Mia

My Defense

A "doggy-bag" for me and Mia,
the one to swing, the other, clear,
for when she jumps at me, they said,
"Just swing and whack her on the head."

The "doggy-bag" is not my lunch
nor contains the smallest snack to crunch,
three empty cans — aluminum —
to clank and maybe frighten some.

It frightens me — as well as Mia
and I cringe up whenever I see her
so I admit, my swing is weak
when Mia comes up, my love to seek.

The "doggy-bag" then's my defense
at Mia's aloha — quite intense —
her jumping up and I so weak
and all she's trying to do is speak.

When I see her little tail wag
I hesitate to wield the bag
and Mike (who made it) could have said,
"Swing! Or I'll fling it on your head!"

I hit a block

and didn't write a poem today
so here's one by Linda Pastan

There Are Poems

There are poems
that are never written,
that simply move across
the mind,
like skywriting
on a still day:
slowly the first word
drifts west,
the last letters dissolve
on the tongue,
and what is left
is the pure blue
of insight, without cloud
or comfort.

my oldest brother

Eddie

Sitting there on the couch, he was
Filling his tobacco pouch, a pause,
Not the usual Eddie smile.
I'm looking at him all the while.

My mother there, again her stare
makes me think: "There's something there."

"It's nothing, Ma,"
He notes concern and sitting tall
"It's nothing, Ma," relaxing then
"A stomach burn" is all.

He smiled at me and made some joke
About what I'm "doing with older folk."
Then it was time — he had to leave.
He touched my mother, yanked my sleeve.

I saw him next in a hospital bed
"Don't look at me like that," he said.
I wasn't aware but it showed there
My disbelief — my deepest care —
And all the while, his smile was there.

yesterday and today

Sounding, above the quacking of the ducks
the loud whirring of a drill, the
whacking of a hammer
and silence

The ducks rest
The hammer rests. There's a
shuffling of the roofing slabs
and silence

Little whacks, pauses
Little scrapes, pauses
The hammer pounds, and stops
And the rain is here
in half-hearted drops
Quickly, another slab is lifted up


The ducks have waddled away from here
Just rustling on the roof

A breeze is moving leaves furiously on the trees
and the palms are waving to me
telling me to come back up to the house

Will work stop? A shed without a roof is not practical
when it rains:
Drill — whirr The drill is lowered
More comes down from the roof. Little noises — things
being dropped on things — Oh, that's Carol behind me,
cleaning up the shed. Again, whack, things being slid into place.


This morning's weather: Off again, On again
While Carol works with vacuum cleaner in the shed,
Everything having been organized by her
before yesterday's rains

Mike is again on the shed roof
The dogs, Mia and Tango are running free,
out of sight now

Carol found an egg near the duck pond —
One egg. I wanted to find another —
I walked to the gate — or halfway when
the rain started again
Back to the pond, still on the road, and
I turned and tried again
The rain had stopped — I made it
Back to the shed, and as I said:
Off again, on again — showers

Mia is back, she nudged my leg
By Carol's admonition, Mia knew that I was off limits.
Carol went up the ladder. Where's the camera?
NOW — where's the sun?

monkeypod

There is a tree here, usually in park areas, that I cannot believe. It's huge, and of the warmest green. They call it the monkeypod. I call it the umbrella tree because it resembles a huge, man's umbrella. Underneath is a circular area (as a result of grooming I think, and for effect in the park area). This is where the enormous trunk and visible roots are spread. This might sound like a contradiction (and I haven't quite figured it out yet) but: it seems to me a couple of cars could park easily under the tree, and if not cars, a horse, or a picnic table and chairs OR a hammock, so why is the tree left so alone?

syllabics a la Marianne Moore

The Spot

Come
under the tree
to the gray-blue oval-shape that lies
tempting the island guests,
beckoning and wanting them like

an
old lost friend.

portraits

Carol holding Akalina


Mike next to the wood stove


and Mary, too, on a chilly morning

roofing

Mike and Jamie began roofing the tractor shed today.


The rain held off all morning.


But after lunch the rains came.


Carol wore a yellow shirt to prune the camellias.

why not write a sestina?

Sestina

Whish! A little bird flew over my head
and I nearly dropped the broom.
She’s smart, of course, to move away
from the rafters and the empty nest
that seems raggedy, unkempt at best.
Last year’s, I would assume.

No babies this year, I’d assume
but up above my head
reflects past mother now, at best.
Now can I wield this big wide broom
and pull down this old and straggly nest?
It’s time to throw away.

Now, yes, my bird has flown away
for good, I would assume,
she’ll have to build another nest.
I turn away — I clear my head.
Now will I wield this big wide broom
and pull down hanging strings of leaves at best?

To clean and sort a bit, at best
(it’s hard to throw away),
I love to wield this big wide broom,
too big for me, I would assume.
Unwieldly, and way above my head
but then again, so was the nest.

How I’ll miss that yearly nest.
I’m sure one year it was her best.
Each year ’twas there above my head.
It’s sad she had to move away.
Will she return? I will assume,
unless she sees me with this broom.

I love to wield this big wide broom.
Don’t look above to find the nest.
No one else knew, I would assume.
That little bird has done her best,
now felt that she must go her way.
What sorrow now is in my head.

Now don’t assume my move not best
for with the broom I moved no nest,
intact, away, from above my head.

poem in the style of Theodore Roethke

Umbrella Tree

When I saw that monkeypod tree
beckon in a spooky way,
a vision of Halloween came forth:
under the tree of darkness
threatened an owl’s eye
larger and larger still
from a shady roof
eerie in the light slowly slowly.

poems in the style of A. R. Ammons

Rainstorm

Rain was
playful
this morning:

wind coaxed
water
into slurping

mudholes: into
down
and

around,
the squirrel
shivering

unconcernedly
jumps
across mud


Garage Sweep

Like an
anxious, busy child
I clean

out the garage
and move:
everything,

both hands re-arranging
and sorting
to me, means:

lately I
am no lazier —
loved; but

God is
arranging
for my future.

rock hauling

after hearing reports . . .

Playing in the Snow
            — to Elizabeth Bishop

It is so quiet in the snow!
It is the yard behind the house.
The colorful winter birds
are out, the shovel is in the sun.
Not a grownup is in the view.

Above, where the trees are barren,
the flocks of birds have chosen their places.
Those things are my company.
The frozen river and winds moan;
across the yard, the squirrels scamper.

We must come out of our tunnel
to ask the squirrel-shadow,
to move with a glow and warmth,
and return the shovel and the shine.
But oh, that we could stay out there. . . .

chores

Every day at four o'clock I feed the ducks.

sunrise

These photos of the sunrise are three shots of a skyline that would require about 10 shots but I only took a piece of it (a sampling). The whole horizon is within view of the house, and the sunrise was spectacular, over the Pacific.

these bananas are out of this world

out my bedroom window

views of the farm and the sea

me at Wailoa Pond, Hilo

ducks at Wailoa Pond, Hilo