Friday, June 23, 2017

Dancing capoeria


Braids and pigtails fly through the air
and legs and arms, they're dancing,
diving, kicking and smiling.
this is capoeira.

Thursday, June 22, 2017

The beauty of a collarbone


her beautifully smooth skin,
fresh, her white teeth, her smile,
the faintest hint of fine peach fuzz
where the light graces her shoulders
and dances across her fine collarbones.
a summer frock, floral, blues and rose,
a delicate ring on her left hand,
the radiance of love.
Youth as it should be, full of promises,
of adventures not yet experienced,
roads not yet taken,
yet always knowing that there
is someone watching over her,
with some of the same freckles,
some of the same smile,
dimples made of the wrinkles
from many years of smiling
at her.

Wednesday, June 21, 2017

Dusk


She was alone, almost hidden behind the tall grasses,
her red backpack bobbing with every stride.
It was that time of day when the world is suspended
between night and day, this longest day of the year.
Two young men heavily tattoo'ed told me that
they had just seen a bear cub moments ago.
But we only see sky and grass, clouds and
a distant house, the forest and hillsides 
in the distance and a woman, alone, wearing
her small red backpack, heading home.

Tuesday, June 20, 2017

Alone in the field

a tree alone in the field,
no wait, there are sunflowers close by
and a cloud drifting by,
the sun is standing behind and a
forest is whispering, birds are twittering
before settling into their nests.
we are never alone, the wind caresses
our cheek and the sounds of people,
cars and trucks, birds, dogs barking,
at least one constantly surrounding us.
we may find seek solace in the darkest cave,
but there will still be water dripping somewhere,
the flap of a bat's wings, or the rumble of
thunder will reverberate within.
never alone, we must find solace in 
while being surrounded in sound.

Monday, June 19, 2017

what if


what if
there are really no words worth speaking 
about this single leaf basking in the morning light.
I could imagine the whoosh of water in the stem
or the crackle of photosynthesis in each cell,
but no words
there's no human needed in these woods,
nothing is pruned, trees rise from brambles,
the grass is high.
heavily laden seedheads bow the stems
towards the ground.

Sunday, June 18, 2017

In Flight


The click of a camera lens and
This moment will never be forgotten, a 
Dragonfly in flight, double iridescent wings 
Lofting up and out of the garden.
I have watched children in flight out of 
The nest, perhaps a bit unstable at first
Then lofting to careers and loves,
To adulthood on tiny wings that have 
Grown stronger with every headwind.
The wings of the dragonfly look so fragile,
they are wings as strong as steel.
Our fragile wings can be as strong
As steel.

Friday, June 16, 2017

Photography school


I learned to look in the foreground,
to look for shadows and light.
I learned to see instead of just walking by
blind to beauty.
the teacher talks to me through the movement
of electrons and radio waves, through fibers
and ether, 
he talks to me from the other side of the world
where he takes photos of silhouettes at
an unknown beach, of unknown people speaking
languages I do not understand.
he is teaching me the language of seeing,
of touching, of appreciation of the
tufts of grass in the foreground,
the shadows that they cast.

Thursday, June 15, 2017

that tree that I see every day


that tree I see every day is all of a sudden interesting.
at the base, a large bulbous structure sprinkled with 
sprouts on bark resembling elephant skin.
Two trunks reach towards the sky from such
an unlikely base.
Bella and I have walked by a thousand times,
but I never really looked, I never felt, I never
bothered and so I wonder how many times
I have never really looked, felt nor bothered
to really notice.  

Wednesday, June 14, 2017

The Plan


I don't do PowerPoint slides.
I only plan experiments and write them on the board.
I photograph them on my iPhone and put them
in presentations. 
I don't do Visio either.
I meet with Vice Presidents, I don't do
mid-managers or those who should be.
I'm a snob, an impatient intellectual
who can't be bothered to explain when there 
is work to be done, and no one has any better
ideas, they hardly understand the problem except
that they have to give a daily briefing to
the customer behind some closed doors.
This experiment has never been done,
stupidly never done,
so typical of the bureaucratic system that 
denounces science experiments when in 
fact, science is what saves us all.
Science is the closest we can get to 
pure truth.

Tuesday, June 13, 2017

Chase the Ball


Chase the ball,
it's flying through the trees,
still visible, a lime green orb flitting
through branches and leaves.
Run, it will soon fall to the ground,
almost impossible to find.
Run, chase the ball that is rising in 
front of you, catch it before it
disappears, before it is lost.
Catch it with your bare hands, your teeth,
your tail wagging, your heart
beating, not knowing what to
do with it, with yourself
once you've caught the ball,
the stick, the job, the opportunity,
your life.
Life is too short to miss the ball.

Monday, June 12, 2017

The First 500 miles


I stopped on the way up the steep climb
to take this photo,
Five hundred miles of sunshine and sorrow,
of exertion followed by the fastest descents,
the wind rushing by so fast as to bring tears
to my eyes.
I've seen forest and plain, been alone and
in the company of many, wheel to wheel,
leading until breathless, then falling back.
Five hundred miles, so many more to go.

Sunday, June 11, 2017

Waiting for Mail


When the mail truck rolls up,
they open their mouths hungrily,
gagging on circulars, bills and requests for donations.
they are thirsting for a handwritten postcard from Paris,
or a lengthy handwritten letter from someone they
love,
to love is to write
to write is to love.
I found a lost fountain pen tonight
and will write someone I love in the morning
It may be you,
It could be you if you had a different 
address from your wife.
you know who you are.

Friday, June 9, 2017

My daughter and me

\

she sent me her picture and asked whether 
I thought she  looked like me.
I'd say so, when I was young like her,
so vibrant and fresh, both close to the water,
She sent me her dissertation and asked me 
if she were as smart as me, and I said,
yes, but smarter, so fresh and young,
your mind so quick.
She told me she was engaged now
and I said she was so far ahead of me.
she's be happy the first time around,
choosing a man with a generous spirit,
and handsome and smart on top of it!
she traveled for France and all I can say
is that I can speak French better than her,
I'm fine with that. 

Thursday, June 8, 2017

sensitive

she closed the door.
this information is sensitive.
not secret, certainly not top secret,
but still, a need to know basis.

I noticed that she has aged,
that her neck, once smooth and taut
as that of a dolphin slipping through water.
I can tell I'm getting older, too.
I am just behind her.

We resumed our discussion and
I wondered at why this topic is sensitive,
until I realized there was a failure and
no one wants to talk about it.
I always want to learn,
failures are the way.

She looks damn good, though,
and I'm five years behind her.
I'll look good, too.

I'll be doing some work on this.
I know I should be promoted.

Wednesday, June 7, 2017

Friendship


on a summer evening
the two friends stroll along the dirt path
between walls of tall grasses.
one, short and greying
the other, young and slender.
one marks a special spot on the trail
as the other waits her turn to follow suit,
and when the young one wants to play,
she tries not to scare the small one too much, 
taking care to bark at a little distance
and not show too many teeth.
she sometimes jumps on the little one
but the overexuberance is quickly forgotten
and they resume their stroll along the path
through tall summer grasses, only dimly
aware of the hum of voices behind
them..

Tuesday, June 6, 2017

Their Announcement - my wishes for you, my darling daughter


to capture this moment in memory
(unlike our trip to the San Juan Islands)
I remember you coming into the kitchen to tell me,
showing me the delicate ring gracing your left hand.
me hugging you, me crying and hugging and crying.
you brought a bottle of champagne
We poured some into the two flutes for you and Chris,
ones that had been
gifts for my own engagement to the man I love.
I wish you such happiness and more, of being 
loved and accepted for all that you are.
I see the love in your eyes, the smiles,
the affection, the going forth into the world
together,
you told me of your travels together
along roads that were not really roads,
you will travel such roads 
hand in hand.


Monday, June 5, 2017

Noting


I never noticed the tall, spiked leaves of this plant,
Off to the right of the trail, underneath the giant steam pipes,
this monster weed
[note: weed is any plant that is undesirable per the viewer]
looked as if it could leap upon me and eat me whole.
I would never be seen again.
Good thing I noticed.

Sunday, June 4, 2017

Paper flowers


Paper flowers do not fade
nor does the ink on the card which 
contained them.
they do not need to be watered en route
nor do their petals fall to the ground.
they are neat,
well contained
and inexpensive.
I sent them to my mother for her birthday
she loved them,
for that, they are worth a million dollars.


Friday, June 2, 2017

Dinner


so when he's not home to cook for me,
I manage.
plenty of antioxidants in wine,
fiber in popcorn,
minerals and water in watermelon.
I'm missing greens, I admit, but tomorrow
in the garden I will harvest turnip greens,
lettuce and kale.
It all averages out.
I'm getting fresh air and relaxation,
the neighbors stroll past the garden,
pausing to admire,
I love to watch them enjoy the 
fruits of hard work.
yes, a lovely evening indeed.
well fed,
nourished in beauty.

Thursday, June 1, 2017

we eat at our desks while working



we eat at our desks while working,
I can see what he has for lunch today.
he has a kid and a wife and a new job.
I like him, but we are not friends.
we would be
if our time
was not billed out in
6
minute
increments
by the Corporation.


Wednesday, May 31, 2017

to faint

to faint,
lose consciousness for long enough
to crumple to the ground,
a sprained finger, skinned elbow
and bruised knees.
I'm thankful for my head,
intact.
to faint
from what
I am not sure.
to faint from terrible news,
from trauma or surprise,
I'd faint any day for a happy reason
if there was a pillow on which to fall.
I could fall from despair into
happiness,

Tuesday, May 30, 2017

Tucked between the pages


The credit card, never activated,
tucked in a book of poems, the sticker,
slightly faded, still attached
"To confirm you have received your card
American Express 1111 1234 567 abc
please call 1 800 233 1515"
The paper never read
"An Atlas of Solar Spectra between 1175 and 
1959 Angstroms Recorded on Skylab"
faded, tucked between some pages,
A picture of an ancient love
flame long extinguished,
children long gone
their cherubic innocence transformed to street hardness,
the world of business and science,
an old blanket
a missing sock
a forgotten letter
poetry waiting to be read
a garden to be weeded,
Tucked behind the mock orange bush, I spot between
fragrant arching branches
an orange toy truck, rusted,
once tucked between the pages of
childhood.

Monday, May 29, 2017

still alive


I love the picture of my kids on the computer screen,
both smiling, leaning in towards each other, so beautiful.
Imagining, with horror,
how the expressions on their faces would change at the news of
what could have been today, was so close today,
to hear the news of their mother, me, killed by a driver who
needed to get down the canyon a little bit faster,
having to choose between hitting the cyclist or the Mini-Cooper
that appeared out of nowhere.
In his mind, less damage done in hitting the cyclist,
Six inches or less,
A narrow canyon road does not have room for a cyclist,
and two cars on a blind curve.
I'm still here, still alive and imagining the devastation
to the lives of those I love if six inches became none.
Six inches from almost certain death.
Too close.

Sunday, May 28, 2017

Making room with lists


I didn't want my life to be a list
so I made a list with wide open spaces
for the unknowable to show up.
I shoved the "to-do"' items around the perimeters
and put a "done" basket at the bottom 
for my accomplishments to collect.
Making the list is fun - whether to vacuum
or play improv, collect poems or pull weeds,
make a beautiful garden or pay the IRS,
and then there's that space in the middle
where there is nothing, and there is even a 
little piece of paper that says "nothing".
The roots will push their way up through
the openings in the list and reach for the sun.
I will rise with the branches.

Friday, May 26, 2017

finding the crown



it was hard to explain
my belief that we are trees
a spreading crown of possibility
so often we are stuck somewhere half way up the trunk.
he asked me if I would be disappointed to have ended
life only having explored half the branches
of my own possibilities.
and how to even know what exists up
that branch that is leaning towards the west
or the one that reaches highest towards the sun
overhead
I have no idea but it seems exciting,
having nothing to do with duty or the
expectations of others, only this open yawning
pathway to possibility.
why stop here.

Thursday, May 25, 2017

stopping at the side of the road



I pulled over onto the side of the road
to step into the rain to admire
A rainbow, a double rainbow, straddling a
dirt road through pasture lands.
this is paradise.
Just me and the rainbow, no other cars
or people, not even a single sheep or cow.
just a vibrating power line.
only the sound of drizzle on the windshield,
the sound of droplets falling to the ground
from the open car door,
a distant sound of highway traffic.
this was the moment to stop at the side of the road.
experience tells me that such beauty is
évanescent, I need to stop now,
now, on the side of the road, in this drizzle,
in the moment, now.

Wednesday, May 24, 2017

I've been thinking


I've been thinking about writing,
really writing, 
I'll use the knife to remove the white stubs
from the strawberries that I picked from the garden.
not just writing like this at night for five minutes,
poetry that no one reads,
except a few devoted friends,
but really writing.
It took years for the idea of a speckled blue countertop
to really gel even though I hated the stained yellow
formica from the 1950's.
It takes time.
I don't have time now, but I'll have time in the future.
I'll plant more strawberry plants and I won't have
to decide again on a counter top, I'll have time to write,
really write.
I've been thinking.

Tuesday, May 23, 2017

what children and dogs teach us


the joy of innocence
of living in the present.
that still-warm waffles are the most delicious
thing in the universe until another treat wanders by.
Sitting, mostly, at a table for four, the boys
stuffed their mouths with waffles as fast
as their father brought them.  
children and dogs are food oriented
and mostly eat everything that's available
and tastes good.
a dog wags her tail, a kid falls off the chair.
once the food is gone, one of the boys
wanders out into the street crowded
with Saturday shoppers
until he's hauled back in by dad,
cheerfully.

Monday, May 22, 2017

the road to mastery

I will never reach a final destination but I am on the road.
For me, it's full of rocks, but there are flowers by the wayside,
their brilliant yellows and reds lure the bees and hummingbirds to feed.
I can stop to watch, to catch my breath.
a friend sent me a book called Mastery.
I am in Category 3, starting slowly and improving slowly,
tenacious with painfully slow progress,
I watch the sun rise and set thousands of times
with no progress on this road,
the stones are the same ones and the flowers
bloom and fade.
I remind myself that I am on the road and the
air moves about  me, smells drift by and the
minutae of changing scenery does  not require
much movement on my part.
I must simply keep trying, never give up.

Sunday, May 21, 2017

no place like home

no matter the licorice,
the breathtakingly
heartbrakingly beautiful landscapes,
the wine, the fish and the poffertjies,
there is no place like home,
a drawer of clean underwear and pajamas,
my own soft bed,
the flute that has not been played,
the empty refrigerator,
flattened plants from snow and
spindly tomatoes from cold.
they are still mine, the missed notes
and mismatched socks in the dresser.
there is no place like home
and no such wonder as finding
new licorice and chocolate in other
corners of the world.

Saturday, May 20, 2017

The last day


It's the last day in Holland 
Time to celebrate an excellent trip,
Looking forward to getting home to see how
The seeds have burst forth in my garden,
To pick up my flute and see the smile in 
My daughter's eyes.
We've had chocolate and herring,
Have ridden paths through forests and fields,
We have shared carafes of wine, and twin beds
With our own comforters,
Such delights, all.
And now, postcards written, suitcases packed,
We will get up early tomorrow and head home,
Home sweet home,
Always,
Home sweet home.

Friday, May 19, 2017

If the shoe fits, wear it


The Dutch clogs will be for gardening.
I'll leave them by the front door, or the back,
For when I am the Gardener.
I have so many pairs of shoes.
The ugly pink running shoes that are so light and fast,
The black pumps for looking smart,
The Ariat shoes for riding the horse I do not have.
When we entered the shop, the old woman said we could 
Not take photos. She was old, mean and fat, dressed in black.
When we were clearly buying clogs, a hat and a toy windmill,
Her smile brightened the store
We had permission to take another photo.
I understood this woman, tired of the tourists who
Take pictures and walk away.
I could understand the difficulty of walking in her shoes.

Wednesday, May 17, 2017

Remembering and enjoying sweets from childhood


He tells everyone he grew up here
And he's looking for poffertjis, those small
Pancakes with ice cream and 
slathered in whipped cream.
So delicious.
we have eaten mackerel and sardines, 
Pannekoeken with wine at lunch
And apple pie in an old windmill.
Dutch cheese and brown breads,
We eat soft boiled eggs for breakfast.
Today we are in sunshine,
Tomorrow we will ride our bikes
In the rain.

Another chance to succeed


I could never climb up the rope.  
Humiliated in front of all my classmates,
Some of the able to shimmy up the rope
Way up up up to the high ceiling.  
Here on the banks of the canal,
I have another chance to climb the rope,
Well knotted and sturdy, I could hang on
And swing
I could swing at age 59.
I only had to wait 55 years for this
Success.

Tuesday, May 16, 2017

Parking lots


Here they park bikes.
Double decker, they are rusted and dented,
Everyone hopes the thieves will pass by
Theirs,
With the double locks in place.
Husbands kiss wives as they board the train,
The remaining one rides off with all the kids,
It could be husband, it could be wife,
We just pass by when the barrier lifts
And the rails stop rumbling.
We are visitors to this land
Where we seem to pass the same older couple
Riding their bikes, panniers on the rear racks.
They don't smile much, I wonder at this.
And so at the end of this day, 58 km distant
From the Best Westerns Kastell, we arrive in Zwolle,
Our bikes will be protected in a small garage
We only need one lock.

Monday, May 15, 2017

Choices


Choices.
Wandering down the cereal aisle
Is not the same as pondering pages of wine
In a castle in Putten,
If only all choices were so sweet,
So drunkenly sweet at this.
Choices of dorado, lamb or pheasant,
Of chocolates, cream or cakes,
We should be so lucky to have such choices.
Choices
Of which brand of ecstasy, of luxury.
Let us forget work and toil, 
Only sweetness and sunshine.

Happiness

Sunday, May 14, 2017

Abundance


Freshly squeezed orange juice,
Black tea with cream and sugar,
Croissants and homemade jam and 
Homemade yogurt with muesli and fresh fruit.
He enjoys a strong cup of coffee 
With his brown bread and marmalade.
This is abundance 
For no other reason than the right place
And time.
What luck.

Saturday, May 13, 2017

On the road again


In moments of weakness and fatigue
I wonder what else I'd rather be doing and
I come up empty handed.  
I want to be doing this, paniers fully loaded,
On the edge of rain, longer than planned.
So green, so lush, traversing landscapes
Canals draped in castles, if such a thing exists,
I have never seen it but here.
I have to remember that living life to the fullest
Is hard, that it may be easier in the moment to 
Lie on the couch, but what a dull life that would be.

Friday, May 12, 2017

It rains in Amsterdam


The question of the day is
Why a raincoat would have no hood.
The answers of the day
canal boats are covered because it rains alot
streets are empty and easiest to navigate when it rains
Even the Dutch don't like getting wet
We see ponchos flapping in the wind
Some are talented at holding an umbrella while
Riding one handed
Don't step in front of them
The canal boats glide by our window in the darkness
My love is breathing the gentle breath of
Someone sleeping.

Thursday, May 11, 2017

A view from the window in Amsterdam


Through the open window
I see lovers entwined on the opposite bank,
Their feet dangling over a faded wooden boat,
Blue paint chips drifting on the water.
It's dusk for hours and we stagger 
Along narrow walkways as if drunk,
Merely disoriented by change and jetlag,
Quick to learn that bikes rule this city.
Do they know that we cannot avoid seeing them
As the view from our bed faces them directly, 
Until my love, the one who insists on sleeping
In caves, lowers the blinds.
I can only see them in the darkness
Of closed eyes.

Tuesday, May 9, 2017

Packing for Mars


It might as well be.
When Happy Birthday translates to fijne verjaardag.
I can't even pronounce it
I can't even say hello and thank you in Dutch.
we might as well be going to Mars.
I'm packing for warm and cold, wet and dry,
for parties and for bike trails
it might as well be for windstorms and
travel by rover.
I'm never ready for anywhere,
wondering what to wear for when
and what, what do I wear when it's 50F
or 20, 70 or 60?  when it's raining,
wind dervishes or red dust?
it's all the same
the uncertainty always slows me
down.

Monday, May 8, 2017

Sorting socks


If I have eighteen pairs of socks,
I only have to select nineteen and I'll have at least one match.
That's assuming that there are no single socks.
and that, my dear, is the problem.
unsure as to how so many socks have run away,
been eaten in the washing machine or otherwise
spirited away, there an astounding number of missing
socks, and so I spread them all out and start looking
for the pairs
the leopard skin socks
the Darn Good socks that are guaranteed for life,
the striped and the solids,
the others will wait patiently for their mates.
sometimes life is that way.

Sunday, May 7, 2017

like mother, like daughter


like mother, like daughter,
we both have freckles, we smile alot
and are both smart.
we can be funny and we both wear glasses
for different reasons.
I wonder if my mother thought about how similar
we are, and it was the last thing on my mind
there is something about being a mother, of
always being so aware of 
being a mother, its so uneven
I think my mother has suffered at my complete
oblivion of who she was, who she is.
the young have a full life ahead of them,
even as we look ahead in older age,
we also look back at who we will leave
behind, noticing the freckles and the smile,
being aware of how time is short.

Friday, May 5, 2017

last time we talked

last time we talked
you'd quit your job that you hated
with no prospects, no offers, no wife,
no brothers, most men in the family dead
and gone, murdered on the streets.
you fell into depression, a bad time,
you said, you stayed away.
I wondered if you were all the same,
friends for life who changed phone numbers
and moved away, never to be heard from again.
today you surprised me with your happy news,
that you met a good woman, were getting married
in two weeks, were moving away
tomorrow we'll talk
I hope it will not be the last time
I talk to you.
I like you.

Thursday, May 4, 2017

who's having fun?


the scramble of paws on linoleum
the bounce of a squeaky ball
the pounce of a black dog,
the slide of a rug,
foam squares detaching and piling up,
the folding of a rug,
laughter, fun, excitement!
who's having fun!?

Wednesday, May 3, 2017

now I lay me down to sleep

now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord my soul to keep,
may the little seedlings grow since they are transplanted
into larger pots,
may the dishes stay clean
and the dog not wake me up earlier than I
want to be awoken.
May the health care bill fail in Congress
and may the EPA keep its funding.
May we start to say climate change again
without losing funding.
now I lay me down to sleep
I have practiced my flute,
although not as long as I should have,
and this poem is being written
as I write.
may the world have peace tonight
for that I would be especially
thankful.

Tuesday, May 2, 2017

You've come a long way, baby


You've come a long way, baby,
from wiggling and chubby cheeks 
to standing tall, slender and stylish in shorts
to walking to riding, clad in Lycra, 
with the pack.
your smile was the constant and 
one of the reasons I fell in love with you.
You've come a long way, baby,
from being one with Buddy to 
being two with me, you have your space,
I have mine, we have ours,
we have one travel itinerary and try not
to get lost.
you've come a long way, baby,
with your new car and working hard
to retire early so you can play with me.
I've come a long way, baby.
It takes two to tango and we're 
dancing.


Monday, May 1, 2017

to those who garden


to those who garden,
we watch every few hours to see if any seedlings
have emerged from warm soil,
even knowing that we have started them too late,
that we'll be wandering the farmer's market gathering
larger plants come those sunny days of late May.
to those who garden,
we know that the thrill is no less that life
springs from the tiniest seeds, as we know that
our own children have sprouted from within
and grown taller than we are.
All parents are gardeners, some with the
patience of the organic gardners, adding compost
and mulch year by year, others pushing for the 
quick fix of high nitrogen synthetic chemicals.
I garden the slow way, patiently, with optimism,
my children are tall and can bend in the wind
without breaking.

Sunday, April 30, 2017

to those who cook


to those who cook,
those who love the work of roasting eggplant,
patiently turning each slice
waiting for the perfect brown.
to those who cook who relish the multiple 
steps, the roasting being only the first step,
then sauteeing of onions and garlic,
adding robust flavors of last years basil,
expertly dried,
letting time meld these flavors with
Italian crushed tomatoes.
to those who love to cook, the final
layering of eggplant, parmesan cheese,
tomato sauce and mozzarella,
these cooks wait with happy expectation
that their work will its own reward,

I am not that cook.  


Friday, April 28, 2017

to those who explore

to those who explored the jungles in 1905,
I wonder at your bravery, perseverence and
ability to endure boredom and terror,
afraid for your lives, you continued anyway.
and to those who decided to cross the polar ice caps,
I wonder at your ability to withstand cold,
at your eyes which would be blinded in the
glare of endless sun.
to all who explore, who don the necessary
supplies on their backs, paddle canoes
down rushing rivers, to suffer such
physical and mental pain and anguish,
I wonder at you.
you are so different
from me.

Thursday, April 27, 2017

to all those who profess to care

to all those who profess to care
deeply
where are you -
I know where you are
having intended to join a cause
it seemed like too much effort
and a glass of wine, some TV
relax time,
let the Armageddon begin
the Resistance has failed due to lack
of interest.
does it matter in the end if
millions of others have no health care
or the coastal cities, where you don't live
are swallowed by rising seas,
someone else will stand for the others
since a new series is on TV, or
you just don't feel like slipping out
of your ground state.
I understand
but it's lonely here.
I wish you would join me.

Wednesday, April 26, 2017

creativity


creativity
it just flows like liquid lava from a hot source
deep within the body and mind
there is no reason for it, only making a space
for it to surge out onto paper
it's like breathing in a full lung of fresh air
and exhaling stars and planets,
words and pictures.
spinning worlds and shining stars.
I'm sure everyone has it but are 
afraid to show the colors and 
shapes of the smoke that emanates from their
very soul.
maybe most, to themselves.

Tuesday, April 25, 2017

carpooling


I used to carpool only with attractive men who drove white sportscars 
and
who liked me.
They would pick me up and drop me off
and didn't mind my schedule of arriving late
and leaving early.
I had to get my two young children
and they didn't have any.
maybe they loved being virtual parents
or liked listening to the sagas of my
disasterous first two marriages.
their's were, too, if not then,
in the future.
I could have told them so,
they were telling me what mine were, and
I wasn't really to hear it.
we came up with distinct hand signals for
"you already told me that a zillion times",
"common knowledge", or
"watch out! unwelcome input!"
One of them is still my friend.
His marriage has fallen apart and we 
still remember the hand signals.
He's coming over for dinner on Saturday, alone.
I never liked his wife.

Monday, April 24, 2017

why it matters

it should matter to him
because it matter to her,
and it should matter to her
because it matters to him.
this is what marriage is,
after all.
when I think of all the "doesn't matters"
in my mind, the plastic strip that I left on the countertop
after I opened the orange juice
(back when it was packaged that way)
even though he told me it mattered,
the clutter on the table
even though he knows it matters to me.
I do the dishes when he watches TV because
he doesn't, but it matters that I'm doing the dishes
while he watches TV.
It matters to both of us.
it should matter to each of us.
all these "it matters" matter because if
they don't, then there is no one around
after awhile, no one to pay attention to us,
or us to them, when it really matters.

Sunday, April 23, 2017

I am Mom: What's your superpower?


my brother gave me this plaque.
I'm not sure where I'll put it since I want everyone
to know, I want everyone to hold me in such esteem.
Children never really do, you know, since
we teach them that they are the most important,
not their parents who feed them, bathe them
and dote on everything they do.
My brother knows I have superpowers and
my husband knows I have superpowers.
I learned finally that I have superpowers,
my friends have told me I have superpowers
of one sort or the other.
I am Mom, I survived motherhood and
childhood.
For both these, I should have a special plaque.

Friday, April 21, 2017

Ready to March


I'm ready to march
come rain or shine, cold or hot,
I have my purple cape and a flower in my hair.
I am not here to make war, but
to make peace, to have a conversation,
to see a flash of recognition cross their face
when they realize that science saved their life,
that science gave them the eyes to see their unborn child
that it's science that brought them the cellphone,
that their trip to Africa is because of science.
I will wear this purple cape and
maybe someone will smile
I will smile back.