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.