Trying to Pin Down the Sun

In British Columbia I watch my son, my daughter
stride away onto Capilano Suspension Bridge,
built of what seems, from my vantage point,
of kindling, string and raw faith,

it swings precariously over a gaping
canyon 250 feet below,
each step over its shaky planks
makes them sway over an endless abyss,
tightrope walkers with no safety net.

Surrounded by ancient rain forest
time spins me around, around,
as my children move so nimbly,
so swiftly over that vast emptiness,

stopping, they beckon me to them but
stark terror plants me, watching, waiting.

I wander then through an album
in my mind
where each small portrait
dissolves at my touch,
long suddenly to console myself,
eat memories made of honey and air.

My daughter, takes my face in her hands says,
“Don’t sing Mommy,
Mommy don’t sing,”
lullabies means bed time, separation.

My son calls from his
darkened room the same question
every night, before the very final kiss.
“Mommy, why do some people say
amen and some ahmen.”

My heart, silent spectator,
has plummeted into the gorge below
waiting to catch them should they fall,

yet all the while
the ventricles, the atria, even the skipped beats,
continue to keep their constant measure.

The Big Sleep

If I slip away in my sleep one day, the lucky way Grandma Lala did, what can I expect? My mind begins to spin like a roulette wheel; lands on angels. If an angel comes to get me I want a female. Quite honestly, I was never too impressed with the warlike Michael, his terrifying sword and bulky shield. Give me a gentle angel any day. Then there’s Gabriel blowing a noisy horn and overly presumptuous, in my estimation, announcing babies to unwed mothers who will be vilified ; sharing the same news with aged women, ready to enjoy the rest due elders. These his noted “glad tidings of great joy.”

Perhaps both of my grandmothers will catch a sky train down; disembark; beckon me to them. I can picture them in their flowered house dresses and sensible shoes patiently waiting. Anna will wear an apron like she always did; Lala’s natural waves will lie perfectly coiffed on her head. The smells of lilac talcum powder and homemade pieorgi dumplings will fill the room. My hands will reach towards them.

Or what if a Glinda, the good witch type, glides down from who know where, carrying ruby slippers that will bring me to my real home. Oh, please let it not be Kansas.

Just maybe, it will start with an annoying buzzing in my ear. I will wave my hand to slap it away. Then spot a crowd of tiny Tinkerbell like creatures lighting the room, whistling, “You can fly, you can fly, you can fly.” A sprinkle of pixie dust and off to Never- Never land or some such place. If I’m flying I don’t care where. I’ve always wanted to fly.

Or a  Whoopi Goldberg type messenger from beyond, one that will come in, all plump and hip, saying, “Hey sugar, your numbers up, get the lead out; let’s boogie on down.” When she sees my face I can imagine her chortle, “Down’s only an expression, honey. Keep your cool.

Annals of the Coolest Cat in Town

I was adopted when my previous staff moved to England. I do miss them so. My full name is Clementine because my previous servants thought I looked like a country western Muppet when I was a kitten, at times I still do. Other times I am all creamy grace stretching to see what lies beyond the window pane or holding out a slender limb like a prima ballerina to take a proper bath. In the sunlight the orange cream of my under fur looks like a soft creamsicle beneath my shiny brindled coat.

I am generally quite refined but there are a few raucous moments in my life: when a feeding is delayed by my servant’s lax schedule; or perhaps a twirling ribbon, a flashing light beam or a bit of cat nip brings out my inner tiger. Then I meow plaintively or pounce and cavort like a star athlete always stopping before the servants halt the ribbon’s flow or turn off the light. Like any proud athlete I call the shots.

I am a tortoiseshell or tortie for short and conduct myself in true tortie fashion. I am affectionate only when the moment hits but then I am a warm ball of love, licking hands with my sandpaper tongue as if they were pure caviar. I won’t allow reading when I expect attention, sticking my head in opened books with a look that shames. Then I enjoy much fuss and prattle pats, and rubs. A quick roll over for a momentary tummy tickle is reserved only for special occasions when I am feeling particularly cozy. I will climb upon a willing lap for two minutes tops. Then I am off; there is much I have to do and my day is always too short.

I eat daintily and never too much, never throw up hair balls or have accidents as you might expect from my air of quiet dignity. I highly disapprove of messes. I am a lady as almost all torties are. No macho torties allowed in the breed. My purrs are modulated, no kowtowing for me.  A kiss on each of my cheeks in the French mode is generally acceptable but a big American bear hug is not appreciated. I am a cat’s cat after all.

Recently I suffered from a horrible experience. A bob cat and I were engaged in a bitter struggle from which I emerged wounded but proud for holding my own. My servant arrived in the nick of time with a well thrown shoe that scared away the nasty intruder.

Frightened I scampered onto the roof only to find myself being severely harassed by a crowd of mocking crows. Again my servant showed good common sense. She shook the tree and mocked the crows right back. Ha! I thought. Just what they deserve. I found myself appreciating once again the fine qualities of my loyal staff and forgave them their inadequacies. They are only human after all. When both the male and female members of the staff encouraged me long enough I climbed down from the roof. I was fussed and cooed over and rather inept first aid was attempted.

The next day my wounds were not looking well at all. I was feeling feverish and rather blue. The servants packed me up in a portable ambulance that they clumsily carried to the dreaded animal clinic. Fortunately the staff there took good care of me being well schooled in emergency care. Unfortunately, they shaved my beautiful fur and left me looking far too shabby and with a punk hairdo that I could not face in the window glass.

My fur is growing back to its previous beauty so now I can look anyone in the eye.m My golden eyes have returned to their previous glossy state. I feel certain all my physical charms are back. It was dreadful to have been so unkempt.

A very sad outcome of the bobcat encounter is that I am no longer allowed out into the world. I lament that every day. It is not quite the same that the servants open the windows and the sliding doors. Putting your face to the screen and sniffing is nothing like sticking your head in the grass and nibbling a leaf or two.

The servants have been far more entertaining since the accident, devising silly games and encouraging me to play when really they should be tending to household chores. I have to admit that a good tussle with a ribbon does make me feel fulfilled for a short while but it pales in comparison to catching a mouse to have prepared for my dinner. One has to make do, though.

I never did know what happened to those catches anyway. After loudly praising my mouse or sometimes even a nice large roof rat, I would be expecting it grilled for dinner or at least tartare with a nice sauce. But not once did that happen. A mystery I could never explain.

Oh well, those halcyon days are gone but life still has many pleasures for me. My days are still too short but that doesn’t stop me from going to sleep thinking, Damn that bobcat, damn his glittering eyes. And oh how I make mincemeat of him in my dreams.

Drunk on Starlight

Teetering
At the edge
Of the universe
I drink in
Filtered starlight
For the heart can't take
Such beauty straight
Or its fiery taste
And the way
It bounces
Back to ice
Sometimes

Then I wrap
Myself
In night
Lacy, tattered sky
Smelling of heaven
And candle wax
Watching, unrepentant
As stars
Are encased
In amber and dust

Body Snatchers

Celluloid dreams stick to our
skin in the damp Florida night.

Some follow us home from the
army base theatre, lie with

us in the enveloping dark,
as the grandfather clock, bongs the hours away,

body snatchers, would they snatch me?
I lift the covers off my face, peek out the window.

Would I be lost in the silvery starlight?
Would anyone know I was gone?

I hear my brother's gentle snore,
if they snatch him, would I play tag with a phantom Gary?

I grab hold of my bride doll;
her veil scratches my cheek as

I try to push this story out of my bed,
body snatchers surround me, whirling dervish dancers.

I'm dizzy, like spinning on our front lawn,
watching the universe turning inside out.

I wake up screaming, screaming.
My parents rush in bleary eyed.

"Who are you? Who are you?" I yell, pushing them back,
"Where are my real parents?"

Don't Stare

A barker calls out, a tent awaits.
Leaning  into each other's safety,
we dare ourselves inside.
Shoving our trendy sunglasses,
our hip junior high cover, into our hair,
we push away dusty tarp
and  take baby steps forward as if playing
Mother May I  with the giant man, the first freak.

The line of people jostles, all gawks and snickers
and finger pointing.
The giant sits with a blank face
on a giant chair, almost a throne,
like  king of the freaks.
he seems almost like God and I know
I am guilty.

My eyes fix on the giant's shoes, his huge shoes.
Rose is looking at them too.
I feel like crying, maybe I am.
Rose's brown eyes are blinking really, really fast
I can't look again. "Don't stare," mother always says.
Rose and I know this kind of watching,
the army brats, the always new girls.
Start school in January or March,
watch the glares, see their eyes planning.

We run red faced  past the other freaks
into a darkened nook, into a sickly sweet smell
into fluorescent lighting  shining onto a fetus,
a ghostly white pup,  floating in formaldehyde
one quick glance at the two headed dog
who won't see us stare.     

My stomach hurts.
I wish I hadn't eaten cotton candy, corn dogs and funnel cakes.
I see nothing now except sawdust and peanut shells.
The tent opens  into welcoming Florida sunshine, into
normal.
Sunglasses back on. Cool chicks.

A Prose Poem about Trying To Write a Lyric Poem at 11 p.m.

I am brushing my teeth and it begins- a word attack. Sometimes I close my eyes at these moments and dismiss the frisky ideas with the wave of a hand. But phrases love to gather at bedtime. I tell them to return in the morning but they never do. I worry I have turned down some majestic poems that reared their creative heads just after I’ve turned off the light. So, I go to the computer and type syllables that sling themselves at me like cream pies in a keystone cops movie.

the stars luxuriate
In their bed of night

Good start! I like the idea of the stars luxuriating, which is just what I want to do luxuriate under the covers, push my toes against the new flannel sheets I had put on for winter, curl my back into my husband’s and slip into dreams. But the words persist.

arising in the morning dimpled with sleep
to disappear under the cover of light,

Oh, sleep! “Sleep, that knits up the raveled sleeve of care.” That’s exactly what I need. The thought of a cover of light is appealing, rather than a cover of darkness, which one hears so often that it is, of course, trite. Cover of light is original, or so I think at what now is approaching 11:30. I long for my own covers, my blanket, my comforter, but the thoughts soldier on

Until the sun, a star itself, and surely knowing so
Preens its way over the horizon

Well, well, an overdone pathetic fallacy at midnight. What a surprise! The sun, aware it is the brightest star and the whole preening bit. I mean, really. At the very least, I should remove the word horizon, an overused word if ever there was one, but look at me posturing about clichés when I am writing a star poem again. The lines have become punchy now. Swarming mosquitoes, ready to land. I listen-in a minute before I slap them silly.

As the simple stars simmer waiting their turn
To shimmer, shimmer, shimmer,

The computer page is shimmering now. My eyes are heavy. But, of course, one more line has to have its say.

Later the night again rolls its way over the pages of the sky.

Rolling, rolling, rolling over, burrowing, snuggling. I’m going to bed. Contain yourself, metaphors. Settle down, similes, until morning rolls its way over the horizon.

Spinning Angels

Tiny angels piroutte to candle light, setting off little gold bells filling the room with music. A music that speaks of Christmas magic, miracles even. The first time I see them they sit on my best friend’s piano and I covet them, the best Christmas decoration ever. Low tech compared to today’s excesses but in the fifties to a ten year wonderful beyond measure. I was enchanted by the whisper of their wings as they sailed, candle powered, in a delicate pax de deux with light.

However, my mom could not be persuaded that we should immediately buy such a treasure of our own. The fact that we weren’t going to have these angels made them take on an unreal value. Perhaps they were too expensive I thought; my parent’s limited budget did not allow lots of extras. They saved carefully to give us Christmas presents. Decorations weren’t vital.

I had almost forgotten about the angels; then one day forty years later I saw them in a catalogue. Naturally I ordered them immediately. They arrived, tinny, and flimsy, hard to put together, the angels falling from their perches, the bells clanging off their posts, the thin candles burning out before you could blink an eye.

Ah ha, I thought these irritating angels could be a metaphor for everything I feel about Christmas. My constant love-hate battle with December 25th. The superficial glow that can fall apart upon contact with reality. I used to stuff myself with so much Christmas joy that I made myself sick. I never was sure if I was ecstatically happy or in state of despair. I remember breathing Christmas from December 1st on since I was old enough to understand about Christmas. I read all the Christmas stories, ate all the holiday food, inhabited all the myths, wanted it all so much. There was never too much Christmas.

When I was seven I had two plastic Santa pins, attached to each was a tiny string that you pulled to make Santa’s nose light up. I couldn’t get enough of it. I never wore both of them but just having two seemed fantastic. Some of my friends had one (we probably got them in a cereal box) but no one else I knew had two.

Mom, however, in the spirit of Christmas sharing made me give one to my visiting cousin. I went into my room after she left and cried bitter tears. I wished, what I knew were evil thoughts, that the string on her pin would break, that her Santa’s nose would just sit there mocking her. All the while hoping Santa cold not read my mind

Mom loved Christmas, too. She told me that when she was growing up she was always so full of Christmas excitement her mother would say, “To me, “Marian is Christmas and Christmas in Marian.” We were Christmas co-dependents.

Then came Christmas day and the crash, the let-down. It was never enough, the presents were wonderful yes, the tree was beautiful, yes, the music, lovely, church services, glowing but then it would hit, the gloomies, the sick feeling of emptiness.

But the next year I would do it all again. I would start December 1st, Blue Christmassing with Elvis, tossing down ribbon candy like an alcoholic would whiskey, steeping myself in what had to turn in to disaster because I knew no moderation. Life was surely going to turn into a bona-fide miracle in our house this year. This pre-Christmas stuff was going to last forever but it never did and the hang-over was fierce.

Things improved when I married and had my own family. One that came with a Christmas loving husband from Taiwan who was meeting American holiday extravagance for the first time and falling for it like I had. He, however, didn’t suffer from split personality issues over the holidays. His was an easy love affair with no lover’s quarrels, no recriminations.

My love-hate affair still lingers, the gloomies lurk ready to rear their ugly head but I’ve learned with Christmas as with life the golden mean works best. All things in moderation. If I don’t allow myself to get drunk on Christmas there is less of a chance of cravings, or hang-overs. So I lower my expectations, a lot.

I take Christmas in little sips like a fine liqueur, tiny bites like a rich chocolate truffle. I watch, listen, and wait for Christmas moments, ones that I don’t plan, don’t spend time in the kitchen slaving over, don’t put on the stereo. I let them come to me.

Like the little girl in the shower stall next to me at the Y who sings Christmas carols sweetly off key, the baby in the supermarket wearing a Santa hat, or a card with pictures from an uncle I haven’t heard from in a long time. Yesterday it was robins eating all the red berries outside my picture window, the ones I was enjoying, because they looked so Christmassy. I wished them well anyway, remembering Mom’s lesson. It’s Christmas. Time to share.

Gluttony and expectations are part of what got me in trouble in the first place. Little steps. One day at a time. I can do Christmas. I really can.

Fa La La La La

It's November I'm Buying earphones at radio shack I heard jingle bells or something holidayish playing. When did the Christmas music start?" I asked blithely (a fine word, blithely). "Yesterday." he said. "So soon, said I?" "I hate it already." he groaned. "Ah yes, " I replied. I remember my son working at Baby Gap and grumbling at my playing Christmas music at home."

"Grumbling," he responded "grumbling. Why I would have taken a baseball bat to the stereo. I would have bashed it in if my parents did that to me. I would have said now, how do you like your Christmas music?" I backed up and held my small bag close to my heart.

"I hate Christmas." he said, telling me about his Grandmother dying 4 days before Christmas 2 years ago ( I commiserated, of course because it was sad and he seemed sweet if a tad bit troubled.) I tried very hard not to think of the song Grandma, or was that Grandpa getting run over by the reindeer? It was horribly mean to even think it.

He said he never had a girlfriend at Christmas but this year he did. "So this year might be better than usual, " I smiled channeling my inner Mary Poppins. "Does your girlfriend like Christmas?"

"No, she hates it, too. More than I, a lot more."

"Well, have a great day." my Mary squealed.

"Try to stay out of stores playing holiday music." he answered.

I will, I will. I will hold my black umbrella high and float above the blasted jingling of bells, above grandparents colliding into reindeer, chestnuts roasting over fires and the sound of stereos smashing to the sounds of "pa rum pa pa rum."