Tornado at Moore, OK

When does it end? These weather-related disasters and still the lawmakers don’t recognize that we are responsible through our misuse of our natural resources.

The latest report on the carbon dioxide levels are already past our being able to fix them. We’ve cut down so many trees, the abilities to make them viable to this loss is impossible and the glaciers are melting at 100 feet a day and this is a direct result of warming. Our oceans are rising but not just rising, losing salinity with all the fresh water adding to them. This disruption in the ice fields, the carbon dioxide levels and the loss of trees have increased the death knoll by 50 percent.

They tell us that the world’s average temp will rise between one and five and a half degrees by the end of the 21st century. The Congress continues to beat up the Democrats by saying that our children will be paying the price of health care and our entitlement programs, yet where is the intelligence to realize we are also leaving out children’s children to deal with flooding in our coastal cities, and loss of salt water sea denizens.

The tornados, hurricanes, earthquakes and tsunamis all have global change as the extent of our warming. Where does it end?

FAST FACTS – GLACIER RETREAT IN ALL CONTINENTS

1. Nearly all glaciers surveyed in Alaska are melting. Thinning rates in the last 5 to 7 years are more than twice those seen in previous years. Half of the water flowing into the oceans, globally, due to melting glaciers, is a result of melting in Alaska.
2. The northern Andes contain the largest concentration of glaciers in the tropics, but these glaciers are receding rapidly and losses accelerated during the 1990s.
3. Glacier melting has accelerated in the European Alps since 1980, and 10 to 20% of glacier ice in the Alps was lost in less than two decades. Half the volume of Europe’s Alpine glaciers has disappeared since 1850. By the end of this century, half of those left will have gone as well.
4. Tropical glaciers in Africa have decreased in area by 60% to 70% on average since the early 1900s.
5. The vast majority of all Himalayan glaciers have been retreating and thinning over the past 30 years, with accelerated losses over the last decade.
6. The tropical glaciers in the Pacific have retreated, although in New Zealand some glaciers grew due to increased precipitation.
7. Arctic glaciers have been receding, with the exception of Scandinavia and Iceland where increase in precipitation resulted in glacier growth. Greenland alone contains 12% of the world’s ice; entire portions of the Greenland ice sheet appear to be sliding towards the sea.
8. In Antarctica the centre of the continent is currently cooling so it won’t be melting soon. However, coastal glaciers and ice sheets in the Antarctic are melting. The melting of ice sheets and ice shelves that sit on top of land, will result in higher sea levels.

NB. These facts are from the WWF report GOING, GOING, GONE! Climate Change And Global Glacier Decline. References are available here [pdf, 122 KB].

I never learned how to braid

Pregnant in the 50s, the test that told the sex of the fetus wasn’t standard––only given for possible problems. So like every woman, I daydreamed the life of my child, a girl, dressed like me, hair in braids that I lovingly plaited right over left, left over right down the length of her long brown hair. Instead the baby was a boy and I grew content with the jeans and tennis shoes with tee shirts proclaiming this band or a borderline-obscene motto.

When the big day arrived a second time, again with those long hours of pain, I knew the baby was another boy––a stubborn boy, a boy that didn’t want to leave the coziness he was in. After 25 hours, I finally forced him out, and lo and behold, I had a (turning out to be blond, brown-eyed) boy, screaming in anger, ready to fight against every rule or NO he experienced.

So I never learned to braid, never had the need, although for a time, the second-born wore his hair shoulder length or banded in a tail down his back. There were no lace dresses, no dressing alike on Easter. Instead I had a beautiful boy who couldn’t believe in his talents and died young and braiding was forgotten each year he lived.

These two boys filled in every hole in my life–babies in both my 20s and 30s, I was finally content with these boys in spite of not being able to braid their hair!

I’m old now, braiding hair in dreams living with my oldest son, who takes good watch over my foolish falls, knee problems and forgetting to turn off the oven.

What Would I Give

What would I give to be thirty again just married and sober, life beginning to stir inside me once more? That time of first love––what would I give to be breathless when I saw him? To  hang on his every word, love to touch him, that soft place below his navel. His tan showing off with the white shirt he wore to work.

What would I give to have him come home when he’s supposed to and not have that panicky feeling that he was out drinking and finding another woman to love? He sometimes calls me another name, Beverly–Gloria–I don’t know. How I would react to his leaving me.

I know none of those things will happen. We’ll have a baby named Jason, who will be a beautiful baby and handsome young man and will die at thirty-three, choking on his own fluids, drunk and alone. It does no good to supposed  what would I give for this to not happen? I’d give anything.

A Sad Time for One and All

Washington Island 2011

On April 23, 2013 our friend and teacher, Norbert Blei, died after a long illness. I haven’t been able to write before because the enormity of it took my breath and brain away. It is only now, two weeks plus, that I can even wrap my mind around it. He was always larger than life, the person who would always “be there” for us and the ultimate figure in my writing.

Yes, many of us will go to The Clearing in spite of his passing. The second week of June is “Norb’s week,” and Norb’s writers will be there to celebrate his writing and life. I can’t imagine meals without a series of Norb stories; if two people pass on the path, Norb’s presence will be felt. He walks with us, brown mocs and safari vest and that mustache. As he grew sicker, his mustache seemed to grow long until he looked like an ancient Zen philsopher, which he was in life. It seemed only fitting that he began to look like Du Fu or Rumi at the end.

There are many celebrations of his life planned; private and public. Those of us at The Clearing will be having a memorial evening, a day of doing Norb’s books and the general conversations that will take plalce. Some people may even have written something to read.

At the end of June, a large memorial is being planned with music, dancing, and general gay festivities in his honor. I have heard that there is a movement to transfer “The Coop,” Norb’s writing retreat, to The Clearing. I hope the board decides to pass this request.

I, myself, haven’t been able to write anything yet about Norb. I want to do some poems to honor him, but nothing comes yet. Hopefully something will so I can fill my papers with the joy of knowing him.

The photo above, although not of The Clearing, contains Norb’s Clearing group. We had only two of these sessions on Washington Island, but they were remarkable. This photo has always been one of my favorites and I will remember Norb this way, surrounded by students, as teachers from Socrates on to todays mentors. Let’s rejoice our friend’s visit on this earth.

PALM SUNDAY IN DOOR COUNTY

I spent the past weekend at Bjorklunden in Bailey’s Harbor. What a delightful time. It was a poetry workshop with Bruce Dethlefsen (former Poet Laureate for Wisconsin) as the facilitator. Great bunch of people–21, I think; many familiar faces. Bruce talked and gave us handouts on revision and with his wonderful sense of whimsey, it was an all together wonderful and ambitious time for me with my gimpy leg. Estella Lauter, who coordinated it, had a wheel chair for my use and Alice was my “pusher,” although, there were plenty of helping hands along the way. Lucky me, Estella had my bed made for me and I didn’t have to sign up for chores. I did walk a little more than I should have and was tired and sore on Sunday, but it was worth it.

The open mike on Saturday night showcased many types of poems-June read her poem about

the children of Sandy Hook, which brought most of us to tears–very powerful. We met in front of the blazing fire in the Great Room (I almost typed womb–what a Fruedian slip tha

t

wou

ld have been.

I met with Bruce one-on-one about the poem now titled “Naming” (below). He recognized right away that it should be two different poems

and offered very detailed help with it.

The snow fell on Saturday like sifting sugar but didn’t last. We enjoyed a relatively warm walk to the car on Sunday but when we stopped for gas in Beaver Dam, it was co-o-old!

All in all, it was a great weekend.

Poem:  NAMING

Among the oaks today,

we will listen for your soul name.

I kiss you and we sit for a while

on a dead-fall tree and wait.

The woods whisper

Woman of Misty Mornings.

on a silky breeze. At that moment

she smiles up at me as though she knows,
as though she is satisfied with this name.

Like saplings in the forest,
It will give her something to grow on.

I will give her a drum of bear skin for her first birthday.

 

(Damn, sorry about these line breaks)

FINDING THE WAY IN

 

I’m watching a new singer on the Morning CBS Program

and the music group backing her, plays several bars 

of an intro and then she joins in on the off-beat and

they are completely in sync.

 

It made me remember jumping rope as a child

watching the rope––each girl twisting her end, the slap 

of the clothesline on the cement and finding just the right place 

to jump in between beats.

 

Is that like most things in life. Watching for the right

opening to give our opinion, enter a room, put

up our hand in class, saying “I do” and “I won’t.”

Saying “Help me,” to someone who you’d rather not ask.

 

It’s like that at the end also; I remember when Mother died:

She was breathing noisily and inhaled and I waited, but

in between inhaling and exhaling, she left her body

and joined her heaven.

 

Some Thoughts on the Pope Visiting Casablanca

The Pope wore white; “you wore blue” but in Casablanca all tourists wore bright colors while European refugees wore dark colors to fade into the background and not be arrested.

The Pope named himself after St. Francis. It appears he’s very thoughtful and humble. I hope he takes care of the thousands of current and former children who have been abused by the priesthood.

In Casablanca, the Germans sang “Das Fatherland,” and the French sang “Le Marseilles” with tears in their eyes. The Germans wore gray and black and struck fear into us all.

Ricky was an expatriate who wouldn’t “stick his neck out for no one.” Ilsa was like the Pope; she wore white that night and visited Rick in his quarters. Oops, next scene, she’s straightening her clothes but Rick hasn’t touched a button.

There seems to be no way to link these two beyond their clothing. Maybe the Pope could sing “Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina,” and Madonna could dance around him with her “Papa Don’t Preach” song, dressed in black and holding up a cross.

I’m searching for an ending beyond everyone splitting up and shedding tears–how about, “play it Sam; play “As Time Goes By”–I’ll hum it for you.

 

Where I Used to Live

 

Just off the highway to Madison was Carling Drive where my Swiss Chalet stood. I lived there for thirteen years and while I worked I turned in every week day at the drive, riding the city bus. I loved walking up the sidewalk to my door.  

If I’d turned right off the bus, I would have been in the center of the drug trade for the neighborhood Young men standing around in pairs or threes, stamping their feet if it was Winter, warming their hands with cigarettes and fingerless gloves. Cars coasting up to the group, a window gets rolled down and something is exchanged for something else. I can only guess!

 But I turned left and it was another world. The building  was white and had Swiss banner signs on the outside. There were brown patios on the upper floors and the doors to the inside brown and locked. This was a secure building and I felt safe there.   

Not quite as safe as I did when I first moved in but then we had our own tragedies––the man upstairs killed himself through asphyxiation with a Weber grill in the bathroom. I remember the cop asking me if I’d smelled anything like burned toast. Is that what we smell like when grilled?  

Eventually, I had to move. The doors stopped being locked and the drug exchange moved into my back parking lot. The people upstairs fought noisily and hookers were selling themselves for $5 in the laundry room.  The last incidence was a man trying to escape the police by hiding in my dumpster with a rifle circled by cop cars. It was time to go.

Life Before and After Stereo

I was thirteen and new. Upperclassmen
flattered me in spite of my braces and glasses
and still tried to cop-a-feel of satiny smooth skin
and tender peaked nipples.

We played 45 rpm records, even a few remaining 78s.
Black disks and dancers circling, music simpering
or pounding, kids doing the bebop or a slow waltz
with their steady, cheek-to-cheek in the darkened room.

I remember
In the Mood, Caravans, At Last, and
other tunes of the time. My favorites were
Nat King Cole, Frankie Laine,
and a boy of sixteen from school named Ronnie Giovannoni.

Stereo came into my life, sounds of woofers and tweeters.
We listened to the tennis matches, ball bouncing
from one speaker to the other, and of course
Tchaikovsky’s  1812 Overture. With the right equipment,
your needle would jump when they shot off the real cannons.

Listening to music, instead of dancing to it–life was all stereo-––
work, boys, discussions with our parents and the waste
we were leaving behind.

Another Opportunity

It is February 1 and I look at it as still in the aura of my goals for the year. I almost forgot them in January and for such a long month, it slipped right by my best intentions. But the first day of any month gives me hope once more, that I will persevere and by July be  much more organized, slimmer and my legs will be stronger so I can walk farther than the kitchen.

I had a moment this week where I almost signed up for a Tai Chi class at the Senior Center–then reality reared its head and I count three times I’ve signed up and either attended one or two classes or didn’t go at all. The maintenance man for the condos came over to fix an electrical plug and I saw some of my mess through eyes other than my own, which have become inured to my clutter. We had to slide sideways past the treadmill. Therein I’ve stacked new books of mine, a printer, and my winter boots. I look longingly at the great space just waiting for more junk to be put on it.

The other night, an open bottle of water was thrown off by jumping cats. It landed on the 8-plug surge protector that was full of computers, printers, fans and lights. I wasn’t aware of this happening and went to bed at my usual time A bit later I heard the strangest popping noises coming from the living room. The popping was the water in the surge protector. I don’t know if the popping was the thing shorting out or just responding to the water inside. I quickly unplugged it but there was black sooty stuff around the outlet—eek! Could have been a fire and that’s enough to scare the beejesus out of me. (I have no idea how to spell beejesus and neither does my spell checker.)

Well it’s fixed now and we are not storing open bottles above it anymore. In fact we have elevated the surge protector so the floor is a safer place to spill when one of us forgets to recap the bottles or move the coffee. This cat is the culprit so I’ve posted his photo like a wanted poster. I purposefully have not posted the picture of the person who left the bottle uncapped!