dog bites and bee stings

wasp nests
hanging by a thread
they congregate in old wooden garden boxes
quick on the attack
i wake at night from the  heat and swelling
i recover
only to overindulge in rough play
with a little black dog
we each grab for the stick and
she finds both the softness of human flesh
and the stick
she wins
i lose.

Supervision

bent over his new grill,

prodding a steak and turning vegetables

I watch, I supervise from a distance

sprawled out in my new lounge chair,

the one will a thick layer of pollen settled

into the crease.

well put together with matching socks,

a black long sleeve top and spectacular 

necklace, I watch my balding sweetheart

(don't tell him I noticed)

making my dinner.

it's good to be the supervisor

he got an A+

Traveling to Utica

if i soften and lean towards coming here
again, don't let me,
don't let me ride a bus, fly south to Charlotte
only to board another plane to
Syracuse
I begged for a rental car
and got one for a day
so I could wander through this god
forsaken town with shuttered store fronts
and sad looking double deckers
progress has left this town
behind
and so don't let me come here again
i gave ten hours of my life to get here
way too many

Where is a poem

Let me tell you  where a poem is

hidden behind your face
a shadow of sadness
under bright artificial light

behind that door
a melody of voices,
growls, sobs, singing, then silence

in the bees' nest outside my window
blanketed in winter cold

yielding to spring sunshine
wings, beating, shimmering
in the heat.

(I wrote this poem long ago and chanced upon it...)

Home alone

when I came home,
there was no wagging tail.
when I woke up from my slumber
there was no smile at the bottom of the stairs,
there was no smell of cooking or
the pop of a cork.
it's lonely with no one here but me.
I'm spoiled having a man to hug,
a dog to walk with me, a full refrigerator,
a daughter close by,
they are all away and Boulder
seems so empty.
I miss them being home alone,
I want them to come home.

Happy Birthday, Karen!

my beautiful and brilliant daughter, 

we'll celebrate over buttermilk chocolate cake

with bittersweet ganache icing.

she makes the icing, patiently whipping it

into chocolate deliciousness while I drink

to her health and long life.

what else can a mother do when there is

nothing left to be done, except to keep loving

her, and caving to all her requests.

it was a long day of shopping, cooking and

baking, every second worth it.

and now, for her birthday gift she holds a

sort of ugly, well, very ugly, sparkly 

Christmas decoration for new beginnings

begun long ago.

and, so this beautiful and brilliant daughter

is launching into new adventures; I hope

she will invite me along from time to 

time.

what's love got to do with it?

on a morning walk

we saw "Love", followed by five dogs

and two middle aged women,

like me.

what's Love got to do with 

walking a dog, two women engrossed 

in conversation, these words were sprayed

at midnight on a lonely log

looking for Love

it found Love

as did the women walking their five dogs

and I did, walking my dog as the

sun filtered through the trees,

the stream rushed along its banks,

and I knew that Love belonged

here, and

there.