Poems

This spring
I feel in time,
not dragging myself
reluctantly
to keep up
with the weather
the warmth
the increased
mobility.

This spring

was a long spring ―
warm enough
early
to go out
for some sun,
cool enough
lately
for the woodstove
tv
and cooked food.

This spring
has been long ―
giving me enough time
to live on my terms
to do
     relax
     feel good
     move in time
again,
my speed
just right
with nature.

(The turtles are usually late
coming out
like me.)

This spring
there's time enough
to purchase flowers
(for the gardens)
to plant new seeds
(broccoli, yipee!)
move poinsettias
(”too early, too early”
the garden lady cries) ―
time enough
without being late
          dragging
          out of step
          with nature
and the world.

Why?

My sister came to visit
Martha
“Drove 4 days
to get here,”
I told everyone,
so they'd get the idea
how far.
She shook me
out of winter
she encouraged me
into spring
she gardened
what I couldn't
she fixed
what I hadn't.

Thanks, Martha,
and Happy Birthday!

4/19/05

Cradled in the tree limbs

of my life

birds in the distance,

I go deeper

deeper

down the basement stairs

till a safe step

where I wait

patiently

for him to wake.

Does he put in the coal?

My man in the basement?

A test in Patience
I take this morning.
I always was
a good test taker.
My meanness and hysteria
replaced
with balance
          in food
          rest
          pills
I took my last Poison Pill
last night.

Pharmaceutical, legal
drugs
cause lethargy
          diarrhea
          dullness of mind
          fatigue
          anger
          frustration
          out of control crying
they throw you out of kilter
see saw Margery Daw
Bang she jumps off
really quick
my hymen breaks
along the way.

We learn meanness
from the hurt we've felt
it erupts from both of us
like a volcano
or a lava lamp.

Overload on toxins
increases cancer
now I'm through
with the doctor recommended
POISONOUS DRUGS
after skipping two
accidentally
(well, once accidentally)
last week.

Now I'm through
with the meanness
the anger
the tears
I must try and make
amends
I must try and stay
balanced
I must try and feel
good.

July 12, 2004

(upon finishing a course of antibiotics

for Lyme Disease)

At fifty I was still
barging through life.
I can see clearly now
I wrote back then.
I had perspective
finally
but I didn't know the lengths
they'd go
          to stop me
          to slow me down
          to make me
          not whole.

Preying on my fear
that cancer might kill me
they cut me
deep.

Since then I've struggled
to regain my balance,
I've tried to find
my authentic self.
I often touch
the healing stream,
I try to speak
the truth.

They didn't tell me
          about vegetables,
they didn't tell me
          about water,
they didn't tell me
          about fruit and beans,
they didn't tell me
          about milk, meat, eggs,
          and sugar
(well, I knew about sugar).

They tried to sell me
chemo
“You've got to be kidding”
I responded.
Mustard Gas?!!!
Not me
thank you
killing my husband
was enough.

There he lay
weak but alive
if only I'd known then
we might have celebrated
our 45th together
just yesterday.
Instead he died
poisoned with mustard gas
(only then they called it
“cytoxin”).

About face
from suburban housewife
mother of four
to friend, lover, free spirit,
I fell in love
with a Deadhead.
Later
they knocked me down.
Too free
too vocal
too verbal
too dangerous
just like my old friend
John.

Now I'm good.
Mostly upright
mostly vegetarian
mostly content.

My winged love
fled.
Too old
too fat
too damaged
he found me,
too cantankerous
too depressing
too handicapped.

So now
I stand alone,
friends and family
gathered round,
to turn 65,
almost old.

March 31 2004

One wood guy had old rotted wood
that was filled with iced
rain
and the melted goo
left dirt tracks
and little piles of yuck
all over my floor.

Another wood guy
had wet red oak
that until it dried out
spread a smell of winter
throughout my house.

One wood guy
was unreliable
a heroin addict
I'm told,
another less than forthright
almost dishonest
of Italian descent
not the Mafia.

The perfect wood guy
had two little children
and needed the money
I gave him
for stacking.
He cleared out his land
split the wood
and sold it all.
There's no wood guy
like the perfect wood guy
with no wood.

My first wood guy
many years ago
had four of his six children —
one a real little guy —
help him unload
his truck
and the little guy
left me a note once
scratched in the wood
plaintively
HELP.

I came real close
to calling the cops.

Maybe
the father beat him
molested him
was mean to him
HELP
he called out to me
silently
like my son
so long ago.

February 12, 2004

I'd rather die with dignity
by my own hand
on a preset date
than take a chance
on Alzheimer's
or more cancer.
The special TV documentaries
and the support groups
make it look like
we don't have a choice
but we do.

Intentional dying
I call it.

Arnie's rigid beliefs
about suicide
preclude his understanding.
Richard doesn't hear
or doesn't want
to understand.

Brice knows
but we're estranged.
I keep trying
to draw him in,
he wants me to replay
his mother's death.

Lucyanne tonight
explored her own
possible death
before mine
not the process
of dying
as always before.

The bathtub's too naked
too cold.

The bed is better.

Practice
breathing,
slow
it
down.

December 1, 2003

Stewart's

It ended in front of a
Stewart's Drive-In.
In an uncharacteristic way
a new way
a man way
he took me by the shoulder —
"Listen, I have something
I want to say to you."

I'd suspected a new woman
for a while.
There's nothing like a new woman
to rev up a man's libido.
Plus he'd had the whole summer
alone,
like the summer I was in
California.
He went out
looking for girls —
mostly living in fantasy
regenerating himself
for his next big change.

He thought I might not
come back
then,
now he thinks
I might die.

I'm thinking
he could leave his work
leave his sister
come live with me,
giving us a last chance
with him grown up
and me grown up.

"I just wanted
to thank you," he began —
and yes,
it sounded like a final
kiss off —
"for helping me become
a better person."

I reflected.

He hugged me,
spontaneously,
uncharacteristically,
lovingly.

"You've helped me to be
a better person, too,"
I whispered in his ear,
and hugged him back.

We parted.

The struggle was over,
our better persons
took charge.

September 1, 2003

Bathtub Thought

I was musing
in the bathtub
warmth
permeating my body —
what a nice way to die.

Oh, no,
when they found me
lifeless and cold
what would they do?
who do?

Cover me up?
Drain the water out?
Call 911?
First aid squads
know
what to do
with naked dead bodies.

June 2, 2003

I don't want to die
like Mr. Zemanik
living with some neighbor
down the road.

I don't want to die
like the old lady
walking down Main Street
or the crippled senior
at the diner.

I don't want to die
with my children
resenting me,
debating who is not willing
to give up their life
to look after me.

Long ago I knew
I didn't want to die
in a hospital
hooked up like my husband
out of control
lost.

Even worse
to spend my last days
near vegetable,
draining resources
from taxpayers.

I want to get hit
by a train
or take some pills
and lie down,
have a heart attack
untreated,
will myself
to my demise.

But before the end
— of my choice —
I plan a party,
Celebration of Life
with "Funeral for a Friend"
on the tape deck
and gifts for all the guests.

50's lamp for Karen
fish glasses for Brian
Arnie gets three pictures
and David, my car,
for Eion, my tasting spoons
and Shiva, the roses. . . .

Invitations?
Written, no doubt.
Sent to all
I haven't lost.

A last good-by
dot com perhaps
in the mail for some
in person
to most.

I don't want to die
the regular way
I want to die
my way
like I've tried to live.

May 17, 2003

August

How do you feel
they ask me
as I near my 6th anniversary
cancer free.
Do you feel all right?

Today
I feel like my pond in summer
sluggish
with algae —
too close to the septic,
polluted air,
hot.
We're both thick
and still
with turtles buried beneath
in the muck.

Today
I feel like my purple flower garden
once alive
with pansies
petunias (for Mother)
and heliotrope —
vivid
fragrant —
now yellow
struggling
to survive.

Today
I feel like the great blue heron
standing alone
with a few duck friends
fishing in the lull
before the storm.
Plenty of froglets
and organic vegetables,
enough to weather
the upcoming storm.

Or will the storm
pass us by?

August 5, 2002

Meditation

Down I go...

Down through the thoughts...
the faraway train
the whistling bird
Down to the tick tock of the clock...

Down to the ringing in my ears...
the synapses
in my brain...

Down where my body
below the neck
is in an iron lung...
paralyzed...
and my breath keeps going
           in and out and in and out
effortlessly...
           sure
           strong
           slow
           deep....

July 2002

Like a Jewish mother
my tummy says
"You eat too much"
a reality I keep
creating
to match the words
I hear
the feelings I have
Nth-generation German.

Perhaps I'd rather be
in China
eating vegetables,
revered
for my sage advice.

Maybe
I could change the words
from my tummy
to,
thank you for providing
my food.
Tim planted it
I picked and cooked it
the life energy
comes from God.

My German side should say
could say
at precisely 80% full
"you're full"
even though my tummy says
like an Italian mother
"Eat more, eat more."

When I'm full
I'm reminded
of being pregnant —
good, and full,
productive
valued.

Perhaps
like an Indian Buddha
with tummy so round
I can quiet the voices
from all the mothers
and even quiet
my own.

August 2001

Retreat

I have to be dragged
kicking
into spring,
then I hop skip
into summer
when I can again retreat
into the cool quiet solitude
of my room upstairs,
like Angie Dickinson — no —
Emily Dickinson.

I crank poems out
not leaving out nine tenths
anymore.
More connection
with my source.

March 18, 2001

The Writers' Group

I almost catch poems
but before I can
flyers and press releases
recipes and cover letters
all crowd in.

I meditate
I yoga,
I limit my fat
              and sugar.
I remember my vitamins
with each of my meals.
I take my herbs
six times a day —
               some with water
on an empty stomach,
               some with food
but not much water.
Between meals I drink
glass after glass.
I bathe and breathe
Consciously.
I walk and stand
              holding my tummy in,
and somehow the poems
get lost.

January 15, 2001

Virginia

I'm the one with Alzheimer's
in my family;
he's the one who forgets
where the trip cupboard is
until I tell him a second time.
Then he remembers
and recalls
long after I've changed the location
the contents —
     Rand McNally car atlas
     picnic cups & plates
     AAA tour books
     with names of motels.

Suddenly
this spring
I no longer feel
like cramming a lifetime
into the last year
of my life.

I want to slow down
even more.
I don't want to miss
a moment.

I want to languish
in the morning sun,
I want to warm my toes
with yours.

Making room for love
slows you down.

Let's just get in the car
loaded our way
headed towards Buckingham
and the new Mecca —
the Light of Truth
Universal Shrine.

It's been a long time
since we hugged a building.

Let's pretend we're pilgrims
of long ago
journeying to a far land
with only a map
and our camels
loaded with provisions.

Want to?

This year
I want to write,
with a few imaginary trips
here and there
I want to walk
in the sun
Next year
I want to be more fit.

I'm no longer preparing
for the end
I'm participating
in the now
with a few imaginary trips
here and there.

June 19, 1999

Healing

You know the answers
my shrink said,
but some days
I can't hear my voice.

Early mornings is easy
lying in bed
the sun streaming in
on my third eye.

Late mornings
I remember yoga.
I hear Jim's words
teaching me,
I feel his hand
guiding me,
I feel his lips
on my lips.

Afternoons
resting
I touch my tummy
full of vegetables
and pills.
I do effleurage.

On nice days
I walk outside —
around the building
around the complex
around again.

Nights
after reading
I think of God
and space ships.

June 5, 1997