Happy Home

(about 1990)

It is but a little prayer
a spark of hope for you to share.

It is but a precious glow,
many words of  long ago.

It is but a place to live,
love to share and things to give.

It is but a sacred thing,
happy smiles and joy to bring.

It is but a thing to love
so we can dwell up above.

It is but many clues
helping me my whole life through.

It is but a candle burning
awaiting my long returning.

It is but joy and strife;
nothing other than my life.

I will give it all it's worth,
the truest truth on all the earth,

a comforting to know it's right
when I pray to Heavenly Father tonight.

I will live with Him once more,
a happy home opened the door.

Child's Bliss

(about 1992)

The past reveals a beautiful time
when cares meant less than fun.
Dig a hole and get to China
then the job was done.
Back and forth, into the air,
swinging up and down.
Now a challenge-- can you jump?
Yes! . . . Dressed up in a gown,
a handsome prince must carry you off
and take you to a ball.
Wait! . . . Now you are the mother
caring for the doll.
Pedal, pedal on your bike,
jump off and walk to the top.
See if any cars will come-- yes,
so then we stop.
Get on the bike and coaster down
then scream around the curb.
Go home and get in jammies now,
the night light won't disturb.
It helps you get to sleep instead
for the busy day you've had alright,
and it will scare the monsters away--
goodnight, sleep tight.
Oh yeah! . . and . . .
don't let the bedbugs bite!

The Gully

(about 1992)

I used to dream sometimes
about our gully.
I heard the rooster crow one day,
and inquiring, found it came
from our gully.
It was close by-
I could pedal there,
if I wanted.
But I didn't really know
how close it was,
until a friend moved in--
her backyard with no fences
overhanging the huge valley
we called the gully.
I thought somebody owned it
but she said it was safe.
We only journeyed once
down the steep embankment
to see
horses grazing--
their manes waving with the wind,
a swimming pool
calling to us on that sweaty day.
We found a bottomless pond
and looked for lilly pads
and enchanted frogs
while her brother caught tadpoles.
And we saw as we headed back
the old cement club-houses
spray-painted with words of shunted kids,
so I looked away-- they were scary.
We ran to the dusty hill,
scrambled to the top,
and turned around.
It seemed the whole world
was before us.
It was after that
I dreamed I was a farmer
and I lived
in the gully.

I Know How She Feels

(about 1992)

I know . . .
how profoundly it permeates,
as softly as a sail soaks the energy of a zephyr.
The love and longing in her suspended soul;
I know how she feels . . .
A luminescing light surrounds like a promise.
From a candle, the warmth of truth
filling the focus of her face.
Eyes wander to ponder.
The point of her pen daring, sharing.
The ink she can nearly taste,
drawing her thoughts to the page
as a vessel from the heart
casting a shadow; thinning
into the dark behind her.
She blinks.
Eyes close again,
a soft flash of a dream
touching her spirit
as she recalls
so many times . . .
the laughter; and she smiles,
the corners of her lips rise with her thoughts.
The soft chair around her . . .
and the sorrow; she still smiles,
her closed eyelids
fail to hold back her tears now.
The warmth of the flame ahead
folds loving arms around her.
She opens her eyes to the light
and still remembers . . .
her words become . . . endearment.
I know how she feels.

When I am in College

(about 1992)

I shall wear suit jackets
with the sleeves rolled twice and brown buckle shoes.
And I shall spend my money on pineapple juice
and a small trampoline, and silky pajamas
and say I've no money for hair coloring.

I shall study on the stairs of some important place
and inhale the smell of lilacs or rain on the pavement
and write my love life on the cement with dandelions
and do things to remind me that my spirit is young.

I shall go out in my tennis shoes and jump in puddles
and splash you, and learn to rappel.

You can wear jeans and Birkenstocks and impress me
and eat Froot Loops and Wheat Thins
or only carrots and yogurt for a week.
And look at picture albums and read old letters.

But now we must have seven classes and study at home
and clean our rooms and not lower our GPA
and stay away from puddles, or we'll get sick.
We will call each other sometimes and have fun together
(when we can, of course).

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

when suddenly I am in college and start to wear suit jackets.

To Throw A Strike

(about 1992)

Listen to the common sounds of the field:
the staccato clanging of the backstop,
blurred conversations of parents,
cheers of the opposing team.
"Way to go . . . way to go . . ."

Imagine they're saying that to you.
But because you know they're really not . . .
Make certain your hands are dusty.
Listen to your father shouting-
(the sound, not the words-
the words won't help now).

Cancel out the fact that you
walked the last batter.
make sure the ball doesn't shine;
if it does, twist it into the dirt.
Look at the mound and focus on the dust.
Take the toe of your cleated shoe
and wipe lines into the dust.

Don't keep track of balls or strikes . . .
what do they matter?
Think of the tough chic up to bat
trying to out-stare your glare
and let the sun in your eyes
make you angry
so the adrenaline will surge your arm.

Don't lose the adrenaline.
Make sure you push your hair back into the cap
which must be turned slightly to the right
so that your right eye and its edge
make a direct line to the catcher's mitt.

Take your time.
Position your fingers on the threads of the ball
so you feel the leather spin off the tips of your fingers--
like a miracle.
Take the excitement of roller-coasters,
the freedom of seagulls,
and the force of the mountains overtowering.
Breathe in the sweating hot grass.
And throw . . .

He Loves Me

(about 1992)

We don't believe them
and of course we don't live by them,
Still, we do them for fun;
all for fun?

We both say we have a love,
so we each pick a flower;
mine is red.
"He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me . . ."
So does he?

We continue down a dusty road,
jump the cracks
(or we'll break our mothers' backs)
while we still see
whether "he loves me not," or "he loves me . . ."
So does he?

Our path is split by an apple tree;
we each take a side
and vocally
serve our "bread and butter"
on a silver platter.

You spilled the salt
so throw it over you left shoulder
and pick two shiny apples--
one for you, one for me.
We'll twist the stem
A,B,C,D,E,F,G . . .
L,M,N,O,P,Q,R . . .
"He loves me not, he loves me!"

Jump over those train tracks,
kiss your hand,
and make a wish that he really does--
for fun.

Twist Cow

(about 1992)

Reminiscent are the times I remember
with some sort of excitement the mud-cloudy
chocolate-vanilla, fly-swattery cows
of Grandpa's field. The rainy day
I stared up at their sappy pink noses
and held my breath as their mammoth tongues
dropped heavily through their jaws busily
chewing their cud, and I looked up again
at the white-gray clouds painted on the sky.

Feeling the mud-puddles beneath my feet,
I realized the cows matched the day.
Their brown spots as sloshy and misformed
as the splattered mud covering the vast landscape
of the field. The white surrounding the brown spots
much like the clouds surrounding
the auburn blanket of smog from dusty chimneys.
I wished it weren't raining.

There had been bright summers of hot-grass aroma
and bare feet, when the cows stood apart from
a green field and azure skies. The only thing
that included them in hot summer days
were their tails: swiping away the buzzing flies,
like Grandma's brown fly-swatter with a white handle.
Swish, swish . . . but the rain still fell, and the only
swish, swish . . . was the sound of Grandpa's galoshes
as he walked down the path by the knotted fence
to the rickety barn . . . and the cows turned
with their guffaws and found their way also to the barn
so as to involve their brown and white
lives in some excitement
other than a small girl staring with caramel eyes
of rappelling thought, remembering again that summer
she stared at the cows for almost and hour
as her chocolate and vanilla twist cone dripped . . .
like the rain.

On Friendship

(about 1990)

Why did God give me friends?
To look to with understanding,
to see in them my sadness,
find joy in their gladness
so we could be alike,
find what we have in common
and laugh about that.

What I do well
my friend does poorly;
what my friend does well,
I do poorly and that's what I see
when I see my friend;
that I need to work on my weakness,
rely on God, who gave me my friends
to make this weakness a great strength.
Then we can have more things in common.

Why did God give me friends?
To lose myself to in service,
to comfort and to smile at.
To take care of and
to lock in my heart forever.

So I could understand and believe
that we are all sisters and brothers,
each with a different part of Christ in us.
To be there for when someone else can't be,
talk to and make memories with,
remember with and cry with,
write about,
sing about,
hope and dream with,
to stand by.

So when my friend can't see
two feet in front
and the path is dark . . .
just because I'm there,
just because my friend is there,
Christ is also there.

Why did God give me friends?
To never forget,
to hold on to forever-- locked in my heart,
to bring a piece of Christ to me.

Sisters

(about 2000)

Just think of all the things you and I
have shared along the years.
Songs and lullabies, picture-books
lightening our fears.
Father and mother, sister and brother,
Dreams, reaching for eternity.
Teachers and friends, neighbors and playgrounds
Castles made out of the sand.
Telephone calls and heater vents,
snowballs and playtime games.
Even a few loves in life.
These are the things we've shared.

Today I feel this longing
like a homesick heartache breeze
drying summer grass to green
and caressing barren trees.
How I long for your smiles
to match my own.
For your children to play with mine,
their tears for us to dry.
For your trials to pass like a sigh
so those precious gifts
we too can share
and remember them through time.

Scraps

(about 1992)

On my closet shelf
at eye level
is a collection.

Memories I've gathered
from someone
who gave so freely.

Tickets, eggshells, a lollipop.
Flowers, signs, cards, a jar.
Pictures, and answers.

I look at them every day
But see them only sometimes
When I take a second glance.

And even touch a few things
Because I miss those fun times
And look forward...

For more times
to gather more things.
And I always leave more room

on my closet shelf
and in my heart.
For with such a friend,

Memories and keepsakes
are always growing
in number, in meaning.

What happened to make all these things:
A colorful note signed with a nickname,
And eggshell put back together with tape,

A stale every-day lollipop with a grass-stained stick,
Picture receipts, answers to a game we once played
(to find out what color we were),

Bent postcards with messages of endearment,
Lagoon tickets we decided together not to use...
What happened to make them all so important?

Perhaps the touch of a true friend in my life,
and the promise that even without those scraps,
the memories will always remain in our hearts.

Salty Peanuts 12/12/92

(about 1992)

He passed on a few years back,

but left me vivid long-ago memories

of rainy-day Washington.

All those times

when he was still alive.

I remember clear as yesterday his chair-

comfortable to all who chose it, even though

it was old, and green, and textured

with Grandpa's own shape in its depths.

By his chair, a varnished wooden stand

ceaselessly held a can of salty peanuts on its top

and was across the 4-cornered room from the T.V.

which told of current events,

issues that mean nothing now-

just a bunch or more words

to be added to all the "I remembers"

of get-togethers and holidays in Everett.

Those "I remembers" shared between me and the cousins

hold what I remember most about

Grandpa's chair

and his peanuts... The 'peanut games.'

Maybe it is me, or Jessen, if it is his turn

to complete the dangerous quest.

The coast is clear (Grandpa's back toward us )

as our curious eyes peek around the corner

from the kitchen,

almost reaching for the salty treat.

As if on cue, both feet race each other

to the destination

met already by our eyes.

Greasy kid-fingers reach into the round can

and dig and cling to peanuts

while the hinges of Grandpa's rotating chair

bring him to face our direction again.

He pretends to be angry and doesn't smile, and we think

maybe he is angry, except for the sparkle in his eyes.

Kid-fingers place sweaty peanuts in his big hand

and my mouth opens as he drops them onto my tongue

with the sparkle still in his eyes just as it was earlier

when he let me steer the green tractor

and I ran over a cow pie.