Poems

One wood guy had old rotted wood
that was filled with iced
rain
and the melted goo
left dirt tracks
and little piles of yuck
all over my floor.

Another wood guy
had wet red oak
that until it dried out
spread a smell of winter
throughout my house.

One wood guy
was unreliable
a heroin addict
I'm told,
another less than forthright
almost dishonest
of Italian descent
not the Mafia.

The perfect wood guy
had two little children
and needed the money
I gave him
for stacking.
He cleared out his land
split the wood
and sold it all.
There's no wood guy
like the perfect wood guy
with no wood.

My first wood guy
many years ago
had four of his six children —
one a real little guy —
help him unload
his truck
and the little guy
left me a note once
scratched in the wood
plaintively
HELP.

I came real close
to calling the cops.

Maybe
the father beat him
molested him
was mean to him
HELP
he called out to me
silently
like my son
so long ago.

February 12, 2004

I'd rather die with dignity
by my own hand
on a preset date
than take a chance
on Alzheimer's
or more cancer.
The special TV documentaries
and the support groups
make it look like
we don't have a choice
but we do.

Intentional dying
I call it.

Arnie's rigid beliefs
about suicide
preclude his understanding.
Richard doesn't hear
or doesn't want
to understand.

Brice knows
but we're estranged.
I keep trying
to draw him in,
he wants me to replay
his mother's death.

Lucyanne tonight
explored her own
possible death
before mine
not the process
of dying
as always before.

The bathtub's too naked
too cold.

The bed is better.

Practice
breathing,
slow
it
down.

December 1, 2003

The Butterfly

The butterfly is so sensitive
she gets high from the fumes —
pardon me — the perfume
of my flowers.

My good friend John
was so sensitive
he got high from grass.
"Give it to John,
he'll smoke anything,"
we all used to say.
He seemed strange
and weird.

John and I used to sit
down at Friendly's
(the one in Rocky Hill)
and talk about sugar
and sweet things
and both get the nicest
sugar buzz.
Our power together
was a little frightening
to both of us —
John died at 54.

I'm so sensitive
I hear the animals
see the dying,
taste the toxins
smell pollution
and feel his love.
Touch would freak me
totally
it's been so long.

If I were a butterfly
I wouldn't care,
if I were John
I'd be gone.

July 26, 2003

Stewart's

It ended in front of a
Stewart's Drive-In.
In an uncharacteristic way
a new way
a man way
he took me by the shoulder —
"Listen, I have something
I want to say to you."

I'd suspected a new woman
for a while.
There's nothing like a new woman
to rev up a man's libido.
Plus he'd had the whole summer
alone,
like the summer I was in
California.
He went out
looking for girls —
mostly living in fantasy
regenerating himself
for his next big change.

He thought I might not
come back
then,
now he thinks
I might die.

I'm thinking
he could leave his work
leave his sister
come live with me,
giving us a last chance
with him grown up
and me grown up.

"I just wanted
to thank you," he began —
and yes,
it sounded like a final
kiss off —
"for helping me become
a better person."

I reflected.

He hugged me,
spontaneously,
uncharacteristically,
lovingly.

"You've helped me to be
a better person, too,"
I whispered in his ear,
and hugged him back.

We parted.

The struggle was over,
our better persons
took charge.

September 1, 2003

Animal Rights

What if I were a bee
buzzing around in summer,
and I flew inside
through an open doorway —
a big front door
the giantess left open
inadvertently?
I'd fly from room to room,
not knowing where I was
bewonderment of this world
this dimension
of bad smells
strange colors
everything dead
but some plants
hanging
near a window.

What if I were an ant
crawling around
looking for food
and I got captured
by an overturned glass —
a drinking glass
the giantess set down
on top of me
to torture me,
so I'd go home
and tell the others
to stay out
of her kitchen?

What if I were a rabbit
living in Eden
where there's plenty
of grass
and in the summer
delicate flowers
tasty, every one
and a man came out
of the giantess' house
and shot Grandpa?

What if I were a squirrel
and I found a secret hole
in some rotted wood
up near the roof line
of the big house
and it led to the perfect place
to stay for the winter,
so I get the family
and we move in
but as we scamper about
there's banging and yelling
and the giantess sends her boys
to set a trap
with tasty apple
and walnuts
I can't resist
and just as I sample
the metal door comes down
and I can't get out?

What if I were a fish
dodging turtles in a pond
and I got myself caught
on a worm hook?

What if I were a groundhog
scurrying along my tunnel
head down
and I ran into a 2 x 4
with a brick on top
dirt on either side
and I had to turn around
go all the way home,
then in the oppressive summer heat
get to the pond
the long way round?

If I were a bee
I'd think it was great
if the giantess
and her guests
would leave the door open
for a bit
so I could get back out,
instead of swatting at me
or — horrors —
spraying me
like they did to my cousins
in the city.

If I were an ant
I wouldn't mind
some gentle training
in the kitchen
but please
no torture —
Uncle Joe never recovered
from his trip
to the big house.

If I were a rabbit
I'd appreciate
a little consideration
on the driveway
if they'd only slow down
to give us notice;
in return,
we'd eat wildflowers
instead of her garden
they're just as tasty
near the drive.

If I were a squirrel
I'd be real quiet
if the giantess let me live
in the crawl space warm
all winter.

If I were a fish
I'd like to swim free
like my daughter wished
so many years ago.
I have enough stress
just dodging turtles
and herons
ducks
and geese
to say nothing of beavers
and river otters.

If I were a groundhog
I'd like to get treats —
some week-old pineapple
and a perfect strawberry
like the giantess once left
for my mother
before she died
last year
of old age.

We can all learn to live
side by side
with a little understanding
thorough training
lots of patience
and a big dose of love.

Please. . . .

August 21, 2003

I don't want to die
like Mr. Zemanik
living with some neighbor
down the road.

I don't want to die
like the old lady
walking down Main Street
or the crippled senior
at the diner.

I don't want to die
with my children
resenting me,
debating who is not willing
to give up their life
to look after me.

Long ago I knew
I didn't want to die
in a hospital
hooked up like my husband
out of control
lost.

Even worse
to spend my last days
near vegetable,
draining resources
from taxpayers.

I want to get hit
by a train
or take some pills
and lie down,
have a heart attack
untreated,
will myself
to my demise.

But before the end
— of my choice —
I plan a party,
Celebration of Life
with "Funeral for a Friend"
on the tape deck
and gifts for all the guests.

50's lamp for Karen
fish glasses for Brian
Arnie gets three pictures
and David, my car,
for Eion, my tasting spoons
and Shiva, the roses. . . .

Invitations?
Written, no doubt.
Sent to all
I haven't lost.

A last good-by
dot com perhaps
in the mail for some
in person
to most.

I don't want to die
the regular way
I want to die
my way
like I've tried to live.

May 17, 2003

Remote Listening

Get out of the drawer
the mouse whispers.
She's come to make breakfast
and reset the trap.

Quick! Run for the sponge.
The water is coming!
the ant cries out to the scouts
sniffing the breadboard.

To the top of the hole
the groundhog urges her young.
There's nothing to fear.
Sometimes we find pineapple
and once, she put out a strawberry.
We can sun on the brick wall.

CRASH! Oh, darn,
that tree fell the wrong way
the beaver swears.
I'll have to gnaw down
another one. . .she can use this
for firewood.

What a great place for a picnic
the grey goose honks.
Maybe there are fish in the pond
and peepers in the grasses.
We can stay all afternoon.

"CAW" calls the lookout
perched high in the poplar.
She's coming outside.
"CAW, CAW-CAW," his friend replies
She's going to her car.

Run up the maple tree
the squirrel warns his son.
It's the lady who caught you upstairs —
Better run quick!
Don't stop for the peanuts
she dropped on the grass.

Get out of the driveway,
she's coming through
the rabbit shouts as I pass by.
Now no one is home
so we can taste the new flowers.

The house is quiet,
we can all come out
say the mouse, the ant,
the groundhog, the beaver,
the goose, the crow,
the squirrel, and the rabbit.

If I listen closely enough
if I listen long enough
if I listen far enough
will I hear him say
I love you?

March 28, 2003

August

How do you feel
they ask me
as I near my 6th anniversary
cancer free.
Do you feel all right?

Today
I feel like my pond in summer
sluggish
with algae —
too close to the septic,
polluted air,
hot.
We're both thick
and still
with turtles buried beneath
in the muck.

Today
I feel like my purple flower garden
once alive
with pansies
petunias (for Mother)
and heliotrope —
vivid
fragrant —
now yellow
struggling
to survive.

Today
I feel like the great blue heron
standing alone
with a few duck friends
fishing in the lull
before the storm.
Plenty of froglets
and organic vegetables,
enough to weather
the upcoming storm.

Or will the storm
pass us by?

August 5, 2002

Meditation

Down I go...

Down through the thoughts...
the faraway train
the whistling bird
Down to the tick tock of the clock...

Down to the ringing in my ears...
the synapses
in my brain...

Down where my body
below the neck
is in an iron lung...
paralyzed...
and my breath keeps going
           in and out and in and out
effortlessly...
           sure
           strong
           slow
           deep....

July 2002

Like a Jewish mother
my tummy says
"You eat too much"
a reality I keep
creating
to match the words
I hear
the feelings I have
Nth-generation German.

Perhaps I'd rather be
in China
eating vegetables,
revered
for my sage advice.

Maybe
I could change the words
from my tummy
to,
thank you for providing
my food.
Tim planted it
I picked and cooked it
the life energy
comes from God.

My German side should say
could say
at precisely 80% full
"you're full"
even though my tummy says
like an Italian mother
"Eat more, eat more."

When I'm full
I'm reminded
of being pregnant —
good, and full,
productive
valued.

Perhaps
like an Indian Buddha
with tummy so round
I can quiet the voices
from all the mothers
and even quiet
my own.

August 2001

Bog Turtle

All winter, like a turtle
I bury myself in muck.
When the sun begins to warm the air
we both come out —
he, on his new sundeck,
I, with my Honda sun roof.

This winter
while the bog turtle
the painted turtles,
the snappers and the peace turtle
hibernated,
I did 10 jigsaw puzzles,
the longest with some help
from stoppers-by,
retreating a bit
from their worlds
for an hour or two.

Or would you rather swim like a fish
Carry moonbeams home in a jar
and do anything that you wish
or would you rather be on Mars?

I retreated all winter
like the bog turtle —
a dying breed
unless someone looks after him
like God
looked after me.

May 14, 2001

The Writers' Group

I almost catch poems
but before I can
flyers and press releases
recipes and cover letters
all crowd in.

I meditate
I yoga,
I limit my fat
              and sugar.
I remember my vitamins
with each of my meals.
I take my herbs
six times a day —
               some with water
on an empty stomach,
               some with food
but not much water.
Between meals I drink
glass after glass.
I bathe and breathe
Consciously.
I walk and stand
              holding my tummy in,
and somehow the poems
get lost.

January 15, 2001

Virginia

I'm the one with Alzheimer's
in my family;
he's the one who forgets
where the trip cupboard is
until I tell him a second time.
Then he remembers
and recalls
long after I've changed the location
the contents —
     Rand McNally car atlas
     picnic cups & plates
     AAA tour books
     with names of motels.

Suddenly
this spring
I no longer feel
like cramming a lifetime
into the last year
of my life.

I want to slow down
even more.
I don't want to miss
a moment.

I want to languish
in the morning sun,
I want to warm my toes
with yours.

Making room for love
slows you down.

Let's just get in the car
loaded our way
headed towards Buckingham
and the new Mecca —
the Light of Truth
Universal Shrine.

It's been a long time
since we hugged a building.

Let's pretend we're pilgrims
of long ago
journeying to a far land
with only a map
and our camels
loaded with provisions.

Want to?

This year
I want to write,
with a few imaginary trips
here and there
I want to walk
in the sun
Next year
I want to be more fit.

I'm no longer preparing
for the end
I'm participating
in the now
with a few imaginary trips
here and there.

June 19, 1999

Healing

You know the answers
my shrink said,
but some days
I can't hear my voice.

Early mornings is easy
lying in bed
the sun streaming in
on my third eye.

Late mornings
I remember yoga.
I hear Jim's words
teaching me,
I feel his hand
guiding me,
I feel his lips
on my lips.

Afternoons
resting
I touch my tummy
full of vegetables
and pills.
I do effleurage.

On nice days
I walk outside —
around the building
around the complex
around again.

Nights
after reading
I think of God
and space ships.

June 5, 1997

Alzheimer's

A lot of stuff is overload
                           confusion
                           manic brain
not enough stuff is mind mush
                               depression
                               brain dead.

Overload we avoid,
or recognize, and stop —
find our focus
calm our confusion,
order around us
in our lives.

Manic is fine for music
           working
           writing
           touch
           talk (but only if the listener
                           can keep up).

Not enough
becomes others' problem,
as we watch tv,
taking what energy
it gives,
mesmerized by the sounds
                            sights
                            colors
                            movement
like the women addicted
to video gambling
in South Dakota.

Brain dead means allowing ourselves
           to go on,
leaving our souls to live
         in our loved ones
         and outer space.

Some people believe
that all you know
should be passed on in your genes
to your children;
they'd pass it on
to theirs.

Knowledge is passed on
we just don't know how
to recognize it
and we're usually too young
            when we have kids
            to know much
            to pass on.

I believe in letting go
sometimes,
helping others learn to
sometimes.

Mother lets go more and more,
to a point where her essence
is now gone,
but her body
lingers on.

March 1996

The Endorsement

I still get a rush
from seeing your signature
on the back of a check
included in a bank statement
I get from the post office box
in Flemington.

It's been eleven years
since I saw you standing
dark hair long
head down
you
reminded me
of me
in many ways —
the same
in some ways
the opposite
in others.

I am healed.
I want to go on.
I want to find a man
who can acknowledge me
love me
touch me
I want it to be you
but your wound was deeper
than mine.

Death
is the final
rejection.

I want it to be you
but you didn't want it to be me.
You're blind.

I put the check away
in the money file
wondering how long it will be
till you figure it out
till you get it
or, if you ever will.
Wishing the resistance
could end
but knowing you wish the
loving
would end.

In the meantime
I have work to do.

June 19, 1991