COMING SOON: A NEW CHAPBOOK
TALKING ME OFF THE ROOF
PUBLISHED BY KELSAY BOOKS
Review for the book M.
Poems published in the following magazines:
Me Too, Me Three, Me Many
How terribly strange to be abused
by an uncle,
a father,
a neighbor,
a teacher,
a doctor.
remaining silent at 17,
not tell anyone
for fear--
You are at fault.
You are to blame.
You are wrong.
You are less than
your father,
your neighbor,
your teacher,
your doctor--
How terribly strange to know
your friend was abused
by an uncle,
a father,
a neighbor,
a teacher,
a doctor--
remaining silent at 18,
at 33, at 54, at 65,
not tell anyone
for fear--
She is at fault, She is wrong,
even together, you feel less
than all the power they amass--
reveal their lies,
and there lies comfort
in someone's story.
How terribly strange to have a dark secret,
but somewhere in the telling,
you live, she lives,
Me two, Me three, Me many,
live--
You cannot, will not, take this to the grave.
The Blue Butterfly of Fukushima
"I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly, dreaming I am a man."
― Zhuangzi, Butterfly as Companion: Meditations on the First Three Chapters of the Chuang-Tzu
― Zhuangzi, Butterfly as Companion: Meditations on the First Three Chapters of the Chuang-Tzu
Within a year, the blue butterfly changed,
barely noticeable, yet the wingspread limited,
the markings on the underbelly a faded hue,
shorter antennae , dented eyes—
Its pale grass blue color muted, the butterfly flies,
but within boundaries, much more like man, now—
unequaled to the blue in an endless sky.
Not Drowning But Waving
A spin off of Stevie Smith’s Not Waving But Drowning
I was out too far, too deep,
instead of fearing the undertow
I floated, followed my heart's compass,
and found myself in a place
where the tide gently spoke to the shore--
this is what hope is truly about,
the bird with feathers
that swoops with grace,
and finds its appetite sated in sea salt.
I swim out for a closer look
at that pelican now perched
on a buoy, which is stamped
with the message:
Do not anchor here
I don't--I keep swimming
far, but close enough,
where you can see
I am not drowning, but waving.
A Basket Set on the Shore
(Remembering the March 2011 tsunami, Japan)
An ordinary day, until it wasn’t
Go up they said, to higher ground,
her body was never found
disappearing from the rooftop,
the closest place to heaven.
Years later, a mother still searches,
rebuilding a life becomes routine,
and daily, the ocean reminds her—
her daughter’s days were far
from extraordinary, but gentle
like the tide during a crescent moon.
She makes an offering each evening,
salted plums, bean cakes, ginger tea,
placing each item in a basket, set on the shore,
and as mourning has no geography,
heading home, her back to the rising tide,
she does not watch as the sea eats.
Butterflies and Sirens
(A response to the sudden migration of Painted Lady Butterflies to Los Angeles, spring of 2019)
I was there for the rain,
but left
before the early bloom
of nettles and mallows,
was absent
when the angel voiced siren of Los Angeles
taunted the Painted Ladies north
to feast on lupines and milk weed,
everywhere
the cloak of orange,
their black wing-tipped eyes,
staring down at the amazed denizens,
while skimming by buildings,
and bike racks, and bus horns blazing
hundreds in mid-day light,
hovering, while the sirens of the city,
blared through this place of comings and goings
drawing all to look closer,
at the shock of arrival,
the surprise of flight,
and a noon epiphany--
the sirens' calls--
no longer in a place of draught.
C is for Cactus
The cactus in your August garden,
there for over a decade,
blossomed its yearly magenta orb,
the same time that a flower of cells
inside your breast multiplied,
no sweet red flower
surrounded by spikes
to ward away an enemy,
but a dividing clump of cells
offering no protection.
I want you to be the cactus
that survives in arid ground,
you, who have always loved the desert,
its stark soil and ruby suns,
now must cope with your own terrain.
The cactus flower will dry and drop,
leaving tawny spines to protrude
on its flat green armor
defending what is lost, it remains
beautiful in the land it is rooted in.
In the Absence of Healing
After the cold and fever,
an intermittent hacking
cough comes to remind
things are not quite healed.
What ails, the unseasoned bristling wind,
ravaging blazes, glaciers cracking, fault lines tilting.
The expectations are to pen every tragic moment
into a healing metaphor,
so I think of flowers,
but my son, his life in bloom,
tells me to stop writing about flowers,
yet all my disasters find rhyme
with larkspur and Queen Anne's lace,
and in the absence of healing,
I think of tulips, frozen and waiting
under February’s wrath.
Mother Haibun
The haibun form is traditionally used for recording a location in a concentrated prose block, and ends with a ‘whisper’ of sorts to the reader in the form of a haiku
The rain reminds me of days when I would wait for the taxi to take me to the home
full of nurses and orderlies and slow elevators slinking up to the 6th floor.
The quiet floor, with a lonely view of sky, sea and rain clouds,
which often tracked me on every visit. I sat with my mother in silence,
as I visualized my future by tracking the lines on her face.
A countenance with a crooked smile, and I often wiped away sickly drool,
which ran down her chin like rain drops--a smear on the glass pane that I stared out of.
I never wanted to remember her like this, as she dozed with labored breath
through those last visits, but I do, recalling an August sea churn going from:
Clear blue
to a tarnished mix
of wave and storm.
A Season's Tailspin
After a week of rain,
you say you understand
how the addiction to sadness spreads
like a careless oil spill,
seeping into every safe shore
until uneven water lines bide
upon waking--nothing is certain.
We cling to history.
and the crooked promise
of what waits to bloom—
lupines and fields of yellow rapeseed,
the aroma rousing in us
the arrival of June.
Infinite Tenderness
You called lost and broken down,
one December night--
On a road amidst scarecrows and corn,
your car dropped a fan belt,
and I was tasked an endeavor into darkness
to find you.
The night choked me with weather and empty country roads--
no street names, nor landmarks,
just fields, leftover snow and taunting black ice.
A stranger brought you to safety that night,
as darkness goaded me away from you.
Every winter storm since recalls your rage.
Once, in vengeance, I revealed
that Anna Karenina jumps in front of a train,
ruining the ending you were just about to read.
It was an ending you saw that night,
waiting for me to rescue you
from fan belts and wind.
Like Anna, I'm not good at saving others, or myself.
I fail at heroics--I’m better at baking a cake,
basting a turkey, or planting pansies--
If only I could steal myself
out from your anger,
rise to an occasion,
save you from a precipitous fall off a cliff,
or venture to find your voice lost
in the Siberian wind.
Anna Karenina had infinite tenderness,
but no one to save her,
unlike all the kindness that remains to rescue us.
The time we’ve had together leaves me breathless, as if running for a train
that I know will stop in places I never want to be again,
but I board it anyway and take a window seat.