L U M I N A * N O S T R I

 For the Love of the Game As a kid I  loved basketball gave it my all even though we’d mostly  lose.  I loved the opportunity  of another play, another  chance at a steal, a  breakaway… Something that said  maybe the tide will change. But it’s not changing unless I do and I am stuck  still boxing out for every rebound diving for every lose ball knee pads all shot to hell. The buzzer is counting down and I know this game we’ll lose too, but I gotta play my heart out till the end because what else can I do? 

  Time Change Small red spheres are turning the hillsides purple again Anointed in crisp, seaside breeze  Toyon puts on her festive crown Revels in the changing hues— first grey, then blue, now black— Great Sky’s formal gown for winter.  Around here, on the Central Coast The sun shines sweetest for those  who pause, notice the pop that only happens with a little more dark

Some Saturday Late in Soccer Season What little memory might I distill from today? Giggles before seven am with Baby,  Cuz the game’s at eight (how else wake up)?  My son’s little arms hoisted over head, yelling “GOAL!”? The tearful wails of my eldest justly crying “It’s not fair! I want mommy!”? Or my mother wearing a black and orange boa, a witch hat with the tag still on? Today I’ll choose the riddles I overheard in the Halloween House The one we dreamed up out of tents.

There was a promise on mornings we saw his cowboy boots out, That evening Dad would bring us four smooth, reddish stones He’d been walking the land, building in his mind maps of courses yet to built things he’d draw with pens of green, blue and yellow, “It’s my favorite day of work” he’d say and we believed him, heart and soul. Today, I get to walk the land, find the thread colored magic in my book yet to built marking my trail with crayons of green, blue and yellow, while keeping my eye out for three of the smoothest stones. 

  Hello, bee.  Walking winding black asphalt up a hill that leads down to a grave, I listened and read graffiti that said "Fatty Fetty Homeless  Bitches" with a heart at the end.  I listened, and my childhood best friend told me parts of the story of who she’s become. We discussed price tags and humility, and family, tender family And when it came time to say goodbye I said “I miss you” and tears filled my eyes “I’ll see you soon,” she said, both of us knowing not soon enough.  I sat down in a rocker that’s spent a year by my dirt driveway And I wept, and wept and wept,  Until  my hands were wet with tears.  What about, I couldn't tell you, something like loneliness, death, fear. That's when the bee came over rested on my fingernail slurped up all my suck And followed me back toward the house When I decided I'd had enough.  So imagine my astonishment When this morning,  screen door closed,  a gaping hole still there right where my y...

The Things You Miss Out On With An Electronic Mug Tea keeps time when we sit Still feels hot in Hands, down Throat Almost too hot and I understand why Tea won’t stay that way I travel my inscape the waking, the not For a moment, Heart holds a different kind of heat Bell chimes and we climb back through the web of portal and tunnel I take Tea back in Hands the tepid elixir astonishes Throat.  Though Time has passed Foolish Heart is still  unclear. “So, what’s it mean,” She asks “to step into Now?”

  Lazy Poem Today I went to a planning meeting a poetry chat a critique circle a bunch of little stops  in between. They all said the same thing: The only way to live life is through action.  Action. Unavoidable,  whether you try hard or not.

  I H8 Male Poets for the Same Reason I H8 Male Teachers Men-poets can get up there and use "oh shit" and "my fucking god' next to their Latin They can be "cool guys" too in it for the laughs but just like when a female teacher pops off on the poet in the back when the women ones do it all folks hear is "bitch." 

  I Can’t Let You… My right calf muscle Has got a flower shaped Bruise from a bite my daughter gave me that one time I said  no, and it was hot, and she was hungry. It matches the one on my right bicep that I got in terror.  You see, my son  hates needles and  he required a shot. “Do they ever mind?” My father asks, reminding me again, how his father used the belt. “I’m sorry that happened  to you.” Is all I can think to say My flower-bruises blooming more beautifully  underneath my skin.

  It’s Possible, You Know  (From An Exercise Created by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, Inspired by William Stafford’s ‘Yes’) What if I become unhoused, Or lose custodial rights over my kids? What if they stop believing my love for them is integral?  Will the sadness lead me to suicide? What if, whenever it happens, I  die alone. Or even scarier, what if I choose to partner again? What if I am forced marched back into a classroom to police things like cell phones, dress codes, and swears? What if the dog bites? What if the man reads my smile wrong,  tells some lawyer “she wanted it,” when, I assure you, I really, really didn’t. What if I publish my book, and it costs me everything?  What if I don’t publish my book, and it costs me everything? Yet, what if it all works out? What if from here on out, all weather feels like sunshine? All wounds work out while walking? The only atmosphere I know is clement,  not in-.  What if I grow old with my kids? Watch...

Divorcé Dream  This morning I had a dream that there were two  of him, not one, that I’d lost two of mine, then two of my sisters, and he didn’t notice or care we’d been surrounded  by bad fakes. No one did, that is, unless I said something.  And saying it felt scary. Then again, what other choice did I have?  I told every woman I could. When I said it, my mom and sisters believed me. But saying it didn’t solve anything. In the dream, nothing did. I felt panicked, lost. That’s when I went inside myself,  In the dream, and cried “help!” In the dream, a small sun catcher wrapped in a homemade rose colored envelope- the kind my oldest daughter makes— Emerged.  In the dream when she floated above me  And unwrapped herself, I saw a small rainbow smiling, and it  said cheerfully “Hello, there. I can help.” Tearfully, I described them: first my nieces, then my youngest daughter. The love for them, the grief swelling hot in my chest and eyes. In...

 homonym invective It doesn't matter if you like poetry listen to classical music and enjoy the theater: there, they're and their are THERE to mock  you every time.  And while we are at it let's stop right here and hear whether its  wood or would cole or coal red or read its or it's easy ones, we "all" know,  They slip out my fingers flying faster than   ducks wings, then me abruptly yelling  FUCK its always the wrong one and no one cares really, but I duck my pride I correct it because I am a writer write? It's only professional. 

  For Diane Who will mourn the singular woman? The Big She with no he, no genealogical pendants  dangling from  her family line? They say “Your art won’t warm your bed at night. Your professional roles won’t cool your brow when sick.” Don’t you worry, dear,  even in the dead of night.  We will! I assure you, we will. We, sisters in arms, ten thousand strong who’ve basked in your moonlit reflection, cried from  the rivers of emotion you had the courage to carve,  and have born witness to you, dream: A singular woman, fully expressed.