To the Man Who Makes the Mylar, To the Woman Who Makes the String

I wonder what time you start your day
and if you wear a uniform to work
is it hot on the factory floor
beneath unfiltered shafts of light
descending through unopened windows
or cool like wet concrete
a panting dog would lie on
to escape a too warm day

Do you make your lunch in the morning
side by side with your child's brown bag
or is there a cafeteria where coworkers gather
dreading the whistle blow
marking the start of the shift
that seems to come much too quick

Perhaps you do not think them useful
these things that you create each day
and so lament your life's work
manufacturing frivolous objects
that hold air and tether it
before the inevitable pop

But I am here to tell you
that the heart shaped pink balloon
with the shiny silver string
suspended at the intersection
of Santa Monica and Yale
saved my life today

As it inexplicably appeared
bobbing along the road
floating free like an apparition
no, like an invitation
to purge the gravel of disillusionment
settled deep within my belly
to wrap the silver string around my wrist
and let love lead me where it will

From Time to Time

I recommend sitting on an old stone fence
from time to time
especially if you can sit high enough
to easily swing your legs
like you once did at the kitchen table
all those years ago
when your mother made you eat liver
with peppers and onions

Recognize what a comfort it was for her
to make the food her mother made
when she was small enough
to kick her legs beneath
the polished walnut table
that cost three months of her father's
steel mill worker salary

Imagine how tall your papa sat
at the head of his very own table
just one generation removed from the old country
and yet able to see his three small children
well fed and happy

Picture the glint in his eyes
as he admonished them to clean their plates
so they could all go watch a show
on the brand new television

No one had ever eaten liver and peppers so fast

Forgive yourself for turning up your nose
at your mother's simple offering
for declaring the sacred profane

And though you have been a vegetarian
for some twenty years
go back in your memory
slice a small strip
of the dense pungent meat
savor it with the gratitude
that while your mom's feet now easily touch the ground
she still likes to swing them a little
from time to time

In Praise of Knuckle Dimples

I could spend a lifetime
arm trapped beneath the furnace
of your downy head
sweat pooling in the bend of my elbow
nothing to do
but study the divots at the end
of each tiny digit
those perfect replicas of my Papa's
fingernails sized to scale
the smell of stale coffee
(your father's, not mine)
threatens to nauseate me
but I am willing to endure
the olfactory discomfort
to marvel at how even in your sleep
you tap out unheard melodies
on the keyboard of my skin
then reach out to explore the world
as a wave searches the sand
how graceful your fingers are
not the bumbling cub paws
I imagined they'd be
in the months before
the dawning of your face
rising above that blue curtain
the dividing line behind which
our bodies were unentwined
(is there a word for a simultaneous
beginning and end?)
I should answer emails
I should wash out that mug
I should get on with my day
And I could easily wake you
light sleeper that you are
(my genes, not your father's)
instead I must memorize
your purple petal eyelids
fringed in fine feathers
don't even get me started
on those wrist creases

Neighbor Boys

"I'll spray him with the hose
and you watch
he'll be meaner than ever!"
I hear the neighbor boys plot

"He'll hiss and run away
like a dumb dumb --
I'll spray and you watch
how fast that mean old cat
will waddle!"

They don't know
that the "dumb dumb"
sensed there was mischief afoot
and now sits sweet and happy
purring beneath the safety
of my office chair

How often have neighbor boys
mistaken fear for meanness?

As often as we adults I suspect

Turning our hoses on full blast
and feeling arrogantly vindicated
when our preemptive strike
is met with howl and hiss

It is a wonder the whole world
is not soaked to the bone

11:11

I used to hoard wishes

like a starving child hoards crumbs 

cast off as detritus by others

but precious nourishment to her

No one I knew put much stock

into pennies tossed in fountains

but I would wait and watch

the copper sink to the bottom

planted like a lotus seed 

beneath the gurgling waters

I was the only adult in the neighborhood

who harvested dandelions 

and blew with reckless abandon

(the casualty of an imperfect lawn

well worth the wind-scattered wishes)

A full-grown woman

who counted fallen eyelashes

as a precious treasure

and clocks blinking 11:11

as heralds of a Magic Time

birthday candles were serious business

not just some yearly photo-op

made more difficult as years increased

and lung capacity declined

Partygoers would teasingly ask

"What did you wish?"

I would smile and coyly respond

"If I tell it won't come true!"

Thinking it was a joke, they would laugh

not knowing I held a desperate hope in my heart

And in all of those years
I never dared speak the secret

that I am finally free to proclaim:

Every weed and smoldering candle

every eyelash and sunken penny

represented just One Wish

that came true 

the moment I met You

Neon Pink

There was a sweatshirt I wore
on my twelfth birthday
neon pink with white lips like kiss prints
splattered recklessly across the front
I have a picture of that day
when I put it on brand new and so cool
all the brighter for never having been washed
the color reflected the blush of youthful hope
onto my make-up free cheeks

I was all smiles as I looked forward
to a blindingly bright future
as John Taylor's wife
how proud he would be
to be married to the world's most famous
veterinarian/fashion designer
who couldn't make the tour with him
because she was too busy starring
in the film version of her miraculous life

The sunset tonight reminds me of that sweatshirt
the electric fuchsia speckled with clouds
like white lips kissing the sky
wrapping me in the cottoning warmth
of those long forgotten dreams
protecting me from the blue chill
of forty on the horizon
like the ocean swallowing the sun

The white lips whisper
there is time, there is still time
Project Runway is open to all ages
John Taylor has just joined Twitter
and neon pink is cool again

Impossible Things

I want to live an African Elephant life
A Himalayan Mountain life
A Giant Sequoia life
A life so Large you can't wrap your head
or your arms around it
A life that can't be grasped
even by two hands
I want to live a life so Tall
you need an oxygen tank to climb
or a ladder on top of a Giant crane
on top of a skyscraper to reach
I want to live an Empire State Building life
An Eiffel Tower life
I want to live so Big they can't fit me
in a box when I die
They'll have to intern me in a Legend
so I can ride into the sunset
on the back of Babe the Blue Ox
And when night falls
I'll take archery lessons from Orion himself
piercing the stars with my Mighty arrows

i want to live a hummingbird life
a wee green clover life
a spot on the wing of a lady bug life
a life so tiny you can put it under your tongue
and dissolve it until all of the molecules
flow through your body
a life that gets under your nails
that can be folded up and placed in the breast pocket
of a nice suit like a colorful hankie
i want to live an eyelash on the cheek life
a single pink petal life
an eskimo kiss life
a life so small that my greatest achievement
is a well bloomed rose bush
and when i die even a mint tin
will be too big for me
they'll have to put me on a leaf
so i can float down river like a newborn dragonfly
sun warming my wet wings
and when night falls
i'll take flight on a jasmine scented breeze
reflecting the stars in my ink drop eyes

I want to live a Both-And life not an either-or life
an inconceivable, improbable, unreasonable life
because the impractical dreams and impossible things
are the only ones worth Living (and dying) for

Amazing Grace

Grace whispers in a shaft of sunlight
entreats the rain to fall
turns the seasons
raises the stem
releases the delicate fragrance
and opens each rose
in its own time
you can not pry the petals loose
no matter how well-intentioned
if you work harder
you will only crush the bloom
no machine may unravel
the millennia of mystery
contained in a single bud
the petals must soften
deep inside the flower first
stretching forth from its heart
with an exuberantly painted shout
you can not make the coiled blossom bloom
you may only bear witness to its brilliant birth
and be amazed

The Bubble Maker

The marine layer descends

shrouding my neighborhood

in a cool grey silence

befitting my mood

while my body goes through

the agonizing detox of hormones

it had ramped up production of

just six weeks ago

The cramping has mostly subsided

but still physical activity

is a great chore

as it seems my body used up

half of its energy creating a life

and the other half rejecting it

The dogs are pretty oblivious

to all of it - the chill in the air

the quiet, the emptiness

they only know

that there are bushes to be sniffed

and trees to be peed on

and so expect their usual walk

I don't even brush my hair

After their business is done

I turn back for the house

but my youngest pup pulls me forward

his attention drawn

to something down the block

A lone bubble

with no source in sight

carried on a breeze

down a deserted street

bobbing along the sidewalk

iridescent colors swirling

The object is so foreign

the young pup can't decide

if he should chase it or eat it

and so stands mesmerized

until the old dog and I catch up

and the three of us stand still

contemplating the curiosity

It is an unexpected wonder

to encounter the unexplainable

popping up on the dullest of days

When it collides with a brick wall

and disappears into a small sprinkle

of tiny dots on the driveway

the grace of the moment lingers

and I am filled with gratitude

knowing the bubble maker

is still out there somewhere

Black cat on a sunny day

Anyone who has seen a black cat
curled tightly in a window on a sunny day
knows there is a multitude of colors
contained in even the most caliginous of fur
each onyx follicle bursts into iridescence
like a moonbow over Cumberland Falls
against an inky velvet night sky
A reminder that the intricate dance
of light and dark creates a beauty
neither could generate on its own
and while white rejects every red and purple
that tries to pierce its puritanical heart
black gathers all the colors in tight
dependant on the full spectrum to survive

Grace and Peanuts

Packing peanuts from an overturned box
are scattered across the busy street
blown by the crosswinds of passing cars
creating a twinkling tinkling sound
like snow falling on wind chimes
the white Styrofoam tumbleweeds
dotting the cold black asphalt
emit intermittent cracks and pops
as the wheels of fate flatten an unlucky few
funny how the protectors have so little ability
to protect themselves from the crushing blows
of unfulfilled destiny and oncoming traffic
but oh how the newly animated herd
mesmerizes in its final moments
gracefully dancing outside the box

Legacy

Closing my eyes I try to see
visions painted on the backs
of my apricot eyelids
some hoped for image
of what life will be
in twenty
thirty
fifty years, if we're lucky
you with wavy white hair
me silently looking out
over the isle Yeats loved
nothing more to prove
nothing more to say
with my books on shelves
and verses in hearts
young dreamers dreaming
of growing into their wrinkles
sitting in this very chair
crying as I cried
over Alcott's desk
or with palm pressed
upon Frost's kitchen table
hoping somehow inspiration
will seep through like osmosis
words soaking into cells
wisdom circling round
building layer upon layer
like a great spiralled shell
let's make our house in it
just two side-stepping crabs
leaving trails in the sand
under the linnet's wings
beating out chords of grace
legacy of purple waters
washing over quiet shores
and a snowy wood
now warm, now green

Senses on a Saturday

See the white rose and her sisters
stand straight as arrows
aimed at the golden sun
proving that not all things
in this world are broken

Smell the willow as it weeps
warm earthen incense
emanates from peeling bark
fragrant leaves fanned by a breeze
beneath the heavy heat of the day

Hear the sleeping spaniel's breath
rising labored but steady
a rattle of resilience
beating back age and illness
with each defiant thump of his tail

Feel the stained glass window
diffusing soft colored light
through hard dimpled surfaces
and cold twisted iron
beauty born of imperfection

Taste the salt of gratitude
on cheeks wet with joy
notice how the bitter flavor
fades with time
it all seems so sweet now

The Real

Morning moon casts
a sliver of silver light
upon shining stone pavers
drenched by some unheard
nocturnal downpour

Trees etched black
against the quickening sky
know nothing of the dream
that left the dark night
shrouded in a miasma of fear

And the bright morning star
caught in a corridor
between continents of clouds
winks knowingly
this is the real

This waking sun
This cool wet grass
This red-winged blackbird
heralding the new day
with an exuberant shout!

The heart of the matter

Here is the heart of the matter

each matter has a heart

just as the clover

has three

 and the body

holds one

so the stone, the earth, the tree

simply follow the veins

of leaf and quill

and soft smooth gold 

branching through granite

and you will see

there is nothing so solid

so hardened

that it does not have

a center

you need only search
for the cracks

they will always show the way

to the heart of the heart of the matter

Dog Walk

The long brown basset
trots along the uneven stone
as if it were smooth marble
aided by a comically low
center of gravity
and stabilizing ear flaps
completely unaware
that his woolen-capped owner
bent and hobbling
has given up the chase
released the leash
to concentrate on navigating
the tricky terrain
the old boy stops
and looks back to his old man
woofing a reminder of all
the adventures the two have shared
until the leash is taken up again
and at a much slower pace
they round the bend together

Sunrise Shimmy

It is agonizing ecstasy
waiting for the sun to rise
she likes to take her time
that celestial burlesque girl
coy and playful
teasing with a flush
followed by a blush
first the arched eyebrow
of a pale golden cloud
next a soft peach shoulder
shimmies across the stage
before the red hot blaze
of uninhibited beauty
is met by the leafy applause
of lovestruck sycamores
and the cat calls of crows
until the whole of nature
is bathed in the breathless wonder
of the soft supple morning light

Skipping Stones

Let the stones thrown
into the lake of your life
skip across the water
with ever diminishing impact
until they are swallowed
into the stillness of the center

Let the ripples collide as they must
until the wake of impact
settles into glassy calm
and the intended violence
is absorbed by a vast tranquillity
the rock softened by the deep

like carbonation

The young Hasidic girls
stand on the school steps
dressed in matching uniforms
a sea of navy blue cotton sweaters
with starched white collars peeking out
and severe skirts with hemlines
halfway between the ankle and the knee
each head thick with rich brown hair
pulled into perfect ponytails
the uniformity troubled only
by the backpacks they wear:
neon green leopard print
pastel rainbow striped
red and black lady bug bags
wild colorful and utterly unique
self-expression like carbonation
bubbles to the surface
with just a twist of the lid

Nature is a soapy sponge

Nature is a soapy sponge
squeeze the water
let it wash away
the chalk stains of thought
and the choking dust of worry
until the board is blank -
clear and clean and ready
for the next lesson