Watching TV series

Downton Abbey is done for the season.
after a marathon session last night of one
and a half hours,I wonder
how do people watch four hours per day
eating Fritos and brownies, as the scale
moves up but at least we can now discuss
how sad it is that Matthew has died,

we are part of America now.

With the proposal posted to NASA,
my life is free again for margaritas and
more TV series, and did you know
The Good Wife has another season now
so we can follow the lives of others
for a moment, not too long,

I prefer my own.

The Squat

squatting is quite unattractive
and reminds one of ..you know
hiding in the bushes hoping
no one walks by and
notices.
the lowly squat - young men grunting
under heavy weights, straining,
so unattractive.
tonight I find myself squatting
while playing flute, my teacher
towering over me, the sound so
pure, no trace of that tension
that runs up the back through
the neck to the lips that sometimes
say such caustic words.
the squat is underrated in life,
divorce it from what you think,
embrace it like so many lowly
things that bring so much
relief.

multiple universes in my head

i sort of dozed off during the Gamow lecture,
not so much as to start snoring but a bit of
head rolling, the drone of the lecture propelling
me into alternate universes where strings
vibrate and type many different proposals,
the best one to get the contract rising to the top
just as we landed here in this universe
93 million miles away because it is the
right planet in the right universe.
thank goodness Einstein came along to
spawn a million mathematicians giving
a million lectures for a million nights,
our brains drowning in alternate realities
that all lead to deep restful sleep.
thank you, Brian.

too tired to write

I propose stopping for tonight,
let the dust drift where it may,
following unseen electric fields,
flying high on thermals that circulate
my overheated brain,
I should have been writing poetry
tonight about starlight and popsicles,
instead I watch the dust bunnies
gather around my feet as I
pull on my warm jammies and
climb into a cozy bed.

A Boy and His Father; A Mother and her Son

un garcon et son pere
we watch them together,
my son and I, he still wearing his
down jacket and boots, hunched
forward on the couch, me slouched
on the couch, head on pillow
warm under a blanket that has
seen too much dog.
the boy and his father
drive to Mecca, the boy
always speaking French,
his father, Arabic, yet they come
to understand each other in spite
of their different tongues,
as we do on the same couch,
me speaking the language of motherhood,
he that of a young man bursting forth
into a new world.

proposal writing

I'd rather propose to you
next to a roaring fire, a glass of red,
a plate of shrimp drenched in chipotle sauce
red hot delicious.
alas, proposal writing is another thing indeed,
so many paragraphs so carefully crafted
to convince them,
not of a happy life together,
but of the importance of science,
this science, so I write this late
at night, not of love
but of the Moon
and dust

Saying the Wrong Thing

after awhile she stopped talking
even though she appeared to understand
she was not blind or deaf
the family cajoled, begged, cried in frustration,
screamed in anger,
her mother held her in her arms,
her father looked down her throat.
her sister taunted her endlessly with glee,
she never replied, only her eyes told her truth.
the family went to therapy where
they tried to rebirth her by swaddling her
in a thick sleeping bag.
we all remember the end of that story.
she never spoke again
she died happy knowing she would
never say the wrong thing again.