while the dogs pee in the bushes

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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"

(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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Out!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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

Travels

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Flute Playing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

Steve Jobs dies

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

the news

I held my own hands
his were across the fence, our cheeks pressed against each
other against the news that no one wants to hear.
what to say against piles of cut wood and sawdust
that eventually melds with the pine needles that
fall interminably through the seasons.
my hands were warm on that afternoon
holding hope for both of us.

A Eulogy for Grey Poupon

how could you, Grey Poupon, resort to such poverty of ingredients

after decades of proudly flavoring vinaigrette for kings and queens,

for commoners, yuppies and foodies alike, we who can no longer find you

at the finest local Alfalfa's, your refined taste hides behind HFCS and Yellow 5,

such dastardly devils!

I adore you, Grey Poupon but when the email arrived listing your ingredients,

I sat down and sang a eulogy for you in my vinaigrette.  

Sour Grapes

how tedious to eat one grape at at time
how inefficient
how swiftly a raccoon strips the vine
how do they do it
we discover all too late the next morning.
how then do we do it except by imitation
dangling a cluster over our open mouths
our teeth gently puncture the skin
releasing such sweetness onto our tongues
how sour underneath!
how quickly we reach for another
how much better I understand the efficiency of the raccoon,
the search for sweetness is universal.

Learning to roll an R

drrrrat I can't roll an rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
only can roll my eyes at him who
prrrances around the house rrrrrrrrrrrolling
his rrrrrrrrrrrs without so much as an effort
oh how did I once trrrrrrrrrrrrrill on my flute
in the second grade to the tenth
must be from so many years
of holding my tongue.

A Poetry Reading

she lost her house in the Four Mile Canyon fire and
wondered if she could find a new couch in the Inner Ring.
The bastard was having a heart attack beyond the phone cord
length, such a lack of technology in the Science Museum,
appalling that a pronoun knows not from whence it came
amazing how the ripple of a whale skin is so elusive
to the Navy, and that a small Jewish house should only
have a roof of grass over which Sir will spend his evenings
sprinkled along the flower bed while the pie sprinkled
herself with blueberries to dress herself up for the
Queen.

I tried to capture the wide range of themes addressed in the event Twenty Poets in Two Minutes.  I cannot do any of them justice, or even perhaps represent them accurately.

biking with shopping bags

he rode his bicycle
with the fluidity and grace of the Spanish language
rippling from his rear fenders
white plastic bags brimming
balanced as delicately as
double r's on both handlebars.

A Man Called Dag

his fingertips breeze over the keyboard
as he hums commands in synchronicity with electrons
and probably photons and gluons as I turn to look
at his eyebrows
half grey, half black
and his eyes
half blue half green
cigarettes and bad teeth that sing
to currents, bits and voltages, web parts
and permissions
if I had permission
I would kiss him.

anxiety: pick a poem part II

it'll be fine my head says, my stomach says no
actually it won't be fine with all your goofing off for
the last 1131 poems that  you never edit or look back
even once to the point of embarrassment
can you believe it my mouth says to my ears
that you didn't even recognize your own writing
and I was left asking whose poem it was,
then my cheeks piped up with protests at how red
and flushed they got and not because of drinking so
much either, everyone talking at once made my head
spin finally into agreement that maybe it won't
be fine unless I get my act together before
the reading.

Margaritas laced with HFCS

I prefer other drugs than HFCS
in my drinks, ones that spike my insulin
a bit more naturally how about a white powder
found in sugar bowls or a liquid pressed
from desert plants, a natural high
on top of a buzz, other drugs please
different from this one.

Ahh, a sad story when the picture you pull up from your files is you sucking down a Margarita in Mexico.  And off we go over Thanksgiving to drink some more, the real stuff, though, not the trash from the Rio.

picking a poem

pick a poem
to practice upon a podium
in front of a pack of poets,
oh panic, please prevent me
from fainting on the parquet,
paramedics are not generally
poets.

surprisingly, he's not the ultimate slacker

the therapist asked if I could say it in a
way a little less negative but I said it was
already super positive that he went shopping
and took out the compost and I was so pleased
after all I hate all housework and I'm bad
at it so he can pick up the slack and the
cooking, shopping, the recycling, sweeping,
making breakfast, but he does a terrible job
wiping the counter
it was all so positive that he's not the ultimate
slacker, how else would I say that instead
I am the slacker.

It's Too Cold

I like it between 79.5 and 85 plus or minus a couple degrees
depending on the height and direction of the sun, or lack thereof
when the rain is pouring from the sky, my raincoat feels chilly
and kind of gross against my skin below 79 degrees, oppressive
over 85 and so I'm always too hot in summer and too cold the
other months of the year like now as a breeze blows in from
a darkening afternoon, ominous clouds lingering above
even my sweatshirt is not enough to ward off the impending
sense of upcoming cold afternoons.

but do you like bacon?

we had not seen each other in years
during which divorce, break-ups, deaths, unemployment,
empty nests; they all happened as each day rolled
by, another meal, another recipe, maybe another disaster,
maybe a joy, we hoped to see each other again
over food, real food, not the Boulder no-bread,
no-cheese, non-gluten, but rather the do-I-like-bacon kind
of food over anything that works, over cabbage
where the bacon grease drips and soaks into it
roasting for an hour or so while we drink mint
mojitos and sautee potatoes and catch up.

the poem she doesn't remember

he read the poem out loud
and she listened carefully
wondering what this favorite poem was
of this person she didn't know all that well
the poem would reveal it
even though he read it for her
and she wrote it for him
to read to her

the dress on pearl street

a slit up to her
gaze can't keep off her
whether man or woman
as she stood by the bike
left hip out slit wide open
high platform heels
so all could see

Dental floss

dental floss and toothpicks,
toothpaste and mirrors,
how else would you know
when the hygienist and the dentist
gaze deep within you and
see if you have been good
or not at bedtime, in the morning,
after you eat lunch.
one would never dare eat corn
if dental floss did not exist,
what a shame for the caveman
and the beautiful French woman
who forgot hers.

what are you thinking in the middle of the night

what are you thinking in the middle of the night while the world sleeps
next to you, slightly snoring dreaming of having eaten more than his share
of rhubarb crisp and you are awake
thinking of molecules rushing from place to place until they land
somewhere very cold, colder even than Alaska where my friend
loved to ski, nut that she is with her red nose
we drink together every Tuesday night.
have you felt guilty for eating my rhubarb pie, I ask him
while he sleeps but he does not respond and I wonder
if tomorrow he will weigh more and regret his actions.
thinking of watermelon seeds, research not getting done,
how when your hair gets all grey you must dye it as soon
as you see the grey part, it looks so dreadful otherwise.
the clock is ticking away the minutes of precious time until
I must think again in my office chair, better get to
sleep and stop thinking in the middle of the night...

My Life as a Raccoon

A spotlight travels across me and it isn't a fashion show
with me decorated in abundant foliage, purple grapes as mouth jewelry.
That black dog is not my bodyguard with her teeth gleaming in the moonlight.
I'm trapped on top of the pergola waiting for the inevitable
high pressure spray of cold water.
My life is hard for those few moments until
they all go back to their margaritas and chips, TV series
and warm beds as I continue a pleasant evening foraging through
dumpsters, berry patches, gardens flush with ripe corn
until dawn comes and I head back to my storm sewer for

a good day's rest.


Photo courtesy of Flickr Creative Commons:  http://www.flickr.com/photos/eliya/87355489/

Lake Isabelle

few visitors on this rainy day
clouded over, windy and cold
only raindrops dance on Lake Isabelle
her entourage consists of picas,
chipmunks and marmots, a few trees
stand by quietly, the stream meanders
continuously, the rocks see no reason
to move, settling heavily into the hillside
for another day of watching the
scenery roll by.

let me sit quietly

let me sit quietly among my misconceptions
so harmless they are, so comforting on this hot summer night
where the mind protests point and counterpoint
let me gaze at the flames flickering from the two candles
in the middle of the table, past the ones who demand
a deeper consideration of the issue at hand
that don't interest me after all is said
my tongue lingers on the last taste of molten
ice cream, the last sip of wine, facts do not
matter right now, let my misconceptions
last a little bit longer on this lovely summer night.

At work

she was growing her limp hair out
at the same time that I was cropping my exuberant curls
we are always at odds with each other
she looking up to see if the managers are approving
me making sure they are not looking so I can do my job
we sat in my office today talking
and it was all ok.
maybe she will cut her hair since
it looks atrocious
I do not plan to grow out
my exuberant curls,
only to color them.

My fantasy front window

Why can't this be my front window
I'd happily change my address from Grove
to Bayleaf, and provide chocolate to all who
chance to come by seeking nirvana in sweet,
dark chocolate, preferably drenched in
roasted almonds, cherries would be ok,
too, and I'd even sink to milk chocolate
if necessary
I'd promise to share after getting a big
tummy ache and when the scale broke
200
maybe it's better if I have to walk there
and pay $2 a bar, quite a deal
after all.

It's a local business on Pearl Street and the chocolove is 
indeed $2 a bar, screaming deal.  They also have totally cute
and yummy things.

he'll go far

Prof. JP said, "He'll go far, that boy" as did
M. and S. and ...well the others, too, and
I looked at that tousled head with curly hair,
cut so badly by women who don't know
how to cut hair but love him anyway
in spite of dialogues misunderstood or never
understood but just acknowledged with a
smile and a look of intelligence that may not
be too convincing as it's hard to look intelligent
when you have no idea what someone is even
talking about so we'll watch from a distance
as he goes far and we will wish him well,
hoping he will come back to visit us
from time to time.

Po boy

fried soft shell crab squished between
french baguette, cole slaw squishing out
the sides, mayonnaise and other fatty stuff
squishing out between the chopped cabbage
for a good ol' Southern meal replete
with white wine to dissolve
all the fat globules away.
would you like some
pecan pie with that?

Shug's is pretty ...well, yummy. 

The smell of rain on asphalt

dry, for the moment
perched on metal patio chairs under a cafe umbrella.
we know it's raining in spite of deafness by the smell
and humidity against our exposed summer skin
just for a moment until the rain extinguishes
the heat and rain sprinkles through
an unwilling umbrella.

The coming season of rest

I wish I was that blade of grass
swaying in the breeze on a Sunday morning.
I wish I was that lodgepole pine towering towards the sky
rooted deep yet unencumbered.
I wish I were that bee landing on my shirt, almost too small
to be noticed, essential to the world.
I wish I were the soil beneath my boots covered
in a soft layer of needles, pine cones and rotting branches.
I wish I were that bird flying from tree to tree
carrying small twigs for her last nest
before winter settles in.
The grass will bend its weary head into the snow,
the soil will sleep under a white blanket, sap
will slow down in its journey upward, the bee
will find its hive.
I will go to work every day as if
there were no seasons.
I wish I were a tree, a bee, a bird, a blade
of grass or the soil under my feet where
all embrace the changing of the
season.

wampum

"terrified traders swarm towards gold, the new wampum"

wampum

a word pulling forth a memory of squatting 

close to the earth marveling at a small shell in my

childish palm, a tiny disk I could hold up to my innocent

eye, squinting through to see into the past

when a young Indian girl milled this tiny hole

into the shell with a simple tool, so precious

to her and to me, that I placed it in my pocket,

forgotten,

where it survived countless washings and dryings

until a childish hand reached inside to find it again

to marvel and remember and forget

until today

where traders swarm towards gold, the

new wampum.

the quiet one (mostly)

I understand her lament having a brother
that breaks windows, hangs out on roofs and sniffs crotches.
she smells good tonight, wags her body and smiles
in that cute way that she does.


my twin always got all the attention
by dope smoking, shop lifting, truancy
while I quietly got straight A's and stayed home at night.


now she watches for clues as to what to do
to please me.


I tried all that, too, without success, but she
truly deserves an extra pat on the head
and she gets one.

The businessman extolling the virtues of his protege at Zolo on a Tuesday night as I drank champagne

a solid name, history and a number of years,
no question he'll swim upstream through the pack,
a consultant, a good brand.
he leaned towards the
other beards, their guts spilling over their laps,
the bras leaned back smiling through
their red lipstick.

Dog on Roof

some run outside to bark at storms,
some hide under sofas and sedans,
some sun themselves, some seek support,
some bark, some cry, some whine and whimper.
one special dog does more, climbing the stairs,
sniffing here and there, looking for anyone,
anyone at all, in the room, on the stairs,
on the roof!
surely someone will pause, anyone at all,
sweet success!

Error Analysis: An Ode to Elizabeth Bishop

whereas the mathematician calculates p values,
the poet struggled with the p-erfect word for her poem
no simple answers there like greater than 0.05 means
there's no statistical difference, what a huge difference a word
can make.
or a phrase, a sentence, a paragraph, a book,
a look, a caress,
as he walks in the door and I look his way
I wonder if he knows I love him.

The Null Hypothesis

the null hypothesis is that they are in love
after watching them kissing in the park
over by the lake, shamelessly with small children so near by,
what is the world coming to the two women
asked each other as they shuffled along in their floral house dresses
and slippers in the early evening, hot still rising from
the pavement, their husbands asleep on a nearby park
bench.

Two cookie sundaes

what could be so sweet as two cookies,
chocolate butterscotch and chocolate explosion
pressed against each other across a scoop of
vanilla ice cream, a diffusion profile of butterscotch
and explosions criss-crossing across one another
like two children pulling an arm each of a bewildered
mother, her heart drawn first one, then the other way
out.

Like Fire

like fire
heat licks
the crevices between dry timber laid one against
the other sparks fly  landing hot on bare skin unprotected
pulling away in pain once burning
now smoke

fire needs air to breathe

a temperamental glow explodes into
flames licking the stars
whirling clockwise then counter
to everything you ever believed.

This poem wrote itself while I was watching a dancing fire while camping in National Forest in Montana.  Photo courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/mwl_sd_ca/2816800155/  (Flickr creative commons)

and back we come

the cooler filled with water, half a sweet potato floating
listlessly like we are after so many hours of driving from
Glacier to Billings, from Sheridan to Cheyenne, home to
green beans in the garden, almost ready to eat blackberries.
camping mats, sleeping bags, boxes in disarray, oatmeal,
bottles carried from Montana destined for the recycle bin,
all this and more laid across the living room floor, so far
from the blue green glacial clarity of Avalanche Lake.

off we go!

off we go
in a clean car
cooler crisp with celery
sleeping bags in back
warm woolies
slinky sandals
baklavas and bikinis
we're off
we're off!

Be back August 9!

the pols

listening to the radio talking
heads battering against political scenery
like actors on a poorly constructed stage
that is democracy.
back stage bartering, mascara running down
rouged cheeks, men smoking cigars
or chewing nicorette, walking out
behind velvet curtains, the audience
cries out for him to return
to the table on the stage, hoping
for the floor to drop out from
under them.

a delay in every day

where/when will I write a poem worthy
of reading by red-headed rabbits dressed in ruffles
when the days wear away without so much as a whisper,
 a rustle of pages in the wind calling to be read aloud
the rhythm wrestling in my mind for a poem to emerge
worthy of reading, ruinous to the restless sleep
of reflective readers.

Packing for a camping trip

the Coleman stove still has grease from the last trip
as do the dented frying pans and the sponge.
gross.
the myriad slightly torn, poor quality fabric grocery bags
will not, I repeat, not be strewn across the floor of the van,
each with a motley assortment of Sport Legs, granola bars
and rotten bananas.
we have a new set of camping utensils, clean and packaged
in a nifty black case; we'll see how long that lasts.
nonetheless, its happening, this packing and we don't
even leave for four days.
now, that's progress.

Lessons from Nature

warm your face in the sun,







stand tall but quietly,
rest in deep shade,

take in the view,






admire beauty,
bend in the wind,

let the river run through you,

there is nothing so sweet as the
smell of snow.

Boehner walks out of debt talks

so the wealthy and the corporations will cheer for the almighty dollar
that bought them their very own democracy, their second homes and new cars,
a few more millions or billions, never enough after the luxuries of the day
and nothing but darkness surrounds them as they lie in their silk sheets.
so now their own personal empires that used to reside overseas can come
home, no taxes due!  hip hip hoorooh, who cares that some are blue
without a job or without a car, without a doctor, without a shoe,
the wealthy and the corporations don't give a hoot, they'll
have the butler give a boot to the man on the street corner holding
out his empty tin cup towards the darkened windows of passing cars.

This poem from someone who is not particularly a bleeding heart liberal...but what is going on in Washington is absolutely sickening. 

Writing a Poem About the Neighborhood Meeting

in the Book about Poetry we call for the unconscious married with a skill for words
but what of great danes, mimosas, street murals, neighbors long gone yet reappeared
from houses so many blocks away, talk of the need for weeders, free-for-all bike repairs
all so very conscious, the dates drifting into our unconscious as the alcohol settles in as
we gaze at upside down rabbits painted on fences and stocky women heading off to retirement
only to return to bust over-occupied apartment complexes and landowners with no licenses
I know a few of them, the ones with grass up to their waists, big bills in their back pockets
sipping wine in Vail or North Boulder, or did they move upscale again so they could drive
their new Prius downtown to fight zoning changes, I digress again with champagne bubbling
below to marry the unconscious with the conscious, a missing skill for words to describe
what happened tonight around the corner, this is what makes the world go round,
and no, it's not just words.

The Last Shuttle Landing

Mission control wakes the Atlantis crew piping in "Born in the USA"
as they rub the sleep from their eyes to take in the last views
from Space Shuttle Atlantis, oh what can
they wonder hurtling through space this final time gazing
through blackness towards sparkling galaxies, towards
home, Earth bathed in blue life, our lives, their lives.
Goodbye Space Shuttle Atlantis, may you rest in peace
in some hallowed halls surrounded by screaming school
children, may you arouse in them the dream to
fly once again.

Travels to Bern

in darkness over endless waters
an albatross travels east on metal wings
carrying a princess with her iPad,
tailored black skirt and ballerina flats,
her head filled with jewels to scatter
across the conference room floor,
innocent bystanders will rush to
scoop them up into their apron
pockets before popping them into
their hungry mouths.

Photo courtesy of http://www.geolocation.ws/v/L/4063024495/nf1009a/en

A Dull Blade

this blade is not sharpened with a steel rod
carefully honed, balancing one edge against the other
weighing the evidence, pondering the methods,
asking the questions, wondering curiously
over french fries and diet Cokes, computer drive
whirring in idle like his mind waiting for a command
in a recognizable language, no, the blade is dull
and rusty from lack of use, no glint on this blade,
only rust.

Observations on a Walk

red berries for black bears

hot pink sweet peas feeding bees

listening to a string quartet

rustling in the brush

chaotic in dry creek beds

silence cool air.

wild grapes twining

white lace

a man with hand weights,

sweating while

church bells peal amongst

fire engine sirens.

airplanes bring me back to earth.

bee (balm for the soul)

prehistoric grasses

no one walks anymore.

whirring, humming, singing,

huffing, puffing, pausing

for silence of red berries

for black bears in

shadows, rustling.