Le Poeme

Errata

2012-01-31T22:02:00.002-07:00

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

2012-01-30T21:31:00.000-07:00

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

2012-01-29T22:08:00.001-07:00

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

2012-01-27T21:55:00.000-07:00

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

2012-01-26T20:20:00.000-07:00

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

2012-01-25T20:52:00.000-07:00

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.

taking a break

2012-01-24T21:03:00.002-07:00

in this moment,
I don't care if there is war, famine or strife
for this moment there is only air streaming across
the hole in this flute, the vibration reverberating through
my fingers, into my hands, across to my heart
or not, depending on the day, but doesn't matter
really because in that moment, the worry of war,
famine or strife does not matter
it's nice to have a break.

A man writing a letter to a woman; a woman reading it

2012-01-23T20:57:00.000-07:00

He's not sure she will be able to read it
beyond to see that it is in sections
1, 2, 3 and 4 with a pause
between 3 and 4, a hesitation....
she will wonder at the space
what will be revealed and will she
want to know,
or maybe it's just a natural pause
when he looked out the window of the cafe
at some passersby and his pen slipped away.
his writing got larger and less legible as if
hurrying to finish and she wondered at his rush
she, still in her pajamas, the steam from her coffee
rising to her nostrils, no rush for this letter to end
why must it end this way, a pinched signature
at the bottom, no room for love.

Birthday Brownies

2012-01-22T21:21:00.002-07:00

Four seemed excessive,
really too many, they are way too rich,
we need to lose some holiday weight,
S. is leaving for Denmark and he won't
be exercising as much, J. is working too much,
we already each ate one after eating
mozzarella cheese balls and salami,
really, it's excessive.
really.

Prompt: I want it to confirm your worst fears

2012-01-20T21:31:00.000-07:00

Ana and I write poetry every Monday and come up with all sorts of prompts. This one was from our last Monday. If I used a prompt from today, it would be about frustrating computers, bad model runs, cutting your arm off in some desolate canyon...shall I go on?

your worst fear, that I will run away with another man,
would it be better if it were a woman,
how about if I moved to Paris alone,
the small suitcase near the coal closet hurriedly
packed with a few items,some lingerie and socks.
would it confirm your fears about me, or do those
fears reside in such matters as restless leg syndrome
which kicks up at midnight, or bad breath
even after brushing?
I want to confirm your worst fears about me
so we can both sleep well at night knowing
I can do the worst thing imaginable
and we will survive it.

Desserts

2012-01-19T21:09:00.000-07:00

I go to neighborhood meeting for the desserts
the chocolate cookies with pecans
the molasses and lemon bars lined up on
a white platter, the bowl of strawberries.
zoning, community garden, sidewalks
and liability digested alongside chocolate,
washed down with several glasses of wine
why else go to neighborhood meeting?

Missing You

2012-01-18T20:21:00.001-07:00

your curly hair with the flat spot on the back of your head in
the morning when you roll out of my bed, comforter in a crumpled
pile off to the side.
baking cookies and never getting around to decorating them
they still tasted good and disappeared somehow
the sound of creaking stairs
a Beethoven concerto with a few missed notes
the stack of used tea bags is only half as tall
even though you never leave yours out
a pile of boots, a jacket, a square cut purse
all the little signs of you, gone,
missing you.

Duets

2012-01-17T21:48:00.000-07:00

I always play flat
she sticks me with her bow on long slurs
I can't quite hit the high "E"
she misses the B flat most of the time
between the can-can and William Tell
we mercilessly slaughter the score
and laugh to tell about it.

What do dogs want?

2012-01-16T21:57:00.000-07:00

A simple predictable life with lots of naps
preferably to the steady drone of master's snoring.
A rawhide half eaten, securely held under a right
front paw for enjoyment.
A dog wants her walk in the early morning
after a pre-breakfast to provide energy for
her full body wag, for sniffing that tall stand of
grass by the fly fishing shop, or for leaving
his personal signature behind.
he wants to nap after breakfast to recover from
his exertion as he listens to his mistress talk on the
phone to someone she loves.
dogs hate conflict.
if she has to go to work, they want access to the couch
even though they know that they are not allowed,
if found, they will slink off with guilty eyes.
After a full day of naps, walks and food,
a dog wants a good night's sleep dreaming of
chasing, and catching, an endless supply of cats and
squirrels.

Dinner

2012-01-15T22:31:00.000-07:00

I watched them from across the restaurant laughing
and discretely asked the maitre d' to bring them the finest bottle
of wine for their enjoyment
they looked around the dining room in bewilderment, passing over
young couples in love, families with small children, finally settling
their gaze on an older gentleman in the corner nursing a brandy
after a fine meal
they'd never guess it was me even as I removed my
camera from its case to capture their smiling faces.

Snow bike

2012-01-12T20:51:00.000-07:00

while cars slide into one another
wheels careening, spinning backwards,
horns blaring, fingers raised, voices steaming windows
I ride silently only the creek gurgles to me
under her icy stole, my bag dusted in snow
tires leaving only signs of studs
diamond studs on an icy
landscape.

tired

2012-01-11T20:25:00.000-07:00

he was talking but the words made no sense
jumbled as they were, his mouth not even matching
I noticed his corduroy pants and wondered if his wife had bought them
of course she did because his shirt is green silk
and before her, he looked so bad, really bad, I can't even remember
what he wore, just that he looks so much nicer now
and he stopped suddenly and asked me if I was tired
and I said, yes, I'm so tired and then I noticed his shoes
were new and stylish and we decided it was time for
me to go home.

Running in the Dark

2012-01-10T18:53:00.000-07:00

in the distance
a light bobs up and down
another follows
they run in tandem
their shoes crunching in the snow
in complete darkness
intertwined voices project forward
fade behind like the whistle
on a passing train
the headlamps pass
into complete
darkness.

Roll of the dice

2012-01-09T21:38:00.000-07:00

A "3" and a "2"
no, too young for me,
let's roll again.
"7" and "5", too old
I'll take you, "3" and "5",
you're available and close by
even if you do have "2" dogs.
when we meet I will share
my "4" and "7" over a
red sangria and we'll sum it up
"3 + 5 + 4 + 7 = 20"
I'd prefer a prime but perhaps
having a range of summations
and multiplications might work
better in this complicated world
of matches.
If not, I'll roll again.

(just kidding, Stephen!)

Sunday night

2012-01-08T20:39:00.000-07:00

chicken soup, French bread and Brie,
wine, warmed peaches and cinnamon ice cream
Spiegel im Spiegel,
Scotch dance, Minuet and
Moon in the Ruined Castle all flute
singing as the dogs' eyes drift towards
closed, their breath even and calm,
never mind the applause, a sleeping dog
tells all.

getting ready

2012-01-06T21:28:00.000-07:00

they will look inside my brain
and decipher chemical signatures,
tapping their pencils on special papers
with insurance company stamps
as letterhead, they will decide
if the combination is acceptable
for a full day of construction or
waitressing, while I wait for the
conclusions for doing rocket
science.
I already know
why do they ask?

chemins

2012-01-05T21:43:00.000-07:00

the path looks softer to the west
but I am heading east towards somewhere,
I"m not sure where sometimes in the morning
I wonder where I am
or where you are, where are you
on your path, is it heading south this spring
shall I join you in this mystery or join the local
co-op or play my violin every evening a
warm cup of coffee steaming on the dresser.
this path wanders so aimlessly, I don't
know how to steer yet, the rudder is
stiff, where do I apply the oil.

The First Performance

2012-01-04T19:39:00.000-07:00

an audience of one trying not to smile
which would make me laugh, looking serious
and attentive, Buddy at his side
looking the wrong way, such is my
audience of one.
I almost laughed anyway while trying to keep
my wandering thumb in place, my lips placed
correctly, the pads of my fingers over the holes
all without cracking the "E", that most unstable
of unstable notes, the gnome.

and suddenly my two pieces were done, I
hadn't laughed, I didn't forget the pieces
in the middle, not too many notes cracked,
ah success!

Condo for Sale

2012-01-03T19:36:00.002-07:00

The grey smear along the hallway wall; painted over after years
of dog running along the hallway, rubbing his side on the way
to wake up the lazy ones still sleeping in bed.
the broken lamp shade; fixed years after the edge
chipped off from an overly rambunctious swing towards
what future we didn't know, couldn't guess.
the brown carpet stained in shades of brown tire
tracks, dog tracks, human tracks; gone, ripped up,
replaced with a noncommittal smell waiting to be populated.
a stovetop spilled over with the vestiges of paleo meals,
a countertop gone speckled, a refrigerator hiding
remains in its dark recesses, the bulb never changed;
replaced with gleaming stainless steel appliances.
the fox is no longer on the wall, she hangs over
a fireplace somewhere else, the mildewed towels
tossed in the fabric recycle bin, unneeded bike parts,
stained clothing, broken vacuum cleaners, ugly dishes,
excess silverware streamed out of the front door, clothes
reassembled in other closets, the front door shut
waiting for someone new to unlock it and walk in.

Cars

2012-01-02T20:11:00.000-07:00

Childhood
I. Bluebird:
he slammed his finger in the door
I loved the car, I did not love him.
II. Butterscotch:
She drove off every night in the sleek yellow lozenge
we ate meat loaf and washed the dishes
dutifully.
Youth
III. Saab Sonnett
every else carpooled in a Subaru wagon
we drove in the Sonnett, his hand on my leg,
our bucket seats touching.
Adulthood
IV. The Justy
Three cylinders of raw power.
V. The Prizm and the MiniVan
we are now mature adults.

2011 and 2012 Resolutions

2012-01-01T21:03:00.000-07:00

last year I vowed to touch my toes sometime in 2011,
yes, without bending my knees!
and I did, I did, for a day or two, and declared victory!
this year, a year of alphabetical reading, from authors
starting with A heading
towards Z,
likely not getting there,
reading through pages previously turned,
books dusty from waiting on tall bookcases
for me to pick them up,
check the penciled in
price on the inside
cover, the first
step on our
adventure.

OK, I still have to finish For Whom the Bell Tolls, which is kind of hard to get through, I admit...and I can't use that book for my "H" because I started it in 2011.

while the dogs pee in the bushes

2011-12-30T21:00:00.000-07:00

while the dogs pee in the bushes
let us commemorate red dresses,
pomegranate margaritas and mixed fajitas,
let us remember stories about ex-girlfriends,
reading glasses adorned with paper clips,
toothpaste smudges on blue sweaters
and mushroom soup in cafes
let me remember Yoga books from the 70's
striped socks and holes in my favorite jeans,
on-line Christmas shopping days after Christmas
and bicycle baskets, Buffalo Exchange and
best of all, afternoon naps where you wake
to the moon traversing overhead
and wonder where the hours went.

Fulfilling Anna's Dream

2011-12-29T21:24:00.000-07:00

thousands march in the square
as Putin gathers his strongmen,
his political artillery lined up to shoot them down
in cold blood in the street, masked, they
empty the shelves of Moscow to starve
the thousands who will not sit down
will go home only to rest and eat the
last crumbs in the breadbox before
heading to the square again.
They will endure.

(I am reading about Anna Akhmatova, a Russian poet who suffered terribly under the Russian tyranny. She died in 1966.)

a poem after Prose by William Corbet

2011-12-28T20:37:00.000-07:00

our friendship has shrunken to postcards and Christmas greetings
once we lingered in fragrant pine forests, loaded packs filled
with gorp, Kraft macaroni and cheese and canned tuna fish
what days they were under black skies decorated in starlight
you gaze at me from the Christmas postcard among your family,
your daughter wears braces this year; your son has grown so tall
but I know that you wish you were with me under the starlit nights
I can see it in your handwriting and the way you sign your name,
so reluctantly.

What happened to my broccoli?

2011-12-27T19:27:00.002-07:00

what happened to my broccoli
its branches leafing out from a sturdy stalk
denuded like the trees gracing the Champs Elysee
alas, my plate does not care for elegance,
seeking instead delectable morsels
that should be perched on every branch.
what happened to my broccoli
between store and saucepan
leading to much sorrow.

Monday evenings with Ana

2011-12-26T17:57:00.000-07:00

Monday evening 6:30 to 7:45 or so,
tea in hand, pens at the ready, a page open
we lean towards each other and say the word
"blue" or "owl" or "the expedition that never was"
and proceed to write, faces scrunched or intent
or both, conjuring up words to match that maybe
will please, maybe not, but we do it together
that together of writing and finishing, and reading,
and laughing, praising, exclaiming, understanding
every time a bit more of each other
and ourselves.

So tonight Ana is not here..and I am missing her!

Christmas

2011-12-25T22:05:00.000-07:00

dog breath on Christmas morning
rousing me to make coffee and muesli, strap skis
to my feet and glide on icy tracks left behind
always behind the stronger ones ahead of me so
I lag as always happily now to go home to
waffles and a new bike with studded snow tires,
never have I been so excited on a Christmas
morning as I admire my new bike with a shiny
front basket for carrying cast iron skillets of
sauteed pears swimming in rum and cream.

Tequila

2011-12-22T22:40:00.002-07:00

amber, blanco,reposado, silver
he loves them all in the aisle of Liquor Mart
wondering if Jenny will notice the charge on the credit card
she will, she's like that.
"It's been a tough month", he practices with slightly slurred speech
imagining the smooth slide across his tongue and down
his throat leaving behind a pleasantly burning sensation.
he knows she'll want to discuss whether the tequila
should be a shared expense, it's his vice after all.
he knows the answer, unconsciously reaching for his wallet
to check its health, for reassurance.
Reposado, 100% agave, come with me and
decorate my sideboard.

Snow Falling

2011-12-21T20:51:00.000-07:00

It is dark in the front bedroom but for the Christmas candles shining out the windows
to passersby who huddle in their warm coats, their feet scuffing up newly fallen snow
that drifts downward in waves to settle under the glare of the street lamp.
a violin plays in the background, a dog sneezes, the phone rings in the
aroma of freshly baked cookies, when every one climbs into their pajamas
next to a loved one and counts the snowflakes as they drift down like drunken
angels to settle under the streetlamp outside on a cold moonless night.

Hospitals

2011-12-20T21:47:00.000-07:00

they pretend to be cheerful with their views towards the mountains
color coordinated wallpaper and upholstery in well appointed waiting areas.
doors open and close quietly, people disappear into long hallways,
their voice dampen away with each footstep replaced by the swish of
the nurse's uniform as she approaches to ask if I am Lynette;
her clipboard says to look for Lynette, female, 52, in purple scarf.
I am glad I am not Lynette.
Lynette disappears down a long hallway ushered by a nurse with a swishing uniform
in floral pastels and a smiley face button reminding us to wash our hands.
No one wants to get ill and end up in a hospital.

"Notes from a non-existent Himalayan Expedition"

2011-12-19T20:12:00.000-07:00

(Title of one of the poems of Wistawa Szymborska poached at a free write session with Ana)

we walked naked across the ice like Patagonians,
a decorative fur skin carelessly thrown over our left shoulder,
except Vincent who threw his over his right to demonstrate his
non-conformist tendencies.
The Sherpas knew we were mad as hatters but humored us
as we dropped dollar bills behind us like breadcrumbs;
they were as quickly gathered
no path left behind to guide us home.
the crevasses screamed as we stepped over them,
exhaling mint flavored gasps of icy air that would have
billowed up our boxers if we wore them;
only Vincent wore a pair to cover his bald head
the pattern of star and stripes visible from a distance
even though he was Belgian.
Our progress was slow, the Sherpas were surly
and disrespectful
the whole thing was just damn unpleasant and
frankly,
boring.
even Vincent's jokes were deteriorating rapidly,
so when the newspaper thwapped on the front porch
and the dogs got to barking, I ended the mission
abruptly and mercifully, sending Vincent
back to his wife and kids, the others
scattered to the winds.

The flutist

2011-12-16T22:21:00.001-07:00

he stands tall
in his suit and tie, a golden plate
against his magical lips.
he tips his head to me in the crowd,
lifts his flute to play
astounding sounds that
emanate effortlessly from
his body which seems to sway
in a musical wind no else feels against
their cheek.

Cobus du Toit is my flute teacher! How lucky am I!
http://www.cobusdutoit.com/

Sewing up Corn Bags

2011-12-15T21:23:00.002-07:00

are your toes cozy
and those of your loved ones
your dogs, your cats, your rabbits
your hands, your arms, your legs
and are the toes of your loved ones warm
or does she put her cold toes on
your warm ones?
oh please make me a corn bag
today for me, for my loved ones,
for my dog, my rabbit, my cat
so we all may be happy
this holiday season.
www.cozytoescornbags.com

watch their hips

2011-12-14T22:08:00.000-07:00

watch their hips, not their lips
do they walk the talk, or talk the talk
walk away, sister, he talks but never
walks except away from you
leaving your tears to fall alone.

A solitary mitten

2011-12-13T20:17:00.000-07:00

a solitary mitten, a solitary hand
on a solitary day of grey skies,
empty offices, of snow flurries
threatening a depth i can't shovel
with one hand ensconced in one mitten.

i call the neighbor to pick me up
in his yellow taxi - he installed a hook
to hold my cane; the radio is blaring
hot8, a band just here from new orleans.
they were all black, we were all white.

they sat in a line-up like thugs
after the concert to sign CDs
i felt so white.
they looked at my missing hand
and saw
nothing.

Scanning the Spice Rack

2011-12-12T20:52:00.002-07:00

The basil is low and the box of turmeric is filthy,
the oregano is out of alphabetical order and
the big bag of ground thyme is a bit excessive,
you only use a pinch once a month or so.
did you write down what we need
oh baby, we need spice in our life that
covers the smell of dog breath, wet woolies,
compost bins and dirty laundry
we picked up from the Chinese outfit that
charges less than the green place down the street.
you get what you pay for, he muttered,
in response to something I never said.

lubrication

2011-12-09T18:42:00.000-07:00

it's not what you think,
lubrication of the sort women think about
men hope for
instead a gimbal turns in space
silent as a ghost, surreptitiously
scanning amongst the lights below
cars whizzing by on highways,
planes crisscrossing the sky
who knows what lurks below
what dangers, what delights.

Mistaken Molecules

2011-12-08T21:42:00.001-07:00

the mistaken molecules bounced off the primary mirror
towards the aperture, not realizing their spreadsheet was
miscalculated only to find the door was closed and warm;
they rested there only a nanosecond before bouncing
back towards the secondary and on to the tertiary,
then lighting up the faces on Earth on arrival at the CCD.

Dear Reader, Ms. Lois

2011-12-07T19:58:00.001-07:00

Dear Reader, Ms. Lois,

your gentle handwritten envelope arrived
in my humble mailbox on a snowy afternoon,
clutched clumsily in my gloved hands, my heart
bounced at such a happy event, a handwritten note,

and yet, from who
I wondered,
this name is not
one I know

until I opened it and knew
you as my friend.

Blowin' in the wind

2011-12-06T21:19:00.000-07:00

the answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind

the answer is blowin' in the wind

the question

how many feet will our oceans rise?

how many people will be driven from their homes?

how many people will die?

let's keep looking for an answer

in the wind, let's capture the

wind in our sails.

Congratulations, Stephen,

on your new job!

Tripping on the Sidewalk

2011-12-05T20:26:00.001-07:00

you'd think it was a poor neighborhood with
flickering fluorescent street lamps going dark
at the worst moments when her foot in full stride
caught against the step in the sidewalk sending her
tumbling forward and to the side neatly breaking
her humerus in two,
she hadn't had any plans to subdivide
that night.

Pink in Snow

2011-12-04T22:04:00.002-07:00

A poem in pink on snow
with studded tires, fenders and a
basket, what is so lovely but to
ride along the path by the river,
branches laden in purest white,
sparkling snowflakes drifting down
onto our heads, like pixie dust
onto a snow angel's hair.

Human decorations

2011-12-02T20:10:00.000-07:00

earrings
nipple rings
clit rings
ball rings
eyebrow rings
tongue piercings
nose rings
tattoos
men
women
please,
no children!

Out!

2011-12-01T19:23:00.000-07:00

he walks in, hips swaggering with confidence,
optimistic since the One is preoccupied watching
stupid videos of cyclists
sure enough, the One leans over to pet him,
gently stroking his ears and head,
then realizing he's been suckered once again,
by a Dog!
Out! he cries
Out!
I laugh
this always happens.

No one wants my job

2011-11-30T20:56:00.000-07:00

as I was telling her
she looked away
I followed her gaze
to a blank wall with a spider crawling up along the seam
she doesn't want my job
I can tell she doesn't want my job
tracking micrometeoroids or bathing in atomic oxygen,
following molecules or sifting through moon dust
she'd rather rub elbows with humans
and have lunch, leaving anovas
or novas to the ones sequestered
in their offices with the door
mostly closed, orange ear plugs
in place, that would be me.

Viento y corriente

2011-11-29T19:59:00.000-07:00

they watched us

being swept across the bay

and out towards the open sea

the old man and the boy watched

our inexperienced arms

effortful attempts with no hope of

reaching the island that looked so close from shore

we heard the motor before we saw them

coming towards us slowly, but unmistakeably

taking our bow in their hands

pulling us to shore

my flute and me

2011-11-23T21:30:00.000-07:00

I'm not telling him that I'm bringing my flute
to play in the bathroom, door closed, so no
one knows where the scales climb and fall
sometimes so clumsily, at times thrilling
me to the bone after months of the longest tones,
the most tedious of exercises.
No, I can't lose this in Mexico,
the flute is coming with me and
we will play together
somewhere.

Eavesdropping at the gym a couple days before Thanksgiving

2011-11-22T21:38:00.000-07:00

don't forget to mix the cinnamon into the butter
before spreading it into the rolls Thanksgiving morning
your husband will wake up so happy when he smells them baking

are you going to brine your turkey? I read on yahoo that
there is something called dry brining but I'm afraid to
do anything new

I'm getting so fat and worried about the calories.
she moves closer to her friend, massaging her
substantial love handles and pointing to the cuts
the surgeon will do after the holidays

are you going home for Thanksgiving dinner,
I hope it's better than last year when your mom
and aunt got in that terrible fight, the pecan pie
was awesome, though.

I'm going to my friends, she invites over all us singles,
I am bringing tofurkey even though most people think it's gross
it's really good!

picture courtesy http://farm1.static.flickr.com/141/333323031_0ef47c8dcb.jpg

strangers

2011-11-21T20:38:00.000-07:00

she is sleepless, he snores lightly, confidently
knowing he will wake to the aroma of espresso.
he curses the fellow student who trashed the micro-pipette;
she massages infinite series into convergence.
they go home to a messy house and a tidy apartment on a busy street.
their lips only touch homemade bread.
his brown eyes do not meet her blues; her greys
on any other day match the sky there.
his reflect off rocks.

The Woman on the Airplane

2011-11-20T22:06:00.000-07:00

she believes God directed her to move to Colorado
and leave her children behind in Texas;
we both love to sew (in principle) and she seems nice
but can I sew with a woman who leaves her children in
Texas because God told her to
I'm not so sure even though I took her email address
and the man sitting next to us leaned over with a smile
to ask if we were friends and how sweet,
she crossed herself when the air got turbulent,
I just secured my seatbelt, I'm not sure I can
sew with a woman who crosses herself when the
air gets turbulent but she said she was lonely,
maybe she should pray about that and find someone
else to sew with who crosses herself when the air gets
turbulent.

missing days

2011-11-18T21:36:00.000-07:00

Friday already? and what happened to Wednesday and Thursday
after Tuesday's broken cookie jar? such sadness that not a poem,
not a word sprang forth, apparently easily forgotten between Matlab codes
and phone calls, yes, overwork kills the brain in so many ways
we did not even recognize that words no longer flowed, no
longer read, no longer created, learn from this, young grasshopper,
overwork leads nowhere good.

The Broken Cookie Jar

2011-11-15T21:10:00.002-07:00

it broke over the weekend, he reported sadly,
usually it fills itself but when you were gone
it didn't work anymore, I hope you can fix it
sooner is better.

Mock Orange

2011-11-14T19:57:00.000-07:00

the flowers open late in spring
fragrance leaping towards the kitchen window
then subdued in summer, brown and wilted in falling
to the ground they remember
the better days.
of maidens swooning over them
now sleeping in beds of rusty dry leaves
until the sun comes up shining
lifting their delicate eyelids
in an innocent smile

Rain in Cambridge

2011-11-10T19:41:00.000-07:00

I come to Cambridge for rain
to rinse Colorado sunshine off my hair;
I come to Cambridge to sit down in a well-lit
kitchen to eat chocolate chip cookies
carried here for the one I love;
we smile at each other, molten
chocolate chip cookies smeared
across our lips, glasses raised
to us, being together.

off we go then!

2011-11-09T21:48:00.000-07:00

Boston calls blearily from rain sodden skies
suitcases sultry with slickers, not swimsuits
off we go, off we go!

Travels

2011-11-08T21:25:00.000-07:00

leave unpaid bills and barking dogs at home
chewed windows, wandering blue newspaper bags
and those you love, empty champagne bottles and
confetti...such celebrations before boarding a plane
to somewhere, to someone you love, how lovely
to have love in both places.

A Stone

2011-11-07T20:28:00.000-07:00

a stone kicked off the path
into the weeds to sit among
the others expelled from their place
in the sun by a passing
pedestrian,

they sit so silently there
without communion,
who would want
to be friends with
other losers.

I just read the oddest little poem by Vasko Popa called White Pebble which of course made me wonder about the lives of pebbles, stones and other living things.

9:54 p.m. and it's late

2011-11-06T21:58:00.000-07:00

the cold has stolen in across the mountains
slithering her way through the lodgepole pines
past the bears settling in for the winter, the
deer nestled together for the night, the mountain
lion lifting his nose for the scent.
it's dark and late, the curtains are drawn
to ward off the cold fingers reaching through
the windows, somehow it feels later tonight
after I moved the hands of all the clocks;
they told me it would feel so late tonight,
an hour more of cold sweeping through
the mountains to embrace this house.

November 4

2011-11-04T20:42:00.000-06:00

it's 8:07 and thirty nine degrees,
cheers drift down the hill through the double glazed windows
it's football Friday
I watched them trudge up the hill in their Buff sweatshirts,
carrying stadium seats to shield their bottoms from the cold
it will be a long night
here the dogs are asleep on the carpet downstairs,
my flute is waiting for me to finish this poem
so we can play again
it's a lovely quiet Friday night
for a football game up the hill,
so quiet here inside.

Snow on Roads, in Ditches

2011-11-03T20:53:00.000-06:00

Snow covers the trash littering the side of the roads
concealing it from the watchful eyes of workers in orange vests
it's time to relax, our eyes can glaze over, or squint into the brightness of new snow,
forget our commitments to pick up, pack up, stack up
the cigarette butts thrown from windows,
the empty beer cans, an occasional diaper,
stryofoam cups and kleenex,
look out across the field of snow,
across the white ditches
and up into the blue sky.

Ooops..I am the Adopt A Road coordinator and I forgot to schedule the clean-up for this fall, and I really don't care at this moment.

Snow 12

2011-11-02T20:02:00.001-06:00

Twelve inches teetering on the bird feeder
they come anyway, wings dusted in snow

Twelve cars waiting at the light instead of
six, four bikes in garages or under eaves

Twelve noon; our shoes disappear into
water running fast under melting snow

Twelve is a good number for today,
this eleventh month of 2011.

Impending snow and traffic

2011-11-01T21:21:00.001-06:00

lines of cars lingering lazily,
languidly lagging at each light
watching for the snow to come in;
not even close, hours to go,
the shoppers scurry into stores
to stock up on supplies for snow
that is yet to come for many hours,
how fruitless our frentic frenzies
our hopeful hunches that work will
fulfill our wishes to be canceled
for snow.

Happy Halloween

2011-10-31T21:26:00.002-06:00

The silly, the scary, the spooky,
one toothed, many toothed and snaggle toothed
sharp eyed, droopy eyed, one eyed,
the expert's, the child's, the parent's,
the neighborhood all lined up at seven
tables, the squirrels watched impatiently
then settled in for an early
Thanksgiving feast.

Chocoloate Chip Cookies

2011-10-30T22:33:00.002-06:00

baking chocolate chip cookies,
such an essential task on a dreary Sunday evening
clouded over by the certainty that tomorrow will come and
we will once again be glued to office chairs and computer screens
let us drown our sorrows in leaving sunny afternoons behind
by baking chocolate chip cookies to carry us through
curious calculations, Monday meetings and quick coffee
breaks where we can walk through piles of leaves, kicking
them towards the heavens where surely everyone eats
chocolate chip cookies at every meal.

Sleeping with cupcakes

2011-10-28T20:24:00.000-06:00

I dream of cupcakes

warm from the oven

frosted in chocolate,

sprinkled with coconut flakes and m&m's

the no-cal versions that one can eat

endlessly through every dream

whether fleeing a crazy assassin,

solving difficult problems in a purple polka dotted office chair

or flying above the trees,

a cupcake always in hand

close to my heart,

even

closer to my stomach.

The Singer

2011-10-27T21:47:00.001-06:00

I sit at the small round table at the coffee shop
with just enough light to write about her
soaring voice, snazzy chords and meaningful lyrics
having traveled so far along lonely slippery roads
but
there's a fellow in front of me
his carefully tended dreadlock birdsnest perched so precariously
on his white trustafarian head
who would possibly hire him
leaning over to look into the artificially
endowed, amply displayed bosom of his companion,
he leans back for an affected laugh of one
unencumbered with work hours, bills to pay,
only to glance down his nose at the tip
jar circulating to his table,
he doesn't pull out his wallet.
I confess,
irritation trumped beauty.

Snow

2011-10-26T21:21:00.001-06:00

broken branches rest on earth
finally freed from the tyranny of gravity,
the pull of sunshine, they rejoice
settling into the whiteness of snow,
the purity of relaxation.

the eyes never lie

2011-10-25T21:24:00.000-06:00

the eyes never lie
like her words that grate
the eyes never lie
life's not that fine
fake smiles terminate
with a frown
the eyes never lie
tears that should be falling
do not in spite of
eyes that never lie
no it's not fine these
never ending lies that
strive to become truth,
eyes never lie, lying
eyes only lead to
loneliness.

Letters to my Mother

2011-10-24T21:38:00.001-06:00

between every word, every sentence
hangs a wish; the mark of pen on paper,
marks of love disguised as letters,
each "a" aspiring to articulate a yearning
for the "c" of connection long ruptured
in my empty room when she came home
from work in the season of leaves falling from trees,
my suitcase gone, only a pen on a pad of paper
good-bye.
now, a new pad, a new pen pressing against it,
each letter full of letters, a wish for connection
hanging off every word, single sentences
singing for her.

The Late Dinner

2011-10-23T21:47:00.000-06:00

no dinner turned to
dinner at 7, delayed at Glenwood Springs
turned to dinner at 8
highway 93 closed, detour to Indiana
turned to dinner at 9,
done at 9:15, off to bed for all of us
asleep at 9:30

Green kicks up yellow

2011-10-21T20:45:00.002-06:00

Green turns to yellow
leaves on cement on the way to
a coffee break, away from the office
where computers whirr, voices travel
up and down the hallway, some have
stomach aches, I head out for coffee
kicking leaves into the blue sky.

you know who this is about

2011-10-20T21:12:00.000-06:00

she walks leaning far forward, her arms stretched in front of her
like wings preparing for flight
an awkward bird, this one, with her white
sneakers pointed inward, pigeon-style, her jaw
jutting forward as if to balance her backpack loaded
with AP books, leaning slightly left to balance her
right hand hanging heavily under the weight of her
instrument case.
if she's lucky, she will look like you some day.

A Short Poem

2011-10-19T21:09:00.002-06:00

a short poem
while the dogs sniff the bushes
leaving their mark
as I leave mine.

Flute Playing

2011-10-18T22:21:00.000-06:00

Back then, I hated lessons.
Every Saturday morning, Mr. Grimes
would notice my peeling lips and remind me
again
to use Mentholatum balm as he pulled his jar from his old wooden desk.
I hated the smell of the stuff.
Back then, I dreaded having to play my exercises,
my only motivation to avoid the "look" he gave me
to indicate he knew how little I practiced
since the last lesson.
No words needed.
I knew that one day I would feel differently
in that rather indistinct way the teenagers are
sure that their angst driven existence must somehow
evolve before a self or other destructive act.
I pick up the flute and miss Mr. Grimes, his jar of Mentholatum
in hand, his endless patience, knowing now that he
never actually used a reprimanding look, just the look
of a wise man at an angst driven teenager.

Photo courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/alheard/356344743/, as I am too lazy to get out my flute and take a picture of it!

If

2011-10-17T21:06:00.000-06:00

if the rain had begun earlier,
I would have brought my umbrella
if the freeze had come later, my tomatoes
would not be sodden orbs, hanging limply from black leaves
the hoeing, planting, weeding yielded so little fruit
if the snow comes early, the hillsides will sparkle under the stars,
my umbrella will be stored away for the winter,
the rotten tomatoes buried under a layer of white.

freeze watch tonight! is the prompt for tonight's poem

Sunday night

2011-10-16T21:26:00.000-06:00

andouille sausage and shrimp
leeks and garlic
phyllo dough
dry vermouth
all in a potpie,
mix with
family and dogs,
add a dose of
overeating
peach crisp, bottomless
margaritas on top of a
mindless TV series
and you've made a perfect
Sunday night.

the sun on basketballs

2011-10-14T22:07:00.000-06:00

words
remove cobwebs obstructing light,
the jaune of new moons
shining over prison yards after the
basketballs have settled themselves
into metal racks for the night,
waiting for the sun to rise the next morning,
the call of young men, their large palms
embracing their warm roughness
as they arc into the light.

photo courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/22885507@N05/2201805539/ (Flickr creative commons)

Prison Camp

2011-10-13T21:52:00.000-06:00

they have been there so long it seems like home,
cold bread and rotten peaches, cracked sidewalks and peeling paint,
they trudge to work each day, returning to gun fire and police dogs,
finding their beds hard under their hips, they toss and turn all night
to the sounds of the other prisoner's snoring and shifting side to side.
there is no wondering if there is another life, the old one so long gone
of moonlight and dancing, holding hands, drinking wine,
the sounds of only two glasses clinking
into the night.

The Review

2011-10-12T21:30:00.000-06:00

my reviewers love me, let me bask in it for 15 minutes
before the ink dries onto the pages and the words
have fallen as so many dust particles drifting into oblivion.
the manager sits across from me and has to deliver
this positive message, in spite of his distaste for
Democrats, or more precisely people unlike
himself, or even more precisely, people like me
who break rules, ignore the boss, but still
bring in money and make progress.
ah, let me bask in the love for a few moments
before the door swings open and the warm
moment is swept out by a cool Fall breeze.

The Addict's Size

2011-10-11T21:32:00.000-06:00

addicts pretend to walk away citing health, cost, pride goddammit
but they always look back, longingly, for the high that comes
from their drug of choice, mine being Grey Poupon,
in spite of HFCS, GMOs and other evils, there is no substitute.
anonymous in a far off city, a grocery store stocked with other evils
that held no allure, I found this jar, an economy size never seen before
for addicts of the highest grade, Grey Poupon addicts,
count me in.

The Walls

2011-10-10T21:23:00.001-06:00

The walls speak volumes
of pages arranged in books, magazines
stacked one on the other, or
she, the Zombie Jet, is leaning across his lap
paying Homage to the Lone Wolf on this moonless night.
The walls hold up our lives that otherwise might
spread across the floor like oil slicks on puddles,
auto headlights reflecting back into dilated pupils,
blinded, we run off the road only to
find ourselves.

what to say

2011-10-09T20:33:00.000-06:00

what to say,
the window frame chewed off
heavy glass in pieces
like my heart once again
for no good reason except
what to say except that you love the one
who loves the other and so you
accept the broken glass,
the chewed window frame,
the laptop askew, spilled detergent,
a cloudy windowpane
that looks forward to one
day when the door can stay open,
the windows will let in a breeze
and we can walk out freely
into a summer eve, hand in hand
without a single backward glance.

off camping..see you sunday!

2011-10-07T09:50:00.002-06:00

Steve Jobs dies

2011-10-05T20:28:00.000-06:00

everyone read about it on their iPhone,
their iPad, or amongst the older or less wealthy set, their Mac.
Steve Jobs has died.
the Reed College drop-out, a young father not quite ready,
the adoptee who finds his sister, a friend, a colleague,
a genius
with standards as high as the stars
that shine a little less bright tonight,
one of their own has gone dark.

Fire Hydrant in Forest

2011-10-04T21:04:00.002-06:00

city dogs need city hydrants
no self respecting city dog will pee on a lowly rock;
one of dozens perched in a lousy field,
only a hydrant will do.
we will set one down at the edge of the forest
for dogs walking by, bladders full, just
looking for the perfect place to pee.

a perfect Fall day

2011-10-03T20:56:00.002-06:00

no matter the state of the world,
protests on Wall Street, burnt cookies.
no matter tedious work assignments,
undone dishes, children who don't call.
the sun filters through golden leaves
on this sunny day, speckles of sunshine
glitter on eyelids blocking our view of
the downtrodden, the suffering; we only
see glory and optimism.

The Neighbors

2011-10-02T21:15:00.000-06:00

he beseeched city council to save his nest egg
let the wind blow in all year round to cool his ardor
let water drain from his rooftop into his coffee pot.
the garden is lovely, contained within an ornate iron gate
he pulled from a garbage heap at a job site, the better
to contain his lovely from leaping from a swinging chair
pastels in hand, a paintbrush piercing her nose,
a camera around her neck to capture
what I wonder, what does she capture all day in
that green house, only venturing so far as to
paint street murals on neighborhood pavements.

are they gay?

2011-09-30T22:34:00.000-06:00

Of course they are gay!
Riding a tandem on a lovely night
Calling out to each other
the pilot advising on potholes
And ice cream shops, the stoker
Shouting out chocolate and
Cookies and cream, espresso
and movies, singers and poets,
oh what a gay couple, so happy
on a lovely night!

What would I do then

2011-09-29T20:11:00.000-06:00

What would I do without a micrometeoroid in my pocket,a sprinkle of lunar dust across my notebook?
Where would I ride my bike but across the campus,
notebook bobbing in my basket to discuss how molecules
find their way between metal asperities meeting in the middle
of a delicious kiss on their way to Mars,
over what else can I obsess but how to smuggle illicit
chemicals onto linear reciprocating surfaces to discover
their tribological mysteries,
what would I do without those hours of occupation with
my friend, the launch profile, Miss Delta II
who resents being replaced by the Mr. Atlas V, the gossip
I would miss, what would I do then,
what would I do then.

flute sounds

2011-09-28T22:22:00.000-06:00

a middle "c" for correct
and "e" for enormous
"d" for difficulty, "e,d" enormous difficulty
in playing the flute after so many years
"f" an expletive for how frustrating, a flat
note, a sharp rebuke for the fuzz coming out,
but the middle "c" sounds so pure I keep
going back to it, if only all notes could be
so sweet, and not so "e,d,and f".

Elle est mon amie

2011-09-27T22:41:00.001-06:00

elle est mon amie et c'est son anniversaire...
alors, j'ai donne mon massage a 8h30 a mon fiance
et je n'ai pas fais mon promenade dans le foret ce soir,
en place j'ai colore mes cheveux, j'ai achete un gateaux
et j'ai parle avec ma fille sur la telephone pendant conduire
toute la route vers sa maison,
quelquechose je ne fais jamais!!
c'est son anniversaire et je serais la, n'importe quoi,
avec mon coeur dans ma main, pour partager une verre,
mettre les bougies dans les gateaux, prendre les photos,
parler jusqu'a notre heure de dormir,
une bonne soiree! bonne anniversaire,
mon amie meilleure!

Read to Me

2011-09-26T20:40:00.000-06:00

Read to me, mother, so that the demons in my dreams are
swooped up in angel's wings,
Read to me so I can remember Grandfather riding white stallions
that climb through the sky,
Read to me about rivers that run backwards on full moons back
to hidden sources bedecked in gold,
Read to me, daughter, about glaciers that crawl along canyons
carved out a millenia ago,
Read to me, grandson, about dump trucks and earthmovers, firemen
and ambulance drivers,
Read to me, save my life.

It's Official

2011-09-25T21:12:00.000-06:00

no turning back now, too many glasses raised,
rings have settled into their grooves on our fingers,
it's official, the parents have come out for an event, heart shaped cookies
were consumed, much wine drunk, a gate has been built
to separate dog from flowers, from hands reaching for a throat,
gardeners know what this is about.
now evening, dishes are washed, a fan pulls fresh, clean air
through the upstairs cooling my feverish face.

Spanish Lessons with Stephen on the bed

2011-09-23T22:06:00.000-06:00

he reads his newspaper
yo, hablo espanol y pregunto las palabras
to Stephen, who snores lightly whenever I send a question
adonde por que yo no se como responde a ese computador
his hand held computer has run out of batteries and
el es mas cansada porque ses parientes son aqui, ellos
are sleeping downstairs
con los perros, yo estoy muy contenta
to not have to listen to them pant and snore
cuando, en esos suenos, ellos
bark at unseen visitors.

The Piano Player

2011-09-22T21:01:00.000-06:00

He leans over the keys
eyes closed like an old man
looking into a distant past
hunched baggy suit
his hands reaching towards
the unknown until the moment
they find their place on the keys
and
he sits up straight
a young man in the prime
of his life.