Inside a Book
My bookshelves are filled with
sweet dreams of many poets.
The content of each book is
the beating of a writer’s heart,
pumping with inky fervor,
guiding me into a world where
we will meet soul to soul.
A place where one thought is doubled
and my muse finds another that suits
its tender essence
Pondering My Fate
I am the only one of the bunch left.
I sit alone on top of the refrigerator
waiting for someone to look up,
to see me here and think, “Oh
there’s still a banana!” Maybe
they will slice me and smother me
in ice cream and chocolate sauce.
Maybe they will cuddle me up between
two slices of bread slathered in peanut butter,
or lovingly slice me into a bowl of warm oatmeal.
Maybe someone will grab me on the way out
the door, on their way to yoga or soccer practice.
My freckles are just starting to show. I am the perfect
specimen, slightly curved, firm yellow skin, soft buttery
insides – just what the doctor ordered.
I know my days are numbered, here on the fridge.The longer
I go unnoticed, the more likely I have been forgotten and I will
slowly rot, until someone notices the smell. Then, I must join the
soggy tomatoes, the stinky potatoes, the furry grapes –
unfortunates destined for the compost pile.
Do Not Believe
Don’t believe it ……..
when they tell you there is
no gentle man in the moon or shining
stars are just spheres of gas.
For they are fools with hearts
that cannot see the magic
and souls that do not hear the songs.
About What Counts
He sits at the kitchen window counting
birds at the feeder. He used to know the name
of each one, their breeding habits, their migration
patterns. A large shadow passes overhead, scattering
the little birds like the memories that elude him. People
and places he no longer recalls, strangers in photographs.
Only the feelings remain.
Surely they must count for something.
At the Rim of the Canyon
The sky above is a canvas of blue, an unnamed
shade no artist can faithfully recreate.
Great Condors seem like dots above me, wings spread,
wheeling through the warm air, defying extinction.
I hear the hush of wind in the pinyon pines, as
if the Gods of many nations are breathing.
Ripped open before me is the history of this
planet, laid down in stripes of rock and mineral,
chiseled away by a restless river, relentlessly
eroding the chasm I stare into, eon by eon.
Before the vastness of this grand canyon, I
lay down my human hubris and weep.
An Everyday Kind of Love
Love is nothing like the movies –
sometimes
it looks like laundry and dirty dishes.
Real love
happens in the school drop- off line and
hides in
the bleachers of soccer matches and band festivals,
simple
ordinary times when a parent’s love fills all the empty
places.
Of Courage and Joy
No one tells you how courageous you must be to grow old
The oldest are often the bravest
No one tells you how many times a heart can be broken or
How many times it can heal
No one tells you your body will fight against you and
Vigilance will become your watch word
No one tells you about how much love a human heart can hold
And still have room for more
No one tells you that joy comes in the form of chickadees
And children’s laughter
Yet, when they tell you that the best is yet to come
You do not believe
And the Town Came Alive
Once the old town was asleep, waiting.
The streets were empty and lonely –
no cars, no people, no life.
Then a spark ignited,
slowly turned to flame,
opened fresh eyes.
Hearts returned.
You Are
Here.
It Takes Two to Tango
She was a walled flower with two left-over feet
No rhythm flowed or surged through her limp veins
Not beat to match her lonely heart moved her hips
But when the moon was full she shed her shoes and
tangoed alone in the lambent glow of night
A Question of Abundance
The crocus and daffodils are blooming
and there is an abundance of small white
flowers in the herb garden – unwanted weeds
that I will have to pull, if it ever stops raining
On my front porch I found a small yellow
butterfly, a sign that the weather is finally
turning warmer and a reminder that my
abundant weeds are its abundant food source
Weeding can wait
rhymeswithbug 