Playing Games

the letters tumble as she shakes the box

he prepares to turn over the hourglass,

it measures three minutes; I checked with my phone.

it's  a game of nerves and speed, Boggles the mind,

how many four letter words or more in three minutes

he psyches us out by immediately writing,

I hear the scratching of his pencil on paper,

unable to find a single word.

It's called manspreading the psychological space

I grab my noise cancelling headphones and crush

the competition, especially pleased to conquer him.

Christmas Lights

I bury my hurt in Christmas lights

as I breathe in the crisp air.

Bella's collar flashes red, like my heart

beating, hurting, I hold back tears

of loneliness knowing my flesh and blood

linger in a kitchen, not my own, in a home

with private baths, the ones they knew growing

up, the ones that are so easy to relax.

Connection is less important.

I've made a Christmas box for myself, decorated

with ribbons and lights, where the hurt can be 

gently placed, to rest, to give myself 

room to breathe, to enjoy the lights and

Bella's blinking collar, to keep my breath

from catching on the cold air.

we might kill each other

she said
we might kill each other if we spend three days together
this person I carried for nine months, suckled and encouraged
through life, she says we might kill each other.
that hurts, I told her,
I reminded her that we had fun in France
she seems to have forgotten
somehow fun times together now threaten
to kill,
I could no more kill her than myself,
yet I stand warned.

Privacy

I can hear the dog on the other side of the screen

but I can't see her

This is freedom.

I'm cooking, there is no dog on the small rug

I don't have to look at that staring dog face

asking relentlessly for food

This is freedom

I don't see the TV, or the man lounging about,

A white screen blocks it all, and I enjoy

the view into the open dishwasher,

it waits patiently for me to finish

my cooking and cleaning without

a sigh, a look or a complaint.

How wonderful.

Artifact: Truth, Conjecture and Imaginative Recollection of the Wedding Toast

Artifact: Truth, Conjecture and Imaginative Recollection of the Wedding Toast

“Me do it.” Her first words.

She let me know what she wanted, whether perched on her derriere when she was four months old, or trailing me around the house begging to learn violin in elementary school, or maybe even, as an adult, directly informing me that I should not wear T-shirts anymore in public (“you’re really too old for that”).

For my part, my precious, albeit, chubby, Karen is not going to grace the office of that pediatrician, the one who dared suggest that Karen go on a diet at age two.. Yes, she had rolls of fat on her knees and food trapped under her chin would spoil, but she was my baby and there would be no diet. All of you can see baby fat does not mean obesity in adulthood. 

Karen rode shotgun in my belly at Harvard, in the same building she was to write her own Ph.D. thesis 28 years later. We are connected through our shared experience of attending one of the most prestigious universities in the world. For that, I am proud of both of us.

Life is hard and I had my share of phone calls where I could tell by the sound of her breath, before her first word, how she was doing.  An example of an “easy” hard call was when she was merely crying about not doing well in class because “everyone else” understood everything.  Lesson number One:  If guys say they understand everything - No, they don’t. Trust me. The hard ones, love and loss.  I advised that chamomile tea and a hot shower were the first antidotes and to call me back in 15 minutes. In between sobs, she would reward me by laughing at my terrible jokes.

We started our three day tramp in torrential rain in New Zealand.  Karen clobbered me in scrabble, we drank wine.  It stopped raining eventually. Since we already had the “lesbian” talk on Pearl Street (thanks, Daniel), our conversation eventually wandered onto the topic of male partners. She didn’t seem to like any, or want to go out with any; I asked her a natural question - did she ever want to get married or have a family? I recall her being rather indignant. …     Sometime later, I started hearing about this guy named Chris.

I was desperate – well, ok, not desperate, but …desperate for her to meet a good guy.  Frankly, she described some of the others as real duds. Who could be good enough for my amazing daughter, smart enough, gentle, supportive, handsome, tall, and creative?  Did such a man exist?  If she met such a man, would she choose him?  Could it be this Chris fellow?  Maybe he could even field the tears.  No more tearful phone calls when I was in the middle of a blind Nordic skier convention? 

Yep, Chris is the one.  In the end, this headstrong, smart as a whip, take-no-prisoners daughter of mine did fall in love with such a man, an equal partner, who would love her for all she is, and for her to love for all he is.

“Me do it” will, of course, continue to be a part of her life as an independent woman. But now, happily, she does not have to rely solely on herself.  “We do it” is now part of their life together.

How did we get so old?

we sleep in separate beds

sometimes wearing earplugs 

it's always the other who snores

reading glasses are no longer optional.

he sleeps in boxers, I sleep in flannel pajamas

he has his pillows and I have mine

one for my arms and a bigger one between my knees

he started it all.

how did we get so old, what happened to his

beautiful red hair - his paunch can no longer be ignored

I would be grey if nature took her course 

there's a dimple in my belly fat.

there is nothing beautiful about it but what else

but to endure, to smile and hope for the best.

a place of one's own

a corner where your things are not disturbed
a rumpled bed, the shape of your body, only yours.
snapshots of your children scattered about
because you love them and they are a part of you,
you carried them, wiped their noses, they will
always be a part of you.
this place that is yours has small chairs
and a childhood blanket on the floor to keep
your feet warm as you work.
I need a place like this, no husband, no dog,
just me and my thoughts,
the impression of me in my bed.

My brother and me

Don't we look fine 

black tie, cocktail dress, we look fine

don't we look fine

slender and fit, teeth intact

standing tall

we look fine, my brother and me

sixties look fine on us

we're not tottering yet

yet retirement is on our minds

you'd never know from this picture

how tired we actually are.

Hovering

Hovering, then darting left, right, up down

Buzzing, high  pitched, loud 

how could a drone ever sneak up and look in 

the window without you noticing?

One who could sleep through loud snoring

would jump up to look.

down on the ground, a technician expertly

controls the drone in the sky, her soft brown curls

slightly moving with the wind, 

the sun at her back. 

Insight Blasts Off

Miraculously, it landed unharmed

after many months, many miles, surviving

a descent through a fiery ball.

Our little robot will drill and drill,

sensing heat and Martian vibrations,

if only we could have sent Corey and Donald

along for the ride, their tears staining their faces

as Washington, D.C. receded into the distance,

aware that they would be the last to 

seek scientific truth.

Elyse

She hasn't aged a bit
her face softly framed by mousy brown
that wise smile
why did I stay away so long?
my heart pours out to her
the abyss recedes
and the marbles roll in their orbit
a bit more slowly.

Cake

Cake,

she's sweet with her blond curls

and pink cowl neck sweater.

we're sweet on cake,

chocolate with roasted almonds

we're happy with wine glasses in hand

as the snow blows in gale-force

the windows rattle,

it's warm inside, wine and cake

cake, it's sweet

she's sweet

we're sweet.

Saying Thanks

he's walking again
I don't have to fetch his dinner or
walk the dog twice a day.
he's walking again and we were out in the
sun today, waiting for Bella to finish hunting
for mice.
he's riding his bike again, with a modified
crank arm and in sandals, but the pedals
are turning.
he tries to stand steady on a balance board,
I try, too, and we both fail, flipping
from one side to the other.
I'm saying thanks for a respite from
caregiving, for a companion for a short walk
on a sunny day.
I'm thankful for Stephen.

Making granola

my love is talking about lead-pedestrian intervals

at a dingy hall with a bunch of transportation planners.

I'm measuring out 12 cups of oatmeal, 2 cups

of roasted, not salted, almonds, a few handfuls of 

sunflower and pumpkin seeds.

I love the softness of oats against my hands

and the crunch of nuts between my teeth.

it's cold outside and my car is covered in snow,

the dog is on a play date and all I hear is the ticking

of the clocks that happen to work.

Just another massacre

I've lost count
The country shrugs and moves on
The NRA talks about containing the mentally ill
And those with guns hug them close
Then go buy more ammo.
One never knows.
My friend worked a few blocks away
In this sleepy middle/upper middle bedroom community
It won't happen here
Until it does and as the country shrugs and moves on
You grieve your dead
Your life will never be the same
You will never lose count again.

The old need to die

In a few years, I will need to die,

To leave behind outdated ideas, prejudices

That still rattle in my brain, that I contain as best

I can, we are old, remembering when Martin Luther

King was shot, cheering for black civil rights

But still formed by the culture of our time.

Make way for the young ones who don't blink

When they meet an LGBTQ or attend a gay wedding,

Who don't recoil at the wisdom of science, or

Debate whether women should be in the workplace.

Let their disgust bring our country and the world to

New hope, the old must die, the future of 

Our Earth demands it.

The holidays

She has thirty cousins, and family spread over
Multiple states,  family text messages so plentiful
She can ignore 50% without missing a thing.
What bounty!
She'll be with her extended family at Thanksgiving
Laughing and cooking, no invitation needed from
This clan, they are family.
He has a wife and a dog, his fractured family is bitter.
Thankful for the love he has, but wishful for a crowd that
Surrounds him with love all year round, a crowd to eat turkey,
A wishfulness that never goes away.

The house to myself

Dinner at 8 p.m.
A toasted piece of naan, a bit of cheese
And sliced tomato from the garden.
Some wine.
Bella got a walk around the block before
I left to leisurely go food shopping
And after.
No one to listen to or walk around, the house is mine,
Mine, mine!
I love him so, the husband, but to have the house to myself
For a bit, so divine.

Breakfast at home

Stephen is talking to me about politics as he compares
Headlines from the NYT, CNN and Fox News
Good to know what the other side is saying,
About Speaker Pelosi, not about 11 dead in a synagogue
Or the thousands who turned out to protest..
The NYT does live polls, and I'd rather just do my thing
But I love him so I half listen to his ramblings
I don't think he cares whether I even really listen, as long
As I occasionally look up and wink.

the tyranny of happiness

the american dream is to be happy
and money would be good, too.
let's look at photos of grandchildren and
vacations, settle comfortably in our warm cars
we are all guilty of looking away
i am guilty.
social media posts that call us to awaken
do not receive likes
while the mills of hatred spin their wool
to conceal our eyes

We cannot forget this day

We must never forget
This day, or the others, the ones where Jews ran for cover
The sound of gunshot ringing in their ears.
We must never forget that words do matter
That idle trash talk resonates in hollow hearts
Propelling them towards synagogues, armed with guns,
Towards borders with artillery and bombs.
Yet, we forget, and move on towards the
Next massacre, the next war, as if the next
Is just another day at work, a next that will
Never be for the Jews who ran for cover
But never made it.
We cannot, we must not forget.

I have missed you

I have missed our conversations,
the lessons you have taught me late at night,
when there is quiet and the dog snores in the closet.
where have you been this last month, who stole your thoughts
I waited to hear from you while weddings took place,
papers were published and the world continues to
fall to pieces.
I need you
Please don't leave me again.

behind bravada lies a tear

behind bravada lies a tear
or two, enough to empty a kleenex box
one week, all bluster and arrogance
in desperate straits the facade fades,
no, falls as heavy rain turning to tears
youth is filled with such things, a push
and a pull yet needing a helping hand
I can do that for you, you who
entered with bravada, exited with
tears yet wet on your cheeks.
everything will work out.

beauty in ice

I went looking for flowers

to go with the ice,

to thread the stems delicately 

through a weave of dendrites 

I imagined them shooting across

the chasm of supercooled water

yes, I studied such things 

a long time ago.

the ice, how much ice I have frozen

for my love, how many dendrites

have I seen, so many fractures and 

ice so crystal clear.

I went looking for flowers to 

celebrate ice.

The Poetry of Thanks

I forgot the nice bottle of wine,

The beautiful card, a nice piece of artisanal cheese,

All of the niceties that good guests leave behind

The ones with good manners and a full head of hair,

We are the bald and the crippled, the overworked nurse who still needs to

Write a presentation for a week from today and gets interrupted for

Another glass of Root, with ice, after a shower and a shave

I meant to do better, but I didn’t, having destroyed two plastic containers

As water expanded to ice, I meant to be a better guest

With excellent manners.

We thank you, Al and Sharon, for a break from looking out the

Same windows, for a comfy bed, for the challenge of finding anything in

Your beautiful kitchen, for your friendship.

!

QQN- 064 Love in America

Nothing like the warm hug of cold steel,

the smooth butt of a handgun or round 

barrel of a .45

it's all love, isn't it, love of country and each other,

standing proud over the American flag,

I wanted to go hug you, QQN-064, but you 

looked preoccupied as you awaited the final number

from the Geico adjuster,

how many was it in Sandy Hook, or the nightclub

in Florida, how is Ms. Giffords fairing these days,

somehow the warm hug turned into warm blood.

the invalid and his nurse

he snores at night, unable to roll onto his side,
waking himself up, realizing he needs to use the bathroom,
and reaching down to grasp the yogurt container for such
emergencies.
she sleeps upstairs, restless, then falling into the deep sleep
only exhaustion brings
the tasks of emptying yogurt containers, hefting ice buckets,
cooking, cleaning, bathing, washing, administering medications,
she snores at night, waking herself and realizing she needs to use the bathroom
and her small feet pad across the cool wooden floor,
hoping she is not waking the invalid, who may call out to
her for something
she wants to turn off her phone
but she doesn't.
she loves him,
after all.

I'm miss seeing you

I miss seeing you spill onto a white screen
telling me things you have kept inside,
things you have seen but not shared with me,
thoughts that run through your mind
we should talk about this
about why you are silent
was it that I ignored you, always listening
to other voices, focusing on ideas that
have nothing to do with the sounds around me,
the rustling of trees or the plants in the garden,
they are trying to talk to me, too.

give me the cash

My friend, Gloria

I think we met on the boat dock at MIT

on that blustery morning, that morning where our

boat overturned in the Charles River.

Friends for life.

She kept sailing.

Forty years later, she's rowing,

back to violin,

and me, back to flute, avoiding boats

and water.

we look young, don't we, at 58 and 60,

our happiness at being together 

shaves off the years.

Traveling to Europa

in bed at 1 p.m.
finally arising at 6 p.m.
slightly more human, enough to eat salmon
cheese, salad, drink wine, walk a drunken block to
the park, only to collapse again.
such an epic journey to Europa
the lack of air knocked me
back for a
punch.

they all lined up

they all lined up to cast the first stone
to put up the largest fence, their faces red
with the exertion of fear and hatred, calling for
separation of families at the border, for a crying child
to be wrenched from her mother's arms.
they shout in self righteous clamor, keeping their
own children close, as if someone were
about to take them away.

what happened to my poems

what happened to the poems that used
to flow from my fingertips,  the words that
ran like rivers that would never run dry,
what happened to the eagerness to write,
the compulsion, when a day didn't end right
unless words were its witness
what happened to all that and to music
drifting out my window every summer
evening, what happened to my poems
I must find them again.

Family

Dad at the head of the table, like my father,
Mom at the other end with baby at her side,
and six more lined up by age, we were assigned seats,
the dog sat next to me.
He looks so young, so did my father with his jet black hair
and fine features, and sure of himself, like my father,
who held himself above all others. 
we were five and a dog named Rusty, Ariane,
Jean and the tension heavy between them.
we sat silently back then,
Jean long dead,
Ariane 93,
all grown old now,
where are those children?

I'm closing the door

I'm going to tell him to stop "dropping by" my office
with his list of 5 questions, "just a minute" while my focus
lies in tatters on the floor, no, I'm putting my foot down,
the delicate one with a sharp heel, I'm not his mother.
and no, I don't owe him, or her, for that matter, the wholesale
transfer of everything I know - no, I don't plan to let him
watch me code, I don't want him snooping in my electronic files,
I've had it, actually, and the door is now closing.
He walks across campus just to find me.  I sit far away
for a reason.  Sorry, the door is closing, bud.

The year of being 30

We ate quadruple chocolate cake and she blew out
less than 30 candles, this happens as you get older,
the wind kept blowing them out.
she'll be married at her next birthday,
she'll be Professor McKinnon at UCLA,
living in the big city.
She's tall and elegant and knows her mind.
Thirty years ago, she was a newborn in my arms.
Thirty is an auspicious age.

The mother of hail storms

Tomato plants are shredded

the leaves on the delicate cherry tree have been stripped

from their branches,

the lettuce is in tatters and the ground is 

covered in hail.

the hoods of cars bear the scars, the once smooth metal

now decorated with dimples,

my cucumber plants are nowhere to be seen

the towering beans are battened to the ground.

by the time I realized it was serious, it was too late

to run outside, having to hold a lid over my head, 

unable to cover the plants with one hand and 

a bed sheet.

And so, when it's day again, I will go outside

to see if anything can be salvaged.

I  doubt it.

Pondering Poetry

pondering poetry, or lack thereof.
a paucity of poetry, preposterous, puzzling.
every night for years, a poem prepared itself.
I never forgot, I'd write quickly as bedtime had long since passed.
now, I forget to write, poetry pops into my head
predominantly as I pause to ponder,
not poetry,
but a photograph, a Chinese countryside
carved in cork perched on the windowsill.

dreams

I dream of writing poems of rushing rivers,

the heat rising from the playground lots,

children jumping in and out of swimming pools.

instead i sit alone shirking the heat,

my black dog passed out on the rug next to me

I'm going through piles of paperwork,

my pen sits idle, postcards unwritten.

I'm not dreaming, really, as sometimes

dreams come true,

The top 25 in France and London

He was so happy to see me,
and I, him, riding up behind him as he
slowly pushed his walker, his small poodle at his side.

I want the top 25, he said, the top 25 things you loved,
make that 50, tell me when you come to see me.

Wine, the trips starts with single glasses of red
by the end, drinking from the bottle on picnic
vineyards as far as the eye can see,
blue skies,
baguettes, the crunch of the crust,
speaking French with old men sitting at the intersection
of the bike path and a country road,
sharing gardening tips with old men tilling their plot,
Buying a dress and sandals designed in Spain in Souillac
Bingeing on cassoulet, the real stuff, eating too much
and not getting a tummy ache.
Having everything I need in all ways
and appreciating it, including the husband.
FlexiRoam SIM card working in England,
Playing pandeiro on the streets of Bordeaux
readers, you can stop here, if you're getting jealous or bored.
but for me, to remember, no, to witness, to document,
because once my head is buried in calculations and dishwashing,
all the tiny streams of experience will flow into a river called
"It was great."

and so,
climbing a spiral staircase of stone
The view from the top onto Chateau Turenne
That electric bike, I could leave Stephen behind on hills
or anywhere.
Being moved, and reminded, in the Holocaust Gallery
a four hour kayak trip down the river in Les Eyzies,
People watching in Victoria Station
finding an escalator in the Tube station
Roses climbing up a stone wall along the route
We found water in every cemetery to fill our bottles!
Three more, and I'm sure I can do it!
Drinking beer in an English Pub with Stephen
although I prefer eating crepes in a small French village
We stayed in an apartment in Bordeaux like my Grandmother's
Last but not least, watching Stephen eat a bite of andouillette,
with the predictable response.

Great trip, good to be home.

Poem Pending

All I need

my feet to travel the distance,

socks and sandals to protect them.

a blouse to cover my torso

and a sweater to cover my blouse

when the wind blows or the temperature drops.

a swimsuit, in case, and a scarf or two,

because we may want to look fancy.

a couple of summer dresses, in case,

and some pajamas for the certainty of sleep.

my feet, a few clothes,

that's all I need to travel the world.

In trouble with the Beefeater at London Tower

he hates when people say how cute he is in his costume,

this stern, yet rotund, smiling, yet commanding figure

in his military uniform in his role as one of Yeoman Warders,

a Sovereign Guard, a Beefeater, for those who drink gin.

Many times medalled, Afghanistan, Iraq, 

not one to mess with, and I did, leaning in a bit

too close, inside the allowable circle

knowing he could have knocked my head off,

all for a goofy photo for my love. 

Vacation is exhausting

vacation is exhausting

cycling along on an electric bike,

stopping for a lunch of confit de canard,

followed by creme brulee, un élonge, or 

perhaps allonge, but that means dead.

I'm not dead, just tired, relaxed, 

the bikes are behind me 

taking their rest.

our house seems so small

I was perfectly happy until I laid eyes on the chateau

in distance, up on the hill, they looked down

onto their fields of wheat and pasture.

clouds drifted by overhead, a cool shadow

occasionally protected the farmers from the heat

of the sun.

my life, all of a sudden, seemed so constrained

in that tiny little house where a small dog seems

to take up all the space and breathes all the fresh air.

there is limitless fresh air here, sun, wind, grapes 

ripening in the sun, the people up there are holding

large glasses of sumptuous red wine and eating

freshly baked baguettes and pungent cheeses.

my life seems so small, so constrained, working in 

small boxy office buildings looking at computer screens.

I'm sure I was meant to be here, dressed in fantastic dresses

and elegant shoes, drinking wine and eating pungent cheeses,

what did I do wrong to live with dog who breathes all the

fresh air and where I have to shop for my own food.

once and for all

equal pay for equal work,

not just for women and men,

but gay and straight,

black and white and brown,

for native Americans and Maori

for the straight white man

who set the scales.

So says the Communist Party 

in the village of Cyrano de Bergerac,

this poster hovers over hoardes of tourists

speaking all languages, we are all one,

le chef

we wandered into a Michelin restaurant

and dined like a king and queen at the table of 

le grand chef, Stéphane Cevin, the large fellow

behind the glass, the one on page 42 of the cookbook

celebrating the grand chefs of Perigord.

He smiles alot and expertly handles a myriad of 

saucepans and platters.

Anyone who claims a large kitchen is needed to cook

a grand meal should visit this grand homme de cuisine.

Il vous montera comme cuire dans une petite cuisine!

les kilometres de vignobles

en route

des kilomètres de vignobles

tout droit, le ciel bleu, du soleil

c'est ce qui nous accueille ici en France, 

a la fin de notre journée de vélo, nous

passerons a un restaurant pour boire le 

jus de ces vignobles avec plaisir. 

arms and feet

she was looking at me as my camera followed her,

capturing her right arm and her feet in staccato motion

above the mirror lake in front of the Bourse

the Borse of Bordeaux, where one can look down and 

see the clouds drifting by, or the reflection of the

stately edifice across the way, or the staccato of

moving arms and legs.

she looked at me with concern, perhaps worried

the segments of her body would never coalesce

back into a whole, this girl need have to worries,

the clouds, the lake, and I would make sure

she would run, whole, into her mother's arms.

Vive la France

oui, c'est une longue journée d'y aller, mais nous avons bien déjeuné,

yes, it was a long day, but after a bottle of wine, a dinner of 

French onion soup, lamb and the most divine tarte de pomme,

it all faded away.

and when we toured the Catacombs 

(thank you, Stephen, for buying tickets ahead of time),

nous sommes rappelés que le vie est courte, qu'elle passe vite.

We must enjoy every day

Oui, nous devrions apprécier chaque jour.

offerings

what could I offer of myself

that would garner a donation, what do I have

that is worth something of interest

oh yes, I know about space and rockets, of space debris

and missions to Europa,

I know about flowers and have many to share,

I can wield an artist's pen and make art.

I can offer of myself and money will flow

towards a worthwhile cause, one that creates

community and a sharing of love.

I can share my love.

Double Cosines

The urgency of knowing 

whether the method used a single cosine

or double cosines,

it would make all the difference

and the words could not bridge the gap.

only pictures, a smile, a gesture can bridge

the gap across the divide of misunderstanding

the same one we visited two years ago,

yes, draw it on the white board, show me a picture

and I'll understand.

The Birthday Boy

now we can take the flat champagne out of the frig,

refizz it and add the orange juice that I bought 

a couple months ago when Stephen was sick,

Mimosas a Sunday morning after our Saturday night

dinner with friends, where we all were ready for bed

at 9.

That's what 49 looks like.

Oh,and that's what 60 looks like on top of that.

A sign of wisdom, a flexibility and resilience

to handle such vagaries of aging,

fizz makers!

musiciens jubilee

Terran blew his horn, and 

we flew through space with Liam.

Star Wars music was well represented, 

but Telemann, too.

Mom and Son sang Broadway 

and two friends, one 60, one 15,

laughed when the older one stopped playing

before had been previously arranged.  

She was roundly chastised and started laughing.

and then, S, tentively playing her guitar,

apologizing, insisting she could play it perfectly

at home, we all know that.

who cares, it was fun.

stealing bikes right under our noses

I know they're stolen.

I see them under the bridge lined up to be stripped

down, hauled out in pieces and sent south,

the sellers will snort something up their noses

and scout for more bikes.

It's right in front of our noses, every

day I ride by on my bike to work,

I see them diligently at theirs.

stronger at sixty

I'm dubious of such things
at a certain point, imagining my chicken wings
blossoming into arms of steel seems
unlikely
unless I drink protein powders and meat,
pushups, pullups, a full bridge pose, handstands,
cartwheels.
my body protests, I listen,
talk back and we discuss,
my body and I.

Lessons learned

don't underestimate the level of your knowledge
and notice how long it took to acquire it
you're not a spring chicken after all.
and so, don't overestimate the capability of a
young person to do what you do, it ends
in long nights and weekends at your computer.
it take years to cruise to the moons of Jupiter,
it took years to accumulate this wisdom, these
skills, going to the Moon is a piece of cake.

I'm getting smarter

the words come to mind immediately

one down, three across, seven down, six down

old weeds debug owls, the crossword told me

and deny the gym slam as Leia lies in the sauna,

libel, you say, and I wrote, in the puzzle today

go figure.

no one's home

they don't live here,

just add the bill to the one for

their main house, their private jet and

private schools.  

the houses behind the signs are large,

well appointed and 

empty.  

one in front of every empty house

along this lovely dirt road, hidden up 

in the hills above Santa Fe.

beautiful and empty.

Learning the iPhone

I insisted that he get a bigger phone, and 

then I insisted that he learn to text.

I don't do phone calls anymore.

He demurred with a mumble about not 

"doing that", and I retorted, "You're being lazy"

No excuses.

On a Saturday, I picked him up for training,

with a nice young lady, volunteering her time,

and he fell in love,

and he learned how to text.

his name is Slav

I imagined a heavy set older man
sauntering into my office, extending his hand
I'm Slav.
he would sit down heavily onto my too small
guest chair and would gaze at me directly,
small, sharp eyes and a set jaw
he'd get right to the point, brusque in fact
I'd respond in kind and the meeting would end,
efficiently, items noted, a plan forward.
I was almost right.

Next Job

his next job will be walking Bella

through the long corridors of DIA,

her nose to the ground seeking bits of 

fallen food,  a welcoming smile 

as north is drawn to south, so Bella 

instinctively moves towards small children,

sure to be coated in sugar, dropping small

crumbs alongside.

they giggle, moving back and forth,

in terror so much as laughter 

and when they are thoroughly licked

clean, her nose drops to the ground, pulling

the leash, pulling him away from this 

one, and on to the next.

Reaching for the hummus

it's in the middle of the table
her hand, so delicate, refined natural nails
pounces
and retracts holding a toasted pita piece
dripping warm hummus
mmmm she murmurs
while he's reading he reaches absent
mindedly across the table, the long dark hairs
on his arms glisten under the overhead light
I watch all this
and when their hands are empty, they find
each other, clasping each other
without looking.

Numerical Computation

Indeed,
if the slope is steep and abruptly
changes sign, the solver skips merrily past,
pigtails swinging, a rock clanging in the bottom
of the red pail.
on the side of the road we wonder
how the hill disappeared, it was there 10 minutes
ago, and then 20, but now the plain is flat
and nothing will rise the grounds.
i discover this in my office chair
I am glad to know it.

zum zum capoeira mata um

we sing songs, we have names

she's the ant, the tiniest one, 

arisca, the one who moves quickly,

except when she's nursing an injured knee

and miravilla, the super woman, the ex-gymnast,

ski instructor and yoga master. and then

there's curiosa, the one who always is wondering

the one with the braid and the green T-shirt

I know her.

I've been looking

I've been looking for beauty, I found

a star suspended over frozen ground.

That is beauty.

I've been looking instead of writing,

looking for something new, startling,

hidden perhaps, not written in bold face

type or revealed in the New York Times.

I'm been looking for beauty 

Look what I found.

Easter is coming

The Long Road

not a soul in sight
only an occasional tumbleweed
rolled by, the bushes trembled
this is the long road
the one that we ultimately travel alone
the companions fall away into their own mysteries
the landscape erodes and the circle of
day and night stops when
our eyes stop seeing, we hope in
the end that someone lovingly
closes our eyelids for us.

Packing for Cats

Ollie and Pickle.

Afrin and Ventolin.

Pantanol and Nasonex.

As they frolic and jump in my lap

I will stand up to reach for a tissue

no sitting on a comfy sofa, 

a cloud of dander would rise to meet me.

Ah, cats, I can love them

from a distance.

Fire!

Fire!

Sirens blasting, the roar of firetrucks,

police cars, unmarked vans and cars

all rushing towards the mountain

in the distance, I could see small orange

specks moving along the perimeter

our brave men and women who take on

the heat and flames of fire.

I watch from a safe distance, my heart

beating for all those who flee, whose homes

are burned to the ground, the 

deer and cougar, the birds, the small ground

animals, I curse those who started this

human caused fire.

Fire!

Cycling Seven Continents

900 miles of straight across the tundra
a rough gravel road, the tedium only punctured
by crowds of small children at remote villages
selling bottles filled with water from questionable sources
their smiles light the sky
yet in the Andes, amidst towering peaks, brilliant
shawls and skirts contrast with grey and brown rock,
their smiles light the sky.
in America, the farmer from Oklahoma, tall in his cowboy
hat and boots, examining these lycra-clad men on
bikes with skepticism and amazement.
even the squeaking frog on their front handle bars
did not elicit a smile.
The white smiles of the African people were the
warmest of all, their smiles light the sky.

Stephen Hawking

at 3 am, in between coughing fits,
I learned that black holes emit particles, where have I been
Stephen told us this long ago and I wasn't listening
to his synthesized American accented voice
(being British, a definite irk, he said, in an American accent)
and how, how can we complain about our small aches and pains,
hard work, our small lives as this giant, this diminutive hunched
man, bright eyes behind thick glasses, works out the mysteries
of the universe, in his head,
at 3 am, make it 4 am., I am in awe, and great
sadness as his passing.
let us all be inspired to act.

incipient racism

I took the test, the Harvard test.
the one that tells you what you fear to know
I have high incipient racism although I
never signed up for it I learned it somewhere
from the TV and the movies, from others,
from never living with them side by side,
instead buffered by a wall of indifference and
bigotry, I learned with the rest of them
and now
when the survey says I am racist, it pierces
my heart but engages my brain
knowledge is power
change is possible

Black is beautiful

Black is beautiful

Powerful women are beautiful

wielding swords and spinning disks

they plunge forth into battle

eyes shining with determination 

we must follow them

courageously.