Prolix Panda Poetry

Buried underground in labeled casks,

Left to ferment and fester into poison for years,

Sweetness slowly transformed to burning astringence.

Overflowing my cup, when finally cracked open

As a special occasion.

I'd choke down what I could and cough up the rest.

I didn't know it could be different.

I'd never believed that terroir was something I'd be able to taste,

That the verjus you poured gently into my cup would taste all the sweeter for the care you put into the earth.

That you'd never spill a drop.

That I'd start to ask for a second glass with dinner.

One day you took me to your vineyard.

And we laid together on the earth

As you fed me grapes still warm from the sun

That I slowly chewed to savor the taste.

I dared to think of throwing open my cellar doors

To see what kind of sweetness I might find in my own anger

Fresh from the earth, in the light of day,

And I wondered what you might eat from my hand.

The younger nymphs remain below the surface Their puckered lips a killer’s deadly kiss For once they see their target, they don’t miss But I know well enough to not be nervous

From mud and water, now they wait for morning And quiver, for their wings and dawn are nigh Once naiads, now to aurae they’re transforming These ancient creatures, readying to fly In sunlight, how they’ll glitter, hues adorning The clearest, fiercest pieces of the sky.

My favorite is a shining, rainbow fish.

For just one night they congregate to stitch

The bottom of the lake to all its creek beds.

Who knows what kind of sacraments they follow?

Has anybody studied them at all?

This chief of minnows, quietly enthralls

The humble otter watching herons swallow

Their parents disappeared from whence they came

The spring-warm water gleams with milky roe

But only for a week do eggs remain

Whatever may come next, we know they go.

So, if you’re on the lake recall their name:

These modest mysteries dashing deep below

You bruised me as you readied me to eat You held too tightly, beckoning decay Til warmth and softness all did rot away And left a heart so hard you'd break your teeth

That heart lay there, unable to pretend Discarded and unwanted in the dirt But then my gentle hand did so extend To cover, water, testify its worth And when I learned to love myself again A peach tree came to grow within that earth

When cherry blossoms fall, we need not weep It’s not the end, but only just the start that seeds tomorrow’s blossoms, by the art of something more substantial, ripe, and sweet

A tree will bloom each spring, or so I’ve learned our hearts can show us how with love and grace We grow as trees, I promise and affirm not blossoms, disappeared without a trace and every year we always will return to find a healing kind of blooming place

Their children, left behind, in generous sweeps On blades of kelp and high up in the wrack A holiday before they must go back At most, they stay for just a couple weeks

Like many tiny perfect grains of sand Each egg contains a wiggling pair of eyes That seem to chase the shadows from my hand The flashing movements take me by surprise A wonder I’ve begun to understand: From herring – salmon, orcas – all arise

Inventively, you warm the milk with ease A cozy fragrance wafts throughout the room Then vinegar is stirred in with a spoon And all the milk is coaxed to turn to cheese

I take the cheese to blend it smooth with cream And watch you carefully cut and fry the dough I fill a piece that warmly lets off steam Then top with syrup, chopped pistachio We giggle as we taste our paid-off scheme Relearning things our mothers didn’t know

You tear the bread and offer me a share Adorned with chevre and sticky honey-glaze Our fingers brush together as we graze On candied nuts, Manchego, brie, and pear

The staff begin to turn down for the night We pay the check, and dawdle with our crumbs To linger in the swelling candlelight And promise that the night has just begun I sit up straight to eat a final bite And watch you licking honey from your thumb

The rage and fear may tempt you to grow hard, But keep your softness, try to understand, And use your voice to fiercely warm your hands. Stay gentle; every one of us is scarred.

To be a nurse is both a mask and cape, and focusing your clearest sense of self. It’s easy from this pressure just to break If all you see's how many need your help. But what you need’s already taken shape: It’s how to comfort.  Never known, but felt.

Above, a pair of ospreys slowly soar Below, the cormorants dive down and glide for every life the meadow will provide in waters free and clear forevermore

The salmon, far from home, in shadows gleam And bide their time preparing for the sea Out there they'll hold to memories of their stream While fighting through a wild reality But here a final moment just to dream Of everything their odyssey will be

Once fleck of gold now silver flashing thread comes home to sylvan streams an acolyte surrendering thalassic appetite to swim upstream and feed their fountainhead

I watch the water briefly come alive a memory of once unbroken chains and pray we'll fight to let these gifts survive and keep them surging through the forests' veins May some year bring the salmon to arrive In numbers far more many than the rains

Dashing between the puddles

and the playing dogs.

Who leave behind so little past their names

While wondering what they of little fame

Would share if they had ever once been asked.

I watch the birth of records unsurpassed

And frantically attempt to do the same

While haunted by the growing shade of shame

From taking paths that push me on too fast.

We only have such little time alive

And legacies are built from countless days

I can’t control which piece of me survives

Or what the future’s inquiry portrays

But could I have but one wish to contrive

Then let my love be that of me which stays.

i wonder at all the things I don’t know about the writers

and think about how frantically I document my life, like so many others

we immortalize ourselves in countless photos, recordings, writings, and other creations

some try to immortalize themselves in their children

even though we have no control what will be preserved

what people will remember

but what would I want people to remember?

what would I want the archeologists to find three thousand years from now as they excavated my life?

certainly not that I ate a fancy quiche today, or that I took the bus, though I’m sure they’d find that very interesting

I’d want them to know that there were times when I saw what I thought to be extraordinary things

I’d want them to know that I loved someone, so much, so very much

that I had many mundane pains, but I still saw a point in staying here as long as I could

So that I could see more extraordinary things

so that I could kiss my love as many times as I possibly could

and that I cried thinking about these things

and that I hoped that whoever comes after me will have someone to remember what made them cry

My little brother, just home from the hospital, turned away because he isn't sick enough, is alone and in pain. He needs his sister, but he has no one. My patient tonight is a boy my brother's age, alone and in pain. He needs his mom, but he has me, and I don't feel much like a hero. I try to be mentally present with the boy who has me instead of the boy that doesn't. I tuck him into bed a little more tenderly than I need to, and try not to hate the world that has stolen my brother's hero from him while praising me for the sacrifice I protect it from. Neither I, my brother, nor my patients have what they need. But we make do. After all, I'm a hero of this world, and this world needs me to protect it from the pain of human need. It's not very profitable, after all

She wore a sparkling coat and hummed a song

While sipping from the flowers all along

The path that bore the kiss of early May.

I heard her raise a lilting voice and say

While lifting wings both delicate and strong,

"This lovely world is where my light belongs,

And surely this is where I'll always stay."

When one by one the feathers left her head

Like flowers blown away into the sky

She kept her eyes upon the path ahead

And journeyed on, the loss she dared defy.

Like Ariadne following her thread

The hummingbird will know e'er how to fly.

Watches cloud-grey water

For a silver flash.