Güd wrtr

East Lawn Cemetery, Sacramento

In between storms
I take my walk to find,
not far inside the open iron gate,
the first uprooted tree, its underside
typically hidden underground,
the lacy petticoat and fine bones
unearthed, nakedly exposed
under a hazy blue sky

Another of the fallen, its green apron
of grass still attached, has been sheared
open, exposing its heart to the sun,
surrounded by rings I’m tempted to count,
wondering how long it stood here.
A thousand lost, say the estimates,
in this city known for its trees.

And with them here lie the markers
of those gone long before these giants
fell on this memorial field, their limbs
strewn on muddy grass, the normally
tidy in disarray,

the new dead upended with the old dead,
some with their stones dislodged—

Justine L. Coffey, waiting for the Lord,
next to Charles E. Coffey, WWI Aero Squadron,
Julius Nyberg, beloved husband,
Angeline Marie Glans, in loving memory—

side by side as it has always been,
as we among the living walk through
and remember.

for Pat Schneider

You never Zoomed a poetry reading,
I’m sure, certainly not of the journal
you founded forty years before anyone
imagined speaking at a computer screen.
You held proper readings at the Jones
Library or the Munson, requiring
in-person attendance of readers
and listeners.

They were Events, painstakingly
planned, with a typed Reading Order
and Refreshments that you provided,
likely a Podium and Microphone.
You—MC, introducer, cheerleader,
hugger—as each reader came up,
often nervous, with you there
afterward, whispering, “Wonderful!”

Tonight we held our second virtual reading
for the 36th edition of Peregrine,
Zooming with a terrific batch of onscreen
readers from all over—among them
Kate in Wales, Bonnie in Portland, and
Ralph whose poem reflected his childhood
in Brooklyn—along with a generous
audience of listeners.

I imagined you among them, too, though
your face did not appear in a box
on my screen, though you vanished
into mystery more than two years ago.

I cannot say your name as I sing
your praises during the introduction—
as I did each time you came to speak
and lead workshops in my town—
without sensing your steady presence
as I metaphorically step to the virtual
microphone, read what I have written,
only to step away and hear you in my ear:

“Wonderful, honey. Nicely done.”

(Special thanks to all the folks published in Peregrine, the Amherst Writers & Artists journal, especially those who read at our two virtual readings, to Danielle McKinney, our MC, and to Sue Reynolds, whose fine leadership and sweet praise will stay with me. And, of course, to AWA founder Pat Schneider, whose work we carry on with great love and much enthusiasm.)

And now let us believe in a long year that is given to us, new, untouched, full of things that have never been.
—Rainer Maria Rilke

Things that have never been:

This new year stretching long before us,
bright and unshadowed.
This breath, and the next and the next.
This awaited, hoped-for blessing
that will come with a great cry,
a new being entering the world.

This celebration, that death,
this laugh, that heartfelt tear,
a thousand untouched moments
we cannot anticipate and don’t
want to,

even as we walk the same path
to the river or the blocks to the cemetery,
dogs tugging on leashes, the errands
that seem the same, the hellos and
goodbyes to our familiars—

we are given the new every day
if we put on spectacles of surprise,
tuck wonder into our heart pockets,
allow awe to explode far more often
than anger.

We believe in this time given us,
no guarantee of how much
or how little, every fresh flash,
each day’s awakening, the surprise
of walking by a creamy winter rose—

this twinkling second, so precious,
this thankful breath, refreshed
by another and another, this
opportunity to sing the tune
not again but, with feeling,
anew.

for Lauren and Gerald and Henry

for Helen Plenert

The artist posts a photo of
her paint-speckled hands after
reloading her acrylic paint palette,

and I enlarge it to look at the colors,
which I cannot accurately name—
periwinkle, bright blue, mustard
that looks as if it could be rising
on dancing stems a winter field,

and, of course, the brush, which must
have hundreds of colors embedded
in its handle. But I focus on Helen’s
speckled palms, evidence of a painter’s
craft, every dash and dot testament
to pigments coming up on canvas or paper,

perhaps like words show up for me—
only with more color in the impressions
rising from formerly mute paper,
feathery brushstrokes that our minds
imagine into images

from those graceful, painterly hands.

to remind you that you, who lives
amid such abundance, who has
so much of what others do not,

are just as reliant on the basics—
good food, clean water, electricity—
as everyone else, that your

privilege can, indeed, leave you
in the dark for 56-and-a-half hours,
that you have no control over

so much in life that you take
for granted. But O! the joy
when, at 8:20 a.m., the light

next to your bed switches
on, startled to life, as you are,
after thunder woke your part

of the world in the deep dark
of night, a tympanic overture
to morning’s amazement that

prompts you to leap out of bed
in the chill of your unheated
house to see if—yes!—

the heater is again diligently
chugging away, and you,
forgoing slippers, dance through

the wintry house in your jammies,
flicking switches, watching lights
come to life, chortling as they do so,

confusing the sleepy cats with
exclamations, with thank you’s
to those who brought back the light,

as you promise yourself never to
take the blessing of electricity,
of indoor heat and hot water

(as some of your students used to say)
for granite ever again.
Amen.

After the big bad bug got us
on vacation, after a canceled flight
home and a long drive up the center
line of our state, in this season of rain
and wind, watching the widening
pond consume the backyard, after
electricity vanished days ago thanks
to a downed tree and uprooted
power pole down the street—

we realize that we are struck by
inconvenience, not crisis, finding
heat in flannel sheets and soft
blankets topped by cats, making
tea and plugging in devices at
the homes of those who invite us in.

Pummeled by weather,
not bombs or invading forces,
we are assured that our power
will return at some point, and we
fortunate souls on standby
trust that it will be so.

On my way this morning to drive
Mom to appointments and errands,
I admire the greening of the rural
roadside that only that only
weeks ago wore an untidy mop
of parched weeds. And look—
the leafless oaks, some up to their
knees in rainwater, tiny buds
already dotting their stems,
they wait, too.

for Dickie

Aren’t we all? I hear him say,
and I protest, No!

It’s one of the great benefits
of living within shouting distance
of three hospitals—no matter
the storm, power’s never out for long.

But last night, shortly before a
new day, as the winds tore through
our bare trees like a raging bully,
as I sat at the computer ready
to post a poem, I heard a great pop!
and then darkness, and I sat quiet
for a minute, absorbing, alone.

Each storm is unique, of course,
and we sitting ducks weather them
as they come, these atmospheric
rivers, one after another, washing
over us, filling our thirsty rivers,
making the near-empty reservoirs
rise muddy and choppy.

When just enough becomes too much,
we fret. We must clean up after each
storm while preparing for the next.
Down H Street in daylight, I see the tree
that crashed through its fence, blocking
the road, taking out power lines
and pole 12 hours earlier.

You’re not without power, Janis,
says the one to whom I migrate,
electronic devices in hand,
all of us in need of recharging.

You’re without electricity,
he reminds me.
You have the power.

And so I do, taking to the page,
to write it all down so as
not to forget the gift. Again.

Put your chin in the little dip
and look into the bowl of stars,
tiny suns that blink and disappear,

then press with an eager finger
the button to indicate that some
part of your peripheral vision

has noted them. But immediately
you wonder, Did I really see that?
Was it an eyeblink or a floater?

Because you fear that you cannot
trust what you think you see, no matter
how tack sharp or dull your sight.

It is the sense you most rely on,
you and you and me, too, so you
sigh during this test, try to relax

your shoulders, breathe as normally
as you can, soften your focus and
imagine looking through a telescope

at a thousand, ten thousand suns
winking at you from a great distance,
casting light thousands of years old,

and you, lucky one, catch glints
as quick as a whisper into the cosmic
past, your eyes not deceiving you,

letting the light in, as they are meant to,
you wide-eyed, wonderful thing,
you.

Out the back door window
I see part of Mary’s mural
lit up, a soft midday spotlight
on words she painted a couple
of years ago:

I awoke with your voice and because…
…small green fans on slender…
…gold and fluttered to the ground…
…their little lives…

My words twine amid green
stems swooping up to gold fans
leading to poppies and anthuriums,
gold and red under a domed sun,
a bit of dangling purple wisteria—

plants that flourish in warm times,
recalled by a tender bit of winter light
beaming in from our nearest star,
making a momentary appearance,
as do so many of our beloveds,
as if to say,

Turn around; look up and blink.
I’m never far away, here,
just behind the rain.

Stones are very slow stories with secret memories of fire inside.
—John Tarrant

In this first month of a new year
pick up a stone—perhaps one
that calls to you, perhaps one
you picked up some time ago and
kept for a reason you can’t recall.

Pick up your stone, feeling,
for the moment, that it somehow
is meant for you, letting it warm
your hand. If you hold it long
enough, one hand covering
the other, close your eyes
and smile, the stony memory
of fire bringing a tiny puddle
of heat to your palm.

Sit with that fire.
Sit with the slow story
of your stone, letting it unravel
like a knitted thing, filling
your hands with kinked yarn,
its secret, flaming memories
given to you to hold, gently,
the warmth of something you
thought lifeless and mute
infusing you.

Accept the gifts your stone
has laid in your hands;
they are yours to carry into
the year spread before you.
Walk into what comes next,
scattering stories, maybe
a song or two, like pebbles
you offer to other hands
that will hold the secret fire
and share it with anyone,
with everyone, who needs it.

(Thanks to Jennifer Cox, Christie Domasky, Julie Woodside and Kathy Laharty for your good listening in my online writing group that helped shape this poem!)