My husband's uncle died last month.  His wife passed away three weeks later.  She called his name repeatedly day and night.  There was no physical reason for her death.  She died of a broken heart. They were married fifty seven years. Obviously, they were inseparable.


UNTITLED

Sometimes I feel like a cloud

Diffused, grey, condensed, 

Ready to disperse myself into tiny drops

Tears that grieve everything 

Even the death of the little cricket

I found by my front door.

Did it too wonder why

Life has so many endings?

Did it know of love's mending
The many ways it lives on?





(For Poets United.)

LIVING COLOR

Occasionally I leave the desert

where neutral, subdued colors prevail 

hiding the kaleidoscopic movement of life.

I go where life is bursting visibly,

beauty so loud

it communicates in silence,

hope

for all colors living.

For the colors of trees, 

colors of the brown ground

thirsty for colorful water,

for the colors of animals blending

with the colors of sky, clouds, air.

For people, colored in hues, 

some vibrant, some shaded

all painting 

colors that are and will be.

I leave the desert sometimes, 

to feel the hope of the earth

cradling me in its loving blanket

so my colors too, can hopefully beam.

I spent a few days visiting the Gila National Forest.

 (For Poets United.)  

BECOMING RAIN

Drinking my coffee Sunday morning, 

I played a game of finding the silence 

between rain drops 

that tapped loudly on the desert.

Delightful! 

But soon the rain became tears, 

the sky releasing its sadness

in thunderous, inconsolable sobs.

How magnificent the sky,

like all spectacular works of art,

open for interpretation, for revelation.

I saw wisdom in its grief.

There IS a time for weeping,

for allowing a wash to cleanse 

each little pebble, 

making it sparkle brighter in the sun.

This world is so dusty.

Overwhelmed with empathy for the sky,

on Sunday morning,

I joined it.

We became one in solidarity.

(For Poets United.)

WILDERNESS UNTAMED

The sunset was wild last night,

my dogs barked wildly,
the chimes in my yard clashed a wild concerto

to the rhythm of thunder, lightning,

colors - all wild. 

The rain wildly patted

the desert soil thirsting to grow wildly,

knowing nothing on earth is wasteland.

For a moment, I merged with the scene.

I felt connected to a cosmic wilderness

of wonder inside and all around me growing

like vines projecting, encircling, entwining

you, me, all.

Because I realized this is where the wild things are,

last night I stood outside, 

released my inner wild,

and howled.



(For Poets United.  The topic is 'unity'.)

(I must dedicate this to the original Wild Woman, Sherry Bluesky.)

VISITS TO MOTHER-IN-LAW AT THE NURSING HOME

Shrunken, shriveled, disheveled,

a little drool slips out of her open mouth

as she sleeps, stiff, a corpse.  "Wake up Lazarus,

while you still can," I say to myself before I stir her,
before she smiles happily but doesn't recognize me 

with her beady drug dilated eyes,
before she insists she's going back
to New York, to work, to cook, to watch Spanish TV.

And can I get rid of those people who live in that tree?

She remembers what I can't, sees what I don't see.

Her mind no longer in sync with reason, thinks

in unknown realms.  Her body, translucent now,

blood and veins wrapped in paper thin skin, 

still functions, slowly, weakly.

Yet, her spirit remarkably expands

her capacity for simply BEING love.  

That's what I embrace when I hug the carcass

of her life, aware of the heroine she still is. 

(For Poets United where Susan prompts us to write honoring our Elders.)

METAMORPHOSIS

My mail is replete with requests

for money
to save the whales, the penguins,

the birds, the forests, the turtles, the elephants

the dogs and all the animals, oceans, habitats,

of this world.

Then there are the people.

Starvation, poverty, abuse, war, disease, suffering

waiting for money to stop the pain.

Then the guilt: 

I wasted water, used plastic,

didn't recycle enough, drove my car too much,

had no cash for the homeless man.

Then I feel the weight of it all.

My attempts to help,  minuscule.

Living in a monumental crisis, grieving
depletes energy for hope.

But I know we must be aware,

responsible, stay grounded.

So I've decided to save the planet.

Not in a grandiose, messianic sense.

But by living my best life

on this precious earth, giving

to myself/OF myself each day,

trusting earth knows how to die, 

transform, then live again.

I learned this from a caterpillar.

(source)

(I gave a very worried friend a little dish for Christmas.  It was engraved with something like, "The caterpillar thought it was the end, when it turned into a butterfly.")



(For Poets United.)

FUZZY DREAMS

Have you ever had insomnia

the kind that keeps you

unawake but unasleep?

When crystal thoughts clinking

against others meld

into pure, simple clarity

of nothing but solutions 

for your life, for all? 

You're astounded

to discover simplicity within complexity.

Then you drift

first to sleep then to reality

with it's big knuckle banging your head,

commanding you to forget the foolishness

of what was just a fuzzy dream.

"Focus on real problems!"

Sadly, you do, the next time you lay 

unable to sleep or be fully awake,

though that feeling you felt

from transparency of clear thoughts,

still feels real and lingers.

(For Poets United.)

INSIDE OUT

My grandfather used to sit by the window

every evening after supper.  In the summer

there was commotion outside.  People visited with neighbors

sitting on their stoops to talk about the day,

work at the factory, their bosses, their pay,

or whose kid ran away, who died, who's moving away.

This was inner city entertainment I could understand.

But in the winter, the street was a tomb -

still, silent, dark, except for the occasional passing

car or pedestrian rushing to get home, the leafless tree

shivering naked, standing in the cold and the wind pushing

some debris or snow. My grandfather sat watching as if the window

was the stage for a show whose art only he could see.

This, to me, was incomprehensible.

I think of him sometimes when I stand by my own window,

looking in.

(For Poets United.)

THE DREAM MERCHANT

"Dreams for Sale"

She holds a sign of crayon words,

in the middle of the market,

one hand extended, like a beggar, 

a mysterious apparition everyone avoids.  

There are no buyers.

She sings her dreams for free.

"Dream of days 

when possession's an ancient word.

Ownership outdated, unnecessary 

in world of surplus where all's 

so plentiful that to posses is nothing

but a humorous old verb.  

"Dream of days

when freedom is like air,

we rarely think about,

just know it's there."

Simplistic naiveté 

to sing such a crazy song.

Yet, she knows it's the world

whose insane.

She'd rather stay shackled

to her dream.

   

(For Poets United)

SUNDAY MORNING

Outside, quail chirp happily.

They sing a boisterous disturbance

to my silent home where I sip coffee

as thoughts bead a circle of mantras in my mind.

Am I praying? 

when I think of nature shriveling,

of viruses thriving while survivors

survive but aren't exactly living,

when people are losing their heads,

because others see only one shape 

to the diamond they call god?
I breathe my desire for peace

in all these things.

Then I listen to the sermon of the birds,

proclaiming their faith.

"You are a song," they say.

"Chirp loud, your best hymn."

(For Poets United.)

THE CLOUD THAT FELL

I love to look at clouds, puffy surreal paintings of faces, animals, monsters shape-shifting at their discretion, teasing my mind.

I once saw a cloud fall.  First it hovered close, then stretched itself down to touch the earth.  Slowly, the patient lover, as if touching a beloved precious jewel, caressed a patch of desert sand mottled by thorny prickly greens. I think the cloud had dreamed of this while staring down at the different shapes of land, the way I dream of me wallowing in the coziness permitted only when you're cuddled in a bed of clouds.  

The sun, moon, wind, and stars conspired gladly to realize the cloud's dream before it became rain or morning dew.  I understood the happiness of that unique cloud when it let itself fall down to feel the ground.  But I don't mind that I'll never snuggle on cozy clouds.  It's just fun to dream. Awake, I'm free to touch this earth, love it, kiss it if I want, then look up and see the envy of the sky.


(For Poets United.

     

NOT EXACTLY A HALLMARK CARD FOR MY DAUGHTER

The day you were born, my life ended.

Endings are about rebirths.

That's how my new life began.

It was as if the me, I knew as me

was suddenly old, died then resuscitated

as a baby.  Not like you,

so tiny and helpless

yet so whole, a little star beaming

with what could be.

I was reborn to discover all

that I didn't know.

There was so much.

How to feed you, nurture, protect,

teach, forbid, expose, guide, love you.

My new life was all about learning.

How learning can hurt,

that it was harder than I'd ever expected,

how joy and pain can be interwoven.

I've learned a little now.

I know that learning never ends.

It comes in layers, 

the way I learn over and over how to

forgive my mistakes.

Most of all I learned about the layers

of unconditional love,

how it requires letting go, 

and how I can only do my best.

These layers never seem to end.

What I have learned for certain

is that your birth was also mine,

that we've been teachers to each other,

that our lives are intertwined.

I celebrate that. 

Thank you. 

(For Poets United where Susan asks us to write about birthdays.)

THE EVENING'S POEM FOR TOMORROW

Deliciosity wafts from the kitchen.

He clangs, stirs, whips, spills

the world's compassionate emotions

into edible creations.

I can't distinguish the mix of smells,

spices, vegetables, fruits, honey,

olfactory titillations

making my stomach senselessly

churn, growl like a wild animal

demanding satiation.

One dog stands far/close enough

to leap at tiny morcels that might fall.

The other lies in slumber, her dreams

devouring the thickness of aromas.

Though part of it, I watch outside

of it, as love fills the moment -

perfection lacking nothing,      

I am completely nourished,

as I savor the loudness of silence,

the motion in the stillness
of darkness falling.

My mind clicks its shutter, 

freezing the picture of my loves, 

but more significantly,

burning the feeling in my heart,

so I can taste it again
tomorrow.

(For Poets United.)

A DAY IN HER 94 YEARS

Mother-in-law
A little banged up from a recent fall,
but enjoying a milk shake.

She wakes me up.

Takes me to the bathroom.

Why?  I can walk myself for goodness sake.

It's just a few steps from bed.

I eat.  Thank God there's coffee today.

There's never any coffee here.

I'm tired, I hurt so much.

I'm going to sleep.

She wakes me up.

brings me food ... and coffee.

Thank God.  There's never any coffee here.

I'm hurting.  I must have a fever.

What are those people doing up in that tree?

Oh how cute.  The women have babies.

I don't know how they live up there.

There are so many of them.

Must be having a party.

There she goes again.  That old bitch!

Bet she doesn't even really need that walker.

I'm hurting.  I'm going to sleep.

Oh hi.  I was just thinking of you.

No.  I don't feel well.  I hurt all over.

Okay I'll get up.  I can't drink all that.

It's too much.  Too much. Yes, it's good.

How are the kids?  Who did you leave them with?'
(Slurp, slurp, slurp)

Of course I know you're my son.

Sure turn it on. (slurp)

Who's that, what's he saying?

That man looks like he has boobs. Ha.

(slurp)

Look at those people.  Can you believe

they live up in that tree.  

You'd think it gets too cold at night.

(Sluuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurp)

Ha.  I'm trying to get the cherry.

And where's my son?  Why didn't he come today?

What? You're leaving already? Ok.

I'm going to sleep for a little while.

***

In the evening she eats again.

Puts the cheerios in her soup, 

drinks her milk and thanks God

for her coffee.

At around 8pm she remembers

it's time to go home and cook.

In a plastic garbage bag she packs
some adult diapers, a fork and spoon,

the TV remote control, a bra,

and slippers.

She argues with the nice girl

who won't let her leave 

but brings her some coffee

(caffeinated 'cause her blood pressure is low).

Afterwards, she's tired,

goes to sleep.

The next day repeats.

I've stopped wondering 

about the quality of her days.

There are reasons for life

I don't understand.

She used to be depressed,

today she's pretty happy.

I'm grateful for that

and that any time she wants,

they bring her coffee.

(For Poets United.)

A VIEW OF INSANITY

 

Her limbs were raised to the sky,

not in prayer asking to be spared,

or in anger wishing she could strike.

She didn't even have an offensive or defensive stance, 

for she new not to fear or fight the moment.

She stood passively still

as her life was sliced.

Before she died, her questions

permeated the air,

"Why? 

How can you kill what gives you life?"

  

All of them perished in the same manner.

Her family, her friends - martyrs all 

though they had no cause

except to be trees, 

so we could breathe.

******
Sorry to post something so negative.  I've been reading a lot about what's happening to our planet lately and the tree prompt became an opportunity to write about deforestation.   

(Submitted to Poets United.)