CONTROLLING (Haiku)
Women still get stoned
Cruel way to inflict your rules
Men hate, hurt and harm
FIX IT (Haiku)
History so sad
We need a better future
World depends on it
CHAOS IN AMERICA (Haiku)
Foreign drama shows
Take me to another world
No stress while watching
So Disappointed (Haiku)
The world turned inward
What do people want from me
Will they just go now
When We Could Laugh (Haiku)
The world was giggly
remembering a past time
when all was luscious
Instruments of Life (Haiku)
The world loves music
A major inspiration
Humans sing along
Rivers and Stones
When you feel the weight of your task
And despair that you are no closer to its completion
Than when you began
Think of the coursing river
Flowing day after day
Month after month
Year after year
For millennia
And in it’s time
Grinding the mightiest stones
Into the finest grains of sand
As the waters run inexorably to the sea
(haiku)
Hope after setback
Like stones in flowing waters
Worn yet enduring
Ebb and Flow
The tides
Ebb and flow
Washing away beaches
To expose mighty mountains
Thus worn by the waves
To stones, thence sand
The great, become little things
Whilst the tides
Ebb and flow
Appeasement
Stone
leaving
zero
ripples
came to
party
already
drowned.
Maybe
go down,
ask how
it feels?
No one
ever has.
An Artist Studying from Nature by Claude Lorrain
The artist just wants
to study nature alone
Men obstruct his view
They build castles looking down
on the men having to work
day in and day out
for the elite behind the stone walls
and they build some more
all in the name of progress
My Daughter Conquers the Rock Wall at Gymnastics
Evelyn climbs up
Thinks she can’t get to the top
Smiles touching ceiling
When Death and Birth Overlap
On the third day
Jesus rolled the stone away
After being consumed by flames
the Phoenix is reborn
Zombies’ human minds die
as their bodies continue on
relentlessly seeking brains
Death and rebirth take on many forms
in lived experience and myth alike
and it is not always for the better
The river café is closing now, drink up
Before this café table disappears
into four a.m. silence
of Sunday morning,
let me run my fingers
over its scars
like a duck ripples over a river at night
before we push back our chairs
to cross the bridge
into daylight, let me not think
about reeds whispering together
after someone chucks a stone into their midst
how can we know for sure no one
is stranded tonight?
no one calls
rescue me, lighthouse,
I’m here, waiting on a pile of rocks.
How briefly you were here, how long you have been gone
He was always out dancing, said his mother, my grandmother,
of her oldest boy Charles, who loved jazz,
loved to dance, loved to flirt,
work on his model-T,
but hated school
and left at sixteen
Charles, who will receive
a new stone from me
with room enough to carve
He Was Always Out Dancing
after his name and dates
of his short life,
1906-1922.
stone world
we can almost imagine it, right?
people like you and me
except before metal and electricity
people who use stone to shape stone
into weapons, tools, and ornaments
surely they covered their nakedness
probably they cured leather
and so had strings to tie a bauble
around a neck, ankle, or wrist
I saw a drawing once, a squatting man
beside a fire, eyes dull
I suspect not, I think they were
as sharp as any of us
they would, you know
figure out how to mine ore
smelt it, and shape it into wonders
stone knack
I knew a man who had the knack
of tossing a comment into a discussion
a comment that sank like a stone in water
halting the discussion before it resumed
and carried on as without interruption
fire dreams
when I was younger and sometimes sat beside a fire
gazing into the blazes as they danced
seeing sometimes Troy, Jerusalem, or even Paris
or sometimes heroines like Joan of Arc
or sometimes, I admit, only the bacon sizzling
but the times I lked best were when the blazes
seemed to show me beginnings of a story
a girl approaching a dragon
a young man readying to ride his first Harley
a couple entangling fingers in surprise
some of those times, I'd swear the stones around the fire
crackled like the wood dying to give fire
crackled as if offering dreams of their own
When I was a young film buff
going to revival cinemas,
I was struck by how
his appearances in "Limelight"
and "Sunset Boulevard"
affected the audiences--
first, a collective gasp,
followed by a burst of applause
And I thought of the great
marble & granite constructions
of antiquity:
how at their completion
they inspired awe
but only through erosion
did they achieve
grandeur
I pass the stranger
on the street.
He wears a gray coat,
the color of the sky.
The light is gone,
exiled for the day.
The world is changing.
The stranger speaks
in a foreign tongue.
His sickness not
long for asylum.
I listen to the stone dreamer,
who straddles the sun
and brushes off the sunlight.
I listen to his wise words as
he runs out of time.
He has no time for regrets.
I listen in as his voice faints.
His soft voice is as
compassionate as it is brief.
I listen to him because he
is a truth teller.
He does not feel so great.
Still, he rarely complains
even when it starts
to rain and he’s without boots.
It takes little to die.
The stones whisper
To the plants who
Keep them company.
Mischievously,
The stones spend hour
After hour talking
About death to
The plants, who feel
Suicidal as a
Result. They begin
To wilt and bend.
The stones continue
To make the beautiful
Plants sad with their
Talk about death.
It is out of pure boredom
Which makes the stones
Speak about death to
The plants and also
Out of jealousy
For their soft and
Gentle features.
Sitting on Stones with Boys
There's something about stones
that raise you above the dirt
set you climbing like bougainvillea
when you're seen with a boy
There's something cold about stones
that needs to be warmed by body heat
With the right boy, it softens like a necking couch
your heart shimmering in opalescence
Stone
Kill two birds with one stone
the saying goes
but why stone a bird
in the first place
why skin a cat
or shatter a window
or ripple a pond
why not paint the rock
place it under a tree
for the downtrodden
use it as a paperweight
a heart that needs to be
softened by love
A Stone-Cold World
You propose a world
made of stone
teeth biting into grit
instead of bread
no table, no chair
for everyone
but stones to trip
those who are prone
to stumble and fall
stones thrown against
those who don't fit
your demographics
knives in your mouth
used to kill
not to share
the American dream
Road of Sand on Likoma Island
At first the road which was nothing more
than a narrow dirt path seemed unbearably
long as I shouldered my knapsack
upon my young American-made back.
Jagged stones flew up from my feet
toes bare and exposed in sandals
landed in the hot dry sand that covered
all the land on that remote African island.
We walked, my husband of less than a year
and I, next to each other—but never holding
hands; ninety-five degree heat made us
sweat like long-distance runners—even our
fingers were too slippery and wet.
At first our destination seemed plausible
but what did we know about how that
dirt road from the steamship-landing to our
Peace Corps house was our only way out
with its winding turns and rocky habitat.
What did we know about how
that five-mile hike each way twice weekly
to get letters from home would encumber us?
Five miles of sand. Five miles of brown grass.
Five miles of silence as we sat under a baobab.
What did we know about how on some roads
love can bloom and on other roads cannot?
Back in 1969 while our friends protested
war in Viet Nam, we celebrated our first
and second anniversary— hiking that long
trail of sand little realizing at the time
Love needs something green to thrive, to stay alive.
Deep Winter
To create the perfect picture
of your memory of deep winter
you paint a frozen river next to thin
brown trunks of trees that spin
their bare branches into spider webs
silhouetted against a grey sky bed
to open the door and step outside
into the pristine snow which you deny
is deep as sorrow waiting to subside
to hear your door latch tight behind
to plod along the winding stream
to tramp through mounds of silent screams
to drag a fallen branch and obscure
your footprints, your goal to reassure
that this place, so cold, so barren and still
like the river of your childhood—the hills
where cousins played, skipped stones
skimming deep into your skin, your bones
to imprint shallow footprints,
impossible to follow, to leave no hints
to bury all inside your memory
a cold, still life your heart’s treasury.
The World Demands Daring, so
Thank You, Emily Dickinson
In the early morning darkness
my sixteenth summer
I heard voices
in a church camp
open air cathedral
a poem
I read in school
hope, a bird
perched in my soul
preparing to soar
fueled fear
Flying demands daring
As a child
I stared out windows
birds sailed high
above the desolation
She in a room
at her square desk
in Amherst
grasping her pen
isolated and staring
at the tombs
must have felt
her self emerging
from the broken shell
her arms, feathers
her nose, a beak
a Phoenix rising above
the burning world
her words had heat
her voice released
the egg shattered
words soaring
gliding
beyond the stones
The voices I heard
that summer
were hers
and my own
ready to bear witness
to see the world aflame
and still to rhyme
Filled Me with Glee
Shoulda been ‘handling my business’ after work
but required a few minutes down time to destress.
Then got caught up in some peppy
uptempo tunes by The Cars and the Rolling Stones
courtesy of an internet playlist
on a web site I’d rather not mention
since they keep putting me on time out
for having an ad blocker
so I shall avoid giving them free advertising in a poem
that I’m certain will reach a handful if not a dozen people,
and I’m trying to stay Mellow Fellow and not revert to
Grouch on the Couch, so ….
I reached for stack of paper representing my personal business –
but jerked my hand back as though I’d gotten
a little bit too close to the blue and yellow flame
on a gas stove burner.
Nope – why ruin the mood I’m in?
Better to use this opportunity to write a happy poem –
which the world needs more of, and lately
I hadn’t been providing.
This thought filled me with glee, which naturally,
lead me to the pantry for peanut butter and crackers
then to utensil drawer to select a knife
then to desk for notebook and pen, then to couch
where all these items were spread around on a blanket
intended to keep crumbs off the couch.
“A feast fit for a poet!” I thought to myself while
opening the wrapper.
With peanut butter clinging to roof of mouth and
package of crackers half-empty,
I noticed notebook was still unopened and pen remained capped.
Perhaps the lines in the notebook
are not so much filled with glee.
Even so, the heart and the stomach of the poet ARE.
STONED
The highest form of spacing out
Level three: buzzed, high, stoned
I forgot what was I laughing about?
Oh, yeah, if a male horse still has his balls, they say he’s stoned
But, not funny, they stoned this sexy chick in the Bible
Boned and stoned
But not the dude?
Heart of stone
Stone cold
Tombstone, headstone, carved in stone
Stone’s throw, stonewall, no stone left unturned
Stonehenge
A major lunar standstill every 18.6 years
Look here, when you get this old
It’s okay to stay all day
Just a little stoned
Zen Poem for The Moon
The moon rising from the water is not wet.
Yet, it resembles those ancient stones—
wet sentinels, their surfaces kissed by waves,
cracks etching stories into deafened silence.
On the horizon, it looms massive, behind invisible
beaches unyielding to erosion, quite vulnerable to
fissures; not just rock and dust; a dance of motion,
perpetually having the same sense, seemingly
autonomous, akin to the conscience; gravity and
hydrogen. The moon can change its color. Imagine
a stone painted with moss in a forest or painted
with corals beneath the water’s surface in the rays of
the same sun—it breathes! But our moon?
No gardens bloom there; no bees hover.
Life's pulse—oxygen’s sweet dance—is absent.
Beneath that cool face of hydrogen lies potential:
a fire draped in absence. Conversely, the moon we
see is a shape of light that flickers between phases—
from the new to the waning crescent: the play of lights
on its face; hiding and revealing the sunny embrace.
Who holds the keys to the secrets of the celestial bodies?
The dreamers? The lovers? Some tales of the lonely ascetics:
the suffering while not knowing the truths — a cosmic God
making the Earth a place to live — a grand prison locked tight.
Glimmers on the retina ignite words to dance upon the tongue.
Here we breathe among stony ruins; lingering questions fade:
Does life vanish or merely shift to other realms in missing
oxygen? Life means energy and Antoine Lavoisier knew well,
‘everything is transformed.’ This dance may continue outside
our view — each breath needed for a heartbeat against time.
Poem for Mrs. Stone
Once more, she donned the guise of Juliet.
In her mind, life unfurls as an endless thread of
fabricated occurrences, a mask of mortality for
the fading, a void where one retreats to ponder.
Courage to love has always eluded her, and now,
it may be too late. Is happiness truly a prerequisite
for existence? Her husband, once a pillar in turbulent
times, begins to wane. Perhaps a lengthy escape
could rekindle the spark. No, her quest is not for
happiness but for goodness; a tapestry of harsh
lessons and long stares; the pursuit of flawlessness.
She holds the belief that striving for joy is noble,
even if she lacks the bravery to pursue it. She fears
losing her essence; raw and flawed, liberated from
the shackles of convention. Maybe what she craves
is a love untainted. He yearns to assist her, though
he often falters, and perhaps no one in his position
could have triumphed. In the twilight, she feels a sense
of well-being, adorned in elegance and shimmer,
enveloped by sweet words that dance through glasses
brimming with intoxicating elixirs, dissipating into
the atmosphere, an atmosphere drenched in feminine
fragrances and whispers of cocoa. She radiates beauty,
her inner void concealed. Her husband morphs into
a relic of a solitary psyche amidst ashes and tolling bells.
Clad in opulent attire, she embodies the persona she
has been meticulously crafted over the years. Her anguished
cry splinters between her teeth, swallowed alongside
a sleeping pill, accompanied by an abundance of water.
For her, life resembles a parched riverbed littered with
obnoxious stones. She aspires to transcend her identity
as a woman, yearning for an unattainable love that promises
radical transformation or a surrender to death's embrace.
Under a palm tree
I examine my seersucker soul
and try to figure
how it fits
in a hand-me-down world
My mind tries to peel off
the real people from
the dolls’ heads
They all seem so much
more pristine than me
more pristine than you
more pristine than they really are
Sometimes it feels like I live
in a jungle full of inebriated scavengers.
With my sad heart in my hand
I continue to venture into
a high-octane world
while my secret soul stands
like a leper hoping to heal in the sun
Chiseled in stone
on cement blocks
above the graves
are names and dates
that tell the timespan
of those below
but not the details
that made them who they were.
Even an epitaph
is only a taste
of the fruit of that life.
When generations pass
they will not know the stories,
the failures and the glories
but they’ll know those dates,
for sure,
chiseled in stone.
Quiet mice stepped on the world.
The world stepped on my transient hopes.
Transient hopes stepped on my brother's fears.
My brother’s fears stepped on your beauty.
Your beauty stepped on yesterday’s rain.
which had been slapped silly
by the mice and my hopes,
while my brother and his fears
cherished your wet beauty,
which wandered the world
in search of your mind.
I Want A Writer's Block
A real writer's block. After I'm finished writing
I could run and skip down cobble stones
with all the other writers on the block.
Compare notes, exaggerate and have fun.
Another good one would be a crystal block
where those great master works are contained.
My classic stone. Stick it in a pocket and
read it with my thumb. Why strain my vision?
How about this? A big block of ice cream
oozing pass throat filled with inspiration.
Or a chocolate block of creamy images.
I want a writer's block. Any or all of the above.
The Megalithic Circle Speaks To My Bones
Ancestral genes breach the volcanic stones,
Grab my feet,
Enter my veins in solidarity.
Though generations have passed
Between me and famine immigration,
Intermarried family farming the New Country,
I am a wandering mut still,
Visitor from home, groping for belonging,
Afloat in place anxiety,
The West Coast tethering my goat.
In Ireland, I hear my harvest-centered community
Laugh through the Passage Tombs.
They grind grain, weave wool, chisel
With bone, hone harmony and strength
To lift twelve-ton rocks, honor their dead
As much as their own lives and walk
Shared steps as co-creation stories.
In turn, they are remembered and felt
After death reaching for the feet
Of great-grandchildren
In the setting Solstice light.
My Body Is In Ireland Today
among the bard stories of myth and reason,
the whistle and bodhrán of traditional music,
rolling emerald hills, stone-fenced,
black-faced sheep in every quarter,
the smell of damp heather in castle dew,
mystical healing wells of prayer and promise.
I lean into island softness, rooted connection,
Cliffs of Moher basalt and sea-pinks underfoot,
midge bites at sunset over the Killarney,
colossal cascade into Lough Inchiquin
past Uragh standing stone and passage tomb,
where spirit strength not my own
casts away sturdy walking poles.
I wind the narrow road treasure of Black Valley,
warm my bones with stew at the Gap of Dunloe,
then roam Muckross Abbey where
I further rut the stone-floored corridors
to quench the monk of my womb,
circle the yew that consumes the cloister,
inspires sacred steps for the eternal.
I explore the tip of wild Celtic as it waves
toward young struggling America, Beara Way
feathering sandstone into the Atlantic,
where I ask for your embrace to stay
the Irish romance greening inside me.
Make me your passionate lover once again,
take me back to my heather land.
Gros Ventre, Wyoming
pronounced ‘Gro Vaunt’ meaning, ‘big belly’
Does the river rush past
or see me
with her glacial silt?
I don’t want to leave
this torrent.
I dive in, fill
my cells with muddy
snowmelt, flow.
Breathe into
ancient amphibian lungs,
drop finally to her
round-stone river bed,
become Gros Ventre.
Awaken with my back
to sunned cottonwood.
‘May I sit on your skirt?’
‘Yes, I’m strong,
embedded in rocky
water-packed earth.’
Her roots mold my fleshy legs.
Loam and grass
cushion rest.
Aged sage scent
wraps around
and down
woven rough bark,
and I, a part.
One tear salts
sacred pause.
I’m home,
washed,
Gros Ventre.
Stones
We are stones but we’re not mute
We sit in brooks and give them music,
Their soft ripple of poetry.
It’s all in how you handle us
Rub us gently together and we warm your touch
Click us together and we sing.
I am so light I can skip on placid lakes
Making the waters dance and exclaim
‘til they love me so much
they suck me into their sweet, dark, liquid depths.
Smooth am I to soothe your spirit when you rub me between your thumb and fingers,
Rough in places to remind you I have character;
Life’s a beach of white sands made from millions of my brothers ground under the pound-
ing waves-
Not so intractable, not so immutable.
We gave your forefathers flint,
Sparked your march from troglodyte to acolyte.
Press me to your ear. I’ll tell you stories.
Crack me open; read my history.
It predates yours.
I am not of this world
Yet, in you is some of me.
Just Before a Rain, atop the Limestone
On a day much like this one,
my wife and young son and I
were exploring Greece
a man a few years older than I called up to the top of a hill
below him on the far side was a dig
marked off in grid, bailing string
pits
I looked at the arrangement
how things were covered
against prying eyes
the stones, large in number
varied in size,
all spoke in whispered tones
where the man could not hear
the life, later sadness for the loss
of what they called
the village
of Axos.
Roses For Gaza
Gaza is a garden full of roses.
Stone roses.
Rock roses.
No petals to crush and bruise
to release their fragrance.
Only dust.
Dust and the stench
of death.
No green space left.
No sweet tranquility,
peace or quiet.
No escape
in this world
of politicians
unable
to cast the first stone
in this world
of double standards
in this world
of politicians
with hearts of stone
in this world
where humanity
is reduced
to rubble and rock roses.
A World Of Stones
They told me a stone would never float.
I didn’t believe them
so I threw it carefully on to the water.
It stayed there
on the surface,
a miracle!
So I threw another carefully to land on top
and then another
and another.
Now a stack of stones was floating
on the water.
They told me a stone would never hang in the air.
I didn’t believe them
so I threw it carefully upwards.
It stayed there
in the air,
a miracle!
So I threw another to land underneath
and then another
and another.
Now a stack of stones was hanging
in the air
casting its shadow on the water.
Believe in the miracles you can make.
Don’t believe what they tell you.
Make the impossible possible
in a world of stones.
Stoned
A lesser man would be turned to stone
by such a look,
disparaging
dismissive,
certainly worthy of a Gorgon,
but I survived it
with my family,
though I still look uneasily
at the ubiquitous stone statues
of all those people once alive
who now adorn the streets
and crowd the museums
in so many places in the world.
Was it the skill of the unknown carvers,
or was it just a look that did the trick?
I wonder how long my protection will last,
I’ll never know for sure.
Smiling across the ravine,
snow-cloaked footbridge.
Prickly ropes slick with ice,
snow-clad boards, pepper sprinkled
with raccoon tracks, virgin markers,
a fresh first trail.
Across and safe,
I toss yellow breadcrumbs
onto white snow for starving birds.
Stone Soup
A broth of flowers
simmering in a stone cauldron,
the forest behind
and around this cauldron.
The day fades into night
as the cauldron glows red.
There are birds in the trees
singing sweet songs.
The stars are pink
in the red smoke.
The cauldron has substance.
It is not ethereal,
as even the smoke gives light.
As a baby bird sings,
swoops and takes flight.
Sin of Silence
The night Donald Trump became the President,
I walked to an Ethiopian pizza parlor in San Diego.
Streetlights made the road appear as if it rained.
The traffic signal turned red as I reached the parlor door,
giving the crimson-brick building an angry look.
Inside, I sat by a large window. As I waited,
I studied the restaurant's Roman-style arches
and a mural of an African sunset.
Above it, a television broadcasted the news.
While I ate, I glanced at two elderly ladies
wearing traditional Ethiopian dresses.
They cried as the newswoman gloated over Trump winning.
I considered consoling them, but my mind centered
around the inadequate language of funerals:
I can’t know how you feel, but I hope
it helps to know someone cares.
Therefore, I committed the sin of silence, and when they left,
their sadness was unforgettable.
It followed me everywhere ― to ballgames ― picnics― the beach.
It traveled with me to the Aran islands off the West Coast of Ireland.
It rained on the morning when I arrived,
and the foggy white-capped sea added
to my melancholy. I felt it as I rode the ferry from the Main Island
to Inishmore, where I hired a guide driving a horse-drawn cart
A retired merchant marine, he drove his buggy around the island.
He stopped at the rusted hull of a ship grounded on the rocks.
“In ‘42, the Nazis ran it ashore,” he said, knocking his pipe
against the dashboard of the cart. Up the hill and to the left,
he stopped by a church, he said, “The British blew it to bits.
Cromwell thought he could enslave us, but we got the last laugh.”
Down the lane, he stopped and said,
“They still farm that place over there the old way: by hand.”
Then, he spit downwind as he drove and continued to talk about his horses.
Pointing at the white horse, he said, “I call the male Blackie,
and the other, her name is Not-so.”
He had shortened it from Not-So Black.
She was a roan, and both were Belgian draft horses.
“Blackie' is the lazy one,” he said, and to prove his point
he clucked Up. Up. “Not-So is the worker,”
and he slapped her rump with his whip.
That is how the early morning went as we passed by the sheep pens
and patches of potatoes. The guide told me nothing else about the island
as he coddled Blackie and lashed Not-So.
After the tour, I went into a pastry shop.
Afterward, I walked to the pier, sat on a concrete bench,
and watched the cloud cover break apart.
I felt far away from the immediate future as the sun warmed the day
and made the white caps sparkle.
I watched the ships sailing the trade routes,
and it seemed that it was almost possible to believe the past
slept in the rusted hull of a freighter or a disemboweled church.
Surrounded by the music of the waves rocking the moored ships ―
the melody of their creaking chains―
I almost believed in my country ― except
for the memory of those two women crying.
Metaphysical Flows Through
gray silver-speckled stone
reflecting shadow and light
excavated from the waters
of Casco Bay along Shore Ave
in Peaks Island Maine
land only accessible by boat
Cairn Beach accessible on foot
spotlighting Whitehead Passage
sanded with sedimentary shale
ocean naturally smoothed away
rough edges, like time has done
to us, shaped sturdy like
the New England coast, rugged
weighty, feeding into the Atlantic, we
an aged family of three are like stones
tossed upon the beach to be stacked
knocked down, reformed and pointed
in different directions like a compass
a Wayfinder navigating us to a place
of healing, absorbing cues from stars
sun and ocean swells, navigating
challenges, guiding introspection
self-awareness, understanding values
and goals, finding purpose in a single
stone that acts like a mirror, reflecting
wholeness, its voice echoing longing
to journey towards regaining
sacred comfort by time
traveling toward
surfacing
souls
a random stone sits upon the dresser
green slate culled from walks along the river
its striated shades as varied as the sea,
fern from forest, olive drab of army,
new buds sprouting sunshine among the trees
this silent charm once sang me sweetest psalm
now locks down papers from a window’s breeze
warmed by your touch it served as healing balm
quieting my ache when placed on bruising knee
encircled by slim fingers that once blessed me.
its mood has changed, its master shaman gone,
from vibrant voice to murky and withdrawn
and yet, I cherish its dirgeless wordless mourn
admire its resignation to a blind god’s scorn.
Looking at the Stars. . .
“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”
―Oscar Wilde, from his play, Lady Windermere’s Fan
They told me
to look at the stars
when the night is at its darkest.
When I did,
the economy fell
and governments collapsed.
One by one,
laws fell like comets.
Chaos scattered
by my feet,
and the stars went into hiding.
Sorrow rained
for more than 40 days
and 40 nights,
and nothing was televised.
The apocalypse came
when least expected,
and the world became
one huge gutter.
And there are those
who still insist
that this never happened!
What a Wonderful World
(inspired by Louis Armstrong)
In a world of breaking news
fed by the oligarch’s will—stop!
Breathe—
close your eyes, zone out, and heal.
The collective is texting you—
the world is still worth saving.
Beauty’s tough, a seasoned survivor—
from a child’s imagination to the tiniest leaf.
Take a walk and observe the trees.
They are way wiser.
They don't complicate matters.
They live in the now.
The roses will return—
ask each crocus and daffodil,
and the tulip, too.
April showers wash this landscape—
a rainbow curves over the Verrazano,
the cold gray sky turns cornflower blue.
The snow belongs to yesterday—
kids want to play by the swings,
hear Mister Softee’s jingle up the block.
Your life won’t be perfect,
but kindness and serenity
won’t cost a cent.
The collective texts you again—
yes, the world is still worth saving.
Dictators will come and go,
and humanity will have the last word.
It’s Been, a Long, Long Time
(inspired by Kitty Kallen)
Watching reruns of Sex and the City on Netlfix,
activated a tug-of-war between the past and present.
It’s been a long, long time
since the series was the rage of the office world.
Now, too many peers reminisce about the days
before the Towers were taken down,
before exposing the land of the free’s dirty laundry.
The emerald city would rather hear sirens
than the echoes of a solitary pair
of Manolo Blahniks on dark Manhattan streets.
I never could afford these heels,
but I couldn’t forget the sounds of silence
at loud parties or standing alone on subway platforms.
The city was a marketing dream
taken from fantasies found in fiction—
the expectations expected at my job.
But how do you explain that “having it all”
never stopped by my desk or sent an email.
No Bloomingdale makeup artist
or Barneys’ little black dress could produce
the magic to fit in.
No Cosmopolitan polish could cover up
who I really was.
We spoke the same language,
and I had to do all the explaining.
I lacked interest in a man’s world
since it was a rigged video game.
What worsened it,
I never knew that I wore a red “P” for Pariah.
Sometimes, I wonder if these people
are still alive and satisfied with their “charmed lives.”
I will never know,
or is it best to move past these stained chapters?
Despite the COVID years and present administration,
my fingers sharpen on the keyboard,
getting opinions out—
the more offensive, the better.
My words reflect my progress,
and the girl from the 90s deserves my respect—
her fight-or-flight mode earned her wings.
But like her,
I still wish for an egg cream kiss,
realizing that some memories can be sweeter than others.
SECOND CHANCE
In the second year of Franklin Roosevelt’s Presidency, I was born
in Oklahoma City. the second born to Lawrence and Wilma Stilwell.
My older sister, Dolores, was born four years before me at
the beginning of the Great Depression.
My younger brother, David, was born two years after me.
My mother was one of seven children born to my grandma,
Dottie Osburn who had been abandoned by her husband,
Paul, to raise them on whatever money she could make
washing clothes and cooking at pow wows.
Shortly after Mom met Lawrence, Grandma strongly hinted that
if my mother married him, they’d have one less hungry mouth
to feed in their family.
And so during her sophomore year, Mom dropped
out of high school to get married.
My earliest memories were our family living in the home
of dad’s brother, Roy and his wife, Minnie.
Mom worked as a seamstress.
Dad was a truck driver.
I was clueless as to why my family was living
in someone else’s home when both parents were working
and dad owned a car.
Shortly after Pearl Harbor was bombed, my cousin, Leroy Stilwell,
was killed on a cruiser during the Battle of Midway.
And then while playing in Uncle Roy’s backyard, my stomach
began to hurt real bad.
Dad drove me and Mom to the hospital.
They said I had appendicitis.
When I woke up from surgery, Dad was gone
and Mom was sitting by my bed while reading to me
from the Wizard of Oz.
I didn’t see Dad again till I was 15 when he picked up
David and me to go to our grandfather Stilwell’s funeral.
His full name was Charles Brady Stilwell
but everybody called him Happy.
His middle name was also mine as well as
being the first name of David’s son.
In 1943, Mom married James Dalton, a sailor from Dallas
who was stationed in the Norman naval base.
The first thing Jimmy did as our stepdad was to take
David and me by trolley to a ball park to watch the
Oklahoma City Indians play a Texas League baseball game.
When Mom was off work, our whole family would travel
by trolley to the Oklahoma City Zoo.
When the circus came our way, we walked a few blocks
to the Municipal Auditorium to watch it.
A few years after the end of World War II, Jimmy
used his G.I. Bill to finance the purchase of a new home
in Midwest City, a few miles east of Oklahoma City.
O brave new world of neatly trimmed lush green lawns
with latest model cars in every garage.
I was embarrassed our old car was the only one
on the block made before the war but hey,
we were still middle class!
Mom and Jimmy were called Mo and Po by their grand
and great grand kids.
Soon after Mom died, Jimmy drove alone in his pickup from
Oklahoma to South Pasadena to visit my family.
I took him with grandsons, Luke and Mark to watch
a Los Angeles Dodgers baseball game.
I went with Jimmy also to Santa Anita where he won a
$70 exacta bet which he used to treat my family to
dinner to a favorite South Pasadena restaurant.
That’s the kind of guy my stepfather was—not one
goddamned selfish bone in his body.
My late, great firstborn son, James Luke Stilwell
was named after him.
Freedom: An Ode
“People can take everything
except your education,”
my father’s anthem throughout my childhood.
I think of him growing up
after World War II,
his parents growing up
after the 1918 influenza epidemic
His parents coming of age
during the Great Depression,
marrying in a world scarred by war,
the hardship of raising a family then,
the constant worry about money and survival,
raising vegetables and chickens in the backyard,
working hard, always hoping that it would be enough
I think of him escaping after school and work
to the library, a one-room haven
located above their small town’s jail
and city hall; the only government-owned
building in their town then, a landmark now
All that free education,
that no one could steal
out of his mind,
that couldn’t be lost or sold
when food was scarce
or bills were due
I think of him sharing that childhood experience
that meant so much to him,
taking my brother and I
to the library most weekends
when we were kids,
where I found portable paradises
that no one could take away,
hideouts from childhood miseries
created by E.L. Konigsburg, Beverly Cleary,
Judy Blume, Lois Duncan
I read on car rides at night,
in snatches as we passed streetlights,
after bedtime, under the blankets
or in the closet
with a flashlight,
once scaring my mother into a household search
when she saw my empty bed
I think of the power of books,
that power that makes people afraid,
causes people to ban books, burn books,
suppress imagination and education,
keep new ideas from taking root in people’s minds,
prevent children from seeing different perspectives
I think of my father
letting me read whatever I wanted,
letting me learn whatever I wanted,
even knowing that he could never
take it away if he disagreed
I think of my father
letting me become whoever I wanted,
taking me to find paradise wherever I wanted,
giving me freedom to wander the library,
choose any books, any worlds, any knowledge.
I think of my father.
Love After Loving v. Virginia
Loving v. Virginia is the 1967 unanimous United States Supreme Court decision that ruled that the freedom to marry is constitutionally protected and cannot be denied based on race, which upended all U. S. laws against interracial marriage
I listen to my husband sing along to Motown in the shower.
He only sings along to the “Oooo”s and the “Waaa”s —
English is his fourth language, and he may not know the other lyrics.
In my gladness at his happy voice, I think “this is love,”
this swelling of my heart at the lightness of this moment.
In our small studio, I can hear his singing everywhere.
I feel like anything is possible.
Later, he comes out of the bathroom with a razor
for our ritual of checking whether he’s missed any hairs
while shaving his head. I turn on my phone’s flashlight
as he pulls his ear forward. I check the line where his neck
meets the bottom of his scalp. I run my light across his crown
and the back of his head. I shave off any hairs he’s missed.
When it’s time for chores, I help as much as my disabilities
allow. I empty our three trash cans and gather the recycling,
leaving the bags near the door for him to take to the trash chute
and recycling closet, fifteen steps away. I help fill the laundry bags
for him to take to the basement, and he makes trips up and down
the elevator to move our items between washers and dryers,
and then back home. When the weather is nice, sometimes we sit outside
and look at the flowers and trees while the machines do their work.
These little rituals, these little happinesses, in our little home,
are only possible because of the small and large sacrifices
of people who fought and continue to fight for everyone’s civil rights.
When my parents were born, interracial marriage was illegal
in most U. S. states. It was unthinkable that my German American
father would ever meet and marry my Korean mother; unthinkable
that they would have mixed race, Asian American children.
When my parents married, it was still against some states’ constitutions
for them to do so across races. I married my husband across races and across
religions, and no one blinked an eye at us or at the same-sex marriages
being celebrated at City Hall that day. A wide variety of couples posed
for joyful photos all around us.
People marched, protested, advocated, voted. People were beaten,
jailed, killed, so that my parents could marry each other, so my brother
could marry his wife, so I could have nieces, so I could marry my husband
and create a Korean American, German American, Algerian home.
My mother is an immigrant, my husband is an immigrant.
Love fought to break barriers, made people consider and reconsider,
and I am grateful for all of those people
who made so much love in my life possible.
GOOD NEIGHBORS
Stone wall
Stood on the border
Of the two
Properties
Watching on
Both sides
Generations of
Families living
Out their lives
Without knowing
Existence of
Neighbors on the
Other side
Relatives visit
Friends come and go
Households grow
Leave to new
Locations
Stone wall
Begins to disintegrate
Time passes
Privacy gone
Now see
Neighbors
Do you rebuild
Stone wall
CHANCE MEETING
They were
Worlds apart
Different in
Every way
Culture, religion, food
Met at university
Same interest in
Courses
Ideas
Different environment
Background
Blended into
College life
Two worlds
Became one
More different
We are
Same we become
Smother's Beach, Key West
sun warm on my skin and
white sand, tan people
pale green ocean, the
mother--we crawled out of
flipper-wise
to establish ourselves
on top the food chain, first
lying low
until the Dinosaurs, running amuck, ate
themselves into arterial heart disease and
stroke, and
then we crawled out from our holes and
from beneath stones...
Class "mammalia,"
and evolved--
so the story goes,
to present day
ergonomics
and the triumph of
the morons
in the time of Thump.
George
on a park bench a guy
with Moses-beard
pork pie hat
and tie-dye shirt--
a follower of Thoreau perhaps
walking to the beat of a different drummer;
not Max Roach
maybe Ringo Starr, the
"dumb" Beetle.
My sister favored George;
she came out of her room
which she rarely left, and
sat in front of the television set
February 9, 1964
the night the Beetle's played
to a crowd of screaming people
on the Ed Sullivan Shew...
My sister screamed too
and pulled her hair as
over-fed Uncle Al, in an
overstuffed chair, smirked--
Grandma told Sister not to act
so foolishly, but
Sister did not listen
or else did not care;
she beat her palms on the
linoleum floor while
my brother and I sat like stones
on the imitation-leather couch
in the rear.
5 Days of Fog
and rain
the camouflaged ocean waves
rolling in to shore
in a steady
rorarsch!
The sun has gone
from the world;
this hotel room two shades
of green;
I am going to float
out of here soon
and go back
home to the
Northland
where the sun don't shine
either.
The Knowner
my sister in a teak box
red & shiny
on a table
below a cross
that the man of sorrow
hung from:
she stroked-out and
went into a coma
and never came out
and now she is in
"a better world,"
a woman in the
receiving line tells
me...
"I hope so," I respond.
The woman says
"I know so."
Her eyes wide open
behind bifocals--
thin face with skin
tightly stretched
over her skull...
How does she know?
I do not ask, and
The Knower
moves on.
I love to sniff the world
