Which will blossom first,
clutch of daffodils in their brown pitcher
Together, whispers that voice
outside the windows
Lift your heads and blossom
to This World
Category Archives: Creativity
Which will blossom first,
Oh, we’ve been wild
All weekend, we reveled
in who we usually are Not.
I played a woman who throws
dinner parties and plates,
handles with aplomb
recipes gone wrong,
a woman who lives on wine
and crepes, who doesn’t need
much sleep or any solitude,
a woman who loves to shop for
new clothes and containers,
all kinds—vases, baskets, teapots—
things to hold the things this kind of woman drops—
earrings, cash, homemade chocolates, tiny jars of eye cream.
Oh, it has been a funny whirlwind of zesty woman costumes.
Now, welcome home to my own quiet self,
writing through the long winter days,
drowsily recalling all the weekend women we were.
And you? How are things there, inside,
where you really live?
See today’s gifts
Tumbled out of time’s
Woven basket, spilled
On the blanket spread
At your feet
All their meanings
Are wrapped in
Traffic, incessant phones,
Sour blueberries in
Five dollar pints,
Gray ice, dirty windows,
Sun shining through the
Everyday winter grime
When no poem arrives,
It feels like waking in the night
and reaching for a sip of water—-
You know exactly where you left it,
the glass with a slice of lemon
and an etched decoration of trees
at the edge of a forest,
a forest you were dreaming of
just before you woke,
thirsty for a drink your hand can’t find
though you believe it’s there
just out of reach
breathing quietly in the dark.
think of me like a cat:
Uninterested in your list of Good Reasons,
I do not even hear the excuses—
excuses like the sound of wind
over waves, or the voices of grownups
in a Charlie Brown cartoon.
Noise. Only noise.
Nothing sways me from what I want—
Time and Attention.
Your focused Self.
The heat of your hands
smoothing my fur till I relax
and stretch out on your lap,
purring, telling you everything.
The shy boy, who never speaks in class,
raises his hand now, when the subject matters.
How much violence, he wants to know, how
much gore can he include in his novel
of a science experiment gone horribly wrong?
Next to him, the girl doodling flowers
says she hasn’t started yet but
is thinking of a children’s story
about a pony, or possibly a unicorn.
Later, face shining, she stops me in the
crowded hallway to show me ten pages
of scribbled notebook paper.
She says, I’ve changed my mind.
Now, it’s a romance.
At the church basement rummage sale
I found user’s manuals for Life
piled in messy stacks on foldout tables.
Most of them were skinny,
the size of grade school workbooks
or collections of sheet music–
smudged cardboard covers,
pages stapled together.
There were diagrams and colored charts
explaining how to do
a million different things.
I snatched them up, as many as I could carry,
paid the old lady with the metal cash box
and hauled my treasure
up the worn stone steps
into the sunlight.
Only then did I discover they were
written in a foreign language,
one of the difficult ones,
Like Cantonese or Russian.
Four hundred years old,
Haiku spread its rules
in the shady spot at
the edge of the meadow
on a faded patchwork quilt
of sonnets and prose.
Here a square of roses,
next to Shakespeare’s dark lady
in gold, stitched to
paragraphs of pattern,
then a square of green.
Haiku stretches its cramped muscles
tied seventeen ways for so many years,
sighs with contentment
and here, amid the crumbs
of the feast
watches its many grandchildren
play in the meadow.
Each author, an authority
on their own world—
Me, I am an authority on
sipping coffee by candlelight
while the cat purrs,
And I stretch out time like taffy—
Slow, slow hour—
The day pulls the blankets closer,
bunches up its pillow and
dozes for a few more minutes
while I sit with the last of the cosmos
blooming in their vase,
pollen and words drifting into my lap.