An Ode to a Golden

Unfortunately, when we left California, we could not take our dogs with us.  Shadow, our German Shepherd, went to live with my grown son, but my Golden Retriever, Pup-pup, went to a rescue, and I'm sure he is in a good home.  But he was truly one of the loves of my life, and he is with me in spirit daily. 



An Ode to a Golden

Pup-Pup

Golden creature,
an Adonis as canine,
with Apollo's sun
in your shining coat;
you are joy incarnate,
bouncing around
the yard
after a ball,
your kaleidoscope
of many colors.
A simple soul,
wanting to love
and be loved,
to live,
and share life,
no agenda,
no awareness of time,
just pleasures;
a tall, cool grass
basked in summer shade
to rub against,
or a rough edge anywhere,
to have a good scratch.

the simplicity
of your regal beauty
reins in my memory;
You are still
the golden king of hearts,.
especially mine.

Mishayla and Pup-pup, circa 2007



To the artist in us all

In our writing class, our instructor has asked us to write about being a writer, and what is means to us. 

I found this old song lyric I wrote.  It's at least 15 years old.  And while it's still pertinent, I'm not sure it's how I feel today about being a writer, and a creative person in general. 

But here it is:

The Fertile Garden
(an artist's prayer)

May you learn to grow
inside your fertile garden;
May your colors intertwine
To make you free.
May you savor in your splendor
And have courage
to remember
The light inside your heart
will make you see.
May you know the fragrance
of your fertile garden;
May your sense move like dancers in the wind
May the stars above you guide you
May your soul's essence provide you,
with the knowledge that the world's
at your command.

Take your hand,
and pull the sun around you,
Feel the sand,
like silk against your skin,
realize
God's gifts are more precious
than anything that man
can understand.

So that was then.  I think being a creative person is different for me now.  The imagery here, while good, I think is a bit cliched.  One of the things I think a good writer does it take something simple, and make it different, make it like nothing else in the universe. 

The Resonance

Dig deep,
King said,
excavate,
till the heart aches,
till the blood spills,
till your ears fill
with endless, vibrating cacophonies
you've never heard before.

Brave and crazy,
ugly and beautiful,
compelled to reach
the surface,
the pounding
undeniable.
If you cage it,
it will gnaw at you,
If  you free it,
it could kill you.
No matter;
It's still your epiphany
and your circumference
Nothing can negate it,
Not even you.

A little edgier?  Hope so!!!!

Minnesota's Between Season

The weather lately here in Minnesota cannot decide whether it wants to be spring or winter.  One day hot, the next day cold.  I think there should be a "between" season here. Truly does seem to effect one's mood.  Here's my take:

Minnesota Between Seasons

Between seasons
The snow falls
just enough
to make the grass visible
through spots of white.

Between seasons
trees display their buds
But the cold keeps
appearing and going
like a fickle lover
unable to decide.

And the heart dances
In moments of warmth,
and hope,
only to once again
be shrouded in chilly rains,
and a timeless sense of woe.

Between seasons
we wait for the sun,
Waiting for things,
for once,
to be as we expect,
to be
as we yearn.

Old Ghosts

Some things you just need to leave alone.....but of course, you don't.


Old Ghosts

We should have kept things
wrapped and shrouded,
safely dead,
not rattle the chains
of our empty hearts,
freeing apparitions
that drift
to unrequited places,
filled with ancient,
faded longings.

and while clearing the dust
from this
murky phantom passion
ethereally transparent,
still,
our view is tenuous,
the journey blind,
satiating
everything and nothing

"I'll be damned,"
those ghosts keep coming
yet enraptured we remain ,
and unceasing
to follow.

Desert Stars

When I was back in Southern California a few weeks ago, I went out into the backyard one very summer like evening; and looked up at the sky.

There's truly nothing like the night sky in the desert when it's filled with stars.  It was always one of my favorite things about living there. 



To Desert Stars

Constant beacons,
blazing through blackness
remembering
my benevolent companions
steadfast,
beckoning,
giving a pallor of clarity
in otherwise
unclear moments.
remaining
till it's time

for my return.

To A Minnesota Loon

I had forgotten about this poem until I was reading a poem by my friend and haiku artist Ryan Hennisey, that talks about loons he was seeing during his trip to Alaska.

Here in Minnesota, loons are our state bird, and the only place they are more common than here is where Ryan is, in Alaska. 

I was inspired to write this poem during one of my first visits to Minnesota, long before I lived here.  Not only are loons beautiful, but the sound they make is one of the most serene, soothing sounds in nature.  I was taken with it the first time I heard it. 

To A Minnesota Loon

Regal creature,
Majestic lady of the lakes,
your sleek refinement
glimmers
under moons of ominous brilliance.
You glide
In subtle ripples,
like tears
on placid planes of glass.

And in the night's
perfect blackness
You are but a slight reflection
the flawless pitch of
your melody
pirouettes through
weighty, humid breezes;
nature's soothing beacon
through dark and piercing
silence.

A Ghostly Ballad of a Bad-Ass Lady

A poetry form known as the ballad has a long history.  It is defined as "a type of narrative poem with roots in an oral tradition.  Originally intended to be sung, a ballad uses repeated words and phrases." Some of the most famous ballad poetry was written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, whose famous ballad poem about Paul Revere's ride was taught to generations of school children.

My ballad poem here is based on a story about a woman  who, to escape an orphanage, dressed herself as a man and became a celebrated stagecoach driver during the Gold Rush. Born Charlotte Parkhurst, she called herself Charley.  Charley was one bad-ass driver, taking on tough coach runs filled with bandits and thieves, many of whom met bullets from her guns.  She eventually gained employment with Wells Fargo, and was entrusted to transport large sums of money.  After retiring, she ran a ranch and did other jobs, always as a man.  She died in 1879 at the age of 67 from mouth and throat cancer.

According to Dennis Hauck's book "The National Directory of Haunted Places" it was reported in the late 1980s that a ghostly vehicle was driving around on local roads of Santa Ynez, CA.  Most said the fast moving coach emerged from a dark cloud and rushed silently past them.  There was a report of lanterns on the side of the coach, illuminating a woman inside.

The Ballad of the Charley Parkhurst and the Ghostly Stagecoach

It flew with speed
from long ago
a phantom coach
down Solvang Road

Dressed as a man
from the orphanage
she'd go
apprenticed as a stableboy
a driver's life
she'd come to know

When gold came in '51
she drove the Mother Lode
a safe and rapid driver
Her reputation, it did grow

She drove those frightening
winding roads
from San Jose
to Santa Cruz,
she shot and killed
thieves and robbers
She never liked to lose

She retired to her cattle ranch
soon after the railroads came
Working till she passed away
Her secret did remain

And how she's found a new mode
An apparition from the clouds she goes
Her coach and four black horses
have returned to ride
down Solvang Rd.

Supermarket Roses

Another rework from a few years ago...


Supermarket Roses

Supermarket roses,
bright and beckoning
tease battered memories
of passions long replaced,

with diapers,
and bottles,
and overdrawn bank accounts.

Vibrant pink impostors
blush near
dreamy wedding whites,
and orange tipped peaches,
summons
the once new lover
rife with anticipation,

yet left to her
only
the bite of the thorns
from the stolen moments
before love becomes
something other
than its promise.

A yearning for desert wildflowers; poems now and then

California Poppy

Aren't these gorgeous?

Where I used to live in the Antelope Valley, in the southern California high desert, these were a gift the dry, arid desert would yield every spring; these magnificent, golden wild flowers.

The abundance of these flowers would depend on how much rain we got over the winter.  In very dry years, we would only get maybe a dusting of these flowers.  But if rains were plentiful, these flowers, along with purple lupins and other wildflowers, would pepper the desert hillsides in huge bunches.  I remember the first time I ever saw the flowers after living in the Antelope Valley for only a short time.  I decided to take a drive through the back hills of Gorman, which is just north of the A.V., going toward Bakersfield on Interstate 5. The flowers on the brown hills, when viewed from a distance, made the hills look like they had been painted.

From that, I wrote this:

The Hills of Gorman
About Early Spring

Vivid, glistening,
Wisps of pigment
Blow in gusty winds,
dressing brown
naked hills,
with shocking brilliance
in every hue,
its grandeur
dressing the picture
in my rearview mirror.

I starting thinking about these flowers the other day; I guess because I will be going to California in less than a week now.  Although I will not see the poppies this trip (it's way to early yet), I was thinking of them, wondering how they would be this year. 

Sometimes they do come a little early, but if they do, sadly, they are shoved around by what can be very brutal winds.  When this happens, they close up, and  sort of just weather the storm.  They are very good at protecting themselves. 

Interesting metaphor, I thought....

Ode to a Poppy

Vulnerable, transparent flower,
parchment thin
to the touch,
gracing the grassy hillsides,
Golden heart
Open wide
basking in the light
of spring's hesitation
confident
that warmth
will not be retracted.

But winds
can come heavy
gust after gust
bending stems
to nearly breaking,
and spun gold,
learns quickly,
to close tight
and lean inward,

To not be
torn asunder,
regretting
revealing petals
too soon,
too generously,
before the spring
can promise safety
from yet another
unpredictable breeze.

My "Note to Self"

I was reading online how the great writer Maya Angelou is currently writing a letter to her self as a teenager.

This is a concept I thought was interesting for several reasons for me, particularly right now. 

With the advent of Facebook, I have connected with many of my junior high and high school classmates. This has been really fun, but also enlightening. 

One of these high school friends gave me a particularly interesting glance into my adolescent self, by sending me an entry I had written to him in our 9th grade yearbook.  This gives you a pretty vivid image of me when I was barely 15 years old. 

Who was this girl? A diva? A drama queen? Well, probably both.  Fifteen year olds love drama, and I always seemed to get in the thick of it all. I wanted to be the center of attention, the "it" girl, so to speak.  I was fun, flirtatious, vivacious, and full of life. 

Me, at 15

And most of all I wanted love.  Doesn't everyone?

But now, nearly 40 years later, what would I say to myself?

The first thing would be to listen to myself first.  Listen to my heart, my dreams, what I believed was right. Some would say I would be too young to even have developed a voice sophisticated enough to know what I wanted from life.

But I believe, as humans, we all have this innate voice that is uniquely ours.  The problem is, from an early age, we don't listen to it.  We are taught to trust others, that they are older, that they know best.   And this is not the case.

My voice told me to be a writer.  I took out a notebook at about age 10, and  wrote a poem, and I was hooked.  I knew what I wanted to do. 

But I was fragile.  While I wanted to listen to the voice inside, I also wanted approval, I wanted to be loved. And like many women of my generation, I was raised to be a pleaser.  To accept, to not complain, to put the needs and opinions of others first. 

So when I was told, even though I had excellent grades, and a talent, that I would not get any assistance to go to college, because as a woman, I would probably marry and not need it anyway, I let that take away my dreams, my true sense of self.  This made me destructive; making me turn away from my studies, making me turn toward promiscuity and partying.

I think I figured, well, what the fuck? I might as well have a good time.  I might as well get on with my life and find "my destiny," which is what others wanted for me, which was a traditional life.

In the 1995 film version of "Little Women," there is a line that has resonated with me ever since I first heard it.  In the story, Jo has just declined Laurie's proposal of marriage, and she feels terrible, but she knows inside herself that for her to marry would be wrong.  She laments to Marmie, her sage mother, that she does not fit in anywhere in the world.

Her mother tells her "How could you expect to have an ordinary life, when you have so many extraordinary gifts."

I wish I had been more like Jo. That I had parents who taught me to listen to that voice. But they weren't taught to listen to theirs either.  They did their best, thinking that protecting me from failure was what they should do.  Listening to your true voice saves you a lot of pain, and others as well.  I spent years feeling like  there was something wrong with me, like I was different, like Jo. 

When all I had to do was turn off the noise, and listen. 

So I would tell myself to listen to the voice inside myself no matter what. 

What is also important is you must love yourself first and foremost.  I know it's a cliche, that with the "me" generation, has kind of gotten a bad name.  But you cannot effectively love any other person well unless you truly love yourself. 

Why didn't I love myself more? Lately when I was going through a box of old pictures, I discovered my high school graduation picture.  I was taken by the face in the photo.  Could it truly be me? My face had a certain luminousness to it, like a glow.  At the time, I never thought about it much.  I concentrated on my flaws more than I did my assets.  That endless quest for perfection. Why? I would tell myself to celebrate myself; flaws, imperfections, assets, gifts.  It's all part of me. I wish I'd appreciated myself earlier.




My graduation from high school


The last thing I would tell my 15 year old self is to learn to live in the moment.  I've ended up spending so much of my time worrying if I had a future.  Would I find the right man to marry? Would I have children? Would I have any kind of a career? Would I ever really achieve anything worthwhile. I never seemed to enjoy being where I was at that particular second. And I missed some really potentially great moments.  I was there, but I wasn't there.  So be present in your life.  Luxuriate in every moment you have.  

It's such a finite journey.  And all the wonderful things you want will come to you. 

As they did to my now 51 year old self, that is now, able to celebrate her 15 year old self, and all her "selves."

Now





You figure it out...

She waits

tick, tick, tick
the cursor beats
the rhythm of a
minute hand,
and she watches
hypnotic,
remininscent,
Mother.
praying for
a phone to ring,
or grandma,
longing for
a letter.

all this tech,
very little change
the silence
the longing,
the pulling
a ubiquitous orb
and the ache inside.
not a voice,
not a hand,
love could vanish
in seconds
at the touch of "delete"

things evolve,
the heart doesn't
like those before her
She still waits.

Heroic Couplets, Memorizing Chaucer, Robert Frost, and California Redwoods

Heroic couplets have been around a long time.  What is a heroic couplet? It's two successive rhymes of iambic pentameter with an aa, bb, cc, dd, etc rhyme scheme. 

The first person to really use the heroic couplet was Geoffrey Chaucer, in his Canterbury Tales.  As a undergraduate English major, I had to learn the first 18 lines of the Prologue of the Tales, reciting it from memory in Middle English.  It goes something like this:

Here bygynneth the Book of the tales of Caunterbury.
1	Whan that Aprille, with hise shoures soote,
2	The droghte of March hath perced to the roote
3	And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
4	Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
5	Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
6	Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
7	The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
8	Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne,
9	And smale foweles maken melodye,
10	That slepen al the nyght with open eye-
11	So priketh hem Nature in hir corages-

And so on it goes.  Most English majors say once they learn this; they remember it the rest of their lives. 

Me: I couldn't do it again with a gun to my head.  I was good for one go round, and that was it.

Anyway, as time went on, poets continue to use this format, especially in the 1500s and 1600s.  Poets such as Thomas Wyatt, John Donne, and others, made the heroic couplet famous.

In modern times, it was used by such poets as my absolutely all time favorite poet, Robert Frost.  A native New Englander like myself (he was from New Hampshire, me from Connecticut,) Frost used the couplet to compose such poems as the one below:

Nothing Gold Can Stay

(1923)

Nature's first green is gold

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her earl leaf's a flower;

But only so an hour

Then leaf subsides to leaf

So Eden's sank to grief

So dawn goes down to day

Nothing gold can stay.

I remember reading Robert Frost for the first time when I was in high school  My aunt (the one from Connecticut) had gotten my brother and I a subscription to National Geographic, which nobody really read much.  But in the April, 1976 issue, it had these gorgeous pictures of New England, with this amazing poetry.  It was truly love at first read.  And even now, after all the poetry I've studied and read, Frost is still my favorite. When I read it, I feel a sense of belonging.  Maybe ancestrial longings? On my maternal grandfather's side of the family, they go all the back to William Bradford and Plimouth Plantation (and yes, that spelling is correct!!) But I do love his poetry; always will. 

Robert Frost

Anyway, as you can see, Robert Frost knew his way around a couplet. 

Now for my heroic couplet poem, I took a poem, once again from my old chapbook,  called "To A California Redwood." The poem was too long, and overly wordy.  So I had a "do over" with it.

Anyone who has been to Sequoia or Yosemite National Park in California, can tell you how awesome these redwood trees are.  There is really nothing like them anywhere.  They are hundreds of years old, and huge.  They are truly one of nature's most amazing contributions to the world.  When you look up at them, they look as though they descend into heaven, that they touch the sky, the ends of the earth.   

To A California Redwood

Placid giants; umbrellas graced with green,
Above the earth you dwell with grace; only to heavens seen,
Mankind stands so small below, as you reach to the sky,
Wishing for longevity, and time he cannot buy.
A creature of the ages, witness of the years,
Your wisdom fills the wooded glen, a perfection that adheres,
A mighty bark withstanding all that nature does employ
May you reign over the forest for generations to enjoy.

I'm really enjoying writing all this rhyming poetry; hope to do more soon!!!

Don't look now, but I think I wrote a sonnet.

I've always wanted to write a sonnet.  When people think of sonnets, they often think of the most famous sonnet writer of all time, Mr. William Shakespeare.  But many modern poets used the sonnet as well.

The sonnet is a 14 line poem, written in iambic pentameter.  It's rhyming scheme is abab, cdcd, efef, gg.  Sounds easy enough, right?  NOT!

My favorite sonnet writer is Edna St. Vincent Millay.  Millay's poetry became famous in the 1920s, and she, like many women in her era, were not shy about the fact they had a multitude of lovers.  After all, it was the era of flappers, and bathtub gin, and the charleston.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Those of us that grew up in the 1970s and 1980s, during the post-sexual revolution of the 1960s can relate to this on varying levels. (I personally admit to nothing!) But I do admit my all-time favorite sonnet is Millay's Sonnet XLIII, that goes like this:

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, 
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain 
Under my head till morning; but the rain 
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh 
Upon the glass and listen for reply, 
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain 
For unremembered lads that not again 
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry. 
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree, 
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, 
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before: 
I cannot say what loves have come and gone, 
I only know that summer sang in me 
A little while, that in me sings no more.

Now, here's my attempt:

Sonnet I
To those I've loved

To those I've loved in days gone by
That linger in sequestered places
In a restless heart, that wonders why
And thinks on smiles of fading faces.
Their laughter rings through bygone days
In moments I remember
When love was young and passion blazed
Then burst to deadened embers.
When days are long, and I'm alone
and youth seems far away
I think of when those love lights shone
Full of sweet words to say.
         I dwell on all those moments sweet,
         And hope again with love I'll meet.

Okay, well, maybe Edna was better.  But it was my first try!!!

California's greatest ghost town: Bodie



Ina Coolbrith in the 1860s.

This poem is my one claim to fame as a poet; it was the Ina Coolbrith Circle award winner in 1997.  Sound pretty obscure, I guess.  Ina Coolbrith was a California poet who kept company with writers like Bret Harte and Mark Twain when they were writing in 1860's San Francisco. In her later years, Coolbrith was a mentor to Jack London and other writers from her desk at the Oakland Library.

People don't know much about Twain's work in this era, but I think it is some of his best. They all were real Victorian hippies.  It guess that's an oxymoron, but in truth, it does work.  They were rule breakers; innovators of their time. 

Here's my award winning poem; I've given it a bit of a facelift from the original. 

Echoes in Bodie

You can hear them
when cruel Sierra winds dance
through deadly silence,
the lifeblood of a time gone by.
Adventurers stomping
through winter brutality,
as wagons and coaches
rattle the souls of those arriving,
more coming
everyday.

Laughter resonated
on sagebrush laden streets,

as unblemished, glittering silver

flowed like saloon whisky

into pockets of once poor men.

Their callused palms grasping tight

to their fortunes,

as gunfights emerged

in fits of greed

turning virgin snowfall

brilliant red

Now,

affluent splendor

is but history,
but when echoes promenade

through stillness,

You'll hear them
rushing to the mines

one more time.



For my fellow writers in Forest Lake

I started this in Holly Hardin's winter writing seminar last night.  A place filled with honesty, humor, talent, and sincerity, I hope to know all of you not just as writers, but as human beings as well.  With you, I'm a little less "fragmented."

Fragmented

This is how it goes
when broken in fragments
of two,
In one place, for sure
I remain;
roots bound deep and seeking,
in dry desert silt,
but a lack of presence
makes life grow barren,
and in searching for the sustenance
of presence,
they moved on
to find their needs met
through no fault of their own.

Another place,
strange.
frozen, and sparkling
with only intermittent color,
intriguing nonetheless.
An out of place adornment,
up for scrutiny,
A generous heart is mine,
but to risk it?
They reach out,
retracting their hand
in the same motion
Yet I find the courage
to not look away,
As I face the notion
of giving in
and putting my broken pieces
back as one.

The Confessional

Inspired by my writing teacher........it's your fault, Holly!!


The Confessional

Dark,
on the edge of musty
I enter
like Alice,
curious,
but with trepidation.

Down,
down,
down,
on my knees
in this deep well of mystery;
the little screened hole
where the white rabbit hides
holding the key.
He asks me to explain myself,
And the bewildered child
Is without words.

I must repent
so my fall will come to an end.
I nod my head,
and take penance
At least there is
only one door,
And I am free
Never to return.

More reworkings....old stuff to new

Drowning

You wander
into my existence,
a whirlwind
in an arbitrary gust;
steadying the anchor
in a changing sea,
breaking the glass,
and pulling the rip cord
in case of drowning.

Yet in the end,
you pushed my head
beneath the breakers
and held it there
without conscience,
expecting me
to keep breathing,
thinking I
would survive.

And you're still there
a caricature
that decorates the years.
You did
what was necessary
for yourself
of course.
Inside the clarity of time,
I remember
as you drift
and return.

Monarch Butterflies

Monarch Butterflies of Pacific Grove
Photo by Chris Lemoine

I don't do much rhyming poetry.  So I was pretty proud of this one.  From my 1998 chapbook.

Monarch Butterflies

Fragile, determined creatures
Your translucent crimson golds
Fill tranquil aqua skies,
Transcending vivid seasons
To a winter home you fly,

To a place near the Pacific
you cluster against the breeze,
Gleaming in shards of sunlight,
High above in autumn's trees

and huddled in subtle multitudes
you linger till spring's return,
A sample of nature's pure patience
Giving lessons man should learn.