Above the Pacific— not a cloud in the sky,
one souful boy gazed across the rocky coast

That September afternoon as pelicans winged.
Only Maxwell could contemplate their flight.

Only his grandparents beheld his intense eyes
as the exquisite birds performed their dance

Before they swooped into the waves. He watched
above our shoulders discerning great blue whales

Enormous they were— blue and white— flapping
with joy the same as the pelicans came ashore.

Maxwell loved it beyond anything. Instantly, we felt
young— able to let go of fear, madness and rage.

The blue whales flowed along with incredible creativity.
Our worries— acknowledged as consciousness arrived.

Maxwell’s countenance expressed their energy—
newly balanced energy despite all our fears

The crisp morning the daughters left for school
hair gleaming, poised barrettes, arms swaying,
alert. Inside I turned my mind to Snow White
and just what that stepmother was doing there.

Late one afternoon, an expedition
to the doll house factory brought home
the charm of small things in our world.
The minute to-scale broom and dustpan,

The canned goods, flower pot, and shovel.
The fists of girls clutching brown sacks,
Rustling wrinkled dollar bills, clinking
falling copper. Never heeding my call.

The movie starts fifteen minutes from here.
Limping, they spat, navigated cracks
on the reluctant sidewalk, and whined,
Why can’t you drive us to the theater?

The stale black hole crept out to meet us: inside
cardboard popcorn, cherubs plastered to the walls.
In single file, we creaked into seats of dusty velvet

Like a partial string of pearls— some faded
— some bright— we chomped on sweets,
swallowed previews. Fear in the whites of
the eyes of those girls glowed pure bright

As the stepmother’s fractured mirror lit up
like the shadows of a thin crescent moon.
The older girls sway back and forth to music:
someday my prince will come, incessant pointing

At the bulge in those too noble tights, choking on
licorice, gulping lemonade, their shoulders quaking.
The girls of nine and ten hold still, spines straight,
careful not to drop their chins, only their eyes traverse

The giant screen, Their hands freeze amidst the
popcorn. On my lap, the youngest in a sweat,
her jaw invades my chest, her fingers clutch my arm,
to escape the whirlwind of the stepmother’s fury,
aiming to re-enter my belly.

Why me?

I know the power of this witch who turns the seasons.
Who else prepares the maidens for the prince?
Who cuts the cord?
Who else will feel like this?

Standing yards above the buckeye slopes of the fault,
we are unlike earthquakes. Halfway in between
equinox and solstice, we gather this morning,
children and parents.

In a parting of wildflowers, we lean together,
plunge a pole of bamboo into the dirt and weave
raveled cotton steamers, sing and dance to ring
in the sun with a bell that has no clapper,

So suspended in this latest sandstorm of love—
a million particles— we lift our eyes,
listening to the colors of its heat.

He is a lonely swimmer.
His deep waters breathe
where deep green plants

Drift and tangle
the shallow pool
out of timid torpor.

Under the surface— oh-
man child of the future
glides through ripples of

Rancor, rides the moonlit present
— salt of seaweed, womb water,
that rings around our breasts.

Sweet lava love, ah innocence!
White foam of Ocean Mother
in each tiny salty bubble

Such sacred newborn pearls
emerge into the velvet brown
realm of danger, darkness,

And the silent treachery of
a hippo’s swells of flesh
his mendacious eyes.

Isis! Help! They are swirling
pits of tar. A surge, and yellow
incisors thrust just above

The ankle of the child, delicate
and poised with trust. So this
is how the sunlit future meets

The beast of past, and hearts
hasten to hear the harrowing in
that head. I unbend and carry

You, treasure, to the mountains air
where falling stars surround pain
and fresh water from heaven’s

Fountain dispels the bloody flow
into the spiral of the karmic wheel.
releasing us from rage and hurt.

You are the One we’ve been waiting for.

November 2022

With gratitude to Wallace Stevens’
“Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird”

With love from Ama to her granddaughter Phoebe.

I.
Among the Redwoods of Bonny Doon
the only spirit prancing in harmony
was Penny’s.

II.
The horses with hearts as well as
those with shiny black bodies
announced their strength.

Penny could always ride
as others walked the spiral path
thoughtful, listening.

III.
Penny blessed the wind in the breezes.
She spoke with Phoebe to their secret language.

IV.
A horse and a girl were one.
Phoebe was one in that love.

V.
Penny never knew which she preferred —
the kindness of Phoebe’s reception,

Her understanding smile
or the warmth of her open hand.

VI.
Golden leaves fell
covering the ground

With intense pleasure
the soul of Penny crossed

There to and fro. The path
intertwined with joy and sorrow.

VII.
“Oh you who follow sweetness
why do you rush so constantly?”

Stop a moment and you too will feel
Penny’s magic move through the breath

And blood of those you love.

VII.
Phoebe knows the music of the song birds
And the rhythms of the close-by Pacific,

But she knows too that Penny is involved
in all that she knows.

IX.
When Penny’s vision soared
trailing her soft black fur,

She marked the boundaries
of a foal who would be new and stunning.

X.
At the sight of Penny galloping
out in the noon time sun, even the children

March 6, 1988

The morning we wrote friendship oaths
with the entire second grade, I thought you,
my girl, already knew what an oath was,
but no others did, so we said— a promise.

Then I could see in the corner of your eye
that you did know. We all said we knew
what friends were. Sitting tailor-style, in a
circle on the floor, we read Chinese oaths.

We spoke outside around a pile of dirt.
They promised to be friends long after
the hills were flat and things of that sort.
We went to tables and chairs to write some…

Do we have to write an oath?
Does it have to be to a friend?
Does the friend have to be real?

I walked around the tables hunching over to confer:
spelling of mohawk and hooray (one girl promised
to let her friend give her Barbie doll a mohawk and
the other was glad of Valentine’s Day).

The teacher nudged me to decipher your page—
rickety— the cursive came alive:

Be my friend, please
til death does us part
and if it be that for you
it be that for me too.

I felt each tug of parting in our mother-daughter lives.
How even, while together in the room, you flew
without me. Words your wings, ideas feathers
of your peaceful intensity.

After the flight, may we ask again and again:

What is an oath?
Does it have to be real?
What is a friend?

I thought I saw that dear grandson of mine
his back against a subway window pane
like a sweet cherub from some sepulcher
divining crystal visions of a future bright.

He who sprang forth amidst redwood trees
whose ruddy nature filled us with their light
and such as yet I pray once more to find
without the seal of pain around his chest.

His eyes were distant and his heart was veiled
under sands of indigo and shining green.
Burnt through with red and held alone to see
once tender delight and endless generosity.

When signs of strength and temperance arose
still as his head leaned there against the glass
stirring, then gone to meet spirits of the night.

Now the drought is over, our path curves and twists
through beloved hills prickly with live oak, star thistle
— wet today with California blue-eyed grass.

Walking ’til dusk, our daughter, Mandy, the scout, calls
back, “Someone must have put this place together. It’s
like paradise.” The descent to a creek was flanked with

High walls, glistening, hand-laid, reinforced by river stones.
A tiptoe across a wobbly two-by-four led to a meadow—
lupin— yellow violas. Dinner around a fire—

Serenaded by frogs—Their concert stopped—
perhaps a night time predator— then sleeping
out under an almost full moon— dreaming of
Mandy with a shovel, stones,

Two piles of sand next to the sea—- rising. She loses
the shovel— the stones wash out to sea. Pondering
the loss, she shudders, jumps in, swimming steadily.

Witnessing her paddling in a long white line of pale
swimmers unable to keep up or even pass clumps of
torsos, limbs drifting—darkening like so much sea kelp.

The sun beats down—only awake. Do I find her
still curled up in her shiny new bag— all elbows, fists,
knees pushing hard against the olive drab rayon—

Only her red hair tumbling outside— grateful—
filtered in the morning light.

San Bruno Mountain
Nearing Yule

Panai, Blood Sister, Wakai, Blood Brother
with you, the connections are great.
The voice inside whispers,
“Kindred Spirit!”

Influences say the Dagara favor an essence,
I, who am fire, shed light on earth and water.
Freyja, your earth feeds—
is fed by fire.

At the core of your heat, sometimes
we write connected by silence,
Truth sparks,
then ignites.

Blood flows through enlivening us.
Our friends, like kidneys,
clean our vital juice— relations
keep us alive better than dialysis.

The sister my mother bore makes me sad,
our stars crossed.
Resentment, self-pity,
fear threaten my flames.

I, who would engulf
her menace,
her every gesture,
cannot bear her revelations.

Freyja, my chosen blood sister,
cries out in praise of golden filaments
of light. My fiery nature relaxes,
wants to play.

Today my sunburned arms remind me—
couldn’t move for long, dusty hours
with other baseball moms on the field.

How we watched you, my girl, posed, poised,
at eleven, stepping forward to destroy— seeing
a wreath of flowers around your head, you carried

Water in a dish. Noon lasts for hours. The breeze
eludes us, coaches suck ice, scream, “Pay attention!
Don’t hit unless it’s good.”

We pray you’ll end the calm. You do not strike out.
Your teammates cry, “Good eye, good eye!” A moment
before you’d skipped to the plate— a careless maiden
trailing your wilted wooden bouquet

A loose, lopsided figure eight. Willingly,
you had come to meet this end, to stain the
altar with your dreams and idleness.

“Swing hard and fast, if it’s good.”
Lean over, push your bottom out, tap
wood to earth, focus out attention all to hide
your girl-throat from the curve.

Then the sound clean hollow. You hit, run safe.
They cheer. Sinking to know I’ve brought you
trusting here to this Good Greek light.

Yellow cap back— your smile shatters darkness,
green eyes seek mine shielded— you guess in an instant.
You’ll forgive me — gladly refuse to hold me

responsible for even this latest little death.

Even after being scolded for making all of you late for
the class pizza party and dance, I’ll give you credit—
you emerged— rather, pranced in high tops from
the bedroom.

Chestnut pony tail— proud, green eyes sparking fierce dandelions— leading the parade of hormones— four
ten-year olds— strapless black taffeta dresses you’d

Dreamed of, designed, cut, sewn— your childhoods 
abandoned— tied in big red lace bows. Understanding
boys felt reluctant to slink behind, hands thrust deep in

Patched pockets, I joined the march— a dirge to a
waiting van. In dusk, sliding open the door— tumbling
in—singing, rollicking, barking for their lives.

Amid this commotion, doubting I could hold cold leather on
my wheel— or even keep cargo straight on such a road. Neighborhood street lamps had just turned on—

Their pale yellow glitter provided me with nothing.
Recalling the night— you were four— crying for
the light— oh, disappointment of electricity.

You’d seen lights of the city from a hill— convinced
they were diamonds of fairies —no one could ever
console you.

Through the red and green neon glare, whooping,
wordless, all piled out— leaving me dazzled, alone,
free? Not quite— my heart jumped— you knocked

Quite heartily on car window glass— a word? No—
money for the juke box—each quarter gleaming
silently— placed in yet extended hands.

August 9, 1989, Lost Coast
Humboldt County, California

To stake out our half of the beach, we scramble
silently to build a fort of orange rayon backpacks,
pink plastic tubes of sun block, towels, binoculars,

And sweat. In a ruddy brown line, elk descend the hill
claiming their shrine. Searching, nosing, nibbling,
poking, grazing in leisure of banks of watercress.

Stomping tender greens, they wade into the surf as
frothy as margarita— salty too.They lick foam—
rear back in surprise. Uncertain, a young kick,

Cycle with waves. Ponderous does stop time—
indifference. Their sluggish rumps retreat with
light— only a trace of tail.

Behind my notebook, I hide, survey— write.
Girls stalk. The does move their heads a little
sideward— their young falling back in a panic line.

With hands stretched out, interlocked, the girls
press forward. How brave they are— like their dad.
Stunned, I cannot chide them.

Caution slips out of me with shame and chill.
How our girls groan— play blinking games with elks—
unconscious breath, only the prattle of

Creek running into the sea. Is it source or receptacle
that brings back the dream? In the redwoods, I breathe
life back into a blue and slender girl, I’d left for dead.

He is back from the tide pools. I sense that sturdy bulk.
The doe and our eldest square off— nose to nose—
the doe takes a lunge— He moves too.

Astonished and jealous of the doe, I drift with dear ones—
selecting, collecting shells, rocks, and sea glass their
adorning their magic selves—

The ones they loved all along, could never lose.
Restrained, gingerly, we see Her leading her line
of elk children home.

Among twenty antiseptic sponges,
the only touch of life in the room was
the sparkle in M—-’s green eyes.

The doctors were of three minds like
a college play with three actors
playing M—-.

She twirled in the December mist.
M—- was a walk on actor
in a far greater drama.

I have no notion which to prefer:
the beauty of her articulation,
the flight of her imagination,
M—- laughing,
or the aftermath.

Bare branches of the maple tree
filled outside our French doors
with the threat of austerity.

The long shade of M—-
crossed it to and fro. The mood
traced it into the shadow of
unstoppable joy.

Oh family, lover, friends! Why fret?
Do you not see how M—- walks
around the edges of the worries
that bind you?

We know doors to absolute light
and swirling delicious colors, yet
we also know that M—- is central
to all that we know.

When M—- walked into the x-ray,
it marked the vital edge of one
of many circles.

At the sight of M—- in a blue paper gown,
even the narcissists of Gilbert Avenue would
cry out sharply.

We rode over peninsula in a metal box.
Fear pierced our hearts, as we mistook
the silhouette of our equipage
for M—-.

The winter wind was blowing.
M—- was practicing her script.

It was evening all afternoon.
It was raining, and it was
going to rain.

M—- climbed up the trunk
in the wet leaves of the Maple,
singing a tune with a goldfinch.

Meanwhile the surgeon sewed
her up so she would not be late
for the scene in her next act.

Now sleepers’ dreams converge
At far-gone starry points to dwell;
And moonlight’s madding surge
Reveals sounds of sea inside the shell.
Allow each inward breath to bless
The towering spires of Psyche’s sight.
May the air that flies upon the crest
Trace the undertones of not-so-silent night.
Now intention’s steps awake to rest
Upon the ever sharpening swords of fright.
In time, the spells of slumber steal the dark
With grateful waves upon the dusty floor
And hallowed hearts harken upon the lark
To sing of joy and sorrow once and ever more.

Lost Coast, Humboldt County, California
August 8, 1989

Lost Coast, Humboldt County, California
August 8, 1989

Feet in the sand, backs to stone, we trudged that hour
together— alone to watch the sea fold back. Beige
shapes undulated— inlets of the beach laid out—
brown, tender under the watchful gaze of harbor seal.

Sauntering, holding hands with her dad, our eldest
led the advance— sauntering towards the grey of the
pelicans’ roosting place. Resting against rock,
hunching over my steno pad and pencil outwards

Between bleary blue lines fading details of the vacation,
knowing rosy contours of the shame my girls felt of me—
some vague descendent. I rained on my mom, who wrote
so cautiously in blue ink— her books bound in red leather—
the most fastidious travel prose.

The first day, we spent the morning packing the Ford,
left at noon, stopped at Howard Johnson’s—paid 70
cents for ice cream. Our youngest squatted nearer—
pencil thick, studded with rhinestones. She used it
to cover her fluorescent memo pad with the story

She was submitting for publication. Billowy waves
broke— we entertained possibility of rejection.
Sandpipers darted in and out in circles. Regretted
having mentioned it, she whispered, asked me—
“What do you call books that are part true part not?

I want to write about something that actually happened
then didn’t. I was going to write a true story, then I thought
of more.” Sea, then fog lifted up their cloudy skirts—left
the lonely roosting place revealed. Pelicans—simple,
mundane flapping, feeding, skimming water,

Lowering their landing gear— splashing— hit water
before they took off in lines of flight So, we witnessed
the beach expanding, terns diving—the history of
lost coast opened up. We spoke of 8,000 years— full
of elk, salmon, beaver, fox, spruce, virgin redwood—

The Sinkyone people, who are no more. Geoff threw
an orange rubber ball. Our middle daughter cried,
“Funny, funny, funny, funny,” like a flock of gulls
slithered next to the green yellow water snake—
shimmering in lagoon light where creek meets sea.

I was left to sort the story out— this beach—once
a harbor. This verse is written over mom’s spurned
red travel journals. Before the massacre, Sinkyone
roamed this place, then survivors vowed revenge.

We’re left on this exquisite bleeding earth,
embracing a land with veins of pain so deep—
no circumference to her screams. To stand up,
speak out, reclaim my own lost coast— one—long ago
deserted, cursed with awe and power like the Sinkyone.

I cannot tell our young ones what to call these books—
only we must write them— for our legacy is the story—
our lineage bears the curse.

You really had to be there to get it— how I was sitting
in the yard of Nursery Blue on foxtails by the sandbox
next to my nursing infant, probably sleeping, one
Friday afternoon in the spring.

All helpers and they were sleepy drunk on milk—relaxed on plum blossoms. There was something about the way my bare leg curved as I sat down on the patchwork lawn—how it extended

Out from my faded denim skirt, then folded up like
a bridge chair— my sandaled feet tucked under
denim. Andy— probably four— sat down—
playing on my leg for a very long time.

In late afternoon light, I was drooping largely
unconscious. Andy— so near to me, gentle,
light in his white shirt— black pants worn
in honor of someone in Star Trek.

His fingers started walking. He had lots of action figures.
It was then my leg became the lunar landscape. His voice low— sound effects barely audible. I dared not turn
my face too fast around— fearing

To interrupt his sensitivity to colors of the moon.
How I shivered as sensation surfaced at the landing
— my network of nerves, blood, muscle yielded
to a conquest that was somehow an honor.

Spacemen in their helmets explored—roamed
every inch of sallow skin, mined each crevice,
curve, bruise, splotch until they found the vein

Where the moon’s dark spot emerged within.