parched–
hitching my roan,
old saloon,
hope they have whiskey
and a friendly bartender
they’s a card game in the corner
and, cross the way, a lady in a pretty dress
dirty glass, but I’m thirsty
leave the bottle, I says
bartnder sets it down
he don’t smile, but I reckon
he can see it in my face–
the horror I done seen
out in Buckskin Gulch–probably
in the newspapers by now–
all the bartender says is
“dusty from the trail, ain’t ya?”
The Senior Center exercise instructor on Mondays is chill, very namaste, but on Wednesdays it’s Wendy, who probably never said namaste in her life. She’s got iron gray hair, two sleeves of tattoos & buns of steel, the last of which she says we need, too. Squeeze those butt cheeks, she yells like a drill sergeant, squeeze ’em! We obey as best we can, squeezing to the oldies from all the best eras—”Downtown” by Petula Clark, “Stop! In the Name of Love” by the Supremes, “Never Gonna Give You Up” by Rick Astley, all synced to thirty beats a minute—but the music can’t keep us from dreading where she’s taking us, into what she calls our Discomfort Zones, where we trade pain for gain.
my butt cheeks burning
like a pair of rubber tires
in a trash barrel—
The hardest part, which Wendy says is just as much for our brains as our bodies, is picking up her combinations of marching, walking, squatting & lunging, which she’d never admit is choreography. It calls for coordination & rhythm & a smattering of grace, not much of which most of us have because our brains are just as atophied as our bodies. Might as well be line dancing: Up, back, out, in, up! Up up back back in in out out back back in in out out up up! Jesus Christ. Squeeze the big yellow ball between your knees & with your right hand, toss the little blue ball in the air! Now squeeze the blue ball between your knees & with your left hand, toss the yellow ball in the air! Turns out the Discomfort Zone has many precincts. Stay in your body! Think about what your arms & legs are doing, not what’s outside that window!
There’s a robin’s nest
swaying in the tree outside
wish I was in it—
We know Wendy’s got a kind heart under that full metal jacket, drumming from inside like the Tin Man’s. We wish she could be our sergeant when the moment comes, leading us into the Discomfort Zone for our final battles with the enemy, time. Till then we sneak peeks at its advance on the gym clock, ticking down toward the end of this skirmish: cool-off, our favorite part. Give yourself a hug, she says, & we lift our arms up & out like a robin’s wings unfurling, lay them gently across our heaving chests. Now pat yourself on the back.
unexpectedly
I feel stronger, almost good—
give myself a hug
Rest in Peace, Pup:
I have some strong opinions
sitting in the waiting room
of Dutch Ford while
my truck tires get rotated
and I pour the sludge
the mechanics call coffee
into a Styrofoam cup
and add powdered creamer.
There’s a woman about my age
who wants to eat hearty, delicious dinners
and find seven simple ways
to bring summer beauty inside
and find some lush new looks for the patio
and to plant some no-fail fall bulbs
and maybe get some baby goats.
There’s a high school couple here
at 7 am, she’s made up and perfumed
he’s clean like it’s Friday night
And he’s teasing, and she says
Stop it, Danny. Stop, I mean it.
But she doesn’t mean it, and we all know it
Because she leans in and touches his arm
Because her contour is doing its job
There’s a mechanic with no ass who wanders in
sunburned, jingling quarters in his hand
talks to the vending machine -powdered donuts
honey buns, toast chee sandwich crackers-
lean-rolling back to look at the bottom
of the dusty racks, what is expired there
skeptical, but oddly hopeful
he will find his future in C5
And I sit here, having connected
to the guest wifi, having wasted my June
again, with only four poems, when
I had such good intentions,
so many strong opinions, those opinions
so strong, they make me weak
and I realize: the hill I will die on is
covered in sawmill gravy.
It started with a fly.
Fat, slow-moving,
buzzing just above the sofa cushion,
near the comfort-worn blankets
that shelter boys during long Minecraft afternoons.
It wasn’t meanness.
Jamie, ten,
sandal raised like a flag of justice,
swung hard
and cracked the world a little.
The living room window—
gone.
Glass spilled like rain
across the couch,
into corners,
and scattered across the cement driveway
like the sky had shattered
and tried to keep it quiet.
Connor, twelve,
stood beside him,
squinting at the damage.
“It’s hardly noticeable,” he said.
A pause.
“I think.”
They waited in the silence,
barefoot in the wreckage,
the house holding its breath
along with them.
Then—
the low sound of tires
on the driveway.
Their mother pulling in,
her hand still on the gear shift
when she saw it:
the bright, broken wound
in her home.
And Jamie let out a cry
from the center of his chest—
a sound that children make
only when they believe
they’ve let love down.
Later,
their father came home,
his shirt damp with the day,
his patience low and rattling.
He stood at the edge of it all—
the break,
the boys,
the unspoken weight—
and said nothing.
Because sometimes
a man’s quiet
carries more than any scolding.
That evening,
he pulled out the blue painter’s tape.
Crisscrossed it,
careful and taut,
until the jagged edges
wore a plaid of protection.
Not beautiful,
but faithful.
A barrier not just against weather,
but for the safety of bare feet,
little hands,
and four restless boys
still learning
how things fall apart.
Connor nodded,
arms crossed.
“Well,” he said,
“I guess we’re going for the plaid look now.”
And the room exhaled.
The glass man’s coming soon.
The light will return,
uncut and easy.
But tonight,
the house wears its wound with grace.
It flaps a little
when the air kicks in.
And I can’t help but think—
aren’t we all
just trying to hold our homes together
with what we’ve got on hand?
A strip of tape.
A breath of patience.
A brother’s voice
softening the edge.
Maybe the fix isn’t in the pane—
but in the sweep,
in the gathering,
in the moment you choose
not to shout,
but to stay.
Because sometimes
the best we can do
is cover the break gently,
make it safe
until love
can get through again.
On the third floor of a carless parking garage
50 people or so, some I know, march towards me
like the pharmaceutical flash mob in commercials.
I join their trek to the restaurant at the top
where every meal is five stars and three figures.
A woman poet travels behind me.
The djinn of an older lawyer keeps
his protective hand on my shoulder.
In a narrow passageway on the fourth level
a gunshot victim crumples on the cement.
He’s a black sack corpse of brush stroke bones,
a Kanji come to life, about to leave it.
He lifts his head, props on an elbow.
When the djinn of an older lawyer comes to help,
the Kanji pulls and points a gun.
Bang! muff-cuffs my deadened ears.
I can’t feel if the djinn is shot or not.
I eject from the cockpit’s body.
We all run, there’s an active shooter,
Kanji or the unseen one who shot him.
I rappel the side of the parking structure.
My feet hit ground away from the crowd.
I sprint the field to become a distant target.
I imagine places without active shooters
but realize that’s where active shooters go.
Everywhere, there’s an active shooter –
Kanji or the unseen one who shot him,
also government agents, even neighbors.
Chaos is quicksilver in our brains.
None know if the djinn is shot or not.
After my hair turned white
and had entered my 7th decade,
I took a fall on my bike.
Landed in the middle
of a residential street
where concerned citizens
including a few children
rushed to me
to get a close look
at my bruised ego.
Overwhelmed
by substantial kindness,
I knew–
the troops arrived
because I was a little old lady.
I declined offers to haul
me and my bike home,
so they helped me up,
made sure I could walk
and talk,
then lined
the street to watch me
pedal away
bravely
on the red carpet.
All I wanted
was a warm bath
and ibuprofen.
I awoke this morning,
Thinking of things which Tolkien wrote,
I don’t know why, but one thing,
Struck me as being of note.
It’s an undercurrent,
Running through his tales,
Though we see it there again and again,
In each one without fail.
But the one defining moment,
Where it’s first spoke out loud,
Is at the door to Moria,
Among the traveling crowd.
After many pompous displays,
Tricks and fancy spells,
Taps and hammers upon the stone,
And all their hopes had fell.
In a moments inspiration,
Or was it in surrender,
As the words above the door were read,
“Speak friend and enter”.
It was a simple riddle,
Though the answer’s so oft forgot,
Declare yourself to be a friend,
And forget the tommyrot.
Of course there’s more to friendship,
Than just the spoken word,
Actions speak louder,
And above the din are heard.
But we find in the beginning,
Even the most guarded door,
Opens first to friendship,
With no need of more.
It’s fine to be scared but after a month of pain
and worry, appointments and procedures,
imagine your relief at finally
understanding the cause of your pain
and be ready to live your life again.
Think about all your delicious plans.
Calm yourself with the deep breathing
I do at choir rehearsals: inhale through
your nose for two beats, exhale for twelve.
To release your tension, inhale and blow
out through your lips, making them vibrate.
Modify your favorite yoga positions.
Talk to everyone around you. Ask questions.
Your family is cheering you on:
a brother standing by, in-laws at your bedside,
a spouse devoted to you. Remind yourself
that you are the cat’s meow,
held precious and dear by many.
I chase
sunsets
craving
crimson
like
ruby lanterns
shrouded dark in
Lascaux Cave
over eons
I see
artists -shamans
on sacred
journeys
carrying
charcoal
and ochre
chanting deep
for ritual painting
horses aurochs bison
red hands
splayed across cave walls
and ceilings
visual prayer
aligned with time
aligned with constellations
opening the cosmic
door
I see crimson light
in black
shadows
