Happy New Year

I'm sure I hear her laughter next door
but she doesn't come over to say good night,
laughing joyfully with her new love
the one who she will marry
mothers know such things
and me,well it's a new year in NYC
and that's good enough for me
i will cuddle with my loved one,
call it a good year and wake up
in the new one.

time to give

time to give

i saw two men shuffling along the path

my breath froze in the air

i knew my cold hands would be warm soon enough

theirs would not

it is peaceful, the echo of gunshot is nonexistent

i am not floating in a raft holding my child

i am not starving

i have so many clothes

my tummy is full and overfull and

my tongue is slippery with fat and spices

it's time to give

so many have nothing

i have everything.

saving money

bent over the stove
saving money, tonight it's making
yogurt, tomorrow its granola, the next
vinagrette.
i'll ride my bike and save on gas
and wear used clothing that feels more comfy
anyway.
it's cool in the house to save on heating bills
and i drive an old heap that still runs.
saving money is second nature,
waste not, want not, i'll pay my
taxes, go to work and save where I can,
and spend when it's worth it
sunning myself in Costa Rica,
drinking wine in a Paris cafe,
drinking good champagne to celebrate
a wonderful life.

Early morning routine

before dawn the alarm pierces the silence

arresting the gentle swell of our breathing.

my legs swing off the bed, feet contacting

the icy floor, stumbling towards the stairs.

drowsy eyed pulling one leg at a time

through long underwear, 

its too dark to see clearly, its before first

light and trying not to fall down the stairs,

the dog does a few cat-cows as the shoes

go over the cold feet, the arms thread

the down jacket, the leash is secured,

and the door opens to bitter cold.

back to the early morning routine

of walking through spectactacular.

trees dressed in white, the crunch of 

snow under my feet, so beautifully

one we are in winter, no one else

around.

Saying Good-bye

he's tall now and he leans down to embrace me,
I stand on my tip toes.
it's never easier to say good-bye even
as i applaud him walking away back
to the life he's built so far away.
he'll fly away into the darkness,
call an Uber to take him home only
to wake up early and go to his job,
as I go to mine after I wake up in the
dark, grab the leash and the dog and
jog into the cold darkness.
it is the same darkness
one thousand miles away.

Christmas 2015

Only under this tree would Horowitz and Hill

be a much sought-after gift, as well as 

Quantum Mechanics and Mathematical Methods - 

pulled from my bookcase after a few glasses of wine

on Christmas Eve, enjoyed in the morning,

promises of late night reading.

Me, I read Le Gastronomie Christmas Eve

and bake the most delicious quiche,

today I write poetry with an engraved nib.

The taste of Christmas waffles lingers on 

our tongues, their warmth in our hearts.  

Christmas cooking

The very tiny apartment

I'm tiny, they say.
I would feel cramped in this tiny apartment
with no laundry, one closet, a tiny stove
(like mine, but gas instead of electric),
no room for a big comfy bed,
and no room for guests, even the small
ones that raid the cupboards.
My giant daughter was entertaining the idea
of living there with her even-more-giant
boyfriend.
It was cute, yes, and I am susceptible
to loving cute things but I think
only Barbie and Ken could live
there and only if Barbie brought
her Barbie Bed and her accessories.

Making history

making history.

as if a pencil was launched over the empire state building,

turned around mid-way, only to land

on its eraser at the same place from

which it launched.

impossible

to believe that a woman was behind the first sucessful 

launch of scientific instruments into space, the only woman in 900 engineers

at North American Aviation.

she was the technical lead for a new fuel.

hard to believe,

how many of us know her name?

Mary Sherman Morgan. 

All accomplishments, 

all deserve celebration

and notoriety.

the star on the hillside

a mathematician measures the angle between the star
on the hillside to the viewers down below,
adjusting the drawing of the Bethlehem star
so the villagers will see a perfectly shaped star.
she passes the sketch to the workmen who
will pound stakes in the ground, forming an
asymmetric and distorted star on the hillside.
they will wonder at her, this woman in her office
with brown hair and freckles and grumble
at surely having to do the job over again.
every year I look up from my little house
in the village at the perfectly shaped star
and thank the woman with freckles who
adjusts the lights in the world to make
perfect beauty.

Found Photos

he was 19, that curly haired boy on the right.
I recognize him as my son, the one I walked away from,
my heart in my throat on a street somewhere in Switzerland.
he had just finished high school.
maybe I gave him a few Swiss francs on parting,
I'd paid for a few French lessons so he
could get a job there.
he had to grow up a bit.
I did, too, then.
A few months later, he was still 19 and he wasn't in Switzerland
where trains ran on time.
there were no trains here,
only shimmering sand dunes, drunken soldiers
sporting machine guns like rich women
do designer purses.
my son is too young for that world
entrenched in civil war with border stations
he may never survive crossing.
my son, who is 29, survived that trip,
I found the photos and studied them and
am glad I did not bother to know.
he will see them again on Christmas,
I will see something in his eyes.

Star Wars

it was packed, the excited hum palpable,
a vibration filled the room
applause broke out.
quietly, in the second row,
I noted that
they are so old now, my heros
and heroines, the same ones from
30 years ago, we have all become so old.
on the way out,  my companion commented that
Hans Solo had to die because he was too old to
be in the sequel,
how sad that our icons have to die on film
before they die in real life.
I am older now, I am not ready to
fall off the bridge yet, and it hurt me to
watch.

Love between Geeks

it's a  special love between the man with the floating eye

and the woman with the large bald spot,

they are old and have thought so many thoughts

left unshared for lack of a the right companion.

they have found each other to talk about

high voltage supplies, micrometeoroids

and molecular contamination transport.

they include Jim in their love triangle although

he does not know it.

he would be so pleased.

Share my germs

come close, lovie,
let me breath warm you,
let me press my lips against you,
let me share my germs.
let me share all of me with you.
let me cough upon you,
let me hold me in your arms
and share my Kleenex with you.
I love you, baby,
let me share my germs
with you.

those who kill

i'd write an angry poem on this
but I'd prefer not to think about it as
it can be killing on so many levels,
the varieties are so diverse, some so
difficult to pin down.
so we go home early and claim illness,
or don't way what needs to be said.
i'd rather not be angry, so
with that, the evening is getting late
and my warm bed calls to me
I will go there.

The Path Not Taken

we cannot choose any path

no matter the American mantra.

they are chosen for us from birth

and we follow the well trod footsteps of

our ancestry, but yet

on a snowy day, when the sun is

glittering off pristine tracks,

we notice there are two and we 

wonder which way to go,

the ancestors are sleeping and we

pause to consider the path not

taken.

TBD

There’s so little TBD in life.

The job, the kids, the shopping, the laundry,

The bills, the yard,

Even the dog, maybe especially.

Life’s version of dutifully playing the notes,

Line after line, noting the dynamics, the accents,

When to crescendo, forte, pianissimo, accents, legato.

The TBD lies in getting a babysitter and having no plans,  leaving

The refrigerator empty and buying more underwear.

After you hide your music under the rug,

Pick up your flute or your life and play

To the world, embrace the missed notes,

Stand in front of the world and wing it.

The Man Bun

everyone must be in style at my local coffee shop,

the right style,

the man bun,

pierced parts and tattoos.

between 20 and 30,

slender,

the millennial hipster,

no doubt well educated, waiting for the

right job, a start up with a ping pong table

preferably.

I hope their dreams come true,

mine do when they hand me another

outstanding cup of coffee,

It happens every time. 

the missing hair

one day it went missing,
a large patch of luxurious hair.
a woman was calling for it, sickened
from cancer treatment, needing some hair.
my patch of hair went for a stroll,
meeting many others who had gathered
there to remake her a bombshell brunette.
I missed my hair but it's in a better place,
I'm sure.
maybe one day it will come back.

the magic of scotch tape

tape music to mirrors and play magically.
wrap gauze around your cut finger and tape it!
it's mounted in a pink dispenser, or clear,
or blue, or black, it's big or small, wide or narrow.
sometimes it's double sticky,
sometimes old and the stick is gone.
I used it to tape one note onto my studded snow tires
and one over my broken door handle.
I use it to pull dust off my computer screen
and wrist pad when I'm on the phone at work.
I travel with it and there is a roll on my bed at home,
in case.
one never knows.

no excuses for not practicing during beach vacations

leg warmers double as a lightweight flute case

and music can be taped to walls, refrigerators

or mirrors, if you enjoy watching yourself

play in your bikini after coming in from the beach.

bring your second rate flute and

enjoy the good one when you get home,

in the first ten minutes, you'll be amazed at

how well you play.

and so...

and so we wring our hands again
and offer prayers
which do not sooth the hearts of those
who have lost those they have loved.
lace our hands in solidarity against
those who reap their rewards
from dollars cast behind closed doors
of fear, greed and ignorance.
pray not, my beloved country for the
right to bear arms.

Angle of repose

they are newly engaged and she asked for my advice.
find the right angle of repose, shifting over time
from ten degrees in those moments of tenderness
to sixty when climbing the most difficult slopes.
I'll read my book and let you youngsters go.
tonight, let yourselves rest at a couple of degrees,
raising a glass of champagne to each other, bowing
low over the candlelight, I see  you at a distance,
an arch over an array of candles,
let your love carry you, ask for help along
the way.

Stephen

he may be limping but he's lifting my heart,
he may be balding but I am, too.
he has a bigger gap between his teeth, but my smile
is more crooked.
he rowed the boat around the lake when I faked a blister,
and only called me on it at the end.
he didn't ask to see the evidence.
he lets me sleep as long as I want even if the
afternoon is frittering away and he doesn't even have
a good book to read.
he's the best travel companion ever
and he's mine.

Costa Rica

I called out to the toucans perched in the tree,

I called out to the bananas and their female blossoms,

the brilliant butterfly probing the blue blossoms,

I called out to the mist, the moving clouds,

to the trees towering into the sky, the cows grazing

in the field, the bridge,swinging under my feet.

there is no one else here and so I started singing

to the volcano, and the bird which flits along the path,

showing her white tail like a rabbit running

through the woods.

I called out to the rustle in the trees, the birds

calling to one another, the hum of life,

the layers of sound that shift from 

morning to night and as we sleep,

our minds will synchronize to this hum

we can only listen and hear. 

Larry

whenever you might be thinking you've had it tough,
remember those who have struggled and worked more
that you ever thought was possible,
remember those who love their mothers even though
they had to leave to seek a better life at age 14.
you may think you had it tough until you found out
someone else returned home only to find that all
their friends were in prison or dead, that was their destiny.
and when you can't find anyway to smile, remember those
that smile in spite of it, while reaching out to those who
have yet less.
I'll keep Larry in my heart as that person, I'll smile
with a wide open smile at those who have less,
I have more than most
for which I am thankful.

Pura Vida

the big questions
kayak tour to the island across the bay
or up the river to see birds and monkeys,
or drink margaritas on the beach
and take a long siesta; the only question
which fan will cool our bodies most effectively.
It's so hot.
everyone says hello and the ceviche melts in my mouth.
such difficult questions of which tequila to buy,
we overspent terribly on the sunscreen
but Stephen is already burned.
shall I lie in the hammock to sip my margarita
or sit up and write this poem,
now I will swing in the hammock and
read Mrs. Dalloway.
pura vida.

Packing

on the seventeenth attempt to pack for a trip,
I put away three baskets of clothes before even starting.
sweaters, underwear, bras, jeans, socks, workout clothes....
mostly black, does that indicate my mood most of the time.
it's cold here and I can't imagine heat,
not sure if shorts will really work so I pack a cashmere
 sweater to hedge my bets.
I forgot to buy a nice swimsuit, so I'll have to
bring that horrendous second hand old lady suit.
I bought it at a thrift shop for a buck and planned
to replace it five years ago.
i never did and it tags along for every trip.
I'll pack my crummy flute, convincing myself that
I'll practice for the next recital but I probably won't.
but now, I'm tired and yearn to sleep a few hours
before the moon is just hovering overhead at
3 am when we'll have to get up and go.
Onward to Costa Rica!

When I am old

when I am old,
I will read trashy French novels while smoking Camels,
still wearing my flannel pajamas at 2 in the afternoon.
empty coffee cups will surround me in the morning
to be replaced by empty wine glasses after noon,
there will be no job and the grandchildren won't be allowed
into the blue haze of my little house.
I will be outlawed in Boulder where smoking is not allowed.
when I am old,
I won't give a damn about other people's opinons,
I'll write translations from English to French,
making sure to include all the French swear words
that Michele taught me.
That way, no one will think I am not a native speaker.
Once a month, I'll wash the sheets along with my pajamas.
No one will notice or care.
On Sundays, I will shower and go see the children,
I will hug my grandchildren and feed them candy.
Then I will go home and relax after
 a demanding day well spent.

Worms

embarrassing.

I put my butt down on the ground so no one will see.

I hope Dad hides the medicine box that says "De-worming".

he found out that I got worms from eating dead mice

or other unsavory things, disgusting, he says.

Mom is even more grossed out and I feel

embarrassed for them.

They're doing laundry of everything I've been

in contact with and checking my behind.

Me, I'm fine with it even though I pretend to 

be otherwise to they'll feel better and 

we can pretend I won't do it again, 

eat that gross, disgusting, dead stuff,

but we all know inside that I will,

and I'll love every bite.

The box says to deworm every 6 months.

That's fine if it makes them feel better about it.

Me, I don't care, it's all in the life of a dog. 

The Old Scott Bicycle

My first real bike, before I knew that the bike

should be the right size for the rider.

it didn't matter, I fell in love at first sight,

the rust colored frame, the fact that the 

seller was the ex-wife of a Tour de France

cyclist, how romantic...

speed would come naturally.

and so, we spent time together and 

rode many roads.

and now, my first real bike becomes

my daughter's bike, it will fit her better

but will never be loved as much.

The first snow

we have been waiting, now 

bundled against the cold, I jog down the

street bathed in the glare of a headlights,

head down to the wind.

we have waited so long and the skis

are trembling in the basement, 

S is buying whiskey to warm us.

the snow is falling with abandon in the 

mountains, swirling dervishes of white

will cover the slopes followed

by the brittle crisp early morning,

the new snow will sparkle with 

the sun, our skis will whir.

Composing

it will be played differently every time,

like life plays out, the same players, a different tune.

sometimes fast, sometimes slow, a few missed notes,

sometimes the smoothest, fastest run, a few extra

notes thrown in for good measure,

you can walk away anytime and throw the 

music to the wind,

there is a new one in everyone's step, 

all they have to do is pick up a pencil

and write it.

Poetry Redux

It is indeed a dark fall night,

the earth is calling out for snow.

I hear a car pass by the house,

the muffler needs to be replaced.

you are on the East Coast again,

I'm not sure where,

is there another word for "tired".

I need a long nap to open my mind,

if I think too long, the ideas stop flowing

and all I hear is the fly bouncing against

the walls.

it moves too quickly to swat.

Tonight will be unlike any other,

the perfect string of Tuesdays.

it's slightly overcast

and the leaves have already fallen to the ground.

my pink jacket is awaiting the morning dawn,

next to the dog's leash. 

Sometimes I read a poem in the NYT, like the one in the picture and wonder why it's considered so great, but it is fun to make another poem off of it.  ; )

taking the night off

I'm taking the night off,
no one will want to hear about my happiness
at solving a first order differential equation
using Matlab, while the world is looking for
terrorists in Belgium.
Maybe I should not be so happy.
I'll take a break from writing poetry tonight
but tomorrow I will write a poem
based on one I read in the New York Times.
It made me happy to read that poem and
wonder how such an assemblage could be
admired but then remembered there is more
than one solution to that equation.

old age

we're getting old.
knees that hurt, detached tissue floating across our eyes.
my hair is falling out and so is his,
she tells me that she can't ride her bike anymore
and my brain doesn't seem to want to move sometimes.
there's no real up side to this one as
my energy drops and the dishes never get done;
fairies don't show up anymore and
my freckles may be age spots, I'd tell you
but I can't see without my glasses and
don't know where they are.
where's that glass of wine,
it'll help me feel better.

what is it?

a syringe full of blue ink,

not blue blood, not the blood of the fallen,

we cry for thee across deserts and oceans,

across from the Eiffel Tower, in restaurants and bars,

enjoying music and loving life until it is 

taken from you.

no, this is syringe of blue ink in a home science experiment.

this simple data point helps science far away

in the heavens, of starlight and cosmic dust,

a blue syringe, a blue droplet, a single angle

on a special optic.

Attacks in Paris

there are no words for our broken hearts
savagery and brutality reign over the City of Love,
men who give their lives to kill others in the name of,
such desperation, a tragedy for all, a tragedy of
humanity.
ISIS, having destroyed centuries old antiquities,
having brought down Russian airliners, having raped
thousands of women and cut thousands of men to the ground.
their violence has spread as a poison across the land, brandishing
guns, rockets, knives, anything to destroy.
there are no words for our broken hearts,
cry, humanity, cry.

humidity meters

one says 95%,
I dropped it in the water.
one says 42%,
I left it in the car and I noticed there
are no holes in it.
one, the cheapest one, says something
reasonable, but doesn't have a brand on it.
my science experiments are on hold,
I might as well go to bed.

heartfelt

a wet snow,

soaked shoes and socks, it's a cold day,

the sun has not appeared on the horizon,

only a dim grey sky to capture the heart

my fingertips pressed into the snow on a

lone wrought iron picnic table in a courtyard.

it's quiet, the dog is sniffing around in the 

bushes looking for any food the squirrels 

dropped on the way up the tree, this is her

rhythm.

mine is to find beauty in the early morning,

it is never difficult in the summer, spring,

fall and winter, 

I watch the leaves change colors and 

finally fall to the ground,

It is winter now.

let the snow cover everything with

its beauty.

the snow will fall

the snow will fall gently
while we sleep.
we will not hear city sounds,
cars will glide silently down quiet streets.
we will dream in white, warm
under our covers in flannel jammies.
even the dog will cease her snoring,
the mouse will stop chewing in the cupboard
a moment before the trap snaps, the only
sound in the whole town,
we stir in our sleep, the dog whimpers
and then all is quiet again.

Alopecia Areata

I hardly know how to pronounce it
much less how to deal with it,
a bald patch on the side of my head,
smooth as a baby's behind.
that's not how it's supposed to be.
my goal was to have a full head of hair
until the end, not a goofy looking head
like my mother, with her bald patches,
her hair a mix of black and white.
I am like my mother in so many good ways,
I would have just preferred to not have
this one.

Listening to Leaves Fall

I'm waiting quietly for her,

half listening for the jingle of dog tags,

mostly listening to the leaves falling to the ground,

I had never noticed how loud the fall is,

how much movement of leaves falling and

crunching against their already fallen compatriots.

the leaves were falling heavily, like hail,

I realized how many leaves there are on a tree

and how quickly they must fall before the 

arrival of winter,

I ponder all this until I hear the jingle

of dog tags and we continue on

our way.

spotlight

finally
the Church was brought to its knees.
the victims had a voice, trembling,
countless years of tears, needles,
alcohol and suicide,
so many years we looked away
because we believed we needed the Church
when really the Church needs us,
our dollars, we gave it our power
while the innocents wept,
we looked away and
pretended not to
notice.

poetry intervals

a
jump to a C, like the improvisation
from last night,
double double
triple triple triple
slur from a to A.
this structure of interval can guide a life,
a periodic movement that searches methodically
but not randomly
sure to find
the right ending.
a b c C D E F G A
a.
finale.

that look

I know that look,
subtle but distinctive, recognizable
to a mother,
it's time to get her out of there
and change the subject, get some fresh air,
try to get to laughter, replace
that look with a smile,
eat some tiramisu,
drink some wine,
have some tea.
that look would have crumbled
into tears,
no need for that.

Buying Elections

$160,000 divided by 9,000 votes so far = $17.78 per vote.
That pays for a drink and a snack at a local bar.
These are the developers, the realtors, the out-of-state companies
sucking the blood out of Boulder to line their pockets.
They spread fear and shout accusations at NIMBY's while
sipping fine wines and whiskeys in their huge homes on huge lots.
The NO's, the ones who want to keep building, building, building
are shouting out in triumph but there was no sweat equity, they simply
bought the marketers and the PR professionals, that's what
rich people do.
Boulder is screwed, just like San Francisco, a shell of what it
used to be with tech hipsters on every corner and rents so
high they want to move to Boulder so they can buy
out this town too.
Sad, yes, sad, that money wins out.

A Daughter

her refrigerator is empty
so she shows up after work
at our house
and eats my plate of food
(since I wasn't there to claim it)
she drinks some wine
and I hear her laughter from
upstairs.
she asks me to go shopping
with her to fill up her refrigerator,
and I go, happily, actually
because there is nothing like
spending time with your daughter
even if she does eat your dinner.

A Sunday in a middle-aged woman's life

first thing in the morning,
the dog throws up on the walk and then
tries to eat it,  I use my plastic bag
to clean it up so no one else has to be grossed out.
like a middle-aged woman would do.
I checked the batteries to see if they were alive
and put those that aren't in the charger.
Ah, reading the New York Times article about
why women go after each other's throats
after the one on ISIS atrocities.
I'll clip my nails, simple and satisfying.
small pleasures of being middle aged.
This afternoon I couldn't make it all the way
up the hill and had to get off my bike and walk.
Am I really getting that weak?
my daughter, brother and his wife are coming
for dinner, I never regained any love of cooking
after doing it so many years, but managed
to put together something darn delicous.
I'll put away the leftovers and leave the dishes,
I want to get on my pajamas and read my
novel called Adultery, it's a good fantasy
for a middle-aged woman
like me.

such beauty

such beauty,
the play of light across her shoulder
and face,
her earrings and tiarra sparkle,
the lace so delicate, revealing
perfect skin beneath,
red lips and long eyelashes,
all the other women
stop in their tracks to admire her
she stands perfectly still
at peace
in her beauty

too tired to write

too tired to write about how badly
i've been sleeping, plumes of methane circle
my head causing suffocation and eventual death.
the brain is not meant to work so hard
to tired to play my flute or put away my clothes,
i thought about tomorrow when i will sit
with four of the smartest people i know.
intimidating is the right word so
I'll just go to sleep now and dream
on it, the methane cloud will rise
above me and glow yellow
under the Moon.

playing flute

we're alone, my flute and me
the sound rises up with the warm air,
out the vents, towards
the blue sky,
 up through the clouds and finally
meeting with the stars.
they will twinkle more brightly
and the scientists on the ground will wonder
if there are extra planets circling that they had not noticed
previously.
such are the mysteries of the universe,
that music from far away can change the
whole world,
we can only know so much,
we think we know more.

Six feet tall without heels

She's six feet tall
and wears 5" heels on her first date.
that takes guts,
she's confident,
I'm impressed.
an uber professional, hot stuff
beautiful woman, technically savvy,
working for a company by the same name.
she's certainly looking him in the eye
to see if he'll make the cut.
if not, she'll look elsewhere,
as will he.
that is equality.

The Mother of the Family

how is it that the Mother of the Family
is always the shortest, but the one who keeps us
all in line.
Stephen was raised to be a good man so
of course I love this woman,
my mother-in-law, Martha.
For 77, she's as cute as a button,
I hope I look that great when
I'm her age.
I'll take lessons from this Mother
of the Family, she'll teach me
right.

Entertainment in Conroe, TX

after another fried dinner, dirty rice and fried dirty rice,

it's time to get some exercise with the chubby dog we love

called Tina.

How fitting

that  his pants are a bit too tight, as are mine

but fat, sugar and alcohol sure taste good.

we'll have some more

and when the rear of the pants rip in pigeon pose

while rubbing the belly of Chubby Tina, we

won't be surprised,

I will be entertained.

spaceship football

trees are dwarfed by its magnitude,

lights strong enough to blind a passers-by

all erected in the name of college football.

the radiant football bubble positively gleams

under an early morning sunrise,

Bella and I shade our eyes, but  yet

refuse to bow to this football monument.

we will wait for the sun to rise and for the 

blue sky to dwarf the white monstrosity.

finding a path

this one is well worn, brilliant fall to the left,

as is that one, the sounds of a crystal clear stream.

there are mountains in the distance perfectly colored,

shaped by a millenia of rain, snow and sun.

but this one, this one is new everytime,

unpredictable, at times weird, jumping

registers, rapidly changing colors, slow

then fast, no one can predict, there is no

predictability, it will start and end at the

exact right moment that  no body knows,

not even the artist.

                 this is art in the 21st century.

Methane percolating up through margaritas

that's the topic.
methane percolating up through air masses
while sipping margaritas.
two to be exact,
as the brain cells tumble through alcohol,
so does methane rise in plumes above gas lines,
we should care, methane being twenty times
more damaging to the environment than carbon dioxide.
she tells me about plume inversion and meteorological models
all while eating chips and salsa.
life should be so rich that two women can enjoy each other
so much
while talking science, drinking margaritas and at the very end
catching up on their children and husbands,
methane may be more important.

getting fat by Boulder standards

at dinner she described her old friends from Wisconsin.
Cat sweatshirts covering large bodies, man and wife.
she said in the last 2 years, she's lost her waist, that happens
when you're in your late 50's but she weighs 100 pounds
less than her friends, dressed stylishly with just the right
amount of makeup;  she looks beautiful and you'd never
guess her eyes looked so dark and lush from a little
tastefully applied makeup.
we're fat by Boulder standards with our chubby bellies
from bearing children and still enjoying chocolate,
cheese and wine, but so glamorously slender by
Wisconsin standards.

a new generation

a new generation,
taller, smarter, faster and more attractive.
just standing next to you reminds me of how small
I am, and that I'm shrinking more every day.
one day I'll look like that miniature old woman we saw in
that museum in Christchurch.
you said she looked like me.
great.
something to look forward to.

happy anniversary, my love

it's just another day.
warm, blue skies decorated with splashes of yellow and red leaves
you rode your bike and I walked your dog.
I'm happy it's just another day,
loving you for the man you are, with a huge heart,
a love for Bella, and me, maybe in that order,
you make me laugh when I'm grumpy
and hold me in your arms, asking nothing in return.
it's another day of that, like the last 11x 365,
except that we're a little more grown-up,
know each other a little bit better;
you've lost a few more hairs and
some age spots have mixed in with my freckles.
the smiles are the same, I've perfected
yogurt making and we still look for a
house-husband to fix the house.
It's a wonderful day alot like the others.
Let's celebrate this day and promise
to make next year at least as wonderful.

equations

a Ph.D. in physics does not promise mathematical prowess.
I am the proof of it, shying away from equations, dreaming
instead of molecules bouncing off walls in a stiff breeze,
I relate to them, they do not solve their equations before
moving to the next control volume.
I don't believe that Matlab programs solve problems or
that the inputs are correct, but I wish I could write them
anyway, with ease and then throw the results away
with a snort knowing the reality is so much different.
but we love equations, their solidity, their seeming
infallability, they are only because we don't understand
the underlying dance, we are removed fom it by
the sheet of paper, the super computer and the ego
that we can figure it all out.
I'd rather watch, stalking around the outside of the
house with an incense stick to see how the smoke
rises up at each corner.

migrants walking towards the end of the earth

they are walking towards the end of the earth,
the end of life as they knew it, carrying a child
who will never see her home again, toys left
scattered across the floor, blankets and extra clothes
cast aside in the rush to escape
they have no bed,
I have two beds in my house, three,
they have no food,
I have a refrigerator filled with fresh milk, fruits,
meats and vegetables, cheeses and salamis.
they no longer have a home,
mine is heated, I have blankets and sweaters
they will sleep in the grass, pressed against each other
for warmth,
I push away from my loved one for some fresh air.
now they are bicycling across Russia,
swimming, travelling by boat, car and bus
and then walking towards an end somewhere,
they hope to find food, shelter and human
warmth.

Burying Bones

they are stacked up in museums.
people used to drop them
on the stoop during a moonless night,
the dreary-eyed guard picked them up on his early shift,
tipping them into a box for the museum guard,
he arrived at 10 am when the sun was high in the sky.
what to do with human bones, left without a note,
a tag, a DNA signature, a story.
we make them up and let them rest,
accumulating with so many others, unnamed
and unsung.
and so, we call a funeral for them all, with fried
chicken and coleslaw, potato salad and iced tea.
we'll all say a prayer and bury them together,
the bones will return to the earth from
whence they came.
new treasures will populate the shelves,
until new bones force them to the side
awaiting the next funeral.

Running for their lives

they are running for their lives
with the desperation of one people
allied against another, all fighting for
the same land.
For so many years.
children's faces are covered in blood,
dead bodies populate buses,
the windows blown out by explosives.
we watch in horror
across Israel and Palestine,
Sudan and South Sudan,
Syria and Afghanistan,
how many people have died
so needlessly.

being there no matter what

being there through the silence,

between sobs, muffled words,

the sound of the wind,

it's all that can be done

in that moment.

and the next day, the sun

comes up, somehow, and the

sky is blue.

our hearts know that being there

through the silence and sobs

is what love is.

a child's heartbreak

I hear his ragged breath, stifled sobs,
the painful sounds of a broken heart.
there are so many miles between us,
I can't hold his grief, I can't change what is
I can only listen on the phone, straining
to understand his words over a background
of howling wind as he crosses the Mass Ave
bridge tonight,
I have been there so many times,
in the cold and all alone, I know this place.
All I can do is be there listening
so he is not all alone, I am also
carrying his grief.
this is motherhood.

how many more

how many more.
blood streaming from bullet holes
arms and legs cast aside as from
broken dolls,
how many more will we see
splayed across newspaper pages,
we turn away, numb,
numb, the President said that we
are numb, we are broken, we are beat down
by those whose gun is as dear to them,
as dear to them as what
newspaper clippings that showhuman limbs
bent in strange angles, faces torn to pieces,
their hearts broken by gunshot.
how many more.
how many more.

Missing Pages

pages 1 - 45 are missing.
I look, incredulous
that a stack of pages could go missing.
how can one start a book on page 46,
half way through chapter 3
without the faintest idea of what
happened in chapters 1, 2 and
half way through 3.
I would burn this book.
I would put it out of its misery, this book.
Yes, but.
it belongs to the library so a little yellow
post-it note will be attached telling its
sad story.
I hope the library burns it on Halloween
in a huge bonfire, the flames lighting
up the faces of beautiful children.

books

four from the library
four from the used book store
fifteen released to meet other eyes.
such are the lives of books.
i smell the countless scents of readers
in these used books, invisible stains
from multi- colored fingertips,
brown eyes and blue, grey hair
and red, fast readers and slow,
the ultimate dilemma is which to
read first, accompanied by which
wine.

rain

I played rain
in scales, arpeggios,
double tonguing and trills.
the rain ran down my tongue
into my mouth, its cold trickle tickled
the clouds rising up against my palate
and I sang out in rain drops
until a rainbow emerged
from the clouds.

a little further down the street

I say YES.

They say NO, but my sign is a little further down the road

the drivers will remember the last photons that hit their glazed eyes,

they'll notice the sign attached to the antique bike, not the one

stuck into the grass, artificially green thanks to Monsanto

or some other comglomerate,

the sign that simply says NO, instead of YES to 

something we would want.

There is no perfect solution, but I prefer

yes to no.

doing science at home

science as exploration

no degrees needed,

materials of your choice,

your questions, your criteria

your life.

Presbyterian Republicans

I worked with one today,
side by side, cheek to jowl,
She's going on retreat this weekend
to Presbyterian camp, she's a staunch
Republican.
I wondered who shares her beliefs and
found him on the first search for
Republican Presbyterian.
She matches Trump in so many ways,
the pinched superiority, the fake friendliness,
I smell this a mile away, but we go on
and work side side by side
 like good colleagues do,
we will never be friends,
I will never trust her
like I would never trust Trump.
I learned from hard experience.

her message

she's 81
300 days a year she travels
to spread the word
the light shines in her grey hair
her eyes are bright and alert
she does this for love.
she does this to save them and ourselves,
to wake us from our slumber
before it's too late,
before the storms decimate our homes
before people lose their homes forever to rising seas,
before our food supply is threatened,
we are buried under feet of snow or parched in drought
even more.
she reminds us,
we must remember,
we must change.
how will you change,
how will I.

quiet

i love the silence
of no one but me being home.
i love the feel of my sitz bones on the hard wooden seat.
i'm alive
and so are you.
i smelled the reek of marijuana on a respectable
man's breath this evening.
it's legal now and he feels good.
he feels alive and is smiling
even thought i know he works very hard
and argues with his wife.
i love the look of the multi-colored clothing
strewn across the floor even though it's
messy.
i love making up music that sings
like poetry.
who would have thought.

home sweet home

a new version of a riverboat, nothing fancy

but it's home, the gentle rhythm of the stream 

rocks him to sleep, he lassos his boat to the

bank and dozes off, hopeful that another

day will come without a visit from the police.

it's dawn and we walk across the bridge,

the tip-tap of our feet will drift in and out

of his dreams and he'll turn in his sleep

and doze off again.

he was there three days and disappeared.

the police came, his dreams were 

shattered.

all you need

on a beautiful day

a small tent is all you need

to watch the stars circle above you at night

the earth crosses the moon

and the lights go out,

our eyelids droop and the book falls away,

our dreams picking up the last words

and filling in the rest as our arm

twitches under the light covers.

it's all you need, a small tent 

in the desert, a bottle of wine,

some good cheese, a loaf of

French bread and someone

you love.