Turning Over Rocks: RBG

 

If you’ve ever been a gardener—

one of those precious people 

who dig in the dirt, and plant

and nourish seeds and make them

(sometimes by force of will)

grow—

you know what it’s like.

A lot of work, a lot of rocks

to be removed, weeds

to pull, water

to be carried. And sometimes,

it seems like no-one knows

all that you do

for the sake of making

something green, something alive,

something good, something to remember..

She was a gardener.

She dug deep and

shone her light, her wisdom,

in the dark places— 

She turned over rocks

She rooted out weeds,

and willed us, willed the system

to grow and protect,

and nourish and cultivate

the neglected, the ignored,

and give them opportunity.

Good people do that,

often quietly, often by dissenting,

for the sake of making

a world that’s greener, more alive,

a better place, a nobler place.

Remember her.

Book Collector

 Book Collector

​

He is a collector,

and he said some people

hold their books too closely,

protecting them from the 

world at large

and the damage it inflicts.

He said

he wanted us to take them

from their shelf-homes,

to touch and turn their pages,

to read, admire,

and be inspired.

​

I think, contrarily,

that it is the books themselves 

who, after long and lonely seclusion,

standing rigidly

back to back 

appreciate

a walk in the world,

filling their lungs with

fresh air,

filling minds with 

fresh thoughts, warming 

their pages in the sunshine,

opening their windows

and flinging wide doors

to greet the reverential reader,

to clap him enthusiastically

on his back

and welcome him, at long last,

home.

Valentine 2021

 Valentine 2021

 

Twenty-four seven, three sixty-five.

All-day, all-night, three-meals-a-day.

Morning traffic, nightly news, 

foggy mornings, afternoon clouds,

rising moons, occasional stars.

Quarantine.

 

You are my sunrise,

my sunset,

the color to my world. 

You are my light

when the world is dark:

you make me shine.

Memory and Vision

 Memory and Vision: What is Art?

 

No matter what it is, there is something only you can see; it may be a lonely birch pointing to the sky. It may be a twist of wood that catches your eye and is beautiful to you. You may see a stack of canned goods and see the trace of a remembered curve—or hear the music in a particular string of words. Vision commits a thought to material representation, and that frozen, yet fluid thought remains: a memory to be seen and considered and experienced by others and their children , inspired and inspiring, as long as it exists. 

 

A vision is ephemeral; 

art is the attempt to capture it.  

Memory puts things in boxes; 

Vision strews them about 

and picks and chooses to tell its story.

Order travels in straight lines; 

art takes circuitous paths.

Order is black and white; 

art is living color.

Order is a ticking time bomb; 

art stops the clock.

Order is featureless desert; 

art is our oasis.

Order is a clacking computer; 

art is the reset button.

In a frantic landscape of orderly living, 

art is the white space that refreshes the eye.

 

Vision depends on memory, 

and that memory depends on art--

Feeding one another, 

nourished by the interaction, 

Twined and twisted

Till there is no division, 

no beginning, no end, 

merged in a circle of renewal.

 

 

Life is laid down in black and white, 

straight lines and logic, 

squared up and saluting, 

humming with action.

Art brings us together.

Rooted here, we all can grow.

Teachers

There are two statements that I am proud to make: 

first, I am a mom, and secondly (and no less proud), 

 I was a teacher.

Before I taught (like the rest of the uninformed)

I thought it’d be easy; it was talking

in 40 minute bouts, with summers off

and all school holidays. All the kids would be

like me: motivated, well-behaved, and ready.

I was wrong.

There were some, of course, but

far outnumbered by the ones who

didn’t care, didn’t want, didn’t have time

for education in any form.

Who were simply serving their sentence:

no structure, no modifiers, no grammar, no rules.

I wasn't ready.

We didn’t teach English, or math, or history, or chemistry.

We taught kids. We taught communities.

We taught living and getting along

and how to slog through those unknown swamps: 

the impenetrable forests of expectations, the endless

pursuit of someone else’s standards.

I learned to teach.

This is our legacy: not certificates

or degrees, or awards, 

but people—getting through, getting by,

living their best lives, continuing

to live, and to learn, 

Morning Walk

 I have a plan. 

We're going on a tour this fall, and there will be walking. 

A LOT of walking, by my usual couch-potato-rooted-to-the-sofa standards. 

And so, to prepare, I'm going to walk all summer, each day. 

Inside, outside, rain or shine, 

up stairs, down stairs, maybe even (horrors!) at a gym. 

I refuse to be one of those laggard geezers, 

hobbling along behind the group, 

breathing hard, and dropping, exhausted, 

at every pause in the tour. 

I am better than that. Or so I say.

And so, this morning, with a hint of cloud in the sky, 

I get up before sunrise and walk to the river. 

A single bright line on the horizon promised morning, 

and, for a few minutes, 

the bicyclist paused, 

the runners stopped, 

the ducks on the water turned eastward, 

and even the trees rustled their appreciation.

Creation paused momentarily with me

to watch the daily miracle: 

sunrise.

DIY

Stop. Dangerous. DIY.

The Harry Homeowner

who preceded us at this address

had limited skills

that he insisted on using

to render this house

a stationary time-bomb

waiting for ignition.

The dangling wire under the eaves,

connected to nothing but a power source,

sparking away, unobserved--

the faucet in the backyard

(spouting water at 140 degrees)

lying in wait for the unwary gardener--

the multiple threats to life and limb

(so many more)

that he deemed good enough,

and cheerfully crossed off his list.