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Category Archives: Friendship

Women Playing Dress-Up

Oh, we’ve been wild
hilarious
stylish
extravagant and
strange.
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?

Two Hours And 42 Minutes

is the answer to:
How long can I wander
through a bookstore
drunk on words
if left to wander
as long as I like?

But the weekend held its
unanswered questions, too.
How long can I linger
over lunch with you, old friend?
Longer than the turbaned waiters
at the Indian buffet will tolerate.
They turned the lights off
while we still talked and laughed.
So the only answer is:
Longer than this time.
Which means we must plan
another lunch and keep eating
and talking, in search of answers.

Leaf and Lady

Back here again, in the country of clocks,
there’s no time to write a poem.
Inside my head, behind the gears and metal wheels,
wander poems about quilts and wildflowers,
old friends and that maple tree I saw yesterday,
each green leaf edged orange
so precise it looked painted onto the leaves.
Contrast made the green brighter
than all the million greens surrounding it.
Something rattles around in me, humming
about that contrast—
how it reminds me of my old friends—
but the chain of words and thoughts
to get from leaf to ladies takes time
and that is gone, again.

Reminder Weekend 2013

In the immortal words of Meatloaf
the essential question is this:
I’ve got to know right now
before we go any further
will you love me,
will you love me forever?
So here’s the answer,
unfolding over one long weekend
of food and laughing,
unfolding over thirty years
of news from the heart,
our Reminder–
Before we go any further,
Before we get any older,
From each of us,
To each of us,
the answer
Is
Yes.

Good Luck Signs

I tell my friends
It’s Good Luck to—
See a heron
Spill pepper
Dream of oceans
Take the first scoop of ice cream
Or the last lime.

They laugh and remind me that
I say a dozen things a day are good luck.
Also, they are pretty sure
I make them all up.

Well., you know what they say
about befriending fanciful liars?
That. I inform them,
Is good luck, too.

Favorite Recipe

Our whole week was a recipe
called Indulge.
Days beat gently past us, like slow
waves or like soft, sure hands
kneading bread dough.
The world was warm.
Languid and gleeful,
we submitted ourselves
to the pummeling,
allowed ourselves
to be shaped for
Rest.
Now, like following a delicious recipe
known almost by heart, it is time
to move on to the next step.
Now, we are set to Rise.

Old Friend

We meet again, decades later,
Choosing rhubarb and pink geraniums
At the farm market. It took long moments
For us to peer through the wrinkles and
Gray hair and bushy eyebrows but
Suddenly I saw you at five—
Long brown hair, schoolgirl plaid,
Your huge family, picnic benches instead
Of chairs at your kitchen table.
I remember your deep, scratchy voice,
So funny on a little girl.
It finally fits. There should be a new word
For this old moment
When time pulls back like curtains on a stage
And here among the spring plants
And baskets of ripe berries
Two people look up, cross years,
And say, I knew you in that other world.

Posting A Letter

is the phrase in my head
when I fold this ink on paper
into its clever envelope.
And I say it to myself in a clipped British accent,
and a crisp cotton dress, belted, with a
full skirt. Matching heels. Nylons.
I pick up my tiny handbag,
slip on white gloves, pearl buttons at the wrist,
and go to post your letter.
Days like these, this is me
waving to the past
on its huge island,
while everyone else on my ship
rows frantically forward,
hurling electronic messages into
the static filled sky of now
(except you, posting a letter to me).

Plus: Vacation Shadorma

Shadorma is a poem of counted lines of syllables, like this: 3/5/3/3/7/5

Vacation
plus my same old life
plus you, friend–
wine, laughing
long walks, longer talks, good food,
the plain world blossoms.

Before You Arrive

You’re already on the plane
while I
lay out fresh candles, ready to glow
mop the kitchen floor, ready to echo with laughter
wash the good wine glasses, ready to be filled
polish this mirror, ready to reflect your shining face.

The Novel Bunch

aka: The Happy Bookers

The Sketchbook

MOSTLY MONTREAL, MOST OF THE TIME

Red Wolf Prompts

I came to where you were living, up a stair. There was no one there.--John Ashberry, "The New Higher"

typewriter rodeo

custom poems on vintage typewriters

A Poet in Time

One Poet's Writing Practice

Writing the Day

A Ronka Poetry Practice Since 2014

Invisible Horse

Living in the moment

leaf and twig

where observation and imagination meet nature in poetry