Coyote

 Coyote

 

He was in New York—

a ridiculous place for a coyote.

Coyotes roam, wild and free,

on western lands 

(and occasional neighborhoods)

 They are predators, not

prone to restaurants or linen napkins.

He had crazy eyes—

(now, THAT’S New York!)

but did not belong in the company of a toy shop.

 

I ransomed him

and took him home to Washington

(another realm of crazy)

and set him on my foyer loveseat

next to a company of sheep.

When next I passed,

the sheep were huddled in one corner

and Coyote sprawled in the other.

No sheep were unaccounted for,

but territory was established. 

Left Behind

 What is the world we leave behind us?

I have been thinking lately

—in a rather morose way—

of what I leave behind

when inevitable death claims me.

Mostly paper, I think—

in all its maniifestations:

poems and books and pictures,

a scattering of things:

wood bowls, a giant bear,

a few dear monsters..

clothes and furniture,

dishes (and dishes) (and dishes).

There are things that made me laugh,

things that caught my eye

with their color, or their style, 

their clever words or concepts...

(I do admire clever, above all.)

But none of these will stay, but

will find their way to shops and sales

and maybe, just maybe,

to hearts that will treasure them as I do:

pieces of my soul

that will endure.

 

Bear

Bear

He is huge.

Ungainly. Impossible

to carry or place in a room

without prodigious explanation.

I have an affinity for these giants.

There was Bob, the Beerwolf:

seven feet of resin statue 

who lived in my garage for years--

a refugee from a misbegotten yard sale,

creating smiles at his incongruity,

making occasional appearances

at parties, offices, plays and other venues.

But now, there is Carson,

namesake of a butler of notable bulk

and infinite wisdom, ensconced

on a sofa, in a bedroom,

startling all and sundry who might pass,

yet offering a furry hug and warm welcome

for those who need it most.

  

Perceptions

 

There were folks who came for lunch,

and I worried over a menu,

over proffered drinks, over the messy house,

the table settings, even the state of 

the front door, and my choice of what to wear.

I found myself uniformly wanting;

coming up short in every way.

The hard-boiled eggs

(destined for deviling)

refused to part company with their shells..

my incomparable rolls found a distinct comparison

(inexplicably) with hockey pucks.

Dessert tasted fine, but failed miserably

in appearance.

And then, they asked to see the garden.

To tell the truth, I don't really garden.

I putter here and there, and prune a little.

I love my azaleas and camellias 

and my fountain of succulents.

I have bougainvillea and wisteria,

an orange tree, and a patch of green, green grass

that used to drive my granddaughters

to joyous somersaults and cartwheels.

I had almost forgotten the garden. 

I'd almost forgotten the pleasure of lunch 

with friends; the rediscovery

of what brings us together:

not food (or the perfection thereof)

not clean front doors and sparkling windows,

or lovely tables,

not even a garden that I love--

We are bound instead by friendship 

that is knowingly blind to minor faults, 

that, inexplicably, sees through caring eyes 

the important stuff that is worth remembrance.

Birthday (Christmas)

Birthday

 

The shepherds came, with all their clamor

And sheep and dogs.

The kings came, too, complete with retinues,

And camels and camel-drivers and tents.

It must have been a sight for the folks of Bethlehem:

A veritable circus come to town..

And they came to a STABLE?

 

Kings and shepherds, side by side

With sheep and cows and donkeys?

And you can’t forget the camels...

Mary and Joseph (particularly Mary)

Exhausted and dead on their feet

With a squalling baby and 

no warm bed for the night.

 

Who’s telling this incredible story?

Not anyone who was there, 

Or anyone who has ever traveled

Through crowded streets,

Or been stuck between flights 

At a crowded airport

With a baby and luggage and miles 

yet to go.

 

They tell us a romantic tale of stars and shepherds

And glory in the skies,

Of long journeys from distant kingdoms,

And fabulous gifts brought to a fellow king.

But—as is often the case—

Reality trumps the story,

And it is only in retrospect 

That earth-shattering, mind-blowing impact

Is assigned to this simple birth: 

This forgettable family story

that has been told for generations, through the ages,

and will be told again and again

Until the end of time.

  

Conversation

 Conversation

 

In the text-and-email world

in which we operate,

in the sterile black-and-white

communications

we exchange,

where is the space 

for face-to-face?

 

We are increasingly

distant, aloof, divorced

from our own words,

divorced fro each other.

We do not see reactions:

her smile, his hurt, her anger,

their disappointment.

 

We substitute emoticons 

for emotion, and somehow

define that as relationship.

We exist in abbreviated times:

words and feelings and people

reduced to lowest terms—

symptoms of abbreviated connection.

 

We exist at arms’ length,

deaf and blind to each other;

riveted to screens and earbuds.

Is it any wonder that

we lack understanding,

empathy, kindness...?

 

We need to talk.

 

 

Anniversary

Anniversary

We have been in love so long

we have our own vocabulary;

short cuts to showing what’s in our hearts.

We share our children, our family, our day-to-day

routines and conversations.

There are references no one else could fathom

and memories we hold as secret treasure,

forever full of love and laughter.

 

We have lived and laughed so long that

sights and sounds and unedited opinions

meet and meld with all our flaws and virtues--

and through it all, we are one:

a single heart between us.

And-- if  ever asked again 

that long-ago initial question--

that ceremonial and vital question-- 

we’ve been in love so long that we both would say 

“I do.”

  

Shakespeare Simplified

It isn't the language--

you get used to that,

and the more you hear,

the more familiar it sounds..

as familiar as your heartbeat,

as rhythmic as your speech.

It's the thought that's hard

to wrap your head around:

the themes, the universal themes

of jealousy, of rivalry, of hate, of love,

all jumbled together

as it always is in life.

Life condensed to hours

on a stage, life that stands

and shouts for attention;

inexplicable life with all its

inconveniences and wrong turns:

happy and tragic and comic life.

Our life, explained

by someone from another time,

another world that still offers

lessons for us all, lessons

for being human.

That is Shakespeare,

simplified.

Chautauqua

This is where I should be writing a poem:

a lament for all that was, for all that's missing now:

freedom, justice, trust,

tolerance.

All those missing things

that might have stopped a man,

stopped that leap upon the stage,

stopped that knife-thrust,

that almost-murder,

frozen in the act.

That was the knife

that slashed the fabric of Chautauqua,

the peace, the thoughtfulness, the beauty of this place.

Torn by a man who believed he was serving God,

who believed he did God's will...but

who can lift their hand and call it God's justice?

Who can know the mind of God?

 

PIVOT

It isn't as if I planned it.

I love ice cream. That's all.

And, one evening, dusty and disheveled,

in the midst of cleaning a closet,

I answered the door.

I'd never met him; but 

my roommate had sung his praises...

and here he was on our doorstep.

Irritated at the interruption,

I barked that she wasn't home.

And there you have it; it was his birthday

and there was no one to celebrate,

to share a little cake and ice cream

and...didn't I like ice cream?

I sighed, and said, "I do."

As I said, it's just that I liked ice cream

(and he does, too.)

Fifty years later,

fifty years after I sighed

and said another "I do"--

it's still a celebration.

Coming Home

We're home again. Or at least, halfway home. We just spent two months in our OTHER home in San Diego, and have returned to the dregs of winter here in Virginia. If you can believe it, in the rush of our post-Christmas departure, I managed to leave our wreath on the door and a few bright red Christmas decorations in the pots on the porch. There are a few Christmas presents still in the living room that I have to find places for, and the little potted Norfolk Island pines I bought for the mantel are (oddly) still fresh-looking and green. Go figure.

I, on the other hand, am constantly in need of refreshing. Two months may have been two years as far as my brain is concerned. I turn the wrong way to get to the microwave. I've forgotten where I keep the towels. I even had to stop and think about which mug I use for my tea. I am, in a word, discombobulated.

Adding to the overall confusion is the readjustment to east coast time, traffic, and weather. And to the importunate Jake, who seems to be on some sort of schedule set by a master of psychological torture: he wakes and yowls around 3:45 am, and again at irregular times after that, punctuating his singing with treks across the bed and pillows, the nightstand, and all bodies in between. During one of those forays, I remembered (after Jake's leap from the nightstand to the floor, followed by ominous silence) that Jake can pick up my glasses and/or wristwatch in his teeth and make off with one or the other. He had.

Amidst all this, we discovered that our USPS mail forwarding request (scheduled to stop two weeks ago) had continued, and that last week's Virginia mail had just arrived in San Diego. So our mail had an all expenses paid (by me) jaunt from VA to CA and back. In a compensatory move, however, the newspaper delivery, supposed to resume today, did not. Why do I even bother?

Today's journeys encompass: the grocery store (after some reconnoitering in the pantry, refrigerator, and freezer), the UPS store to pick up stuff we shipped back, perhaps the doctor's office for some bloodwork that I had postponed, and maybe, just a spin around town to re-familiarize myself with the place. Maybe the nursery for some pansies or something to brighten the porch and patio. Some flowers for the table? I will have earned them.

Minutiae (also Taxi)

 Minutiae

 

An insurmountable list of tasks

written in sequence—

each task tucked into

a space between two others:

squeezed into the interstices of living,

hardly noticed.

Prescriptions, groceries,

laundry, the post office,

furnace filters, phone calls,

chinking in the gaps, 

locking days together with Lego-like precision--

these ordinary tasks:

veins of gold in the granite of living.

 

 

 

 

Taxi

 

The yellow taxi-streams

Flow past islands

Of parks, museums, offices;

Past rock-bound towers of merchandise

Flashing neon-bright both day and night.

The city is a living thing,

Breathing traffic and smoke,

Pulsing with people

In a rhythm all its own.

For Katherine (our pastor at OPMH)

 For Katherine

 

Life is a constant surprise:

The unexpected rises each morning with the sun,

challenging and daring us to invent ourselves again

(with love)

in the face of unpredictable circumstance.

 

We learn – through a world of experience--

what works, what is required, what help we need,

what help we can give to others in our journeys

(with love)

and discover surprising possibilities.

 

There are stars to follow

through this maze of challenge and possibility;

there are those who lead the way

(with love)

and help us to surprise ourselves.

 

All the love,

the living, learning, leading you have shared,

the challenge, possibility, and surprise

we’ve known

go with you as you leave.

 

May love walk with you as you go. 

 

Room Mothers (for Sharon on her birthday, March 19)

 

My mom’s lilies always bloomed on St Joseph’s Day

or maybe just around then,

but other things blossomed too:

friendships that lasted longer than those flowers

grew and strengthened over the years.

Begun when our kids shared a kindergarten classroom, 

fostered over tea and coffee cake,

joined by others: mothers who shared recipes and opinions and lives.

While our children learned alphabets and reading and getting along

we baked cupcakes and manned parties and cut and pasted and showed up.

We were friends then, and continue today

a country apart, but still sharing, if only memories.

Still blooming like lilies on St Joseph’s Day: your birthday.

I remember.

New House

 

What makes one house sing

when others barely hum?

What electricity calls our names

in resonance with walls and spaces?

Is there some language that summons each to each,

and why does its energy defy description?

A house reflects the love within

and draws more to itself. Why else

would one choose the old and battered

over the pristine new?

Sometimes it makes no sense—

but love defies logic. 

Sometimes, a place is simply there, 

and needs a loving hand.   

 

explained in the pen-scratched

images from decades, years, from centuries gone by.

I collected them:

fragile paper, battered books that charmed me

with their condensation of facts and observations.

These maps and books are journeys in themselves,

allowing us to follow in the footsteps of

our fathers and grandfathers, laying out

the perils, the impossibilities, the romance of

traversing the unknown.

These maps, these guides, these books

encompass their hopes, their fears,

their triumphs--

and failures, too—heartbreaking failures.

Whether the goals were gold, or land, or freedom,

whether they sought simply to know

what lay beyond the mountains....

this assemblage is their story,

as it is ours.

Mary McElveen (2018)

Page 1

Patience

 

 

It has been a year of waiting:

deadlines, waiting for a sale,

a purchase, for documents 

to be signed, returned or changed.

Waiting to see the house,

to get a repairman, to get

a customer. Waiting

on appraisers, inspectors, agents,

mortgage brokers, insurance people,

the rain to stop,

roofers, cleaning people.

Waiting in line to book

space for the moving truck,

for the truck to be repaired

in Texas on its way west. Waiting

for the day to come when

the waiting ends.

Cortona

Bright as the roadside poppies,

vibrant as a Giotto fresco

or the hills of Assisi..

Sweet and refreshing as lemon gelato,

enduring as Etruscan stone,

lingering as a taste of Brunello,

warm as Firenze in May...

 

our memories of Cortona. 

Looking back: Cortona

 Learning Italian (A Basic Alphabet) for our tour group

 

It starts with an “A”...

Assisi, of course, and Antonia.

“Buon giorno!” and batteries,

Buonorotti, bibite, Brunello.

Chianti, (don’t forget the cattle!)

croissants and chocolate,

Santa Chiara and a reluctant

“Ciao!”to Cortona.

Darcy, Donatella,

Esperanza, Elisabeta—

(and, again, those Etruscans!)

San Francisco, Firenze, 

the flags and the frescoes,

Florentine steaks..

(again, with the cows!)

“Grazie!” for gelato, and guides,

For Ghirlandaio and Giotto.

Headphones (more batteries?)

“Ingresso” for “Entrance”

And Italia.

Jogurt and Kevin (and

the “CH” that sounds like K

for those damned Etruscan cows!)

Then, locals and Larry,

Louise and limoncello.

Santa Maria del(all her appellations)

Santa Margherita of the mountaingoat,

Montepulciano...BUT

Don’t forget the Medicis,

And all the Madonnas, too.

N is for Nutella,

Then olives and oil and olive groves,

The Pope and Perugia---

But also the poppies

(red explosions on the landscape)

And always, always, “Quanta costa?”

You can’t leave out relics:

Heads and thumbs and whatever else

St. Helena found and carted home.

There’s Siena, San Luca, and

Saints at every turn..

AND

Speaking of turns,

Sergio, the miracle driver.

T is for tours, tartuffo, and tagliatelle,

Not to mention the TicTac man.

U is for Umbria and

“USCETA” for “EXIT”.

Then Vespers, and vino,

Wild boar and the walking,

and walking, and walking...

 

X, Y, and Z are the sign of “The End”

of our euros, our alphabet,

but never our friends.

Words

 Words

 

There are words here:

lengthy, brief,

antiquated, modern,

enunciated, mispronounced, 

abbreviated, lengthened,

extended, contracted,

drawled or clipped:

their very sounds add to their meaning.

Backyard slang, drawing room formality,

with or without gesture for explication.

Communication in evolved or primitive form,

face to face and meaningful.

 

What wonders words are!

Gathered in clouds around us all,

a world of choices to speak,

to write, to imagine...

Be silent a moment, though,

and listen...

There are poets here

and they have ways with words.

Dandelions

 

 

Concrete cracks and median strips,

slivers of dirt between crumbling bricks:

anywhere a seed can blow, can land, 

anywhere it can squeeze a thread of root

in its search for sustenance.

That’s where a dandelion grows.

 

And somehow, it thrives.

It sprouts a ragged crown of green;

it sports a hollow stem, 

and issues forth a sunshine flower

beloved of children, creating

grubby bouquets in a water glass.

 

It’s a lot like hope: 

hope that sees the possibility,

the potential in a tiny crack,

that needs only a drop of water,

a teaspoon of soil,

and faith in the power of sunshine.

 

And with that shred of hope,

a sunny flower becomes

a star-shower of seeds

whose boundaries are the wind,

who travel farther than imagination,

who transcend expectations and grow.

 

We should all be dandelions.

Password Blues

 

I’ve got the password blues:

can’t remember what I’ve used—

hardly know what to choose

deep in the password blues.

 

I’ve run out of children,

I’ve run out of pets,

used up old addresses..

What’s more, I forget.

 

Is it alphanumeric, or simply generic?

Keys to accounts? Anxiety mounts:

Too much to remember, those user IDs—

I’ve got more passwords than my dog has fleas.

 

Password for the internet, password for traveling,

Password for payroll..my life is unraveling.

One for my messages, one for my mail,

One for my bank account, one that just fails.

 

Elephant memory is what we need,

or a list, if I pay the experts no heed.

Turn on the computer—my heart drops to my socks.

There’s always another log-in box.

 

It’s a bad, bad feeling, 

like rain in my shoes.

I’ve got no memory—

and the password blues.

 

 

 

 

Poetry: A Definition

 

It’s not just words, it’s words as art.

The shape and sound and texture of language:

not meaning alone.

And that’s where people miss the boat.

 

“Express yourself” they say...

but poems are sculpture and music and vision as well:

structure and vacuum,

the whole AND its parts—

what’s missing, what’s implied:

a workout for the mind

strengthening the muscle of invention,

bulking up on vocabulary,

improving on creation.

 

Perhaps a way

of playing god.

Memories and Visions

 

The white space that refreshes the eye.

The oasis in the desert of the workday world.

The pause in the ticking clock of everyday.

The reset button on our mental computers.

The splash of color in the black-and-white columns

Of the day’s events.

 

Art: renewable and renewing in lives

that are not; turning the everyday

on its head, giving new perspectives

on the ordinary.

 

Vibrantly focused, bent by visions

Reflected, distorted, embellished

By a human lens,

The light of living fractures

Into a million crystal shards.

 

We are the prisms

through which the world bleeds.

Born out of storm and sunlight,

we are the makers of rainbows.

We build our visions.

We make art.