Of Seasons

September is the season

for shipwrecks and bear attacks.

Don't be a sailor or hiker in the fall.

Save your recklessness 

for the month

of orchids and snapdragons.

In April, buds peek out from the thawing

earth and the stars align

over chicks, foals, and calves.

Plus (more importantly)

the puddles are ripe

for jumping.

I think it was William Carlos Williams

who once said:

'So much depends upon

the children

gathering Easter eggs

in their Sunday best

just a stone's throw

from robin eggs

and fierce mothers

protecting their future.'

In September, apples turn to mush

on the sidewalk

and hunters dust off

their guns.

But no one fears death

in the spring.

And She Floated Away

Last night my sheep ate the moon.

No, really.

The moon was just cresting

over the field where she was grazing

and she stretched out her neck

and swallowed it whole.

Suddenly, the night was pitch black

and she was bleating moonbeams.

I stared at my empty hands—

I wanted to be refracted light too.

 

I bet the moon is made of

cream of tartar—

the same chemical breakdown, I mean.

That makes good sense.

But just a gigantic ball of it,

rather than a teaspoon

in a batch of sugar cookies.

 

But the night air was sweet in its own way—

delicious even.

And the stars continued to shine—

fearlessly.

Her wool started to glow,

pin pricks of light emitting

from the tip of each strand,

Her hooves turned translucent white

like four little lanterns

and over the meadow—

she began to rise.

Dissociative Identity Disorder

We go back to the soft mind 

before the fracture 

into glass shards— 

the shattering of a lovely 

 box of mirrors. 

 Lincoln—an old man in a nursing home, 

feasting on chocolate pudding, 

wondering if this episode of 

 Judge Judy would be his last. 

 Becca—a teenager living in a box 

behind the Hot Girlzzz strip club 

surviving on garbage 

and the change in some guy’s pocket 

after a quickie. 

Sandy—the middle-age homemaker 

addicted to painkillers and Adderall, 

just trying to get through 

the next school bake sale. 

And Sonny especially—the little boy 

hiding under the stairs, 

pretending he was playing 

hide-and-seek 

with so-called friends 

and not crouching 

just beyond the reach 

of long arms and scraping fingernails 

of the bad man cursing outside 

the closet door. 

And, of course, Voices. 

They need their own homes too. 

We become glistening 

splinters of light and sound— 

Sandy overdoses on heroin 

when her doctor cuts her off. 

Becca loses her battle with HIV. 

Lincoln’s heart finally gives out 

during Monday night bingo. And Sonny 

is lying on the bed 

wishing he was dead too.

Latch and Key

I still have the doorknob for the daisy

attic bedroom of my home at age twelve.

I really craved a skeleton key—

stealing the cellar key takes more resolve.

I’d probably be haunted by Southern ghosts—

we were part of the Underground Railroad.

The term “we” is used loosely by most.

These days abolition is such a fad.

I found it the other day—the knob I mean—

deep in a box of trinkets and make-up—

held the cool iron in my palm again

until I felt a poke and let it drop—

THUNK!—on the wooden floor, a fatal sound—

heard a laugh from the cellar underground.

Haiku #4

a brief walk with my sister

fallen redwood tree

decaying for centuries—

a gray fox meets my gaze

2033

when you and your ancestors

and your children

were dead

I went back to the place

where I first touched

your smooth gray shell

while snorkeling

near a powerplant

in Honolulu

the waves pulled me away

from the shore

and I am not a strong swimmer

but I wasn’t afraid

when you were in my sight

nearly as big as me

graceful with your adept flippers

I wept then

but I didn’t know

if the salt was sea or tears

that day was tomorrow

Haiku #3

Except

Nine ducks cross my street,

mama, fine-feathered ducklings—

except the dead one.

Haiku #2

At Twilight

Violet mountain peaks—

silhouette of a woman

 beside her lover.

Haiku #1

February 12th

Cotton blossom snowflakes

dissolve on gravel blacktop

lit by yellowed streetlamp.

Lists of the Bipolar Mind (after Sei Shonagon)

{Bipolar defined}:

: (in general) having or relating to two poles or extremities.

 : (of science) relating to or occurring in both North and South polar regions.

 : (of a nerve cell) having two axons, one either side of the cell body.

 : (of a transistor or other device) using both positive and negative charge carriers.

 : (of psychiatric illness) characterized by both manic and depressive episodes.

: (of me) too manic to sleep, too sad to mother, highly medicated, suicidal often, hospitalized twice, bedridden at times, overspending at others, just one part of me.

 :(of associations) one of at least two things Virginia Woolf and I have in common.

{Things that make me want to die}:

          Couples who argue in public. My father, a carpenter by trade, losing his eyesight. A child crying inconsolably, wriggling in his mother’s arms. Arguing with my sister over a burnt pot. A person who has lost their job of 30 years. The same person who cannot find new work and must collect unemployment to get by. Dead winter when there is nothing to see but the dreariness of grimy snow, frozen dog shit and decaying leaves. The sound of my voice on a recording.

{Small things that give me hope}:

            Young brides. Old brides who find love again after losing their first. Rows and rows of tulips in April. Fuzzy green succulents in tiny white pots. Small girls in bright school uniforms with ribbons in their hair.

{Things I did in inpatient mental health treatment}:

An old lady chair workout from a video—what I really needed was a good run. Went outside for 10 minutes at a time with the smokers, in a caged yard by the light rail tracks. A lot of group therapy. Colored with soft Prismacolor pencils in those adult coloring books for stress relief. Played the Les Misérables score on an old, defective keyboard—no one could hear it, it was so bad. Watched the Victoria’s Secret fashion show with a room full of horny men. Cried, at intervals. Fought for my right to get the medication that the doctor forgot to write down. Cried again. Heard someone masturbating in the next room. Watched an electroconvulsive therapy promotional video—to be fair, they did warn about the memory loss.

{Things I notice, even when I am sad}:

           Children washed and dressed in the early morning on Easter Sunday. The migration of geese. Fresh cut mint leaves. The first breath I take when I visit the mountains. The texture of turkey breast with extra cranberry sauce. The last mile of a road trip. Newly cut grass covered in dew. Sediment layers when driving through a canyon. The laugh of my baby. Purple bearded irises, growing beside the dilapidated garage, on the second day that they bloom. The singed-wood smell of a campfire. Constellations in the desert sky.

{Things that are beautiful, despite/because of it all}:

          Vermont in the fall. Secluded ponds filled with lily pads. Maine lighthouses on a beach with pale blue and gray pebbles. Writing a new poem—or reading one that strikes you. Sunset in Santa Monica, mid-August, on the pier, while the surfers bob in the water, clinging to their boards, waiting, waiting. Japanese gardens with perfectly groomed and winding gravel paths, small ponds filled with koi, pleasingly arced wooden bridges and blossoming maple trees.

{Things that bring me joy}:

           My daughter when she runs free across the grass and I know there is not a worry in her mind aside from s-p-e-e-d. My son when he asks for a third glass of home-bottled grape juice in a single sitting. My husband when he reads something I wrote. More so when he likes it. Dad when we don’t talk politics. Mom when she feeds me apricot chicken, piping hot and sweet and oniony and filled with apricots from grandma’s backyard canned in sticky sugar water. Writing a story that resonates with a stranger. Reading Barbara Kingsolver on a gray linen-covered chaise lounge with a white fur throw (that I feel satisfyingly guilty about). Telling someone how I really feel. Visiting Jen’s grave in the cemetery by the mountains and the wealthy gated community and the greenhouse-turned-reception-center and the funeral home where we celebrated who she was to us individually and collectively—can we ever say who she really was? Sitting on the wrap-around porch in a pale, bare wood Adirondack chair, gazing at the lake and the ducks and the river willows and the spiral rock bridge and the mountains eaten up by the copper mine at the magic hour.

{Things people revile}:

            Chronically <sad> people.

{Things people are afraid of}:

            Chronically <happy> people.

{Things I remember vividly from my childhood}:

My first kiss, fourth grade, long and drawn out, no tongue, thin lips pressed between our frozen jaw bones. The pain of being left out by my best friend. Camping in Wyoming, dipping my toes in the icy water of the river, runoff from the snow, too cold, then sinking my entire soul into the hot springs pool, too hot, but just right. Climbing a slippery waterfall, the sound deafening. Yarn dolls. Sliding down a steep grassy hill on an ice block. Night games with the big kids. Falling asleep to a cricket serenade.

{People that I can trust}:

            Therapists.

{People that I can’t trust}:

            Doctors.

{Things that make me feel alive}:

Skinny dipping in a frigid mountain lake, water still as glass aside from the silent spring that feeds it with snow runoff. Surviving a storm while backpacking on Boulder Mountain, thin nylon all that shielded me from the lighting striking the ground around the tent. Sleeping atop my sleeping bag in the scorching red rock desert, listening to the singing frogs.

{Times when things are a little better}:

The first few weeks of fall, air crisp but still warm for a few hours in the afternoon, harvest time, and the smell of spiced cider. Devouring fresh, juicy tomato and cheddar cheese sandwiches on fresh white bread, slathered with mayo (the tomato must be homegrown in a garden or it doesn’t count). The third drink—not past the fourth, though. Staring a small, scraggly doe in the eyes, a mere fifteen feet apart. Driving through the Arizona desert listening to country music—which I usually hate. The first three hours of Christmas morning. Sitting, somewhat alone, by a secluded lake in the Uinta Mountains, listening to the birds and the wind in the trees while my favorite uncle fishes for melon-bellied trout.

{Life defined}:

: the condition that distinguishes animals and plants from inorganic matter, including the capacity for growth, reproduction, functional activity, and continual change preceding death.

: the period between the birth and death of a living thing, especially a human being.

: vitality, vigor, or energy.

: a relentless, creeping thing that pulls us along [mercilessly/mercifully] as we experience experiences. Some things we cannot control and others are completely within our control. We have the right to act upon fate and circumstance. Act upon expectation. Sometimes those are in conflict and/or in tandem. Sometimes they are simply unknowable. Sometimes they feel tragic. Sometimes they are tragic but also—

: a breeding ground for growth. The manure to our flower, if you will.

: only a moment, only this single moment, now, right now. This sentence is all there is to it. And now this one. Whatever you experience is in the present, that is who you are, what you are.

: what is.

First Snow

It snowed two days ago. It was the first snow of the winter, at least four inches deep. I think it was the first time I didn't look out the window in awe. I simply cleared it off my car and went to work. I didn't even look at the snow. I avoided clean white patches, keeping them in the edge of my peripheral vision. I stepped carefully over icy slabs. I didn't look to the freshness, the clarity of pure white. It snowed, and I hardly noticed.

The peaks hold snow tightly. The mountains cradle it in the crevices and the needled branches of old firs. The mountains hold solace. They claim whiteness in midwinter. The snow keeps the rocks pure, covered from the sin of bitter winds.

It snowed. And I hardly noticed.

Last year - wait, two years ago - we built a snowman. We gave him vicarious life and laughter. Dad brought out the gloves and the hats and told us we had a chore. We all had to go outside to help. It wasn't just us, but the cousins too. Our disgust melted when we found what chore he meant: we were required without choice to pile high heaps of icy snow to make an enormous entity. The kids felt important somehow, giving life to the ugly beast, rolling thick cinnamon rolls of whiteness. After the first gigantic roll was complete, there was a greedy elation at the thought of his potential. After we heaved the second roll on top of the other, the top roll just as wide and cumbersome as the first, we hurried in a maniacal frenzy to get the ladder. There was a blissful sort of rushing and heaving and dumping and talking, carrying 5-gallon buckets filled with dirty snow (we scraped with our hands until the grass and dirt came with the whiteness). He consumed all the snow from the grass, all of it bound in the layers of his rolled-up belly. The kids brought it from the backyard even, towing heavy loads in the red wagon. And at last, we stood back in awe at our creation. He was 10 feet tall and four feet wide and became taller in time, each bucket of snow piling precariously on the next. I watched all this from the window, feeling somehow a part of the desperate energy. Our snowman, I thought, wanting to claim him. He was an admirable sort of hideous.

In spring, I tried to see past him. He took months before deciding to die, first shedding inches of ice and revealing hidden flaws like old grass blades and pebbles. He grew dirty in time, covered with a tinge of smog which he left us at last. The grass he sat upon was yellowed and mashed, each blade pressed this way and that, pointing in all directions of chaos, pressed to the firm earth. Each blade giving its life and perfect form to the awkward being. Pounds upon pounds, layer upon layer, roll stacked upon roll.

It snowed. And I hardly noticed. This year it rained. For two weeks it rained. It snowed the other day. And I hardly noticed.

In Ohio, it snowed and all life stopped moving. Time ceased to be, schools closed. We hulled up in our homes, feeling the age of the wood under our feet and hoped to survive the long winter. The snow was about 3/4 of an inch deep. Like magic, we listened eagerly over the radio for the signal from Canton. The go-ahead to climb back in bed and read a fat novel. The consent to stop moving at all, and just wait in silence for the end of coldness. Sometimes the voice said, "Sleep, children." And sometimes it says, "No such luck." And we groaned and climbed on the bus with weary fists.

It snowed... and I hardly noticed.

One snowless year. I think it was snowless. The memories are rewritten in my mind, I think. I remember what I see in dreams, and I forget what I see in dreamlike memory. It was snowless, I'm sure of it.

The memories of New Year's Eve spent with Grandma and Grandpa and all the cousins. A hundred or so, if I remember correctly from the dream world. So many New Year's sleepovers that I can't remember which one I won the lip gloss when I shouted "Bingo!" or the one when we girls crept up the stairs to tease the boys or the one when someone (was it Jake?) got locked in the bathroom or the one when someone (was it Karen?) got burned on the stove in the darkness of hide-and-seek. Or the year of the pinata, the year that convinced Grandma that such things are deadly, an invitation to sugar-filled half-crazed children to wack anything nearby, including the beloved grandma holding the pinata if necessary. The year that confirmed the unspoken truth that pinatas do not belong in the house. I'm not sure how Grandma and Grandpa could stand us, all of us readily destroying their peace of mind and nearly destroying the structural soundness of their home, jumping with too much vigor and running too quickly.

But this year was snowless. It was the year of the frozen moment. At midnight we rushed out into the yard. I claimed a pot and spoon. I banged it with all my might, but it didn't seem loud enough, leaving a deflated feeling in my heart, like I was missing out on something really important. So I pulled out the noisemaker in my pocket, a stealthy backup. The plastic tubes that sound like a duck when you blow it with the right pressure. Too much air at once comes out as silence. The noisemaker, though somewhat more satisfying, seemed to die in the wind and my anxiety not to miss this moment made me blow too hard. Sometimes it came out as a puff of air through an open tube.

Across the street, the door opened and a few old men emerged. They smiled at us, and then something glorious happened. They began to dance. My hand dropped to my side, my breath gone, watching them, hungry to remember. They jumped up and down to an uneven rhythm. They danced a jig to our cacophony. I looked to the stars, desperate to remember this. I must write it down, I thought, and time froze, waiting for their dance to stop. Silence drew around me, cousins tooting horns and banging pans with no sound. I only saw the men moving, their gray hair shimmering in the golden porchlight. Time stopped and I felt a pain. I worried. I worried that I might forget.

It was snowless that year. I think.

It snowed the other day, and I hardly noticed.

New Year's Eve in D.C. - The Ohio Years

One of the Christmases during the Ohio years we came home to Utah to visit, but the other year we stayed there. It was hard on Mom to be away from all our extended family at the holidays. So, we decided to make an adventure out of our time off school and take a trip to Washington D.C. for New Year’s Eve.

As we entered the city and wound our way through the streets, we were wide-eyed with wonder at the big city and all it had to offer. Huge buildings, busy streets, the White House and other monuments. It was so much to take in and I couldn’t wait to get out and explore, but first, we needed to find a place to stay.

It wasn’t the type of place for a Motel 6, so the best Dad could find was the downtown Marriott. We pulled into the steep driveway and found it was valet parking only. The valet rushed out to our van and, before we could say anything, pulled open the sliding side door. We were unprepared so out fell a large bright orange Gott cooler we’d brought to stay hydrated on the long drive. The valet had to go chasing after it as it rolled down the long driveway. 

To my ever-increasing horror, the bellhop then wheeled a golden cart out to transport our luggage. My face started to burn. We opened the back of the van to reveal that all our belongings were in huge black garbage sacks – we didn’t own a stitch of luggage. They obligingly plopped the bulging bags in an awkward heap on the cart and started wheeling it inside.

There was a ball going on in the hotel and the lobby was filled with well-dressed guests – all adults, I couldn’t help but notice. My face was bright red and I determinedly stared at the ground, wishing no one would see us, but knowing full well we were quite the sight. We made a beeline for the elevators, but unfortunately, that wasn’t all. We got into the elevator with a woman in a gorgeous yellow satin backless gown. Kyle (4 years old at the time) practically screamed, “Hey, Mom! She’s naked!”

But after that humiliating spectacle, the trip got much better. In the evening we left the hotel to walk the streets. We were stopped by a limo driver just outside the hotel. My parents were looking around frantically, expecting to be mugged, as he explained he was a magician. Seemed a bit far-fetched to them, but to us kids, we were in awe as he showed us some tricks and then made balloon animals for all of us. Mom and Dad were relieved to find he was just being thoughtful.

We continued down the busy night streets and decided to hop on a horse-drawn carriage for a tour of the city. It was bitter cold but the most fairy-tale moment, riding in an expensive carriage around the bustling city filled with the most brilliant lights. Something so different than the life we knew. Later we visited many of the monuments and the Smithsonian which was so fantastic to me as a young girl. And on New Year’s Eve, we heard cheers and fireworks at the stroke of midnight from the warmth of our hotel room. We each got to buy a souvenir and Chad picked a magic kit, inspired by that kind limo driver. I’ll never forget how incredible that trip was for me.

Back East - The Ohio Years

Because we knew we’d only be in Ohio for a few years, my parents were wise enough to do a lot of travel on the East coast, knowing we might never have the chance again. I completely fell in love with New England in the Fall. The brilliant tangerine, burgundy, rust and lemon-colored leaves of Vermont, every inch of land not cleared for a building was covered in trees upon trees, stretching over the hills and flowing from one town to the next. Every town had a prominent white wooden church looming above the vegetation, usually framed in a jet black, spiked wrought iron fence. We traveled through NYC, not stopping for the sights but seeing the skyscrapers and Statue of Liberty from afar. We were stuck in traffic for hours. My sensitive soul was devasted at every blare of a horn directed at us – and there were many. We got so bored crossing all the toll bridges (it seemed there were more rivers than land) that Dad came up with an entertaining plan. He started paying for each toll with coins stuck in a toy shark head on a stick. He placed the coins in its mouth, extended the stick, and pulled the trigger to drop it into the tollbooth attendant’s hand. We found it hilarious, but they found it less amusing. And Maine – my new favorite state – lined with the seemingly endless Atlantic Ocean. Bitter cold saltwater spraying my face as I walked the long stone pier to a wooden, stately lighthouse resting importantly on the edge of the rocky shore. Soft gray and pale blue pebbles lined the beach instead of the sand I was used to in Southern California. I didn’t care that I couldn’t swim in it, because I could BE in it, immersed in the smell of seaweed and salt, foghorn blaring over my head, muffled by the howling of wind, gusts that bit my face so furiously that I had to pull my collar up over my face. I don’t remember any place so vivid and serene, colorful and sensory than New England in the Fall.

Turtle Jaw Grip

I stood at the canyon rim, five miles wide.
I wondered: could we straddle it again, legs
spread, a compass one hundred degrees? I hide
from the wind, that viscous trickster begs
to topple me face first – your face a mirror
in the river below. my anklebone
tickles where I first felt the pull – your
hands upon my heel. you were full grown
at sixteen months – I asked did you know
we would fall off this cliff? you were just being
the slow runner and tipsy dancer. grow
old in my mind. you would be four now – freeing
my ankle from your turtle jaw grip. I thirst
for the moment when I brought you here first.

The "S" Bend of Highway 117

Three reflective bumblebee barriers stand sentinel,

Never permitting the great wheeled beasts,

Tired Broncos and Jaguars,

Bisons, Bluebirds, Cougars and Mustangs,

To mingle with nature’s finest ditch

Lined with tentacular sunflowers

Like yellow-haired sirens

With a hundred jagged teeth, tasty when salted,

Luring Fords and Ferraris alike

With their seductive dances for Apollo

Sorrowful vessels burdened with landlovers

Adrift upon the open highway.

Early Snow

Cradle

My hand in the plush

Of your fleece jacket.

Snowflakes

Taste like frozen grapes

And iced pumpkin.

Leaves droop with thick powder,

Making heavy

The tired branches of autumn.

Washed away

Is the color of my garden.

Stolen splendor,

Bathed in white.

Unnaturally pale, verdant albino.

Silence

Falls on the deaf

Soil, but ancient stones can hear

The iced walk melting

Tomorrow.