Hope is the delusion of the oppressed.
It is buzzards watching, waiting in the trees,
laughing.
Hope
National Poetry Month
Simple Pleasures
Taste the honey on your tongue
avocado, dark brown
clover, golden
so many shades, textures
sweetness
pleasure
Feel the breeze caress your cheeks
bringing scents
honeysuckle
lilacs
peach blossoms
pleasure
Touch the silken fabric of your scarf
wind softness around you
midnight and snow
rainbows
desert sunsets
pleasure
Listen to the birds outside your window
mockingbird love songs
a rapture’s scream
the whir of hummingbird wings
emerald, indigo, grey
pleasure
Look at flowers blooming everywhere
crimson bougainvillea
roses, sunshine colors
pale pink, vermillion
beauty
pleasure
Sing a song of Gratitude
April Is Poetry Month–3 poems for the first three days
I am a bit behind so decided to share three poems I wrote more than ten years ago about my favorite animal obsession, pumas. These poems were first published in my poetry memoir, On the Rim of Wonder, which is available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble.
I
My neighbor walked out her door
found a puma lying in the lawn.
Puma rose, stretched, disappeared.
At night when I open my gate
I wonder if she lurks
behind the cedar trees,
Pounce ready.
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.
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.
III
I want
to walk
with you
in my dreams
scream your screams
feel your blood
rushing
your heartbeat
mine
soft golden fur
wound in my hair
your amber eyes
glowing
through my brown
death defying
together walking
moonlit
wild
free
Note: My puma obsession continues. This painting and several others of pumas hang in my house. I now have two puma Zuni fetishes. I hike in the mountains hoping to see one in the wild.
A Poem for National Poetry Month
roses
rainbow colors
joy
Two New Poems for National Poetry Month
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.
Poems
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
Red Roses
He’s very good at wooing:
gifts–chocolate cherries,
red roses, delicate lingerie,
I love you.
He wears his mask well,
keeps calm, a handsome spider,
weaving a silken web.
She laughs, tells her friends
just how very special she’s
sure he is.
He wears this mask for months,
finds them the perfect apartment,
swimming pool, gym, marble,
granite, luxury appliances.
She’s sure he loves her:
the gifts, the perfect apartment,
fancy restaurants, luxury weekends.
She’s late, heavy traffic, an
emergency at work. He
screams, wants to know
why; no explanation matters.
He hits her for the first time, her
torso, knocks her down.
Tomorrow 24 red roses
arrive at work. He begs
forgiveness. She’s sure
he’s sorry; it won’t happen
again.
Two months later, she’s
late again. Real reasons he
does not want to hear. He
screams, he hits, he knocks
her down.
She dreads red roses.
Note: This is part of my writing a poem per day for National Poetry Month. Regarding this poem, 34% of female homicides are women who have been killed by intimate male partners. Often when women kill a man attacking them, they are convicted of murder even when trying to defend themselves.
Ovid
This is poem two for National Poetry Month. A friend wrote a poem following the prompt to write a poem about a book the writer has not read for a long time. She wrote about The Scarlet Letter. My poem is about the book, An Imaginary Life.
The Roman Emperor Augustus saw Ovid’s poetry as subversive,
a power threat. He exiled Ovid to a remote corner of the Empire,
somewhere over by the Black Sea, the Carpathian Mountains,
among the destitute, the superstitious, people who did even know
how to read or write. They believed in witches, feared ghosts, saw
evil in everything and everyone different. Different equaled
death.
Paid to host Ovid, the village leader teaches him to ride horses
bareback, hunt, become stronger. Ovid transforms from a weak
revolutionary who hates this place to one who sees the barren
beauty, wanders in the forests, plants a wildflower garden,
survives.
While hunting, they see barefoot tracks in snow, tracks
of a feral child, a boy. Ovid fears for him, finds him,
rescues him. An accident occurs. The villagers blame
the boy, want to kill him. He and Ovid escape,
wander far into the northern wilds, into
infinity.
Nostalgia
Today is the first day of National Poetry Month. I am committing myself to write a poem a day. Here is the first one for the month.
Easter yesterday made me sad,
remembering children, grandson,
egg dying, egg hunting, family
together, laughter, joy.
Found photos of my family,
I, a child, dressed in Easter finery,
a family tradition. Dad bought us
corsages to wear every Easter,
pretty dresses in spring colors–
my favorite a pink dress trimmed
in scarlet, a unique combination
explained why I liked it so much,
felt special wearing it.
Today I wear pink and orange
together, admire the deep purple
and red bougainvillea, scarlet rosebuds,
snowy freeway daisies,
shining in the sun and wonder
will I live long enough to teach
a great grandchild to color
Easter eggs.
National Poetry Month-2: Butter Love
Is it inherited?
Six year old me watched Grandmother
look around, take silver knife, cut into pale
yellow rectangular prism, plop a chunk into
her mouth, close her eyes,
smile.
In Aunt Julia’s presence, this never occurred,
Was it our shared secret,
Grandmother and me?
Yesterday, I told the cafeteria lady,
“Please bring me biscuits, extra butter.”
Less courageous than Grandmother,
I use blue corn pancakes, homemade bread, pasta,
excuses to eat butter, lots of golden, melted
butter.
Who eats butter on conchiglie?
I do, scooping out a tablespoon
from the butter bowl, watch it melt
in hot, drained Italian pasta from a
six-hundred-year-old monastery,
sprinkle on some sea salt, plop
a spoonful in my mouth, close my eyes,
smile.
Note: This poem is published in my book “You’re Gonna Eat That? Adventures with Food, Family, and Friends”. My grandmother, Mom’s mom, rarely smiled. When Mom went to the hospital to have my sister, the family story is that Grandmother fed me so many bread, butter, and sugar sandwiches, I became fat. I was two. I remember a mint patch in her backyard. She’d gather mint, boil water, and make mint tea with cream and sugar. I liked it. When Aunt Julia traveled out of town, I remember seeing Grandmother eat butter and smile. This is Grandmother’s wedding photo.
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