Sans Oranges

 

The orange tree

No taller than a child

Served the springtime bees breakfast, lunch and dinner 

Before the winds arrived 

Before the grasshoppers invaded 

The smell was captivating 

I sent a blossom to my father 

Locked tight in a Tupperware 

There will be no oranges this February.

No oranges since the tree was planted last year 

And I plucked all the small green fruits from its branches 

All the more to give the roots a chance to dive deep and spread. 

Those never ripened

But did serve a lovely still life on my tables for weeks.

There will be no fruit in February 

So dearly looked forward to 

Despite this lack of harvest, for human me;

Its leaves feed caterpillars

Its blossoms sustained the bees and flies 

Spiders roam its branches 

Its gorgeous green provides relief to my eyes. 

A harvest for me is only one reason to plant a tree 

There are uncountable benefits for all

Excerpt

 I’m learning to plan 

By the seat of my pants 

Which is to say 

Not really planning at all

The passage of time 27

Silver shimmering
the earth; Treasure I thought
Had faded away.

 

 

Hands from Heart to Prufrock

1/27/2017

I was looking for this poem in the archives, but to my astonishment, though it was published in WEEDS Art and Literary Journal, I never posted it here.

Hands from Heart to Prufrock
I would like to see with eyes unclouded
Clearly, truly.

What am I?
Nothing.

What will anyone remember?
What does anyone remember now?
A lunatic;
Crazed, perhaps?

Tear down the mirror with hand-tipped claws.
A mono possibly,
Mona,
Up the tree, a little tipped in the brain,
Simpleton.
Or even a red star burning out,
Terrible and sublime (sub-lime) for a while,
But in the end,
Quite disappointing.

I really am nothing
I think is thought of me.
Only a hollow voice and a thirsty ego.
A little too eager to please,
Soul-dehydrating fearful of
Falling short of your expectations.

At my best,
I am lucky:
a star smiled gently upon me.

But really I'm just mediocre
Ochre
Ocre
Nothing at all
But a small heart
Trying to grow through the cracks
In the sidewalk
Towards a sun
A billion miles away.

In Passing

 

When I am dead, my dearest:

Consume me as the ravaging whole,

Convert me to organic matter,

That I might become at last, a blade of grass.

 

 

Recuerdos Buenos / I want to carry those people, tiny, in my pockets

Soy algo
Entre professor
Y alumna:
Una cosa con feathers
Que hace ruidos raros
En un esquina.

Yo vuelo,
Pájaro
Libre entre
Los dos.

Toda la gente he iba conocido
Son en mi corazón
Recuerdos buenos
Preciosas
Ellos yo siento en mis manos
Los llevo con cariño
Estoy privilegiada
Y no puedo creer
Pero intento
I appreciate it all
Y se quiero todos.   

Pero la verdad es:
Estoy tonta para todo
No?

Mi cielo-

I can’t help but dance
In the mornings
No matter how tired
My body is

 

 

Stag in Headlights

Branching antlers
Dark against my truck's headlights
In the northbound lane;
Regal and still

An oncoming car,
Oblivious, but not impervious
As the stag

I flash my brights-
Their speed is unchanged
-And I remember
Unlike my 4Runner
This truck has a working horn
I honk to warn the deer,
Perhaps also the driver;
I fear for the safety of both

-And the stag
Bounds towards the east side of the road
Away from both cars,
Thanks be to the wilderness gods.
(For a moment I envisioned him staggering into the side of my car)

 

 

Water Falling (Version 2)

Tender New Fragile Feeling
Of a hollow bone
Broken
But belonging to
The vessel a few weeks
downstream from
the sudden
Shocking impact,
Waterfall itself.

We Were Water
falling
Failed flying lessons
Forced to be birds
Sin wings.

No warning,
And the surprise
Uncalled for.

Why expect a warning?

Afterwards we searched
For the warning,
The visions sent back,
Upstream,
An impossibility. 

See what good

I pour myself into the maw
Presented, dark and gaping,
By the circumstances
Surrounding my family


I give to them one quarter of the
Bandaids I bought at our
graham-cracker rural Walmart

I bring to them the friends I made in
Colombia, and the Chilean teachers too
We feed them Dutch-oven meat and potatoes

I drive the canyon, inventing errands for myself so I can
Fill a cart at Costco
And buy my parents a month or two


Family, see what good I have brought you
Enjoy this quality I have dragged back
Like a sack of golden potatoes
Marking a trail in the dust behind me.