calender is funny and not funny
today. A fireman has climbed
down the tree-leaning ladder 
with a cat in his hands. 

Now calm down there, ma’am …
your cat’s gonna be fine …
just fine

he says to the old woman 
he is handing the cat to. 

But the old woman bouncing
on her toes is a dog in a coat
wearing an old lady mask

and I smile, and then see
beyond, behind, and under. 

How many people, systems,
and contortions handed me back
to my torment after I had scrambled
up a tree in temporary escape?
How many times did the torment
dance on tiptoes, in its disguise, 
being the good guy, the sane one,
the logic and love all plastic-faced?
Nothing but hunger under
the coat, tail wagging?

How many times did I climb
down the trunk
and hand myself back?

I did a dream study one time, 
set my alarm 3 times a night
for months to wake me so I could
speak whatever dream I had been in
into a recorder. And I discovered
a male narrator in my nightmares. 
An American, not anyone
I recognized. But he would 
describe the situation 
like a nature documentary.

One dream, I was hogtied on my side
in an airplane hanger, a jet
engine pointed at my face, about
to be ignited.

So she can see her death coming
the narrator said above the scene. 

I wriggled from the ropes and ran
through the surrounding corn field. 
I was bent in half, my spinal cord
being somehow severed so 
my top half wouldn’t stand upright.

I was flush with the feeling
that I might get out of this
as cornstalks swayed around me.

Little does she know that this
is part of his plan, to destroy
her more completely upon
re-capture, after thinking
she was almost to freedom.

And I stopped, bent double
in the corn field knowing
there was no escape, 
my whole body full of defeat
and surrender, numb
with absolute powerlessness.

And that is this comic cat moment,
pulled down from her branch,
a man suppoesedly helping,
handing her back to the dog
behind his kind disguise,
giddy with all his power.

She is not clawing or fighting.
She is just looking, numb-faced
at the plastic human mask
the beast is wearing.

may you wander to the place
of open roads and open skies

may you unearth what you need
to close the wounds, dry the eyes

and when asphalt turns to gravel
turns to dirt, turns to grave

may you come home to the ones
who loved you best, who loved you brave

Hope is a silent songbird
waiting out the darkness to sing.
Its heart pounding faster with the broach of dawn,
Hope is a silent songbird.
In the quiet, its morning song is incurred,
filling dry throats with notes, trills, pings and rings.
Hope is a silent songbird
waiting out the darkness to sing.

You’re a circus leaving town. The colossal tent collapsed and stowed like a deflated heart. A dazzled three-ring, high wire, red nosed, eye-boggling, eye candy, cotton candy, daredevil, juggled, breath-defying merriment.  In the distance, a lion’s fading bellow.  Elephants trumpet in response.  We shuffle our feet in the dirt of the empty lot hoping for forgotten treasures.  Sawdust sparkles the sun like fiery confetti.  

Words litter bare ground
We put them in our pockets
Take them home to plant  

Cheers to you all!  Be well.  Be safe.  Stay cool.

My toddler grandson
snuggles close, reads
the illustrations of girls and boys
cloud-watching,
somersaulting,
running out to play.

Sleep time, I rub his back.
In pitch dark I tell
him his dolphin
pillow is so soft. He replies,
No, it’s not a dolphin.
Dolphins have small teeth.
Whales have small teeth, too.
It’s a shark, Oma.
They have big, big teeth.

His voice trailing off,
I suggest we write a poem
about this in the morning,
after breakfast.

He drifts off, whispers,
Okay. But poetry first.

to recall 44 years of writing 
and rewriting our compact–

    this wonder of laughter
    and loud words, 
    sick crying babies,
    travel around the world
    returning to meals
    at home with family. 
    evenings just for two
    on the backporch
    watching fireflies,
    the dying light. 

how do we humans 
manage to mate
in tenderness,  
such fierceness?

The sun lifts above the horizon

an orange ball intense in its glow

turning golden as it rises

Smoky skies lock in the scathing

heat that boils our blood, melting

glacial ice and mountain snow

Breaking into chunks of ice that

dwindle, leaving the earth adrift

while even the oceans swelter

In the evening, the crimson sun

becomes a seething inferno as it

slips into the realm below.

With a climate gone crazy we suffer

what we have created, no longer denying

that we knew, yes, we knew.

Around me, this
Broad, bold, benevolent
Circle of gratitude
Daily reminding of the 
Ever-giving nature of the universe
Forming concentric circles of 
Grace in abundance for
Healing and revival, an
Infinite source of 
Joy and peace
Knitted together to form a 
Life rich and revelatory from each
Morning’s first light to each
Night’s dusky stillness
Observing the lyrical
Perpetuation of a pure gentle hum
Quieting your mind to its
Resting state, feeling the 
Soul lightening 
Touch of the Divine offering
Unending guidance in your 
Visioning of tomorrow and tomorrow
Worlds of possibilities and unbounded
eXaltation of the now and 
You, as you return to your center, your
Zen

* Abecedarian Poem

worn thin silk long enough to trip me
loose sash tied at the hips
unusable sleeves unsewn at the seams

as the cast of many who’ve worn it before
left damp and discarded
on my lavishly heated tile bathroom floor

The perfect perfume for any morning revere
with the wrens and chickadees,
the cardinals and goldfinch,
and from across the yard,
because they’re not a fan
of cracked corn and sun seeds,
robins, scratching for grubs in the garden.

True to their name, they sing.
True to their nature, they fly.
True to myself, I take a moment here.

There is no deep woods where the mosquitoes don’t bite.
I must return to mine own upon the last sip of my coffee.