Güd wrtr

It will not always look like this,
I remind myself as I walk, the lake
edging toward full, the bluest blue sky,
the loose fringe of clouds over the hills.

What I will miss most all too soon
is when the green goes gold, the grasses
bleach to straw, ripe for a flame,
practically begging for a spark,

the old oaks standing sentinel,
leafing now, branches quivering
in the breeze, weathering whatever
comes at them with perfect equanimity.

I look to these silent teachers
of serene acceptance—calm, composed,
steady protectors, so well balanced,
deeply rooted.

From where I stand, sun-facing,
toes-rising, hands chair-rooted,
I study the black bird that flutters

its way to the top of the tree
three yards down from Marilyn’s
where Shelley bounces us oldies

on the lawn through an hour’s
workout to the oldies. Focus on a
distant point and breathe, I learned

long ago in yoga, so I watch the bird
circle and land at the apex of the oak
beginning to leaf out—like one

regrowing hair after a bald season.
I wonder if the angel in the tree sees
us, ponders in any way the sight

of eleven women on the ground
exercising, if it trills from afar,
Blackbird singing in the dead of night…

Instead, John and Paul harmonize,
Iwannaholdyourhaaaaannnnd,
I wanna hold your hand,

and we oldies sing along too,
grateful for this glorious moment,
for movement in good company

on a chilly April morning, soaking
in the gently warming sun.

(for Maya Angelou, born April 4, 1928)

Though I didn’t call her that,
the two times I interviewed her,
but oh, how her song reverberated,

pinballing through my ribcage,
the elegant woman onstage singing
part of her story, the notes charging

into the audience like horses at a gallop,
releasing the caged bird in my own heart,
the writer she said she knew I was—

Come, rest here by my side—

who told me I had poetry in me,
the young reporter who’d tucked away
such frippery, to write stories about others

like this majestic woman,
this phenomenal woman—

The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.

Her generous smile stayed with me,
her great kindness to a young poet
lying low, learning from the maestra—

Each new hour holds new chances
For a new beginning—

her voice alive in the world,
singing still.

(Italicized lines from “Phenomenal Woman” and
“On the Pulse of Morning” by Maya Angelou)

#drangelou95 #celebrateangelou95 #MayaAngelou

Driving over the seasonal sea that washes
under the causeway, river overflow
flooding rice fields before the crop is planted,

I look at the little islands with their reedy
crewcuts popping out of water.

Pulling my eyes from the road, I search
for a great egret tall on black-stockinged legs,
taking a moment’s pause in the business
of wading through wetlands, searching
for sustenance.

I wonder what it might take to pull you out.

Could I row a small boat to where you stand,
seemingly lost in the murk?

Could I toss a life buoy down the hole
where you find yourself, persuade you to grab it,
let me pull you to the surface?

Or do I wait, breathing in your sorrow
about what has come, what is sure to come,
breathing out peace and ease?

Simply wait. Listen.

It is the hardest thing to not do.

You’ve heard of two-fisted drinkers,
but have you seen someone consuming
both liquid and banana cream
at the same time in a novel way?

Who does that?
Annie does that, helped by Mama—
nutrition easing down the tummy tube
and yummy cream down the hatch.

Because these two, the indomitable
team, can do anything—Annie,
with her pretty nails, snazzy chair,
killer smile and gleeful chortle,

and Mama Nikki, the Can-Do queen,
smart and sassy females I adore,
savoring the sweet stuff of life,
wheeling through the world

together, as friends like me
look on in wonder, cheering
them as they move ever
onward.

so I park by the rocky slope of
Mormon Island Dam rising into
the afternoon and start the climb,
first along the service road that
slopes to the top for a wide-angle
view of the lake, then veers uphill
onto the path of spring aborning.

I want the oaks just beginning to leaf out—
the big one up there with boulders
beneath where I can sit above this
expansive body of water on which
we used to ski behind a turquoise boat—

Father driving, Mother keeping track
of a daughter at the end of the rope—
a spot where I can look across the lake
to the pale ribbon of shore fronting
more green hills and oaks studding
the land that shaped my sister and me.

This great basin before me—nearly
emptied by drought in recent years
to a trickle of the original river running
through it—is nearly full.

Snowmelt will soon arrive in torrents,
and though we perpetually have
too much or too little water,
for now it is good to sit on granite
high upslope under trees, washed
by an eloquent spring breeze
on the last day of March,

grateful for this solo outing,

attentive to conversing birds,
breathing with trees and rocks,
grasses and lake, listening for
the poem approaching,

not really alone at all.

***

Here’s to National Poetry Month! Poet on, people!

Yeah, you are. Even when you’re not feeling it.

Because, you think, wonder is such a big word.
Like awe. And awesome is so overused.
How could you be a wonder?

Because you think and speculate curiously,
because you want to know.

Because you’re filled with admiration, awash
in amazement as—guess what?—we are
for you.

As when looking at, say, the Grand Canyon.
You are no less grand, majestic, splendid,
part of it all. Truly.

As am I. As is he or she or they. Magnificent,
actually. A marvel of a human, each of us,
full of wonder (and write this down),

wonder-full.

How do we thank the clouds for their fleeting abundance?
—Pablo Neruda

Too often, we take them for granted,
those fluffy thought balloons drifting
lazily by spring’s bluest curtain.
We may praise the sun or think,
What a beautiful day, but unless

we lay ourselves on soft grass,
cup our hands behind our heads
and direct our distracted gaze upward,
we fail to notice the proliferation of clouds,
forget that they move in infinite permutations,
reshape themselves like spirits, demonstrate
the intention of wind.

And when they overtake the sky en masse,
wearing their darkest clothes,
dare to spit at us, we unfurl umbrellas,
complain, Not today. When it first comes,
we reluctantly admit, We do need the rain,
but storm after storm leaves us wishing
the deluge would stop

We long for the aftermath—for puffy clouds
from a child’s drawing, for sunshine
and petrichor filling our lungs with
that washed-clean smell of earth.

We tip our chins to the sky then,
and maybe one among us—
one of the smallest—
will spot a billowing sail high above,
point and say,

Look, it’s a sheep—
no, a galloping horse,
and that one will giggle gratitude
as the daily sky show unfolds
for us rooted ones, who wish
we could let go and float like that.

for Timi

Now you bundle him up for safe transport
to a place he doesn’t want to go,
none of us wants to go.

But as carefully as placing a fresh egg in a cardboard cradle,
you prepare to move him,
his ravaged lungs straining to welcome every breath.

No one wants this leave taking.

You hope this buys him some time,
some small comfort,
this caretaking in the new place,
something you can do for him in this moment,

as he looks around the spring green hills he has long loved,
as he may or may not say goodbye.

1. First, forget that you want to write a poem. Because maybe you don’t.
But you’ve got a blank page or too-bright screen in front of you,
aching for you to put something on it.

1b. Just set down some words, gently, as if you’re placing a delicate
china cup onto its equally fragile saucer. Let them come through
your fingers, any words you like the sound of. Maybe chimney. Or plucky.
Or plucky chimney. They don’t have to logically go together. Let yourself
smile at their willingness to show up for you.

2. Add more words. Arrange them in short lines if that looks good to you,
little stairsteps marching down the page. Try not to think too hard about them,
these raindrops of syllables trickling through you, these sturdy words:
Mediterranean. Catalpa.

2b. Or maybe your lines stretch across the page like the long arm of a wave
coming in parallel to the shore. Watch it arrive, melt into foam.
Call it a prose poem, if you want.

3. You may think, This is a poem? It’s a poem if you call it a poem.
Doesn’t matter if anyone else thinks so. Or praises it in any way.
It’s your poem, dammit.

3b. Keep going till the poem wants to end. How do you know
it’s the beginning of the end? Put an ear to the words; listen closely
as if trying to determine if someone is still breathing. Listen to the words
inhaling and exhaling, living on the page, stairsteps leading to some
final thought, becoming something that didn’t exist before you started.

4. Resist the tendency to dismiss what has appeared from who knows where
with (look at that!) a bit of fairy dust sprinkled on top. Honestly, it’s magic;
no one understands how this happens. Admire what has tumbled down those
stairs and landed.

4b. There. You poemed just now. That is no small thing, my friend.
You poemed.