Shoes, belt coiled
ties laid smooth like runways
leather pockets hold dust
seeping into tightly gripped edges
of rehearsed answers
and sweaty replies.
Finding old polish
rubbing into the pores of
scuffed shoes and skin
until fingers ache
into a hard shine.
Next to overloaded laundry basket,
mirror shined shoes
jacketed with runway tie
He spins quarters in his pockets
with a smile like the 1000 rhododendrons
toe tips out
he rocks back on his heels
– Johnny Jump ups
springing toward the May sky.
I watch him leave
like that first driving day
puddled in the window
while hangers punctuate chairs and
It Rained That Day
Between thought and page there was rain
all around the valleys and hills of my heart
and settled down around the depths of my hips
as I struggled to find the words.
Fog and light shadows of grey formed on the iced windowpane
where beyond lay the stillness of the lonely river James.
In writing I find no companion
Maybe if I close my eyes I could ease down below
and my words would find the page of river thought.
Stealthily and sleekly- sliding and gliding over stone
locked in muddy depths- rolling and rollicking through turns and bends
and racing down where river birds glide and icy stemmed bulbs of spring
find the sun just once…
But between thought and page there was rain.
A long rain of icy stark windowpane.
Where are the words –
when my soul has already traveled downstream?
What speaks to me are the long silences of open doors that
once carried the melody of your voice in its creaking opening/closing
and your singing that brushed the hallway walls with hues of liquid
My heart in tune with your smiling eyes and living rhythm.
Strong willow-best be gone to test your branches.
Bending fro and back in youthfulness as you ride the waves of life’s choices.
Hanging by a single thread
deceivingly caught by one leg in midflight
the yellow jacket was suspended in time.
Like the pendulum of a clock swinging
back and forth.
Rich colors and intent intact
comically fixed in space
the sun filtered through.
Dew not yet fully dried on its wing
before having it’s morning tea of nectar
and showing off from its brood of flowers.
Main act never arriving to center stage.
At what point did it surrender
overnight in darkness’s tomb?
Somewhere between two waves
between first and second base
the way time shifts
a second becomes a minute
the platform becomes a stage.
somehow an ant remains frozen-
A wave freezes and time
moves into a backwards paradigm
particle by particle
and our breath becomes breathless
and changes into a lumpy swallow
and I think maybe I will
My mind becomes a part of yesterday’s
and my words sink into a state of rest
between the rug and the floor where dusty
secrets are swept scared
and some dissolve into visible air
never to be loved or hated
there as we walk through
and return and sometimes just sit and
watch as in a dream
when the sun settles
underneath leafy trees as leaves sprinkle
shadows at my feet.
Reaching out into blue
My heart soars
yellow cream and buttery layered hues.
Sun and soft doves
coating hillsides with flowers
that sprung overnight.
I want to gather them all and spin round and round.
Reaching out through layers of space.
yellow has a fragile power
-its beauty bright and numbing against
I feel the warm sun
as I coast on yellow clouds
and find oranges and reds.
Grey bark hides smooth green
with a promise of spring
hide beetles and grumpy moths.
Snails in their sublime slime
under moldy leaves.
Looking up into blue
tiny birds peck
a chorus begins
at allegro presto
no time for sonata.
I lie grass deep and breathe in
dark mulch, wet bark and promise of
White tangled branches
form veins of renewal
stirred by the wind
matted upon green
framed by my window
as I sit looking outward.
A leaf not yet caught by
autumn shakes suspended
between frozen branches
while winter whistles it’s lullaby
rocking it back to sleep.
White light threads through layers of
reflections painted upon my windowsill.
Insects of winter - lost sailors
twirl and disappear.