See How the Light Comes

See how the light comes
in through the transom
and stops to rest on the far
wall by the artificial holly hocks and lilies.

See how it moves slowly
up thowar the second window but never quite meets
there like lovers
separated by war
or illness.

the room, the whole room,
turns a soft yellow
possibly golden, almost white
for a few seconds then the light
goes dark behind tall western mountains.

lovers briefly
no longer touching
did they ever lace their fingers
and brush their lips of light
pure light

the setting sun
the transom windows
the house of light
where I live.

My Eulogy April 2015

For a class I'm to write my eulogy
makes me a little uncomfortable
but so what. I plan on living until
I'm 120, in good health and good spirits.

Carolyn was a great poet and artist
that's what she really wanted.
Garrison Keeler read her poem
"Where Does the Money Go"
on the Writers' Almanac, her claim
to fame. Her paintings displayed.

But for almost 50 years she was successful
in Corporate America. The President of three
banks, without a college degree; a teacher and
substitute teacher, without a college degree.
Married twice, with four children by her first
husband. Twelve grandchildren and to date,
eight great grandchildren. Her heritage was Spainish
from the Basque area of Spain, French, Dutch, German, Danish

She was born December 29 to Katherine Hendrick Jensen
and Ronald Jensen in El Paso Texas but left there for
California when she was in high school. From
California she moved to Colorado in 1993, where
she lived continuously. She loved her family, nature, camping,
ancient history, ruins, adventure, change.

On................she stepped through an open portal
into another dimension.  A big change for her, a big adventure.
She was studying to become a Practitioner with Religious
Science through the Center for Spiritual Living, Colorado Springs.
Where she lives now, she does not need to be certified.
She does not need any degrees, or accomplishments.

Her wishes were that her ashes be scattered at the North Rim,
of the Grand Canyon, at Chaco Canyon, and the top of Pikes Peak,
and at the confluence in Lake City, Colorado.

Prayer Trees

Ute Prayer Trees
thought to help find water, trails,
burial sites and medicinal plants
called The Grandfather Trees
of the Black Forest used
sometimes for prophesy

every living thing has a spirit
the prayer tree lifting the words
to a high pine crown and then
blown away by the wind
the breath of the creator

trail marker trees twisted thirty-degrees in a bend,
bowing the sapling and tying it into shape,
or arborglyphs burned into the bark, or stripped
bark four inches apart

their twists saved their lives
too crooked to use in buildings
and for some reason
spared in the great Black Forest Fire
sacred trees
mystery trees
prayer trees for 800 years

The Smell of Oranges

The Smell of Oranges
for Steve Kowit
1938-2015


In the middle of the afternoon
on April 8 while I was watching
a movie on tv, the room was filled
with the smell of oranges.

I was the only one home
and there were no oranges in the house
but the scent was so strong
I turned my head
and stood up.

and thought of Steve Kowit
who died on April 1
the first day of National Poetry
Month as well as April Fools Day
my poetry professor

and I even said in a whisper
"Is that you, Steve"
although I don't believe in those visits
and have never had any before
not even when my father died.

I sat back down and closed my eyes.
The smell lingered, and I breathed it in
in long slow breaths. After awhile it dissipated.
I stayed seated for a long time after it was gone
trying to figure it out.

I'm several poems behind on my April
Poetry Blog and am hoping he will help
me catch up. This is a start. I don't know
where he actually is, but I'm up for oranges
in my living room. God, I'm missing him.

Full Blood Moon Turned Red

For Steve Kowit, 1938-2015

Because we were friends
he always sent me his books;
The Dumbbell Nebula
The First Noble Truth
Heart in Utter Confusion
Lurid Confessions
and the one on writing poetry
In the Palm of Your Hand

His last email to me was on my birthday
December 29, 2014
and he asked for my address
so that he could send more books
but he died before he could
get them to me

So I am cutting his poems
out of The Sun
and making my own book
of his latest poetry
Putting the poems
in plastic sleeves

and then into a three-ring binder
I haven't had any dreams about him
or heard his voice
but I know his presence
in every word he wrote

and I will collect them
and reread them
by the light of the full Blood Moon
turned red by a total eclipse

THE PASSING OF A POET, NOT JUST ANY POET, A DAMN GOOD ONE
For Steve Kowit, 1938-4/1/2015

I know all the drawbacks to Facebook
but yesterday I began to see photos of
my first, and best, poetry teacher Steve Kowit, 
with smiling friends, at readings, maybe having
a beer. Then today, even more photos, so I
shared one on my timeline. Later today

I saw a post with one of his pictures,
about his death.  And I read all the tributes
and a poem for him by Tom Marshall called
Still Developing (in three parts, for Steve)
which drove the news home, Steve had died.

At first I just said, well I don't believe it,
and then I moved into the next stage of grief,
wrestling with a spear of ice stuck in my heart.
I am sad, that's all there is to it. 

I wonder what it's like in Poet Heaven.

fine linen paper and high-end pens, maybe
a Mont Blanc, or a short sub of yellow pencil,
or a hundred computers just for you,
if you wrote that way.  I don't even remember
if you wrote with a pen, or pencil, on a yellow
legal pad, or the computer. But I want to know.

I have a lot of his books which this afternoon I
will find while the sun slants through the winter-dirty
french doors by the bookcases.  I remember a lot
of poetry readings in San Diego, and one time we
drove to maybe Mexicali for a Border reading. And
I was in his classes in old school buildings a really
long long time ago.


Poetry is a different way to see the world with poet eyes,
or hear words with poet ears, to taste water like communion,
he gave that to me.  Wish I was there
to say good-bye. Adios. La Chaim, although one
probably doesn't say that at the memorial service.

Carolyn Hull
4/3/2015

Colorado Spring

Colorado spring
a hard mix of winter with a few days
of warmth so that the tulips
and irises want to bloom but know
to wait for something they can trust.

Colorado spring
is a surprise and very short
It goes from being dark and cold
to hot with the fans running,
in just a few weeks right into summer.

I make iced tea but the weather
is too cold to drink it, pack away
my winter sweaters, and then have
to go to the garage to unpack them.
Waiting for something I can trust

which isn't a Colorado spring.