There is a squirrel in the roses sitting there looking at me, a squirrel in the roses standing up, statue still, what does he see.

He sees shoppers so hungry and laden with prizes – required purchases and impulse buys sundry. These shoppers are rushing or strolling by in all sizes.

He sees people gathering treasures and fancy food The same as he gathers nuts and acorns for storage. He hears chattering – – loving, innocuous, sometimes rude. He listens to kids and watches others of more age.

The squirrel stands and seems to listen intently as I stand looking at him. Contemplating this squirrel statue sends me behind convention's scrim to see what he sees on a whim.

Fast life Fast change Fast food Instant gratification quick change artists grab the quick prize then run to the hierarchy to question Success Cooperation to judge who receives Benefits from pigeon holes with monetary fences to keep the fat eaters from the lean needers now that freedom seems to mean obedience to sameness For today's lunch I will go a little bit slower and chew my life

My Mother Believes in Books

Books you can hold in your hands,

Books you can place on your shelf,

Books you can own.

She believes in reading

To yourself, your children, your family,

And that reading aloud makes the best readers.

We had all the Oz books.

The Narnia books. Dr. Seuss books.

My brothers and I could hardly wait

For the heffalump chapter of Winnie-the-Pooh.

We could hardly contain our glee

To see where Harold's purple crayon

Would take him.

We watched with wonder to see where

The runaway bunny would run next.

As I grew up I had Mary Poppins

Pippi Longstocking

Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle

Meg and Charles Wallace.

My shelves still hold The Secret Garden

My Golden Press Fairy Tale Book.

In bed at night I read my son

To Kill a Mockingbird.

My mother believes in books.

I believe in books, too.

Copyright by Cathy Dana, 2010

"I've never read in public until now,"
a 70 year old man begins, "and WOW
I'm feeling so empowered. Why did I wait so long?"
A seventh grade student begins the same way;
voice quivers on the first line --
by end of poem grows strong.
Good audience helps the poet along.
Like endback with the ball the words run bold,
in poem the poet knows touchdown, score, and goal!
"My poems tell inmost secrets," one poet said.
Another said "I've faced an audience
and overcome my dread."
And all have something their heart burns to tell,
and before the friendly faces, tell it well.
"I am so glad to read here," new poets say,
"I learned how great it feels to be a poet today."
The other poets have nodded, smiled, they know,
they too read their poems here and can agree it's so.

So often I am at the store next door
to Safeway's store,
-- that's Borders ---
devouring words.
Sometimes plugged in, in their upstairs café
where computer devotees and writers meet.
Tonight I'll read ingredients
on labels on boxes and cans,
read a new recipe,
cook something delicious, spoon by spoon.
But I'll be soon again plugged into poetry.
Alameda Towne Centre Safeway has tables too;
with coffee cup near, someone is at their laptop
here.
Writing what? Thinking maybe emails to
remembered loved ones? Shopping list?
Maybe a poem?

I was in Greece before and soon will be
again, island to islands in that turquiose sea.
I see the flecks of golden in this soup,
before me, dolmas wrap my taste buds like the sun
on olive tree leaves on a mountain side.
When I am there I may be thinking then
of home, Towne Centre, and the sight of
San Francisco mistily across the Bay,
and of you, friends.
But now, I think of poets who will be gathering there,
the Muses of Olympus welcoming.
As fragrances in Daphne's take my heart,
bond Alameda/Greece in harmony,
and I thank that Poetry Muse, far from her home,
who meets me now in Daphne's, stays with me.

How I became the fastest
gun in the West --- that is, West Coast!
So legendary I could boast
I felt no fear – no danger near --
I could make a stand
when I held my famous trusty gun in hand.
You see, this place named after Beverly
empowered me. What a fantastic entity.
That gal sold me this gun at Alameda
Towne Centre (West Coast. South Shore).
She would have sold me more
but one fast gun was all it took. Look! Look
there on the wall, a good old-fashioned hanging
yes, I did it all —
mosaic, sequins, tapestry, I framed and hung them,
my kind of art. I even made my fancy clothes, you see.
Decorated them most speedily.
I did my best. And I well deserve a place in history
and to be remembered by posterity
as the fastest glue-gun in the West.

Daphne’s Café

The sun god raced his horses across the sky

in hot pursuit of her beauty, but Daphne

wasn’t interested in Apollo, his golden hair, fiery chariot,

his red mustangs. Other girls envied her,

"wooed by a God – OMG, "they wrote on her Facebook page.

"OMG - 2 old," she replied, "2 n-tense – OMG."

Too many suns had he run from East to West,

too many woman had that chariot pursued and caught.

Still in high school, she loved running, dancing, joking around

with her friends, trying on personalities like new clothes,

slipping back into the comfort of her old clothes, the ones

that still fit, that is. That boy in Math that liked her, touched

her arm gently at Choir practice when she squeezed past him

on the runner stair, him she liked – somewhat - liked the safe

feel of him, liked the way he smiled into her eyes, embarrassing her

just a little, liked him around her, smiled at him from

her insides out. So, when Apollo made his move against

her one day at Crown Point Beach, after parking his chariot

at sun’s set in Alameda, she ran, as fast as the winds blown up

by Poseidon to help her, snatched that boy by the hand, running

toward her along the sands, till both, done with running, stood

together on a spot, believe it or not, that Gaia, the earth, loved

more than a lot. Out of their love for each other, their mutual respect,

Gaia transformed that spot on the spot into a Greek Café where, until

today Daphne’s picture hangs, a beautiful display - Daphne’s Café,

and where that boy and she still sometimes stand today,

ordering combos for four or more - disguised as moms and dads.

Crow drops a feather beside the right rear car door, where she will find it, reaching for the groceries. She picks it up, seeks to offer thanks to him in the tree above her head. He shies, flies off to deliver messages of warning, answer calls for meaning, check his email, text a friend, alight beside dark pretty maidens, fluffing feathers on other blocks.

She does not hear him nor any of his kin today, kin whose caws disrupt this quiet street, blend natural voice with clock alarms at 6:00 a.m. except Tuesdays, when recyclers percuss on large blue cans. Plastic or not, they clang, compete, assert a neighbor’s right, legitimate as the street sweepers whoosh on alternate-side- of-the-street parking days, to encourage early bird behaviors in residents rushing to move Toyotas, Cherokees, Pathfinders, an occasional old Mustang. On this chatty lane, live mocking birds, robins, wrens who nest, raise children, party, spend time on power lines above humans laughing, barbecuing, trimming vines, exchanging information.

Crow eyes Falcon swoop in one morning, set up house atop the redwood tree, feels tall branches quiver at Falcon’s sweep in graceful arcs above the neighborhood. Crow keeps his distance. Feathered neighbors notice Falcon, go about daily chores in the shadow of her shade. Her, squirrels busily ignore, run par course on tree trunks and porches, pluck budding plants for appetizers, chitter arrogant at the woman chiding with "shoo’s" and sweeping broom on the sidewalk floor.

Dinner brings discussion time in plume-y homes, what to do about Falcon, listed under "Birds of Prey" in every pocket guide to bird watching in Borders Books just across the way at Otis St. "Only a matter of time," they say, "until someone gets hurt." Crow and family, one street over, by second sight confined, bide their time on telephone lines. Too soon, Falcon feeds on carcass on a trimmed front lawn. Next day at Falcon’s window – feathery sounds, then the cawing fast surrounds, as a darkening black cloud spirals its way up the redwood tree. Hours later, Falcon flees. On his way home, Crow drops a feather. No police report is found by stringers for the local papers.

© 2010 Mary Loughran

Read 6/19/10 - Borders Books, Alameda – as part of their Summer Site Write Program