Open the Box

Thursday 2/16/06 Block 3

Open the Box

I don't dare.
Not yet.
The ribbons
are still tied
with a red bow.

But, that color
is a hint
I've let slip out
because sometimes
the life
inside the box
is too big
and alive to remain
cooped up.

It's like a pan
of boiling potatoes.
If you don't crack
the cover
and let some of the steam
out, it'll overflow
the sides
and make a big mess.

I'm not ready
for the mess
untying those ribbons
will....

well, maybe
I'll start pulling
just a little bit....

Stranger

Tuesday 2/7/06 Block 2

Stranger

When my husband
looks at me,
he sees a wife
making his supper,
putting his next day's lunch
together, bringing him cookies
and milk for dessert.

What he doesn't see
is what my mind is doing
all that time.
I'm in a house
by the sea,
living alone,
making myself an omelette
just the way I like it.
I'm sitting on the beach
writing a poem.
I'm in a foreign country
on vacation
without him.

But, I'm definitely
not in the house
tending to him.

Sunday with Kylie

January 24, 2006 Block 1

Sunday with Kylie

When I left you
on Sunday afternoon,
you were curled on your side
like a fiddlehead fern
newly sprouted in spring.

I rubbed your back
softly, just enough
to let you know
I'd been there.

Your face puckered
in rosebud sleep.

I hated the bubble
of our afternoon
to end.

At the Other End of the Street

Tuesday 3/18/08

At the Other End of the Street

Sometimes we played
baseball: rocks
for home plate
and second,
a crack on the sidewalk
for first, and a dandelion
on someone's lawn
for third.

Other days the telephone
pole became our safe spot
for playing Hide 'n' Seek.
I was a good hider
and "it" would always
have to holler,
"Allee Allee entry."

We played jump rope
and double Dutch
with clothesline.
"2-4-6-8-10,
2-4-6-8-20."
"England, Ireland,
Scotland, Wales,
red, white, blue"

And, at eight sharp
mothers from all along
the street
would call our names
and we'd head
into our other lives.

After Writing Too Many Poems

Thursday 4/30/09

After Writing Too Many Poems

I think
I'm poemed out.
I need a break
from figurative
thinking.

I need
an afternoon
of sitting on the beach
looking at the waves

and just thinking
about them
as waves
and nothing else,

just water
being pulled
by the moon
splashing
onto the shore.

That's it~
not waves of emotion
or waves of sorrow
or waves of troubles,

just
plain, simple waves
that do not beg
to be put into
a poem.

Beads

Thursday 3/19/09

Poem inspired by Dead Poets' Society

Beads

We were getting ready
to go to church.
I put on decent slacks
and a nice shirt.

My long, curly hair
surrounded my head.
At the last minute
I draped a rope

of beads around
my neck. When I
went downstairs,
my dad said

to get rid of the beads.
I refused. They looked
nice against my plain
shirt. Nothing wrong

with them. "You're not
going to church looking
like a hippie!" he yelled.
"Dad, everyone wears

them!" "Not my daughter!"
It was 1967, just the beginning
of the cultural revolution.
Tears in my eyes,

I took the beads off
and went to church
like a good girl.
But that evening

instead of going to CCD,
I met my boyfriend and we went
parking. I draped my beads
over his rear view mirror.

A Time Someone Said Yes

Thursday October 28, 2010

A Time Someone Said Yes

The sun said yes
this morning
to the fog.

Did you see
how beautiful
it looked

with the smoky wisps
all along the river
and Mt. Forist

drenched in sunlight
above? I had to run
to my room,

grab my camera,
and snap a picture
of all that yes.