Tuesday, August 26, 2014

the Hike

For Honeybee

It was a long hike.
Dust and sweat turned our legs grey
And our clothes were stiff
From drying in the sun
But it was—worth that.
Worth the blisters and the sun burn
In the part of my hair.
The ache of my left foot
The pain in my right knee
To see the Falls—

The force of wind and water
working as one to deafen us
The mist rising up from where the rush
met stillness
gleaming like liquid diamond dust
the green and the white,
the blue and the grey
one wash of color through blurred glasses
It was worth every aching step.

And for one moment, captured forever in memory
Mine and a camera’s
More colors glow-gleamed,
A rainbow in the spray.

It was only one of thousands of waterfalls, and I know
There are longer ones, grander ones--
But that .
does not feel right.
This one sits on my heart like a pumice stone, present
But light as mist
Born away by the wind
It was beautiful,
More than any I have only seen in pictures,
Because I felt the wind, the mist, heard
The Roar.

And, of course, because I walked every step,
Surrounded by chattering friends, but I stood there
On the lip, looking down
On my own two feet, even if only one

Is flesh.

Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Fog: Three Haiku

From where I stand
The world is gone, a vast sea
Of endless white fog

Nothing remains here
All is still -- and silently
Watching the sun rise

I look out and see
White covering the earth

But—oh!—not the sky.

Sunday, August 10, 2014

Childhood Smells

For Honeybee Open Prompt
My Childhood smelled like Dirt.

My childhood smelled like
Dirt, not grit or dust, but
half rotted oak leaves and moist redwood
decay and jungle.

My childhood smelled like
the orange  plastic bat that warped in the sun
and hit the fuzz off tennis balls
 over the fence.

My childhood  smelled like
grandma’s chocolate chip cookies
that came from rolls of dough
and tasted better than Mom’s anyway.

My childhood smelled like
broccoli, cooked long in oil
till we said it smelled like brownies
and loved every tree of it.

My childhood smelled like
hamsters- fur, bedding, seeds
always escaping to roam the house
and having babies under the stove.

My childhood smelled like
cheap serial novel
sthat came in sets of thirty
and 80 pages long I read them all.

My childhood smelled like
Daddy’s TR4Triumph
that belched more gas
than my brother after tacos.

My childhood smelled like
tin bandaid boxes
because you can only explore so many trails
before you scrape your knee.

My childhood smelled like
chlorine and bromine and water
before I saw Jaws, at least
and vowed away from swimming pools.

My childhood smelled like
hamburgers and shake-it salads
and the mill valley Mcdonalds
where dad told stories on the way home.

My childhood smelled like
vinegar, and wood polish
when we’d skate around in our socks
and clean all the floors wrong.

My childhood smelled like
the mothballs that lived
in the closet where I made a nest
and hid from dinosaurs.

My childhood smelled like
brightly colored poster paints
that came in all the colors, even pink
and I painted a thousand rainbows.

My childhood smelled like
reed shavings and violin rosin
and sounded like  an orchestra of two
Mom and dad playing different melodies.

My childhood smelled like
Grandpa’s pink roses
that bloomed into crowns of color
and didn’t have thorns.

My childhood smelled like
Cherry poptarts and hot chocolate
covered with pink glaze and creamed froth
eaten at the window ledge.

My childhood smelled like
grass cuttings we threw like snowballs
and snapped off bamboo
used like hero’s blades.

My childhood smelled like
sidewalk chalk
even though Cragmont avenue
doesn’t have sidewalks to color.

My childhood smelled like
the astroturf field
where I learned to ride a bik
and crashed into the soccer net- goal.

Thursday, August 7, 2014


For Honeybee 1

Grandad grew roses
Peach, yellow, red
And one bush,
The child bush,
We called it,
Of pink buds,
Pale in early morning light.
It was our favorite because it
Didn’t have thorns.
They say love is a rose-
Sweet and beautiful
But fierce
If that is true, then these roses
Were Grandad
All scent and petal silk

No thorns