for Joe Chan, with thanks and admiration
They dive in or burst out of brick buildings,
cascade over a meadow, backlight a majestic
oak tree at sunset, reflect on the waters
of a river called American under a bridge
named Rainbow.
You capture elusive light, share it with others
who missed the full spectral beauty of
brilliant, stormy skies. Or those who
can’t see it as you do through your lens,
unpeeling the world, brightening it
for the rest of us.
And now,
the piercing loss
of the beloved
newly gone
eases a wee bit
as you walk past
tulips standing at
attention, as loose-
lipped blossoms
waggle a springy
hello, dazzling scarlet,
happy yellow, soft
salmon, flaming
poppies flashing
their bellies to the sky.
They stop you,
bend you closer—
life eternal right
there, the promise
of spring given
even as the beloved,
encased in mystery,
somehow feels
present, waving in
the soft breeze,
reminding you,
Here I am, right here,
always here—
I promise—
even when you think
I’m not.
The song you heard singing in the leaf when you
were a child
is singing still.
— Mary Oliver from “What Can I Say?”
If you bend near or stretch tall,
put your ear close to the baby bud
busily working to evolve—
perhaps one day unspooling into
a graceful fern or a whopper of a
sycamore leaf the size of your hand—
if you’re very quiet, so that all
you hear is a whoosh of wind and
the call of a bird whose name you’d
like to know,
you might catch the song of foliage
greening, of the stalk stretching
as you do, growing taller every
moment, even when you can’t
see it.
You might detect a tiny tune
in the life that’s aborning.
Let the leaf teach you the melody
embedded in its cells, placed
there by ancestors it has
never known, but has inherited
everything it needs to grow
and flourish in this season
of thriving.
Tuck that tune under your arm,
and return often, if you can, to
linger with the song of springtide.
Be sure to hum or warble or whistle,
adding your own harmony to
the leafy serenade,
as well as your big smile,
your whole-hearted applause.
for Dick Schmidt
Only in a Hawaiian hospital,
where he and I lodged for a fortnight,
could one find tight white rice slabs
topped with fried Spam drizzled
in teriyaki sauce, bound in a
crinkly green ribbon of seaweed.
And after another mostly sleepless
night—up every hour, it seemed,
helping him with the urinal,
the bloodletter, as he called her,
arriving for a middle-of-the-night
stab, announcements in the hall
piercing my fragmented dreams—
I’d rise from the folding chair-turned-
too-hard-bed, already dressed,
stumble downstairs to the cafeteria
(stairs for exercise every chance you get!)
and find my way to the warming
table where, under hot lights,
the musubi waited—
and nearby the hot water tap eager
for a crisp cup, my cold fingers
stopping on a packet of Japanese
green tea at the register.
And, taking my breakfast to a table by
the vast panes of glass that looked
mauka to the Moanalua Valley
that stretched, it seemed, to the island’s
center, I’d sit, pause, then bite into
into comfort that the heart patient
upstairs could not have, warming
my tongue, curling my palms around
the cup, the little teabag tag dangling
on the end of its slender string,
then look up and out into the new day,
beginning to be fed, starting to
feel full.
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!
