Güd wrtr

that the big thing that’s slithering
just under the surface is not
there slithering,

that thing we don’t want to talk about,
perhaps a slimy, annoying, upsetting,
creep-you-out thing,

has disappeared, kaput, poof! so that
all that’s left is you looking at me,
me looking at you,

nothing between us but air and
a couple of smiles—yours, mine—
and that thing and all the other

things of the world that keep
stirring inside us, wishing we could
do something to make those things

go away or someone feel better,
what we can do is, just for now, is
focus on each other, you gazing

into my eyes, me looking into yours,
and take these smiles to heart, tuck
’em in tight for safekeeping,

and let your lungs inhale deeply
and let that breath ooze into the air,
and let’s just say to each other,

Wow. You. There.

And marvel in you, in me, in this
moment we share, which will,
naturally, poof away as all stunning

moments do, but will also, as your
smile embeds in me and mine
sinks deeply into you,

morph into memory, so that
all that’s left, when we think
about it later—so much later—

is the love.

Set up a shop the color of banana.
Cram it full of books and a window seat

ripe for reading, tucked into a London alley
so you have to search for it, delighted

when you find it, reveling in the sweetness
of banana, warmth of shopkeepers

who live for books, as you do, who
welcome you, offer tea and a place to sit,

a place you could die happy, surrounded
by volumes and volumes of wordwordswords

worth everything to you in this too-short
life, wishing you could have read them all.

And so it is
the day after Easter,
a similarly gorgeous day,
warm and dry at long last,
spring blasting out of ground and trees and sky
with look-at-me insistence.

And we do.
We cannot look away, nor do we want to,
finally released from what has gripped us,
at last able, many of us, to inhale fully
sweet air washed clean
by storm after storm.

We revel in it,
tempted to find an unspoiled patch
of eye-popping green to roll on like puppies,
bellies up, flashing the impossibly blue,
dreamed-of sky we found
difficult to summon

on the grayest wet days,
which we now cannot imagine,
which we tuck away with the sweaters
and the cold, and rush outside
to embrace the warm.

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