a young woman in bobby socks

he sent the photo via text, a memory.

1990, conference of some sort

in some non-descript hotel.

we have not seen each other since then

but he will recognize me in the airport

my smile is still crooked and my eyes

have not changed

my mask will cover my mouth.

maybe I will wear socks and

a long skirt, like back then.

he will have a peppered beard and hair

but will look the same.

we will look at each other

and remember how fun it was

riding the roller coaster at 

Disneyland

in 1990. 

Caught in the middle

A misstep

crystal clear cold water waiting to catch you

I offered you the end of my pole

and you jumped to solid ground

you can thank me for that

for being your friend when the world

was crumbling around you and

I will thank you for reaching out

a hand when it seemed that 

my life would end, caught

in the massive mud slide of my

own divorce.

so on this beautiful day, you stand,

not enough strength to push off

one rock onto the other

and I reached out and helped you

true friends

forever

Nature's invention

The perfect telephone cord, in green.

Biodegradable even, in luscious green

so natural looking wound around the chain link fence

holding up a plump, heavy squash

I know the inner flesh is deep orange and rich.

It caught my eye as I wandered past the gardens

with their tomatoes and peppers, corn and beans,

how splendidly did this one squash hang in the air

held alot by this perfectly coiled cord.

all natural.

Eat with enthusiasm

eat with enthusiasm, all of it,

open mouth, stuffing food in as fast as 

you can, cheeks stuffed like a hamster's.

snot mixes with strawberries and 

zucchini bread, an occasional wipe 

by a misguided adult, it is all good,

the salt and the sweet.

eat with enthusiasm, all of it,

until the last small tomato that she

throws to the floor along with the 

spoons.

she's done now.

The lonely Tupperware

No one wants me.

Karen is moving back to California and 

has no room for me; her baby takes up all

the room I would have had.

Jenny doesn't want me because I take up too

much space in the drawer, and fall off the

top of the refrigerator too often.

I am lonely indeed, and useless;

other containers are preferred, tall and 

sleek, they take up less room in the

refrigerator.  

so, where will I go, likely out to 

the back alley with a "free" sign on me.

I hope I find a new home who loves me

and uses me.

Then I could be happy.

A dieter's sandwich

That's one way.

Only buy bread with huge air pockets

so the peanut butter and jelly suffer

from so little real estate, even a thick

layer would threaten to fall into one

of the holes.

That's one way to diet.

A small sandwich of mostly air,

thin slices with almost no PB or J.

I'll eat chocolate and ice cream later

to make up for such deprivation.

Staying busy

we talked, Sam and me

about adsorption and desorption

not agreeing that adsorption is thermally activated

I sent him off to check on that.

we talked, Jordan and me

about the atomic oxygen environment

where Kapton and other plastics are eaten away

until nothing remains.

we talked, Shelly and me,

about a project to detect the vast acreage

of plastic floating on the oceans and how

to train the young engineers to do science.

and then, I slept and I held Mira in my arms,

and I played capoeira and I spoke French with

the nanas du coin, unable to understand one of 

them who speaks too fast.

Tired now, I write this and will fall headfirst

into bed.

A busy day. a good day. 

I'll shop; he'll cook

I'll shop; he'll cook.

I'll do capoeira; he'll walk the dog.

He'll get in bed early; I'll stay up reading gardening books

He'll get up early to ride his bike; I'll sleep in so 

I can avoid walking the dog as long as 

humanly possible.

The dog will outwait me,

her tail wagging at the bottom of the stairs.

I'll get up.

The dog will get walked.

He will go on a ride.

Tonight I'll shop; he'll cook.

Mira, the Piglet

our neighbor, Peter, arrived with bread.

Wordless, but not voiceless,

Mira called out, pointed at, insisted on

bread.  

We obliged.

Mira, the Piglet stuffed her mouth full of 

bread.

Mira, the Piglet wanted LOTS of 

bread.

Many pieces of 

bread.

Finally, it was no

we would be in trouble if

she didn't eat her dinner.

bad for us.

we ate the 

bread.

on the move

on the move

no idea where I am going

the directions are muddled,

in a foreign language and rapidly spoken.

my limbs flailing, one arm protecting my face

I step cautiously in one direction,

keeping my weight mostly on the foot I know.

I don't know where I am going, only that I am

moving in space and time

and time, she  keeps moving forward,

I know this from the ticking of my clock,

its ringing on the half hour.  

Snowflakes

I was looking for them in the bee balm,

the evening primrose in the cool of the dusk

I caught a glimpse of them on a mosquitos wing

as it landed on my skin, briefly, only to fly away,

slightly off kilter

the droplet fell to the gound

glistening in the Moon

Mow the weeds

she told me to mow the weeds

don't pull them, she said!

so I did, the mower blade set low,

crackling and sparking on rocks and sticks, 

liberated from weeding!

Evening primrose

I never noticed.

Tucked away on the east side of house

amongst the weeds.

I never walked there in the evening,

until tonight.

There, in the dusk, the blooms opened

towards the moon

whereas they had been shriveled and small

looking towards the sun

how odd!  these blooms that open

onto the Moon!

to startle and awe the passer-by

ones like me. 

A perfect line

at four, i walked this way, along these lines

up the hill towards the pond,

the one that is so still that the arch of 

the bridge mirrors in the water

the world is two,  the clouds

drift across the pond.

we talk about African history today,

about Cheikh Anta Diop, the man

who discovered the truth about Egypt,

that the mummies are black.

at four-thirty, the lines have moved

and the squares no longer are aligned

with the lines,

time passes by,

we keep on learning.

A celebration

a celebration of a new roof and new walls,

where children study, away from the rain and the wind.

a sea of white boubous for boys and girls,

for men and women, white scarves covering 

the dark hair of the girls, matching the white teeth

of their broad smiles.  

I would have been there, a guest, if this place

were not so far across the sea, if I did not have

a child in my arms

I will go there soon

we will smile at each other. 

I always wanted to be a mathematician

I always wanted to be a mathematician,

like Jeanne Atwell,  Dr. Super Star, rising star.

Matlab rolled off her fingertips, sparse matrices and

differential equations, curvaceous results pull

you in to her magical world of unknown symbols.

I envied her.

Her infinite powers were above me and 

I could only admire them from afar.

I like her smile, too.  

Unconditional Love

All she has to do is be herself,

stern, discerning, crying, an very occasional smile,

I love her every minute, I love her little

ears and fingers, her yelps out the window

and delayed waves to passers-by.

All she has to do is be, be Mira, my little girl,

the daughter of my big "little girl".  

No need to capture a smile, too difficult anyway,

just be you, little girl, between grandma and baby,

it's all about unconditional love.

you can count on it.

tag: Mira