Poems
Peg
Flight
Dredging
A Talk With God
For Margot
Mother Grief
Anything Can Happen
I Wasn’t Fearless Yet
Wrinkles
Good Grief
I Hope
The Nature of Things
Tuck and Roll
Redemption
My Mom’s Measuring Stick
The God Question
The Bravest Thing I Ever Did
Long Time Love
Lost and Found
Peg
I lost her the first time long ago
sweet sister of mine
losing her for good just recently,
The Grim Reaper doing his dastardly best
to pull her to the bottom of darkness
down the hole of the terrible unknown
But The Reaper didn’t know my Mother.
She wouldn’t have allowed it.
She likely walked right up to him,
meeting him at the crossroads of the Great Beyond,
her Irish up, grabbing the sickle
and using it to chase him away
with her own brand of scary shit.
No, not her daughter
whom she surely would have found deaf - the stubbornness covering her ears,
and mute - the truth too frightening to be spoken,
and blind - refusing to see the impending.
Not such an end for her daughter would there be.
Not for her Peg.
She would carry her like a baby to her new home,
a home of light and windows,
open to the sea in the harbor of her arms,
knowing she was hers once again,
belonging to each other,
fitting into the circle of the other souls,
once lost, but finally found,
once blind, but finally seeing,
once mute, but now singing,
and hearing the sounds that ease a troubled heart
that would lift her troubled soul,
up and up
and up
to wherever she wanted to go
The Universe now hers.
Flight
I wasn’t standing on a cliff
Or perched on a branch
I wasn’t posed on a diving board
Waiting for the courage to push off
I was simply brave enough to close my eyes one morning
Alone
Sitting on a bench
along a sunny footpath In Carpinteria
joined by a light breeze
making it’s way up from the seashore
swirling just a bit
in this safe place for all creatures
where white Ibis gather
and mountains slope to the water,
all purple canyons and crevices,
exposing the good old earth in all it’s glory
holding my mind and spirit in that moment
as in a deep cleft
when suddenly
I was pulled upward, back arched, arms out
beckoned to unfurl my wings
feeling my heart open
by virtue, by grace, by a miracle
as the sea air had enough draft
to meet the white winged calliope,
circling the cove,
sounding out to me,
“Begin again, my dear,”
“Continue…”
Dredging
The dredger is in the river today
Moving sand around
Making a better way for the boats that are
Bejeweled and bedecked
as floating participants in the never ending parade
on this well-healed part of an inlet from the sea,
bordered by my fellow audience members of
retired gawkers, seated along the bank
in the cheap seats
passing snacks and cool drinks around,
taking in the show.
It’s said that gem stones and gold
are stuck in the muck on the bottom of the Jupiter River
having settled there long ago
once carried by ships bound for the wealthy up north
And the bounty waits still
for modern day plunderers to make their claims
from beach chairs,
wrecked by daydreaming, heat and sun,
pirates, one and all
A Talk with God
I’ve tried to out-think you, you All-Knowing You,
seeking one true theory of how things work in the Universe,
but how can I out-think your quantum ways?
I’ve tried to out-do you, you All-Powerful You,
working overtime, double-time in all my endeavors
but how can I out-do your amazing unified field?
I’ve tried to out-perfect my friends, oh, Wiley One,
trying to figure out what it was that made me worthy of their attention
but how can I out-perfect your Big Dipper?
I can’t.
Ever.
In fact, I can’t even know the real you or how you really work.
I saw the pictures from Hubble today and you win.
Hands down. Dukes down.
You surely win.
But…
even though some say that
I may not eat the fruit from the tree of that knowledge
that passes all understanding
and that I have to accept that You know more than me
and really run the entire show for the entire Universe,
I think that I heard you say just the other morning
through the sunrise on the ocean
through my son’s music
through the poetry of Karr and Oliver
through the stories of Fitzgerald and Tan
through all of these and more,
I heard you say that the understanding I seek is mine for the asking,
the listening, the feeling
in any moment, on any day, right now
and that is more than enough
to call you Creator
So...
I flew by your sunrise today
on the wings of a seagull
free from worry
knowing the truth
that an all powerful rascal like you
can be beautifully humble, too, and subtle
like your sky streaked with orange, yellow and,
wait,
Is that green?
How did you come up with that, I ask you?
You teach me humility
as I fumble to find my place in this world today
and I marvel at the ways you work my soul
to see you and know that I am forever invited
to talk with you any way I need or want to
and that forgiveness is mine
again and again
found in the new day
fust because I’m breathing
You are the new day...
Thanks for the talk.
Tomorrow then...
For Margot
So as your short life unfolded
to reveal the saddest of all endings,
we did not get to meet,
you and I,
my dear sweet girl,
my granddaughter
not in this plain
not in this time
but the good that lives and breathes over and around the good universe
shows me who you might have been
in moments so sweet and so tender
they take my breath away
stopping time and all other movement
calling me to notice the scenes before me
through my longing, searching eyes
In those moments of pure grace
I imagine what might have been for you
this time around
I see you
in the faces of other children
in your father
your mother
your family
To be honest
those connections are fleeting and few,
heart warming and sad at the same time
held and released in a deep breath
the exhale calling me back to here and now
But in some of those moments
where I get to know you from the inner world of my soul
I am changed
I am enlightened with the knowledge that
Your spirit is bigger than my full heart for you
than my body
than my memory
it’s bigger than the mountains
the oceans
all the land
it’s bigger than the planet
the moon
the stars
bigger than the Universe itself
the Universe that holds the energy that you are, that we all are,
using yours for the remarkable purpose
of renewing a commitment to life
for the grieving woman I am this day
helping me tolerate a world I do not understand
giving meaning to my years without you
helping me find compassion for myself
and hopefully today
for other people I may find in the scenes and moments of my life
where miraculously I may also once more
find the spark of you again
the spark of the divine
Mother Grief
I hear it in the voices of mothers I come across
in the circles I inhabit
in churches
online
in the store
on the street
wherever it may be.
I hear the tone of disregard, of minimizing or ignoring
their child
and I want to say
you’ll regret that someday.
Someday
you will miss that child beyond measure.
You will grieve for the chances to love them again when they were small.
You will have so much love for them and no where to put it,
and you’ll cry the most bitter tears,
surprising yourself with those tears,
that is, If you can,
the ball of them feeling so tight in your chest sometimes
that it can’t break apart, held up in that place of the heart
that has it’s own entrance with no discernible exit...
Your child will age,
and the chance to do things differently will be gone,
and you’ll notice too late,
never knowing what to do with the images and the messages that the terrorist within you reminds you of.
“You should have stopped whatever the hell you were doing and listened to him,
played the puzzle with him,
sat with him for a while before bedtime.
He asked you to.
He asked…”
I never knew what to do with such regret and pain
until the Universe told me one day to express it -
to push it out of myself in song or in writing -
like this poem or maybe in a painting
to see what would become of it.
And I did and I felt free,
maybe for the first time,
and I continued,
And I came to understand from the depths of my soul that
I must connect it to the Universe of other mothers,
in history and beyond
before recorded time even.
I needed to connect it to the other forever loves lost
that float on a cloud,
coming in steady from the west,
circling the earth,
picking up the swirling, churning pain of all mothers
in their songs, their writings, their paintings,
holding the pain until ready for a rain release when full,
a steady, warm rain
that lifts the leaves of the tree of knowledge
and washes away all sin and sorrow,
the fresh air opening a mother’s heart
soothing her soul like a balm,
like the one that surely soothed a mother in Gilead,
awakening her mother wisdom
to ease her sad self that day, that moment
now,
to learn anew that
the winds of sorrow will build again
and again the clouds will come,
catching the misery that some
have carried too long
their hearts broken with troubles unbearable
finally ready to be offered up
hands up
on their knees.
The cloudy mist will grab it
moving on
to the next county
passing overhead
smooth
on a breeze,
ready for the next batch of
misunderstood and confusing mother grief to rise up
readying her once more to be washed clean,
calming her -
the mother hero angel protector warrior fighter lover,
surprisingly stronger,
ready for another chance
Forgiving
healing
returning her to her own mother wisdom
knowing she is not alone
I Wasn’t Fearless Yet
For Elizabeth
I wasn’t fearless yet
when I was doing those things,
staying just within the bounds of what was acceptable,
corralled mostly by guilt.
Something GOT me fearless, though,
changed me and
woke me up to my own power.
I think it was the alcohol and drugs,
but not because they actually gave me some kind of super strength or insight
to follow my dreams.
No.
It was because they were a dead weight around my neck
slowly drowning me
just below the surface of my murky past
until in one fearless moment
I broke for the surface,
not just to survive
but to live the wild life I always wanted
betraying my willful, cynical self,
With every breath, every lesson and loss,
braver
the fear falling away
like scales from my eyes
sometimes quickly
sometimes slowly,
To find myself
suited up and ready for the high dive,
the high note,
the high road,
And learning to keep the high watch from my lighthouse
for that rascal Fear to show it’s ugly mug agian
like it tried to do today,
unbidden and unwelcome,
with it’s stormy seas, danger and drama,
until I released it back to the rough waters
where it was miraculously calmed once again
by Experience, by Wisdom,
feeling myself once again whole, courage in tact.
Wrinkles, Age 45
When I woke this morning
much to my surprise
I found some little wrinkles
right around my eyes.
Looking in the mirror
it fast occurred to me
no matter what the ad says
you can’t live wrinkle-free.
Some call them laugh lines
and some say they’re crows feet
but I’ll just call them wrinkles
and back away three feet!
Wrinkles, Age 65
When I woke this morning
no longer with surprise
I found more lines and wrinkles
around my mouth and eyes.
Looking in the mirror
magnified by ten
I could tell that collagen
had not done one darn thing.
So call them what you will
cover them how you might.
I’ll adjust my bi-focals
and see whatever I like.
Good Grief
I miss you in the early morning of the day,
once I’ve settled back into my covers and pillows
once my heart has calmed down
after being startled awake by random, frightening thoughts
and finding my arms lifted out in the air
reaching to catch you when you were a baby,
sometimes saying your name aloud.
Sometimes
this reaching I do goes on throughout the day,
breaking into a daydream or when I’m writing
and I am pulled up short once again by the longing to see you,
reminding me of the hole that is still in my life,
this space that was meant for you.
And so I move among the memories…
I’m practicing “good grief” these days,
the goal being, I am told, to keep moving forward,
the point being, I am told, to keep learning from the loss
And so I go through the motions,
Moving from this place to that, this day to that
with the longing and aching still there,
yet singing a new rhythm with each inhale, each exhale
pulling me up and out to meet the beckoning sun
waiting outside my door.
I hope
I hope for myself
at the end of my days
to feel my soul integrated,
fulfilled from years of adventure
and discovery of who I am,
leaving a long road behind
and heading west to my sanctuary by the sea,
my home on the shore
of blues and greens, sand and sky
to myself, to peace in a place of beauty, wonder, and ripeness
with someone interesting waiting for me
ready to listen to all I unpack, be it small or large
be it shocking or sane
all of it welcomed, fodder for long talks,
the talks, fodder for long silences,
listening to the waves.
I will finally be home,
among my own,
understood and accepted
with my people
and the flow of eternity,
the power that has always been with me,
palpable, pulsing
truly known to be mine at last.
Tuck and Roll
Enjoying a long good bye in the yard with our son and his girlfriend one afternoon,
I realized I’d forgotten to give them something before they left,
so I went back in the house to get it.
Trying to be quick about it as I returned to their car,
I misjudged the slope in the yard and started to fall.
That would have been surprise enough, but what was really astonishing
was that my childhood gymnastics chops suddenly kicked in
and I ended up doing a tuck and roll and landed a perfect somersault
to a standing position,
legs apart, hands on my hips, glee in my heart.
Not a scrape, not a bruise, not an ache.
Once the kids and my husband were past the shock that I hadn’t been hurt
came the truth that no one could deny -
that at age 65, a slip and fall
doesn’t mean you’re ready for the home,
but can be the chance for another floor routine.
If you’ve still got some tucks and rolls left in you
and the old instincts kick in,
a perfect ’10’ can still be yours…
and the looks on the faces of the lucky
who are there to see it?
Worth a million.
Redemption
Every now and then
I get a glimmer of redemption,
a brief opening in the landscape of my day,
that invites me to be kind to myself and to
give myself a break from the judging I do,
seemingly a default mode during these anxious times,
when I constantly wager what’s the right or wrong thing
to do
to say
to feel
to think.
The joyful discovery of release from too much “self”
renews me
reminds me that I fit into humanity and
for a brief time
I know what it is to be at peace
to be redeemed.
And
if this redemption only comes in the size of a glimmer,
a spark,
an “oh, I get it; I see,”
I’ll take it
gladly
knowing that it’s from the Higher Power,
the Power of Good in the Universe
that gets passed around and between my fellow travelers,
words of hope
landing on my heavy heart,
the colors in a painting
soothing my troubled mind,
the beauty of movement
easing the tension in my body,
changing me in that moment
as my breathing slows,
as the joyful re-discovery of my humanity
is welcomed into my awareness,
like an old friend saying,
“It’s so good to see you!
Let’s just sit a while,
however long it lasts.”
The God Question
“God is everything,” some people claim with certainty.
“God only knows why,” they say with the same conviction when they’re without answers
for their child’s cancer
for their mother’s illness
their father’s sudden death
their company folding
their house foreclosing
and all the other calamities that beg for answers every day.
So, I must ask,
if it’s true that, “God only knows why,” then why does he keep the answers from people so willing to say that He is everything?
This can’t be right.
The Bravest Thing I Ever Did
The Bravest thing I ever did,
braver than giving birth to my boys,
or marrying for a second time
or moving across the country
or asking for a raise I knew I was worth but likely wouldn’t get
or starting my own practice
or starting a women’s treatment center
or retiring
braver than any of that
was to break the chains of my mother’s
guilt and fears and leave her home -
Sometimes I can’t believe I escaped, but I did.
All that had been unspoken in that house finally
came to a head not long after I left, the story goes,
and the lies, betrayal, denial and manipulation
came pouring out in the violence of an inevitable explosion
causing the bravest of us all, my younger brother,
to say enough was enough to the adults
who were sick with loss and the past and drink,
fueled by years of smaller skirmishes and volleys of shame,
clueless about how to end it themselves…
I recently saw a little girl in Syria being interviewed while the bombs of their uncivil war
were dropped in the distance,
but close enough for her to tell the name and type of bomb being used
to destroy the pieces of daily life that still remained in tact, but only barely.
Her sweet face was so tired and care-worn, her little body so thin and tense…
I’ll never forget her because I can’t -
I know the fears of captivity and the unpredictable nature of terrorism -
certainly not on that scale, of course - I’m sure of that,
but I know the seed of it
planted in my childhood home -
I’m aware of that moment when you don’t know what the adults are going to do,
trying to decipher what brand of craziness will show up that day
and where the safest place to hide may be,
deciding that some days it’s safer to fight back,
especially when you’re a little older and tired of the helplessness…
Oh, the webs that life weaves are so complicated sometimes.
I don’t know if I’m on the right road half the time, it seems,
but I do know that often these days, at age 68, and as a survivor of
the brands of war that come with alcoholism,
I am still called on to be brave
and to do things I don’t want to in order to be safe from the bombs
that are triggered once again from the past…
Yes, the bravest thing I ever did was to leave the ridiculous war raging in
my mother’s life by realizing that I didn’t have to have a dog in that fight anymore,
and finding that the world has plenty of skirmishes in one day
that sometimes call for a hero to show up,
and because I was one for myself,
I know what one looks like -
a small beauty from Syria
a warrior
making sense of the battle and
planning her next move
Long Time Love
For Jeff, my love
We have a “long time love,”
you and me,
and that means that love has always found a way,
through the long journey of life,
to bring us together again
after crossed signals
cross words or
crossed swords
divide us for a time.
We meet again on the bridge between
our two sides of the canal
that flows deeply
with memories
of our children
our homes
our travels
And this year
in the flow
is the adventure of travel
to a new place -
New York -
with new stories awaiting us,
Adding to the long time love
we’ve held so well.
I love you, honey -
Happy Valentine’s Day
a.
Lost and Found
“I don’t think anyone would be interested in reading about my family,”
said the seasoned poet in an interview. “Well,” I thought to myself,
I’m screwed because that’s all I write about.”
But wanting to be like him, I began writing about “topics” and “subjects,”
only to get lost in the weeds with my well-worn opinions and ideas.
I thought to myself, “Well, who wants to read THIS.” Not many, I figured.
Then I read a memoir by a successful writer I admired, which she told my story.
Down to the alcoholic father. I couldn’t tell it any better than that.
“What a story!” I said. Drat!!
Then one day I heard a famous author give a talk about creativity, and she said,
“Screw all that chatter in your head. Write because you enjoy writing.
Just start, and what you’ll end up doing with it will come in time.
Just start and don’t stop.”
She said the same thing goes for singing, too.
“Just create art for the sake of it,” she said,
“for the enjoyment of it, and the new vision of the world it affords you.”
And that changed everything.
I got out of my own way and put pen to paper again,
and I kept it there until I was done that day.
Then I did it the next, and the next, and the next…
I found my voice coming through, too,
past the doubt,
past the worry of acceptance,
past the fear of sharing myself,
and I thanked the seasoned poet and the successful memoirist,
and then asked them to move along, stage left,
and leave me to my writing. I had work to do.
And a song to sing.