End of year writing stats 2023

Is August too soon to think of end-of-year writing stats? Especially, since, come December 31, I will be more or less homeless. I need to vacate my lovely large room at Donna’s house in Sebastopol by January. And I have nowhere to go. My cabin that I’ve been paying rent on for 40 years, is kaput, the roof fell in during an epic rainstorm. The cave-in created havoc, as I had archives stored in the cabin including all my letters and news clippings.

Luckily, I had either boxed or removed most of my stuff before the roof fell in. I lost most of my teaching archives and CPITS poetry books to water damage. But I have back-ups of most of that stuff. Not the end of the world. The cabin will be remodeled. But I doubt if the landlady will let me move back in. We had some words—she’s toxic. Besides, people are renting hovels for $1000 a month. It’s crazy out there.

My Plan B is to live in a tent on my grandmother’s property. Hopefully we won’t have another epic wet winter. And then, my cousin Dave decided to move to Missouri with the cnt-wife and sell the Nicasio house where I had the bulk of my belongings stored. Because it was an epically wet winter, most of my stuff suffered severe water damage. The metal shed leaked. 

And we were given one weekend (no warning) in April to huck everything out of Dave’s Nicasio place within 48 hours, and then we had to move what we wanted to keep over to Sinead’s storage shed in Petaluma. So, sadly, this means all my books are in bad shape, and I was hoping to give them to a library. 

We had an epic yard sale where I re-homed and got rid of most of my old tchotchkes, and the rest went to strangers, or to the dump. We put some tasty stuff out by the side of the road and people went completely nuts over all the goodies we were giving away. Sinead gave away crates of of Sean’s Legos and matchbox toys. There was a massive traffic jam out front of the house. Those who scored goodies will never see that particular bend in the road the same way again.

So though it has been an eventful year, I don’t have much to report by way of publishing record. I’m starting this dinky retrospective early, during the dog days of summer, as I’m sure I won’t have the time to deal with it later. The 2017 Tubbs fire certainly brought it all home that I need to scan and document my stuff, and move on, because nothing is permanent. Not even this blog.

Seeking relevance

Water walkers, pronouns sinking silence and sound, the slow surcease of trees, a reflecting pond, held captive by lights. The herons, rising like mist, fish and frog slap a dark designation of self ready to forge ahead. I am swallowing the year on the rock pile of regret. The trees bursting with unseasonable birds. Arrest that image. Book it, Dano. Give it a cellmate of regret, nestled along the edges of the universe. Like combing the dregs of the past, old poems from another time, are still seeking relevance in a century that got off to a rocky start, like during the middle ages, when the plague made desperate believers of us all. Wearing self-imposed ankle leashes during a time when the reflection in the mirror is always reversed. The cat cruises by for a petting. Pine trees, a thought, unseasonable leaves on the pavement, an urban escape, spinning itself into time present, then the future within its black hole of a throat and gaping maw threatening to swallow us all.

12/27/23

The age of the self disguised as an uncertain future

The cat seeks wild water,

    she doesn’t care     where 

or what     is found. 

For her,      everything 

   is in time present.

No matter what     my age 

   I am like a baby     on a runway.

I can’t walk, it seems 

        I am always

 learning to crawl,      then run. 

Then, fall     again. Again.

I scroll my name,

     a calligraphy of clouds 

across an uncertain 

    sky.         The journey 

is always running 

    up against     itself 

in a crowded elevator. 

        I am the agoraphobic 

in the marketplace 

and I steel myself 

    with florid words 

and no one notices 

    my breath     trembling 

like unseasonable leaves 

on a lone tree. The winter 

    is a demanding bitch dressed 

in fancy ribbons and bones. 

    Bless the living 

and the dying of the past 

and the future is a war 

that never ends.     The thing is, 

    the journey is always 

in front of you.     How 

    do we cope 

when the chains 

of change     attempts 

to escape the sordid

confines 

            of the past?

12/27/23 Write On! Nancy Woo

Thanksgiving

Give me those red viscous cranberries, cooked in sugar and nothing else, dripping off a silver spoon. Give me that explosion of flavor where sweet-and-sour compete, neither predominant, a palate cleanser, someone said. It was declared a winner in my book, as we slogged our way through a bargain basement of calories. Don’t add orange juice to it. Please. Mashed potatoes made with butter and sour cream, became snowcapped volcanic peaks with craters filled with pan gravy, the raft of turkey, like a tabula rasa. We suffered through the diabetes-inducing sweet potatoes, way over the top with burnt snowfields of marshmallows—that’s where my taste buds rebelled. All that over the top gilding of the lily left them in diabetic coma. The top I could at least scrape off, but I couldn’t avoid the damned canned concentrated orange juice my aunt Jane was so fond of. I grew to hate orange juice. Once the aunts got it into their heads to dress up what needed no dressing, like yams, it was all over. We were never going to go back to the simplicity of butter again. My formally favorite dish was forever ruined. At least they couldn’t do that to the stuffing. Until someone got the idea to add oysters. Just, no. And then there was the strange three layer Jell-O, salads, quivering on the table—grapefruit slices in lime Jell-O, cream cheese, with the lemon layer with filled with walnuts and celery. And then something darker at the bottom, perhaps cherry Jell-O, where the cranberries hid in their dark depths. Another aunt added raviolis to the mix, and green bean casseroles, which became a tradition I abhor. I could not stand the taste of mushroom soup and green beans. The aunts modernize the menu to fit the era, then got stuck in the 1960s, and my grandmother who was still directing, was not willing to let go of the basic plot—at least the plot itself was fixed, but the walls of her small kingdom were closing in. What I remember most are the black olives we wore on our fingers and how we shoveled celery stuffed with peanut butter and cream into our mouth as if we were starving and there was no food in sight. And that transition phase when you got to leave the kids’ table for the grownup table.

A cat called Cheetos

We drove to the back of the parking lot at TGAL where my cousin had been feeding a family of feral cats. All that was left of the colony was an orange kitten. Orphaned. His siblings and mother were long gone. Could his eyes be any bigger than they already were? Deep pools of betrayal and anguish. This was in an age where it wasn’t cool to feed the feral cats. We swooped down on him in my VW, with its valves merrily clanging like Christmas bells, and whisked him away, as if he was Cinderella in a fairytale, no glass slippers to transform him, but a bath and food. The fleas didn’t stand a chance. Cheetos knew he was saved, he knew what side of the bread was buttered. As far as he was concerned, we were his hairless tribe, his safety blanket. He groomed our eyebrows. Slept on our pillows. But when he got older, when things began to fail, when his bladder betrayed him, he moved out of the house and slept in a wine barrel planter filled with wild strawberries in front of the Nicasio house. We called him the potted kitty as he got pottier with age, all orange and aglow like a trapped sun.

list three daring things you’ve done…

A friend asked us to post three things that we did when we were young—those adventures where you look back on and say "I can't believe I did that.” Well, apparently I’m a bit of an adrenaline junkie. I couldn’t choose just three insane moments in my life. True, I was usually with a boyfriend, but not always. And it’s probably not fair to ask me about during exploits, there were too many to list. Probably one reason why I became a writer.

My boyfriend and I hitchhiked up from Marin County to Victoria, BC in the early 70s, slept under a spruce tree in Stanley Park. Then we hitched up-island to catch the ferry from Cape Scott/Port Hardy to Prince Rupert, but we missed the boat, then had to camp on damp moss covered ledges for a few days until the next ferry came in as there was nothing there, not even a gas station, let alone, a hotel. 

The ferry ride to Prince Rupert took  more than 15 hours, we hit huge swells in the open water of the Queen Charlotte Straits. The massive swells rocked the ship around like a toy and everybody was barfing. When we got to Prince Rupert there was no place to stay so we camped in a graveyard on top of a hill and the sun absolutely refused to set, it was June.

Then we hitched over to Prince George where the mosquitos were the size of hummingbirds, the resident moose was not happy to share his boggy meadow with us. Then we hitched down to Banff, and Jasper, and slept in hotel doorways as all the campgrounds and hostels were full. It seemed that all of Canada was on the move. We camped out in day-use picnic shelters. They had wood burning stoves! 

The worst part of the journey was when we got stuck in front of the Columbia Glacier, I resorted to wearing my down sleeping bag as a coat, the ice field was so cold. I looked like a mustard colored abominable snowman in my down bag so no one would stop for us. The toe of the glacier hissed and sung. I wasn’t prepared for that. Then we went over to Calvary (why?), and headed back down through Kamloops, and down the coast to SF. An epic summer journey.

I went to the USSR several times in 1989-91, created a poetry and art exchange (it was Glasnost) and traveled from Kyiv to Leningrad on a train illegally, incognito, sans internal visa, because I was told no, I couldn’t go by the local authorities, then we couldn’t get a train ticket back to Cherkassy. In those days, Americans weren’t allowed to travel freely, without a pass, and certainly not on common trains for the ludí, the people. 

In Leningrad, on another trip, a Soviet friend thought I would like to help restore a fresco in the dome of the Church of Atheism & Religion (St. Isaac’s). To get to the outer dome, we had to climb up an iron catwalk to the top of the outside dome, the iron railing was coming off, it was midwinter, and a long way down to the ground, OSHA would not have approved, but Russia was like Mexico, everything was jerryrigged. When we circled the dome where there was a little door that let us inside the brass dome between the fresco, a tunnel to the inner dome. Wild. We had to leap down to a trapeze net stretched across the opening of the dome (I was scared shitless), then we were suited up in climbing harnesses and ropes, suspended like spiders to clean and scrape the old fresco. Getting back down to the ground was worse. I had never rappelled down a rope before, the marble floor was a long way down, my hair got caught in the cleat and I thought it was curtains. Oh, and neither my friend or his friend spoke any English—just to up the game. 

Another time we walked out on a frozen Ozirkii lake, but when we got to the middle, we heard it crack, the loudspeaker from shore was telling us to get off the lake, but I couldn’t understand Russian. We got off the lake quickly.

We hiked in to Machu Picchu in 1989 the long way, 42 km, through milpia forest fires, and so couldn’t see the Andes, we went through a cloud forest, saw many fantastic Inca ruins over Dead Woman Pass. I rode a pack horse that had never been ridden before, I was stuck with him because we dawdled and missed out on all the good horses. He had no bridle, so I made a hackamore from an old stiff leather lariat. 

We were cantering along a stream when he veered left up a narrow trail and ran full speed to a chicha hut. I had his head in my lap and still he wouldn’t stop. We slammed into that adobe chicha hut sideways, so hard, that dust rose from the roof like smoke. I lifted my leg over the pack frame and let the horse take the brunt. He slammed sideways onto the wall. All the Incan men sitting outside at the bar, scattered like the wind, drinks in hand. The horse got the message, he wasn’t going to lose me. He was much better behaved for the rest of the trip. So when we went up an incline so steep, I fell off his back trying to avoid a tree limb, because my backpack had made me top heavy. I fell under the horse. Luckily he froze and I crawled out from under him. 

Then the train to Arequipa and Lake Titicaca was stopped by the army in the altiplano, and they searched everyone, they bayonetted the natives luggage (looking for smuggled people) because of the Sendero Luminoso uprising. We had just seen the corpse of the defense lawyer of Manuel Febres Flores, outside the Chorillos Tunnel near Lima. It was a hairy time to be in Peru. Tanks in Lima. Car bombs.

Then there was the time the US invaded Tegucigalpa right as we were headed there, oops! We were stuck in the Guatemala Airport for days with no flights out. We had just come from the highlands, had met the Guatemalan army there and in Tikal too. They were not the good guys. Neither were the guerllla. We learned to tell who was who by their guns: AK 47s guerrillero, Uzi, GA. People were being disappeared, including tourists. I had nightmares for years.

I never did get married, though my Soviet friend proposed to me in the lobby of the Hotel Cosmos in Moscow…

Then there was the time a young bear slept on me in Little Yosemite….before I went up Half Dome, I did it twice, why, I don’t know…. And that time in the Galapagos between islands in the open sea with too many people, in a tiny open panga, when a drifting fishnet got stuck in the propeller. Oh, but the albatrosses and flying fish and the dolphins alongside the boat made it worthwhile. 

I won’t mention the time I snorkeled alone in a volcanic crater, called the Corona del Diablo, and a sea lion mistaking me for one of his harem because I was in a black wetsuit, attacked me. Maybe he thought I was a silkie. I had to keep spinning like a top to keep him from biting me. I thought I was going to drown for sure but no one would even know because I was far from the boat. I was a super snorkeler. And I often broke the rules, never snorkel alone. I could never get enough of it. 

Then there was that time I was snorkeling alone, far from shore with a shark in the Bahamas…

I could go on….

MoSt NYPC prompt # 1, a haiku

** Prompt # 1 (for December 15):

View this email in your browser

You and a haiku
in the first throes of winter
tapping out kindness.

Greetings, Poets, and Welcome to NYPC 15! Okay, here we go… For your first poem——and in keeping with what passes for NYPC tradition: write a haiku. This year, write to the energies of kindness, mercy, grace, compassion, and/or generosity of spirit. Feel free to create a haiku series of instances of kindness, etc. if it’s difficult to touch on these themes in just 17 syllables.  —Gary Thomas

Remembering Mary Smith Taylor, & a backstory of The Birds, & Warm Springs Dam

As I was moving boxes of old papers, I stumbled upon some writing fragments in a copybook dating back to a time before I became a writer. As I added the nascent scraps, written in a naive, childish hand (though I was 22), to my blog, and as I transcribed my notes, I also uncovered writing fragments with little pockets of memory attached. 

As I followed a wild hunch, I discovered that I was indirectly related by marriage to my Native American studies teacher, Mary Taylor, who was Coast Miwok. Then, I discovered a link that also led to the Warm Springs dam project (1974-1984), thanks to the internet. The aha! I always wondered how I became involved with the rescuing of native Pomo basket sedges.

Mary Taylor was a Bodega Bay Smith of Captain Stephen Smith infamy—who at 57, married a 16-year old Peruvian, Manuela Torres, in order to claim the Rancho Bodega land grant, but Smith also had a Coast Miwok "wife," Tsupu. The story goes, there were others.

Their son, Bill Smith had 12 children with Rosalie Charles after his first Miwok wife, Walla Walla, died. The Smith clan was a massive clan, with whom I would later be related to by marriage, when Bill Smith's youngest son, Young Eagle Smith, married my widowed aunt, Mary Azalie Howard Reilly (her husband Myles was my uncle) at St. Eugene's Church in Santa Rosa. 

I remember talking to Mary Taylor at the wedding reception in Santa Rosa. And I was puzzled as to why she was at our family wedding. Thanks to the internet which most definitely wasn't around in 1975, I was able to place her as Young's older sister. Wow! So my wild hunch wasn’t off.

GIVEAWAY

For instance, my floor is covered with discarding clothing, 

of other selves, Goodwill bound. I take photos—for taxes, I say. 

The 1920s tuxedo with its silk lapels, victim of catering ventures, 

next to bright summer dresses, tropical sheaths that held promise,

the blouses and over-shirts that shielded shoulders from the sun, 

the closeted unmentionables that kept the wobbly bits in line,

old knee braces, banished to the discard heap. The things we rescue:

a dress is given a last-minute reprieve, perhaps to be repurposed. 

Yet I know I will probably never wear its next incarnation.

The urge to hoard facsimiles of texture and floral meadows 

is entwined with memory—for a future that will never come. 

None of us knowing if distant visas of summer will arrive. 

Call it Covid, call it cancer, or fate striking at any given moment. 

Call it a Thanatos approach to death lurking in every corner, 

this moment shapeshifting, perhaps severed from chronology, 

with only a handful of digital photographs surviving the tangible.

Last night’s rain on the roof is already a distant memory. 

Today arrives like a knife. As we approach the long shadows of solstice, 

winter grips our breath as we steam ahead—locomotives of a lost era. 

Meanwhile, the chains in the bilge of the coffin ships of self 

remind us the death knell of distant bells is playing a dirge for the soul.

12/13/23 Write On! with Nancy Woo

Robin redbreast

One summer evening, I was crossing the Church St. footbridge over the River Teith in Callendar, Scotland, when a small bird hopped up to me, expectantly eying my red boot. I let out a little squeal of delight when I recognized what he was. A real robin! I didn’t dare move for fear I would disturb or harm him. 

Of course I had no idea that the diminutive European robin redbreast of English literature and fairytale fame, a flycatcher, was a bird of a completely different feather than our rather robust north American robin, a large thrush built like a Sherman tank. Or a hefty bird in hand.

Both birds are more orange than red, but there, the similarity ends. The word for the color orange was a linguistic newcomer to 16th c. Britain. In those days, the color choices were either yellow or red, or both. But robin red-yellow breast doesn’t quite have the same ring to it. And as it turns out that there are many species of birds that are called robins the world over. Australia’s flame robin is similar in size to our American robin.

Callendar was home to the famous Scottish outlaw, Rob Roy McGregor, or Raibeart Ruadh MacGriogair. Rob, or Robin was a diminutive form of Robert. In this case, Roy was an Anglicized form of Ruaidh, or the red one. Rob Roy Way separates the Highlands from the Lowlands. 

And Rob Roy, a Jacobite rabble-rouser, was a cattle rustler cum folk hero. The Highland outlaw, immortalized by Sir Walter Scott, became a legend within his own lifetime. Liam Neeson made for a big braw rogue in the movie.

The lingering twilight on the footbridge spanning the Teith River was beautiful. The long golden hours of summer, were as good as it gets. As I was taking photos of the river reflections, a tiny orange-breasted bird hopped right up to me on impossibly thin legs, and promptly fell in love with one of my red Reebok boots. 

I had never seen an European robin before, I had only heard about them from my Irish grandmother, and of course the Mother Goose nursery rhyme and finger games came to mind—for species identification purposes only, of course. 

Little Robin Redbreast
Sat upon a rail;
Niddle noble went his head,
Widdle waggle went his tail.— Little Robin Redbreast

There are many apocryphal stories associated with robins, mostly to do with Jesus and purgatory. They covered the bodies of two dead children with leaves in Babes of the Wood. In Irish mythology to kill a robin is to invoke bad luck for the rest of your life. There is no cure. They’ve become a ubiquitous symbol of Christmas, featured on Christmas cards and postage stamps. And of course, they’re also associated with Robin Hood, defender of the poor.

Legend has it that when Jesus was dying on the cross, the robin, then simply brown in colour, flew to his side and sang into his ear in order to comfort him in his pain. The blood from his wounds stained the robin's breast, and thereafter all robins carry the mark of Christ's blood upon them. —Wiki

It was not the first time my red Reeboks were siren sentinels to robins. Once, while I was exploring the Crystal Lakes rift near San Francisco, an American robin, perhaps seeking a sole-mate, became equally enamored of my red boot. 

I had to stand patiently on the Callander footbridge in the gloaming until the little love affair with my boot was over. The fading of the light brought a close to this little romance. Pure magic.

 robin redbreast

NAVIGATING THE STAR ROADS

I imagine tomorrow’s house as a place 

of four walls invoking the four directions, 

instead of the sagging skirt of this tent. 

A roof, where stargazing is mandatory, 

where we once again travel the Milky Way, 

Orion’s sword cleaving the winter sky, 

though my eyes are always in need of reading glasses, 

to navigate the labyrinth of words that deluge us daily.

For a moment, it comes into focus, and I rejoice.

I may not be able to align a triple junction of tail-lights 

while driving down the road, astigmatism’s gift,

but for a moment, a constellation springs into focus, 

the Pleiades, the Seven Sisters, the Gazelle Leaps. 

Once I could see more stars with the naked eye, 

like the time we hiked up Mount Whitney, 

and the Milky Way was truly a sea made of stars. 

Or as we gazed up from the loft of the Andes, 

the sky was occluded with wildfire smoke, 

so I wasn't aware the constellations had shifted. 

A consolation was a glimpse of the Southern Cross.

The Big Dipper hovered on the horizon 

like an afterthought pointing to the direction of home.  

But I’m thrilled that I can find any constellation 

at all in a vast wilderness of sky lonely as ice. 

When the Big Dipper emerges overhead from the blur, 

it steals my breath away, and once again, 

I can find true north within the void, 

not easy to do in a sky filled with industrial light, 

not like the dark nights of childhood, where stars 

shone with a brilliance rarely witnessed. 

All the cells that I have ever been in the past, 

are annealing the starlight like folded iron 

at the smithies forge into a sword of light 

as I fathom these four walls called home, 

then I realize that the idea of home is held 

deep within the memory of self.

12/6/23 Write On! with Nancy Woo

Hoppity-hop picking in Sonoma County

Historic Walters Ranch Hop Kiln, Westside Road, Healdsburg, built by Angelo Soldini in 1905. California Historical Landmark No. 627 ©️ Maureen Hurley ca. 1981.

Before Prohibition, Sonoma County led the nation in the production of hops. Hops, a beer preservative, was first planted near the Laguna de Santa Rosa in 1858, and by 1899, more than 2000 acres were in full production. A story from 1900 in the San Francisco Chronicle estimated that 7,500 acres of hops were planted in Sonoma. From the early 1900s to about 1940, hops, not grapes, was king.

“Sonoma County produces the finest quality of hops grown on the Pacific Coast….there is more lupulin and a stronger aroma…which brings from one cent to two cents per pound more money in the market.”—Sunset Magazine Homeseekers’ Bureau, 1915

Apparently the top dollar paid for the superior California-grown hops was London, England. 

“From 1915 until 1922 California was the leading hop-producing state in the Union." (Tinged with Gold: Hop Culture in the United States, Michael A. Tomlan).

Hops (Humulus lupulus) related to cannabis, originated in Egypt and China; there is also a wild species native to the US. With hops, it's all about the lupulin. The unfertilized female blossom, or cone, laden with yellow lupulin powder and resin, is used to preserve and flavor beer. The hops varietals grown in Sonoma County were far superior to hops grown in other regions. During the 1930s, Sonoma County produced over 30 million pounds of dried hops.

Hop production survived Prohibition and the Volstead Act of 1919, but languished, shall we say, even tanked? during the post-war economy—despite the fact that Sonoma County was a bootleg capital of California. 

The use of nitrate fertilizers also introduced a mildew blight which ultimately killed the hops industry. By the 1960s, hops was no longer commercially viable, though escaped volunteers grew along the Russian River along with the native wild grape vines.

My first boyfriend's mother Leeta (a Petaluman who went to school with Lloyd Bridges) used to earn her pocket money harvesting hops (and fruit) every summer. During hop-picking-time, she waxed on poetically how families camped out under the stars all summer long picking fruit. 

However, she said that picking hops was brutal on the hands. Not to mention feet—they used stilts to reach the trellised hop buds. Hopping for hops. She preferred picking pears and prunes to hops. Hop picking season was short, at the end of summer. In 1940, when his hop pickers went on strike, Florian Dauenhauer of Santa Rosa invented a mechanical hop harvester that is used to this day.

During the 1990s, I was at Kat & Boz WIlliams' home on Peaks Pike Road in Graton and they served me steamed hop shoots and buds for dinner—they tasted like asparagus—and I was even given a furry feisty hop vine to take home, but it just wouldn’t grow under an oak tree in Forestville. It needed more sunlight. Or I was a lousy hop grower.

Hop-picking at Healdsburg, Cal. photo: MD Silverstein —Healdsburg Shed

At Lake Merritt, on the morning of my 70th birth, 11/24/22

Last year, on my 70th birthday I was housesitting, waiting on a balcony by the lake, which was really a slough—a brine estuary glistening with adamantine stars in the hard winter light. I watched the early joggers pass by in slow-mo, their breath visible in the crisp air. And the small red hands of maple leaves, exhausted by all that applause with the wind, they danced down the footpath, across the sidewalk, and flirted with the dangerous wheels of passing cars. We waited for the windsongs to arrive, but the clouds cast their tarot cards on the mirrored lake, as wild geese patrolled the surface like U boats. I drew the hanged man. Some war was brewing, but there was yet another war in progress. Story of our lives. No escaping it. Once Iraq. Then Ukraine. Now, Gaza. The war against nature is a war against the self. I was so near, yet so far from home, that the words never came. I was mute. As if I were never born, as if the wind never had given birth, though this lake was once my constant companion, my familiar, perhaps even a muse. I remember one birthday as we circled the lake—maybe 10 years ago—for I measure this friendship in decades—I once saw what I thought was a white arm reaching out from the water, and I thought, Lady of the Lake. But it was the jawbone of a horse, or mule with large yellow teeth like pawns on a chessboard. Not a sword. No warrior heroes. No dragon quests. Its mate, long gone, much like mine. Has it really been five years? I leaped from the stone gat into the water to retrieve a story of the past, imagining a wilderness of horse-drawn carriages disgorging their bounty from a distant time. Pierced by an arrow of light, I could only imagine my Saggitarian kin, the dance of their clattering hooves on cobblestones, a type of music locked in the distant past. A sound that still stirred the blood and made me remember the names of my dead horses, the memories I harbored during that supple time of youth, when we rode out into the mist, seeking the glimmering light. And the articulate wind was singing, singing to me, a melody of the cosmos on the day of my birth. But I could not celebrate this turn of year, for I had no words left to mark the occasion. A slender silvered fish leapt skyward, as if attempting the rudiments of flight.

11/29/23 Write On! with Susie Terence 

Richmond Bridge bicycle lane

To Whom it may Concern:

Last week, at midday, when traffic is normally light on the approach to the Richmond Bridge, I was stuck in stalled traffic backed up three miles for more than an hour and a half at the approach of the Richmond Bridge. The traffic back up was worse than at rush-hour. It was so bad and there so long a wait that one driver in a jeep pulled over to let his young son pee on the left shoulder.

As we eked our way forward and across the bridge towards Marin, the reason for the traffic jam became clear. A van with a flat tire had nowhere to pull off, so it pulled off in the right lane as close as it could against the cement bicycle divider.

Because the van could not move out the right lane, traffic jammed up for three miles before the toll booth, and there was even more stuck traffic nearly the entire length of the Richmond bridge. No rescue tow truck was dispatched, either. I guess that’s a thing of the past. We just sat there and watched our fingernails grow. Wasted gas idling in line. And during that entire time, only one or two bicyclists used the bicycle lane.

Why are we being held hostage by bicyclists who do not need to use the bridge to get to and from work?For the most part, bicycling is a leisure-time activity, so we are subsidizing their leisure-time against our work time.

This is not acceptable. Either the bicycle lane needs to be removed, or a zipper needs to be put in allowing that third lane to be open during rush-hour and during accidents. By coincidence, my neighbor invented the golden gate zipper. And he would be thrilled if that were implemented.

Maureen Hurley

FIRST LIGHT

Once I held a dream of hope, 

a child looking forward, 

like a horse eager for the trail. 

Once I roamed the fire roads, 

and the backcountry above small towns, 

where the morning fog 

was a lid on the Pandora’s box 

of what was to come. 

Once those ridges held me 

like a mother to child. 

I knew no other home 

and I became a song of wind and sky 

as I traversed those ridges above Tomales Bay 

a sword gleaming in the distance, 

a path of light dividing the lithospheres. 

I didn’t know the wind was a poem,

was also a prayer as well as a road. 

There was only now. Always 

the now, even back then. 

Am I a prayer of the past, 

a prayer of the untrammeled land, 

a prayer of time anchored in memory, 

like a flag full of promise?

I mourn for those islands of youth, 

carefully folded into time, 

distant memories, reimagined 

and tailored to fit the present. 

How do I tell that child 

alone in the wilderness 

that the darkness of this world 

is a lens occluded with sand and grit. 

Call it despair. I am a prayer. 

Let the moon traverse the sky, 

where Orion keeps his sword 

sheathed for an eternity. 

Let the flags of peace be of hope 

to those in war-torn countries. 

Call it Ukraine, call it Palestine. 

It doesn't matter where.

A child once said to me: 

any step toward war is a wrong step.

The fallen children 

who will never again 

gaze upon the restless sea, 

who will never get a chance to share 

the occluded memories of old age,

because in wartime there are no victors. 

Only the wind whispers 

our names as broken prayers 

tangled in dark forests, 

greeting the first light.

11/22/23 Write On! with Susie Terence

The second age of light

I was never much good at hiding the truth, the open book of my face gave away more than it concealed. I never was a good shield, perhaps, because I was also very good at ferreting out the secret assignation and foibles of adults. Lord knows there were enough skeletons in the closet.

After Chernobyl blossomed, I could not hide my dismay when the rains came. The scientists said the cloud was too high in the stratosphere and it posed no danger, unless it rains. And despite all odds, it rained. And so we stood under the portico, listening to the rain. 

And that realization as I avoided the rain, that even the roof of my car offered no protection from the isotopes falling from the sky. This was nothing like what happened at Three Mile Island. That spring of 1986 was a time of no birdsong. 

What could I possibly tell the children when they asked the hard questions that even the scientists sidestepped during this newest age of light?

With an angry child, seeking revenge, said we oughta nuke those Commies, I said, do you think Soviet kids want to nuke us? And at that moment, the doors of perception opened a crack to let the light in.

11/15/23 Write On! Susie Terence

Writing for peace

On the day of invasion, a rabbi wrote a poem, taking the side of peace, no matter what side. But peace is a victim. Susie said to write a poem, personifying peace, hope, war, death, then dress it in garments. I think of the tallit and the hijab, the keffiyeh and the kippah. Neruda said death was dressed as an admiral. All I could think of were those tall ghost ships sailing into port, where the dead gather on the docks to welcome home the fallen. Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish wrote about pigeons and peace, clouds and refugee camps, he was a candle in the darkness that is Palestine. I think how we’ve suffered but, there are invisible bars that hold us in check, no matter what our beliefs. My grandmother said a country without a tongue is a country without a soul. I can’t think help but think of Darwish, a poet who spoke four languages who lived in exile all his life. He wrote: you are my country but I am a stranger stripped of identity. He said Hebrew is the language of love. A love divided from itself. Brother against brother. We are alone in our self-imposed exile. The prisoner said to the interrogator: My heart is full of sage, the remains of dawn, as I walk outside of my own being. In 1984, when we invaded Lebanon, I read Darwish‘s poem about the conference of the birds, and wrote a poem called Death in Lebanon. His poem is no longer on the Internet. The birds have flown. Einstein said to prepare simultaneously for war and peace is a non sequitur. A child said it to me more succinctly: any step towards war is a wrong step. What is the color of prayer, of death? What happened to: Love thy enemy. Darwish was once in love with a Jewish woman, but he was an internal refugee in his country of origin. He said: Without hope we are lost. His name means the wanderer, it also means poverty, but he did not suffer from a poverty of words. His words were a rallying cry. He carried his country within him always. In Paris, Beirut, Moscow, Cairo. He said: I am robbed of my ancestors’ vineyards. Now, nohing is left of his homeland except the thirst of mortared rocks that hunger for peace. Despite past atrocities, peace is always a gift. Where does peace begin with me? Peace is dressed in the feathers of doves in Gaza, and Ukraine. These days we are all living in the crosshairs of the unseen sniper.

11/8/23 Write On! with Susie Terence

Favorite stove burner

Molly Fisk asks what stovetop burner we prefer, and how do we brush our teeth, things which we never tell anyone. I’m a hard left front stovetop burner lover. It’s almost politically ingrained. I brush my teeth up front and center. The molars are in the wings, but my eyeteeth see everything. Corn is eaten in a circle, or more like a möbius strip circling back on itself. I have only two pair of shoes with laces. They rarely come out of the closet. I prefer to walk barefoot whenever possible. Socks are optional. To make up for Robert’s shoelace balancing age test, I have perfected the flamingo stance of dressing. Only occasionally do I fall over, hog-tied by my knickers and jeans. When I do, it’s spectacular. Things which I never tell anyone.

NaHaiWriMo November prompts (abodes)

“Welcome to November NaHaiWriMo! The posts this month will deal with creations, starting with a week of dwellings. Let’s try something different this month. Perhaps write a 3-5-3 haiku, or a monoku (single line), or write a poem that deals with the prompt without using the prompt word. Enjoy exploring the options. Please post your poems inspired by this prompt as comments in response to this posting.”

Visit the website too as I tend to fall off the wagon, and not stay the distance of the month. It could be because writing haiku tends to bore me silly. Maybe I should switch to haibun, to haikai or renga.

The NaHaiWriMo prompt for Nov 1 , 2023: CABIN

AUTUMN ARRIVES LATE

leaves scuttle and dance 
Smoke rises from a cabin in deep woods
woodpecker resumes his carpentry.

11/3/23

I lived in an old cabin

abandoned walnut orchard

slumps back into the mud.

11/3/23

Old walnut orchard

Cabin keeps vigil for signs

Still praying for rain.

11/3/23

DELUGE

Trees thirsting for rain

Cabin keeps an eye on things

Clouds weep in the orchard.

11/3/23

DIVIDED THOUGHTS

Break down the walls, 

reveal the killing fields, 

call it genocide.

Break down the politics 

of divided thought. 

There is no reunification of God.

Let me touch the sea. 

Our better angels 

will let the stars in 

to lick the sky.

11/1/23

BUILDING A WALL

Build a wall made of dusk and old saguaro lace, 

sew it with threads of tumbleweed and twilight. 

Then weave it into a net to catch the errant stars 

as they cross from one no man’s land into another, 

marking that liminal shore, where the voices of dreams 

become tangible, where the ragged mouth of time 

bends to its own vagaries. Tells us stories of the old ways.

A wall, where the past and the future merge 

into a shoreline where it is always now. No borders.

Nothing is written in stone. The old stories of sand 

at river mouths whisper a journey of unimagined time.

Let the river touch the sea until sea and sky become one.

Call off the coyotes and let the voices of the wind 

travel through razor wire, and border crossings 

unimpeded by politics and greed. We are all immigrants 

traveling to one promised land or another.

Make it not a wailing wall. Make it a singing wall 

filled with the wings of prayer rags, and the gods of hope, 

where the vagaries of war smoldering on battlefields 

and contested borders becomes a thing of the past, 

where the politics of religion no longer divide us,

and we move free as the clouds on the horizon.

11/1/23 Write On! with Susie Terence

 (I was channeling Padraig O Tuama’s collects.)

Published in June/July 24 issue of Sonoma County Peace Press

Facebook Fail, friends Hollywood squares

And this was my consolation prize. Facebook mixed and matched my friends’ names with new portraits. Only correct name and portrait is Jay Barrett. Dickens Fourtyfour is now Sarah Reid or her horse— I’m not sure which, and Eolah Bates will be delighted to know that she is now Dickens 44. They’re both bohemian artists. And my cousin Kevin is now grade school classmate John Watts. They both have an retro thing going. And anthropologist Andrew Hayes is now poet Tehmina Khan! And darling Lilah Christine Tuggle has magically transformed into my other Irish cousin Danielle McCormack. Since I’ve known Lilah since she was a baby, we’re practically related anyway. Is it Dada or Kafkaesque gaslighting? Weird doesn’t even begin to cover it. Whatever happened to let the punishment fit the crime?

It was fun while it lasted. I did a hard iPad restart and all returned to normal. No more mismatched Facebook Hollywood Squares. But Sarah Reid disappeared! I rarely accept new friends, nor repost other posts—to keep the hackability down. And no, I don’t think a human troll is behind these hijinks. FB is phukdup. Lol, and now Sarah is back with her horse, Oreo.

Dec. 5

Aaaand Facebook once again is mixing it up, with my Friends List, swapping out names and profiles. Third time’s a charm? For some reason only Jay Barrett’s name is correct, though he doesn’t really look like a boxer. And a Facebook hard restart rights it all. Jay is still a boxer, by choice. He looks much better than that, BTW.

Yet another epic Facebook AI bot fail

Today I was replying my cousin’s comment to my post on my Facebook wall with a memory about our Irish cousin Liam who just died—and for my efforts, I got this 6-Day “Content is not allowed” restriction out of the blue. The ONLY warning I got was a little red box around my benign comment. You can see a screenshot of my comment below and note the red exclamation mark over my profile photo. 

but I have learned the hard way, is the minute you get a red box around your comment and it says re-try sending, it probably is not a bad Wi-Fi connection—but Facebook AI censorship bots putting you on hold while they determine whether or not you are breaking rules or violating community standards.

Back to my saga. Facebook declined to post my comment about how Liam, when he was a small child followed us about, we were the exotic American cousins. I got this: “Your account activity didn't follow our Community Standards, so you can't do one or more things you usually do.” I have no idea why it was restricted. Was it the word “doggedly?” or “death?”

In the orchard

The inside of the fig, a crimson surprise with seeds like inverted thistles. Why does the fig tree wait so long to bear fruit, what does it dream of during those decades of silence? Is it because it blooms inside out?

We rejoice when the Banyan tree of Lahaina, a relative of the fig, sprouts new leaves after the fire, the roots run deep, despite being at sea level. Resurrection after the fire. Drinking the sea. Our mother.

We wait on the shore, the murmur and surcease of waves reminding us that everything is repeated.

That everything is repeated.

The way the citrus trees bloom despite the drought, gives me hope. Meyer lemon blossoms, like prom corsages of gardenias set fruit, small blessings to see us through the duration. The lonely sun rests on the horizon and waits for night to fall, ushers in an endless carpet of stars. The deer nip off the new buds of the Matilija poppy, despite its narcotic lethe.

I am enamored by the way the tomato resists the knife, so like our own skin, it too bleeds onto the plate, waiting for oil to drizzle a golden storm across its slices.

Love’s winged kind winter‘s naked trees, flashes of sunlight as the red leaves of the pear tree riding the wind, the orchard tucks in, waiting for spring. 

I remember listening for those nights when the roses followed the orb light, a siren call as we turned towards darkness, the end of summer when the mold begins to spread across the leaves of squash, hollyhocks and tomato, nipping, those sterile flowers in the bud, unseasonable flowers, unformed fruit. 

The tomato imagining life upside down. Once my uncle brought us a hanging planter tomatoes growing up from the bottom of the pot, as if it could right of the world’s wrongs.

The last time I began to write from memory, it robbed me of voice. Such saboteurs of DNA. What we inherit, remnants of our past, a gateway and a base reset. Why we write.

STONECROP

I am a collector of maimed plants orphaned by the side of the road, 

or abandoned on sidewalks. I gather them up like eggs in a basket, 

full of potential, and place them in pots to see what will sprout, 

like stonecrop on the sea cliffs, hanging onto fissures for eons on end.

Take the Matilija poppy, the experts said couldn’t be slipped

or transplanted but I shoved stems into barrels and it flourished.

I think of all the plants I’ve rescued over the years, my progeny

they took root, despite indifferent ministrations, and like new love,

they rewarded me with new shoots, as if eager for that second chance

and ran with it. But the garden gate was left open and the deer 

came down to browse, clipped that new potential in the bud.

10/25/2023 Write On! with Terri Glass

NANT FFRANCON

Having once slept in the glacial trough 

of Nant Ffrancon, the Valley of the Otter,

nestled between the Glyderau and Carneddau ranges,

dreaming of the shining cirque of Cwm Idwal,

I imagined sleeping an eternity there 

nestled amid the impossible summits of Snowdonia, 

craigs whetting their fangs against the sky.

Once I listened to the murmuring headwaters 

of Llyn Ogwen plash and foam down the rocks 

to the valley below, so denuded of trees that purple slate 

was hammered into thin earth to build fences, 

and sheep patrolled the heather and tundra willows. 

The salmon no longer return. No flash of silver and red.

The red dragon sleeps beneath Dinas Emrys.

It is said that after the Battle of Camlann, 

Sir Bedwyr, that is Sir Belvedere, banished Excalibur 

into the Lake of Ogwen where salmon once hurdled the cataracts. 

The Lady of the Lake was not named, yet she took up the sword 

to hide it in the lake’s secret depths once and forever.

But the restless sword still hungers for battles, 

both real and imagined, the way we all battle death daily,

while the world turns yet another jaundiced eye 

on Ukraine and Palestine. Not my war, they said, 

believing in fairy tales, they returned to their drinks.

We drove into Glanogwen, renamed Bethesda, the panacea,

by invaders who quarried slate for their Norman manses, 

they named the valley after their chapel, the house of mercy, 

when Penrhyn couldn’t hide those who died in the quarries.

They say that Lord Penrhyn’s castle is still haunted 

because it was built on the dark history of wealth 

gleaned from mining slate, Jamaican sugar, and the slave trade.

And so it goes. Whitewater over the backs of slaves and miners.

During the Welsh Revival, they got Methodist religion,

tossing out the old ways for brimstone. The churches and pubs 

of Bethesda hosted rival revivals to keep the mad world in check.

I’ll raise a glass and drink to the long steady course 

so that my ashes, winnowed like unseasonable snowflakes, 

will bloom on the machair, amid campion and saxifrage,

and perhaps we’ll dream again of a billowing sky at sunset,

in this land where the red dragon stirs in sleep, 

and the Lady of the Lake is said to wait with Pendragon’s sword, 

so that he may return, and we all may rise up again.

10/18/23 Write On! with Terri Glass

• CAERNARFON
• IN THE OPPRESSOR'S TONGUE
• Snowdonia, Wales
• Caer Bryn Celli Ddu, Anglesey, Wales (photos)
• How the Welsh language was really invented
• MacCamelot: Stealing King Arthur, or Musing on Pseudo Histories
• With Pointy Shoes & Bells on

Watershed, environmental poetry festival, 2023

Watershed, environmental poetry festival, 2023 me and others reading CPITS kid poems.

Saturdays

I couldn’t wait for the weekend. As soon as I got off the school bus, I was free to wear jeans for two whole days. Saturdays began at dawn, unfettered by obligations. We rode those long coastal ridges on donkeys, and later, on horseback, until dusk. Sunday mornings were reserved for church. That meant no breakfast as mass began at 9 AM. It took up half a day as we had to walk to Saint Cecilia’s Church, nearly 2 miles away. My stomach rumbling. After mass, and a trip to the WC, my grandmother hunted for french bread at the Lagunitas Store, squeezing each one for freshness. We left with a loaf of Bordenave’s Viennese milk bread, and a copy of the Sunday paper, Mr. Lacy waving goodbye. I don’t remember the long walk home, or anyone giving us a lift. Few folks had cars. Sometimes we also hoofed into Forest Knolls to get the mail, adding another mile to the journey. Shank’s mare, my grandmother said. She had bunions, it couldn’t have been easy for her to clip-clop down the road like a pony in those old black lace-up saddle shoes with fancy eyelets and a design punched out on the kid leather—like a man’s dress oxford with a tall square heel. When we got home, we tucked into a big fry up of bacon and eggs with buttered Vienna bread, hot from the oven. I pored over the Sunday funnies, the likeness of my aunt smiling back from a Paisano ad on the last page. But, by then, the day was half gone. My grandmother fell asleep on the couch with the newspaper draped over her. It was a sleepy time, a day of rest—not like Saturdays where the day was all ours from dawn until dusk.

Tomales Bay gleamed—

severing the coastal hills 

with a sword of light.

10/11/2023 Write On! with Terri Glass

A long night with restless critters

What an effing long night it was last night, I was sleeping in the tent when the coyotes all went off, singing arias a little too close to me for comfort, followed by a fox coughing in the valley, and as the rutting deer blundered past my tent, one of them knocking down the tent ropes, so it sounded like I was inside a large harp, booooiiiing! Zing! the roof was shaking like crazy. Then the wind came whipping down from the mountain (thanks to Karl the Fog—that heat spell was something—and extreme heat in October is cause for alarm—as in wildfire) and the gust of wind shook the tent like terrier with a rat. I could hear the tall fir trees cracking and groaning which set off the hoot owls. They sounded pretty feeble as they still don’t have their mature hoot down yet. The deer insult was followed by some largish animal attacking the side of the tent, three times with lots and lots of claws getting stuck in the tent wall. Of course, my first thought was Oh my God, a mountain lion or a bobcat is trying to get in—surely it’s not the coyotes. Not what I wanted to think about before drifting off to sleep—especially after coming onto my sleepytime gummy bear. Speaking of bears, by this time, I was really quite cross, and I begin yelling for all I was worth, which scared it—whatever it was—off, and it also brought out the neighbors bearing torches. Meanwhile, my cousin’s crazy cat was zooming around the inside of the tent like a well-oiled lunatic. Whatever was attacking the tent must’ve been trying to attack her. I no sooner got back to sleep when that episode was followed by two raccoons having it out and literally rolling like little fat fur barrels down the slope into the creekbed where they caterwauled and quarreled some more. This performance was repeated throughout the night with copious snarling and fearsome growling and snorting as they made direct contact several times. And at dawn, I had to rescue my cousin’s crazy cat (the one that was racing around the tent) singing her three-note Siamese cat opera, trying to get away from a large puffy stray tabby Tom who was trying to beat the crap out of her. They are all nuts. I chased him off, she was stuck on automatic hiss mode so I couldn’t pick her up and put her in the house. She usually doesn’t sleep outside, so she was pretty freaked out. I am so tired, I am cross-eyed. And now it’s raining. No need to do a rain dance. I’ve been dancing around the garden all night long in my PJs like a dementor screaming at all the wild animals.

The doe’s breakfast
Morning aubade

Missy the Deer (photos)

Missy the deer I caretook last year munching on chicken feed & rolled oats in the garden.

Last year I clandestinely took care of a young deer who was hit by a car. She was one of our deer, born and bred in my grandmother’s garden. Well, the other evening I had an interesting interlude with her. I haven’t seen her in nearly a year, and she came right up to me, almost expectantly, as I was getting out of my car—like she knew me. I was so shocked I just stood there. I rolled some lemon cukes her way, and slowly walked away. We tend to talk to all animals, she was no exception.

So later, she came to the back door and peered in expectantly. Her enormous ears swiveling like semaphores. It was as if she were saying, I know you. C’mon! She had also brought her twins. I thought, oh, great, she was somebody’s pet. She’s so tame someone’s been hand-feeding her. A practice I condemn. They’re gone and interfered with the boundary between keeping wild animals wild and leery of us. I also thought, there was no way it was last year’s deer I had taken care of. I looked for a limp. She seemed to favor her hind leg, but I couldn’t be sure. It was clean.  Deer movements are sporadic, at best.

Then, the day before yesterday, she came up right to me again when I was in the garden. There was no mistaking it. She was wanted a connection with me. I stood stock-still. There was only an old Adirondak chair between us. She kept watching me and edging closer, so of course I talked to her. She pricked those marvelous ears at me, never taking her eyes off me. 

This time I saw the big scar on her hind leg where the bone had broken through, and realized it was the same deer that I had secretly fed last year. I suppose I could anthropomorphize a bit here and say she was thanking me, but I think it was hunger talking. But most animals tend to like me and will often approach me. Do I stink, or smell like the forest? We had just returned from huckleberrying so we were manky. Maybe I should bathe more often.

She hardly limps at all now. And there is no doubt that she definitely remembers me. It’s uncanny. Apparently my cover has been blown. She has no fear of me, but her fawns are afraid of us—and that is good. Despite my best intentions not to interfere with her wildness, I’ve gone and named her Missy. But her guardian, Bucky the mascot is missing, so I fear the worst.

It was Alex Call who told me to get her some high energy corn to help her survive. I couldn’t find any cracked corn, so I got a sack of chicken scratch with corn in it. I think she found it an odd choice, so I added some rolled oats too, which she gobbled right up. She loved rose petals and leaves. I tried to stay within her food range but spinach, bok choy and squash were a no-go.

Since I still had some chicken feed left over from last year, I sprinkled in the dry grass for the birds, I gave some to her. She ate it, plus the apples we left in the grass. I put out some other greens too as she’s pretty thin. She still won’t eat spinach. So I sprinkled more oats and chicken feed in the grass. We shall soon see if she will lay eggs, or begin to crow like a rooster at dawn.

You can see the wounds on her hind leg, she figured out how to walk, but it must’ve hurt.

For the most part, last year, I kept out of her line of sight, only putting food out when she wasn’t around. I was hoping she wouldn’t make the general fatal connection between humans and food—but still she figured out who and what I was—the feeder. So, my scent was probably the main clue. It was either that, or let her die. I think Bucky’s trust in us put her at ease. But she was still very leery of us. I never approached her. I didn’t want her to become accustomed to us. 

Some a-hole hit her with a car or truck, probably one of the day workers up the hill, and he left her to die. Didn’t even call the humane society. Coyotes smelling blood and opportunity, were trailing her, mama and cubs were waiting in the wings for an easy meal. Over my dead body. We drove them off yelling like banshees. Sean permanently scared them off with an air gun. Talk about a chain reaction set in motion. We sure didn’t want them hanging about or snatching one of the cats either. 

Bucky was a gentleman, he stood guard when she ate & chased off predators, but not us.

But this was also during the tail end of the drought, and the young deer was having trouble finding food, Bucky, who quickly figured out that I was a friend, not a foe who was feeding the doe, was reduced to eating lichen, toxic cotoneaster and ivy—which she couldn’t reach. She couldn’t even walk down to the creek, not with that blown hock, so I put out a bucket of water as well as assorted lettuce greens and grain. 

After all, generations of her deer people have drunk out of my old horse trough, and eaten my horses’ hay. These deer were born in the upper garden where Missy was currently sleeping, so it is as much their natal stomping grounds as it is mine. Besides, during the summer, I often sleep outside in the tent when I come visiting. So they know me. I am merely part of the garden furniture.

I am so not into feeding opportunistic wild animals, thus altering their behavior, but I don’t mind cohabiting with them. So this is a bit of a hybrid event, keeping her alive. Luckily, her fawns are afraid of us. May it continue to be so.

• The doe’s breakfast
• Morning aubade

Lay lecturer

A real writer is possessed, can’t leave well, enough alone, she nickel-and-dimed the verbs and nouns into submission, tried on a new word order. You’d think she was at a bargain boutique sale, she was so desperate to pin down her vision, but any old words wouldn’t do at all. It was all about the context after all. She couldn't help it. Or herself.

She hitched up her pencil skirt to take the steps 2 x 2, late again. This time she had no excuse, the words took her hostage. Again. The clock ceased its machinations and left her behind as usual. It didn’t help that she got caught up in traffic. She hoped there was enough gas in the tank. She was cutting it close, story of her life. The narcotic sway of words on the page had this power to stop time and render it meaningless. It was her own little drop of eternity.

The top of the stairs was like an oasis. She had a straight shot into the classroom where the students were restlessly shuffling papers, as if to make a run for it. The five-minute late rule was invoked. She slid up to the podium like a baseball player stealing home. And she began her lecture in medias res, right in the middle of things, leaving them to scramble for context. The subject was not recorded.

There was always one student at the ready, who could roll with it. At first she mistook her student’s attentiveness for granted, labeling her an overachiever, enthusiastic, but lately she began to notice that Mary Beth seemed to be always taking down notes, while glancing at the clock. She thought what happens next? 

She began to worry that this woman was a spy, or perhaps she was planning to make a move on her job. Lectures held a tenuous position, and could be replaced at the whim of the department. No time for tenure on the hard-scrabble slope of lecturer competition. Lectures were a dime of dozen. She didn’t know whether to acknowledge the girl or ignore the situation completely. 

She could feel herself letting go of expectations. What would happen if she just stayed home the next time the words came to visit, and then let them have their way with her?

10/5/2023 WOW Writes, Dulcie Witman

This was from a free workshop I found on Facebook, called WOW Writes, wide open writing, held on the first Thursday of the month. We wrote for two minutes on a prompt. Then we were interrupted midstream by another prompt. Then again for a third time. I didn’t like the interruption, or the abrupt process of shifting directions or perspectives. I was later asked to read what I wrote by cofounder Dulcie Witman, who said that liked it, but I did not care for the actual workshop leader, whom I don’t remember. I’m always leery of therapists, perhaps afraid of being “herapized” by therapists always leaping to the wrong conclusions. I never went back to the group because I really don’t enjoy writing fiction. Not my thing.

Found my Writers’ Group drafts from 2003 to 2007

Today I found my missing writing from Vito’s Writers’ Group. The packet was hidden in among my CPITS conference notes and poems (for years!). A fluke, really. I just about given up on ever fleshing out the early 2000s posts on my blog when I stumbled across several pieces from 2003 in the back of my CPITS binder, and as I flipped through the binder for the third time seeing if I could clean one or two more pieces, I found all the writing that had gone AWOL from 2003 (only a few pages) through 2007 stuffed in a magenta folder with Steve Kowitt poems on top. No wonder I couldn’t find them, they were hiding out in not so plain sight. There may be more missing pages, but at least it feels like I can finally flesh out all the lean years with the exception of 2003. But 47 posts is doable. I would’ve preferred 52 posts but you never know. For the past few days, I have been combing through old clippings and writing, scanning and uploading them to the blog. Since it’s been such an enormous amount of time since I began this project, sometimes I double post, and then have to delete my work. Who can keep track of nearly 5000 posts anyway?

By right, the year 2007 should also have been included on that scant post list. I began this blog on Aug 20, 2008, and randomly backfilled 2007 with myriad poems, letters, essays, etc. But then I had to deconstruct it when I ran out of room for all my old poems filed by month (I didn’t know that I could backpost to 1970) so there was very little new writing from 2007, about 30 posts in all with less than a dozen poems (ditto that in 2008) because I hadn’t yet started blogging even though I made the site in January of 2007—and that’s with adding all the long lost Writers’ Group entries. There are now 88 posts, but about 40 of them are not from 2007! I decided to leave the letters all in one place, parked in the February 2007 slot, though they date back to the 1980s. At least for now.

• When This Blog Really Began—Aug 2008
• LITERRATA or Veritas and the art of Memoir
• My old poems from the 1980s-90s

*2006 was 12, now 21 (to do. I found my MIA Writers’ Group folder, in w/ CPITS)

*2005 was 10, now 22 (to do. need to add Writers’ Group)

*2004 was 33, now 66 (added Writers’ Group. MIA Florida journals! found 2 emails)

*2003 was 35, now 47 (I found 5 writers group posts buried in my CPITS folder)

THE APPROACH OF AUTUMN

                                        —after Rilke

There is that one moment in late summer 

when leaves fade to sunlight and begin their descent, 

the sweet order of bay fills the air with nostalgia.

The nights are drawing in, my grandmother said.
The shadows in the deep pocket canyons lengthen, 

& the whine of chainsaws announces the first hearthfires,

where a tide of woodsmoke rises, blue as an inland sea.

A restlessness stirs the psyche, all those undone tasks.
I think: One can never be homeless in the garden 

where the cat drapes herself across aching limbs 

and the mind travels the distance of winter frost

while tumbling leaves escape to darker climes.

10/4/23 Write On! with Terri Glass

2023 CAC Artist Fellowship application

Of course I didn’t get a fellowship. I didn’t recognize any names on any of the three categories.

The CAC Fellowship will support my ongoing creative art practice by giving me time to develop more writing and to publish a backlog of work. I have several book-length poetry manuscripts, and material from ongoing projects including travel journals and memoir—including meeting with poets and artists in the USSR, and Latin America when I traveled with mentor poet/translator, John Oliver Simon. 

I am also a photographer with a large archive of photos of notable poets and writers that spans 40 years. I’m in the process of scanning thousands of negatives that I plan to make available with my writing via print and web before I die. I‘m 71. COVID taught me that time is finite. Some of my B&W photography is online here My historic photos of poets and notable people have recently appeared in The Weed Museum traveling exhibit, and the soon-to-be-released Julia Vinograd documentary, Between Spirit & Stone.
During COVID isolation, I joined several Zoom writing groups which led my writing in new directions. One writing group I belong to has generated enough new material for several full length books, one of which I've submitted to Gunpowder Press. 

In the previous narrative boxes, I've discussed my teaching career—and about passing on the baton. I discovered it's important to train other artists in order to facilitate change through the poetic process. Then there is the next generation of students to carry on the tradition. Teaching has been at the epicenter of my creative process, and inspiring others also informs my own work. I discovered I do not work in a vacuum, I need interaction with community, whether it's protesting against the government or social injustice, or reflecting upon the environment. But now it's time to pull back, and make my own work available to larger audiences.

JUMPSTARTING THE HEART

Nels and Seretta talked of that moment 

when their hearts stopped beating,

that moment when they were technically dead.

A-fib, D-fib—when the machines took over, 

delivering another chance at life.

When her heart was restarted, Seretta said

you cannot go back to who you were. 

You get another chance, like a cat with nine lives,

growing wings of made of sunlight and breath.

But you have to reinhabit your life.

In spring, Jay visits the parents of his donor heart, 

in this way they celebrate the life of their dead son.

They place their hands upon his chest 

to feel the miracle of the beating heart, 

still alive in its new cage of sinew and bone.

I want to ask: Do they fall love again anew

with all that passion of the first flush of love.

Or does the heart pick up where it left off, 

perhaps indifferent to the vagaries of love 

that settles into the ventricles over time?

9/27/23 Write On! with Susie Terence

California condors return to the Bay Area

Today, in the news headlines, rare photos of six California condors circling the updrafts of Mount Diablo for the first time in over 100 years. It seems these condors drifted north from the Pinnacles National Monument. Slowly they have been re-populating California. They haven’t quite hit the 500-bird mark but it’s a miracle compared to the last statistic, which was the virtual death knell for the species, when the last 22 free wild condors captured in the 1980s in order to save the species from extinction.

In the 1950s, the ranchers were hellbent on exterminating all the bobcats and cougars, foxes and coyotes, the golden, and the bald eagles, and all the hawks from the landscape—it was considered a necessity for taking care of the livestock. I remember their stories of eagles dropping lambs and calves on rock outcrops to kill them. I watched these wild creatures disappear from my childhood landscape. Their presence was noted by their absence. But I had a vast memory bank.

When the ranchers ran out of eagles and redtail hawks to shoot down, it seems they began in on the bluejays and vultures, perhaps for an excuse for something to shoot at, leaving behind a plethora of lead bullets in the landscape. Ten years ago, California was the first state in the nation to successfully ban lead bullets and lead sinkers for good, the wildlife has been making a slow comeback.

The native bluejays were replaced by Stellar’s jays who moved in en masse to fill the empty niche. And no, they were not drab scrub jays that you see today, these bluejays had black striped blue and white wing and tail feathers that I loved to collect.  I remember the first time I saw a Stellar’s jay hopping up Barranca Road by the Bianchi‘s field. Dark head and a crest. I had never seen one like it before, so I stored it away in my memory banks. 

A frumpy bluebird shoved out of the nest too soon so I put him back.

By this time, the western bluebirds had also disappeared from the landscape, because of DDT poisoning. This was about the time Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring came out. I used to think that bluebirds were male robins because they were blue and orange. You know, blue for boys? I was a strange child of the outdoors and was constantly making mental connections between things. Call it similitude if you must. 

The redtail hawks never returned to their home range, but were replaced with striped red-shouldered hawks from Sonoma County. I can’t stand their piercing cry. I prefer the song of the red tail hawk any day. I used to practice saying Tcheer! And they’d answer back. Collecting their red tail feathers was considered a big coup.

I once took care of a friend, Christian Djorziak’s injured redtail hawk. When I tossed her a chicken neck, she would lean back on her massive wings as if they were elbows and grab it with her feet. I marveled at her beauty, how big she was up close. Those sharp eyes, those talons, that beak. Respect and awe.

A dark morph redtail hawk checks out free range chickens, LaFranchi Ranch, Nicasio.

In the late 1950s we sometimes saw condors in West Marin, but it was very rare. Compared to turkey vultures they were massive in the sky—much bigger than vultures or eagles. I only saw one, never a flock. The condors had large white patches on their underwings—one reason why it stuck out in my mind. It was a placeholder for the future, a time for when I could properly identify them. But by then, they were long gone from the wild. Facing mass extinction from DDT and lead bullets, like the peregrine falcon.

In the early 1970s we used to drive up a steep fire road out to the Big Sur garbage dump just to see the last of the wild California condors circling in the updrafts over the desolate valleys and ridges. And you could definitely see their distinctive white underwing patches, or chevrons pointing the way out.

And outside of Cusco, Peru, I watched massive Andean vultures circling over the ruins of Sacsayhuamán. They too had white patches on their underwings. And elegantly dressed in fluffy white neck ruffs, like Elizabethan courtiers, or cartoon vultures.

A friend writes how she once saw black vultures with their distinctive white under wing patches, near Wildcat Beach on the coast in the 1990s—their range does not typically overlap with our CA redheaded turkey vultures—the black-headed vultures’ westernmost winter range includes AZ, and the southern states. But I guess one could’ve been blown a bit off course. Or maybe he was slumming it in CA. Admit it, we have way better beaches and way better carcasses too.

The other day I saw a massive turkey vulture flock funneling in an updraft over the pastures west of Petaluma. Always love seeing them swirling like WB Yeats’ Pern in a Gyre during the fall migration. It’s more like a congregation or perhaps a reunion as they don’t ever leave the Northbay. We used to lie down in the middle of the field and play dead to see if they would come closer. They never did, even if we didn’t bathe for a couple of weeks, we just weren’t stinky enough.

For the the record, our red-headed turkey vultures will also eat live meat. They are opportunists, not pacifist garbage-men. I once witnessed them descend upon a wounded fawn that some asshole hit with his fancyass Porsche right in front of Rancho Nicasio—and he drove off without a backward glance. Vultures have way better table manners than he did—even if they did tear out the fawn’s still beating heart. He was a goner, and we all knew it. I sure didn’t want to do the coup de grace.

A little known fact, baby red-headed turkey vultures have dark colored heads. Check out my photo of Junior perched between both his parents munching on a carcass in San Antonio Creek. Very different than black vultures. Sleeker heads and necks. They are very loving and doting parents. You can see from the photo that our turkey vultures are not really black. I love the blue black iridescent breast and neck feathers juxtaposed against the two-tone brown wing feathers.

Black vultures are definitely smaller and strange looking with their wrinkled cowls like Anubis escaped from the underworld. Check out this link for their range, and also how they look so different in the sky. I don’t think I’ve ever knowingly seen a black-headed vulture. Apparently they will hang out with turkey vultures, because turkey vultures have an acute sense of smell. Better than theirs. So I guess they’re carrion opportunists.

Check out this photo of the white underwing of the condor I was mentioning earlier. And this is why they significantly stood out in my childish memory banks. They were so unlike turkey vultures, and they were massive in the sky. You could actually hear them soaring in the wind.

A turkey vulture with a massive wingspan.