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
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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.)
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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.)
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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.)
****************************** ******************** ******************************* *******************
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.)
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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 1st
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.)
******************** ********************* *************************** *************************
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)
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
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.)
**********************************************
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.)
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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
