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.

 

 

Divinity

 

Maybe we are here to grow pieces of god 

Torn off from the bottomless, star-studded loaf. 

Logan Trail

 

 

I wish that I was a little smaller
With lighter feet
To leave the snails
And snowflakes intact

A long time ago

 
You are void
And what am I
I am cicada katydid lacewing
I pour the waterfall
But it all disappears without
A burp
Not even a fingertip
Touched to the back of my hand

I rage
Again
Sleepless night
A dusting of snow
Falls without a sound
And the sky clears
Before I venture to
The bathroom in my loud house,
Covered over doorway yawning
Gaping soundless and hungry.

Inne Ute

He believes in nothing 

What a coincidence: 

I believe in everything. 

Ode to the callous on my finger

Oh protector of softer flesh,
Self-grown armor
Roughness in contrast to silk elsewhere
You remind me of time,
Repetition and work
The work of hands, eyes and heart together.
Coils of buttery linoleum
Battleship gray
And knotty wood

I make
This world of my own
On paper and fabric
You are subjected to forces
Of my, not your, choosing
And are wrought in the
friction of my hair-on-fire
Or even the leaden striking
of my brain against graphite and paper
Hoping for a spark
Just a spark.

The Birds Dreamed Black

All afternoon the birds dreamed they were a kaleidoscope of colors

The blue jay was a crow, iridescent in the right light
With an earthy
Caw caw caw.
He lived in October,
Among pumpkin orange, mauve and saturated yellow
All the absence of chlorophyll.

The robin was a starling
Glittering in the sun.
He lived in June
With a nest of crying babies.

The peacock was a raven,
Deep deep blue next to a geyser.
He lived in October too,
But one of soft snow
And pearl grey.
Warm steam turning to cool condensation.

Shapeshifter

 Shapeshifter
Wading with sieve-legs
Through the dark mire
Skin shrugging off
Star Stickers and steak knives alike
Nihilism but lighter
A mind of single unfocus
Hazy eyesight filtering
Restless scenery
Unbiased hands weighing
Viewpoints crystalline and static
Infusing internal illumination
In each glass bead
Dip toes in different waters
Dry off, repeat in various temperatures
All come from the same source.

Introspection

I feel on fire, my brain incapable of quieting in the dark, my body exhausted. 

I feel trapped, hurtling towards a middle, but at the same time in forced repose; nothing 

more to prepare.

I feel relieved, dismayed I have wasted much vitamin B on stress.

I feel empty, critique is over, but I am inert, a body at rest. I should be busying.

I feel procrastinatory, reading with fervor in order to forget my upcoming-now-past 

critique.

November

Dry grass sprinkled in
fresh snow elates the heart
Blue, tan and white, love.

Bull (A Cut-Up)

The summer solstice isn’t the only thing;
Intense, moody shoegaze
Not just a record of
    a thrashier sound.

Two-step shit
Develops
    for the love of litter
Leaves her children to
    Evaluate students who cannot take
    an assemblage of Random sheets

Looking at them in every situation,
Traditionally the benefits
    richly evocative of
    protected forest floors
Under the flames, someone is trimming a hedge
    the same as in previous years

An empty bull
Of leaves has
Impacted the system
To look at each student as a whole
In a time full of uncertainty

 

(From the October Slug Magazine and a USU campus newspaper)