"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.
life
Rim Rider
I ride the rim on Rosie,
writing stories in my mind.
The neighbor’s husky howls.
Rosie listens, watches,
moves away from the canyon rim.
I write of long lost lovers,
names forgotten,
smiling brown faces,
drifting through my dreams.
I ride the rim on Rosie,
writing stories in my mind.
The bobcat climbs the canyon wall.
Rosie’s ears move,
her body tenses.
I write of childhood memories,
places loved and lost,
of family joys and sorrows,
Mom’s singing while she worked,
Dad’s napping on the blue linoleum floor.
I ride the rim on Rosie,
writing stories in my mind.
Isabella runs past, bunny hunting, barking.
Rosie wants to run, to race, is held.
I write of fragrant fields of saffron,
endless Thai seas of blue and green,
of lands I’ve loved , the Navaho Nation, the Llano Estacado.
I ride the rim on Rosie,
writing stories in my mind.
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.
Meeting on the Internet
Who are you?
Are you
who you
say you are?
Is your profile
a lie to
attract the gullible
or your heart’s
outpourings,
your soul
open
for all
to see?
Will you tell me
truths or
lies copied
off a website
designed for predators
cleverly disguised?
Will we dream of
touching,
mouth to mouth
passion,
bodies hungry
or perhaps
a relapse
into despair,
malaise?
Will we grow
to love
happiness
or to cynicism,
disillusionment,
a lie?
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.
Hot Pink Toenails
The day I met Tom my toenails were hot pink.
A big mistake!
He called me the lady with the hot pink toenails.
I am not a hot pink person.
They should have been red or orange.
I am an orange person
mixed with lots of red.
It took me two weeks of looking
at those hot pink toenails
to paint them red.
Am I happier now?
Not really
but I know
it is the real me,
my own toes when I look down.
When she painted them pink
the woman said,
“Old ladies want red toenails.”
Will I be able to look at my red toenails
even though I like them and
not think “old lady”?
Will I have to find a new color?
Probably.
Maybe orange marmelade or cinnamon spice or burnt sienna.
These toenails are painted Cajun Shrimp.
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.
writingontherim 