Confession

I read somewhere
that Mike went on to be a priest
in Grants Pass of all places
but what I see when I think of his name
is not a collar
but kind eyes
and I remember feeling such humiliation
that I had reached a breaking point
that I was so out of control
and faced expulsion.

They said that people who broke down
were often ones who had been abused
and I kept my eyes averted and shook my head,
pleaded my refusal.

When I finally looked up those kind eyes locked mine
and I felt less afraid.

They said I should think about it.

It was the first jagged map I had ever been given.

A blueprint of
that huge space of numbing panic
of hiding the blinding shame
that took decades to believe was not mine to carry.

Nights when I closed my eyes and saw it all happening again.

The fear that preyed on hope.

It led me to myself
after a collection of memories blocked out the moon
and chaperoned me here to this life
which is mostly peaceful and rarely alone.

Stillborn-- Ten Years Later

These quiet hiccups run along my belly
an ancient ache that I carry
as familiar as my own skin

Death, my nemesis rarely sleeps
and I remain wrapped in misery
invisible in my imagination.

This pain, so vast it would be the sky.
So deep that it riles the oceans depths.
Dark and thick with oppression.

That it can be dredged up again so easily
so intensely after all these years
is disheartening
and yet it is exactly the way it must be.

The words come and they are always my being
when they must be about a little boy
who now plays celestial catch with stars
on August nights.

About a boy who never took a single breath
but lived nonetheless.

And left me, a student
learning what is most important, what matters.
Love, my redemption
sighs a tiny sigh
as I study peace.

Teaching Peace

We pass by homeless people
clutching cardboard signs
and we share whatever we have
whether it is a piece of fruit
or a dollar.

It begins with some quiet
a refuge
for the banged up
lost, tired people
who are searching for hope.

This balm is so simple,
a gentle hand on the shoulder,
some kind of acknowlegement
and a sign that you are listening.

It is living our religion
simply and quietly.

Missing the Dark

It used to be that 4 am was my safe time
stepping out in the alley to memorize the moon
and listen to the raccoons
near the Iris Inn
and then came an eviction notice
and a moving truck.

My new neighbors like porch lights
and motion lights.
My darkness is gone.

Counting Our Losses; Born Still But Still Born In the United States

I am flat on my back, lying on a hospital gurney, about 42 weeks pregnant give or take a few days and my doctor has wheeled me through a long narrow hallway. Everything around me is white including the walls and the blanket that is covering the lower half of my body. We come to a stop directly in front of an ultrasound machine. The doctor is looking it over and asks a nurse if she knows how to turn it on.

Years later this scene will repeat itself over and over again in my head until it no longer seems real and I have to confirm that it actually did happen the way I remember it. It feels too much like a really bad Saturday Night Live skit.

Several minutes pass and one of the nurses gets the machine humming and there is cold jelly being rubbed on my stomach and the ultrasound wand is pushed against me. The screen fills up with black and white images of my baby son but I barely get a chance to look at him before they quickly turn it off again. There are bright lights and forms to sign and I must agree to general anesthesia because they need to get the baby out now.

None of this feels like it is really happening to me.

Jason is standing near my head and then just as suddenly he is gone and someone is putting a mask over my mouth and telling me to breathe. Darkness and silence prevail.

My eyes start to open and I am blinded by white light. I see a faint outline of several people standing around me and I try to speak. My words are like the lopsided drawings my four year old often gifts me. My speech is at first indecipherable and I try again and again until finally I am able to pierce two words together as a question, "My son?" My eyes search the faces of the nurses and I am struck with the icy realization that nobody in the room will make eye contact with me.

A nurse finally answers. "We have to get you stabilized and then the doctor will come and talk to you about your son."

He must have Downs Syndrome, I am thinking. Oh god, that will be hard, but we will handle it. Our family will be okay. Or he has brain damage that must be it. Please God, let Dylan just be a little less than perfect. These thoughts fill my head, a prayer that is whispered in the dark and within a few minutes I am climbing back into the safety of darkness and more sleep.

I am just starting to open my eyes and I can see Jason walking toward me. His face looks strange. His eyes look so dark and I am having trouble understanding what he is saying to me as he approaches. "He’s gone," he says. "Dylan did not make it." His eyes lock mine and I see such pain reflected back at me that I feel ashamed and alone and words just don’t exist for all of the feelings that are there. It hurts to look at him, to see him looking so small. I just can’t take it and I mumble a few words and cry out. I am aware that he makes a few phone calls to tell his family and then I fall asleep again. Darkness. Silence. The closest thing I have to anything that seems real.

There are voices around me and I hear someone calling my name. "She has to wake up. She has to hold him." I open my eyes and someone has placed the baby on my chest. I look down and see a shock of black hair, bluish looking skin and a soft little duck print baby blanket that is wrapped around his body. "Oh," I say as I touch the top of his head and the bottom of the blanket. Tears are falling and I am barely aware that Jason and the three midwives are standing nearby. I try to stay awake so I can hold the baby, but exhaustion and the drugs that have been pumped into my body pull me right back into the darkness.

My eyes open and it seems like some hours have passed. The midwives are gone. Jason is walking around the room holding Dylan. I can hear him talking gently. He sees that I am awake and he carries Dylan over to me and places him against me again so I can try to memorize his little features. He’s pulled the baby blanket back so that we can look at his perfect little fingers and toes. Dylan’s skin is wrinkled and dry. I inhale, trying to smell him but all I smell is the antiseptic smell of a hospital ward. I am even robbed of his scent.

I drift in and out of consciousness.

A nurse is standing next to me. She asks if she can take his body. I tell her no that I need more time. She leaves and I try so very hard to stay awake. I have so many things I want to tell him. I whisper that I love him to the sky and back and to the moon and back and I tell him about his big sister and his cats. I tell him I am sorry. These are sacred moments, probably some of the most meaningful moments of my life. They are gone all too quickly and the nurse is back again asking if she can take him. All I can do is nod.

A few days later, I leave the hospital with some cards and flowers and a purple satin memory box. Jason and I leave without our son and head out into August sunlight and a life that will never be the same again.


I did not want this to be my fight. Almost nine years ago, the word "stillborn" became personal.

After Dylan’s death, I tried to find out how many babies died annually in the United States. I’ve always researched things and I figured it would be a simple task. I spent months searching Internet sites and learned that there was no set protocol, no national standards and we were not counting babies. The best we had were guesses. I kept seeing "one in every hundred births" and sometimes I read "26,000 babies a year". Just speculation.

As it got closer to what should be Dylan’s ninth birthday, I thought surely we would know by now. I have waited all these years. Surely someone is counting.

Many more Internet searches later and I see that we are still estimating. Babies die at birth and in many states families are not even given a "birth certificate", although they must bury their child. How do you bury someone for whom the state does not even count as having ever lived? Nine years later and we still do not know how many wealthy industrialized American babies are carried to term and die at birth.

Families of stillborn children count every missed birthday, every holiday, what should have been the first day of school and so on.

When will we start counting?

Finding God

Thought we lost religion completely
and then learned from our five year old daughter
how to talk to God.

You just say "Hey God...
thanks for making trees
or will I find a magic rock today?"
And maybe you close your eyes
and think really hard about it,
being glad for things.

It's not a sin to use God's name
"Oh my God, did you see that stone?"
as long as it is stated with deep appreciation.

My daughters are my prayers.

Full

I see others rushing around thinking they need more in this life
more money, a new car, million dollar homes,
while I quietly watch
and know that I have enough.
A few small odd jobs, an old dented car leaking oil outside, a small apartment,
and I am wealthy in love.

I wait at the food bank for an hour and a half
and am grateful for the people in line ahead of me,
glad to listen to their stories
while I sit on a metal chair.

Enough.

Joan Didion's essay Notes From a Native Daughter describes what it must have been like to have grown up in Sacramento in the 1950's and 60's and while I can recognize some of Joan's Sacramento, it is not the Sacramento I grew up in.

We lived in a yellow house on Pershing Avenue in Orangevale, which is right next to Folsom. By the 70's and 80's, the city was so sprawled out that all of the little suburbs and small towns might have names like Fair Oaks and Del Paso Heights, but the people who lived in them thought they were a part of Sacramento. We were connected by the traffic and the heat that made its way along the concrete and past all of the new malls and buildings.

It always goes back to circles. If I were an artist I would draw a big purple circle and around the edges of it I would put a wave, an iris, a cat, branches of a tree, parrot, a raccoon. I'd put a photo of our family right in the center of it.

I "should" be writing an article on Oregon's welfare to work program and how it is failing people. Instead I am surfing and listening to "The Amazing Race." Kind of pathetic, I know.

I turn 36 in a couple weeks. I've been thinking about some things I want to do before I die (so cheerful huh?). Nothing like a birthday to make you face time. Here is what is on my list so far...
(In no particular order)
1. I want to see the following countries: India, Australia, Africa, Ireland. This poses more of a challenge than just coming up with travel money because I married a man who is deathly afraid to get in an airplane. So, to get to these places we have to go by boat. Nothing like a nice slow boat trip across the world...
2. I want to hike the Pacific Crest Trail all the way through Oregon. This is also a hilariously funny goal considering how much time I spend trying to get out of walking downtown. Hey, I can change any minute... And lofty goals are good goals.

Well that is the main part of my list, but I will add more later.

What a wonderful world! We're waiting for you.

Right now, workers in Mexico earn $6 a day for picking produce.

In the U.S., they are not paid by the hour, but by the amount they pick, so I am not sure how much they earn on average in comparison, but it is much more than $6 for a days work.

Just some random facts that were in my head.

An Abundance of Connections

We are connected through circles
in a big connect the dots game
that is invisible to most
but occasionally some of us see
the netherworld
and how invisible ribbons surround us.

They are cobalt in our imaginations.

Taking us to new heights
and spaces where we can dine with meteors.
Bravely,
as one.

And yet we are never alone.

Operation Harass the Homeless

Sheriff Mike Winters maintains that it is not a crime to be homeless in Jackson County and yet at the same time, on Monday morning he spearheaded a campaign to break up 40 homeless camps along the Bear Creek Greenway. For seven and a half hours, approximately 100 officers from 11 agencies, including a private helicopter forced the homeless off public lands.

Law enforcement say they were reacting to the recent rape of a 15 year old girl who was attacked on the greenway on March 4. One of the suspects in this case has been arrested. Police are not sure if the other two men involved are transients.

The Mail Tribune reported that during the sweep, 19 people were cited for various offenses including trespassing and prohibited camping. Twenty out of 22 people had criminal backgrounds. They also reported that they referred people to homeless shelters. The 15 year old girl was turned away from a shelter on the night of the rape.

While the gospel mission is not full, many area homeless do not want to stay there. Many have drug or alcohol problems and the mission requires a code of behavior that some are unable to meet.

No reports of how much money local agencies spent on the homeless sweep on Monday have been released.

My mom was just diagnosed with breast cancer and although I know the statistics are in her favor, I am scared. She's decided to have a lumpectomy and they will just go in and surgically remove one breast and the tissue around it. They say that this will remove all chances of the cancer returning. My mom is almost 70. She is the second woman I have known to have breast cancer. The first was Jason's grandmother. Granny is in her mid 80's and I have a hard time keeping up with her. So, when I talked to my mom, I reminded her of that and told her that "tough old bird's don't die." She said I made her laugh, so that is good. Really I feel lousy about it.

Analysis

Small bits of hope trickle by
as the stellar jay yells for more food
and we stand fearless
even though we are broke
and often alone.

This thing called work
defining our time
by dollars
filling up our hours
with fluorescent lights
and wandering moons.

Trading our lives away
in hope of more money
and health insurance
for when this work does us in.

But it is okay in the end.

Our liberal bluejays will visit
carrying hope
in their beaks.

Oil Painting on Easel in Nuwandart Gallery

I saw it immediately, even though there were several other paintings in the way.
Leaning on the easel--
her back turned to the viewer,
face hidden,
bones protruding from backside
and the skinniest butt I have seen since I stepped on my daughters nude barbie
when I was walking down the stairs last week.

I, Mrs. Non-Censorship,
with my live and let live mantra,
wanted to run over and throw a towel over that painting,
considered turning the canvas around so that it would be hidden,
and stewed for three days over what I wanted my daughters to know about beauty.

Not from barbies or anorexic looking still life's
but real beauty.
like their great grandmothers eighty seven year old hands.
Art and poetry. Life.

Grief Management

And you think you heard footsteps behind you
forgot your rent was due last Tuesday
and the phone is also overdue.
You crawl into bed
and then lie there in the dark waiting for peace.

So much of your life does not make any sense at all.

In bits and pieces you begin to "heal"
although the word itself pisses you off
and this goes on for years
until even your closest family wishes you would just get it together.

But holding on
is management.

And you can tell them all that.

Value

Venus wore a size fourteen.
Her body was not angular,
but full and warm
as women are
and you could use her as a pillow
if you had to.
That is real beauty.
Skin is skin
whether firm or loose
and Venus knew
she was more than a
tight body and a pretty face.

"I'll never remember as much as I have forgotten." Jason's moment of great insight in the car earlier today

I've been thinking a lot about commitment lately and how bonds between people change over time. Jason and I found each other almost 14 years ago and we were married in 1994 and have a deeply rooted history together. This does not mean that there are not moments when I want to send him on the next Greyhound bus with a one way ticket to someplace far away, but those moments are few and far between. The truth is that I can't imagine a life without him. Even though he is a terrible slob, he is also incredibly giving and kind and he makes me try to be a better person.

That old Beatles song When I'm 64 is our song. I know there are no guarantees in this lifetime, but I am fairly sure that we are destined to grow old together and plant a few more gardens and sing a few more songs. And laugh.

Life is funny. Some people get 90 years. Some people commit suicide at 48, like our friend Joanie McGowan who was a local activist and playwright. Some babies don't even get a few minutes, like Dylan. And it is the one thing that is not ruled by money or income. At least not directly.

I have learned that love is a powerful balm. It saddens me that Joanie did not see how respected and loved she was by so many here. I didn't even know her directly, but I knew of her and our paths almost crossed a few times. I had heard of some of the projects she had worked on and she was one of those people I figured I would eventually befriend. And then about a week ago, after seeking help for depression, her body was found in the Greenway. Suicide. This beautiful woman must have heard that "God closed his eyes and the whole world got mean," but if she could have seen the outpouring of love that followed her death, she would have seen the definition of hope. I'm sad that she did not see it.

But that is the message. We are all loved by someone and that is enough when you think about it.

A few words about Brad and Jen...

So I am standing in line at the supermarket yesterday and notice three separate magazines announcing the tragic split of Brad and Jen. Hand me a kleenex (Kimberly Clarks lawyers will probably sue me now, but all I have in the bank is about $11-- so I feel kind of safe in being brand specific, but that is making me go off on a tangent, BACK to what I started blogging about). Three covers, no more shots of Brad and Jenn in some exotic location, no more gossip about possible babies or diamond rings, nada. It's over and even SNL mentioned it already, although I can't remember what they said since I was almost asleep. You know, I used to watch an entire episode of SNL and now I barely stay awake through the first 15 minutes and don't even get me started on the musical guests... aside from U2, WHO the hell are they? Most weeks I am sitting there raising an eyebrow, feeling OLD. But back to Brad and Jen already. I've heard their names mentioned more in the last few days than the Tsunami and that is saying something because even Paypal is collecting money for the Tsunami victims. Anyway I have one thing to say about this big, sad breakup-- I DON'T CARE! It's not news and I am not sure why I am even writing about it other than I just wanted to announce that I do not care about this split.

On Turning Five
(For Madison)

You are still afraid of ghost cats
and things that hide underneath your bed,
not to mention mean ducks
and older sisters with goblin hands.
So tonight on the evening of your fifth birthday
you tried hard to sleep in your own bed
for most of fifteen minutes
and then a small tug at my right arm
followed by pleading eyes,
a trip upstairs to my room
and hopefully you are now asleep in my bed.

In later years we may fight over other things
but I hope you remember
that small tug
and the warmth of mom's blankets, dear girl.

The Breaking Point

It comes much later than you ever thought it would
long after shock turns off the light
and anger gives a curtain call.

Remember Jaws and everyone thinking they were safe in the water?
That is close to how it happens.
You are jogging along.
Knowing you aren't doing great,
but feeling like you are fooling everyone else.
And then just like that
without any music in the background
or an omen
you are comatose with pain.

And then you know the truth of life.

Well I should probably mention a couple things that have happened since my last blog, you know Thanksgiving and Christmas and then the New Year crept up too. So a quick run through. Thanksgiving we helped distribute 135 food boxes to low income people and then we started collecting toys and we helped 600 kids and 100 families with food boxes at Christmas. Just as January was rolling in, Sierra came down with Strep and Chicken Pox. So, Jason and I have been tag-teaming the kids and work. We are either here or there and we see each other in passing mostly. Can't wait for that to change. We've been insanely busy and I don't see an end in sight. We're both still at Seasonal Workers and it is a volunteer run organization, but since we are full time they are covering our rent/utilities and phone.

I have this bird feeder that I stuck in the backyard and now it is quite a hang out. Word got out that the Houks are "friends to all birds as well as any and every other critter under the sun", so I now have to fill it 2-3 times a day. Today I made a few more homemade feeders with soda bottles and I am looking for an onion bag (or something with small holes that I can put birdseed in and hang from the trees out there.) I love waking up to the birds by the window. OH and we have snow all over the place. That is about all that is new here.

I've been spending a lot of time volunteering at Seasonal Worker's lately. Jason is working there more than full-time and I am in there almost full-time. Some of the work is pretty sad. Every day we see five or six families (at least, many days it is more than that), needing emergency food. Many people come in requesting blankets or warm clothes and we do the best we can to help them find what they need. It feels like a revolving door though, anything we do isn't going to be enough. Until people in the valley are making enough money to survive on, the best we can do is to keep sending them out with bags of food, or blankets and some hope.

I wish they didn't need us. It is going to be a long, cold winter for a lot of people.

For Jean

She wears poverty like broken in jeans
that are frayed at the bottoms
and have holes in the knees
and waits for disability to come through
so she can pay off a 40 thousand dollar hospital bill
while she visits the food banks
and wonders how to rescue her dreams.

You can't think about politics
when every ounce you have is going to simple survival.
It is a mean world
and the winter will be long and cold.

I listen
and tell.

Ashland Utilities Disfavors Working Poor
by Vanessa Houk


Ashland's utility tax is regressive to the poor. If our community wants to do more to help ease some of the problems low income people face in our community, we should consider abolishing this tax for people living below the federal poverty line.

We live in one of the most beautiful places in Oregon. Tourists are drawn to Ashland not only because of the Shakespeare Festival, but because there is an atmosphere of warmth and creativity here. Many have retired here for the same reasons. We lost our beloved Briscoe School as a direct result of the upsurge in retirees and we will soon see Lincoln Elementary close as well. Families are struggling to stay in this community.

Like many other families, we were affected by 9-11 in an economic sense. Jason had a good paying job, but was laid off and since then he has taken short part-time and seasonal work. Whatever he could get, whether it was climbing on a roof with a construction crew or maintenance work, he has done everything he can to stay actively employed. Both of us have. From paid writing gigs to cleaning a local art gallery and library, small bits of money trickle in. We battle to try and stay current on rent and utilities, but I look at it as a learning experience. Poverty 101, if you will. It's taught me a lot about human kindness, but also about greed.

We hear a lot about Ashland's commitment to low income housing, and our collective commitment to families like mine and while I am grateful for that, I have to say that in this dialog we are ignoring a larger problem. Ashland public utilities collects a 25% tax, the Electric User's Tax, which is overly burdensome to low income residents. For middle and upper income people, this tax does not amount to much, but for families like mine, this tax is a hardship. The cities own web site says it needs this money in order to support "city services", although there is no further explanation. I'm sure it is an important part of the cities 2004-2005, 94 million dollar budget (which, by the way can be found online-- all 422 pages of it), but I am at a loss as to why this needs to be at the duress of the elderly and working poor?

One of the promises that is listed in Ashland's "goals", is that "the city will strive to provide resources and services to meet basic human needs," but while we are collecting this tax from people who are living below the federal poverty level, we are failing to keep that promise. Access to electricity is a basic human necessity. Let's keep the lights on for low income residents and keep our commitment to a more affordable Ashland by ending this regressive tax.

Confinement in 2004

When you are held captive
and confined to bankrupt hope
because your dreams have all folded
and you are more alone than ever
your soul is hungry for new chickens to count.

And you feel like nobody has ever felt so bad before
even if history says otherwise.
Some jails exist in the mind.

It is too easy to live in fear
and hope that it goes away.

Written on 10/27/04-- I didn't like this at first, but after the election I think it works for me after all.

A Special Kind of Self Help Group

Feeling betrayed and abandoned by the sky
and the moon
and knowing twelve step groups don't even exist
for your kind of madness
you compulsively check for the lunar eclipse
just in case those numerous clouds
have all gone away
of course they don't
so you log onto the internet
and look at photos
and know that it isn't even as close to good
as it should be.

The New War on Poverty

The young man smiles as cars pause at the light getting off Interstate Five in Medford, Oregon. He holds a cardboard sign that says "Need food, a job, prayer. Thank you." He's there almost every day and if he isn't, someone else is standing in his place. One woman's face is map of hardship, pain and probably loss. Her sign is worded differently, but the essence of it is the same. They are desperate people. These are hard times and every freeway ramp is a compass of what the economy has done to people all over the United States.

A few people pause and open their car window. They hand over a dollar or two and maybe say a few encouraging words. Other people won't even make eye contact. This is too close to poverty and it is uncomfortable to see that people are suffering. It is easier to make sure that the car doors are locked and just get through the light as fast as you can. And besides that dollar isn't going to do anything much. These people can work, they just choose not to. Or, that is what they must tell themselves in order to disregard the people with the signs.

About thirteen years ago, shortly after I first moved to Southern Oregon, I used to drive by another homeless man. He liked to hide out underneath the tunnel, on the north end of town just after the "Welcome to Ashland" sign. He is the only one I remember seeing on a regular basis back then. He is my compass for acknowledging that this problem of poverty, of hopelessness is growing bigger. And I don't think it is limited to my own backyard.

We are seeing people who had good jobs falling into poverty. We are seeing people who once worked their way off welfare, got out of the system and now are finding themselves dropped right back into a life of food stamps and welfare. And it should make us uncomfortable. It should make us angry. A lot of us are not all that far away from those cardboard signs.

November 2004

After the election
we can think we were heard
or not heard
depending on who is elected
in a huge round
of "my mother said that you are the very best one",
or maybe we'll count
and re-count
and they will think we forgot again
because we are supposed to be pretty stupid
after all is said and done.

And maybe we will have a trillion dollar game of tag.
Cartoon tag,
and the flags can be dripping
with the blood of fallen soldiers
who need to go home before dark.

"Mother may I?"
"Yes, you may... Vote!"

As Metaphysical as We Get

We grow tired of watching ghosts run out in the road
caught in our headlights one more time
or visit our apartments late at night
and wonder why can't anything feel original.

Like the native burial grounds at the cabin
that was unmarked but electric
on a cellular level
"Here be dragons",
unexplored, dangerous, unknown.

Elections

I've been waiting for the president to heal us
instead of hiding behind words
we whisper in stores, gas stations, hospitals
and cling to promises
broken like smooth glass we find on the beach
at low tide
and we are all supposed to forget
that we have been failed before.
Collectively unlearn what we were taught as the truth.

Some of us do.

A scattering sees the glossy advertisements
of our own demise
and we point it out
and whisper new words,
like courage
and facts.

Heal us.
We are broken
and without hope.

Waiting for the moon

When your life is ruled by the sight of the moon
and clouds creep in
fueled by rain
and wind and wintery madness
nights can seem long.

But the air is nice and cool
and we have this night
and that is a lot, really.

Haven't written in a long time, mostly because I have been driving all over the place. I really did miss having a car, so it has been fun although it is staring to wear off a little bit. The first week I was ready to go anywhere at a moments notice-- we were doing dumb stuff-- driving around in circles really. Today started my week of getting back to normal. So Mads and I went for a walk in the cold over to the bank to pay rent and to power to give those thieves some cash, by the sandwich shop (where we are on a first name basis with the staff-- I love small towns) and then finally home. On the way home we searched for tree monsters and they were out there! Some are red, some are invisible, some would chase you if they could and they all have big teeth although that does not necessarily mean that they are bad. It's not their fault their teeth got big. I learned all of this from my Mads (she is four by the way). So we had another good day. And then tonight it rained, so I walked to the Minute Market for some ice and my feet got really wet, but it was quiet and I had a nice time. Jason and the kids were watching Hellboy. Not exactly what I would have let them watch, but I was tricked. I had asked what they were watching and was told "PBS", which they later all admitted meant "PRETTY BAD SHOW", after they were caught. Mads went to bed with her flashlight. Between Hellboy and the monsters, I am fairly certain she will be joining us in bed later.

Had such a great day today. An unbelievable day. Started out going to see John Edwards at a rally at the Medford Armory. That was interesting however I do not like what he says about medical malpractice (Tort) reform. It is a bunch of bull. I was actually so worked up that I boo-ed him after his statement on it and I think I was the lone voice of dissent. So be it.

Next we went to the office (Seasonal Workers) and the mail arrived. Jason had some dental work done and he was told it was not covered because they changed our Oregon Health Plan at some point. He paid about $188 out of pocket and had another bill for $400+ which they have been hassling us about daily. We had told them we were requesting a hearing with the state because we thought we should still be covered. The dental office (SISKIYOU DENTAL) has been terribly rude to us, and it was getting to the point where we were going to have to come up with some money for them, just to get some peace. But TODAY we heard from the state that we are covered retroactive since July 1st which means that SISKIYOU DENTAL now owes us $188 dollars back AND they can bill the state for the $400+. I am thoroughly disappointed with the way that dental office has treated Jason (at one point he had an appointment they cancelled and did not bother to call and tell him it was cancelled-- so he took two busses, plus a morning off work just to get there and find out he had no appointment.) NOT a good business! So if you need dental work in the Rogue Valley, you now know who to avoid!

But to continue on with my good day... Sierra came home and announced she was one of four kids chosen for MATH OLYMPIADS at her school! My kid is one smart cookie! I knew that, but it makes me happy that other people see it too. And to think that my genes helped produce someone who excels in math, well it cracks me up!

One of the seasonal workers who knows about cars took a look at the car we want to buy and he agreed it is a good one! I am excited about that.

We should be getting the car tomorrow. Told you it was a good day!

Bereavement

If you live your nightmare
does that mean you get to dream your life?
Weeping mothers might lean away from CLOSURE
but they understand that there is freedom
in surviving the worst thing that can happen.
Not fearing death can be a gift.

Others shy away from aging
but I relish times passing.

So, we've lived without a car for almost a year now. That is kind of amazing actually. I couldn't have ever imagined making that work out as well as we have AND just being happy, even without wheels. Not to mention that I had no idea how much material I would glean from taking the bus. There are some real freaky people in Southern Oregon and some of them even know my name now. Which brings me to another bonus of bus riding... I have a larger sense of community now. It forced me to meet people and to talk to them. People really open up... we hear all about rehab and so and so's kid who was removed from their home and too many stories to mention here. Since May I have probably lost about 35 pounds... we walk a lot more. All these months I have maintained that we are CAR FREE and glad to be that way and then this weekend when my parents came for a visit they mentioned that they would like to help us out by buying us a used car and VOILA--- BAM--- I am obsessed with getting a car again. Sweet wheels that I can hop into, crank up the radio and escape! Oh sweet jesus... that sounds nice. So much for car free, but I do hope to keep walking every day anyway.

Secrets

My private longing
stays just under the surface
and distant enough
that it is much like reaching
for something that can't be achieved. Or won.

Codependency

We're all so lonely together
that I watch your suffering
and wish I could cradle it away
while you pull me close for a moment
and then move away.

I collect all the words you say to me,
write them down,
go back and re-read them when I need more of you
and then wish I had spares.

Favorite Young Hippie Couple

She wears gypsy skirts
that catch in the afternoon breeze
and they hold hands
as they walk down Main Street
and I see them in animated conversations.
Not just their youth is charming
but the way they lean towards one another
protectively encompassing bonds.

Sunday Evening

One lady with burnt sienna skin
wrapped in black
standing in front of the Catholic Church
weeping,
feeling invisible.
But I noticed you,
beautiful in your distress.

Our suffering is not solitary.

Survival

Abandoned by the rest
you wandered through, clutching memories
like self respect and hope
as if they were an evening bag
and you were high society.
All you had to hold on to
were little things you remembered
like the curve of his young chin
and his unseasoned trail.

Sometimes life holds us upside down
and shakes us.
Sometimes we are drawn to the edges of cliffs
and we get pushed off.
Sometimes it feels as though the whole world is mean.

And yet we hang on.

Confession

I've had gardens over the years
but being flaky
I don't remember to water,
and being a friend to all green things
I don't like to weed.
It's not that I'm a bad person
but I resent that we need oxygen so damn much anyway.

For Ashley Day

You rest in the southeast
near an old oak
right behind "babyland"
near the stone angels
and I will not forget
how you didn't get a fourth birthday.

Incense burned
and accidents happen,
but your baby sister got away
and your family had to keep going.

The community talked about justice
and Methamphetamine, counseling,
prison for your mother
but all of that didn't have anything to do with you,
not really anyway.

And I wonder how many of them
have stood at the foot of your grave
and remembered that you would have started school this year?

How many wept with the stone angels?

Midnight Adventurer

I've never been to Ireland
'cept for after midnight
in my head
and all my imagination can conjure up
are green hills,
a blarney stone
and a handful of drunk men
spouting off limericks.

I haven't seen streets
or dogs, though I suspect they are there too
somewhere. Is the same moon just as luminous?
I can only suspect.
Do they watch reality TV, game shows?
If I were brighter
I might know such things.

Old Protest

My father worked for a company
that made parts for rockets
and nuclear bombs
although he hesitated talking about it
sometimes he would slip up
like the time he brought home a flier
from "Grandmother's for peace"
and told me they had protested at the plant that day.

They were calm women, he said.

That stuck in my memory all these years.

Pioneer

You are not the stars
but an African drum
beating solo in the Congo
a hint of danger
of revolution
and change.

A native American chant for peace
rejoice the earths bounty
and beauty with honor.
A perfect circle
called home.

One man.

Owning Grief

Car repossessed
and behind on rent
phone shut off last month
and utilities
to follow soon
bank balance
not looking good
but we own our grief.

Can't even give it away
to the homeless guy
holding a sign by the freeway.
He says he has enough of his own.
Imagine that.

Matrimony

132 Months of Marriage
and you remain sort of a mystery
like why you still get worked up
because the clean socks do not match
or there are no towels.
And the earth shakes
while nothing else matters
but that you can't find your papers
or keys, or sunglasses
and you must have them right this moment
and you are somehow convinced
that I am hiding them from you
for my mere amusement.

Yes, you are an enigma,
a puzzle of which I believe is missing a few pieces sometimes
but a riddle nonetheless.

Quietly Humbled

You looked at me once
and I felt at ease
for the first time
lightly undone
into a better place
finally at home
in my own skin.

In your presence
I feel beautiful.

Oregon voters have an opportunity to send a message to the insurance industry as well as the medical lobby when we vote no on measure 35. There is a lot of misinformation out there about capping medical malpractice cases and even exactly what this measure will do. Here is some truth.



Getting to the Truth of Measure 35
by Vanessa Houk

Six years ago my son died at birth. His death certificate lists the cause as stillbirth, but the real cause of Dylan's death was a hospital that was short staffed and unprepared for an emergency on that night in late August. For many months after Dylan's death, I lived in a fog. It took everything I had in me just to wake up every morning and take care of our four year old daughter. I did not have the energy, strength or reserves to ask questions about what happened. Our families tried to inquire, but Jason and I simply needed more time to face up to what happened. When I thought about bringing a lawsuit against the doctor or the hospital, it made me feel sick inside. I did not want blood money, I just wanted to hold my baby son and get a chance to see him grow up. Then about fourteen months after Dylan's death we obtained a copy of his medical records and we saw that there was nearly an hour lapse between our sons struggle (and serious drop in heart rate which signaled he was in distress) and when the doctor finally began a cesarean section, a measure that might have saved his life had it happened much sooner. Instead that hour led to his death and changed our lives.

I talked to a well known attorney who specializes in medical malpractice cases and was informed that the statue of limitations had passed. We had just one year to grieve, heal and begin to ask questions. There was nothing we could do to ensure my doctor would not make the same mistakes and possibly hurt someone else. This haunted me until I learned that this same doctor retired (after an extremely short medical career) and no longer has an active license to practice in the state of Oregon. We were lucky that way. She could still be delivering babies and I would be wondering how many more were "stillborn".

We are hearing a lot about measure 35, most of it funded by the OMA and AMA and the insurance industry who are trying hard to convince us that medical malpractice lawsuits are spiraling out of control. The proponents of Measure 35 want you to believe that this is an issue about keeping quality medical care, especially in the rural areas of our state. Oregon voters are smarter than that. The truth is that this measure is more about deciding the absolute value of a life. This measure isn't just about doctors and lawyers. This is about you and me and an industry that needs to be reigned in.

The insurance industry is not regulated by the Federal government, instead each individual state has a department that oversees the insurance companies selling policies in that state. In our case, the Oregon Insurance Division in Salem is responsible for overseeing the industry. There are three consumer advocates that handle complaints related to the medical field. Three employees cover the entire state! How can we feel secure that our needs are being addressed or even being looked out for?

According to Terrie Troxel, President and CEO of the Insurance Institute of America, the insurance industry is financially healthy and profitable. The insurance industry has been profitable before, during and since the so-called insurance crises of the mid 1980s. Nationwide, the insurance industry averages profits of 18.5 percent annually. The average is over 60 percent higher in Oregon, where the average annual insurance industry profits are 30.4 percent. These numbers do not show an industry that is struggling over "jackpot awards." The truth is in the numbers.

So they want you to believe that injured people are claiming huge pay outs and we are at risk of losing good doctors who can't afford malpractice insurance and yet instead of pointing inward and acknowledging there is room for some belt tightening, they point at families like mine.

Johns Hopkins lists medical errors as being the third leading cause of death in the US. Even using a lower estimate you are more likely to die as the result of a medical error than you are to die in a car crash! We must hold doctors to a high standard and vote no on measure 35. Our own lives may depend on it.

An Evening

Start with your favorite black velvet hat
and your dress boots
that are as comfortable as sin.
Nothing else will matter
as long as you add some quick wit
and a few opinions on current politics.

Speak your mind fearlessly
so you can be living
your life without regrets.

Think that everyone else in the room
is just as full of self hatred and loathing
as you are and they do not have the black hat
nor the soft shoes.

Acceptance

I told you how I longed for Fall
and how rain made me feel better
walking on falling leaves
and the way the air smells on a cool day
like a clean life.

It's hard to get close to a clean life
if you are me anyway.
Everything is so full of drama and pain
and sometimes I just want to run away.

But where would I go?
On foot. In the rain.

So I stay here quietly breathing in the new season
knowing it is the best I can hope for.

What If

This is the last month
of our marriage
and I spend most nights
alone on the couch?

Most of our minutes
alone together
are sexual
but not very filling?

I want to tell you so many things
but even our phone conversations
are short, to the point,
without laughter?

And the last words
I say to you
are angry,
biting and cold.
Will you know the truth?

Aftermath

First numbness and disbelief
an ancient ache
that can't be willed away
yet sits quietly
waiting for answers that never come.

Yet somehow time goes on
ever slowly
and the residual effects
are there for all to see
or not see
as it fits.

And years later there is surprise
that the pain still seeps in sometimes
and can be as raw as the beginning
as lost as hope was.

Favorite Places

Standing outside after midnight
in the shadow of the building
where the stars are free
from lightpost illumination
and other forces
the air is so rich
and the sky is
pieces of broken glass.

And I watch
and memorize
as if there is a test
any moment.

Note to Charles B

You make me look at the bums holding signs by the freeway
wondering if they are really seeing things
or if that is just me clinging to a little bit of hope?
You helped make it okay for the poor to speak out.
You who said fuck your rules
and your conformity,
it is just me and my cross eyed cat
and he knows something
that all of you are searching for.

We keep it going
but you started it.

Finding religion at a Rummage Sale

Such fever,
a dash of people
and piles of old stuff
someone else no longer wants
a hint of consumerism
and recycling
amid little old ladies
and young male booksellers alike.

The air smells like church,
old hymnals
and tiny pencils to fill out the offering envelopes with.

But back to the stuff...
Jesus could have found new shoes here
or even earlier
Mary might have fallen for the bassinet
for a mere twenty bucks.

But then who would have suffered
so the rest of us could be here
gathering piles of our new junk.

Youthfully Mature

In my head I cheat wickedly,
holding onto youth and innocence
fast and tight,
being everything I can
no longer hope to be.

For a few moments though
it is as nice as the first Fall rain.

My Madison

For a moment
there was a giant
named Scrambled Eggs
running across campus,
hiding behind trees.

And then for awhile
you grinned at the old lady
on the bus
across from us,
who smiled back
and asked your age.

"Four and a half,"
emphasis on the half.

You collected rocks,
flowers and bark
on the way home
for a potion you wanted to make
in the afternoon.

And we stopped to admire
three friendly brown dogs,
five crows,
and pick two dandelions
for wishes.

I blew mine
and silently hoped
I could capture this day.

Firefighter

Don't want to remember
how Mike tried to hide from the fire
and yet it burned most of his body
sans the rings around his socks

and I learned that nineteen year old boys could die.
Just like that.

No more hanging out at the park
talking in his soft voice
about moving away
and being someone important
or listening
because that is what he did best of all.

In those hills
near the trees he loved
he clung to life and branches

and to the bleep of a life support machine
until his parents could say goodbye.

Searching for Poems

I wander downtown
and briefly consider making a poster
"Lost: One clear idea,
that with a little urging
might become a poem."
And weave my way
past tired people
who are dining
at the sidewalk tables,
and around dogs
out walking their worn out owners.

The End

Jason wants a Viking funeral
complete with a huge boat and a fire,
but not me,
I figure my life has been dramatic enough
and I can see myself going quietly
in a simple pine box
and a few spoken words out in Tumalo.

Leave me underneath the old juniper tree
walk away quietly,
and that will be enough.

Blame

My four year old daughter's voice
coming back to me saying,
"We used to be so happy, Mom,
and then Dylan died
and now we have all been so sad.
When will we be happy again?"
And the freezing knowledge
that despite my best efforts
and attempts at pretending
that everything was still
the way it always had been,
I hadn't even been able to fool
my own kid
and the grief and pain
of failing her
was almost enough to
put me under for good.

But she and I held on
and we found our way back.
The recipe for hope
as I remember it
included hide and seek,
kite flying,
and many days that fell together
like a house of cards.

Why Bigfoot Doesn't Get Mentioned in Many Poems

Oh, those poets like to be taken seriously.
Full of pretentious and conspicuous art,
their words float with deep meaning.
An overabundance of civilizing
and making things just right,
while Bigfoot is excluded.

I saw him on Highway 97 once
on my way to Bend.
Haven't told very many people that either,
because the few I have confided in
have looked at me strangely
and changed the subject.

So I thought I should mention him here.

Hanging out with the Socialists

I fold donated clothes
that will be given to low income families
on labor day
while ninety-something year old Grace
tells me of the death of another bishop
as she oohs and aahs
over a pile of polyester shirts
I set aside for the old ladies.

Grace's weathered and wrinkled skin
tells a bit about the map of her life,
of doing without
and of fighting back.

Walking Under the September Sky

The air even feels better somehow,
almost like when you are reading a good book
and you aren't close to being done yet,
so you know you have a whole lot to look forward to.
And the stars are vivid, but still and calm.
The shadows in the alley lead to illumination
down on the corner by the Iris Inn.
And you can't help but feel better about things
as the bottoms of your shoes crunch leaves into the dirt road.

This walking,
aliveness,
as you notice small signs
that the world continues to hang on
underneath this simple radiant sky.

Notes to the Self, Past Tense

You might want to avoid men named Bruce
even if he looks like Jon Bon Jovi
but with sadder eyes,
and for god sakes, stay out of San Francisco
in the rain when your pockets are almost empty.

You think you invented sadness
and know pain
but girl, you better duck
because a big one is coming
and there is no Red Cross to arrive for clean up.

You're going to go it alone
but you will be okay.

For Carlos Arredondo

You were so alone
thinking about your dead son
soon to be wrapped in old glory.
A can of gasoline and a propane torch
and not enough time with Alex.

A poster child of the true cost of war,
we all saw your raw pain and identified.
And felt shame.

I would have your tears extinguish the fire
and lead you directly to hope.

I see you wrapped in the moon.
I see the arms of the world around you.

Barbies

I've never written about the barbies before tonight and I am not sure why.

When Dylan died, we struggled with how much we should involve Sierra and we made a few mistakes, but we did manage to do something right when we included her in the funeral. She was only four years old at the time, but on some level I think we both understood that losing her brother was going to affect her for a long time too and we owed her as much of a sense of closure as we could pull off. So the morning of his funeral was cool, but there was that underlying sense of urgency-- that knowledge that it was going to get warm fast and would indeed be a hot day by the afternoon. The three of us left the apartment and headed towards Tumalo. We had to be there before everyone else, but we also wanted to stop by Safeway to drop off my prescription for pain medication and to get a light breakfast for Sierra (melon, I can still remember that I ate some and I was hungry enough that it tasted okay to me). Jason was also looking for a silver dollar, but the banks were not open. He wanted to throw it in the ground with Dylan (to pay for his crossing). Anyway we got out to Tumalo and the undertaker (Steve) was already there. He had this green astroturf looking stuff around the hole and Dylan's casket was lying across this brace type thing (not sure what it is really called, or even how else to describe it. It is so that the casket can be above ground and can be seen-- this thing holds it up.) There were twenty or twenty five folding chairs in front of the casket. We made some uncomfortable small talk with Steve for awhile and then people began arriving. Greg and Marissa and Syd and Achia were some of our people. As soon as Sierra saw her little friends (Marissa and Achia), she pulled her barbies out of her bag and those three little girls sat in the dirt in front of Dylan's casket and began playing together. Everything about that day was surreal to me, but the sweetness of those little girls all dressed up, sitting in that dirt pretending, helped me cope and got me through the day.

Isolation

Holding onto loneliness
isn't courageous
or noble
like the few people in the royal family
society actually likes,
it is just empty and sad
like having to eat by yourself day after day
with nobody to talk to.

Being alone with your demons
must be what it is like to be mentally ill for a little while.

Casualty

Just the twisted body
of a raven
on the sidewalk near the Methodist Church.
Insignificant in the grand scheme of things I guess,
but enough to make my daughters pause
as we silently pass by.
No mention is made
but we look at each other sadly
and that is enough.

I was glad to see John Kerry in Central Point recently, but I wished he had taken some questions from his constituents. I have one burning question for him. My question is this; "Do you think you understand what it is like to be low income in America today, and do you understand some of the challenges the poor face?"

There is no correct answer to this question. The only way to really understand poverty is to be poor.

Until you find yourself standing in line in a welfare office, waiting for an intake appointment, or in line at the grocery store with an Oregon Trail card (food stamps) in your pocket, you cannot understand what poverty does to people. It chips away at your self worth. It takes away your anger, your pride, your self worth and whittles it all down until you are complacent and accepting.

We used to hop in Jason's old green Pinto and drive up to the mountain on August nights like this one. We'd bring a pint of Haggen Daz and one spoon, some Pepsi and my notebook so that I could write if the muse decided to visit. And a flashlight. We also brought our hopes and dreams 'cause that was back when we still had some. We still go out at night, but now we are restricted to the parking lot in front of our apartment in case the kids wake up while we are gone. We still watch the moon together, sans notebook and flashlight and spendy ice cream.

Detachment

When life penetrates you
with cumbersome,
mind numbing, sadness.
And
deserted by hope,
you find yourself isolated
from beauty.
Remember this.
Push on.
Hang on.
Continue.
Trust fearlessly.

What I really want to write about is how I want to be able to think about my son without feeling that sharp pain of loss. You'd think I would be there by now, but it still hurts. I was thinking about how this time of the year it is all magnified. I miss him. I wish I had gotten a chance to feel his fuzzy little head underneath my chin and heard him cry just once. And wiggle-- I wish I could have seen him move, even if it had just been for a short time. I think that is one of the cruelest things about stillbirth, is that some people think it is somehow easier, because I did not get a chance to really, really know him. But I had the mourn the loss of that chance too-- on top of missing him and mourning for him and loving him.

These are the things I know Dylan heard. He listened to most of the Complete Works of Winnie the Pooh-- I was able to give him that. He heard his dads voice. He listened to many episodes of Seinfield (in utero) while I was lying down counting his movements and his kicks. I am also certain that he heard Sierra's voice. She and I talked to him daily. I hope that he heard birds and laughter and music. I hope that he heard how much we all loved him. That is probably my biggest wish other than wishing him back to us.

It's Friday night and the rest of the house is asleep. Probably kind of a bad thing for me to be left alone with my thoughts. Less than ten days until Dylan's birthday/anniversary of his death. I seriously hate the month of August. Every year J and I say we are going to just run away for the month and I wish that had been possible this year. I want to just hide out and be left alone.

When you really start to look around at other people, you see that almost everybody has scars from something. We think we are so good at hiding them, but if you really look, you can catch glimpses of what hurts them the most. I think we are equally good at choosing to not see this... It is hard to witness pain. It's interesting to me though, how we all go about our daily lives pretending to always be okay (whatever that means). We are all so lonely together.

I think that this is why people get married. We are desperate for other people to really know us, that we will even let one other person in deep enough to see our flaws. Humans are daring that way.

Name Dropping with John Kerry

In fierce heat, we waited like cattle
while rock songs played
(oh but the 80's were good)
and we tried to believe that things would change
while clutching signs and chanting.

And then you appeared.

You spoke of change. Of honesty.
Of valuing families.

We wanted to believe.

Longing for the days of John F Kennedy
we watched you tie your white horse to the fencepost
and hoped that you listened too.

Accompany

Sometime after midnight
when the August air has only slightly cooled off the valley
but the stars are bright and ready
there is just the sounds of something sliding down the trunk of the plum tree
and the hum of crickets.

And I am less lonely than at any other time.

August Nights

We rally for meteor showers
and summer rain
after days of hundred degree temperatures
and feverish sun.

Not knowing answers
does not reduce our longing
to be seen
to be heard.

Invisible
we crave
and hunger for someone
anyone--
to lift the mask up.

Ignited
our liberation from summer will go on.

Perseid Meteor Shower is peaking as I type. I have been outside several times this evening and it is spectacular. The stars look like they are jumping across the sky. Just beautiful. At about 4 am, Jason, the kids and I are going to Briscoe school-- we will lie down in the field and watch it until daybreak.

Grief is like quicksand. A person mourns, talks about their feelings and thinks they have worked through their grief. And then you are standing in line at the supermarket and out of the corner of your eye, you see a little boy who is just the age and size your son would be if he hadn't died, or someone catches you off guard and asks about the headstone that rests in your garden and it takes you right back to the rawness of it. That awful pain and envelope of fresh loss. It's like stepping in quicksand. At first you think you are fine, but you quickly realize that you are in trouble and nobody can help you get out. The only way out is by your own wit. There is nothing more lonely than being trapped in quicksand. Or in grief.

we connect as
haphazardly as stars in the sky

A Craving for Comprehension

Either there aren't enough poems written about passion
or maybe all poetry is an outburst of words
and emotions. Obsessions with the small things
most other people miss.
Ordinary things exalted
like the softness of the summer sky
at about ten at night.

Not just a sky, no.
Rapture for common folk.

Just pay attention.

Anniversary

This should be a month for parties
little boy trains and cartoon characters
and whatever it is that six year old boys like
whatever you would like best
instead there are crushed dreams
and silence
and huge pain that I run away from,
festering deep.

The night you entered this world
I held you for hours
and told you about your family.
On one hand I knew that it was
the only "earth time", you and I would get
and yet I couldn't really fathom what that really meant.
I didn't understand death.
Maybe I still don't.

I'd give anything to be making a birthday cake
with six candles on it this year.

Thunderbird Park

Trailer heaped upon trailer
until-it-is-so-tight-in-here-that-even
the smallest
grassy yard looks park-like in comparison.

You can bring your assumptions in with you
about poverty and laziness
but talk to the small woman in number eleven for five minutes
and you'll realize
our similarities
are as numerous
as the broken cars that line the street.

Migrant Camp

Dusty roads lead in
encircle
and then head somewhere back out again
but not until you pass the bunkhouse
that sleeps forty
or the small littered cabins
that sleep three or four
per unit
and you notice the heat
as it rises from the dusty road
and lands on the sweaty brows of men from Mexico
by way of California
who greet you with a few words.
Hola, Cómo es usted? Muy bien.
A wave of the hand and a smile
because the work begins tomorrow, lunes
and these men who are anxious to start working
are as grateful for the jobs
as we are for the slight breeze that suddenly sneaks down into camp.

You don't get a blueprint of your death
be too busy living to care anyway
and cherish the space you are given.

Sanctuary

Holding me underneath the new moon
we bridge one anothers grief
and personal history
like no other
some words are just
not meant to be shared
and to have someone
who quietly understands that
is a refuge.

Peace

Imagine bridging gods and grief
balm and the brambly seas
as easily as tree branches sway
in the afternoon breeze.
Just like a four year olds playtime
goes from pretending to be on the beach
to swiftly bothering the cat
and then back to water play
just as simply.

If only connections were so effortless.

Summer Rainbow

How can you capture
the cool wetness
of a sudden summer storm
and the wired feeling
you get from walking out in it?

We almost owned the city
those of us without umbrellas
without borders or rules.

How can you capture the lights of the city
seen through raindrops
against a darkened sky
long before night-fall
when it seemed that even god
was without limits?

Note to that young girl who was sexually abused

In your twenties you defined yourself by what happened
behind a closed door
by what was hidden
and the promises that were broken
you thought that was plenty
but then you discovered that it was only yourself that you were fooling
and even that didn't last long
so you picked up that broken little kid
off the floor and you held her tenderly
and kept her away from mirrors for years.
You thought that was sufficient
but still the nightmares wouldn't go away.
So you held the magic close to you instead
and tried so very hard to hang on
you were so undaunted
even when you had every right to be
and I just wanted you to know
all these years later
that I am proud of you.

Compass

You are my starting place
and where I align myself
with the earth, my home-- the warmth,
our circle is the radius
for everything that really matters to me. 

With you, I am not afraid.

People spend lifetimes looking for what we have
and I won't forget that.

 

Story in progress...
One of my favorite places is lying against Jacob's chest but I don't like his arms to be tightly around me, just loose and casual so I can breathe in his smell. It is a cross between coffee and vanilla. I don't even drink coffee, but I love the way it smells and I love being near him because he is the only person I can think of, who is in my life right now, who doesn't have any great expectations of me. And that means a lot. He just lets me be.
So I have been hanging out with him a lot lately. We both like old reruns of "Friends" and real milkshakes, not the fast food kind, but ones that we make with his deceased grandmas hand me down mixer. We are a great team, Jacob and I. When I am with him, I sometimes even remember what it is like to want to live.
That sounds so dramatic, I know. So sixteen year old high school girlish. The last few years have been rough for me though, so I've earned the right to a little self pity.

(who is talking... what happened to her? Dialog of jacob talking to her could get her name in there that way)

Notes from a Welfare Mom

You see me in line at the grocery
and search my childs face for a runny nose
or a dirty face
(and let's not forget those little hands)
as you smugly look over my purchases
with a nod to the gallon of milk, the bread and the fresh fruit
but a wave of your gloved fist to the ice cream (luxury).

My children do need something to smear on their faces,
something to give you reason to judge anyway.

You notice my thrift store clothes
and my shoes that are coming apart at the soles
and you still think that this is all that I want out of life.

Preservation

They talked about an old woman
who collected fruits and vegetables from the food banks,
took them home and canned them
one by one
until hundreds of jars lined up in her living room.
And she kept canning
for years and years
until her family finally put her in a retirement center.

And then someone dug a little deeper
and asked why.
It turned out that her husband had died
and while this woman grieved
maybe even in order to survive
she canned some of her years away.

I wonder if she can sometimes see those years
piled up like the old jars
in her new room?

Talisman

My ancestors thought it was all about luck,
landing on Ellis Island
and then finding their way to the promise of riches in California.
Those sweet green eyed people
who knew sorrow
but kept trying anyway.
Did they hope it would be easier for me someday?

My sister sent me a four leaf clover
through the mail.
It was laminated.
So I hung it in our doorway
where it now catches the afternoon breeze.

Appraisal

We still watch the same moon
that we searched for in Sunriver
though years have passed.

We still sing the old songs
off key and maybe a little too loud
but together, you and I,
and that is actually a hell of a lot
when you really stop and think about it.

That we still lie together at night
and make each other laugh,
is enough for me.
How many people can say that?

We measure our wealth by our commitment,
not some number in a bank account--
and you have made me rich beyond words.
And worlds.

How can a poem be untitled?

You taught me purple
and made me pay attention to laughter
 when I most wanted to turn away
from the truth of
the sun.
It fades at almost the same time every night
with or without me standing out there watching it.
 
And what I really wanted to say is that your beauty silences me
and humbles me golden
just like that old sun.