Thirteen Poems for Luck

I reflect on the acronym CoVid: “co” in Latin means “partnership” (as in co-habitate, or co-invent)…. “vid” in Latin (derived from videre) means “to see.” Words are powerful! We now truly see how important we are to each other. Friend, an important thing in my life is writing poetry to share, and offering it to important people in my life, like YOU. Here’s thirteen CoVid reflections, some funny, some sad, but all proffered so you know another side of my work involves the “interiors” of our lives. Photos are by John Flandrick, my partner, with the exception of the Botticelli image (“Primavera” or “Spring”), and the whimsical answer to the “Getty Challenge” shot by my niece Bea Walter of herself and her parents.

The Crown of the Angel (upon learning that my son and his wife have CoVid 19)

What is the world telling us, showing us, hurting us to know?
divisions are clear –
yet today the sky is bluer than I have ever seen it –
ever.
the clouds are larger, looming like great billowed angels,
fluffed in their largess and huge majesty.

What is small is growing large – and larger still.
The small insists on a devious question: is what is large now small?
‘Oh, no!’ think again… ‘think of small and large,’ says the billowing angel-shaped cloud in the bluest of skies….
‘think,’ she says: ‘the largest of all particles is the space, beloved friend, between and you and I.’

World, universe, angel-shaped cloud–I am a grown woman, battling an insidious microbe.
Is that small microbe pitted against the very very very large?
‘Large large large!!!’ is what the blue sky says, ‘I am large!’

Large is the root and sprout of the smallest child that expands for countless generations.
Fear is small and worm-like; fear of the very small is that fear we cannot see, or can only feel in the cloudless night, when we forget the large.

The large is easy to see, but hard to remember: large is the sure evidence of Her, that massive cloud; she links and changs; ephemeral.
Surety is what we know in large things; surety is our intricate small connections; Yes, small! yet large enough to last through cloud-clashing storms, and thunderclouds,
and through the biting small thrusts of stinging rain in the greyest of the greyest late afternoons.

Small is where we start and where we go home again to large.

My Mother at 93: a Long Distance Funeral

(I wrote this when my mother called from New York where she lives in a nursing home and said: ‘I’m sick, but DO NOT fly here…’)

When in despair I reflect on years which soon must end
and think of young days in the sun, shouts and laughter:
soon you must depart from this troubled earth;
knowing this, I lose memories not to be made again.

I imagine, then, a quick bird on the bough, singing your voice,
and I might then smile at the wormy meal that enabled that song.
I imagine your quick eyes, so like that bird’s;
the bird’s quick heart, and light-focused ways

I know, soon, you’ll be found in the smallest of creatures-
As delicate creature you are now, and, (like all) must cease to be:
that bright song and lifting arch of music
will play throughout my Eternity.

Who so ever believes good-bye to mean an end,
has not known our bond, avian-spirited friend.

Six Years of Garage Sh*t

‘Get a handle on the garage,’ I say; ‘Oh, I’ll wrangle THAT- ‘
‘Move boxes, file papers, get those tools sat- ‘
‘set carry bags, shift flowerpots; -and, oh, contain those hats…’
(I think; how to wrangle THIS??) – what chaos I have begat!

The dog looks up as if he would rather be in green,
longing for the smells that can’t be seen.
He wonders if this task will ever come to pass–
With Lysol in hand, I quip, “you bet your little ass…”

So powerful am I, in this little garage of mine,
remembering with a smirk, a brighter, sanitary time-
When I went up to work far, far blocks ago–
And had not a care for my garage, down here, so far below.

Hell is my garage, and I wield the mighty broom–
And spiders beware; the vacuum sounds it!! – ‘Vroom!’
The dog, he cowers, wondering if the car
is safer for him; and the spider agreed – ‘Yes, by far!’

Control is my WANT: my little Hell-Kingdom waits!
Thus, heroic, I crouch upon a blue industrial pail–
And flex the joints, forthwith, to conquer my domain,
Needing, wanting, to wrangle this benign domestic plain!

The battle is on; yet, look! -from there, a mouse I see,
he glares so bold, and says to the dog and me:
‘You think you’ll win this endless, eternal fight,
Yes, Disorder; nature’s might; Human! – mere heedless fight.’

The Ninth Day of Solitude

(Written on Friday the 13)

What I wanted to do was to go back-
wiling to do so, but small and scared,
back to where the old people were just old –
and the young were close.

I have not cried over my son’s illness
My mother’s bravery
My father’s deranged and rageful loneliness.
I am frightened: losing memories,
because of a motionless heart.

Have I remembered the feel of my breath?
and the many arteries of my own life?
Now I must be still, and wait, and wait-
and feel the isolation.

Some feel for money, some for time,
some find solace in the cardboard boxes of survival.
Some enjoy this singular peace, as they find they
are in love with their close ones, yet again.

I look up and see the sky and say ‘let me in’-
What is coming is as crucial as what has been lost.

A Remedy for Bad News

Santa Barbara News Press, today, eight blank pages!
-my column not there—I thought I was canned!
Yes, when used, Behold, Canned will I be!
My thanks, for that gift, NP, ass purge-atious.

Father Psychology Sigmund invokes the anal phase:
“Vott seemz to be the madder?” he blinks-
and quips; then smiles: “Is it yust your bladder?”
‘Ve hold bach on our gift!’ he says, lost in childhood’s haze.

‘Emotional attachment to matters of the past,’ he said.
‘Aesthetic appreciation of color and form…’
‘The glee of parents when pants are not full…’
Freud has his proof! The ‘Times’ tells of hoarding TP, I read.

‘Intolerance of uncertainty, dat’s what holds uz bach’
‘und, furdermore, Och, relinquish loss of self as body!’
SF! so much there in a brown mass of waste:
friends, TP to hold back the load you won’t find on the rack.

Civilized thought: what is USEFUL now is sublimated to ART!

Yet utility trumps aesthetics today,
thus, with our Leader, we might sound the Trump,
And so, DO pretend endless TP when we fart.

CoVid Clean: Cut by Half

How many drawers are in my house?
I have cleaned out at least six.
There’s a rodent in the booze cabinet-
that mouse is in quite a fix!

Didn’t know I had second-hand hotel soaps-
-had sixteen half-bottles of hotel shampoo.
There’s a partial facial I partially used–
Embarrassed! eight half-tubes of nailglue!

Don’t need those to survive -oh, I thought I might-
pre-used accumulation weighs each drawer and bin.
Half a bar? Fear of ‘running out’ has driven this!
Hope, like old hotel soap, now appears so slim.

What is true waste?- duplication pales by half!
Discouraged, I take a walk upon this half-baked plight…
See! a sign in a neighbor’s window, in a child’s hand!
Oh, I stop in my duplicate tracks before this sight.

(my cabinets, containers, closets half-bereft: oh, well…)
Read! ‘SIMPLE,’ the sign says: ‘WE HAVE EACH OTHER.’
Now, here, I read a child’s wisdom, her clear advice:
“Pare down to two; me and you: the world’s our Mother.”

The Dog’s Bee Sting: True Nobility

The dog’s paw! Stung at sunset by a bee-
trouble walking, limping, frantic:
Oh, terrifying. He won’t let me look; he
bit John, who tried. We sat him in a salt bath….

It’s now 9 pm: a packed vet emergency room is no place for me.
What is this – survival? Whose?
The dog bites at that paw, gnaws-
Suddenly! he looks up, barks at the doorstep pizza guy!

He jumps, he leaps; he rallies to protect me.
(he is protecting ME!)
How gracious are the small beasts?
How wise are the little ones?

The ancient Greeks believed that a dog-
Cerberus- rode in that black canoe with the dead
to the gates of the afterlife. The dead were
frightened, yet the dog helped them in.

Look to the wisdom of those who know their gods.

…………………………………………………………………

AN ODE to the Dachshund

Those who don’t approve, say he’ s
a shortlegged mutant greyhound
that’s been kicked out of the wolf pack.
Not so.
The dachshund has many secrets,
But he never whines,
he just sings in his long, low voice.
Not everything turns into dog-song
though. Sometimes, on the leash,
I catch a ground-level
laugh or a giggle; then, the dachshund-brown eyes look up five feet to meet
my distant blue-castdown eyes:
“I’m fooling you, and all of you.
I’m simply a lowstrung wolf on a string.”

Rap/Hip Hop Poem about being stuck at home with your man

‘Men at home’ is the shitz,
Sistahs clean to keep their wits:
the bitches in the hood start their blitz,
because video games and stanky beers is the pits.

So woo, wocky woo, and bang bump hoo hoo
Nothin’s going to stop my bangy ole’ crew.

My Cadillac is fine, the best!
Vuitton on the seats, my dope ride-nest;
But the Club’s shut: us sistahs with big breasts
are stuck with home itunes from A Tribe Called Quest.

So woo, wocky woo, and bang bump hoo hoo
Nothin’s going to stop my bangy ole’ crew.

Those ‘the bad’ streets are the curse
Our ‘bad-do’ men at home are worse:
Instead of my Caddy, I’ll be driving his hearse.
His funeral’s a good place for my Gucci purse.

So woo, wocky woo, and bang bump hoo hoo
Nothin’s going to stop my bangy ole’ crew.

So sistahs! join brooms and disinfect
those Mens that give us no respect!
He’s on the couch playing Gran Turismo 3 A-Spec!!!
“Yo, junk in the trunk! I’ll throw yurass out, you reject!”

So woo, wocky woo, and bang bump hoo hoo
Nothin’s going to stop my bangy ole’ crew

Almost a Week of Delivery Guys

Saturday 6 pm:
“risk and reward” I say and open the turquoise front door.
John’s marijuana delivery guy says “hey.”
I take a step back: there’s my brother-in-law Hugh’s double:
Smiling broadly, wide stance, chest out, wicked glint, broad of countenance.
Would have had a ready and firm handshake and a dirty joke on a better day.

Sunday 7.30 pm:
“John always jumps in the shower after he orders a pizza”
Dog barks madly: of course it’s the pizza guy already.
Small, quick, Asian, tortoise shell glasses, delicate fine hands:
I take a step back: there’s Dr Sato, my dentist’s double.
Would have asked after my crummy flossing habits on a better day.

Monday 11 am:
“the toilet picks a good day to back up.”
Diesel truck exhaust seeps into the kitchen: John has called for help.
Garage door opens; I take a step back. There’s my brother Paul’s double:
Compact build, receding hair line, sharp of eye, low center of gravity.
Like my brother, exudes a confidence: the engineer will prevail.

Tuesday 4.30 pm
“can’t make it without a drink.”
BevMo’s free delivery offer, won’t resist: there’s the sound of a handcart
rounding the condo steps, I take a step back; Manny, my cross-dressing hairdresser’s double:
Built like a brick shithouse, feminine in manner, hefting three wine boxes.
Would have borrowed the name of my matte red lipstick on a better day.

Wednesday 2 pm
“running out of poetry books to read”
heard the library will mail books to cardholder’s homes; call the line:
I hold the phone back: I hear Bonnie, my father’s wife’s double.
Midwest accent, practical, clear, frantic, scattered and detailed.
Would have told me all her family troubles on a better day.

Thursday 10 am
“no eggs, no one has eggs in Santa Barbara”
Now, John spots Sprouts Organics guy fighting off the dog.
I take a step back, and a step back in time, too: there’s my young father’s double:
Working to start a medical practice; square headed, blonde, direct blue eyes, girly legs.
Would have suggested I should prune the front yard roses on a better day.

Friday 8 pm
“bleach is better than white wine for sterilizing surfaces”
Ralphs’ll send someone: ask for detergent, Comet, mason jars, and bleach.
Delivery gal rings bell, John answers: this gal is casing the joint! she’s coming inside.
I take a step back: there’s the well-publicized thrift store shoplifter’s double:
Meth addled, once pretty, furtive, nervous, cagey, oft arrested.
Might have stolen my Goodwill art right off the walls on a better day.

Old Make-up, or, Reviewing the Damage

One drawer in the bathroom cost me a grand,
filled with used cosmetics, and cream for the hands.
Eyeshadows in purple, orange, mustard, babyblue:
If your face was my age, you’d have paid for “beauty,” too.

Mascara of navy, bright green, black kohl!
eyeliners liquid, cake, all “tearproof,” I’m told.
False eyelashes (stripper size) (drag-size) “tearproof” as well
(I’m crying right now, shifting through this Revlon hell.)

60 years old (with make-up)! is a fine place to be:
$1,000 worth of portions do not make a ‘younger’ me!
Since Time, as age, weighs heavy in quarantine
I could paint my face as a 20-year-old Valentine….

But- discard these I must- yet I spent thousands to collect
such a panoply of potions that do not resurrect.
Yes! Try this one on! neglected for years—-
Done. Ah. not all that glitters is youthful, as it appears.

An exercise in simplicity, I need not shop for blush,
I have 35 pinks -and a used fiber brush.
Selecting a face out of what I have gathered,
what appears in the mirror? If time is age, well, it’s battered!

What is CoVid Time teaching, which forces this insanity?
To shove my old face in a drawerful of vanity?
Time, to myself, to sort through an Eternity-
The vain frivolity! Costly “beauty” in the face of gentle tragedy.

Threadbare

Domestic modernity in the sound of the washing machine,
working overtime in these days of cleanliness.
Backed-up loads, between John and I—so, I hang those towels on the back fence.

The Age of Progress, The New York World’s Fair, 1965, Flushing Meadow-Corona Park, the One to Remember.
I was there with Oma and Opa.
I saw The Pavilion of Progress: Look! in the corner of a pink and black tiled display kitchen, a queenly white enamel washing machine.
What a treasure: the ease of life to look forward to!

Today my towels hang on the back fence, in these times of wrenching and fraying life, fraying at the edges, life is fraying…
Oh, but see, in the sun! – these little innocent scratchy metaphors: rough-dried, hard as planks of board, wonderfully abrasive, stiff to fold:
Smelling of the air, the sun, the dirt— best if old…

Old? Old! — Opa in his bathroom; smell: Sardo! and naturally air-dried, grater-thin towels, force-folded by Oma: he liked a rough towel after 7 am.
Fine hotel-grade, never! -thread-bare: he liked those best: ‘Feel that on the back!’

When I packed up my grandfather’s house, I kept his skinny, sandpaper bathtowels and matching washrags:
all strangers to the dryer, yet lovers of back fences.

Home Project

We are the people who make.
We are the makers, peering at maps of interior worlds,
adjusting routes amidst common scenery, straightening mirrors,
Looking at our sweat-pant reflections—and seeing creators—or

project managers, artists, poets, comedians, a chef;
supreme power in the alignment of a spice rack,
or linen closet, tackling a delayed woodworking task,
then, clock-watching, we become mixologists at welcomed dusk.

We are the searchers for the daylight ‘must do’s,’
conquerors of mundane, domestic, the wallpaper of home–
on an enforced escape from working for the paycheck,
pleasing ourselves at home, a small vestry over time and space.

Unaware, an image! – of Me, or You. See, there, in stark relief
against, for example, the fabrics of the living room,
or shadowed in noonlight; there’s Me, by unread books in shelves.
We ghost ourselves: our forms are outlined in the noxious colors of the flatscreen.

We are the ungentle commanders of our long days,
Scrapping with loved ones who are now too familiar.
Revisiting the garden with rake, where we remember the birds.
“See them build a nest!” we say, now (nicely), to our partner.
“they are making nests; oh… Making Home, from which they can fly away.”

It’s a Jungle Out There: a Parable of Doorstep Delivery

We are the Animals that live in the Amazon jungle
defending our turf like jungle Brown Throated Sloths,
fearing to touch that package lest we bungle
that 60proof disinfection on worn-out dishcloths.

Swimming through waves of mailorder deliveree,
now don the mask! leaving the protective bubble;
then, dive for cover like the Amazonian Manatee-
Caution! Must exit front porch on the double!

We are furtive Amazonians, not brave like Henry Fonda
‘What’s ON that package?’ No, a gun we’re not aimin’
unlike bold Henry, unlike Viperking Anaconda,
and way less brave than the Amazon Black Caiman.

To dine in fine feathers again! like the fine River Hoatzin!
-the bird’s crest of orange, peerless plumage of flash!
Gawd, the Amazon Truck’s delivered 10 pounds of margarine–
Amazon is clear out of butter! -and we’re out of cash.

Lest we become penniless scared little Amazonian Creels
we enliven at night, dreaming of a safe Wisconsin.
Sleeping in the doorbell-less darkness, like sleek Amazonian Eels
without packaging; Clean! Oh to be a free Amazon River Dolphin!