picking at random

in five minutes
I'll book three restaurants in a city
I don't know, based on stars and dollar signs.
I'll hope for the best in Burmese
French and Mexican plates.
I want to go to sleep now
but I hear that you can't get a seat
in a restaurant without a reservation,
somehow it makes me think that
you need to make a nine month reservation
to be born on this earth.

boot camp

no, I am not wearing combat boots,
I am not grunting as I run up a hill,
my backpack thumping on my back,
nor cursing under my breath.
this is flute boot camp, my breath
taken away in less than 5 minutes,
I am hoarse from the effort and I
am called to do more,
I move towards the flute reluctantly,
cursing my commander,
a tall South African wearing flip flops
and shorts, it would be laughable
if it weren't so hard.
i'll wear my slippers and pajamas
and go back to it then until
the flute falls from my lips,
I will be back tomorrow.

away from the crowds

I am one of them,

an individual forming a crowd and I

crave to be away from them, to hear a stream

trickle across the field, to smell fresh manure

and see mountains in the distance.

there are no  unoccupied million dollar houses.

there are no cars,

no people,

only some calves suckling at their mother's udder

and horses running wild, their manes lifting

with the wind,

the same wind blowing through my hair

the same wind pushing me back 

only the sound of bike tire rolling on 

pavement am I responsible

the horses do not even lift

their heads from the grass.

On the way to Gunnison

it rains, snows and hails

the clouds billow over us, every changing

from threatening black to white, some blue 

sky peeking out, always the rolling green hills

or tawny brown, majestic snowy peaks

rising up above us.

I doze on the heated seat, my love's jacket

wrapped around me, my head pressed against

a rolled up jacket, the sedation of a humming

engine, the vibration, the road disappearing

under our wheels.

the best teacher ever

we both cried.

we won't breath in the same stale

classroom air,

we won't fill the same room with 

trills and vibrato.

the best teacher ever is leaving us

behind

he'll be in a different room breathing

the same air as a different set of students.

we loved each other.

sometimes love must be at a distance

each breathing their own air and 

playing their own melody

only to criss-cross in a duet sometimes.

not as much, but maybe just enough

to remember the generosity of

every week of every month

of so many years.

I cried and tears squeezed from

his eyes.

the best teacher ever,

I will miss you so. 

Seeing Double Brainspots

I wasn't wearing my glasses,

the ones with prisms so I watched the end of her

pointer split in two as each eye

quivered in a different place

like a schizophrenic in two different worlds

battling for supremacy,

the crazed or the sane.

her face blurred out half the time

and the pointer wandered in its own 

boredom, our collective boredom.

the revolutionary new therapy will help

erase fears of fast moving cars,

there must be some reward to my

patience.

he explained in the video

he explained in the video
that your eyes are a direct portal into your brain
how frightening
he said that when your eyes quiver looking in a particular
direction,
it means that your brain is storing a trauma
how frightening
tomorrow she will watch my eyes quiver
and shake in all directions
but I am only interested in the one
linked to a car accident,
not the one about my mother, or my father,
my other accidents or surgeries, being
poor, neglected or otherwise
traumatized.
I just want to drive again
but will she be able to find
that one spot?

we are the transients

we are the transients,

sitting on our iron benches looking past

mountains and meadows.

our benches sunk into concrete, our

cars whizzing by

we think we are masters of the universe.

we are the transients trashing our world

like the ones who smoke in the forest,

running out at night to stab and assault

a young woman running by

such innocence to believe in safety

in this world.

we are the transients, our concrete

will crack into a million pieces, our benches

will rust to ruin.

flowers

she's wearing flowers and a blossom on her head

while strolling the Garden.

as if there were not enough blooms,

the lilacs, and peonies, onions

and thyme, California poppies and 

so many unknown beauties,

but none with freckles and a crooked smile

like this one.

a spring in her step

at age 58
she found a spring in her step
surprised, she searched her shoe
and looked under the floor mat.
she asked her husband where the spring came
from, or was it in the garden, the tool shed,
maybe in the trunk of her old car,
inside a book,
did a friend leave it at her house by mistake,
did the newly adopted cats carry something in,
unexpected,
until she looked at the last place and
found it
inside.
waiting to be found.

an autistic boy

he didn't understand himself

even though his ear was only a hose

length's away

he heard a voice a muttering of strange syllables

like, but not the same, as the ones barraging his ears, his eyes,

his face, his fingers and toes every day

every night

theykeeptalking

stop, please stop

at least the talking stops when he wants

somehow

how soothing 

his arms and legs stop

his face relaxes

he drifts off

mumbling words only he understands

photo courtesy of NYT:  http://lens.blogs.nytimes.com/2016/05/19/a-global-and-authentic-family-album/

The Great Fly Catcher

he calls me Jenny Fly

I buzz around from room to room,

he hears the padding of my feet on the stairs,

the kitchen, downstairs, he hold his ears.

I understand flies.

I know their buzzing ways, 

I know their evasive maneuvers,

I know they can't fly with wet wings.

he may laugh at my silly ideas

of chasing flies with a water spray bottle

in hand, but only I am killing flies

no matter how many times he 

grabs the fly swatter, or Bella lunges

across the room

I am the Great Fly Catcher.

Speaking Up

It's 10 p.m. and City Council Chambers are packed.

It looks like democracy,

but in the back hallways, I know there are

jangling coins

and  $100 bills.

I know there are paid consultants, 

realtors, developers.

We are the small fry who show up late at night.

Dog on Dad's pillow on the couch

No, the couch is not quite soft enough,

No, the blanket on the couch  is not quite soft enough

Only Dad's pillow on the couch is soft enough

and it smells like Dad.

she looks up lazily at me as I come in drenched

from the rain, burdened with a heavy bag of groceries.

I'll make dinner tonight while she's out on a walk 

with her Dad, after which she'll come home,

bounding in, tail wagging, ready for dinner.

Ah, the life of Bella!

A man on the path

his shoulders hunched from the weight of a

a backpack and a mysterious small white bag,

he shuffled, head down, it was early in the morning

he looked drunk, old, beaten down

I wasn't sure if I should turn back

but he didn't look organized enough to be dangerous.

Our paths crossed and I called out a hearty

good morning to which he replied with an equally

hearty good morning, 

he didn't sound drunk or drugged.

he stopped at the stone bench to study a book

that had been left behind, drenched from spring

rains.

We walked past towards home

I wonder if he has a home.

Camping out illegally

in the morning, they hear me call to Bella

repeatedly.

she takes her time to emerge from the shadows of 

the forest, licking her chops, wagging her tail.

I see a head pop out of a sleeping bag and look 

my way.

he's probably thinking my dog is not well trained.

I'm thinking about the illegal camping

and pondering whether to feel sympathetic

or annoyed

when are the Rainbow People coming

the man sleeping in the bushes on the other

side of the trail is alone, I wonder that

he does not slip down the hillside

we dog walkers are up early,

Bella, Yaga and her pup, Frieda

and Sally, the golden retriever who always

has a ball in her mouth.  

who are these people camping out

are they just like you and me

It's been a long day

It's been a long day

getting to work at 5 am, incessant honking amidst

grueling traffic for a minimum wage job,

the same to get back to the West Bank

for the last evening of Ramadan.

We need a sheep for the Eid festival.

I need a cigarette.

The sheep and I will pull over and rest,

inhaling the delirious smoke,

relaxing, finally, before we both go

to festival.

it will be the end for the sheep,

the beginning for me.

photo:  New york times slide show

The Garden

and in the morning 

she goes in the backyard, her hands in worn

leather garden gloves clutching pruning shears

and a Japanese weeding knife.

before her time in the garden is up,

before the call to work drowns out the 

songs of the vinca, roses and crab apple tree,

a bin has been filled with pulled weeds, 

she has buried her 

nose in newly bloomed lilacs and gazed

at the beauty of multi-colored tulips,

the birdbath is filled with clear water.

there is more harmony of color and light

in the garden, and more calm in her heart.

they thought she was a ballerina

the way she stood upright

her feet turned out just so.

the clerk asked her if she was a ballerina,

it's not the first time.

she's only a ballerina in her dreams

twirling and dancing, gracefully leaping

and swirling across the dance floor

her hair swinging behind her, her eyes

meeting her audience on every turn,

her eyes smile.

perhaps being a ballerina in her dreams is best

so she can use her mind and body in

other ways like mowing the lawn tonight

and thinking about meteors and stars

streaking through space, and dancing

in her mind.

The rewards of motherhood

thoughts on Mother's Day

maybe all love their children.
it doesn't mean that she's a good mother
carrying on the tradition of bad parenting,
and don't forget the father.
he may be good, he may be bad.
mothers love their children, almost always
and may point them in the direction of seeking,
exploring, learning and living.
some mothers add love to the world
others not so much.
and so, today, shall we celebrate all mothers,
I ponder this.
I can only be sure about a mother
elephant and her baby,


 a bear with her cub,

a mama and her joey
and all the other animals who
just do the right thing.

two lives in a moment in time

a man and his son

side by side, silent, shoulder to shoulder

they only turn pages in synchrony

after years of being out of synch, father

and son, the face-off, now they sit peacefully

face-down, their eyes trained on their books.

the son, maybe a science fiction fantasy, 

the father, his tenth book on the history of WWII.

or maybe the reverse, who knows, but it was so peaceful

standing behind them quietly, they could only

hear the electronic click of the camera on 

my phone,after which 

I walked away 

silently.

all I ever wanted

all I ever wanted was love.

a boat will do

maybe a trailer

in the meantime.

maybe a bigger boat

or a bigger trailer.

a roof for my loves.

I'll buy a ranch with Christmas trees

and plant blueberry bushes.

I'll have chickens and fruit trees

and a dog that loves to run.

I am happy, I have found love,

my dog at my side.

waiting for the train to pass

going somewhere unknown to us,

known to the conductor, the tracks extend in a straight line

to a final destiny,

red lights flashing, cars stopped, the drivers

pull out their cell phones to check their latest FB posts

to see how many "likes" they got,

how many friends they have,

whether their life is worth living.

the barriers lift, the phones are set down

and the cars move slowly across the tracks

still warm from the friction of wheel on rail.

some move forward with confidence,

others with loneliness and fear. 

loyal to the end

they will always love you,

a treat in the pocket, a leash, 

the sound of an opening door, the clink of

a spoon scraping a metal dish.

they will walk at your side, 

wag their tails and snore gently

by your bed, there are no feuds,

no hurt feelings, a scolding soon

forgotten.

they will walk more slowly by your side

and stay near when you sit at a chair

to watch birds fly overhead.

they don't care,

all they want is to be with 

you.

old dog

he's deaf and mostly blind,

but the nose still works and teeth

are laser guided,

how else to lead a dog around who has

no intention of going "that way"

when home is "the other way".

I know their ways, these black dogs

that know what they want, and mostly 

get it, even when the harness gets tight

and their delicate bones strain under

a too large belly.

we are like them, deaf and mostly 

blind, seeking out delicious treats,

going our own ways.

the best chocolate cake ever for the best husband ever

bittersweet to have met so late in life

like the chocolate which melts on our tongues,

freshly baked, our eyes are dazzled by 

the lights.

the icing is rich with cognac and cream,

whipped to perfection, topping to 

a cake laced with nutmeg and vanilla.

how sweet and elegant, this cake.

and us, a background of black and white,

light and dark blue and pink squares.

long ago, I painted those squares

and where the pink met the blue,

I met you.