Here
The page is where I live. The page is my country. 
—Moudi Sbeity

Here I sort out feelings,
the news of another 
deranged shooter
acting out confusion
and hate     Find hope 
in other peoples’ poems
the grit to go on

Without the blank page
the daily ambiguity
might swamp me
How else to make sense
of this precious, peculiar life?

           Still  

      Drop prior
    Even tinnitus
  can’t take that away

How does it happen? 

You can go on about sperm
and egg—
mechanics
just tracing one symptom

of revelation
the how beyond understanding
We are inside

My gospel is awe
how pea vines
reach out     taste air
find purchase and twine

(Nonet: A 9-line poem that has 9 syllables in the first line, 8 syllables in the second line, 7 syllables in the third line, and continues to count down to one syllable in the final (ninth) line. —OR, goes from one syllable to 9. OR do both, in the hourglass form.)

                               Broken Open

     The day has cracked open—streaks of light
         burn through fog     Birds remain quiet
                    longer than normal    but I
                        woke up at four-thirty
                          eager to write, paint
                            and contemplate
                               greater good
                                 kindness
                                  strength

Topsy-turvy

Sometimes for days
immersed, not noticing 
the state of my desk,
my paint table

One morning
I see only shambles
unfiled papers strewn
paint tubes scattered
brushes clean, but not
sorted by size into cups 
two water vessels,
their lids off— 
living in earthquake land
a disaster in-waiting

Sticky notes everywhere
each needing attention
Once seen, no other work
than setting it all right

Birdsong

Turning seventy, change— 
Bird looked at me
differently
and the contact began
every few days 
my cell phone jingles
Hi Mama, this is your love call
Not much to say,
no long conversations
a simple touching in
and always, 
the same sweet sign off
Love and laters

Juggling

Bread-making day
multigrain-sourdough-sandwich
and Kalamata-thyme-Parmesan
Two large bowls
and four little ones holding
honey, butter, salt, starter
my trusty gram scale
two measuring cups,
one with chopped olives, one water
Where did I put my six hands?

Mix up the sandwich bread, 
let it rest
Now the olive loaf, new to me
Kalamatas seem to stick
on the surface; I want 
them embedded
press them in, put it all
in warmed proofing box

Buzzer goes off, add soaked
multigrain to sandwich dough
work in well      cover with damp
cloth, ready to proof until dinner
how many times have I washed
my six hands?

Clock says feed Jazz,
who is staring at me
that fixed sighthound gaze
a steady request
that cannot be denied

Phone alarm chimes—stretch
and fold olive bread
too sticky, dust with flour
work in, return to proof
eight more hours
now the avalanche
of dishes to wash

After dinner, hearthy scent
of bread, my six hands
remodeled into two

Loss
1991

A cruise Mom planned
for herself, two friends,
my new husband and me,
on the Columbia from Astoria 
to the Snake River
the phone call comes on board
seventeen-year-old Bird
his voice too slow, too deep
Jay died, he said
His one friend

A complex heart defect, 
organs crushed by severe 
scoliosis, he died 
in his mother’s arms   

Bird, I’ll come home right now
No, he said, stay with Grandma
she wanted this trip for you  
Aunt Margaret’s been great

His only friend dead
he’s thinking of family

Lopsided Friends
1989

Limping down the street
Bird, tall, bending to listen
studied concentration
arm wandering behind
Jay, smaller by a foot—  
twisted, short of breath, 
lips too blue
lopsided friends
close in conversation

Take Two

Hungry. Waiting… two 
hours to go
Then the gurney, hair net,
I.V., pillows under my knees
Litany, repeating my name
date of birth, which eye
is surgical today

Lying under two full-moon 
lights, I’m waiting for Versed
All I care about, the drug
that calms my nerves
He is going to slice
into my eye, replace
the lens
a common procedure
but this is my eye

Last time, a light show
teal greens and pink
What will today bring?
The next?

Adopting

Starter requires daily 
nourishment and love
so I named her Daisy
and croon to her

When bread day 
approaches she needs
closer attention,
I time feedings so
she’s active and bubbly

Consider the charge— 
caring for starter
is like adopting a dog

A New Poem… 

resembles a baby giraffe, 
dropped
onto the ground, raising 
her head, struggling to stand
on lanky legs    her life 
depends on it

or it mirrors a wild river
cascading thoughtless
over rocky terrain 
quickens, gaining
traction as new streams
enter

pushes out—a new shoot,  
tentative, its two tender 
leaves driven upward
toward fullness

rarely pours onto the page
whole
lift your hands  
allow her the shape
she already knows

Mothered by Mothering 

My mother missed 
knowing me
unwilling to see beyond
what she didn't understand

I knew to do it differently,
not dismiss Bird's inclinations
instead unfailing, steady love
for who he is
not who I might want 
him to be

His own beautiful
strange self
surface ragged 
with the vagaries of suffering
but inside
stubborn, wise and deep

In learning to mother him
I mothered me

Hush
		after Christian Wiman
I
 want to hum
with my own emptiness
hear the space therein
feel how holy it is
see that no thing is needed
touch that void
filled up with love 
to overflow

Allow it to spillover,
shade all the heat
in the world
warm the frozen places
soften the gnarled knots
in people too stubborn 
to know 
until they, too
see to hum with
their own emptiness

I Wish I Hadn’t 

Fifty years ago today
my biggest mistake— 
As I said yes
to his proposal 
the knot in my gut 
whispered no
He only heard his own voice
Said yes anyway    Wish 
I had known its name
Learned it by living it

Cataract Sky 

Late evening dog stroll
sky an indigo verge 
moments before dark

Jazz snuffles the ground
while I squint upward, first
one eye, then the other
One leaden blue 
with a thin wash of ochre,
the other blue-black ink

First hope of cataract
surgery emerging 

Coming from, going to

Born out of our mothers,
miracle enough! but not the beginning
Go back further still, before our birth
prior to conception
We come from something
that cannot be found 
in the embodied world

We want to speak of it,
have given names 
to the unnamable
G-d, YHWH, the Tao
Allah, the 99 names of God
I call it the big field 
and all five senses awaken

8 p.m. 

The clock winds down
chilly May evening
fireplace warms the family room
Ensconced in our recliners
with sleepy tea, evening vitamins
and strawberry-rhubarb crumble
A kind of heaven
Jazz, already upside down
in her bed, my love and I settle in 
to chat, watch, or read