Last night’s only dream
was of waking at your house
in a soft green bed
breathing Calm
with the rippled lake
flowing below my window.
And then I woke
Exactly where I’d Dreamed.
Sanctuary
Hotel Air
Windows sealed shut.
One side, my side,
blank conditioned air—
On the other side, the world:
Sky full of thick clouds
Tree thick with clouds of white blossoms.
A breeze I can’t feel
Moves through the branches
Where meandering bees buzz
Even if I can’t hear them.
Teacher Appreciation
Paul brought me
his cheerful grin
and a bouquet
of mall flowers—
twelve quiet yellow daffodils
and one red tulip
Waiting In Line At The Dump
In the high open rafters of the
recycling center, a swallow’s
nest built entirely from old
envelopes, shredded news,
beauty tips and tinsel
One Of Those Really Long Poem Titles, This One Concerning What Only Becomes Visible When You Cannot Start The Gas-Powered Monstrosity And Must Tend The Spring-Shaggy Lawn With The Ancient Wood And Metal Push Mower
through wooden fence slats
sun paints yellow stripes across
the freshly mown grass
Spring Wind
Stirred up Spring, all Night
Wind rattles the window panes
Change is in the Air
Rowing This Boat
Written in response to a River Prompt at Red Wolf Poems.
The instructions are clear:
Row, row, row your boat
gently
down the stream.
Gently, gently
and Merrily—
Sing till you remember how to Row,
how to Change Course Midstream.
Though you’ve grown accustomed to drifting
and admiring the scenery, now you must
Take Hold of the Oars—
Oars dry from disuse, with their
paint crackled or chipped away.
Splinters fill your hands,
hands which grip too tightly.
Remember to breathe.
Remember what you know
of good seamanship:
Sometimes you cannot
Stop
Sometimes you cannot
put the whole thing in dry-dock
and wait for repairs.
Sometimes you are in the
Middle of the River.
Remember what you know.
Later, there may well be time
to sand these oars smooth,
paint them a bright, jaunty yellow.
But for now?
Loosen your Grip
Set your Course
Hold to your oars Firmly
but Gently
gently,
rowing towards merrily
till the end of this particular
Bend in the river.
till the end of this particular
part of the dream.
Late April, Early Morning
birds sing in the trees
before leaves or nests, sing though
the world is still dark
Pillows
Today I worry about pillows
lugged through life by my children.
My children
Who wander the world,
each with their pillow
tucked beneath an arm.
Remember how I cradled
their sweet and sweaty heads
when they woke from naps?
Naps in clean soft beds I made.
I remember. Them? No, they are
Busy
balancing those pillows
while they walk
Busy
ignoring the hovering
worrier who watches to see
where their pillows rest tonight.
Long-Range Forecast
Now, sleepy as a seed
buried deep in spring mud
dreaming lazily of this
week-end’s house party, full of
old friends and anticipation.
The forecast:
Warming Trend Straight Ahead.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 