POPO 2020

 

Never have I been so late getting out my PoPo mail. Postcards that should've gone out all throughout August are finally getting sent mid-September. It's been a strange year and I'm simply not going to give a list of justifications, because they would likely fall on deaf ears. So many of us are living in upheaval. 

I did things much differently this year, writing poems as the August days bumbled on, meaning to transfer them to postcards and send, but ended up with a typed out list of short thoughts/poems. I promised everyone in Group 1 would get a card, I just didn't say when. I jokingly promised myself I'd get them out by my birthday, which is today, and I gasp to think it took that long. The time came for me to put the whole project together and I decided so as to make them legible, I would do as some others have done: cut and paste. I loved it, because what it forced me to do was find (out of a pile of postcards collected in my travels, visits to various local and faraway places, and estate sales) the exact right card to go with a verse. Sometimes it really hit the mark; other times you may need to use a bit of imagination.

These pieces are written with the same abandon all PoPo cards are written; spontaneous, unedited, naked. There has been no editing done in the cut-and-paste procedure.

There is no particular order, since they didn't get sent out Day 1, etc. I apologize to my PoPo friends and promise to do better next year, in which I'm hoping to figure out a way to send cards I've found at estate sales that were once written on and sent by strangers, with me writing something about their words. It will be exciting to see how that might turn out. 

Some of these cards I've hung onto forever and felt it was time to send them on their way. I've left some notes about a few of them.

POPO 2020

Looking out into the humid night, the sounds of tiny animals screaming, the weather getting hotter with every minute, relentless night creeping slowly to a hotter dawn, waves crashing on the cliff below, the only rhythm inducing sleep, fighting in the air with cicadas.

 

 

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My life has been a revolving door 
of opening chapters, 
all suitable for short stories 
some on the edge of terror, 
other narratives of bliss. 
Maybe I should write a book.

(Little Oddfellows - One of my favorite reading/writing/meditating/lunch/meeting places in all of Seattle. Just on the edge of the CHOP/CHAZ.)

                                                           **********************

   

 A man being a boy again

Faded red fenderless Schwinn

His shirt flapping behind him

Plaid, black and white, open and free

Coming down the hill

In the shadows of impending dark

A man being a boy again

No mask

Remembering

                     

                                        *******************************************

This morning my daughters call me

Bring scones

I arrive

They’re sitting outside around

The fire

Smiles

Their children not in sight

Teenagers off on perfect errands

It’s just the three of us

This is home

               ****************************************************************

Pre-covid. It’s a thing. Last February we weren’t even sure what to call it. Coronavirus. Covid-19. Covid. The Rona. Now it’s part of our natural speech. A thing we live with every day. Will we say post-covid at some point? What will it mean?

(Here was a postcard that I've had for a long time from a collection of my mother's, who passed ten years ago. It was hard to let go of, but I know it's now going to be in someone else's precious collection.)

                                                      ****************************

I pieced ears.

Anybody’s.

I didn’t really like it, but they asked.

A raw potato half, held behind the lobe

A thick darning needle thrust deep

With thread to pull through

Black thick

With instructions

Of care

As if I was a hippie nurse

A girl for all ages

(I hope people see the humor in the choice of this card. When I came upon it, looking for the right car for the sentiment, I nearly collapsed laughing.)

                ****************************************************************

 

The bees used to bother us

Now it’s a surprise to have their company

At the beach or park or dinner table

We’ve invited them to come

But they’re busy attending bee funerals

(It's been tough letting go of my Carl Larsson cards. I love them so; I wish I had a large house, with a huge room, where I could hang prints of all his pieces. Such a marvelous artist.)

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Some years are just bad.
It’s not only 2020
I remember 1994
My world crashed
It never was the same again
Nor will this be
We need to find bright angels
In these years
And tell them to follow us home.
 

 (Turner is another fantastic artist. Some of his pieces look like washes and nothing more, until you look closely. This is The Sun of Venice Going to Sea. Absolute magic.)

*******************************************     ************************************************

Summer’s finally come

now it’s the end of summer

while it teased us along for weeks on end.

Green tomatoes – will they turn red

given the eastern morning sun?

Or will it be another year of

no other satisfaction than smelling

the rich deep vines and

pouring water on the tender arms.

 

      (I hope Rosina enjoys this card. It's a local artist Molly Norris Curtis. 
        I love it and send it on to a new  home.)

**********          **********          **********          **********          **********          *******

Floating around the pool, 

holding hands to not drift apart, 

giggling, gossiping, 

people thinking you were 

my boyfriend. Back to my place 

for an intense game of scrabble, 

dinner roasted on my open grill, 

then you, 

off to meet your boyfriend. 

 

*****************************************

March 

How we imagined August. 

Or did we even dare to think about 

August then? Masks kept our faces 

warm and let us scowl at strangers. 

Come August, we continued to scowl.

August barely existed as we’d imagined it.

(I'm glad I have a photo of this card. It's been hanging around for a long time and I've always loved it.)

*************  *************  ***********  **************  *************  ***************  **************

Flesh was a color in the crayon box. 

Bandaids were all the same hue.

I lived in a small town in Washington. 1962.

A young black man wanted to go to school

JFK federalized the Guard.

In my town is was hard

To imagine. 

 

             (A dismal image for what still continues to be a dismal situation.)

*******************************************************************************

Now we’re looking for good deals

On masks but we want

The fashion statement type, not those plain ol’…

I like your Seahawks mask. Where’d you get it?

The smaller size for kids

With Sponge Bob and Elsa.

My granddaughter has one

for her Teddy bear.

I want one that says VOTE!

********************

 

I walked by your door yesterday

The old wooden stairs

Up to your loft where you lived

4 floors up with 2 spoiled cats

And watched the night life

and the day life below in the

streets of 1^st Ave. You live in

Barthelona now and your

life has always had a

hint of mystery.

(This is my last card of artist Marjett Schille. She was a friend of my mom and at one time I had several of her postcards. Mom is long passed and not sure what happened to Marjett but her whimsical art is a treasure.)

     

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Two roads diverged in a yellow wood

And one was blocked by an impenetrable wall

But the view was clear

Yet I was forced to take

The other

Though it clearly was not my choice

And struggled on the way to way

It has made all the difference

Of the bitterness that surfaces now and again

With recollection of the road not taken.

 

****    ****    ****    ****     ****    ****    ****    ****    ****    ****    ****     ****    *****

I struggle to be a poet

It’s like time is against me, 

and technology thumbs its nose 

at me as I take two steps forward

and three steps back.  Sometimes

the stumbling gets the better of me.

When I fall, I get back up again

Slower each time.

It's a good thing I'm not a pianist 

Or a brain surgeon.

**********************************************************************************

To sir with love… Sidney Poitier. 

White girls could love him 

like my mom loved Harry Belafonte 

and Nat King Cole. Then Janis Ian 

wrote that song. And we nearly got whiplash 

Wanting what we'd never wanted before.

 

********************   **********************  ******************   *****************

Morning with dew lashing my bare toes 

as I walk the dog, hoping 

warm weather will last into September, 

a small fog hangs at the end of the road, crows 

and seagulls competing in the big green 

bins for morsels, a moon still pasted 

on the horizon, gossamer, fading fast.

(J.M.W. Turner again. Magical shapes on canvas.)

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Mom had something against those who sleep in the morning, pulling us out of bed to do chores on weekends and summer days. Now I luxuriate, catching up.

(Carl Larsson again, such clarity, as opposed to Turner)

 

********      **********         ***********    ********      *********    ********  *********

We once wandered through the Farmer’s Market, making slow decisions, back and forth from one vendor to another. Now we hurry, moved by a line behind us, masked and distanced, willing their way in, while we wind our way out.

(These are almost the last of my Van Gogh's)

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I keep missing the moonrise
and now when I see it, 
high in the sky, 
I mourn a little, not being able to 
garner the energy I could 
if I’d only pay attention 
and make myself available to the sky.

 

                                 *************************************************

Sunday morning on 

the waterfront. Fog has just lifted 

with a chill still in the air, 

promise of a true summer day, 

with everything going my way.

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When I lived in Mexico and people would ask where I was on vacation from, I told them I was on vacation from life and expected to last until I died. Unfortunately I only lasted until I had to pull up tent stakes, sell the condo and use different talents.

                                         *****************************************

Our flag used to represent our nation, .
not it only seems to represent 
some of us. 
But who? 
Which side am I on? 
Even as I search the boundaries 
I don't know which piece of cloth 
To use in case of surrender.

 ***************************

In the park I hear a child crying, 

everyone looks. 

His father bends to commiserate 

while people crank their necks 

to hear the pleas 

of a woe begotten preschooler 

in need of another popsicle.

*****************************

 

Three Days

Feb 28 - the Opera. Yardbird, half empty seats; 

after all, the opera is a bastion of the elderly. 

Nervous, we sat close, far from others. 

Feb 29 - the school auction, half empty seats, 

knocking elbows with friends. 

No hugging, shaking hands. 

No masks. Yet. 

The school made almost $1 million , 

so somebody was there besides us. High Hopes. 

March 1 - family breakfast, still no masks. 

Kisses hugs. Last ones for three months.

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You’re a different person now. You’re 

Philippo with short hair and 

a mind boggling diagnosis. You’re 

still as carefree and goofy, but your beaming face but now 

shows the serious decisions you must make, 

and only you can be in charge. Now 

you know who loved you’ve always been. 

In the clearing stands a boxer – 

a fighter by his trade.

(When I went to pull a postcard out of the pile for this sentiment, my hand grabbed this Carl Larsson for our friend Philippo, who will fly this weekend from Puerto Vallarta to Los Angeles to begin treatment for brain cancer, an astonishing revelation that brought his little community in the jungles of Yelapa together in their customary way, Mexicans and gringos alike. It's been a long process already for him and it's just begun. My wish for Philippo is the peace this room conveys.)

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I don’t always trust Siri and Alexa. 
Are they really my friends? 
Do they like me? 
Are they telling me the truth? 
I don’t think they’re government spies 
but I do think they would stand me up 
for coffee and scones. 
They’d probably meet with each other 
and talk behind my kitchen.

(I can't describe my delight at finding this particular card for Siri and Alexa, no two ghostly roommates.)
 

                                            ***************************************************

Writing is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It’s also the thing that makes me happiest. I live between berating myself and reading something over and over because I know it’s good. I’ve lost all my writing jobs due to covid and now I write for myself though I can’t even seem to post a blog. There’s no closure with writing. It never stops. There’s always something new.

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Thank you for reading