there are no poems
for you
only wind

the water has turned
cold as ice
the moon has
come and gone

there are no poems
for you
but there are dreams
in which you are different
now

stars have fallen
wind has moved
a million grains of sand

if words came i would
put them on paper
but there is
only wind

air rushing south
toward you
toward some great
vacuum

i want to die in the arms
of a March night
in Guanacaste.
heaven is close, then.
angels hover above dry trees
brushing branches with warm
breath.
chicharras
clutch tiny twigs
playing love songs on
transparent wings.

Noche de Marzo

quiero morir en los brazos
de una noche de marzo
en Guanacaste.
el cielo está cerca, entonces.
los ángeles aletean sobre los árboles secos
rozando las ramas con su aliento
tibio.
las chicharras,
agarradas de ramitas diminutas,
tocan canciones de amor con sus
alas transparentes.

I spent a long time over the weekend writing up a post for today. But I realized during the night that I don’t like it. Meh. It’s about trying to be present in the present, not lost in the past or the future. It’s readable, but I’m not feeling it this morning. I even translated it into Spanish. But I don’t think it quite hits the mark.

So, instead, I’ll tell you about the present.

I’m in Washington State, half way through a vacation/visit to my sister and her family. It’s very cold. My niece and nephews have grown from toddlers into 6-foot teenagers. One is in college, two are in high school. Their paternal grandmother is in the ICU with pneumonia and is not expected to recover.

Last year over the holidays in Tamarindo, I promised myself this trip. I kept my promise. But it’s not like I expected. Nothing is like any of us expected. I guess that’s what the blog post I tried to write says, in different words. My parents didn’t come this year. My friends here are keeping their distance. Of course. There are a lot more sick people in this climate than in Tamarindo. And I don’t want to get it now because I don’t want to miss my flight home. All of that said, I so love being hunkered down, cozy by the fire, with no where to rush off to. I think I spent way too many hours of my life rushing places.

The last Christmas I spent in the States was 5 years ago. Pio was with me.

Now, do you see why I have to write blog posts to myself about being present in the present, not lost in the past? Yeah.

Today is Monday. The last Monday in 2020. Everybody says they hope 2021 will be better. That would be awesome. I found a lot of things to love about 2020 but that’s just me. I’ve been lucky. I’ve also been unlucky.

I’m going to drive with my sister and my niece over the mountains to Seattle today. I’m thinking of applying for dual citizenship, and I need to be fingerprinted for an FBI report. I expect it will be a dull read lol but I have to do it. There’s an outlet mall that we all love on the way there. We’re leaving in an hour, and should be back by evening.

Tomorrow it’s supposed to snow again. Before the weekend we’ll be toasting Happy New Year and I may very possibly be attending a funeral. Or not. Next week I give my sister back all the sweaters and fuzzy pants I’ve been wearing, and head back to the land of summer.

So there you have it: a glimpse of the past, the present, and the immediate future. Something is about to happen. I don’t mean today, I mean really soon. I feel it. I hope I like it.

Amen.
Cheers.
Pass the pancakes.

I was talking with a friend the other day. He hadn’t realized I’m a writer, disguised as I am as a surfer, and just discovered my blog. He knew Bill and Barbara, so that’s what brought him to my writing. Then he made a comment that caused me to cringe. It wasn’t a criticism; it was an observation.

“I see you’re now doing mostly poetry,” he said.

I did a mental facepalm because I know exactly how silent I’ve been for months on end, and said something noncommittal like, “Oh, well, yes… Sort of….”

It isn’t really true that I’ve only been writing poetry lately. I’ve been working on a book, but that’s not ready to share yet. Maybe someday, but not now.

And the things I’ve been talking to myself about–the “Musings?” I can’t blog about them. I as in I wouldn’t/won’t. I could write about politics and pandemics because I do think about those things a lot, but I’m not going there. Too polarized. I dislike shit storms enough to do almost anything to avoid them–including keeping quiet.

My personal life in the last months has been a dizzying combination of overly boring and overly interesting. I know you’re used to me throwing down my personal life like a true exhibitionist, but I’m not doing it right now. Time has a way of giving me heavy doses of truth serum that causes me to spill all, so we’ll see. I’ve filled up the better part of a college ruled five subject notebook in the last few months, so the material is there.

I just want to say this:

It’s better to ask for forgiveness than for permission.
Always dive off of the highest platform.
Take the call.
Say yes to suggestions.
Do your fucking homework and hand it in on time, for the love of God.
Don’t lie.
Stay awake.
Your gut instinct is the combination of the messages coming from your head and from your heart–listen to it.
Not all advice is the right advice.
Most advice is not the right advice.
Climb trees.
Drink the other beer.
You aren’t going to live forever but you’ve lived before and your cells know it–on a molecular level you’ve already been almost everything.
Don’t be afraid of the dark.
Don’t worry about making sense.
If you breathe out all your air you can lie on your belly on the bottom of the sea.
Get some sleep.
Drink some water.
Repeat.

Es Mejor Pedir Perdón Que Permiso

Hace unos días, yo conversaba con un amigo.  Él no se había dado cuenta de que soy escritora, disfrazada como soy de surfista, y acababa de descubrir mi blog.  Él conocía a Bill y a Barbara, y es esa historia que lo trajo a mi sitio y a mis obras.  Hizo una observación que me dio causa para pensar.  No fue una crítica; fue un comentario. 

“Veo que ahora escribes casi solo poesía,” me dijo.

Mentalmente, agache la cabeza porque yo se exactamente cuan silenciosa he sido últimamente, mes tras mes…  Dije algo evasivo como, “Ahh.  Bueno, sí…  Mas o menos.”

No es la verdad que he estado escribiendo solamente poesía.  He estado trabajando en un libro, pero todavía no está listo para compartir.  Quizás algún día, pero ahora no.

¿Y las cosas de que he estado hablando sola—los “Musings?”  No puedo escribir sobre estas cosas en un blog.  Es decir, no lo haría.  Podría escribir sobre la política y las pandemias porque sí pienso mucho en estas cosas, pero por allí no me meto yo.  Demasiado polarizado.  Tanto me disgustan los berrinches virtuales que yo haría cualquier cosa para evitarlos—incluso callarme.

Últimamente, mi vida personal ha sido una mezcla mareada de demasiado aburrido y demasiado interesante.  Yo sé que ustedes están acostumbrados a que yo revele todo como una exhibicionista verdadera, pero en este momento no.  El tiempo muchas veces me da una dosis del suero de la verdad que me da por contar todo, asi que vamos a ver.  En los últimos meses, he llenado casi todo un cuaderno de los universitarios de 200 páginas.  Así que, el material está.

Por ahora, solo esto quiero decir:

Es mejor pedir perdón que permiso.
Tírate siempre de la plataforma mas alta.
Acepta la llamada.
Di sí a las propuestas.
Haga tu maldita tarea y entrégala a tiempo por el amor de dios.
No miente.
Mantente despierto.
El instinto tus tripas es creado por la síntesis de los mensajes que vienen de tu cabeza y de tu corazón—escúchalo.
No todos los consejos son los consejos correctos.
La mayoría de los consejos no son los consejos correctos.
Trepa los árboles.
Toma la otra cerveza.
No vas a vivir para siempre pero has vivido antes y tus células lo saben—al nivel molecular tu ya has sido casi todo.
No tengas miedo de la oscuridad.
No te preocupes mucho por tener o no tener sentido.
Si exhalas todo tu aire puedes acostarte de panza al fondo del mar.
Duerme.
Toma agua.
Repite.