POPO 2021

Can you believe it's been a year since I blogged here? I told someone the other day "2020 is just a big bird dropping splotch on our calendars. Nothing happened, or so it seems." Now we've rolled around to another Postcard Poetry and I shamelessly will promise to get better again about blogging and hope to have some good news before this year in over.

In the meantime, here is PoPo 2021:

                                    The Great Wall of China in Six Parts

Can you see me up there at the top of the hill? 

All you need to do is enter, step...step by step. 

Up, up, follow what path has been given you, 

a map, unnecessary when it's all laid out for you. 

A window, 

essential to seeing in, 

and seeing out. 

Vast, 

with so much promise, 

all that is required is to 

open 

eyes 

wide 

shut.

The Chinese wall,

intended as protection,

was a path for 

travelers...and so one could move, 

stand still, 

balk, 

reach, 

reject, 

run to or from, 

fear, 

admire, 

care for, 

or seek to destroy.

And I stand and wait, 

watching moons and suns ascend, descend, 

stars come out and diminish, 

comets vanish, 

planets born, die, change names, 

and a plan for your return 

in the distance, 

where I can make out 

the thin form of your resistance. 

Where it begins, ends, 

falls in disrepair, 

seems invisible 

from the blind eye, 

rolls, 

like the blood in your veins, 

connected, 

never completed severed, 

always pulsing, 

always present, 

always struggling. 

Spring arrives each year with hope, 

a new possibility with 

a non-holiday holiday. Cruises

into summer, on the edge, 

the opportunity to reject once again, 

just like autumn does; and winter disappoints, 

over and 

over again. 

Family Legends

The stuff for family legends isn't always worth repeating even though details may be clear and unforgotten. When my son was lost at sea and there were helicopters searching dark waters, his father trying to figure out how he would explain to me he'd lost our boy, who was sound asleep in a deep bunk midship. Rescue teams cheered while we fumbled with untrusted emotions. 

However I'm Dressed

I know you think this is an invitation. 

It's not. 

It's me, 

being me. 

On the beach, 

the pool, 

walking down the street, 

over the bridge, 

in school, 

at work, 

in the grocery line, 

at the theater, 

wherever you see me, 

however I'm dressed, 

no matter how much skin 

I choose to show, 

or hide... 

this 

is 

not 

an 

invitation.

                                      LOSING YOU

                                   

Losing you was losing a part of my history. 

There were things that only you and I 

could remember and now 

I must remember them on my own. 

With no one to validate the memories. 

And the sadness is not so much 

that you are gone, 

 it's that we are gone.

aLmOSt NoRmaL

We almost started

being a little normal.

Trader Joe's even took down                               

their plastic shields. 

Masks were optional 

for the vaxxed.                                                        

Too soon.                                                                            

Wildfires make the skies hazy.

Again.

This.

This is our new normal.

Masks fulfill multiple purposes. 

We are all frogs 

in a warming pot.

The canary has sung.

Chinooks

Lavish Saturday morning 

breakfasts at Chinooks. 

Laughing family laughs, eating 

honeyed butter, and the tingly taste 

of orange zest. Seagulls 

piercing the calm of the drizzle 

hanging under the sky, scolding 

us for living too well, telling us to 

go home, 

pack for the future. 

Forgiving Myself

Flipping through old notebooks, photos, clippings, poems, quotes, flattened matchbooks. Hours pass as the sun floats across the southern sky on a warm summer afternoon and I, caught indoors, forget the garden, the dust and dishes and all other duties, forgiving myself for places I meant to see, words left unspoken, dried up tears, ships that have sailed. 

Life Redirected

Once I had submitted to the life 

that had been redirected for me, 

I dove in headlong. Limbs

no longer were a matter for

prom gowns and 

summers at the lake, 

ski slopes or wooden stages. 

I became a leg to cling to, 

a vessel of milk, rich and blue,

arms never empty, 

a backbone 

stronger than my mother 

ever predicted. 

New shoes, 

a different hat. 

The Summer of '66

The summer of '66, 

I thought I had 

everything figure out. But 

I missed some things. 

How to protect myself. 

How to fight back. 

How to say "no." 

My outlook 

was always cheery and 

I was confident. There were 

leading roles in my future, 

straight A's, 

the Dean's list. There were 

other lists, too, which 

I could not have foreseen. 

I have no regrets but 

I have some good advice.

Makah 1993 Neah Bay 

Our heads were filled with magic 

and a new ancient language. 

We walked on whaling beaches 

where history has been forgotten 

by those who choose to change it. 

The songs, 

the food, 

the stories, 

the mystical words, 

clicking and soothing, 

the craggy beautiful faces, 

the clamshell yearning 

for a different time and place

Master Thief 

I'll teach you how to steal he said. 

First you take the little things

They go unnoticed. The big things

are harder; you're always being watched.

But it's not impossible. You must be

brave and put on a face, as if

you don't care at all. Pretend

it belongs to you. The 

difficult part is when 

they steal from you. Some 

have nothing of 

value. He taught me how to steal. 

He was a Master Thief.

New York September 2019 

East Village

was a perfect time 

in the city garden 

with Marta, who had

the key to let us in to the

fairy lights and 

marjoram, parsley, 

Simon and Garfunkel warbling

over speakers meant for

dayworkers. It was a 

sister kind of night,

young and brash,

old and wrinkled,

in between,

imparting stories, opinions, guidance,

raucous laughter, tittering giggles,

bold invitations, glasses never

half empty, pushing the morrow

out of our minds.

CATS

My son wrote a little

personal essay once about our cats; past,

present, and future. He was 9 at the time 

and it was 

one of the sweetest things 

I've ever read by anyone. He

laboriously typed it out on my "Selectric" 

and I still believe I will find that yellowed

piece of parchment paper in a box

someday. I miss all those cats.

Brave

Looking back, I can see 

the crack forming when Brave 

died. A strong beautiful hen, 

so named because 

Brave 

was who she was. One of the

original brood, she 

carried so much weight 

on her tiny feathered wings;

so many expectations,

future dreams,

silent songs,

little secrets,

prospects for a formidable foundation.

Hope.

Peanut Butter Memories

My bro and I shared a love 

of certain edible things. 

Popcorn, 

tacos... and peanut butter 

on warm toast with butter melted 

and dripping! You bite into it 

and it oozes between 

your teeth, gets stuck 

to your cheek hollows and 

you wash it down with a cup of 

good strong coffee. All 

those things 

make me remember him; 

olfactory memories.

Kornfeld

He was just a guy 

who lived in my building. I 

collected his rent 

every month. He smoked 

so I saw him outside 

usually. I 

talked with him 

and his son about 

football, croquet, 

dogs, the weather. He 

died alone in a hospital 

room while others 

were attended to. No 

one was saved. I 

was the only person 

he said goodbye to. 

    Childish Summer

    Mornings were soft and fresh... 

    smell of dust from 

    the alley, green wet 

    grass. Trees, with gnarly 

    roots, to create spaces under, 

    outdoor sanctuaries with 

    rock-lined borders, little imaginary 

    shops where fairies visited 

    after dusk, when children 

    were meant to be 

    indoors. 

    Dolls dragged out of 

    bedrooms, then found 

    in the morning dew, forgotten, 

    then retrieved and 

    loved again. Kool-aid 

    with so much sugar

    it hurt your teeth, soda 

    crackers, peanut 

    butter, fresh picked 

    berries, slightly 

    dusty. Barefoot 

    for weeks on end; 

    toes splayed in September. 

  

Battle Lines

Battle lines

were drawn.

One of us fought hard, 

the other with a short stick, 

keeping monsters 

at bay. It ended 

in an emotional rout and 

open wounds closed 

eventually but 

the salt remained. 

Ships sailed. 

Horizons fell dark 

but never stayed that way. 

New shores harkened. 

Castles were built 

on sand.

California

Songs have been written about California, 

the beaches, the palm trees, the sunset pigs, the hotels. 

It pulled me until I got fed up with partial truths, earthquakes, 

and broken promises. 

I won't forget the swarm of baby hummingbirds, 

Olvera Street, mean geese in Sacramento, canyon bike rides, 

being taken for rock stars, Paul Bunyan, the pier, 

candles in wine bottles, and your hair.

Fall 1968

I loved the market, 

even the odors of raw fish, mixed 

with the pungent smells of mums 

and marigolds. It wasn't a tourist 

attraction yet, just a place to buy 

from vendors, the deli, and a newsstand 

with hundreds of selections; 

I could've hung out there all day. I 

bought pudding from 

the sweet Asian lady, 

a peach, 

and a tomato, 

which I ate whole, 

sprinkled with salt. 

You told me I was pregnant. 

We Saw the World

From the time I was 6 or 7, my bicycle was total freedom. No one really cared much where I was in our safe, small town. I was GONE, down the street, around the corner and into the wild. When he was 2 and I was 11, my baby brother joined me, perched in the basket on my handlebars. We saw the world. Our world. We had no borders and wide horizons. 

Another Country

 I loved you in another country

There were maps leading us down roads, over seas,

into mountains and jungle, that we imagined

or simply conjured. So we could

go our own way, like birds

in a murmuration, whirling,

changing with a whim, impossible 

to follow.

Off the charts.

CHURCH

Anklets, bare legs all the way up to the Sunday panties, Mary Janes

that pulled socks down over the heel, like a tiny determined conveyor belt, 

repeatedly. Impossible to find two socks that matched, per order of Mom.

Late. Snow splattered on the landscape like crispy sugar. Holding a heavy green

hymnal with crackling pages, wishing to be home

having hotcakes with Dad.

The Eye

I miss you, Dad. You always had an eye on us, 

even when we were far far away.

You were all seeing and you knew

everything.

At least we thought you did and

that was good enough for us.

OUR HOUSE

Our house was a very very very fine house, 

on the best street, 

on the best hill,

in the best city,

in the best state,

in the best country, 

on the best planet. 

We used to sing this song 

when we thought nothing could change, 

fooled 

by our image of reality. 

We were so wrong. 

 

Distant Smoke

In the distant smoke of the future, I will not acknowledge

pain or sorrow. I will see my beauties as full-grown

human sculptures, perfect in every way,

better even,

having gained wisdom 

through ears and eyes. May they 

always think of me,

who loved them completely,

as one who cradles them through 

distant smoke.

And now another year of PoPo has been completed. I ask the post office to hand-cancel my little poems as they are sent abroad and near, in hopes words will be left clear and legible, but there is always some overzealous postal worker, who needs to run these tiny pictures through mean machines. One hopes they arrive somewhat intact and if not, here are all the words, and the images, too. Cards are collected at estate sales mostly and these poems are rough drafts, written as prompts, using the postcard for inspiration. Many will be reworked and polished. Look for them and others in my poetry chapbook, available at the end of the year.

Thanks for reading...

I can be seen/heard reading three of these postcard poems from a session that drew our Poetry Postcard Fest to an end of September 2, 2021. There are many beautiful poems to observe from an abundance of talent, but mine are found from 7:45 - 10:30. https://ppf.cascadiapoeticslab.org/2021/09/05/post-fest-open-mic-video/

Let me tell you what it's like to be filled with terror.......

What’s it like to be filled with terror? 

Let me tell you… 

Today I watched a great football game (Hawks won over the Vikings in a real beating), then I went to a meeting at a library. A normal Sunday. 

I was glad to find a parking spot close to the building and managed to arrive a few minutes early. This was being a good day and the sun was kind of shining. I was standing inside the library, about to approach my favorite weather personality, who was walking in the front door on his way to set up the meeting I was about to attend, when I noticed a lot of flashing lights and started to peek outside to see what was going on. 

The sounds of what were later described as serious heavy caliber gunfire sent me in the other direction a lot faster than I have recently expected my body to be able to maneuver. I’m sixty-six; I don’t move fast for much of anything unless it involves a serious senior discount and a popping cork. 

Along with dozens of patrons of the library, I ran like hell. 

People were shouting The bathrooms, The bathrooms. 

I suddenly found myself surrounded by kids, mainly four boys ranging in age from about 15 down to 5. In our group, there was also a man, who I thought accompanied the boys but later realized was on his own; and a younger Asian lady and her elementary-age daughter. The oldest boy in our group was obvious autistic and I wondered where his chaperon/parent was, but it didn’t really matter. He was terrified and he wasn’t the only one. 

The youngest two boys, Joshua and his five year old brother, were sort of aware that something was going on. The other boy was around 9 or 10 and he knew it was gunfire and wasn’t shy about saying so. Repeatedly.

Many years ago, when my two granddaughters were around two years old, I made up a story to keep them from freaking out whenever fire engines passed us, about kittens being rescued by firemen and how they had to get to this kitty quickly... so they put their sirens on and drive fast. Today I found myself relying on those kittens, and added dogs and other animals to the narrative. Anything to distract from the fuselage outside on the streets that stopped and then, mercilessly, moments later started again.

While I was using kitten stories and other nonsense to calm myself and hence, the children around me, I also found my mind wondering what would happen next. For what seemed like a long time, we sat in this modern day foxhole, which we found out was, appropriately, the office of the children’s librarian and we had no idea what was happening outside. Not a clue.

The mention of a Jewish Temple located across the street passed in one of my ears and didn’t stick at all, cruising out the other side. Though today was the first day of Hanukkah…that just didn’t make sense. No one is at war with Jews, at least not in Seattle or any other part of the US. Not today anyway. Is religion the first thing that comes to mind? Yes. How sad is that in this time of joy and peace and love and light? Terror is on everyone's mind. 

In an instant at the beginning I hoped if this was some kind of attack I wanted to die quickly and not be horribly maimed. I wondered what it would be like to be hit by a bullet. If it would hurt and if I died, would see my mom and dad. The image of dully painted cinder blocks above my head will linger for some time. If the walls would cave in; if we would be blown up without noticing the destruction. If it would hurt. Please spare the children, I thought. And in the next fleeting fraction of a second... how would they recover from something like this anyway? Above all, I wondered how my grandchildren would deal with something happening to me? 

Those of us gathered, squatting and huddled, had no idea what the gunfire was about but I know that I, among others, didn’t have any supposition either, how safe we were. The autistic boy stood with his hands clasped over his head, a stance that was unnerving and I yearned to engage him in the coloring we were doing on the floor. I tried to color with the kids but gave that up. There was no way my shaky hand would stay inside the lines. 

When it was all over and we found out it was ONE guy and a LOT of cops, I felt foolish, in a way. And I had a meeting to go to. I also knew what I had felt was terror. I'd not known what was going on (twenty minutes sequestered and uninformed is a long time) other than a couple people coming into the doorway to tell us we had to stay where we were. Gunfire. Is. Terrifying. You are helpless. (And, no, it wouldn't have helped to have my own gun. Who the hell was I going to shoot at?)

I suspect I have a little bit of PTSD. What the hell do people do when they REALLY get shot? Or their friend/co-worker next to them gets shot? Or everyone around them gets shot? Or they hide in a cupboard or a closet or a bathroom until someone comes and pulls them back to reality. Not back to safety, because that’s gone. Safety is gone when you go through terror, regardless of the level, the magnitude. This shit is real, people.

 For now my safety is gone. 

 Thanks for reading.

The Great Divide

 

I don't get it. I know SEVERAL small business owners who pay their employees a STARTING wage of $15. I'm also quite sure the owner of Cupcake Royale is far from personal financial pain, as was referred to in a friend’s Facebook thread. 

What a lot of whining! Why can't large corps do as Costco, known for paying their employees above the minimum in all states and countries they do business?  I worked the holiday season this last year at Nordstrom for a jaw-dropping $9.25/hr. I did okay for the weeks surrounding Christmas, which could have made it worth my while, but the bookend paychecks I received resembled nothing close to a living wage. That ain’t right.  

Food servers currently earn $9.32/hr and you say "oh, but they get TIPS, too…" Hah! I have many personal friends who are in this business. Most have two jobs. And it’s still a struggle.

I’m an apartment manager who’s pressured by upper management to raise rents whenever we have vacancies; ergo there are certain people living in our building. We used to call them yuppies; young upwardly mobile... a privileged generation. They are shutting out those who have not been able to afford a college degree, which seems to be the earmark for getting a livable wage. I know. I've done the job hunt in the past five years and it’s scary. I’m lucky to have some of the resources I do and the ability to capitalize on them or I would have gone down with this economic ship a long time ago.

Herman Cain, past presidential GOP hopeful, didn't quite come out to abolish the minimum wage but his claim that it’s the best starting place for those seeking a first job fell on ears of those with a high school education and no hope of even attending a community college and/or being able to pay rent. Guess how Cain made his fortune? Burger King. Godfather’s Pizza. He held executive positions in the restaurant industry most of his career. Republicans Rick Perry, Rand and Ron Paul all have run for office on platforms that include abolishing the federal minimum wage and as the elder Paul famously glibly quoted “because it would help the poor people.”

There is a great disparagement between the working class of America and those above them. We have the poor and we will always have the poor; those born in circumstances that are almost impossible to rise above. But we also have a diminishing lower middle class, who find it more difficult with each passing year to make ends meet. I know people who are in miserable debt, simply because they have been forced to buy GROCERIES with a credit card. Buying a new car? Laugh. Out. Loud. These are people who work at more than one job and when the day is done, there is little time for fitting in an extra class at the community college, let alone embarking on a new education or career.

I’m really disappointed in those I know who are complaining about things like higher menu prices. If you can afford trips to Europe, Asia, Hawaii, Mexico, go home to the East Coast/California to visit the family; if you have a new car don’t rely on Metro for your transportation, if you drink hard liquor or visit local restaurants, frequent a bar/café where everybody knows your name, shop retail don’t buy clothes at Value Village out of necessity, never sweat your car payment verses your rent mortgage, then maybe you should be willing to let others afford some of the same. We aren't discussing luxuries here: this isn't about yachts, expensive champagne, designer shoes. This is about enjoying life and not working your fingers to the bone. Because as the song says “What do you get? Boney fingers!” And instead of turning up your middle one to the people who actually make your life better, give a damn.  

Thanks for reading.