Ordinary Poetry for Extraordinary Days
By Marylou Colver
Summer Blackberries.
Wild, tangled,
Dusty, and sun-warmed.
Edging the roadsides
Their overly-sweet scent,
Like a pie baking,
Fills the air
For an instant
As I drive past
With the windows rolled down
All the way.
Tulips.
This morning I discovered
That the vase of tulips
On the kitchen table
Had gone wild.
The flowers were pointing
In crazy directions
As if still blown
By the wind in the field.
Dancing Trees.
I love how trees move
To the music
Of the wind.
They dance,
And they romance
The earth
With their moves,
But trees know their place.
Even grounded
Trees can toss and shimmy and waltz
On their dance floor
With the best of us
When exhilarated
By a wild river of wind.
The Death of Summer.
There is a certain,
Undetermined time
When a cool breeze
Sweeps over the garden.
It brings the sweet whiff
Of warmed summer earth
After the sun goes down.
I can’t get enough of
Summer’s end.
I want to bottle it
And to sip its warmth
Like whiskey
Through the cold and rainy
Darkness ahead.
Forcing Paperwhites.
The bulbs look like
Small onions,
Brown and thin-skinned.
Then the miracle of green appears,
And day by day,
it stretches into a stem
That will unfold
A delicate white blossom,
With a heavenly scent,
Like a miniature spring.
Windstorm.
The trees took their leaves
And tossed them to the wind
Like party confetti.
Chirpless birds took refuge
In their hidden places.
Huge picture windows
Were blinded by plywood.
Everyone bent and bowed.
They celebrated and feared the storm
As if it were a religion.
View From My Porch.
A single strand of a spider’s web
Glints and disappears.
The air is still
Except for the color punch
Of one just-opened, purple iris.
The blue sky gessoed over
With a thin layer of clouds
And painted, momentarily,
With a black crow.
The thrum of bicycle tires on dry pavement.
A distant train whistle.
Alone with my coffee.
Rain.
I always thought
I could fall for you.
Patina.
Over time, our souls patina
Like a bit of old silver polished
By strong moonlight.
Perhaps we are not innocent,
And maybe we are not polished.
But we need to believe
In a gleaming light
To survive these dark
Times
Which, parading their brilliance,
Pawn themselves off
Like stolen silver.
Autumn Day.
It’s brilliant
The way the sun shines
Illuminating every leaf
Like a medieval manuscript.
Riots of color
Gold leaf everywhere
Until winter imprints
Its cold colophon.
The Promise of Gravity.
I want to fly
In the face of possibilities.
I want to soar
With wings of hope.
I want to see the earth
From above.
I want to be a spirit
Untethered like a balloon
In a crazy, sudden windstorm.
But what pins me to earth
Is the promise
Of gravity.
All of the things I might love
Hold me tight.
Gone.
When I go
I will take
A piece of your heart
And I’ll abandon you
And I will hold you
Forever
In my empty arms.
Words.
It’s always been about words
Even before I could read.
I was frustrated
By billboards
And indecipherable
Children’s books.
But since then
I’ve loved words
And treasured them
On my tongue
Like a gift
Of lollipops.
The phrase
“Mother tongue”
Is no accident.
We come from,
And we are born of,
This place
Of words.
Happiness.
Nothing, but a bursting flower
Could contain me.
Peace.
It’s not every day
That brings me peace,
But today
Was such a day.
Fine autumn sunshine
Leaves ablaze
Dogs frolicking on sprinklered grass
A friend walking by my side.
These are the ordinary memories
That one only realizes are extraordinary
In the end.
Clouds.
With a calligraphic flourish
They write themselves.
Elegy for an Ant.
I didn’t mean
For any harm
To come to this
Tiny creature.
It was so industrious
Stopping like a fortune teller
to communicate
With fellow ants
About the nature
Of what lies ahead.
Yet one drown,
Accidentally,
And I grieve.
Fellow ants go into battle
Taking over sinks and counters
As if they owned the place,
But perhaps that’s how
They deal with the grief.
Legacy.
Is it the book you wrote?
Is it your child?
Perhaps it’s a joke
Told too many times?
We may never know
How we touched,
How we changed
The world
Or even just one
Person’s world.
Your entire legacy might be
As simple as one kind word,
Spoken at the right moment,
To a stranger.
Printer.
A man of letters
Is just my type.
Maples.
It’s the yellow
That comes first.
It turns the green
Until the orange begins.
And then the red
Comes rushing
In a blaze
Of unbelievable
Technicolor.
Afterwards
The branches
Appear lifeless
Until the spring
Begins to breathe
In color once again.
Poems.
Seed packets
Longing for soil.
Poetry.
There’s always a risk.
Because it’s a risky proposition.
Perhaps inspiration,
Perhaps drivel,
Perhaps the shared
Tragedy of both.
When poetry truly is inspired
It’s like sunshine breaking
through interminable gray.
It’s love that was long lost,
but never forgotten.
It’s the soul
We thought was lost
Now laid bare.
It’s freedom.
And we are allowed to glimpse it again,
Only for an instant,
Before we are shrouded,
Once again,
In ordinary darkness.
RBG.
A delicate collar of lace
Ruthlessly choking inequality.
What I Want.
I want to be eulogized,
But I don’t want to die.
I want to be loved,
But I don’t want to lose.
I wanted to be pretty,
But that’s off the table.
I’ll just be kind
And hope for the best.
Firs.
One would be lucky
To catch the fragrance
Of a fir tree.
A brisk, green
Unmatchable
Perfume.
Firs are so busy
Being towering giants
That they sometimes forget
To intoxicate
Us.
Heaven.
Perhaps I’ve died
And gone to heaven.
How else would I account for
Being so alive
On this spectacular day?
Every leaf, every blade
Is sharpened by sunlight.
It’s almost too much
to bear.
Until I realize
That, by some miracle,
I’m still here.
Get Busy.
Uncork happiness.
Let laughter flow like champagne.
There is so little time
To waste.
Get busy.
Storm.
It’s the misguided anger
That takes us by surprise.
Why is the rain lashing out?
Why do winds whip the trees?
Why do battered birds need shelter?
As it turns out
It’s just a teapot tempest,
Pouring out its heart,
Calmed by milk and sugar.
How to Love a House.
It’s so easy
Not to love
A house.
An insensitive remodel.
A cavalier attitude
When bulldozers arrive.
But to love an old house
Means building a friendship.
You become roommates
With people
You’ve never met.
Autumn Day.
This light might shine
Directly from heaven
If I believed in such nonsense.
Yet every glowing leaf
Is trying their best
To convert me.
Seeds.
Fall is the
Best season
For those who must
Plant themselves.
Seeds are ingenious devices.
Clinging to pant legs,
Like abandoned children.
Launching headlong into flight,
Giddy in the wind,
Without wings.
Some will find a place
To take root and flourish.
Others will find a world
In which seedlings
Barely have a chance.
Courage.
What it takes
To be a rainbow
When the only crayon
In the box
Is beige.
Rainbows.
For Dexter.
Rainbows are such clichés
How can one even
Write about them?
Their arc collides with sunshine
And colors stripe the sky momentarily
Like nothing else
We can imagine.
But they leave us richer
For the experience
As if we have been handed
A pot of gold.
Songs.
Birds perched on telephone wires
Like notes on sheet music.
These Days.
These days
Won’t last.
Remarkable autumn days,
When leaves are sparked
By an inner light,
Will fade into memory
Or oblivion.
They are created by
Sunshine and heartbreak.
Their fate
Is to be temporary.
These days
Will never last.
Childhood Home.
Mine was a ranger station
In a California canyon.
It’s long gone
Taken by flood or fire,
But snippets of memories
Have toddled through my life
Shaping me
In their secret ways.
Because of them
Mountains make me feel alive,
The scent of chaparral is unforgettable,
Houses need only be built of logs,
And streams flow through me.
Canyon memories
Make me
Who I am.
Dogs.
They eagerly apply to be
Our best friends
With their
“Choose me” smiles
And tails that somehow
Wag away sorrow.
How can they possibly know
That, at this moment,
That’s exactly
What I needed?
Birdbath.
A birdbath
Is a joyous place.
Finding depths of delight
In such shallow waters,
But always alert,
Always an eye trained,
On reasons
To be alarmed.
Hawk.
It hardly moves a wing
Only tilting this way or that,
But never flapping,
Never awkward.
It soars and circles effortlessly
Against a blue sky
On this cloudless day
Only swooping,
Only stooping,
To earth
For a moment.
4:00 AM
It comes marching
Like a soldier on leave
Looking for a good time.
Get up! Let’s party!
Never mind that it’s dark
And half the world’s asleep.
When sleep has gone AWOL
What’s with this crazy invitation?
Nothing.
I may have nothing,
But it’s everything to me.
It’s the way the stars
Shine through pine branches.
It’s the overheard laughter
Spilling from children in the park.
It’s how I'll hold onto
Thoughts and memories
Because that is the something
I’ll cherish forever.
First Date.
You think it’s behind you.
Then 40 years later, there you are.
Cats.
No one needs to tell them
They are descended from ancient gods.
Sunsets and Rainbows.
Sunsets are almost as cliché
As rainbows.
Both throw colors into the sky
With sudden abandon,
But sunsets are messy and generous
While rainbows are rare and precise
Both are pure theater
And we are the lucky
Ticket winners.
Autumn Days.
Autumn days
Are love letters sent
To our summer romance.
We were young and innocent
In springtime.
We were so
Stunningly green.
Then the ripeness of summer,
Like tree-warmed fruit,
Became our haven,
Our heaven.
Now cold snaps
Kindle memories
Of our straw hat
And picnic romance.
Gold.
I found gold
In the turning maple leaves
And it made me
Rich beyond belief.
Now I want to spend it
On the poor
Who cannot see
The value of trees.
Ireland.
If green were a joke
It would be told in pubs
And laughter would be heard
Across hill and dale
Until it became
A poem so exquisite
It would make you cry.
Better Angels.
All this talk
Of better angels
Isn’t just the stuff of fairy tales
Or political speeches.
If you can
Convince someone
To believe
In themselves
They will always make it
Come true.
Pigments.
Pastels are best left
To springtime.
When softness reigns
And rain washes away
Every vibrant color,
Except pink.
But oils are the choice
Of autumn.
Bold, bright,
And full
Of warm, dying light.
Cork.
The last thing I want to do
Is to stop joy.
Let happiness flow,
With abandon,
Like champagne
At a raucous wedding
Let’s celebrate
All that was bottled
And cellared with hope.
Fallen Leaves.
They weave
A magic carpet.
Creativity.
That this blank sheet of paper
Can be transformed
Into a poem,
A sketch,
Or a play
Is a downright
Miracle.
Golden Day.
Fort Knox might have been emptied
By this glorious day.
Gold leaf,
Golden light,
Reflections of gold
In every lake and river.
It was like drowning
In a treasure chest.
This Day.
It was a day
Like no other.
So many days
Drift into oblivion,
But this one was
A standout.
This one was never
To be forgotten.
How could I forget
That this light illuminated
Every leaf
So each one glowed
From within.
How could I forget
That I am shining
With the same light?
Trials of Winter.
I will rob autumn
Of its gold
And escape
Prosecution.
Possession of
White powder
Will be thrown out
And I will skate.
First Light.
It may have spilled over
From a thousand
Sunrises ago.
It may have been trapped
In this wood until
I lighted the match.
It may have been
What was in your eyes
When I met you.
But I’ve just seen myself,
In this light,
For the first time.
Vineyards.
Wine grapes
Are such pleasure seekers.
They mob the hillsides
Of Italian villas.
They grab riverfront property
On the Rhine.
They bask in the sun
Near fancy Napa restaurants.
They make us drunk
On landscapes
With their beauty.
Autumn.
The days are colder
And night falls early.
The clock just must
Be wrong.
As we shelter
Under darkened skies,
Warm ourselves by the fire
As if it were a summer’s day,
And hibernate beneath
A cozy blanket of snow,
We wait to be loudly awakened
By the explosion of life
Springtime detonates.
Hostage.
The arms of books try to hold me.
Poetry tries to hold me.
I am not blindfolded,
I am not bound and gagged,
But I’m taken hostage nonetheless
And then set free again
By the sheer magic of books
And the extraordinary poetry
Of ordinary life.
Indecision.
The weather couldn’t
Make up its mind today.
Should there be sunshine
Or gray clouds?
Should the rain pour
Or drizzle?
How about
A rainbow?
I love these
Indecisive days.
Because I know
This is a prelude.
Change is coming.
Improvisation.
Today there was no sunrise
Or sunset.
They were blotted out
By heavy, gray curtains
Of rain.
But inside there was
The sun-warmth of the stove
And the aroma
Of baking bread
So I improvised
My own sunrise.
Last Leaves.
The last leaves
Are dancing in the last light.
They know how
To make the most
Of joy.
On Atlantis.
I want to vacation on Atlantis.
I want to read the entire library of
Of Alexandria
And to hang out in the gardens
Of Babylon.
These are my
Ancient desires.
Seagull.
The Winged Victory
Coming in for a landing.
Gray.
How do we handle gray?
It was gray today.
Relentless.
Monochromatic.
An early fog
Then a rain-penciled sky,
But in our hearts
We know
That gray afflicts us
Only temporarily.
Wisdom.
It seeps in
While we are living
And we hardly notice
Until confronted
By a younger logic
That doesn’t make any sense.
Each Morning.
If I’m lucky,
I begin the day
In the company of birds.
Busby, the red-headed hummingbird,
Brings glamour
To the stone fountain.
Fred the seagull,
Or Fred on a Stick,
Perches atop the same pole.
And, of course, there’s Mozart,
The song sparrow
Who belts his one aria.
I am so grateful to the birds
That orchestrate my day
Each morning.
My Poetry.
Sylvia Plath
Meets Dorothy Parker
Meets Emily Dickinson
Meets Virginia Woolf
Meets Mary Oliver
Meets Maya Angelou
Why not dream?
Small Lives.
There are those
Shot through with the
Novocain of not caring,
But I was never one.
A bird hits glass
And I weep.
I help worms
Not to drown.
To me. small lives
Are significant.
How can one crush an ant
Without even thinking?
Heartbreak.
Although he’s been buried
Under the pine tree
For years now
On this cold, rainy night
My beloved cat
Should be curled up
In front of this
Blazing fire,
But no amount
Of wishing
Will ever make
It so.
Every Day.
Today seemed
To be quite ordinary
And uneventful,
But if I looked
Hard enough
I'd find a small,
But momentous pleasure
Like watching
A bird dunking,
And hopping,
And fluffing its feathers
In a joyful
bath.
Revenge.
Leaves have their revenge.
For so long they cling
To the barest twig of hope.
Then they get comfortable
And sway in the summer breezes,
But in the end
They blaze and cavort
To their heart’s content.
Best of all,
Like glorious drunks,
They continue to fall
While we pick them up.
Carpet.
This designer carpet
Of autumn leaves
Has been ripped up
And replaced
With a shoddy
Floor covering.
Winter must be going
To rent the joint
And paint it all
White.
Thanksgiving Memories.
Every year we would get out our best china
With the hand-painted gold rims
And the crystal goblets too.
Tables would be cobbled together
In the living room
With a separate children’s table
That felt like we had been exiled
To Siberia.
Every year my mother would make
Yeast rolls from scratch
And my father would call them “biscuits”
Just to get a rise out of her
And it never failed.
That special, wedding-present china,
And almost everyone who once
Sat around that holiday table,
Are now only memories.
Nest.
The branches, finally bare,
Revealed a surprise.
Who knew that this tree
Had been chosen as a place
To raise a family?
The nest, long empty,
Is now a basket of twigs
That once cradled fledglings
On the verge
Of their first flight.
Who knew that this tree
Held so many miracles?
Winter.
Why is it a blanket of snow
When it looks more like a sheet?
Why is it a sheet of ice
When it looks more like a rink?
I thought beds referred
To spring plantings.
Winter weather
Is so confusing
It’s no wonder
That people
Decide to
Sleep in.
Poems.
For Charlie.
I love it when a
Poem takes hold
And won’t let me rest
Until it’s written.
Those are typically the best.
The ones who can’t wait
To be born.
Stray.
A stray cat sleeps
Almost every night,
In the Adirondack chair
On my porch.
I’m happy knowing that
He is safe through
The sheltered night
And I hope it feels like
I am holding him
In my arms.
Rainbow.
It was a day that
Tried out sunshine,
Decided on rain,
Then changed
Its mind.
By all accounts,
There should have been
A rainbow,
But like a
Klieg light,
I searched the sky
In vain.
Books.
Hostages bound in leather.
Waiting to be freed.
Birds.
I’m glad that birds
Share the world with us.
How sad it would be
Without their company.
Their sheer delight
In taking a bath.
Their flights
Of pure fancy.
A song
Even when we’re sad.
We fly
On borrowed wings.
Gardens.
Nature
Reimagined.
Gifts.
I used to think that
Gifts were something
One bought
From a store.
Now I know
They can be far more
Precious
Than that.
Strokes of Genius.
The calligraphy of crows
On a foggy morning.
Fog.
It fells trees
Faster than logging,
But when the fog lifts.
The forest is still there.
Swept Away.
The wind kicks up its heels
And sends leaves scurrying
Down the street,
But some leaves
Take time to dance
A lively jig
As they are being
Swept away.
Small Miracles.
This was a day full of
Small miracles.
A ruby-headed hummingbird
Materialized out of nowhere
And looked me in the eye.
Brilliant sunshine
Embroidered the edges
Of gray storm clouds.
Fallen leaves
Danced to a tune
That only they could hear.
The unexpected
Took me under
Its wing today,
And taught me
How to soar.
Whistle.
A train whistle
Muscles through darkness
A beacon of sound
Traveling, it seems, like light.
It’s comforting knowing
That lonesome
Sound track
Is still being played.
Tango.
While the dance of autumn
Slows to a leaf shuffle
Winter arrives with a rose
Clenched in its teeth.
Stars.
Constellations
Have flung open
The cages.
Lions, dragons, and bears,
Roam the sky,
But from my backyard
On this summer night
I see only magical
Pinpoints of light
And I can’t begin to
Connect the dots.
After Winter.
I want to douse the logs
In the fireplace.
I want to free myself
Of flannel.
I want to be the first
To spot a green shoot.
And to head outside
Without a coat.
Cozy is magical
Until it seems
That it will never end.
Leaving.
I don’t want to leave,
But I want to leave something behind.
Perhaps when I die,
My friends will comfort strangers.
Or speak a kind word
When it is needed most.
Or lift an animal without hope
Up to life again.
This is the kind of legacy
I have in mind.
Preparation.
The patio furniture
Is shrouded for the winter.
The faucets are off,
The furnace is serviced,
The gutters are cleaned.
What one is never prepared for
Is that first snow
When the world is white,
And hushed,
And reborn.
Wild Creatures.
When the cold sets in
I worry about the wild creatures
Do they have a safe place to sleep?
Are they too cold?
I want to take care of them,
To provide warmth,
And help them through the winter,
But that’s not the way
Nature works.
Speechless.
I could never
Have prepared a speech
For this occasion
Because this seemingly
Ordinary day
Has left me speechless.
Summers.
I remember when summers
Lasted a lifetime.
We would invent games,
Drink from hoses,
Be stung by bees.
It was dangerous and wild,
Or so it seemed,
And these memories
Have lasted a lifetime.
Lottery.
I won
The lottery
At least that’s
How it might feel.
I’ve never bought
A ticket,
But that
Doesn’t matter
Because I couldn’t
Be happier right now
And that makes me feel
Like a million bucks.
Miracle.
This was a miracle
That might make a person
Throw down their crutches.
It turns out
That it was only
A sunrise.
Christmas Trees.
They didn’t realize there was
Anything different about their forest
When they were growing up,
But they had no way of knowing.
Now they are bedazzled by lights,
Spangled with ornaments,
And topped with a star.
Decked out, these trees
Have forgotten
Their roots.
Midnight, Christmas Eve.
The wooden pew
Was hard and unforgiving.
I don’t remember
The droning sermon,
But I recall,
As if it were yesterday,
Snuggling into the comforting warmth
Of my mother’s coat
And her beautiful voice
Singing hymns.
It seemed like there was
An angel beside me.
Childhood.
The stream flowing
In front of our cabin
Was just the
Jumping off point
For our imaginations.
We were the architects
Of worlds built out of
Stones, twigs,
And wild watercress,
And the fantastical inhabitants
We conjured up
Out of thin air
Were more magical
Than any parlor trick.
First Bike.
It was a Christmas present,
But I didn’t know how to ride.
In our suburban garage,
With my mother at one end
And my father at the other end,
They shuttled me back and forth
With encouragement
Until, wobbly, but successful
I pedaled between them.
It was the gift
Of accomplishment.
Pretending.
Playing cards clothespinned
On bicycle spokes
Making our ride rumble
Like a motorcycle.
Exhaling clouds of breath
On frosty mornings
Pretending we were
Smoking cigarettes.
Putting on a play
In the empty cabinet
When the television
Was out for repair.
Our childhood
Was so rich
With pretending
That we could never imagine
Being poor.
Together.
Our family gathered
In the darkened living room.
We lined up in chairs
Facing the plate glass windows
And the mountains.
Front row seats
To watch the lightning storm
As if it were theater,
While we counted the seconds,
Until we heard the thunder.
Together.
Words.
Twenty-six letters
Can be so tricky.
So many combinations,
That may
Or may not
Convey what I mean.
I wish choosing
The right words,
In the right combination,
Could be easier
So I could tell you
Exactly how I feel.
Rainy Day.
Rain has washed
The world.
Every leaf
Glistens.
Every stone
Is polished.
Every droplet makes
Puddles dance.
This rainy day
Gave us
The gift
Of seeing the world
Anew.
Speaking of Trees.
What language
Do trees share
That they know exactly
When to let
Their leaves go?
Are the evergreens
Thankful to keep
Their coats
When so many others
Go bare
Through the cold winter?
Today.
I ask myself
“Is there anything
About today that
Lends itself to poetry?”
Then I realize that
There is almost
Too much
Material.
Self-Help.
To hear better
Close your eyes.
To see better
Open your heart.
The Hush of Winter.
The silence of snow
Is unmistakable.
Sounds are so muffled.
That we begin to hear again.
And the world restarts
With a barely audible
Chirp.
Gray.
Today was
Relentlessly gray.
Clouds capped
The sky
And all of the
Gemstone blue
Was hidden.
But sitting
Under this gray sky
Felt precious
Like being inside
Of a pearl.
Living.
Today was a day
Of accomplishments.
I gazed
At the sky.
I watched
A bird take a bath.
I saved a worm
From drowning.
And I lived
To write
About it.
Robin.
The crosshatch
Of quince branches
Created a
Makeshift nest.
But it’s winter
So the robin
Only stayed
A moment.
Off Stage.
I feel like a rainbow
That has almost faded
Back to sky.
Storm.
The winds chimes played
Like a gamelan orchestra
Whose conductor
Never showed.
The frenzied wind
Blustered like
A liar caught
In the act.
Amid the lack of stars
Lighted windows
Substitute for beacons
In this darkness.
Unexpected.
The forecast was misleading.
It didn’t predict
That such a tiny chunk of blue
Would crack open the endless gray sky
So that a glorious burst
Of sunshine
Could break through
The rain clouds
To dazzle us
Unexpectedly.
V.
The geese are
Skywriting again.
What message
Are they sending
With that one letter?
We may never know,
But in the meantime
They’ll keep flying in formation
To help each other
Reach their destination.
Appreciation.
I wish I could have again
What I had a year ago
Or even a day ago,
But experience insists on
Teaching appreciation
Through loss.
This Day.
This day was such a perfect gift
It should have been tied with a bow.
Kintsugi.
The Japanese mend
Broken pottery
With gold.
If only we would fix
What’s broken
In our world
With such care.
It’s Time.
It chimes
Every quarter
Of an hour.
The mantle clock
Was a wedding gift
Given to my parents
In the 1940s
And it has measured
Out my life
In fifteen minute intervals
Ever since I can remember.
Pajamas.
I slept until noon
And then stayed
In my pajamas
This rainy day
To read a mystery.
Only the cat
Knows that I
Didn’t get dressed
And she’s
Not talking.
Ornaments.
Whether they’re
Tin or silver
Doesn’t matter.
They both shine
With the same
Light.
Tryst.
The moon and I have
A long distance relationship.
Rainy Streets.
Asphalt reflections create
Another world.
Taillights become
Red squiggles,
Sreet lights line up
Like airport runways,
But theater marquees are
The show stoppers.
Old Movies.
It was delightful
To stay indoors today
While the rain
Came down like a
Theater curtain.
It was a silver screen day
Watching old movies
With actors so young again
It was as if they’d drunk
From the fountain of youth.
Hee Haw.
Although ours was a suburban tract house
There was farmland just across the road.
After dinner we would stuff
Our car coat pockets with carrots
And walk down the two-lane road
To visit “Hee Haw.”
This donkey was an appreciative soul
Who always thanked us
With his toothy smile.
Sky.
The pattern of blue
With white clouds
Like a Delft platter
In smithereens.
Leaves.
Raindrop beads,
Catching a brief sunbreak,
Transform ordinary leaves
Into temporary jewels.
Shy.
It’s not easy
Being so uneasy.
With a simple word,
I’m gagged.
I’m lobotomized.
I’m blinded.
I’m paralyzed.
Even wordless,
Every casual glance,
Or even a kind gesture,
Might strike a mortal blow.
Cooking.
An expression of love that’s
Often mistaken for drudgery.
Windows.
Driving past houses
At night
One glimpses
Lamp-lit rooms
Captured momentarily
And immobilized
Like museum
Dioramas.
Fragility.
Fragility
Is a lesson.
Eggs have learned it,
Even some egos
Have experienced it.
Cracking
Under pressure
Is easy.
The hard part
Is creating
What comes
Next.
Message To Myself.
Perhaps it’s too late
To feel beautiful.
Looking back on photographs
I wish for just one moment
That I had felt
As beautiful as I might seem,
Looking back,
Right now.
Heavy Rain.
A stream wants to be
A river.
A river wants to be
A flood.
Both strive
For something bigger,
But their wishes
Are granted only
Temporarily.
Pileated Woodpecker.
A life dedicated
To wood working.
Every day,
Outfitted in black
And white
With a jaunty red cap,
Going to town
In a forest.
What a headache
For such a niche
Market.
Neighbors.
Growing up in the suburbs
We were neighbors
Who had neighbors.
There were May baskets
Left on front doorknobs.
A round-robin
Of cooking lessons.
Baseball games
In the cul-de-sac.
Now I realize that
We were practicing
Ways to get along
With each other.
Sunrise.
I’ve missed many
Sunrises in my life.
I’ve slept through them
Or I’ve not looked out
The window
Or I was busy getting
Ready for work.
I have countless, flimsy excuses
For missing their beauty,
But the sunrises I have seen
Have been the best way imaginable
To start a day.
The Moment.
I keep catching myself
Being somewhere else.
I have to drag myself
Back to where I am
In this moment,
Right now.
It’s so easy to slip into
Something comfortable
Like yesterday
Or tomorrow,
But life is here.
Life is right now.
Running Errands.
If you want to know
How to lose touch
With reality,
Run errands.
You will be
So preoccupied
You’ll forget
About beauty,
And death,
And anything else
That matters.
You’ll just be focused
On running errands.
Casino.
A house
Of cards.
.
Birdless.
Some mornings
The shrubs are silent,
The branches are still,
And the birdbath surface
Is unbroken.
Perhaps the birds
Stopped by
While I was
Sleeping.
A Spring Day.
It was a spectacular
Spring day
In January.
Rare, but
Like fool’s gold
It seemed legitimate.
I splurged
On the day,
And in my pocket
I jangle the change of
Memories.
Signs.
Tiny pink buds
On the quince.
Small yellow blossoms
On the witchhazel.
A green daffodil leaf
Emerging from the earth.
Have hope.
Rain.
Walking in the rain
There are two choices.
Get soaking wet
Splashing in puddles
Or stay dry
And sober.
I am drenched
And drunk
With joy.
Snow Forecast.
A snowflake appeared
In tomorrow’s weather forecast.
I went to bed
With the anticipation
That I’d wake up
To a world
Transformed into
A hushed, white paradise.
This morning
Only brought rain,
But I’m still hoping
That the fairy tale forecast
Will come true.
Coin.
It was discarded.
Thrown to the ground
As if it were worthless.
It could have had
A bright future
If only someone
Had believed
It had value.
Weather Forecast.
Instead of rain
There was a low fog
And then a miraculous
Sun break
As if the world
Were smiling.
Predictions aren’t
Always reliable.
The sun can
Break through
Gray clouds
Even when it’s
Not in the forecast.
Minutes.
Second hand
Knowledge.
Path.
I followed a new path
Today
To see where it
Would take me.
It led to a place
I’ve never been
And I was so
Appreciative.
Seed.
In the slight breeze,
A seed takes flight
And helicopters
To a landing.
What a graceful way
To begin anew.
Setting Our Sights.
We are so focused
On today’s “To Do” list--
The job, the responsibilities,
And other demands
Clouding our souls
That we lose sight.
We are blind
To possibilities.
Driving Rain.
Rain turns the windshield
Into an impressionist watercolor
Which is then destroyed,
As if by a palette knife,
Only to be painted
Again and
Then again.
Windows.
Windows in my life.
The views have ranged
From a suburban, California cul-de-sac
To the Luxembourg Gardens.
I’ve always loved
The view from windows
That frame the world for us
As if they were pictures
Hanging on our walls.
Antiques.
It’s wonderful
To go into an antique store
To meet an old friend
That you never knew.
Inspiration.
A lightning bolt
From a cloudless sky.
Sky.
The sky was a Van Ruisdael,
But the birds didn’t notice.
The sky was a Turner,
But the birds just took shelter.
The sky was a Starry Night,
But the birds kept sleeping.
I’m Rich.
I gave away
All of my love
And that made
Me richer
Than Midas.
Poem.
I wanted to write a poem
That would surpass all others.
It would be the finest.
It was going to be so clever.
Words would be
At my command.
But, instead, words
Commanded me
To be simple and direct
And I obeyed them.
Reading.
My world exploded
When I began to read.
I could finally decipher
The hieroglyphs
On pages
And billboards.
And it all began
To make sense.
Words took me to places
I’d never been.
They were a magic carpet
On which I explored
Foreign lands,
And traveled
In the company of
New ideas.
I shall always be grateful
For this passport
To the world.
Stars.
The stars were tangled
Like last year’s light strings.
The snow fluttered down
Like bits of torn wrapping paper.
The wind roared like fire
Through the pines.
And it’s not even
Christmas.
Snow and Ice.
The difference between
Snow and ice
Is a slippery slope.
White.
Every time I looked
Out the window
The snow was
Still there.
It threw a white sheet
Over the world that
I can see from
My window
As if it were forgotten furniture
In a shuttered house.
We must move
Among the rooms
And let in
The thaw
Of sunlight.
Ice.
Like a fairy tale
Princess
I was held captive
By ice which
Glittered like a heist
Of diamonds.
Paw Prints.
Tiny paw prints
In the snow
Led to my backdoor.
I didn’t see
The caller.
I only hope
That a creature,
In need of shelter
Or food,
Didn’t think that
I had turned them
Away.
Face It.
There is so much
To learn,
There is a world
To explore.
There are neighborhoods,
Bird species,
Waterfalls,
And pathways
Under our noses.
We just need to
Take the time
To open
Our eyes.
I met an old, rock wall
On my walk today.
It spoke volumes,
Even though it didn’t
Say much.
I could tell that
It was proud of its history,
And the beautiful, green moss,
And for holding up
Its end of the bargain
For more than
A hundred years.
Live Wires.
After the storm,
Live wires
Dangle like
Dangerous snakes.
Soundscape.
A distant airplane buzzes
Like a trapped fly.
Crow caws cut through the air
Like a serrated knife.
The fountain plays water
Like an instrument.
Then I open my eyes
And the sounds fade.
Confluence.
One river flows
Into another
And then takes its name
As if they were
Married.
Love.
It’s not only in
The grand gestures.
Love is in
The everyday.
It’s straight from
The heart
Like Cupid’s
Arrow.
Falling.
We fall throughout
Our lives.
We fall for a childish prank
When an uncle steals our nose.
We fall off bikes,
Skin our knees,
And get back on.
We fall for opinions
Others have of us.
We grow up and fall down
Rabbit holes, chasing love.
We fall for get rich schemes
As we bask in the dream of sunny islands.
We fall for so much
In our lives
That we don’t even realize
There is both an art to falling.
And an art to not falling.
But, in the end, we simply fall,
As if gravity
Gave us no choice.
Meeting.
Perhaps,
If I met myself,
I would want to be
My friend.
Choices.
We make choices
Every minute
Of every day.
It’s why we are
Where we are
Right this minute.
Life.
There’s time.
It’s about time.
It’s high time.
It must be time.
It’s a lifetime ago.
Time will tell.
Oops,
There’s no time
Left.
Stranger.
Perhaps if I met myself,
I would want to be
My friend.
Seasons.
Now that we’re old
We’ll reminisce
About being young.
Summer vacations that
Lasted a lifetime.
How hard it was to sleep
On Christmas Eve.
The nervousness and joy
Of a new-found love.
The flowers and tears
As we stood at the gravesite.
But before another summer comes,
Before the holidays are upon us again,
Before we forget our first love,
And before the grass grows over the grave
We’ll reminisce once more
About being young.
We know that we can’t always be here
And that one year
The seasons will change
Without us.
Flowering Quince.
A tangle of branches,
With too many right angles,
Do their best imitation
Of a Japanese print.
Shy buds have yet to dance,
But a scattering of just-opened
Blossoms have donned tiny, pink tutus.
With a white-cloud-blue-sky background
A passing robin pauses
To complete the foreground.
Not Famous.
I wanted a life lived
Without fanfare,
Without an audience.
I wished for the peace
Of anonymity
Of not being a legend.
Miraculously,
Here I am.
Storm Damage.
Trees toppled,
Limbs lost,
And chain saw
Amputations.
There’s no anesthesia
That can numb
This loss.
Waltz.
I can’t dance a step,
But shall we dance?
If you would be
My partner
I could follow your lead
And twirl
On this dance floor,
Like Ginger Rogers,
Backward and in high heels,
Beneath the swirling stars.
No one
Would ever need to know
That I can’t
Dance.
Convertible.
The top is down,
The music is up,
And the scent of
Freshly mown grass
Is a drive-by
Poem.
False Start.
Those first few days
That hold spring
In their hand
Like love’s promise
Are magical.
We want, so much,
To believe in
The fairy tale
Of sunshine.
Then, dressed in white,
Winter elopes with
That old, cold heart
Of darkness
Again.
Sirens.
Sirens sing
Their tragic song
Almost every night.
Firefighters are bound to the mast,
Police are dashed on the rocks.
They serve the siren’s song
While our ears
Are stuffed with wax.
Not Waving.
A slight
Of hand.
Last Call.
The rain returned
Like an old friend.
It had been missing
For four days.
Reunited,
We celebrated
Relentlessly
Like the pounding
Rain.
Sauvie Island.
It was a place
Where I was happy.
The picnics,
The sunsets,
The ripe blackberries
Staining our fingers.
Even while
It was happening,
It was a memory
I knew I’d never forget.
Loss.
Today
I missed both
The sunrise
And the sunset.
And now I feel
Like I’ve lost
Something
Forever.
Evening Sky.
The evening sky
Is a soft pastel.
Sunset has not yet arrived
Like a house afire.
At this moment,
It’s a pale blue
Flecked with gold and a
Feathery gray-white.
It’s a sky made
Of bird’s wings.
It’s a sky
In which
To drown.
Graduate School.
I was the downstairs tenant,
A graduate student.
There was an internal staircase
And I sometimes heard a knock
Late at night.
I ascended to find
A spectacularly failed dessert
Smothered in
Whipped cream.
It was as delicious
As our conversation
And nothing else
Mattered.
Lazy Day.
All I did today
Was take.
I took a shower.
I took a walk.
And I took a nap,
But I didn’t take
Any of these
For granted.
Spring.
Today was not
Spectacular,
Yet I felt like
Spring might be
Bottled up
Inside me
And that,
At any moment,
It might be uncorked,
Like a bottle of
French champagne,
And my path
Would be strewn
With flowers
As if it were
My wedding day
Or a Botticelli
Painting.
Springtime.
Spring starts small.
It’s a tiny green shoot
Venturing out of
The earth.
It’s a shy bud
Wondering if it’s time
To bloom.
And it’s deciding
If a heavy coat
Is needed
Today.
Waves.
The ocean rolls them out
Like a Turkish shopkeeper
Showing kilim carpets
To would-be customers.
This one gray and blue
With cream patterns
The next one is less intricate
With slightly more green.
This continues
Even as we eventually
Turn our backs
On the ocean.
Big Picture.
We sometimes forget
To glance down,
Or to look very closely.
The expansive landscape,
The broad ocean
Is so eye-catching
And seductive
That small details
Elude us.
Dust.
Dust always settles
For less.
It’s fine with
A dresser
Or a tabletop.
If it aspired
To something greater,
It might just be
Impossible.
Storm.
Gray as a flock
Of pigeons,
The storm perches
On the ledge
Of sky
Before jumping
Into the
Abyss.
Photograph.
The years have
Changed the colors,
But I am still
An eight-year old
Standing on the beach,
With the sea behind me,
Looking into the camera.
Smiling.
Daffodils.
When spring returns,
We see fields
Where houses and gardens
Once stood
And daffodils bloom
To mark
These graves.
Aging.
The stranger
In the mirror.
Palette.
Winter
Is white.
Spring
Is green.
Summer
Is blue.
Autumn
Is orange.
But seasons surprise us
By thinking outside
The paint box.
Moments.
Birds
Pause on a twig.
Splash into a fountain.
Sip from a flower.
Wing across the sky.
These moments
Make me feel
Alive.
Regret.
The sky was spring blue
The day was surprisingly warm.
Daphne and plum blossoms
Perfumed the air,
But I squandered it
By staying indoors.
Strangers.
A stranger can
Make your day
In a way that
Even a friend can’t.
Someone compliments
Or notices you,
Or offers help.
In that moment
You also realize
That you’ll never
See them again.
Simple.
Simple should be easy,
But it’s not.
They don’t teach you this
When you start out writing
So you’re confident,
Astonishingly clever,
And complex.
But, in the end,
You might realize what
Other writers
Learned the hard way
Simple is hard
To master.
Balloon.
I’m tethered to earth,
But tenuously,
I’m about to
Drift skyward
If a little hand forgets,
For a moment,
The importance
Of hanging
Onto happiness.
A Good Day.
This morning
A yellow Goldfinch
Landed in the pink
Flowering quince
And I knew
It was going to be
A good day.
Spring Snow.
Falling
Plum blossoms.
Flight.
I want to step onto a plane
And disembark in an unfamiliar place.
Like a caterpillar's metamorphosis
I want to be changed
By this experience.
I want to be
A well-traveled
Butterfly.
Westminster Chimes.
The clock was a wedding present
Given to my parents
In the 1940s
After my father
Returned from the war,
With newly-healed shrapnel wounds,
And married his
Childhood sweetheart.
It sat on our mantle
And doled out
Our childhood
Every fifteen minutes
As if it knew
Time was precious.
Dandelion Wishes.
Weeds have such different strategies
Some cling to earth with a tenacity
That makes them difficult
To root out.
Others pull up easily
Taking advantage of gardeners
To scatter seeds in all directions
As they are yanked from the soil.
Dandelions use a double strategy
They hold their ground
Yet use children's wishes
To float on a wind
That, hopefully, will make their dreams
Of a new life
Come true.
Forests.
Forests are full
Of secrets.
Hidden mushrooms,
Roots writhing like snakes,
Tiny, delicate yellow blossoms
And a smattering of sky
With green, upon green,
Upon vertical green.
A sight-feeling
That one will never
Forget.
Easter.
All dressed up
In brand-new finery
It was like wearing
A confection.
A going-to-church
Sweet pastel
Next to my brothers
In bow-ties.
We smiled
For the camera.
Ghosts.
I don't believe in ghosts,
But I think that
We need ghosts,
Even if they're just words
On a page,
To remind us of
The things that
Should never
Be forgotten.
Vacant Lot.
Everyone seemed to agree
That it was a vacant lot,
But what they meant
Was that no one
Had built on it.
The reality was
That it was home
To many creatures
Who were helpless
When the bulldozers
Arrived.
Puddles.
Puddles bring heaven
Down to earth.
Quiet.
It's different than silence.
Yes, it's also a stillness,
A willful absence
Of speech,
But quiet
Is a forest
Or an ocean.
Silence can be uncomfortable,
But quiet is the hush
Of a lullaby.
Magnolia.
Tight-fisted buds
Open with a flowere punch
And knock me out.
Drive In.
It was always exciting
To go to a drive in movie
In the family station wagon.
We would take our dog
And my father invariably asked,
As if it were the best joke ever,
If we needed to pay for Pal.
The tinny speakers clung
To the car as if their life
Depended on it.
And the snack bar
Was a neon bright
Beacon of junk food
Shining in the darkness.
Mended.
Wild waves rip open
An ocean seam
Only to be mended
By the calm rush to shore
Of worn out water.
Real World.
I don't live
In the real world
Or at least
I try not to.
In my world
Birds are just momentarily
Stunned by windows
What's in the middle of the road
Always turns out to be a rag.
And the squirrel makes it
To its destination
Unharmed.
Fireplace.
The fireplace is always
The last to go.
When a house is demolished
It fights until the end
And then stones and bricks
Give way.
No longer will it warm
The family on winter nights
And it will never again
Comfort an aging cat.
Warmth is missing
In this new world.
Royalty.
Giving themselves
Heirs.
Beauty.
I want to be
Ambushed by beauty.
I want to turn a corner
And be shocked
By Fallingwater.
I want to be led, unseeing
To the Pantheon's center
And to open my eyes
For the first time.
I want my breath
To be taken away
Momentarily,
For a lifetime.
Candid Snapshot.
It grabs a moment
Like a women's purse,
Leaving the subject
Wondering what
Just happened.
Cats.
Modern cats have inherited
The ancient rituals.
Egyptians would recognize
The way cats
Clean their faces,
Tolerate us,
And sleep the sleep
Of the absolutely contented.
What's changed is the nature
Of worship.
Cats now walk
Across keyboards
Sending indecipherable messages
To their gods
And we are but slaves
To the unfathomable.
Shells.
Shell fragments
Half buried in sand,
Like ancient pottery shards.
My toes perform
An archaeological dig.
Being Alone.
It's tricky
Being alone.
A table for one,
A solo vacation,
But the hardest is
An unshared
Sunset.
Danger.
Books share
The language of violence.
Cracking the spine
Of hardbacks.
Cutting open pages
With a knife.
The written word
May be dangerous.
Dinner Time.
We gathered around
The green kitchen table
With the chrome legs
Every night
For dinner.
We shared the story
Of our day
Along with the meal
Our mother had cooked.
No one thought that
This was extraordinary
Or even memorable.
Moon.
It splashed down
And landed
In the still waters
Of the lake.
Choreography.
Dancing,
With abandon,
To a wind chime tune.
Branches practice
Their own wild
Choreography.
Bird Shadow.
It's almost as if
It were imagined.
There's a shadow blip
As the unseen bird
Soars darkly across
The garden.
But the shadow
Is just blocked light
Grounded
In reality.
The Prize.
We can choose
To see beauty
Or not.
I have chosen.
I'll avert my glance,
I'll turn a blind eye,
I'll do what it takes
To stay focused
On beauty.
Mirror.
A snapshot
That's deleted
When you look
Away.
Rock Island.
The geese seemed upset
For no apparent reason.
A rowboat
Was left ashore,
But no one
Was on the island.
The river ran fast
As if fleeing a crime scene.
It was a day of mystery
On Rock Island.
Hyacinths.
My love was reluctant
To cut flowers
Because it destroyed them,
But he cut hyacinths
To give to me
And they breathed
Spring into my life.
Sphinx.
My cat
May be a Sphinx.
She has two paws
Stretched out
Before her
In the ancient
Pose.
And she's worthy
Of worship.
