Working too much

it's a problem
I know,
working too much
but first he comes in,
then she does, with
their issues, interesting ones
and the African violet at the windowsill
perks up her ears and her purple blossoms,
looking at me as if to say, well,
that's interesting, don't you think
and I reply, yes
but I already have
too much work,
my dear flower,
when will you help beyond making more
beautiful purple blossoms,
that doesn't take much intellectual firepower,
does it.

Errata

the final stanzas are missing
and I didn't notice having read too many already
embarrassed at my insensitivity to
William Meredith in his rendition of
the Wreck of the Thresher
instead of turning to page 389 to
link the errata to the poem, I reach
for another piece of tiramisu chocolate
absconded from someone else's
Christmas stocking.

someone missing on monday

you sit at a table, pages unwritten
children sleep in their beds, unknowing
so many things done tonight, unnecessary
for creating happiness, unfortunately
all too important in other ways.

The Life Cycle of a Chickpea

baby chickpea
dry as a stone, small white pebble
hard enough to break your teeth

adolescent chickpea: after an hour
in the pressure cooker palatable, smooth
unsure of her identity

mature adult chickpea,
draped in coriander and cumin sauce
an amchoor scarf thrown carelessly over
her shoulder.

Leaving

the necessaries spread out on the floor
underwear, big coat, toothbrush as Jenny will not be there
with hers
sad
isn't it
no one to tour London with or smile at
and who will smile back
a book, a Nook,
let's look
inside the bag
and make sure everything is there
that can be taken.

Wind

it's blows from the west every day at noon through evening
when we all move from the plains towards the mountains
from work towards home, from banks of computer screens to
rolling
pins and
crocuses beaming up from frozen soils
we lean into it
our overcoats buttoned tight
determined to reach
home.

For Whom the Bell Tolls: A book review

it's a book about a bridge in Spain
that was clear early on in the book.
a quarter way into the book,
ok, I get it, it's a story about a bridge
and a few people, some American guy
from Montana who carries explosives
and sleeps in a robe, one different from
my bathrobe, for sleeping outdoors in snow.
ok, the bookmark tells me I am two thirds
done and the pages are so thin and so
heavily loaded with ink,
Pedro, Rafael, ..and oh, yes, Maria,
and horses fall dead next to their soldiers,
explosions ricochet across the hilltops
mixing fear and courage, betrayal and loyalty.
only a few pages left, the bridge lies in pieces,
as did their soldiers
as the bridge is gone, so ends the book.

I gave this book 5 stars in Goodreads.com.