waxing the edge of benches

When the director of our art museum came out of the building to approach him, he assumed he was in trouble.

Skateboarding + Art Museum = Trouble.

The art director told the skateboarder he had been watching.  Did he know much about art? The skateboarder shook his head no. "Your skateboard moves as if it were a paintbrush. Watching you is like watching a master's brush strokes in 3D motion."

I remind myself of this story when I realize (belatedly) that I've allowed myself a narrow view on whatever is going on (or not going on) in my life. I'm not fond of what skateboarding does to public property, that is true. And I've seen enough harm go down at the skate parks. That's true, too. And, knowing the above skateboarder and his father quite well at one time in my life, I also have become acquianted with the many manifestations in which *harm* can present itself. But

lately, when I leave my house to drive to work, I often cross paths with a young girl skateboarding her way to the bus stop up and around the corner. While she hasn't the grace and agility of the skateboarder at the art museum, I've learned instead to watch her face as she scoots her way down the street. Everything about her tells me she is hiding out. Dark clothes, hair hanging in her face, that sort of stuff. But when she's on her skateboard, her face comes alive. I don't think she realizes this.

                           **
When you cry- you cry smaller, grind
longer rails. Do you know why
sunflowers turn away when you wax
against their sun? You'd pop-shove
along Greyhound curbs for a ticket
to the coast. So you say. A box of Pacific
sand in your father's trunk, Burnside papers,
that one picture of your Mom. Everything you hate
rides with you when you run. Stay
and meet yourself- you were agile,
graceful like a Sunday born
in June, the little boy left alone
without a captain's mask. I see this
when you grind, when you standflip,
when I won't post your bond.

(Photos belong to the skateboarder's father who doesn't know I lifted and cropped them.)

bean kitchens and gernades

When we were kids, my siblings and I spent quite a bit of time camping and/or spending time in the homes of friends to our parents. Some homes were not kid-friendly. I can't be the only one who remembers the dread of hearing we were about to spend four days at Agnes and Delbert's house. We kids were expected to Find Something To Do. And that did not mean retreiving ducks from any nearby rivers. And that did not mean flinging cowpies at each other. Further, it should not need to be said: Leave The Bull In That Far Pasture Alone.

So what to do? If we couldn't talk one brother into seeing if he could ride the cow with horns, maybe we could have a rotten apple fight? Maybe there'd be some records we could fling out over a cliff and toss well-aimed rocks at? (I write this knowing how unlikely my parents will read this and so they continue to not understand how the Jimmy Rodgers albums disappeared) (Note to Mom's best friend (whose company we always enjoyed): if you are reading this, mum is the word.)

But what does this have to do with bean kitchens and cans of corn? We learned to enjoy reading. If we didn't have library books with us on these trips, and if there were no cowpies to fling and if the folks still had rules against riling up the bulls, we would read whatever. Phone books, maps, recipe card files. Church bulletins. The back of a box of cereal.

It's kinda interesting, actually, how curiosity stays with you. It needs to be fed. I was reminded of this the other night when I was fixing dinner. I had inherited some pantry goods when my daughter moved out of her apartment and found two cans of corn in my pantry that can't be bought here. So yep, I read the label. Since then, I've googled Max and learned about his time in Seattle and in Colorado, but my research regarding bean kitchens is slow-go. What the heck was a bean kitchen? And: where are the bean kitchens of today?

Imagination is what gets you through what-have-you-not. Does imagination begat curiosity or vice versa? And when do the cowpie gernades enter the picture?

Confessions of Bazookagirl

I was in the army when I was nine. I knew how
to sink landmines of manure with grenades
that grew like rocks dug up from the gardens.

We commandeered a solder wheel from the enemy
across the field so I could belly-crawl in flower beds,
weaving walkie-talkie wire through the hedges,

linking my bean-green radio to the tomato-red
headset General Mike wore to lead our troops
until one day Das Kommandant caught on, tackling

our weakest flank and chained Buster to a post,
before capturing us in the ammo shed
where we had stopped to share a smoke.

Never let him see you cry, was our battle pledge
as we were handcuffed and marched back
to prison camp, stripped of all our stripes.

the way his wipers work

The Way His Wipers Work

He left me sleeping to snap a shot

of Pokey, the beat-up white pickup with a wet blue

tarp spread out in the back. It had one speed
slower than a wing-window breeze, and wipers
that worked as long as it didn’t rain. We had rattled
across high plains grass, intent on meeting
the cloudburst. When the wipers stopped we slipped
under the tarp to listen and share shivers. The wind
jostled and the rain dumped down. Thunder
snapped around us. I curled into his quiet
faith of living life head-on, trusting
in the storm.


This is an older poem of mine, first published in Main Street Rag. Click here.

When I was at AWP in Denver last month, I visited with M. Scott Douglass, publisher and managing editor of Main Street Rag. He told me the tone of the journal found its roots after 9/11. If you've not read the journal before, I should mention there is a trace of humor threading its way through the pages.

In the very Irish household of my childhood, humor was the tool we used to get through the worst of times. The more evident the humor, the more traces of sorrow. This confounding convolution would later baffle the very German spouse from my once-married years. For him (my) humor meant a person (for example, me) didn't care about anything. Even though I know the truth was the opposite of that conclusion, I also understand why humor can be misconstrued.

(and speaking of bafflement: the aforesaid German is not the man in the poem.)

Mr. Douglass told me after 9/11 he realized humor was  an ointment, a healing tool our nation needed. 

In this poem, humor is also a tool which leads us to that open embrace: acceptance.

trailing

Trailing

He told me once that wheat was patient. If I needed
help with waiting, I should come to this farm field. Between

these stalks of sway and pause, and the horizoned Little Belts,
white pelicans flash and fish the river breaks. I trail the red rock

bank on Jeep, a buckskin mare. We climb dried-up gulches, thread
through bursts of orange paintbrush and bitterroot blooms

of baby-girl-pink. The sky is lonely when it is solid blue- this is why
it follows you. He called it the tag-along shadow. Two strips

of jerky, half of a water canteen. Three ravines to the backside
of Crow Pond. Jeep chomps along the edges of the field, I slip

the red blanket from her sweaty back. The west wind hushes shhhh,
think softly. Gray green yucca, white cottoned milk pods tickle

my bare legs. The more earth touches you when you are young,
the stronger you stand when you are ancient. I circle the rings of teepee

rock, spread the blanket down. Many palms have smoothed
this woven fabric. Jeep swishes her tail once. She’s not my horse-

this is not my dream. He told me once he knew where ghosts come
from. I take in his breath when he exhales. He’s been here forever.



published by Free Fall Magazine in Calgary, Alberta : click here.

p o v

History actually tells us more about the person asking the questions.

We stand where we are standing, feeling what we feel, seeing what we see. What we question and what we want to understand and share with others in the future are influenced by our point of view. 

Annie doesn't understand why we don't love the water the way she loves the water. She is one plunge away from plunging, but something is keeping her from the water. What is it that she sees?

Annie's photographer. He sees a moment he'd like to capture on film (may we still say film in the digital world?) What he'd like to remember and share for the future is the memory of Annie being so full of the day, the water and the meadow.

Annie's photographer's photographer is capturing the day, as well. Years to come, what she will remember of this moment is the way her father became entirely absorbed in watching her German Wire-Haired Pointer have her way with the day.

Of course, someone else was taking photos that day. And naturally, it will be her version of what happened that day that will be recorded in the history books. Annie, the dad and the daughter? Their memories of this day will be different. They weren't standing where I stood.

why? ask marie ponsot and edward hirsch

elotes

On the Corner of Junipero, Learning Not to Hold the Chili Powder

They hear the honk from the corn man’s cart—
plastic and blue, stolen from someone who stole
it from somewhere on El Segundo where rappers rap
about lost wallets and forgotten jimmy cappers.

Stitched into this Pacific hem, he is a land-man
to his soothing water-girl with her mermaid way
of flicking water over pain. They form an island
each time she visits him from her mountain shore

wild with snap peas and hollyhocks bending—earthy
and green, tossed and trusted to gain root as silent
sentries waiting for her return. He weaves his way back
to her, through skaters and sidewalk trash—with one cob

con todo. Mayonnaise, chili powder, parmesean and butter.
They share the same ear of corn, juicy—yet explosive. Living
here, he says, I’ve learned to trust the cook has a reason

for his combinations. Eat, just the way it’s served.


originally published in Barnwood International Poetry Magazine
and later published in Avatar Review

 
 
 

Click on this link if you'd like to read a bit more on what it takes to find the corn man's cart in LA. Our corn man's cart was a grocery cart and the stock pot of steamed corn was concealed in large garbage bags. The horn on his cart, I remember, was blue. After I was persuaded to at least try a bite, we roamed the neighborhood, trying to find the cornman again. This poem and these to-die-for-elotes have something to do with my learning to overcome the inner scaredycat. And when I say cat, picture a mountain lion, a panther, a mamouth lionrilla. 

O'Cottonwood

What I did to the Sunday photo from my father

What he meant for me to see: my Mother on Mother's Day

Somewhere in New York, a friend treated her mother to the first lettuce from her garden. This was yesterday, Mother's Day. Here in Montana, you can see what spring is like. Spring is a bit of a winter extension. Quick rule of thumb dictates no planting until after Mother's Day and only after you see the cottonwoods budding.

In the photo that Sherry's Dad's daughter ruined up above, you can see yellow-greenish colorations on some of the forelimbs. These budding colorations are proof  the cottonwood tree is still living. My father says it is proof that the tree is Irish, with it's nothing-beats-me-down attitude. I dunno, I think the photo is proof that the photographer is Irish what with his nothing-can-stop-my-blarney-spinabilities. Whichever way you would like to consider this, I remain the dutiful daughter who believes what she is told, but  then messes up his photography when his back is turned.

flying burgers

Today was moving day. My daughter moved home from college. We've done this enough times we remembered how important it is to take a break every now and then. We also know where to go for that break. To a place that promises it can fly anything. Do you know about flying burgers? Do you know about Hot N Tots? What about Bee Bops? Oh and they can do a basket on just about anything on their menu. Turns out their large order of fries is a full pound. Fresh cut potatoes.  Now, back to the move.

Frank O'Hara Reads "Having A Coke With You" | The New Republic

Frank O'Hara Reads "Having A Coke With You" The New Republic



I don't want to lose track of this link. Every few weeks I click on this video and hope you find time to do so as well.

So, back to your regularly scheduled program. For me, it's writing another 1000 words.