That's when you look into each other's eyes
and see one another, when history dances between
you across generations, and the strands of history
are visible through the haze of the Cosmos
and Tom Collins, brilliantly refracted in the
glass of white wine, who knows what kind.
and after a decadent dessert and a brisk walk
back through barely falling raindrops, you
recognize the sacred and beautiful in that time
when you looked at each other across the table,
seeing a bit more that you never saw before,
that history, that connection, that beauty.
tabouli, baba ganoush, pita,
mint, baklava, amanouz.
after running, wine, naps,
sunshine, clouds rumbling
across a road crowded with
cars all trying to get to
amanouz for pita, baba
ganoush, mint, baklava.
He hogged our joint armrest, even pushing my arm into my sleeping lap.
He read Scientific American and I decided to subscribe based on articles titled,
"The Myth of Antioxidants",
and the "Brains of Geniuses",
I wish I was one, how fun that would be to never have to work
very hard, ideas flooding your mind all the time, music composing
itself in your sleep, novels springing from your fingertips.
I'm going to think of kangaroos with their long tails,
jumping over cars stuck in traffic jams.
Lions will chase giraffes until the giraffes realize that
they can pick up the lions, depositing them high
into branches, the lions too startled to respond.
On vacation, I will think of all the people
I know who walk like penguins,
those who are sly and tricky as foxes
and I will be glad to be away from them all.
I will glide through my vacation like a swan,
as gracefully as a dolphin frolicking in the light
I got them for Christmas,
red, black and white plaid slippers.
I hated them.
I knew they came from the dollar store
because no one would buy them for
more than one dollar.
That Christmas was a long time ago.
I still have the slippers and I still
think they are incredibly ugly,
but they have molded themselves
to my feet, there is even a left and
a right now, instead of both being
They will probably outlive me
and my daughter will rightfully
toss them in the rubbish bin
after my funeral,
not recognizing that when all
is said and done, these are the
slippers that always found
their way onto my feet.
noana banana today, no coffee, no froth,
no poems wafting off paper, just quiet here,
just snow outside the window, a black dog sleeping,
just a basketball game, will they reach 15-0,
just a flute with a sticky key.
no walking up the hill, no running down.
just darkness hiding behind a brilliant full moon.
that red car in the background has bald tires and
is covered in snow, snow adhering to ice to windshield.
it's 19 degrees and the dog's breath hangs in the air,
her snout covered in snow, she loves the snow.
It's a snow day! we shout, the bike, the dog and me.
Stephen hovers in his slippers on the front porch,
safely snuggled in his down coat and Deer Trail hat.
Off we go, then, no the dog can't go so she scampers
inside to resume her nap, and I head off boldly,
rather unwisely as that ice frozen under that snow
makes the going treacherous but fun!
Snow day, bike day, cold day!
they entered from the left, masked, a flute, cello,
a piano as large as a whale, her open mouth harboring
rows of strings like baleen sieving massive gulps of
water, feeding this mammoth beast as she glides
through the deep blue, blue light, the only light
on stage surrounded by blackness.
the flute sings mixing voice, whistle, tonality,
whale song penetrating deep into the belly,
liquid air whirls around the audience, laminar
streaming into turbulence when the sea gulls
call over the water, calling for her to come
up to breathe, we breathe with her, then sink
deep as the baleen open and close across
the piano, her black dress rippling in the
our weaknesses should endure on tombstones,
not the dull, "loving mother", "devoted father"
or "beloved wife", instead more interesting notes
such as "one who used good instead of well
in spite of numerous corrections", or "never
was a good listener", for me, "always froze
before playing high E on the flute".
think how much more interesting a visit
to the cemetery would be, we could assume
they were wonderful mothers, devoted fathers
or beloved wives, and get on with the more
interesting, and more human, aspects of their
lives, one we could all relate to.
I don't send birthday emails to the ex
like he does to me every year from Hawaii
or a boat near god-knows-where, his young wife
in tow, his old wife #2, that's me, happily ensconced in
Boulder, Colorado, that is, nirvana.
I thought of him this day as I filled out a form
at work, March 20, oh, hey, I know that date
as I do April 24, the birthday of ex #1.
Oh, I'd wish him, #1, a happy birthday if I
happened to see him at the grocery store,
unlikely since his wife does the shopping,
but we do share kids and I see him
on the ellipticals at the health club.
With ex #2, I share nothing,
so I don't send birthday emails,
I move on to March 21.
she whispers at the mouth of the canyon,
trickling like water over rocks, whispering
as one lover to another in a sacred place.
She-wind spills out onto the plain,
expanding, roaring, enraged at
the emptiness of this open space,
dotted with cold angular buildings,
the concrete,steel and glass offer no solace to
this angry wind determined to knock
it all down, the roar growing louder
and louder as she approaches the center,
I hear her as I lie in bed, the crescendo of
wind, I feel a breeze across my face as
she penetrates double-pane windows,
I hold her in respect.
Was Mahatma Gandhi angry,
does the Dalai Lama grind his teeth at night,
rip his worn Buddhist robes to tatters,
scream at the sky as dawn opens her eyes.
Did Peace seep into their pores from
scented pillowcases, did the everpresent
dust on countless country lanes scrub anger
from their feet, does simple food cleanse
anger from the inside out?
whatever their secret, I need it now.
May the singing of the flute carry
anger away in the wind, let anger
fall from my feet as I run, let me
find peace in the movement of this
pen across this paper.
women show up naked in subways,
men who love them offer jackets
to cover their breasts and butt.
how French, she only notices
then that the older couple need a
little more time to get inside the
doors about to close so she jumps
from her seat leaving the coat behind,
the old French couple don't even notice
her bared breasts, it's all very French
and we laugh as we get into our
flannel pajamas and slippers,
one with Karma, my teacher's,
the other new and shiny with a split E
so much better than a split lip.
now engaged with option to marry
I bring the Other home for comparison
in a bedroom with lively acoustics.
the Newcomer faltered on the E
showing psychological issues yet
to be resolved, the Faithful Cobus
always falters on unless I creep
up from behind, gently without
disturbing him, he sings then.
This month, old Faithful will fight
for supremacy, we'll see who will
win my heart.
the poster always has a sketch of a crown
that I assume is for the queen, we don't tell
men to stay calm and carry on
no one pushes back when they forge ahead,
jaw pushed forward, nostrils flaring, bellowing,
he's just having a bad day.
no, we, the gentler sex, have to stay calm and
carry on, smiling back at agression, staying
focused on moving the target so lightly he
does not notice until he is where we need him
to be, oh this skill is learned over my lifetime,
my wish is that my daughter does not need to
teach it to her daughter.
the purple crocuses showed up
as usual, early March.
have they not heard of climate
change, did they not feel the
heat of the winter soil,
didn't the earthworms tell them
the news that has echoed
from Indonesia to Britain,
Greenland to Patagonia.
The earth is warming
the seas are rising
we are crying,
but you, purple crocus,
you are too late now to tell
us the world is warming, it
would have been news
it takes a moment for the
snowflakes to melt into darkness
on their glistening black riot gear,
the photographers light, extended
above the crowd, illuminates a flurry
of drifting flakes falling from
an innocent sky onto a violent crowd.
a sensitive ear hears the silence
between each snowflake that
gradually dampens the riot gear,
settles the crowd.
eventually, all will grow quiet,
we will only see the glistening
of flashing lights on the wet streets.
dV/dt disappeared in the equation somewhere
and dynes/cm^2 need to be converted to torr,
oh why do the matrix elements not match up
when she was wearing a beautiful red dress
and he so dapper in shiny shoes and a bow tie.
such mysteries, computing, calculating, balancing
this and that, a dot matrix here, a cross product
followed by a differential to end a lovely day
computing the number of clouds passing in
front of my window, watching the yellow
crocuses snap up through the ground.
to pull up a pair of stockings
and hope they don't rip,
to check out airfare to
far off places,
thirty seconds to
peel a grape for someone
you love, or raise a glass
an alpha male with a nice smile
hiding sharp teeth that can quietly
and efficiently rip flesh if he
doesn't get the right answer,
a framed photo of a beautiful woman
behind him, she must be powerful
to keep him in check like a
lioness in high heels and a
slinky sexy dress,
she looks like that, like someone
worth getting to know, I think I'd
Beer balm after a bad day,
dark, rich, chocolate liquid
to smooth the day away,
I understand alcoholics,
sometimes life isn't fun,
and that includes work.
Amber or dark, hoppy or not,
chips and salsa, bacon truffles
and roasted almonds all
make the day better than
it was a moment ago.
bless that beer.
Large monitors demand large things,
extensive proposals and late night number crunching,
a large monitor calls out to be looked at,
admired, used, even as the small one on the side
shows a little document well worth a glance
late at night, a YouTube video of a flutist
playing Sonata in C for flute and piano.
Life was freer without this Large Monitor
blocking the view to the mountains, but living
Large works for me, too.
Forgetting Friday, that last day
of every week, the final hours before
Freedom, and yet I forgot because I
was already Free, sleeping late,
breakfast in bed, ski bum kind of day,
with lunch out, not a worry this
Friday, not a poem, not a word
about it because I forgot Friday,
it came and went blissfully
without a single name.