From collection of over 140 poems being compiled and edited for publication.
The Mirror
Walking past the rolling dunes, sand blowing up and around, stinging the eyes; golden crystals between toes and heat of the sun glaring down.
Mucky seaweed is clumped up and strewn about haplessly, unwanted, but for cool hiding spots for shore critters.
Between crevices of large boulders and expanding out beyond, sea oats and beachgrass lean sideways hoping to reach the ground, but barely gracing it; As the ghost crabs poke out nearby, skitter about, then go back in hiding, sending the shoots back up, quivering.
Sweeping wavy patterns are in the sand, and ripples and uneven humps, with small broken mosaic pieces of orange-cream, tiger-marked scallop shells and silvery, white, and purple-lined clam shell fragments jutting out for you to step on as you stumble over the shifting, undulating sandy hills that are beneath your feet. Have you even looked up yet at the horizon?
Stepping forward carefully onto the flat, smooth, wet surface of sand, a darker tanned color, cool and refreshing, flat as a prairie, yet sinking with every step, squishing and crunching.
Clear pieces of half-dead jellyfish glisten in the light. Hungry gulls curiously swarm about, then quicky divert and dive for fish, others scavenging on the shore for other remnants.
Rounded, white edges of the long-fallen waves gently lap as high as they can reach upon the shore, until they pull back into the vast abyss that is the place of legend, lore, of life, death.
Breath of salt and seaweed, breezes filter through strands of hair. Constantly rocking waters, both uneasy yet gentle, sea-sickly yet peaceful, routine yet fresh each time.
Near is clear, a few steps out to the unknown, it goes dark, and deep. Stretching out to the light-blue-painted sky filled with horizontal, white strings of clouds are shiny trick mirrors, iridescent of blue and black and green. The irony is that the thing most tranquil is the most teeming, and the most present and clear close-by is the most uncertain and mysterious farther out. And yet, you are beckoned here.
October 2019
Candlestick
The candle is strong when tall and straight, this one white and round, clean and smooth, thin and looming, but not moving. Its base fat and wide, a solid foundation for what is yet to come.
The top is narrow-- not weak-- but the crown of the stick. Eyes trace its peak in the air and its quick plummet back down to earth; Looking upward from base to tip, it majestically towers.
In it lies a wick, peaking out at the top, long and solid through and through and tucked away inside a thick wall of wax that inside one never sees until the top burns down, all the while continuing to look the same, yet still changing.
Lit, it burns white, yellow, and hot blue like a beacon, a lighthouse for ships lost at sea. Smoke billows out, moving aimlessly in small, curling circles, wafting around the white stick, dark specks and soot now dirtying the pure base with its decorative and dissolving work.
Heat and intensity, dripping down. Melting slowly, still rejuvenating its soft substance, it begins and again and again at length. Hardened drops form and cling to the sides of this waxy, shiny lighthouse shaft, many times over. A glow and path is provided for all nearby, and energy ready to give away to anything that touches its fingertip or moves it.
Clumps form along the bottom, collecting, beautiful drippings cascading down the side like slow waterfalls, a work of art frozen and suspended in time.
The wick, almost disintegrated, leaves specks of black crumbles, collapsing over the last bit of wax left over. It has indeed only burnt from one side.
The base still stands, firm and solid as always, even the soft, warm center sets again. And what is left, is a chunk of time passed, of an experience in melting, morphing, perhaps dying, or wearing out, used up; but maybe it is a shift, a new beginning-- the start of the next light, the same but altered, or perhaps what has changed, in the end, is our perception.
October 2019
Summers at Grandma’s
Throughout the year we’d see each other, for holidays and random visits, opening Christmas gifts, and tobogganing in the snow over the hills, pulled by a four-wheeler; we’d write letters like penpals between visits; but it was nothing that summer brought.
Summer was a time to go on an adventure for weeks at a time, and spend it with Grandma; up north and out of the city. Sometimes cousins and aunts and uncles would be there too.
Every year they’d pick me up and bring me back, a several hours drive. I was packed, ready to go.
There’d be sewing, quilting, crocheting, planting, weeding, picking, washing, snapping, canning, watching sewing and craft shows and soap operas, or daytime television or rock and roll music in the background.
Following patterns and making things for my Barbies and dolls, scrunchies for my hair. There’d be shopping, just bumming around, and learning how to drive.
Grilling burgers, corn on the cob, homemade potato salad, and home-canned pickles; and canned jam of currants mixed with other berries that we hand-picked to top our breakfast toast.
We’d feed the hummingbirds with colored sugar water, watching for other colored birds whizzing or stopping by. We built some puzzles on the kitchen table or play board games. The kids would play tug-of-war Or fetch with the dog, swim in the kiddie pool, play cops and robbers, or we’d all head to the lake to splash around.
With Grandpa, it’d be up early to fish; head to get some worms, and ride into the lake in a small motor boat. Prepare the line, get the fish-- a test of city-girl and childhood patience-- take it off the hook and throw it into the water bucket. Blue gill, trout, perch, catfish. Clean and filet it, fry it, eat it!
We worked on wood projects, following patterns, and building stuff-- anything: mailboxes, quilt racks, holders for my hair-scrunchies, shelves, yard silhouettes. Added some paint and decorations.
We’d ride the grass mower or the four wheeler or the tractor through the yard and hay and corn fields, around the perimeter of the woods, down the gravel road and to the asparagus patch, or to the empty farmhouse across the road, with the dog chasing behind or passing ahead of us.
I’d watch the irrigations and learn all the crops by sight and their names, potatoes, soy beans, alfalfa, ginseng, hay, and distinguish between the colored corn tassels.
We all visited neighbors and friends around town or the next one over, at their homes or at the local tavern, where I’d practice the driving game and learn to play pool, or drink a Squirt and eat Gardettos or pizza.
Trips to local farms of family and friends: Load the hay into the barn, watch the dogs playing King of the Mountain on the hay barrels, attend the cows, check on the fat cats, get some eggs, share some garden cucumbers.
While driving around, we waved at all the drivers passing by to greet them in this north country.
This farm and country life was once foreign to me, until it became a familiar summer quest.
We’d all head to the church picnic and run some games or serve some meals. Next, the car show to serve fries and burgers; Try out new fish frys, find a rummage sale, search for an antique store. We’d even do some work at the town store.
We’d travel in the RV and go camping, explore the woods, lakes, streams, state parks, and up to Lake Superior, eat s’mores and observe the wildlife. We’d fish big trout at a reservation, and go shopping alongside the roads for handmade wooden carvings or black silhouette figures for the yard. There was ice cream for days and licorice for the roads, and playing road-games in the car to pass the time.
Back home at night, we’d all watch the dark night sky, seeing so many stars and colorful sunsets behind the tips of trees. Deer frolicked through the fields at dusk and again at dawn. Such peaceful, misty mornings.
I’d sing my country tunes at the top of my lungs to the corn fields and to the dog, and though they heard me at home, no one else could hear for miles.
The kids would bike to the neighbors’ homes-- which were near yet still so far away to me-- to use our imaginations, making up our own games.
During rainstorms, we’d watch out the window or from the back deck, on the lookout for funnel clouds and lightning bolts, and count the number of seconds until thunder sounded. We’d retreat to a movie inside, or to the basement for shelter, shelves lined with canned goods and surrounded by craftwork.
Making so many memories every summer, I could not replace what I’ve experienced, learned, where I’ve gone, who I’ve spent time with; A childhood glimpse into this simple, content, day-to-day, hard-working country life, and where I learned how to turn boredom into adventure and memories.
September 2019 Dedicated to my Grandmother, my trusty sidekick, friend, teacher, confidante, and loving family member since forever.
Walking into the Sea of Grief
Led into the waters by forces pulling from the sky, Stepping into the waist-high hurling waters that crash at my shins. Underneath my feet, the sand rushes through my toes and toward the shore. But without warning and with no mercy, the tiny but unyielding grains yank Grief and Pain from me and right back into the cold, deep, far-reaching seas, pulling out the tears along with it all, dispersing it back into the place of legends, stories, and truths, along with another thousands of years and more of the same already there. Standing and swaying by the unsteady tumult not knowing what to feel or what to think, hoping for Clarity, I listen to the sea gulls and breathe the salt air to purify the heavy lungs, but there is still nothing for the heart in pain. Sticking my fingers through the slippery water, that changes reflection from blue to brown to black and back to white again in an instant-- from calm undulations to thrilling, rolling waves that crest in and out of rhythm with short and long pauses between, drowning out everything else except my thoughts-- is me trying to be in touch with the changing and powerful Sea, and be grounded with the slipping Sand beneath my self.
July 2019
Peace in Buxton, NC
First day, already a change in the air-- humid, but fresher, the scent of nature. Lots of green, rolling dunes of light brown, mixed skies, with starting-storm winds blowing the soaring sea-grass hiding behind the dunes to a leaning stance. Fat, gray, wet clouds hang low but leave just enough room at the horizon for a layer of light blue to peek through. Lightning strikes over and over, long, squiggly streaks with angular arms and thunder booming directly above us as we drive through.
We take a straight path, with serene roads from anticipating the storm, heading straight to Hatteras Island; and finally a curve comes in the road once more.
Upon arriving to our destination, thick blasts of humid heat encircle us, and bright sun opens up above, but not for long. Soon the thunder rolls again and finality sets in, on a finishing punctuation to end the day’s journey and stay a while.
Slower pace, gentle people, peaceful energy, magnetization toward the eastern shore and all its healing parts. Time to come down, calm down, think, breathe, sip, write, rest, and live again.
July 2019
February Snow
Morning silence is deafening, awakening. Large, white balls of fluff spin dizzily in the early, calm dawn, the only motion stirring, falling heavily and wet to the ground, you can almost hear it if you strain.
A grey canvas is behind the houses, as if these red brick squares are painted directly onto it, tops slanted with clean and untouched sheets and white fences with holes and slats only seen because they are dirty.
Tall skinny pines and short, broad ones slump their shoulders, weighted with the hefty burden that they now carry, and didn’t before. Arms which typically are strong and sideways are tested, with white fingers flexed and pointed down to the ground and backbone curving ever so slightly, only the green underbelly of each branch color barely visible.
The white drops descending go through phases, first spinning, then angling, then calm and vertical, then diagonal to each other, criss-crossing. It is an air ballet, synchronized one moment, and independent at the next blink.
Clumps continue downward, but at the bottom they grow. One by one, one thousand by the next, on top of each other to form a covering. Only tips of brown stalks which have the strength through the winter poke out above it.
Spines of birches show, youthful trunks, and old, crooked oaks, wise and stable limbs reach out horizontally and corkscrewing in every which way, dancing in the air, receiving the small gentle dust pillows as another year’s gift.
Finally the birds are moving above, singing a calmer, contented winter song. Squirrels race across the new-formed hills, their prints and those of bunnies the only things creating paths and showing barely visible signs of wakened, walking life.
A small brown bird sits atop a wooden windchime hung by rusty chains, joining in its song and its gentle swaying in the cold air. A second and larger, speckled bird sits just beyond it, preening on a skinny branch, below it a fat one with a blue head, resting; behind it, the largest and highest flying of the black birds are excited to be about, disturbing the house roofs by jumping around and creating rifts with their wingtips as they fly from one side to the other.
The downward motions are slowing, becoming slighter, almost to none. Now small, soft and powdery cascades, weighty, or perhaps now, watery, drip slowly off the branches.
What activity came earlier and from some unseen openings in the grey canvas now happens at knee height.
What began as complete silence, but a veil of white noise, has finally woken up.
February 2019
Summer in Cantabria
Riding swiftly through the rolling, green mountains, hues from darkest olive to sickly yellow, suntanned brown to the driest, winter grayish-white, silky-hair fine grasses and trees, practically touching the low-hanging mysterious clouds. Drizzle, and mist surrounds, roads are wet; yet you wonder if you are suspended in exalted skies or swerving ‘round in the lowest of valleys. Then you see the lazy, resting, gentle tan beasts, cattle scattered, and the babies sucking on their mother’s milk, and are humbled by raw, earthly simplicity.
In near pastures, goat herds, cling to each other and to the rocky and grassy hillsides, chewing enthusiastically, afraid of losing to miss out on the last bite.
Misty clouds dissipate to clear the air. Haze clears and skies of clear, light blue open, revealing the salty bay water to one side. Still, so it seems, and extending out endlessly. Nearer waters are restless and crest, froth, and lap at the grass-topped black-cliffed rugged shoreline. In the distance floating with fluffy presence over the water are layers of cottony white.
Passing villages of homes with rows of colored stone or hardened stucco, seemingly flat from a distance, bumpy and rigid up close, of pekid orange, tan, cream, and nearly-white, dirty and aged, with rust-colored wavy tiles curling in layers over the sea-licked blocks of composite, all with open windows bordered by colorful shutters, sills filled with bright flowers.
Each town with a church of brown stone erected in the center, and its single cross and old bell atop. An abandoned grey castle always nearby, With green-molded mortar between layers.
This is a place, neither only mountain nor just sea, and in time, not present nor past, but magic, it’s both, in-between.
July 2018
Seaside Spanish Town
While farmers are planting quietly in the surrounding hilly backdrop and shepherding goats and cows to pasture, the fishing town-life is busy with activity.
The skyline, a mix between architecture modern and antiquated, full of arches and squares, and intricate dark iron or white wooden lattice work. Buildings, apartments, and homes topped with tight, curling, curving ochre-tinted roof tiles, some monotone, some speckled in different shades. Sides are adorned with blue and white floral plaques inscribed with Spanish and Basque names and address numbers. Brightly colored flowers hang in pots on balconies, and laundry flaps out of windows in sea breezes.
Streets are clamoring with cars and motorbikes, chatter and baby cries, and dogs walking owners are around every turn. Smells of fresh fish and bread and restaurants menus, alleys mildly reek of a mix of urine, wine, and cigarette butts. Crumbs from tapas are pecked at by pigeons.
Abuelas are strolling in high-style for their daily walk, sunglasses, make-up, dress or light-flowing pantsuits and high-heel wedged beach shoes. Abuelos, dapperly dressed, smoking and sitting on benches, talking and watching passersby, always a loud, lisping buzz on the patios and throughout the city.
Sights of flags and sails, sounds of bells tinkering, attached to colorful deep blue, friendly green, danger red, or tainted white sailing and fishing boats, anchored and rocking in the gentle winds over the course of the changing tides. At low tides, algae-laced dark rocks are exposed on the sandy, murky floor, evidence of the possible depths indicated by various water lines along the stone piers. In high tides, children are jumping into the harbor and beach areas, and cargo ships sit or move at a sea-snail pace out on the open waters.
Quick waters splash against the breakers and shoreline, cresting and crashing at the lines, wetting the walkways. Noisy seagulls squawk overhead looking for a place to land on the gray castle’s turrets, or high upon the lighthouse.
The church’s stone layers are melted away by centuries at sea, Napoleonic cannonballs stuck in its walls. Even older Paleolithic remains discovered nearby within its city limits.
At festival Virgen del Carmen, canons are sounded, the ancient bell tolls the announcement, both echoing through the streets, to the mountains and back, mirroring the ripples in the water. Music carried through speakers and then by a live band on foot through the streets, repeats the same three-quarter time anthem, leading the statue from church to a small boat, decorated in flowers on its masts. A parade of sailing and fishing boats displaying arrays of colored banners steer the procession out to sea.
The statue Ermita de la Virgen watches over the city from the highest point nearby, overlooking the town from a forest filled with tall, color-streaked eucalyptus and light-tinted, feather-weighted pines. An unsteady rock-strewn climb, and steps and passages dating back decades.
The town is painted with several generations walking the beat of ancient lands in modern times, stories untold, and small gems at every turn.
Castro-Urdiales, Spain July 2018
Beauty of the Landscape
The long ride here was a change of pace- a nice picture, the beauty of a landscape. Blue waters, lush leaves, cloudy skies with a shimmer of light, cool drizzle and the lonely road. God's country, they call it, and not far from the truth.
July 18, 2009
Endless Beauty Traveling over the Continental Divide by 7-passenger bus what a bumpy ride. Oxen, dogs, and carts the only traffic in our way. Roads six feet wide, mountain on our side valley underneath. What a long fall, into the cow pastures. Endless view into the cloudy mountain tops, where people live you never would have imagined there. Fresh mountain air, new birds and new people. New views and new mountains, endless. I could not imagine walking. But it would be worth it. April 9, 2008
Leaving On a plane I see her waving. Such a sweet friend. When will I see her again? Taking her cases out of my trunk. Hugging her so as not to break. Kissing her cheek for a safe flight home. I will miss the girl, who taught me a lot. Looking in the rearview mirror, I see her go onto the terminal steps. In my moon roof, I see her plane take off because she is leaving to go back home. May 26, 2005
Importance of Friendship My friends will leave, but friendship won't cleave. I'll miss them so, but will see them go. So I wish to visit such nice people in their natural place. They are my friends but them, I will not lose. May 12, 2005
Country Fresh, sweet hay drowns the air as well as clover and goldenrod. Corn stalks, tall as the oak tree’s tops, flutter carefree in the light, hay scented breeze. Cattle munch lazily on the delicious growth, while the horses gallop in the fields. Almost magically, the butterflies twist and turn in the buttercups, daffodils, and tulips, bright under the soft, warm sunrays. Calf manure, the unpleasant aroma, elegantly floats by the pigs, lying down on their sides, lethargic.
Through Space Time is magic. It floats through only space. It passes you by ever so secretly. It will never let you see it sweeping across your eyes. Time will only let you feel it when it is up. When it is finished with years and months, weeks and days. That's when you feel it. Time sifts through your hands like white powdered sands. It leaves you empty-handed. It leaves you only to blink at nothing. June 5, 2003
Untitled Golden crystals filter through my warm toes as I walk towards the wet blue. I step onto round, weathered pebbles, rolling softly under the waves like feathers. The blue and white curls fold over and over in turns, shimmering under the sun, gold. Grey white clouds hover and reflect on the large pond, cooling the burning sand. Looking at the sea further out I spot silver bodies splashing and dancing about. Ripples from out so far send swirls back to me through the busy water. My feet are soaked to my heel with granules of gold in between. God, I love the way this feels. June 1, 2003
Where is the Sun Today? Where is the sun today I wish it hung over my heart to warm it up from the cold and dark. Where did the golden sun go? Where is the sun today? Did it leave forever? Forever is such a short word for what it means. I guess the sun is gone. Where is the sun today? I miss its bright, cheery smile something to look forward to in the morn. It has disappeared. Where is the sun today? Could it be hiding behind those grey skies, where all life and love's secrets lie? Where is the sun today? Can I cry out the cloud's tears? Then will the sun shine out its heart? Where did the sun go? Where is the sun today? For days on end it would follow me round. Its warmth would gather me in so tight. Where is the sun today? I hope all is not lost, that it will shine again this year. I miss it so. Where did the sun go? May 31, 2003