“The uniqueness of poetry
is that
it deals with the
interior life,”
he read.
That being said,
it may reveal peace,
contentment, serenity
but those words do harbor
conflict, demons, strife
in that interior life.
And, perhaps, that’s why
some embrace it
as devoted readers
or serious writers of verse
for what it will reveal
while others reject it with
a wave so terse
and run from it
for what all their life
is worth.

Unfortunately, we live in a
world of black and white —
no more thesis, antithesis,
synthesis — no more non-
duality. It’s an Either/Or
world of
fight or flight.

In reality, we are neither here
nor there but both at the time
and somewhere along
the continuum line
which curves back
on itself in Einstein Time.

So, to say one or the other,
just isn’t a “stitch in time
that saves nine
(stitches).”
We have work to do today
so the fabric doesn’t continue to
unravel, unwind
and fray.

So, let’s free up our hearts
and minds
and live with the great
paradoxical paradigm:

Jesus — divine and human,
God — one and three,
the difference and sameness
of you and me
embracing humbly eternal lumens
of the numinous Thou and Me
reveling in the Great Mystery

and accept that we are all
just part of a “Humane Society”
for humans
and care for each other
like we care for the animals from
their own “Humane Society” and shelter

and embrace our animal and divine
as we embrace the divine in the
animals we find
at the “Humane Society.”

So, kiddies, if you go on a church
Easter Egg hunt in the Arizona desert,
be sure to follow these things:
Look where you walk and where you
put your hands so you don’t get
hurt by rattlesnake bites or scorpion stings.

Perhaps someone, because the parents don’t
seem to have a clue and before any kids
get stung or bitten on their hands or feet,
should just tell both parents and church
Easter Egg planners to get lost while taking
a hike up and down Piestewa Peak.

Or, perhaps even better, the church leaders
could cancel the hunt and have the kids
fly nice, big, butterfly shaped kites
in a local park. The butterfly is a nice
Easter symbol and the parents and leaders will
save themselves from being read their legal rights.

When he turned seventy,
he thought he knew enough.
Well, as a gray beard he knew enough
to know everyone
sixty-nine and under
thought he didn’t know very much.
“Well,” he said, “So and so
and such and such
and dozy doats and
and what the heck
does all that
so and so and such and such
and dozy doats
mean?
I may not know enough
but I know enough
to know this Passover poem is more than
long enough.”
“Enough, already!
If we may say,”
his two seventy-five year
old Jewish mother neighbors
exclaimed, with a Passover
oy vey and another oy vey
and one said to the other,
“All right,
already, that’s enough
about the kids
already or to be consistent
with this goy’s
way-too-long poem,
that’s already enough.
Open the door, Richard,
and let in Elijah to have
the fifth
cup of the wine.
Four for us are just fine.
We’ve been saving it
a long, long time,
oh, boy, oh, boy.
But don’t worry.
Mogen David and
Manischewitz
last
a very long time
as very fine
kosher wine,
oy vey.”

Hair falling,
Eyes dimming,
Teeth missing,
Skin flaking,
Bones creaking,
Muscles sagging,
Faith failing.

Sun shining,
Flowers blooming,
Birds singing,
Trees greening,
Lent passing,
Easter happening,
Creation hoping,
New beginning.

He heard the poet say that
church –listening to the
preachers — led him to poetry.
He is a black man and as I
think of black worship and
black preaching in particular,
I can understand that — the
rhythm, the cadence, the
crescendos, the staccato, the
beat, the tempo, the ups, the
downs, the all arounds —
preachers as metaphor for
Spirit. I get that in a white
sort of way. The college
chaplain broke all the rules
of oratory. He didn’t look at
the students. He was down in
his manuscript and then up in
the wooden rafters; his jokes
weren’t funny but his gestures
were a joke. His arms would
flail away completely out of
sync with the point he was mak-
ing. He was Dutch so his rhy-
thm wasn’t much, but he was
all over the place – up, down
and all around, finger to nose
and then the chin and with his
message Jesus danced my heart
within. Then, the gay guy,
who had about as much rhythm
as the college chaplain and
could get his plump, pear body
hidden under robes and stoles
about as high off the ground
as Phil Michelson’s Master’s
jump, told great jokes and put
his finger to the tip of his
nose just as he was about to
offer a climactic thought be-
fore the denouement and he would
bow his head and raise his arms
and bring them down and I expect-
ed a pound on the pulpit but
he would stop just short and
raise his arms like a sym-
phony conductor orchestrating
the last note and then just walk
away from the pulpit to lead
the choir in the offertory and I
would cry the tears of Jesus as
he wept over his good friend
Lazarus stinking up the tomb
and I would cry the tears of
Mary and Martha as they watch-
ed their brother rise from the
dead. And I, too, knew those
preachers were poetry in motion.

“Baby! Baby!”
The doorway framed a shadow just before dawn
I glanced next to me: unbroken by even a yawn
Sleeps my lover of four near-maniacal years
Of vows, divisions, joys, rows, reunions, laughs, tears
His breath mimicking the rhythmic sounds of waves on shores
He continues in dreamland with calm, unbroken snores
While back in the half-lit doorway no one is seen
The strong voice awoke me– it was no dream–
But I first looked beside me, not again the door, “Why?” I asked
The day that marked my late husband’s death six years past.

February 1,2015

Married seven times, her first was also her last
She touched up her make-up, who reflected in her mirrored past?
Then carefully seated her veil and hat
Then for a moment impatiently sat

Waiting for uncle whose actions were simpler
Always performed slower but without a whimper

She carefully pulled on crisp white gloves
As they drove to the country, home of her loves:
Her brother’s large family in a sardine-can house
Hardly room enough to add a mouse.

More children in daytime gathered there
Kissed good-bye by a working parent for all-day care

What she sought she discovered as tea was prepared
The white gloves skimmed each surface with precise care
Though 5 of 7 children had cleaned much the night before
They forgot dust atop pictures, lintels of doors.

With success achieved, she pulled gloves from fingers, hiding some glee
Ready to share “dirty” secrets with her man who gladly scanned the screen of TV.

Dew drips from non-guttered rooftops as the
Sun lays light more each moment on earth’s canvas
Watch day unfold: captured light is released
To paint dunes, grasses, bracken with long fingers
Soon to reach everywhere.
Cobalt waters:
I look up to see how well the sky matches;
Gull-feather clouds won’t bring rain today, a chance for
A delightful beach walk: a 5-star day, the first for school

Children return their familiar bricks and whiteboards, as
I recall all those years of weeks of ritual acquisition and
Preparation from Aasics to zoology specimens that might be
Needed: the mounting anticipation, anxiety tinged by
Eagerness to leave the limited world of home for that of friends,
Each hour’s variety–even learning– then raucous bus rides home
Unless friends angled by to give a parenting stretched hope thin
For safety. After-school activities smorgasbord to sample, investigate, participate.

I now go to nature’s school, with unexpected finds and knowledge every hour,
Recall the applicable lessons of long-ago, many poetic verses committed
To memory, songs and psalms randomly bursting forth praise as creation bears witness to
Heart and heaven,
Both within view, grasp, hands trained to open, and share.

By Vicki Hill 09-02-2014

For sure, she wanted to go to the Gersh-
win concert at the symphony, so he
bought the tickets on-line and indicated
that they would pick up the tickets at
the box office and then they proceeded
to forget all about the date until he
happened to browse through archived e-
mails on the Sunday morning of the two
p.m. concert and noticed what they had
forgotten. They had just enough time for
a bike ride on a new route around town
before showering and heading downtown.
At a Sunday afternoon concert they could
be assured of seeing a sea of blue hairs,
tripod footed canes and walkers. They
reassured each other that they were
still a long way away from that demo-
graphic, sat in the nosebleed section
and breathed a sigh of affirmation for
their exercise, relief for not having
missed the concert and anticipation of
the music. An inspired Cuban Overture
set the tone and sandwiched between that
and Rhapsody in Blue and An American
in Paris were sweet songs and lovely
ballads like “Nice Work If You Can Get It”
and “Somebody Loves Me.” He was glad
he had scanned his e-mail archive and
happy she was listening to some of her
favorite music. He didn’t know what
was going through her mind as she listen-
ed intently, but he, while sitting next to
the one he loves, was transported back to
flashing memories of his childhood and
seeing his mom and dad dance in the
living room to Mantovani playing Gersh-
win when those folks weren’t fighting with
each other. And he carefully wiped away
the tear so she wouldn’t notice when he
heard “Someone to Watch Over Me” and
thought about his late wife and how they
danced in the living room when they were-
n’t fighting with each other. Just before
the baton fell with the end of the final
soaring note and the crowd erupted with
shouts, whistles and applause, he reached
over and squeezed his wife’s hand.