"Each hurt swallowed is a stone." Rita Dove
By the end of last year
I had vomited up all the
stones
and piled them on the garden wall.
Except one.
beliefs
Aging
“Rage, Rage, against the dying of the light.” Dylan Thomas
Custom says, “Age gracefully.”
Are they crazy, dumb!
Who wants to look
old
wrinkled
grey?
They lie!
All of them.
Who wants a broken mind
confused
unfocused
lost?
Shoot me!
Burn my bones.
Scatter them
in the desert sands
to feed
desert willow where
rattlesnakes lie
searching for shade.
Grandmother
We sit on the wooden swing suspended by silver chains
hanging from the bungalow front porch ceiling.
She, elderly beyond her years, grey hair piled atop her head,
thin and wrinkled.
She stays with us sometimes when Aunt Julia goes off
on one of her adventures.
Cattle graze across the road in front of the house.
It is summer.
A bull mounts a cow.
Suddenly, out of the silence, Grandmother speaks,
“Men and bulls are just alike;
they are only interested in one thing.
A bunch of good for nothings!”
Her voice is vitriolic.
And I, a child, maybe twelve, innocent and ignorant,
sit there shocked,
amazed,
embarrassed,
astonished
to hear my grandmother talk that way.
Now, nearly fifty years later,
I wonder about her life,
what in it caused this secret bitterness
she spilled just once on that idyllic summer day.
I look at her wedding photo.
She has a steady, unsmiling, pretty face,
marrying a handsome man twenty two years her senior.
Were they happy, sad, or probably a bit of both?
I remember what my mother, her youngest daughter, told me
snippets here and there.
A hard life, endless guests
never a break from gardening, cooking, canning, cleaning.
I look at other photos of my grandmother
taken before I was born,
older, nearly as wide as she is tall, never smiling.
I remember her in an old lady’s flowery, lavender dress,
thin from years of undulate fever.
I remember her feeding me bread, butter, and sugar sandwiches,
Easter egg hunts at her house,
and later, at another house, walking with her to the corner store.
I never remember her smiling.
True Love
“True Love. Is it normal…?”
Wislawa Szymborska
Who gets it?
Does it descend
like lightning
striking
only the lucky?
Is it a curse,
a blessing,
a gift?
Me, I’m clueless.
I think perhaps my parents had it.
I don’t.
Never had
or did I miss it,
the strike
the blinding?
Lust I understand.
True Love??
Pumas–III
This is the third in a series of poems entitled Pumas. If you have not yet read the first two, I suggest you scroll down and read those first.
I want
to walk with you
in my dreams
scream your screams
feel your blood
rushing
your heart beat
mine
soft golden fur
wound in my hair
your amber eyes
glowing
through my brown
death defying
together walking
moonlit
wild
free
Pumas
I have previously mentioned that I am taking a poetry class with Lorraine Mejia-Green through the Story Circle Network. To date we have read poetry by Mary Oliver, Lucille Clifton, Naomi Shihab Nye, and Joy Harjo. Clifton has written a very interesting series of poems called Foxes. Joy Harjo’s most famous poem is about horses. My obsession seems to be pumas even though I do love horses.
Puma I
My neighbor walked out her door,
found a puma lying on the lawn.
She arose and ambled off.
At night when I open my gate
I wonder if puma lurks
behind the cedar tree.
My daughter dreams puma dreams:
A puma chases her up a tree
There are no trees here big enough to climb.
A Zuni puma fetish guards my sleep.
I run with puma
Night wild
Free.
I scream and howl
Moonstruck
Bloodborn.
I hike the canyon
Stroll around my house
Look for puma tracks.
I see none.
I would rather die by puma
than in a car wreck.
Puma II
I watch for eyes, blue changing to amber and back.
I put my palm, fingers stretched to measure, into the footprint.
Too small, bobcat.
No puma.
My thin body squeezes between the rocks,
climbing quietly down the cliff.
Watching, listening, searching.
No puma.
Pale amber rushes across my vision line.
My heart quakes.
I watch; I wait.
It is Isabella, a golden whir chasing rabbits.
No puma.
At sunrise, I walk the rim.
watching.
At sunset, I walk the rim,
waiting.
At night, I walk the rim,
dreaming.
No puma; not yet.
Women-3
I am daughter
of moonlight over desert landscapes
of emptiness and endless expanses.
Too many trees stifle my soul,
enclose
engulf
suffocate
Let me see long,
watch the far horizon,
listen to the wind.
I am daughter
of puma, of jaguar,
stealing through black night
under endless stars.
Alone
wild
free.
Let me wander distances
watchful, timeless.
I am daughter
of the ancients
wise
mysterious
windblown
stark
all knowing.
Let me walk into the sunset
talk with gods.
I am daughter of the universe.
Women-2
Why
and
What
draws me
to witches
herbal secrets
moonlight
ancient ruins
archaic codes.
It is the goddess blood I carry,
remembrance of a past
when women ruled
when peace reigned
and
All were healed.
Women
Women: wondrous, wild,
daughters of the moon,
mysterious, magnificent, molten,
fierce secret keepers,
possessors of the universal key.
Lahib Jaddo painted this; it hangs in my house. This poem was inspired by the poet, Lucille Clifton, who is the featured poet this week in my poetry class.
I Have Lived
Depression, sad days, melancholy.
Gone!!
At 26, I said, “To hell with this!
You control your life; live it!!
I tried forbidden liaisons, trained horses,
Went around the world, a cobra wrapped around my neck,
Walked the Shalimar Gardens in Kashmir,
Watched the Taj Mahal reflected in still waters,
Stood before the Jama Masjid in Old Delhi,
Strolled the streets of Katmandu,
Talked with monks at the Shwedagon Pagoda,
Bargained with sticks in dirt, math our only common language,
Downed raw turtle eggs in Costa Rica,
Danced on table tops, sang “Adonai”,
Roamed empty roads across the Navaho Nation,
Raised two charming children,
Married, divorced four times.
I have lived, running on the rim of wonder.
This poem is a response to another Mary Oliver assignment for the SCN poetry class. The prompt was to write about how we might have lived differently or made different choices. On the whole I possess few to no regrets, have been to places never dreamed of, met astonishing people all over the world, and live exactly as I want to live. I feel blessed.
writingontherim 