Brussel Sprouts

brussel sprouts boiled, blah blah, puke puke!
brussel sprouts broiled, yum yum, yum  yum!
brussel sprouts baked au gratin, yes yes, yes yes!
brussel sprouts blanched, another ruin!
brussel sprouts so maligned, so unloved,
yet so lovely, broiled, baked, roasted,
dressed, undressed, eated leaf by
delicate leaf.

Blue Hatted Man

his hat didn't match his suit
that autumn of golden leaves and rainbows.
his shoes clicked on the pavement like
a woman's high heels on the way to the opera.
we know each other from somewhere.
his tie was a red floral pattern,
his shirt a silky creamy color,
a charcoal grey suit.
he wore shoes with wing tips
I looked up into the blue chilly
sky and understood his need
for his blue knit hat.

Your human qualities make me sad

A is for avarice
H for hypocrisy, so human
we believe we are different from you in
our specific sins;
certainty in times of doubt
surliness when a gentle touch is called for
a rude retort in place of silence.
S for selfishness, the saddest seed of
discontent, our backs to each other in
what should be a comfy bed.

Talking Motherhood in the Locker Room

they promised to be more present
with their children,
after yoga
and lunch,
a manicure and
a quick stop at
Whole Foods.

Cheese Fondue

he said he was on a diet
who would believe as he
lifted a petite fondue fork to his mouth
loaded with fat, 100% fat, delicious
Gruyere and Emmental
cheese, melted into white
bread, our mouths dripping
in white wine.

I'm slipping

what happened to wednesday
that nothing was written, not even noticed
even by me who sits every night here
by the window watching the moon
rise and fall again tonight a sliver
of light resting against an unseen cradle
does the moon have a mother?

Time to love

it's time to love, the chances are
that it's not too late, with good reason
people have told me that later in
life, one may be more open to
forgiveness.

(This poem was prompted by seeing a letter from my mother folded in exactly this way on my desk as I pondered what to write about.)

Getting to work in the morning

Not yet, not yet, slow down brain
we aren't there yet, still in bed
listening to the dogs whine,
let them whine.
I'm not getting up yet to go to work.
So many steps to get there, finding my
slippers, no first pushing the covers off,
finding my super ugliest slippers ever
that shuffle towards the kitchen
wehre all the cups have deep tea stains,
a meal of white and blue
berries
accelerating to the bathroom
pajamas off
undies on
pants on
shirt, sweater, socks, shoes, coat my bag my hat my gloves
jump on my bike ready to go the wheeels go round and round
ok, big brain, time to rev up for work.

Finding a place to write

Monday nights it's Innisfree
where the college kids hang out to flirt,
glancing often over the top of their laptops
to check out the scenery.
Sunday night, tonight, it's the usual with a twist,
a saxophone serenade downstairs,
a cup of Verveine tea that Grandma
took every afternoon before her nap
before her glass of wine before dinner,
she wrote in her sleep, never bothering
to finish the lines, only to wake refreshed
from the life she could only dream of.

Friday night

he laughs from his comfortable spot on the couch
that I place a headlamp up against my forehead
to see the dog poop on the walk that I wish he was
taking with them, but he's comfortable on the couch
with his colds and blues, we'll give him a break
tonight.

.

out of focus and beautiful

the landscape moved across her eye so fast

a mistake that could change her life in its accidental beauty

when nothing makes sense but everything did

all of sudden in the blur of white and blue

green suffusion, darkness in light so that

nothing seemed so clear as in that moment

not so much captured as capturing.

Tonight I Make Them

granola bread vinaigrette
clattering spoons and dishes
heat
the smell of warm yeast
cinnamon and vanilla
Dijon mustard swirled into oil
sliced almonds drenched in
maple syrup and roasted
in golden thick cut oats
all composed over a glass
of wine

Kapton H

Ana and I pick various prompts for our joint poetry writing on Monday nights.  I have been bringing a random selection of books, last time I brought one called The Space Environment.  Ana picked the word "Kapton H" for a prompt. This is a polymeric film used in spacecraft insulation and for protection against micrometeorites.  Her poem was about a super hero called Kapton H, which was quite hilarious.

Mine was more a propos to what Kapton actually is...

not the greatest protection in a time of need
a space condom it is not unless you 
secretly are seeking  a heavenly pregnancy
sparks swirl, a burning heat radiates
in all directions, the skin is flayed,
but there is no one to to ease the pain,
no ice cube packs, no caresses,
it's lonely out here in the dark
we have only the stars to keep us company.

Current fabrics at cozytoes!

Becoming Important

it was silly this phobia she had
of arm falling off because of a pimple
on her forehead
she had allowed it to be important
to displace the rest
the dreams from overly long nights,
the ones she swore she never slept.
this she could speak of and seek reassurance
there are so few we can believe in,
that we will go to heaven,
be happily married
or write a good poem.
her arm will not fall off,
we assure her
and happily she can go on to
this next day hoping for a better night's sleep
with two arms to hug herself in
her moments of fear.

listening to snow over the drone of traffic

facing the city sounds my ears filled with the steady
drone of traffic, the pitch of acceleration, the lull
puncutated by a sound nearer by, an occasional plop,
plop, drip, a hum of water travelling up, plopping down
as snow, ice, water, vapor rising in sun rays
i can only hear with my eyes closed

Les lecons de francais

elle as lut mon poeme
ensuite elle l'a repris
je suppose elle va aussi
reprendre ce poeme,
je ne sais pas si je peux vraiment dire que ce si est un poeme...probablement pas,
je sais il n'est pas
bien fait
c'est bon, les lecons en
francais.
bonne nuit!

il fait toujours la nuit et il fallait

il fait toujours nuit et il fallait
que je me reveille et nettoyer la cuisine,

que je me réveille et nettoie la cuisine,
une lettre envoyee il y a des mois,

une lettre envoyée il y a des mois,
des mois, des mois

des mois, des mois
retrouvee dans une tiroir noir, noir comme

retrouvée dans un tiroir noir, noir comme
ce nuit que je nettoie, cette cuisine apres

cette nuit que je nettoie, cette cuisine après
je mets mes peu vetements dans ma petite sac

je mets mes quelques vêtements dans mon petit sac
et je pars

et je pars
je ne regarde pas derriere

je ne regarde pas derrière
c'est noir, c'est fini.

c'est noir, c'est fini.

Transformation, from a floor's perspective

musty, sweaty darkness enlightened
red walls, a new dresser with labels
odd labels like "boxers" and "T-shirts" and
"more T-shirts" how curious it all is
so much weight lifted from my weary planks
I breathe a sigh of relief and look some
more at a laundry basket, a desk, a second
dressed also oddly labeled with "Bibs" and
"bike memorabilia" I wonder at that, who
keeps such things so many years but I know
who does when I see the green striped
women's panties hanging on the wall.

a cold comin' on

it crept along the hallway looking for a way in
a new party, the other guy was a bit of bore
even this cold got tired of the endless hacking
time to move on
time to move in
where
something/someone new, fresh
challenging
that one, that one will do
no colds for a long time,
no lingering bad taste from some other
nasty bug, nosirree
yessiree, she's the one
for me.

Nettoyer La Cuisine

il fait toujours la nuit et il fallait
que je me reveille et nettoyer la cuisine,
une lettre envoyee il y a des mois,
des mois, des mois
retrouvee dans une tiroir noir, noir comme
ce nuit que je nettoie, cette cuisine apres
je mets mes peu vetements dans ma petite sac
et je pars
je ne regarde pas derriere
c'est noir, c'est fini.

This poem comes from a prompt on Monday pulled from Daniel's French grammar book, and the memory of cleaning my father's kitchen before being thrown out the back door. 

Passing Through A Room

............................................."They passed through several rooms
...............................................filled with odds and ends,

..............................................clothes on hangers but also guns
...............................................stacked in corners"  -

...............................................from Life is Elsewhere, Milan Kundera

I would pass through his room filled with odds and ends

but there is no exit, only a window on the far side

I could float above the floor, my feet buoyed by piles of

old bank statements, mixed boxes of insect repellant and motor oil,

twenty years of T-shirts acquired at a millenia of bike races.

I went in to gather hangers, many migrated there

like birds to a flock,

I pluck them out as a hunter raises his rifle

to harvest a goose traveling south to

a warm, sunny place.

Bye Bye Messenger Bag

You came to me, fluorescent orange bag delivered
by two hands I used to hold when he and I crossed the street
or not, just to hold hands all the time and one day he said
he would marry me
I smiled
again when the bag arrived so many years later
from a man standing tall who doesn't need to hold a hand
to cross the road safely
but the bag
meant so much to me, decorated with personal pins,
filled with a red purse from San Francisco, a green
leather pencil case from Switzerland,
custom electronic boxes, who would need
those; no doubt heaved in a rubbish
bin in some alley,
pictures of my daughter,
pens, pencils, addresses,
so many little parts of my life,
taken away in my now faded orange
messenger bag that has traveled
so many miles and now
cast away like so much
trash by someone who
could care less.

Snow Fall

Snow fall
from the grey clouds
and more yet, more snow
burying sidewalks, our sins,
topping birdfeeders and mailboxes,
the tunnels of white blind me
the shovel leads the way.

Burning down the house

at least oil was not on fire, just paper, the flames
only dancing to inches, not feet
no fire extinguisher required,
no children to rush out of the house
through a smoky living room,
just me, rather sheepishly noting that
once again I can't read front from back,
nor reminding myself that
really
leaving paper on stove burners is
probably not the brightest thing
for someone of my abilities
burnt paper to add to undone dishes,
empy refrigerator and
grumpy dogs.

Working too much

it's a problem
I know,
working too much
but first he comes in,
then she does, with
their issues, interesting ones
and the African violet at the windowsill
perks up her ears and her purple blossoms,
looking at me as if to say, well,
that's interesting, don't you think
and I reply, yes
but I already have
too much work,
my dear flower,
when will you help beyond making more
beautiful purple blossoms,
that doesn't take much intellectual firepower,
does it.