Practicing flute

he wore red shoes
his hands palm a basketball with ease
I could tell he had been in the sun
when he wasn't in a claustrophobic
practice room where his gelled hair
brushed against the ceiling.
we talked philosophy
and psychology
how practice helps you find
your weaknesses and strengths,
how the air expelled from your lungs
helps you find yourself.

Reckless

how dare you ride your bike down the street
without looking, so involved in your life you
didn't even see the car door swing wide,
so wide it caught your right leg, tearing
across your skin, your book bag, fully loaded
skidded across the pavement, your shoulder
melding with loose pebbles,
how dare you interrupt the well planned
day of this driver, who was busy looking at
his cell phone, so careful not to miss an
important call as he swung open his car
door wide catching you in its arms,
not the warm welcoming arms of a mother,
but sharp edges of someone who could care
less.

No place like home

we're out tonight walking the dog,
the moon hangs in the sky, a crescent moon
in a clear sky after a week of overcast
beautiful Oregon skies, there is no piece
of sky so wonderful as this
because it's home.

Crawling into Green

The branches hang low over the water
stabilized by massive trunks reaching up towards blue
sky and clouds, not a textured dark russet or
cracked walnut brown bark, soft threads
of green drape-like fabric beckon me to
rest in a multitude of green.

A Man and His Dog

under overcast skies, the ball follows a perfect trajectory up
towards the raindrops gathering in the clouds, down into
the hungry waves of a grey ocean.
a tan, white and black face, all dog grin, emerges from
the waves, ball in jaw, racing headlong toward
this man standing alone on the beach, smiling
at his dog, a man and his dog,
happy.

Mother, Twin and me

I noticed he looks just like her
for the first time this morning, those eyes framed
in grey whisps around the round face,
the same teeth straight on top,
crooked below, the nose,
the smile.
maybe I never wanted to see it before,
their closeness always hurt too much it would
be overwhelming to see that they even looked alike.
now, I can stand with them and maybe even look
a little like her myself. 

L'Atelier

celebrate
money in hand, vacant and sold
clean carpets, a crack in the front stoop
on to the next student, a parent writing a check,
for us, a glass of wine in hand, cheese spread across
the perfect toast to us, honey, heirloom bees wing across the plate
we're free finally to pay the bill
no worries.

they will poke into my affairs

the man in the blue FBI shirt will show up at a door
where someone knew me years ago; we fought and haven't
spoken since and he will find out why.
I hope he will tell me when we meet in the beige room
where I will turn in surprise to see him, not hearing
his gumshoes
treading so softly across the vinyl flooring
he catches me smiling at his tie,
but does not return
the favor.

Ten second essays: A prompt

ten seconds to state the obvious
truth that no one wants to hear but
no professor will object to brevity
if not to allow time for the more
important matters requiring far more
than ten seconds for an essay
ten seconds.

closing up scary tunnels

i was afraid to poke my hand in there
knowing a rat-like warm fuzzy thing
might bite me, might grab my finger
and drag me into his lair filled with
young furry fuzzy things with teeth
nursing at the teets of an even bigger
furry fuzzy ugly mother thing.
I shoveled some dirt into the
dark tunnel, laid some wire mesh on top,
some rocks, some large boulders
and a load of cement,
that should do it. 

blueberries bean sprouts and broccoli

beginning with b they must bunch together
in a baking dish, brilliant!  the cook says
gathering the onions, garlic and barley
in her kitchen sautee pan burning hot
ready to cook an artichoke in the pressure
cooker her mind at work so fast how to
combine berries, barley and broccoli
just pass the wine, no one will notice.

The Solution

It's obvious
the solution of life, its problems, intricacies,
that pesky problem of non-convergence.
two minds should suffice for its solution,
in sync brain waves coherent, constructive
interference is best, a resonant frequency
amplifying the truth.
write it on a white board,
photograph it before you
forget.

I don't know ninety percent

her white silk shawl draped beautifully
over her delicate shoulders
eyes intent, perfectly lined lips
the right words she walks a straight line
elegantly with poise and presence.
a brilliant mind like a steel trap
that releases only the well considered
ninety percent inside its jaws
we are left wondering who she
is.

blowing air

blowing air
that makes no sound, not a word
no meaning, nothing at all
the world turns with no deeper knowledge
just the wind blowing west to east
across mountains, plains and deserts
the sound of dust pattering
against the tent walls.

Arches, Moab, the desert

oh magnificent desert, your
flowers blooming along the roadside, water bursting
from behind a canyon wall to feed a perennial stream in
this dry landscape
where even water hides in deep
crevasses away from the
brutal sun.

oh beautiful desert, windblown, hot,
from your arid floor, look upwards through millions
of years, down to tiny soil organisms
that take centuries to grow,

so delicate, this desert, where
arches fall so suddenly,
quick, take it all in as
a lizard runs across the
road disappearing into
the color of the
desert.

Off to Moab

Skirting phallic rocks, obstructions that reach to the sky
climb stairs towards heaven and pass under an arch to the blue beyond
computers, Matlab and colleagues, conference rooms and supervisors
to an emptiness and freedom to breathe arid openness
where your lungs expand finally to full capacity
as open as the mind that
follows.

Where the Telephone was, or how I decided to go to MIT

It was possible to be almost hidden behind the door to the stairs,
to lean oneself against a wall painted aqua, or one painted brown
clashing with each other, like we all did back then
except voices creep around door frames to ears not meant to hear,
where was privacy in those days except where it should not be.

huh?

I didn't mean that, no, actually
I did mean that, sort of,
well, I captured that tiny part but not the
bigger meaning, it was lost in some sort of,
sort of, disconnected rant that probably came across.
wrong.
I meant that part, I know it's confusing
even me and I know what I meant, at least,
I thought I did when I wrote it at the time
late at night over a cold cup of decaf,
knowing coffee should be drunk hot,
fully caffeinated early in the day
when the mind is clear, the right words
will follow; you will understand me
completely.

Gardening

be sure and plant something soft and cool
under a bush so I can lie in the shade
smelling the aroma of thyme and lavender
while
you work in the hot sun, sweat beading on your forehead
take a tip from me and rest in the shade
enjoying the flowers that grow without
any human intervention.

leaving the house

we walk out the front door and don't stop to listen
as we stroll down the street, a little black dog has settled
into her bed silently then snoring lightly, her legs
twitching as she chases rabbits and nips at puppies
that venture too close.

MandMs

littleM and biggerM went to the podium to speak
in little voice and bigger voice
littleM from a little piece of paper and
biggerM from a bigger piece of paper
littleM went back to her little seat and
biggerM went back to her little seat
but she still fit, her outer thigh pressing
against littleM's thigh and my thigh
where I went to sit after I went to the
podium to speak without a piece of paper
but we won anyway.

moving on past

moving on past
words that don't say it all
about love, about loss, about never losing
the warmth of touch from the beginning
that will go to the end until
the flesh is cold to the touch
your fingertips gently
closing eyelids across
unseeing eyes.

watching parakeets

blue and white
climbing up the small wooden ladder, she reaches for the millet on a string.
i make a note of it that she likes that millet on a string
for when I come back to find her,
and that one who pushes the brightly colored plastic chain
across the grate, as devoted as Sysyphus
to his task,
now that's a good name for a boy.