Mom On The Cold Mornings

Childhood Winters

Kingman, Arizona

On cold mornings

our mother backed herself up

to the large furnace that loomed 

in the living room, that creaked 

and groaned while it warmed up.

She was wrapped in her robe,

arms folded across her chest,

shoulders hunched, chin down,

shivering and appearing to be in pain.

My brothers and I crowded

around her until she told us 

to get dressed for school.

When she felt warm enough

and had rubbed her behind,

she got her coffee, fixed our oatmeal,

made sure we dressed warm,

then sent us out to the bus stop.

When we passed the living room window,

we saw her through gauzy curtains, 

clutching her coffee, sipping slowly,

standing with our youngest brother

in front of the heater, determined

to get some heat in her, like she 

had nothing else to do for the day

while we shivered in the chilling wind,

hoping the bus would pick us up early.

From: Small Places, Big Places, Everywhere 

Unpub. MS p. 53

Sideways Through Our Eyes

Notes sent to 1967

So long ago, it seems as things go their way 

and back again to now, as always there was.

Appearances, prolific and weak, and fraudulent as are 

so many who adorned themselves as fancy, still shallow.

Even yesterday, as long a past as there is, 

not so different now than ten days or ten eons ago.

Our time past, the most egregious betrayals, 

forgiven, yet many have failed atonement. 

Such were the lessons of that time and place, of desire,

of regret, of knowing everything which meant nothing.

Seeing the mean face of reality, innocence was lost; 

to find our consciousness may take a lifetime.

Not the same faces as we today are as yesterday 

or tomorrow will be. Beware the hardening heart.

Time devours all. Redemption is how we will see.

To the center of a Labyrinth, there are no straight paths.

From: A Rambly Search for Innocence, Time, and Love

Unpub. MS p. 11

A Way Of Praise

In praise of sunlight and rain,

constellations and the passage of time,

fierce love, and eyes that gaze deep into another’s;

the migrating shadows of mesquites and saguaros,

orange poppies that coat the desert floor;

a baby’s laughter and crying,

the hugs and kisses of lovers,

the healing breath of Jesus,

and faith that knows the vastness 

of Mystery and things unseen, 

and prayers that rise 

in whatever way 

they must.

From: Shorts: Short Poems On How We Ramble

Unpub. MS p. 40

The Mystery Of The Blue Agave

From A Dream

Passion and spirit of life and love.

With immortal breath,

it searches, not for endings,

but of beginnings, always beginnings

before setting out on the Journey.

In reality, it is as lost as the seeker

who moves forward with Grace.

A sip permeates and insinuates.

Earthy, sensuous, a perfect voice,

like a woman made of fire.

From: Shorts: Short Poems On How We Ramble

Unpub. MS p. 44

Retrospective Of A Boomer (part 2 of 4)

For nine months of 1969, I was drunk most of the time, 

self-medicating, hoping to silence a vicious demon.

At the university,* I studied walkers, runners, 

rock climbing, landscapes (with houses and without);

sidewalks, clouds, bones, music, rocks, sonic booms, 

searing desert sunlight, and once a day I recited Desiderata.

I loved being the random university student. 

I had good friends and was active in several clubs.

But the sixties and early seventies were full of rampage,

riots, kidnapings, fire bombings, and Vietnam.

It was as if the times were conspiring to destroy

what little was left of everyone’s innocence.

I ran naked at Gate’s Pass and at Mt. Lemmon.

On a dare, I streaked on the university campus.

My girlfriend was French and wonderfully assertive,

but stalked me for a month for breaking up with her.

Classical music remained my source of solace,

and rock and roll kept me in the groove of things.

The Navy saved me from the train wreck that was home, 

but after that, I feared the volatile nature of my anger.

For two chaotic years, I lived in a kind of feral panic,

thinking that would make up for my abused childhood.

But no, it doesn’t work that way, not at all.

*Tucson, Arizona

From: A Rambly Search for 

Innocence, Time, and Love

Unpub. MS p. 9

Quiet Night

Distractions quieted, 

then sleep, dreams, and a few messages 

from the unknown. We tend to ignore

visions and all manner of abstractions and reveries,

left to dissolve in the light of day.

A quiet night for the suspension of grief,

relief from our inner wrangling,

the contrived dramas,

heartbreak, sadness,

and the clamor

of the things we create simply because we can.

But for the lovers in bed whispering as one,

night is the curtain.

From: Shorts: Short Poems

On How We Ramble

Unpub. MS p. 74

Big Bands

Something about my mother, 

Mary Etta

Late 1950s to early 1960s

When I think of my mother,

I remember how much she liked 

her Billy Vaughan and Floyd Cramer records,

but when she listened to Glenn Miller or Harry James

she swayed in ways that seemed unmotherly.

Sometimes I would catch sight of her when she 

danced with the broom rather than sweep the floor.

I felt like I should have covered my eyes.

It was awkward, so I’d go outside and play.

But when I returned, she would be humming

one of the band tunes, and the delicious aroma 

of fresh baked cookies filled the house.

In that moment, with a mouth full of cookie,

the world felt right side up.

From: Memories and the Things Left Behind:

A Non-linear Recollection

Unpub. MS p. 45