The Last Day of the Year

My priorities were clear by the end of the day.
I never got to work, having
stopped on the way to visit my brother and
give him a calendar of family photographs.
My daughter called, (the quality
of her voice a dead give-away that
she had just woken up). After her
breakfast we hiked one of our favorite
trails, followed by a left over lunch
of corn tamales we had made together
three days ago, topped with luscious
guacamole. The usual nap, followed by
a New Year’s Eve dinner with friends
and the man I love so much that I take
care of his inconvenient dogs.
Good-bye, 2008.
Hello, 2009!

Falling in Love on the Dodgeball Court

They fell in love in between dodgeball
matches, in the brief moments when they
weren’t busy bombarding each other
in single-minded pursuit of victory.
They were on opposite teams,
the Certified Public Assassins versus
the Blonde Bombshell Squad.
All good things must come to an end,
including dodgeball season.
Sweat still beaded on his forehead
after a particularly vicious match,
he asked her for a date.
They sealed the deal with a kiss,
but three years later,
the dodge ball matches continued,
body contact followed by a hasty retreat

to the sidelines, until he finally agreed to join
her home team.

This poem is based on last Sunday's New York Times wedding announcement.

The Wind

the wind rides in like a train
from the west, through Nederland,
down Boulder Canyon and right
into town.
The clickety-clack of the rails
crescendos up until that moment when
the train barrels into my house head-on.
The beams shudder and creak, outside,
wind chimes frantically
clang against each other,
small stones ping in staccato
symphonies against the windows.
Tonight I will sleep on the east side
of the house, and dream of witches
on broomsticks and ruby red slippers.

Dogs are Inconvenient

Dogs are Inconvenient

He complains that it’s
so inconvenient, the going back
and forth between his house
and mine.
Why not live together,
it would make life so much easier.
He goes off to Houston to see
family and I am left to care for his dogs
for three days and three nights.
No, my love, I will tell him tomorrow
as I hand over his dogs, food,
meds, leashes, collars,
poopie bags and an extra copy
of the DVD “The Dog Whisperer”,
it is not the distance between our
houses that is so inconvenient.

Dogs are inconvenient.

.

Note to dog lovers and Stephen: Yes, I know you love them.

So elusive, Peace.

So elusive, peace.
War follows peace,
Bombs follow rockets,
recriminations follow accusations,
all while the generals and the presidents
sit in their offices,
watching their troops die,
watching their people die,
so elusive, peace.

The Party

The Party

We were eleven,
seven spoke, three listened
and one laughed.
the seven spoke of how to cook mushrooms,
the surprise publication of a poem,
what happens when a family has a baby,
travels in Italy, whether to go skiing or not,
how her father always thinks she is working,
and when he might return to Las Vegas.
the three listened, perhaps unable to put together
several sentences in sequence after a bit too
much wine and port, and one laughed heartily
from over on the couch.
the evening progressed like
this, very comfortably
until it was no longer
possible to fully conceal the
yawns and several came at once,
the relaxed seating posture looked a bit
too much like a full-on dozing off.
And so, our hostess bundled us off to our cozy
beds, empty platters in hand.

Photo courtesy of http://flickr.com/photos/theblueboy/2769843583/

Umberto

He sat quietly on the sofa
watching us through thick,
dark rimmed glasses, his eyes
watery with age,
sharp with wisdom.
Quite the snappy dresser
with his shiny black shoes,
neatly pressed slacks and
argyle sweater. We humbly
offered the one or two words
we knew in his language;
His gift in return, a broad smile,
a torrent of Italian warmth.
No need for a dictionary,
Happiness is the same
in all languages.

Oh, To Be a Ballerina

Oh, To Be a Ballerina

She confided in me that
she always wanted to be
a ballerina, dancing gracefully
across polished floors, her tutu
swirling around her lithe body,
the danseur lifting her effortlessly
high into the air.
She sighed a heavy sigh as
we started walking down the
stairs of the Opera House.
Suddenly, my delicate danseuse
slipped on her new cowboy boots
and not so gracefully grabbed
me to save herself from
an unchoreographed fall.

photo courtesy of: http://flickr.com/photos/tjunkie/2044225222/

Squash Seeds

Squash Seeds

No one gave me any
zucchini last summer,
in spite of common knowledge
that everyone who plants it
has way too much, shoving their
excess into the hands of innocent
passersby.
The truth is that I had planned
to grow zucchini in my own
garden plot, but Spring arrived
and I couldn’t find the seed packet.
I refused to buy another one
on some long-forgotten, and
no-doubt idiotic principle.
On this bitter night, with
spring an impossible promise,
in view from a location where
I almost never sit,
I spot the seeds waiting
patiently for me until
planting time arrives.
I’ll leave them there
so I know where to
look next time.

Playing Boggle

Playing Boggle

The old timer with
its incessant ticking
finally expired after

some heavy sighs

and death rattles.
the kitchen timer was brought
to play.

Instantly,
my life improved,
my scores soared upwards,
as did my spirits, even if
K. continued to pound me
unremittingly
I didn’t care
as long as I did not
have to hear the ticking
of the old timer,
accelerating inversely
to my declining word
generation.

Photo courtesy of http://flickr.com/photos/todderick42/2205512914/?addedcomment=1#comment72157611437192063

My Friends are Lushes

Twelve Empty Bottles

They seemed the respectable bunch,
all dressed up, men in ties, women
in black cocktail dresses, heels,
pearl necklaces and matching earrings.
We talked politics, relationships,
families, holidays, travel, children,
not a word about bike racing or riding,
all the while with a glass of red at hand,
a plate of petit fours, miniature cheesecakes
or daintily decorated organic cupcakes.
Warm hugs and promises to get together
soon as everyone headed back home,
and so I turn to my kitchen and count
twelve empty bottles of wine.
I never realized my friends were
such a bunch of lushes.

The Ugly Cupcakes

through
unintentional experimentation
in our home kitchen, we concluded that
whole grain pastry flour
is an unacceptable substitute
for unbleached, white, cake flour.
In spite of using the classic Joy of Cooking
1950’s edition recipe for cupcakes, even
modified for high altitude baking,
the cupcakes likely were the worst
we had ever eaten, or for that matter,
ugliest we had ever seen.
The anticipation of coating our
tongues in chocolate and butterfat was
shattered by the reality of eating cupcakes
that tasted like bad cornbread, the
grit of stone ground wheat berries
scouring our disappointed tongues.
We will coat them in
icing for our Christmas party tomorrow,
and claim that one of our guests brought them.
How wicked of us!
Do we dare?

Black bags and Pink Slips

Black Bags and Pink Slips

a steady stream of employees
trudged in the direction of the
warehouse, wrapped in heavy
coats, collars pulled up
tight to keep out the chill wind.
inside, an hourly handed out
frozen turkeys from the rear of a
truck to another clerk wearing
a Turkey Temp apron and a
black knit cap.
No company managers to shake
our hands and wish us a happy
holiday this year.
We handed over our pink slips,
in exchange receiving our
company’s Christmas bonus,
a frozen turkey and cheap
plastic mug inside a black
bag emblazoned with the
company logo.
a steady stream of employees
drifted back towards their
cubicles, the remainder of the
afternoon shadowed by the
uncertainty of a job after
Christmas. How fitting,
pink slips and black bags.

Photo courtesy of http://flickr.com/photos/abbynormy/434031299/

Bike Messengers

Bike Messengers

Icy roads never stop them.
Regardless of sub-zero temperatures,
torrential rain or wilting heat,
the outfit remains the same
ragged cut-off trousers, black
socks and bike shoes, a non-descript
jacket and a bike helmet
their messenger bags bulging with
documents, packages,
Perhaps today there is a
single rose tucked inside
awaiting delivery to
a client's secret lover.

Photograph courtesy of http://flickr.com/photos/27801912@N08/3116294250/

Victory is Sweet

Victory is Sweet

she handily won the election,
beating out the boys from the
Finals Clubs.
she showed them that

wealth isn’t everything,
nor family connections,

fast, new cars, hot women

on your arm.
Ringing doorbells,

giving speeches,

solid thinking and

good ideas win votes.

Congratulations, Andrea!

.

Freshly Baked Pumpkin Pie

Freshly Baked Pumpkin Pie

the new windows have frost inside
and the birds are fat in the tree branches
their feathers puffed out, their heads
tucked back into their bodies.
lines of cars flicker in and out
of view, hidden in clouds of exhaust
at stop lights, drivers hardly visible
behind frosty or snow-crusted windshields.
the world moves in slow motion, careful
not to release precious pockets of warmth
from under wings, from pockets, scarves
or from under hats. We trudge to work
reluctantly, eager to return home
to warm kitchens and the smell of
freshly baked pumpkin pie.

Photo courtesy of http://flickr.com/photos/sgoralnick/286851396/

The Heist

The Heist

a dapper gentleman and his
three beautiful blondes
stood demurely outside the famous
Harry Winston Jewelry store,
requesting entrance to view the diamond
jewelry late one winter afternoon.
Once inside, an exchange was arranged,
a tossed hand grenade and a few rounds fired from
a .357 Magnum for 105 million dollars
worth of emeralds, rubies and diamonds.
Quite a bargain for the thieves
who roared off in their waiting car
fifteen minutes later.

Blondes do indeed have

more fun.

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/12/14/fashion/14heist.html?_r=1&scp=1&sq=heist&st=cse

A Bar Mitzvah or How to Read the Torah while Holding Your LaCrosse Stick

he entered from a door in the back of the hall,
strutting between rows of folding chairs
towards the stage, his stage,
swinging his lacrosse stick as if
having just scored the final goal.
As atomic fireballs of “sweetness”
pummeled him from all sides,
he picked up the pace, from a trot
to a full gallop towards the front of
the hall, picking up spent ammo as
he went, then turning 180 to return
enthusiastic fire.
Claiming victory, he settled
into the task at hand, singing the Torah.
Yes, his voice skipped between octaves
a few times, and his new prayer shawl
slipped off his still slim shoulders;
he corrected the rabbi about his sport of choice,
she reminded him to put down his bottle
of water when she was talking to him.
somewhere in the mix of the reading of
the Torah, the launching of atomic fireballs,
the gift and blessing of the prayer shawl,
a dangerously swinging lacrosse stick
and elderly relatives going on and off stage,
this boy, a bundle of nervous energy, of big smiles,
crossed a threshold and began that process
of becoming a man.

Cuba

Cuba

they walk on broken streets
between derelict government
buildings, stress is rare but
depression is rampant in this
land surrounded by

a vacant sea.
a flag barricade covers the
ribbon of red words crossing
the wall of the U.S. Interests
Section in Havana.
fifty years after the Bay of Pigs,
they are frozen in time,
fin-tailed cruisers drift
down empty avenues,
followed by blank stares.

I was quite moved by the writing in a recent article in the New York Times on Cuba. Snippets of the journalist's sentences are in this poem...very good writer. Check out the full article:

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/12/07/magazine/07cuba-t.html?_r=1&scp=2&sq=cuba&st=cse

Waiting for the Bus

I leaned against the signpost waiting
for the bus to take me to work.
Two buses went by in quick
succession, the wrong way.
One must be running late, sure
to turn around at the bus depot
and head back.
It’s only 5 blocks away.
Twenty minutes later, a bus
appeared and I boarded,
frustrated with the delay.
I paced around the signpost waiting
for the bus to take me home after
seeing one go by when I
was a block away.
Twenty minutes later a bus
arrived and I boarded,
frustrated with the delay.
I went to pick up my boyfriend’s
car for him, but it wasn’t
ready yet, so I walked home.
I was frustrated with the delay.
I spent 50 minutes basking
in warm sunshine
waiting for buses and cars.
I have no reason to be frustrated
with the delay.

Picture courtesy of http://flickr.com/photos/vasta/16680364/

A Story of K.

Mother would have attended
her daughter, K.'s, graduation ceremony
but she was getting married
again.
She and husband number five couldn’t
wait another day or two
to celebrate their
holy matrimony,
sure to last a year
or two .
So daughter number three
put on her graduation gown,
combed her hair, carefully
positioning a ribbon with her
school color.
she marched in a long
row lead by accomplished
scholars, the future
leaders of America
while her own mother
cried at her wedding
as if it were the first.

It's Dark Out There

it's dark out there
and no one can see their way.
from one day to the next
your badge may not
open the door anymore,
your key may not work
in the lock.
everyone is afraid,
the man next door,
the co-worker across the
hall.
today we are blinded
by the sun on the new snow,
a fresh beauty that knows
no darkness.

Costa Rican Fence Posts

Costa Rican Fence Posts

pity the countless majestic
chestnut trees cut to the ground,
stripped of all branches
and foliage, their lives
taken, to become
mere telephone or
fence posts.
A pity, when all
that is needed
is a row of greenery
along a country
road.

Daily poetry is back...pictures will start again soon, too! ; )

Historic Boulder House Tours

I thought I was taking a tour
of historic homes in Boulder,
not a tour of the thousands
of square footage of modern
additions and renovations.
I was wrong, the hordes of
middle aged women stormed
the place, small groups gathered
in awestruck silence in gargantuan
walk in closets and bathrooms.
My eye wandered to the decorative
window latches, the worn oak floors,
the now defunct hot water
tank in the closet, the pictures
of the house when it was first
built. These old houses are
wrapped in tinsel and cellophane
and I peek under the wrapping
when no one is looking to see
the real present inside

Horseback riding in Costa Rica

Maybe he warned me in Spanish.
I did not knowingly sign up
to ride a horse down to that
river, the one I could see by
looking straight down, past
herds of back and white cows
perched on narrow terraces
of trampled grass.
Not sure whether to close
my eyes and pray for salvation
from whatever evil I had done
to land here in this moment
on this saddle, or keep my
eyes open to see the view when
I fell off the cliff and died a tragic death.
I called to the guide
telling him I was afraid
and he laughed a big
Costa Rican laugh.
We made it to the river,
traversing cliffs, squeezing
through dense forest on
muddy narrow trails.
We celebrated swimming
below a raging waterfall
and eating fresh pineapple.
My horse and I led the
way back, prancing and
trotting, our guide laughing
that big Costa Rican laugh.

Swimming in Costa Rica

I went swimming in the rain
this morning
after walking through a
torrential downpour
by the beach
I would have immersed
myself in the sea
but swimming here
is not for the timid
or foolhardy;
signs posted every
100 meters:
Currientes peligrosas.
I walk back to the hotel
in the rain, don my
swimsuit and swim
laps in the hotel
pool

in the
rain.

Beach Neighborhoods

The Blacks live here, their spikey exteriors
buried inside crevices, under rocks.
Only the guppies venture near, hiding
behind barbed wire fences.

The Whites are home, sometimes
sunning underwater, their pale
limbs swaying gently in the surf,
babies nestled nearby. Those
exposed to the rain close up shop,
their houses pinched shut to form
a neighborhood of teepees.

The Others don't have a neighborhood
to themselves as far as I can tell.
The Blues and Greys fight for the
best territory, sparring back and forth,
an occasional sideways attack from
a local Bully.

On land, fluorescent orange crabs
make a dash for their condo development,
rows of entrances to underground tunnels.

And here we are, cooped up
inside watching the rain pour down,
people running from hotel room
to car, from car to restaurant.
Whether cooped up in the most humble
room or the most extravagant estate,
our neighborhood is full of
morose tourists staring at the rain.

That Most American of Holidays Celebrated in Costa Rica

The non-smokers assembled,
sifted out from amongst the students.
We were six in all to celebrate that
most American of holidays.
In place of roasted turkey swimming in gravy,
stuffed chicken breasts drenched in orange sauce.
Mermelade de frases sat in for cranberry sauce.
Mashed potatoes as tasty as the best from home.
Pumpkin pie, Costa Rican style capped it off,
all suitably washed down with lots of wine
(this goes without saying).
We all staggered back to our rooms
filled with the contentment of being here,
and of knowing we will return to the best place of all,
home, sweet home. America.

Bored by Beauty on a Spectacular Thanksgiving Day

Boredom coexists with gratitude,
strolling through endless landscape of brilliant
flowers, crashing ocean waves and lush tropical forest,
just as watching a stream of exquisitely dressed models
cross the stage in a fashion show (not that I know, I might add)
can be a feast for the eyes and tedious at once.
On a walk this morning, I notice that each house,
grandiose or capped with a rusty corrugated tin roof,
sports an electric meter attached to a spindly post.
One is housed in a newly painted blue box,
another hides under a crumpled piece of cardboard
Yet another dangles outside the box on a string
of cables, weathered by rain and sun.
Some are red, others of wood,
just like the arrays of flowers
and jungle vegetation
if one looks closely
on a Thanksgiving
early morning
walk.

Mi Profesora, the Chain Smoker

Ella canta el espagnol como un parajo
y su collar de plata es muy bonita.
She drags deeply from her cigarette,
jittery after an hour of class, she has
to go get her fix.

Costa Rica snapshots

A tall glass of fresh watermelon juice,
roasted lobster tail drenched in garlic butter.
Platos de frutas con yogurt after a
night sweating in front of a small fan.
Muchas gramaticas nueveo para mi
to be followed by a long nap to recover.
Los zappatos "flip flops" for strolling
along disconnected strings of beach.
Any sense of fashion quickly reverted to a
practical selection of whatever is most comfortable;
flip flops or sneakers with socks (sweaty feet stick to shoes),
a short black and white patterned skirt topped
with a striped cotton sleeveless T decorated
with cupcakes, hair frizzed out 3 inches at least.
Super Marcado has it all; postcards, fruta, reloj,
los postres, leche, el papel y lapiz.
Thieves stoll the European's cigarettes today
while they were out surfing,
pura vida.

Off to Costa Rica

I am off to Costa Rica for two weeks! I will post poems when I can as I will have plenty of material! ; )

Leaving Work Behind

I said good-bye to M. and A.,
telling them to solve the problems
I was leaving behind.
It would be so wonderful
to come back and not face
the same ones that baffled me.
Relevant papers and books are
neatly arranged on my desk,
waiting for their attention.
I set the calendar on my door
to December 6th for my
arrival back at work, and
wrote VACATION on the
“in-out” white board outside
my office.
Then I walked away.

Preparing for travel

Avoiding Packing

folding laundry
unpacking suitcase from my last trip
buying litter for Daisy
and training the babysitters.
going to the ATM and
calling the credit card companies,
buying sunscreen, insect repellent,
and other drugstore sundries,
a new toothbrush perhaps.
doing the dishes, making my bed,
turning the heat down and
cleaning the bathrooms and
emptying the compost on the counter.
a horror to leave behind a mess.
all this needs to be done
and yet I sit here and write
a poem, ignoring all the
tasks that need to be done
tomorrow.
Never mind that S. has
done all the endless hours
of planning the itinerary; buying tickets,
reserving hotel rooms, picking a
Spanish school.
Exhausting just to think about.

I think I’ll go to bed now

Photo courtesy of http://flickr.com/photos/14811117@N02/2862029207/

a rendez-vous around ravioli

a rendez-vous around ravioli

he required a difficult recipe
to even consider meeting her tonight
for a cooking rendez-vous.
she looked through her most complicated
cookbooks and settled on ravioli with
an Asian flourish, an extra enticement.
knives were sharpened, cutting boards
scrubbed, tools of the trade laid out.
A mix of ground chicken, razor-thin
sliced shrimp, freshly grated ginger,
lemon zest, oyster sauce and soy sauce
spooned precisely between two eggroll
wrappers, edges pinched and fluted.
each ravioli was laid out on oiled
parchment paper while her garden
tomatoes and basil were diced and
sauted for a succulent sauce.
Ravioli went for a short swim in
a roiling water bath, exiting
dripping, ready to be drenched
in sauce, roasted pine nuts and
freshly grated parmesan cheese.
They sat down at the old pink
dinette table, worshiped
the beautiful ravioli and ate
every last one.

Strolling at Night

Strolling at Night

walking through
a small circle of light cast by a street lamp,
raccoons slinking out of storm drains
for their nightly escapades,
a conversation with a shop owner
closing up for the night,
the clerk waiting by the door,
key in hand.
a young man playing
guitar as he walks,
pausing when he realizes
there is someone listening
in the shadows.
Night softens
the sharp edges of

daytime.

Photo courtesy of http://flickr.com/photos/simiwaiye/259364423/

The Price of a Stamp

The Price of a Stamp

a 13 cent stamp
forced me out into the rainy night,
darkness punctuated by
by flashing red lights,
sirens ripping the silence.

a 13 cent stamp found me
out on the streets at 6 a.m.,
homeless and uncertain,
a small bag in hand.

a 13 cent stamp landed me
an invitation to attend one of the most
prestigious universities in the world,
a chance to leave behind the
darkness of a Chicago alley

a 13 cent stamp lifted from

my father's desk.

I bring ten 42 cent stamps

to my son, who carefully positions one
on each of ten envelopes
requesting admission to many fine
American universities.
he sits where it is warm and well-lit,

in his mother's kitchen.

the price of a stamp has certainly
changed in a generation.

Photo courtesy of http://flickr.com/photos/misha-stack/2673564879/

The Tyranny of Twins

the tyranny of twins

i cut his food into pieces
while he juggled first one
baby, then the other,
passing them back and forth
to mom and a nearby friend.
i sipped my wine and savored
every bite of my dinner,

noticing when his plate was empty
i filled it again, cutting
his food into bite size
pieces which he could
eat with one hand, or
if needed, as finger food.

babies rob you of dignity.

photo courtesy of http://flickr.com/photos/jenniferbuckler/2688480643/

Calendar

The same calendar has been
hanging on the bathroom wall
for two years.
Each month highlights a
coupon from the local health
food store and a matching
recipe.
He must sit every day and
consider making that dinner
for his sweetheart this month.
Somehow he never does, and
so the page is turned (randomly)
to another month.
Never having cooked a
single recipe, he returns
to the same month he
visited two months ago, or
one year ago even
though a year has passed.
This way, he saves $14.99
per year on buying a new
calendar and can enjoy the
thought month after month,
year after year, of making
the recipes from 2006 for her.

The Shelf Life of Humans

The Shelf Life of Humans

He was explaining the
catalytic reaction between parts A and B
in polymerization processes.
All very proper and scientific;
carbon-hydrogen monomers, alcohol
and ester groups.
Our brains humming along in auto-pilot,
intermittently checking internal data bases
to confirm that this information is already
stored, no need to listen too closely.
All of sudden, we startled awake as
he referred to our own mortality
in connection with polymerization.
He cautioned us to always check the expiration date;

Everything has a shelf life,
including us.

http://flickr.com/photos/etherealprey/1454447566/

The Tall Pronoun

He won’t read anyone’s poems that contain that tall pronoun.
Asserting that he’s not interested in any
author’s personal perspective, he puts down
his reading and glares over his half-rimmed eyeglasses,
as if she were there.
He turns the page and resumes reading.
Dismissed, the poor poet who dares to use “I”.
When he picked up his pen, I noticed that it
carved out that most illustrious pronoun.
He obviously believes that he has something to say
from his personal perspective that we need to hear.

The Life and Death of a Pumpkin

The life and death of a pumpkin

A truck dropped off 100 pumpkins
across the street that afternoon, pumpkins
large enough to carve and fit over human
heads which happened to be attached to
naked bodies for the 10th annual
Naked Pumpkin run.
This one was so large, no one
could even pick it up, much less wear it.
The next day, it sat forlornly on the curb
waiting for me to adopt it.
I picked it up, barely, and staggered
home with it for dissection and harvesting.
Off goes the top.
Next, slippery seeds embedded in orange pulp,
washed clean and roasted over a low heat.
Pumpkin steaks carved from the
body, long strips of soft yellow flesh peeled
from the tough orange outer skin,
coated with olive oil and salt,
baked until soft and succulent.
The piece de resistance; Roasted pumpkin and apple
soup for dinner tonight.
A good life and death for this pumpkin.
Thank you.

Photo: http://flickr.com/photos/meskill/264473792/

Sarah Goes Home

Sarah Goes Home

Her stiletto heels melted into consignment store flats,
splattered with baby spit-up and moose droppings.
Her Gucci bag turned into a blue diaper bag
decorated with small fire trucks, a pacifier dangling
by a string from the zipper pull.
Her Ann Taylor power suit faded to grey,
tailored darts relaxed into a sweat suit fit.
Just another hockey mom.

Saying Good-bye

I knew I had to say good-bye.
My plane left at 2:31 p.m.,
I had to leave at some point.
It used to be I didn’t have to leave
for more than a few hours to go to work.
When I came back to get her,
I’d pick her up in my arms
and stroke her cheeks and hair
and take her home with me.
She would chatter about her
day while I cooked a simple dinner
and I’d put her and Bear to bed.
I had to say good-bye today,
knowing that it would be weeks
before I saw her again and stroked
her hair, counted the freckles on her lips,
noticed her enunciation of certain words
that always gave her trouble,
but don’t seem to anymore.
I hate to say good-bye and I sense
she does, too, as we embrace four times
before I turn away as if to enter the subway station.
She turns and walks towards the Coop.
I watch her recede into the distance, but she
never turns aroundto wave back at me

Ms. Haskins made her an anarchist

Ms. Haskins made her an anarchist.
Too many inane and irrelevant emails
destroyed her desire to become
a well-rounded upstanding citizen,
to making a grand contribution to society.
Instead, she raged at at the Machine,
the anonymous email address,
info@noaa.gov. What info, she demanded.
There was none, no reply, no face,
just a name, Ms. Haskins, typed
at the bottom of the page in 12 pt
Times New Roman.
Anarchy grows like a weed in
the desolate landscape cultivated by
the tools of bureaucratic anonymity.
Ms. Haskins is the penultimate gardener.

Travellers

he strolled purposefully up to the shortest security line,
hefting his Samsonite suitcase up onto the shiny metal table.

he carefully removed his laptop from his briefcase
and placed it into a beige bin with an ad for travel insurance
pasted to the bottom.

he laid another beige bin onto the shiny metal table,
folded himself over his substantial belly to untie his black
laces on his wing-tipped shoes, then lifting them into the bin.

he unbuttoned his suit jacket, holding it out in front of himself
to examine it, as if to see if there were stains that needed attending to.
he carefully folded the jacket in two and placed it into another beige bin.

he paused, looking down at his stocking feet, at his Samsonite suitcase,
at his laptop, his suit jacket, his shoes in the bin.

finally, facing the walk-through security gate uncertainly, he realized that
he needed yet one more bin. He reached deep into the pockets of
his pin-striped pants and extracted his keys, cell phone, wallet and bill clip.

happy that everything was in order, he walked through the security
gate, reassembled his identity on the other side and proceeded to his flight.

Old Blankets

When she saw there was only one thin blanket on the bed,
she told him she was always cold at night.
He started looking in closets, remembering
some blankets from when he camped as a little boy.
He reassured her that the stain on the green blanket
was probably a urine stain, but was at least 50 years old.
He reappeared with a brown blanket, a plaid one
and a yellow one, all thin and worn looking, but
real wool, he assured her. Five blankets later,
she was satisfied that she would stay warm that night.
Good night, she said, as she closed the door
and turned off the lights.

Packing Shoes for Travel

We plan to go for High Tea
in the Square, with trays of
crumpets and tiny quiches,
fresh strawberries, clotted
cream and English Breakfast tea.
I’ll wear my black skirt and
forest green sweater with
my new brown dress boots.
It will rain on me as I meander
my way between Central Square
and Harvard Square, with a required
stop at Slate’s Office Supplies.
I’ll wear my blue jeans, Karen’s
Boulder High School LaCrosse jacket
and my waterproof hiking boots.
It will be cold at night, so
I will bring my plaid slippers
with the fake fur inside.
With those important decisions
in hand, I can go to bed now
and pack the rest tomorrow.

Cleaning House on Election Night

Cleaning House on Election Night

I listened to the radio
as I vacuumed and dusted
corners which had gone untended
way too long.
Pennsylvania called by NPR,
as I wiped all the windowsills
upstairs. Massachusetts, New York
in hand as the dust was swept
from the top step down each one
until it collected on the ground
floor. Somehow it
felt urgent to clean house
tonight, to be able to wake
up tomorrow clean and fresh.
Once the house was clean, I
listened to the televison and
watched as the old ways were
swept away. The hatred
and division, the lies and the
hypocrisy. I watched Black
and White stand together on that
stage in Chicago, cheered on by
a million strong. Yes, it’s
time to clean house, dust the
windowsills and start tomorrow
anew, working together for a
new America.

Wedding Announcements

Every Sunday I read the wedding
announcements in the New York Times.
Many of the short ones and all the stories.
I’ve noticed a few things.
The newlyweds all seem to come from prominent
families, and it’s noted when a
woman keeps her name. As if
that were unusual.
More gay men announce their weddings
than gay women for some reason.
Have they been waiting longer,
or anxious to repudiate the impression
that gay men are often promiscuous?
I delight in the stories of Sesame Street
producers marrying ballerinas, and
lovers in their 40s and 50s marrying
for the first time. They are so in love.
I laugh at the dogs who are ring bearers.
Mostly I marvel that love
almost always shows up.

Sounds as I fall asleep

Sounds as I fall asleep

a truck rumbles by,
a girl’s shrill laughter,
the rattle of the doors of the UPS truck
as the driver opens and closes them,
the wind shaking the windows,
the sound of a car radio,
the leaves dropping,
the sun dipping,
the night falling.
silence.

photo courtesy of http://flickr.com/photos/gnq/2782603357/

Alec's 55th Birthday party

The professor from the University
has gotten a few more grey hairs since I met her
15 years ago when I worked in the
Physics Department, and the old girlfriend
of my brother’s is getting married
in January to a guy we used to ride bikes with.
P. is still going to St. Thomas Aquinas
even though the Paulists have pulled out,
because her mother is 80 and just
wants to see her friends over Coffee.
The hell with what the priest says.
Her daughter had some trouble but
is dating a Republican now, a good chap.
Where are the nice Democratic boys,
we remark to each other.
I met C. last weekend with K.
and L. just moved to town from
Southern California and is living
north of town, close to the running trails.
It’s Boulder and we are all connected
by one degree of separation.

Halloween

Halloween

In darkness,
her eerie smile lights the room.
It’s Halloween
morning.
Until that moment,
there was only
an unopened bag
of candy by the
door to mark the
day.
Now, at 6 a.m.
Halloween has arrived
as surely her eerie
smile lights
my day.

Humming on the Way to Work

Riding into work today, I realized I
was humming that song about the
birds and the bees and the flowers
and the trees, and the Big Rock
Candy Mountain.
Later as I looked for the lyrics
to my morning song, I found that
the Big Rock Candy Mountain
is not part of the birds and the bees song.
I’m sure these songs which rise up in
me early in the morning tell me
about my day, so I’m not sure
how to take the latest song which
popped into my head in the last five
minutes, “Good-bye, Joe, you’ve
got to go, to the bayou.”, realizing
later that those weren't the lyrics either.
I’m certainly glad I already saw
my therapist this week or we would
spend the whole session on the birds
and the bees and the Big Rock Candy
Mountain. I can only imagine how
she'd want to explore that one.
Way too transparent for my
taste.

How Not to Prune a Tree

How Not to Prune a Tree

her branches reached for the sky,
only to be hacked to the ground,
her trunk sliced in two,
her energy pushed down into
the ground, the result of
a red neck with a chainsaw
and nothing better to do.
But wait, she tries again, sending
out small branches, each of them
reaching up to the sky.

Sunset

Sunset

I was vacuuming the living room,
zoned out, thinking of how I should
do this more often and why I don’t,
deep thoughts like that.
The light changed in just a few minutes,
from the time it took to vacuum from
the kitchen to the living room, from an
ordinary late afternoon sunshine to a
preternatural dusky rose cast.
The housewife in me focused on
getting the vacuuming done, the poet
in me dropped the wand and ran to
the door to catch a glimpse of magic.

The Bad Part about Writing a Great Poem

writing a great poem makes
it harder to write a mediocre one,
as if the bar has been raised
permanently, no room to slip
underneath when no one is looking.
a paralysis sets in, an expectation
of greatness that you achieved once
and maybe will never achieve again.
what a burden, then, to write a
great poem and then to never enjoy
writing again.
Give me the joy of writing many
mediocre poems any day.

Write Proposal or Go to Obama Rally?

The deadline is looming
and everytime I look over
at the stack of papers, my
stomach sinks. There is so
much to do, and
so little desire
to do it.
I’ve got to do it,
but the sun is shining,
a beautiful day to
go see Obama speak
in Denver at 10 a.m.
Home by noon, nap,
write the proposal,
should be fine.
Obama wow’ed us at 11:30,
appropriate to celebrate
the event with an Amber ale,
Scottish sausage and kraut,
and ..chocolate.
Actual: home at 4, nap, start
the dreaded proposal at 8.
No way to finish it and
so it waits for me again
tomorrow.
The deadline is one
day closer. I can’t
wait for it to arrive
so I can finish writing.

The Penultimate Movie Goer

A quiet evening at home with
no interruptions…Friday night
at the movies!
Freshly made popcorn, the kind
I like, no compromises, the
natural stuff with no salt,
no fake butter, no taste.
Haagen Dazs vanilla bean ice
cream for my second course.
I settle into the spot in the
dinette bench where
the spring is broken, stretch
my legs across to the other bench,
slouch into the movie watching posture.
Aaah, no dogs underfoot, no one
else hogging the other bench,
battling for limited real estate.
Open up the laptop, plug in the
speakers and log into Neflix,
survey the vast array
or possibilities with that delicious
feeling when you make all the choices.
I settle on a Spanish film to get
ready for Costa Rica and a fun
film to finish off my night
of popcorn and vanilla
ice cream.
Twelve minutes of Belle Epoque,
seven of Ratatouille, popcorn
and ice cream gone.
The penultimate movie goer.

The Lonely Guidebook

The Lonely Guidebook

I was never much of a planner.
Vacations were random at best,
disastrous when an expired passport
was discovered three days before
departure for Italy.
A successful trip was when I left
the house with a credit card, clean
underwear and a slip of paper with
the airline and flight number on it.
A toothbrush was a bonus, and
a sandwich, apple and some chocolate
in my bag was a home run.
Tonight, I sit mere inches from
a guidebook to Costa Rica.
I think it might even be calling to me
to at least crack open its cover,
look at a map inside or a few
pictures, turn it over, or
at least, move the paper sitting on
top of it off to side so I can see
the picture on the cover which is
surely lovely.
Not me, I say back to the book.
I’m not getting lured into spending
endless hours with you or your friends.
I was never much of a planner
and it’s not going to change tonight.
I’m busy watching the polls.

Slobbering Dogs Interrupt the Latest Polls

it’s hard to concentrate when
all I hear is the slobbering, gnawing
noises of two dogs chewing their rawhide,
punctuated by the cracking of bone.
my obsession with the latest polls
overturned by annoyance at how
loud and obnoxious they can be,
how thoughtless, really!
and then I know they will come
over and lay their slobbery heads
on my lap and look at me lovingly,
fully expecting me to turn my attention
to them since they are now ready.
and all I want to is some peace and
quiet so I can obsess over the latest polls.

The Absence

they used to circle in her mind,
as automatically as the blood in her veins.
without a conscious thought, she
knew where they were, how they were.
she was thus able to attend to visiting the neighbor
to pick up her Christmas cactus that
is blooming now under their care.
that space that used to be filled seems
empty now, and worries wander in and
out as ghosts drift in and out of old
houses.

Reactions

when she turned away from the sun,
the long scar was visible below her left eye.
I’d never seen it before because her
smile so dazzled me, and her eyes
twinkled blue, grey and green all at once.

My Father

He used to laugh when
the tent collapsed on us in
a torrential rainstorm,
and watch with amused interest
when the flames from the fire
licked our young hands
as we tried to cook pancakes
or eggs in a tiny frying pan.
Better than eating cereal
that had been in his trunk
for two years since the last time
he dragged us on a summer
vacation to somewhere we never
wanted to go.
This was the man who knew about
the murder of two young girls,
and maybe participated, who
concealed evidence at the very least.
The man who always called us
spoiled American brats, even though
we had nothing.
All the extra money was used to
satisfy his desires.
This man would have been 90 today.
Thankfully he left us in peace
20 years ago.
I sure don’t miss him.

The Worland Warriors

The Worland Warriors

The Worland Warriors bus
was parked out front this morning.
I could see their coffee cups
sitting on the table and the
afghan throw folded neatly
on the couch, but no sign
of the itinerant inhabitants.
They’ve been about town,
moving constantly so as to
evade the parking police,
seeking out a roomy four car spot
in a nice neighborhood.
They’re gone now after
such a short stay, only enjoying
the view of my garden for this
one lovely day.

The Man on the Bike Path

Every day, rain or shine,
I’d see him on my way to work.
I would be riding my bike,
he would be walking and
we’d usually pass each
other by the 30th Street
bridge.

Everyday he carried two full
plastic Wild Oats bags,
wore those headphones
that have an antenna
sticking up from the left side
for reception, his watery
blue eyes focused
on the sidewalk three feet
in front of him. He never
looked up at me, his expression
never changed, his mind somewhere,
not related
to here.

Sometimes if I was running
very late, he would have arrived
at the bench by 19th Street
He would sit besides his two
full plastic Wild Oats bags and
listen to his radio, thoughtfully
regarding the creek and the sky.

Wild Oats doesn’t exist anymore.
Yesterday I saw him with two spanking
new Whole Foods bags,
filled to the brim.
Even he is affected by
corporate mergers.

Sleeping under the Stars

Sleeping under the Stars

she lies across the bed
diagonally now,
her head regally perched
on a silk pillowcase
passed down from
her grandmother,
her long legs visible
under the blankets
extending towards the
foot of the bed,
her legs crossed,
gazing skyward
as if casually watching
the stars wheeling overhead

http://flickr.com/photos/odalaigh/1482685365/

Spilt Milk

Milk and broken glass
exploded from the
impact site, where
thin walled bottle
and asphalt
collided.
An unforeseen
and unwanted
meeting.
It was night,
I was tired,
my sneakers were
now drenched.
I left the $6 for
the milk in the
cooler, going
home
empty
handed.

I'm Not Ready to Go Grey

I’m not ready to go grey,
regardless of my feminist leanings,
my full and unequivocal support
for those who do.
Grey doesn’t match the color
of my freckles, the color of
the seat on my 50 cc scooter,
or the warm color of my skin.
I’m not ready to go grey
even though I know I should.
I am so vain as to enjoy when
people seem surprised that
I’m fifty and have two kids in college.
Even if they don’t really mean it.
One day, my hair will be
a wave of silver
and I will be beautiful.

A Dollar's worth of Calamari

A Dollar's Worth of Calamari

The shiny beige wedge of squid,
reposed on the worn cutting board
waiting for the chef to wield
his newly sharpened knife,
waiting to be sliced in half,
opened, exposing an inner flesh
decorated with a bony saber and
a gelatinous unidentified object,
both summarily picked off the surface
and disposed of out of view.
Next, this glistening surface was
to be sliced across, lengthwise and two
ways diagonal to soften the
rubbery flesh.
We watched in morbid fascination
and with some semblance of doubt.
We, who were used to delicate
fried calamari which dissolved in
our mouths with hardly a chew.
The usual routine, high heat,
oil, minced garlic, Kosher salt,
pepper, saffron from Spain,
diced red pepper and green onion.
The not so usual:
lots of butter and plenty of white wine.
Served up on chipped china from the
home economics kitchens at
Platt Middle School.
Voila!
Rubbery squid in an excellent sauce!

No Discipline

No Discipline

Two days of blowing it off,
not even an attempt to write a poem
on a spare scrap of paper, surrounded
by new material; the ocean, sand,
long shadows cast behind primeval
rocks as the sun sinks into the
sea, a fireball extinguished by water.
No discipline, only excessive eating;
local fudge, blackberry jam, fish
and chips, killer caramel-brownies.
I arrive home finally, bearing sweet
gifts of dark chocolate walnut fudge,
exquisite caramel-pecan turtles and almond toffee.
I started obsessing that I couldn’t write anymore.
I’d lost my discipline of writing every day.
And then, when I thought he wasn’t looking,
I absently mindedly munched the chocolate
he had left out for himself to eat later,
only to turn my head to see him staring at me.

No discipline, he said.

My dear loyal readers- I

My dear loyal readers- I am away from my computer and will not be posting today! How very sad. I will post again tomorrow.

The Good Lutheran

I was blissfully unaware of Lutherans
until one sat next to me on the flight
from Denver to Portland.
I didn't know the Devil was
responsible for the interfaith
strife between various Christian
denominations, much less that
Buddhists and Muslims, Hindus
and Jews were destined for Hell.
He used his pale blue eyes, his intent
probing stare to drill into my brain,
attempting to bypass any semblance
of logic I applied to the matter of hand,
whether the Devil is responsible for all evil,
whether Jesus came to use the sword on
his people, or to teach love.
Lutherans believe in the former.
He was heading back home from a
conference of pastors, newly loaded
with fire and brimstone messages.
I was on my way to see a friend in
need, to share a little friendship,
to offer a bit of comfort.
What would Jesus do?

The Man with the Bald Head

Tell me it isn’t so.
A Buddha head tattoo’ed
on a bald man’s head,
the swollen lips purplish blue
as one might find at death.
the outline of head matching
that of the bald spot on his
head, the poor guy.
Dressed in his purple-red
striped yoga pants and
Sarah Palin designer glasses,
he waited impatiently to
get his high blood pressure
medication at the pharmacy.
How fitting.

Burnt Popcorn

Burnt Popcorn

the smell wafted across the theater seats,
burnt popcorn
not the theatre’s popcorn either,
that overpriced stuff drenched
in fake butter
that clogs your arteries.
No, the homemade stuff that you
sneak into the theatre to
avoid paying the ridiculous
price they want for that ghastly
popcorn drenched in fake butter.
the top most kernels almost
tasted ok, just slightly smoked,
but the inner kernels were black
and I may have even seen
a few whisps of smoke still
rising from the bag.
I suddenly feared a theatre manager
might turn off the movie
and turn up the lights to find
who had the gall to sneak in
a bag of popcorn, burnt popcorn,
or that the smoke alarm
might go off.
In a complete panic now,
I poured the popcorn into
my messenger bag
and slouched down in the
seat to watch the movie.

The Phone Call

The Phone Call

my phone rang finally.
after searching google maps
for a small house on the beach,
where his phone rang endlessly,
with no answer
writing down the phone number
of the local post office where
maybe they had seen him,
checking whether there is a
local police station that might
be able to find him.
searching the local newspapers
for any information on where
he lived or the name of the
woman who ended her own
life only one wall distant from
where he lay sleeping,
awakened by the thud of her body.
living with fear that he had
joined her in some terrible pact.
my phone fjnally rang.
it was him,
alive.

Photo courtesty of: http://flickr.com/photos/krishhtine/2730448912/

Memories

the recollection
of the past, the present,
the café where we sat
and talked about what happened
that fateful day.
A re-invention, integration of
that day, and today.
the storm that shook your house,
one that was approaching
for so many years.
the sunshine that beams
in the clear window today.
a recollection, a new picture,
the past shaded a little less
black because I am sitting here,
next to
you.

The Problem with Pacelines

The Problem with Pacelines

I wish I could say
that I was tough,
could hang with the group
in a left rotating echelon
or a right, pulling up
only to drop back
and pull up again.
But that would be a lie,
of course.
Instead, I pulled off
to the side of the road
and burst into tears.

Photo courtesy of http://flickr.com/photos/lonefrontranger/462547215/

Please bring me a Junk Novel

a formidable stack of
literature at the top of
the stairs

as soon as I finish
one, another rises to
the surface

about children who are
raised to be organ donors
and dare to fall in love


a child drowning in the local pond

the horrors of industrial agriculture,
unrequited love leading to suicide,
head scarves and death in Turkey,
drugs, rock n’ roll and riots in the 60s,
and let’s not forget the
devastation of
war.

Please bring me a junk novel.

Eulogy to Snowflake

Eulogy to Snowflake

He was never much of a leader, but
he had keen ears and was the first to hear
the crinkling of a paper wrapper and corral
his female companion to head that way.
Nipping at her heels, he’d make sure
she cleared the way, only dashing in
front of her when food was in plain sight.
He sure knew how to charm the ladies.
Dapper in his white coat and grey ears,
he’d run upstairs to visit Daisy,
while Butterscotch fumed below.
When he finally hopped back downstairs,
there was hell to pay.
Fur flew everywhere, more white than brown,
I might add.
When Butterscotch died, he was more than
a little interested in the brunette upstairs
and requested a meeting on neutral ground
in the kitchen, where she showed him who’s
boss and he happily transitioned from widower
to married once again.
Now Daisy is alone and she runs on
her own quickly to the sound of crinkling
of a paper wrapper, only now it is
just me who makes sure the path
is clear.

Karen and I adopted Snowflake and Butterscotch when they were babies March 20, 1999. They were probably born in January of that year. They lived very happily until Butterscotch died in March of 2007. I had another rabbit, Daisy, who I had never been able to bond with another rabbit. Daisy and Snowflake bonded beautifully after Butterscotch died, and Daisy was never so happy as with Snowflake. Daisy and I will both miss Snowflake very much. He was a very special bunny.

The Past is the Prologue to the Future

the past is prologue to the future

(statement by Senator Joe Biden in response
to accusation by Gov. Palin that we must
only look to the future)

every breath taken
every word spoken
every emotion evoked
lays down a pathway
from which you step
forward from past
to present to future.
every book read,
every conversation shared,
every embrace,
every sweet moment,
and every painful one
propels you from yesterday
to today to tomorrow.
there can be no future without
a today or a yesterday.
the past is the prologue
to the future.

Worries

at least no one’s in jail,
no one’s in the hospital.
a brush with the police
and a bout of strep throat.
nothing too serious in the
grand scheme of life.
merely a nuisance party,
a bit of bad luck,
nothing that a new apartment
and a dose of antibiotics can’t
solve after all.
that’s what someone who isn’t
a parent says.

At Death's Door

At Death’s Door

ten years ago, we brought home
two little bundles of fur, one, a little
white snowball, the other, the color
of butterscotch candies.
little butterscotch still had a
shaved hip from surgery.
they cuddled together in their
carrier in the back of the car.
butterscotch and snowflake
did flips, hopped over each other
and played chase over the years,
interspersed with long naps, languid chewing
of my once-nice coffee table, and
gradually turning my rug into a
collection of frayed fibers.
butterscotch is long gone, and snowflake
hardly moves anymore. every
morning i dread looking for him,
afraid of what i know is coming,
death is at his door, knocking
knocking.

Non Sequitur

she and i were having a lovely
conversation by the river,
watching the boats drift by,
women in colorful hats holding
onto their lovers’ hands, or
holding their new baby wrapped
in baby blue or pastel pink
swaddling. yes, it was lovely.
sharing old memories, looking
ahead towards new adventures;
new novels, poems and travels.
the conversation turned all of
a sudden and in a glance, i realized
i knew nothing about her, nor
she about me.

Black Birds

Black Birds

he came running towards
me, smiling at the sight of me,
slowing to a stop, removing
headphones, I can hear the music
from here.
we exchanged pleasantries,
yeah, all’s well,
but I watched his face closely
to see if I could believe it.
The sky darkened and I glanced
up to see a cloud of black
birds circling overhead.

Enveloped in Beauty

Enveloped in Beauty

yellow and orange
arches of aspen dressed in
fall colors envelop us
in beauty
fallen leaves double
as Christmas ornaments
on pine and fir trees
standing sentinel
on the forest floor.

Belongings

I had wanted that one thing
so badly, and it wrenched my
heart to see it disappear into
the distance, that sultry night
in Chicago.
A small thing, hardly worth
identifying, you’d find it
so silly.
But to me, it meant everything
and my chance for
happiness in the world
diminished with every turn
the driver took on that road.
There was no substitute for
exactly what I wanted that
dark night in Chicago.
So small,
yet so large in meaning at
the same time.
Something about belonging,
yes, it’s all about belonging.

Never Let Me Go

Never Let Me Go

The name of the weirdest page turner
that I have ever read

about
human clones reared in special camps
for people whose life mission is to donate
organs until they “complete”, and yet, in spite of careful,
sterile upbringing, still manage to
want what is the most human of desires;
to be loved.

the desire of every human to be loved,
my desire to be loved.
to know you will never let me go.
You will embrace me in spite of
my shortcomings, my fears,
the silly things I do
like getting mad at you
for not reading my mind correctly.

Never Let Me Go.

Zybek Industries

Zybek industries

I’ve passed it hundreds of times,
tucked between RallySport and the
Indoor Soccer Arena.
Between dodging
gargantuan Cadillac Escalades
and the latest model Mini Coopers,
I never noticed it.
Yesterday, I opened the dull
single grey door and entered
into a vast warehouse filled with
forklifts, arrays of metal shelving
filled with robotic machine parts,
metal stock, and the piece de resistance,
a plasma beam melter.
At the moment, all is quiet
but evidence of cataclysmic heat
and light abound, dust everywhere
of all varieties, golden to black,
smooth to jagged and cutting.
An hour later, I exited the same
grey door, dodged a few latest
model cars, jumped on my bike
and went home.

On Request

On Request

between wrapping salmon en papillote,
delicately balancing the filet on
a raft of sliced carrot, green onion
and oyster mushrooms, lightly drenched
in Japanese rice wine,

after dipping shrimp drenched in
tempura batter in scalding Crisco,
watching it brown to perfection,

between answering questions on how
best to defrost chicken if you only have
20 minute before company comes,

before dismissing class,

he asked me when I would write a
poem about him again.