Rain IV

the gutters are overflowing,
a torrent of water drills a narrow
trench in the soil outside my window.
all the raincoats are wet and two
umbrellas stand guard on the
covered porch, both wet, pools
of water spreading from the
steel tip around which the umbrellas
pivot in the wind.

Photo courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/karma-police/498552804/

The healing power of words

This poem is in memory of Lady, a young woman who was murdered six years ago. Her mother, a poet was interviewed on NPR tonight by Terry Gross. I was quite moved by her description of her journey through this experience and into the present.


her daughter died alone, a cord
wrapped around her neck,
alone for three days, the
phone ringing, ringing,
ringing, until the police came
and saw her through the window
and then they knew
why she had not been to
work or called her friends
or family, so unlike her.
she died alone and her mother
had nothing in her mind but
her, her last moments, the last
picture she held in her mind,
and so she did all she could do,
which was to write poem after
poem until her daughter’s life
was fully celebrated and
remembered and shared
and she could breathe again
and see the blue in the sky and the
stars at night, through
the power of words to light
up the darkness, to heal
unbearable pain.

Hot tonight

she browsed pictures,
her life seeming to offer no
inspiration, the night is
well established, her eyelids
drooping, nothing really to
say except she loved this
one and hopes others do,too.

Photo courtesy http://www.flickr.com/photos/andrew_bolin/3761688550/

Flossing Teeth and Library Books

she roamed the house,
restless, out of sorts, moving
objects from one place to another,
nowhere making sense, finding
overdue library books underneath
a pile of bills, overdue bills.
she got into her car and drove
downtown to the library
and paid the $5.80 in fines,
$3.75 of it due for the short
stories by Truman Capote.
Feeling much better, focused,
goal-oriented, she drove home and
flossed her teeth, the day ending
on a high note.

.

Photo courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/mollykiely/2732521503/

the death of harvey milk

when i was 20 i only
worried about my next peanut butter
and jelly sandwich or
where i might sleep that
night while those seeking
freedom rioted in the streets.
my problems seem so small,
yet were so large that i did not
even know of the assassination
of harvey milk, and so i wonder
what small problems i face today
that cause me to be blind in
so many other ways.

One Day

one day, you stop

walking the dog, feeding the rabbit,
packing lunch for the kids, dressing
to go to work, even getting out
of bed, kissing your husband
good-bye, instead

dozing off you dream of foreign
countries, the strange sounds that
come from people’s mouths
you do not understand, foods that
smell strange but not unwelcoming,
clothing that covers a different part
of you that you did not know
existed

Coming Home

the house has been cleaned,
reports of complete pandemonium
proven wrong as I open the front
door after 12 days away.
the rabbit appears to have been
fed, turning her back on me
in punishment for my leaving,
a healthy response.
the plants are still alive,
the house has not burned down.
welcome home,
sweet home.

Diets Suck

he drank ice water
and watched as i
gorged myself on angel hair
drenched in white wine sauce,
melt in the mouth salmon,
mussels and prawns, accompanied
by two full glasses of Montepulciano,
finishing with tiramisu
and a cappucino.
diets suck.

Promises

to start posting pictures again. have been on vacation, new computer and other such
excuses! ; )

Young Marines

five of them

seated in the back of the airplane

headed off to base camp,

one trying hard to not pick

at his acne, another with nothing

but the slightest peach fuzz gracing

his face, still slightly pudgy

from childhood, the others

soft from video games and

chocolate milkshakes.

oh so young, so fragile.

Fog as Dustbowl

the fog blows across deserted roads,

enveloping, then revealing grey shingled

houses, flocks of seagulls facing the sea

in the parking lot, immovable as statues,

like farmhouses in the 1930's dustbowls,

scarecrows facing the wind, weeping.

Traveling

fog
fire
roads
oatmeal
camping
stars
perspective
wonder

Mom's No knead bread

no need to knead
when sleep is calling,
with eyelids drooping,
you bend to remove
a large bowl from below
the sink, the knees creaking
a bit in protest.
mix three cups of flour,
(1/2 c. whole wheat, 1 1/2 c.
organic, its best but expensive,
1 c unbleached), 1 1/4 t salt
and 1/3 t yeast, don't skimp
on the cheap stuff, you mutter
to no one in particular.
mix the dry ingredients and moisten
with 1 5/8 c of water, mixing
well until all the flour comes
off the sides of the bowl.
most important, open those
peepers and make sure the
bowl is sealed with cellophane
and out of the draft to optimize
the rising process, once sure
the eyelids can droop, staying
open only so long as to get in
bed with the dog beside you and
you can all fall into the abyss
of dreamland until tomorrow.

Sleeping on the Move

some people sleep in or on top
of all moving objects; they doze
in cars, on planes, on top of washing
machines, in rocking chairs.
it's no fault of their own
that they can't drive more
than 15 minutes, pay attention
to a conversation while seating
in a rocking chair, or stay awake
on the plane when their neighbor
pours out his life story to a total stranger.
Torrential rain, lightning,
real life drama, feeling terrible,
nothing makes a difference,
the wheels turn and the eyelids
droop, only to wake when the
car stops, the plane lands or
the laundry is finished.

the 11th hour

The tradition carries on
in spite of itself, an empty suitcase
calling to be filled, random piles of
goods in the vicinity,
sure to be done tomorrow
before the plane takes off.

Observations from the sunroom for 2 minutes

a girl in green shorts walks by
pink hollyhocks block most of the view
a young man on a skateboard thunders by,
dogs barking, first one, then two others.
two girls walking, both talking on their cell phones,
one of them studying her nails as she walks,
the neighbor wearing his red baseball hat
walking to his red car and driving west.
Two blue SUVs in succession, obeying the
speed limit, rain falling into the open
windows of my 1992 Geo, a schnauzer walking
his owner, then quiet, nothing, silence for 1 minute,
so I went upstairs to read my book by the window,
attentive so as not to miss any great views.

For Luisa

she rides so fast;
the road beneath her feet
a blur; her legs
propel her to freedom.
she is winning her own Tour
against those who would keep
her from her dreams,
racing to her own finish
line, she raises her arms
in triumph!

Stinky Cheese

we used to hang our feet
out the back window of the car,
holding the bag of Limburger cheese
between our toes to keep the smell
as far away as possible from our delicate noses.
Dad would have killed us if
we lost it, his weekly treat, but
if we were good, we’d stop at
the Flame steak house for a peanut
butter sandwich on the way home.
Now I treasure the cheese with the
most stink per dollar, my children
complaining about how bad it
smells, hold the bag out the
front window of the car while
holding their noses.

Three Women in Black

three women in black,
not in mourning;
lacy, silky and sheer black,
sipping glasses of Proseco
on a sunny afternoon on
the Plaze,
colorful tablecloths flutter
in a slight breeze.

another day without Michael Jackson

another day without Michael Jackson,

the little black boy who lost his face

to show business, no millions could erase

the pain, nor the comfort of small children.

Music, madness, magic; Michael finally

disappeared into his Neverland.

Photo courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/orbitgal/3661997182/

The Fourth in Goss-Grove

no small fireworks here,
young men hunch over black

cylinders in the streets,

their silhouettes highlighted

against a flash of light as

they run back to safety

in time to watch a streak

skyward, a resounding
crack echoing from house
to house, waking small children,
setting dogs to barking
and tired parents cursing.

Blue Lake

clouds drape themselves
softly over sheer rock
walls, like silk over
a woman’s bare leg,
only revealing enough
to excite the imagination

Reflections after a hard day at work

to fight and then walk away
empty handed, but not beaten
is to find freedom.
to lean over to inhale the sweet smell of
roses in the garden is
to find truth,
to rest in the arms of a loved one
is to find happiness.

conversations on a bike ride

her sister who can’t take care of herself
my boss who can’t support my work,
the smell of honeysuckle in our nostrils,
pink clouds fill our retinas,
the Reagan years, how he wasn’t
too bright, but sure was optimistic,
whether to look for a part-time job,
what country her daughter
will end up visiting this summer,
a cool breeze across damp skin when
we cross the creek, a tired final
climb up the hill before heading
home.