Thursday, April 30, 2009

Ladies with or without Pet Dogs: A series of prose poems: III



Lady Without a Pet Dog

I know a woman who insists on throwing a bright red ball into her empty yard.  When she finally retreats to her house, she is angry  that no clever canine returned the ball to her nicely slippered feet.

When friends confront her with a simple solution,  "Why don't you buy a dog?," she  shakes her head.  "Too much training and trouble.  I'd  rather play fetch with my own disappointment."

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Ladies with or without Pet Dogs: A series of prose poems: II




Still Another Lady with a Pet Dog

She acquired the dog fifteen years ago.  She talks about getting rid of it.

Sometimes she says, "Don't visit today.  The dog might bite you," or "I can't go out today.  The dog wouldn't like it."  Sometimes she confides, "He doesn't like anyone to get too near me," and it is difficult to tell whether she is proud of this possessive dog or afraid of it.

Over the years she has developed two explanations for its behavior.  "It's the breed," she says.  Or, as if the mystery lies in its early kennel life, she says, "I didn't train it, you know."

No one in her family likes the dog.  At first they were intimidated by its pedigree and their lack of familiarity with the breed.   They admired certain traits;   its fastidious eating habits, for example.  After a while they began making fun of it, imitating its clipped bark and peculiar wagging.  

In the beginning, she took the dog to family gatherings, but the dog didn't travel well, disliked their yard, and created a dilemma for her:  take the dog or leave it.

Fifteen years of ownership made her reluctant to part with her problematic pet.  She has spoken wistfully that perhaps someday the dog will run off.  Her friends tell her, "You can't spend your life  waiting for your dog to disappear."

Lately, she blames herself for the dog's recalcitrance.  "I'm not a good owner," she says.  "I haven't learned the right commands.  My voice is too soft."  Once, in a moment of soul searching, she said, "Maybe I don't like dogs.  Or this dog."

In the meantime, she feeds it vitamins and gourmet dog chow and keeps its kennel  beautiful and spotlessly clean.

Frankly, I think this is an incredible amount of trouble to go to.  After all, it's just a dog.

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

Ladies with or without Pet Dogs: A series of prose poems: I



Yet Another  Lady with a Pet Dog

I knew a woman who owned the most devoted dog.  With floppy ears and big feet, this genial mix of mongrel and pedigree followed her everywhere. When she said, "Sit," it sat.  When she said, "fetch," it lay the teeth-marked checkbook at her feet.

Everyone remarked how fortunate she was to have one whose loyal eyes followed her about the room, who bounced and wagged in the driveway when she returned from a trip, a dog who was grateful to sleep at the foot of her bed and who lapped the crumbs beneath her table.

Unfortunately, the dog's devotion began to get on her nerves.  Some days, when she looked at him,  the canine's eyes appeared  red-rimmed and rheumy, and, when she peered into his brown pupils, she suspected dog dementia.

Whenever she prepared for a trip, the dog sensed her departure and lay directly on her feet.  When she opened the door of her flashy coupe, the big dog made himself small and tried to fit into the back seat.  Angry at  dog hairs and muddy paws, she raised her hand and yelled, "Get out!  Get out!"  As the dog retreated from the car with his tail between his legs, she hated him for making her feel mean and coarse.

The feeling didn't go away.  At night, she began to loathe the sound of his breathing.  One day, she once again yelled, "Get out!  Get out!" and the dog skulked down the stairs.  Her ire only increased his vigilance and devotion.

One day she realized that the dog, the house, the village itself had become intolerable.  She packed a bag, jumped into her coupe, and drove to the other side of the world.

The dog waits for her return.








Monday, April 27, 2009

Poem for My Mother's Tall, Skinny Friend



Poem for My Mother's Tall, Skinny Friend

O, why am I befriended by
arm-waving women,
those large-busted ladies
on decorating committees?

Why must I be accessory
to women in polka-dot dresses,
with armadillo purses, and voices
urgent as downshifting trucks?

Me, the power pole, the flag pole,
keeping the current flowing,
and banners in reach of a breeze.
Them, the stars, stripes, and megawatts.

Well, pity us when the lines go down,
the wind gone.


Friday, April 24, 2009

Who Do You Watch from Your Car?



Who Do You Watch from Your Car?


Summer Saturdays Alice's spouse
parks in the shade facing Safeway.
He shops and she watches
 mothers load junk food
 into their trunks,
while children hang on the carts,
 shoving each other.

"Not my problem," she says
rubbing useless legs.  "What can I do?"
she asks the windshield wipers.

I, too, watch  from my car.

One unpredictable day
while watching a regatta,
I saw a lady sailor
keeling into gray, choppy waves.
I stepped out of my car and called,
"Your boat's no home.  
You lean too far.
You are alone."

Of course, she couldn't hear me.

Who do you watch from your car?


Thursday, April 23, 2009

Quoting Dame Edith Sitwell

"In conclusion, he condensed them all for madmen, fools, idiots, asses, O stulti, quaenam haecc est amenti?  O fools, O madmen! he exclaims, insane studia, insane, labores, etc., mad endeavours, mad actions, mad, mad, mad, O seculum insipiens et infacetum, a giddy-headed age."

the last sentence in "The God of This World," English Eccentrics

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

Good Quote: friends



"... a study of nearly 3,000 nurses with breast cancer found that women without close friends were four times as likely to die from the disease as women with 10 or more friends.  And notably proximity and the amount of contact with a friend wasn't associated with survival.  Just having friends was protective."

New York Times 4/21/09  

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Tinnitus



Tinnitus

The audiologist said I should watch
a video that begins with a man, 
probably a plumber, in my predicament.
He says, "It's like pipes hissing in my head."
I said, "It's like rattlesnakes in dry grass."
The diagnoses for both of us
was the same cruel curse, "Live with it."

The sound in my head is a message.
Remember how they tied Odysseus
to the mast, but plugged the ears of those
not strong enough to listen to the truth?

I'm not either.
This slightly sinister sound protects me 
from my own grim thoughts.

Friday, April 17, 2009

The "Rue" in Ruin



The "Rue" in Ruin

Some like ruins...
death of the maiden
moss-covered walls
vines thick as snakes...

Remember the Victorian
concept of the ruined woman,
hymen broken,
girl no damn good?

We still whisper,
"Have you seen her face?"
"Ruined," we nod,
by drink, drugs, sun,
bad plastic surgery.

The other day I read
about a procedure
that restores rent hymens,
creates faux virgins.

We know the futility
of restorative  surgery.
The impression of a mean man
never goes away.

Thursday, April 16, 2009

Needless Pain



Needless Pain

Once, during therapy, I came to a session with a stiff neck.  I couldn't turn my head or adjust my position in the chair without grimacing.  After observing me for five or ten minutes, my therapist said, "What's the matter with your neck?"

"I don't know.  For about a week I've had this stiff neck.  It doesn't seem to go away.  This morning I could hardly back my car out of the driveway because it hurt so much to turn my head."

"Why don't you see a chiropractor?" she said.

"I never thought of that," I replied.

"Here," she said as she reached for a small notepad on her desk, "I'll give you the name of an excellent chiropractor."

After my session I went home, called the chiropractor, and, to my surprise, made an appointment for that afternoon.  He worked on my neck and shoulders for about an hour.  The relief was immediate.  The next day I felt a little residual soreness, noticeable when backing the car.  The following day, no pain remained.

When I reflected on the experience, I realized I tolerated needlessly that pain in the neck.  Because I could, I did.  Left to my own devices, I might have waited forever for the pain to go away--or allowed it to get worse.  Furthermore, I needed help to arrive at that insight and to act on it.

Now, I occasionally review my life and ask myself, "Am I tolerating pain needlessly?" 

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Coming Home from Carmel





   Coming Home from Carmel

Try coming home from Carmel
in a sports utility van with four women.
Don't worry that you look rumpled and silly
filing into the ladies room at the Quick Stop.
Don't bicker about the accounting for dinner.
You split the check five ways.  It all evens out.

I know.
It is hard traveling with people,
and it is hard to go it alone.

Don't expect so much.
These women are not your sisters.
They won't cry long at your funeral.
Pretend you understand  their lives.
Let them seem familiar, familial.

Remember their penchant for abundance.
In the grand heap of luggage and shopping bags
behind the back seat
you will find tarot cards, rose cuttings,
warm socks, gorgeous globe artichokes
from a vegetable stand near Salinas,
photos taken by the waiter--all of you laughing--
beach glass, silences, unspoken dreams,
hidden grief, and vitamins.

Remember, the trip ends soon.



Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Imaginary Conversations with Famous People


         Imaginary Conversation with Jane

ME:       When Jane reflects on her life
               I wonder if she ponders,
            I devoted myself to those
            who could never return in kind.

JANE:  Stop!  What a vacuous thought.
           You do not understand
           the privilege of detachment,
            watching births, deaths, and mating,
           not responsible for what I dare see.

ME:      I call your life a punishment.
            You were unloved, unbidden.
            You stayed too long a voyeur,
            so much of yourself hidden.

JANE:   I call your life a delusion.
            Did you suffer less loneliness than I?
             There, there.  Don't cry. 

Friday, April 10, 2009

Rain, Rain, Go Away




Uses for Raincoats

"A raincoat can play many roles besides protection from the elements."
Real Simple magazine


I would like a raincoat that sheds my tears,
and sends sadness sliding to my feet,
  an all-weather garment that protects me
from my emotional snow, rain, or sleet.




Thursday, April 9, 2009

Sadder Than Thou



Sadder Than Thou

Tears fill the bottom of this boat.
       My tin can leaks.  We are sinking.

The telephone rings
I hear her cry into the receiver.
I am tired of being the receiver.

What about you?
You are family, too.
You, you, you (yes I'm shouting)
you try standing in the shadow of her grief
longer than his coffin.
You try finding sun
for your own sadness.
By the way,
it is your turn to inhale
the sour smell of her sorrow.

I listen
God knows
God knows
I try to console her.

I'm cut off.
I hang up.
She has your number, too.

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

It's Like That: Remorse



It's Like That:  Remorse About the Way You Raised Your Kid

We left him somewhere and we were driving down a snowy mountain and then I insisted we go back because we couldn't leave him in that place when we would be gone way too long and I convinced the driver his father to turn around I said turn around! but of course it was too late.  Child protective services had taken him away.

It's like that.
Mistakes converted
into anxious dreams
combined with soap operas.
daily news,
your own felt childhood.

You get a phone call from him,
almost thirty, three states away.
If he says, "Hi Mom," in a particular way,
it's a wafer on your tongue.

Oh, don't judge yourself so harshly.
You will never know
what he needed from you,
what he did not.



Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Ambivalence: A Memory



Ambivalence:  A Memory

Mother's gone to town.  The men out haying.
Charlie was told to check from the cook shack.
"She's the big sister," mother said as she gave
her nine-year old a pat on the head.

After the flames climb the kitchen curtain,
spread to the roof, the men come from the field
shouting at me, "Run, girl, run to the creek,
take your sister, 'case the gas tank goes.

I hold her close, bellies half in water,
faces in moss and mud bank,
me and baby sister,
I am proud to have saved her.

For years, though, I could have sworn
I started the fire.


Monday, April 6, 2009

Once Upon a Time



Once Upon a Time

We go through the motions
like fairy tale crofters.
The giant is on a rampage,
stomping toward the village.

In our cottage, the hand
that lights the candle
registers the tremors.
Those at the window
watch his long shadow
block the evening light.

Still, we heat the soup,
bring wood for the fire,
while smaller ones wait
in the darkened room.

Friday, April 3, 2009

Negativity Is Contagious



Negativity Is Contagious

Do not breathe your meanness
into my eager face.
I don't want to catch
what you carelessly give.

You made me sick with doubt.
I suffered for years from
low-grade stupidity.

It came from kissing you.
No more.  At the first sign
of a cold reception
I am leaving the room.

Thursday, April 2, 2009

I Like the Way


I Like the Way

I like the way
Mr. Mendosa wraps meat
in generous sheets
of white butcher paper.
The extra length holds
the meat, keeping t-bones
or salmon steaks
from oozing juices,
and he talks so sweetly
as he tucks the ends
to hold the cool bundle
with a strip of paper tape
that I scarcely notice
the quick black crayon
mark the price.


Wednesday, April 1, 2009

The Man of My Dreams



Dream Lover

He does not come disguised as
Brenda Starr's Black Orchid man,
one-eyed, dark, slick.

He does not appear suddenly
in the room, elevator, doorway
into which I step.

He does not take me by surprise.

I see him striding through a red horizon
rising over the edge of a golden field,
rising high and wider than a forest fire moon,
looming huge and distorted,
growing into view like a bruise, a bump,
unfolding fast as a hibiscus
in a Walt Disney nature film.

In my dreams
he comes like Shane,
like Alan Ladd standing on ten boxes,
and I,
a Dorothea Lange Depression woman,
hair pulled back,
a few strands blowing loose
in the dust-filled wind,

I watch from the porch.