Thoughts On Heart Shaped Rocks

If I were to take this little heart shaped rock

bury it under this beach

deep, deep

Who would find it?

Place it in their pocket,

hold it in their palm

post a notice

Found:

On Bolinas beach

a heart shaped rock

sturdy and skippable

quiet rock

perfect size for holding (if you have small, gentle palms)

seems to like getting lost

excellent at tumbling

appreciates saltwater and mud

As far as rocks go, doesn't say much

But who can blame it?

It's really a very young rock.

A Begrudged Manifesto

I've been trying to write a manifesto

a, hail the glory of my petaled frame potential

a watch me bloom and burst

turn my sunflower face to the sun and kiss my sunshine kin

I've been trying to build my poem around the stem spine of a sturdy rose

grow roots down deep, deep

and around the homes of sleepy breath mice and busy body gophers

grow so deep, I poke out on the other side

so deep, that I can never be weeded out, never pulled from this soil strong earth

But I'm not really a flower, not really a tiger lily or lion rose

I'm not even a geranium or clover

I'm just begrudgingly a human

And yes, I'm fragile

I need rain, water, sun

but I have no roots, no simple petal patterns

And as much as I'd like to spend days conversing with ivy and chattering with sparrows

I've been signed on for a human life

And I'm not sure how it happened

I don't think any nurse ever stood over my baby body and

asked me to pick my form

“Flower or little girl?”

And I would like to imagine my first thought would to be some sort of daisy or honeysuckle variety

as she listed all the drawbacks of being human

“Of course, your parents hope you will remain a little girl. But humans are a horribly confused species. They have wars and ailments and lost shoes. They often go out without umbrellas and get very wet. They are often lost and build ugly things. But of course, they have their pluses too. For example, they usually make very good muffins. So what will it be, flower or little girl?”

And I would like to think I'd waiver

But I know in the end, I'd always pick to be

begrudgingly human

with my not quite straight teeth and barely clean room

dusty shelves and disorganized binders

So yes, I'd been trying to write a manifesto

convince myself that this human thing is absolutely right for me

I've been trying to find the glory and majesty in my worn bed sheets, naïve giggles, ill fated and ill timed swoons, poorly structured poetry, math scribbles and inked out existence

But really, all I've done so far is tie up a bundle of words and thrown it out to sea, hoping it finds lands

sorted out a couple questions

and prayed an awful lot

prayed I end up on the other side

So today, instead of writing my manifesto

I've opted to keep praying

praying there is something in this little heart, these shelved up dreams and gypsy thoughts

I'm not sure what yet,

But I just keep praying they all end up on the other side

praying they find some place in my

begrudging human existence

Moon Shell

Stepping stone year
buttoned down hatches
cleaned windows and heart scrubbing
not brilliant
but flicker fire, gentle ember
tired, tired, bone tired nights

future planning and head picking
digging up dead roots, trying to appreciate
worn edges and scuffed shoes
"Solitude, says the Moonshell."

And I'm learning rose pucker and blaze dreams
will never leave my cheeks
but my dry baby hands
work better with raw dirt and a shovel
my heart better with time against a pillow and spring breaths

strength has strong kin with silence
loudest voices rarely say the most

 gathering inner solitude
and facing loneliness to call its bluff

And I've spent much of this year in shells
drawing maps for my next oceans
and I thought I'd store some regrets in clench canisters
but I've run out of  room

 I've turned my voice down to the outside
to hear my ocean roar inside

 simply grateful
for this flawed, fragile, stepping stone year
with its crooked path into the next
ocean tears and sunset, sunrises

And as this new year places its porcelain feet across my crooked track
I find I'm ready to sort what I've found inside
and maybe even a little of what lies ahead

Thank the good Lord that roads are made to curve
Because Lord knows I don't walk straight

Sunrise this morning 12/31/2013



"Solitude says the Moon Shell"-Gift From The Sea by Anne Lindbergh

Ocean Children

Dear cityscape children,

note that I will never be as bright or as blaze as you

I know ocean better than I know concrete

sand better than I know gravel

Does it surprise you?

Does it surprise you that the fog here is natural

an extra cloud, a wet blanket

What surprises you bright lights?

I'm much quieter, you see

Do you see me?

Right.

Yes, right

Between all the stardust in your eyes

I guess your music is just a little louder than mine

But I'm not afraid

of your jagged edges and neon ways

heart beat tunes and metal trees

just right now

I find my fingertips do better with sand

and my ears hear better with waves

                        Bolinas Beach 

Owl Eyes

She used to be louder. She used to be full of costume jewelry and bright clothing. She used fill her lungs with notes, push laughter out a little too high, a little too hard, red cheeks.

But she's grown. She's grown quieter, softer. She's afraid of being lonely, but knows her solitude is not the same as being alone. She has a world inside herself, shelves of other world's, word worlds, for the times her head is silent. She knows her own heart beat, she knows the strength of her eyes. Big eyes, owl eyes. Always watching. And sometimes she's afraid.

She's afraid of those big eyes and that heavy heartbeat. She is afraid of her own quiet strength. She is afraid of what she knows. She knows her sensitivity, her all encompassing sensitivity, is her greatest strength. Her ability to feel everything in all its sun sharp blaze, that is what makes her strong.

But what if, that isn't enough? What if it turns out in the long run, the sensitive artists never win? What if the loud, if the flashy, if the brilliant beauties are the ones who make the real impact?

She doesn't belong in high school, she never did. She is afraid that her quiet strength, her deep soul, that does not belong in these adolescent walls will never belong. What if she's always a bit lost, always too strong, always this?

She worries she will always be seen as a stone flower, instead of a vital living precious being. When does the time come when she will stop being labeled as confidant and seen for her flaws, the ones she thinks are beautiful in their own right. Do the quiet ones become heard, is there a real place for them? It's not that she doesn't speak up, she always does. But she isn't a blaze, she's a thinker.  When will she be able to bloom in a garden instead of being watered in a classroom?

And what if she is always lovable, everyone's friend, but never really loved?

 So she's afraid of her own quiet strength, of her own silent battles. She's afraid they keep her from being heard as she really is, seen for anything besides her quiet resilience, her owl eyes.

Last Time We Were Human

Written this summer in Prague, in Pinkas synagogue, part of the Jewish quarters. Pinkas is a memorial to all that were lost from Prague lost in the Holocaust. The names of all the dead are written in red along the walls, while a voice plays on the speaker chanting the name as if they are the words of a Hebrew prayer. The Jewish quarter in Prague was preserved by Hitler, he planned to make it a museum of the extinct race of Jews.

But instead, I'm still standing right here.

When was the last time we were human?

These red names across the wall,

Don't you know

these are my people

and they're asking when was the last time we were human

when was the last time we were people

Today, today, my people are human

these names on a wall

no, so much more

my history, our history

our tears

And I'm not the first to sit crosslegged on our synagogue's floor

Wondering can you hear me?

I'm trying to hear you through

this memorial to life, this memorial to death, your names playing through my ears

Lord, these are the names of my people

And they preserved this synagogue to be a museum for an

extinct race

those Jews of long ago

But no.

I will take these names, write them on my arms

Lowenberger, Lowenbein

for Josef and Janeta, for Pavel

the Lowenbergs the Lowensterns

For the Marburgs and Gerta

The names of my people,

the people I stand among

The ones I stand for

There is no apology, no explanation

for the darkness inside a human soul

But my name isn't on these walls

and sometimes I think it's only because of

a on a twist of fate

as simple as a lock turn

or the tower's time hand

But this isn't simple

I can not consecrate this pain

make ravaged souls holy

Because all I know is how to hold a pen

That I write for you, that I write of you

Because we can not forget, we do not forget

we will not forget

the death, but more importantly the life

of my people

the names inside this synagogue

I will not forget my people

And I know that these words on a wall, these words on my page

they aren't enough

But they're something

Life after fire

growth within ash

And these words aren't human

but a promise of our humanity

Because they ask me when was the last time we were human?

And all I can respond is

today, today,

today my people are human.

Today, I'm human  

(artwork by Janis Yerington, my mother, for my bat mitzvah)

My Backyard

My backyard consists

of fishing ships and gold shoes

the way waves tumble over the sand

desperate to feel the press of land

a little white and orange dog

that yawns like a wookie and sleeps like a teddy bear

rocks warmed by moss

pebble shapes holes in the beach

a city scape outlined by fog

blackberries tied to bushes

and dewey spider webs

My backyard is full of cliffs and scruffy hair

little brothers with soft tummies

Where I walk the concrete is a little uneven

and step on a crack and you'll break your mother's back

Heron's tip toe by and seals stare at you from

inside the sea

There's sea glass here and out of tune guitars

Hooded sweatshirts lean against the spray painted sea wall

fog rolling out of their mouths

playing scratchy tunes out of blown speakers

Seagulls drag their ankles through tides

and shoes fall in discarded pairs

girls grow up sad and strong

rocked to sleep by crashing waves

and babies breath salted air

In my back yard,

jungles are made of library drop boxes, abandoned blue chairs and hiking gear

people tumble out of buses and into seaweed

Gardeners aren't hard to find

in my back yard

ones without weed wackers and shears

just strings and brushes and dried up pens

Ones who always let the dandelions grow

and walk along the edges of the sea