Talking through traffic jams

it's a time to talk, when he is driving,
the radio is only static, it's dark and
we have a couple hours to go.
the red lights extend well ahead of
us, flashing brakes, stop and go, our
conversation bridges the moments
of silence that can linger in restaurants,
preoccupation means missed opportunities,
when you didn't even see what was
coming because you weren't even
listening, looking or learning.

Dream catchers

do the dreams get caught heading out,
or coming in, don't they start somewhere
in the deep unconscious, but is it cosmic
or internally generated, I always wondered
as I picked up the one made in kindergarten
that had found its way into a pile on my desk.
but I have two, one was bought with hard
earned pennies and it hangs on the window
facing the street while the one made with
childish hands hangs at the window
near my bed catching dreams of optimism,
of mud puddles and chocolate cookies,
of puppies and the wind rustling in the
willows where Pooh Bear and Piglet
are stuffing their faces with honey.

(Image from Winnie the Pooh's honey harvest game, for those who are interested!)

Seeing Double

if one world is not enough,
double up, each building split in two,
wavering in separation, the clouds wander
from left back towards the right following
the oscillations of the brain.
trust me that one world is enough in
its brilliance and glory, soaring mountains
and rushing rivers, towering skyscrapers,
art that  takes your breath away.
let the eyes settle on one reality
by watching strings and beads,
following dots and making two
squares into one.

Never Here

we're never here anymore, glued to a phone
talking to someone elsewhere, we're never here
when a rhinoceros walks by in a gorilla outfit
our eyes do not see the rain clouds roll in, finding
ourselves drenched and then
clothes wet, cold, we grab our jackets,
holding our phones to our ears only to
run inside somewhere to continue our
conversation with someone who
is not here.
how much we miss.



http://lens.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/11/08/passersby-preoccupied/

paperwork

random piles of paperwork
strewn across all horizonal surfaces, the wind blows in
the window, ruffling and then lofting the mismatched, unfiled
sheaves of white, rising like a cloud under the golden skies of my room.
the moon shines in the west window, casting shadows that bounce
across the closet doors, each sharp line folded in two
and two again, until they drift back slowly
to all horizontal surfaces, stacked
neatly in ordered piles.

never enough time

never enough time to enjoy
the sound of her voice on the phone,
her laughter when the dishes need to be done
and I wonder at my priorities at reading
about Syria and Egypt when I find Social Q's
so much more entertaining.
There are so many who suffer, thousands
shot in the street and my attention drifts to
dirty dishes and when will I have time
to do them before heading off to
work early tomorrow morning.
never enough time to breathe,
really breathe, hearing the breath,
when all I hear are the crickets outside my
window.
I wear ear plugs to block out their melody
sometimes so I can dream about
the phone ringing, when I will hear
her voice and will have all the time
in the world of infinite time
and space.

Learning to hold a flute all over again

it's like starting over
it is starting over, all over, with the flute
wobbling woefully, my thumb can't find
its place, stressed out and searching like
Goldilocks for the spot, just right, not too
far left, not too far right, not too far up or
down, just right.
it's hard to start over again, the fluent
passages that used to sing from my flute
seem impossibly distant.
they were not fluent enough so
the tall South African sent me back
to kindergarten, and did not
even provide cookies and
milk.