When Natalie reads
she goes someplace
else
and when she gets there,
sometimes,
there are dragons.
When Natalie reads
Bouquet of Keys
According to Wikipedia, “the pin tumbler lock is a lock mechanism that uses pins of varying lengths to prevent the lock from opening without the correct key.”
If there are pins that keep you locked
then I wish for you to find the right key.
For me, these poems
puppies
Christmas cards, with pictures of smiling babies
who look like their moms
holiday lights
candlelight
sunlight when you can find it
good music while you wash dishes
kittens
greenhouses full of lush leaves
thick novels because writers know sometimes we need a long story to come back to
dark chocolate
cappuccino
soft hand-knit scarves
happy work in the world–
Whatever keys will unlock your joy
picture me at your door
appropriately masked and distanced
holding a big bouquet of the keys you need
Picture me at your door
and I’ll picture you at mine.
twinkle
twinkle is the job
of holiday lights
glow and glisten,
sparkle and shine
Later, when the world
isn’t so dark,
I’m already planning
how we’ll remind each other
of what it was like, now.
How we’ll say, in sunlight
and sandals and summer health,
Remember when
dark was so deep
even the words for light
were sparks of solace?
Inflatable Santa is Down
the neighbor’s inflatable Santa
is facedown in new snow
with more falling fast
on his red and white backside
Oh, buddy, I think–
I know just how you feel
streetlight
Last night,
fog turned streetlight
to ribbons of gold
flecked with silver mist
shining so bright
on an ordinary Monday night
that it stopped me
in the middle of my quiet street
This quiet night
This quiet reminder to breathe
and to see
Opened To The Rain
Long ago
pride of a working farm
that old barn collapsed
folded in on itself
hay and horse stall
chicken musings
dung and rafters
opened to the rain
all the moments held
within the wooden walls
thoughts and breath of
cow and farm hand,
their worries and plans
and memories
released
to rise through the air
birds and the shadows of birds
hours and hours
since our votes were cast
Counting takes time.
Any preschooler or store clerk
could tell you that.
Counting
Not even counting but
Waiting
while someone else
Counts.
birds and the shadows of birds
is a line of a poem
which flew in my window
and nestled in my lap
while I was meditating
or if I wasn’t meditating
I was at least sitting still
in flickering sunlight birds and the shadows of birds
is a line of a poem I
may never finish
seven counted syllables
the middle of a haiku
while I sit and breathe
not looking, not listening to news
Blind To Beauty
Yesterday was eight years since I posted my first poem here. I’ve missed several of these anniversaries, blinded by hurry, distracted by life. This year I remembered. No great epiphany, no poem resonating inside me. But at least I noticed. At least I was awake enough to my life to notice. And that, always, is the whole point of these poems. To mark a moment, to notice the life I’m living. Even when that life feels like a long, noisy, gray subway ride instead of a walk through the glorious autumn hills.
leaf peak arrived and left
on cloudy days, with fog
and more rain. Red, gold,
green fell and withered
while we–
chipmunk, squirrel, human
Scurried and gathered
easily distracted
and blind to beauty
Landscape Fancywork
as leaf glitter falls away
dark green threads of pine trees
reveal how the mountains
are stitched to the earth
If Autumn Is A Writing Prompt
Yesterday’s walk through autumn hills–
One maple, any color, is pretty.
Spectacular is hill after rolling hill
red, yellow, orange sprinkled with forest firs
above a still bright green field.
Halfway up, one tree is
deep maroon, nearly purple
We could paint this view, one of us says
But our schedules don’t match
I could do it alone, one of us says
But I won’t
Here, friends, a gift–
this could become a poem about
being better together, whether friends or trees,
or it might become an ode to maroon or maples
a singularity
or a rift on leaves and calendar pages
both shaken free, drifting on a caught breeze
It could turn into a poem
about words and leaves changing,
turning themselves and turning how we see
You decide–and let it be beautiful
Puff Of Smoke Poems 