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A Granddaughter’s Rite of Passage  Tales from the McCarthy Era

 2011 Haiku Calendar         coming soon

                                     Free of the nets
                                     free of the ropes—
                                     moon on the water.      -- Buson

A NET FOR THE MOON

We try to capture moments
at the local restaurant
as a child tries to assemble
a Mr. Potato Head on the restaurant floor
asking what goes where
until he figures how, himself.

The holiday window lights
blink on and off and on
as the cars roll by on Main St.

 Trying to capture moments
is like chasing butterflies with a net,
or a net thrown into a pool of water to catch the moon.

 Yet we go on,
capture moments with pen, with song,
with photo, watercolors once the ink stops to dry…
yet as we capture them,
how many moments have rolled by un-noticed?

Or in not capturing
have you noticed the lights blinking,
and the way glasses of wine unhitch the tongue,
how the conversation rolls by
solving all manner of problems
with heartfelt words and a smile,
all manner of problems solved
as a child finds the right mouth and eyebrows
for Mr. Potato Head,

as the moon seems to have caught me
staring out the window
and then made sure
there was something i too would be assembling.

                             * * * * *

   SPIRAL of LIFE

The sun is a kite
with a string to the heart
by day, by night.

 The robin’s call strengthens at dusk.
Migrating geese laugh
over the ocean.

The white
eyeball of the moon
emotes through space.

Night spirals…
the sky shades, turns,
deepens.

The geese are rowdy,
a dog runs by the window
panting.

Listening
into the spiral,
sipping hot tea

in the backyard,
looking into the spiral
until we say:

“We’ve been here before,
early this morning
when the neighbor’s mower

sent a spray of grass
catching the light,
just this way.”

     * * * * *

                   from Presence of Birds

   SOMEONE MUST BE LISTENING
(note: New Mexican santeros make wood-carvings
of various santos, or ‘saints’ )

Old hot eye
hides behind a shroud of clouds
on the high road to Taos

past snow-grown orchards
into Cundiyo

where the dogs
(after nearly hitting the car)
greet me to their mountain village.

Alongside his horse,
a man with a trimmed mustache
tells me to stay on the road

to Chimayo
where there’s a church, with a room
filled with crutches.

He waves goodbye,
as the March storm grows thicker.
His golden skin and easy smile tell me:

‘If you pray to the santos,
they will pray for you.’

Carving my way
through the blizzard, praying to the santos
of the road, of the eyes,

santos of steering
and traction.

Birds flit from the roadside
into the white air.
Even the weather can not fool them
from their spring.

Arriving at the motel
to the outstretched arms of a wooden St. Francis
laced with snow,

figuring --- must have been he,
who put the birds
in the blizzard.

And someone must have heard me thinking- -
of how the santeros pray
as they carve,

of how that road was held
as a piece of wood.