Saturday, November 10, 2012

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. 

Sunday, November 4, 2012

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


Tuesday, October 23, 2012

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.

Monday, October 22, 2012

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 






Sunday, October 21, 2012

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.