Güd wrtr

(In memory of the sprinkler
king, our father, Roger, who art
in heaven, born this day in 1930.)

Did you hear my prayers, Daddy,
as Donna knelt in supplication in
my front yard, her capable hands
manipulating the plastic bits
that pass for sprinklers these days?

Nothing like the seriously steel
Rain Birds you installed outside
our childhood home after you denuded
the yard of all manner of thigh-high
weeds and thriving poison oak.

You made a fine place for little girls to play,
studded with old oaks unintentionally
watered to death as the lawn grew—
the best back yard ever—two rope swings,
the playhouse you and Grandpa built for us,
my reading and writing tree with its two
horizontal arms supporting a long pipe
between them for us to hang from.

Of course, Donna became the Chief Lawn
Mower and Sprinkler Queen, tutored at your
kingly knee. Mom and I would often see
the two of you outside, crouched in prayer
over a fussy squirter on a Sunday morning—
you, who liked to say that you didn’t need
church, that you could pray just fine
mowing the lawn.

But my finicky citified irrigation mystified
the Sprinkler Queen—not for lack of trying
but for lack of water pressure—which not
even the two of you could fix, despite her
best efforts, your spiritual intercession
and my fervent prayers.

Never mind, I thought, hand watering later
that afternoon. I’ve got the guy who installed
it coming soon to figure it out.

Because look: The poppies are still popping
in my front yard, the little purple geraniums
growing their little hearts out to keep up
with their big pink cousins, and the gangly
lemon thyme—don’t get me started on
the rambunctious lemon thyme—
makes nice tea when coupled with
some overly enthusiastic mint.

Most of all, I got to spend the morning
with the best sister you could have given me,
silently thanking you for everything—
so much of everything—you gave us,
not least your great heart that
beats in us, too.

Cut it open, reveal its
pure heart, and you see
in that dripping watermelon

center how aptly it is named.
And though its label promises
“seedless,” you spot the pale

seedlets dotting the interior
like little buttons. No black
seeds, but, of course, it has

to have grown from something,
as all pure hearts do. You regret
your greed on this hot day

that propelled you to cleave
this open heart, laying it bare
to the air and your waiting

spoon that hovers only briefly
before diving into that perfect
flesh, and savoring that flavor

before swallowing, adding,
at least metaphorically, a bit
of that pure heart to your own.

(for all of you)

If I tell you that this window looked out
on a place of extreme beauty,
you might understand its
sentiment:

Forever thankful
Always grateful
Abundantly blessed

But if I tell you that this window
also looked out on an isolated
peninsula where people were
sent to die,

you might think otherwise.
Condemned with a fatal disease,
thousands were sent here
and, yes, died here.

Parents had their children taken
from them lest they become lepers, too.
Husbands and wives separated, unless
the one not sick wanted to come, too.

And yet. And yet. In this place of so much
sorrow, so much joy, so much gratitude
for new friends who became family,
for untold blessings that could not

have arrived in any other place.
Which is how I carry my appreciation
for your serendipitous appearance
in my orbit and mine in yours.

Which is to say I hold you in gratitude,
among my many blessings, for which
I say, again and again,
thank you so very much.

•••

In memory of the people of Kalaupapa on the island of Molokai,
where approximately 8,000 patients with leprosy (now known
as Hansen’s Disease) were banished between 1866 and 1969.

•••

On this day after celebrating another birthday, I am grateful to all
of you who read these poems, who like and comment on them,
as well as those who simply take them in.

This daily practice, inspired by poets who’ve been doing this far longer
than I (thank you to the late William Stafford and his son Kim Stafford,
Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, James Crews and others), has helped me
exercise the writing muscle in wonderful ways.

To paraphrase Rosemerry, the day’s poem doesn’t have to be good;
it just has to be true. It is, to borrow her phrase, a reflection of
how I meet the world. And even when the poems contain
fictional elements, as they sometimes do, they are the truest things
I write each day.

I rise as three planets
parade through the summer sky
under the ginormous Buck Moon

creeping slowly up the southeastern
horizon, much as a young male deer
might peer through the brush,

The Anishinaabe call this one
the Berry Moon, while the Abenaki
think of it as the Thunder Moon.

A moon by any name that travels
the skies tonight into tomorrow
reflects the full moon that lit my way

into the world 68 years ago, a moon
in Aquarius, as a president signed
into law the act that created NASA.

Ten years later men orbited
the moon for the first time, and ten
days before my 11th birthday,

two men walked on its powdery
surface. On every birthday I look up
and think of them taking that

giant leap for mankind under that
bright Aquarian moon, thankful
that I landed on the planet

when I did, part of the generation
hoping to save it, part of
the generation that has not.

But grateful that I, like the deer, was
delivered, wide-eyed and blinking,
into life on this precious blue marble.

You turned over your baby car to me
so I could drive you on Thursdays—
and me on all other days—

a half century after you sat in another
passenger seat as I, with my learner’s permit,
mangled the clutch on your Toyota.

To your credit, not once did I see
your fingers grip the door handle in
your-then-my Elantra. Of course,

you couldn’t see well by then, though
you insisted otherwise. I refused the gift
at first, saying that I was afraid that

I’d boo-boo it (which I now have), and
you said, with uncommon gentleness,
“Janis, it’s just a car.”

It didn’t strike me then, but all these
years later, Ma, I hear the “I love you”
in that sentence.

I finally got the message.

•••

(In memory of the woman who was in labor with me on this day in 1958.)

Why not? They look good purple.
Maybe magenta, too.

Taking away the purple crayon
was just mean.

I’m sorry she did that to you.
Here’s your purple crayon.

And while we’re at it, let’s get out
the periwinkle one, too.

Ooo, and the boysenberry, the mulberry,
the orchid, the amethyst, the plum,

and yes, the grape.
Do not forget the grape.

Use ’em all, my friend. Sure,
throw in some birds and clouds

and hills that reek faintly of
newsprint. Don’t forget the swirly

sun. I love your swirly suns
raining all that bright down

on us mere mortals, making
every bit of life grow,

especially those fabulous
purple trees.

They perform this act of sharing
every summer—people bringing
bags and baskets of tomatoes,

sending them around the sanctuary
in bowls with tongs, encouraging
this one to offer the vessel of fruit

to the next one. And I hold the little
round red bit of goodness in my palm
until after Rev. Lucy’s blessing,

when we all pop them into our mouths,
a bursting gift of seasonal joy.
On the way out we are encouraged

to take home some tomatoes,
offerings from other folks’ gardens
to join some of mine that I will

cut and place in a bowl with chunks
of watermelon and the first cucumber
of my crop, along with lacy shards

of green onion, to be topped with
crumbled feta for tonight’s dinner.
Heaven beams up at me, bright red

as I linger over the bowl, big spoon
in hand, encouraging the gifts from
the soil to mingle, leaning in for

a grateful sniff before adding mint
plucked from my yard’s generous
stems, then, bringing fingers to face,

inhaling the scent of forever.

•••

With thanks to the Unitarian Universalist Society of Sacramento
(UUSS) for its generous tomato communion (and Rev. Lucy Bunch’s
delightful homily on celery, of all the humble vegetables).

It can’t be anything but
a universal day of wonder,

as they all are,

simply because
you’re in it.

(Yes, you.)

(with apologies to the great songwriter/poet Paul Simon)

In a coupla days they gonna take it away
my mama’s boo-boo’d Elantra.
I’m sad about the loss,
but my friend rushes in.
We was all on the way to see cars.

We were on our way,
kinda know where we’re goin’.
We’re on our way,
takin’ our time,
don’t know where,

Singin’
Me and Lisa down at the car lot.

Toyota Corolla!

Singin’
Me and Lisa down at the car lot.

•••

Thanks to my dear friend (from high school band/yearbook/newspaper days to now) Lisa Morgan, car goddess extraordinaire, for her guidance in the process that led to the purchase of a (practically new) car, a 2025 Toyota Corolla, to replace my mom’s 2016 Elantra that, though barely injured (and I’m just fine), wound up totaled by the insurance company.

Also thanks to the folks at Echo Park Automotive in Roseville, California. We’re on our way!

A short story by Janis Haag, age 8, found in an old box labeled “Janis school papers”
in the rafters of her parents’ garage. Thanks to Donna and Eric Just for retrieving it!