Salt Kisses

Sometimes a place will promote feelings that need to be written and poetry is the way I can best express feelings whether it is joy or melancholy. Walking a lonely beach in the Pacific Northwest, I imagined a woman with regrets trying to find her way to forgiveness.

Salt Kisses

I walk the stony beach
As day fades
Thoughts of you grow ever stronger.
Aching heart and leaden feet
Move me forward.

Sorrow clutches my heart.
I look back with longing
To better days.
Briny breezes fill my lungs
Leaden with a murky future.

I can do nothing
But walk barefoot,
Kicking up the sand,
Stumbling with swollen eyes raised
To red-stained sunset skies

I can do nothing
But breathe the snatching wind,
Enfolded by pastel clouds.
Air as prayer,
A gossamer thread to forever.

I can do nothing
But swing a bare leg into the surf,
Glide my feet over slick rocks
At the edge of the world,
Stand with arms outstretched to the rising moon.

In the presence of this beauty
Regret and grief begin to ebb
The water knows me
Waves leap to brush my lips
With salty kisses

The water calls me
To wade in luminous moonlight.
My legs sting with salt
As your tears stung my lips
When I left.

I watch water’s foam-tipped strokes
Fade from the sand,
Then reappear.
With the next curling wave
I sense resurgence.

You are my water.
As I fade you replenish me.
Your curling waves caress and revive me.
I am sorry for my future transgressions.
I know how much you love me

By how fast you forgive me.

This poem was published last year in a slightly different version in the book Telling Tales and Sharing Secrets written by Jackie Collins, Sally Showalter, and me. The book is a collaborative memoir and compilation of stories, essays, and poems written during our twenty-five years as a writers group. It is available in paperback and digital versions through Amazon and Barnes and Noble.

We Must Risk Delight

Originally posted on A Way with Words blog

I read a lot, usually two or three books at a time. I’m now reading the Collected Poems of Jack Gilbert, The Phone Booth at the Edge of the World by Laura Imai Messina, and The Story of a Happy Marriage by Ann Patchett. I’m also rereading Rules of Civility by Amor Towles for book club. Prompted by the poetry of Jack Gilbert, I am finding much needed messages in each book. Our world is in turmoil. Human beings are being cheated, chained and tortured, enslaved and murdered, and there is still good in the world. We must celebrate those pockets of delight. It is not about denying the strife of living, it is about acknowledging the wonder of life. I am alive. I have pain, I am alive. I have problems, I am alive. There will always be human suffering, but even the poorest barefoot women at the public fountain in a war-torn country find occasion for laughter. Celebrate the wonder of being alive.

In Jack Gilbert’s poem A Brief for the Defense, he says, “We must risk delight. Not enjoyment. We must have the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless furnace of this world. To make injustice the only measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.”

I finished reading Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver. I was reluctant to start reading it after learning the topic, thinking it would be a complete downer. But it was for our book club, so I dove in. What made a story about the downtrodden and drug-addicted in Appalachia an enjoyable read was the resilience of Damon, the main character. No matter what life threw at him, he found a way to make lemonade from lemons – to survive, even thrive. A victory of the soul over circumstance.

The Phone Booth at the Edge of the World explores grief, seemingly unrelenting sorrow without being overly sentimental or self-pitying. It is about two survivors of the tsunami of March 2011 in Japan who lost their dearest loves and find hope and laughter in their memories and in their survival.

I finished rereading Rules of Civility by Amor Towles. In it the storyteller, Kate sees two photos of a former lover in a gallery. The first shows Tinker dressed in a suit looking very dapper and successful; the second is of Tinker in rags but with a light in his eyes. A glow that the first photo did not show. It was a riches-to-rags story. Kate explains to her husband that the second photo, taken years after the first, was of Tinker happy without the chains of society’s expectations dampening his spirit. Tinker’s character is summed up later by his brother Hank. “Wonder. Anyone can buy a car or a night on the town. Most of us shell our days like peanuts. One in a thousand can look at the world with amazement. I don’t mean gawking at the Chrysler Building. I’m talking about the wing of a dragonfly. The tale of the shoeshine. Walking through an unsullied hour with an unsullied heart.” Tinker rediscovered delight. I love Amor Towles’s way with words.

Another poem Falling and Failing by Jack Gilbert is about divorce. He opines that divorce should not be considered a failure. It is the memories of the love and time together that are celebrated in his poem. The first line reads, “Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.” The last line is, “I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell, but just coming to the end of his triumph.”

“Life is just a bowl of cherries” as the song says. Some are sweet, some sour, and some have pits. “Don’t take it serious, life’s too mysterious.” Stubborn gladness is more than happiness. It is a choice, the decision to see the juicy wonder in life and toss the pits.

Old Mesquite

Originally posted on A Way with Words blog

Outside my library window       

Nascent bright green leaves, softly wave.

An elaborate contrast against

The rugged black bark of old Mesquite

Whose arms stretch out to embrace Spring

In long feathery finery.

Rising in the near distance against

The perfect blue sky

Behind old Mesquite

Pusch Ridge presents itself.

It will disappear in a few weeks as

Mesquite becomes denser,

A screen and shade against the

Slowly increasing heat

of Summer sun.

Dwarf Chaste Tree,

Little sister to old Mesquite,

Sits under his protective arms

Shyly showing her tightly leafed buds

In tiny clumps,

Inviting Spring’s release.

Transformative Power of Poetry

Originally published on A Way with Words Blog

I recently read “Ten Windows: How Great Poems Transform the World by Jane Hirshfield. It is a dense study of how written expression moves the human soul during times of strife and turmoil and the virtually muscular articulation of happiness. W.H. Auden wrote that “Poetry makes nothing happen”. However, poetry has the power to soothe or enlighten people. Jane says, “In the simplest act of recognizing the imaginative, metaphoric, or narrative expression of another, you find yourself less lonely, more accompanied in this life.”

I often turn to poetry when I’m troubled; when the outside world is not making sense to my interior world. I write, painting emotions in visual terms. Recently in a journal I wrote, “a sepia smear slides through the doctor’s words as the verdict is rendered”. It gives a deeper meaning for me than simply recording a sad but expected diagnosis.

It can be said as well that joy expressed in poetic terms layers an event with a calculus beyond the dictionary rendition of words.  My feelings when I witnessed the birth of my grandson could not be contained in words like joy or elation. “His first breath coursed through me, the first breath of new life, evergreen hope, a rainbow of possibilities exploded my lungs. Tears sprang unheeded in rivulets of gratitude”, I wrote.

One example Jane uses in the book is a poem by Czeslaw Milosz, a Nobel Prize winning Polish-American poet of the twentieth century. He expresses the transitory nature of life in this short poem. A simple memory stirs a wider wonder. Who are we and where are we going?

Encounter

We were riding through frozen fields in a wagon at dawn.

A red wing rose in the darkness.

And suddenly a hare ran across the road.

One of us pointed to it with his hand.

That was long ago. Today neither of them is alive.

Not the hare, nor the man who made the gesture.

O my love, where are they, where are they going,

The flash of a hand, streak of movement, rustle of pebble.

I ask, not out of sorrow, but in wonder.

Czeslaw Milosz

Being able to use words to convey the deepest sense of who I am is my joy.

Where I Am From

Originally posted on A Way with Words blog

In this hurly-burly of year-end and holidays, it is nice to take a breath and reflect. Who am I now? With each year and the myriad of experiences it brings, it is good to assess the changes that may have been of consequence. Births, deaths, marriages, jobs, illness can all impact our sense of self. What is at your core and how was it created?

As Sally posted on Wednesday, I also admire Amanda Le Rougetel’s blog What’s My Story from her blogsite, https://fiveyearsawriter.blogspot.com/. I did not rise to Amanda’s challenge to make my story in sixty-five words or less. However, it is a great way to describe yourself by encapsulating your experiences in a short poem. In light of Sally’s post “Who Am I”, I was reminded of a prompt Beth Alvarado gave us in a 2013 writing group.  Write a poem that describes where you are from. (I know, I know – don’t end a sentence with a preposition – cardinal error). In 1998 George Ella Lyon, a Kentucky poet, wrote a book titled Where I Am From that was used as a model in teaching memoir writing. Clues to who you are come directly from your roots and experiences. Those memories are touchstones that reconnect me deeply back to myself in chaotic times, physical or emotional. Each stanza describes places that formed my view of the world, places where I was at home or where I lived tenuously until I could move on, ending in Tucson where I belong. I was born in Kansas, spent summers over many years with grandparents in Colorado, lived forty years in Western Washington, and finally settled in the Southwest that combines the sunshine of Kansas, the mountains of Colorado, and the extraordinarily high desert skies. These short phrases packed with images, smells, and sounds tell my story.

Where I Am From

I am from the traveling wind, wide blue skies, and waving wheat

Great-grandma’s raw onions by the supper plate

Great-grandpa’s coffee can spittoon beside his rocker

Refrigerator on the back porch and dirt fruit cellar

Fireflies on summer nights

I am from the deep dark earth, mountain highs

Fishing at Estes Park

Honeysuckle, snapdragons, and putting up the beans

A ringer on the washing machine

Cold fried chicken and white bread with butter and sugar

I am from endless gray skies,

Armies of black-green sentinel firs reaching to the clouds

City of a thousand cultures mingled like succulent odors of stew

The drizzle of cold, the smell of mold

Wind in the sails, islands in the fog

I am from the knife-edged mountain peaks with hidden crevices

That rise from the desert floor

Coyotes howling, javelina prowling

The soul-filling smell of the creosote bush after summer monsoons

The endless blue of sky and translucent flower of prickly pear

This is one of the poems published in our book, Telling Tales and Sharing Secrets; Chapter 4, page 285. I sincerely hope you are creating happy memories with family and friends during this holiday season.

Gratitude

First posted on A Way with Words blog

This prose poem was written during the excesses of Tucson’s summer heat but the sentiment can be applied to any of God’s seasons. Today, preparing for Thanksgiving this week, I remain grateful and aware of the treasures of nature and the love of family and friends. Wishing everyone a Happy Thanksgiving and the gift of gratitude.

Unfolding from sleep I turn toward the open window.

A desert breeze puffs gentle kisses across my eyes and lips.

Sage and desert broom play luscious harmony for my nose.

With feline grace dawn arches blue-gray-pink over the mountaintop

Bringing another day.

Thank you for the new beginning.

I walk the park path in the cool dawn air.

Desert heat will rise soon.

A voyeur, I listen to the gossip of palo verde leaves

Am I the topic of their soft whispers?

The park is alive with rumors of the coming day.

Thank you for nature’s secrets.

Rabbit romps across the path,

Coyote slinks among the shadows, 

Bobcat shelters under the creosote bush,

Quails strut in formation,

Hawk soars in lazy circles seeking breakfast.

Thank you for the companions of morning

Clear skies gather hazy bits of cloud

Building monuments to the midsummer heat.

Monsoons hiss, rumble, boom, crack and clap.

Summer torrents cool, coaxing fragrance from the earth’s bounty.

A kaleidoscope of color frolics among the wrinkles of Pusch Ridge.

Thank you for the intricate interplay of nature’s ensemble.

Nine Eleven O’One

Originally posted on A Way with Words blog

Never Forget

Billowing palisades, pewter airfalls

            Cascade in slow motion

                        Overflowing the fountain of commerce

                                    Graceful to the eye, hideous to the heart

People, hundreds

            People, one by one

                        Living lives, forecasting futures

                                    Nine, eleven, o’one

Soft tarnished silver clouds

            Enfold those potentials

                        Tattered remnants of lives

                                    Spewed into the Manhattan morning

Elegant grotesque plumes

            Gently tumble one over another

                        Spirits ripped from bodies

                                    Turning the shells to ash

Is there a torture more absolute

            Moment by moment terror

                        Smelling the hot acrid breath of death

                                 As it approaches their prison in the sky?

Does hope flee quickly

            Or does it leak slowing

                        From the corners of their eyes

                                    As the dusk of life turns to night?

written on a plane to Seattle 9/21/01. 

Nine Eleven O’One

Billowing palisades, pewter airfall

            Cascade in slow motion

                           Overflowing the fountain of commerce

                                              Graceful to the eye, hideous to the heart

Soft tarnished silver clouds

            Enfold those futures

                        Spewing them into the Manhattan morning

                                    Nine Eleven O One

Elegant grotesque plumes gently tumble one over another

            Carrying tattered remnants of lives

                        Spirits ripped from bodies

                                    Turning the shells to ash

Is there a torture more sublime

            Moment by moment terror

                        Smelling the hot acrid breath of death

                                    As it approaches their prison in the sky?

Does hope flee quickly

            Or does it leak slowing

                        From the corners of their eyes

                                    As the dusk of life turns to night?

written on a plane from Tucson to Seattle 9/21/01.

Published in our book Telling Tales and Sharing Secrets

Cleaning Day Lament

The washing up was all but done
Her tussle with the mop was won
She sighed and looked the kitchen round
And shook her head, then leaked a sound
 
The sound grew loud, to her dismay
“I’m leaving now – I’ll run away”
“Away to where” a small voice asked
Away to where I have no task
 
The endless days of wash and scrub
That must be done, redone…drub,drub
“And what would satisfy your soul?”
Again, the voice in calm cajole.
 
To ride a horse, to lead a charge
Be bold, be alive, be larger than large
To stand my ground, to make my mark
To be another Joan of Arc
 
Deeds of honor must be done
Heroic songs must be sung.
Another voice piped up to say
“Mom, can you drive to practice today?”
As bubbles dissolved in her soapy pail
The wind escaped from out her sail
To earth she fell. Her reverie
Impaled upon the need to be
….Mom.

Procrastinator’s Prayer

Dear God

Thank you for giving me tomorrow
For without tomorrow
I would feel guilty
For all I did not do today
And then, dear God
May I request
Another day after tomorrow
For those duties that
Tomorrow may not hold
Please, dear God
Give me three days hence
To complete tasks from the day before
And then…..Oh, dear God,
It seems I must request Immortality!

6/21/07