April 12th Poem

Belfast, Mr. Sweeney

Unless you approach it from the sea

you cannot help

but come upon the city suddenly

because of its fine setting;

ringed by high hills,

sea inlet and river valley.

Stone-carved heads of gods and poets, 

scientists, kings and queens

peer down from the highest ledges of banks 

and old linen warehouses.

Mr. Sweeney walks the streets alone

and stares upwards at elaborate sculptures

over doors and windows.

He’s always looking up.

Giant cranes tower over the shipyard’s port

and dry dock calls his name.

The city and the river front are being transformed,

and even in the distance, through the fog and rain

he longs to get away.

April 11th Poem

Furry

 

Friday morning, he asked me to describe my thighs

over email and coffee.

           

What can I tell him about my never shaved thighs,

with long golden hairs, glints of copper – silky in the sun?

           

The longsuffering slope of sunshine which begins at

the knee, moving upwards where no razor has ever traveled?

           

It seems a bit precise to note the bumps and scrapes of childhood;

nothing sexy about a small scar that uniquely marks my upper leg.

           

That six year old neighbor girl still remembers the backyard swing-set mishap, blood gushing like a cherry tomato popped, too ripe on the vine.

           

Late summer, all legs wild and dangling over edges,

sliced by an aluminum slide in the fenced green grass yard.

           

Tiny raised indentations trace the line of demarcation where Dr. Finley cross-stitched the gash closed and upon it no hair grows.

           

There are not enough reasons to make me want to take the

Straight-edge of a razor, coaxed on by the pressure to be smooth.

           

Why take the plunge and do it, when I know the cost of upkeep is too high? Leave the peach skin on, juicy and nappy like the fuzz on the surface.

April 10th Poem

Hay Wire

You are roughly made

and unsophisticated. Decrepit.

Hewn and hallowed out.

The barn may have burnt down

because we used you for temporary repairs.

Frayed and lying in the firey sun

next to the hot barn caused your

own explosion.

The barn simply ceased to exist.

You started to behave erratically,

uncontrollable, yourself unsoothed

and scorched.

I’m done with these slap-dash repairs,

and your scraps of

bailing twine that

fail catastrophically

at times of critical stress.

It was all fine until you went off

and lost your cool.

You’re tearin’ up Jack,

causing a ruckus

and catching on fire.

April 9th Poem

Beach House

In January the beach houses along

the promenade are empty. Off-season.

They stand, lonely and empty and I

want to go inside and see if they have a 

cushy chair and books and perhaps a

fireplace and a cup of tea and a cat to

keep me company. If I had a house by the

sea, I’d live in it and not let it stand 

unattended while wave after wave crashes

against the sand.

April 8th Poem

A Moment in a Library

Sitting inside the Sterling Writer’s Room at the 

Multnomah County Library my very first time

I looked out at the huge oak trees and the 

large picture windows to the sky.

I sat at one of the four large desks with vintage

lamps at each table. The oak wood cabinets 

with glass doors distracted me, as they were filled

with books by local authors who’d created in this 

very space. Two large spiral notebooks were

filled with notes from various visitors over the years.

Words of encouragement, curiosities about other

writers and quotations about writing filled the pages.

I felt inspired inside this elegant, quiet room. The air

was filled with holiness, creative energy of other’s pens

and paper- across the space and time to my solitary 

hour spent writing.

April 7th Poem

A Hill I Once Knew

The summer of 1993 I decided to climb

the Corbett hill every day from June 1st 

to the very end of August. John’s Landing’s 

largest hill with panoramic views at the top of 

downtown and Mt. Hood. 

I grew to know that hill, the pavement, the heat

of the afternoon sun. Each house, each yard, 

each calico cat bathing in the sun. My pace

increased as I began to get in shape, letting the

hills steep grade strengthen my muscles, my legs

and expand my lungs. That hill still crowns the 

neighborhood, calling me back on a sunny afternoon.

 

 

April 6th Poem

The Cattery

Last week I returned a tiny cat

carrier to the cattery where we brought

him home two years ago. Stepping inside

the woman’s home with all the pregnant

mamas and the back room filled with

kittens, still nursing, still needing their mother’s

love and care at eight weeks old. There were two

large cages and one by one the woman brought

the kittens out to play. Ruddy, blue and red. Their

tiny Abyssinian body’s ready to play. The kittens 

mother’s paced and cried looking for their babies.

One paced back and forth with fierce attention to

what the little ones were doing on the floor. Separating

a mother and her children too early is without a doubt

one of the worst things that can happen to a familiy.

 

I brought my mother with me to the cattery. I wanted her

to see where our cats had come from. She seemed inrigued

to meet the mother of our cats. Fat Bluebell, her belly

busting at the seams as she was days away from giving

birth to yet another litter.

How the woman who runs the cattery does it I’ll never

understand. It’s a 24/7 committment and I think she’s

afraid to leave the house in case another one gives birth. 

 

April 5th Poem

Wild

Her book is on the best seller list and

the memoir is selling like hot cakes

made on the griddle while camping

under ponderosa pines. “From lost

to found on the PAcific Crest Trail”:

wish I’d thought of that. A journey alone.

Maybe I can do something like that when 

my own mother dies. Take a trip. Buy

a ticket to somewhere lonely and desolate

and then write about it for a while. 

Turn it into a book that breaks everyone’s

heart who reads it and then find my way

home again.

April 4th Poem

The Drug Dealer Next Door

 

He sneaks around like I don’t know

what he’s up to. Visitors in and 

out in less than two minutes. Cars

coming and going at all hours. 

And his girlfriend, slipping their

garbage into our cans without us

knowing. Lighters, matches, little

baggies that once held drugs.

The hypodermic needle was a 

dead give-away. Lowlifes is what

I call them. The neighbor across the

way called them shitheads. Either

way, I wish the police would do 

something to make this all stop.

April 3rd Poem

Below the Surface

You cannot argue with a herd of gentle manatees,

who’ve circled together, playing in wave after wave of open sea.

Outside the estuary, Sam the butcher

lures the slow moving mammals to the shore.

His knives shift at the bottom of his dinghy.

Painted violet sunset, sweltering heat, malaria ague

sweat pools over his sunburnt skin.

He’ll rest as the tide comes back in. 

his coccyx sore from sitting,

- weeks of waiting

Hunger gets the best of him,

his stomach churns in time to his outboard motor.

He hums a song to himself.

Soft bellied and slightly sweet,

the choicest cuts of sea cow meat

The tail and peduncle are primarily the best.

Harpooned, cut, cubed, and cured with salt,

500 pounds can feed the village.

He’ll remove the fat and sinew

and save the flippers

for they are as delicate as hands.

There’s blood in the evening water.

The mammals surface,

smelling fever, breathing air.