In the palm of my hand

 

 

In the palm of my hand rests this book

Calling, whispering, I feel the rough cover on my hand

and I open it

For inspiration.

They say that the lines in my hand portend a long life,

the many offshoots pointing in disparate directions;

a doctorate, two children, three husbands and 

so much more, too many to count and so I sit here

with so many options that I sit paralyzed in my old age

how can I pick one, or two, or three

in these final days?

The Writers

Bob and Ariel, Kelly and David

Dylan and Daniel, and me,

The Writers, the Ones who dare to put pen to paper

(a fountain pen is best)

the Ones who dare to show themselves

(even if the microphone does not work)

(we know that writers are often not tech-savvy)

I do not know them, but, in time, they will become

Friends and we will grow grey together

(some of us are already there)

and the lines which stream from our souls

will overlap and entangle themselves

until Ones have become Ours. 

The New Sofa

Not quite as comfortable as the last sofa.  

I have changed, too, not quite as soft as the last couch

which shed the dandruff of flaking faux leather.

Bones protrude and joints creak.

The dog is still there, black, invisible except for the 

devil ears which cast a shadow.

I noticed that half of the floor was worn by

years of shuffling of small feet, the other half

shiny, protected by the old sofa that cradled

us as we traveled this road called life.

The Butterfingers - winning against long odds

 This poem was inspired by Catch, a poem by  Samiya Bashir

We were the Butterfingers, a joke amongst the other 

girls' teams, socially and physically awkward, we

nonetheless

ventured onto the floor of the gymnasium, for all to see.

To compete.

What were we thinking, so long ago, I can't even remember,

perhaps complete ignorance of the competition,

or sufficiently shunned that we didn't care 

anyway.

Of course, in some stories, the underdogs win,

as did we, no one more incredulous and proud than us.

The previously disinterested crowd in the bleachers erupted

with cheers and clapping.

We, no doubt, slipped back into obscurity,

but something shifted in me.

Lessons from Felix: Be Happy

His smile makes me smile.

My smile makes you smile.

Your smile makes your husband smile.

Your husband's smile makes his mother smile;

Why not smile?

Felix smiles even if he can't turn over (yet)

or chase his sister (yet), even though he

can't even roll over (yet) or jump off the couch

(yet)

Yet, Felix smiles, and we all smile

just seeing his smile.

Yet, sometimes we don't smile.

Felix, remind us to smile.

Simply noticing - Thank you, Jane Hirschfield

The knife cleanly sliced the peel from the pear.

Nice.  

That's what they say here.

Nice.

I noticed it was beautiful.

Nice.