Pennies

I could measure the excitement by
Just how close the train was.
Walking along the tracks,
Hot summer days, finding marbles,
When the rails would vibrate,
We would look behind us,
And in front,
And quickly pull the pennies
From our pockets, and lay them on the rail.
Then it became a waiting game.
Suddenly the train wasn't coming that fast.
Step away from the tracks,
Huddle in the ditch if you like,
Feel the power of the train,
Air pushing against my body,
As the caboose went,
Remember to wave at the people.
Then it was up on the tracks again.
The penny never stayed on the rail.
In fact, we hardly ever found them,
But, occasionally, there it would be,
Elongated, crushed, turned into something
Different.
These pennies on the tracks.

The Language of Loss

Pardon me for not being very fluent,
I am finding the lump in my throat
Interferes with any coherent utterance.
I am having trouble referring to her,
She is my dog, or was my dog,
Rationally, I know she was,
I had the honor of sitting with her,
Doing the one last thing I could.
But, really, I am having a problem,
Saying she WAS a good dog.
She is very present in my mind.
I am still stepping over her in the dark.
Assuming I am being watched from across the room.
Freshly shocked when I see the empty spot.
So, please, forgive me.
I am just not fluent in the language of loss.

Winter

Days have shortened,
No hint of warmth is left in the air.
Only cold greets me as I step outside,
Whether under cold sunshine
Or graying skies.
Autumn looks balmy from here,
But it is gone one more time.
Winter has arrived,
Fires burn in houses,
We tuck ourselves in,
And the cats come inside,
Smelling of woodsmoke.

A Gift

 I am not sure how to take this,
Noticing the green of the grass,
And the warmth of the day,
If I block out the bare branches,
Here and there,
I can fool myself into believing
That spring is here once again.
It almost smells right,
The only thing wrong is
A subtle undertone of decay.
And yet I wonder,
Who do I thank for this gift,
Of an almost spring day
In the middle of fall?

Vulnerabilities

To the old man, walking in three step stages,
I can tell it is painful,
But I also see the pride you have.
Independence in your steps.
Nothing hopeless in your face,
As you stop one more time.
You never do set the gallon of milk down,
Carefully cradling it, and then,
Switching hands, and taking three more steps.
Stopping again, looking around,
Rheumy eyes perhaps spotting the colors,
Color in abundance on the autumn trees.
And then, groceries are shifted,
Feet move, gnarled hands grip.
It continues, presumably until
You get home,
And can finally set your load down.

Memories

It is that closing time of year,
Leaves have been beaten off the trees,
By days of rain and gloom.
This type of weather begs,
For me to remember those gone before.
Melancholy thoughts of endings,
Refusing to see any new beginnings.
I think of my mother, gone a long time now,
If measured in years, not so long,
Twelve, I think.
It might as well be a million,
It seems as if it has always been this way.
And it isn't bad, nor good,
It just is.
I think of my father in law,
Surely he is in a better place.
It really has only been a few years,
Again, it might as well be forever,
And grandma, has it really been fourteen years?
Autumn always makes me think of them,
And I mark the time in our clumsy years,
Miss them, not with a sharp pain,
But in a gentle, autumnal, melancholy way.

Laying Low

Cloudy days hover over me,
Dampness soaks the air,
Slowing me down.
Thoughts slide in my head,
Nothing swift or worthwhile.
The outdoors matching inside,
Happy a distant thing.
Sort it out,
Work around the house,
Just to feel ok about something.

Charcoal

I can imagine, tonight
Driving by the burnt down playground,
In the night, rain falling,
The smell of a fire,
Doused by water.
The unique feeling, the taste
As the ash hits the back of my throat.
It is like when I saw the picture,
Flames gouting out, childhood in flames,
That time I could imagine,
The taste of the wood smoke,
Hitting the back of my throat,
Gritty and black, fluming out.
When I saw it, in the gentle light of dusk,
The remains of towers reaching for the sky,
Charred fence, yellow tape.
How sad it was, melted childhood,
Burned to the ground.

Before

Before I fell off the edge of the world,
I was happy and healthy,
Life happened, I rolled with it,
Accepting what came,
Not questioning what I saw.
Simpler times,
Easy to just go with it,
Finding joy in all the simple stuff,
Day to day joys,
Sunshine and butterflies,
And then I tripped somehow,
Skidded off the tracks,
Hit the lows, and nothing made sense,
Life was pummeling me,
Belly shots, head shots,
It was all the same.
And then, one day, it was like before,
I was happy and healthy,
Accepting what came,
Finding joy in all the simple stuff.
Maybe even more joyous,
It could all go away,
Then it would be like before,
When I skidded off the tracks.

Dust

Hanging in the air,
A dirty fog,
Blown in on the wind,
Every street light has a halo.
Surreal the way it came in.
Dust making false clouds,
Obscuring stars,
Dust storm.

Mammogram

I tell myself it is better to know than to not know,
It is the smart thing to do to take the diagnostic test.
Why, then, does it provoke such anxiety?
It really isn't the actual procedure,
I know that is only a moments discomfort.
Anxiety dogs my mind as the time draws nearer.
I tell the lady that yes, there is a "history",
Mother, but it was the lung cancer that got her.
Any updates for this year?
Well, yes, I have to tell you my sister was diagnosed.
Earlier this year, diagnosed one month,
Down a breast the next,
All because she took three years off in her forties.
I tell myself on the way to the appointment
That surely fifty is the magic number,
Which means I have a few more years to be carefree.
Not so, my mind screams from the depths,
This can come any time now,
It is a very real possibility that it will be me
Looking down the barrel of the cancer gun.
And so, as I do the "rational" thing,
I only want to know now if it is good news.
Then I can forget the specter for one more year.

Sleepless Nights

They have started to look the same to me,
These nights of no sleep,
The times I venture up the stairs.
Each of these times,
I see the moon shining in the window,
Looking out, I see the town laid out in cool light.
Shadows are deeper, and sound carries further.
I think to myself on these nights,
We lie to ourselves as adults,
We say that everything is just as it is in the daytime.
My mind and heart tell me differently,
For something could lurk in those shadows,
Laid out in the cold light of the impersonal moon.
I imagine many things, from other people,
All the way, in these late night fancies,
To trolls, and mystical creatures,
Only allowed to roam on the night of the full moon.
I stand and gaze out the window,
Thankful on these moonlit nights
There is a pane of rational glass between me and outside.

A Cat

I wonder if she remembers,
This far down the road.
In her old age, what she thinks?
Does she remember tropical
Dreams, lizards and humidity?
Do cats remember like we do?
I can't answer this one,
The cat can't say that
Fifteen years ago, she was brought
From a tropical island stateside.
I never expected her to live this long
But I have to guess
They breed them tough in the tropics.

What I Wish I Was Told

It's ok to make mistakes,
None of us are perfect.
Heck, I make mistakes,
So how can I expect perfection
From you?
Well, that really was not
The worst thing that could have happened.
I can tell you stories,
A lot of them, about the things I did.
Not all of them turned out that good,
I tried a few different things,
And they blew up in my face.
Not literally, but you know,
That sick, sinking feeling?
Yeah, that one, where it all goes
To pot?
I have experienced that,
And embarrassment, yes, that happens too.
OK, it is ok. You will live through it.
I won't make fun of you because of it.
These are a few things,
I wish I was told.

Time

Suddenly it seems to have happened,
Seasons turned, years passed,
Never could have imagined this.
I don't think it has been that long,
We were young, hopeful,
Years laid before us in an endless plain.
By my reckoning, we have used
About half of them, maybe less,
No longer as optimistic.
Still, I never would have predicted,
We would be sitting here,
About halfway down the road,
Still moving along.
I wonder at the end of the line,
If I will look back and think
It went just as fast as the first half?

Park

She was middle aged,
Weathered face, dirt ingrained,
Walking like she was beaten down,
I could hear the group of kids laugh,
She came closer, looking distressed,
Chapped lips parted to ask the question,
"Can you pray for my son?"
I say yes, seeking to offer comfort.
Not telling her, I am  not the praying kind.
She volunteers, in a puzzled voice,
"Those kids are telling me my son turns into a dragon,
And flies to the hills, and he breathes out stars."
I hurt for this lady,
Wishing the teens had a bit of mercy.
The lady walks slowly away,
Asking each and every person she sees,
"Have you seen my son today?
Can you pray for him?"

Seasonal Musing

Autumn's soft kiss is plying
The rounded, flushed cheek of summer,
With tiny kisses
Layered across Summer's face
Like a trail of freckles across
A young girls nose.
Autumn blows gently
In whispered secrets
Quietly told in a tidy cupped ear.
Summer smiles and laughs,
Running across a field,
Hair streaming behind
In a glorious cascade of many colors.
At this moment, Summer is in the lead,
But it is a foregone conclusion
That Autumn will win the footrace.

Stench

All it takes is a moment of distraction,
The cat ran by, I thought the dog chased it.
She never stops when I tell her,
Or all this could have been avoided.
But, no, it was bound to happen this way.
And there I stood, not sure what went on.
Until I saw the black and white,
Cartoony striped animal march across the yard.
It was in no hurry, tail held high and fluffed
To an enormous size.
And then the stench hit, and
Mercifully burnt my nose out right away.
Not so for the poor dog,
Trying so hard to scrape it off her face.
Poor dog.
Poor me.

Motes

Stars shining in the sky,
Flickers off the dark surface,
Swept out in a spiral,
As I am pulled from the earth,
Uprooted, blown out there,
Joining the star song,
Not floating passively,
Burning brightly,
Another mote in the universe.

Honestly

I believe you should be able to ask questions.
When you need to know something that went on,
Ask, and I will do my best to answer.
My sense of fairness forces me to tell you,
This is my opinion, based on what I knew at the time.
I have figured out some stuff since then also,
And have no problem telling you what and how.
I suppose you might wonder why I always try
To answer thoughtfully and honestly,
It is because I really never knew what to ask,
And when I did, I would be diverted.
I love you for calling to let me know
That my open door policy ticked someone off.
Thanks for that, it means so much.
Even more, I love that it didn't scare me,
Or bother me. I knew it would come sometime.

Kitten

Whisper kitten,
Good company,
Not surprised,
Purring happily,
Taking an impromptu bath
In the middle of the night.
Upset?
Not at all,
Awake, interested,
Ready to pounce,
On my rapidly moving fingers,
Losing interest,
Accepting caresses,
Purring loudly.
And catching sleep
That eludes me tonight.

Music

I have laid quietly in my bed,
Listening to the scratchy rhythm of breathing,
All to no avail.
I need to be here, pounding keys,
Like ivories, ejecting whatever thoughts
Can't be silenced enough to sleep.
They pound out a beat in my head,
Never really revealing themselves,
Except as syncopated taps.
Each tap is mindlessly waking me,
Sending me on a journey,
Filled with frustration,
Awake as ever,
I resort to coming out,
Sitting down,
Trying to compose the music of my soul.

Crazy Cat Lady

I have always secretly thought,
Had I not opted to have the traditional
Life of marriage and children,
That I would have been a great candidate
For the local Crazy Cat Lady.
I tell people this all the time.
If I hadn't gotten married and had kids,
I would have been that spinster lady,
Living alone, except for my dozen or so cats.
I think I would have been content,
And quite possibly annoying to the neighbors,
Perhaps scary to the schoolchildren passing by,
I can see by the way they lean back,
This whole conversation makes them uncomfortable,
So I drop the subject, subsiding into current life.
After all, there is still time, later on,
To be the crazy cat lady.

Spy

Hot dusty road, heat shimmer in the distance,
One car emerges out of the haze,
Speeding along, buzzing, the sound indicating a smaller car.
Pretending to be a spy, I dive in the ditch,
Thinking no one can see me, I carefully watch
This red car approach, listening to the sound.
To my relief, it speeds on by my hiding place.
I watch for a bit to make sure it is gone,
Before leaping up to dance and celebrate.
This was happiness in those days,
Spying, sneaking, pretending,
Caught up in my own world,
Only allowing it to touch the wider world
How and when I wanted it.

Magic

More than half a moon sliced the sky,
Orange, probably harboring smoke.
The air was silky summer air,
Leftovers from a scorcher of a day.
I don't think midnight is the witching hour,
It is the time you stop to notice.
Notice all the cats laying soaking up
Remnants of the long summer day.
And more than magical to notice
A mantis on the front door,
Another on the steps.
To pause and listen to the night,
And taste the magic.

Life Blood

I could make this about anything,
Deeply felt emotions,
Torn from my heart,
Pulsing in time to the beat.
I could do that if I wanted,
But will not scribe these
To this page tonight.
Tonight I choose to keep them,
Within myself,
Rather than letting them pour out,
Like the cat-caught robins blood,
That filled the palm of my hand.

Self Inflicted

Shock waves, disbelief, anger, yes, even anger,
The story went, as we learned,
He was involved with this girl,
I guess she must have really been something,
And it all went wrong.
I don't think he talked to a soul about it,
All of this was pieced together later.
You were always the littler brother,
Running around with us older kids,
Back when two or three years mattered.
In the bigger picture, it didn't,
To kids, though, it is a vast difference.
By the time it all went down, I was in college,
You should have finished high school.
This was back before Columbine,
So it was no wonder the pistol got in,
Maybe today, it would have been noticed.
Not then though, over twenty years ago.
As I understand it, the girl broke up,
The boy, (that would be you) was depressed,
And took his brothers gun.
Very publicly, and dramatically,
He comitted suicide on that school day.
Sure, we clean it up, and official reports
Must say he died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound,
But I doubt that erases the image all of us know,
There could not have been anything clean about it.

Endless

The road home seems endless,
We are all suffused with the knowledge,
Of time well spent.
The movement of the ocean is becoming
Vague and distant,
We are putting our faces toward home.
Vacation is becoming already
A series of stories,
Little vignettes to be told over and over.
They will become part of the fabric,
Binding the family together.
Our trip is already a memory,
Of time well spent.

The Light House

I would like to bottle this
And keep it safe to savor later on.
The evening we sat watching the sea,
And also the preposterous light.
All it took was one of us noticing how
It flickered on and off.
Then the three of us were off and running.
It flickered because it had delusions of grandeur,
Thinking it was a lighthouse.
Much laughter accompanied this theory.
It wasn't long before the three of us were
Rooting for that light, encouraging it to stay on.
Telling it "You are just as good as those lighthouses"
Giggling hard as people walked by.
Degenerating into a song,
"I'm a little lighthouse, short and stout,
My light is on now, then it goes out"
Unable to breathe, we quit singing,
We have laughed so hard we are breathless.
On the walk home, another theory is posited,
All lighthouses start as little cement streetlights.
They then grow taller, eventually getting their plumage,
After their stripes come in, you might be lucky enough,
Maybe, to see their migration to the headlands.
We sweep in the door, all smiles and windblown.

Belonging

Pushing and pulling,
Pulsing energy comes back,
For one more round.
One more day of moving,
The giddy swirling, twirling,
Happiness, happening.
And then it slows,
A sedate pace of contentment,
Suffusing every cell,
Inhaled with every breath,
That solid moment,
The one that says so clearly,
You are precisely where you
Are supposed to be in this
Fragile moment of time.
Savor it, roll it around
On your tongue and taste,
The perfect blend of knowing.
Anchor your feet just so,
Lean into the wind.
Don't forget this moment,
It is few and far between,
And so worthwhile.

Quiet Solitude

How much I have craved this,
Total silence, so quiet,
I can hear the blood pumping
At least I think that is what it is.
Soft, easily familiar coursing sound.
And dark, how dark the house is,
All lights off, and only the reflected
Light from outside to relieve the silken darkness.
I am sure I should head for bed,
Sleep and get ready for tomorrow's
Chaotic fun, and noise.
But for now,
I choose to be selfish,
And just sit in the dark,
Revelling in the silence.

Beach

Sort of like a mermaid,
She emerged, not precisely human,
Seaweed covered legs,
Tangled hair,
Eyes fringed by water droplets.
It was misty that day,
Outlines softened,
As much by waves shushing,
As by anything else.
At first it was obvious,
She was of the sea,
And would be destined to return.
Slowly she began to form,
Closer, stepping closer,
Becoming something
Not quite of the sea,
And very much human.

Flashing

Blinding, flashing
Lighting the night.
I see a strike on a pole,
Exciting, daring.
Watching the lightning,
Rain pouring down.
Thunders' loudness,
A few moments of time
That feel like forever.

The Barren Lands

Slip on into the barren lands,
That place where nothing grows,
And plants won't seed.
The tough spot, comprised of rocks,
And heat and dusty grime.
The edges of stone are
Stark on the horizon,
Laid out end to end.
Sun beats down, drying everything.
Mouth, skin, eyes.
Not a drop of moisture is around.
Nothing is left.
Even the clear sky,
Really is not enjoyable,
For it has been baked out white.
Glaring sun, blistering down,
No spot of shade to cower in.
But wait, in that shadow,
Under that overhang,
A tiny spot, sheltered.
In that spot, there it is,
It sprouts, tiny, determined.
A greenish plant,
That I named hope.

That Moment

There is that moment that hits
Like a kick in the gut.
It is more than that though,
The sheer magnitude.
The phone call,
From the person who never calls.
The words I can't believe.
Once again, my brother,
Childhood nemesis,
Worlds best enemy,
Has sustained life-threatening injuries.
Typical of him, no one really knows
How it happened.
We know where, and that people saw.
That is all.
He is laid up in the hospital,
Aware, but not able to tell,
Silenced by the tube that lets him breathe.
Burned badly, hopefully recovering.
I try to push him to the back of my mind,
So I can function and do day to day things,
Which is all fine, and then it hits me.
And I picture him laying there,
And it doesn't really register,
Because the clearer picture is
All the stuff we got up to
Growing up.

A Park

River rushing sounds nearby,
Giggling children overlay that sound,
Trees stand tall shading tables,
Grass looks so green and living.
Butterfly graces my sons head,
Landing for a moment,
Leaving in an instant.
Enjoy the magical time,
And listen to the river rush.

Stop

Stop crying, now,
I'll give you something to cry about!
If you would just use the potty,
You would not have this problem!
Want me to give you something to cry about?

Wait, I want to say,
She is really little and it strikes me,
There is already plenty to cry about.
Mommy is mad, she doesn't know why.
She is getting hollered at for something
That everyone does.
Confusing, aggravating, embarrassing.

Stop yelling now,
I would like to give you something to yell about.
If you would just lay off the kid,
She will use the potty in her own time.
You are the one with the problem,
Want me to give you something to yell about?

Fire Dance

Late at night, the flames roared high,
As I approached, I saw the boy,
Spinning, stopping, waiting,
Hands up high, spinning again.
Slow approach as I watch him,
Knowing he will stop when I am spotted.
Again, he moves around the fire,
Spinning, unselfconscious,
Smile visible in the shadows.
At last, I give myself away,
And the wild dancer emerges
As my son.

The Box

Hi there, pardon me, yes,
Of course I remember you!
Excuse me, though,
I have carefully kept you in a box,
Preserved you just as you were.
Well, yes, less wrinkles for sure,
Oh, less mature, yes, of course.
I kept you in this box,
And nurtured every little hurt.
All the mean things you said.
I didn't let you grow up or out
Of those things.
I really did a great job saving it.
No, no. I didn't mean to do that!
It's just I spent so much time,
You know, back in school.
Lashing back at you,
Telling you off, feeling hurt.
It made no sense to keep all that,
But, what can I say?
I tend to hang on to things.
Yeah. That about covers it.
Wait, you say you did the same thing?
Oh, man. I guess I was a mean little shit.
I justified it, of course.
Here's a deal for you,
I will let you out of my box,
And you let me out of yours.
We can finally grow up,
Sounds good to me.

She

She was born in a thunderstorm
This angry person,
Came out punching,
And hasn't stopped since.
Shocking to some,
She is rather crass.
Never letting anyone
Push her around.
She is loud like the thunder,
Crackles like the lightning.
Her shadow darkens like the clouds,
And yet, it passes in a moment.
Then, she is all sunshine,
And soft touches of wind.
Gently caressing the water
Drops off the leaves.
Loving and kind,
Until the next time.

Memories

How do you make sense of some memories?
Some are very simple,
Going out for ice cream at the local shop,
Walking along window shopping with the family.
Others make no sense at all,
Waiting in the car at what I think was a bank,
In those days, no one thought a thing of leaving
The kids in the car.
For some reason I remember this one,
We had been there so long that one of us
Had to go, really bad, peeing the pants bad.
Rather than do that, another came up with the solution,
I think the container was a coffee can, fished out of the trunk.
Anyway, I remember we all got in trouble,
Because no one would rat out the ringleader,
And I don't think anyone told exactly who went.
It makes no sense that we were out there that long.
Or a fragment of a memory in a theater,
Where I saw the film of the creature walking on the big screen.
I know what that one is,
It was the Bigfoot film, and I was about three or so.
How do I know? Well, one, I asked my father.
Two, I saw that very footage on a TV special here
Not too long ago.
I was instantly transported back to the dark theater,
The man up there talking after the film.
He sat on a stool.
Memories are really a strange thing.
Even stranger is what unlocks them.

Summer

Summer is flying totally by
In thunderstorms and intermittent
Barbecues with smoke
Coming in the window.
How we laughed at the dog
Doing dog things,
Watched the cat stalk a bird,
Cheered when it flew away.
Summer could be warmer,
That would be nice.
Meantime, it is flying by
In a swirl of events.

Don't You?

I don't think you ever really see me,
It must be hard when you are so involved
With yourself, and your concerns.
I can quote you chapter and verse
What is up with you,
I can tell you what you mentioned.
I doubt you could do that for me,
Surely you remember last time I mentioned
The ongoing things at home?
Of course, I understand it must be tough
At your house, since it was so
Terribly important you talked over me.
I am sure you didn't notice
That exact moment that I stopped talking.
Or when I stopped responding.
I guess you needed to talk,
And I am sure that eclipses you ever
Seeing me, don't you?

Zoo

I don't remember the usual
Fights, and arguing,
When we went to the zoo.
I remember a shared sense of
Wonder and freedom,
With my sister and brother.
The Japanese garden,
One of our favorite spots,
Feeding cheese crackers to koi,
I don't remember fighting over
That box of crackers,
Or being ditched because
I was the youngest.
Nor do I remember being
Harassed in the pool,
Pulled under by one leg.
I remember solidarity,
Us against the world.

You Were

You were the pretty one,
The smaller one,
The cute one,
Back in high school days.
The one the boys liked,
Pursued by many,
Funny, lively, all of that.
Time has gone,
Twenty years or more,
And I see you have aged,
Much as I like to think
I haven't changed,
I see your picture and know,
Time has probably changed
Me as much as you.

Nostalgia

What is this bit of longing that I can almost catch?
I feel it well inside me, and have to pause.
Remembering the textures and smells of lost summer days,
The dust of a fairground, the swell of a crowd.
River flowing swiftly, oh and it is cold too,
But still, it cradles our fish bodies,
Cooling, some comfort on the burning day.
I nearly wish to be back there,
Pavement heating my bare feet,
Feet used to the gravel of the road bed,
Not pausing as I ran full tilt across the field.
Wishful thinking for the heat,
Only comforted slightly by the drink from the hose.
I could wish for more, but this would suffice.

That House

Every neighborhood seems to have one,
That house where the parents aren't as diligent,
Where the kids gather, and hang out.
Nothing much is going on there.
The house like that I remember was up the street,
Maybe a quarter mile, and ran a perpetual yard sale.
Which really seemed to be cover for the overgrown yard,
The tables of stuff out in all weather.
Rained on, sun faded, nothing really good.
Everyone seemed to know this, few customers stopped.
For a while we hung out there.
We, my sister and brother and me,
They were older teenagers, concerned with things like
Smoking and drinking, and contact highs.
There were teenagers in that house,
All the cigarettes you could smoke, and the father.
He was a jolly man, sitting in a recliner,
Letting all this unfold around him.
We all smoked cigarettes, some of us drank,
And in the back room, there was a permanent
Haze of smoke, from pot and cigarettes.
I suppose it was a different time,
But I still think, there is probably a house
In every neighborhood.
Where the parents aren't as diligent,
Where the kids gather and hang out.
Nothing much is going on there,
In That House.

Skipping in the Mist

And if I skip along in the mist
Never touching ground,
Would it really matter much to anyone?
Flit around the trees,
Moving mountains, leaving stones,
Dirt between my toes for a moment,
Shuddering with the current of the raging river,
Blown down by the vexatious wind,
I am not ignoring you, no,
Don't take it that way,
I do think of you from time to time,
And then get blown again,
Skipping through the mist,
Never touching ground,
Feel the soft touch of my fingers,
That was them on your cheek the day
You felt a spider web caressing you.
I was the pleasing sound of the song
You almost heard in the pause
That long summer day in the woods,
The dappled shadows, the sweet
Wild strawberries crushed underfoot.
Yes, it was always me,
Trying to tell you
That I am not ignoring you,
I am skipping through the mist,
Never touching ground.

Fire

Light the match, set it to the paper,
Which may or may not catch.
Tiny row of ashes along the edge,
And the flame goes out.
So we try again, with the match,
Holding it to the edge of the paper,
Which is trying to catch,
Drop the match as it reaches
My fingers, shaking them.
Smouldering paper leaps into flame,
Which is now attacking the pitchy log.
Black smoke twines to the heavens,
And it becomes an established fire.
My son likes to stack wood until
The flames are tall and hot, reaching.
Then I like to sit as it subsides.
There is room for both of us,
At the fireside.

Many Images

Many pictures are in my head,
My sister, head pink and smooth,
The cemetery flashes through my head,
Visiting graves, mother, grandmother,
Brother I never met.
Visiting my dad,
Quiet house, relaxing in.
Home now, trailed by my dog,
Tracked by the cat.
Clashing images of serious things,
A trip to the store,
Foolish songs, and fun.
Processing thr trip,
Bits and starts.
Many images.

Listen

Listen as you sit in the silent house,
Listen to the fan, stealing sweat,
The frogs outside making riotous noise,
The guinea pig inside, rustling in her cage.
Listen again as you crawl in bed,
Hear the trucks beeping in the distance as they back up,
And then when they stop,
Listen, and hear the dogs bark.
For a night time house,
This sure has a lot of noise.
Listen.

Beautiful Silence

Sitting on the step, a tiny cat for company,
I listen to nothing so much as the wind
In the pines, and the occasional snap of a branch.
The cat likes to be petted on her own terms,
She tells me she is done by grabbing my hand
Placing teeth ever so slightly on skin.
Reminder to me that she COULD tear in,
But chooses not to do that,
Mercy in a tiny package.

?

The lazy whirr of the ceiling fan
Is in stark contrast to the silence.
Starlings sneak around taking cat food,
Flying nervously away if I move.
I am growing accustomed to this quiet,
Beginning to really like it.
Which will be just in time for chaos,
When the boys are home.
Their very presence lends more noise,
Breath, talking, movement, energy.
Savor the silence for a few more minutes,
Then it is out the door, into the fray.

Pitch

Pitch, not the softball one, or the musical one.
The log one!
A piece of wood for the fire, just dripping with sticky pitch.
Some might call it sap, the curious might touch it,
Only to be taken aback at how it coats and spreads on skin.
The fresh pine scent might be the only nice thing about it.
No, wait, there is one more nice thing about it,
The flames leaping high when  it is placed on the fire.
This, though, comes complete with really noxious black smoke,
Which seems to follow each of us around the fire pit.
Gust of wind, inhale a bit of ash and smoke,
Yet the magical dancing flames leap higher
And higher in a frenzy of orange and yellow
Dancing.

Written in Stone

I think I will go see my mother next week,
Or at least the green square that marks her grave.
It won't be a solemn occasion, I guess,
Since I will see the wonderful strangeness of my family
When I look at the stone.
She died on one sisters birthday, which I am sure is sad,
What my other sister did with it, well, it was what
Mom would have done, and I had a laugh.
The stone is beautiful, and imparts the information,
Name, date of birth, but one thing is wrong.
The death date has been moved forward one day,
Which struck me and my brother funny.
We laughed until we gasped for breath.
I actually asked my other sister if she knew,
And, very much like our mother, she replied
That anyone who wanted to know could ask
In the cemetery office.
My bet is, they won't.
For, after all, the date is now literally carved in stone.

Understanding

Forty years too late I begin to understand
What perhaps drove you out the door.
Even more, I get what tugged you back,
It is hard to leave, even when you need to.
Four years old, all I could see was chaos,
And a dim realization you were gone.
Watching you climb in a car,
Not getting it was supposed to be forever.
Homecoming was less dramatic,
You were just there, in your misery.
I now know you were living a half life,
Bounded by children and the right thing to do.
It is apparent to me, the outrageous things,
They were driven by misery and mental illness.
The door finally closed behind you for the last time
Nine years later, which wasn't any easier.
That time I got it, and completely understood
The leaving was forever, and that was that.
It was harder that time, to know for sure,
And I fought it the best I could.
The known, even as messed up as it was,
Was so much easier to cope with than the unknown.
But, now, I understand, and look at it all
In a different light.
It isn't all about me anymore, I can empathize
With the different currents pulling you around,
And begin, finally, to understand.

Tethers

Silky invisible fibrous things,
Interconnected with family,
Stretched to the limit.
I don't want to call,
Not great at letter writing,
But I think about you.
Wonder if I would float adrift,
If or when these invisible jesses
Are severed some day.
I bet by that time I will have
Woven my own tethers,
Keeping my children,
And my childrens' children
From drifting all away.

Morning

Sounds from upstairs indicate
The boys are up,
I smell coffee, so that is brewed.
Footsteps track across the kitchen,
Refrigerator opens and shuts,
Light comes on,
I am pulled into the day
By the request that I find
Some little bit of left behind stuff.
Would you bring it when you come up?
Of course....

LIfe

Chaos erupting in a moment,
Two of us out the door,
A few hours of music,
A letter bestowed,
Back home,
Will it be chaos?
Or totally calm?

Pine

The pine tree is blooming,
Can it have blossoms?
Yes, but not the fragile ones
Found on the irises, or cherry tree.
A pine has these tiny cone shaped
Pieces that rest on the end of each branch,
Shedding pollen like gold dust
It floats away, lost on the breeze.
Last seasons pine cones are
On the ground, picked over
By squirrels, blown down by wind.
Late spring rain is beating down the pollen,
The tree stands, holding out its
Flowers like offerings.

Beginning

I am beginning to slide off the map
As my needs are slowly being consumed
By the every day and the routine.
Wondering how it will all
Turn out at the end of the day
Would it have been the best
Or neatest.
So far, so good,
I just need to keep going.

What If

What if that creaking in the elevator
Was not the strain on a cable
Or the turning of a pulley.
What if the whooshing sound
Was not just displaced air,
Or the fan in the ceiling.
What if the creaking was the sound
Of zombie nails on metal,
The creaking the prizing of a bar
Held in undead hands?
What if the whooshing sound
Was the hot breath of decaying lungs?
And the beeps for each floor would
Become the alarm telling passengers
That the undead live in the elevator shaft.

Lassitude

Lassitude flows through my body
Taking thoughts and inspiration with it,
All the way down, too lazy to be a fast process
It slips languorously away.
I would love to say something profound,
But find I am caring less and less
About accomplishing much of anything.
It sounds good to lay down,
And just let this overtake me.
Drifting away in a fog
Letting go.

Start

Lay aside assumptions
That fill your head with
Slag and grimy sludge,
Put them out for a bit
Let the cleansing light in
Start over with no notion
Of how it will be
Give others a chance
A chance to have changed
Rather than locking them
Forever in your own
Last best guess of
How they will be.

Spiders

A thousand tiny dots
Hanging in an invisible web
Only visible if you really look.
Cascading down on the steps
Very still until I blow gently
Then they all move.
Tiny beings
Ready to be
Out in the world.

Breeze

Softly moving,
Caressing me with each breath
Carrying the scent of flowers,
Unidentified as yet.
Fanning the flames
Of my ardent desire
To simply stay and enjoy
The touch and interplay
Of sunlight and shadows
Moving at your will
Once again plying the floral
Fragrance of that yet to be seen
Blooming tree or bush
Playing it like a melody
Half-remembered and set
In a rhythm that only makes sense
If you stop and listen with
All your senses
To that gorgeous spring breeze.

Buckeye

In varying shapes of round,
Always a rich, dark brown,
With a spot of lighter tan,
I always called them buckeyes,
And as long as I can remember,
I have really just liked them.
As a child when I found a tree,
With the treasure scattered beneath,
I could be found filling my pockets
With buckeyes till they bulged.
I am not sure why I like them
And it is almost embarrassing
Even today, if I find a tree,
I can be found picking up
These delightful treasures,
In fact, I just found one on my desk,
And I spent a little time just
Admiring the rich brown color,
Perfection.

Lie

A lie slipped out like
Eels through a rocky
River bottom.
Just like that,
You pushed it out
No effort, no thought.
Silly things that
Really don't matter,
I could challenge you.
Why should I though?
What you are doing
Hurts no one
Except maybe yourself.
It used to matter
That someone got one
Over on me,
And now, it doesn't.

I Want

I want to push the button and re-open communication,
But I am afraid, sorry to say, afraid.
I am scared it will open those deep wounds,
That fatal day my friend, your mother, died.
Oh, for this to work, I have to be honest,
It was when she killed herself.
A splendid piece of light went out,
And I was shocked she could leave you.
I kept in touch for a while, obligation,
Caring, feeling so helpless you were cheated.
Worse was the way you could tell the pain,
It needed to come out, I know that,
And I don't blame you, one bit.
I feel terribly guilty that I just could not,
Couldn't carry the burden of your grief,
Along with my own.
There, I said it, I felt like I failed you,
I couldn't fix what was wrong,
Unless I could raise the dead.
I hope I can tell you this when I do
Choose to push the button,
And talk again.

Sleep

Whispering, winding, twining
Through my mind as I float
Lazily in a twilight slumber
Pushed by the currents of
Unconscious thought
I see pictures not fully formed
Blurred by the water that flows
Blankets of  thought pulled
Over my body
Relaxing through it all
Blossoms fall whitely
Through the air
To land in little fragments
All along my body.

Coffee

Sipping slowly, steaming gently,
Sweetened with sugar,
Paled with cream.
Relax and savor the flavor.
Or, just black please,
Splashed in a cup
Still steaming,
Gulped in haste.
Middle ground?
The cup you take
From room to room,
Set it here, sip it there.
Fantastic in all its moods.

Sort Of

Sort of wintry
Blowing wind,
Kind of springy
Blooming flowers.
Mostly undecided.

None

There is nothing so startling
As the cessation of sound
When the screaming ends
And the silence begins.
Or the chattering of the birds
And the squeaking of the swing
Rustle of leaves,
Shotgun blasts away the noise.
It is so hard to deal
With the last moments
Before it all changed
One bad decision, bang.
In the end, the birds sang again
And I would see the tire
Pushed by the breeze
The rope squeaking.
And then the cessation of noise,
Slowly, gently turning away.
Hush, be gentle, fade beautifully
Then none.

Sadness

What triggers that feeling,
Sadness for the little old man,
Overhearing someone say
They had never seen a little old man
Cry like that.
It didn't help when the next sentence
Was he forgot, and did better,
Which didn't make it ok.
Then the sadness
Of hearing she just stopped
Knitting when her daughter died.
The yarn came with a sad story,
And it was manifest in the way
Projects were just set in the bag.
She was away for a moment,
It really looks like she will be back
To finish.

Catnip

If you give our gray cat catnip she will bat the ball around, and drag herself along the carpet to get to it, as if standing is just too much effort. I have confiscated the ball of catnip, and she is still rolling around in the area, detecting the miniscule scraps of catnip that have fallen from the ball. It is awesome. This usually reserved cat is currently chasing her own tail and laying belly up, washed up on a carpeted shore. Orca at rest. I can't wait to try it on the black cat.....

Beginning of the End

It is the beginning of the end
Trite, overused phrase,
Describing that moment in time
When, if you look back,
You can clearly see which
Turn and which decision
Catapults you to the crescendo.
That infinitesimal little bump,
The dust under the lamp,
Or the shatter of that dish,
The words you can't take back,
A blow given in anger,
We could say the start
Of something terrible,
But that isn't really accurate,
All endings cannot possibly
Be terrible,
So really, the only thing to say
That doesn't judge or condemn
Is to say
It is (was) the beginning of the end.

Comfrey Flowers

I was reminded tonight of comfrey
And how the flowers bloomed.
For some reason, we had comfrey in the garden.
The leaves made a nice tea,
If you like things like that.
Once it was established,
It came back, year after year.
There were many times
I pulled the tiny blossoms off,
Touching the end to my tongue,
Just to get that shock of sweet
One tiny drop of nectar,
Nestled in the bottom of the flower.

I Would

I would
Wish for a long day
Like I had in childhood
The kind that stretched forever
That was only bounded by getting up
With no thought of the logical end
Of the day.
Those days of laying in the summer grass
Watching the dragonfly light
And the butterfly bloom
The spider catch the fly.
Full light, blue sky,
I can smell the moisture
Beneath the grass
Taste the nectar in the flower,
Later, indeterminate time
The call from the back door.
Grounding in reality,
Pretending I don't hear.
Go to ground somewhere else.

untitled

What was that little voice in my head saying
All those years ago?
Give up, you are nothing, worthless.
Once I got past that, I could start
What I meant to do,
And some days were better than others.
Others being the ones where the layer
Of static and stuff became too much,
And nothing got done,
Days turned to years, and years
Became decades
And I was unaware.
The only thing I had going for me
Was the will to get up and fight another day.

My Household

Not a poem today, just a description of my household. Come to my house, and you will notice first the dog, always the dog. She watches me all day long, and it must be her job. She lays down where she has line of sight, and if I move, her eyes follow me. At my feet is the old cat, waiting for leftover cereal milk. If I don't let her have it, she becomes more strident, and on the most impatient days, she boxes at my ankles with her paws. No claws, thank you very much. It is more a warning shot of what she COULD do, were she bigger and say, tiger-sized. The other cats are in deep hiding. By this I mean they are sleeping somewhere, and I am too lazy to go look for them. One is probably on my sons bed, a favorite spot to be, and the half wild cat that spends most of her time outside has probably gotten in the closet, a favorite place on a rainy morning like today. Other than the animals, I could tell you all the wrong things I see (too much clutter and way too much dust) but I won't. Instead, I will say, the house is cozy and I have a pot of coffee to drink, so life is good. I can look out in the back yard and admire how green it is with the preposterous amount of rain we have had. If I cared to, I could step out and smell the lilacs, which are in full bloom, but I don't care to. Instead, I will drink more coffee and maybe, just maybe, catch up on reading the book. That is actually a misnomer. There is nothing to catch up on. I simply am reading the book because I want to read it. I have no deadline nor expectation of when to finish it. Except for the due date. It is, after all a library book, and pesky due dates are the trade off for not having to buy every book I want to read. For not having to store them and worry about them, except when they are in my keeping for the three weeks (renew twice sometimes!). And I can do anything for three weeks...even keep track of a book.

Revival

Just who says hellfire and damnation
In this day and age?
I always picture some earnest young
Reverend with his dark hair
(It is always dark hair!)
Slicked back with old-fashioned Bryl-Cream.
He is in the revival-tent
Which is always down by the river.
And in some seedy way he speaks
To the faith and gullibility of the masses.
He is too nice as he sucks in old ladies,
And the lame and stupid.
There is something they lack
They think they find it in him.
I wonder if he really believes?
Probably not, he may sit in his trailer
Counting the money, racking up souls.
Drowning his sorrows in whiskey,
Maybe once he believed,
And became dragged down,
In some form of hellfire and damnation
That is the life of a travelling
Revival preacher.

Small Satisfactions

I took just a moment today to be happy
About the orderly way the dishes lined up
Marching across the rack of the dishwasher,
Placed there by me.
And then I was completely content to knit,
Repetitive stitches going across,
Forming an open pattern that looks
Like a fishing net, but prettier.
This satisfaction culminated in realizing
As I cooked dinner that it was ok
To be relaxed and happy
As the noodles boiled and the steam rose.

Spider

I want to slide down the
Filament of my mind
Deeply into the murky
Depths of my thoughts,
Trapped in a web
Designed by me
Held gently in iron threads.
Stuck like the fly
In the center of a web
Of lies I tell myself,
And present to others,
Never realizing for an instant
What I have wrought.
I move on instinct,
Like a spider does,
Making a perfect circle
Or canopy of thought that
Protects me and ultimately,
Traps me in this prison
I have devised,
Later, I do become aware,
I am the architect of my own web,
And as such, I can move freely
About on it, agile and swift,
Not mired in sticky strands,
I can choose to leave
Any time I wish.

Rainy Morning

My town at 5:30 in the morning is strange to me,
(I am not a "morning person")
It is even stranger when streaked with the watercolor
effect of a rain storm.
It is a sort of dark place, with a line of traffic,
Tail lights washing down the pavement like
Exhaust bleeding from the vehicles.
I can tell you how my town is in the middle of the day,
Sort of small, sort of the same from day to day,
I can even say that by 11 at night,
Our traffic signals are set so that green, red, yellow
Become flashing red and yellow, in the right spots,
So hopefully the speeding car won't blast through
And take out the other car which might reach
that intersection at the same time.
Getting back to it,
(I am so distractible, not a "morning person")
This early in the morning brings yet another
Endless train heading through town,
Causing a line of traffic to form in the turn lane,
And I discover this is the time for the shift change
At the prison.
And I wonder if the men in there are looking at the rain,
Silently waiting for dawn, or if it even really matters
When one is locked up and no way out.

Would It?

Would it make it easier
Or cleaner somehow,
If instead of saying
I popped that bitch
I said, I hit her.
Would it be easier
For her mother or brother
To hear
She got beat down
Or that she had lacerations?
How much easier to hear
Blunt force trauma
As opposed to I
Whacked that whore
Right up side her head?
Maybe abrasions appeal more
Than dumb ass got rug burns
Because she too stupid to walk.
I don't think it cleans it up
Or makes it pretty
To officially say
She is the deceased,
Rather than she is
Dead as hell,
Hopeless.

Missing Days

My internet has been gone since Monday night. So I haven't posted. I didn't write on Monday, I guess I was too busy cursing my router, when really a main line to my internet service provider was severed.

River rush
Silty water
High on the bank
Tearing away trees,
Pushing soil
Tossing debris
Cresting rapids.
Spring storms
Manifest between
Carved banks.

A Dog

His adventures are legendary,
That day I got a call asking,
What do you do when the dog ate a plastic bag?
Well...is he in distress?
No, not that I can tell, see he had this bag,
And I came up to take it from him,
Which made him go all Hoover on it.
Bang, it was gone!
Seriously? I asked my brother.
This is the dog that eats your socks,
To the tune of a package a month.
I am pretty sure a plastic bag will come through
Easier than the whole foot of a mens sock!
Just keep an eye on him, watch what comes out
And if you don't see bag coming out in a day or two,
Take him to the vet.
I guess the bag came through,
The dog is still riding shotgun in my brothers truck,
And just yesterday, he was at another plastic bag.

Whatever

Whatever comes to mind,
I will write down,
That tall skinny, rail thin girl,
The color of a daffodil
My cat with the vole,
Holy cow, he ate it in three minutes.
I contemplate every day things,
Like how the dishes can multiply
And the kitchen seems bigger
Simply by putting the trash can away.
I wish I hadn't spilled coffee in the car this morning
I am thankful I drink it black.
The couch is falling apart,
Front door is trying to swell,
The neighbor scolded his dog the other day,
I don't know why.
I think I hear baby birds in the tree out front,
I know I hear finches at dusk.
The chorus I heard tonight
Fantastic, and how many people I knew attending.
It was a fine night.
I feel tired, and ready to sleep.
I am thinking mostly about the new novel I am going to start
Reading, not writing, God no, not writing
And hoping I don't kick the cat when I get in bed.
She is old, and has taken to sleeping by my legs.
I let her, because I have learned to treasure the time we have.
And fifteen is old for a cat.
We could have one year or five, or three months or days.
Who knows?
And it is ok.

Party

It was an average Friday night, or Saturday,
I am not too precise on the actual day.
I just know it was one of those endless
College nights with the core group of us,
And someone brought him along.
We sat around doing what we do,
Talking about life and "solving the worlds problems"
And pairing off, and leaving and coming back.
It was no big deal, the lights were bright,
They shone down on us, and we lived.
We lived the self-absorbed life of a student.
After all, we were in college, and weren't we
The brightest of the bright? The best of the best?
We could hold our own in esoteric conversation,
And come up with solutions that by God,
If anyone would just LISTEN would fix the world.
It was a comfortable tension in the group,
We spent our nights doing this. Talking.
Whether drinking at Dan's or out at the
Twenty-four hour coffee shop, jazzed up.
On this night, someone had brought Jake.
And Jake was darkly handsome, and tense.
He could hold his own, he was a breed apart though.
Not a college student, he was a truck driver,
And a few years older, but he took us seriously.
At least it seemed that way to me.
In amongst the pairing off, and leaving,
And comings and goings, Jake took the time
To take me seriously, and talk to me.
And maybe that was my first mistake,
To even allow myself to be flattered by his attention.
But, no, he said all the right things,
How mature I was compared to the others.
That I really had extraordinary insight to the world.
And its problems, and couldn't we change it,
We could be a force, by God, together.
The apartment emptied out, others left,
Trickled away, and it was still me and Jake, talking.
I remember locking the door, a silent invitation.
Would you like to stay over?
In the kitchen, I cleaned up the cups and debris,
And he was behind me.
Whispering things, leaning back into him,
I stopped to listen, and did not like what I heard.
His hot breath on my neck whispered nothing loving.
I was being branded slut, and whore, and stupid.
This was NOT what I signed up for,
I tried to turn, still not understanding.
Thinking I could evict him and no harm, no foul.
My brilliance was being broken down in to parts,
And laughed at, which really hurt the most.
Little girl, playing grown up games he said.
Stark realization that under the lights,
There was a blade held to my throat.
His whisper to me that this won't hurt you a bit.
Silence for a moment, then the low laughter.
More importantly, yes, most important,
This won't hurt ME a bit.

Of All Things

I was ok hearing about the lump,
Surely it was nothing, a shadow on the film.
The idea of a biopsy was ok too,
That would surely come up clear.
Of course, hearing the "C" word
Yes, that was hard.
Surgery was ok, lumpectomy
Was a possibility.
And so you came out of that
Down one breast and fighting,
But, I was still sure they got it all.
No such luck, something about migration.
Into the lymph node.
So, dear sister, you started chemo.
And I thought none of that would happen.
So, this was still ok in my head.
Who would have predicted that what
Finally sent me over the edge
It really choked me up
Was you telling me
My hair, it came out in clumps this morning
So I shaved it off.
I am not ok with that.
Screw you cancer.

You

You showed up looking all
I don't know really
But it was well, you looked
Yeah, like THAT.
You had no business
Being there at that time
And being all like that,
Yeah, just like THAT.
It was unexpected,
You were not even aware,
I wanted you not to be there,
Most especially not being
Just like THAT!

Butterfly Dance

She spins and stomps,
Timing steps with the drumbeats.
The drums echo in my whole body,
I feel the conncection.
Her shawl is white with red roses,
Stomping, spinning, fluttering.
I see that precise moment when
She forgets the watching people
And becomes one with the beat.

Slow

It is slow and ponderous
An elephant among leprechauns
Not pretty, not amorphous.
I would say its day has come and gone
Would I be half right?
I don't think I would be wrong
To say this, yet I feel bad.
It isn't totally useless,
Just because it is old.
It is the mechanism of printing
Out the things I need,
Patterns, poetry, random stuff.
I can hear the hard drive struggling along,
And the light telling me just
How busy it is remains a constant.
He (or she) cannot load some things,
Yet, I feel vaguely guilty for plotting
The assassination of the old computer.

Nightmare

I had a nightmare last night that there were only ever eight stories we lived, and further, that I had figured out which one it was I was living. I was softly horrified to realize there was nothing I could do it was already written, the lead up and the grand crescendo, and even the end. That really wasn't the horrifying part, the part that made my heart pound and break was that I would spend the rest of my life trying to prove this wrong. And wouldn't it already be written? And predicted? It was awful to realize the only solution would be to take myself out of the game, but then, that was already written. Which would be my worst nightmare. I hate being told what to do, worse is being told when to do it.

Untitled

Sparkles flash off the edge of a glass,
The top of a soda can reflects like a mirror,
Yellow blossoms shine brighter,
I see last years petunias have reseeded,
Daffodils are up next door,
Coy breezes play with my hair,
And the heat of the sun soaks
Right into my black pant legs.

Storms

Shadows fall across the land,
Footsteps of the Old Gods
Stride across the skyline,
Thor's hammer strikes,
Odin is afoot,
In the corner of my eye
Maybe there is Loki
I don't really know.
Still, the darkest of clouds
Hang in the heavens
One thing I do know,
Time has not forgotten
The shadow of the
Old Gods.

Destruction

I loved it,that red hat
So bright and pretty
And fun, just different.
It was cool, and fine,
And all mine.
I saw you look at it
With that slyness
And knew without
A shadow of a doubt
That you were going to take it
And wreck it.
Between the yelling,
And the stylized moves,
You lunge, I step nimbly away
Soon it was obvious you would
Get the hat,
And tear it into a million little bits.
I decided in a primal place
To beat you to the punch.
The hat was tossed to the floor,
And stomped flat.
It was worth it, nearly
To see the shock on your face.
And later, telling my friend,
She asked why, and all I could
Say was
You don't understand! There it was!
Looking so damned RED!
And we laughed,
Until it hurt,
And then we laughed,
Until it didn't hurt.

Crabs

I love to watch the crabs
On the beach
Skittering along with dainty steps.
Running along the edge of tide
When the water rushes in
They flee
Like old-fashioned ladies
Holding their skirts
Out of the mud.

It is

It is a dragon hiding in its hoard kind of day
A little gray and melancholy
Even trees and flowers blotting the landscape
Like treasures
Don't change the fact that
It is a dragon hiding in its hoard kind of day.
I would be that dragon,
In a shadowed cave, snoozing for millennia,
Days without number,
Interrupted occasionally by the hero.
His strong, dwarven-hammered shield
Becoming one with the pile of treasure.
Then back to the timeless sleep,
Curled around hard golden coins,
Chin resting on rubies and emeralds
The size of eggs.
There is no pleasure to be had in this
On a dragon hiding in its hoard kind of day.

Untitled

As I ponder the beauty
Emerging.
It isn't just the tree
In bloom.
Or the grass greening
On the hillside.
No, that doesn't
Completely describe it.
The changeable light
Must come into play.
And I can hear
The tiny birds above.
It is obvious that
Spring has sprung.

Still Not Inspired

I think it has to do with staying up too late reading The Death Cure. Nearly 3 is late for me. Happily I finished it today...so tonight ought to be a lesser night...unless I get into the next book. I have been reading a lot. In search of inspiration, I pulled out The Interrogative Mood by Padgett Powell. It is all in the form of questions. That should inspire me. "If you were laying siege to a walled town and could lob in a ton of something, what would you lob in? If you were in the town, what would you most not want to see come flying in? Should the answers to the two previous questions be the same?"
OK...I find it amusing...but not inspiring. I posted twice yesterday...maybe I will do the same tomorrow. I have some time. I think it is lights out for me. I may be dreaming of lobbing cows over walls, a la Monte Python, or perhaps be on the receiving end of something vile....

Silence

That nothing sound
At the end of the day
Outside noises have gone away
The only things heard are the
Electric hum of appliances.
I am not under a constant assault
Of talking and needing and wanting
I can relax now and savor
The tick of the clock
And the soft snore of the dog.
Yes, I love the silence.

Grrrr

You are not convenient
Nor are you easy to operate
I really hate the fact I can't
Sign in to my account!
I dutifully type my username
In all caps, like I signed up
I see you have slyly added
The not case dependent clause.
I move on to the password
Which I know deviates
In about three ways from
Something I can remember.
Then some evil code monkey
Has added one more thing
Please type the letters in the box
So I do.
And they don't,
No matter how carefully I match
Keystrokes to letters.
Eventually, the site becomes obscene
(Can a computer be condescending?)
And apologizes that I am having
Trouble with my account.
I had no trouble until they decided
To put one more layer of protection in.
It is like the super-condom of websites.
Up yours...you get no money today!

Not Inspired

I am totally not inspired to write a poem tonight. There isn't anything in my head clamoring to get out. I did finish a good book today, called "The Art of Being Lost". It was a good read, and now I anticipate picking out another good book to read out of the stack on the table.
I think I am avoiding the shawl I am knitting. I only have to cast off, yet I haven't touched it today, despite it sitting right next to me, sending out accusing yarny vibes. Sigh. I will finish it tomorrow.
OK...I do have a bit in me after all...

Empty promise
Said in haste
To get you away.
You ask a favor
I am uncomfortable
I say yes.
Hesitating.
Hoping you will
Forget and let it go.
Will I be lucky?
Who knows?

Ha!!! There it is. I am on a run...one a day for the month of April. No matter how crappy.
Yay me.

Do You Remember

That sunny day walking on the beach,
The sound of rain on the tin roof at night,
The smell of the jungle encroaching,
Screeching noises in the night
(later identified as geckos)
How we could hear the ocean
Across the road, slapping and hushing,
Do you remember that day,
You lay down for a nap,
Then sat bolt upright in bed,
Slashing your arm across your chest.
It was a tiny crab that came in the house.
Or that time we came home to kids
Dropping out of the orange tree.
The day we realized we had been burgled.
Those glass slatted windows weren't that secure!
I don't think I could ever forget the time
We caught an eel on our fishing line.
The look we exchanged, first on seeing him,
Smiles of relief when he became
"the one that got away"
All these things,
Do you remember?

Ashes

It's a hand full of ash
Just some ash in a bag
Gray, grainy, not very pretty.

No, it is ash from the eruption
Mount St. Helens
Carefully gathered and sent to me
By an old family friend.

It could be found in any ashtray
Yes, that is what it looks like
Cigarette ashes in a baggy.

Not to me, you see
I was young and it came in the mail
And I was in awe of it.

What a silly thing to say
You were in awe of a bag
Of dirty ash.

Well,  this family friend had sent it
She gathered it herself
And wrote of how it piled up
On the porch!

And what makes that anything?
A minute of time?
The scooping?

No, you are missing the point,
It wasn't the gathering,
Or even what the stuff looks like.

Get to the point already,
I am already tired of talking about this
Besides, the bag is empty.

It was a connection, to the friend
But also to the place.
I thought it would be the coolest thing
To have that ash pile on my porch.

And now, it is just dust in the bottom
Of that box there.
Just as worthless as ever.

I really think you are just jealous.
You didn't have a friend that cared
Enough to gather ash and send you
A small part of their life.
Just because they cared about you.

Ha! You are out of things to say now,
Aren't you?
Well...I'll tell you....
I would send you ashes from
Mount St. Helens,
In a little bag,
Just for you.

Unfocussed

Just bear with me
As my thoughts run away
From the buds on the Oregon grape
To the fresh-killed vole the cat got
Away on a run to the store
And back again
Pick up the mail
Shut the door
Open the refrigerator
Close the peanut butter jar
Fill the dishwasher
Dump the trash
Let the dog out
Invite the cats in
Sit down with a cold drink
Read a book
Knit a row
Settle down
Mind empty
Body relaxed.

Waves

I watched the man sitting
Mesmerized as much as he was,
He by whatever his farseeing eyes
were watching,
Me by the way his arms slowly
travelled back and forth.
Long strands of kelp rocked
by the primal ocean.
He was in his own world,
I could safely observe.
It called forth some obscure echo,
ancient beings rocked gently,
Something from the depths of
time itself.
Pulling me down into
A muted world of green shadows
Always moving, silently surging
Never abruptly.
Coming back to myself
In the light of day,
Wondering where the man
With the seaweed arms
Had gone.

Untitled

It used to be that you could cut me
Deep with an invisible knife
To the bone, and the sly twist at the end
I would struggle for breath
All tears and shame
And my emotions would surge
Over your wrist and arm
In great gouts, like blood
On a murder scene.
I became harder for a while
And the shell seemed to work
It didn't hurt so bad to
Be flayed open by a casual word
Or gesture
Of course, I couldn't maintain that,
So I fell apart in a spectacular rush.
In putting myself back together,
I became softer and less wounded
It doesn't seem to matter as much
One way or the other if your arms
Are stained with emotions,
I have plenty more
Where those came from.

                                                         Post, the First!

OK, so my niece let me know that April is National Poetry Month, a fact that escaped my notice. Or mostly did. I recognized the poster after looking it up as the same one used in the display at the local library for (wait for it) National Poetry Month. She suggested writing a poem a day in April, as I had been whining about not being very creative and not writing. In this spirit, here I go....

I can't help but think of you
Each time I cross the tracks.
Was it frightening making that decision?
Or, was it a relief to have finally done it?
Which was worse, deciding to do it,
Or the follow through?
I imagine it like this:
The culmination of weeks of thinking,
Appearing totally impulsive to anyone watching.
The young man staggering down the tracks,
Ultimately sitting down between the rails.
(I heard your wine bottle was between your knees)
Laying back, maybe in a stupor,
And staying there.
The train behind you becoming louder,
The frantic whistle blown repeatedly.
On a side note, trains aren't supposed to
blow them here in town.
I understand it takes some distance
for a mile long train to stop.
And so I find myself thinking of you
Each time I cross the tracks.
I hope it was painless.
I wish it hadn't happened.
Mostly, I wish I understood.