The long lost sewing scissors and seam ripper

 So when the buttonhole was poorly placed

(See last post), what to be done without a sharp scissor,

Or better yet, a seam ripper,  knowing that once upon a time

The two tools could be found in the sewing box.

A savage rip using the wrong tool did the damage

(And made me sad), yet in the following days,

They were found, in a large box into which the man

(Who said he could help but did not in any productive way)

Had placed so many precious items that had appeared to him

"Unnecessary" or "unknown", as some men do not understand

The essential value of a good pair sewing scissors or this odd 

Little necessary tool called a seam ripper.

Alas, it is too late for the buttonhole that as poorly placed,

Yet, the next sewing project will be undertaken with gratitude,

The needed tools back inside the old metal tool box

That doubles as a sewing kit.

Indeed.

The long awaited buttonhole

Every time my pillow brushed against the makeshift curtain,

It fell onto my head, exposing me to the brilliant sunshine, my eyes

Popping open when they wish to be closed in a mid-day nap. 

I cursed again at my shoddy attachment, binder clipped to the fabric

(Oh, such beautiful fabric from Senegal!)

Yet so loosely held, the clip to fabric. 

So

A curtain rod?  No, that's a purchase, a hammer, some screws, some sewing.

A buttonhole! Yes, to secure onto the nails already in place!

The long awaited buttonhole, that holds the fabric in place

(I checked)

So that when my long-awaited guests arrive, tired from their long journey

And settling into a midday nap, when their pillows brush against the

Makeshift curtain, it does not fall onto their sleeping heads,

Pulled taut, it holds in place

I smile to think of how they will sleep so peacefully.

 

How to spend the day

 When I opened my eyes, finally ceding to the raucous birds that they had won, the day would begin even if it was only 5:30 a.m.

And I wondered how many layers of clothes would be needed once I exited my warm sleeping bag, 

And what on Earth I would do the next 15 hours until I could gratefully close my eyes again, in this God-forsaken wilderness lacking all my usual diversions

So I layered on some clothes and found a small path leading  down to the lake where I found Paradise and enough to keep me occupied 

Watching fog roll across the water, noticing all the different heights of willow at the shoreline and the ever changing kaleidoscope of color on the hillsides.  

I came back this evening, hauling my folding chair and book, my husband, to dangle my feet in the water, feel the wind cool my skin so warmed from the sun.  

Once home, I will listen more closely to the birds and I will sit in my garden, to notice the different heights of the plants, to watch the passage of the shadows across my small Paradise.

Thank you for the flowers

 Thank you for the Flowers on the front cover of your book, the one I randomly picked off the shelf, feeling somewhat in need of flowers from someone who could maybe be my friend. 

Where are you, friend, on this rather gloomy day that watches our country burn to ashes, where children drown in Texas floods. 

And why can't I laugh off the ridiculousness of it - well because I live here, after all.  

It's a day to write a poem on my phone sitting in the bookstore, something I never do, except that

There is a woman at home scrubbing baseboards that have not been cleaned in decades and my husband is riding his bike along mountain streams

So I am here seeking solace, an escape from some parts of reality that pull me down, that even pushing big weights at the gym does not budge.

So thanks for the flowers, the poems inside that may, or may not, speak to me, but at least, you exist.

This is all the garden that I want

He says that I would be bored, but what does he know

about gardening, about finding help that actually knows what a weed is

(in spite of their enthusiastic proclamations of knowing all about weeds),

and what does he know about drip irrigation, busted lines, water in the basement.  

He says that I would be bored, but I think I would be perfectly happy with a tiny garden.

Like this one, with Saint Francis holding some water for birds next to a couple clumps

of beautiful yellow blooms.  

I threaten that I want to move away from this house with this big garden, 

and I see him cringe, visibly.  

So, I'll whittle away at this garden, cover it with hardscape and mulch, get rid of

all those places that simply grow weeds, that become a jungle in the back corner.

I'll get rid of the attempt at a compost pile, which invites pack rats,

how they love the warmth and the food.  

He says that I would be bored, but I'm going to do all that I can to get bored by

whittling away at this overwhelming mess of a garden, little by little,

with the help of people who know nothing, but are maybe willing to learn. 

 

The family

I never used to go to these things, preferring to avoid the potentially unpleasant conversations,

Like the one that was a monologue about how he was making the world a better place as I sat there

Silently mulling how to find some more money to build boats in impoverished Senegal, across the world.

Like the one about the underlying personality problems of my son due to my inadequate mothering,

Or maybe the long drone about financial instruments and how to save money, how to keep your pennies firmly within your grasp,

Such things as that.

But now we are old, one stumbling over words after another stroke, another's heart racing wildly from 

One moment to the next, our backs are hurting but we all have time.

And now that we are old, perhaps we understand the need to listen to one another a bit better,

And maybe not go on endlessly about our point of view.

We celebrated the twin's 70th, ate and drank together, walked the dogs and chatted over coffee.

It was actually pretty nice and as I look at this photo, I cannot avoid the fact that we sure look alike.  

 

We were there - Denver No Kings March

 

We marched with the throngs in the heat, 

the American flag unfurled, our flag, our grey hair peeking 

Out from our hats, yes, we were there.

We boarded the bus and went to the Big City 

To march in the heat, the sun, to sing and chant,

To repeat the words of Democracy.

This is OUR country, No Kings since 1776.

and when a young lady at the party confided that she and her

Husband decided not go for safety reasons, I urged her

Not to be afraid, that she would be among 

All of us who hoped for a better future. 

And that now is not the time to be afraid. 

Being a dog

She looked at me for the photo, on request.

She knows her name, and the couch is a promising location

For access to treats and pets, even if I don't sit there very often.

She may be telling me in this moment that she had a long day following

Me around the garden as I patiently instructed the young man on how to

Pull a weed, knowing that he'll learn with time.

This is the labor of mentorship, the old must help the young.

And Bella, well, she is old now, with her grey muzzle and I 

Wonder how many puppies have learned to pull worms from the earth,

Roll so joyfully on them, legs swinging in the air and back gyrating

On grass so happily as to make me laugh no matter my mood.

Yes, the life of Bella is sublime, every dog deserves it

As does every person, in fact.

 

The most wonderful weekend with my son

My son, his smile, the conversations

The most amazing conversations about so many things

His full attention, a bike ride up alongside the river

And a belated Mother's Day Brunch

Complete with mimosa and latte

A tuna tartine and a brownie to finish it off.

A deep happiness and yet wanting so many more

Of these moments, these shared experiences

Ah, the complex layers of emotion! 

The loss of years gone by, opportunities 

Missed, conversations that never happened,

Misunderstandings next to the Joy

That today this man is fully here with me

His mother, who did her best

What else can one do

 

A blueberry tart and some blueberry bread

It was the second time 

That I pulled out my phone, Apple Pay to be exact

In that crowded hall on some Island in Vancouver.

This time my companion was not timid about eating her share, 

No, "Oh, that's so nice of you but I've had enough", no

This woman wolfed down all that I left her, with enthusiasm

My hope to nibble the leftovers a bit later evaporated, 

And I wondered whether my previous companion, with all her politeness

Was the better to travel with so that I could gorge myself,

Or this one here, who unabashedly took her place in the world

Claiming all her rights to eat the rest of the 

Blueberry delights.  

 

The glass dome with the trees inside

 

Through the raindrops

I could see trees, the green canopy brushing

Against the glass dome above and I wondered

Were there monkeys inside, bounding from limb to limb

Or was there a sleek black panther winding amongst the trunks

But as I approached the door, I saw men in black ties

And women in gowns, holding their cocktails.

They were all white people and then I noticed 

A man standing in the rain, bent over 

As if to create his own dome of safety

From the stares of those of us who

Have decent rain gear and who are just passing

By on our way to somewhere else, 

Dry and safe.

We are all called to be Mothers

I called her the Duchess as a baby, 

She somehow conveyed that the service was sub-par

And decided to take things in hand, eventually towering over me

In all ways, it seems.

And now she is a Mother, and her babies will demand every bit 

As much, as children do.

We are called to  be Mothers in this world, so many tears

 To dry, so many flowers to plant, so much loving is needed,

Especially in these times when a chainsaw is celebrated as the 

Solution to human problems.

Be a Mother today.

MIT Graduation - the only one who showed up

He's the only one who showed up,

To show respect for Herculean tasks undertaken,

Accomplishment in less than four years,

That's what no money does - you hurry up.

The teeming crowds of families, not only the 

Fathers and mothers, but the uncles, aunts and cousins,

All milling around on campus, the parties, the

Hugs and congratulations.

He was the only one who showed up, this brother,

While the Mother and Father had better things to do

Than celebrate a daughter's graduation from MIT,

Maybe because they never gave a single penny,

Their skin was never in the game.  

In the end, it is they who lost in 

This Precious life. 

 

The durability of a delicate husk

I spotted the glimmer of the tomatillo husk amidst the creeping bellflowers,

having survived the bruising winter, crushed by snow,

Pelted by hail and rain, the delicate skeleton hull of the tomatillo endures, sparkling

In the sun, having only opened so far as to let slip the lucious 

Fruit onto the ground, no doubt its seeds waiting patiently to

Spring forth new life 

 

When I was young

When I was young, I didn't know that I was beautiful,

That my smile filled my face and beamed out at everyone in sight.

My teeth were so white and my lopsided smile assured any potential

Friend, or foe, that I was not to be feared.

When I was young, I could wear form-fitting dresses on

My slim frame, this one given to me by someone who could not.

I didn't fully appreciate the gift,

The real gift, of being young, but not so young, that the world

Had become mine, parents gone, siblings at a distance, 

Established career and my own house with flowers behind me,

Lilacs that are blooming at this exact moment, ten years later,

And they still smell the same.

When I was young, I only knew what had been, and now I only

Know what was, and only now see the beauty in my smile,

The gaze that said, "Hello! Here I am and I want to be your friend".

 

What you can find there

It is difficult to get news from poems since the title font is small

And never capitalized.

A poem is usually not found on FaceBook or the leading article in the NYT;

One never finds poems on newsstands and the poetry section at the bookstore is in the 

Back corner.

Frankly, poets are partly responsible, seeming to celebrate the most obscure and difficult to understand.

An unknown word should not prevent the falling in love with a great poem

Most of us never read poetry, our heads down, doomscrolling on our phones,

Suddenly rising, slightly out of breath and shaken, we may wonder why 

We subject ourselves to such daily trauma.  

The great poet, WC Williams, asks us to find something there,

 in poetry,

Perhaps you will find yourself there

 

I never planted you

I never planted you but you keep coming back in Spring to brighten my day.

I didn't have to ask the woodpecker to alight on the suet feeder and stare at me so intently

Or even wonder whether my brother would help me fix the dishwasher,

Because he always does

My husband cooks for me without me asking, and our dog wags her tail so hard when we

Walk out the door for our walk that I have to smile regardless of my mood.

I didn't ask for this life, but I arrived in this world and she has taught me to love

The flowers which arrive unbidden, the generosity of strangers, birdsong on a Spring morning

 

Never Forget

Never forget that you still have something to say, that you have arrived in this place

Through some sort of magical fertilization and growth, some yet more magical coupling

Of two who had blindfolds on when they signed their marriage license.

Never forget that you have not failed until you have died, and even then, you may have another 

Chance to learn about chord progressions while listening to angels.

One never knows, but never forget that today is today, and there's a chance that 

Past experiences may be cleansed in the snow which has magically transformed into 

Red and yellow tulips, ones that I never planted, but that arrived by squirrel or bird,

Never forget magic.

Or miracles.

 

A gift of love

She offered it to me because I had said I loved it when she first walked into the room

Only moments ago, but ages yet, after sobbing and stammering over the loss,

The grief, the disbelief, the incredulity that this could have happened again

And why, and why, I sobbed

And they all looked at me, their eyes which have seen so much, knowing this grief 

Or another, at least as bad, maybe worse, but by this age, we all know deep grief.

I said yes.

And then after she gingerly removed it from her neck, she passed it to the next person

Who held it in their hands for blessed moment before passing it all around the table

Where each person sent their intent of love and healing into this beautiful shimmer

Of love and community.

I put it on, it is my intention that a baby is one day cradled in their arms.  

 

Darkness and Light at Equinox

The beauty of the daffodils and the forsythia alongside the house

stopped me short, to take this photograph. 

Death was the only thing on my mind, my heart heavy,

Tears flowing down my cheeks,  how 

Dare the brilliant yellows intrude upon the dark side of this equinox.

I am in the darkest place with the news this Spring, when 

We should have been rejoicing in sunshine, the light has turned

Away from us, from me, from those I love more than my 

Own small life.

I took out my phone to capture the beauty alongside my small house, 

The yellows are blurry with tears, but insistent to be noticed.

To call me into the light from this dark place.

Today I don't know how, but the daffodils and 

The forsythia will still be there this afternoon, 

Tomorrow, to greet me

Alongside my small house, they do not know

Grief, only beauty.  

 

Rewriting

 

In the rewriting, I can find the downbeat,

Even if in a moment of silence, it's there, a steadiness

When the heel taps on wood floor, and upon rising finds

A flurry of sixteenth notes streaming forth

An energy, so necessary in these times.

In rewriting, the chaotic became manageable, and the 

Music navigable, the beat is within me and 

I can carry this into this dire time, find the downbeat,

Rest a moment, if needed, and reach for the next.

Fight Time

And to those who are asleep, wake up!

To those who believe the horror will happen to someone else,

It will arrive at your door, 

You, the one who was stopped by ICE agent -

Even though you voted for Trump.

Yes, you who is getting advanced immunotherapy compliments of 

The government, it will stop for you, even though you voted for Trump

Regardless of what you do, what you have endured, the horror has

Arrived and will keep flowing through the open cowardly fingers

Of our politicians, now fearful of what they have created,

The fear and violence at their doors.

Wake up, America!

 

Resting before the fight

Do not be deceived by the grey muzzle, the closed eyes in the recliner.  

We are ready to fight for our lives,

For their lives, for the children, the disabled and the elderly,

For us, for our Earth.

We may look sleepy in the recliner, but we will rouse ourselves 

From slumber, from the apathy that comes from the expectation of

A government that kept working,  the National Parks that welcomed us, 

The Social Security checks, children in school, nurses caring for us across America.

Having come to expect that everything will continue as it has,

We are awakened by the Orange Monster and the black MAGA hat,

The ones who dispense lies like the Pez we used to gobble in our childhoods.

Just as the sugar was not good for us then, this diet will kill us if we don't wake up.

Rest for today, but rise tomorrow for the fight, I will join you there.  

 

Signs of spring

The sheets will smell of sunshine and wind, of Spring

Of snow, yet, and the chill of departing winter mixed with 

The heat of the sun, it's all so divine, Spring.

The grass was never raked, the leaves in sodden layers of rot,

The smell will rise to the sheets, to be mixed with sun and snow,

And warmth, infusing my dreams with the promise of Spring.

 

It was terribly dark

 It was terribly dark, the mosquitoes buzzed in my ear

The kitchen sink did not drain and the faucet dribbled cold dank water

This was not the kitchen I was thinking of, this was not the place I was thinking of

This was not the friend I was thinking of, no, not this one

This is not the one that I made up in my mind,

This is not the bedroom that I dreamed of, the buzz of mosquitoes

In my ear as I lay in the dark.  

I left all the lovely gifts in the kitchen, and I walked away

Never to return, never to talk to this man who turned out not to 

Be the man I thought he was, instead a cold man living in 

A terribly dark world, mosquitoes buzzing around his 

Tormented mind.  

Cooking in Dakar

He said that we should cook together

So could I bring the required utensils, pots, pans

And spatulas, mixing spoons and a sharp knife.

I mingled with those who shop discount at GoodWill

Awed by the goods and their prices, at what the more moneyed

Can throw into a box for the less moneyed.

Those spatulas that need to be replaced with a new color,

Or a saute pan, seemingly never used, that seeks a new home.

Why not Dakar,

Where the flame of a propane tank will sear a locally caught fish,

I can't wait to smell the delicious odor of fried fish

Mingling with the fresh breeze off the ocean. 

 

The Importance of Darkness

The stars can't reach me 

I curse the streetlights that flood the bedroom

My eyes never sleep

The agitation makes me hot, my feet reach

Towards the cold darkness

On the other side of the bed

I know the stars are shining there

My eyes sleep.

 

Love letters

I do love her

And

She loves unicorns.

They are everywhere in her life, temporary tattoos,

A tall stuffed unicorn at Nana's

She straddles it just barely this year.

Next year, she'll stand tall over her and will carry her around

As if a small suitcase, a support object for 

Challenges in life.

We all have them, these challenges, but when a letter arrives

In our mailbox,

They all temporarily fall away as LOVE

Tumbles out of the envelope as soon

As the beloved opens it. 

 

Happy birthday to me

 Happy birthday to me, a gift to remember him by, 

The man with the broad smile, the one with not too 

Long to live, that one, handsome at age 47, 

Yes, the one whose fingers weave thin strips of palm into 

Hearts, propelling me into his world of beaches in Nicaragua,  where an old man taught him this magic.

There is magic in his eyes that will soon cloud over as they look heavenward to his God.  

Breakfast bar in La Fortuna

Pico gallo and eggs for us,

Banana, oranges and seeds for them 

I'm wondering if I can look them up and add them to

My non-existent bird list, the one that exists only in my mind,

The one that will start when I retire, when I have time

And motivation to go out with Jeff, and learn about 

Birds.

Yes, the birds at the breakfast bar will seed my bird list,

The one that I will start as soon as I get home. 

I'll tell Jeff all about it and he will show me the way,

Will motivate me to get up early, to open my ears and bring the 

Binoculars to my eyes.  

He will teach me all about birds.  

Thank you in advance, Jeff.

 

The surprise on the other side

I was surprised by the blue flash, its iridescence on the other

Side of what was already beautiful

Why add more beauty, a different beauty when there was

Already enough of it, with its pattern of brown,

Yellow and grey whirls and swirls, why add an 

Iridescent blue that flashes like an intermittent

Lantern, leading me towards the woods, into an 

Unknown world, one where there may be dangers, 

But also joy, surely surprises, like blue on the 

Other side of what was already beautiful,

Finding time to be astonished. 

 

Feeling small

Next to this towering tree, I am so small,

My husband, taller than me, is so small, 

We are so small, the fires in Los Angeles rage over our heads 

We are all so powerless and yet we point our fingers at the other

The other small beings who too often choose small ideas and hurl

Them with their small angry hand, the one not clutching their billions

I reach down and stroke the smooth bark that stretches

Impossibly high into the canopy

The leaves up top are so high, they look down on me

And see how small I am, so distant. 

shimmering endlessly in the sky

Smiling upwards. 

What she left behind

She said, in her own, little sweet way

"I'll be back", to get my toothbrush.  

When she left, she swung her long hair over her shoulder,

But when she comes back her bangs will be short and she will look so much older

I saw that in her face, with the fires blazing behind her in the LA hills,

She had to grow up, leave her cozy little canopy bed and head

To a strange house an hour away.

She no doubt wondered where her pink tooth brush was

The one with the polka dots, the one she left at Mimi and Opa's house

The place she feels loved and safe, and 100%

Spoiled. 

 

Figuring out retirement

I'm wondering how to fill the days that stretch in front of me,

No longer calling for sophisticated analyses, or providing guidance for the young,

The page of life looks empty and unstructured, scary, white, ghostly

So I write

I plot, I ask ChatGPT to make me a life, of things I think I want to do, 

And then, I step aside, and I do my life and fill in the blanks of what I did

There is no correspondence, in fact, no foundational eureka moment of where I 

Will go in this life, only a page of "I thought" next to "I did", but this must

Tell me me something of what I want to do because,

 I did.