Staying Still

You promised yourself that you would remain calm today.

You told yourself that when the clock hit its middle hours,

a span when you cannot seem to stay focused,

a time when you aren’t sure what to do with yourself,

you would just stop.

You would focus on

your breath

coming

in and out.

You would sit with the uncertainty, as if it were a rambunctious puppy.

You would feel the weight of the puppy and watch it squirm.

There now, see how easy it is just to

STOP

and

breathe

in

and

out

and

stay

put?

If you do anything,

go into the Sounds True app on your phone

and listen to spritual teacher Eckert Tolle talk about the

the “Power of Now,” or listen to

Buddhist nun Pema Chodron discuss

“Learning to Stay Present.”

Or tune in to teacher Jack Kornfield lecture on

“The Power of Meditation.”

In the end, they are all talking

about doing the same thing: holding steady

in the only moment we ever have,

this one,

when the sun is eclipsed by milky grey

clouds and flowers are looking slightly wilted

and the lawn is burned in places to a brown crisp.

That moment is gone and now a new one is

Here: that puppy is now five years old and she is

lying so comfortably on the carpet at your feet.

WHEN DID LIFE GET SO HARD RICHARD?

In the dark my father lies in his recliner chair ALL DAY ALL NIGHT

FRIGHTENED ANGRY SAD.

He lies there and he lies there

and he stares and stares and moans AND GROANS

“HOW DO I END MY LIFE?”

My sister sends the text message to me:

“…last night Dad was up between 4:00 and 5:00 a.m. and he kept saying:

‘oh I want this to end, how do I end my life?’”

DEAR GOD I BEG YOU FOR HELP AS WE, DAD AND HIS LOVED ONES, ARE TRYING TO ENDURE THIS MISERY OF HIS.

HOW CAN I PROTECT MYSELF FROM THE ENERGY THAT FUELS
MY DAD AS HE IS DENYING DECRYING FULMINATING AGAINST LIFE?

ART ART ART I AM SO GRATEFUL for

ART SAVES ME EVERY DAY

Poetry painting music photography

And flower gardens and dogs and babies and sweet birds chirping too.

Mary says I can tell him this:

“Dad I AM GOING TO LIVE FOR YOU AND FOR ME!”

And so I feel it, the life force, I feel it

in my chest rising with my breath, in my arms tingling, energy sliding up and down.

I OFFER UP MY POETRY ON

THIS ALTAR OF GR-ART-ITUDE

I AM SO SO GRATEFUL FOR

POETRY AS IT HELPS ME FEEL ALIVE ALIVE ALIVE!

Writing  a poem 

HELPS ME ERASE

THE SOUND OF HIS DEADLY WORDS.

INSTEAD, I WRAP MYSELF AROUND AND AROUND

In the sound of my own words of gratitude,

Thanking God for the blue sky and clean air and sunshine and every bit of nature --

right there outside my window is a chipmunk flittering across the same white limestone rocks where yesterday I saw a woodchuck. A few minutes later, a deer dances across the thick green meadow.

ART HELPS FILL YOUR HEAD WITH BEAUTY MAKES YOU FEEL

the miracles all around.

DAD, once upon a time, did art when he built things out of wood, for  years he could magically produce 

wonderful furniture and toys and knickknacks he designed.

He even built the first house I grew up in.

And then three or four years ago when he couldn’t see well enough to cut wood anymore

He made dozens of clever things out of layers of cardboard, glued tightly together.

WHEN EXACTLY DID LIFE GET SO HARRRRRD FOR YOU RICHARD?

I humbly pray that there may be a miracle for him, and for us all,

that Dad may find peace as he ends his days.

If I could, I would show you Dad that there is a divine majesty and mystery

in this moment and this one and now this one and that and that.

STAY IN THE PRESENT MOMENT, BE GRATEFUL FOR ALL YOUR BLESSINGS

LET ALL YOUR SENSES STAY TUNED TO LIFE.

Focus on your breath and your heart beating, realize the magical and miraculous and extraordinary in ordinary everyday life.

It’s time now, Dad, I’m about to go do my exercises and go for a walk, I will carry you with me today, I will hold you in my heart while I sit here and stand there and lie there and be here, praying all day!

July 18, 2019, one week exactly before my dad turns 93 years old on July 25^th.

Thank You Uni-verse

How do you write a poem when you feel like a totally blank page?

What do you do when your emotions have been swallowed up by the wind?

You dip into the memory bin and recall a single red clover. Twice

last week while you were jogging, you saw that flower sitting

alone in a shaft of sunlight. It stopped you. It brought a smile.

And on another run, you saw that bright red and black bird.

You think it was a scarlet tanager - exciting because it’s rare for this area.

And then this morning, while you were doing your exercises

beside the meadow,

you saw a coyote streak after a tiny fawn just a few feet away

from where you lay doing leg lifts.

At top speed the animals dashed into the thick underbrush.

You screamed, fearing for the fawn.

But a few moments later, the tiny deer

emerged, unscathed. A few moment

after that, a doe sauntered into the meadow, and headed

in the direction where the fawn had gone.

You like to think that mother and baby were reunited quickly.

You like to think too that you can write whenever you want to.

But you can’t count on it. All you can do is sit here, staring out

the window into the forest. All you can do is stare at the orange lilies and

the red bee balm and the purple cone flower. All you can do is write

what you see and hope to be inspired by it.

At least, by writing it down, you’re creating a record.

It is something like sending a thank you note to the

universe, for sending life your way. 

Two Drops of Ink publishes my poem, "Out Loud"

Two Drops of Ink, an on-line literary blog, has published my poem, "Out Loud," which begins this way:

There stands a fat robin

on the limestone rocks

outside the window.

And on the tip of the 

highest branch of

the peach tree

sits a hummingbird

that rises to do

a sky dance and then

settles back down again. 

There now is

a rusty red fox so casually

trotting down the

driveway into the 

forest of words on my page.

To read more, go to Two Drops of Ink.

Bear Sighting

Yesterday afternoon, a large black bear lumbered up my driveway. I had just come in from a walk with my dog. Now I was headed to town. As soon as I saw the bear I shut the car off and fumbled for my camera. He (or she) gamboled toward me, its furry body looking rubbery as it ran. The bear veered into the woods and my photo was a small black blob far off in the thick greenery.

I remember a bear sighting that was a lot more frightening. It was the summer of 1996 and my literary agent (who was representing my first novel) had come up from Manhattan to visit me in the country.

She was afraid to leave the porch all weekend because she said she didn’t want to encounter any frogs or bugs or snakes.

But on Sunday morning, she made this rather odd request: she wanted to go for a walk in the woods. So two of my children (one on a bike) and Ellie and I drove to a trailhead nearby. We headed into the forest. We had walked about a quarter of a mile down a fire road when suddenly I saw a very large black head poking out from between the trees. I stopped.

“Ellie,” I whispered, “I don’t want you to panic, but there is a bear over there.”

Did she squeal? I don’t recall. All I remember is that everything turned slow motion. Oddly, a car came driving up the fire road right at that moment. How improbable that a car would appear when it did.

I waved down the driver and told her we had just seen a bear and could she drive us back to our car. Ellie and my children piled into the back seat.

And then I did something that I’ve never been able to explain: I got on my daughter’s bike and pedaled down the fire road after the car. It wasn’t like I was feeling particularly brave. I just did it.

The bear of course had long since disappeared into the woods.

When we got back to the house, Ellie collapsed on the sofa and didn’t move for the rest of the day.

Later, when the rejections on the novel started coming in from the big New York publishers, and Ellie and I were so frustrated and disappointed, I thought back to the bear encounter. It occurred to me that maybe the bear sighting had been a sign of what was to come.

Selling my book was truly a bear of an experience.

Here I am so many years later, facing some difficult family problems – my aging father is on the decline, my sister is struggling to recover from a very serious stroke.

This week has been particularly challenging. Yes. It’s been a bear of a week.

And so that creature appeared again. When I frame the experience this way, it helps. The events don’t weigh quite so heavily. Bears help us to know first hand the power of the natural world. They help define events that are bigger than we are. They show us circumstances we are powerless to control.

When I think about the bear in this way, and when I picture the animal lurking in the dark green forest, it puts me in touch with the raw fear that I’ve been feeling about my dad and my sister.

That’s good because I’ve been reluctant to get in touch with the fear. Or the vast sadness that accompanies the fear.

Framed this way, the bear sighting is a gift. Getting scared is OK. Better to feel it than to run away. Better to accept the fact that bears come. And then they go away.

At least for today, I stare into the forest and force myself to stay there, feeling the dark power of the bear.

Where I Come From, Where I'm Going

By Camincha

a patio of red tiles, cages of colored birds, bushes of aromatic
herbs, volcanoes of eternal white  peaks. Extending through slopes,
valleys hills and chacras, picanterias full of chicha de jora.

Dressed in black, white, red, magenta, orange. Coming from Sunday
ferias with chicha morada, kamsha, papas a la huancaina. And where
all these turn into flat streets rolling to the ocean.

From its white foam, beach stones embracing the heat of its sun,

the tears of its garua.  Coming from the corner of la picaronera.

The callejon next door. Coming from the little European chalet.

 

From gardens at La Diagonal. The ice-cream at D'onofrio’s

The benches of Central Park. Lined up trees guarding Alameda Pardol

The Church across the Park, Sunday walks. The British-Peruvian school.

The blue uniform, tunic, hat, white shirt, red tie, belt, ferocious exams.

Coming from the long awaited puberty The fright of the first kiss

Holding hands. Matinees at the Excelsior: the cowboy and the girl.

 

Death in the family. Chaos and pain. and life continues and poetry is

born, bursts out, multiplies, constant companion. Reminds me where I

               come from and clears my way to where I’m going.

Camincha is a poet living in the San Francisco Bay Area.

Out Loud

There stands a fat robin

on the limestone rocks

outside the window.

And on the tip of the

highest branch of

the peach tree

sits a hummingbird

that rises to do

a sky dance and settles

back down again.

There now is

a rusty red fox so casually

trotting down the

driveway into the

forest of words on my page.

How can these works of

nature make

my heart flutter up like

a single flapping wing?

Here I go again saying

this flower and that tree

or that whinnying pony

make me  so happy.

Isn’t it enough that I’ve

marveled and swelled

before and before that?

Is it necessary to do

ii one time more?

But that’s like saying

I prayed last Wednesday

and so I won’t open my mouth

again today or tomorrow

or next week.

Poetry rides in the flow

of blood that curses

through my veins.

It speaks in the

wind that tosses

the leaves

and blows the clouds

this way

and that.

It’s a matter

of

everyday

life

saying itself

out loud.

My Paintings on Display at 510 Warren Street in Hudson, New York

Some of my paintings will be on display for the month of June at 510 Warren Street in Hudson, N.Y.

The gallery is located in the heart of downtown Hudson and represents the work of artists from the Hudson Valley, New York City and Berkshire County.

The opening reception will be Saturday, June 1, from 3 to 6 p.m. I hope you will join me and several other artists working in diverse media and stylistic approaches.

What Ways Are There to Celebrate May?

In the meadow this morning are three horses brown white and grey

and today they are playing and whinnying and galloping and they just don’t stop

and

I think to

myself it must be

that they are feeling like me enveloped in the

warmth and

beauty

of spring.

What ways are there to celebrate May?

The dance of the hummingbirds lighting at the feeder

The sprouting of bleeding heart in the garden

The sudden appearance of a messy birds’ nest above the porch light

(with threads of blue twisted into the mix of brown twigs and grass.)

It’s just the most beautiful spring day

It is warmth and breeze and sunlight 

and a sky of blue crystalline perfection.

And whinny I would if I could to say a humble thank you God

for bringing me to this day to this season to all of my blessings

a house

my health

my grandchild

my husband

my children

my puppy dog

two sisters and a brother

a father and a mother in law

my dear friend Sharon

and on and on and on

like the endless shush and whisper of wind

the sweet twitter of birds

the scarlet tanager I saw with my very own eyes

oh and thanks too for these eyes

which help me to behold  

life and creation and bliss

and hands to write this

this poem.

Amen.

Dedicated to Mary Marino and Sharon Flitterman-King, two AMAZING human beings..

How It Feels and How to Change It

Ask me how it feels and I’ll say

Do you really want to know and

then I’ll tell you:

there’s a swamp rotting away in my gut,

and it’s flooded with something like gasoline

and yes, it will explode into flames if I

touch it with a match. Or, imagine this:

I’m a bear with raw bloody flesh hanging from

my vicious incisors. I shake my head and stare at

you with a savage look in my eyes.

My claws are poised to rip off your face.

Yeah, so, ok, I think that covers the emotions

scissoring through my chest this morning.

Enough of that. Now try this:

Inhale. Close your eyes and take the air

way down deep into your pelvis

and then keep it going until it fills your legs and feet.

HOLD YOURSELF FULL OF BREATH UNTIL

YOU THINK YOU MIGHT POP.

AND THEN DO ANOTHER BREATH

AND ANOTHER AND ANOTHER.

And don’t stop until you are

breathing calmly.

Now open your eyes and look out the

window at that itty bitty hummingbird

sitting on top of the shephard’s

hook. Gaze out into the lush green meadow

where the two brown horses are lazy grazing,

their tails switching.

Then stare at the red tulips and the pale

yellow daffodils in the garden.

Close your eyes again and type the word

SUN SUN SUN SUN SUN SUN SUN
SUN SUN SUN SUN SUN SUN SUN SUN

Until you can see it make everything glow.

Remember this:

there are going to be

moments

so ravaging, so

difficult

you won’t

know how

to move

forward.

So don’t even try.

Just let your (s)words

fall into warm seafoam waters.

Lie back and float on the calm blue seas that

you create out of your own stanzas.

Be grateful that you have a basket full of

four-color images ready

inside your head

and whenever you want to

you can

pour them out on paper

until the crisis passes.