Ordinary Poetry for Extraordinary Days

 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.

 

Rock Wall. 

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.