This week I am on Bowen Island near Vancouver, BC at a place called Rivendell. It serves as a retreat center where I have slept and walked in the rain forest, ate good food and written poetry. Today we gave each other various topics to write about. One was simply, “Losing It.” I have not read much in the news about the financial turmoils in the world, but everyone talks about it and senses it is worse than we could ever imagine. No surprise that thoughts of this crisis got into the following poem.
Under the mattress,
Behind the cushions,
In my 401K plan and demurring portfolio,
At the Business Park,
Throughout the global market place,
Everyone’s doing it.
The cool cats and nerdy geniuses,
sudden kin with homeless men and welfare moms,
stare transfixed at the jutting, zigzag staircase to panic and poverty.
Everyone suddenly in community,
in the corporate devolution,
Everybody losing it.
The next poem I wrote more as a playwright than a poet.
It’s in my dresser, top drawer.
No, the one on the right.
Of course you can wear it.
You can have it. (smile)
It was your grandmothers you know.
She gave it to me when I was your age.
I’ve seen you eye it before.
I thought I would probably end up getting buried with it,
Or maybe give it to a granddaughter one day,
Since I only had boys.
What would my boys do with these pearls?
Your father always said he wanted a little girl.
We never realized we already had one in you all along.
How could we know?
Being your mother, how could I not know?