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