CLAIRE AND THE WILD FAIRIES

(This story has a harp concerto, or is it a harp concerto with a story?)

        While Mommy and Daddy were having a discussion in the kitchen, Claire turned into a fairy and chased her kitty into the back yard. Suddenly a swallowtail appeared in front of her and fluttered out of her reach. It was so bright that Claire tried to grab it right out of the air, but it flitted away. As Claire was chasing the swallowtail, she tripped over the kitty and fell.

        Claire slowly sat up and shook her head. The swallowtail was gone. She got up and pushed the fence as hard as she could. A board suddenly came loose, and Claire squeezed through. She saw the swallowtail in the meadow and dashed after it. Suddenly she noticed three swallowtail fairies in the flowers.

      The fairies danced through the air and Claire chased after them. Suddenly a little old man appeared on a log.
   “You must beware!” he exclaimed. “Fairies are very bad. If you follow them, you will be lost!”

          Claire did not listen to the grumpy old man. She galloped after the fairies through the meadow. A tall fairy with blue wings suddenly appeared in front of her. He took out a wand and waved it over Claire's head, and she lifted off of the ground!

Click here to follow Claire into the forest.



HOLES

Near a series of smooth holes in the rock,





  we sat quietly
  for hours,










not catching anything.






               In one hole, a butterfly edged 
               on the slick surface 
               toward stagnant water.







In another, two       butterflies hung frozen,

wings open, 
the web 
barely visible
against gray stone.




You died a week later.  Twenty years,
and the butterflies are here again.

The stone

is cool

and smooth

almost

comfortable

enough

to sleep on.

                                 




In another 

twenty years,








                             I will wake,
                             the same age as you,
                             the water still flowing
                             into a deep pool while you gaze

at the leaves of the buckeyes,

the butterflies rising
and falling, 
our bodies







               still shadows

                                   in the flowing water. 

DEEP SEA FISHING, 1973

Dead Whale, Montana de Oro

THE DECKHAND

He held up a bait fish, the size of smelt,
showing how to hook it behind the skull 
so that it would keep swimming until something
gobbled it down. "They don’t feel nothin’,"

he insisted. I grabbed one from the bait pool, 
struggling to stick the hook in, the fish jerking
this way and that in my hand and releasing 
a faint, shrill scream as the barb entered
                                                                       Go on a different journey.
its brain. As I tossed my line into the sea,
the deckhand announced that he'd figured  
that two on this trip wouldn’t last, laughing
how he was wrong about one, the other curled up 

half-alive in the cabin on a cot under a blanket. 
“You know what? Never been wrong before,”
he smirked as he squinted at me, my Dad 
ignoring him. Suddenly a greenhorn reeled 

in a shark, and the deckhand shot it twice
in the head, but it kept flopping around,
so he heaved it over the side. One who kept 
drinking beer and barfing over the railing 
                                                                          Go on a different journey.
hooked a seagull, and the deckhand snorted 
as it hovered behind the ship like a kite. I
noticed a scar on the deckhand's forehead. 
“See this? I leaned over to pat a little girl
                                                                       
on the head, and she pulled out a gun 
and shot me, but I’m as hard-headed
as a shark. When I woke up, I asked 
what’d happened to her, and my friend 

told me that they killed her. Why did they
do that? She was only four years old!
She was a killer, he said. She’d do the same
to the next soldier. But you know what
                                                                   Take a different path.
was worse? A woman rushed up to me
and spit on me in the airport after
I made it home. They say the war’s 
almost over, but I say it’ll be over the day

fish stop feasting on each other."
He pulled open a burlap bag, where
a lingcod was swallowing a red snapper.
Then he coughed and howled with laughter.

BATTLING CURRENTS

Five of Wands

BATTLING CURRENTS AT THIRTEEN

Immersing myself in the upper San Joaquin,
I flowed with the current, following
my brother to a rock wall 
on the other side. Suddenly I could see
                                                                     Flow with the current
about thirty people around the bend, 
all naked, lounging on a cliff, one
woman slouching down by herself.
I stared, unable to clearly make out 

her physical features. My brother suddenly
plunged back against the current, thrashing
until he reached the other shore. I remained,
gawking at naked men, one of whom

stumbled to the brink and gazed down
accusingly. I edged closer
to the strong, middle current,
suddenly sensing the swift water
                                                              Swim against the current
could pin me to the rock wall--
I would be swept down the river
if I slid out a tiny bit farther. Suddenly
my overwhelming desire to see, 

for the first time, a real naked woman--
vanished. I shouted to my brother--
two years older and stronger--
but he was gone or wouldn’t answer.

He had ditched me in precarious places
often before, and suddenly certain that he
had lured me out there, I sensed a current
of hatred so strong that it might be deadly.
                                                                         Flow with the current
As I inched along the slick rock, away 
from the main current, back to a safer point 
(where I could not climb out), I cursed him
over and over. Exhausted, nearly frozen,

with my last ounce of willpower, I flailed
through the water so wildly it probably
looked like I was trying to beat the river
to death, but I made it back. Emerging

from the water, I no longer thought
that my brother had intended to harm me--
just that currents can be so powerful
that they can drown you.

DRIVEWAY BASKETBALL

Four of Cups

FIRST HOOPS

The first time, I shoved the ball toward the hoop
with all my might, missing by two or three feet.
The second time, the ball hovered on the rim
and dropped in. My brother punched me in the arm

as my father cheered. I dashed into the house
to tell my uncle I had made a basket. On TV,
a cross-legged man in an orange robe was on fire,
motionless as traffic swirled around him. Sobbing,

I flung myself outside. “Why would a man
light himself on fire?” I bleated. My uncle
stepped into the doorway: “The boy just needs
to get used to it.” (My Dad told me later

that in WWII my uncle’s plane was shot down 
and that my uncle was still having nightmares
about it.) My brother kept bouncing the ball.
My Dad put his arm around me for a moment,

then sauntered over to my uncle to ask
what had happened. Soon they went inside.
I paced the driveway for awhile, then grabbed
the ball, shooting again and again until I made it in.

TETHERBALL AT RECESS

Eight of Swords

TETHERBALL AT RECESS, 1968

As the tetherball chains chimed, we hung out
under the monkey bars. I was the disputed
tetherball champion of my class, but he refused
at the beginning of recess to play against me. 

When I asked him why, he told me about his cousin:
As he was riding his bike through the park, near
the rioting, a policeman pulled him down and beat him.
“He’s only twelve years old. He wasn’t hurting anyone:

Why would they do that?” “I don’t know,” I mourned--
“C’mon, let’s play tetherball!” He turned away, “I can’t. 
My family says I can’t be with white people anymore
because you just can’t trust them.” “But I

didn’t do anything!” I shouted over the ringing chains.
Squinting and sweating, he just shook his head
at everything I said as fists were thudding and balls
kept whirling. I didn’t play tetherball ever again.

COWBOYS AND INDIANS

Fiddleneck in House Pits near Pounding Stone

POUNDING STONE NEAR CAMPGROUND

Throwing a pine cone at my brother, 
I reeled through brittle needles to hide
behind a short, flat stone in the middle
of the forest:  I was the cowboy 

and he was the Indian. As I jumped up 
to toss a dirt clod, I saw smooth cups
brimming with humus in the stone. 
Standing transfixed as he charged,  “Stop!”

I yelled, as he pelted me with pebbles.
“You’re dead!” he shouted, “Told you--
I’m the cowboy!” Dizzy, I felt 
I was about to remember something,

Pestles in Pounding Stone

falling into some other life that I once 
had known. “Boys!” Dad shouted, “Time 
to go to the lake!” But I couldn’t move
from the stone in the middle of the woods. 

Finally, Dad ambled over. “What 
is this?” I asked. “Mud people 
lived here,” he sneered. “Let’s go!”
“Where are the mud people? Where

did they go?” I wondered aloud, but he
didn’t answer. For a moment I
was afraid, as he walked farther
and farther ahead of me, that I

could be like one of the mud people
who had vanished, so I paused,
alone between the strange stone
and the tiny boat by the shore.

PAPER BALL AND BROOMSTICK BAT

Toad in Tree Root

(Note: If you would like to hear a "concept album," click on the title below.)

BACKYARD  BASEBALL

One of us poised near tree roots,
grasping a ball of twisted, wet paper
wrapped in rubber bands, the other, in front
of the shed door, waving a broken broom handle.

The ball flew like thought
from mound to shed, and both of us           Open a door.
connected, four or five times, whacking
it over the leafed-out fruitless mulberry

to plop in the neighbor’s yard. Like
super stars in a world series game,
for an afternoon we were sometimes one 
with bat and ball, clearly reading

the opposition. Then Dad died,
and you soon moved away. The tree 
rotted from within, a stump where
two toads made their home                       Open door #2. 

in the hollow roots, the eaves
of the shed dangling a long beehive,
the house finally abandoned. 
In the shed thick with webs, 

I found the broom handle
and stepped up to the plate.  As 
I swung the bat, I recalled
how you smacked the ball so sweetly

that it sailed high over
the tree, over the fence,
and kept flying to where                          Open door # 3.
we could never find it again.

CHRISTMAS IDEAS

Bad Fairies

CHRISTMAS PRESENTS

My brother blew me a booger,

my sister boxed up a roach,                      Find some coins.

Jack wrapped a moldy burger,

Sally pinched till I screamed “Ouch.”

A bully gave me a wedgie,

the pastor put coal in my sock,

teacher awarded dried algae,                         Take a different path.

my best friend forked over a rock.

But I gave the best presents ever

to throw one and all for a loop.                             Open a door.

They’ll think me and doggie so clever

when they unwrap their gifts stuffed with poop.

PLAYING IN A FAIRY GARDEN

Gnome and Fairies with Tiger Lilies

FAIRY GARDEN

The moment Mom allowed a fairy into her garden, 
I glimpsed the skulking shadow of a troll.
Before I could even say, "I beg your pardon,”          Take a different path.
It commanded me to pay a toll.

“I just want to sniff the handsome roses,”
I whimpered as I backed away in fright.                     
“I only want to chew your little toeseees”--
A gremlin lunged to take a tiny bite.

I screamed and started flying toward a door
blocked by mocking elves whom I abhor.                     
Swarms of sylphs lifted from the hellebore,
finding hair, ears, and nostrils to explore.

Goblins beat on drums of water                              Find a strange room.
while a gnome cut loose a raucous snore.
The troll jumped on the teeter-totter
and made a phoenix soar.

If Mom won’t make the beasties leave,
I might begin to twitch--                                           
I’m tempted to make them all behave                    
by changing into a witch.

PLAYING TAG BY THE KINGS RIVER

Lupine Near Kings River

TAG 

They twirled me around                       
ten times at the edge                            
of the campground                        
then scattered 
                                                                      Take a different path.
as I swayed a little, then
lunged at them, each one
vanishing into bushes               
by the river, the water

roaring into a still,                                   Take a different path.
deep pool, then 
sweeping around a bend, 
a phoebe chirping, barely
                                                                        
out of my reach, on a twig
above the shining edge 
of the pool and the rapids--                    Take a different path.
I was tempted to forget the game

Woodstar, Fiesta Flowers, Chinese Houses
Near the Kings River

and swim across, the water 
smooth for a stretch,                             Take a different path.            
then pitilessly raging,
but I saw my brother,

fifty feet away, scrambling                            
as if his life depended
on it, and I sprinted
like mad, twenty feet                 Take a different path.

away before he 
disappeared into
the deer brush, and I                            
gave up. Alone 

Vetch and Lupine near Kings River

and lost, I knew that I
had failed.  As I                       
leapt across a backwash,
my friends seemed

so distant, impossible                              Take a different path.
to reach. Two feet away,
the water raged, the sun
kindling my breast,                

the trees and bushes so
peaceful that I felt
one with sycamores                        
and oaks and plants

whose names I didn’t know, 
my soul for the first time                              Take a different path.
connecting with the spirit
of the river--and I no longer
                                               
wanted anything else.
An hour later, my brother
found me and scornfully
asked where I’d been,                           Take a different path.

before we marched back to camp
where I saw again in the distance
the shining edge of the pool            
and the pitiless rapids.