Now You See It, Now You Don’t

I wonder about the universe:
why there is something instead of nothing,
how planets and stars experience time
and if now is merely a human perception.

Astronomers theorize on why and how
while days turn like a book’s pages—
my novel nearing the end.

Though I lived in it, I didn’t know
there was a now until Ram Das told me
to be in it—to look, listen, smell, feel,
breathe and taste the moment.

I plan the future, probe my past,
and forget to be in the present,
where I age, yet feel ageless.
Now flows through me—a lifeline,
a tightrope, a sword.

Take me to a monastery—
let me finger beads
in now, for eternity.

The Nap

A dozen white pelican brides preen
on the island at Laguna Lake. Earlier
they swam in a circle corralling fish.

Now, huddled together, beaks tucked,
they form one big feather bed.

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Unless there’s a glitch, Garrison Keillor will read one of my poems on Monday, November 3, on NPR at 9.
Penciled in Press

Garrison Keillor, host of A Prairie Home Companionâ and of The Writer's Almanacâ, would like to include a poem by Jeanie Greensfelder in his program. We understand you hold rights to the poem, and I am writing to arrange permission include it on The Writer’s Almanac.

The poem and broadcast date are:  “First Love” Biting the Apple  Jeanie Greensfelder November 3, 2014
The Writer’s Almanac is a daily radio program produced by American Public Media (APM).  In each program Mr. Keillor presents a list of cultural events and anniversaries, many associated with literature and literary figures, then ends with the poetry reading.  APM currently distributes the program for broadcast to about 600 non-commercial public radio stations around the country.  The program audio is also streamed and podcast from and archived on the APM website at http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org and may be streamed and archived on carrying station websites as well. 

by Jeanie Greensfelder Psychologist, poet, Hospice of SLO volunteer Author: Biting The Apple Available through Amazon.com

From Morro Bay to the Baja

On Morro Bay’s Embarcadero, things happen.
Seals and dogs bark at each other. Fishermen
unload and weigh their catch as pelicans
and seagulls seize dropped cod.

Out on the wharf, I talk with two men
repairing a fifty-foot sailboat, planning
their trip to Mexico. I admire their spirit,
and share my longing to see the Baja.
They invite me to join them.

Yet I head home on Highway One
to fix dinner for my husband, watch TV,
floss, brush my teeth and go to bed.

I want adventure, yet I choose routine.

You never know about adventures—the open seas
could bore me day after day. Those cute guys
might want a cook or someone to scrub decks.

You never know about routines—I’m home,
and, after dinner, as I wash dishes, the sponge
floating on the water turns into a sailboat.
I nudge it toward shore and I’m in the Baja.

 

 

December 23, 1962

At age twenty-two
I parked my old Dodge,
and sat there for the longest time
imagining Christmas morning

when I’d see my three-year-old
uncover her own stove
made from an end table,
doors added, burners painted,
and discover tiny plastic pans,
sunny-side up eggs, and a spatula.

I wanted to unwrap that moment,
and live two childhoods at once.