The Uneaten Dessert

I ate my half of the peach crisp,
and saved the rest for S.; he was
so unhappy about the previous
desserts he missed.
The peach crisp sat in the
refrigerator waiting, when
he didn’t want it then, when
he had already overeaten, when
he didn’t feel like sweets,
until finally it wasn’t good
anymore.
that’s the last time I save
the M&M desserts for him.

Penmanship

the letters are not well formed,
the n’s are flat lines stretched
between adjacent vowels, the “o”
leading the word is a simple vertical
line and the “s” is a forward slash.
the words are mostly unintelligible.
those who receive these words
may complain bitterly about the
time it takes to decipher, to flat
out guess what the words spell out.
others may rejoice to see her handwriting,
visualizing her writing to someone
special, to them, by hand,
with a beautiful fountain pen.

The unwelcome visitors

they tried to move in.
the screen blocked their
access into my house, the
house that I paid for.
i reminded them that they
did not pay the mortgage,
or the city taxes, nor the heating
bill, or even for the landscaping
that they seem to enjoy.
they were angry; through the
binoculars they looked like
angry scorpions, their pincers
working against the screen
which separated them from their
compatriots inside.
Finally, as the sun sunk low
on the horizon and the night chill
moved in, their energy dissipated,
no doubt tomorrow they will
return energized, as will I.

photo courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/radu_privantu/2413806583/in/set-72157601774932630/

they want to move in

they scratch in the night,
i wake up, listen and sigh
a long sigh, they’re back.
the days are getting shorter,
the nights cooler and they, too,
are looking for a cozy bed.
shredded insulation inside the
wall is certainly appealing
and so at night, they rearrange
the bedding to suit their
taste, just as we all do.
i go back to sleep, but not into as
restful a sleep as I had before
I was awoken.
there’s work to be done,
i am not in need of roommates.

Friday night

the young are out on
the streets, the girls’ shrill
conversations carry;
talk about this boy or that,
their mother, classes, not
much about the political scene.
the boys cursing, testosterone
broadcast wide and far to
those girls talking on their
phones half a block up.
the girls turn and look,
carefully, then turn back
and continue walking
looking straight
ahead.

A short fantasy based on "District 9"

Her manager came into her office,

removing her glasses she saw "the stack",

a one inch thick pile of procedures,
required certifications and work instructions,
She ran blindly from her office,

eyes bulging out of her head,
torso pulling ahead of her legs
until suddenly she is encased in
a steel body 15 feet tall with machine
guns as arms, her voice projecting
from a 10 MW speaker system and
she turns then, blasting fire from her
right index finger, and the papers are vaporized.
She quietly descends from her supra-invincible
body, puts her glasses back on, and

returns to her computer to
finish the analysis she was working on
before he had stepped into her office.

The Big Drive

the rain fell, a mist of droplets
covered the windshield, wipers
squeaking in protest her eyes
squinting through the glare
of late afternoon sun, it’s
the big drive to her, the one
she felt anxious about for the
last two weeks, the drive that
thousands of people do
every day without thinking twice,
maybe they should

photo courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/25610943@N05/3483245191/

A Wall Waiting for Postcards

her empty wall is
waiting for my postcards,
the ones written with
a blue fountain pen
purchased at my great-aunt’s
bookstore in Neuchatel, the
one we visited together that
summer after we crossed the
lake in a boat, eager to try

on our new bathing suits.

these postcards she awaits must be
written in my characteristic
scrawl, yet be at least partially
legible. Most of all they must
be signed “Love you, sweetie,
Maman”,

The beauty of a faded rose

She’s the typical middle-aged woman,
likes to hike, garden, have a glass of
wine with her friends, an occasional
margarita with her boyfriend.
Her jaw has become a bit more
rounded and her tummy doesn’t
quite lay flat anymore, but she
is as beautiful as a fading rose,
holding so many shades of soft red,
pink and white, so much more
interesting than the brilliant red
you can buy in the local drugstore.

photo courtesy of: http://www.flickr.com/photos/psychobabble/162455319/

Peach Pie II

a piece of
peach pie packaged in
parchment, patiently
perched on a plate,
waiting for a prince.

No Vacancy

no vacancy at the loveless motel,
the one with the biscuits, but no
one to eat them with.
the women wear frumpy housedresses,
the men smoke cigarettes, looking
furtively out into the darkness,
waiting for the hooker to finish
with her last john.
the biscuits fill the stomach
but not the heart.

photo courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/brent_nashville/100384937/

Text Message I

the ultimate irony:
a text message asking why
I never call him.

Asters

it’s fall now, the backyard is
only green, the green of faded iris
stems, oregano sprawling across
the pathway, grass fading slowly
to brown; i go looking for
color, finding yellow and white,
orange and red asters. firmly

planted amidst the green, they protect
me from living a monochrome existence
in my backyard.

photo courtesy: http://www.flickr.com/photos/22863752@N06/2933180430/

Three Friends

Three friends today, we
shared lunch, dinner, drinks and dessert;
mango goat cheese salad, pork green chili,
house margaritas and chocolate cake
with no icing.
On a diet after
all that
pie.

Food and Life

you may think that my life
revolves around food, and it
does, for the most part;
for those moments when
I open yet another dessert
container left on my front
porch from M&M Bakery
next door, and this time,
the smell of still warm
peach cobbler assails my
nostrils, the crunchy nut topping
mingles with soft sweet peaches
on my tongue.
my life does appear to
revolve around food, rather
surprising; i guess i just
had to wait for the right
slice of pie, the most
luscious peach cobbler,
toasted bread with just
the right crust topped
with fresh pesto and
Gruyere cheese.

Another Slice of Pie

I got the message on the way
up the canyon, M and M had
left a piece of pie on my
front porch and I wouldn’t
be back until the next day.
I called S. to offer it, reluctantly,
but better than the squirrels
gorging themselves on the
pie, no doubt sitting on another beautiful
plate, like the one I still have
at my house from the last delivery.
Up the canyon, it snowed on me,
it rained, my black and white
umbrella shielded my face and arms,
but my boots and pant legs
were drenched and heavy,
my small tent looked
barren and cold.
The pie called to me,
no doubt sweet, the butter
woven softly into the pastry.
I left the rain and the snow,
the yellow aspen leaves
strewn across the forest floor
and headed home for my
slice of pie.

Childen for Loan

she loved her children,
but they were so tiresome
with their squabbles, the way
they left a wake of scattered toys,
markers with no tops and assorted
papers and dirty Kleenex.
she didn’t want to sell them,
but a vacation with her new lover
would be a welcome relief,
so she posted a sign in front
of her house advertising
“Children for Loan”, daily,
weekly, or monthly rates

available.

photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/eagle102/2109121765/

The Congress

the white men in dark suits
sat quietly in their chairs,
their mouths working silently,
brows furrowed, as the
dark-skinned man spoke
to them, around them,
the vibrations of his voice
did not move them from their
stony silences.

photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/nostri-imago/3063022330/in/set-72157609101282921/

Champagne on an empty stomach

bubbles burst
desire to write;
soft mattress
calls to rest a
sluggish mind.

The Disappearing Slice

M and M made a pie
and delivered a large slice
to my door,
rhubarb pie, my favorite,
with the most luscious crust,
the filling spilling gently from
the sides.
problem was that it was
for both of us and S was
not there.
i ate my half.
he didn’t know how
big the slice was, how could
he know that he was getting
way less than half.
i wanted more and the
slice became thinner and
thinner
i knew he would appreciate it
since he has a sweet tooth
but wants to lose a few pounds.
i ate the tip of the last slice
and wondered if it might be best
to eat the whole thing and just
not tell him that we got the
pie at all.
i sat down to think about
that for awhile and the pie
disappeared.

it sure was good.

three boyfriends

three old boyfriends were born
on September 6;
the probability of three on any
one date is about one in a
million.
after the last one, i decided
the third was not a charm;
i asked any potential
boyfriend what his birthdate
was.
may is far enough away from
september, so i am
happy.
.
Photo courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/marine_b/3848541771/
(This photo is available for copy as long as credit is given.)

inevitably, someone will give me the exact probability of three boyfriends being born on the
same date. just for clarity before i get deluged with messages, i'm assuming that the first one can be born on any date and that the probability has to do with two subsequent boyfriends being born on that particular date, so probability will only be 1/(365)^2. if you disagree, please correct me. ; )

Stealing

at a party tonight
i asked a photographer
if i was stealing by lifting
photos from flickr for my blog.
he said yes.
i added that i always posted the
link.
he said, yes, you are stealing.
i said i didn’t know how to
do it any other way, i don't see
how it is possible to pay,
he said i was stealing.
tonight i won’t post
a photo, i won't steal,
i will go to sleep in my bed
feeling like a thief.
it doesn’t feel very good.

Vive la langue française!

ma petite m’a finalement parlé
dans la langue que j’aime le mieux,
la langue de mes parentés,
du vin, du pain et du fromage.
elle me disait seulement « Je m’appelle Karen »
et « Bon jour ! » , mais elle m’a promis
qu’elle continuerai a étudier et
de me parler des grandes choses.

Signs I: Never Leave Baby Unattended

they would
never have known
without the sign.

photo courtesy of : http://www.flickr.com/photos/shauna/3836506779/in/pool-stickfiguresinperil

The Orchestrator

he stands behind the curtain
unseen, directing all the
dialogue, each dance step,
the songs they sing,
each scene unfolds in a
pefect sequence which makes
no sense, conversations which
no one understands, even
himself.