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.

On the lake’s edge

Peace comes in many guises, 

But this is one I rarely see: 

The stillness of a lake, 

The reflection of the lilies 

In the sky-blued water, 

A dead tree casting its final sentence 

Across the page of green… 

And so I stop, and sit, and stare, 

And listen to the bird songs coloring the air, 

And dream.

Assumptions about intelligence

Sometimes, having learned more 

About the intelligence of the octopus, 

I wonder about all the other creatures 

 We are so quick to ignore or slot into categories. 

Is it possible, for example, that a flower,

Like a child, might be curious, and attempt 

To explore a knothole, 

Or reach out to open a door?

Distractions

When we’re all awash in emotion,

 Important events and decisions 

May pass us by, unseen. 

We need to learn to look more carefully 

Past the stresses of the moment 

To the truth evolving 

Just beyond our tears…

Reflections

Just as reflections are clearer 

When the water is still and unobstructed, 

Our ability to understand 

The truth of what we’re seeing 

Will prove more accurate when the mind 

Is calm and uncluttered 

 By to-do lists and preconceptions.

Taking a break from the news

There’s nothing like the charm 

Of a waterfront town in summer 

 Bustling with tourists seeking 

Ice cream shops and souvenirs; 

With troubadours performing 

 On the docks and in courtyards 

 And children making castles in the sand — 

A brief, enchanting antidote 

To our underlying awareness 

Of a troubled world; heartbreaking truth 

Of famine, war, and homelessness: 

All issues we feel helpless to repair.

Confusing choices

I’m sure there must have been a reason 

Why someone built what looks to be a cabin,

 Perched precariously atop this railroad bridge, 

But it isn’t clear to me, nor can I imagine

 The courage it takes to climb there.

 But there are lots of other decisions made 

That I have trouble understanding; 

Lots of other paths people walk 

That I find challenging to comprehend — 

All opportunities to practice, I suppose, 

A willful suspension of disbelief,

 But still I find it hard to explain 

Choices that lack empathy.

Simple pleasures

Like the farmers who are watering their crops, 

I go out into the yard after heating up my coffee 

And turn on the sprinkler: 

My garden may not be weeded,

 But at least it’s watered; 

Plus the sprinkler fills the birdbath, 

Where the deer family that greets me 

As I head back into the house 

Will refresh themselves throughout the day.

 Like me, they’re getting older: 

 The buck’s face is thickening 

And growing freckled, 

And the doe, who knows us now, 

Is looking thin, and there are patches in her hide:

 I wonder if perhaps this fawn will be her last. 

The sky, I see now, returning to my chair; 

The sky that was golden when I rose, 

Is turning blue now: The day has begun.

Striped fields: a memory

Driving through the rural countryside, 

We pass the dry, shaved fields, 

Striped like the rug my mother used to vacuum: 

Up one side and down the other, 

Dragging her old gray Electrolux behind her 

And singing, her clear alto voice 

A bell, resounding, swinging 

In the temple of her throat 

To the dance tunes of the forties she so loved…

Take flight!

 

May your creativity soar today!

In gratitude

As we rise and greet 

The new day that has begun 

Let us give thanks for the beauty 

 Of all that lies before us.

Fishing for poets

Like the fisherman below my window, 

Casting his lures into the sunset-reddened sea, 

The poet tosses words onto a page, 

Hoping to attract a robust result; 

To capture, however briefly, 

That which flows beneath 

 The ever surging river of thought;

 Some coalescence that might feed 

The hunger for expression or connection, 

Or possibly reel in a smile 

Of humor, recognition, 

 Shared experience, or concern.

Stories in the clouds

The child in me sees Roadrunner, 

Streaking across the sky, 

With Coyote in hot pursuit 

Somewhere beyond the frame: 

Even the colors hint of the Southwest. 

Each night’s a different gift, 

A different story to be read 

Among the clouds.

Sources of division

Remember back when we could see 

Exactly how a car used to work? 

When, looking at a photograph, 

We could trust that what we saw was real, and true? 

When everything we read 

Was written or typed by human hands 

And colored by uniquely human thoughts? 

How much of the division we now face 

Has been triggered by the fact 

That we can no longer trust or comprehend 

 The origins or truth of what we see 

Or what we’re told?

Hung out to dry

Something about this photo 

Just makes my heart ache: 

I’m not sure I have the words to express it. 

Is it that the values our flag once represented 

Now seem so out of reach? 

Or that those values only apply 

To the high and mighty? 

Or is it just the sadness 

Of seeing everything it stood for 

Hung out to dry;

Turned on its side and hanging 

Limp and inaccessible, 

As if we’ve no hope 

Of ever achieving those lofty goals 

Of Liberty and justice for all?

Brushstrokes

Each night the Artist dances 

Before the canvas of the sky,

 Fantastic brushstrokes of color 

Which slowly fade to night. 

We watch, and snap,

 Hoping to capture Beauty in a box, 

Then put our cameras away,

 Turn focus inward, 

Rest, 

And begin to dream.

Welcome to Sunday

Welcome to Sunday! 

I hope you find some time 

To rest and dream today…

Smoke in the Valley

There’s smoke in the valley, again, 

And no matter how far down I slide 

The little icon that tells my camera 

How much light to take in, 

It still can’t capture the rosiness of the sun; 

How red it is, as it hangs there in the sky, 

Blushing at the thought of all those fires, 

All with their curious names: 

Bear Gulch, and Hamma Hamma;

 Hiawatha, and Discovery; 

Stud Horse, Pomas, and Striped Peak, 

All burning in the summer heat…

Blessings

May whatever path you walk today 

Prove as pleasant and inviting 

As this one.

Geese streaks

Walking into the kitchen in the morning, 

Wondering why the cats aren’t there to greet me,

 I catch sight of a fuchsia sun, 

Peering through slats of clouds 

Like Venetian blinds, 

And run for my camera, 

But by the time I get outside 

The slats have closed and all is gray again, 

Broken only by a stripe of geese, 

Dragging their charcoal streaks 

Across the window of the sky.

Paddling to Elwha

Despite fog and tsunami warnings, 

The tribes are still paddling to Elwha, 

An annual canoe journey 

That celebrates indigenous resilience, 

The unity of the tribes, 

 And their deep connection to both water 

And the land.

Performance interrupted

The deer who gather in my yard 

All seem to be related: 

Here two brothers with matching racks 

Appear to be debating 

 Whose dance moves are more graceful, 

And who forgot to do the crossover 

That happens at the bridge 

Of that particular bird’s song 

That they are hearing,

While I, their audience,

Am about to clap,

And scare them all away.