ghosts and goblins scurry past
small ones, tall ones,
big ones, little ones,
parents in tow.
I have candy but no pumpkin.
Safeway, Sprouts, King Soopers,
no pumpkins to be found
until I spotted a wire cage
with pumpkins trapped inside,
crying to be let out!
Finally, we were both happy,
the pumpkin and I!
it's only 8:30.
the French text stares at me
balefully yellow print;
uncashed checks, bills,
responsibilities and habits worth
forming, but nothing gels.
the bed is not too far away and
looks soft and welcoming.
I know my friend is working,
but I don't have his discipline,
I throw the last crumbs to
the dog and go lie down
with my book.
This is Y, or A or B, but not E.
please, not E, with its shrill sound
that still emanates from my flute, irregardless
of hours of cajoling, bargaining, even begging.
this is why playing the fluteis so challenging,
one note born and raised in hell,
only surfacing to torment the amateur like me.
that's Y I'm still here years later cursing the E
Y every night I go upstairs to practice.
I close the door behind me.
summer has arrived
it's called fall with red and yellow leaves
crunching under our wheels.
it's so hot we sit outside drinking
mojitos and eating fish tacos;
we know this is precious, this 80
degree day in October.
we did not ride swiftly today
regardless of the markings on
my jersey, we rode as if strolling
on a warm summer day.
is walking down the path of life
with someone you love,
with a beautiful young woman
who used to hang onto the hem
of my skirt and cry to be picked up.
now she lifts me up with her smile,
she does my hair so I, too, can
be beautiful on this special day.
maybe not needing
maybe not necessary for happiness
but needling in the back of your mind
wanting to be seen
wanting to be heard
wanting to be included
wanting to be
not because you are an old boy,
or part of the club, the right gender,
the right height, the right class and race,
you just are.
it's dark except for the glow at the horizon
an orangey, reddish, yellowish splotch of color,
we jog along the sidewalk together until I release her
to bound like a rabbit through the grass, pausing to
pull worms out from their sleepy nests underground.
I hate to get up early, the darkness lingering over us,
pulling a coat over my small shoulders,
until we get out and can cross the road,
normally so busy, now empty and run
towards the grass, then crossing the creek
she disappears to find unmentionables to eat
and I admire the trees and the glow of
the sun high up there, the fallen leaves
that crunch under my feet.
so many notes
crescendo and decrescendo,
so many to mess up, too shrill, the vibrato
not quite right, it's faster than the pulse of nature
the audience turns away.
one note at a time, the perfect note
that shows up one day, and lingers a couple more
only to disappear at the weekend when another
note pops up beautifully and fades away
until in three weeks, three notes show up
together, and in another month, there
are four, then five, and a full line
of music speaks to them and they
turn towards the musician
and she turns towards them.
in the darkness of space
we hear the groans of Io
perhaps complaining of neglect,
only a small group of scientists
admires her beauty.
the rest of us gaze at computer
screens and listen to Cold Play
or the Rolling Stones,
we are lost under our street
lights, ignorant of the sounds
and sights of the unknown.
I can put away the books
on wedding vows and bridal planning,
save a soft copy of the wedding ceremony,
return the foldable tables and punch bowl.
it's official, bride and groom and pup
all joined into one family,
a happy family with room for friends
and family, poetry, flute and saxophone,
only what to do with all the extra beer
sans white dress and tux.
the last errand I plan
for plates and Pelligrino
I plan to sleep in late tomorrow
and play with Karen, perusing
dress racks, picking up that one,
maybe purchasing the prettiest one.
a perfect day of pleasure.
help a friend
walk the dog
make chicken soup
take a nap
bake some granola
send out lots of emails
call a few people
change the time
do the laundry
make mental notes
go to bed
all tuckered out
I was reminded of what extraordinary is.
tonight, in a packed auditorium, twenty seven
minutes of Scott captured by another
extraordinary who could capture his essence
on film, a lanky, dark haired artist who only
met Scott strapped in a wheelchair nine
days before he passed on.
Scott, the physicist turned photographer,
turned graphic artist, turned woodworker,
sculpting metal into ribbons reaching towards the sky,
smoothing and cutting rocks, combining them
all into art that crawls inside you somehow
and makes you feel alive.
that was Scott, I was reminded of what
thank you, Scott.
I know who has been outside,
digging new holes and mixing
falling raindrops with dirt.
she then tromps back in, tail wagging,
her whole body gives a good shake,
spraying everything within 4 feet
with a fine layer of water.
I can tell she snooped around for food
by the extensive set of tracks around
where the food is stored, finally tiring
of fruitless effort and strolling
across the newly cleaned wooden
floor to her nice soft bed.
I'll lie in bed and cough,
I'll wake and gaze starry-eyed as the
earth's shadow moves across the moon
finally revealing a golden orb suspended
above my bed where I lie
there are advantages to coughing,
I can check what's happening in
the world often, then reach for a cough
drop and doze off until I wake
for the next great adventure.
kills, words that hurt would be better,
the vacuum where sound does not travel,
let us speak to one another
from heart to heart, do not
leave me alone here
silence kills love
the sweetness of a young boy
away from his mother,
such transparent and precious expressions
of love captured on a postcard that
she kept for years,
opened the box and saw his heart
spread out in front of her, this boy
is now a man, but she knows that
the same heart is beating inside
his broad chest, even if
he does not reveal his love
the announcements bounce off houses,
amplified into this bedroom on the second floor,
I hear all the plays and pause for half time antics.
the fall darkness waits for the stadium lights
to dim and finally extinguish when the hush
of night will rush in just as the fans shuffle
off onto buses and the sound of car ignitions
tapers into the soft whirr of tires rolling
out of the high school parking lot.
Silence will replace the blare of the loudspeaker
just as I lean over the lamp and extinguish
the opposite of scarcity is not abundance,
it's just enough, forget the big expensive cars.
a modest paycheck pays the bills, French and
flute every week to feed the soul, to practice
mastery in each moment, forget abundance,
its insistence on more, bigger, better, just enough
is enough, scarcity only exists in the
search for bigger, better and more.