Weenie Power

What would it be like
to really tell you to your face
how enraged I finally am at you
and your fellow weenies
but especially you
in your representative capacity
as the head of this
institution
of petrified attitudes
for all the ways in which
you contributed to
the devastating loss
of my academic dreams?


What would you say if
I suddenly appeared
out of nowhere
minutes after you’d just
finished brushing your teeth
and were still adjusting
the collar of your shirt
and pulling on your tie
my presence seeming like
the fulfillment
of a nightmare
of meeting up with
a VERY ANGRY WOMAN
who with raging fire
spewing from my eyes
my pores
my hands like
laser swords
aimed at your
groin and shouting
You !
Hey you!
wearing that
cloth of power
Yeah you!
with the
stinking cigar
and the
vest decorated
with the nails
left over from
sealing my
professional coffin?

Yes, what would
you do if
you understood
that you’d buried
my spirit alive
and that
I’ve come back
from the land of
those presumed
a fatality
under one of the
rails of the tenure-track
and that it is burning
a set of footprints
on your doormat
as I await the
moment of
seeing you
buckle
just for a second
and reach for your
weenie whistle
and the aid of
your subjects
those marzipan soldiers
who confused
the Tin Man
for a leader
and like frightened roaches
are scurrying off
to other corners
under the
flashing lights
of the public’s scrutiny?

What would you do
Oh gracious leader
with your Cheshire cat smile
what would you do
if you understood
finally
that sandwiched between
my rage and my anger
there is an old wound
now covered up with scars
and that
I’ve just come back
to caution you
stay out of the way
of the healed warrior
who has reclaimed her power

I tell you what
don’t tell me what you’d do
I don’t really care
what’s more important
is that in this mind’s eye
I’ve got a six shooter
on my hip
we’re on a dirt street
in front of that shameful parlor
they call a learned hall of legal education
and you’ve got one too
but it’s me and my target-practiced
fury against you
and your
little weenie
power

June 1998, Kripalu,
Lenox, MASS.

SISTER FARM SERIES 2000

Tentative Tree/Dominic/Serenidad 

Tentative Tree

Yoga 

high up

at dawn 

standing in the 

Asana of Tree

and seeing the 

tops of cedar elm

out the window

Grateful 

for the miracle

of being alive 

healthy

strong

enough 

to stand with

one leg up

like a flamingo

arms outstretched to 

the open hill country

fingertips reaching 

for the heavens above

feelings 

emerge at the edges

of an imperfect stance

and from my current life station

un/employed 

and swaying to the 

windy currents of desire

and expectations

jobless yet with 

so much to do 

in that posture of 

willingness 

if nothing else

to hold me up

along with strength from the love 

and kindness of friends

who embrace 

my tired limbs.

7/21/00-SisterFarm

Boerne, TX

DOMINIC AT 4:16 AM

I’m in the middle of 

A really good dream 

Don’t you understand?

Sleeping in the nun’s room

And tossing with 

Menopausal fury

And then you come along

With a plaintive

MEOOWWW!!!

And my right hand reaches out 

to pet thick

fur and rub grateful

purring head

hoping

it’s enough to calm 

you for another hour

or so because

right now 

you darn

sweet cat

I’m too dead tired

to drag myself 

to the kitchen

and check out 

the finicky condition

of water, bowl or 

needy disposition

that brings you

into Act 1, Scene 2

of my nightly melodrama

the stories of my life

pulled out from under

the pillow of my aging 

desperation 

and replayed for the 

hundredth time again

and now that I think 

of it

your MEOWWW

came along

just at the right 

time. 

Boerne, TX – 7/21/00   

SERENITY/SERENIDAD

It is simple

Es sencillo

Dormir bien bajo las estrellitas 

A good sleep

under 

a canopy of stars

Respirando  los aires del campo noche y día 

Breathing warm earthen-scented air

at the day’s beginning

and in the middle of 

a chirping filled country night

La barriga llena de frutas, hierbas y verduras 

A belly filled with

fresh herbs, fruits 

and vegetables

Gifts from the loving hands

of talented gardeners

women graced with living

the feminine principle 

Regalos de las jardineras de la Diosa 

Viviendo bajo el orden natural y feminino

Dándole á  y recibiendo de

 la  tierra bondadosa

of giving and receiving from

the land 

Trabajando y enriqueciendo

Los terrenos con las aguitas

 y el sudor

de una cara sonriente

toiling and feeding the roots

with moisture from 

drip drip dripping waters

and the gently falling 

sweat of the happy brow. 

7/23/00 

Boerne, TX  

Prayer for Cada Dia

Everyday
I shall write about
this piercing terror
that needles through every
single pore of my skin


I sit at the computer
staring at lace curtains
late summer greenleaves
dampened trunks of
a giant cedar elm
and Southern pecan
after a drenching
thunderstorm


I thirst for a stream of
delicious words
honeyed by the warmth
of my faith
that I can travel inside
the mind of the Goddesses
Gaia, Athena, Isis,
Kali, Artemis and Guadalupe


I am at the tip of their strong
fingers, or they are coming
through the endpoints of mine
I am light on my strikes
to this molded plastic
they call a link to
humanity
the computer
my friend
sometimes
my enemy
the tool I use to
travel light years
in a moment of brilliantly colored
fantasy and thought

Come forth oh ladies of mystery!
come forth
through these muscled
hands that love to dig
the earth of my family’s
history and
find sad bones
tortured memories
salty braids of love lost
and hope betrayed
sugar rocks
and chocolate wheels
corn husks
blankets of coarse thread
clay bean pots
frijoles calientitos
and somber images
of el Sagrado Corazon
and La Virgen and her
Ninõ Jesús
burning candles
ancient ghosts
that made us laugh
and rosaries for
the dead

Come forth and show me
what I forget I already know
about what makes
me brown marimacha
special and not

Abrázame Diosa
Hold me Goddess
in your rebozo of
wisdom and light

Help me write
a word, a story that
will forever connect me
to those women I loved
and have now buried

to my cocinera, my cook
my tejera, my  seamstress
to my Abuela la jardinera
y a la maestra de mis
malas maneras

Yes, cada dia
everyday
I shall write
and remember
that the piercing terror
is a gift and a door
to las memorias
to unrelenting
word and prayer
to a rosary of love
and as many legends,
myths and old viejas’ tales

Yes, everyday
I shall remember
and be grateful
that I can remember
and weep and tell the stories
that make them
mis Diosas
and my written fragments
a way for me to feel
and never to forget.

Elvia Arriola, Austin, Texas, 1999.

The Alley

Strolling the alley
Of a run down working-class
Black, Latino and poor white
Neighborhood in DeKalb
I felt the air
Of an approaching springtime
A breeze gently swirled
Dead brown leaves that
Had been buried for weeks
Under blankets of snow

A green and purple shoot
Pushing through the warming
Ground
Reminded me
Of past Lenten seasons
Anticipation of Easter
Priests in purple vestments
The irises I would gift Abuelita
As her “flores favoritas”
And the aroma of baking
Bread pudding she called
“Capirotada”

Turning the corner
A brown family walked by
We all approached downtown
And the old railroad crossing
And then I wondered
How many changes had come
And gone in this little town
And old row of houses
New about a hundred years ago
How many trains had passed
Through these prairies
And the farms and the cornfields
Of northern Illinois
When did the first Mexicanos arrive
With their families to pick
The crops for the white farmers
And how did they end up
My neighbors in this little row
Of humble casitas near
The railroad tracks?
When did la frontera
Move so far north
To Chicagolands
Bringing with it
Men, women and children
Who walk by
Hablando español
Averting the gaze of an assimilated
Or anglicized eye?
How do they make barrio
And comunidad
And survive the icy
Cold whiteness of these
Midwestern plains?

E.Arriola, DeKalb, IL 3/18/02

Yoga's Divine Stretch

I thought of the divine
as possibly resting within me
and saw a flower of compassion
deep purple, pink, throbbing in its glory

I dared to consider
that my soul is illuminated
by a spark
of that energy we call God(dess)

Upon further consideration
of the divine in me
I saw lightning bolts
labelled joy, freedom
and an awesome love
for everything alive
that can make a rock weep
and clouds dance in delight

When I paused to reflect
how I might teach others
that our spirits, minds and bodies
in union
recreate the wisdom
that gave us the
star-studded heavens

I rejoiced

As I witnessed
the strength it takes
to whisper our hurts
into a pillow we have drenched
with our tears
or the courage it takes
to share them as we weep
and bathe the shoulders
of a comforting friend

And I owned the
courage it has taken
to stand tall when
I understood that
not everyone liked
but many more have loved
me

When I could envision
the wardrobe of my
leap of faith as I emerged
from this dungeon of despair
I saw pearl-capped mountains
holding me up tall and proud
warrior’s armor polished
with ruby red breath
I wore emerald green trees
and sapphire laced blankets
for a child’s pose

I saw the union of
my body with spirit and
a restless mind

I saw my off-the-mat-yoga
as a dreamer’s
notion of what it
means to express
being both human and divine.

Spiritual Breath

When
the breath rises
and life proceeds
before and after
Time

When

Einstein’s
curved universe
returns the
ray of light that just
bounced against my eye

When

on the starry night’s path
I reach out
and find the hands
of old friends
willing to look down
on the earth’s
spinning
like on a table of
eternal thought
and to say in our
observance
“I wonder if they’ve
had a good day”

When

I can imagine myself
in spirit, mind
and body
no further from goddess
than the ant
the elephant
the rivers in India are
in their own rhythm
and history

When
I can awake
with a smile
of contentment
because I no longer
need the artificialities
of boxed up existence
we have labelled TIME

When the polyester suits
of the sixties
and the Wall Street
furies of the eighties
or the poverty and
hateful indifferences
of the nineties
and dogs on motorcycles
or Madonna
chanting OM
mean no more
than we humans
finding strange ways
to act out our
unconscious disturbance
that God’s plan
has not been revealed to us

again

When the bombs in India
or the elections in Iran
stop giving me
reason to reach for an aspirin
or to stir with less ease
the tea in my cup

When

I have come to understand
the meaning of
Acceptance
and the meaninglessness
of meditating on my resistance

Then

I might relish
in the rise and fall
of the breath
and string it out
long and full
hoping that
it is one more
tickle
on the goddess’s
face
capable of
making her
smile.

Austin, TX May 1999

Oración/Prayer

I hereby
invoke a new prayer

a la India Diosa
quien me carga en
su rebozo
Dame paciencia

Goddess
grant me patience

Le tengo miedo al futuro
I fear the future

Se me olvida que
tu todo sabes
I forget that you know all

que tu cuidas los mares
los vientos
y los temblores

That you watch over seas
winds and quakes

Y te encargas del horario
en que se terminan
los viajes de nuestras almas

And that you keep the time
clock which marks the end of
our soul’s journeys

O Diosa grande y buena
Oh Goddess good and great

Por un grano de paciencia
le doy las gracias

For a grain of patience
I thank you

Y te ofrezco mi maiz
amarillo lleno de esperanza

And I offer you this maize
filled with the color of hope

Y amor
and love

Oye mi oracion
Hear my prayer

Mientras canto
tus gracias
y maneras de recordarme

While I sing your graces
and your ways of reminding me

Que nunca estoy sola
That I am never alone

Que to rebozo de luz
That your blanket of light

Siempre cargo dentro de mis
buenas intenciones y mi fe

I carry always as an aspect
of my willingness
and my faith

Amen.

Hungry/Lonely/Love/Fast

[Once upon a time I thought I would try a week long guided fast.]

Love is a mystery

no connection it seems

to what is going on around me

until I remember

Hey, they’re probably

all feeling just like me

wondering

Where is love in this process

of tepid broth

beet juice

brown rice

and nothing but 

water 

water 

water

Where is love in this journey

of looking at me

from the inside out

not running from the

uncooked emotions

bubbling to the surface

of this teapot of my inner self

Where am I?

Who am I? Who have I been

around rice, pasta, cookies

ice cream and endless arrays

of rich desserts and why?

What does love

have to do with eating and not eating?

Ahh

But I have eaten

out of loneliness

I have eaten out of spite

I have eaten inside of closets

I have hidden snacks

and opened them in the night

I have eaten for 2 or 3 all in one sitting

and I have also starved myself in punishment

for the binge

I have eaten in ways 

when I didn’t even know

that the cake, cookie or candy

was covering up 

a dirty old feeling 

like Hate. 

Eating is love

is a need

is a right

is a burden

Eating is a feeling, a thought
I buried under every

fast, hungry, unconscious bite

Eat, bite, crunch, 

swallow, 

fast, slow, awake and 

mellow.  Eat 

for nourishment

for body and soul

eat for energy to 

dance, kick, run

and play with other fellows 

Eating for love

for loss of love

not eating for love

for loss of love?

Where is love?

It remains 

a mystery

food and love 

and eating

the same

a part of the mystery

my own investigation into the

differences between

loneliness, hunger, eating, food

and loving me.

Heart in the Mountain

I came to the mountains

and I found my heart

it was sitting at the

foothills just waiting for me

when I got there

the trees called out my

name and opened

their arms to

hold the hurts, aches

and disppointments

I’d brought in my knapsack

The black birds danced a jig

while the red birds

set a table for the

feasting on colorful

stretches they knew

I would enjoy

As I set down my bags

and put the past beind me

the lake offered to hug me

as I dropped my worries

into her bosom

and I greeted my healing heart

and delighted in the

rainbow of emotions

she had been waiting

to show me

And after a good

and long visit

I thanked the mountains

for their generous hospitality

as I gave them the

happy news that

my heart and I

were going back

home together

at peace 

and in love

with 

myself.

In the Memory of...

Every car drove by
Slowly
To the last good bye
For the woman
Whose symbol of life
Would be the peach
Colored roses on
Her simple box
And wearing dresses
Of black, white, brown
And blue
The women of the clan
Cried and passed
Along their embraces
To brothers and sisters
Family and friends
Sharing memories
Of a tall elegant
Younger mother
With a fierce talent
And a sharp mind
And a cutting tongue
If you crossed
her righteous path
Invoking the wrath
Over felt breaches of
Her deeply committed
Values, beliefs and
Personally designed
convictions

At the ceremony's end
When they couldn't laugh anymore
About childhood memories
When the last photo of togetherness
Had been shot and labeled
When the last tissue
Had been soaked
With the waters of grief
Adequate for one day
Pitifully small for
A lifetime of remembrance
Their eyes were drawn
To the star-studded sky
And the spelling
In it of her
Light-filled name
And in a dreamy gaze
They journeyed home
To be tucked in bed
By a Mother's distant love
Blanketed with
Sorrow
Tears
And their rekindled
Love for each other.

Summer 1998

Blood in the Snow, a campus shooting survivor reflects

[on a bitterly cold and snowy February 14, 2008, a former graduate student of Northern Illinois University came on to the DeKalb campus armed with guns, entered a large classroom in Cole Hall and shot and killed five students and injured sixteen others. He then turned the gun on himself.]  

* * * 
Your feet crunched 
across the frozen grounds
of this alma mater
carrying cold steel 
in the pockets of an overcoat
like the metal surrounding your heart 

blood spurts of 
"anger repressed"
words to describe in neutral terms

"clinically depressed"

a mad man 'or just a "mad" young man

without a voice

I think of the seconds before
the crunch of your boots across
the cold pavement

did you sweat in anticipation
did you shed a tear in the seconds
before turning the trigger on yourself? 

Did you have a moment of indecision
vacillation
contemplation
a chat with someone
anyone
an admission 

I'm crazy with this feeling
and this is what I want to do...
and I mean it...

White skin on the white snow 
walked into a room full of the 
coats of many colors
worn in the season before spring

everyone sat waiting for the T.A.
as you walked in and lay your broken
spirit on the floor
gently or madly
closing the door
and opening the case in which
the weapon of mass destruction lay
nesting and ready for its moment 
of precision
crafted in a shop somewhere 
far away
but brought to this moment
this insane crazed moment
as you bent down 
to pick it up 
because your soul had already been 
left at home
crushed or barely surviving
on the breath of fury
which now jumped from behind
the metal door around your pumping heart
pushed the muscle in the hand
that now aimed and opened fire
once, twice, more, the 
girls and boys 
gathered 
waiting
now dropping 
like targets at a range
or birds in the sky
their shocked spirits
floating across the whiteness of the 
outside snow which they too
had walked that day as you
winter boots on the grounds 
of your alma mater
who now must embrace
all of her children in a deeply sorrowful
gesture of 
community grief
rage filled tears
and love. 

With Glassy Eyes Turned Upward

Like a smashed possum 

On the road is how I look and feel

Hair crushed to the temple

Sweating in the blood of worry 

And despair

Little possum soul

Rising from the ground

Saying looky here

How I find myself dying 

At the crossroads

Of a very short and somewhat

Stupid little life

The elm and pecans 

Didn't protect me

From the stumble and 

Moment of anguish before

The fall 

In the second of the crunch

I prayed to them 

Last night

To the tree spirits 

And the worry gods

And the  sappy happy fairies

Living in the backyard of my 

Obsessive mind 

I was playing a flute

And swimming down a chute

Facing an awesome and

Ancient god's face 

The whole time wondering

If she'd catch me

With her tongue

Wrap me in a blanket of lace

Possum soup?

Or Possum soul? 

Who cares

I feel like a smashed up possum

And a despised one at that

Caught rummaging through

Your cans and your textbooks

And your hallways and stupid 

Little minds

Little possum in your classroom

Lecturing on days of doom

And observing your own faces

That communicate daily 

The message of gloom

Little possum

Dying on a golden morning and 

Yesterday's rainy day

You have been disconnected. 

Austin, Texas, Nov. 19, 2000 

Hearts on Fire

On a cold february morn
she at the desk
deep in repentant thought
of words
for a stern judge
about a case she
didn't cite
correctly
me
in more playful
pensive meditation
about a friend's
impending death
of cancer
and of one's
called-upon time
in the order of things
life and nature
mothers and daughters
learning to heal
to mend and set stitches
on to a rope of experience
they'll remember forever
a meditation on dreams
fantasy fears
of when I will
hold my hand to my heart
knowing it's my time
and wondering now of what disease
it will be
or if instead of what disaster

Hearts on fire
because we do throb with life
lucky today
to love and be loved
to hold and even happily
complain that jumping dogs
won't leave us alone
a February morn
with the sounds of so many
birds feeding
our hungry hearts
for patience
and lightness
wisdom
and compassion
for those other hearts on fire
burning a path
to eternity's door.

2011 Spring

Prayer of the Unfaithful

I awoke
in fear
to the sound
of the rain
I saw waterfalls
in my head
I turned over
to bury my face in the pillows

the blankets burned
as did the tears
running down my face
I spoke to God’s
voice tapping at my window
and whispering through
the trees
“Are you there?” I cried
“Are you really going
to be there
for me?”
And I heard nothing
but the pounding
of this awful dread
clawing at the edges
of my bed
about to crawl in
and strip me of my
recent hopes
and pleasant dreams

The whispering
came back
in gentle stirrings
and changes
in the somber
morning light
soft rain
and birds’ breath
sounding back
“You only think
you are alone”
At which
the heaving of my
breast took a
gentle pause

When I next looked around
two little sleeping soldiers
had interrupted their dreams
they came to paw at me
and to lick my face
Was this to be my only answer?
At which thought
I could only sob more
and bury
my blanketed self
again

What a sorry sight
my sagging soul
and my haunting fears
of not finding work
and losing the precious
and comforting
love and safety
I find indoors
inside this very old house
already holding so
many memories
of family, friends,
struggle, growth and fate

By the time
I truly awoke
My cries to the divine
had become a shout
“I don’t want this change
and I am tired
of this lingering doubt of
‘What Should I Really do Next?”
So I just cried some more
until the wind stopped
and the pups begged
for my attention
and the wild birds
began to sing
in harmony
to the sonorous
wails
I’d just left behind
like a trail
on the wide
open desert
of my lacking faith

2000, Austin, TX

Lightness of Grief

She had waited too long
Tossed and turned through
The night
Awakened with the feeling
Of new grey hairs
That shone sadly
in the morning's light
Taking a key of ink and pen
She sat  by an old window
Looking out at the possibilities
Of contemplation
For another day
Without her

Carrying a rosary of disturbed peace
The beads hardened with tears of remorse
Rocks, stones and bones of different shapes
And sizes
One for each child she had mourned
On their long journey away from the safety
Of the parent's home
Children she'd also met on a seven
Year journey
Of seeking forgiveness from
Others
Mostly from herself

Taking the pen she opened to
An old prayerbook
With the gold letters of
Her name appearing more
Worn and faded
In the changing light
Meaningless chants jotted in
the margins of distraction
From years of ritualistic prayer
Of wonder, anger, resentments
And astonishment at the cruelty
Of the aging body's aches and pains

Songs meant for sopranos still
Filled her sharp mind
As she looked at the weathered paths
On her hands she remembered them
And the days of stronger sounding tones
Emerging in the night from her youthful breath

Opening the bottle of ink
She first painted aimlessly the
Words for a dreamed of serenader
Imagining herself on a lover's balcony
Perched high on starry clouds
Words and tears raining down
Blowing in the strong winds
Of felt abandonment

Moving towards the desk with a candle
In hand she heard the bells of the timekeeper
Reminding all villagers
To wake up and face
Another hardworking day
And as she finally sat down
Holding carefully a warmed
Cup of tea she
Thought

Grief

Is but
Walking
Lost
And on a path
Of one's own
Construction
Holding the hand of a dying friend
Is but to hold a lantern whose
Candle is losing the comfort
Of a known light

Remembrance and letting go
Are but acts of grace and
Loving kindness towards
The tired traveler

With one more thought of
When she and the lost lover
Would see each other once again
She cried out to the
Fading moon
"I am just a stubborn stubborn
fool,
so resistant to the changing
mourning light
I am a lost
and stubborn fool."

Austin, TX 1998

Beach Glass

A spark
on white sands
beckons my eye
reaching down
for the history
etched in smoothed
shards of green
white and an
occasional royal blue
ocean waves
lap gently
and fishing boats
make undulations
the watery hands
of time
turning the bottle
into thick leaves
of a book
of romantic
walks on a beach
looking for
glass and the
weathered comforts
of your
love

Cape Cod, Massachusetts
1996

Dream

I wept
and sat in a room
trying to explain
the depth of
my sorrow
at a loss
for words
I allowed them a vision
of an oncoming tidal wave
forging a path of destruction
an eeriness in its silent
blood red power
because it was just a dream
but one meant for us all

This wasn’t a pretty spiritual dream
with images of angelic hosts
telling me to “let go” by whispering
in my ear as I slept
instead I stayed
with the fiery wave
as girls, women, boys
tumbled past my sleeping eyes
and my furrowed brow
and witnessed
an admired sister
someone resembling
the better parts of my self
and a tiny
frail babe
who flopped in my
angry brother's arms
and then
there were playful children
not afraid of the night
and oblivious to the darkened skies
and the furious winds
just little kids trying with their treats
and favors
to make it all better for me
but what I remember most
is the heaving of my chest
and the awareness that
I cried for old hurts
as I stubbornly dug my heels
like some flamenco dancer
surfing a wave of judgment and
nonacceptance
and destined in this dream
to wake up
so deeply sad
and longing for something
or someone who could
take that girl’s crushed and weeping
rosebush
of sorrow
away

AUSTIN  2000

Fog Horn

A sleeping fishing
village
and seascapes
of tiny boats
sand dunes
high tides
and low tides
like the ebbing
of my anxious
waiting for your call

the fog horn sleeps
too until
the evening when
hungry men
with worn hands
and shoulders
that worked the
deep blue
for food
not yet taken
by the whales
return to the docks
counting the pence
and dollars earned
this day

The welcoming horn
and sights of land
and the people who
will eat the fresh remains
in saucy languishing
of the life of those who are indifferent
to the horn’s signal of safety
for weary sailors
making their
way home through
dark
cold
and wet
ocean nights

You are gone
and the fog horn
reminds me of that
and yet we can
both listen for it
tonight
in our dreams

Cape Cod, MA

1999

Love on Vacation

You flew
I drove
and remembering
the days gone by
far too quickly
I wanted to cry
but instead I
flew on the road
back here
to the mariner’s cottage
where we slept together
last night
and I felt
curious about this
yearning
which I shall call
love
because something
about it felt simple
and strong
and I wanted them back
the mornings
the walks
the deep satisfied breathing
of sea air
and mostly
the joy at
looking forward to a day
without a harried plan
and no expectations
of perfectionism
because they might ruin
what we found on this year’s
visit much too
perfect for words

Memorial Thoughts

Lucy
things I remember about you
your love of small things
miniatures
and little toys
flowers, in your garden
on your clothes
the color pink
everywhere
bright red lipstick
lace and frilly stuff
on pillows, children’s clothes
tablecloths
the frillier and the fancier
the better for Lucy
gold spray paint
yes, you had it on
everything I pulled out
of the christmas ornaments
I inherited from you

your singing voice
your cutting wit
the click click click
as you prayed the rosary
your love of cats
painted ones, porcelain
wodden, on cards and
of course the paws of your real
pets on your belly
your sketches
and your cooking tips and recipes
your love of reading
and your ability to remember
every detail of long books like
Dr. Zhivago
your prudishness about sex
especially in contemporary movies
your quick tone of judgment for what
and whom you didn’t like
and yet your incredible ability
open your heart to difference
and to forgive
your passion for life
your love for all of your children
and your hopes for us too to be safe
your hard hard work
and sacrifice and generosity
your commitment to sharing
whatever wealth you had or could get
with others in need
our joy of travelling and adventure
your sloppy threads and needles from
sewing and crafts in every
inch of your home
the stains and the aromas from your cooking

it’s only the surface Lucy
of the things I remember
and the moments I miss
whether waiting for your
arroz to cook
or for you to browse and shop
at Wal-Mart or Pic-N-Save
or watching you write in your journal
or cry over a long ago hurt never healed

Just when I think I’ve forgotten you
I find something that reminds me of how
you tread your path on this earth
looking so elegant and so fine
how you played and prayed
and hoped and gave

Just when I think I’ve lost you forever
I look in the mirror
or examine what I’ve just done
or connected with a brother
or a sister and
I stop and think
“there she is - a little bit of
Lucy in me
and in those
she loved in her
own stubborn, simple
and stylish ways

The Lucy Blues

Soft music
embraces me
with a sad violin

Lucy loved the classics
she paid to educate us
so we could be like
a little orchestra of voices
and instruments

Time is passing

On Monday
Her own mother's birthday
and this October
six months
since Lucy
shot for the stars
and looked down
from the heavens
at her children
weeping at the funeral
and shuddering
silently at the
labored effort
it would take
to be close to each
other again
after this

I remember Lucy’s
voice to be more
melodious
than this music now
and sweet yet
very blue
sad
and longing


Soft music
and softer memories
tender
missing
of one who used
music to make tears
where the heart
could not be
so bold

Thoughts in Flight

That plane
in the distance
over the short hills
bordering Phoenix
for a second
looked like a tiny dragonfly
so small
fast
nervously in flight

Landing?
Taking off?

We are
and so is
my willingness

Taking off
the veil of boredom
and arrogance
shedding a few pounds
of neglect
resentment
against those
nasty old men
in their fretful beards

it’s time to fly

on winged prayer?

No
So much more than that
on the love
of friends
and queer sisters
painted brothers
and the hope of
and the magic of
brilliant ideas
as intricate and beautiful
on a white page
spread out
like a peacock
strutting its gorgeous
stuff

Create the space now
Jump into the void now

No more time to waste
Open that drawer of
secret letters
and windows shut
against the winds of change

Tell all
and dance for all
who will clap their hands
and cheer
and even for the ones
holding the tomatoes

Relax
it’s time to do it

Yes, “it”
your show
Your river of emotion
and words of wizened lessons
on the knees of a pilgrimage
of promise
for a life and
a self
you can call
your own.

Scraping the Bones of Shame

History and the Pope have
a teaching
one that makes me feel ashamed
about my sexuality
it is about women
and awareness
and power
it shapes
the identity of many people
turning their desire
into a reason for going to hell
I feel
lost and angry
when I think that
the messages about my gender
and my lesbian love
the messages I learned from
father, mother and nuns
are filled with judgment
and hurt
This book I want to finish
is a rage against the tall Canonical trees
under which these stupid people preach
The truth is
my sexuality
is tender
my body a sweet morsel
I love to chew on tall and short women
I am who I am
the past cannot hurt me now
the teaching may be in my bones
but with yoga
and God
and letting myself
feel the cat in my body
I am true to myself
and the culture of my own
special
different sex.

Up

Crick in my neck
from worrying
ragged sheets
as I nervously
await this dawn
wet inside
and out
floods taking away
innocent lives
and here I sit
in my privilege
thankful it’s not me
not this time

soothing tones
like a wand over
the clouds
I see the hands
of
an harmonious
music director
notes on a page
of my life

3 a.m.
something
about a class today
 4 a.m.
get up it’s too late
to just worry
get up and
brush off the dustballs of
boredom
and procrastination
those wonerful
dresses for my fears

Wake up girl
it’s another glorious day
to learn
to listen
to care
Sit up
hold your chin high
even as you cry
as you remember
a love lost
a buried friend
a life you miss

Appreciate the call
and the opportunity to
respond
life is so very precious
and so very small
a speck
a moment
stretched out
on a canvas of
experience
but not much more
than that

What we put into it
like
this moment
to sit
and take in the breeze
of a chilly morn
music
even the silence of birds
a pup’s whimper
a cat’s sleepy meow
a cozy corner
of a safe bed

How lucky you are
today
no waters knew high
in YOUR kitchen
no treasures
floating off
into rivers of yearning
no one to bury today
a respite from the mourn
and a beautiful
gentle reflection
on life’s treasures
from just
getting up
early
and out of
a restless bed

Blank

B L A N K 

Spaces
like the emptiness
between the thoughts
during meditation

Blank

Spaces
the whir of the blades
in the ceiling fan
fast paces
spaces
between the cars
speeding down Enfield

For now
let's go
10 miles per hour
not
Speed
like the white pills I took
to stay up late studying
during college
or the rapid pace of my working life
in New York City
Speeding with tightness of the schedule
of a young lawyer
who gave herself
no blank spaces

Speeding
that robbed me of my inheritance
Yes, a gene pool filled with longevity
people living over one hundred
people who enjoyed blank spaces
they filled with delicious
slow, mellow experiences
at less than 10 miles per hour

I once met a psychic who
said that in her meditation
two numbers kept coming up
6 and 7
I panicked
vowed never to see a psychic again

Everytime I saw the number I panicked
again
a plane flight 677
a short life 67?
my childhood at 6 or 7?
parts of it were sad

and some very bad

But it could also mean the lottery
67 million dollars

Hmmm.
Blank spaces
lots of zeros after 67
what the hell
it's my anxiety and
superstition
at the end of this
string of words
covering up the blank spaces.

Austin, TX 2014/2023