Güd wrtr

Though we have bailed out of exercise early
today—because the leaf blower man has
come to blow away the leaves on her lawn
where we work out to and with the oldies—

Marilyn comes inside, heading for her laptop
on the table by the living room window.
I sigh, seeing her there, this longtime writer,
her manicured red nails hovering over the keys,

her short-circuited brain recovering
day by day, week by week, watching her
return to herself, to those who love her,
to the world that she has chronicled

since she could first hold a pencil,
on countless pages, in journals
on paper and pixels, in many books.
And now she sits on the sofa reading

a memoir on her iPad by a woman who,
after concussion, had trouble reading.
Why can’t you read? the author asks herself.
You were in the Acorn group in second grade.

“I didn’t have any trouble reading,” Marilyn
says. “That would have been awful.”
She chats as she did in the before-stroke
times, better able to follow conversation,

though I still need to slow my speech
for her to catch my fastball words. I think
of her late husband’s dementia that utterly
destroyed his brain, her own on the mend.

Every time I’m with her, I find her more
herself, but, I suspect, she was never
not herself. No one can see the buttery
consistency of her brain floating

in its cradle of fluid, doing its good work
to repair itself bit by bit, synapses
making new connections, her brain
circuitry rewiring synapse to synapse,

creating new pathways,
one precious cell talking to another,
all by their clever, clever selves.

Given the choice
between love and not love,

between the harsh voice
and the gentle one,

it is prudent, you remind
yourself, to pause when

this one or that one is
annoyingly annoying,

and you want, more than
anything, to snap off their

head and chomp on it like
a female praying mantis

is wont to do after mating
with a hapless swain.

But then, you draw breath
and remind yourself that,

like you, all beings simply
want to be happy, that

all beings search for the
compassionate-hearted,

and, like you, cherish bits
of lovingkindness when it

appears—even from those
you barely know—from

the server who brings bright
lemon slices on a white plate

on a hesitantly sunny winter
afternoon for your water glass

because he remembers that
you like them. And you resolve

to choose love, to unearth some
submerged kindness from

your momentarily hardened
heart space, and offer it to one

before you now, because, truly—
could you bear to live without it,

even just a little?

for Dickie on his fifth rebirth-a-versary

The day you melted,
I witnessed the collapse
of a self, a candle burned
down to a puddle of wax,
a heap of humanity—
gone.

Yet strangers sprang
to reshape your melted
self into a new form,
and we learned that
resurrection is not
pretty.

But in the act of revival,
we become ones who
once again can bear light,
whose brightness cannot
be diminished—

who can be
reanimated,
re-formed—

our hearts reshaped
by grace and everyday,
imperfect human love,
into something we never
imagined we might be.

•••

You can read the stories of Dick’s cardiac arrest in Honolulu on Jan. 15, 2019, and the aftermath here.

•••

With our deepest mahalo, again and forever, to the AED Institute, Pamela Foster and Jenna Tanigawa, to Salesi Maumau, Claudio Alvarado, Camron Calloway, Chris Ohta, Andrew and Leona Boyd Doughty, Jan Lake, Mākena J. Ongoy, Dr. Nicholas Dang and the incredible staff and volunteers at Kaiser Moanalua Hospital in Honolulu, Cora Hoffmaster Johnson, Constance Raub, Danielle McKinney… and all our friends and family, whose support and love sustained us then and now.

It’s my month, I think, every time
I abbreviate it—not the one of my birth,

but my name, the Roman god of doorways,
beginnings, sunrises and sunsets.

One letter difference between his name
and mine to indicate entrance and,

yes, transitions, him with two bearded
faces looking in opposite directions—

both to the past and the future,
backward and forward. Two-faced, yes,

but not necessarily deceitful or
contradictory. In the spirit of duality,

I play with Janus words that hold
opposite meanings—dust, which can

mean the removal or application of it.
And now I’m thinking of cookies

dusted with confectioners’ sugar,
which leads me also to the notion

of wiping clean at the beginning of this
new year—to heed the impulse to

tidy up and organize at the same time
I want to burrow in, read, nap.

Janis as Janus—I claim my true nature
in this, my month, and yes, go in

search of dust cloth and cookie,
ready to embrace both.

I have thought for weeks
that now’s the time—

on these gray, cold days
with the narcissus shooting

their merry paperwhites skyward,
even the odd hollyhock clinging

to an unseasonably tall stalk—
that I must take up the clippers

and head to the back fence—
not to mention attend to the bed

in the front yard with roses
that I deadhead all summer—

to prune last season’s gangly stems
that provided unasked-for bounty.

Now, in January, a few crimson
blossoms nod their heavy heads

groundward as I ponder such
mysteries as roses in winter.

I have sometimes neglected to
prune them, hating to lop them

mercilessly, almost to the ground,
to make space for the yet-to-be,

to overcome my reluctance to
allow the dying to die, so that

what is gestating can—
with no help from me—

be born.

I used to wish that I’d ridden more
than bikes as a kid, or perhaps pedaled

my pink two-wheeler across the road
to the stables butting up to the state park,

and plunked down the dollar-fifty to ride.
I’d have needed lessons, tippy-over kid

that I was, and in those days no one sat
astride wearing a helmet. But still. Now

I wish I’d said yes to standing beside a being
who towered over me, full of power

and the ability to harm, should it want to,
but who—as with every equine I’ve had

the pleasure to meet since—looked down
at me from a lofty stance with kind brown

eyes, the kind that say to a child:
I can be your friend, especially if you open

your palm that hides apple slices or bits
of carrot that I will hoover into my mouth,

leaving your hand slick with slobber,
which you should know is just one way

I offer my gratitude and affection.

for Marilyn

On the brink, over the edge,
between breaths, heartbeats, tears,

underneath the weight of it all,
without what is needed, wanted,

you find yourself going round,
not necessarily in confusion,

but moving toward an unnameable
something, though you may not be able

to discern what—opposite of where you
thought you were, or should, or

wish to be. But if you look beneath,
beside, beyond—despite the difficulty

of the moment—something you’ve
long attracted crouches near.

Call it to you, even if you don’t
recall its name. It will come

carrying a gift in its teeth,
a generosity of spirit that you

have long offered to others, brought
back and dropped at your feet,

a little drooly, perhaps, but a
kindness nonetheless. Pick it up.

Pat the one who delivered it, who
looks at you now with adoring eyes.

Say yes.

each of you has written upon my body

the story of moments shared, in tenderness,
in urgency, tracing lines across my skin,
dropped kisses here and there and there—

so long ago that my memory cannot easily
summon it—but love stored in too-soon-
to-melt flesh holds it close,

deep in the marrow, tucked into cells
like the sweetest hugs—each encounter
a kind of kiss that returns

at the oddest times—like driving into
a winter sunset, one that begs me
to stop the car, pull over and

stand in the cold to commemorate
in pixels what can only truly be
registered by heart,

to feel a gasp at the gorgeousness
of last light that sends shivers of
recall down my spine,

a thank you on my lips that somehow
still remember yours and yours
and yours.

Today I’m featuring a special guest poet who found this poem coming to her
in much the same way that they show up for me. Bravo, Ma!

•••

“Propitious,” a word
seldom used these days,
or, perhaps,
any days,
popped up in
conversation, and,
prompted the question:

What would it be like
as a prompt
for my wordsmithing
daughter,
who effortlessly pours
gems
onto the written page
for all to read
and treasure
thru their evolving day?

—Darlene Haag

•••

propitious: (adj) full of promise, advantageous; favorably inclined

I just burst out laughing
at myself when texts blast
the camera-that-makes-phone-

calls out of its inert state,
forcing my aging brain to puzzle
out current-day acronyms.

The one that read TIA startled
me into a fast response:
Did you have a stroke?

to which the sender returned
a series of guffawing emojis,
masking, I think, a smidgen

of condescension: It means
Thanks In Advance. Oh, yes,
my level of out-of-it-ness

increases each year. I recently
learned IMHO from someone
who was definitely not humble

about an opinion, and that COB
does not refer to corn. WTF?
Some seem obvious: GF, BF, BFF.

And I’ve been HBDing for decades.
But HMU? MFW? OOTD? The
longtime teacher in me likes to

to amuse younger folks who grin
as they patiently explain to this OL
that LOL is so passé, that the kids

text IJBOL now. Ah, I say, but here’s
an oldie but goodie that people
pecked out on antiquated pieces

of technology called typewriters
or scribbled by hand on an old-
fashioned card that you’d slide

into an envelope, onto which you’d
affix a stamp and mail at a post
office—a classic that now leaps

through the miracle of cyberspace
to light up our devices and makes
me 🙂 every time I see it:

XOXO.

•••

If you, like me, need translations:

IMHO: In my humble opinion
HMU: hit me up
MFW: my feeling when
OOTD: outfit of the day
COB: close of business
HBD: happy birthday
OL: old lady
LOL: laugh out loud (you know this one…)
and, of course,
IJBOL: I just burst out laughing