Aka Dawg

A poet I know propagates the notion

that dog, aka dawg, doesn't rhyme

with frog, aka what, frogh? I dispute

that notion, I say, Codswallop

to that moonshine. During my seaside

walk earlier this morning I wrote an entire

poem consisting of my refutation

though once I'd made my way back home

the entire poem was plumb lost, Gawd!

The number of poems I lose by writing up-

stairs instead of down here beggars

belief. There were no moles, lizards,

or voles in my poem, merely a dead

lover, a dead rabbit, & God's own dog.

Dark

Night’s falling, everyone into the van

except the old folks, Wave bye to Gran.

Dark or light, she’s heading out to walk

her normal round though right off it’s out

of whack, sidewalks lead to treehouses

& backyards & wooden gates with locks

she can’t climb into or out of or over

so she slithers backward down a flight

to her lifelong street to head straight

home except now the dark covers

everything, it’s happened again, she’s lost

her way in a world that doesn’t see her face

because she’s suddenly old, because

she’s not remembered, because the past

yields to a present empty that stays

if you don’t count death, death waits.

A stump offers a reasonable place to sit

to wish this place were a meadow

where a horse snuffles, a white owl

hunts, the Milky Way flings its hot

spray into infinitely distant

dark space, guarantees what she can’t

know despite astronomers’ rant

& rocket ships & satellite jaunts

yet here three lizards scamper

round her feet, here where more & more

she reckons, alone & unaccounted for,

no help, no well wishers.

Laud Our Bard

Be drawn to places words go

when you’re idling along in low

gear, when sound deep in a stranger’s throat,

cadence of wings, unpredictable beat

of an echo, a shriek, a hum, a howl

creates pointless fandangles

listening poets wangle from
blue sky, a Grandma, a baseball.

You brick your own roads, scribble words

that flounder & fly, rhyme & count,

arabesque sashay & flounce

sideways backward forward

without a thought to ever repent

of vatic frenzy, the poet’s first defense.

Aubade

Strata of

orange, gray, smoke blue

with no wind to swirl the cloud

the dogs howl

whether for dawn or laying

hens they bark, they howl

long rising notes of

wordless instinct

bodies rigid, throats bared

for end of year, start of day

what happens.

Hanukkah Horse

Because she arranges a dozen or more

stuffed animals around the hearth

to warm, because she goes with Mom to a Star

Wars movie on Christmas Day, because

she comes home to find a horse missing —

last year’s Hanukkah gift — because

the stuffie-eating dog most likely took it she searches

indoors, outdoors, shines her flashlight,

crawls on her belly & back — so many tears

because Dad says, Remember, Rocko

gives people gifts, because Grandma says,

Look in Dan’s room, tears of joy because

Grandma! It was right next to Dan’s bed —

chocolate mane where she kissed it.

Eidolon

All night

the back door

left open.

The caged

chihuahua

yipped @ 2.

I tripped on

a water bowl.

What feral

ventured in?

Nothing seems
eaten

or taken.

Nana Charlotte

She is better there, her daughter said,

& detailed the long misery, silence,

how she wouldn’t speak to Jack. Back

then they called it having her committed —

Nana Charlotte, put behind bars

for being depressed, for not speaking to Jack

the skirt chaser, Jack who tried to seduce

my mom while my father medicked in the war.

Soon she never moved or spoke at all,

slept most of the day medicated,

the official diagnosis catatonic.

They didn’t tell her when Jack died, Let’s not

upset her, the woman they called depressed.

Nana’s dead now, & I like to think she’s well.

New Jersey, 1957

We bicycle down the driveway, turn

right on Lucille Court, a construction zone

of framed houses, smell of fresh wood.

Don’t enter the houses, we’re told

though once the work crews clear out

each day we take the tour. Plywood

smells different from two-by-fours.

No one dares go barefoot

because of glass & nails so we catch

the splinters in our hands. Split-levels

like the one we live in but without

windows & doors, wall to wall,

& beige appliances. One house burns.

No one told who lit the match.

Pelicans & Peregrines

In California pelicans are littoral,

pods make harbor in wetlands

of San Francisco Bay. Squadrons

skim cold waves at Davenport

& Santa Cruz, scooping for mackerel,

anchovy, sardine. Pouches chevron

down the beaches over weekend

crowds of underclad reveling tourists.

Peregrines wait on power poles

among red-tailed hawks & ravens

scouting for small mammal prey in farmed

acres of rosemary, sage, & Brussels

sprouts. Texas, rife with peregrines,

prompts this cry: Oh look, a pelican.

The Triumph & Tragedy of a Siamese Cat Known As Monken von Thelonium

A squirrel speeds along the gutter,

a cat along the ground below,

crooked tail high, an overweight

& not overly bright Siamese

when squirrel misses its step & falls on

the cat’s head, is snared & shaken

until dead, a triumph dittoed later

when cat, asleep on the van roof,

fails to jump before the vehicle

jolts forward, is thrown flailing

& bouncing down the windshield,

hood, grill, & bumper until dead.

Father, She Says

The two men are priests in black gaucho

hats, ankle-length robes, I’m not

Christian, she says & leads them back to

her house, she’s just making tea, but

the young one demurs, he wants a drink,

that half bottle of red wine, she thinks

& washes two glasses before she pours.

Her girlfriends arrive & seeing wine

won’t settle for tea, now the wine’s

gone, now she’ll have to go to the store,

the young one offers to go with & presses

her hand, outside it’s carnival

week, the meaty stink of caged animals

ignites her, Father, she says & kisses him.

Still Driving

The dog runs into the street,

turns back at once on its side

spinning, or it regains its feet

& runs into low brush. Drivers

of two more cars see it.

The woman in the Tesla only feels it

& pulls over, her face peering

out distraught, she’s wondering

was it a child? an animal?

Maybe she gets out & looks for it

or rings a doorbell, that part of

this miserable story I can’t retell

because the other driver & I

don’t stop, we’re still driving.

Which Monster

Chinese poets

partied endlessly

drank ruinously —

their poems survive.

Safe houses

don’t preserve us.

Most things settle

unless we die.

The foolish sun

rises & we know it

even when the sky

won’t show it.

Midnight anxiety

holds our hand.

Bright December Morning

Sky’s stripes — blue, gray, & yellow —

mirror the pattern of winter tights

I wear for warmth on a California bright

December morning, furnace set to low

sixties at night as if under mounds

of fleece & billows of comforters

three neighborhood girls in one room

could possibly feel a twinge of cold,

would wake to consider what numbs us —

mix-ups that scramble taken-for-granted

love — hurrah for patio chairs outside

& patience to talk it through, how if not

for you (& you & you & you) none of us

might for this long at least have survived.

Keep Moving

Bearing weight is what hurts your foot.

So stop moving, but how then

to relocate so many books

& so many stacks of also rans —

books read once & getting the boot.

You're bent on vacating the condo

where Susan helped you move in.

Assuming she still inhabits bardo

she’ll be puzzling over which heaven

you're choosing next, perpetual limbo?

Keep moving, don’t stop to figure

out why life is so insufficient.

Say you’re going south to reconnoiter

possible living spaces reminiscent

of home, this time fit for an elder.

Truth is you’re facing the real conundrum.

You want to be with every one of your friends

until they die, until you die with them.

No one warned you this is how it ends —

falling apart — you demand a quorum.

Bones

My 70-year-old body

reminds me of how I looked at 20

except for surgical scars (so many)

& hollows where once I felt round

plus wrinkles, plus purple & brown

spots, plus toe & finger joints

carelessly growing larger. What foiled

hormone tells bones to overcrowd?

What if all bones begin as one

& long to reconvene, not knowing

bone against bone means slowing,

loss of motion, implacable pain.

Yes, I’m complaining, I miss my younger

body now that my springs have sprung.