Once in a Blue Moon

Tonight is the night before Halloween, the night before the Hunter's Blue Moon. Tonight Mars is the gem sitting above the moon, the wet moon, the ice moon, the moon that will bring us beauty and, perhaps, grace in this year of ugliness and worry. I'm posting this old poem of mine, because today has felt like a day to tussle with sadness and worry.

Am I blue                   

    “Ain't these tears in my eyes tellin' you?”~~Harry Akst & Grant Clarke

Blue is absent from the throat of night
saddened by the dirge the owl sings
as she sits a solitary beacon in the oak.
 
Here she lulls Blue to sleep at dusk
allows her tongue to draw Blue
into a chamber of darkness.
 
The moon rushes in, grapples light
into shadow, horns color away.
Carried in the wind Coyote’s solo voice
 
soothes Blue; she rests at the edge
the pond, beds down with muskrat
as frogs begin their hymns and usher
 
in sleep. Sleep finds the sieves of logic,
allows Blue to rumble around on
the flipside of sorrow. Dreams burst into
 
song whenever sadness is encountered,
breathes life into suicidal thoughts,

clears sky of cloud and storm
 
the three-hour worry of the child
not home. Here lovers never split,
having never met, wars are never begun
 
and, so, none need an end. And in the most
fantastic part of dream, where loneliness
learns of alone, Blue knows she is dreaming.
 
In the deepest part of the dark she feels exhaustion
seeping along her spine. She longs to stay asleep
and in this fog, but knows, oh she knows,
Grief has already been born.

Feels like a poem day

 Meander 

 
There are weirs and cairns and swale; slough,
marsh, and tule; sinuosity and the alluvial fan.
Language that the biologists and technical planners
roll off their tongues, the poetry of restoration and design.
 
Tundra swans have forgiven intrusion, returned
to the pewter river. They ruffle their wings once and glide
toward the bend. The engineer is discussing the level
of grade needed to ease the cut, what debris
can be used as filler. They’ve missed the otter that has slipped
back into the water, his slick head an errant bubble,
and the coyote pup crossing the levee
a frog dangling from its happy mouth.

~~M.E. Hope

Publisher:  Verseweavers: The Oregon Poetry Association Anthology of Prize-winning Poems, Number 16, 2011

Bangs and flashes

To end 2015 we were in Bratislava, Slovakia. The city is ultra charming. I had a friend back in Belgium whose fiancé was from the city and he had spent a great deal of time there and recommended places and things. My research had told me we wanted to try Bryndzové halušky (dumplings with sheep's cheese) and he gave me the name of a good restaurant. From our hotel the restaurant was across the street; because it snowed periodically (and was just “damn cold” the rest of the time) a meal that close was very welcome.

New Year’s Eve we ate well and headed into the night for fireworks. It was cold (Jerry kept telling me) and windy. Fireworks were over Bratislava Castle and the Danube. Crowds gathered along the river and over the “UFO Bridge”.  We were down from the main throng because we’ve been world travelers in many places before, and after, terrorist attacks so we avoid the bigger crowds. We won’t not go, but we are also very paranoid – we like to say realistic and cautious. It was a good night, great people watching and then a cold hike back to the hotel. 

January 1^st, 2016 was (more) cold and most things closed in the city. We ventured out for air (“Too cold!” said the man) and then huddled in the room nibbling snacks, reading and watching BBC shows. January 2^nd, I went down to get our coffee and breakfast rather than eat in the dining room. I smiled as I got in the elevator because every day the rug was changed to tell you the day of the week in six languages. As I was returning with my tray, ready to imprint Saturday in my mind in Slovenian ("Sobota, Sobota"), I noticed a TV news program in the lobby with men wearing cowboy hats and carrying guns. Letters underneath said something about somewhere in Oregon. Great, I thought, just what we need at the beginning of the year more gun nuts in the West. Back in the room over coffee and fruit, bread and jam, I read about the Malheur Refuge Siege. Another stellar moment, America. Thanks.

I thought about this because of 1A on NPR today. The subject was the election and militias. I want to understand the phenomenon but when I hear the militia argument, I usually only hear the noise of “right to own guns”, which without nuance or overthinking means "no rights outside my own"; The notion that if I’m not happy force is the answer. Damn your rights, opinion or voice. So this is what it comes down to right before the election. Quarantine to stay safe from the virus and the plan to lay low after November 3^rd to stay safe from the crazy. Once again, thanks, America.

And the plus side is I get to remember this: 

Hang on

It's a cold rainy day here. Only the raindrops and the birds were busy. This Carolina Chickadee was after the last sunflower seeds. Ursula and I enjoyed the show.

Just naming the reds was fun too.

One week out from the election. Decency, decency, decency. Please.

 

Read the signs

Add punctuation as needed. 

Red warnings

Leaves land like birds.

Cardinals buffeted by wind flutter about,

the same hue; the yard alive in reds and golds.

The cardinals and the leaves are competing for the best scarlet and burnt orange and tawny brown. Behind the house the maple is nearly full on red and the cardinals just disappear as they fly in. The colors are so similar I can imagine whole branches of birds trying to lift the tree and sneak off with it. Cardinals seem like pranksters what with their little pointed caps and orange beaks; they’d enjoy making off with a tree or two.

Imagine trees up and disappearing and the ensuing search. We could make it a game: Find the tree! Once the leaves have gone, you’d need to know your bark, how the branches grow and bend, the way the sun lands late in the afternoon. It could be a neighborhood competition, teams would form, the O’Fallon Tree Sprites and the Shiloh Silver Birches. The South Cul-de-Sac against State Street. Everyone rushing to reclaim their trees. The birds will sing and whistle, mocking us, they’d remove trees again and again. But we’d get better over time. We’d use maps and drones and apps until we found each tree and got it back safely to its rightful place.

Then with our new found skills we’d be ready to help reunite 545 children with their missing parents. Once again naming ourselves and forming teams The Complicit, the Shameful American, Blind to the Truth and the Unforgiven. Are birds embarrassed for us or are the colors mirroring anger?

 

Keep the focus

Last night we watched the first 44 minutes of the debate, the last debate between 45 and Joe Biden.

It was quieter than the first. Though it wasn't pretty or news worthy. If the Cheeto could tell the truth that may have made the news or changed a mind. And if you are still undecided and if you somehow find your way to this sliver of the Internet, Fuck you. 

On another note, on another channel, two of the worst teams in the NFL were playing but we were able to witness Giants quarterback, Daniel Jones, come to so close to a really remarkable running touchdown. One which they replayed and replayed, his teammates laughed, it was a GIF before the game was over and for some reason it gave me endless delight. Jerry has no idea why, but he laughed heartily too. He was so close, C'mon, buddy! If it was 2016 we could call this run the Clinton-Kaine. As it is, it is not cautionary political metaphor or great football. Don't look back, just run. Pick your feet up and run. We need a good finish. We need the win.

 

Bring me your tired

The President is telling us that we are tired of the pandemic. Well congratulations, Mr. Obvious. We are. But we are still not willing to die for you and your cruel intentions to ensure the money-grubbers and corporations are able to keep their bottom line above water while the rest of us are with the Dance Band on the Titanic.(That physically hurt to fit there, but I couldn't kill the baby! 😉) Each day another cruelty is revealed. Each day more and more people are dying and healthcare workers have gone from heroes to punching bags because Americans have lost their way. We are sinking into poverty; lives are irrevocably altered and yet many can’t get past the past. What was normal is now as common as a Pteranodon, not here, not coming back. We are tired. We are tired of masks and hand sanitizer and safe distancing and crossing the street when you see a neighbor out walking. We want to hear the children on the playgrounds. We want to have loved ones drive hours to spend time with us; we want go see them! These are the easy things to want. I have a home and healthcare and safety and someone who is, thankfully, still with me (still talking to me). No one here has to get up in the morning and go to job where the people we encounter are sick, hostile, without food or healthcare or a home. Our levels of tiredness are real. Hopefully you have a way to carry and care for yours.

Sigh.

Today on Autumn Sky Poetry Daily  a poem by Greg Watson was posted called Sirens. The lines that really got me were these: 

“We are weary with this
small but constant mourning,
as we are guilty of occasionally
forgetting where these sirens lead,
the story at the other end,
the life unspooling into daylight.”

It’s a beautiful and delicate poem. An “I am paying attention” poem. A poem that was so good to encounter today as I listened to (thank you, President Obama) and thought about what a leader can do. What a leader will need to do as we continue on with the pandemic. It is not going away soon. We’ve been given instructions on how to get out of it, like a mountain range that appears in a fable: stick to the path, follow the rules, don’t listen to the ogres that are telling you lies and half-truths. There is no trick. There is no miracle. There will be more loneliness and hurt. Hold what you can. Carry what you must.

If you need help ask. If can you help, do so. 

Pancakes

Not much has happened today. The rain stopped, the birds have been gathering at the feeders and making as much noise as they can. Ursula has been standing guard, keeping an eye out for a neighbor's cat that keeps coming around. The poor thing just wants to be friendly, a beautiful brown tabby wearing a jaunty collar. Zora continues to ask, What? What do you see? Should I run?  But Ursa, just spits and howls and doesn’t tell Zora. Cat drama.

 

Digging through old poems I found this poem that has never seen the light of day. It’s at least eight years old, innocent, still true. I have a number of poems about my children, the boy and the baby girl (Bambina), long and faraway from the boy and baby girl stage. But, well, you know. Poems keep rising up, with all of us so far from one another.  Some old, some being written. Some just teasing at the edge of the heart. 

Pancakes     

The boy with the liquid brown eyes

pools syrup, watches peanut butter

melt and drizzles marshmallows

with cocoa. His lips move in silent

reverie as I recite a poem.

 

Had I known this was Paradise

I would have killed the serpent

and fenced off the tree.

Opening doors

In April, during poetry month, I was treading the lake of the world as usual, half inspired and half defeated and I somehow found out about a prompt-a-day event that was happening in Saint Louis from Washington University called Life-Lines. Each day five words were posted as prompt and you were encouraged to keep the poem short (seven to eight lines). Perfect for someone who is soaking wet and exhausted. I joined in on April 13^th with the words star, stairway, memory, hour and light.

I have always loved prompts to get started and I love word lists too. When I was in Klamath Falls Oregon, I was part of a prompt group at our local library that met once a month. Later I helped run it and later still when I became the library clerk in Keno Oregon, I began another. Once I arrived in Belgium, I helped start yet another assemblage that ran in fits and starts until I was the only writer left.

These meanders I’ve been taking this year (most began as sketches while looking at a cat photo while I was on Facebook) are prompts. They mean I am still floating. They also mean that there is still something that makes me want to write which, for the past few years, has felt absent. The poems I posted on Life-Lines were written quickly I didn’t edit much; they were prompts in all ways.

August 

The memory of light and the moon

its giant globe face dimming night,
stars nearly vacant now, except for the faint
glimmer at the edge of the mountain
like a stairway to that last bit of snow.
The broken hour before dawn
shadows erased by heat lightning,
the sound of horses tearing grass.

Just a test

 Because I need to test things sometime  to make sure they work.

Your vote is your voice

The day I turned 18 I registered to vote. I went after school to city hall in Joseph, Oregon, with my best friend, Sandy, and we both registered. She had turned 18 two months earlier. Only 7 years had passed since the voting age had been lowered thanks to the 26^th Amendment and I was not going to miss using this right. 

When I was stationed overseas my ballot signature had to be witnessed, I had a favorite Lieutenant and I’d find him for the task. You’re a good citizen he’d say, but I knew he didn’t see many so eager. When my son was a baby, I found the polling place (a garage in a neighborhood near our apartment) and while he sat in his stroller I voted. When I was pregnant with my daughter, I stood in line three hours to register to vote in Florida, having nearly missed the deadline. A few weeks later on election night she was in an infant carrier as I again joined a long line and cast my ballot. Wonderful to think that sixteen years later we all celebrated as Barack Obama was elected. 

Today we voted. The first day of early voting in our town. We cast a vote for decency and light; for truth and science, for a blissful return to mediocrity. Early voting in Illinois began September 24^th, but we have waited until this polling place opened. Over the years we have voted in person, early and on election day, we’ve voted absentee and we’ve voted by mail. Today was nothing special aside from the fact we carried our own pens, wore masks and had to ask the people behind us in line to please observe the six-foot rule.

There was a line, we had an hour’s wait from the time we arrived until we got into the building and got to a station. It was cold and windy outside and my light sweater wasn’t enough but, my Obama t-shirt gave me super power. And even the sad message on a car in the parking lot was just that sad and odd and tone deaf. 8645 to save the nation.

The Zora File

 

Zora is a small cat adopted in June 2020 with her sister, Ursula. Previously they were known, respectively, as Dottie and Dapple. But after brainstorming with my daughter we came up with two literary names befitting older cats. These cats are eight or ten or eleven. They act like four or five or eleven. They play and are generally interested in what is happening around the house, inside and out.

Our last cat, before we adopted Zora and Ursula, was an orange tabby named Comet. She was twenty-one when she passed and we had her for all but about six months of her life. She no longer played or was interested in what was happening around the house, inside or out. She was deaf, toothless and nearly blind. She was a good cat and occasionally still tried to bring me socks; I miss our lap time.

So now we are in the Zora and Ursula phase. And this is the Zora File. Zora is shy and weird and she makes me smile. Her song is an operatic singing of her name: ZoRA-rina!!! Zora-RUE! Which like all animals she tolerates, as she does being picked up or held on a lap. Her lap time record is six minutes and she needs to initiate it. She doesn’t meow but has coughy bark. Her purr is so loud it seems she’d hurt herself. Her favorite game is playing with scraps of paper; if she hears you cutting paper, she runs to you. She likes to sleep under a blanket or curled in a bed under an end table. She is a little arthritic and a little overweight. For the one I give her steps to jump down from high spots so she doesn’t hurt herself and for the other: we’re working on it.