

From the incomprehensible

Comes new understanding.

Other truths, complexities easy to avoid

In the cluttered world. Forgiveness for

The unforgivable. Courage. Peace.

Fatty was right. I wish I could tell him.

But, perhaps he knows.

Miles, Hours, History

My sister lives in Billings,

A four hour drive down an empty road

Sagebrush south toward Wyoming.

We are separated by history

More barren than this winter geography.

Once I picked tender rhubarb, first fruits,

An offering of the grace of spring.

She backed away, spit words at me,

Don’t you remember, I am on a diet.

What am I going to do with these?

She refused to go to dinner with me.

I need to feed my dog, my cat.

I never know what will trigger

Her hurt. I search for magic

To erase the madness. I write

Chatty letters to bridge the gap,

Each letter harder to write. Pain

Measures a short distance long.

Ocean

My hot tub floated me across the ocean

Where you stood on shore, silent,

Watching, rod and reel poised to cast

Into the waves bruising on the rocks.

I waved, called, my voice fell in the surf

And lost your look. Your eyes

Held too much moon.

Stop

Remember,

The hands go slower

Than the brain.

Listen.

Look.

Be.

Lost

Lost in speed, faster, faster, faster

Twirls our world, whirling noise,

Color, distractions, montions,

Pushed, shoved, faster, faster.

Apparel

I stand naked

In front of the mirror

And try on

My new understanding.

The old one fit

Like amateur night

At the J—Bar—T Saloon.

Fairy Tales

I grew up on fairy tales;

Read them over and over.

Came to believe them.

They lie.

Take Beauty and the Beast.

I’ve known some beasts, kissed some,

None of them ever turned Prince.

Once a beast, always a beast, I say.

Kissed a few frogs too. Same story.

A frog is a frog is a frog. However,

If you find a talking frog, keep him.

Conversation is more valuable

Than manly feats of derring do.

Cinderella, too technical, cast of hundreds,

Mice and pumpkins and all.

Rapunzel, yes, a man will use a woman

To climb to the top if she is the way up.

Snow White, slavey to seven little me.

Sleeping Beauty, another dreamer

Rescued by a kiss. One hundred years

Of morning breath? Ewww.

Do you really believe that a Prince

Would hack through briars and brambles

For a little nookey? Not when Cinderella’s

Evil step-sisters stand on the corner

Giving it out for free.

Read, Castigate, Give Up

This week I read portions

Of “Voices of Insight”, most

Of “Autobiography of a Yogi”,

Reached the clouds, then plunged

Into the slough of not-good-enough,

Sorting sins into piles, mortal and venial.

I counted out my failings,

No spiritual giant, me,

Until gently laughing at myself,

I let go. Today I am who I am

And that is good enough.

Star Bathing

Lying on my back

In a puddle of water

Beneath the cedar tree

I watch star after star

Plummet from the sky

Into my belly warming

The earth that I am.

Ghost Stories

The stories we don’t tell

Are the ones that got us here,

Here where we live deeply

As well as the here we tread softly.

These stories wake us in the night

With vague glimpses, ghosts of memory.

Tempted, I open my mouth

But the words stick in my throat.

Judgement

The storm passed.

I walk the cliff in darkness.

All I can do is be me;

Be honest as possible,

Pick out my bugs and worms,

Anger and self-pity,

Constant judgement,

Despair, the need

To feel wiser, better.

In darkness, I offer

A blessing

For every soul,

The suffering,

The lonely,

The confused,

The different.

For us.

Trickster

Fall came barging

In, boots flapping,

Last Tuesday,

Accompanied by rain,

Autumn’s ever-present

Shadow. Thirsty maples,

Trusting, held eager leaves

Outstretched to catch every drop.

The trickster season

Quenched their thirst,

Sprinkling can tilted

In one hand, while

Paintbrush in the other

Softly slapped each leaf

With colors of demise.

Waves

Waves march onto the beach

Straight as soldiers,

All in a row,

Smooth the sand,

All in a row,

Smooth the sand,

All in a row,

Smooth the sand.

Watch that wave swooshing in slantwise

Over beyond the rocky jetty,

That’s me. That’s my story.

Countermarch, lift, glisten,

Smash! Against the rocks.

White, Right and Uptight

Cookie cutter.

Homogenize.

Levittown.

Proselytize.

Evangelize.

The world would be a better place

If everyone were like me;

If you lived like I live,

Ate like I eat,

Looked like I look,

Thought like I think,

We’d have world peace.

So, listen up,

Dress like me,

Talk like me,

Walk like me.

Adore my gods,

The one to whom I give lip service,

The one to whom I give real service,

And if you don’t, no problem,

We’ll just shoot you.

The Stone Porch

We met slowly,

Neighbors with kids,

Some awkwardness,

Like stones in the path.

We walked. We talked.

We forged friendship

Out of the coals

Of our experiences

And built on what we had.

We looked to the lay of the land,

Expressions and depressions

In the earth, changing

With seasons and caring.

We noted where a run-off gully

Cut into pine grove serenity,

Where sweet grass graced the hills.

We chose a site where

No bulldozer could gouge

Holes, uncover nakedness.

Heart’s eyes applied

Balm of understanding.

We built, one log at a time,

Care chosen and hand hewn.

We took what we found

And used our selves

In the best ways,

Blending tactile harmony

Log on log.

Dreaming ahead,

We looked to the finishing,

Stone on stone,

A porch.

A porch is for completion.

Three Toads

Three toads sat in a diner.

One was green, one was red,

One a whiner.

“This meal is superb,”

The green toad was heard

To say to the red,

Who replied as he fed,

“I don’t believe I’ve had finer.”

Then the whiner

Spoke up. “The meat is dry,

Potatoes mushy, overcooked;

My salad is despicable,

My praise is not applicable,

And this I cannot overlook—

Damn the server, damn the cook—

There is no ice-cream on my pie

And in my coffee floats a fly.”

Saint and Sinner

Simultaneously, I am saint,

I am sinner. Sainthood

Has no precise formula,

Not prayer, offerings,

Good works, yoga,

Recycling, jogging

Bible thumping,

Tract passing.

Heaven and Hell

Live together,

Broken, flawed,

Sinner saints.

He’s Gone Now

He’s gone now, this man we loved.

Do you remember the night

We three climbed into your big bed,

Weaving arms and legs into a tangle

Of love while the children slept

In bedrooms down the hall?

The next morning he made coffee, pleased,

Oblivious to our enjoined discomfort.

I left words trapped in the blanket jumble

On your bed and drove back to Missoula.

We moved apart in various ways,

You to Helena, he to the Lake,

Me to Seattle. Long distance

Is not the next best thing to being there.

Now he’s gone the longest distance.

How many years since our brown eyes locked?

Didn’t you know I loved you best?

Dinner in a Can

Breakfast this morning

Is roll over,

Sleep another hour.

I walk thru the park

Feeling foreign,

Crying.

I lean against the sink,

Eat tuna from the can,

Still hungry.

Coyote

Remember,

Whatever you see,

Whatever you hear,

What opinions you form,

Yes, it is so.

Ah, that Wile-y Coyote,

Trickster, every culture has one.

Raven, Spider, Elephant,

Rabbit; you confuse,

Outrage, offend,

Make me laugh.

Remember,

There is an opposite

Of each vision,

Of each story,

Of each idea.

Yes, it is so.

Because of you,

Coyote, I grow.

You give me gifts, upsets,

Reversals, scrapes.

Every story I speak

Is wholly truth

And not a word is real.

Yes, it is so.

Ah, trickster,

Foolish and Wise,

Hero and Villain,

Teacher.

Myths We Swallow Whole

Compatibility is a myth,

He said. He’s probably right.

Without missing a beat,

He told me of his current romance,

His desperate wish for a soulmate.

I know men and women

Who’ve sold their souls

In order to have mates.

It is not the same thing.

From where do these myths

Come? We make them up.

“If not now, when?”—Hillel

Tonight I cannot sleep,

Ready to move on.

Some say consequences imply mistakes;

A mistake may camouflage a gift.

I’ve learned to gather information

Before jumping off a cliff,

Wind velocity, depth of fall,

That sort of thing. I may jump

But I’ll jump informed. If at each

Turning point I had to make a feasibility study

I’d still be on the farm. I’d feel

Sad to have missed the life

I’ve lived. When I go home

I am a stranger. In my photo album

Each picture is filled with shadows.

Every place is dear to me

And though I didn’t choose

To stay, I lived that place.

I’ve nothing to fall back on.

I believe life loves me

To give me such a gift.

If I had a “fall back” fund,

I’d never move.

Howl Blues

Coyotes in the hills

Sing rockabilly blues

Accompanied by winter

Wind soughing through

Autumn’s final leaves.

Leaves cling like lovelorn women

To the arms of leaving lovers.

A Sabbath Country

If I pass through

On the highway

I might think God

Had a bad day

In that frantic week

Of Creation. Maybe

She made a mistake,

Broke the shovel,

Ran out of gas.

I might think that

Until I slow down,

Edge off the road,

Cross the barrow pit,

Climb over the barbed

Wire fence, walk

Through grass until far

From the highway, far

From the rumble of big rigs

Eating the miles.

Out here I hear

The earth breathe secrets.

Here there are no edges,

Nothing limits my vision,

A place I might stay

If I have no fear

Of losing my surface self.

Then I get it—

This is where God

Comes to rest,

A Sabbath Country.

Fire

I walk through fire

And I dance in the furnace.

It doesn’t make me brave.

It doesn’t make me holy.

I find no merit

In walking through fire.

I would avoid it

If I could.

I try to remember

That I don’t know

What fires you have tread,

In what furnace

You’ve been smelted.

The Moon Watched

Last night the moon got caught

In branches of the cedars

And could not move across the sky.

I held my breath with envy

Wanting to be held

In other ways.

Water lapped against my chin

With love warm as tears.

Swallows cross-hatched deep above

In random patterns of aloof.

Summer coursed through my soul.

Time tilted on its axis,

Whispered in my ear.

I turned my head and went to sleep

On fragile feathered dreams.

Birth

 Spring runoff trickles

Through the coulees.

Patches of eroding snow

Cling to shaded hillsides

Where April sun tentacles

Never reach. Crocus

Poke up purple heads

To test the air

For sun-silly buttercups,

While hundreds of tiny blossoms,

Imposters of snowflakes,

Lie low to the ground.

Ground spongy, wet, mushy;

My horse’s hooves

Make sucking sounds,

Planted and uprooted,

Planted and uprooted,

Leave holes which seep

With urine stained snowmelt.

Cattle smells, pungent,

Mingle with dusty hay

And bruised sagebrush.

My horse sweaty

Between blue-jeaned thighs,

I ride the crest

Of my own earthy season,

Nineteen and pregnant.

I ride the circle,

Search for tonight’s

Maternity cases.

Matronly heads turn inward,

Society dames whisper secrets,

Bulky bodies surround scattered bales,

Rear ends conveniently upthrust

For inspection, bovine jaws

Methodically crunch fodder.

Mona Cow had twins again;

Nice heifer calves,

Good breeding stock.

A newborn huddles in the wild-rose,

Early abandoned by an indifferent mother,

Feeling more maternal

With full bag dripping.

She complains loudly

Over in the next draw.

My horse nudges Mama

For wet licks, rough tongue

Reunion on damp calf hide.

Slurpy sucking, lose one tit,

Plunge in for another.

Mothered up.

I cut out two heifers

Heavy with calf and trail

Them into the barn corral,

Follow, watch snatches

Hang loose and floppy,

Wonder if mine

Will look like that.

The sun slips

Between gestating clouds

And I shiver,

Glad for the horsey warmth

On my legs, for the feel

Of prickly brown horse hair

Invading the place

Of my own brown hair, warm,

Wishing the birth of my baby

Be accompanied

By the same smells and sounds.

But it isn’t.

Hushed. Anesthetic.

White. Harsh.

My body cold,

Strapped to the table,

Spread-legged,

Feet upraised,

Clamped in stirrups,

Riding a metallic horse

Into the pain.

I want to hide in sleep

Because I know birth

And this is not birth.

More doctors

Rush to assist.

Please let me sleep.

Help us, Honey.

Push now.

All we can give you is oxygen.

All I want is sleep.

One more push.

Hushed whispers.

Soft sounds rustling.

Purposeful futility.

My eyes are closed.

My heart is closed.

Someone slips

My baby away

Into the silence.

Time

Some say time moves in a straight line

Some say time moves in circles

Seems to me time is devious

Carries unfinished business

Generation to generation

Is this the “trickle-down” effect?

Each Life

Each life I’ve ever lived

Is with me still, seen

In glimpses of a past

Not mine to recall.

Yet there are places

My body calls home,

Places I’ve never been,

So familiar I know

Every bend in the road,

Every tree and rock.

I knew some truths

Before the age I could know,

Truths I hung onto

When surrounded by No.

I see you nod your head.

A stranger across the way

Meets my eyes with recognition,

Unspoken words, unspeakable words,

Words cannot tell truths we share.

Unpaved

Each must find her own path,

Each, in her own way, must walk,

Circumvent obstacles, find a way

Over or under or around boulders.

If her chosen path is unpaved,

She chances walking alone, abandoned

By those who believe they know better.

The Empire Builder

I grew up with that train

Rumbling across the valley,

Parallel to the Milk River.

While out in the fields, I’d hear

A whistle, the Eastbound or the Westbound.

Would wonder why when the train ran late,

Worry when I heard that the Empire Builder

Had derailed in heavy snows in Glacier

Or that a freight had jumped tracks

Near Shelby and crews worked ‘round the clock.

When Dad sold the farm and moved to town,

He built his house across from the tracks.

Freights roared through my bedroom

When I visited, though I slept, comforted.

Everything seemed good when the trains

Ran on time (but I know an entire country

Was hoodwinked by that sentiment).  Now I ride

That train every year, through the mountains,

Across the prairies to home. Pinching pennies

Has always been my necessity but this year

I lived high on the hog. I rode the mysterious

Sleeper in comfort, blanketed, fed and waited on,

My wishes granted before they’d formed.

I was Queen of the Road.