Monday, December 20, 2010

A letter to Gertrude

Last semester my daughter started her first year of college. She doesn't have a car and wanted to take a Monday night creative writing course. I decided to take it with her. We had a lot of fun. We had a class writing assignment to write a letter to any writer we chose. We had to type them up and include them with our final portfolio.

Dear Gertrude,

Of all the writers I had to chose from which are millions if not more, I chose you. First I want to tell you, you made it. You are an extremely popular figure in American literature. I own many of your books; although, I must admit, I haven't read them all. I do plan to one day, and I know this is okay because I asked my psychologist who has a whole wall covered in books on shelves; I asked her if she's read them all, and she said no she hadn't, but she planned to some day. I told her, I was worried because I have so many books that I haven't read. The book shelves are full, and my desk and dressers consist of stacks of books. There is a book shelf in the hall, full - with books stacked on top. There is one down stairs that looks the same and a random book here and there that I might want to read when I have coffee. Your books are all together on a small shelf of special books because they are amongst the first I collected; anyway, my doctor agreed we know something about every book we own which is more than not knowing anything at all.
I actually discovered you by the artists, and Hemingway and that is because he wrote letters; I was writing letters, so it seemed appropriate I read his book or books. That's when I began to buy books. I still intend to read them all. It all happened so fast. The first book I bought was actually a book about Renoir. I bought that book because I wanted to learn how to paint. Then I bought Monet, and I don't remember what happened after that, except that I went back to school late in my life because I wanted to learn to paint. I felt terrible that I was getting older and didn't have as much time as some of the others. I don't remember exactly where your name came about, it might have been Picasso, but it was one of the two. And, I knew you moved to Paris from California and collected art - oh yes, and that you wanted to be a lion, and I had just finished a painting where the lion played part as the weather - well I tried, but it was a terrible painting.
That's one of the reasons I went to college. Anyway, I was very interested in color theory, which lead me to study the cubist painters, which lead to the mystery of Picasso, and you were there in the middle of everything it seemed. It was around that time, I earned an AA in liberal arts, and then I transferred to the university and changed my intended major from fine art to literature.
I kept collecting more and more books, one of which was Hemingway's book, A Moveable Feast, which I did read and learned a lot about your life in Paris. I know well of your part in the lost generation - an excellent term by the way and a truly quintessential experience.
I just want to say, I respect you not only for your outstanding writing abilities, but for your courage to be yourself and be proud of that, and that brings me to why I am writing this letter. I'm supposed to be writing about important things a writer needs to know, and I believe you are an example of many of those things. First, a writer needs to be their self. I don't think they need to prove anything or defend their self from all the self appointed judges of everyone's life but their own - just be who they are and have a good time with it. We are all different, we all have our strengths, but our personality needs to lead the show. There are always more people out there like us being beat down by whoever decide they deserve to - like you used to do to Hemingway... just thought I'd throw that in for fun. We all learned a lot from you, all of you.
It's the real people that make it to the future. The critics may get some attention in their time with their little games, but they don't stand out in the future. They have a few friends that laugh at their stupid jokes - just the dumb following the dumb. They are so cruel, but I think it's important, we let them tell their own side. When history looks back, they will see the truth. I prefer real people following real people.
From most everything I've read, humanity seems to be a central thread that ties the generations together - well that and knowledge. It's us and them; they include: the critics/judges, the politicians, and the war makers.
It takes real courage to stand in front of a crowd of stone throwers and not try to hide your true identity. Take Jesus for example; his story lives on, but none of those guys throwing stones ever got very far in the future. I bet there was some real funny guys back then too. I also believe education is important. I know you studied psychology. It takes a lot of work and respect for those artists that pave the fragile road to our future. Perseverance is important too and a good catcher's mitt to catch those stones in time.
Well Gertrude I'd better let you back to your novel,


Sincerely,
Jolie

Saturday, December 4, 2010

A collection of Fibonacci poetry

Fibonacci Poetry
The Fibonacci number sequence 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13… etc.
The next number in the sequence is found by adding the previous two.
Ex:
1 + 0 = 1
1 + 1 = 2
2 + 1 = 3
3 + 2 = 5
5 + 3 = 8
8 + 5 = 13
Most of the Fibonacci poetry I’ve read on the internet is created at this level, but there is no restriction to the form. The next number in the sequence is 13 + 8 = 21. I’ve seen them reversed, mirrored, doubled and anything imaginable adhered to the basic mathematic structure. You can make it as complicated as you like. If you’re a mathematician, you can probably find some really cool combinations, but for us guys who like to keep it simple, this is all you need to know. This is a spiral pattern as illustrated here:
http://www.mcs.surrey.ac.uk/Personal/R.Knott/Fibonacci/fibnat.html#spiral


Handful of Stars

I
held
a hand-
full of stars,
a palm of live wires,
glowing red like an x-ray
tiny fragments of light building energy
nudging, crevasses between fingers particles free
and
race
into
the night sky
shooting in reverse
to original position
taking wishes of the night from lovers' lips,
casting them back to a time before they fell in love.
(Fibonacci poem Doubled)


The Ledge
Here
on
the rock
ledge, I rise
to meet with challenge.
My spirit knows its strength endure.
Shadow plays its turn beneath an eagles open wings.
Ghostly images tell a tale
on a barren stage.
Unknowing
I am
still
there


Dear Adam ~
Just
look
at them
in chaos
fighting like monkeys,
the greed and jealously your genes,
I’ll admit to sharing, but my part was justly love.



Sing
song
blackbirds
early break
of day, gather in
multiples, arrange in a tree
to celebrate rain with song to light the edge of night.



Blame~
They
believed
it was right,
so we forgive.
Their side was no crime.
It’s a human mistake.
Blame is justifiable.
They truly believed; they were right.
Even when they see, they close their eyes
to humiliation that covets them.

Monday, November 22, 2010

Gold City




My key was stolen
along with my little black purse.
It was my fault.
I left it unattended
on a chair near the pool,
but I still have the lock
unlocked and waiting.
It was only a ninety-nine cent lock,
but the key was magic
when it matched a dream
and story I'd written.
I carried it everywhere
examined it with wonder, but
I didn't realize
what it meant to me
until it was gone.
My heart was broken.
I should have kept it safe,
but maybe it was meant
to be taken.

Now, the lock is cold and useless.
I often contemplate
throwing it into the sea,
but I can't.
It seems meaningless,
yet signifies hope
something I can hold..

and then one day
I found the perfect match,
the locks that line this gate;
their keys all lay
beneath the water
of the Fountain of Trevi.

But my lock was at home,
and the key gone, so
I took this picture,
and I can still pretend
because as long
as I still have the lock,
the story never has an end.

Monday, November 15, 2010

Poor Kitty


(Moose at 6 weeks)

Poor Kitty

It's one of those nights
time just needs to pass.
My daughter's cat was spayed.
She's home from the vet
still a little drunk from anesthesia.
She won't listen to my daughter
trying to follow instruction for her care.
Keep her quiet,
keep the collar on,
so she can't bite at the stitches.
Give pain med in the morning.
"Mom," she yells.
I go in her room.
The cat is on the top bunk
with her collar off,
growling and twitching her tail.
"How did she get up there?"
My daughter has tears in her eyes.
"She just climbed up there. She won't listen,
and she won't let me help her."
I pushed the collar over her head,
lifted her down and put her in a dog kennel.
She worked the collar off again,
pawed the door,
upset about being confined.

I have this
indescribable discomfort,
a misplaced guilt,
that doubles as responsibility,
to do the right thing,
and lack of control
to make Moose comfortable.
Our poor sweet kitten;
she trusted us,
and we've suddenly turned to torture her.
Her blue eyes stare,
her body seems weak.
We are all miserable,
watching her through the door of the dog crate.
And I paid money for this.
I want to return for an undo,
just give us back the other cat.
You can keep the money.
She can have kittens
until our house if filled with cats
and they in turn may have more.
That's the way nature intended.
We are sorry Moose,
time just needs to pass.
When Christmas comes,
we'll buy you a sock full of toys,
by then we'll all have forgotten.

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Yesterday and "Blood Test"

I'm looking through the new Palomar College catalog trying to decide what to take next semester. I'm thinking I need to know more about politics or law. So many of the famous poets had either law, or psychology degrees. But then I was thinking, maybe I could take philosophy over; I don't remember much about Socrates and Plato, Descartes, and those. Maybe it will help my writing. Or maybe I should paint; that was my first vision.

I went to the university yesterday. I need to apply to admissions, so I can graduate. I climbed the stairs, looked at the statue of Caesar Chaves, "si se puede," is written on the stair beneath him, which translates: "It can be Done." I remember the years I climbed those stairs every day, looking out the windows like the girl in the "Sister Christain" video I posted on my Facebook. That video actually lit a fire under my seat, it's time to graduate. OK, So I went to the university. The faces are always so kind and helpful there. If only they could know the hell I've seen, but how does one explain? and how does one explain without blaming one person or another. Some one stole my wonderland? or maybe it's the same for everyone. It's the collective conscience. Everyone is wondering the same thing. We are all one creature and we're injured - yowling into the fabric that tells the future. If I speak, I'll ruin it for everyone. They'll all think I'm stupid - or crazy.

I always hoped they had the answers that I was missing in my life. The air smelled so perfect, I ran my hand along the sitting height brick wall that leads toward the admissions building, passed Starbucks, and a line of students waiting to go through the door. The bricks were warm. I thought how time had passed so fast. I didn't appreciate those years enough, and now returning to finish made me feel like a loser. I should have a career. I never figured it out; I never figured it out. Maybe I just need to graduate. That's it. I'll understand once I graduate. The bell on the clock tower rang, and I looked at the windows, remembered the video, remembered looking out from those windows at one time, but I didn't see me here today. I was thinking about drawing a picture, or writing a metaphor.

Admission's stamped my official transcripts and sent me to another office for counseling. I ended up at a long desk explaining why I was there. They gave me a card and told me to email the councilor to make an appointment, so I came home, emailed, but I haven't got a response yet.
About that Sister Christian video.. what's beautiful: I posted a poem at Myspace awhile back. It was more of a journal entry than a poem. It's called Blood Test. That poem is really about what's eating away at me inside. It's about defining my personal identity. When I was writing the part about visiting the Vatican and having a vision, it came to mind that they wouldn't like me. Why would a Catholic church give a holy vision to a Christian? Of course they didn't know. Nobody looked at me weird. I was just another tourist visiting Rome. And what I saw was just an artist's spirit roaming the Vatican, and besides religions hate and kill each other. Then I thought, what a beautiful acceptance at that level. To think of oneself as a sister Christian, and in my own needy way, it seemed like humanity was on course... and isn't that what this is all about...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z92bmlcmyq0&ob=av2n


Blood Test

The doctor took my blood today,
two vials of dark red juice.
I should have gone yesterday
but, I forgot to fast.

The hawk is calling,
circling high.
I've sat in this place,
so many times to write.

The sun is calling too,
I have to close my eyes to see,
leaving me to hear,
the neighbor
with his weed eater.

I changed into old shorts,
the ones I wouldn't wear to town,
and the white tank I should have trashed,
the one with a tear.

I think about my blood and urine,
left at the clinic,
the doctor placing labels on the vials,
my name typed on each. That's me, yep.

The church bells sound,
reminds me of the day,
my father and his friends
carried my mother's coffin.

The bells had a similar sound,
as we walked across the fresh mowed lawn,
to where the hole awaited,
a nice place to rest.

I remember walking through the Vatican,
wishing I'd been baptized.
The artist's spirits
alive in labor's left to be admired.

Whether religion is right or wrong,
I like to believe there's a God,
one that loves all human kind,
that doesn't wish to kill the others.

I dipped my fingers in a sculpted bowl
held up by cherubs,
found the water with my finger tips,
touched it to my skin like perfume...

to sanctify I vision I saw,
while admiring the crosses,
and statues, filled with holy dream
to share with the future.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Letting Go

I slept well in the bed I chose,
the tall one with a flowered comforter.
As the elevator door opened,
I saw him across the hall.
He was with a party of six or so.
They gathered near the door;
the button arrow pointing down.
I started to go after him,
began to speak,
but didn't let the words go.
He was right there,
he would have heard me,
he would have stayed.
A lady in a nice dress and handbag
spoke to a younger woman in jeans.
"You sure have put on the weight."
The numbers above the door
moved down, stopped, and the door opened.
I stepped forward,
began to say his name, but I didn't.
He would have turned;
he would have stayed.
A voice spoke from behind me,
a woman quietly said:
"Let him go; that is his family."
So, I just watched,
as they all rolled their luggage
into the elevator.

10/12/10

Friday, August 13, 2010


Freud’s Perverse Polymorph (Bulgarian Child Eating a Rat), 1939
Salvador Dali


Oh Rats

Her future riddled
by a clean white bib
stained before she left the crib.
A long gestation
the artists creation,
unclothed before a cheering crowd.
What a surprise left to a promised prince.
Will he still want her
after she swallows the rat
after the biter taste
saturates her pretty pink tongue,
hairs of rodent
clenched tight her mouth.


She's cute as a kitten
with her first catch,
his limp body
might have made a steady steed,
until he tried to run, so now
dangles from her fresh cut teeth.
One gaze into her loving eyes,
will see a future bow
where once this little thing of curls might curtsy
past the blood that soils her lips,
past the reek, the drip, and
rotted breaths stole by the corps
to leave his one last mark.

Oh Rats baby
what have you done?

Gusano Rojo

Gusano Rojo

It calls again asking for an attorney.
Since when did the wind
need money to blow, or leaves forget to fall.
The wheel spins
instead of earth, and she was only burrowed
to transgress an other's freedom
then tossed in the trunk
beside what's left -
of last night's tequila.

Bits of madness
leak from the book shelf.
The characters escape
on tiny ropes and hooks
planted in a cherry wood desk
once prized and shined with Pledge,
now bows beneath the pressure
of yet - another life story.
The mechanic is over booked;
the wheel of time rusted.

Her's - was only a worm
floating at the bottom
of a bottle of mezcal, an artifact
thrown into the sea
uncovered now and then by currents.
Unable to speak until ingested
and it is them - again
again - again;
the current settles.
She wriggles just below the surface,
a red, gusano rojo
and the mermaids laugh.

The sailors bait their hook
cast into a rojo sun,
and Melville wonders - who?
has set a hook in Moby Dick.
"Gusano Rojo, Gusano Rojo,"
they shout from the deck,
the wind disrupted once more.
They reel fury and fiery breath
in the hot summer sun,
mad with the voice of the worm.
"Gusano Rojo, Guasano Rojo..."
and the current settles.

8/9/2010

Sunday, August 8, 2010

Poetry

Poetry

There's she is, it's Gertrude,
standing on the top shelf
of my bookcase.

She claps her hands,
a cut-out card
held up by her elbow
that rests against the word - poems...

and there's Teddy Chaucer
he's there too
balanced between Shakespeare
and Donald Hall.

Gertrude applauds.
The fan blows cool air
across the room,
vibrates the blinds on the opposite wall.

Poetry is not always available
to share its spirit, it wanders off
to visit the neighbor,
to take out the garbage,
follow an old yellow school bus.

Gertrude applauds.
The poetry waits
till I look back, wonders about me too,
and where I might be,
and I am busy, washing dishes,
folding clothes,
I've gone grocery shopping.

We become like the couple
that pass in the hall.
I sit to write
and poetry stepped out,
is visiting with an old friend.

It's climbing a tree.
I paint myself - an illustration and follow.
Where has poetry gone?
It cracks from an egg,
asks its parent for a worm.

I want to be like poetry
inspired by everything it sees,
dipping, bending round corners
watering mountains, flowing with streams,
and dripping from faucets.

I climb the bookshelf,
sit next Gertrude Stein,
so she can rest her elbow on my name.

Gertrude claps her hands.

Monday, July 12, 2010

Quatern

A Quatern

His song sailed through the garden's drawn
of Shakespeare dawn and painter's eye,
oared with well formed arms to follow
fated rivers of the hallow.

On echo of a steady wind
his song sailed through the garden's drawn
of pastel hues to journey just
into the light that played his name...

and in the deepest forest green
where reservoir of trumpet crow,
his song sailed through the garden's drawn
and tales forever fixed in stone.

Across the planes of cosmic sea,
and fruited vines of mystery,
where peace and war amalgamate,
his song sailed through the garden's drawn.

Old Dreams

Old Dreams

He returned in daylight hours
after the dream -
a reminder of the night
searching red clay caves
safe from hostile skies.
He came back,
and I returned awake
to where he stood watching,
propped against a wall
of foreign architecture.
He spoke with an accent,
but never in a dream.
I looked back for him,
as though reality could enter.
His image could only remind me
of something familiar.
He became a Picasso
An Old Guitarist,
now sitting to play
where his voice left off.
where red changed to blue
where life and death split
during the night.
I will paint again
when I can claim confidence,
and we will serenade together
the red clay songs
with a blue guitar.

I Wake

I Wake

I wake to the cell phone alarm.
I know it's morning by the grey mist that fills the window square.
I think about where I work today,
think about growing older, roll over,
and if I'll ever replace this old mattress.
I remember unfinished details of a Saturday appointment,
and an x-husband I wish I'd never met,
in the time when life could have moved past
this void that calls such necessity of fifty.

I wonder what it is that leaves me in a state of mystery?
what it is that returns throughout the days
in clients voices, in unexpected expressions
that light the soul of everyday occurrence.
I feel sickened by uncertainty, mad by madness,
but happy at the same time, that I am
Inflicted by the deadened ends of hope
that sent me searching out angels,
rolling in the paint of miracles.

When I don't want to scream, I love this.
I love this euphoric dream, the rotted phantom
that promised to be my prince, and never came
just left me staring in the eyes of other victims
that cringe with symptoms of psychopathic fear.
I never got to understand, and now -
I don't want to leave this pain
because it's blooming, and I'm a child in the garden
picking flowers for my mother to draw.

I'm standing in front of the mirror
looking at my eyes. I wonder how fifty I look,
what I'll look like in another ten years.
I run a brush through my hair,
line my eyes, so at least - I look awake.
The smell of coffee warms the kitchen
sends it's last perk and spit before the alarm.
I open the cupboard and choose a cup.

The Guest

The Guest

A steaming kettle
screams about the race
to answer the call
and seep a Tetley
fingered tightly by a tag.

The fire burns
behind glass doors
like roses in a vase
of a chilled window.

Water falls from kettle raised
to fill a golden flight
of butterflies on bone china
set with care before an empty chair
and ironed linen.

The guest arrives,
returning from caves,
grazed by a bullet, and
mended with wood pulp paste.

Leaves float zig zags
through the glass,
flakes of ash that fold
to gently blot the lips,
that puff beneath an inquisitive stare.

6/14/2010

Monday, May 10, 2010

The way she moves me

Another A & M - 5 minute poem.
this one from Peter's topic:

The way she moves me

She moves me into tomorrow
never asking if I mind.
I don’t question escape,
or even dream there’s anything better
than her presence, than her choice
to change the weather.

She moves me into yesterday
where I can see wisdom
blowing like fresh laundry on the line.
I don’t question value
of each dressing that I fold
and store in a drawer or in the closet.

...for whether the weather
be that that I choose,
I know she’s prepared me
for the way that she moves.

The color of the ocean where it is the deepest

This poem is from a little game we play at, Alabaster & Mercury, a private myspace writing group. They are 5 minute poems, then we leave a topic for whoever decides to take a stab at it.
This topic was left by my friend Larry Kuechlin:

The color of the ocean where it is the deepest

I drove home early
before traffic made the drive taxing.
Part of me remained with last glimpses of freedom,
and last song the sea played in my dreams,
where darkness swirled
only revealing to my imagination
some sort of truth that lit my wonder.
My hair smelled of smoke,
that drifted through the morning
deep beneath the pressure
of a day's demand.
I painted my toe nails
my favorite shade of pink,
smelled of Hermes Paris,
before uncorking the joy
that stole away the hours.
The darkest shades of sky
lend only to this moment
the splash of white foam
tempting me to follow,
to draw me in and surprise me
with its depth and chill.
Yet I stand here
dripping with need to submerge
to feel the weight of her power,
give to her strength to carry me
where life is fragile, and I must swim to shore.

His Smile

His Smile

His eye was an oak leaf
dried, fallen and blown into place.
His smile the shadow of a blade of grass
that chuckled when the wind blew.
He halved himself with the edge of nature
camouflaged by time of day.
His face found its shape by shadows
an afternoon sun left
as it journeyed beyond trees and mountains.
His hair was a tuft of rye grass,
grown over the edge to finger draw
a shadow image against the walk.

A tiny ant ran aimlessly, back and forth
climbing twigs without stopping for balance
It crossed his eye then disappeared
in a grass jungle.
All he could do is smile,
happy to be noticed,
happy to be drawn by an afternoon sun
and remembered by a poem.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Sonnet Nine

Sonnet Nine

When morning first broke through the open shade,
I gazed to find what darkness kept concealed.
A tidy ocean bed that God had made
spilled quiet on the shore that dawn revealed.
Beneath the milky cast that hid the sky,
a row of surfers waited for a wave.
On shore a flock of avocets ran bye;
their ebb and flow my memory engraved.
The half-a-moon that shined the night before
still lit the darkness when I closed my eyes.
Too soon the sun would rise to light the shore
and only leave recall to claim this sigh.
The wind that gave me shivers in the night,
now warms the dream my spirit does alight.

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

Thursday, April 8, 2010

Footprints on the Soil

You make yourself impossible
to love...
drifting off past the edge of trees
past fairytales and song
where wonder diminshes
and time closes with the stage.
Curtains draw and darkness leaves
a path of chirping crickets,
a bench under a street lamp.

Wait here,
don't go into the darkness alone.


You set the clock on random
changing every second,
and you give me the moon
smiling down, as though I were a child
and you an illustration
shining through winter branches
like something real
that never quite comes.

Don't fall in love.

I wait like something faithful
in a jar of formaldehyde
until the wind blows in the night
and it falls and breaks,
and now the path has broken glass.
The rain washes me away
into the dead of night,
where nothing even dreams,
yet I can't close my eyes.

Don't worry Dear.

I rest beneath a tree
a wilting fruit that turns to soil.
My job is feeding sprouts,
telling a story nobody believes,
still wating for my love,
while they all walk by
arm in arm
leaving footprints on the soil.

Dead Mouse

Dead Mouse

Who so often wonders who
an owl in tree-tops darkest night
hungry for a mouse to find
first light that falls upon the path.

We found a mouse dead in the path
uneaten buy its pray,
yet I cannot blame the owl
or hawk that hunger for his meat,

a tummy full to feed his young
hidden from their own foe.
Perhaps he might have lost his grip
when startled in the night.

I knelt down on my knees
looked closer for a cause,
but didn't even find a scratch
or ruffled coat.

His black eyes were clear,
his little ears intact,
fur glistening with health
left still to find the morning light.

I wonder if he might have run
into the night, found his true love waiting
a princess never promised
to a little gray mouse.

But, who knows for sure, not I,
my wonder satisfied.
There are just some things in life,
we never come to know.

The Pubic Hair

The Pubic Hair


Like plucking a weed,
I pulled the misplaced pubic hair
depriving it a life
to play Repunzel for the dead
spirits grasping from the Earth
for anything left to climb higher.

This misplaced secret
that had slipped from concealment of panty
boasting itself amongst the soft leg hairs
of my inner thigh.

It stung like hell as I tweezed
and pulled its permeable root
through the soft pale skin
leaving a red speck of blood.

I lay it on the table, examine it up close
under my reading glasses then crush the root-ball
with the lead of my pencil
and examine its life source
now mashed like some sort of zit goop.

I sit back in my chair
and look at it from a distance,
worried someone might see,
and I would feel the fever of embarrassment.

This hair either plucked or in place
discomforts my inner being, as though
I would be a better person
had it never grown at all.

I wonder what someone would think
if they noticed it.
This mischievous gremlin
appointed to frame my confidence.

Yet it lies there in full view
evidence of its pitiless death,
glued down to the table
as though it seeks to find life again
on another planet. ..

as though it needs to prove its purpose
as some grossly out of place being
frightening everyone that looks at it
to hide their face in embarrassment.

I pluck it once again
denying it purpose at all,
and there it is
proud as ever between my finger tips.

I twirl it around
honoring it one last dance
then suck it away with the vacuum cleaner,
so I might find myself again - something like pretty.

Reading Poetry

Reading Poetry

I lie on my bed reading poetry
and thinking of a friend.
I can almost see
our thoughts resting
under the same night lamp,
reading the same poetry.

The shadow from my hand
blacks out the paper.
I can't see what I've written.
The grey pencil fades away
along with the day,
whose light softly retreated
into the mountains.

I scratch my neck and twist some,
moving my hand from the light, so I can see.
I hear the sound of cars,
passing on a distant road,
and remember that someday
I won't be here anymore.

.. and that I may be reaching
for this moment
at some later time in life
wishing the children were still downstairs
playing games on the Internet,
and I could still be here
only dreaming of a future time.

I imagine myself an old woman,
resting in a nursing home,
my mind rusted and blurred,
my hands withered like fall leaves.
I might even call out for the children
or ask where my dog has gone. Then

...fading gently like the light of day
into dreams.
I think of a friend, and
we are walking together
under arbors of fresh born leaves,
the musk of fertile soil rising.

A song of spring plays from the birds,
light dances in the shadows.
We bow our heads with smile
afraid of what a kiss might bring
as we decide together which path to take.

Sunday, January 3, 2010