Dear Me

Dear.

She called me Dear.

Does she call everyone that,

or just old folks?

Oh Dear, now that I mention it

I realize I've started saying it, too ~

calling young folks Dear, that is ~

using an endearing term

to convey my caring.

It seems appropriate, given my elder status,

which is clearly no secret 

considering how often 

I get offered seats on the bus.

Manners are not dead yet, Dear.

Not yet.

But this particular Dear lingers.

Was it the way she said it?

The tenderness, the kindness

without a pinch of condescension?

A medicine, almost,

surrounding me and pulling me in,

a reminder of all that is

dear in the midst of the drear

that so easily overwhelms.

Isn't it a wonder

that the innocence of the dear 

hasn't been gulped up

by the snark of the fear?

Kindness is not dead yet, Dear.

Not yet.

She called me Dear 

and I have decided to embrace it.

A Bad-Ass Dear, that's what I'll be.

Come, won't you join me?

You might want to bring a big walking stick ~

useful for navigating the frightening patches ~ 

but also imagination and faith to see

the dearly improbable transformations

just waiting to be freed.

Hope is not dead yet, Dear.

Not yet.

________________________

Dear Me

Querida.

Ella me llamó Querida.

¿Así llama a todas --

o sólo a las viejitas?

Ya que lo menciono

me doy cuenta de que yo también

he empezado a decirlo --

llamando a los jóvenes Queridos,

usando un término cariñoso

para comunicar mi interés sincero.

Me parece apropiado, considerando mi estatus

de persona mayor

que obviamente no es secreto,

considerando cuantas veces me ofrecen 

un asiento en el autobús.

Los modales no están muertos, Querida.

Todavía no.

Pero esta Querida que me llamó permanece conmigo.

¿Fue la manera en que lo dijo?

La ternura, la bondad,

sin un pellizco del desdén?

Una medicina, casi,

envolviéndome y abrazándome,

un recuerdo de todo lo que es querido

en medio de lo triste que

facilmente nos agobia.

¿No es una maravilla

que la inocencia de lo querido no haya sido

devorado por el sarcasmo del miedo?

La bondad no está muerta, Querido.

Todavía no. 

Ella me llamó Querida

y voy a celebrarlo.

Una Querida Bad Ass, ésa voy a ser.

¿No te unirás conmigo?

Necesitas un bastón de madera --

útil para navegar las partes espantosas --

pero también la imaginación y la fe para ver

las transformaciones improbables

que están por liberarse.

La esperanza no está muerta, Querida.

Todavía no.

Ripe Berries

Berries.

Blackberries.

It's all about the sensuous 

trickle-stream flow

of the chin-staining juice running

right through the thorns to make

a pathway straight to your open heart.

Can't think about the snare of spiky canes 

when the passionate purple goo is

dripping so seductively into 

your waiting mouth with a

taste that obliterates all judgment,

shatters all restraints and

opens minds and hearts, legs and arms 

even as you protest that your

well-ordered life is being hijacked

through the brambles to

God knows where . . .

(But oh, it tastes so damn good)

Squeeze the fruit from that scruffy, danger-filled shrub  

and see what happens. . . 

and what does not happen.

You will not, of course, proceed accordingly.

Ah, bright-eyed innocence of youth and hormones.

I embraced you with gusto but don't miss you a bit

because so many years later

I have finally mastered 

the exquisitely delicious art 

of walking and eating blackberries

at the same time. 

_______________________________________

Moras Maduras

Moras.

Zarzamoras.

Es la seducción 

goteo-chorrito-flujo

del jugo mancha-mandíbula corriendo

de entre las espinas a hacer

un sendero directamente a tu corazón abierto.

No puedes pensar en los tallos espinosos

cuando el apasionado néctar violeta

gotea a tu boca abierta con un sabor que

oblitera todo juicio,

destruye todo control y

abre mentes y corazones, piernas y brazos

aunque protestas el desvío de tu vida 

por las zarzas hasta Dios sabe dónde . . .

(Ay, pero sabe tan rico)

Aprieta la fruta de ese arbusto 

desaliñado y peligroso y

verás lo que pasa . . .

y lo que no pasa.

Claro que no vas a proceder prudentemente.

Ay, inocencia luminosa de la juventud y las hormonas.

Te abracé con gusto, pero no te extraño ni un poquito

porque después de tantos años

por fin he dominado el arte delicioso 

de caminar y comer moras

a la vez.

On the #1 Bus

Whatever happened to unobstructed views?

Who decided it was a good idea to slap advertisements on bus windows?

Will it ever stop raining?

As the #1 bus trundled down 6th Avenue

on a soakingly grim Sunday,

passengers were few,

the air was thick with moist, shared breath,

and I had questions . . .

questions that were abruptly interrupted

when the bus lurched to a stop 

at 6th and Stevens.

The doors swung open, and our driver announced

that there was a vivid double-rainbow

hanging just behind us.

We should all hop off to take a look, he said.

And so it was that an improbable Holy Trinity gathered that day:

a silver-crowned crone, a testy teen with a nose ring of gold,

and our mild-mannered driver ~

transformed for an instant into our High Priest of Awe ~

all standing next to the #1 bus on 6th Avenue,

savoring the unexpected,

the fleeting hues of mystery,

the arcing brilliance of colors split . . .

before they dissolved back into the drear

and the bus ride continued

on a Sunday that was no longer grim.

Ordinary Mystery

So many years later

Daddy's roses still grow wild

on the old back fence.

Adorning my backpack

as I wander over to Trader Joe's

they make the elusive mystery of eternal life

a bit more accessible.

Father's Day 2023

_______________________________

misterio ordinario

Tantos años después

las rosas de Papá crecen silvestres

en la cerca de atrás.

Adornando mi mochila

mientas camino a Trader Joe's

hacen que el misterio elusivo de la vida eterna

sea un poco más accesible.

Día de los Padres 2023

Moon Dance

When moon dancing

in the fully bright-bursting, shimmery-silver

liquified sunbeams of lunar plenitude,

celebrate, too, the ever-returning blessing of the dark,

the sacred inky-black of the disappearing wane.

Hold them both, ebony-shine shifting.

The dance will be richer for it.

Hold them together, like a prayer flowing.

Hold them reverently, as a reminder

that reflecting light is a risky business,

and exuberant waning is perplexing to most.

Bless the paradox circling as it honors Mystery

with raucous howls and gentle rest and care,

holy movement that subtly shatters rigidity

and always risks the moon-shining

reverent irreverence that blesses us all.

New Moon, December 2022

____________________________________

Moon Dance

Danza a la luz de luna

Cuando bailas a la luz de luna

en la plenitud lunar de rayos solares licuados,

reflejando brillantes-quebrantes-plateados --

celebra, a la vez, la bendición recurrente de la sagrada oscuridad,

la luna menguante, negra-ébana.

Sostén a los dos, ébano-brillo turnándose.

Hará más vívida la danza.

Sostenlos juntos, como una oración fluida.

Sostenlos juntos, para recordarte

que reflejar la luz es un asunto arriesgado,

y menguar con exuberancia confunde a muchos.

Bendice la paradoja circulando que honra el Misterio

con aullidos apasionados y descanso suave,

movimiento sagrado que quiebra sutilmente la rigidez

y siempre toma el riesgo de moon-shining

la reverencia irreverente que nos bendice a todos. 

Luna nueva, Diciembre 2022

Journey

The answer to your heartfelt question

is no answer at all.

I'm sorry.

I know you're at your wit's end

and I can feel your frustration.

But did you know that monarch butterflies migrate thousands of miles,

just to survive?

Or that Orion, that fierce hunter of the wintry sky, looks surprisingly like a butterfly

if you tilt your head sideways

and look just so?

Now a menacing hunter ~

ready to clobber you into oblivion,

now a sunlit butterfly ~

ready to fire up your senses with ecstatic beauty. 

Chew on that for a while.

There might be an answer in there somewhere

in how a feather-light monarch

(for surely she is a migrant)

moves amiably with a well-armed giant

(though perhaps his ferocity is mostly for show)

how they twirl around a star-twinkly sky, taking turns in the dance,

showing different faces, 

and never, ever arriving.

How their endless journey still makes us shout with delight

whenever we spot them:

the mighty hunter and the cosmic butterfly ~

wheeling steadily downward into the void,

night after night,

leaving behind a mysterious trail of awe.

________________________

Jornada

La respuesta a tu pregunta sincera

es que no hay respuesta.

Lo siento.

Sé que estás desesperado

y puedo sentir tu frustración.

¿Pero sabías que las mariposas monarca migran miles de millas para sobrevivir?

O que Orión, ese cazador feroz del cielo invernal, se parece a una mariposa

si inclinas la cabeza y miras justo así? 

Ahora, un cazador amenazante ~ 

listo para darte un golpe al infinito,

ahora una mariposa alumbrada ~

lista para encender tus sentidos con una hermosura extática.

Piensa un momento en eso.

Es posible que encuentres una respuesta ahí escondida

en una monarca ligera

(pues seguramente es una migrante)

moviendo amablemente alrededor de un gigante bien armado

(pero puede que su ferocidad sea principalmente fingida)

como giran por un cielo estrellado-brillando, turnándose en el baile,

mostrando caras diferentes, jamás llegando.

Como su jornada sin fin todavía nos hace gritar emocionados

cuando los espiamos:

el cazador imponente y la mariposa cósmica ~

girando sin tregua hacia abajo al vacío,

noche tras noche,

dejando una huella misteriosa de asombro.

Grandma's Sweater

 

Grandma’s sweater rests on my shoulders like a prayer shawl, 

warming the heart-mystery-memories

she wove into my soul. 

Grandma’s sweater is a sacred vestment. 

I kiss it before I put it on. 

Grandma’s sweater speaks with a lilting Italian accent,

shape-shifting into haunting melodies of the Old Country, 

never to be seen again. 

Grandma’s sweater is black, dotted with embroidered daisies

from the International Ladies’ Garment Union. 

How could they have known that their beauty 

would keep blossoming in my dreams? 

Grandma’s sweater is love and prayer, 

the reassuring clunking of her sturdy old lady shoes

on the basement steps. 

Grandma’s sweater swaddles me with hope 

when tentacles of fear threaten to squeeze all joy from my life.

Grandma’s sweater has pockets, as all good sweaters should, 

to carry the essentials: 

emergency tissues, a spare rosary,  

and a little something sweet in case the kids stop by. 

I think the pockets are magic. 

Maybe prayer shawls should have magic pockets, too.

In loving memory of our wonderful Nonna Rose. Ti vogliamo bene!