The thing with feathers

Blackbirds & cowbirds,
the grackles & jays spend the snowy
morning at the feeders bullying finches
& sparrows. Cardinals aflame around
the fire bush weigh opportunity.
The sweet titmouse couple
only want sunflower
seeds since the peanuts ran out.

They dive into the bare forsythia
as a clutter of starlings
crash land. So loud; so round
with gold leaf & ebony feathers.
Brassy & bossy, their yellow beaks
as sharp as their chatter. They’ve driven
off the wren & no chickadee has been
seen since before the snow.

These birds gather as though I owe
them something & perhaps I do.
I must owe something to the world.
Maybe it is just this: sustenance
in the cold.

Though I doubt it.
 

 

T

 

Happy 2025 (to happiness, to happier, to in lieu of non-happiness)

Love is a new pair of Muck boots. My 19-year-old Bogs have been leaking for a year or two, though they are still good for quick trips in and about the yard. anything too wet (fording streams, walking into caves) soaks your socks. Usually, my boots have a layer of mud from the Playa after I come home. I missed a trip this year. 

The snow we've had was so light that boots were unnecessary. It's nice to have these. I wore them into the yard tonight when I brought the birdfeeders in. It has been rainy here for the past four or five days, and the temperature has ranged from the mid-40s to the mid-50s, night and day. Cooler weather is coming. A shift. And that's not just a metaphor.

Happy New Year, happy blank slate.

A day will come/ when my body will no longer open like a suitcase/ to take myself on a journey where I’ll dream/ of never being found, where I’ll dream of never finding/ what I’ve lost.*

Issac would have been 34 this year, born at 3AM on December 24th. Like his sister, there are a lot of poems that mention, are directed or cover our lives. This is one of my favorites.

Daydream

We share no physical characteristics
aside from the arched foot
inherited like an old pot;
my son mirrors his father like a miniature.
But we are entwined in our abilities
to lose ourselves, when being lost is most unneeded.

My own father was quick to point out this defect
as I lulled myself to stupor at the edge of a stream
or sat too long under stars
until shouts of come home had to find me in the dark.

Hard to tell my son that this gene
which makes him seem to slumber in the classroom
or linger too long over chores
is something to tuck away
until time allows for an all-afternoon laze
of conjured dreams;
a place I will never dim as we sit, silent,
                                            shoulders touching slightly.

* 

Fig of Unfolding

Octavio Quintanilla

Ciudad de México

 

We arrived in Mexico City late, and there were lines of people making their way to the Basilica of Guadalupe (Basilica de Guadalupe). It was December 11, the Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe. A pilgrimage for many from all over Mexico and the world. The taxi driver asked if we knew of it, and I said a tiny bit. It was already 10 PM and the streets were filled --going the opposite way – but within 40 minutes we were at our Airbnb in the Roma Norte district. We were late arriving; our flight had been delayed from Saint Louis on American Airlines to Dallas and we would have missed the connection. Jerry went to work and got us onto a flight to Houston with a follow-up to Mexico City on United, unfortunately, we lost eleven hours. The American Airlines flight never did leave. But perspective is always necessary with travel, just as we found out about the delay and got to a quiet place to regroup, we saw a man coming off a plane on a stretcher receiving CPR. The paramedics took him away, and shortly after a woman in a wheelchair and two people with luggage followed. Then everyone else de-planed. Witness to a pilgrimage of another sort, people were quietly gathering as we headed to the other airline.
    It was our first time in Mexico City (many trips to Tijuana while in San Diego but never any further) and we enjoyed our visit. A lot of walking, a lot of sitting in the sun and watching the city go by, museum visits (Frida Kahlo sold out until the end of the year, I didn’t research tickets enough!), some wonderful food and good sleep for the most part. There was one night when Club America beat Monterrey in football (soccer) for a three-peat (apparently a first!) and the party in the streets went on until the early morning. The synchronized horn blowing and revving of engines was a good touch. The day after was a Sunday and we spent a quiet late morning visiting nearby parks, a dangerous place as there was a pet adoption event happening, but also a market for pet products. Lots of dogs and some cats (looking so bored with it all!). Temptation.
    Here's an interesting thing we found, there are special admission tickets for a lot of museums. If one is over 60 the tickets are discounted or free. (My very favorite price) And we found a park where only seniors are allowed. What?!? And it is a gorgeous park, full of wide, level paths, lots of benches, statues and fountains. Plus, they have rooms for classes and a kitchen. Jerry was invited to play dominoes, but we were heading back to our neighborhood, so he had to decline.
    Across the street from our lodging was a school we could see from our balcony. One morning the children were practicing a dance move, a few days later a program of some sort was happening in the same area. Adore!

Throw your shadow overboard *

I took Jerry to breakfast at SWIC this morning. We’d been talking about having breakfast there since the kitchen was under remodel, but we never made it over. We made a date last week, breakfast and then we finish any shopping for the feast we’ll be having on Friday. One day after Thanksgiving day, but thankful, nonetheless. We found the cafeteria nearly empty; it was still half an hour before any classes started so we quickly got our made-to-order omelets which were huge and proceeded to each eat half. But it was fun then I showed him the art display from one of the art classes where they folded and tied foam to make 3D models and drew pictures, (he agreed that one drawing was definitely a vagina), over to the veteran’s lounge and the e-gaming center.

    Monday was my only day of class this week and next week we have test number four and the following Monday, the 9th, is our final. Also, this week I will turn in my final package for my first semester of the MFA. It hasn't been really busy but I’m looking forward to the month off. If a year ago you would have told me I’d be high-fiving classmates in a math class I’d have asked, “in what world”? But that happened last week shortly after we discussed with the same classmate how to “disappear” a cat from her house. It was a long-involved story where I tried to get the best result for the cat… and afterward, we solved a math problem as we both worked ahead on a problem. She started this class by saying, “I have never passed a math class.” I said I haven’t had a math class in mumblemumble years" … and now here we are.

    After we finished our breakfast and shopping I came home and did another thing I never thought I’d do; I polished silver. Not as time-consuming or awful as I imagined. I just recently looked into some boxes I packed in April of 2013, and we left in storage in Klamath Falls until 2019 and once they made their way here they have been in hanging out in a closet. Also in that closet was the China Jerry brought back (from Hong Kong) during a cruise in 1988? 89? 91? Not really sure, I think we’ve used it once or twice, the silverware, the same. But I will set a table on Friday, and we will use the good China. With the kitchen remodel there’s actually a place for them all to live once we’re done.

Here's a poem by Eduardo C. Corral, he teaches at Washington University in Saint Louis, and I recently attended a workshop at the Saint Louis Poetry Center that he led on aspects of revision. The day after the workshop Jerry and I went to a reading by Eduardo and Steven D. Schroeder. Enjoy:


Cayucos

boats used by African emigrants to reach Spanish islands

A girl asleep beneath a fishing net

Sandals the color of tangerines

Off the coast of Morocco

A moonlit downpour, God's skeleton

Bark, dory, punt, skiff

"Each with a soul full of scents"

Day after day spent shaping

A ball of wax into a canary

Little lamp, little lamp

The word "contraband" arrived

In English in the 16th century via Spanish

Throw your shadow overboard*

Proverbs, blessings scratched into wood

The tar of my country better than the honey of others.


[From Slow Lightning (Yale University Press, 2012)]

It is not upon you alone the dark patches fall*

I had to confess something to Jerry this morning. Something I had done that I was not proud of, a moment of passion or anger. A less than shining second. On my way to school on Friday, as I wondered lonely as a cloud through the backroads of Shiloh – I have four ways to get to school and this is my slow roll alternate – I turned on to Maple Street which must be a decade or so from being just a country road. I knew that there were (are) at least four campaign signs for Sauron and Voldemort, one including a banner of lies. And as I turned I saw that there were people on the front porch, and well, I told them they were number one with my middle finger. Sorry, sorry! Fuck you! Sorry. 

            Here’s just a gorgeous poem that was on Poetry Daily on Friday, “With the Help of the Birds” by Bill Brown, that ends with:

* Crossing Brooklyn Ferry, Walt Whitman

The sun rises in spite of everything

Today was a good rainy day here. It had been a very dry October, but we’ve had rain three of the four days so for in November. It’s also been warm, so tornado warnings are happening southwest of here.

Sunday was a bean day, ham and beans to be more precise, with lots of onion and a host of spices, and some gorgeous beans my cousin gave me last week. These came from a business in Dove Creek Colorado (a town that used to list itself as the Pinto Bean Capital of the World) which I drove through as a shortcut on the way to Oregon from Blanca Colorado. Years ago. Decades. Anyway, an easy meal to prep and let cook all day.

Saturday I spent a good part of the morning in Saint Louis workshopping poems at the Central Library a gorgeous library built after the World’s Fair in 1904. Following the meeting of the poets we were given a tour of the library and got some of the history and what happened during a renovation that was completed in 2012. My favorite bit was when it opened in 1912 and Andrew Carnegie came to visit (it is a Carnegie Library) he was offended by the opulence, the money spent to create such a grand design.

Friday I had my third test in my math class and got another perfect score. It is work, but it is no longer intimidating. And Jerry came home Friday from his week away in New York. He missed Halloween and the night before when I believe I was visited by the spirit of the orange tabby, Comet; she came on an odor of tuna breath.

And here we are the night before the election, having voted two weeks ago, I’m ready to spend tomorrow listening to Bad Bunny and working on polynomials, and poetry and an Eavan Boland essay collection Citizen Poet which has just been released.

And because it is needed here's this lovely poem by Derek Mahon:


Everything Is Going to Be All Right 

How should I not be glad to contemplate
the clouds clearing beyond the dormer window
and a high tide reflected on the ceiling?
There will be dying, there will be dying,
but there is no need to go into that.
The poems flow from the hand unbidden
and the hidden source is the watchful heart.
The sun rises in spite of everything
and the far cities are beautiful and bright.
I lie here in a riot of sunlight
watching the day break and the clouds flying.
Everything is going to be all right.