this day after Christmas
news of his friend
losing his battle
as the great star succumbs
to blue-gray snow clouds

Oh, those mixed emotions that come the day after Christmas! We had a wonderful day, with my parents, my three kids and David's girls, but now it's over and with it today both the feelings of let-down and welcome relief. This afternoon though, all these usual sentiments have been made null and void by news of David's friend--the chemo not working, the cancer spread into the bone, and his body too weak to continue with the treatment. It's been a long battle and he's still not ready to give up but nothing about this news is hopeful. David and I today, as snow clouds move in, doing nothing but letting go of any complaints and counting our many blessings.

this third day
of whirling Christmas snow
and still
no magic in my heart
no rest for this unhinged mind

As you can tell by the poem, I am still struggling with not working and the anxieties and doubts that come with this feeling of displacement. And while I was quite looking forward to enjoying this holiday season, I am finding that my personal struggles are impinging. I am seeking the magic and the joy to no avail.

Yesterday, a glimpse. I stumbled across Penny Harter's heartfelt message on Curtis Dunlap's "Blogging Along Tobacco Road" (if you aren't familiar, you really must check it out) and it touched me like nothing else has this Christmas season. Penny, after having just lost her husband, poet Bill Higginson, reminds us that life is full of magical moments by relaying a dream she had about Bill. It is beautiful. Penny ends by saying "may we all be reminded that both in sorrow and in joy, we should strive to celebrate the blessing of being here on this old planet, and the opportunity to share both the blessings and challenges of our lives with one another."

Ah yes, a little perspective on the magic and joy of just being.

this dark day
of snow flakes flying
and birds hiding
I scatter seed outside my door
hoping for a friend

This not working thing is for the birds! (ha! no pun intended) My energies are so diffused that I feel lost and restless, wandering through my days, so one of the things I've been doing is looking for the birds! I've always been a bird lover and never really had the time to befriend them. So I went online (another of the many diverse and useless things I do with my free time)and read up on backyard birding, what kinds of seed attracts which kinds of birds, what feeders to use and where to hang them, and various other tips. So far I've hung several different feeders (one I made myself!) all around my house but still no birds. One site said that the birds are pretty content with foraging in the fall, but when the winter sets in, they should find their way to me and my feeders. Ah, what a glorious day that will be!

even this ocean fog
can't insulate me
from these sickening waves
of uncertainty
this threshold I must pass over

Always with change, there is this nagging feeling that comes over you all through the day, maybe six, seven times or more. It is this awful feeling of displacement, this sensation that the floor beneath you might not be there at any moment. Self-doubt, uncertainty, and fear about who I really am, what my true purpose is and how I will survive--all wrapped into one--but not at every moment of the day. There are also some very lucid moments of certainty, of confidence, of being propelled towards a greater purpose even without knowing exactly what that is--a belief in myself and the bigger picture, a surrendering to fate.

walking through
this thick morning fog
my hair curling
in all the wrong places
I surrender

the day after
quitting my job
up early
hoping to glimpse
the rising sun

Relief and hope. Fear and possibility. Sadness and excitement. These are just some of the mixed emotions I have been feeling after walking out on my position as a salon coordinator this past Friday. One emotion I have not experienced is regret. I left completely confident and decided in my decision. I cannot reveal the details of what lead to my sudden resignation--but let's just say I finally reached my breaking point and was compelled to leave for the sake of my own health and well-being.

So I am now on the threshold of a new beginning--of what I don't know. But for now, I am on the wagon of decompression. It is a time to walk more, read more, cook more, visit with my parents more, write more and just open myself up to peace and to possibilty.

Meanwhile, if anyone sees a help wanted ad for a "professional tanka poet", please give me a call!

there is even joy
isn't there
in the last light
as it touches the points
of every picket along the fence

Just received word this week that this poem, published in the Summer 2008 issue of Ribbons, has been chosen as the "Member's Choice Tanka" to be published in the Autumn 2008 issue of Ribbons.

Surprised, elated, honored.

Thank you to Bob Lucky, the previous winner, for distinguishing my poem out of the 50 that were published in this issue's Tanka Cafe under the theme "epiphany."

my mother content
to just sit inside waiting
on death
as leaves on all the trees
turn their brilliant royal shades


My mother has my entire life been both my biggest inspiration and my biggest supporter.

If I had to use words to describe the woman I think she has been in this world (not just words a daughter uses to describe a mother), I would use words like "strong" and "tough" and "courageous"; maybe "individual", "energetic" and "athletic"; "persevering", "generous" and "philanthropic". My mother has survived wars, an alcoholic first marriage, divorce before it was accepted, cancer twice and some other ugly experiences we'll leave alone. When I think of her from my childhood, I remember her as someone who took in strays (both animals and people), tended to geraniums and rose bushes like she did children, walked through blizzards to get to work, read stacks and stacks of books and wore whatever she wanted and looked great doing it.

My mother is not dying any more than we are all dying; it's more that she has given up and in some ways that is even more painful for a daughter who has been completely enamored with her. Active well into her seventies, my mother ran before the sun came up every morning, in every weather, but within the last 5 years, her legs have become crippled and she has a tough time even walking about the house, which now she has confined herself to. She lives downstairs from me so I often visit and try to bring my world to her; we discuss politics, my job, the weather, books and my father's grocery shopping mishaps. Mostly, I am trying to bring her out of the darkness of discouragement that comes with old age and its physical decline.

But it is difficult. I want her to experience life. I want her to find a way to embrace these late days in her life; I want her to put on her own royal colors. I want her to find joy in simply being.

three small birds
rising up from out the bush
quiet as butterflies
both touching my heart and escaping it
like three small poems

This poem written this morning after a sunless, September walk with the dog--the nearness of these birds, their grace and stillness so raw, so meaningful, yet so beyond words. Often, I like to think I am so present, so in the moment and aware of the world around me, and then, it just catches me, by surprise. Out of nowhere, something so small, something I hadn't counted on just comes to me, like a little gift from god, so that I am touched, literally, somewhere in my soul, like god quickly stroking a feather across it, and I feel, in that single instant, one with the world around me, so that I'm left with this feeling of knowing both everything and nothing.

Maybe that was a little deep for a blog entry--but these are the experiences that my tanka come from--they are the rawest of moments, the smallest, seemingly insignificant at times--moments of deep insight, even if I'm not all together certain what that insight is.

For me, this moment, as consequently, this poem, come on a day where I am doubting myself and my poetry. Leafing through bundles of poems this morning, trying to choose a handful for submission, and finally giving up, certain that they are all rubbish, that none actually capture what I had meant--and then this experience--this small little encounter with the quiet angel-like birds, and I know in my heart that I must scribble poems, and that these poems must have some small place in this world, just like the birds that came so near my soul this September morning.

in the midst
of the Caribbean
the skies open
lightening crashing so near
death startles the life in me

Just back from a cruise packed with wonderful moments and vivid memories of turquoise waters, white sand beaches, colorful flowers and birds and buildings, interesting people and landscapes and what do I choose to write about?--a thunderstorm in the middle of the Caribbean while we were on the top deck of the ship somewhere between Curacao and St. Maarten. Apparently, they are in their "hurricane" time, and even though there were no hurricanes or tropical storms in the forecast, this is the time of year they typically experience their unsettled, rainy weather, and so, almost every night, and at least once a day, we had a thunderstorm.

This thunderstorm was a doozy, yet it didn't keep people out of the pools or the jacuzzis to our surprise--at least until lightening struck the ship, or was diverted by a lightening rod. It was quite loud and just across the deck from us! Scary, but exciting! And so close to death, it reminded me of life and how precious and fleeting it is. It gave me a genuine sense of aliveness. Life is not about "getting" but about "experiencing". I was reading "the untethered soul" by Michael A. Singer while on vacation which just deepened my own philosophies about this journey we call life, and while this was occurring, I had no fear at all (me who was as a young girl absolutely petrified of thunder storms)--I saw it only as an amazing experience that I was allowed to witness, here on the planet earth in the middle of the Caribbean sea with David and 3,000 other souls I didn't know from Adam. Just an experience that I'll probably remember for a very long time.

after the theater
strolling the art shops with you
at pink June dusk
the boaters all coming in
summer on their sleeves

This poem was written to commemorate the beginning of this summer; after seeing a play at the Gloucester Stage Company with friends (Billy Bishop Goes to War), we strolled down the artist colony of Rocky Neck and enjoyed a dinner at the Madfish as all the boaters were coming in to dock for the evening.

Sometimes, it is a challenge to fit everything you want into a tiny 5 line tanka. It is at times a struggle between what I see, what I feel and what is most important. The concrete: strolling, all the little art shops, the sun going down, the smell of the wharves, the boaters, the people, the pink beach roses lining the tiny streets. The concept: that this is just the beginning of summer, a first taste, an experience that we both remember and anticipate, and this one day, falling somewhere in the middle. So, have I completely captured what I wanted to in this poem? No. I really wanted the beach roses in there, and maybe the feel of these little shops that look like fish shacks full of expensive paintings, but maybe those are other poems, all on their own.

When finding a subject for tanka, it is imperative that you decide on what you want to say and pare down what you have to make it work. It is also wise to scribble down several different tanka from one single experience; several different versions or possibilities; perhaps the one you hadn't thought of will simply appear several tankas into it. Sometimes, my best tanka come from this practice.

The above poem is not a first attempt but it may not be the last either. With some play, I may find a better expression. Sometimes, I will draft a series of up to ten tanka; then maybe weeks later, after letting them sit, I will come back and recognize something in one of them that's really exceptional and worth more attention. Or maybe a newer, clearer version will stream through just from re-reading. It happens occasionally that a tanka comes into being all at once and perfect on the first try, but for the most part, this is how it happens--the words are worked, the lines are worked, the images are refined and so on. But this is, indeed, the allure of it; this is the art.

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this week before
her high school graduation
with lilacs heavy
in purple bloom
her mother's last breath

This poem is written in memoriam of Nancy Higgins, a woman I knew as a client of the salon these past seven years, but who I also came to know as a mother, an art teacher and a woman much like myself. Nancy died last week, at her home beside the sea, after battling gastric cancer these past two years. I am stunned by the loss of such a beautiful, vibrant soul before her time, my thoughts filled with her soft, sincere words, her lithe body and her warm, heartfelt smile. And my heart aches for her two beautiful daughters, one in college (having taken this last semester off to spend it with her mother), and the younger just one week shy of graduating high school. Two beautiful girls who will proceed from here, encountering each of life's milestones, as well as those small everyday moments, without a mother to share them with.

I will never forget Nancy slipping me--me, just the hair salon receptionist--a 5$ bill, and thanking me for "always being so sweet and so pleasant on the phone." As if she could sense how under-appreciated I was feeling on my job at the time, Nancy went on to tell me that I made a difference, if not to everyone I scheduled appointments for, greeted at the door, smiled at, brought coffee to or helped choose a shampoo, to her. She said, "I love you, Annette. I just love you." I recall tears pooling in my eyes with her sincere acknowledgment.

I never had the chance to know Nancy outside of the salon, the way I wished I had; I didn't go to her house in her last days, as lilacs were blooming all over town, but I did arrange for a stylist to come to her home, do her hair and lift her spirits, and I did think of her every day, and recall her words and her kindnesses that went far beyond that first time that she tipped me--the receptionist--and I did think of her daughters when I heard the news that she had passed, and when I picked lilacs for the kitchen counter, I thought of her light and it filled me with gratitude for even knowing her in the small way that I did. I love you Nancy. I just love you.

leafing through
black and whites of her father
on the waterfront
the longing of a little girl
in mama's blue eyes


This poem was written last spring, but it stings the same as all my spring poems, with the loss of my grandparents. Funny, you would think the fall would do this, but it's the spring that most connects me to my grandparents, maybe because my memories of them are mostly connected to the outdoors, their yard, the spring and things coming to life; Grampa's vegetable garden and Nana's flower gardens.

I lost them both when I was still a teenager and my memories are good ones. But, as my mother shared with me these photos of my grandfather, then a young, dark handsome man, working on the waterfront where he shipped large blocks of granite that were quarried here in Rockport to places as far away as New York City, I realized that my mother had her own memories of her parents that went back further than any of mine. That's when I saw the little girl in her eyes--a little girl missing her daddy.

She says she thinks of her parents more often these days; I suppose she misses them more than ever and that she is hoping she will meet up with them in the end, having now outlived them both in years. I find I am more and more every day preparing for the loss of my own parents even as I am enjoying their company, a few minutes here, a few minutes there, in between work and walking the dog and writing these little poems. So I listen and I laugh and I look at old photos with them, and I try to just be glad for these days, not sad.

after the loving
we rake wet dead leaves
from the garden
where new life is springing
a small black snake stops and sneers

Finally, a real spring day! We woke to the birds singing, then shared love and coffee and musings about the weather, world affairs and the indignant bride-to-be and her mom in the salon yesterday for a trial raking me over with price issues (even after I had gone over all our prices at booking). Funny, how this is the first spring without one of my children in the house and David all to myself. And even though I've been in desperate mourning this past month over my last daughter's leaving, I must admit to a certain liberation in having my man all to myself. And it occurs to me, I have never lived, in my entire life, alone with a man in a romantic relationship without a child in my house! Such a new experience! Not being married, it is almost as if we are young again and just starting out! Ah, almost naughty! And that is what the snake in the garden reminded me of--the earth waking around us, a whole new world awaiting me at 46 and a feeling of excitement and youthfulness--the Garden of Eden! And even though I miss my babies, I wouldn't trade this place I'm at for anything in the world--not even the evil little beady-eyed serpeant lurking in my garden.

out from the market
with popcorn for the movie
you and I
ravished by the excitement
a rushing cloud of frenzied snow

Today was one of those crazy weather days--clouds, sunshine, wind, rain, snow--and if you've been reading my blog, I need not tell you what a weather nut I am. This I get from my mother and have passed along to my children. So the weather made it the perfect day to hunker down, light a fire and watch a movie--except we had no popcorn! So with dog in tow, we drove across the street to the good old IGA and were stunned by the hurricane type squall we encountered upon leaving. Crazy crazy weather day--30 years after the Blizzard of 78! The movie? The Heartbreak Kid. Kind of silly. And go figure, the sun came out before it was half over! Gotta love New England--nothing's ever boring!