Poetry & Prose 2015

Aunt Birthday and the Ocean

She was 70 years old – a great hulk of a woman, iron hair in a tight bun that jutted out of the back of her head, massive jowls forbidding when the children went to give the necessary kiss. Her real name was Bertha, but she was called Aunt Birthday because she had the same birthday as Johnny, her little three-year-old great nephew. She was visiting from Nebraska, birthplace of her parents and their parents under the flatiron skies that weighed like lead on their souls, keeping them grim enough to face reality.

But here was California, and the Ocean! She had dreamed of the ocean as a girl – vast, frightening, unbelievable, water as far as you could see, a boundless prairie of bottomless water, dangerous and unfathomable – yet sparkling, sparkling in the endless sun. So many times she had dreamt of it – and daydreamed too, when she was home in that flat land, ironing her husband’s starched white shirts, or washing the dishes, gazing into the murky water that reminded her of her ocean dreams…

Now she was 70 and her life had passed and she didn’t know what on earth was coming. If anything. They said if she was a good Christian she would be taken by an Angel and fly to Heaven – but she was not so sure, it all sounded like malarkey to her. Life was a bitch – she would only say such a word in her innermost private place, but it was true, life was hard, hard, unforgiving. The end of her charity toward it had come when her son had gone to war and it had swallowed him along with everything else good in her life. Then she had put on a mask, and had worn it ever since, to frighten the ghosts. Now, decades later, she had at last lost her cagey old husband – thank God he was at rest, and she could rest too…

Her brother Frank and his wife Leota were good people, and tried to be kind, although they too had their share of spats. They had invited her to visit them in their California bungalow by the railroad tracks where they had come to be near the kids. Frank and Leota were the lucky ones, all their children alive and well, although that one, the little boy, had grown up peculiar, queer they called it. Good thing he was out in San Francisco now where he belonged. 

But now she herself was here, on the edge of the world, where the land ended and the great drink began – enormous, enormous, and terrifying – just as she had always imagined it.

They got out of the car at the top of the beach and she said to them, loud and clear, I want to go down to the water. 

They looked at her doubtfully – sure, us old folks in our good clothes and good shoes, tramp down through all those miles of sand – have you ever even walked in sand?? 

Of course, she bellowed, of course – though she hadn’t. 

So they humored her and tromped down through the sand, and it was rough going, like to suck you under. Exhausting. Her black pumps – sensible old lady shoes that laced up the front, and stood on two-inch thick black heels – were sturdy though, and she was no wimp, no weak ninny. Her thin black dress with the little purple flowers flapped in the cold wind, her sweater wasn’t near warm enough, and she was glad for her girdle and sturdy nylon stockings. She trudged onward, and the ocean roared and gleamed at her and she couldn’t wait to be there – it called and called her with the sweetest deep voice… 

At last they reached the brink, and the edge of it rolled toward them and almost touched their toes – and she had to step back in a hurry on the wet sand – but then it rolled away, swept into itself with a great sucking sound, and she thought she would die, she wanted to go down on her knees to it and dip her forehead in the sea…

What nonsense! She glared at it, her hard mouth a thin line across her battleship visage.

Up came the water, gurgling and beckoning – then back it fled, sucking and huge, into its impossible depths. What could be lurking, swimming and blinking in there, what millions of fishy monsters?

Aunt Birthday stood her ground. She was going to touch the Ocean. Let no one say she had come all this way without touching the Pacific. So the next time it came laughing toward her, she stood firm, and when it reached her she put the toe of her black shoe into the dancing water – and it came right in, its coldness filled her toe box, wetting her real toes – the great Pacific! And she wept – a little girl running up the beach screaming and screaming in delight.

Beside the Merced River 

in Yosemite

Glittering

The water flows

Carrying the silence

That is inside the world

On the surface

Leaf and needle swirl

Now together

Now apart

Borne on 

Bell-clear depths

Empty and full

As my heart

Functional Ecstasy

Plunging west

On the freeway

From the warm inlands

Toward the bay

In the silence

Of the rushing car

I contemplate 

The Mystery:

Rough gold hills 

Lifting on all sides

With their waiting oaks

Planted roadside trees

Waving their pink hands 

At the hot blue sky

Curling fog 

Dark on the horizon

And all at once

I am filled

With a sweetness

So deep and gentle and 

So soft

It ripples me open

And I swoon inside

While staying  

Fully steady

On the road

Later

Arriving at my destiny

I tell myself:

Remember this!

You believed the senses

Were a boundary

Separating you 

From the world 

But if all things 

Of this world 

Can touch you so

As to send you into

Completely 

Functional

Ecstasy

Then

The senses are no prison

But a bridge

Or a Door

And we – 

All beings

and the World –

Are in no way “other”

But One.

Getting Unstuck from the Past

In my dream

I was pouring over a thick old book 

Of cartoons

Its pale pages covered in plastic 

Like an old photo album

The black ink faded to murky blue

In thousands upon thousands

Of detailed drawings

Of mundane moments with my family

Including my dead husband 

Who was looking over my shoulder

Apparently, I marveled to myself,

Once upon a time

I had drawn all these.

How could I possibly

Have spent so many hours

So long ago?

They weren’t bad,

It must have taken me forever…

I turned the pages 

Completely entranced

Until my husband asked me why

Was I keeping all that?

When I woke up

I had the thought that

Maybe I need

A colonic.

Maybe that

Would loosen up and dislodge

All those pounds and pounds

Of impacted memories

That are stopping the flow

Of living my life

Plugging the pipes

Of just being me.

Eccupesence

for Alex

Dear boy, unruly child,

You were six years old

Wiggling on my lap

When last we met

.

Word has it

You became a man

Towering, magnanimous

Sweet and grand

Sensitive and brilliant

And Inventor of a whole

New word 

Of which you were also

The very prototype:

Heavenly Eccupesence 

Of intelligence, manly strength, 

And sonly loving kindness.

True, you had your problems,

But they were not your fault:

It was the craziness of the world

Never of your sweet heart.

And so for decades

You fought to do your part 

As wild companion and protector

Of my kindest friend

Then, when at last you'd done 

All you could 

You went on ahead

To get the lay of the land.

Now we, two old women,

Sit dreaming

Just this side of the

Wonderful Gate

Ready to join you or

Already there

Still asleep, but

Soon to wake

On Dealing with Monsters

Most of the time

it's Fear

that drives us -

and this

besides being debilitating

is embarrassing

since we're supposed to be

strong,

needing help

from no one.

Particularly pernicious

is the Anxiety critter

that dogs our steps,

feeding

on our frustrations

and our abandoned

aspirations -

nasty byproduct

of the world's gross

dehumanization.

Luckily

we do have

magic potions

to knock such monsters out.

They work great,

though you have to keep

dosing the critter

every now and then

pouring just a little

in its crinkled ear

if you want

any peace.

On the other hand

if you prefer

to get rid of the monster

altogether

you can eventually

starve it to death.

Which admittedly

takes some work.

You have to ignore

the temptation

of frustration

and just keep on truckin’

fueled not by fear

but by fascination

and the occasional sip

of inspiration.

This is hard at first

but it gets easier

and it's never too late

It's hard

but not that hard.

If you're in a real pickle

by all means

use a potion!

But sometime

when you're up 

for adventure

you might want to try

dealing with the monster

on your own.

I say

Go that way.

Take that chance.

Heart Child

Heart child

what i see in you

goes deep

beyond success

or failure

though perhaps

through failure

you can find 

your true

success.

Like a diver

running out of air

battling asphyxiation

until

at the last moment

he finds that narrow gap

and squeezes through

into a sanctuary 

of unexpected air

gasping

and gasping

in wonder

and relief.

You learn something

new

in that desperate search

when all seems lost.

Then

and only then

the choruses

of angels

teem in your ear

Come This Way!

This Way!

And they lead you

with their bright

silken voices

Home.

In Defense of 

Identity Theft 

(for all my beloved victims)

I know it’s illegal

But 

Just in case you

My love

Someday find yourself 

Overly attached

To another

Human Being 

And feel compelled

To steal their

Identity,

Let me explain

This thing

And why I keep 

Doing it

Time after time

After time.

The good news is

It’s not our fault.

After decades of 

Wallowing in guilt

I have it at last

On good authority:

This Sin

Is actually a disease

Of the addiction sort,

Possibly

The most common form

Of kleptomania.

Sometimes known as

Mistaken Identity Disorder,

The condition is

Hereditary

Throughout 

Most of the

Human Race.

The symptoms

Are seductive, galling,

And unmistakable:

Acting in the name of Love

You begin appropriating

Another person’s

Rights and privileges

Imposing upon them 

The most 

Outrageous 

Clingy 

And oppressive behavior,

Until they can’t wait

For you to 

To disappear.

The bad news is

There are no

Vaccines

And there is no cure.

Any number of palliatives  

Among them

Cognitive Therapy

Mindfulness

Jesus 

Allah

And Avalokiteshvara

Etcetera

May provide

Temporary relief
But the disease

Is yours

For Life.

Just when you think

You’ve got it beat

You’ll find yourself 

In the throes

Of fondling someone else’s 

Personal Identity,

Convinced it is 

Your own -

Then suddenly

You’re writhing on the floor 

Or rushing out the door

Convulsed 

With Possessiveness

Jealousy

And Revenge.

Being everywhere 

And irresistible

This plague

Will ravage you

Again and again

and again

Leaving you 

Permanently disabled

Drained, depressed

And confused

Because 

Its seed is legion

And it masquerades

As that which it destroys.

Few can withstand

That cuddly deceiver 

Who claims

To fill the void

And erase

The possibility

That you are

Some kind of Misfit

Caught in your own

Lonely Hell

While a million 

Happy Others

Are laughing at you

From their private

Gated Heaven

Where you

Can never go

Having raved 

In the throes of 

This vile delirium

More times

Than I can count,

I can tell you from experience:

It’s not a one-time affair

Like the chickenpox

Once you’re infected –

And you will be –

You can get it

Over 

And over

And over

Until you die of it

And some people

Do.

But don’t worry

If it doesn’t kill you

It is reputed  

To impart

Useful lessons –

Although I can’t say yet

Precisely

What they are.

Especially if you

Are one of us

Slow-thinking

Emo-types,

You will have to endure

Endless terrifying 

And boring 

Repetitions

Before you learn

To change

Your life.

Regardless

There’s no way to avoid it

And nowhere to hide -

It leaps the walls

Of nunneries and monkeries,

Hones in on hermits

In caves and treetops 

Finds defiant single folk

Hiding in mansions 

Or in hovels

Even lonely scientists

Seeking uninfected life on 

Other planets and 

At the bottom

Of the sea.

No matter who 

Or where 

You are

This devil will find you,

Knock you flat 

Hold you down

And torture you

Until you die

With those same

Infuriating riddles

still unsolved:

Who am I?

Where am I going?

And Why????

No pill will impart 

That wisdom,

No university degree,

No shopping spree.

Some say you’ll find 

The answer

If you step off that 

Cliff over there 

Into who knows where -

Inexplicably 

There are reports

That the ride

Can be quite pleasant

Though most 

Wouldn’t take the leap

To save their hair.

But Who knows?

One way or another

Everyone has to die

And I’m getting tired 

Of this drama

It might be worth a try.

If someday you feel 

The same 

Perhaps then

I’ll meet you there

Both of us falling 

Weightless

And giddy

Down down down

Through the deep 

Blue air