Blue Velvet

Out on a walk
The day after Christmas 2018
It shows itself brown and grey
Down here below
Blue skies and white clouds above
Gusts of arctic chill
And a quick flurry of flakes
Spins my memory back to winter and school.

Do you have memories of the Snowflake Swirl?
Twisted crepe paper slung from the basketball backboards.
Sawdust on the hardwood floor
Maybe 1963,
Semi-formal
I wore my Sunday blue suit with the skinny tie
And you swirled in shimmering chiffon
As Bobby Vinton sang “Blue Velvet.”
(and maybe the Beach Boys rocking “Surfin’ U.S.A?”
Or “Hey Paula” by Paul and Paula?)
Were they singing to me?

I wasn’t much of a dancer
But I would seldom pass up the chance for a slow dance
(thank you Bobby V.)
Seldom were the opportunities to hold your favorite girl
In your novice arms.
I think maybe Mr. Hutchison and Miss Mattis were chaperones.
I think they didn’t care to notice
If the dancer’s embrace was too close?
What was it, 6 inches?

Joyous laughter and nervous chatter
Found release in a fast dance
“Wipe Out” by The Surfaris, maybe?
And maybe a couple’s fight
Someone broke up
Someone else fell in love
And then the last dance
Was it "Our Day Will Come" by Ruby and the Romantics?
And then the magic spell was broken
At least for that Winter’s moment…

You were there, weren’t you?

And didn’t we dance?

In My Next Life

In my next life I will be bold.
Bold and brave and wise enough to know
When to act and when to wait.
I will know "ok" on my own not needing approval.
I will have good sense.

In my next life I will learn to be quiet.
I will have control over my inner dialog.
I will be self-patient, and self-caring. 
I will turn on my thoughts,
Regard them, learning perhaps,
And then put them away.

In my next life I will fear less.  

I will learn to avoid prejudging.  

I will live safely in the goodness of others.

Filler

& everything else is just filler…

Mess and occasional epiphany
This detritus of life
Sinks low and sometimes stinks high
Yet also serves as a breeding ground.

Life can be a broody hen
Incubating
More from less
Primordial ooze canoodling
I bet even God didn’t know
Exactly what she was getting into.

And everything else but filler
Sometimes disappoints
Biggest and greatest
Begets plenty of wadding
“Is that all there is…?”
Peggy Lee bemoans.

Don’t we want the fireworks to go on
Forever
Bigger and better?
Oooh, ahhh!

Is it like eating prunes?
Is three enough?

Is six too many?

Stop Pretending

I can stop pretending
I know who I am
Or at least who I think I am
I have my suspicions

 I am addicted to my tale
And so self-dependent, self-defined
Liable with no certain assurances
A life long fear of being unmasked
My story that can fill my day
And serve soma for the night
I am a lamb on the lamb
Make it ok mama
Make it ok.

A patina of duplicity is found to exist
Maybe I have fooled the rest of you
Shame-shame
And god knows I have tried to fool myself
Blame-blame
With little lies and bigger stories
I know where the trophies are displayed
I know where the bodies are buried.

But it is such a cumbersome burden
To be out amongst the tribes
Yours and mine
Who I judge to be judgmental.

Silent is not secret, hear me?
Words are not walls, brick-by-brick
Two meanings serve two masters.

I am a cat out of the bag
Can’t you see?
So, isn’t that enough for you?
Isn’t that enough for me?

Sorting

I have glasses I sometimes wear
But I take them off at night.
No need.
In my dream-sleep world
Everything seems crystal clear, 1080p.
Apart from the dreaded anxiety dreams
It is a peaceful place,
A preferred place,
And free of the dreaded real-world anxieties:
No maniacal cartoon character presidents
Or fires of the insanities.
Safe as safe can be…

Somewhere last night in the background
I could hear the rain.
Warm in bed it seduced me to choose
A bit more early morning sleep.
Should I get up in the cold house
and see what the waking world has to offer?
“No,” the water warns
Rocking me rhythmically
Drumming down the drainpipe
It helps me choose,
A fluvial sorting of sorts,
And I have no will to resist.

A page or two into my next dream
I hear:
Tap-tap, tap-tap-tap.
Someone at my chamber door?
So unlikely.
I will not peek.
Woodpecker drilling into the shingles?
For sure.
And they require no entrance into my world,
Save for some seed and suet.
We have long ago made our pleasant peace
Although I’d prefer
Not to have them
As my alarm clock.

Find Your Joys

The best days of my life 

Are the ones where I’m not afraid to live,

Unabated and intrepid. 

The worst days are the ones that I fear life,
Either instigated by the will of others
Or especially by my own.
Such judgment leads to condemnation.

And don’t hassle over things too much.
Chances are
Your first inclination is often the right one.
Life affirms itself
And can be contagious.

You are not alone.
You will likely find
Other like-minded people to live your life with
Or they will find you.

Find your joys 

Burnish them

Great and small,
And share them.

November Rain

The rain is slightly confusing.
An outlier in November,
Heavy and nearly nonsensical,
It is dark and warm
As it leaches the leaves off the birches.
Soon the oak leaves will fall as well
Though the beeches still resist
And will chatter late into the winter,
Loitering long enough to
Sing welcome to the spring.

Out my window I notice
That this persistent shower
Is washing the bird droppings off my car’s windshield
Oh joy!

Plopped there by chickadees and titmice

Who have gathered sunflower seeds at the nearby feeder
Grinds from their gizzards.
I feed them as they bring me happiness
-The nature of joy found in such common beauty-
And so at the moment
I gather in
And am buoyed by two joys.

October Leaves

The late October nor’easter
Is pelting this windswept day
With cold rain
Stripping the threadbare leaves
Russet and amber
From the yielding trees
Pasting them to the windshield of my car
Parked in the driveway.



Ignoring my desires
And shallow discontent
They speak to me of letting go
And transformation
These transcendental couriers.


My feet are not soaked
Nor my brow dripping
And so gifted with this reluctant retreat
I am allowing myself this point of view
And other lessons perhaps
Given through such acts
Of random generosity.

And you?

It's Not Okay

It’s not okay
Until you say so
It’s not okay
That you can’t go through TSA
Without having a full body search
Every time
It will not be okay
Until you and your children
Don’t have to have “the talk”
It’s not okay
Until you can vote
Without having your right denied
It’s not okay
Until you can take a knee
And be taken seriously
It will not be okay until “hands up, don’t shoot!” 
becomes a historical foot note
It will not be okay
Until
All are judged
By the content of their character
And not the color of their skin
No
It’s not okay
Until you say so

The Molt

There is a time
Of the season
To get your feathers back
The time will come
Being so ordained
It’s what you need to live

Plumes have gone and calamus too
From the season past
Sloughed off and molted
In the late summer’s sun
From such wear and pluck
They soared and served
And then they fell
With no great finality
Dropped here and there
Curiosities on fields and forest floors

And for a moment of a month
There was not much left to fluff and bear
Except scruffy ruffs
And the drabness of what remains behind
Near naked from this certain shed
No shame for how things are intended to be
Such revelations

Near nakedness will soon yield
To rebirth and revival
And show you true,
Now fully fledged
And your coat of many colors.


-Thanks to the Zombies

The Alpha Ocean

Toeing the alpha ocean
Eyes closed
In slack tide reverie
Floating
In blessed amnesia

Then incoming

Breath-like
The unstoppable rising
Washing ashore
Things both clean
And blemished
Regretful flotsam
Jetsam orphaned
And pridefully cast
For gulls to inspect
For time to desiccate

Then the flushing tide
Ougoing sweep
Ebbing
Forgiving
Sanctifying
A purifying exhale
I am absolved on this day

By this generous sea.

On Some Fine Day

On Some Fine Day


A small gift has never hurt anyone,

A woman once wrote.

There are exceptions

Microbes can be a bitch

Though maybe I am a small gift to them?

Once I knew a guy

Who was a day or two past crying in his beer
He said
Where the body goes the mind will follow,
Somewhat reluctantly
Even good friends finally fail

I’m trying to learn with you

to appreciate 

This pain we share

separately

Sleep is the gift

Of separation and retreat
Side stepping the incoming
Waking up to access the damage
Guided by the pulse of change
Only scoundrels dare to complain and rail

What’s the point?

Is it the celebration

Of the transient and imperfect?

I celebrate and revere my atoms and yours

Such magic stuff
Small gifts indeed
That allows us to borrow and to be

And on some fine day
I will turn the mirror around
Having seen enough
And focus on the stars.

"Wabi-sabi nurtures all that is authentic by
acknowledging three simple realities: nothing lasts, nothing is finished, and

nothing is perfect.” -Wiki

The Lesson, a Cautionary Tale

As if there’s something they could learn from me,
I’d open the door to my classroom
And the suction it created
Often blew my doors off
Heart on the sleeve
Is not good advice for a teacher
Many a pedagogue (and cardiologist) will tell you.

The goal might have been
A certain homeroom homeostasis
Energy in, energy out
Tidal
Drawing from greater powers
Rather than the tsunami
A rush and flush
That swept me hollow
Empathy
Was getting the best of me.

Maybe the best ones
Aka the survivors
Could create some sort of
Emotional semi-permeable barrier
A stasis system
Some sort of wear-in conditioner
That allows them to give
Without being consumed?

Others
Tired and tried
Had calendars with Xs on the days
Mirroring the glaze in their eyes
Slumping and stooped
In toxic teacher’s rooms
Where triage was performed daily
10:40-12:10.

I only had so much to give
And then that too gave out.
I held out my hand
Though sometimes it was almost empty.

We're All Mad Here

I knew she was there
But it took a moment and a small commitment
To puzzle it out.
She was at the human end of a leash
Stealthy, mostly not by choice.
The fluffy creature on the dog end of the lead
Her ambassador.
Her validation.

The moment reminded me of the joke leashes
I once saw sold and paraded about at Disney.
A stiff leash held by the vacationer
Walking an invisible dog.
Here the dog was walking the invisible woman.

She first appeared to me as a disembodied smile.
Alice’s Cheshire cat.
The rest of her materialized shortly
And so we had a moment,
Real as real gets,
Of acknowledgement,
One phantom to the next.

-PS

“Goes to show you can’t judge a fish by the hook in its mouth.”

-Lewis Carroll

Hold Love Dear

Hold Love Dear


A scene from the best movie ever made flickers
Lit with a foggy lamp
Or maybe it's the last page of a book
You put down
Drifted off
Dreamed on,
The page before things became…
Complicated.

How can you hold joy?
-Not to contain it-
What vessel would suffice?
No, no
But there are such moments
Rare as sand
And so also hard to hold
That we know:

That flying embrace
A leap of innocent faith
Blind and boisterous
Super heroes in footsie flannel pajamas
Maybe 4, maybe 5
The birthdays race by
Is that a new tooth I see?

But if such a moment could be captured
Wouldn’t we hold it dear
The ultimate cuddle
Cork it tight
And place it on the highest alter
And revisit it time and again
Just to check
Just to recharge
Just to feel the glow,
Circling back to hold love dear?


-P. Sanderson

What You Leave Behind

What You Leave Behind

There is a tree

In Cheeseman Park, Denver, Colorado
That I carved my initials into
Circa June, 1970.

I want you to find it
And ask the tree
To not think less of me.

The unfortunate truth
Is that we are all scarred
So, look for the tree
And maybe you will know a little more of me.

Colorado was a wild tumbleweed waystation
And I was focused on my shallower self
Swiss army knife in hand
With no concern, not much
For your skin my friend
I just wanted to memorialize in the smooth bark
Those moments...
Make them come to full stop.

I had faith in your grey skin
That it would heal strong and bear witness
And that you would curate my marks.

Truth be known at this stop down the line
That those marks mean less
Than the whole of the tree,
And its persistent living and generous breathing,
As trees are nothing
If not tolerant gifts
To you and me.

-P. Sanderson

Soda at Panera Prayer

Soda at Panera Prayer

Standing at the drink machine in Panera
The little girl and her mother choose a beverage.
To the mother it is a simple act,
One of hundreds she does daily.
It brings her no pleasure;
With an audible sigh
She fills their cups while
Her mind hassles with other expectation
As she juggles her near future.

The little girl
Her pigtailed progeny
Who shadows her mother's left hip
Must see this machine as a small wonder:
A gushing goddess of endless sweetness
Just out of reach.

But in her young imagination
It will be hers
Someday
It's the way of the world, 
Hers
When she reaches the moment
That money and means are within grasp.

It’s a simple dream
It’s the American Dream
Where the streets are paved in plenty
And fountains flow in pleasing draughts.

I am both charmed and frightened.
I wish for her a stoppage of time
Where she might dwell
In which her desires are within her grasp
And each day ends
Bear in arms
Tucked in her bed where
The sheets are cool and smooth as glass
And the pleasures are within easy reach
And the prices are simple.

World without end,
Amen.

-P. Sanderson

Must

This day and I

Are trying to meet somewhere in the middle

And I am having a difficult time keeping up

My end of the deal.

The day presents itself benignly

Despite what attributions I give it.

It is rainy and cold.  So what, it might say?

If I was a judge I would find you guilty 

Of malicious precipitation, say I.

But there are no back room deals to be had here

So make of it what you can.

Keep your grip.  You must, must, 

The chorus of mothers’ cautions.

I do offer in my defense 

The school dream from the night before,

Classic and chaotic:

I can’t find my clothes, can’t seem to deal with

Putting on my pants

And I’m late, White Rabbit late.

Funny, haha

But it doesn’t feel that way.

And it sets an anxious tone

One that spawns from mind and marrow

And grips me too and won’t let go.

It does damage to the deal.

No it won’t let go

Nor will it come clear,

It is slightly repellent

Yet I hold it dear.

But why?!

A shower will not scrub it off

Coffee will not change its pace.

Food fails

Friends flounder
And the waitress looks at me
As if to say
Sir, you seem quite insane,
As I ask for pepperoni toast
Instead of pumpernickel.

My only response to her unspoken truth
Is to over tip
(Such acts might seem quite normal?)
And seek the answer from the lesson
Elsewhere being taught
In my murky middle.

It’s right there I’d like to think.
It’s right there.

Dragonfly

I have no real business here
And neither do you, or so it seems.
We both chose to sit and bask
In the early morning sun
Warm against the cool of the night

Now waning.

 I commend you on your choice of perch
A new leaf on the rhododendron
That offers a view of its blossoms
On this day of their fading glory
Soon to wilt beyond the punky pink
Which they are not shy to show.

I wish you to find your way
To the nearby frog pond
Where I hope for you the water is just right
So that you may drop in a small raft of eggs
Your progeny to carry on there
The life aquatic

So brilliant, your kind

Who will later burst from that water world
And fly free and fast among your aerial allies.

There is a shift
In wind and light
In thought and purpose
And together we both rise
And move on into our day
Seeking to find the next best thing.

A Brief Lesson

A Brief Lesson

My house was such
That I could stand at the sink
Wash a cup clean
And enjoy the view
Out the window,
To the bird feeders
And across the yard,
To the frosted garden and the forest beyond.

The birds and I had an arrangement:
I would feed them
And they would show themselves,
Feather and bill
So I could get a closer look
From the comfort of my kitchen vantage.
It was a unilateral accord:
I, the master of my domain
That of seed and suet
They, driven by the sirens call of feed
That offered sustenance and survival.

Winter, not caring, took as well as it gave.

Chickadees were cheer for me
As winter took from me as well
And I could find some comfort
In their incessant energy and lust for life.

The woodpeckers
Stiff tail-feathered
And hammer headed
Feed their furnaces with globs
Of suet
A suitable substitute for
Beetle grubs and dormant moths.

And the mourning doves
Shuffled and strutted across the ground
Now and then puffing their rosy breasts
A prelude to the more formal dance
They held each springtime here.

Swift of wing
But slow of foot,
They showed themselves to the hawk
Who had perched along the tree line.
Waiting unseen
Driven by the itch of instinct
It swooped down
Talons aimed deadly at the dove
Who had turned to harvest a seed,
The last it would ever taste.

There was a small thump and a shower of feathers, then
With powerful pumps of its muscular wings
The hawk lifted its prize
To dine al fresco
On some nearby perch in privacy.

By the time I had dropped my cup
This moment had passed,
Perhaps in a heartbeat
Or two.
There was nothing to be done,
Except for the heavy lifting,
Nothing to consider
But the moment
Between dove and hawk
And carry it with me
Throughout my days.

-P. Sanderson

How Was Your Day?

How Was Your Day?

You’ve got to keep an eye on the morning
Or it will slip away.
The robins know this
Their mamas taught them about the early bird…
You might know that when you get up to get
Another cup of coffee
That the grass will have grown another inch
There’s no stopping this cavalcade
So, ignore it at your peril. 

And while you’re at it
Keep a close watch on the afternoon
‘cause just a blink and it's gone.
Gone gone.
String them together
And you’ll miss the entire week.

Then you’ll need a note for your teacher

Just to get back in the game.

There is only so much sunshine to go around

And moments to take off your shoes

And reconnect with your toes,
Even if you didn’t realize that you
Had become undone.

And the evening is there for you

But for the asking
Its job is to calm and collect the day…

And you could be part of that too

Imagine dropping out of “the world”

And breathing in the cool collection 

Of all that gathered and grew?

The night might be seen as the final act.

Is it the end or just the beginning?

No one knows, but it invites you to

Slip into its dark safe epilogue 

The land of letting go

And dream those dreams 

That you wish would never end.

-P. Sanderson

I “wondered how tomorrow could ever follow today…”
-Led Zeppelin 

This Day

This Day

I have seen this day before
And foolishly have walked on by
Too full of me
My meager ways
Obscured from sight by
Molehills risen as mountains,
Such self-creations
These clouds brewed within,
While missing the mare’s tails that scud above
As they gloriously steamship by.

I stumbled-on too frequently,
  eyes down
  half closed
  half blind.

This day starts like any other
In its thousand different ways
Though this one has made a modest point
To call unassuming attention to itself.

Ands so as if to say,

She spoke to me:
You found the woes of winter such
That I have brought in sweet bouquet
And sumptuous songs of sparrow-speak
These dewy jewels on verdant grass
And zephyrs bearing blossom showers
Redolent reminders of such beauty here
Yours but for a bended knee
And a softly listening ear…

These whispers roared and beckoned so
Compelling and seducing me

That I have left the world behind

The one that weights the spirit down
And found my way

A barefoot boy
To wander in the garden green
And there to grow my very soul.

-P, Sanderson

Small and Large

the beginnings and endings

are perfectly clear

though the middle lies clouded 

horizon-less

and although a truth

may be found there

may be known by you

may be known by me

these are often small truths 

such low hanging fruit

debatable and dependent on small consequences

petty causes
petulant to the moment
and the ways of the heart’s wilder winds.

larger truths
which lay dormant but accessible
perhaps within my reach and yours,
will materialize and manifest
to those of us who willingly hold our hearts open
and our empty hands extended
in the clear quiet moments of soft breathing.

Lilacs and Stones

Two writers of note
Are buried
At Poet’s Corner,
Their graves within chatting distance.
And if they could but emerge
From their rest
And smell the lilac nearby
In full fragrance
Gaudy and grand in its regalia
The writers might be pleased to note
That those blossoms are
Drawing from them
Some molecular muse,
A passage from poet to plant that
Only mid-May can produce.

I stop to photograph each maker’s stone
Which are beautiful but unremarkable
Found in this cemetery
That seemingly pays lavish tribute to
Secular grandness,
Monuments that call out to the universe
For a life beyond life,
Recovering and resurrecting
The one that stopped at the stone.

The camera captures my immortal moment
With them this mid-May day.
And so, rest in peace my
Wordsmith friends,
As the lilacs
Surely will bloom again.

Ernie, Vacuuming the Pool

At this late date
Some twenty-five years forward
From his death,
A cancer,
That maybe today he could have survived,
I am thinking of my father
And how after a day’s work
Selling concrete
Or hanging a door for some neighbor,
He would find his way after dinner
To the swimming pool
Which he and mom built
In their struggle to work their way
Into the great American middle class.

And as a summer’s heat dissipated
Into the golden hours of the evening
He would vacuum the pool
Carefully cleaning the bottom of
Leaves, grass clippings and such,
The detritus of privilege.

I was a teenager then
And although it was one of my chores
I expressed no interest in cleaning the pool;
The duty seemed tedious.
My father would remind me to vacuum
But he never asked twice.
Sometimes I would feel a pang of guilt
As I left for the evening with friends,
Seeing him push the pole
Slowly back and forth.

It was only just the other day
These twenty-five years out
That it came to me
In a daydream randomly accessed,
That he in fact might have enjoyed the task;
The solitude
Sounding the depths
Lost for a few moments
In this singular activity.

If I had been the man I am today
Back then
I might have joined him
To share a moment
Or at least give him a nod of acknowledgement
From across the backyard.