His Final Ride

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Rick called.

Dick’s taking his final ride.

Rick is a biker friend;

Dick and Jane,

Coupled up for years,

Criss-crossed the country

On their bikes, happy as kids,

Until Dick detoured wrong way

Onto the road of No Memory.

So now we wait,

Jane and Rick and me,

Wait for the sun to set.

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March, Mt. Shasta

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Through snow I climb

My trail of no trail,

Follow my Wayfinding Bone

In search of grandmother cedar

Or regal fir with reaching branches,

Worthy. But, a burned out husk,

A black and ragged tower stops me.

No, I argue. Not this travesty

Of a tree that used to be. No.

With resignation I let it draw me

Bow my head in acquiescence,

Not in reverence. I kneel

In the duff, push aside snow

With gloved hands and slab of bark.

From my pack I take candle, shell, rock,

Feather, sage and cedar, bread and water.

I spread a plastic bag for ground cover,

Altar. I remove my clothes, not even sun

To fool my skin, lift my eyes

To this deformity scarred by fire,

A reproach. Uneasiness. What am I to learn

From you? You’ve nothing left,

You’re all used up.

I arrange my offerings, drape

My scarf over head and shoulders,

Loosely. A quiet settles me.

With lighted candle, I burn sage and cedar,

Sway into a chant without words or form,

Give my naked self until I know hesitant kinship

With my tree, naked, burned out, used up.

A crow rackets to a landing

On the uppermost charcoal tip

And fixes me with his eye. I cry

Until I am empty. When I walk

Down the mountain, I know

My shell is all some eyes will see;

To some ears my voice will be offence.

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Late Bloomer

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Sneaking out, up to no good,

A tryst with a boy in his car,

I rode my bike a mile

To the end of our country lane.

My scruples and fear kept me pure.

Back at the house, my Dad

Dangling binoculars at his side.

What were you doing? Nothing.

He shook his head, grimaced,

Turned and walked to the barn.

I was sixteen, trembling, caught,

Full of guilt, shame. Ugly memories,

Even imagined, grow and lock in place.

Meanwhile, my sister, thirteen, crawled

Out her bedroom window near’ every night,

Walked to town, smoked, drank beer,

Drove country roads with boy-friends,

Hefted back through her window

As the sun rose. She laughs at me.

Her memories don’t waken her.

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A Knowing Place

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A place of no place.

A time of no time.

Experiences impossible to share.

            A path along the Quilcene River

            A rock of a height

            To rest my arms, lean

            Into her mossy top.

            She took me in.

            With fear I immersed

Into the soft rock,

            Afraid I would not

Want to return.

I took a friend to show him my rock.

I wanted to tell him my story.

There was no rock.

I returned days later. Alone.

Left offerings of beach agates

On top of my rock.

            I’ve learned to keep spiritual journeys

            To myself. In a forest,

            Five time-zones west of Quilcene,

            A living, pulsating marble wall

Encircled me. By my feet,

Stood a tree, tied with balloons,

            A rainbow fiesta. That wall

Still encloses me, warm. Rock.

Looney Tunes. Rubber-room material.

Nobody would have believed me.

Friends, well-meaning,

Want to explain away Spirit

With Science. I prefer my crazy

To your science.

            So I don’t talk about the warm stone

            I picked up on a cold beach

            On Dungeness Spit, a heart stone.

            Or visiting my dead Grandmother’s

Disappointments to help me forgive her.

Or the folds in time a few of us know

Along roads in Kitsap County.

            Or the shadows that keep me company

            And let me know I’m never alone.

I cannot enter your knowing place

Nor can you enter mine, this place 

Where I know things I cannot know,

Where silence is a thick presence,

Where all my life that ever was and is

And will be resides.    

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Eyes to See

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My face holds two eyes

They see what I was taught to see

Analyze, compartmentalize, judge

This morning you told me

About your son’s struggles

In my heart lives a different eye

Oblique, it sees a different truth

Sometimes a story

Is more important than food

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Family History

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Mom read the baby-care book.

Let baby cry, good for her lungs,

Feed her on schedule; hungry or not.

Air baby on the lawn, like smelly shoes,

Rain or shine, every day.

Aunt Jo said that for a happy baby

I cried a lot. I’m glad Aunt Jo

Was there to hold me

Until Dad returned from War.

I picture Mom reading

Torrid romances; I see

Dad, resigned, file away

Brochures for nursing school.

I hear Mom beg Dad, tell him

Ways she wants him to seduce her.

Dad torn between love he cannot express

And practical need to care for his babies

Throws away nursing school brochures.

Mom wants all Dad’s attention.

Dad tries to keep his babies safe,

Play Romeo to his wife,

And still plow the fields of corn.

It all falls apart.  

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Gospel Blues

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Parts of my life

Moan low and mean

Like Gospel Blues,

Rough around the edges,

Lumpy with discord.

I tried to smooth the surface

With failed hope, pretense,

Prayer on dark days

On my knees,

Drink

On my knees,

Sex

On my knees.

Trying to find my song,

Trying to sing the real me.

Scared for you to see

My scars. I’m broken.

When lyrics ring clear

I’ll sing for you.

Sing the broken blues.

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No Hiding

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I soar

Over city rooftops

Over glistening waters

Over mountains of Olympus

Until I land

On the beach

At the edge

Of the ocean

Of everywhere.

I look down

And I am naked.

I have grown new skin

To contain

All that I am.

I see

No separation

Because my skin

Is your skin

And let me tell you

There is no hiding

 In that place.

Into the depths

Of one another

We swim.

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Fanatics

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Everywhere, the same,

Fanatics, ists and isms.

Good thing, we,

The Chosen,

Know the Truth.

God is White, Male,

Young, Blonde, Hetero,

Cheers our Team

And carries a Gun.

God rewards us

With Health, Wealth

And Righteousness.

Oh, yes, also

Harps, Clouds, Thrones

And Virgins. Amen.

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On the Beach in Mazatlan

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Waves sloppy kiss the sand.

Bird Island stands staunch off my balcony;

Condors ride thermals in circles

Upward, split off in search of prey.

Shrimp boats trawl the horizon.

La Palomas strut the south ridgepole

Of the adjacent restaurant.

Frigate birds patrol the sky.

Pelicans dive head first into the ocean,

Bob up, fish hanging from beaks.

Morning sun splatters the beach

Through coconut palm filters.

Coffee steams my face.

It is enough.

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Winter Woman

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Winter Woman slaps

Prairie grasses stiff with frost.

Coyote sings laments.

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Penney’s

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We sat on the floor

Drinking coffee, comparing

Little girl memories of shopping

At JC Penney’s. Rows of dresses,

Everyday cotton prints, flowered

Rayon Sunday best, surround a counter

Glittery with rhinestones and Blue Waltz

Perfume. Slips and undergarments hide

Discreetly off to the right—mysterious

World of women. Shoes racked in back,

Flanked by men’s wear—work pants,

Coveralls, denim defining roles. Elevator

To the left, stairs straight ahead,

Children’s wear on the mezzanine.

Downstairs to the lower level—

Fabrics, sheets and towels—the real

Women’s world. Our mothers took us

To Penney’s to buy our first bras;

She in Rapid City, South Dakota—

Me in Havre, Montana.

Same Penney’s. 

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Blue Black Screams

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Screams the color of blue-black seas

Rise out of my belly

Bang against clenched teeth

I sway side-to-side

Images crowd my vision

In the worm of my mother’s fears

She abandons me a four-year child

To the frost of another’s hatred

And the need of my father

To not know

To not know

As he stared ahead

Never into my eyes

Which held more need

Than he could fill

Forgive her

Forgive him

Forgive them

But what about the baby

Who will hold the baby

And rock away lullaby

The blue-black screams

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Times Were Simpler

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We like to imagine

Times were simpler then.

We brag to grandchildren,

Honey, when I was your age

I walked a mile

To school every day,

Barefoot, through the snow,

Uphill both ways. They laugh.

We romanticize the past,

Ignore ugly parts, piece a mosaic

Of what we wish to keep.

If only we could turn back

The clock a hundred years . . .

Times were no different.

Wars, inequity, cruelty,

Hatred, disease . . . The same.

We were simpler then.

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In the night

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Thunder crashes down the mountainsides, shakes the ground,

Electrifies the air, hustles across the valley toward Guadalajara,

Dragging rain in its wake like a god on a mission to destroy the world

In order to remake it, a new image, refresh, reborn.

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I Make It

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I make money

I make time

I make love

I make do

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