Güd wrtr

Unlock the curlicues
deep in the brain
where stories hide,

where lines of poetry
lurk, waiting for
the just-right key—

a voice, a touch,
the trill of bird or
the warmth

of a sunny summer
day—to release words
that gush through

the gates of synapses,
rush down the river
of arm to flow into

the eddies of hand
where pen-grasping
fingers release syllables

onto mute paper,
which sparks what
the imagination has

been storing, what
this skeleton of a key
has at last unlocked.

•••

(For the six newly trained Amherst Writers & Artists affiliates of 916 Ink in Sacramento, California. With thanks to Reyna Atilano for the key prompt and the good write!)

(for Sue Reynolds)

Neither of us could name it—
but one of us from eastern Canada
was not likely to know it, since

this herbaceous perennial thrives
in warmer climates like mine, though,
like me, is not hardy enough

for northeastern winters. But,
walking by the haystack of a bush
on our way to lunch in my town,

so happy for this long-awaited visit,
we found ourselves riveted by
flowers the color of fresh lava

beaming at us. We had to admire
their determination to overtake
the sidewalk, reluctant to tear

our eyes away from the blaring
blossoms as bright and alluring
as the sun.

How rivers and stones are forever
in allegiance with gravity
while we ourselves dream of rising.
—Mary Oliver

If I must pledge,
let me do so while standing,
not with hand over heart,

but outside amid the greening,
gawking again at the show-off
hollyhocks rising like

full-skirted towers from
last season’s leavings. I whack
them to the ground each fall,

and they insist on returning.
Talk about allegiance.
Their pledge must drive

their exploding seeds out
of spent pods into the earth
with a teeny timer inside

that lets them know when
to do all that underground work
to start pushing toward

the sun. That’s how I want
to commit myself, quietly
going about the everyday-ness

of every day, growing in the dark,
looking for light, but mindful
of when it’s time to rest,

to dig in, to recharge
for the moments when
the call comes

to start all over again.

Lady Liberty may be caged for now,
she may be detained behind a fence
or kept out of a place that
is rightfully hers,

but hear this as you try to stomp
on her freedom-loving soul:
She is not sitting or lying down;
she is standing tall.

And that flag in her hand is not
your symbol of tyranny disguised
as strength; her crown is not the one
you’ve placed on your head.

She will prevail by standing
peacefully tall, her protest
the flag that proclaims us
indivisible, we, the people,

this one nation committed
to this democratic experiment,
who, with Lady Liberty,
will not be separated

or stomped or stopped
by your false declarations,
of your desire to rule—
with hatred and fear—

us, the people.

(for Sue Reynolds, visiting from Canada)

While you nap, exhausted from the long
journey from your side of the continent
to mine,

I grab the clippers and head for roses
that my long-ago neighbor Inez planted
for us here on Santa Ynez Way.

I meant to get to this before you arrived,
but other must do’s intervened.
So on this mild, almost-summer day,

standing in a gentle Delta breeze, I stand
before Inez’s gangly bush roses, study
the tired stalks leaning groundward.

The first blooms of the season have
fallen, coating the ground with red petals
gone pink. I always hesitate here,

reluctant to cut but knowing that
to trim the long stems will lighten them,
allow new blossoms to arrive—

as you have, my friend from afar,
that you, too, will stand tall after a rest,
fresh bloom in your cheeks.

And with that thought, I make
the first snip and watch the still-
supple stem snap to attention,

vibrantly green and alive,
already growing into
whatever comes next.

I want to be what you saw in me—
the bright and energetic, frizzy-haired bundle
of young woman with the too-big glasses
who was still so much girl, one who
had so much to live and learn.

But something in you found something
in me that pulled you in my direction,
like the tide tugging you where you
didn’t plan to go. And, perhaps
marooned for a time, you stayed
to explore this uncharted me, as I
toured the undiscovered parts of you.

What you saw in me, what I saw in you
I can no longer name, though I’d like to.
It’s all awash in the passing decades,
in the daily motion of tides, some high,
some low, some extremes of each.
But I suppose it doesn’t matter.

We are not the same creatures, given
that our cells entirely replace themselves
over time—skin cells every two to four weeks,
red blood cells about every four months.
Bones regenerate constantly but can take
a decade to completely replenish, though
neurons in the brain can last a lifetime

You, embedded bone deep, into the fabric
of my brain, remain forever—or at least
until this body that once loved yours
lets go, repurposing our atoms, which,
thanks to the physics of the universe,
will echo through space for eternity.

All we will be one day is light and air,
floating, as we once did, in each other.

You wish this had come to you
as you watched her labor

through the last days of hard
breaths, focusing on the in

and the out, the lengthening
between: that the breath

has no body. It is not our home.
We let each one go into air,

which gives us another breath
until they no longer come.

We practice breathing all
the days of our lives,

befriending it, coming to
know it, resting in it—

as she did, each breath
a goodbye—before she

separated from the body
that wanted to live. But

whether we realize it
or not, we practice parting

from life with every exhale—
as we must, as we are

meant to do.

(for Antsy McClain)

Even without the band,
it just takes one man,
six strings

and a voice that reaches
into your soul and tugs
on your deepest self,

urging you to settle in
for a spell of kindness,
to feel like family,

embraced by his large
heart and song after song
that make you smile—

even if you don’t yet
know the words—
and sing along.

This bird woman uncaged,
florally abundant, smiling,
clear-eyed and colorful,

a woman who has seen and loved
and lived well, holding it in every
cell, every fold, every wink.

Let me grow into this old woman
amid blooming things like
flowers and wingéd things

like birds and insects,
all manner of creatures
who show me how to fly,

how to relish every minute
of these too-short lives—
really just an eyeblink—

and, when it’s time,
how to wing off on a breath,
truly uncaged from

the house of this body
I think of
as me.

Though we were only two at the table,
certainly her mother joined us, as she always does,
along with another who mothered me, too,

as a 20-something, new-to-town journalist
who didn’t know she needed mothering.
That little town gave me two maternal voices

I didn’t know I needed, and we hoisted our
delicate china cups to them in the lovely tea room
down the street from that used-to-be

office where I and others I came to adore
worked. How much this town gave me,
I think now when I make occasional forays

there. How much gratitude spills from me
45 years after I first drove in on the same road
I did today, thinking of those now-gone ones,

the ones who mothered me, others who loved me
for no good reason, who taught me what it is
to be a grownup in the world, doing work

we loved, with people who became family,
who live with me still—those here and gone—
lucky, lucky me.

•••

(for Eileen and Ruth Rita and Julie
along with my old Vacaville Reporter family)