A Poem for National Breast Cancer Awareness Month....

October Memory


I remember my first one.
I guess I was about 13,
at least that’s what I consider
to be the first “real” one.
Not pretend, like the ones
my mom bought me
when I was 11 or 12.
This one wasn’t stretchy;
it had that all important
number-letter combination,
and I had to try on several
before finding the perfect one.


I remember standing before
the three-way mirror,
admiring the way it gently
propped up my soft white flesh,
creating the subtle nuance of curves…
curves that I hoped would catch
the attention of Bobby and Mike
and Steve and Doug,
but mostly Bobby.


I remember the little blue
forget-me-nots, and the row
of lace picot adorning the ridge,
the satin white bow in the center,
and the double hook I had mastered
to fasten behind my back
without looking.
Anxious for the first time
my future boyfriend would
uncock it with a single hand.


I remember the one I bought
when I was 23.
It stayed in its box for 7 months,
in the bedroom down the hall,
in a basket filled with onesies,
receiving blankets, and rags
to drape over my shoulder.
I couldn’t wait to wear that one.
It wasn’t quite as pretty
as the drawer full I had become
accustomed to wearing,
but I couldn’t wait for the first time
I’d fold down the flaps,
let down my milk, and hear
the coo and sweet suckling
of my baby boy.


I remember the one I purchased
when I was 36 –
both in size and age.
It was my first one in red,
hoping “Ruby Temptress”
would live up to its name,
hoping to rekindle a flame,
before the next cool wind
extinguished the final flicker.
No such miracle occurred.
No such secret revealed.


It’s a cool day in October.
Today I remember 13.
I remember 23.
I remember 36.
Today, there are no
little blue flowers
or alluring shades of scarlet
to choose from.
There is only the white one,
sterile with a flap, this time
only on the left side,
where I believe the surgeon
may have also cut away
a piece of my heart.
And the prosthetic
can’t quite fill the space.

Poetry in the sky....

Favorite Skies

He’d often tell me how he loved the sky.
Look, he would say, look at the glorious pastels
painted across the atmosphere.
See how they dance, these viscous wisps in the wind
ever changing, calling out to us to take a quick peek
before they vanish into the sky’s next song.
This is my favorite sky.

I imagine him as a small boy,
running up and down the grass covered hillsides,
singing and dancing, without a stitch of clothes,
or a care to burden him, twirling round and round
in circles, until in dizzy defiance he’d collapse.
I imagine him lying there, the sky spinning above him,
the shift-shaping clouds, his new best friends.
Perhap this, his favorite sky.

Hand in hand we walk to the market. He stops us
dead in our tracks. Look. Just look at that sunset,
how perfectly the pink morphs into peach
with a streak of violet to punctuate its splendor.
Dinner that evening tasted especially fine
and the love we made was delicious.
This is my favorite sky.

He held my hand at Joshua Tree, the night
the lunar man chose to hide his face.
Look, he said. Look at this sky my love.
See the trillions of stars twinkling as brilliant
as your smile. A chill lingered just long enough
in the space between our embrace,
capturing my breath writing out his name,
like wispy white smoke rings in an ebony sky.
It’s like home. A home we both know as ours.
Forever my favorite sky.

Another Arrangement of Sorts......

The Business Proposal

She stood silently
laden in white satin,
six women surrounding her,
each with a colored sash
cinching their waists.
She gazed into the mirror
and wondered…
Had anyone told him
the color of her eyes?

One woman brushed
her ebony locks
and pinned in place
the perfect chignon,
as the other prepared
the veil of white tulle
and its iridescent pearl crown.

This woman took on the tedious task
fastening tiny buttons
trailing up her spine,
as that one on her knees
polished the tips of the white slipper,
placed a penny in the toe.

One woman handed her
a bouquet of lilies,
tucked neatly in a blue kerchief,
while the last one, her mother,
wiped away a lonely tear,
draped the gold locket around her neck
and kissed her on the cheek.

And as the women proceeded
to take their places before the congregation,
Mendelssohn’s Wedding March was silenced
by the sound of the gavel
echoing in her mind
and the repeat of one single word - -
Sold.

My Heart Breaks for Japan.....

SHE KNOWS NO OTHER WAY

I suppose it was a Friday,
just as every other Friday before.
She picked up fresh fish at the market.
The children walked, holding hands, to school.
He took the train into the city.
Grandmother folded the laundry.
Grandfather smoked his pipe.
A young couple argued over money.
A teenage girl discovered she was pregnant.
A boy broke up with a girl.
A girl broke up with a boy.
Two girls kissed for the first time.
A boy kept his secret hidden.
An arborist trimmed the bonsai.
A fisherman tied off his boat.
Forbidden lovers met in the shadows.
A child was born.
A loved one was buried.

And then…
the earth shook.

And for three minutes of eternity
the molecules of all existence
danced their tarantella.
And the people, all people,
young and old,
strong and feeble,
rich and poor,
simply fell to their knees
unable to detect their own trembling
from the shakings of Gaea.

“It’s the End of Days.”
“It’s God’s Wrath.”
“Serves ‘em right.”
“Mother Earth is pissed off now.”
But in reality,
she knows no other way.

And as the wall of water surged,
engulfing everything in its path,
the normalcy of the day merely washed away.

The fish market was gone.
The school was gone.
The train station - gone.
Arguments were forgotten.
Secrets no longer worth guarding.
Bodies floated out to sea.
The baby never learned to crawl.

And one tiny bonsai tree
stood still,
waiting
for tomorrow.

A special event: Marathon of Love Poems

How 'bout something different for Valentine's Day this year? Sure roses, candy, and dinner by candlelight are all romantic, but wouldn't your sweetheart love to get swept off her feet to the sounds of poetry.

Join me and 15 other Northern California Poets at the Vox on Saturday Feb 12, 2011 at 5:00 pm for a Marathon of Love Poems. This is a "second saturday art walk" event which will also include a special gallery showing of art to support "To Write Love on Your Arms". The exhibit opens at 5:00, the poetry starts at 6:00 and live music follows around 8:00. Last year it was 'standing room only' so get their early if you want a seat.

I'll have several of my books for sale if you'd like a dedicated signed copy. Also I have a few pieces in the gallery, as I've collaborated with a photographer to illustrate a few poems created especially for this event. These are also for sale and support this worthy cause.

"Marathon of Love Poems"
The Vox / ThinkHouse Collective
1726 11th Street
(the Yellow Victorian Home between Q & R Street on 11th)
Sacramento, CA

From an open-mic reading at Luna's a few weeks ago....

NOTHING LEFT TO SEE

I wanna stand under
a rain cloud.
Let mascara run
from the tips of my lashes
to my toes,
Let my mask wash away
with gum wrappers,
ticket stubs,
cigarette butts,
down the gutter
in an alley.
I wanna be baptized
by a summer storm,
like the ones I remember
in St Louie.
Standing there
naked,
stripped of my security
blanket of labels
cut away,
as your eyes
peel each layer
with laser precision.
Shedding skins
upon the pavement.
Nothing left to see,
but me.

Inspired by Nepalese Poet Yuyutsu RD Sharma

Himalaya

You are my mule,
my companion, my friend,
my communal bastard brother,
born of stallion and ass.
You teach me to walk proud,
carry the burden of others
while levitating my own
troubles to take residence
in the mist of cloud, later to rain
down on me when I am
stronger.

You are my buffalo,
my protector, my guardian.
You teach me of sacrifice,
how to love outside myself,
to shed my skin to blanket
my sister in warmth, to quench
the hungry with my own blood
before finding my place
in the sun.

You are my goddess,
my idol, my mother,
whose alabaster bosom
shields me from harsh winds
howling in the night. You
challenge me to follow in
footsteps of my brothers,
so I may one day find
my own path.