Global awareness

Those of us who grew up with globes 

May have been imprinted early 

With the awareness that we are all connected. 

And even though the names and shapes 

Of some countries were always evolving, 

We had a sense 

 Of which lands were mountainous 

 And which were deserts, 

And some sense of what it must be like 

To live there; some care and curiosity 

 For the Other…

Wholly ordinary

I was just heading for the door 

When this arrangement caught my eye: 

Not the vase, or its contents, 

Which are there all the time, 

But the way the sunlight 

Cast upon the wall 

Sets it off. 

How can we, like that light, 

Draw attention to the beauty of the ordinary?

If only…

If only we could walk on water, 

We could follow this meandering path 

To where it unites, then separates again, 

And then combines once more, 

And find it easier to imagine 

That what’s broken now 

 Could be once again made whole; 

 That the divisions that now plague us 

 Could peacefully resolve 

 Into a new and healthier unity…

Community art project

My little town has an aging fence 

 That’s about to be torn down 

And so the invitation came: 

“Let’s paint it before it goes!” 

The results — like the humans who participated— 

Are a mix of charming and beautiful, 

Poignant and humorous, 

But one thing’s for sure: most of us 

Will be sad to see it go.

Observing the familiar

It’s a familiar path; 

We walk it almost every day, 

But rarely pay attention to 

The way it keeps evolving. 

Whether it’s a walk in the woods 

Or steps to a refrigerator, 

A bedtime ritual or a trip to the store, 

We do it without thinking. 

What if today you were to notice; 

To be present; to observe 

What has evolved; what’s different 

Or even try another approach?

Slide into darkness

October, and the golden sunsets 

Become not only rare, but masked, 

As the earth begins to turn her back 

On light and color — at least for us —

 And the sun slides sooner 

And further into darkness. 

Hard not to feel our country’s sliding, too 

And wonder if spring might never return…

Where’s the blessing?

As things keep going from bad to worse, 

We have to keep asking this question to survive: 

Where is the blessing in this curse, 

And how can we bring it to life?

Uninhabited

Uninhabited, like the chest 

Of a heartless leader; 

Encroached upon by surrounding vegetation, 

Which expands to break apart the structure 

Others worked so hard to build 

 And still the sky glows blue 

As if this devastation Isn’t happening, 

Matters not, 

Shouldn’t disturb us; 

Pay no attention to what’s ending 

Right before our eyes.

What will become of us?

I made the mistake of starting my morning 

By reading a bit of national news 

And learned of the Arizona congressman 

Who said a Washington woman rep 

Should be executed for teaching folks 

Nonviolent resistance. 

So much for freedom of speech. 

I turn from my computer 

And stare sadly out my window 

At the newborn figs, 

Dancing in their branches in the rain.

Fifty Shades

The mountain and her dance partners, the clouds, Compose their own chaste version 

Of Fify Shades of Gray…

Warning: curves ahead

Wherever you’re headed, 

And whether the journey is planned, 

A simple exploration, 

Or a response to a crisis, 

There will inevitably be curves, 

Moments when you can’t quite see what’s next, 

And have no clear escape if it looks bad. 

But still, I know you’ll power through;

 Keep on moving forward 

At whatever pace you choose, 

Following your destiny and trusting 

That each moment is exactly 

Where you’re meant to be, for now, 

And what’s coming will have 

Something new to offer.

A larger view

When you’re sick, the world shrinks 

To the size of your room, 

 Or — if you’re lucky — 

To the view from your window.

 Sadly, being sick, I begin to understand 

That much of my country 

Must also be ill: unable to see 

Beyond their own walls 

 To the beauty and depth 

Of the larger world. 

But what is the cure? 

 And how can we restore 

That broader, more welcoming view?

Gathered reminders

As the season draws to a close 

 A few hardy flowers still cling to their vines 

In defiance of the winter to come, 

We, like the squirrels who store away 

Nuts for the cold days ahead, 

Gather the flowers in our cameras 

To remind us spring will come again.

Despite past experience,

It’s sometimes hard to believe…

Earth’s own pandemic

Driving down the road, heading west, 

And seeing fog beyond the trees — 

Or is it smoke?— and wondering 

If this is yet another fire, 

Or simply morning mist 

 Above the nearby sea. 

Wildfire season is earth’s own pandemic: 

Forcing all the vulnerable to mask 

And shelter indoors; coating the air 

With fear.

No figs left for us

There he goes again, that pesky little squirrel, 

Too fast for me to photograph 

As he separates another fig 

 From its branch among the leaves 

And scampers to a sturdier branch 

Beyond my field of vision 

To munch contentedly until the buck, 

Sharpening his antlers, shakes 

The whole tree, knocking squirrel and fig 

To the ground…

Waffling

It’s the day after your birthday, 

But I didn’t bring you flowers 

(The garden is empty) 

And I didn’t take you out to dinner

 (We have Covid, so we’re stuck at home) 

And the presents that I ordered 

Won’t arrive until today, 

So I asked what I could make you for dinner, 

And you said, “Waffles!” 

We’re old now, we’re allowed 

To have waffles for dinner, 

Though we never have before, 

So I got out the waffle iron, 

Which was covered with dust, 

And washed it off, and made waffles, 

With chopped bananas. I also cooked up bacon, 

 And heated maple syrup, 

Even though all those things are usually 

Your responsibility, and the first waffle 

Stuck to the grill and shredded

 (I’ve not made waffles in four decades 

And forgot to oil the grill) 

And we ate it all, and smiled: 

This might become a tradition.

We shall overcome

It’s true: there might be obstacles, 

And barriers to beauty, 

But with courage and determination, 

And the aid of helpful friends 

We can surmount them, and get closer 

To the joyful rush of life 

Our forefathers envisioned for our country.

Blessings abound

Heading home on the final stretch 

After a long day’s drive; 

Slowing for a local biker 

Who struggles with that last small hill, 

We pause to capture the essence of the moment: 

 The luxury of fields and trees and fog 

Giving the illusion of aloneness 

When we know ourselves 

Embraced by this community. 

Blessings abound.

Ashen rain

What happens when it rains 

And the ash particles in the air 

Are carried down to land on your windows…

Grass of many colors

Grass, like skin, comes in many colors,

Though we’re raised to think 

 It should be green (and watered frequently 

 So as not to turn an “ugly brown”, 

Despite any late summer water shortages) 

And kept quite short for our convenience, 

And hopefully free of weeds.

But look how lovely it can grow 

When left to its own devices.

Shades of the pandemic

After being stuck at home for several days 

With an unexpected bout of Covid, 

I doubly appreciate the cheery vista 

That greets me from my kitchen window. 

How delightful, that the flags installed 

To protect the birds can also add 

Such color to our view!

So different from the millions who died

Alone in hospital beds: 

I’m grateful for the scientists

Who developed medications and vaccines

That have made my experience safer 

And more pleasant.

What’s true?

When my sister-in-law came to visit, 

She asked if we could see the mountains, 

But the whole time she was here 

They were hidden behind the clouds. 

Now that she has left, of course, 

The mountain we see most has returned,

 So I sent this photo, taken this morning, 

Just to reassure her that it really does exist. 

But these days, now that so many photos lie, 

She’ll just have to trust that this one’s true.

Family values

Whether they are brothers or father and son, 

It always warms my heart to see them 

Caring for each other, unlike my cats, 

Who, though brother and sister, 

Never snuggle, and often fight.

More harbingers of winter

It happens every year at about this time: 

The sun, flourishing her ruffled skirts 

In her colorful nightly flamenco dance, 

Retreats once more behind the trees, 

Leaving us with only remnants, 

Frayed edges of the petticoats 

She once lifted so enticingly before us. 

If only we were not quite so far north, 

Or had chosen a home that faced 

A bit more west, we’d not be forced 

Into this annual separation.

Gray again

Gray again, and gray again, 

And now the days are gray again, 

But wet, at last, and not with fog, 

But rain at last, to still the fires 

And fill the lakes, 

And turn the dirt-brown lawns 

To green again, 

And so, again, the winter is icumin in, 

Tripping on the heels of fall, 

Whose colors, like the leaden sky 

 Are dulled into and lulled into 

 A monotonic state 

By all the dry.

Simple pleasures

Grateful for distraction 

From the troubles of the day, 

I’m drinking in the colors 

Of the cloud-dappled sky, 

Watching as the golden wisps 

Shade to pink before the darkness 

Steals all color from the canvas 

Laid before us.

Broken

I came to this green stream 

To be reminded of the unity: 

The lively spirit that flows through us all, 

Only to see that somehow it has come 

To divide us, a widening chasm, 

And all nature’s efforts to bridge; to reconnect 

Appear to have been broken. 

Poor Rudolph

The shoulds are rising up today, 

As in, I should be writing about the twin towers, 

Or the guy who died by one of those guns 

He thought everyone should carry, 

But instead I worry about this little guy: 

A yearling whose antlers are all kittywampus. 

How did it happen, and does it hurt? 

Will he be able to knock them off, and 

Will they grow back straight next spring? 

Do the other deer make fun of him? 

Do they laugh and call him names? 

Sad, isn’t it, how much easier it is 

To worry about the small stuff…

Works of art

Those of us who look at art, 

Whether impressed or underwhelmed 

 Forget that we, ourselves, are also 

Works of art, created and transformed 

 By loving hands, exposed and weathered 

By time, events, and circumstances 

 Not of our creation; 

 Watched, influenced, or ignored 

By those around us, who surround us 

And form part of our experience of the world.

Underprivileged

When I was young,

A foggy day and a lonely beach 

Were an invitation to walk. 

Eventually I realized 

That invitation, like so many others, 

Was reserved primarily for males. 

And though, with time, 

A woman’s world has opened up, 

That one sweet privilege still eludes us: 

Though we carry mace, 

And keys between our fingers, 

We can never fully relax 

When walking alone in fog or dark.

Gray skies

Though we can’t smell the smoke, 

We still know there’s a fire: 

The sun and the moon are both rosy, 

Against the flat gray of the skies. 

It’s like politicians who claim they spout truth: 

Black and white turn to gray, 

But we still smell the lies.

Going through the motions

When the painters came, three years ago, 

To cover the mustard yellow of our house 

With Storm Cloud Gray, 

We asked them not to take down this old nest, 

But paint around it, and it’s true: 

Each year the swallows would come back 

To nurse new young and leave 

 Their spotted piles of poop 

On the walk below for us to scour 

After they left. But this year they arrived late: 

We had almost decided it was time 

To take down their nest when they arrived 

And now they flutter and squawk at us again 

Each time we leave the house, 

But there’s no sign of eggs, or chicks, 

And so much other craziness 

Is happening in the world, I have to wonder: 

Are they, like us, just going through the motions 

Hoping something will change?

Autumnal harbingers

We’ve come to know 

The signs that summer’s ending — 

Late rising of the morning sun, 

The foghorns in the night, 

The tall brown stalks of foxglove 

Swaying in the breeze, 

The way the fig tree branches bounce 

When the deer rub against them, 

Wrestling the summer fur from their horns, 

And now the squabbles in the yard 

As they lock horns with one another 

 In groups of two or three, 

Then stalk the females, 

Their autumnal debutantes…

Smoke-reddened sun

My camera can’t quite capture 

The sun’s rosy cheeks 

As she sinks into her bed of clouds 

A little earlier each night, 

Exhausted after a long dry summer 

And a hard day breathing smoke.

Celebrating my labors

To celebrate my Labor Day 

I took over 100 pix of my paintings 

In an attempt to build a current inventory.

 I then compared them with the pix 

 I had stored on my computer, and found 

So many paintings missing — 

Gifts or sales I failed to record, 

But many more that I had hated 

 And painted over, then forgot to file away;

 Some of which I barely remember 

 Painting in the first place, 

And others that I’m sad I lacked 

The foresight to preserve. 

My cat was far more interested 

In the spider on the floor.

To welcome, not exclude

This tiny fawn, the latest born, 

And last of all her cousins in the yard 

To lose her spots  

Lies sleeping in the birdbath’s shade  

On a sunny afternoon, 

Her pale white belly full 

From all the plants her mama’s taught her 

To nibble. 

Of course we could have built a fence 

To protect the flowers and the trees, 

But we made that choice 

I hope we’ll always make: 

To welcome, rather than exclude.

Sweet sameness

Should I be reassured 

By the sameness of my days? 

The deer, the squirrels, the crows 

That eat the peanuts we sometimes 

Toss into the yard; 

The nightly walks, the glorious sunsets; 

Time spent reading, writing, painting — 

Is that enough, now that I’m old, 

Or should I be seeking something new, 

New friends, new destinations, 

New horror stories in the news, 

The latest TikTok or bitcoin scandal? 

Life seems full, but is this just 

Some high cholesterol diet, 

All sweetness, and not enough protein?

Juicy fruit

How encouraging, at a time 

When the news grows more disturbing every day, 

To watch the plums happily ripening in my garden: 

Even though one tree has fallen, 

The others are still bearing fruit, 

Juicy harbingers of hope 

In a dark dry world.

Infinite reflections

Three boys stand 

 At the edge of the cliff, holding phones. 

One boy photographs his friends, 

One shoots the vibrant sunset,

 And the third turns his back on friends and sun 

While texting someone else: 

A mom, a girlfriend, someone sick at home 

Or stuck in traffic; who knows, 

But the impulse to share or to converse 

Is clearly strong, as here I am: 

Sharing with you, a mirror, infinitely reflecting.

Sadness

I found this picture on Facebook 

 Of three puppies at a shelter, looking sad. 

I’d not have noticed, really, 

 Now that I’m a cat person, 

But my friend turned 80 this year, 

And his elderly dog just died, 

So it resonated, somehow — 

 The sadness, and those huge paws…

 So many kinds of sadness in the world: 

No home, no one to love or be loved by, 

No wagging tail to greet you at the door, 

Each one an ache to echo larger losses: 

The ones we can’t bear to think about, 

Or feel… 

I’m doubly thankful for the cat 

Now sleeping on my lap.

Solace in gardens

Whenever I grow discouraged 

About the state of the world, 

I find solace in the gardens 

Of those who, unlike me, 

Have the time, energy, and passion 

To cultivate perfection 

(And fences high enough to keep out deer).

Resistance

Like ruffles on a young girl’s dress, 

And an artfully exposed belly button, 

The Madrona sends her lavish invitation 

To the weather: bring it on! 

The cold, the heat, the rain, the sun — 

She can and will survive it all 

And shed or gain, flower and fruit 

Despite your machinations, 

Just as artists will continue to make art 

Musicians will continue to make music, 

And dancers will continue to dance 

In spite of and because of 

These political aggravations.

Squid-like

I love the shape these roots have taken, 

As if, beside the sea, they saw 

A squid, and chose to mimic it, 

Menacing all who dare to climb 

These steps and leave 

The surging surf behind…

Quiet time

I always know when life has grown 

 A bit too frantic: 

I’ll be trying to hold a conversation 

And I’ll start losing words.

 I’ll know that these are clouds, 

But the word nimbus will be floating somewhere 

 Slightly out of reach, 

And shoreline might reveal itself as”edges” 

While the word for that resides in some briny deep. Luckily all it takes is sleep to correct the problem, 

But sometimes that’s just one more thing 

 That eludes me: then I’m quite certain 

I need some quiet time 

To resurrect my brain.

Illusions

Pulled by a tiny tugboat, 

The log-filled barge creeps across the water. 

Etched against the romantically stained 

Pink and blue sky like a giant cockroach; 

Menacing, the stuff of dreams and horror movies, 

And yet quite harmless — 

 The opposite of the evil creeping 

Into our society, black- jacketed and masked, 

Abducting friends and neighbors, 

Claiming motives of safety and economy.

Step into your future

The invitation is always there: 

To take whatever steps 

Will get you closer — 

 To the truth, 

To your destiny, 

To the peace, or the sense of oneness, 

Or the love and sense of purpose 

That is your birthright.

Plum foolish

Apparently I lied yesterday: 

The deer DO like my plums.

 I was sitting at my computer 

Drafting up tomorrow’s news 

When I noticed that the plum tree 

 That stands outside my window 

Was shaking: yup, a deer, 

 Reaching for a plum, 

Then climbing down and munching 

Contentedly. I guess they must be ripe…

Eve of destruction

Having devoured the ruffled flowers 

Off the tops of my fennel plants, 

She’s now staring at my neighbor’s yard 

As if anticipating threat, 

Though possibly just wondering 

If their plums are ripe yet 

(Ours aren’t: though they’re turning redder 

And have been falling off the trees, 

They’re still quite sour; 

Judging from the times I catch the deer 

With apples in their mouths, 

Our unripe apples are far sweeter 

Than the cherries and the plums). 

Just another evening in a yard 

Where everything seems to be 

a target for destruction.

Why lighthouses?

My first thought this morning, 

On seeing this lighthouse, 

Was to mourn the days 

When we built things like this 

To protect one another; 

To make the stranger’s journey safer. 

But upon further reflection I wondered

If lighthouses were simply designed 

To protect investments. 

But my inner optimist won, and decided 

They were built out of the perception (Now lost?) 

That what benefits one benefits us all; 

Out of empathy for both 

 The sailor and the merchant and their families; 

The absolute conviction 

That what hurts one leaves all of us

Aching for their loss.