Rainy Day
sheets of rain against the kitchen window
heavy fog hides mountain peaks
scarlet hibiscus and bougainvillea brighten
a gloomy day
Dusk
The wind died; stillness pervades.
A distant train whistle interrupts.
Tiny brown bird chirps its chitty song.
Mountains display navy blue and purple.
The western sky becomes cantaloupe color.
Fearless little bird with chocolate brown head runs beside me
on the road. At the intersection I circle to the left, following
a familiar route. The heavy tree canopy here always astonishes.
It’s almost like walking in a forest.
The architectural variety amazes: mid-century modern, Spanish,
colonial, ranch, the smallest I am guessing contains 3500 sq. ft. One
house encompasses an entire city block, fronted with heavy, high
fences and metal gates. Privacy obsessed.
I’m watching my time. I don’t want to be late for singing
practice. I take a new route, perhaps a shortcut. It’s
120 degrees of a circle. Not quite a regular street,
not quite an alley, a combination–fronts of a few houses
and the backside of others. At one place it angles more;
I come to a three story stone fortress with intricate
geometrical designs vertically running up and down
the walls. No windows. A sign says, “No trespassing.”
Realization hits me. This is the other side of a house
I saw last year through a gap in a wall on another street.
Three ladies, strangers, asked me about it, told me they’d
heard it was the creation of a famous architect. I researched,
asked others, no one knew. Back then, I tried to find the front,
failed. Now I’m looking at it, wonderstruck. It appears abandoned,
an architectural wonder belonging to another time and place.
Time to rush, a bit lost, I look at my phone map, finish the loop,
find a familiar street, walk faster. Then I see a large, white, colonial house,
weeds knee high, black shutters hanging askew. Here it is abandoned
in the midst of multi-million dollar houses. I wonder what the neighbors
think. Walking on I hear water rushing, peer through the hedges–a stream
runs downhill from the side of this huge brown house at least 100 feet
and gurgles in a pool behind the bushes. Hurrying, I stop in front of one
of my favorite houses, a one-story, tan, Spanish style, small compared
to the others nearby. I take a photo of the tree in front by the sidewalk,
its impressive girth impossible to ignore.
Finally, I’m near my destination, walking in front of The Gamble House,
a tourist destination made famous by the movie, “Back to the Future”,
a structure I see at least twice a week.
I started out thinking I would write a poem per day for National Poetry Month. Well, I’m a bit behind on that, but here are two of several I have written so far.
Spring
The mockingbird awakens me with his song.
A hummingbird, dressed in green with an iridescent
orange collar, flits by my head then sips nectar
from a scarlet bougainvillea blossom.
The neighborhood barn owl hoots at dawn and dusk.
A black and red/orange bird I’ve never seen before
lights on a palo verde limb.
A Western Bluebird dips its beak repeatedly in
the talavera birdbath.
Remember
In this world steeped in senseless violence remember
each day to find a piece of beauty:
-rosebuds opening
-the scent of jasmine
-a friend’s smile
-a bit of birdsong
In this world ravaged by wars remember
each day to find the jewels of joy:
-listen to a child’s laughter
-dance to a favorite song
-walk in the morning sunshine
-tell someone you love them
They tell writers, “Never ever use cliches.”
Sometimes I question that. When you
word a cliche, nearly everyone knows
exactly what you mean. For example:
This is a perfect spring day:
-birdsong wafting here and there,
mostly mockingbirds except for those
irredescent, orange-throated
hummingbirds at their feeder
-wind singing through the pines
-open windows for a change; it’s
75 degrees and sunny
-magenta and scarlet bougainvillea
climbing the garden wall
-white and lavender lantana
outdoing themselves with
spread and bloom
-geraniums in full flower
-mint growing so fast and tall
I already need to trim it.
I lounge on the patio reading
another novel, drinking rosewater
lassi, munching mixed nuts.
I feel gratitude for this
perfect spring day.
emerald hills
snow-capped mountains
Sunday sunshine
Snow wonderland
Wind singing through pines
Walking in Bonelli
Riding hours through emerald mountains
to Bahir Dar.
We drove up a steep road,
monkeys begging near the roadside.
Car parked, we climbed a steep hill.
There she was
The NILE
a silver ribbon far below
grassy fields
two white robed people
walked, hippos barely visible.
The NILE
I cried,
a life’s longing fulfilled.
The NILE
Flowing from Lake Tana,
she lay below me,
the legendary river,
ancient people, ancient stories,
builder of civilizations,
of life.
The NILE.
Searching for cool
Slithering, hunting
Transforming
Four jaguar heads stare at me,
Mexican, Costa Rican.
A third guards the mantel,
partially hidden in tropical plants,
attack ready, tail raised, jaws open,
teeth bared.
My feet rest on a coffee table
carved in Kashmir. I look at the photo
of the young man whose family made it.
He took me home to meet his mom,
to the floating market.
Once peace reigned there.
Now I wonder if he is safe, alive.
The Hoop Dancer raises his arms,
the Acoma pot exudes ancient
black on white beauty, painted
by the tips of yucca stems.
The Thai Spirit House begs
to appease evil spirits.
I should put food and flowers there;
I never do.
Corn plant of life–for Navaho, Hopi,
me, painted, growing up my wall,
blue and red birds flitting through
the stalks, singing ancient songs.
Corn Maiden rug hanging on the wall;
an Isleta Pueblo girl won a contest
with its design. Four Corn Maiden
Kachinas watch the room.
Corn everywhere–Sacred Corn.
Three Ethiopian crosses, St. George
and the Dragon, Frida Kahlo doll,
Argentinian Madonna, Tohono O’odham
baskets, a painted cow skull, Nigerian carved
wooden elephants, including a Chieftains chair,
the stained glass transom window from the house
where my dad lived from birth to ten.
In a room filled with windows, there
is little room for paintings, yet–
purple bison glide across the prairie,
an Iraqi woman flies through an azure
sky filled with dark blue birds,
a 15th century mystic, Kabir, tells
a tale in poetry, Navaho spirits,
pumas walking toward me–
my obsession.
Rugs scattered–Kerman,
an unknown Persian city, Afghani,
Egyptian, Indian, Zapotec, scraps of old
Turkish rugs sewn together.
In one cabinet, Grandmother’s china,
Mom’s Czech crystal–a wedding present
decades ago, Grandson’s painted art,
the silverware Dad gave Mom on their
first wedding anniversary, Mom’s
everyday dishes–flowers blooming.
I use them every day.
These objects–a testament to who I am:
World wanderer, seeker, citizen.
Sunrise
Dappled clouds
Owl hooting
Wren climbing
Later, I graded papers and watched part of John McCain’s funeral, some of which almost brought me to tears. I often disagreed with him but never did I question his passionate love of country, his courage, his willingness to buck the norm, to defy convention when he thought it was the right thing to do. I think he and I shared certain values on which this country is based even if the country as a whole rarely lives up to them. These include the conviction that all people are equal, that everyone deserves justice, and each person carries the right to find his or her own share of happiness without judgment and condemnation from others who may think differently.
Later, while working on the latest book I am writing, I found handwritten recipes written by my grandmother, my mother’s mother, Nellie Narcissus Duke (Kaiser),whose father came here from Switzerland as a child. One, for dumplings, remains readable. The other written in pencil on the front and back of thin paper is fragile. It is for Strawberry Shortcake. If Grandmother Duke ever made dumplings, I do not remember it. Mother did–chicken and dumplings. I wonder if she used this recipe. I do remember conversations about the shortcake because Dad did not like strawberry shortcake even though he liked strawberries. I took photos of these two recipes written decades ago in my grandmother’s handwriting.
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