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.
Leaf and Lady
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.
Another Note To Myself, This One Regarding Answering Machines
When it is your turn to be old,
leave a message–
and not the irritated kind of message
asking
Where On Earth Could You Be????
Treat each message like a balloon
released into the air,
a general update:
Life Is Fine Here.
Better yet, learn to text.
Let your texts be Quirky.
Be quite clear in your own mind
that this will make no difference
to the children,
who will continue to ignore you
until they need cash or advice.
But having told them all they could handle,
and having made yourself laugh
you will feel better
in that quiet moment
when you put down the phone
and turn to look out the window.
Afterward, the whole day will color itself
into brighter, more satisfied lines.
The Man Who Mowed The Lawn
Yesterday, a tall man
who looked just like my son
showed up unannounced
and mowed the shaggy lawn.
Under normal circumstances,
A Mowing Stranger
would have been Alarming.
But then he kicked off his big shoes
by the front door,
where I tripped on them
while he ate the last of the cake,
and all the leftover chicken,
leaving only the vegetables,
and a pile of dirty dishes in the sink.
Oh, it’s you! I said.
Packing Monsters
The doors of childhood are closed,
all the monsters dozing.
Inside, each room is full of boxes.
All those boxes, inexpertly packed, half-taped shut,
boxes you won’t open, knowing they are filled
with snoring monsters, big and small
curled together like puppies
in boxes you are bound to carry
wherever you go in the world
never free of the scent of dust and old cardboard.
Love Song To A Dollar Store Pen
I am in love with this early morning dance we dance together
you and me, black pen and sleepy person
while candles flicker against dark windows,
windows brushed with snow, or rain, or soft summer.
Cat’s purr sets the back-beat as
we begin our ordinary rhythm
warming up, shuffling
through the comfort of familiar steps
knowing that any moment an idea–
a symphony or a single trumpet
or a pair of flirting eyes across
a crowded dance floor
could sweep us into a new story.
And here we go again
Writing it all down,
before the other dances take the day.
Pressed For Time
It’s back to the harried life,
the one where I wake the alarm clock each morning,
rouse it with harsh reminders
of All We Have To Do.
I drag us through the day,
haul its ticking body everywhere,
poor little clock.
When it slows or worse,
threatens to stop,
I speak to it sternly.
There is no time for that nonsense, I tell it.
Then I wind it tight and give it a little shake
to squeeze out every captive minute.
The New Boy
So many bells, he says.
Every day here is broken into
the same question in every class
and many strict blocks of time.
Tired but polite,
the new boy from Pakistan
answers again.
Your country is so very clean
it feels almost like a movie set
where everyone must adhere
to the bells, the script,
the tight shooting schedule.
He gathers his books.
It doesn’t always look real
he says, as another bell rings.
Her Masterpiece
My first masterpiece,
Girl I painted onto
the canvas of this world.
She took the brush
from my hand long ago
and paints her own picture now.
With bold strokes, she fashioned wry smile,
tender curls and curves.
Humming Broadway show tunes,
she deepens the layers around
her guarded heart,
glimpsed through surfaces
for now,
while her artistic confidence grows,
while she learns to trust this beauty,
this unfolding art of her life,
her own masterpiece.
Old Woman Who Shops: American Fairy Tale
She passes my house, empty-handed, wearing a kerchief over her gray hair, in a house dress and canvas sneakers, purse in the crook of her elbow.
She’s a little wobbly, teetering as she walks. But in an hour or two, she’ll pass by again, walking in the other direction, laden with bright yellow plastic bags from the dollar store at the edge of town.
I think I know where she lives, a rundown farm a mile east of here. And though we’ve never spoken, I’ve told myself a story about her, an eccentric in-law hanging on at the family farm, sipping tea from chipped mugs, filling time buying plastic trinkets made in China.
But today, for the first time, our eyes meet. I stumble into her as I rise from weeding the garden and she is passing the edge of my yard. Her eyes are bright and laughing. She reaches deep into her yellow bags and hands me one perfect peach.
Plenty more, she says. Enjoy.
And now I’ve written her a new tale, as juice runs down my chin. In this story, she is the guardian of fruit trees. She travels this way each year, lingering like summer, to hand us things that grow and remind us of where we live—this bountiful land full of gifts, not one of them priced at a dollar, not one of them made of plastic.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 