Old age and infirmity

Three down, one already down, chronically down.

Blood clots and vertigo, AFIB and Parkinson's

the Clan is down.

Older brother's screams fade to the steady hum of pumps,

Four days pinned to a bed unable to move his legs, a fake smile

shows up for a photo.  

(taken by his wife as she balances on her knee scooter)

Younger brother's foot drags on the ground, a contrast to his relative youth,

his exuberance, running in circles with his teenagers.

My world spins, a half-full garbage can placed at my side

In case.

Older sister was walking

Until she wasn't, her steady and reliable life

dancing to two sets of heartbeats, uncertain which way to go.

 Oh!  All our plans so perilously stacked, perilously and we did not even know it, how can we forget how

delicately we dance on this Earth, this beautiful Earth.  

Bird by Bird

bird by bird

word by word, first draft

worse by worser, confidence flies away.

bird by bird,

seed by seed, 

watching them drop to a squirrel

who will catch these words, 

bird by bird, who will gather them and reform them

word by word

into second draft, and third, line by line.

she said it's torture, but made it funny,

how many words by words, 

birds by birds did she shoot down with

the gun at her side, in that quiet countryside

before she said these words

bird by bird

word by word.

 

vertigo

 we are not meant to be in a spinning world,

having never noticed the fine structure of the gym floor,

i now notice that the speckles are circles of color.

and the ceiling lights, suspended above me are spinning

at an alarming rate, but the struts hold.

My stomach protests and I call out weakly,

without wanting to make a fuss and try to turn

towards the floor, to force it to stop spinning

My face is burning, my stomach wanting to retch

this is vertigo. 

one moment, thinking about how hard my workout will be, 

the next, knowing that there will be none.

the one moment, thinking about how to always stay busy in the beloved flow zone,

the next, knowing that it's not possible and that when the world

stops spinning, I will have to stop, too, 

and tolerate that state of "not doing"

There is no choice.

looking old age in the eye after a new haircut

we decided that it's a malaiase, that beautiful word that sounds like it 

means.

my brother and me, at 70, he looks it, and I try to hide my own age so I don't have to 

directly face the mirror which asks me what I want to do with my life

now

that I'm no longer leading the team, my mind doesn't solve deep problems

in space the way that it used to, I'm feeling old, my bones creak and my

knees buckle.

Malaise, the sense that the day does not hold so many exciting new things that 

I can't WAIT to open my eyes and start the day! 

I was never built this way, 

childhood photos show a face full of serious worry, there was no joy there

and yet

everyone says that I will LOVE retirement and congratulations, but 

why, when I loved doing what I did so well.

Retirement means that it's time to step aside and do something new, but I'm 

not sure what new will match that sense of focus and excitement at learning

that particular new thing.

What particular new thing will wake me up in the morning, all eager to 

start a new day?

 

It's time to rest

after billions of dollars, hoarse from shouting, after 

the sheer will power to move the "people" did not even nudge them,

no, not even decades of misogyny, or threats of mass deportations, no, 

not even our gaze into the hellish summer heats or swirling debris of

yet more powerful hurricanes, no, there is nothing to be done.

Let's rest then, next to a fuzzy friend, an innocent youngster, 

no more postcard parties, or fantasies that the message we believed in

meant ....anything.  It did not.

In any case,

the wealthy will do fine in an autocracy as long as the house is still standing.

I thought we were fighting for all of us, in fact, but no,

they will fight for themselves, I imagine, or maybe, no

maybe not, they will maybe fight each other?  In the darkness

when their neighbor is pulled from her bed, or will they celebrate

as she was not meant to be the "other", aren't there other "others".  

For now, I will rest, watch the snow fall outside the window,

only momentarily disturbed by the man pushing his cart 

overflowing with blankets, hoping for a better day

tomorrow.

 

Beautiful women making baguettes

thank goodness for big kitchens and multiple

baguette forms, the French one in firehouse red...

with a lid!

thank goodness for beautiful women with brains who love to 

bake, for the husband who helps the Tibetans

navigate revolving doors, for this

beautiful fall day.

Thank goodness for their friendship.

Thank goodness for the art work on the wall that celebrates nature

and ALL people, for the elderly Swiss woman who laughs about all the 

French speakers who don't learn English.

Laughter is good.

thank goodness for laughter, and for the 

crunch of fall leaves under my bicycle tires,

thank goodness for my bike which was waiting for me at home, 

 to ride briskly in the fall afternoon, me fueled by baguette and jam,

bread and cheese calories.

thanks goodness. 

 

The beauty in a braid....and the yummy in an ice cream cone!

How many shades of blonde are twisted and tucked and 

finally coaxed into this braid, 

how lovely, how simple, how long can I gaze, studying how the hair,

so many strands so unruly at first, then carefully gathered by a mother's hand

into a darker collection at the nape of her neck, where brown hair hides

amongst the blonde.  

Somehow

the braid emerges from there, now straight and well mannered, dropping 

down onto her small back, secured with a yellow band

(that I may have even held in my hand when I was there),

a spray of gold emerging into the light.  

...............

And then...ice cream, the just reward for enduring such fussiness!

 

What stories can she can tell

I only remember her later years, of spreading shade over a grassy lawn,

her lower trunk still wet in the morning from the sprinklers. 

Day by day, I never noticed her change, over the years that I walked

by with the dogs, first Buddy and Portia,  then Bella, frolicking, her fur

jet black, now white around the snout.

She was a presence, a giver, this tree, that was one of several who were just

there.

Until she was not, the victim of roaring chainsaws, she came down in large 

pieces, death on the ground, and no sign of illness, the fallen victim of 

a distant bureaucrat who decided that she might fall one day, given her 

advanced age.

now, in her shrunken state, she can still offer of herself, a seat for a 

visitor from Texas, on a sunny day.

what stories can he tell?

 

Chapter Books - oh my!

we kept revisiting the page with the tiger, his paw caught in a wicked trap,

the children releasing him back to the wild, but why, she asks.

The Emperor, Haille Silassie, threw pennies to the peasants, while the Rastas

worshiped him as their Messiah, a man who lived thousands of miles away,

I asked, why, we both asked why as we turned the pages of our respective books.

These days, we ask why, when our eyes are wide open, and our ears can hear

she is wrapped up warm in her handmade nightgown, of the fuzzy rainbow fabric

I unwound from a cardboard bolt in the fabric store by my house.

I was surprised to learn that her father had handsewn her nightgown, and I admired

the uniform stitches, the precisely cut arm holes, and I wondered what had inspired

him to do this loving task, one so often done by a woman.

we shall always be asking why.  

 

A fall day with a dog

The dog wasn't ours.

She belonged to another couple that lived in the area, the man

happening to be my son, the woman, his wife, the ones who lost their son three years ago.

so they ran away from that place where their baby never went home to, where the crib

stood empty, the room deadly silent, where there was too much grief to hold.

So, we are here, in this brilliant autumn sunshine, where they are, with their dog,

who is the surrogate for the moment, until a baby arrives, hopefully this year.

It's truly spectacular, and so far away, and I miss this man and this woman.

The yellow leaves of the aspen trees litter the trail, the sky is brilliant blue 

we are missing a small baby boy.  

He lingers in the air. 

 

The Closing of his eyes

His eyes are closed now, the dappled sun no longer fills our eyes

like it did that October 18 when his son and I joined hands in front of 

friends and family.

It was Fall Equinox where the day and night approach each other, where

nighttime comes sooner every evening, and, in that moment, I should have known that 

night would eventually fall, and day would no longer arrive.

his days have ended, even as ours will continue through this Fall Equinox

and back towards Spring, where the sun will arrive a little earlier and 

leave a little later.

perhaps this is what we should remember in this current moment of darkness and loss.

but, wait for that moment to arrive naturally, as the weeks pass by and we

spend weeks of winter and cold, long nights as there

is no way to rush into Spring, the shallow joy of forever Spring

does not appeal as one would miss the gradual swelling of brown buds

into the pale green that promises Spring.  

Let his eyes rest in darkness, as ours swell with occasional tears.

Do not rush towards happiness, but rest quietly in appreciation of

what was, and what was lost.  

RIP, Big Papa.  

 

Bella World

all she has to do is look pretty, cock her ears a bit

and little girls will come, even tall blonde women, 

they know that Bella loves them.

In living rooms, on the street, she walks boldly towards

them, tail high and wagging, eager and they stop,

smile, and ask

"Can I pet her?"

This is Bella World, where oxytocin flows in dog

and human alike, where homework is put aside,

dishes are left undone and dog hair abides 

on kitchen floors and couches, alike.  

When will Bella be invited again to your house?

 

Cutest mailbox ever

I'd call it the pneumonia mailbox, in honor of feeling sluggish, yet still alive,

enough to be bored, to cast about for something to do, that is not

too demanding.

The mailbox.

Five years ago, leaning dangerously off a shattered pole

(ah the destructiveness of youth), then righted, but

unhappy.

Ugly, every day.

And me, unable to muster the discipline of taping lines,

complex, fussy designs, inspired by sunflowers 

I painted her yellow, then considered the beauty of nature

where there are no straight lines and all are welcome (!)

The colors of our house.

I coughed and sputtered, and painted a beautiful mailbox.

Memories of pneumonia.  

 

Best friends for now

Hard to imagine that it's only been four and a half years

when she arrived in this world, with no idea about

friendship or love, about holding hands and walking

down a street with her bestie.

We don't know if this particular friend will endure

next year or next week, even, as friends seem to flow through

our lives like sand through fingers that open under a 

different sun, on a different day, but this day,

their hands embraced, no doubt shared secrets 

and whispers, little girls on a walk in the neighborhood,

mom or dad close behind, but out of earshot. 

Watching the Democratic National Convention with pneumonia

what else to do but watch sideways, the right lung

unhappily compressed, the right ear buried in a pillow.

I cannot hear or breathe very well, but I can see 

the wide smiles and exuberant gestures, my peeps

have come alive, in spite of my deteriorated state, I

am buoyed by their hope and joy.  

I would not have seen this wonder if my lung were happily

gathering oxygen molecules from the incoming breath,

instead I would have been working or gardening, laughing

or lifting weights towards the grey tiles of the gym.

Sideways and deaf, but my heart lifting with joy.

Forest bathing in Costa Rica

the leaf invited me to hold her in my hand

to notice her fine leaf structure next to mine,

how the light captured her raised ridges,

each encircling its own small landscape.

the lines on my hand run over the edges

into the forest air, like rain off an

umbrella.

we recognized each other in appreciation but

I know that she will stay here, as she happened to be,

folded in half over a newly formed branch,

and I have to follow the lines which cascade off

of my hands towards some unknown future. 

when I looked up I did not see the Moon

I thought he was pointing to the Moon,

but a monkey was in the way, and the clouds were 

obstructing the view anyway, it was daytime,

for Goodness Sake. but wait....

I do see the Moon sometimes during the day, 

a sliver of white, or maybe more, but it wasn't there

on the impossibly steep gravel road leading down

the beach,

And it was so hot, and the sweat ran down my back

and the monkey just ignored us, prancing across the 

power line, Moon or no Moon

did not interest her.

Turkey vultures circling the sky

I can't see my town, but I see them

Circling up and up in the grey and acrid sky,

their black silhouettes criss-crossing upwards 

pathways slashing up and across each others,

magic black dots wavering in the infernal

sky, this infernal sky of smoke and ozone

and death, these birds, vultures, seeking death

for sustainance, while I rush down the hill

seeking life. 

Childhood Series (I): Sugar

 Sugar and me, always together.

I nestled her into a worn towel in my bike basket,

a snatch of green grass for her snack, and we rode away 

from that house where there was no real peace, down the

Prairie Path, and then back along a suburban street

to visit Jeannie, my only human friend.

Oh, on those very hot days, when the sidewalks simmered,

we escaped to Squeaky Park in the backyard, cool and green

under the old Apple Tree, I lay down on the grass

next to her, my arms forming a small circle around her

and I may have dozed off, only to be awakened by

her small paws clambering over my arm.  

Looking down on the sun dappled river

I only saw the young people at the edge 

of the river after I posted the photo -

I had been looking at the river flowing 

from high up on the bridge, looking down river

always down river, the direction of flow

alongside sun dappled ripples, verdant green

I was captured by the beauty, and then,

I noticed them, the two young people at the 

bottom of the frame, a young man and woman, 

maybe lovers, and I thought of the future they 

had in front of them, that they were watching

the water at eye level, while I was looking from above

seeing much further than them, and I knew that

the end was closer for me, I could see it, but

their eyes could see no further than the dancing 

waves, the sparkle of the sun in their eyes.

a spiral of uncertainty - title unknown

 we were there, in that basement laboratory, together,

you were with me then, in utero, traveling with me, 

we lifted the dies off  the pressure cell and peered down

through the microscope at the brilliant red crystals that bloomed

forth from an amorphous orange cylinder.

We had done science, together.

we were there together, and then you separated from me,

our paths careening crazily, adjacent, but separate,

the separateness of thirty years, of course, we had our own paths

and I never seemed to see you, we never saw each other

until I looked down the spiral of time and you were back there,

in that same building, 

and you were doing science, but without me.

I had moved on up the spiral

looking for my own mother, who was maybe looking down at

me and wondering how we had become so separate.

we never circled round, my mother and me, the spiral never

collapsed in love, daughter, will our spirals ever touch again

in the molten embers of those brilliant red crystals.

Mentoring as a Life's Work

The veins on my hands stand out

there is no disguising age, their wisdom and experience

gained in the infinite variety of touch over decades.

they know how to sooth a feverish forehead, or caress

a cheek, they have handled scientific equipment and 

penned letters, typed on a Selectric for a thesis so long ago.

they have settled into the gentle rolling of dough this day,

a new student four years old, learning to make baguette,

so many tasks are not to be done anymore, only the

gentlest ones, the ones to guide, ever so gently, the 

ones who want to learn.  

Work Series (2): Away from the desk

There is no snow in my cubicle, nor blue skies,

my friend, Sharon, nor the dog, Skye, aren't there.

We are all here on this sunny day, sitting on

a summer pile of snow, taking turns shooting photos,

it's summer in Colorado.

But I am not missing work today on this 

Fourth of July, our Independence Day 

(from what, our times are so fraught),

I can still spend some time in my cubicle on Monday

considering how the cyanate ester panel covered with 

MLI will respond to impact by a one mm Al shot

traveling at 7.5 km/sec, and then can 

garden, guitar, flute, piano, write poetry, see

friends the rest of the week.

One day of science, six of other fun - that 

is my definition of slinking towards retirement.

No rush, no stress, just fun, in my little cubicle,

and out in the big, wide, wonderful world.  

Work Series (1): baguettes

why, she wonders, as the aroma of rising bread

fills her nostril, does she still go to work, to sit 

in the stale cubicle air, staring somewhat vacantly

at work she had done, but not finished, because,

after all, she's hardly there anymore, it's 

impossible to remember the threads, like

the disconnected, but growing masses of grey

hair on her head.

she wonders at all this, 

this morning as she watches the 

chickadees careening wildly towards the suet feeder

as she sips lukewarm coffee

do baguettes make a life?  

Love, smiles and a red rubber ball for her birthday

who could have imagined such a birthday 36 years later

after the wonder of you, arriving with a full head of dark hair

and "chubby cheeks!" a girl!  

who could have imagined you, now a mother, so natural,

a scholar and wife, a daughter who I watch with wonder,

striding with confidence in this crazy world, stopping 

everything to smile and laugh at the little blonde girl

with newly trimmed bangs, I could never have imagined

that 36 years later I would feast my eyes and ears on

this scene, which quickly devolved into a view of 

your little girl's legs flailing in the air as she rolled on

her rubber ball, your laughter ringing joyously in

my ears. 

The dead tree that I never noticed

I had never noticed this dead tree, 

in the midst of the manicured yard, the flowers

blooming all around

But when did it die?  Had it recently died?  Were

there yet a few small leaves hidden in the upper branches

a gradual death that I had never noted, 

like our own, like the spiral of wrinkles I just noticed

this morning around my friend's eye when he smiled,

the deformation in his earlobe linked to cardiovascular disease,

It had to be that, the tree had been dying all these

years so no one thought to cut it down, it was 

just part of a slowly changing landscape, like us,

where we can convince ourselves for a few years

that we still look young, carefully controlling the angle we 

look at ourselves in the  mirror.

Yet, we are surprised at how old our friends look

and we know that we are with them, after all.

We are all growing fewer leaves each season,

finally death will take us and those who have not

been watching will be surprised that we have passed

so quickly. 

No one takes my chainsaw

 

she had a love affair with her chainsaw after her husband passed

leaning into its throaty rumble instead of his roaring snore, she felt peaceful

and in good company

powerful, even

her chainsaw didn't see her grey hair or sagging jowls, 

they shared a mutual respect, a respect her 69 year old son didn't seem

to fully comprehend, insisting that they part ways, for "safety" reasons.  

Oh she knew he told his Boulder friends, "I had to take away her chain saw."

but

Safe for whom, she wondered, pondering the fate of her only son,

nice and clean cut as he was, that could change if she didn't get her chainsaw back.

In Kentucky, women keep their chainsaws until death,

Being in the body

she is not thinking of her future or

what to wear to tomorrow, she is not 

thinking of Elsa or Melodie, or of 

mom or dad, or Felix, or ...anything.

she is not thinking she is in her body

moving through space on her new bike

her feet snuggled into her rain boots,

her cape resting loosely on her shoulders

she does not have to think about anything

her tummy is full, she is loved, her clothes fit

and she is riding through the air, her wheels 

spinning on the concrete at the park.

Writing...here?

'

I should be a writer, looking out onto such a 

landscape,

but I don't know how,

I have never done this, I read books and

am in awe at how words are put together

and linger in my mind, after shocking me

with their beauty and wisdom, or surprise,

capturing something, creating

I would be a writer, here, in this place,

but I don't know how, I have never done

this improvisation in words, I barely do it

in notes on a flute, guitar or piano

I don't know how to write more than a few

sentences.

I can find out how.

Cathy - La Bergerie de l'Aulagner in the Ardeches

In the end

it's the people, no, it's a person,

that person, the one smiling next to me.

that woman, Cathy, who does it all in her head

from laundry to linge, from vaisselle to vassal,

changing sheets and scrubbing sinks, she smiles

in the sun, 

we smile in the sun, talking of lists with 

his name on them, not hers, of every man's dreaded

D word, not divorce, but Delegation.

she is the one I would return for, 

to peek behind the door to see him

washing the dishes, making lists, 

while she reads on the sofa

sipping a glass of red wine.

À la fin

Ce sont les gens, non, c'est une personne,

Cette personne, celle qui sourit à côté de moi.

Cette femme, Cathy, qui fait tout cela dans sa tête

De la lessive au linge, de la vaisselle au vassal,

Changer les draps et frotter les éviers, elle sourit

Au soleil,

Nous sourions au soleil, en parlant de listes avec

Son nom sur eux, pas le sien, du redoutable de chaque homme

ce mot qui commence avec le "D", pas divorce, mais la délégation.

C'est pour elle que je reviendrais,

Pour jeter un coup d'œil derrière la porte pour le voir

Faire la vaisselle, faire des listes,

Pendant qu'elle lit sur le canapé

En sirotant un verre de vin rouge.

.

The most secret memory of men - Joan Didion's notebook

and of women?  yet, yes, 

his secret lay in seeking and destroying

the Nazi criminal who sent his friend to the

gas chambers.

That book was never completed as far as we know.

that is his secret, 

there are so many secrets, industrial espionage

burning down the house, 

so the words in this book went deep where

no one goes freely, in our lives, there are so many

hidden dangers, and we see rainbows 

she and I, as we pant our way up the hillside.

This notebook, this one inspired by Joan Didion

where I think of Richard Feynman, of Saliou

and Djiby, of Badou and Iba, of all that was lost on 

this trip, of misunderstandings and turning away,

of that was gained, a view of hordes of pelicans 

swirling in the sky, fish still swimming in their bellies.

All of this is only known to me.

writing to my penpal, Mira

I'd never written a postcard from Senegal, 

the streets too dauntingly dusty and crowded,

I'd never seen a post office. 

no one had been worth the effort

until now.

Darling Mira, I went to a city far away

from Dakar, I searched for La Poste, across

from the hotel from which brave men flew across

large distances to deliver the mail.

hallways full of photos and letters sent

and received, letters telling of love and absence,

describing the unimaginable in this land, here,

in Africa, where pirogues still roam through narrow mangrove

passageways, 

on a cool January morning, the eyes of a hippo rise up

above the water, in May, the pelicans fly overhead in 

impossible spirals digesting many pounds of fish.

From this land, I sent this card, to a little four year old

girl named Mira, the one who wears sparkling 

Princess dresses, and dances towards the waves,

they may be the same ones that dance outside

my door.

My new penpal, Mira

I have been grooming her since birth

to write cards and letters, as soon as her little

hands could grasp an object moving in her

field of view, a few inches from her face.

She had no idea of the persistence of her

grandmother, 

Mimi, who still treasures the postcard from

her own grandmother, the one with the marmot on the

front, addressed to Coucoute, that particular

handwriting so flat, yet surprisingly legible. 

There is no better gift than a handwritten

letter, easy to keep, beautiful to display, 

a direct line to your heart.

from family debris to space debris

her eyes looked into mine 

what was the path from family debris to space debris

I pondered and laughed inside

there were no science fairs or encouraging parents

my guinea pigs and hamsters ministered to my dreams

such as they were

dust bunnies, too.

what a curious question she was asking

the same probing one I might ask, 

I liked this woman, I would like to see her again. 

there must be truth somewhere in all this debris,

these clouded family stories fabricated to oppress,

no, there were not intentions, just ignorance and pain.

isn't life a mysterious dark cloud into which the 

lost drift, seemingly with no direction, but mine,

mine was to find truth somewhere

and in the end,

protecting those we love from debris,

whether the eyes of the most powerful space telescopes 

or our eyes gazing up to the stars.

The joy of being together, the sorrow of saying good-bye

building snowmen and catching iron filings,

a magnet suspended from a string

the blackberry branch bending 

gracefully towards the water.

I am awakened, so many times,

to hold her hand, bathed in a purple

hue, the sound of waves.  

Nana and Grandpa Tom, Opa and Mimi,

four is barely enough for this Princess

her hair blowing in the icy wind,

Bella straining at the leash as she

shuffles along in flowered rain boots,

and then, she is gone, the house echoes

of silence, colorful toys put away, 

joy has left us and I feel an ache

in my heart, the sorrow of saying

good-bye.

Happy Birthday, Daniel!

 

That day, he was happy, reaching for the sky,

or maybe it was that moment that the camera caught his smile.

It could have been that he was too busy to smile a moment ago,

and a moment later, angry that a stick had fallen from his hand.

And today, flying down impossibly steep hills on silver skis,

he must be smiling underneath that helmet, the body knows its own

happiness, after all, and later yet, a glass raised, dancing under

a glittering light, he smiles yet again.

My wish for Daniel is to have many smiles.

A bookmark in time

When the shelves are overflowing,

and the suitcase too heavy, he slid a bookmark

into his shirt pocket, the one with the plastic pocket

protector, the ball point pen slightly bulging from

his smooth, rather slender, frame.    

Paris, Budapest, Hanoi, but particularly Neuchatel

where he remembered the stories of the elephants

who arrived annually with the circus;

Local children stood entranced at the lake shore

as the elephants romped in the lake, spraying

each other and the children, droplets sparkling

in the afternoon sun.

passing time

is this what we do to pass time when

our hair is bobbed in grey, some of us 

hunched over a keyboard, some still erect

and at task

even when the tempo is "rock n roll"

the music shuffles, one can hear the suede

brush against the stage with each change

 of key signature

what is our key signature these days, having 

gone from major to minor, and our volume

has diminished from forte to piannissimo

we creep about life, wondering what to do 

with ourselves as we are busy avoiding the

steady stare of Death.

I'll have a MethaneSAT margarita

I'd have a MethaneSAT margarita except 

I'm the designated driver, my companion is 

looking suitably and happily sloshed, 

I'm sure the drink was delicious, 

Is this the best we can do

Is this the best we can do

dragging away those who dream

of freedom, who grieve the one who 

fought for them,  who suffered, 

is this the way it is

humanity is not humane, be it the Russians

the Americans, those who slaughter in Gaza

in the name of freedom, or their rights, 

is this the best we humans can do

to hold this man by his arms, swinging his 

body in that gentle rock that says, "

You have nor rights, nor speech, 

nor freedom of movement, your feet

will only touch the ground when you 

understand this truth

this is the best we can do.

Reach to the stars

Reach to the stars while tethered to stone

Reach together, our delicate hands, 

always womens' hands, our dirty skin

stained with work, fingers rubbed raw.

Happy birthday to me

a leftover piece of strawberry pie

the mug I got a couple of days ago

the Human Body book that I wanted after Mira

showed me what's inside an eye,

roast chicken, a beloved husband and

my cute friend, Julia, who I love to call 

piglet (and she does not)

66 looks good, with grey hair, smiling

eyes and not one speck of boredom

to be seen.  

A poem to capture the day of music, 

a lunch with my brother, a nap and a

rousing capoeira class.

I hope next year is as good. 

The Winter Storm

a long weekend can become a week,

bitter temperatures eventually warm 

and clouds give way to sunshine.

open suitcases left behind collect dust,

work computers left behind are idle

friends keep cooking for us 

snow rests on the ground, the

wind eventually stills.

we only hear the swish of skis

on snow.

A poem should write itself

what will you write today, dear poem,

the wind in my face, the swish of cold snow,

a heart beating, not too fast, not too slow

dear poem, what is in your heart, or in mine,

you, who know me so well, you, who

have been following each moment of

"ma vie tellement modeste".

You, the poem in my breast, you lead

me along, shielding my eyes as best 

you could, and bringing me along to this 

exact moment, where I waited for you,

and you arrived.

The power couple

They didn't say when or why, the 

event, the color of the invitation,

they just arrived in a flourish, her 

green satin dress brushing up against

her beautiful legs, her man at her side

in his black tuxedo.  

Looking for someone, or something,

the President or the stage, they

rush to arrive on time, slightly flushed

but no less elegant, the power couple. 

My new work bag

The other bag, the one with the zipper on the

front - I don't pack that way, and it was

an ugly green, anyway.

This bag, a small carpetbag, I think, 

or a bag for tools or other practical things,

is my work bag, with its wide bottom

and large opening at the top,

it holds my lunch, my badge, and its

darn pretty, don't you think?  

And the poster?  I promised to hang it

in a location where everyone would say.

Yes, I did what the drag queen asked of me.

But don't overdo it

and when the scale tips into red,

live it up, but a little bit less

keep track of it all, the ups and the downs,

the lefts and rights, a little egg

with the rootbeer float, and one

piece of chocolate, not two.  

Go to the gym and walk in the

bright sunshine, smiling uses calories,

does it not?

Joy and Ice Cream in 2024 - A resolution to seek happiness and contentment in the small things

A chocolate ice cream cone

A ride on a carousel

Hugs from someone you love

Giving hugs

Accepting wrongs, and asking forgiveness

Generosity and good will.

Wear a jacket when it's cold,

a beautiful scarf to add color.

Joy and ice cream in 2024

Chocolate with rainbow sprinkles, please.