When we follow the call

For years, I was known for making and selling Photographs like this one: 

Each morning I’d wake up early, 

To scout out docks with photogenic dinghies. 

But then I became a painter, and mornings 

Became devoted to reading, and meditation — 

An odd way, to be sure, 

Of preparing for the canvas — 

And instead of looking outside myself 

For subjects, 

I looked inward, waiting, hoping, for inspiration; 

For some way to create art 

That might somehow serve 

As a portal to the sacred. 

Despite the challenge, the shift has brought peace, Though I still find that small boats bring me joy.

Embrace reality

Release your need to be the rose 

You were never born to be 

And accept with joy 

Your full hydrangea-ness: 

Instead of cowering behind 

The protective coverings you’ve grown, 

Allow your fullest self to emerge 

And trust that pale fragility 

Has a beauty all its own.

Continue on

On those days when all is gray 

And you feel you’re sailing through a fog, 

Be reassured: the sun will shine again, 

And flowers will bloom, and branches 

 That once were bare will feed us 

With their fruit again: 

 The cycle will continue, just as 

 We, too, must continue 

To bear fruit and to bloom.

Garden secrets

The bucks are whispering secrets 

In my garden again, telling tales of domination 

And reassuring one another 

That just because their horns still bear 

The fuzz of spring, it doesn’t mean 

That they are getting soft, it’s just 

That summer has been slow in warming up.

 “But look,” they say,

 “The foxglove and the lavender 

Are at their peak, and soon we will be, too; 

Remember last year?” And they smile, 

Knowing the autumn fruits will soon await them 

In the trees: Plums, apples, cherries, 

 All ready for the taking.

In gratitude

Today’s my anniversary: 

A year ago today, Prepared for death, 

 I underwent the surgeon’s knife, 

Which opened up my chest 

And my heart to new horizons 

Even as my dear friend sent this photo 

To let me know she was at my house 

To which she was convinced I would return. 

I’m grateful for so much these days: 

For life, for home, for friends and family, 

For my surgeon and all the hospital staff 

Who brought me back to health, 

And for the earth: The sea and sky and land 

That sustain me still in times 

Of fear, darkness and despair 

For all the brokenness in the world.

Improvement

An artist friend suggested I get cold wax, 

The kind that works with acrylics, 

And once I had it, I had to ask 

How best to use it, and he said, 

“Take a painting you’re not happy with, 

Mix the wax with colors not in the painting, 

And cover it up, then scrape it through 

 To expose what’s underneath,”

And so I did, and here it is. 

And now: is there a way to do this 

That could make the world a better place?

The path of grace

This is a path 

We and our neighbors 

Walk most every day; 

A simple choice that adds to fitness 

And guarantees we’ll meet and greet, 

And pet each others dogs 

And know, beyond our differences, 

 We all have things in common — 

The steps we take to climb the hill, 

The air we breathe, the need to rest, 

Concerns we share -- if only about pets -- 

And so we leave the chairs here 

For anyone who needs them, 

That they might find 

A space to chat or simply be: 

Grace and goodwill, 

 The lessons we once learned 

In church on Sundays.

No escalation

She greets us, standing here in fields of gold, 

Trusting, though we know she has probably 

Destroyed some of our plants, 

That we’ll not decide to escalate this battle 

And attack her or her children. 

We’ll stay on this path, agreed upon 

As the ideal way to proceed, 

And she has stepped aside to let us pass: 

No money spent, no missiles launched, 

And no hard feelings.

Echoes of devastation

Do you see how the daisies 

 Echo the cloud above them?

 Earth is not unaware 

That somewhere far away 

 The smoke from bombs is drifting overhead 

And echoing the devastation that lies below…

Migrants welcome

It’s raining, and the English lavender 

That emigrated unexpectedly 

 Into my garden this year 

Is glittering with clinging drops of water. 

I’m not sure why it chose this spot: 

There are several other varieties 

 Of lavender nearby; 

You’d think it would join with them 

Instead of hanging with 

 The also renegade foxglove, 

But the hummingbirds, 

Who ignore the fancier lavenders, 

Love this one, and spend hours 

Drinking from all its tiny cups. 

I’m not planning to call ICE: 

I like having these guys around.

Without diversity

I’ve been reading this morning 

About the advantages of diversity; 

How bringing different minds 

And life experiences together 

Enhances the likelihood 

 Of creative solutions and originality, 

And I’m thinking how bland and boring 

Things can be in a like-minded universe. 

How can we make America great 

If there’s no color, no variety 

In our decision-making? 

If everything’s always the same, 

Won’t life seem gray — And maybe even lonely?

Who’ll wire us back together?

A year ago, facing surgery,

I watched this hummingbird

Drink from the flowers,

Not knowing if I’d be doing it 

Again a year later. 

I find I’m conscious lately 

Of just how much 

My life has changed since then

And yet how little, in comparison 

To others, who now live in fear 

Of things — ICE, accusation, 

Incarceration, deportation—

That seem much worse to me 

Than death, and so unfair. 

I touch my chest, and feel the ridges 

Where I’m wired back together 

And wonder: who’ll repair my country’s heart 

And wire us back together?

Painting as prophecy

I never know (or plan) 

What I’m going to paint until it’s painted, 

But this one was even

More of a surprise than usual, 

And yet, upon reflection, it makes sense, 

So I have to wonder: 

Can intuitive painting become 

A sort of reflective prophecy?

A fortuitous fail

Our Fathers Day plans failed to bear fruit, 

For the ferry we drove an hour to catch 

Had been grounded, due to an accident. 

In wending our way slowly home, 

We found ourselves surrounded 

 By fields full of foxglove, 

Rosy and glowing in the afternoon sun. 

Some might think that small compensation 

 For the hours of wasted time driving,

 But in fact it was a glorious gift, 

And we laughed and smiled 

All the rest of the way back home.

Protesters

Emerging from their cone of green, 

The thin vermilion trumpets 

Sound their call to action. 

I want to ask who planted you 

In this dense thicket of blackberries and salal, 

Or did you volunteer to shout 

CODE RED to all the passers by, 

Inspiring us to do the same; to stand like you 

Beside the public thoroughfares 

Like signs objecting to injustice; 

Proclaiming your right to live and work there, 

 Orange in a sea of green?

Distractions

This is how my mornings go: 

My cat — when not in my lap — 

Sits in the window across from me, 

 Staring through the screen of volunteer foxglove 

At the bunnies, quail, and butterflies 

 Who frolic just beyond his grasp 

While his sister sits behind me,

 Watching the hummingbirds 

 Who gather at the feeder 

She can see through the sliding glass door, 

While I, distracted by them both, 

And by the deer who wander by, 

Forget to listen for my toast, 

Eventually rising to butter 

Two cold hard slices of bread. 

How can such peace exist 

In a country so at war with itself?

Butterfly

A simple butterfly, seen through my windshield, 

When I pulled off the road to check my messages; 

A gift in black and white, alighting in the green 

To drink the floral scents: 

Music to my eyes.

Protest poppies

I’m pleased to post a purple poppy picture 

And pen a purple poppy poem (Or prose, perhaps) 

In protest, and to pose the possibility 

 That only poppies and princes 

Are empowered to put on crowns 

Or produce parades whose price exceeds 

 The payments pledged to be preserved 

 By pruning patronage and protection for the poor.

Such is grace

To find beauty in the wholeness of things, 

Up close, mid-range, and far; 

Past, present, future, 

All that was and is and shall be, 

All combined into 

 This one imperfect gift of a moment: 

Such is grace.

Beauty everywhere

I really do believe there’s beauty everywhere,

Though we can’t always see it.

Little miracles abound: 

I had a teacher once 

Who said just throw a hula hoop 

And then look where it falls,

And somewhere inside the arc it circumscribes 

We would find something photographable, 

Or that could be described 

In a poem, or tell a story. 

Though I outgrew the hula hoop 

My eyes still inscribe those circles…

UnCivil

Yesterday I was admiring 

These clouds, like smoke, 

Drifting across the sky, 

So peaceful… 

And so my brain was patterned on them

The way that happens for visual people, 

And so, and so, and so, 

When later those photos caught my eye, 

I thought, more clouds, but no! 

Angelenos, protesting these heinous raids, 

And the National Guard, called out again, 

Against our own people — 

Not peace but war, 

UnCivil.

Confidence

Just as the sunlight singles out 

A random boat, in life 

The spotlight falls on one celebrity 

And then another as time passes.

 All is fleeting, fragile, chance; 

Acceptance or rejection 

Hanging on a thread 

Of mood, or history, or taste — 

So obvious to some 

While others sneer and mock 

The fashion of the moment. 

Confidence must stem 

 From some internal knowing, 

Never the capriciousness of opinion.

Okay to be a rock

Everything I read says it’s okay 

To just be stillness, and silence.

 It’s good, too, of course, to be a prophet,

 Objecting loudly to things as they are; 

To march, or write, on behalf 

Of all the absent kindness and morality —

 I’ve done that, too; 

 Been a voice for change, 

But now it’s okay — Maybe more than okay? — 

To be a rock; 

To let the dark cast its shadows 

And just be calm, solid, 

A stable presence in the shifting light; 

A promise, grounded, earthy, 

That beneath the shadows 

Truth still breathes 

 Quietly.

Heart like a bird

When silence, like a fog, 

Springs up between us, 

I can begin to detect 

The heart that, like a bird, 

Rests in the branches of your body — 

Fragile, eager, and protective, 

Its wings so strong and capable; 

Always ready to fly to my defense; 

A heart that’s often masked 

In the complexity of your words…

So much for AI

I thought I'd write about being a bird, 

So to illustrate the poem,

I typed the word “bird” so AI could search 

The photos on my phone. 

And there, mixed in with the herons, the crows, 

The pigeons, gulls, and finches, 

Was this little guy. 

And then I thought, 

If I climbed a tree, would AI think me a bird? 

If I stood behind an altar, 

Would AI call me a priest? 

And if I sat behind a desk in the Oval Office, 

Would AI assume I was actually presidential?

Awash in gratitude

It’s curious: 

That spot in our garden has been empty: 

Just  bark for five years now. 

But suddenly this spring 

 A foxglove forest has sprung up: 

Some white, some pink, some purple — 

So many stalks, with broad leaves at their base, 

Where nothing grew before. 

Though some would claim they’re weeds,

 I find myself 

Awash in gratitude.

Feeding time

On waking, I feed the cats, 

But looking out the window 

I see the bird feeders are empty, 

So I step outside to fill them, 

And at the bottom of the steps 

There stands a doe, her white fur 

Gilded by the morning sun. 

“Hello, deer,” I say, 

And “where’s your little boy?” 

But she won’t tell me where 

She’s tucked him in; Just stands there, 

Waiting patiently while I pour the birdseed in, 

Watching with her trusting eyes 

 Till I go inside to grab a bunch of peanuts 

 And toss them into the grass for her to feast on. 

I cannot feed the world, 

But at least I can feed my gentle neighbors.

I could be a fig

Today I could be a fig, 

All my creative potential 

Tucked like Adam’s after the fall 

Behind a giant, heavily veined 

Leaf or two 

Or three, 

However many it takes 

To mask my swelling sac of sweetness 

As it grows more taut within its skin, 

Darkening with possibility, 

Fed by all the forbidden knowledge 

Eaten over time, 

Bursting to feed generations…