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.

What can I say about my life? I get up every morning and throw some kind of food together for breakfast (for four, although it is rare that we all eat the same thing at the same time-- so I either make two choices or whomever is fussy gets to fend for herself). Who was it that said "I have a life, it just isn't a very good one at the moment..." Well mine is good in it's simplicity, but poor in how monotonous it can be. Yes, a quandary too.

Jason is in Medford at the moment. I wish he would get a job. Any job would do. I want to stay right here...

Oddly enough, we are completely, pathetically, direly poor. Dirt poor. Behind on rent and about to lose power kind of poor. We have less than a dollar in the bank, no car, no assets. In the past that would have worn me down and by now I would have been fighting off another bout of depression. Not this summer. I guess I am manic. I am the happiest I have been in years. I enjoy every single day with my kids, Jason and I get along well and life is good. I'm writing almost every day and even getting paid for some of it. I do worry about staying here in Ashland, but trust that things will work out of us. We deserve to be here, I do know that much at least.