The Poetry Marathon

Twice, while peeing in the woods, I spotted a geocache.

In one box, I found a pair of haircutting scissors. It was up

near a lookout tower that I’d hiked hours to. That hike about

killed me. I had to rest all the next day to get my electrolytes

balanced. I rolled out my sleeping bag on a metal frame and

mattress. One should stay away from metal in a lightning storm—

there was metal all over that tower. Once when I was young,

I was in a tower when it was struck by lightning. It was the loudest

noise and brightest light I’ve ever seen. I was terrified. If I hide

a box for someone to find, I would put in it a booklet of lightning

rules, a notebook and pencil, a pocket knife, and a compass.

I would leave a note that said, write your dreams and find your way.

~On a line from The Year of Magical Thinking, by Joan Didion

“No eye is on the sparrow but he did tell me that.”

Even when the dew was on the grass, he rang

with the clear air of morning. The heat of noonday sun,

the cool lake water reflecting his presence.

You keep him alive in a photo, in an article of clothing,

in the way he relished green olives…your granddad’s

favorite. Grief will drive you mad. That is why you must

come to terms with life being precarious. No eye

on the sparrow…just on the greater flock crossing

the horizon. It isn’t too late to change this missing

of calm peace…someone told me that.  Once you went

to a funeral and the speaker said the dead was

a curmudgeon. You thought, is this okay, this irreverence?

You have made something of him that he wasn’t…but

it’s for my daughter and grandchildren, you argue. Yes

it is for all of us to recall his good, not his drinking,

his rages, his rudeness, his greediness. He was one of those

people who didn’t have an eye on anything but himself.

Not the dew droplets on the tomato leaves, not the smell

of warm pine pitch on the path, not his tired family.

Ghosts look my way

a menagerie of them

floating above the bed

at night, perhaps my father

communicating with me

from beyond the grave.

Ghosts look my way

in the morning when I walk

past the pond, drinking in

lilies and red-winged blackbirds,

my mind empty with the exception

of a memory of my mother.

Ghosts turn to look at me as I

busy myself chopping vegetables,

while painting a lily in the studio,

as I nap in the afternoon.

I recall the time my brother appeared,

a smoky sheet of glass.

I’m happiest in the unknown, though I would argue

that I need to know everything. In the unknown there

are delicious surprises—like the faces looking back at

me last night as I attempted to sleep. I heard that up

to six months prior to one’s death, visions may come

of long lost loved ones.  So, you can imagine what

I was thinking last night when those faces floated

past. Is this the end? And my next thought…what about

all my stuff? No one should have to clean out drawers

and cupboards…my eclectic collection of junk so vast.

My mother-in-law spent the last ten years of her life

cleaning out her stuff. She said to me each phone call,

“Well, Nancy, I’m going through my things every day

so you won’t have too after I die. .I just got rid of my baby

bracelet.  Who would want it?” I said, “I would.”  Too late

now. It’s in the window of some pawn shop or an antique

store on Main Street.  We, or at least my family, valued

old things: pewter, silver, crockery, jewels, and furs.

I have a crystal bowl from my aunt, a cheese crock

from the auction, a tiny wishbone pendant from my

great-grandmother, a pocket watch from my biological

father. These things are precious…then there’s the paper

shredder from the neighbor’s move, a mint green bandana,

and a sweater and tennis shoes stuffed in a sack in the

trunk of my care for when I head to the Goodwill…or what

my daughter used to call—Good William.  Not precious

and not my point here. My point—I want to be comfortable

with the unknown. One never knows when I’ll meet those

faces..

Endings

It’s the beginning, but it might as well be the end–

the days are long and hot—the mind sliding toward the edge.

When I think of my ending I think of the sky, the way

it turn to dusk and the color fades. That may sound

depressing, but it isn’t meant to be. Last night while lying

in the moonlight, faces flashed before my eyes—no one

I knew, but if felt otherworldly. Perhaps I was seeing through

the veil to the other side. It’s a small thing, really…losing

the body to age or sickness, as the soul is vast, all encompassing

of time and space.  When I think of aliens, that’s what

I imagine, moving from here to there in a flash. My soul

travels on a thought, and we all know how thoughts work—

racing about randomly, all willy-nilly. Last night, the dreamlike

faces I saw weren’t all friendly. I’ve heard that when you transition,

you should go past the unfriendly visions, ignore insects and

vermin, but not because you’re afraid. Just go on past–they

are mere distractions. Ignore them like any ending, because

you are almost at the beginning, where you want to be.

With all this light, it’s hard to sleep. Poems come into my mind at night. Rhymes: light, write, sight, height, fight…. Fright..12 new poems. I did it last year and had a lot of fun. I was thrilled to have one of my poems chosen for the Poetry Marathon Anthology. I’m excited to see what comes this time. See you all soon. Nancy Canyon

~On a line from Natalie Goldberg: Writing is an athletic activity.’

Writing is standing in the corner

smoking a cigarette.

Is this where I’m supposed to work?

An ant’s crawling across the floor.

There’s a pond nearby that athletic

folks run past.

If you like that sort of activity,

then put out your cigarette.

I have heard about this beach, the meandering boardwalk, the wide expanse of sand. I imagine

roaming piles of driftwood, singing like a gull, a lonely song that moves me.

My bare feet are sandy

and burnt like my father’s after we left him.

Waves thrumming on and on will change you, they say. Whittle you down like driftwood and

take your power away, leaving you sunk beneath the waves. But then the gulls squawk,

fluttering down, pulling apart sea stars.

And my thoughts break apart and fly up.

I imagine standing on a gray log and calling back to them. I heard that I might find my song

someday. And now I think I have. I sing the song of the gull and stand strong.

I wrap myself in kelp

and run into the waves.

In the night, the lake is a

bottomless mirror, a celebration

with fireworks and beer. A ride

in the back of a friend’s jeep,

bumping along a potholed logging

road at a high speed. Stoned on weed,

a sore spot on my breastbone had me

suddenly certain I had cancer. I wanted

our friend to turn around, go back to

our truck with the spare, our camper

parked beneath a canopy of cedars.

But the whir of the engine was loud.

Panic had me certain Dad would find

out and I’d be in bad trouble. His abuse

had to stop, to glory in freedom from control

was all I desired. Instead, we continued

to drive on through the eclipsed night,

the light of the moon tossing twisted shapes

across the road that haunt me still.

He says, “Fireflies are beautiful. I can’t believe

you’ve never seen them. You can catch them

in a bottle, you know? We’ll stay in Aunt Annie’s

cottage in Hanover. When the heat is high, the

tree line is where we’ll watch lights dance against

the night sky. In the morning we’ll eat porridge and

when afternoon lethargy sets in, we’ll feel strange,

but humidity is beautiful. It leaves a moist bloom

across the face; a refreshing mask that brightens and

plumps the skin. What do you think? You up for it?”