You started not to like me. At first you thought: It’s not him. It’s me. It’s the Chemo, the kids, the stress, my weight. Drugs ended. Hair grew back. Boobs rebuilt. Life leveled as Kids reached an easy age And yet you Couldn’t shake feeling that I’d Turned on you. One time I toured then Didn’t come home.…
Grey hair in streaks, falling straight down. Friendship, translucent and strong as fishing line Books, stacks of texts, leaning. Paper birds, emerging from the wet, hempy mash Disagreement, and dissent. Chickens in the back 40. Raised boxes and their bees. Voice, a cool shaded pond. Bob. Tomorrow, empty canvas. — for Susan, Day 12, Poetry Month
Seventh day resting Balanced on land’s razor edge– Blood orange moon rises. -day 11, poetry month
Across the Gulf from La Casa Azul, this Monday Late morning I am thinking of you, Frida. My sister’s just called and We Facetimed, her lying flat on her Back on her bed, phone in midair Me slurping lukewarm coffee in my Second cousin-in-law’s second home and the chatter Echoes off textured walls until we…
Got to hit the road and try to find My kind of America. It’s out there Somewhere: not too crowded, A farmer’s market weekly At the time of day convenient for Both the workers and the farmers. People reading books. Bike lanes and Sidewalks and garden boxes Where brown and white Mix happily as a…
There once was a man said ‘Hello’. Who heard no reply from below. He said with grunt “I’ll go look out front” But instead just looked down at his toe. –poem by Colin, day 8
Dali broke with the Surrealist movement Cuz they didn’t like that he got famous. Jealous bitches be like “yo Sal, Babe, ain’t no way to make, like, Art and also Cash.” So he and Gala bought A boat and she ditched her Husband and they made out for France to Hide and read and Butter…
Another meaty metal body Dangles in midair. Barely seems Suspended; perhaps the Fog holds up its mass and All the lives within. Autopilot disengaged we Route around the weather Rather, we watch La La Land On matchbook screens and Clutch our dancing coffees While Dan the Man takes Berth around a storm maker. I pull down the…
I wonder what JFK would have to say If he, on the occasion of spring break, Found his flight cancelled. And thus re-booked for such an early a.m. Could not decline the logic of overnighting JFK Queens Radisson. Took the AirTrain to the hotel shuttle to The recently remodeled lobby and The second floor with…
Hold this kitten, would you, While I trick you into Reading poetry. Whoops! Now you’ve done it, Got yerself all intellectified With words in stacks. Poetry, you decry! Save me! Not those tangled up knotted Ideas in shapely stanzas! Look out! She scratches. Still Got her claws. They frown on Hacking off cat digits these days. Ahhh,…
End of day lends itself to Gathering ephemera. Unsorted, a day succumbs. It’s all detritus and last-minute noise Eardrums ringing, hippocampus Vibrating. The occurrence of Night surprising as a summer cold, As easily forgiven for the rest it gives. End of day, casting off aspersions Like stitches, or old dogs– What agreement did we conjure…
It’s true I have trouble with you, With everyday compassion, Because It means forgiving the person Who drops poop bags to the ground– Listening between sarcastic comments for Pain and fatigue. Everyday compassion the Off-gassed namesake of Life. I’ll have to be More than OK with rigid people– Got to See myself in them, to Assume…
No longer call it “Stranger danger”– Now let’s talk about the “Tricky adults” who chat up Eight year olds and their Baby brothers outside Emergency rooms (while a Mother’s ovary bursts)– Who beg for Help from babies. Two boys as vulnerable on a Bench as hatched Sea turtles on a seagull’s White sand buffet. Tricky adults who…
Today is the birthday of my former roommate and college friend. I have no delusions that she will read this post, and anyway, it isn’t about her. It’s about the experience I had with her, and what it taught me about myself. “Trisha” and I were roommates when I lived in Kansas City. I had…
Patti said: “I haven’t been writing much for fear of cyber-whining.” Ohhhh Patti. I hear you. I counted. There are TWELVE posts from the last six months in my blog’s draft folder that are almost 100 percent flushed out. But each time, when I got near the end and thought about hitting “PUBLISH” I stopped myself.…
