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.