redo

if I had carried the dog out from my bedroom,
I wouldn’t have picked him up midstream and

if I had remembered the beans on the stove,
the wiff I just noticed would be hearty not burnt

if I had not gone sledding at night,
I wouldn’t have 3 broken bones in my ankle

if I had remembered my young daughter in the shower,
the carpet in my bedroom would still be dry not sopping wet

if I had not set out to write everyday this month,
I wouldn’t be sitting here typing my 28th poem (yea, I missed a day)

if I had watched the veil and my feet,
my best friend’s would have left the church still wearing her veil

and at the end, does any of this really matter?

disappointment

fuchsia ranunculus fill the glass vase
a puddle of fallen petals rest on the leather tray
stems bend like inverted u’s
others stand upright with slight curves
most bear blooms in various degrees of fresh
tiny ranunculus wait to open
older ones raised remiss of petals
others drape over the edge of the vase
there’s even beauty in the drying sepals
the color is magnificent, even the petals scattered around the vase
all part of the bouquet I bought last Sunday

A home

holds a family that grows in all directions
three children build forts in the bedroom
climb up the magnolia, hide in the branches
watched movies in the glass walled porch

holds a family that grows in all directions
a mother and two daughters fill pasta shells with ricotta cheese
shape dough into pizza adding basil and pineapple
prepare meals for Thanksgiving and Passover
through laughs from the kitchen

holds a family that grows in all directions
three dogs and a cat to warm laps
join us on walks long and routine
no voices talk back

holds a family that grows in all directions
poised for a new configuration
uncertainty knocks on the door
a stable structure offers the same
to its inhabitants

late poems

it is the late poems
that are made of words
that have come the whole way
they have been there.

Borrowed from “Worn Words” by W.S. Merwin

some poets have a way with words
cause you to stop mid-poem
just to admire the way a word is used
or an idea is conjured

what are these “late poems”
the ones which are older,
that have been around for a while
or
the ones which came later
not so old?
hmmm

“made of words/that have come the whole way”
from where are these words coming?
do they hold a stick measuring distance or depth?
cause you to stop and look a little deeper

“they have been there.”
and I hope if I stop
and
listen a little longer
I will hear the echos into a space that I never connected
with the words in the stanza.

thank you W.S. Merwin for the excursion.

freckles
acoss my nose
shared with my two daughters
brighten as the sun warms our skin
freckles

My nightstand drawer

Holds clutter I never tossed

there are 3 small notebooks –
the oldest one I started in college – classmates names and addresses, no doubt their parents
with notes collected while living in South America including the list of all we packed,
phone numbers were exclusively land lines, notes about the first house we bought
memories from my 20s

objects I use –
4 different essential oils – mostly woody scents
along with cuticle cream. tiger balm, lip gloss that’s being tossed tonight
my reading glasses used most nights
earbuds and earplugs due to my noisy sleeping partner
and for late night listening not to disturb the sleeping partner
I remember using them the night Lemonade dropped

and sweet memories like
hand drawn mother’s day cards from the elementary age daughters
I can’t seem to throw away
along with stationary from my trip to England when I was in high school
span nearly 20 years

and more

Hilton Head Island

salt air, first taste – home
the sea oats rustling dance, as
children wade in sloughs
we walk along a foam edged
shore on warm sand with true friends

Jack

Jack, I don’t believe in any sort of after-life.
But I remember that February morning when we drove you to the vet.
Collins carried you from the house.
The vet called us minutes after we left you. We turned around.

All the week before you sat by my side as I worked at my desk.
Thinking you wanted to spend time with me.
Not realizing our days together were running out.
Your bowl joined us beside my desk.

All dogs run their course.
I guess you wanted me to know how much you wished to stay close.
No longer having the strength to rest your head on my thigh or stand to eat.
You lay by my side as I worked.

Jack, I’m fine thoughts of you warm me.
No more strands of black hair in our home.
Google photo shares days with the pack of three, creek swims.
Fondly remembered.

a space to look and think

my fingers scroll the computer pad as I read today’s poems
my hands rest on the blanket I washed last night draped across the table
the wooden and leather tray bought years ago in Peru sits in the middle of the table
a blue and brown pitcher filled with white chrysanthemums sits on the tray
the light fixture bought more than half my life time ago
hangs above the table
hope it travels with me to my next home

beyond the door my gaze catches the wrought iron porch furniture
donations from friends and family
dark out tonight as the sound of rain provides a background to Little Feat playing Sailin’ Shoes
inside I sit on the wooden chair bought last year tough enough to handle the rowdiest
puzzle pieces of my life provide the back drop for a poem

decoration day

it’s decoration day
and I’ve a mind
chords pop
strings hum
what would he say
fingers pick
a rhythm carries us away
my daddy wasn’t afraid
I guess it was best
the melody runs through the frets
he had no one o fall on but me
as the guitarist struts across the stage