Reasons for Staying Up Late

to curl up with the cats

in the bed of stars
that have drifted through the ceiling 

to listen to coyotes
converse with the moon

to breathe in the intoxicating smell 

of the night blooming jasmine
drifting in the window
that calls me to dance

through the backyard in my nightgown

because my midnight muse

has arrived
carrying a basket of words

that must be used before dawn 

and because you are asleep
and waiting

and because nothing
is sweeter than returning
to the curve of your back against mine
to wake to the orange hush
of morning together

Wheeled Home

I want a house with wheels 

not a trailer. 

I don't care for trailers.

I lived in one once.

It made me feel untethered  

as if  I was in a silver boat

that was landlocked yet somehow drifting  

I was lost but I didn't want to know it.

I want my house to be the house

I live in now but with really 

amazing wheels,  and also a rudder

so it could  go in rivers, oceans even.

I fell in love with my home slowly

it was like an arranged marriage. 

I loved my old neighborhood 

and my old neighbors.

I  didn't want to move but one day 

the love of my house 

and my yard knocked me down.

We have a passionate affair now.

I want it to go with me everywhere.

So my house will sprout wheels 

and a rudder and sails but not wings. 

well, maybe wings, too, why not.

The  house will go 

wherever I want

Italy, Lake Como, perhaps,

and the African plains,

the moors of england

to be with the wild ponies again

the streets of Paris,

and to shanghai for dinner.  

I will be far away and home too

and the cats 

will look out the windows

puzzled but content. 

Monarch Grove

they soar like tiny winged cathedrals

their windows open to heaven

an infinity of butterflies weave themselves

through the Eucalyptus trees

filling them with a quickening light 

the smell around us in mint, honey, and pine

the clouds are so far above

we live only in sunshine

a kiss under a Monarch cluster 

a butterfly kiss,

the world contains everything 

in this moment and more

we are royalty

counting our sudden wealth, branch by golden branch

October at the Grocer's

and so 

it was just one of those 

full moon days when the loonies 

were out and  busy practicing their looniness

so, so, so

be bold if you want to

do more than  think about 

kicking the butt of the horrible 

woman next to you in the ten item line

the one who  is sneering  and  loudly 

counting your eleven items, twice 

be kinder than you want to be,

no kicking.

be wise as a serpent 

be  gentle as a dove

take the 2 oranges out of her 

clenched fists and begin juggling 

them, concentrate very hard 

until the oranges

become  bumblebees, 

that flitter and buzz and dive bomb

before settling into the nest 

of her witchy hair

there to make sweet honey

of  her frazzled life.

and that man who insists 

on throwing outrageous numbers 

into his cell phone. holding captive 

the deli line with his million dollar deal

give him a necklace of linked sausages, 

bratwurst would be best, 

and dance him down the aisles

until he promises never to use in public

the words merger or stock shares

ever, ever  again, 

and heads for produce 

doing a soft shoe.

take the little boy in the giant red 

shopping car that is crashing 

against cartons  and over feet

and place his harassed  mother's hand 

in his and count to ten 

 they will  next be seen 

 flying over Aspen 

singing about  golden leaves

and having more than enough time

for everything under the sun

invite the irritable  butcher to lay down

his knife and stuff himself 

full of candy corn and licorice 

until he becomes a  large round

Halloween pumpkin,

winning 1st place in the show,

before retiring to the garden 

of a family of five, 

whose youngest child 

and he laugh, great jolly  laughs 

that burst across the sky

and are often found 

giggling  into the falling twilight.

the soul is here for its own joy 

the poet said

help it happen daily 

at a grocery store near you.

the sky paints itself without a brush

without a sketch

as the sea with no conductor
plays both allegro and grave

love can be so spare,
desert sun, dry bones

yet sometimes,
soft winged, ocean mist

lapping waves
before the undertow,

the sky makes it look so easy
the capitulation,

heaven's bow to night
knowing darkness lasts

only until dawn sings in the day
perhaps love is like gravity

let it go,  let it go, to fall exactly where it should

all the crooked things shall be made straight

the prophet, Isaiah,  proclaimed

ah but the devil is said to hate a crooked path

as always preferring the obvious 

we  yearn for an easing 

on our single minded journey  

a  straightening 

 yet the bump, the twists, 

the hairpin turns 

are the trip's  intake of breath 

 children yelp in  joy

on roller coasters roads

urging their father to drive faster

each hill a swoosh

and swivel 

of celebration

as each pebble in your shoe 

on a woodland walk 

is a little reckoning

let heaven be a holy mess

streets not paved in gold

but pot hole lined and limitless

View Through a Plane Window

Is  this sky or ocean,  

a rush of frost white waves 

or clouds? 

At 60, I'm  an over eager child

puppy limbed, 

in my desire

to jump into the beyond.

The plane my diving board,

I become a winged creature 

in these cold heights.

Am i hearing the persistent 

thrum of jet engines in my ear

or is my own propulsion unleashed

No one sees me 

there are no startled gasps

of delight or of horror.

The pretzels are still being served

to seat 43 d.

A tawny heat rises

from the hills below,   

hills that wait like sleeping lions.

I want to curl among them,   

watch  the horizon scatter

as night approaches

and the sun catches fire.

No one has discovered 

I am gone.  My seat belt 

is unbuckled.  My reading glasses

have fallen to the floor.

I am following directions 

that disappeared one night

long ago and are now

imprinted on my palms.

    

A  map I had never forgotten

only neglected

to remember.

Then

sweet grassiness of rain,

spring's breath

swelling  in the shadows

the sky shuddering 

and the patter of each  raindrop

sweeping into us

later, above blue

and now bluer and you 

and I shy and shyer 

than the eyes

of the meadow greening 

some moments 

or years from now

I will breathe 

into memory 

and the quivers of night

shall pass and somewhere 

you will be moved into dancing 

and I too

and that will mean all 

and more 

Slightly Higher in Canada

call of the goose, bereft,

his mate 

somewhere over 

the moon and gone 

o lord, she can't get no higher 

then  its stumble flight 

nip, nipping at shadows

plotting revenge 

on the wind

and the flirtatious pull,

of the stars  

spellbound it is-

- thunderstruck 

down-in-the-mouth 

this bird, 

one toke over the line 

wings akimbo

did you mean to shoot straight 

take a drag 

collect your prize 

it leaned into the bullet 

didn't it ?

Queen of Sheba

Bella,

aptly  named feline,

you  lie in sleek ,

black beauty across my chest,  

lowering my blood pressure, 

by the steady thrum of you.

Or so I have been told.

My  heart beat eases into  

a slow, steady rhythm 

as the rumble 

of your ferocious purrs 

softens into an almost unvoiced whisper.

Yet, your partly 

opened claws 

on my throat 

dare me to move 

and disturb our newly won peace.

Bella, lovely as midnight

Let us doze the soft afternoon away. 

You,  in regal splendor

I, your humble human, 

depending upon you to forget

the jungle  in your bones,

and  remain a sweet

mountain of peace 

upon my sleeping chest

Lowering my blood pressure 

or so I have been told.