Real Life Miracles

5.29.06

In a faded floral shirt she sits upright in her seat, strapped in around the wide waist, per air safety regulations. On the little, flimsy gray fold out table in front of her sits a small safari themed-tapestry purse. Has she been to Africa? Would she like to go one day? The reading glasses she wears are smudged, oversize, blue wire rimmed and manly looking, perhaps her husband's if she left hers at home. But also perched on top of her thick, wavy, short brown hair are a pair of black plastic fashion sunglasses. Pea sized cubic zirocnia earrings dot her lobes and a clot sized liver spot lies on her right cheek. She reads the Reader's Digest folding each page back on itself, laughs now and then with the man to her left, said supposed husband. What does she think of the "Real Life Miracles" featured in this month's issue? Has she had any of her own?

When she lowers her head, the soft padding of an additional chin compresses against her neck like a child's balloon. Blue veins on her tanned hands criss-cross each other like the rivers on a topographical map. They have guided an iron across many shirt sleeves, flipped a 1,000 eggs over easy, changed hundreds of diapers, written thank you cards, caressed cheeks and weeded gardens.

The fresh white Nikes on her long feet protect the bunions caused by many pairs of narrow toed shoes from her younger years. White cotton athletic socks wick away the sweat and cushion her calloused curved toes.The coarse, open pored skin on her face has seen lots of sun and the broad, flat features speak of Latin AMerican Indian heritage. The lower jaw drops open as the early hour tugs sleep over her face like a sheet. The eyelids drop, her head nods and then starts as she fights the sand-man. Hadn't she worked the breakfast shift for years in the family restaurant? The "Real Life Miracles" are not done yet and she starts, awake again, then braces her left arm against the seat back in front of her. Now she adjusts the bra strap under her ample armpit, something there annoys her. Her feet cross, wiggling to keep the circulation going and she shifts in her navy blue chevron flecked seat. She is row 18 Seat E on American Airlines flight 564 from Los Angeles, to St. Louis. When she deplanes, she will put her "Miracles" in her safari purse and be welcomed by 3 grandchildren and her daughter who will take her to celebrate Mother's Day at their favorite Taqueria.

She will call on those "Miracles" in 5 years when diagnosed with breast cancer, that something under her arm having grown into a peach pit size tumor, yet will live another 15 years after the chemo robs her hair and turns it white on its return. Her husband will hold those veined hands through her nausea and moments of low faith. She will put him to bed one night and wake to find him, gone, and the emptiness will feel unbearable at times. But she will recover this loss as well, tuck it way in her purse where she will find his blue wire rimmed reading glasses and will put them on again. Smiling at the sun, squinting at the TV and fanning through pamphlets she will dream of her Kenyan safari before rising to prepare another dinner.

The Dove's Nest

5.29.06


He has a tree in his back yard, this young boy, with branches that reach half way across the expanse. It shades the grass in places, reveals sky in others and is home to a single dove's nest. A mere sapling when it arrived, hoisted into the ground with a forklift, it has now grown to 10 times its size and just as wide. When the wind blows the leaves whistle to each other and in the heat of summer they barely rustle. His job now is to mow the lawn underneath and sweep up the scattered twigs that fall away in the night. He loves to sit in its lowest branch and feel the comfort of its many scratchy arms around him. From his crouch he can see the dove's nest and how it grows from year to year, bringing back the love birds whose songs wake him in the spring. When the cat found the nest, he fiercely shooed her away each time she attempted to scale the trunk until finally she gave up and he could rest again.

One day a typhoon like wind storm knocked his tree over and it brought tears to his eyes, the huge exposed root ball ripped out of a gaping hole in the earth. Like a toppled hero the tree shivered as it rested on his newly mown grass. He grabbed a blanket and threw it over the arterial system of the tree and watered it down, to keep the moisture in until the arborist arrived. Miraculously, the dove's nest was not unseated and as there were no eggs yet, he hoped the accident would not prevent their mating. He sat in the yard and waited for the rescue team and as the wind died down he lay back in the grass and closed his eyes. A memory of his father returned to him. His father playing baseball with him and helping him build stilts and doing homework with him years ago. But this was odd, he thought to himself, as those things had never happened. Was he dreaming? His father was gone and he was now "the man of the house." A sound brought him to attention as the arborist readied his equipment.

The older man with dark brown skin and a straw hat smiled at the boy as he set up his pulleys and ropes. The boy removed the blanket and then checked on the dove's nest and stood aside as the man slowly raised the tree back to its vertical glory. The boy cried out in joy as the root ball settled back into its home with a deep thunk and the behemoth shooks her green arms in relief. The man and boy worked together to pile dirt back into the hole and around the trunk and when they stood back to admire the restored glory the older one put his hand lightly on the younger's shoulder.

Every day the boy would check to make sure his tree's roots were taking hold again, that the cat would not renew her quest and that, when the doves returned, their nest was safe. One morning he noticed a few new additions to their twigged enclave: a blue thread, a torn yellow movie ticket, and a scrap of seraphenous fabric. Perhaps during the windstorm they had found these items caught in time and felt they would bolster their roost. This re-decorating signaled to him that the mother dove was due soon and he knew what he must do.

He brought his sleeping bag and camping lantern out to the base of the tree, to protect the nascent avian couple from the neighborhood beasts. Raccoons had made their rounds, an oppossum and his own cat could not be trusted. His canteen had fresh water and a bag of pretzels would quench his hunger, although he would make sure to chew them slowly so their crispness wouldn't attract attention.

Over the course of a week he watched as the mother dove sat quietly in the nest and the male left and returned with his nourishing worms and insects. Once when he nodded off he could feel the cat sniffing around his head and he quickly turned it, opened his eyes and peered into the pure animal drive of this feline face. He laughed at her instinct and his own to protect and she turned away, once again. He looked up into the branches and noted that the mother dove was gone and the male was now the sole occupant.

Excited, knowing that this shift of duties meant her eggs had been laid, he scrambled out of his sleeping bag and quietly, ever so slowly climbed up into his perch. It was a windless day so he avoided rustling too many leaves on his way up. It wouldn't have mattered, though, as the male was intent on his task of warming his offspring and not even bear swat would have unseated him. The boy inched closer all the while looking at the male, his concentration, his focus, his barely moving body and he wondered if human fathers were supposed to be this way. What he had seen on TV were buffoons with beer cans, artistic types making pancakes in the kitchen or shouting coaches on a ball field. He couldn't imagine his own sitting quietly, motionless watching his son grow, for he actually couldn't remember him at all. There was a picture of him on a dresser, stern looking man with a felt hat, a clarinet on his lap. All he had been told was that he had gone, would never come back, but that his mother would always be there for him. He was okay with that.

Now, the dove shifted a couple of times and the boy's breath quickened. It was time. He closed his eyes so he could hear what he knew would come, the beating of the female's wings as she returned with her own neighborhood groceries. When he opened them, he saw both birds perched on the edge of their nest, looking once at each other and then inside at what would come. He dared not move, but in his mind's eye he could picture two little gray blue eggs, wobbling on themselves as they cracked open. Tiny beaks would be waving in the air and scrawny tensile thick legs would push away their shelled cage. Covered in amniotic slime their miniscule feathers would be matted against their silver thin bodies, tiny thread like veins criss crossing under powder down. In a few minutes, they would right themselves and bleat the scrick-scrawk sound you could only hear from within the tree, so small were their lungs. But mother and father dove are there and watch their babies with pride as they kick away at the paper thin shells they now longer need. The boy opened his eyes now and could see mother dove offer regurgitae to her new borns and smiled as they opened their mini-beaks to accept it. This was going to be a good year, he felt. Both babies looked strong and he would be ever vigilant against the potential predators.

After a while, he climbed down the tree trunk and put away his sleeping bag. He was really hungry now, could feel the cranky gurglings in his stomach and felt he could eat the proverbial horse. He stomped down a clump of the freshly turned dirt and shoo-ed the cat away again. Realizing that he could use a good sleep in his own bed, he went behind the garage and found the chicken wire his mother used to grow tomatoes in the summer and wrapped the netlike material around the tree's trunk, slanted out like an a-line skirt. This would flumox any 4 footed fiend in search of dinner. Secure now that he had done what he could, that it was time to go back in the house, he looked up at the new family. Mother and father sat still on either side of their tumbling, scrawny kids and the male now looked at the boy with bullet black eyes. His gaze was as firm and focused as it had been on his own, but now he directed it at his guardian, the young boy with matted hair and his shirt on inside out. A bird is incapable of smiling, the boy knew, but he could feel something coming from that stern gaze, a thank you perhaps, a nod, for sure.

He grew that summer, an extra inch, the boy with dreams of things that did not happen. And the nest was knocked assunder one year when the phone company dropped a tool from high above the tree, while repairing the lines. He wasn't there when it happened, but found the broken nest on the ground. He was now tall enough to simply replace it in its spot without having to climb and he marveled at how these branches had held his weight during his yearly vigils. New dove couples came back and his mother kept up the practice of the chicken wire skirt during hatching seasons.

The boy, grown man, would inhabit a new perch in a city high rise during the day, and watch a falcon build and defend his nest, another father fierce in protecting his young. There were no natural predators at this height, only the window washers, whom the man would warn with arm gestures and window signs and finally a letter to their company. Soon, the couple became famous, within the building and without and the young man took on the role of protector, political activist, provider, while the falcons went about their procreative tasks.

Years later, his own son would ask about grandma's funny tree in her back yard, the one with the "bushy hair" and the weird skirt. He would explain the history of the battered chicken wire and his boy just couldnt' believe that such a flimsy thing could keep harm away. So he put his boy on his shoulders and showed him the dove's nest, now thick with years of additions and weathered subtractions. And he told him that sometimes even the smallest gesture, the slimmest of shields, the lightest sword can keep danger at bay. The boy looked at him with those same dark eyes, the dove's eyes from his youth and laughed aloud. He then took a feather from the nest and stuck it in his father's hair and the two left the tree and went back into the house.

The Tennis Pro

He saunters across the court

white shorted, naked chested

long dark hair pony tailed under a cap

A virile compilation of muscles and sinew

his body advertises some kind of service

The tennis togged mom with kids in tow

seem a likely target

and he hones his laser eyes

flashes strong teeth, bares a Klieg light smile

He swoops in on her distracted demeanor

and offers a card

Do the children need a pro,

read "do you?"

She laughs and returns the lob

Where are you from?

Argentina drips from his lips

like a mellow wine or blood

So, do you tango?

He laughs, "but not as well"

as he plays

She takes the card

and shakes his hand

which is cool and firm

and thinks "does he know that I know?"

He turns to leave

and the children scamper back

distracted by dogs and the afternoon's setting sun

Rackets in tow, she heads home

grateful for being noticed

and remembering a time when

she would have stayed in the game

The Burn

5.27.06

Hot oil jumps out of the pan

and sears the nearby skin

in the shape of a sting ray

or an island nation

or long tailed sparrow

The epidermis curdles

and bundled nerve endings shoot messages

up the spine

A warning to attend to tasks at hand

and not those of the mind,

the injury was born of fantasy

wherein maidens circle the fire

of want with gypsy skirts

A cool water spray

then antiseptic balm applied forthwith

soothe the heated wound

And the blister forms a liquid cushion

as new skin forms beneath

But once it sloughs away

what's left is darker than before,

a shadow of desire

forever marking where the psyche's embers glow

The New Shoes

5.27.06

They arrived in a crushed cardboard box

from Spain

where, handwrought, the suede was molded

to cup the toes and wrap the heels

and nails were hammered into leather

lasts.

She held them in her hands a moment

before slipping eager feet into a new arch

then felt her hips angle away from the earth.

Knees bent her long legs into grasshopper strides

and the tilt arced her back

while her chest opened to the heavens.

Now her arms flung wide

and her wrists slowly rotated inward

as fingers articulated a domino roll

dripping energy onto the floor.

Her chin thrust forward

and her hair fell back, black and tangled,

between naked shoulder blades.

As the first llamada called across the continent

she raised a foot

and like the hammer of a blacksmith

slammed it down on the anvil of her life.

The Concert

5.26.06

There is something about her socks

the little white frills against the tan skin

hovering above the black patent leather straps

like clouds over the horizon

making innocence of licorice strips

The demure closure of knees

which on another stage will open

later to love or lust or both

makes pinnacle of slanted calves

Pointed toe reaches back

to balance bowing arm and practiced fingers

as the music pulls her forward

Her legs poised to launch

will take her places

and the socks will be put away

a mere memory of her first melody

Rationality

5.25.06

In a white pantry

yellow sunshine bathes the walls

and shelves lined with multi-colored canned goods

Heavy tins containing syrup bathed fruits,

water soaked peas, corns and beans,

figs in honey and water chestnuts

promise rations in hard times

Their weight anchors whisper thin

ages old, lilac printed shelf paper

which flutters when windows open

and the breeze enters

An old can opener slices curved metal

to reveal contents, some post dated

most with years to go

And summer's orchards bear their fruit

as the screen door bangs open and shut

with the daily traffic

of hungry souls

The Sea Shore

5/24/06

Hoisting her blue polka dot percale dress

she dips her toes into the shore warmed wave

then runs with delight back to the beach head

where others lie safely soaking sun rays into starved skin

Limber little girl limbs flash and slice

the azure waters as she searches for shells

Brown summer arms dip now and again

into scooped sand pools

where tiny crabs and mini-mollusks cringe against the light

One curlycue shape reminds her of palm fronds

while a conch beckons with its inner voice

She stands with feet now buried

as whirlpools caress her ankles

and seagulls caw overhead

With hands on hips she cannot decide

whether to harvest here

or move down the beach

where a red ball bounces gaily

and the other children play

Navigation

5.21.06

Do not toss the gentle child

on the bucking waves of fear

she must sleep in the dark busom of faith

Steer him clear of icebergs

noting glacial shards as you squeeze by

then pull the cover up to his chin

Hold their hands when they wake

and show them the sun, the clouds, the rain and the sky

Line their pockets with small screwdrivers and little maps

Fill their lunch boxes with an apple and a chocolate bar

Moor their sailboats lightly

And when the wind is just right

let them set sail with a smile

and a strong rudder

Recipie for a Fig Tree

5.20.06

A fig tree requires carnivals

humming birds and warm sunsets

moist black earth and a turned spade

patience and a gust of wind now and then

Its hard bark protects a vital liqor

pulsing through veins to branch tips

A fig tree needs water and waiting baskets

smiles and a good laugh

Its mana will ripen and drop

feeding soil and larks and certain deer in Africa

lovers may lay a blanket under its boughs

and witness a blue sky through tight branches

before turning to touch each others skin

A fig tree needs a witness to its cycles

a waiting tongue to part tender flesh

and pass her seeds through alimentary canals

and along dirt paths

A fig tree needs the earth's rotations

to pass through seasons of waiting, gestating and knowing

that her fruit will ripen again

Housekeeping

5.19.06

She wore her first spring dress while mopping

cleaning out winter's crud from the corners

dusting off the lint and powdery residue of life from surfaces

Open windows let in warm sunny air

as she swept and felt the breeze on her bare legs

her toes wiggled in sandals as elbows brushed by walls

Banging out the rugs in the garden and smelling the uncut

grass, she had to stop and breathe and let out old air

Back inside, the house seemed too small and even the light slithery dress too heavy

so she tossed it on the table

and continued naked in her tasks.

Maypole

5.18.06

this maypole planted long ago

by hope and future visions

flutters out ribbon arms

like a flamenco dancer.

they flicker and reach

for sky, the wind, the sun.

multi-colored fronds dip and twirl

tempting grasping hands to catch and hold.

the breeze drops and now

the happy strands are caught

and woven into a tight rainbow plait.

but this jester's suit, beautiful and strong,

has a loose thread

just there near the earth.

a burrowing mole peeps out at spring's first light,

catches the filament in strong teeth and tugs.

slowly, like a heart beat,

the errant strand works free

inviting its neighbors to follow.

the dance unwinds again

in the warm air

and the maypole sprouts another tender root

down deep into moist, dark soil.

Service

5/11/06

At the airport Hanah embarks on her "summer project": to thank community service members. There are a number of service men and women in the camo and she decides to write a note to one of them. He is slight, powerful, with regulation haircut, blue eyes and a sadness in his face. She approaches and hands him the card and his smile brightens, revealing white teeth. She thanks him for the work he does and we get to talking about, this his second tour in Iraq, the 2 families he was able to visit over his 15 day leave, what he truly feels about the States being there (we are neither successful or wanted). He will leave the service after this tour to go home and become a Kroger's Manager. He is a Seargeant with 25 men in his platoon and he feels responsible for them. He seems to want to share more and we let him know our opionion of the human waste we have laid over there. I want to hug him and tell him to stay, not go back, but he is locked in his wide-legged stance and I can see how torn he is between duty and his own convictions. We thank him again and he says he'll put Hanah's card up in his barracks. He looks like he might want to cry.

A group of similarly camo-clad female troops waits for their bags, one is on her cell phone and carries a Vuitton knock-off purse. The incongruity is palpable. These women have carefully coifed hair, unlike the men and I think of their curved bodies, that Nature designed to nurture, and here they are on a mission that may require destruction and murder. I am a feminist, but I just can't wrap my head around a woman strapping a semi-automatic rifle between her breasts and setting off to "protect and serve." How could my own daughter whose instincts are to pet every dog she sees, to stop eating steak because it takes a minute off your life, mama, for every bite and to do without electricity because it requires burning coal which causes pollution, be asked to kill to protect her rights as an idealist?

Where are the photos and the stories of the 4,000-5,000 of these men and women who have come home with torn bodies and ripped psyches? The seargent we met was able bodied and unwounded so far. If only our thank you cards were enough to ensure his, and all his colleagues' a safe return.

The Sand Dollar

5.11.06

It's in the folding of her 7 year old daughter's underpants, the discovery of a green plastic toy soldier in her purse and the scent of rosemary from the front garden that she finds herself. Gathering her home around her like an old warm sweater, she bakes her bread and mends the torn knees of children's jeans. The paint peels from a shamrock colored bathroom wall, but she's busy building a sand castle at the beach. When the waves threaten to destroy it, she digs furiously, burrowing into the sand to create a diversion of the salty waters from her hard worn labor. But in the wet, a sand dollar washes up on the shore, flat, pale and quivering, right into her outstretched palm. She looks at it closely, the 5 pointed star and imagines in it, a compass with an additional direction. North, South, East, West and Beyond. Holding it she now stands and stretches out her hand, squinting to line up the points with the horizon. The water laps at her feet as she contemplates which direction to take; a breeze lifts her skirt. The slender sea creature curls in its edges, seeking its watery home so she whispers, "thank you" and lets it slip from her fingers into the surf. A gull screeches its warning that a wave is headed for her bulwark, but she doesn't notice. "Beyond" beckons and she lifts her arms and closes her eyes a moment before taking the first step. Behind her, the castle dissolves under the weight of the sea's intent, leaving behind the only the lumpy outline of her work.

Gravity

5.10.06

A sliver of a black slip

Pounding a pine paneled floor

Gyrating around a center

Does it hold?

A spine arches

Arms reach or beckon

Legs stretch away from feet that hold

Gravity was my friend one day

But now has let me go

Observations

5.8.06

At the park, a bent over old man with a walking stick carved from a tree branch stops to caress a similar nobby stretch of a young tree trunk. Did he wish to introduce the two?

At teh farmer's market, a small tanned faced, grey haired woman with a large nose. I see wisdom in the crone's eyes as she totes a shopping cart full of cans and I smile at her. She seems surprised.

In front of Staples, a well dressed, young black man in the latest hip-hop fashion begs a few coins. For some reason, and out of character, I give them without hesitation.

An aquaintance arrives at piano school, wan and empty faced as if she's lost her favorite leather wallet. I learn her father is dying and we speak of how awful that place is when you can no longer find someone you love.

My son, in constant battle for power and supremacy, takes a moment while flying his kite to nestle his head in my arms while I nap.

I smell the lack of scent in my daughter's feet and warn her that will change when she becomes a teenager. She simply puts her face up to mine and licks my nose.

In the eyes of a Manchester Terrier I suddenly see the history of man and dog, the companionship of human and animal and wish this elemental connection for all of us.

Hearing the voice of a friend I want to touch and hold onto that which counts most in this dis-jointed world, the reality of our short time on earth.

On my face I feel the sun and the air and spread my arms out, like the ribbons from a maypole, and twirl around the center of the universe.