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