Tuesday, December 24, 2024

To my son

 without a second of hesitation
You offered to pick me up, after already having spent
Many hours of driving, 
already, that day, 
You offered to drive another three hours for me to 
Spend a bit of time with my brother
Who was laying in a sterile hospital bed in an
Anonymous suburb far away.
We drove in the dark, through the congestion of rush hour
Until we reached that small sterile room where my dear brother,
Looking so old, so frail, so vulnerable, 
And you were with me, my son, the one I brought into this world,
And feel too often that I don't see enough, that you have launched
So far away, but here we are, together, in this moment, in this so 
Terribly vulnerable moment.
And I watched you be so amazingly you, pulling the stroke
Chart off the wall, finding a permanent marker and a post-it pad,
And I knew there was no one else that I wanted to be with me
In that moment but my son.
And when my brother looked at us with his sad quizzical eyes and 
Said What the Fuck between streams of unintelligibility
- we could only laugh, and harder yet when
He could not read back the same words.
But with sadness, too.
The drive back was shorter, lighter, WTF 
Let's see what tomorrow brings. 

Wednesday, December 11, 2024

Writers - and Readers

 She's one, too. 
And the guy over there, the one that bakes bread,
I read his book and gave my copy to a friend
Who doesn't write.
But her, oh, she recommends the most amazing books like the one
About the man who walked across a wire from the North to the South Tower.
All those people who were watching on the ground were connected,
Like the wire, bouncing along in their disparate lives, almost falling, then
Catching themselves at the last minute.

Thursday, November 28, 2024

This is AMERICA

They crowded me, big men, brown men to each side, 
I offered my armrests, as I am but a small person in the middle seat.
Victor had seen dead bodies at the side of the road at age six
(Running from home to school in El Salvador) before escaping to 
AMERICA.
And EdGAR, (he says to accent the second syllable) headed North as well, to 
AMERICA.
Guatemala offered nothing and papa was dead.
Their bodies took up space and their words filled the cabin
With stories of escape and deliverance, the deep rumble of their
Trucks on American highways, the smell of the loads of recycled cardboard,
How the young truckers don't respect anymore, stealing gas and materials from 
Others.
Victor shared fantastic tales of Tribulation of the religious variety, 
EdGAR of tribulation of the difficulty of renewing his truck license in California.
This is 
AMERICA, 
Where anything is possible, anyone is possible, anywhere is possible
As long as you are present to see it, hear it, feel it.
this is AMERICA. 


Tuesday, November 26, 2024

Finding the correct tool


 I hadn't read the recipe, quickly perusing the required matériels 
To participate in the "cookie making", the event at the big house
Past the locked gates, situated along the winding, narrow road.
It was very dark.
The recipe surely included flour, butter and perhaps some eggs, but
Would the batter be too thick for the whisk, or too thin for the kneading
Bring both, she said, she, who had forgotten the details
(Written in German, yet!)
Imagining that we would share the KitchenAide mixer, the pink one
(That my husband had bought me for Valentine's Day),
And finding that everyone brought their own.
The hostess diligently instructed us, and I watched her, 
Deciding to do the mixing very differently, 
And of course, choosing to cut shapes in the dough, 
Completely differently, with animals shapes instead of stars,
Without the nuts, so I could get them done more quickly and 
Retreat to my small house, situated in a crowded neighborhood
Where anyone can go, where anyone can walk, where no one will 
Notice that you are not from here.

Saturday, November 23, 2024

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.  

Monday, November 18, 2024

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.

 

Wednesday, November 13, 2024

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.

Tuesday, November 12, 2024

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?
 

Thursday, November 7, 2024

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.

 

Tuesday, October 29, 2024

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. 

 

Wednesday, October 23, 2024

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!



 

Sunday, October 13, 2024

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?

 

Saturday, October 5, 2024

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.  

 

Saturday, September 28, 2024

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. 


 

Thursday, September 19, 2024

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.  


 

Friday, September 13, 2024

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?


 

Tuesday, September 3, 2024

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.  
 

Monday, August 26, 2024

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. 

Wednesday, August 21, 2024

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.

Wednesday, August 14, 2024

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. 

Monday, August 12, 2024

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.

Thursday, August 1, 2024

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. 

Tuesday, July 30, 2024

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.  

Sunday, July 21, 2024

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.

Thursday, July 18, 2024

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.


Saturday, July 13, 2024

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.  


Friday, July 5, 2024

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.  

Wednesday, July 3, 2024

Deciding on retirement: 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?  

Tuesday, June 25, 2024

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. 

Thursday, June 20, 2024

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. 

Thursday, June 13, 2024

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,





Sunday, June 2, 2024

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.

Tuesday, May 28, 2024

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.

Sunday, May 26, 2024

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.

.

Tuesday, May 14, 2024

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.

Friday, May 10, 2024

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.

Wednesday, May 1, 2024

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.

Sunday, April 14, 2024

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.

Sunday, April 7, 2024

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.

Friday, March 29, 2024

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.

Tuesday, March 19, 2024

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.

Tuesday, March 5, 2024

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, 

Sunday, February 18, 2024

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.

Wednesday, January 31, 2024

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.

Friday, January 19, 2024

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. 

Wednesday, January 17, 2024

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.

Sunday, January 14, 2024

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.

Thursday, January 11, 2024

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. 

Tuesday, January 9, 2024

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.

Tuesday, January 2, 2024

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?

Monday, January 1, 2024

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.