ergs and dynes

are they crunchy or soft,
ergs sound like velvet with patches missing,
rubbed off over time by too much loving
and dynes must certainly sparkle,
be diamond like of course, but will
sharply correct if you're not careful
with your joules.
ergs and dynes, joules and pascals
and si units, and universal constants,
centimeters and meters and kilometers,
slugs and feet and yards,
our minds get soft, we crunch on
pebbles as we walk barefoot
through the park, our heads in the
clouds.

Plenty

I like the index.

by ingredient.

mushroom

          polenta

          bruschetta

          nothing with meat

(we'll have to sneak some on the side

and hide it from our vegetarian friends),

(thanks for them not being gluten free

or vegan, lactose intolerant, or or)

I picked mushroom polenta and 

added Irish cheddar cheese,

and roasted squash and kale

(and learned from a vegetarian that

swiss chard is more nutritious, but isn't 

kale the trendy vegetable)

and had salmon tucked over in

the corner of the pan.

we drank wine,

of course.

getting ready

she was getting ready.
getting ready for what, you might ask,
anything, I might answer, getting ready for
life, a life without you,
a life without a job, a life pregnant with
possibilities.
no borders, no passports, no commands,
no fathers, no mothers, no rules,
she's getting ready
without a suitcase, a stack of books,
a black raincoat and some new shoes,
a ticket to somewhere, the idea of
a friend
you are her friend
she is taking you with her.

Karen in the New York Times

we bought champagne
and made quiche, we made cookies
and ate blueberry pie.
we toasted to her accomplishments.
Karen is in the NYT, on NPR, on PBS,
in World News, on KQED, on the BBC,
for insomniacs, anyway.
today is her day, my little girl
who became a world famous scientist.
no one could be prouder.

http://www.nytimes.com/2016/03/29/science/heat-wave-predictions-weather.html
http://ww2.kqed.org/science/2016/03/28/pacific-ocean-pattern-could-predict-u-s-heat-waves/

the skiers

the black dog is the fastest
followed by the man in orange,
orange to grey to black,
we trail behind
the snow dazzles us
sparkles so brilliant we would be blinded
if not for dark sunglasses,
our skin burned but for sunscreen
our lips parched but for precious water,
we would die happy in such
a wonderland.

head in hands

head in hands
it's late.
my feet are cold
ankle against ankle
hand in hand
the clock is ticking
minutes into hours
the Moon follows us in
our trajectory
as we follow Her

oh it's late

even the stars have closed their eyes
as mine drift downwards as well,
the Dazed and Confused cocktail started it,
then a glass or two of wine, more than a few
handfuls of caramel popcorn
(yes, now I am addicted),
work did this to me, this staring
wide-eyed at sleeping stars, the
rise of jealousy, the vow for revenge
I will sleep late tomorrow and show
him who's boss,
oh close my eyes, it is so late
let me rest.

before the snow

the wind is howling

another storm moving in

tonight

this morning i gathered some blossoms

before being crushed under heavy snow

it is always this way in spring

as we see-saw between winter and 

summer, mostly confused,

today, confused and saddened

by the blossoms crushed by 

gunfire, by hatred and violence

in Brussels. so much

delicacy and beauty too

precious to be destroyed.

tomorrow the flowers will droop

under their heavy load, 

our hearts also. 

missing ana

mondays used to be about ana
fountain pens out, fresh sheets of paper
a walk through a wooded preserve
coffee at a local shop where poetry books
whispered through the gaps in old wooden shelves
today is monday
the evening is long in the tooth
the streetlight has gone to bed
and ana is missing
where is ana?

I met someone here

i met someone here

some months ago, by the mere

fact we were passing by every morning

he stood on the step looking at the sky,

sometimes in a heavy jacket, a badge 

sewn on his pocket.

we hunched our shoulders and hoped

he wouldn't notice her off leash,

my pajama top hanging out from under

my jacket.

we became friends, this large black man,

me, petite, the dog

i am sad i do not see him here anymore

i have no bounce in my step

my dog still searches for fallen crumbs

she never had the attachment

Trump 'em all, Donald

i watched him pull up on this snowy day.

i wondered who would get out of the van.

an older white gentleman came around the back

after a long pause,

older may be my age, with a slight limp

and a camo cap.

the coffee shop was full of young guys with man buns,

yoga moms, and techies,

no doubt a bunch of Democrats,

perhaps a bit disillusioned but nonetheless.

he bought a coffee, black, and sat next to me.

he read the Colorado Daily while I finished 

my almond croissant, half off after noon.

I wanted to ask him but didn't.

Quitting

I never thought I'd hear that he
was quitting, walking away,
calling it off, turning off the alarm,
bringing his suits to the consignment shop.
they would not want his ties.
my heart sinks for him as it rises,
my own memories refresh to
the wiles of corporate America,
the stupidity, really.
may they sink into the mud without him,
they will, I know, but the flowers
in his garden will rejoice, Arabesque,
my favorite cafe, will serve more chai,
the trails will be tramped a bit more often.
and so, he quit and life will move on,
but my heart hurts a bit,
quitting is not the same as
leaving when it's time.

Give me back my rags

give me back my rags
the holes, the cold which whistles past my ears.
I am free.
I'll give you back my new Audi,
the cashmere sweater and expensive gloves,
the extravagant parties and friends who
are not, who disappeared
when I so desperately needed them.
I'll find old friends on the road
dressed in rags and carrying their possessions
in a small bag
our faces are old
our hands are rough and broken
we may die in the street with nothing,
in rags
rags that we freely chose.

 a poem from a prompt "give me back my rags" by Vasko Popa
I don't necessarily believe that poverty is freedom, but I do think that our materialistic culture breeds loneliness and despair.

Garden Cleanup

I'm piling leaves into huge brown Kraft bags for

the City Compost program,

I'm sweating in the heat, my hands buried in long

leather gardening gloves up to my elbows to protect

against abundant thorns.

it's coming along, I see blossoms and green shoots

underneath and am reminded of the miracle of

new life, returning growth, rejuvenation.

She, on the other hand, has closed her eyes against

the sun, positively baking, every black

inch of her body absorbing the heat,

she's barely awake,

but insists that she's supervising.

tug of war

I resisted.
He pulled.
I reminded him of how much I had done.
He reminded me that the original request
was in November.
it was March, now.
I reminded him I'm busy now.
He reminded me that they need the answer now,
and they asked me in November.
I caved, he won.
I gave him the answer today but
I won't accept lunch invitations
from him this week.

daffodils at dusk

daffodils at dusk

on the back porch

we're wearing jackets

the cold is moving in

but I won't go inside,

the steam from the beef stew

fills my nostrils, the wine is

sweet on my tongue and 

you are here with me.

grandpa Stephen

a grandpa in training 

regardless of no experience with

parenting

I'd call it cheating.

dogs don't count, except

Buddy may be an exception,

I'll grant him that.

baby Gus likes the ride up high,

the funny faces and weird noises

I'm sure I'll be embarrassed at 

the other lessons he teaches,

it's boy stuff.

we girls just don't understand.

I want that one

I want that one all the way to right

half way down

the one with the crunchy look,

they are what they appear to be unlike

the ones which are beautiful on the outside

and gross inside,

reminds me of Republican presidential candidates, 

slick and polished on the outside, filled with 

hatred on the inside

Perhaps we should eat them whole,

methodically eliminating their dogma

by the steady movement of the jaw,

the digestive powers of the saliva.

when I am 66..

please let me be as beautiful as her
when I am 66, with her blonde curls,
sculpted cheekbones and sunny smile.
she's my friend who never ages
I'm not sure how she does it without
a Botox shot, a facelift, liposuction
or any other cosmetic procedure,
she laughs me off, but I'm serious
I want to be just like her.
My friend, Sher.

a sentence that wraps its back

a sentence that wraps its back -
does it mean the period loops around
and becomes a Capital, or the words after a semicolon
repeat themselves over and over again
their sentences go round and round
like an endless semi-automatic shooting
Muslims and Mexicans, women and
anyone who does not look like them
and we believe that in the eye of the hurricane
lies truth and liberation,
instead of confusion and
the steady thrum of
gunfire and hail.

Who Says

who says you can't carry eight bottles of wine,

some expensive Scotch and a bottle of port

in a bike basket

just avoid potholes and ride a straight line

hope the basket doesn't fall off its rails.

it's not my fault the man at Liquor Mart kept

suggesting great wines, showed me where the 

expensive but smooth Scotch was, 

I'd never find it in that section, and

it was even on sale.  

and not my fault that the he said this was the

best port, and that was a good wine.

I love that guy.

I brought two bags for a reason and 

I filled them up.

who needs a car to shop at Liquor Mart -

I don't buy kegs,

I'm too old for that.

Nothing to add

nothing to add

to the brilliant blues,

the variegated greens,

the yellow stigma waiting

each part sings its part

so beautifully

I'm OK

The keyboard told me I'm OK,

I just had to look

closely

after all it's another week gone by,

no broken bones, friendships intact,

I might even get another cashmere sweater

if I'm good and ask nicely.

In the end, after I page up and 

wait a moment -

reflecting on commas, semicolons

and colons, 

I'll put a period on the end of it 

and call it a good day.

the amazing human body

if it didn't hurt so much
i would have marvelled immediately
at the miracle of the human body.
after carelessly pressing my thumb onto a hot
oven coil, it reminded me of how i should
pay more attention in the future, but all forgiven
by the next day,
a numb outer skin containing a warm
bath of salty fluids against recovering
cells,
how amazing is the human body to recover
from our foolish mistakes,
forgive, fix and continue.

Spring

and so,

and so Spring is pushing up

through winter's solemn colors,

revealing her brilliance, her rigid green

stems, her lilacs and goldens, her 

spots and streaks.

let those who are somber slink into 

the darkness for now,

the sun is rising and we are called

forth to celebrate the beauty of Spring.

The Caucus Goers

overwhelmingly young.

standing in line for two hours to call

for change, calling for the old white guy,

Bernie.

feel the bern, they say.

i am standing  in line, my feet are cold

and i'd rather be home

this is civic responsibility in action

they voted for their man

they will live with him if he wins

that's the way it should go

we white hairs will all fade away.