The Concrete Waterfall

The drowsy worker
By the concrete waterfall

Dreaming of rainbows

The man lies in the shadow of his truck
A yellow hard hat on the ground beside him,
His shirt hangs listless on a branch above,
He looks inside himself and sees
The waterfall to come.

He nearly feels the spray of splashing water
Sees it leaping down his unbuilt path
Sees it jumping over boulders, laughing
Crystal droplets singing as they fall.

He sees the water split by beams of sun
He imagines arcs of color through the mist.
He glories in the rainbow yet to be
Created by the waterfall he’s building.

In his mind he leans to catch the drops
Bathe his skin in the magic of the spray
He’d seize the rainbow, but as his hand shoots out
The rainbow isn’t there.

He wonders if he is himself a rainbow
Is his life an optical illusion?
Is he a glorious splash of color
That in time will simply disappear?

He stands, puts on his hat, spits out the grass.
He rises to complete his waterfall.

Samsara

A stray cat wandered into our yard and was made unwelcome by our cat, Blue. Tattered and pathetic, we took her to the vet, hoping that she had been implanted with a chip. She was far too friendly for a feral cat, we thought. We’d tried a game of ping pong at our table on the patio, and this cat loved the game, hopping with the ball from side to side.  She was a cat who liked people in her life.

She was infested by fleas, her ribs clearly seen beneath her fur. So we treated the fleas, and treated the hunger and the thirst, and since the day was very hot, we let her sleep in our guest bath, away from our cat, Blue, who liked her not at all. We posted signs around the neighborhood – had any person lost a friendly yellow cat? No one called.

I talked to my friend, Jean. I told her if she took the cat we’d more than gladly help to pay for any alterations. Jean said no, she had friend who was a vet. She’d take care of that herself. I brought the yellow cat to Jean at a meeting, which the cat enjoyed. Not happy in her carrier, she befriended each one there, but seemed to know instinctively that Jean was hers. This cat was smart.

Jean has studied Buddhism, and taught herself Tibetan. She recognized at once that this stray cat was of a royal ancient god-like lineage, and named the cat Samsara, the Tibetan word for “restless spirit”, a name well suited to the orange cat.
At her initial pre-op visit to the vet, it was discovered Samsara was a he, who had been fixed before.

Samsara, Sammy now, had found himself the home and friend that suited him. He considers he and Jean have equal rights around his house. His food is carefully prepared for him and set out on demand. When Sam is good and well behaved, the cat belongs to Jean. But when he bites, wakes up at three, or brings her gifts of snakes or mice, she refers to him as Kay’s.

I don’t know how many lives he’s used, but the one he’s living now is fine with him, he says.

L'Chayim: To Life

The small stream dances, winding through
And in and out between the rocks,
Catching sparkles from the sun,
Playing harmony to songs
Of bugs and birds along its banks -

It carries cold of melted snow
To nurseries of fish and frog.
It moves leaves and reeds along its banks.
It waters bushes, quenches thirsts
Of land-born life.

It meaders for a bit, and curves,
And then lays quietly in ponds
Before it leaps and dances out,
Cavoting around rocks and stumps
Continuing its journey to the sea.

Above the stream disaster crawls
Metal yellow dinosaurs
Rip up the soil, tear down the hills -
Each day they roar across the fields
Destroying what was always there.

Rock strewn meadows, oaks and grass
Will be replaced by velvet lawns
Fed food that's made by Dow, not deer,
Which washed into the brook will choke and
Kill the life that flowed below -
Until
The water slows
The laughter
Stops.

Seventh Grade Blues

I’M SO EMBARRESSED or

THAT 7TH GRADE FEELING

In 7th grade I was all arms and legs-
Knocking into things, my socks slipped down
Into my shoes, my blouse untucked
My hair declaring independence from any sense of place –
I wore the clothes my mother liked.
I didn’t think I fit, so sure was I
That everybody noticed what I wore
And each dumb thing I said.

I went to church last Sunday, just a little late
The congregation watched as we walked down
To sit in front. The other seats were taken
By better folk whose lives are organized
And neat. I sang the hymns my best, a bit off key,
My husband said, but loud.

We stayed for coffee after church.
I stood alone with coffee in my hand
The black stockings I had worn looked very blue.
Should not have worn a skirt!
My hair is standing quite on end today
Great white wires going every way.
If someone comes to chat, what will I say?
The cookie that I’m holding’s shedding crumbs.

Helen came, removed a cat hair from my sleeve
And asked me how I was. I’m fine, I said,
And so is Fred. We talked of her and me and church
Til Judy joined us, and Sue, and Natalie
Who had surgery a week ago. It turned out well.

I’m all grown up from 7th grade, I think
Until the next time when I stand alone, with Styrofoam
Of coffee in my hand.

A MORNING WALK

My walking buddy’s gone to Spain
So now I walk alone – Except
Except for geese, and dogs,
chipmunks and squirrels
And kids who rush to catch their bus –
And people driving by in cars.
I notice people wave at me
And I wave back – but I can’t see
Inside their car or who they are.

I’m forced to walk alone – because
My walking buddy’s gone to Spain – Except
I have my thoughts. I ask myself
Whatever happened to the pair
Who used to live in that house there –
She used to go to Curves, perhaps
Still does. I don’t.

Who does that lawn. What artistry.
Who would have thought to put that rock
Right there, and black tanbark beneath the tree
Spread out beneath its canopy
No sprinklers needed near that oak
I wonder could we do the same?
My walking buddy’s gone to Spain.


So maybe if we cleared the ground
And got black tanbark spread around
Beneath our oaks and planted rocks
Instead of flocks we wouldn’t need to spend so much
On fixing sprinklers here and there –
They never work or seem to spread
Their grains of water far enough
To keep our landscape green and fed.


My walking buddy’s gone to Spain
So now I walk alone except
For geese and dogs, chipmunks and squirrels,
Kids, cars, and wandering thoughts.

BLUE

I have a black cat name of Blue
And what he likes to do the best
(Aside from rest) is creep along the window sill
And leap on unsuspecting bugs.
He looks at birds beyond his reach.
If he had speech – could say the words,
He'd say those birds are easy prey -
Were he without and not within..

Villanelle

WRITER'S BLOCK

Today I’m suffering from writer’s block
My head is empty, no thoughts to think –
I only sit and listen to the clock.


Could it be I’ve run amuck?

Sanity teetering on the brink?

Today I’m suffering from writer’s block.

My head is heavy, filled with rock –

My eyes are staring – Can’t even blink

I only sit and listen to the clock.

I am confused. I’m in a fog.
Cleverness gone – I’m on the blink!
Today I’m suffering from writer’s block.

 One deep breath, then I’ll take stock -
I know I must have thoughts to think –
I only sit and listen to the clock.


Where’s the key for my brain’s lock?
Where’s the fuel to help me think?
Today I’m suffering from writer’s block.
I only sit and listen to the clock.

Villanelle is a poetic form which entered English-language poetry in the 1800s from the imitation of French models. The word derives from the Italian villanella from Latin villanus (rustic). A villanelle has only two rhyme sounds. The first and third lines of the first stanza are rhyming refrains that alternate as the third line in each successive stanza and form a couplet at the close. A villanelle is nineteen lines long, consisting of five tercets and one concluding quatrain.