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

  Hearing “Yes!” ~ Hearing “yes”  is a funny thing. ~~ The sound first sizzles on your tongue like those candy Pop Rocks, ~ next, dissolves into nothing  but sweetness ~~ “Yes” settles somewhere deep down, not in, but near, your heart  ~~~ who is already thumping “What’s next, what’s next, ~~~ what’s next?”

Morning Catch The western sky teals before sunrise the water breaks   World, now upside down reveals, calm sea the water stills Upward, my eye peels, as if a dolphin the water bursts   My body rises, my body feels stars slip  the water grey away.

  Am I a Buddhist? (Alternative title: Why We Go To the Theater) ~ ”Is this seat taken?” Judy smiles, says no and my affection for her blooms over the terrible time she’s having arranging her coat.  “Maybe you can put it over your legs, like a blanket?” I offer  in spite of my earnest hope only moments before to engage with no one and nothing and sit in a dark theater like a chair. ~ ———-/—/——————— I was thinking, what if the daisy bush knows from the time she’s a seed, the same way her mother knows from the time she’s a seed and her mother before that, that the morning glory seed would be planted next to her and would be in need of a way up? ~ By the end of the play I  cherish Judy how her stories spiral, unfurl double back upon one another and twist the details into plaits she arranges across families across times. Her son, his wife Her mother, her husbands father, A daughter, a grandchild, thirteen, six, birth, now. She’ll be one hundred in 2044 a mere nineteen ye...

  Ambition of the Morning Glory ~ Last year’s morning glory seeds quit their dreaming their wishing, their pining and shot up, one day in late summer (or was it fall?) ~ They were trained by the daisy bush wrapped themselves in circles around a few of her limbs  and one day,  for no reason at all,  bloomed. ~ Imagine my surprise then, smiling upon my  yellows and greens to see a periwinkle blue. My eyes had to follow its spiral all the way down before I  understood the ambition of the morning glory ~ The daisy bush did not remind her to reach for the sun. She did not reward her for drinking rain water when she could. She did not punish her lest she not push her roots deep and keep them fat. ~ The daisy bush simply took care of herself and by generous example  held open a way. 

  Enchantment   -  She sings upon herself, bids welcome      smells of mint -  By night she’s a silver-leafed silhouette     the invisible breeze, damp soil skin underfoot. She needs no moon, For her, an owl hoots in the dark. From her cup arises the steam of  Potential, with a pinch of Fear. -  By day, Mischief fills her sly mouth     the flooded gates of love, surprise, guffaws A murder of crows laughing across morning skies that never break how great the storm -  When Sadness and Anger and odious Jealousy arise Enchantment pours them a cup of tea and listens      until everyone is ready to play dolls again,  or drawing class, or delight in the click of bright plastic heels across tile floors of every hue. - In Enchantment, Joy and Danger flirt until she’s left breathless at her own strength of living. Even then, when all she can possibly do is collapse     back upon sands,  she st...

  The first time The first time I went to Peru  I almost didn’t go. I sat staring at the map in my bed pondering all I did not yet know Could not yet know And felt like this trip Was a winter’s roaring wave About to crash on my head. So it is, then, tonight One sleep away from a little known Country- my inscape awaits me at the door of my first silent retreat. Silence offers no map to study no time zones or place names or pocket dictionaries to boot.  Silence perhaps my furthest trip yet. 

  Sharing Your Sweets ~ With the urgency of  a kid stuffing her  mouth with the last  of the chocolates, ~ I shove poems in their memory, ~ I press my phone number to their lips ~ I wriggle all the ways I love them  up and down their anticipatory  bodies, clenching for change— good, bad, constantly both. ~ I send them packed with  What I hope are like little snack packs of memories of nothingness ~ Where their feet get a rest from the cold floor Their bodies are comforted by a couch, Or pressed against all the soft bits of mine  ~ Where they can drink in  For the last time for a while But not the last time, please not the last time ~ the water of this place we sometimes call home.

  On Holiday Do poets take holidays?  I like to think they might. Step aside from the oooing and awing, the consternation the bewilderment. Once Friday hits they all just go ice cold on their emotions and instead let each moment float by and allow that it’s just more bubbles in the park nothing to be clutched at, or held.

  Nostalgia ~ An old photo today something I saved by accident or something saved for me ~ We on a boat sealess  wind whipping  loose hair  into our eyes, hoods. Not any good. one full face, inscrutable; not meant for the camera.  myself furrowed brow a phantom feeling of that  particular sweatshirt.  ~ We, or at least three not yet touched by life’s greatest losses.  all musing, no doubt,  about what? couldn’t say.  ~ Tears, now. Hot and rolling, Can almost hear them plop on a stow away photo of now’s nothing special in my future old, veiny hand.  She is  me and I am she in the photo  just a girl unable to fathom Not being with my sisters again.

  Ready for the Sunrise Tonight, where I am from, marks the longest night of the year ~ So that means it’s also the shortest day ~ for my part I intend to take that son of a freedman’s advice ~ and pluck it,  tip to tip, at dawn. ~ May I hold babe Present up to the remnants of this years’ light ~ And not scrutinize but rather, admire. ~ May Wonder come thundering in and pummel us with her heat  ~ So that, amidst Night’s welcomed chill, Wonder’s lessons flower warmly on our skin.

  Reminder ** That kid whose name everyone keeps calling the one that stuns surprises steams ** That kid needs to be reminded everyone at the table loves him deeply, whether he sits still or not don’t forget.

  What You Get When You Don’t Go Online Time moves slower. Sun inches across each pane. You’ll notice the shadows  changing. You’ll notice wind, and rain. When you don’t go online The only “people” can be sensed sometimes smelt, or noticeably in the back of your mind, fenced. When you don’t go online There are no numbers hovering over your head. No one barges in telling you whether folks are living or dead.  In general, it’s just a lot more grass, and stone, and sea When you don’t go online What a great big world you see.

Cracked T onight my son cracked the windshield On accident, of course. He’s been climbing to the top of my car since he was probably 3 just to get a good view of things just because he can just to make sure Mommy still looks up, smiles, shrugs, and issues  “Please get down” again. Tonight my son cracked the windshield  because he’s not 3 anymore because his time for scrambling atop the car is up, and we are both  bummed about it. 

  Captain of My Own Ship There is within me a life force so strong that      like the winds of King Aeolus  If let out      next comes the wreck.  But without that storm      does a captain come to know her courage the one with which        plus rest, plus resolve she comes to land on her destined shore? Oh Zephyr, Oh Notus, Oh Eurus, Oh Aquilo for now, I release you                 I set my course                       I trust the Divine to do their thing.

 Pity Party Poem 1 minute and 55 seconds The call record reflects But it took 15 seconds for us to connect And 15 more for us to disconnect and 30 seconds to ask vapid questions like Why is your screen black? Can you see me? Can you hear me?  Why are you blurry?  Are you going to sing with me? Then, I wasted at least 10 more singing like my mom always does happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you Answering her question of “But where are you at home?”  with a slow pan of the outdoors “Are you ready for a fun day  at school today?” I ask “Yessss” she grins. (I can’t see her face but I can hear it) “Bye mama” I say “I love you!” just a dash too urgent. Then it ends.  It’ll be two more sleeps Till I can smell the top of her head Someone please tell me this is worth it God, I need that crystal ball My baby is turning 8 today The silver lining: I won’t be seeing her Which is probably for the best being that, ( as you can undoubtedly see,) I’m following the fa...

 The C Word. (Alt title: Blasphemy) When I was in Confirmation I was so taken with all I was learning ~ in addition to passing out aluminum crosses in my middle school ~ I told Pastor Jim I wanted to be a pastor one day ~ He told me women don’t traditionally do that role So I set my sights lower ~ I settled for reading poetry even older, for believing in gods even older, and falling away from Christ as King. ~ Yesterday I was out there spreading the “good word” again… ~ The C word, you could call it No, not Christ. I was preaching ~ Creativity and felt that, more than those days of thirteen and believing, ~ C’s power was almost too much for me to take. 

A Market Day Poem If, like the caterpillar, you munch and rest and munch and rest munch and munch and munch and reeeeeest You too will transform (not into a butterfly, but something equally as awe-inspiringly different.)

 A Prayer for Switch Day (found poem) I don’t like being separate I am hoping time works. Thanks, Sarah 

Math and Topography Today plus four more equals my kid’s  eighth birthday. I teared up at three, wrote her a different poem at five. At eight, it seems I’ve learned to delight in all this going on, a little. Eight year olds have excellent senses  of humor; they play games they make art. There is still a pause when she decides to sit  with you or her friend on the bus, and crushes are as innocuous  as left behind games of make believe. I’m finding at eight we like to talk movies and books and she’s memorized  her first lines of  Neruda (for a dollar.) At eight, the seeds grow at super speeds— There is a risk and responsibility in that. New parts of her surface and retreat in accord. “Can we go to the Nutcracker?” “Can you carry me?” “Can I get some gum?” These are the sounds  of eight. Curious, cautious with the world endlessly sprawling out in front of her A horizon ever further in the distance.   

Maybe rock days don't  need to shine to be precious 

River Rock I sing of late winter light dispersed amid rambling oak leaves water rushed over rock and a trail one step away

  That One Book I am trying to write that one book again. Scribble out all the “you”s and “me”s between a chorus of Thens and Nows.  The trouble is I keep getting sucked back in into our Story and find I am both enraptured  and exhausted by the thought of just leaving it well alone.  It makes me want to sleep. It makes me want to quit, To instead, smoke cigarettes and go dancing under the guise of blowing off some steam,  To use it as an excuse to black out, again,  into oblivion and awaken  with new stories to be told  under the same  breathless  sky.  But you’d just find me there. You always do.  And I’d just be glad of it. I always am.  And eventually I’d find myself In this little desk I created Blinking at a blinking cursor with loads more to say.

For my grandmother on her birthday. Rest in peace, Laverne.  The Good Cook Of course, she starts out being a bad one.  Consider her hands, clumsy with her tools, The way she’d take liberties with the recipe  not afforded to her, yet. That art is an expertise that has to be earned.  What keeps her going?  Is it a kind word from those with whom she dines? A subtle forgiveness licked off every cleaned plate? Or criticism  hellbent on instructing? Cold food and glowering stubbornness judging what’s edible, what’s not? Let’s hope it’s the hum  of Texture, her sister Smell,  their devilish cousin, Chemistry. That everyday these three goddesses  champion song in Chef’s heart, while she  pumps out yet another  dish. 

  Soon Soon, it will be bed time again. There will be knees  and teeth to scrub, pajamas and  stuffies to find, screams and giggles  and tears and “one last…”s and Story. Soon, it will be bed time again. There will be quiet  and darkness to heed, blankets and socks to find, the faintest echoes of each and every absent breath and Story. 

  DINNERWRECK No one can write poetry with the smell of overcooked lentil soup crockpotting in their nose. It’s a concoction so strong The thought of it will send the middle child to  toss his cookies  while his sisters wail  And you, the resident adult, are force marched, house to trash,  atrocity in hand. No, no poetry tonight.  The best you can do is stretch the windows wide open,  bury all the nostrils  and pray for a better smell by tomorrow.

  The Kids Are Home Some days just feel  like a poem. You don’t write one because  another one is too busy lighting up your  day, because your  keenly aware of being made of more than blood sweat, and bone. Because each and every smile and embrace even the smells are made more brilliant by their momentary  passing. Some days you go to  sleep with poetry between  your legs and on your arm and in your ear and as you peel yourself away so as not to wake any sleeping beauties to crawl into your own bed, and that’s when the thought  ’but you haven’t written your poem yet!’ rests in a furtive curve on your lips

  Mountain Crone to you I look show me how to love

 Careful, Out There ~ If you sit outside too long you start to see what you’d not have noticed ~ little wildflowers the waggle of the bees ~ remnants of spiderwebs floating through the air ~ the sign each leaf makes as she falls ~ Yes, if you sit outside too long you begin to notice this and more ~ and soon on every rock are lyrics to the world’s oldest song.