Déjà Vu All Over Again

Here's a poem that was originally published in The Poeming Pigeon: Poems from the Garden. Written in 2016, this one is not about flowers.

The Garden of the Universe

And on Earth, the garden of the universe, some walked with ivory birds on their shoulders, and some pierced the breasts of scarlet birds to show who was boss, and some stretched and inhaled the scent of morning jasmine, and some stepped over the sweet stench of rotting flesh, and some wore veils and whispered their daily prayers under peach trees, and some flung off their veils and raised their fists, and some marched and shouted at those who wouldn’t march and shout with them, and some swatted the bees whose drones interrupted their dreams, and some manufactured golden apples in the test tubes of white laboratories, and some built cars that could turn the blossoms of the garden into a blur, and some cursed the bleating of sheep and some cursed the keening of coyotes, and some slept in towers that pricked the stars, and some slept on warm sands that conformed to the curves of their spines, and some leapt from cliffs and tried to fly, and some never looked another creature in the eye, and some swooned at the sound of a voice on the radio, and some shaved their hair and some braided their hair and some painted their hands and some powdered their wigs, and some wove armor out of shards of bone and dried grass, and some danced on ponds of glass, and some made laws that said ‘No Music,’ and some made sculptures they tucked under ferns, and some murmured poems beneath the brooks, and some made signs that spelled their own names in electric lights, and some kissed for the joy of kissing and some kissed out of curiosity and some kissed because their lips were cold and some kissed to keep the kissees from speaking, and some picked all the pears and stored them behind secret doors, and some scooped up all the salmon, and some shared the last olive with a distant cousin, and some climbed sequoias and proclaimed themselves monarchs, and some loved the monarchs like a mother, and some bowed to the monarchs then mocked them when the monarchs were out of earshot, and some monarchs learned how to stoke fires and some monarchs learned how to grow flowers, and some of their subjects warned that the garden would surely die if everyone didn’t bless it with warm tears, and some threw stones at those who issued warnings, and some lay awake at night listening for their instructions in the silence, and some offered arias to empty skies, and some drew plans for ships that could carry them to a planet where they could start a new garden, and we all took our first icy breaths on Earth, the garden of the universe; and we all trembled at the thought of death, even when we believed it was just a story that was sure to end happily.

Let's Get Musical

I'm singing in the car and spinning in the kitchen, thanks to these two exuberant productions. You can click the links to read my reviews.

Beautiful: The Carole King Musical

Jersey Boys

What joy to be writing for Oregon ArtsWatch!

Feverfew

Ever hear the one about the writer who dismissed poems about "flowers and grandmothers"?

Yeah, me too.

Don't get me wrong. I love the work of this particular poet, who happens to be male. 

Is that last detail relevant? I don't know. Don't we all, at times, swallow ideas whole, without chewing, without tasting?

Still.

Here's an early piece about my flowers, my grandmother. She was a rock, a rockstar in my family's world. Someone who'd had a tough life, but made it look gracious and easy for over a century, a feat that required grit and—yes!—delicacy.

Feverfew

 

One day Gram brought over two plants for me,

and now they grow everywhere—

through the cracks in the sidewalk and the rock wall

and behind the garage and even in a ring

around the plum tree. Just this morning,

I took out the garbage and found one blooming,

as tall as my knees, at the side of the house.

 

Some of the neighbors call them “weeds,” and once

someone tried to tell me they were really chamomile,

but I know differently—

 

like miniature daisies, these small white flowers

with the dab of yellow and the wide, laughing leaves

are called feverfew, Chrysanthemum Parthenium,

or, more simply, “Gram flowers,”

and every time I see them she is with me—

her slender ankles and silver hair, her tablecloths

and place cards and sheer stockings:

 

Gram of the frozen cookies and the flutes of cranberry juice,

Gram of the rose bushes and the ripe tomatoes,

Gram of the BLT’s and the patio swing,

of timecards and two weeks' vacation and an onyx ring,

of lawn bowls, tea rooms, swimming pools and ‘How-do!’

Gram, ancestress of my skinny feet and private grumbling—

gone for a year and still around me,

growing, blooming, scenting the air I breathe—

the air you, too, are breathing.