Tuesday, March 31, 2015

somewhere on a beach

Somewhere on a beach, there was a woman.
she was looking out to sea, counting pelicans
bobbing on the water, the most azure blue.
someone called her and she turned to smile
her skirt billowing in the wind,
the hems wet from the surf, 
the waves had surprised her

Wednesday, March 25, 2015

Writing Poetry before 9 pm

and so they say
staring at a screen late at night
keeps you up, watching the minutes and hours
pass by on the brightly lit alarm clock at the side of the bed.
I watch every one, keeping my eyes open and
wondering why each moment
seems endless and my husband
snores gently on my side.
they say not to stare at
screens late at night
count sheep with your eyes closed shut
boredom helps one sleep
turn off the screen
turn off life's worries and

Tuesday, March 24, 2015

the power of praise

practicing was different tonight,
a new recognition of the spirit
waiting for
explicit permission to sing out,
or at least to be noticed, a nod in her direction
would be appreciated, instead
of the hang dog look from
missed notes.
in the end, let us all be carried away
as if in the arms of a winged
goddess, her flute and
harp singing
into the

Monday, March 23, 2015

Blues at Ball, Happiness at Home

in one day,
the skies fell and
the heavens opened,
a spacecraft lost,
a daughter gained.

Sunday, March 22, 2015

Quoi dire, quoi ecrire

deux bouteilles de champagne
du bon pain, du fromage, mêmes des châtaignes
que je n'ai pas goûté depuis plusieurs années.
La dernière fois pendant que j'attendais mon cousin
qui faisait une course de ski de fond.
J'avais tellement froid.
J'avais 18 ans, tellement jeune, innocente.
ce soir, nous n'en avons pas parle, nos jeunesses.
maintenant, nous portons de petits bides,
les cheveux gris, peut-être caches, mais
tout le monde sais que nous les avons.
mais, tant pis, la vie est courte, laisse-nous
notre bon rouge, du camembert, des noisettes,
des amies, le français pas bien parle, mais
amusant quand même.

Friday, March 20, 2015

I can still see

I can still see her crooked pigtails,
(like the ones I had at her age)
her wide smile and freckles,
how chubby she was, how determined,
so regal.
I remember her awkward walk,
her hands sticking out in front of her body
like a robot, chin jutting forward, only
a bag filled with school books kept her
from falling forward.
One day her hands fell back to her
sides and she walked like a princess,
so regal.
I remember not so long ago when she
headed east alone towards her future,
she looked back briefly towards me,
I waved and she smiled.
So regal.

Thursday, March 19, 2015

The cutest baby ever

a hippo only
a few hours old and the cutest baby ever,
with her little ears and soulful eyes,
a triple chin and webbed feet,
glistening skin and pulsating nostrils.
she's the cutest baby ever, never mind
all the humans who think their baby is
cute with splotchy skin and distorted head,
slits for eyes and just plain ugly, 
this baby is so cute, she's French.
I think that's how they say it.
Je pense qu'il le disent comme ça.

Wednesday, March 18, 2015

Spring has sprung

and so
spring has sprung by the back fence,
and along the hedge, next to the house
and across the neighborhood.
a sprinkling of pollen invites the bees
awakening from their rest, they wobble
unsteadily emerging from hollow sticks,
a bee box screwed to the east facing post.  
the sun has warmed them
and us, a black dog basking in the sun,
a tall glass of beer, a bottle of red wine,
a loaf of bread and a wedge of Brie,
we'll drink and eat to the sun and 
the summer, not far behind.

Tuesday, March 17, 2015

Disappearing Candy


They are all slim and athletic, Boulder-ites,
they ride centuries on their bikes and run at lunch,
but I know they love candy - I have documented
how quickly it disappears.
At 10 am, I put out the stash, at 10:45, the Almond
Joys are gone, at 11:30, some lonely Reese's cups
and finally at noon, a lonely one,
gone at 1 pm when I look again.
Yet there are not so many people in my building
so I know some of them eat more than their
share, but me, I don't care.

Monday, March 16, 2015

1 - 10

Every night he coughs at the same moment that the cork pops off the bottle of Cognac;  I know he is pouring himself one tall shot.

We're reading two different books after I told him I hated John Grisham and he looked hurt.

Besides, three days after I started it, I was done because I skimmed the whole thing

after the fourth page.

I pleaded the fifth when he demanded to know if I really thought the writing was abysmal.

He has no less than six pairs of gloves, all missing left hands, so

when I rush into the cold at 7 am with the dog, I am glad I have my own.

I ate the whole piece of pie and didn't tell him because

on July 9th when he starts the bike tour which climbs 5000 feet per day

He will wish he had lost those 10 pounds.

Sunday, March 15, 2015


we have never been trained in tidying,
simply moving things from one place to another,
making stacks, buying plastic containers,
renting storage units, and buying more to
fill our empty souls.
how many cans of black beans does one need,
after all, apparently six in this household.
and how many types of oil, or vinegars,
mustards or jams, soy sauce or gravy boats.
the book says that in tidying, one's life
is forever altered, for the better.
Certainly, I experienced happiness
at this accomplishment, but wonder 
if it will stick.

Friday, March 13, 2015

Deleting Atlanta

I won't check the weather
in Atlanta
anymore, or how it
compares to Boston, Boulder and Berkeley.
I won't see the clouds or rain, the sun or wind
roll across the screen of my iPhone, nor
will I notice how cold Atlanta is in the winter.
For being in the South, it's remarkably cold
and grey, the trees lose their leaves and the
wind blows cold and damp.
There is someone I love there, but I must
separate myself from her no matter how painful,
I only know that she must feel
very lonely there and I cannot
comfort her.

Thursday, March 12, 2015

Never look further than the next bar

ignore the runs of thirty-second notes
four bars ahead, breathe into
that single high C, letting the
vibrato ring in the air and fade,
rest during four counts and only,
only then prepare your lips,
your psyche, your lungs for
that run of thirty-second notes,
let the breath carry you forward,
watch the energy wash over the
audience and gently dissipate,
this is the ocean of music.

Wednesday, March 11, 2015

A persistent messy room

every night 
when I write my poem, 
I see piles of
pens and pencils,
pajama bottoms,
paperwork and bills,
bicycle lights,
bottles of ink and books,
mice and music,
a dog sniffing about,
suitcases and socks, 
scissors and snapshots,
magazines and magnets.
every night,
I am perplexed
by my persistent

Tuesday, March 10, 2015


in the deepest darkest recesses of space
they travel in groups, as if to keep each other company,
like us, each unique with rock piles and sandy slopes
forged from the winds, the torrents, the bombardments of
our histories.
we are bare to the universe, exposed to the impacts
of rocks, ice, the constant wind, it bears down upon
us whenever we see the sun exploding
upon us.
they bear the scars of their histories. buried
under a thin layer of sand,
as do we.

Monday, March 9, 2015

The Big Decisions

getting married
having a child
taking a new job
moving to a new city
deciding what is worth arguing about
choosing to keep your
cool in spite of it

realizing compromise is necessary,
making them and being happy,
growing up.
buying a new car or keeping an old one
even though everyone makes fun of you.
being a friend when it's not convenient,
standing up for what you believe
even though you're tired

choosing to be you
and standing by it
while loving those
around you.

Sunday, March 8, 2015

The rewards of patience

yellow crocus
you have bloomed earlier
in February, then, buried in snow,
you waited patiently,
(unlike me),
until the snow melted and
you showed your beauty again.
I was reminded of
the rewards of rest,
patience and beauty.

Friday, March 6, 2015

Dancing with a Bass Trombone

flutes and clarinets have played
serenades during summer picnics,
the sound of pouring wine,
the swish of summer dresses,
the murmur of men and women.
oboes and flutes have chased wolves
and comforted little girls.
the flute soars over the violins,
they gather in force to overpower
this slender silver instrument, but the
voice carries much further.
even the bass trombone must dance
delicately with the flute,
she accepts no
other partner.

Thursday, March 5, 2015

Daddy's Little Helper

Men didn't have to hide it;
only women had little blue pills
they popped first thing in the morning
and after lunch when Dad was away.
no wonder they were so docile
when everyone knew their role
and played it.
Dad could come home and put his feet up,
the cork popped loudly and we heard
the tinkling of glasses as he rummaged
in the cabinet, the splash of cognac
and a sigh of relaxation.
Mom hid her pills in shame,
Dad sipped his liquor in full enjoyment,
in full view. 

Wednesday, March 4, 2015

Writing Back

to what, I'm not sure
since there is nothing to reply to.
I'll fill in the blanks because I know what
they might like.
She likes to hear about herself,
her version, how  to reply to a question
I'd rather not answer.
Most people don't write back.
Write back, reply to sender,
not something you'd send to anyone.
I'm special and so are you
Write something special so it's worth our time.
Time is short.

Tuesday, March 3, 2015

Pizza Night!

I repeat.
Tuesday is Pizza Night,
the best night of the week.
I go to the gym for it, I lift weights for it,
I wait for it, I am so excited for it.
Homemade pizza and red wine,
a mindless episode of something
cuddled on the couch with Someone
who happens to be my husband.
Pizza night is the best!

Monday, March 2, 2015

I never gave it back

Accordian Crimes
stands as tall as any other book
on my shelf,
It's not mine.
I'm sure he has forgotten by now,
but I have not,
I do nothing about it.
I don't push the spine back into the darkness,
nor do I pull it out to read it.
For Christ's sake, I never even read
the goddamn book.
I remember he was dating my friend.
She has a 13 year old by another man.
It's been at least 15 years.
It will probably be another 15, or until
I pass away and then it will be my childrens' book
and they will be old enough to be parents themselves.
I know I will never return it,
I will never pull it from the shelf to read it,
I never gave it back.

Sunday, March 1, 2015

Observing the world from a safe place

it's a sensible thing
to watch close up so as to not miss anything
but to remain hidden from eyes that sweep
the horizon looking for the next big thing.
she just fits under the Coca-Cola cart, the real
thing, with crisp white wheels.
I was walking through the mist aross a deserted
plaza when she caught my eye,
a shadow under the cart.
we shared a moment of silence gazing
at each other, a moment frozen in time,
she and me.
I'll remember her.