Lansdale Street

I used to be jealous of Landsdale Street
Its houses were slightly better
than Benton Street houses–
where I lived, just a few blocks away.
Lansdale had gorgeous full-grown
trees, and heat-calming shade.

And man, those bragging Maples hustled Spring,
rustled the nights of Summer along,
flashed their couture every Fall.
Then they shamelessly shed
their bright burning leaves as the wind
knocked Autumn to its knees –
And still I envied Landsdale Street –
its houses and sidewalks, those trees.

Then there was that cold rough storm –
the one that froze falling rain.
In a couple of hours every trunk, branch, and twig
was coated in a glistening ice glaze.

Lansdale Street was chosen by that storm,
long limbs tore down
like war and thunder.
With a camera hanging from my neck,
wearing a bike helmet,
and jacket, I walked alone,
to shoot a shattered glass scene.
Because of that storm, Lansdsdale Street
lost every tree it had known.

National Women's Hall of Fame, Seneca Falls, NY

When we walked towards the

outside wall, where The

Declaration of Sentiments

is engraved in stone, the

sound of water running

over the words slowed

our pace as we paused to read,

and press our hands to the words:

“We hold these truths to be self-evident,

that all Men and Women are created equal.”

Inside, we are stunningly

greeted by life-size bronze

statues of women, still

not famous enough for

writing and signing the

declaration in 1848.

It took seventy-two

more years before

women would obtain

the right to vote for a

president in their home country.

Women, tourists, who don’t even

know one another, look into each

other’s welled-up eyes,

and help us all swallow the

gagging lumps in our throats.

Mouton Reunion (Water Street Music Hall 9/8/06)

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.

Yellow Jackets

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.

The Trouble With Reading Your Poems

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.

Billy and Me

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.

The Breast Clinic

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.