Au revoir, Alpe d'Huez!

La route qui monte!

Trimmed hedges along mountain roads,

Single lanes with no pull offs

We see a cement truck backing down the road

From the construction site 5 km up

Extra cost for a driver who knows how

Sheer cliffs to one side

We descend on bike hugging the hillside

The wine is superb, the food better

Our shorts stretch nicely.

Que c'est jolie...

Notre promenade aujourd'hui

Vive La France

Allons-nous!
Off we go to France
where ils parlent tous en francais
where we will eat fromage and drink du vin.
I will celebrate!
but first I must not procrastinate,
the bags call to be filled
with undies, pants and frills,
allez, allez
we must get ready to go!

a vacation day

I'll take a vacation day from writing
late into the night.
the dental floss is whining and
the toothpaste is oozing through the cap,
my pajamas would be dancing but they are damp
in the laundry,
I just remembered.
the flowers are wilting from lack of water,
the dishes are undone,
so I'll take a vacation from writing
and floss and brush my teeth, hang the
laundry, summarily dump the flowers
off the back porch and climb into
bed with my beloved.

Packing for France

bike shorts - two pairs:  check
bike shoes and jerseys, a raincoat
in case it rains.
some blouses and a skirt, a scarf
to wrap around my neck on a chilly evening.
yes, a toothbrush, etc
I'm starting to pack so early this time
having sorted laundry
having found my suitcase

and when the climbing gets tough
my left hand will reach for the electric assist
and I'll fly past my beloved,
waving as I go by

I will wait at the top of Alpe d'Huez,
glass of wine in one hand
cheese and bread in the other.

Saving a tree

one tree

spreading its branches

over a few stone benches,

 a few homeless men trollling for free books

(maybe to sell, I don't ask)

one tree

spreading its branches to provide shade

to a couple college kids

slouched over notebooks and iPads

(I have one as of today),

their eyes would blur in the sun

but instead

there is shade, blessed shade.

one tree is worth saving, so let's save it then

an easy decision,

yes?

California on Fire

spectacular and deadly beauty

your black plumes rush skyward, the heat

burning my eyes, fire jumping from tree to

tree, across ditches, scorched earth.

spectactular and deadly beauty,

our tears 

hot on our cheeks, our houses

burn to the ground in

front of our 

broken staring

eyes.

Photo from NYT Lens collection

homelessness in Boulder

this morning
there were three groups of them,
two older women with bad teeth, heavy, dressed in rags,
another group of four men, handing a bottle back and forth
and another group of men, I didn't see what they were doing
as I rode my bicycle through a cloud of cigarette smoke.
this morning, I watched them pack up their bedrolls
from under the bridge
and yesterday, a man was sleeping against the fence,
wrapping his arms around himself to keep warm.
they are everywhere
and no where, hidden in bushes across the creek,
talking to themselves and squatting behind trees.
they will not go away and even after three glasses
of wine and the best wishes, we find no solutions
for them except to keep them from starving or freezing
at least, hoping some will find their way.

you are wonderful and beautiful

really

the words arranged themselves

i was too busy to notice what words and where

having inherited a hundred of the slightly warped,

somewhat dirty, well loved magnets from

a friend's refrigerator.

she moved away, this was her going 

away gift to me, arriving in a plastic box

that sat on the dishwasher some weeks

and then more in my work bag.

words.

you are beautiful and wonderful,

super kind and upside down,

there is love in how you look at me.

Flute and French

an etude
an accent aigu,
musical expression, dynamics,
bright, mellow, accents,
the sound of "u" in "tu" and "tribu"
the memory of drum beats in the earth.
all foreign, all to be learned, incorporated
into my skin, my tongue, the movement of
my body, my face, my lips,
flute and French in one evening,
a bottle of champagne, mozzarella cheese,
garden tomatoes and cucumbers, candlelight,
offers of friendship,
the passing of words and non-words,
friendship and the passing of
ships in the night
only to dock in the
morning light.

A look of violence, a feel of violence

Dinner with Daughter

we changed seats.
the chair was too tall and the
bench seat too low.
I'd rather be taller than her for
a change so I gave up the cushy bench
for the chair, uneven as it was on
the old floors of the Boulderado.
she is not old enough to recognize
the value of the perfect mix, the unique mix
that can makes an individual a standout.
maybe not the smartest, the one with the most drive,
maybe not the perfect communicator or the single
one with the most charisma, the most insightful,
the hardest worker, but that perfect mix
makes the top performer, the life best lived,
the most talented teacher or the most
innovative, the most adored.
she may not recognize this in herself
or that of her brother,
but I do.

away from it all

only the clouds and me

the verdant hillsides,

the aspen and pines, the clouds

billow overhead,

only the sound of bike tires

on a gravel road, and me,

the sound of birds, the distant

hum of cars on the highway,

people in metal boxes, I breathe

in the fresh air and on this dirt

road there is only me, the clouds,

the sun, the birds, the air, 

the precious air we all 

breathe.

One Match Fire

the wandering of the untrained mind

the late summer garden
wheat straw grasses.
the dog has disappeared into the trees
and is not responding to calls,
what else is new besides the endless
railing that we can't trust Hillary and we
don't know her, except for her last 25 years
in the public eye.
and knowing that such disingenuity would
never be launched at a man,
it's hot out.
am I slouching again,
and perhaps I should cut back on cookies
but they taste so good
I'm tired after the trip,
and work takes too much time.
it's hard work to train the mind.

my eyelids won't stay open

my eyelids are drooping.
the eyelashes brushing against
glasses pushed hard against my face
in an attempt to see better
understand a confusing world with
would-be assassins and hacked emails,
the new California boss pulling the lifeline
from the workers,
I'm seeing and hearing it all
as well as the thunderstorms in the distance,
rays of light shining through gaps in the clouds
a distant rainbow.
how can I see clearly when there is black next to white
oranges, lightning, the sound of sirens and the
hum of the tires on the road, turning
to take me home,
my eyelids are drooping,
my brain too tired to understand
that which will never be
understood.

don't trust and verify

he's smart but oh so pushy,
interrupting your thoughts with his own
substituting your words for his own,
the rosy picture.
it's not my own, darkened with reality.
I don't trust him
and I need my own verification,
not his silky words and slick justifications,
California style.

Mi Casa

I was the minority.
I'm not sure if I was welcome or not,
their dark faces, their gleaming beautiful white teeth,
their black black hair
they are stunning and glorious in their blackness
and I am white.
I indulged in
Grilled shrimp perched on a blanket of avocade covering a plantain bed.
If I could eat that every day, I'd be the happy minority
instead of Ceasar salad in a white bar with a $12 glass of wine
I went back there tonight
and I brought my white friends
we were the minorities
and I ate grilled shrimp perched on a blanket of avocado covering a plantain bed
I was happy.

I remember, do you?

I remember our laughter,

my hand warm in his, dancing like  moonlight

across the crooked wooden bridge,

the gurgle of water against the row boat,

swimming under moonlight.

I remember

nestling against him at night 

in his tent, hidden back in the woods,

I was so young.

I remember you, Nao, giggling in 

the kitchen, listening to Maggie's reprimands

and her delicous zucchini ratatouille,

the gardens and Will, the smell of fresh 

laundry filling our nostrils as we made 

beds, cleaned bathrooms and 

built a crooked bridge together.

do you remember, Nao?  

we danced like moonlight across

our crooked bridge, shucked our clothing

and swam under the stars.

Packing Arpeggios

I almost forgot my arpeggios in my endless

piling of clothing, toiletries, work papers, why

is it never easier for me, why not as easy

as an arpeggio gliding effortlessly up the scales,

smoothly transitioning between registers,

the ear soothing to the key changes, from

major to minor, from fortissimo to pianissimo.

i'll bring them with me in hopes of smooth

and effortless travels.

Hiding Chocolate

having no self control when it comes to chocolate

it must be hidden from sight, or in another room

that threatens me when I slink in, or perhaps

a dispenser that doles out chocolate for large 

sums of money, and only three times a day,

small pieces.

I spotted this chocolate behind a picture frame,

surprised that it was in my office, surprised that

most of it was still wrapped up, waiting for me.

I love that stuff, coarse ground Mexican chocolate,

bittersweet, ground almonds, the grit polishes

your teeth.

and so, I ate a piece, and another, and several

and another just in case before I put it in a drawer

in the next office, where he will notice how often

I come in, and look at me with a wry smile

asking me how many pieces I have had today.

three, I say.

that's enough.

training

best not to know it was 97 F
at the start of the ride
uphill, my legs pumping for France.
small roads twisting and turning,
hidden in forests and byways, the lure
of riding them, picnic in my basket,
a friend at my side
but I need to train for these three weeks
I need to feel the burn, feel my lungs exploding,
feel the heat on my skin, feel as if I can't breathe
enough, that my legs will turn to jelly on the next turn.
because
just because
maybe I can make it up the mountain, with
my picnic basket and a bounce in my heart.
maybe, just maybe
if I try in this wretched heat,
if not,
I won't.
that's for sure.

exhausted before vacation

the problem with work is
it interferes with play
with planning
and cooking, hiking and shopping,
from doing anything else but
working.
exhausted before vacation,
too exhausted to think of vacation,
to plan for vacation, to look forward to
vacation.
that is the problem with work,
it interferes with life, the life my
brother is having taking off anytime to
ride a bike, drive a car, take a boat,
hike a trail, have a lunchtime BBQ,
and work,
well, it inteferes with a well thought out
poem, a well played flute sonata, a beautiful
garden, coffee at noon, reading in bed,
doing nothing.
work interferes with too much life.

the windows had no curtains

the windows had no curtains
like the Stanley Hotel in the Shining.
I've stayed there and I was booked to stay here.
the innkeeper and I climbed three sets of stairs,
each set narrower than the previous
arriving at my room, a small iron framed bed
adjoining a living room shared by three suites.
I dropped my bag and left for the evening.

My friend and I came back late and we
reminisced over our last adventures together
not to be repeated.

I settled in alone for a needed good night's sleep.

Awake, awake, the party has started!
the inn keeper and her family laughing and
talking, I try to sleep, blocking the sounds the
best I could, and again, AWAKE, AWAKE!
the party continues.
if not for my pajamas and embarrassment for
the hostess, I would have marched out and demanded
SILENCE!

and in the morning, sleepily descending the three
sets of stairs, each one less narrow than the last,
i am puzzled to see a single lonely setting at the table.
an older gentleman, no doubt the husband looks back
at me, quizzically.

and where is your wife and her family who arrived
last night and were talking and laughing upstairs?
his face turned white.
no one was here but you, miss.
even we were sleeping elsewhere.