snow

snow,
sleek, slippery white
skis sliding, skating,
superb.

my hair is falling out

my hair is falling out and it's not even
mundane male pattern baldness,
I can't chalk it up to old age.
my hair is falling out, handfuls at a time.
the line at my part has become a white slash
of scalp
yes, I'm freaking out
I'm too young for this, o lord
please make my hair grow back.
my hair is falling out and it's a
good thing I have that gold ring on
my left hand so he won't leave me.
although he may be bald, he
did not fall in love with a bald
woman, even if she does have
freckles.

Princess Karen

I remember the first day I entered Harvard Yard.

I quaked in my boots as I wandered among the brilliant,

the rich, the beloved, the "others", all who were not like me.

I crept into class, hoping to squeak by,

fearing the worst

A generation later, 

she owns the place, pink tiara and 

shiny boots, she quickly dismisses the guys

who claim to understand but clearly don't. 

she's the president of Harvard University,

a Princess, she will rock the world.

eating chocolate at work

it's only ten a.m.
not even lunchtime as she sneaks
next door into her colleague's office,
we hear the drawer slide open.

she waits until he is away.

we hear the crinkle of wrapper
as the chocolate bar slips into her
waiting hands, this one filled with
caramel which sticks to her fingertips.

some days this is how she gets through
the difficult analyses, the boredom or
restlessness

the rush of chocolate melting onto her tongue,
the smell of caramel warming on her fingers,
the pleasure of licking it all off.

the drunkards downstairs

from upstairs
I hear them laughing, now done
with officers' business, they uncork
whiskey and scotch, I hear the clink of
glasses and loud voices.
even the old one, the Jewish gentleman,
tells raucous stories sprinkled with
words I never could have imagined
coming out of his mouth
(except in his former drunken youth),
the other Jewish grey-hair lapsed into
speaking in a Scottish accent and
they exchanged stories of Nairobi
slums where one can rent a motel room
by the hour, not the day.
cautiously, I opened the door to
go downstairs, seeing empty liquor
bottles strewn about the table, feet up,
paperwork long done, they will
soon be asleep,
these drunkards.

irate customers

they get it for free.
fresh home-made yogurt
delivered to a refrigerator near you.
in your own house,

they complain about inconsistent quality
to the call-in customer center, staffed
for two minutes at 2 a.m. on Monday
nights.

I get post-it notes on the refrigerator
from my staff,
asking me to tell the irate customers
to tone it down.

it never works.

the irate customers are only happy when
their home delivery yogurt is perfectly smooth,
perfectly free and made with love.

finally tuckered her out

she finally flagged on the last climb,

her legs helter skelter, ski poles flailing.

this, after insisting we do one more loop,

one more than i ever do, she's tough,

that one,

she's tough and she will only have me

call it a day,
she'd  keep going regardless

i'm 58 and feeling it

but still ahead,

not for long.

cash and a card

no one tires of cash slipping out of an envelope.
cash for the spending on something frivolous,
a birthday present
it has a aura, a special karma when it drifts
to the floor, no matter the amount,
$1, $5, $10, $100.
I can stop at McGuckin Hardware on the way home and browse
tens of aisles of no matter what with my $30 burning
in my pocket.
I settled in for a long look in housewares
and settled on glass latte glasses, the ones that keep
your coffee warm and your beer cold.
I had bought these for Daniel for Christmas
and had wanted them every since.

drinking wine and eating the last of the cookies

the doorbell rang
it was night
i was upstairs
who could it be so late
at night, in the darkness
i was alone.
as i pulled the curtain away from
the window, i saw the rear light of
a bicycle receding from the door
i called out to my son
it was dark and cold
he came in, we embraced
we ate the rest of the
homemade cookies
and drank the last of a
bottle of red wine.
we yawned, i opened the
door and i watched the
rear light of the bike recede
into the distance
i went upstairs to turn
out the lights and
get ready for bed.
my belly full of wine and
cookies.

Fun with a FitBit

fit as a fiddle

we fling open the door

our foray into the forest 

fulfills us, each step recorded

as we frolic over fallen logs

and frivolous French words,

in search of the perfect cutting board

it 

must be beautiful, constructed 

of rare woods.

glistening layers of rose, amber and ebony,

yet practical

of sufficient height, width and length

to fit the as-yet-unknown kitchen counter,

a fine blade will whet itself

while cutting eggplants and peppers

in between the ringing of wine glasses

a toast to their own apartment,
a cozy home to call their own

the cutting board must be perfect.

the price of admission

there is a price of admission
for relationship, you have look for the
best and ignore the rest.
she told me this today
but i'd never heard this,
succint
difficult
true.
i lost more hair today,
leaving a large pile on the examining
table at the dermotologist,
if he didn't believe me before
he did now,
i wandered out, scrip in hand.
he wandered into the next exam room
thinking the same thing,
there is a price of admission to
have a relationship.
Otherwise you will find yourself
standing alone
in the dark.

Birthday Eve

I have always loved the eve

of a celebration, the night stars wheel overhead

it's not quite time, it is almost time

for opening presents under the Christmas tree,

hunting for Easter eggs, or having 

breakfast in bed on your birthday.

An eve is a looking forward to while

also enjoying good food and wine,

family, a few presents that came early

unexpectedly.

an eve of anticipation, an evening

of enjoyment.

tonight's poem will be written tomorrow

tonight's poem will be written tomorrow
when the moon is lingering overhead and
her footsteps are crunching along icy lanes.
she will have counted each footstep and
noted every heartbeat.
even her nap will have been quantified.
tonight she is too tired having dissected
French verbs and idiomatic expressions
je suis ton petit papier,
I am your special one
even in neglecting to write today's poem
tonight, tomorrow will arrive after
the frozen moon has disappeared over the
frosty hillsides
I will awaken in the dark.

"I want a way out of loneliness, just like you"

He reminds me of you,
 your slim millennial body
encased in shiny raw intelligence,
so fragile, you are not fooling me with
your bravado, your degrees, your
brutal capabilities that have no
boundaries.
your heart, so delicate and refined,can
be breached, we know this as she walked
away and blood flowed across the
silent streets.
he went back to that office to admit
his truth, and her's, life is wrenchingly lonely.
is your life lonely behind the raw bravado
do you cry before you go to sleep


(The quote is from Eliot, a character on the series "Mr. Robot")

a new house

a little too big to pull by bike

but not by much

I like the color scheme, and 

the windows facing the mountains.

It's close to work, I could walk

and it's for sale.

moving in would require major downsizing,

dump the couch, the books, the clothes.

no room for a husband,

only for a dog.

the two meanings of black dog

some call depression the black dog,
I wake up at dawn when my black dog licks my hands
urging me out of bed to start a joyful new day

and so - in the desert

and so-

and so there was a bus

and three men and a girl

and a young man, a boy, really.

and so there were two bikes

traversing Africa, from Paris to Senegal

and so, this boy, this boy,

what was he doing there,

the slightest peach fuzz graced his face,

alone.

alone, but smiling

and so, why does he smile

except to show his bravery

in the desert, amongst strangers

who have become friends

by necessity.

and so,

by necessity.

A girl and her dog

she is not alone in the world.

a black dog is always there to lick

her lips and to stroll beside her

periodically veering off to chase rabbits

and dig for treats only a dog could love.

the trees are frosted in white,

the trail well trodden and she,

well, she is happy in the white,

the silence, the bond between

a girl and her dog.

snow-packed

car tires crunch and whirr at 65 mph
too fast to think as the dog circles in her
prescribed circle to fall asleep,finally her
head settling onto the armrest after
gazing at me dolefully.
what am I doing in her seat,
up front the conversation circles
from faculty applications to temperature sensors
my mind is on humidity sensors and whether
the house is burning down.
the night is snow packed, the roads icy
and slick, we drive through the night
in this metal canister, three of us and,
of course,
the dog.

time to say good-bye

time to say good-bye

the season of good cheer is winding down.

a man wielding a knife stormed the police station

in Paris, a year to the day after the Charlie Hedbo

massacre

he was wearing a fake explosives vest

and died in an explosion of gunfire.

the santa who greeted me on my way to work

has disappeared into someone's holiday box

until next year

we had greeted each other many times

tonight it will snow

and he would have been covered in white

the symbol of purity and love.

reflections through a friend's eyes

written years ago,

by a friend,

"jenny is the kind of woman"

followed by some truths, some extrapolations,

some facts, 

this year, still a mom 

because that never goes away no matter how old you are,

not sure if I can call myself an artist, or a poet,

just an amateur who likes to write and tries to play the flute,

I prefer ice cream to gelato now

and my townie goes only short distances.

relevance or insightfullness might be a stretch

I can still sit in a corner and stay quiet

I have learned to only speak

when I want to hear a response.

Practicing for grandparenthood

no one ever listened so carefully
nor did I ever listen back with such attention,
such synchrony
he and me, the movement of our mouths
matched, in immaculately metered motions.
we danced to the same rhythm,
this little baby and me.
we certainly knew each others thoughts
at the highest levels, exchanging ideas
on Sartre, Camus and Betty Friedan,
as his mother pondered career and motherhood.
they will talk later, mother and baby
and in their perfect dance, will figure
it all out.
I'm sure of it.

Out with the old, in with the new

out with the old

the tiny pages, an occasional Klimpt

in with the new

a weekly page, multi-photo spread

of Parisian delights

oh, 2016 will be so much better.

A larger area to write my hopes and dreams,

my accomplisments by the hour.

places to visit, daydreaming scenes,

a glass of wine in each hand,

a bordeaux and a boujolais,

bicycles, lanterns and shuttered windows

the life in Paris in the new year. 

Growing up

she grew up

those bright sparkling eyes,

eagerness, looking up towards the world,

sheltered by her mother, a blue sweater around her waist,

she's safe to grow, the soil is rich, she is blooming

now in pink, veritas this is true, she has

grown up.

she has always been beautiful.

she is still beautiful.

she will always be beautiful.

my daughter.

Happy New Year

a new year

a time for new beginnings

new loves

new ski poles

a new glide

I rejoice in their new love

their wide smiles and their embrace

this is the way it all begins.

they are starting a new life together

we lounge across each other in the old

comforts of many years,

both are lovely and to be celebrated

on bitterly cold mornings like this one,

we share our warmth.