Making Gazpacho Soup

the tomatoes are gathered from the garden,
voluptuous orange globes ribbed with sun-baked
tears barely containing the bursting flesh,
tossed into boiling water in summer heat,
she sweats over the stove, retrieving
each tomato, peeling away each blistered
skin before slicing each one into quarters,
pressing each seed from the fleshy folds
of fruit, each lip holding so many chances
for new life in the moist earth of spring.

Highland Avenue

they all knew how to ride a bike;
Tony Fiatta kicked my ball with his
pointy black shoes as he rode by,
the hiss of the escaping air followed
him down the avenue.
the others screamed down the
hill, slamming on their brakes
on the cardboard at the bottom,
sliding across the street only to
crash into the cement curbs which
recently arrived in our neighborhood.
I so wanted to learn to ride a bike
that they finally walked me up
the hill, put me on the seat and
pushed me down the hill, releasing
me after only a few yards
in their hurry to ride their bikes
again, skidding across cardboard
at the bottom of the hill where I
sat alone, wishing I could ride
a bike, too.

The Perfect Haircut

she breezed in to the restaurant,

every man turned his head to watch

her go by with her perfect haircut,

the women fingered their hair, wondering

if it wasn’t time to update

their look after all didn’t he

used to look at her the same

way his eyes now followed

the woman who just breezed

in with her perfect haircut.

Brand New Shoes

maybe my new shoes

will take me to the Moon

where I can kick up lunar dust,

leaving behind my size 7 footprints

next to Neil’s left behind so many

years ago, undisturbed but by

the many tiny micrometeoroids

lofting tiny clouds of dust;

or

across ceilings free of dog hair

and dust bunnies, of rabbit

droppings and black scuff marks.

my old red shoes alternately

trudged, danced and skipped

across the earth,

I’m ready for new

adventures.

The Best Nest

 I watched the  young

couple scout the neighborhood

looking for the best nest,

flitting here and there;

they landed on the railings

of the toy gazebo decorating

my front porch.

They looked, he tilted his

head at her; she finally approved

and the nest building began,

twig by twig, strand by strand.

The little blue gazebo swung

in the wind, but rain did not

fall on her tiny head as she sat

patiently on her three eggs.

One morning she was gone,

the three tiny eggs had

disappeared; a crow

called out from the tree

across the street, quite

pleased with himself.

Partner

I told him my partner wanted

to join the gym and I’d like to

change my membership from single

to couple.

He sat down at his computer,

pulling up my information, saying

how pleased he was that she wanted

to join, he’s seen me so many

times at the club he felt he

knew me so well.

So what is her name, then?

Stephen, I responded, and laughed;

what is it about partner that can

only be a same-sex couple. 

Missing Le Poeme

Where do I keep that memory
of my arms, yellow butterfly wings
flapping gently (riding the bike)
in the last throes of summer,
(sleeveless blouse now covered
in bright yellow jacket); the funny
thing you said this morning or the
fact I ate his piece of pie again
(without telling him we got some,
even, is it better to know or not).
it was so good I'll have to tell him. 

The End of Le Poeme

Wow...I'm officially stopping my posts to Le Poeme.  I am now posting to  http://thelastmonthatharvard.wordpress.com/.    Three of us poets post to this site, all writing to the same prompts.  The other two young poets are also very special people in my life:  my daughter, Karen, and Andrea, her Harvard roommate who I have had the good fortune to get to know much better.  We each provide one prompt a week.  Some of the more recent prompts have included:
Write a poeme about a scene from where you live at a particular time of day  (Karen is in Wellington, New Zealand;  I am in Boulder, CO; Andrea is in Las Cruces, New Mexico).
Write a poem about brothers.
Learn the meaning of your name and write a poem about it.
Write a poem imitating the style of Wallace Stevens, your choice of poem.
Write a poem about a particular picture that is supplied..which was a pinhole camera picture.

It was just time to move on after 857 postings. 
Jenny

Fire

late afternoon tinged with orange
flames licking the sky, belching
black clouds towards the heavens
we watch with fear as cars funnel
from canyons onto city streets
their trunks stuffed with suitcases,
picture albums and dogs panting
in the heat, if they are lucky.
streams of blood red retardant
drop from firebomber planes
as so many tears flood down
the faces we see in cars streaked with
smoke entering our city
until we become bored with the
repetition and return to our tall
margaritas dripping in the heat.

Changes

My focus in poetry is shifting away from daily writing on themes from that day, towards writing three times a week ion prompts ( styles, themes, etc) with Karen and Andrea.  I will be starting a poetry workshop in two weeks and focusing more on editing and improving my writing. Quality development rather than just quantity.  It's been a good run of 850+ poems and I've learned alot along the way, but I won't necessarily be posting to this blog every day anymore...at least for the moment.  If you have been a reader, thank you!  You have encouraged me along the way.

Moment

in that moment when
you reached inside
a sparkling diamond
emerged from darkness
in a far off land arriving
here in this moment
when you took my
hand gently
so gently sliding a tiny
golden ring onto my finger
now glistening in sunshine
having traveled a million miles
to arrive here in this moment
reflecting off these gems into
our eyes.

The Box

the box sits on the front porch, taped shut
revealing nothing but an address;
an address that means nothing to
the man walking up the steps to take it away
by request; her request urgently sent
late at night while sitting at the pink formica
table where all important business is conducted.
one day it will arrive at its destination
where a young woman will smile
joyously to see it, finally; she will
cut away the address label and the tape,
tenderly lifting up the white polka
dot curtains sewn late at night on the other
side of the world, just for her.