Twin sets of
laser eyes
beneath
persistent
locks of hair
Two hands
commanding
drum sticks
Two arms
caressing
neck of bass
Piano sounds
filter in
Jarrett-like
unafraid
to carry
the scene
Sax smooches in –
an adored
older cousin
on his way
to the beach
and you –
lucky you
got to go
along.
How did these items
become part of my life’s
clutter to begin with?
On my desk are two
copies of the book,
Yoga for Pregnancy,
though I’ve never
been pregnant.
Both copies have
been borrowed
numerous times, always
returned with a one-line
Thank You scribbled
on a square sticky note.
Inside a long plastic storage
box of fabric remnants, snaps,
needles, thread, pins, bobbins,
Velcro and shoulder pads, I find a
saved Yoga Journal, whose feature
article is “Be Happier Than You Ever
Thought Possible.” Did I read it?
I can’t recall. I put it back.
Inside a red and black pocket
journal, there is only one – full
moon – entry reminding me that,
after chanting in the Kanon Room
with Cynthia and Maria Elena,
and with Dad’s photo on the altar,
I returned to the parking lot to find
my car’s windshield stunningly
covered with yellow jackets.
What did this mean?
Did Dad caution me
about yellow jackets?
Get stung by one?
Respect them?
Kill one? Wear one?
It felt like a good omen –
that mass yellow gathering
on my windshield – yellow
the color of sunshine, happiness,
joy, intellect and energy –
But the space between my
grief and tears came undone
in that private chanting
service that day. It was
both healing and unbearable.
As it is to recall.
That journal, with its
only entry, was tucked in
with all the mending
materials that I own.
Ahh –Yellow Jack – ets!
how did I not get this
until now?
Jack – is my Dad.
I read your poems, knowing
that the vase of fresh cut
roses that you describe could
be fake – could be, that is,
an imaginary vase, rather
than one you see on a table.
The patchouli scented
candle you smell burning
in a darkening cottage,
(as the sun sets over
Scotch pines outside
its dining room window)—
may have been cut and pasted
from an old dream of yours.
I know that raffia-tied jar
of strawberry jam you claim
as home-made by your lover –
I know, even as you spread it
on an (allegedly) warm biscuit,
that it might very well have
come from some big grocery
store chain, made in large
vats in a factory up-river.
I know you may be inventing,
rather than noticing, these
items in the morning of your
day as a famous poet at work.
But you should see outside my
window, my backyard, Billy –
My neighbor, Nick, with his
long-handled hose, watering
the Arborvitae shrubs on the
bottom terrace of my descending
lawn, and the bushy sun-flowers –
just about to pop open.
If I wrote a poem,
I’d show you my soft
new double-wide hammock,
so white and inviting under the
walnut tree. You’d see an oval
umbrella table with see-through
patio chairs, a tray of marmalade
cookies, and blackberry ice tea.
Look – my favorite yellow
finch, wearing his little black
vest – drinking from a puddle,
(leaking from the weak link
between two bright red hoses) –
across a neighbor’s walkway.
I only wish I’d remembered
to bring a camera along today.
What are the chances,
Billy? - Your name
and mine in the same
front page article of
The Democrat & Chronicle –
Mine - for hanging out
at the Jazz Festival;
Yours - for being the
renowned poet whose
book I brought along.
A D&C reporter, usually
a food writer, singled me
out from the throngs arriving
at the Rochester International
Jazz Festival, to ask, of all things,
what I was carrying in my tote bag.
Auspiciously, I pulled out your book,
Billy Collins, The Trouble With Poetry:
And Other Poems, to her delight, as well
as mine. I had been ransacking my
brain, for a time, unsure where I’d
left you– wasn’t my name there
inside the cover? My acupunc-
turists’ other clients must be
thrilled to have your poems,
instead of used magazines,
to read, while waiting to be
needled, I thought. Or did I
leave you at Muddy Waters
Coffee? Those lucky stiffs.
Eyeing my decorative tote,
the food reporter probed –
“What else did you bring?”
She was probably hoping for
avocado sushi, paired with lime-
drenched mango slices or kiwi.
I removed some Kleenex, which,
I wish I had said was for moments
when the music would move me to
tears. Then I pulled out an Acme pen,
a Moleskin journal, a copy of Email
to Cleveland, a pair of Lauren sun-
glasses, a blue hooded rain jacket.
The one item I did not reveal,
and I will share this with you,
Billy, was a fine glass of wine,
concealed in a green tea bottle.
Have you noticed how similar
in color, Australian Chardonnay
can be to Arizona Green Tea?
Here’s to you, Billy Collins,
for sharing the front page –
with me. Here’s to you,
and to Jazz, and to tea.
After a two hour wait
at the Elizabeth Wende
Breast Clinic, my name was
called, and I was directed to
a Results Room. “My name is
Naomi,” the young woman holding
my Results slip-of-paper informed me.
“Nice to meet you.” She then compliment-
ed my necklace and asked what the symbol
meant. “Clarity,” I said. “In what language?”
she asked me. “Japanese,” I replied - quickly.
“Can you confirm for me your date of birth?”
“Yes,” I said, (pausing ever-so-slightly so she
could give me a date to confirm. She did not
do that, of course). I informed her of my date
of birth, “April 16, 1948.” “You’re fine,” she
said, handing me the slip-of-paper, “We’ll
see you in one year.” Passing a woman I’d
been sitting with, I gave the “thumbs up”
sign, mouthed, “Good Luck!” as I walked
out. I inhaled the fresh air, as I left the
Clinic, saddened by the sight of giant
trees being felled, probably to make
room for an even larger parking lot.
I walked over to a new memorial:
Surrounded by freshly-planted
geraniums, covered with
mulch, stood a smooth
and perfectly round
three-foot tall rock,
embedded, with an
engraved plaque,
honoring Dr. Wende
Logun-Young’s 25
years in the breast
care business.
As I realized that rock
looked a lot like a breast,
I thought briefly, “Why not
two?” Then, swallowing the
lump in my throat, I thought
of all the one-breasted (and
breast-less) women –all of
the cancer survivors –
those female rocks,
grounded in the
earth of their forts,
subtly showing their
friends and daughters,
husbands and others -
how to get past the fear,
hurt, anger or confusion,
how to press on with their
lives and their dreams, how
to find balance, even in the
presence of great falling trees.
The day dawns easy, overcast,
neither hot nor cold, barely
a breeze -- flawlessly.
Humidity sneaks
in, like a nest of
snakes. Again
this year, clouds
appear, about to
burst, but they don’t
or won’t – You want
to shake your fist at
the sky, and shout:
Just RAIN already –
get it over with!
One lousy day off
for folks from May
‘til the Fourth of July!
Chance of showers –
Thunder storms likely –-
Should we call-off
the picnic or not?
Just RAIN already!
RAIN for the cat, who
hides in the basement at
the first shift in barometric
pressure, stays ‘til it’s over.
RAIN to motivate basil
and tomatoes, planted
today in pots of clay
on the porch. RAIN
the dust off the cars;
we can not afford to
wash them anymore.
RAIN ‘til the trees shake
loose last year’s bird nests.
RAIN ‘til the playground
turns to a mosh pit, as
mothers call the kids home.
RAIN to ruin Memorial Day
weekend, like you always do!
RAIN to knock down the tents
and lean-to’s people are using
for shelters in broken parts
of the world. RAIN to wreak
havoc on the few remaining
items they might still own.
RAIN ‘til the ominous sky is so
black, no one can tell if it’s night
or the end of the world. RAIN ‘til
the worms crawl out of the ground,
groveling for mercy. RAIN ‘til Noah
returns: Noah, who was building his
arc, as everyone laughed — Noah who
gathered pairs of geese, horses, mice,
rabbits, monkeys, elephants and gnats,
as they boarded his floating wood raft.
RAIN ‘til the ocean’s salt is diluted,
and only our tears can keep it
in balance. RAIN ‘til the darkened
wet street obliterates all shadows.
RAIN ‘til a desert meets with a forest
and exchanges ideas. RAIN ‘til the
names of the soldiers on all of the
tomb stones in all the grave yards
are completely washed clean.
