anothercountry. // 4may

a visit to another country
Is as easy/ or impossibly hard/
as stepping out the door this morning,
the smell of wet earth.
transported, traveled, transfixed-
far lands-
low clouds in the highlands,
early mistmorning amidst rainbowed birds,
or this- close,
the sweet pang of desire - overnight rain in our foreverparched desert
each storm, each and everyone,
I greet as new,
surprised, forever yearned,
neverbefore scent,
of water on thirsty dirt.

apricotmap. // 26april

Make me a willow cabin at your gate
Twelfth Night, WS

for andrea, nisa and april in their birthmonth

Make me an apricotmap
So that I may walk out your gate in July, petalparchment in hand
And know where to introduce myself
To the fruitbearing trees
With their orangeglobes of delishdelight
Offered over mudbrick walls
On dryditches, in a triangle of kerbside dirt, peregrinating with scant rain and acequiawater,
seasons upon seasons
bitter winter years, the drought ones, the rare, blossoming spring
(they are immigrants like so much of what blooms here, our late frosts unwelcome)
An apricotmap for a gorging, delightdelish, meandering and movable summerfeast.

We have an uncle, really my mother’s cousin - so more avuncular than not,
Who roams New England backroads and fields in april and may
Searching for forgotten apple trees, white and pink pockets amidst effervescent newspring
Ones that hang low over crumblewalls, at hidden house corners, lone pilgrims by wetditches
Never brought to market, gathered like jewels for a fall and winter sweetbite.
Lost to us with migration and heartache.
He finds them. Cuts a branch. And returns home
To graft the mystery and bring its rare full fruit to his orchard
Saved for us humans (never lost to its birds, grass and ditches)
found like a gift
Unknown for seasons and seasons
Now gathered like jewels

I think sometimes, always smiling, of his fair Frankensteins, with a dozen or two types growing from one tree
And our uncle, sharing mysteries and maps as he wanders through an appleblossom persephonewaltz -
Each tree something old, now new
Something utterly treasured.

the beauty we’ve been granted // march2019

We take up so much more

than our share of planet 

And live in a high dry place 

meant for just 

a few of us,

So very few. 

Rivers that wind like thread 

Crops that fight for rain

And still 

I want to lick this dirt, swallow this sky

Eat the red brown earth

So in love.  

This beauty we’ve been granted

The beauty. This

Wish. Wishes. Wish:

May we know what we have stolen. 

May what was given, be known. 

How brave were we // spring 2019

 

One night, a well of insomnia

not unhappily

Counting your breaths

Our children snivelsnort javelinas,

me glad at your side.

 

my fingers pressed on the Braille of a cheaply done stucco wall.

 

Amidst the slatted half dark,

I startle from half sleep, amazed…

How brave were we

Placing ourselves in the winds

All those places that did not know us.

 

That was another then.

This now is late and also early

I count my breaths

the shapes of my people

count, breath. count, breath.

poem for Sarah’s birthday // 8april2021

There is a low whistle,
soft, featherknife through air
Of the crow’s wings
Low hum and swoosh
Hello dark and beautiful bird
You are perfectly defined against the trees
Low path close to the sand,
Juniper needles and greybarked woven arms.
My head rests in my palm
Chin on hand heel
And when I close my eyes your
lowwhistle feathers brush some sharp pang of need, 

quickly and kindly away.

crows. // 29April2021

So many write about crows- blackbirds- crows
Or work to embody ravens- blackbirds- crows
That their caws are oft painted as lullabies
Or daily things that require no attention,
just hellos
Goodbye
Caw
Caw
Caw

Brilliant birds
All
Capable of thoughts
And hoardings
Relationships and talk.

It would be a good day
If I could do
Each of these things.
And to do these things
and cut a dark, edgeknife
silhouette of the sky...
Then I would sleep and wake,
sleep and wake,
With a smile
On this tethered, unfeathered face.

morning poem // 29april2021

how incredibly pleased
To be on this green bench
Back against adobe wall
facing east, full sun
Full sun, not unusual.
This rich dense scent
of yesterdayrain,
so rich,
so rare.
Blended with the high note
of greetingday birds.
Blended with the high note
of greetingday birds.

Girls. (16 April 2021)

I’ve been told twice (at least three times, probably four)
That the person is so glad they don’t have girls,
Daughters.
That they don’t think they could do it,
Too hard.
That they’re glad they don’t have to.
Excuse me, what?
Girls.
Women-
Wrap the world. Grow it. Keep it together  

and safe. Compassion. Corazon.
Give it color and strength. Feasts. Delight.
Care. Risk. Details and breadth.
All the good things
You don’t want to grow that?
Be part of the roots, the stems, the leaves
The blooms.
Blood, bones and vibrancy. 
Gut laughter and giving.
Giving and taking.
Building all the things.
It is hard.
Being human is hard.
And you know what?

I bet you would do a fabulous job-
If given the chance.

twenty-fourth of march, two thousand and twenty one

dear alba,
I am remembering
No, actually, I am walking
on a byzantineweb of trails (more black widow chaos than orb weaver symmetry), arroyo and hill (so many walks through the palmcrease of arroyos this year; beautiful, a tad hard on the calves)
my tongue is out to catch the
slight shake of snow flakes.
Veils and virga weave over the Sangres and plains- cobalt and ghost, cerulean and watchful, grey gauze, ripple and weft.
Not sure if I’ve been on this path before, they can all look the same.
I dropped my boy off, reticent and hesitant at something new; never his favorite and 13 months of pandemicmarinade have not made those things easier.
I know. How I know.
I try daily walks to try to keep my soul in the sunshine.
And now the snow spirits away, and I am caught in what my papa called gods’ rays (he actually called them something different, but we won’t put that here)
I am caught in the rays
dear alba -
I am remembering a feast
fourteen and a half months ago,
at a borrowed house. Rooms, open and warm- filled with color
A long table filled with food and clatter, a glass offered, clink - a stool, elbows on the counter amidst the dishes, a chair, choir of bites and voices. Maybe candles. Probably flowers. A pitcher of shared water. Shared drink. You made a feast.
People brought a feast.
Tastes and smiles and treats.
I savored then.
But I did not savor enough. We definitely did not know to savor enough.
I am remembering.
If you offered me two doors- the feast or the tiger,
I would take the risk. Pick a door.
To be at that talking table again.
So good for the soul. Food for the soul.
Just a few moments to bask in the people, sitting so casually. Savor.
Then back to my labyrinth of sky and these meandering, suncaught - and sometimes on rare whispered days snow tossed -palmgauzedveil arroyos.

 for my rae and nathan, a poem of sorts  (fall 2012)

It is hard to say how much I love walking city streets. Love with the roots of my shoes, with the orange of my hat, with the siren holler of the next corner. Just there- that light, that color, those three, that promise of a story. The requisite soaring of sacramented walls. It would have been more than enough to walk those streets for a week. But instead we feasted as well- Luz/Luna, Lolina, Invisible City, St Michael's Market, Museo del Jamon- names that can feed you. So we ate. Not just with the tongue of course, also the eyes- a hollowed out warehouse, standing on its toes with a reaching, growing wall, a palace filled with cannibalistic demi-gods and very, very bored royalty. A garden of earthly delights. The terror and tragedy of a lost war, the stunning simplicity of long hallways, rock and white. An artist who fought her way from cubism. Thank god. Another bar, full of bulldogs and seductive coats, a cute barista (baristo?) with a good grin and bad teeth. Salty saltiness. Briny brininess. A cascade of yellow beer. Certainly, more than enough. But let me add a perfect road trip- like a well wrapped gift- to a village unvisited and mostly stashed away. Almost too pretty, this village- the houses, the streets, the fountains, the metal building bandaids holding up decades of sighs. The people too, almost too pretty. So we'll add a couple of days of cold, wet grey, a pair of softly feuding brothers, decades of sighs. But no- there is an enchanted garden with marvelous greens and yellows, a brood of perfectly french chickens, and such a warm welcome you could take on the north atlantic with it. Open arms, open table. A slightly demoded jewel box of a house and a cornucopia of wine, breads, coffee, cheese, SALAD- the stuff that makes life good. An olive grove, a farmhouse. I love late fall. Love the branches losing their leaves. The smell of wet, resting earth. The vineyards in tired, resting rows. Perfection. A gift. Forgotten treasure. And because what's a cake without icing- a quick jaunt to a city that held up pretty darn well in the dark, delicious fried eggs on a good host's oilcloth. An old world bordered by mountains. Postcard perfect with snow and excellently banked tunnel turns. Let me add-an iPad as map is only as good as the mapreader and driver. Back to the opaque fishbowl of a room, so comfy to wake up in the light, sea blue. Salty saltiness. Briny brininess. The perfect tang of yellow beer. A couple more good walks, maybe three. A river. A park. A small lake. A bench in the sun. Good talks (the impossible to be trumped kinds). Through the streets, eyes on the sharp edges of buildings against sharp blue skies. It was delicious mes cheries. & much appreciated. Merci.
 

Writing for Wellness/ 3February2021

Amanda Gorman’s “The Hill We Climb” writing prompt

10 min inspired freewrite

 

The new dawn blooms as we free it.

For there is always light. If we’re

brave enough to see it.

If only we’re brave enough to be it.

Amanda Gorman, “The Hill We Climb,” read January 20, 2021

 

Free. Be. Brave.

Brave. Brave. Brave.

The valentine that my mama and I send out every year-

The 4x6 card with fotos of

Our healthy kids (do we risk the gods’ wrath? I want

To toss salt in the evil eyes that lurk in so many

Of our corners. Protect these beloved babies of ours with

sage, charms and blue amulets)-

The holiday card that we send out every year at Valentine’s,

Came yesterday. 180 of them.

And the words I chose, to accompany the fotos of the belovedbabes,

were “we send continued courage – and its root coeur –

To us all.”

 

Courage. Coeur. Heart.

Our beating brave hearts.

Each and every one of us –

Brave to wake up every day.

Every. Day. To get out of bed, to breathe.

Some of us so much braver than the rest. The rest.

The rest.

The blankets so much heavier. The breath so much

Harder. The heart beating so much stronger.

In, out. Ventricles, atriums, arteries, veins.

Coeur. Heart. Pump.

Blood magic. Brave to keep pumping &

Pumping & pumping & breathing

& working. & choosing to wake and

Breathe again.

Amanda – your light glowed so

Bright two weeks ago, I forgot to breathe. And

Then breathed again and deep. Your brave, your light.

Lighting so many. Light so brave.

 

Casting a new dawn

Amidst such dark.

Such dark.

In hearts. In minds. In our crevasses, roots and crowns, hearts -

Hearts still beating.

Light still being.

Courage. Coeur. Brave. Dawn.

New dawn.

Quotidian. // may 2018

45pomes for our christopher robin
written in the spring in which he turned forty five with some fotos

 

1. Wishing for a storm to roll in
the night against my palms
Our son played through his impatience today his

hands backlit like jellyfish.
He sounded wonderful.
Two afternoons as of late
One with you working on science fair

and me helping with piano
One with me helping on science fair

and you working on piano
There were maybe some dishes done.
There is nothing better.
Our daughter is incandescent -

with rage or with laughter.
She glows.
All of us curled together in bed or on the sofa.

or just three.

or just two.
Loud and loud cascading down the stairs
Up and down.

and down and up.

Through the house.
Sometimes I want to run.
Mostly I want to stay.

2.
Four fortune cookies,
Three fortunes
Such unevenness about it -
a perfection
One dropped and shattered
nesbel called the five second rule
I said nope,
never in an airport
Your children’s weights lean on me
Two heads,
One lolling in sleep
One caught in song.

3.
Recently, and specifically,
Reminded about
Muscles
I remember I adore them
sternocleidomastoid, trapezius
Want to follow them
Like a Braille river
Down the body
glutimus maximus, sartorial
Every dip, every trench,
Every bend and sway
Rippled, taut
Deltoid,
Incantations.

4.
timepeace
peacetime
Peaceful times
one wishes for it
Instead of this turbulence
Uncertainty
doubt
What this is
Though
Certainly
Is a peaceful place
peaceplace.

5
forty five is a ridiculous
amount of poems
Hard to count
four dozen apples
Minus three.
still.
It does not begin to
Come close to how
Much
You
Are
Loved.

6.
Kisses of snow.
When I want
Decades at least.

7.

One night, a well of insomnia

not unhappily

Counting your breaths

Our children snivelsnort javelinas

Glad at your side.

 

my fingers pressed on the Braille of a cheaply done stucco wall.

 

Amidst the slatted half dark,

I startle from half sleep, amazed

How brave were we

Placing ourselves in the winds

All those places that did not know us

 

That was another then.

This now is late and also early

I count my breaths

the shapes of my people

Count, breath. Count, breath.

8.
There are sips sips sips
of rain in the air
The barest of breaths
and a dark rolling sky.
A rolling boil of wind.
bare feet on sharp gravel
The faint smell, hitched gasp,
of water on desert dirt.

9.

nessabel
fierce.
Wonderful.
Delight.

 

10.
Each day
try to hold them in my arms
monkeys on a tree
Because we still can
because they still do.

11.
holding a cup -
This one red, this one Blue-
In the morning
Filled with delicious hot brew
a most favorite thing.

12.
Can one have too many beautiful ceramic stuff?
All with stories of some sort
I think not.

13.
We have a
disaster dog
‘Tis true
no one would pick him if given all the details; heck, any of the details.
this morn-
Head on Nanu’s stomach
As she stretches.
His fondness and clumsy
care of us all
a kind, good boy behind
those yellow brown eyes.

14.

we share this
you and I.
Love of this too dry earth.

15.

the blue as it peeks

over the corner of our house
Above the wall
the courtyard
the cherry tree,

the east as the dawn comes through.

Held in palms

Laced with shouts,

tears and glee.

16.

 Awake
Early or late
Steps into the kitchen
Light heft if the kettle
Water
The click of on
mug chosen
Usually red, white stained belly
A tea bag, leaves
Boiling water
Five to seven minutes doing other stuff, putzing around
Milk
Hands around smooth ceramic
A sip.

17.

Pine needles
Needles under my fingers
staccato stucco wall
Smooth plane of our long adored and well used table
rough wood of the gate
Heat of the flagstones, rock and metal
rough bark, canyoned ristra
even weight of the cups, empty or full.


18.

silvansol
strong.
funny.
fabulous.

 

19.

Hello old friend
So nice to have you curled into me
My arm your pillow
So nice to have your body
It’s even and uneven breaths
Beside me
a gift
a gift
a gift.

20.

We used to be old hats
At traveling afar
but then again
We weren’t four.

21.
There is such expected difficulty

in the musts:
waking, dressing, feeding, guiding,

feeding, loving, sleeping, waking, schooling, feeding

and the chosen:
the rounds, gerbilwheel,

meltingmap of practices and visits and

lessons and such.

in all, such unexpected joy.

22. 
sometimes there is a snuffaluffpigboy in my bed.
sometimes a fierytwistyjavelina.
often just a me.
sometimes a you.

23. 
We live in an oasis made around us -
house, gardens, stories.
Luck and more luck.
Made by other hands.

The inside of the oasis is all us:
Color, music, laughter, stories, light.
Our fingerprints on each page
and tune and song.

24.
Our second day of november altar
is too full.
I wish they sat at our table
Each and every one.

25.
With pale wood perhaps I think I can see the light that made the tree that made the place where we sit and feast and talk and listen to squabbling and laughing and being.

26

Soli at rest
Soli at play
whistling, tapping, yelling, singing, laughing
Laughing
Soli run run
Run run running

27.
All the these snapshots taken
Framed, technicolored
Squares of mere moments
of this life
This loud raucous busy
spacious danceful quotidian
kaleidoscope of a
flesh and bone and bloodsinew,
snot and laughter life.

28.

In the cacauphony of the world
You are always my home.
 

29.

There is never enough dancing.
Dancing more dancing


30.
There are pastels and watercolors and pencil sketches on the walls.
Piles of paper, puppets, blocks and cars and planes and books.
Ah my darling, so many books.
Bikes and balls and skis and mittens. 
Mishmash of fabric, uniforms, tutus, swords and helmets.
Zombies, deadgirls, superheroes, a witch cape a wizard cape a dragon sans cape.
Stack of plates, pyramids of cups
Somewhere there is our Solar system made of paper and three knitted rainbow potholders.
A kaiju of immense proportions.
Art and more art, all artists we have taken tea with, or wanted to
Poetry. Posters. Clippings of missed presidents and protests.
A few remnants of a hundred journeys.
We could do without it all.
This beautiful cluttered chaos.
It is comfort beyond comfort. We could
Walk free and sit with the sky.
and yes, my darlings,
the nest is good.

31.
For the kingdom of Lovenia
Let us stitch a flag
Made of nightly lullabies
black bird songs in Black good nights
fullmooncrepes and castiron frittata
Conversation under robust cherry trees.
rock strewn hillside, rough golden walls.
Two small humans, spinning tops.
Let us fly this flag into the blue, Blue, Blue
Let us sit on this cherished earth with Orion as guide.
Let us think on flags
And all the stitches it takes to build anykind of life, the stitches it takes to build this one.

32.
I will build a tower of these books of mine
these pages
Lock you up until you sleep the sleep

of a thousand days
Wake sparkling.
rescue you.
After the arugula is taken from the garden.

We will build a staircase
that goes up and down.
All ways.

33.
Both of the wee beasties
Have a twinkle in their eye
That must be yours
An irreverence, a mischief
A penchant for laughter that
Could be ours, yes.
A bounce bounce bounce of feelings-
As if the trampoline was merely figurative
Instead of daily.
Those are probably me
But that twinkle.
You and you and you.

34.
It seems improbable
Yet forever
That we are in the house
of my childhood
One of our many childhoods
Held together by the most generous
And giving of them all
You and I
So lucky in our cast of
Parents and people
In the generous, loving, open hearts
We sprouted from
The roots, the rocks, the sandy soil
The cast of characters.
It is hard to make their bookcase
Of stories, voices, heartache, triumph
Real for our two.
Give flesh to their shadow.
So I must be content
With knowing they are here
Within us.
DNA ladder twining, climbing.
Cells and sinews made again.

35.
The walk this morning
with two bubbling enchanting beasties
I soaked it in, their consistent, but not constant, sweetness.
And who would want that.
I want instead- this that we have-
Runningwords on the new sidewalk, a book’s characters, the river water, the teahouse yard, the art like fern fronds,
Remember the peacock mama, the footsteps painted on the ground, the drips of wisteria, the spurts of running.
Two enchanting bubbling beasties on their way to school.
Walking home, soaking in your voice as the sun peeked through such welcome soft clouds.
New leaves. The bridge, sun on my face. Such a softness to the day.
A sweetness.
The tendrils of mist curling from the dark road tonight,
everything celebrating the touch of rain.

36.
I want to give you a big stone head
To add to our big metal head,
And stone plinth-
For your birthday
Hell, two stone heads.
One for the entrance to Lovenia
Welcome all who enter here
One for the egress
Y’all come back now
Ya hear?

37.
I love you the sky.
I love you all the talk over countless pillows and bedtime shadows
I love you at the top of a Brooklyn apt wearing socks and an umbrella.
I love you our hikes over all sorts of quilted terrain.

I love you laughter that won’t stop

and rhyming games that go on for many states
I love you our mountains.

I love you strong. All the day.

38.
you are an extraordinary father.
full stop.

39.
a sweetmoment standing at our counter
grateful. so glad.
alone but knowing where you three sit,
Life swirling around.
lilacwind pouring in, three different purples.
the cherry and crabapple blossoms, the plums.
poppies, iris.  buds of peonies and roses.
the late leaves of the trumpet vine.
we are surrounded by blooms my love.

40.

our girl, la nessa

simmering spectacular stew

sparks of sizzle and sassafras

sensational, this one.

Dancing, shimmering,

Feet planted, wings spread.

 

41.

days of music

a singing boy, a humming girl.

melodies as loud as they can be

through the windtunnel of a windows open car.

dance parties, more dance parties.

violin, piano, a guest who plays

the songs of my grandparents.

tonight drums, cowbells, xylophone

and just, right now

my spring mix spinning

canting emotions and grins, sighs

this book put

on pages.

 

42.
I swear
the birds pre-dawn this spring
chant,
bode bodeboy, tweet tweet.
at least one of them -
separate from the
haunted caterwaul of coyotes
the silent confidence of the
rabbits, raccoon, deer (oh dear) -
the morning chorus
of birds, little brown ones and
otherwise,
is one of my favorite things about
being in the world.


43.
whirligig, tempest,
duststorm, rain.
we are these.
sundrenched corner
with bees abuzz in the plum tree.
that too.

44.
mothers, grandmothers
this mama.
lives grown and quilted
fathers, grandfathers
tias y tios
cousins.
sister, sister, brothers.
the blood we’re given
the blood we chose.

All we are given
& all we give.

44.
meals cooked
juntos,
Eaten together,
at our table or someone else’s.
In our kitchens -
(or the one in Pipa, just up
from the water altar to
Iemanja- bedecked in garlands and
the tipsytrails of candles)
Here. A pot of beans.
Rice. Spinach. Eggs. Chile.
Hands on a knife cutting carrots, onions, apples.
the lifetimes of chopping,
hands who have planted and weeded and picked.
Hands - in the house next door, or a generation ago.
our parents and abuelos, amigos y amigas.
All who make food.
Good food.
wee hands that help now.
Hands we teach.


45.
On the eve of our boy turning
seven (seven!),
Our girl nine and a half,
you two score and five,
I gather these wishes.
That this core, this good, this
 breath of beauty
we keep.
That this space,
This time,
This golden place
We know as good.
That this us,
We carry.
Deep down blue in our pockets,
deep down sky, deep roots.
Deep true in our
teacolored happyhearts.

 

lovewords  // 40 haikus

for Christopher.

may 2013

 

Ø To Christopher
> Some lovewords. To celebrate.
> Forty turns round the sun.

Ø > Golden hour. My books. D&D

 

one.

happy birthday love
two score. good, round, lithesome age
some tart. plenty sweet.

 

two.

sunset. drive to dave's.
fire. beer. talk under the stars
sleep under the table

three.

unfettered childland
hillsadventuresbackyardpool
best friend, a stone's toss

four.

black teeshirt. black hat.
grimy with dust, sweat, dirt, work
sexy. yes.

five.

we build nests wherev’
we are. comfy, colors, rich
delicious. feasts. us.

six.

I think we have left
a whole colony of notes
small whiteblack lovebirds

seven.

our love for this land

runs deep, marrow pulses bone

furrow in spring soil.

 

 

eight.

we are separate
yet so very intertwined
which song yours, which mine

nine.

grief spilleth over

but we thrive, barnacles

on a gilded ship

ten.

eves spent cooking
pots sizzling, veggies herbs cut
broth. brew. roast. stew. bread.

eleven.

unsurprisingly,

you are a magnificent

papa. a golden mean.

twelve.

very how can a sister
be so sweet? finest of fine
our Lizzie delight

thirteen.

summer camp for tough
kids. I wouldn't last a day.
you love it and thrive.

fourteen.

seen: two swarms of bees
one on the camino, one
far, one near. beehouse

fifteen.

busy boy busy
golden locks and imp smile. all
throw and love and climb.

sixteen.

tents: under the aspens
big trees, rain, the sea, moonfields
roads wide and narrow.

 

Seventeen.

we loved being on
the border of sun and fog
all green. sweet strange light.

eighteen.

we have a girl whose
mind is as big as her heart
as her rippling laugh

nineteen.

drum drum laughing boy
sparkle eyes, run running run
sweet smart updown boy

twenty.

two fab OK folk
after peregrinations
arrive home, saint fe

 

twentyone.

all those years - friends, pints,
puppets, songs, weed, class, nights, hack -
stories best of all

twentytwo.

you climb through window
or maybe a door, late night
my charming, daring prince

twentythree.

we built a kingdom
of arms incorporated
us. iterations.

twentyfour.

hundreds times thousands.
you have held me as I cried
rivers. torrents. still.

twentyfive.

holding our child
together those first nights, a
deep deep magic. peace.

twentysix.

your mind is shining
sharp, a bright curiosity.
inspires and lifts.

twentyseven.

I miss you of course
lots. and so proud of your
work. practical dreams.

twentyeight.

pages and pages
(is Gandalf reading the times?)
close my eyes, they sing

twentynine.

friends at our table.
dishes and plates and laughter
music. plenty delight.

thirty.

a bed boat for two
then three. now four. good comfort
good rest. good great love

thirtyone.

weaving parts of our
life walking. coast and mountain
way and camino.

thirtytwo.

am sorry for sharp
retorts, snips and snaps. know they're
my shit. your constant love.

thirtythree.

you're so damn funny
it's my bread and water and wine
glue that holds the world

thirtyfour.

epilepsy! our
kids are shouting. an odd
apt chorus. oh well.

thirtyfive.

palacehouse. yandaland.
adored adobe abode
funk and fab. our place.

thirtysix.

good. benchlaundrytoad
anklespuffinwarmerspants
beckystravel. stuff

thirtyseven.

saint fe. golden gate.
nuevo york. europawalks
america sul. home.

 

thirtyeight.

first nyc flat
perfect for ballroom and nest
taiwan squash out back

 

thirtynine.

my sweetlad. your breath

against my neck, our hands, back

I hold you sleeping

 

forty.

we are. rock. earth. sky.
foundation. fundamental.
your sage. my robin.

one to grow on.

what a lot of love
what a lot of love. what a
lot of love…….hooray!

 

 

maybes:

you could have set up
house there, stunning rhythms
pulse. factory shows

 

hundreds, thousands, hours
of calls, across oceans land
heartbeats, kicks, all us

 

I thought for years you
were the buddha. know you, full
of dark. still. so wise.

 

If you asked me and

They did, I’d say no. I was

Wonderfully wrong.

 

grief, so deep, acute
missing. too much at times, how
much deeper, all love

poesia early/spring 2019 // posted may 2021, unedited

thursday. 31jan

Lentriculostriate, cerebellum, medulla oblangata

Early light spills in the windows. 

Grey, blue, the eyelid of a periwinkle giant,

somewhere close. Murmuring the parts of the brain that I try to stuff in mine. 

Telencephalon, basal ganglia, fissure of sylvain. 

I have a mum who makes me coffee 

It sits now, pre dawn besides the notes and the screen. 

I have a friend who wrote a lullaby for our nessabel ten years past, 

its notes I keep playing. 

warm and delight, calling up a golden October of newness. 

The friend sits warm in an arctic chill. 

Our silvansol wanders in with frisson and loud hullo, the goldengirl of ten plays notes in the rooms across the lightening house. Murmurs, shouts. Coffee on my tongue. 

Temporal lobe, soma, wernicke. Vibrations, vibrations, axons, strings.  

13feb

There’s a ball of quaking earth within me

Querulous, quaking, queasy 

But there is a horizon out this window...

wide, solid, curve of earth. 

Wide solid curve. 

16feb

Walking in the rain

here

this red yellow brown below, blue above thirsty land

is a thousand thank yous. 

thanks thanks thanks. thank you. 

the kiss of water, the grey. 

the smell of daffodil water in the vase. 

past fresh beauty.

whispering spring. 

whispering wait. 

(while watching bacon, cleaning the kitchen, soli drawing dragons; jack gilbert and valentine’s breakfast) 

dear our grandparents

beloved our priscilla and bob

I miss you. 

I miss your tables. And your talk. 

I miss the stunning simplicity of your homes

The beauty 

The you. 

Tea 

     Talk

Tea

    Talk

Tea

     Talk

I miss the blankets of your love. So much love. 

How I wish I could ask you, now that I have a decade of parenting 

About how you did it. And why

The pains. The hurts. The deep dark of ache and sadnesses. The ones we know now- and then?- can not be blanketed. 

The love and the love. 

And if I was, again at your table

I would probably balk. 

Stutter. Stop. 

Bask in the utter gift of you. 

the utter gift of you two. 

(the tea) the love. 

Love 

Love. 

18feb.

jessa and dean’s kitchen 

the coffee without milk dark of 5:40am 

february. 

a circle of light at the counter 

(grain of wood, conus medullaris, an orchid, the pattern of the rugs on the light white oak floor, cauda equina )

like the hopper painting 

things are cliche for a reason

(bright orange of clementine, filum terminale, shy yellow of banana)

an oasis amidst the dark,

dark another kind of welcome

but this island, bright, feeling of safe. 

warm. 

coffee with cream. 

the morning tiptoes in. 

That eve. 

Something about our ships. 

28feb

the shallow sea of your breathing

here with me,

it is not so rare, but not so common either. 

everynight here with you, sea breath in, sea breath out,

gifts.  

I walk my fingers across the sheetsweep between us, and rest their tips on your 

bones, 

the sweet dip beneath the crest. 

iliac ridge,

Sea of Iliac. 

your breath out. your breath in. 

ease. deep. ease

wish whisper water. 

snow on the mountain,

we missed the deep, caught the deep

blue and white and brown across the crests

the melt drip drop

off our walls, the white to brown

making small seas

iliac sea. 

your breaths in the shallows. 

Our breath in the deeps. 

2march

You know what I love?

The longer days, more sunlight to drink, starting about mid February

wending our way to this March. 

Metal cups filled with coffee, warm and warm hours into studying. 

Saying Acetabulum. Acetabulum. 

Probably mis-saying Acetabulum. 

Shelves and shelves of books. 

Interrupting studying, again, to write this poem. Breath coffee-soaked. 

Shouldn’t love that. But I do. 

4march

Just at dawn, another neuro test/distractagirl

Other things I love 

learning the body, 

Hours and hours on

partial maps 

that light up paths 

of places

I never knew were there. 

spinoreticular, pascinian corpuscles, rubrospinal

early, early morning light

Your head in my arm

Its dense weight a beloved stone

The soft weights of the children

In whatever form they give us. 

You, my love, are a bearer of lightness 

and light

A bearer of irreverent glee

and glad. 

For these, amidst seas of other things, 

I am ridiculously grateful. 

The day we didn’t do powder

Or did some

But not all

Was a day filled with open breathtaking vistas

New trails and 

friends- long held, seldom seen

Overpriced food on cold benches

Like the other side

But this side instead. 

15apr // look at 2021 iteration

the beauty we’ve been granted. 

We take up so much more

than our share of planet 

And live in a high dry place 

meant for just 

a few of us,

So very few. 

Rivers that wind like thread 

Crops that fight for rain

And still 

I want to lick this dirt, swallow this sky

Eat the red brown earth

So in love.  

This beauty we’ve been granted

The beauty. This. 

Wishes. 

May we share what has been stolen. 

May what was given, be known. 

Blossoms. 

Neuro.  

Words. 

The pier. 

Hawk 

Pancakes 

Donor; being a donor.

heart outside one's body.

24april

Went out this morning, not super early

To walk the bode, and sip some coffee...

but the earth was welcome with 

yesterday’s rain
and today’s birdsong
sweet sweet air
and so,
I began to weed (not my usual morning ritual my mama can tell you)
fingers in red dirt,
taking out those small stubborn plants
deliberately
Around the stone, under the stones, 
Thinking of time. And peace. 
The land we clear, 
the sticks and stones and dirt before us and after. 
every moment long long ago, unspooling, echoed, 
and those a bouquet of hours just picked...easteregg laughter up and down our arroyo hills, easterfrocks caught in breeze. 
and right here, at my toes, 
the ones who’ve stayed-
creatures of eons 
caught in rock dresses, their ridged wonder a constant surprise. 

3may

for Rae

Why do we travel?

For the the light on our love’s face as we look from the darkened room to the sun-basked balcony

A building intricate in its angles and stories

Cold beer on a warm tile table

Coffee in a warm, round cup. Tea. 

A lit up billboard, so familiar in its utter strangeness

Crowds milling amidst chatter and exhaust 

a stranger’s lilt of laughter across a street 

A path leading up

Music around a corner, the view around another

The sweep of blue or green or city 

Two people caught by a window, delicious food unnoticed as they revel in details of a day. 

4may

the twelve apostles

So many apostles. So many feasts. So many betrayals. So many gifts. 

These twelve. or three.  whatever was done, whatever was waiting.

I. Olfactory. pink and white blooms of our twinned plum trees. Purple crabapple.  Lilacs soon. Coffee. Always coffee. 

II. Optic. 

VIII. Vestibulocochlear. There are crystals inside our ears- the utricles and saccules to be semiexact - that float on a gelatinous layer, like a cap, on hair cells inside canals. Otoliths, the word like whispers after new rain. Oto. Lith. Earstones. They sway as we sway, opposite direction actually, back and forth, up and down. Send signals to the vestibulocerebellum and vestibular nuclei. Information all the time. Calculating. Responding. Making major corrections and micro movements. Every minute.  Our bodies in space. In relation to self. To others. Balance and proprioception. Twirling, running. Just bending and standing. Crystals in gel on hairs inside canals that keep us upright and steady on the earth. It’s incredible we work at all. 

XI. Accessory. Innervates the sternocleidastoid and trapezius muscles she said lovingly. Rolling around the syllables on her tongue (see XII).  A shrug. A circus. A handstand. A hug. The social justice bigtop we are sometimes part of; our girl on the trapeze. 

XII. hypoglosseal. 

One of the apostles runs her hand across the grain of the table, grabs her glass, rose of course, and lifts it to reciprocate the toast. 

8may

pieces that didn’t make it into poems, late winter/spring 2019

today, walking on the trail, it rained so little I could count the rain drops, 

ever less darkening skies. 

Bubbles, cousins, eggs in flowers and chalk

Exquisite volcanos, rising in open palms, unencumbered to the west of albuquerque 

Pancakes every morning on our piece of pier.

Spring ballgowns dancing through fields in tesuque, 

The early green fields of cienaga. 

Soapboxes and wildflowers, the prick of cactus spine,

the curated canvases of lilacs. 

The two toy ships anchored to our ceilings, holding dreams. Dreams and dreams and real things. 

8july

petra = stone

ichor = the fluid that runs through the veins of the gods

warm dry wind in the setsun, the rain of just yesterday feels so far away. 

Golden hour. A golden fleece. 

the buzz and chant of an oft hidden insect. 

No golden scarab this; the translucent wings and fat greybody hum. 

Apricots. Rain. The smell as it hits thirst and rock. Children in puddles; a sky wide open. giddiness. 

we rush toward miracles. 

conjure the gods. 

what the what? anything more stunning than that?

last poem/midsummer july 

Petrichor

Quotidian 

Chiaroscuro 

Palimpsest 

Ciacadas 

Incantations

weave the spell. 

For robin on my birthday// sum equals the parts (late winter, spring, early summer), 2019

never given, but now posted (4may21)