Sand Boxed

Sand on which pilgrims walked
ocean in which sailors die
The wind comes over my face
leaving a mark of memory
but no real visible trace of history
thoughts that fill my mind
of how I am from the Southern lands
but the original settlers were near
ancestral homelands
and these New England shores
could as easily have become
New Portugal or New Spain
and all the new borders are
as real as we make them
jumbled in with religion and war
so now sitting
on these white black and red pebbled sands
I feel left out
moments angry
that my history is not on these tourist book pages
not at all except for the history
I make as I walk about the sands
millions of tiny pebbles sifting
through my determined feet
a personal history
a little bitter
a little sweet.

Cape Cod, September 2007

MY early 1950's

My seven year old attitude 
loved the red plaid jumpers
with nice pockets for holding
a nickel, pennies, 
Necco wafers and a Tootsie roll or two
a freshly starched and ironed by me
white sleeveless shirt
and just as bright white oxfords 
for my dancing, running, climbing
skating and always so busy little feet.

Looking back on the 1950's 
I remember putting 
on dramatic plays 
in my own front yard 
a rickety porch for a stage
little brothers and sisters for 
an acting crew
a wide imagination
and stories from the Bible to reenact
for an hour or two
or better yet
a banana tree to turn into a jungle
for Tarzan and his girlfriend Jane 
and the meanest little brother 
becoming the scary gorilla
who climbed out from the broken 
TV screen 
twisting his face so much
as he chased us
and making everyone scream

Looking back on my 1950s
I remember hours and hours 
in the Southern California sunshine
running away from a real predator 
by climbing up the apricot tree
or hiding beneath the house's pier and beam 
being a little teacher for brothers and little sis
showing them how to skate 
or how to balance the handles for a ride 
on our one little bike

Cardboard boxes were make believe
homes and old blankets were for 
the downtown city or camping out tents
water and dirt made a fine masa
for pretend tortillas
mixed in with shredded grass for 
rice and red geranium leaves 
for the chili pepper sauce

Looking back on my 1950s
I miss dandelions on the unmown grass
big sisters taking us for a picnic
under the front yard trees
the best tuna sandwiches ever
and icy Kool Aid to drink that was the color green
the music of Pedro Infante played 
from big albums for the working adults
and Ray Charles or Elvis Presley
for the growing up girls in their teens

Looking back on my 1950's
I hear the voices of my big family
the people who were then my only friends
I find too short a time of being a carefree 
tomboy 
movie director teacher
playmate and sister
remembered by them as 
being loud and bossy
just a kid under 10
and the very best of me. 

Oak Park, Illinois
October 24, 2002. 

The Latina applicant's prayer to an old friend

Virgen querida
the one I prayed to when I was young
"Ruega por nosotros"
"Ruega por nosotros"
I am your Hija de Maria
I am also a Big Baby
Yo soy una niña y en este momento
necesito tu ayuda
Yes I need your help
I don't believe I know you anymore
except that I remember always 
the color sky blue associated
with you so to those 
blue heavens I direct these words 
para allá mando esta oración

Ruega por los académicos
Ruega por los inocentes
Ruega por el pendejo presidente
Ruega por mis jefes y jefas
que les guste el papelejo
que estoy preparando
Y por favor Ruega que me llegue 
suficiente 
inspiración para seguir con este trabajo
I feel too damn cynical and arrogant most of the time
I suspect that it is nothing but my fear
So please hear me
and if you can't get rid of this fear for me
then at least help me know that you are here
putting your arms around me
against the terrible winds of my personal dread. 

October 3, 2002

La Mañana Bonita

Looking out my window 
I could see my labrador Ricky's black snout
lifted in the air
nodding and appreciating the Central Texas 
summer air
Impatiens and petunias decorate the ground below
A grackel swoops by the cedar elm
loudly announcing his landing 
to bluejays and mockingbirds
sharing the bird feeder

I relish this moment for daily prayer
mindful sightseeing
inward vision
As I  look at the patio and empty chairs
lonely
No one to see the pecan tree's newly unleashed
green seeds that will harden and brown
releasing tasty morsels as the seasons 
change and leaves drop to the ground

A sunny morn in Austin 
trucks on Enfield with busy workers 
whiz down to the capitol and other state offices 
Ricky and Sonia bark in unison
like good sentries guarding the property

I sit near the cat
with whom I could get chatty
for she is part Siamese
and part Tabby

A morning's reflection to relish 
the day's events yet to come
to be welcomed with gratitude
or appreciation
that I have eyes to take in these simple beauties
and good ears to hear the opening of a new day
to enjoy the natural wonders
thankful for energy to pen these words
when a day ago I couldn't look at food

A snapshot of a summer morn
in Austin's early days of August
I preserve you here 
in this grateful poem.

August 6, 2002

Ahm 50

Overweight by 30 lbs at least
aching arm hands and something in my feet
shades of grey have overwhelmed my temple
each hair announcing itself like 
the palm trees on a California street
wrinkles that will deepen 
with smiles frowns
and furrows of worries 

With every swipe of the cosmetic puff
I stare in the mirror until I've had enough
putting the case down as I'm forced to 
welcome a new mole on my face 
shouting back at me 
"you're getting old 
you are looking like grandma and mom
putting on Constant Worry as an outfit just like the one
and addicted to the outlet stores just like other

The tires around your middle 
are generous amounts 
of cookies coffee ice cream
saved by talent and a sewing kit
for letting out yet another seam

50, greying
lumpy
bumpy
10 years to 60!
No use staying grumpy.
  

June 2002, Austin TX

Remembrance of a not so easy death

Fuck Eternity.
I watched a film about cancer and death
and one scholarly woman's dying breath
and in the beginning and the end 
there was no fear no worry to be seen
she was steely and smart
and in her teaching had a cold heart
but who wants to be remembered for 
being stern? 
Who wants to be dying alone with no one to hold
what's left of me in a final urn?
I want to live goddamit
and I will not if I get the goddamn cancer
and choose to die before my time 
filling my veins with poisoned experiments
that waste my skin, my cells 
my lungs and my heart
nothing but theories for diagnosis
and a celebrated research lab's experiment 
fuck it all from finish to start

That movie that story 
that doctor that nurse
that researcher 
goddamn them
and I say fuck to what is 
offered too often these days
for eliminating a cell that is reproducing
wildly and does not hurt
only grows more and beneath one's heart
may be hiding in the corners 
of a torn shirt

Oh goddammit
I more than hated the message 
of that story 

The treatment for cancer is not only
lunacy in white 
but also ceremoniously gory
research researcch research
and notes
and doctors who pace and ponder
down hallways in starched white coats
and perfectly painted walls
funded by perfectly profitable companies

Cancer
the tale of patients and patience
only to be told
that when it comes to another unknown cancer
there is nothing to contain it
and nowhere for one's spirit to go 
except to unfold into mystery
and chills and fire
and dying breath
and kisses of pain
and shit in the end
and all fluids gone
and poisoned like a dying polluted river
with treatments and false shamans
and rituals and indifference 
to those yearning for love
and in the last moments
for a caring mother's hug
as the patient says goodbye 
to all things on this earth that 
she loved so much
whether the song of a bird
the scent of a flower
the aroma of a well prepared soup
the vastness of an empty blue sky
above a tall man made taller
as he stands over the hospital bed
as she remembers the look in the eyes of one student
she loved so well 
and he in return
and that moment of brilliance 
in a connection of words and god's
grace in the ability to share
not just from mind to mind
but heart to heart
with warmth of hand
as she says
nothing more 
closing her eyes 
and forever parts. 

Oak Park, IL 
April 20, 2002

The Poet

She sat on the couch
and stared at the red painted toenails
and imagined her still
there in the body
as if alive and breathing
at the mother's feet
moments after her last breath
a Buddha in disguise

She pondered further
the silliness of wishing
away anything that
should cause a disturbance
in the force of life. 

Lancaster Calif, April 1998