SCION CALL

I am not a footlocker for odd clothes, cookies, and drinks. 

I am not a go-bag even though evacuation came in threes. 

I’m no knight in shining armor, recusing you from yourself,

though you’ve slept on the backseat, took cramped refuge

when there was nowhere else left to go. No late-night couches.

I am most certainly not not your pet cage—

that little deermouse who came in from the cold 

who built nests in my wiring, plumbed my secret places. 

Someday there will be hell to pay it, but not just yet. 

Remember how you drenched air filters with peppermint oil 

to discourage the wayward beast, but the volatile oils 

burned your eyes, so you couldn’t see where you were going, 

it was midwinter, an exceptionally cold one at that. 

Remember how we drove around with all the windows open. 

The wind finally stung those repressed tears from your eyes.

My floor was generous, the mouse could’ve dined for months. 

We couldn’t go on like this. Something had to be done, but what? 

And when snap traps caught only fingers, you resorted to glue traps 

with little almond eyes, they caught flack, but no wayward mouse. 

Finally someone took pity, gave you a rat-sized glue board 

that finally did the trick, but the interior smelled grassy and pissy, 

there was no easy fix. The mouse lived on, but it was doomed, 

so when it was caught, it was end of an odd migration story. 

No time for remorse. All that tasty rubber made with soy, 

a siren call for small woodland creatures with no travel guides.

It’s a good thing the packrats didn’t squeeze through the ducts. 

That would’ve been a three-ring circus. They ate their way 

through my landlady’s semi-new Camry, right down to the bone. 

The damage was more than the value of the car.

And then, they moved onto my flat mate’s snazzy sports car. 

The spark plug caps and firewall was tastier than acorns.

The packrats circled my old Scion, saved by the manufacture date.

See, all the newer cars are made with soy-based rubber. 

Rodents are flocking to this new Japanese food source.

But packrats also like to do a brisque trade with trinkets.

All those shiny treasures snoozing on the dashboard.

Like so much money in the bank.

9/6/23 Write On! with Susie Terence

UNSEASONABLE RAIN

The pale summer sky is cloaked 

with an unseasonable beauty of thunderclouds, 

ladened with promises of lightning and wildfire.

We hold our breath, pack our go-bags, and hope for rain.

The Perseids whisper of distant light in the northern quadrant. 

I imagine angels imposed on the levity of the sky, 

and think of the inevitable promise of the grave, 

how the pretenders and believers alike 

eventually succumb to that final darkness.

Don’t they know the story is a run-on life sentence?

8/16/23

STINGING NETTLES

Pretend that the world is an oyster 

sleeping on the clouded bottom of the bay. 

A cliché, I know. Pretend that it dreams 

of the luster of pearls it will never make.

Pretend the grit beneath your skin isn’t an irritant, 

or the slender blackberry sticker in your finger 

that you worry with your teeth, hoping to dislodge it,

does not bother you. It swells up anyway.

It’s embedded in your skin like an old memory.

Pretend that those stinging nettles 

growing in a boggy patch down by the creek 

will not sting you. Not this time. You get a free pass.

Do you remember how your grandmother 

donned leather gloves to gather nettles for potherbs? 

They tasted of dank secrets of the creek, midsummer. 

Was it because she had no money for dinner greens?

You probably shouldn’t have told those city kids 

to grab them like that. Such childish meanness. 

They were not the enemy. You were too young to know 

that change is inevitable, but you fought it anyway.

Soon it will be time to return to school. 

That new dress she made is a song of the future.

But you couldn’t let go of summer’s hard promise, 

the tawny hills, the dark oaks whispering secrets 

you couldn’t quite translate in the breeze, 

no matter how hard you listened. Meanwhile, 

the last wasps droned on, deer desperately browsed, 

looking for anything green—even the bitter ivy.  

Pretend the golden bay leaves 

clattering like hooves on the tin roof

are not small coffin nails 

hammering home the end of the season.

8/16/23 Write On! with Terri Glass

BRÓN TROGAIN, SUMMER’S END

Fading August light, 

the clattering of bay leaves. 

A sharpness in the air.

These are the seeds of memory, 

the mountains painted blue,

the hayfields of stored sunlight.

The waning moon sings of despair, 

and the wild iris by the side of the road

slumbers toward winter darkness.

The sky shrugs its shoulders,

covered in a shawl of clouds.

The thunder answers

with an empty promise 

of late summer rain.

8/9/23

HUNTING STONES ON GRIZZLY PEAK

The odor of eucalyptus after first rain dazzles 

the senses with the memory of thirsty rocks,
small pieces quartz resurface on the fire road
like blind hail after the deluge, quiet stars 
dozing in red Franciscan mud.

I gather them up, not random shards of upheaval,
but the remains of fossils filled with quartz,
the unkempt story of seed clams and shells
still crawling out of the sea.

As I glimpse the bay from a limestone reef,  

I hold a hard beauty in my pockets.
There are more treasures to be found,
dark obsidian flakes also swim in my pockets.

Someone’s attempt at resurrecting the art 

of flint napping, a dark tide at my feet.

All this immeasurable bounty of the past 

teases me away from the 21st-century.

The spine of the drought is broken. 

The coinage in my pockets pulls me down. 

My pants are in danger of slipping off 

with the combined weight of rocks. 

I return those stones back to the earth, 

taste the pungent air, breathe in the mist 
with a sense of finally belonging 

to this landscape not of my own choosing.

8/9/23 Write On! Workshop with Terri Glass

REST IN POWER, DAVID LAFLAMME

Rest in Power, David LaFlamme, 

it’s a beautiful day in the West..

The white bird is flying free

to the edges of all the small circles 

in the universe, uncaged,

while the aspen leaves fall 

and the violin gently weeps. 

It is all part of the pantomime.

8/8/23

PD obit

Apparently, the New York Times of it was a little more in depth. Judith Gips reported.: “ Piquant family and early history from the NYT obituary for David LaFlamme:  I somehow like his father being a stunt performer who became a copper miner. "...born on May 4, 1941, in New Britain, Conn., the first of six children of Adelard and Norma (Winther) LaFlamme. He spent his early years in Los Angeles, where his father was a Hollywood stunt double, before settling in Salt Lake City, where his father became a copper miner."

David was about 5 when he got his first violin, a hand-me-down from an aunt.

“I began fooling around with it on my own and taught myself to play ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,’” he said in a 1998 interview. Formal training followed.”

RIPTIDE

Who said to always swim toward the outsider?
I was far from shore, the waves stacked up,
gnawed the coastline, a storm far out to sea,

an offshore trench fed the undertow.

I slid down each trough to meet the next wave.
And so on. A glimpse of the beach, a silver,
as I rode each crest. Was I mammal or fish?
I might drown this far from shore.

The lifeguard station was a flyspeck,
I was a whitecap, a seagull on the waves.

I knew I could only save myself.

I could disappear forever in this vast sea.

How long before she missed me? 

That mother sleeping off the night.
I body-surfed in, but it was a long way to land.
I was learning to rescue myself. Again.

Gasping, I lay face down in the warm sand,
numb from the icy embrace of the sea. 

I was 10.

8/2/23. This is a revamp of part 2 of Lúnasa. I suddenly realized it was two poems.

MAL DE MER

There is that one invisible moment 

when you are far from shore, 

but the horizon line has other ideas, 

as to what plumbline is real.

That moment where you give up all hope 

for a terrestrial reconciliation with the land, 

because in the trawler, the sea is your only cradle, 

in that briny bath from whence we came,

and you regress to an infantile, colicky stage, 

where nothing is solid, not even the mutiny 

of your traitorous, roiling stomach

and you become like the hunted sea cucumber 

spilling its guts in order to live another day.

The salmon escapes the hook, seeks new depths.

And then you too let go, give up the conflict

of all your worldly goods in the vague hope

for stasis, and seeking a safe harbor, 

you pray for equilibrium, a balance

between sea and sky and horizon.

8/2/23 Write On! Workshop with Terri Glass

I really disliked the model poem. I guess I should post a link to our model poems, but we tend to wander so far afield when we write, that the model poem is merely a jumping off place. An incidental prompt.

AT THE STROKE OF MIDNIGHT

I don’t know why I’m charmed by that synthetic borderline 

between this day and the next, a fixed point on the clock, 

on the calendar, an arbitrary measuring of time. 

We take it for granted, and it exists within our minds, 

but not in the minds of all those other beings. 

Does the cat care for the stroke of midnight? 

No, it only cares for the staccato of kibble in the bowl. 

Fairytales began at midnight. Cinderella, for example. 

And in Brittany, one night a year, the old rocks at the River Ys 

come down to the banks at midnight to slake their thirst. 

I remember how we waited for Midnight Mass to end 

so that we could feast on ham, and unwrap our presents. 

It was a witching hour that lasted until dawn, 

the bird chorus echoing our own arias as we waded 

through the flotsam of tinseled madness.

And at the stroke of midnight, India became a nation, 

shaking off neo-colonial shackles, slaking its thirst for freedom. 

My grandfather, an Irish gunrunner who also sent arms to India, 

invited to the midnight gala where they danced beneath jeweled stars 

in New Delhi & San Francisco until dawn sent them all to bed.

Then the real work began, building a nation out of hope.

It was a time between times where anything was possible.

At the Exploratorium, I was mesmerized by greeny mirrors

endlessly gazing into each other’s sublime faces, 

reflecting themselves and their endless visages, 

where suspended time traveled at the speed of light.

7/26/23 Write On! with Susie Terence

THE SONG OF BARBED WIRE

The song of barbed wire, strung taut on old posts, 

the way my grandfather labored on the steep hillside, 

the horizon distracting him as he wiped sweat from his brow.

Already the siren call of the deep valley below the mountain

will lead his children astray, the long arm of the known world 

promising so much and yet offering little in return.

A torrent of syllables and fragments slipping over rocks 

among the old bones, in the creekbed in deep summer. 

The body’s doubt, and the knowledge of regret holding us back. 

7/19/23

STAND UP COMEDIAN

It is curious how memory is embedded 

in things ordinary, how it arises like a dust storm

as you unravel the past, packing up for yet another move. 

An old sequined dress in the back of the closet 

promised much more than it delivered. 

Yet you kept it anyway. For no real reason. 

At least it still fits, so much for small victories.

And remember your grandmother’s old fur coat, 

someone said pony hair so you never wore it again. 

You heard the hooves following you in dreams.

Then there’s curious sensation when memory 

coalesces like blood as you relive a day in the life of… 

The unanswerable: why did that particular moment arise? 

And where did all that sequestered time go anyway? 

Especially those moments when you weren’t paying 

attention and forgot about the grind of dailiness. 

The box of broken earrings stashed under the bed

is whispering again of the not-so-good good old days. 

You know, those inconsequential moments, 

surfacing like a gateway drug in need of a fix. 

None of it is real. Curious how we define ourselves 

with detritus of the past. So much treasured junk.

You’d think by now, we’d know better. 

Memory is a standup comedian: 

part paper, part animal, part rock 

as you snip snip snip away at the past, 

trimming the split ends with dull nail scissors, 

the hinge protesting the conversion 

with a song of rust and regret. 

I want to say to my younger self, regret not the past 

because it is all but a trick of memory. 

Think of it as a jigsaw puzzle made of clouds

with pieces missing.

7/19/23 Write On! with Susie Terence

July NaHaiWriMo, 30-something haiku

31. Papyrus

30. Pulp

29. Apple

28. Sugarcane

27. Hydrogen

26. Oak

25. Kenaf

24. Wheat

23. Banana

22. Oxygen

June NaHaiWriMo, haiku

Playing catch-up on haiku prompts, I only just discovered this Facebook NaHaiWriMo site on July 5. There are also May prompts. (I’ll stop here for now). Since I injured my leg June 28, it’s been hard to think about writing, but haiku is feasible.

30. Summer's end 

BRÓN TROGAIN, SUMMER'S END

Lúnasa dances 

with the coming dark season. 

Winter's cold music.

29 seashells

BEACH GOSSIP

Listen to seashells—

long distance conversations 

with tide, wind, and waves.

28. ocean

ANOREXIA

The ceaseless hunger 

of the ocean nibbling 

on towering cliffs.

SHAME WORN HAND-ME-DOWNS

My aunt brought home a cardboard box of old clothes.

It was like Christmas in July. My heart foundered

on the festive picnic of a gingham dress 

with puffy sleeves and ruffles framing a scoop neck. 

It made me feel so grown-up as I whirled and twirled 

like a dust devil dancing up a storm in the driveway. 

I wore a funnel of pleasure floating off into the blue sky. 

I wore it to church. I wore it to school, it made me feel 

like a princess with its full skirts rustling in the breeze.

I vaguely knew the girl from catechism, she was older,

she didn’t go to our church or to our school. 

But it was a tight-knit farming community 

so I was careful not to wear it to the other church 

where her family were parishioners. I was in 5th grade,

it was a time of transitions. At our annual church bazaar, 

as my grandmother culled clothes on the rummage table,

there she was, whispering to the others, pointing a finger

at her old dress. She made me feel so ashamed 

for wearing hand-me-downs. Thing is, there was 

no shame attached to old clothes—until she outed me 

and I put that dress away, never to wear it again.

6/28/23 Write On! Prompt. Terri Glass

COYOTE COMMUTE

In the rearview mirror, I saw a scrawny coyote 

trot down Sir Francis Drake Boulevard,

midday, in the tiny hamlet of Forest Knolls, 

looking over his shoulder, watching for cars,

before turning up Tamal Road, 

headed for home as if he lived there.

I kept looking for Road Runner, 

knowing I was in the wrong cartoon.

6/16/23

HOUSE SPIDER

HOUSE SPIDER

Nearly invisible house spider 

spins desoléis on his delicate web 

searching for breakfast 

in all the wrong corners.

6/15/23

PLAYING WITH WORDS

There are holes in the lost ecology of language. 

Words, falling from grace, out of lack of usage, 

acorn, adder, bluebell, dandelion, fern, otter—

words wandering far from home, looking for loose lips 

of poets, perhaps long in tooth but not short on ideas.

I never meant to play with words, it wasn’t my idea,

they came to the rally all jumbled up and in a mess. 

It was like assembling a jigsaw puzzle with missing pieces 

no endgame photo in sight, or a Rubik’s cube bereft of color—

as if to taunt the most OCD of us to complete the poem,

so we ratcheted color into shape, hoping for form.

Sometimes I want to take a hammer to language 

or to pry syntax apart with a flathead screwdriver, 

and beat it up until the cube shatters, internal structure lost, 

leaving larger puzzles to decipher in the aeolian winds,

but the lyres are silent, once destroyed, won’t resurrect.

Only a pale shaving of sawdust and grit riding the wind.

And as we grow grey with age and larger in vocabulary, 

old words continue to haunt us, wanting a mouthpiece,

but the audience shrinks to nothing until we are left alone 

in a cavernous barn with archaic words roosting in the rafters 

looking for flight to escape the throat of darkness.

6/14/23 Write On! With Terri Glass

A MEADOW OPENS

Here, a meadow opens with arms outstretched, 

where the meadowfoam and field iris 

paint the eye into carpets of color. 

The cattle work the grass and low to each other, 

they are far from the police state of cities and self. 

They peacefully graze, while we plan and strategize, 

ever vigilant to dangers, perceived, or otherwise.

5/17 Write On! with Susie Terence

DEAR POEM, THE POINT OF NO RETURN, NaPoWriMo, PAD Challenge, Day 12

NaPoWriMo write a poem that addresses itself. Dear Poem…interrogate it.

DEAR POEM

Dear Poem, why did you leave me in the lurch like that, 

surrounded by mundane words, second class ideas 

and turns of phrase so trite, they made me wince?

We had a good thing going, you left me standing,

you walked out the door like an irate lover.

What on earth were you thinking? It’s been said before.

Didn’t you learn anything at all after all this time, 

that metaphor and simile must always be served fresh 

and piping hot out of the smithy’s forge?

There is no way to resurrect or to save a stale poem, 

no matter how precious the subject matter,

without undergoing a linguistic blood transfusion.

They say poems need to be retranslated every generation 

as language takes a powder, words change nuance 

and meaning dissolves into cliché 

whenever you least expect it.

4/12/23

2023 April PAD Challenge write a sound poem

THE POINT OF NO RETURN

Lonely cars on the tarmac late at night, 

remind me of wind soughing in the pines, 

or the restless surcease of the ocean’s roar 

and I want to follow the vagaries of that road 

leading back to the point of no return.

4/12/23

BLUE LAZARUS

I once loved an old blue truck 

the color of deep mountain skies

that always rose from the dead, 

like Krishna, or a phoenix from its own ashes, 

overcoming great mechanical odds, 

from a stuck starter, to cranky carburetors 

to broken ball joints & missing catalytic converters.

It kept me on my mechanical toes, 

praying it would not die in traffic, 

and cursing it whenever it did, 

until a runaway dumpster took it out. 

That was the final insult. 

I needed a crowbar to open the door. 

Damned if the truck didn’t fire up, raring to go. 

But I had to let it go. Its wings were clipped for good. 

No rising up from the grave this time. 

3/9 &11/23 this came from a prose piece,

• Easter Sunday