Camp Girl

A summer night with stars

and fireflies trying to

outsparkle one another

I inhale deeply the

odor of burning logs and

sounds of singing around

the campfire transports me

to a different time when

a shy six year old spent

her first week at camp

Her mother packed matching

short sets and tennis shoes

The old brown suitcase held

everything on the ‘bring to camp’

list, towels, toothbrush, flaslight,

postcards to write home, stamps

During the days she laughed and swam,

played 4 square and sang Kumbaya

But at night when only the

crickets and owls were awake

she cried silent, homesick tears

I reach up and feel wet tracks

on my cheeks – crying for a little

girl gone away

The Girl Who Dreamed

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there was a girl

who dreamed about

a bright yellow sun

a golden construction

paper circle in the

clear blue sky

a warm and friendly sun

whose rays reached out

to touch the cotton ball

clouds as they passed by

there was a girl who pressed

her nose against the rain

streaked glass and dreamed

Trailing Memories

there was a tear in her

coat pocket and

nickles

and

quarters

and

keys

fell out leaving a trail of

lost items behind

she wondered if there

might be a similar tear

in her brain trailing

names

and

dates

and

recent

memories

the pocket could be

patched but she wasn’t

so sure

about

the

brain

The Treat Treaty

it was a treat that

bag of chips to

be savored

eaten over days shared

with friends but

once i heard the crinkling

paper and the tear

of the foil vessel that held

those crunchy chips once

i felt the whisper of air

as it escaped that bag

of chips

once i smelled the

potatoy saltiness of

that bag of chips

once the first chip passed

my lips i knew and

when my greasy fingers

scrapped the bottom of

that empty bag

i made a familiar treaty

with some unknow being –

never again

Old Dreams

he wanted to be an artist

a young man, a dreamer

living in Paris or Florence

creating masterpieces then

not to sell but to present –

to give his paramour

the essence of his very soul

a gift rare and precious –

his life did not allow whimsy

an old man, he painted her walls instead

an old man, he painted her walls instead

his life did not allow whimsy

a gift rare and precious –

the essence of his very soul

to give his paramour

not to sell but to present –

creating masterpieces then

living in Paris or Florence

a young man, a dreamer

he wanted to be an artist

Morning Quandary

image

will this be a plain butter-

yellow day or maybe a purple

pansy kind of day

does it feel like a Van Gogh

sunflower morning

it might be a white pot-

tery day with nothing written

on it full of potential

definitely not a royal china

red rose day

standing in front of an

open cupboard, choosing

the right mug for my first

cup of tea, I ponder the

possibilities of this new day

At 2 AM

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The the clock hides its

face with pointing

hands so it will not

be witness to the

secret time when

everything is

probable and

nothing is real

It holds its breath

ticking, tocking as

quietly as possible

trying to avoid the

stares of fading

phantasms hiding

in the shadows