Photos for January Stones and April PAD 2012 property of M J Dills (exception 1/16)







Wednesday, August 25, 2021

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/