babies to grown-ups

when i arrive in my office

i see my babies, gone on to grown-ups

chubby cheeks to taller

than me, by a long shot.

i was in a crimson gown with my son,

she towers over me in her crimson gown

he towers over me in blue and black.

i have become so small.

it makes me happy to have become so small

they must tower over me and reach for the stars

the ones i never dared to touch. 

Chocolate makes it all better

and when the chips are down

the semisweet, the milk chocolate and the

bittersweet almonds dusted in powder,

eat them all, chase them with a hot Ovaltine

or a cold glass of Quik

remember when we watched the ski racers

in the Jura 

my whole body was shaking in the cold,

we ate roasted chestnuts and drank 

hot Ovaltine

to keep warm

tomorrow I will eat chocolate truffles at work

and chocolate chip cookies

and drink cacao from the jungles

of West Africa.

I will feel exotic.

let's call it friday

let's call it friday
since yesterday was a darkish smear
between dawn and dusk, night fell quickly
and it's best forgotten
but not forgiven
(if such a thing exists
is it not usually the opposite)
tomorrow will be saturday
the start of a weekend, full of
optimism.

sounds of sadness

sixty hertz the human heart beat
when calm
eighty hertz stressed and sad
convolved with a forty hertz shiraz
and a ninety hertz champagne
twin sisters at 150
a brother at 30
a sister-in-law at 45.
the coupled Fourier transform irregular
and unstable
it's sadness when the world is topsy turvy
with so much uncertainty and my heart
is heavy and optimistic at once
what frequency is that

the happiness project and life's disappointments

the two cheery voices on the podcast advised
to ask yourself what would happen if you ignored it.
sometimes trying is not good enough
regardless of the white picket fences separating
happiness from sadness,
I can end up on the wrong side of it
looking for the gate,
feeling slightly guilty at succumbing
to sadness
and another voice reminds me that above the
clouds is an eternal blue sky
but sometimes I need to get drenched in
the pouring rain
and only then can I come out into the sun.

Pomodoro

life can be lived in increments,
of ten minutes, or thirty, or five
or twenty.
I can sleep for eight hours.
I slog through work in 35 minute increments
in the morning, when I'm fresh,
with much anticipated 5 minute breaks,
the alarm sounds like a car horn,
shocking me into submission
to the clock.
ten minutes of French,
thirty minutes of flute,
fifteen minutes collecting fallen leaves
he says I shake if I don't get to it
but that's a lie,
only if I don't write a poem,
in less than 5 minutes.

A girl, her flute and her dog

a girl, her flute and her dog
in front of the fireplace
in a cabin in the mountains
after a long day of skiing,
is this why she is smiling,
her hand warm against the fur,
her back warm against the fire,
looking at her husband who she loves
and who loves her
she has finished practicing and
a glass of wine is waiting for her,
some dark chocolate with roasted almonds
and a warm bed
this girl, her flute and her dog
are happy
(although the dog does look serious)
soon the day will be done,
the Moon has already risen
there are stars high in the sky
all is beautiful.

the wind

the wind is ringing chimes
and bending branches,
the swing is banging against the house.
we need to take it down for the night
so we can sleep
the sound of the wind drowns out traffic,
the usual chatter of passersby is quieted
they stay inside
their voices would not carry far enough
to their friends for them to hear
outside in this wind
chinook wind,
you bring us warmth
we hear you whistle in the
night..

another phrase from a Billy Collins poem

"I saw them near dawn"
he was talking about the crew team out on the river,
I see the crows near dawn, perched high above me,
their black shiny heads bobbing up and
  down, they caw racously at one another
then fly away in black clouds
I walk next to a river, a small one late in winter, I see
the same red sleeping bag near the bank,
crumpled and dirty.
there is no one huddled inside
the bushes and trees are naked
but I can feel them waking up,
I hear the rush of their blood.

a line from a Billy Collins poem

"you have fled through a crease in the air"

one moment, I admire your regal French nose and your slim fitting jeans,
the next you are gone, and my frantic search yields no sign of you,
only the sounds of dogs barking and animated conversation from
the nearby cafe
you have fled through a crease in the air into some other
universe where there is an Other, not me and I know
I will never feel the sharp pressure of your nose against my
soft cheek or watch your muscles flex under your jeans.
your French nothings will not grace my ears,
you spend long languid afternoons with
another.

Mastery

the music passed in front of my eyes
my fingers moved effortlessly
so many hours struggling and walking away,
returning to the stand, picking up the instrument
and trying again
so many years

but I still went back every night
late at night, on weekends, instead of watching
TV or surfing the net
somehow this mastery thing was in me

and so tonight
I celebrated the fingers which flew over the
notes so effortlessly, I remember well
how I struggled.

I will struggle again
succeeding in tiny steps
each one will make me happy.

the fog

black ravens cross the grey

their wings filling the air 

i breathe in fog.

what colorado is this grey fog

on a saturday morning in february

its beautiful and so rare

the cold dampness seeks my warmth

i move on

The Millennials

they roll up their sleeves, grab the shovels,

the pick and hammer, the wheelbarrows full

of gravel and sand and get to work.

my bechtel cherry tree has been planted in the front;

my flowering serviceberry in the side yard,

I roll up my sleeves and grab the rake and compost bin,

my pruners and scissors and start cutting back the 

dead flowers and branches

hard work is contagious and

we felt good, the land was more beautiful,

the Millennials, they will roll up their sleeves

and work the land, the politic, heal the earth and 

each other, they will raise beautiful children

and it will feel good.

The debate

 

 

will she be the next one,

in her Mandarin yellow jacket, her sensible shoes,

she knows her stuff,

she knows the players

but is her miscibility a liability,

or will it be him,

he looks so old and so far out of the club

that I wonder if he can get anything done,

the wolves will eat him whole

and ultimately, who will beat the man

with the toupee?



Yogurt Overload

two gallons of milk

six jars of yogurt

and a half, half eaten

there is another mouth to feed

along with hers

and mine

and his

i'll hand over 2 jars at once, 

not one

we'll eat the other four and

she will pass over a loaf of fresh-baked

bread, natural sourdough

he will merely smile 

that will be enough

for now.

a poem lost in the port

the poem fell in the port
after I popped the bottle,
the prose, too
what a peculiar past time!
and so,
there was no poem with the picture,
nor a perfect postulate,
only a peculiar photograph
posted after I poured,
and promptly forgot
my preoccupation with
poetry.
damn port!

ON Sale

nostalgia

i remember
when each second we were apart was misery
only he mattered
he and me

the rest of the world fell away

i remember others' envy
how my girlfriends didn't matter
anymore
only he mattered
me and he

they can tell we are talking
my voice lilting in a way only a lover's voice
does

you know what i mean

now i crawl into bed in my flannels
we snore and get up during the night
we seek time alone,
and spend time with our friends
we're happy

but i admit

that when i hear her laughing
that special laugh when she is talking
with him and she can hardly wait the

next 2335 seconds until he arrives

i feel a tug of nostalgia for that

insanity.

considerations

considering that I spent the last two hours
speaking in a foreign tongue with a limited supply of wine,
that I had to suppress my annoyance in a meeting at work
with a fussy and uncommunicative colleague
and that my bike slipped on the icy intersections of
sidewalk and street,  I deserve to eat several cups of
caramel popcorn tonight
in spite of having gained weight
in spite of my pants being too tight
it's from the oral steroids I need to keep
my hair from all falling out
if I must be bald, let my tummy be filled
with popcorn, let my glass be full.

I never noticed it was blue

i never noticed it was blue

having walked by it one thousand times

or more.

behind the window there stands a person

holding a book, musing over it, she looks out the 

window at me without me knowing

what she is reading or if it makes her happy

or sad, if it reminds her of a lost love

or a found one, a broken promise or

one fulfilled

i only know the chill of the winter air on my cheek

the brisk walk to meet a loved one at a restaurant

where we will drink hot toddies and talk science

again

perhaps we should talk of books and politics,

love, bigotry and ignorance, sensuality and 

the universe, 

the world of experience is vast

how do we begin and

how do we end

Baking pans and washcloths

the kitchen reappears in the lab,

Stephen's baking pans,

Jenny's wash cloths.

the garden appears in the lab,

germination mats and a humidifier,

as do the extension cords and timers.

we wrapped some wire shelving

with plastic, placed them all inside

and created the perfect humidity chamber

for my experiments

ignore the text from Stephen asking where

his baking pans are,

ignore the cold seeds and the dry rooms at home,

ignore the Christmas lights and their timer.

let science begin. 

the morning walk

my FitBit vibrates at 06h30

it's still dark, and cold, but I slide out from the covers

like a mouse, careful not to disturb the sleeping cat

and creep upstairs.

i hear Bella snoring gently on the couch.

she stirs to the sound of a plastic bag with treats inside

and we head out into beauty

icicles hanging from power lines and trees

frosted in white, i trudge through a foot of fresh snow,

she pounces and prances, she raises her head

to show off a snout dusted with snow

this is why i wake up when it is still dark

and the streets are quiet

to see cold beauty

Gettng rid of that moldy smell

the washcloths smelled of mold
like his towels sometimes
what is it about men's towels

he claimed that one could never
remove the moldy smell
my reputation was on the line

I could shatter his beliefs with a
single scoop of 20 mule team borax
sprinkled onto the moldy pile

and now, i'll mix Borax and washing
soda and castile soap, the big plastic jugs
of detergent can sit on the shelves