The Poetry Marathon

The weather-witch speaks of secrets foretold,

in shadows between washes of moonlight.

Sweetgums reach limbs, looming like gnarly arms

over children who cry in fear, hide from long-fingered

twigs reaching to grab the backs of their necks

as they walk the night. I pray to the weather-witch

for protection, her sassy shimmer whitening my skin.

My plea—free me of fear, from the poisonous spell

that controls my days. Even with votaries promising

a new awakening, a positive outcome, good events

on the horizon, the moon penetrates my dreams,

stripping my spirit of pretense in the light of her fullness.

Such nonsense, her power of witchery, yet how do

I explain my dream coming true just as I crawl from bed.

We celebrated, the four of us, with Moon Food—

ball shaped white rice mochi, slightly sweet and

round crackers with white cheese spread. We toasted

with white wine and one woman read a moon poem.

We ate salmon spread on black rice crackers, confetti

salad with calamata olives, and an unremarkable looking

white rice dish, which I declined. We chatted at the kitchen

table until the prescribed time and together we filed outside

to witness the moonrise. I had my doubts we’d see anything,

as there had been thunder and lightning and scattered

showers all day. Outside, in the chilly air, the clouds

hung low over the rose garden. Our hostess danced to the

voices of chanting women playing on her phone. Some joined

in while others scanned the sky, one woman making a moon sign

with index finger and thumb. Without a sighting, we began

to fatigue—tiring further, one woman dropped to the ground,

two more followed, lying down on the grass, one expounding

on the virtues of soaking up earth energy to heal our bodies.

Finally, we gave up on the moon altogether and returned

to the house, pulling oracle cards to predict our future.

I am excited to announce that I’ve been selected as “Writing the Land” poet for Whatcom Land Trust parcel, Todd Creek. Here I am standing on the gravel bar at the South Fork  Nooksack. I will write three poems during my tenure, May 2022-May 2023, to be posted on the website.

Nancy Canyon

Natural for me to fear lost life,

this lightning flashing above me.

Terrified in the green chair,

rain dripping off shutters—

blue St. Elmo’s fire.

I am alright,

but feeling

jitters,

God!

Some people called us Forest Rangers,

though really, we were the lowest GS

in the USFS. Not the highest tower either,

certainly not as tall as a skyscraper,

but at three stories, 45’ Corral Hill’s cabin

was high enough that our heads were

in the clouds on late summer days.

When socked in, I made bread from

the sourdough starter Mrs. Bayes gave

us. It lofted like a sail at 6,000.’ On other

days, thunderheads spread across

the prairie like a coming gale. On those

days, we watched the prairie like hawks.

On the tower, we were often scared, lonely,

or stir crazed. We’d been struck once,

which frightened us badly, and some storms

were much more dangerous than the

cumulonimbus cloud we’d been hit by,

which made us sensible to fear for our lives.

Mother stroked and I cried in the bathroom.

I was acting so strangely, trying not

to yell at the kids. But I did, and my sister

yelled at me. We did pull it together,

roasting the turkey and mashing potatoes.

There was gravy and the candied yams

she loved so much. The ones with 1/2 C. of brandy.

Don carved “the bird”, that’s what Mom called it.

And, we drank wine, toasting our mother who loved

her mashed potatoes and gravy. And her vino.

Outside, it’s 91 degrees, which

reminds me of the time I felt lost

but wasn’t. I was at the movie

theatre in Spokane, River Park Square,

waiting for my sister. We would

see a movie together and then eat chicken

sauté with peanut sauce afterward

at the outside restaurant. While I waited,

children raced about and shoppers

strolled past—everyone tanned and cool

in the air-conditioned mall. Suddenly, I felt

lost, panicky…which didn’t make sense.

At last, my sister showed up, all bubbly

and full of fun. That moment, imperceptibly,

the feeling left me. We bought popcorn

and Cokes and found our seats. I told

her what had happened. I don’t remember

what she said, but perhaps it was something

like: Did you drink enough water?

*It’s 100 in Spokane today. 112 by Tuesday.

There was a party…adults drinking,

LOTS of flirting.  A little girl facedown

in the fountain. Across the street,

a grouchy old guy was about to fall

down the stairs and die; he’d seen

the little girl in the water and was

trying to warn someone. The woman

cellist…the girl’s mother and one

of the flirters…was favored by the

host, a Russian guy with an ex-stripper

wife. The wife was offering the cellist

a lap dance when the girl

in the water was discovered.

Although the stripper said she never

slept with her clients, she lied. It was

her daughter who had pushed

the girl into the fountain. That remained

secret. The best friend of the cellist

knew CPR and saved the little girl. She was

trying to have a baby and had asked for her

friend’s eggs a half-hour before the party.

Her friend thought it was disgusting

to ask for someone’s eggs. And why,

if you did ask, would you ask just before

a party over wine and cheese? There

was an ambulance and a helicopter

and a traffic jam. There were terrible

nerves and tears. Turned out the best

friend’s mother was a hoarder. And

the best friend was a bit of a thief: a shoe,

a necklace, other things that went missing

from the cellist’s house. The cellist changed

her mind after her little girl came home

from the hospital, and she found the

missing shoe. Puh! She would give

her best friend, the dummkopf, her eggs.

There were no more parties at the Russian

guy’s house. The stripper confessed.

When you say normal                you think about                         the past

& the things you depended upon        & the things that stayed the same

then you              learned that change         was the only thing    that you

could depend upon            you learned that you could resist        or  you

could let go               & be thankful         when       isolation arrived again

you had to adjust     to change           alone in your room       you worked

the new norm                  people said when you met                 on ZOOM

some said the weather was never this hot         or smoky &       they said

they were scared                         & again                      you recalled what

it used to be like         & thought             this is a new life            move on

be the change       make art        read        write       make  love       adapt

Along the path, the dog stops to smell oat grass,

rose bushes, and the trail crossing from pond to lake.

Ducks cross the path after dark, or early in the morning.

Daily, I follow this same trail past the lilies, past the cattails,

past the open water where the Virginia Rail has been

spotted by birdwatchers with long-lensed cameras. Often,

I hear its chattering call and have seen it pop out of the reeds

for a quick viewing more than once. Life birds, some people

call our winged friends they’ve been hunting for a long time.

Finally a spotting…or not. There are other perks on the path:

eating a pink rose petal, a Indian plum, or a Salmonberry. Soon

the thimbleberries will be ripe. This year I may try making jam

from them…like my grandmother once did.