First, one elephant
climbs on top of
the yellow Volkswagen.
Worried about his weight
and the clash of color,
yellow car, purple toenail polish,
he finds his precarious balance.
Then, one by one, from the long line
in the quiet street,
each new elephant
clambers up
till there’s a tower
of elephants
on that car—
Graceful or
Laughing,
On Tiptoes,
Awkward, or Humming,
each thinking their own thoughts—-
One multiplies fractions in his head,
another plans her European vacation.
The last elephant in line is basking in nostalgia,
remembering the old lion tamer
with his shabby mustache and his
pet monkey who hated all elephants.
And only the first elephant,
the one at the juncture
of yellow car and
gray bristled skin,
only he is Tentative
about this whole Arrangement.
And, honestly,
I can see why.
Thursday’s Tentative Elephants
Darkness and Light
A pregnant teenage daughter,
poem so dark
you cannot find a candle.
Wait.
Three years pass
while the next stanza
Grows.
Now, this laughing child:
All bossy charm
and sidewalk chalk,
asking five hundred questions
while she blows her small breath
at the wind chimes
announcing that when the chimes play,
Everyone should dance–
Pouring light all over this house
so thick you dance slow
just to savor the view
through the glowing windows.
Kitchen Calendar
The green marker dries out
while I’m adding his varsity tennis matches
to spring vacation dates written in pink,
blue for music lessons,
purple for soccer league,red for band practice,
bright orange for prom,senior trip, graduation.
Here they are, the last few months
of color-coded life.
When this last child leaves for college,
the decades of multicolor
kitchen calendars will be over. His and hers,
games and concerts, practices, lessons,
rehearsals, field trips,Done.
I try to remember life with a one-color calendar,
and something shifts in me—-
like the way your mind turns
when you try to read about
Parallel Universes and realize these
scientists are serious, are truly asking
you to consider this possibility.
And I can’t say for sure what this feeling is–
Only that it is huge, like another universe
waiting behind the one I’ve walked in all these years.
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.
Polite
She answers everything I ask
with few words,
no extra splash of detail,
nothing of how you linger
over conversation you’re enjoying,
that way people have of no longer swimming hard
towards the destination of the other shore,
the end of this talk,
but floating,
showing off handstands and somersaults,
or treading water
just to enjoy the silky feel of
words swirling around in little eddies.
Another Problem With Education
Is that teenagers and teachers
do not care
about the same things.
This week alone,
I’ve heard that Mali
sounds like an island vacation spot,
somewhere near Tahiti.
And not one of them knows who Nelson Mandela
is, though someone hazarded a guess
that he might be a fashion designer.
However, they were prepared to discuss,
potentially forever, the guy on You Tube
who jumped out of a plane,
rushing through the sky
so fast he broke the sound barrier.
Here, at last, was someone they admired,
or at least a place they could recognize.
The Worry Game
There are nights when my worries
choose a game—tonight it’s musical chairs–
To break the monotony.
Rules are understood: Each time I toss,
turn, flip the pillow in search of
cool peace, the worries tumble down
to the bottom of my brain. Unfastened
from their customary order,
they scrap and scramble for a sharp place to settle.
The twist they add, to keep the game
worth playing, is brilliant.
Whoever is left,
the worry without a seat,
wins that round.
Winner gets the place of honor,
the cozy chair at the top of my mind,
a chance to stretch out, make themselves comfortable.
Some night I brew them a mug of tea
while we chat, me and the winning worry,
the one who glows in the heat of all my attention
until the next round.
More Signs of Spring
II
Down the street, the shop sign changes
From Closed till Spring
to a countdown.
Today is: Only 26 More Days Till Ice Cream.
III
We believe the pale strawberries at the grocer’s,
buying their whispered stories
of lazing all day in the sun
though we’ve been lied to before
and already know they taste like cool, damp cardboard.
IV
Besides all this, the obvious things:
Muddy green tractor hauling manure
to the field still edged in snow.
And then there’s the robin in my yard,
carrying his little sandwich board back and forth.
Signs of Spring: I
Bikes and skateboards appear,
blinking old eyes
dazzled in the bright sun,
hauled out of garages
by children in grimy parkas,
fake fur trim begging for a wash
and a summer-long nap.
Closets
Ready to let go of your clothes,
Dad wants me to empty your closets,
keeping what I want
before the rest goes to charity.
I slide hangers across
racks,thinking how you loved a bargain.
In the end, I decide to only take
what you’d never worn—a jacket, tags still attached,
and yes, you got it on sale.
Then, in a rush, I grab some black t shirts so old
they’ve begun the long slow fade to gray.
After all this time
they still hold your scent.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 