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.