L'Chayim: To Life

The small stream dances, winding through
And in and out between the rocks,
Catching sparkles from the sun,
Playing harmony to songs
Of bugs and birds along its banks -

It carries cold of melted snow
To nurseries of fish and frog.
It moves leaves and reeds along its banks.
It waters bushes, quenches thirsts
Of land-born life.

It meaders for a bit, and curves,
And then lays quietly in ponds
Before it leaps and dances out,
Cavoting around rocks and stumps
Continuing its journey to the sea.

Above the stream disaster crawls
Metal yellow dinosaurs
Rip up the soil, tear down the hills -
Each day they roar across the fields
Destroying what was always there.

Rock strewn meadows, oaks and grass
Will be replaced by velvet lawns
Fed food that's made by Dow, not deer,
Which washed into the brook will choke and
Kill the life that flowed below -
Until
The water slows
The laughter
Stops.

Seventh Grade Blues

I’M SO EMBARRESSED or

THAT 7TH GRADE FEELING

In 7th grade I was all arms and legs-
Knocking into things, my socks slipped down
Into my shoes, my blouse untucked
My hair declaring independence from any sense of place –
I wore the clothes my mother liked.
I didn’t think I fit, so sure was I
That everybody noticed what I wore
And each dumb thing I said.

I went to church last Sunday, just a little late
The congregation watched as we walked down
To sit in front. The other seats were taken
By better folk whose lives are organized
And neat. I sang the hymns my best, a bit off key,
My husband said, but loud.

We stayed for coffee after church.
I stood alone with coffee in my hand
The black stockings I had worn looked very blue.
Should not have worn a skirt!
My hair is standing quite on end today
Great white wires going every way.
If someone comes to chat, what will I say?
The cookie that I’m holding’s shedding crumbs.

Helen came, removed a cat hair from my sleeve
And asked me how I was. I’m fine, I said,
And so is Fred. We talked of her and me and church
Til Judy joined us, and Sue, and Natalie
Who had surgery a week ago. It turned out well.

I’m all grown up from 7th grade, I think
Until the next time when I stand alone, with Styrofoam
Of coffee in my hand.

A MORNING WALK

My walking buddy’s gone to Spain
So now I walk alone – Except
Except for geese, and dogs,
chipmunks and squirrels
And kids who rush to catch their bus –
And people driving by in cars.
I notice people wave at me
And I wave back – but I can’t see
Inside their car or who they are.

I’m forced to walk alone – because
My walking buddy’s gone to Spain – Except
I have my thoughts. I ask myself
Whatever happened to the pair
Who used to live in that house there –
She used to go to Curves, perhaps
Still does. I don’t.

Who does that lawn. What artistry.
Who would have thought to put that rock
Right there, and black tanbark beneath the tree
Spread out beneath its canopy
No sprinklers needed near that oak
I wonder could we do the same?
My walking buddy’s gone to Spain.


So maybe if we cleared the ground
And got black tanbark spread around
Beneath our oaks and planted rocks
Instead of flocks we wouldn’t need to spend so much
On fixing sprinklers here and there –
They never work or seem to spread
Their grains of water far enough
To keep our landscape green and fed.


My walking buddy’s gone to Spain
So now I walk alone except
For geese and dogs, chipmunks and squirrels,
Kids, cars, and wandering thoughts.

BLUE

I have a black cat name of Blue
And what he likes to do the best
(Aside from rest) is creep along the window sill
And leap on unsuspecting bugs.
He looks at birds beyond his reach.
If he had speech – could say the words,
He'd say those birds are easy prey -
Were he without and not within..

Villanelle

WRITER'S BLOCK

Today I’m suffering from writer’s block
My head is empty, no thoughts to think –
I only sit and listen to the clock.


Could it be I’ve run amuck?

Sanity teetering on the brink?

Today I’m suffering from writer’s block.

My head is heavy, filled with rock –

My eyes are staring – Can’t even blink

I only sit and listen to the clock.

I am confused. I’m in a fog.
Cleverness gone – I’m on the blink!
Today I’m suffering from writer’s block.

 One deep breath, then I’ll take stock -
I know I must have thoughts to think –
I only sit and listen to the clock.


Where’s the key for my brain’s lock?
Where’s the fuel to help me think?
Today I’m suffering from writer’s block.
I only sit and listen to the clock.

Villanelle is a poetic form which entered English-language poetry in the 1800s from the imitation of French models. The word derives from the Italian villanella from Latin villanus (rustic). A villanelle has only two rhyme sounds. The first and third lines of the first stanza are rhyming refrains that alternate as the third line in each successive stanza and form a couplet at the close. A villanelle is nineteen lines long, consisting of five tercets and one concluding quatrain.

Antelope Run

Silvery city, with the new city shine
Streets laced with aspen
New houses abound
No antelope here, downtown Antelope Run
Boutiques and cafes

All the newest of new

Once Antelope Run was only a plan

An idea for building on difficult land

Too rocky for growing much other than grass

A commutable distance, and easy to sell

Half acre ranchettes, with golfing nearby.

Now there’s Starbucks and Peets
Only two blocks apart
With tables outside, and bicycles parked.
Velcro clad riders drink extravagant drinks
Frappachino’s and lattes, Espresso drinks, too

They’ve escaped from the city,
They’ve followed a dream
Country living this is, with the chicest of chic
Mothers with children all carefully strapped
In strollers for jogging, now how cool is that!

Antelope Run isn’t sure what it is –
No one has grown up here, the schools are new,
No swings in the playgrounds – they simply aren’t safe
Antelope Run is a city untested
A sugar confection, as yet undigested.

Tokonama,

A tokonoma is an alcove meant to rest the eye.
It is the sole adornment of the room in which it stands.
The tokonoma is  looked upon,
But never entered.

The floor is raised,
carpeted with tatami mats.
To the left the eyes perceive a flawless beam, unvarnished,
cut and planted so the moisture of the house can be absorbed –
a beam that breathes.

A simple flower, an arrangement of a single branch,
is on the left as you look into the tokonoma -
a solitary greeting from your host.
Straight ahead there is a scroll hung high upon the wall,
with oriental lettering.

The scroll could be a poem or an ancient landscape,
it doesn’t matter what it says or shows.
To the right there is another,object,
perhaps an incense burner,
 but no matching beam or plant to cause distraction.

 tokonoma seems to flow from left to right
into a seamless space of solitude.
The tokonoma is designed to bring forgetfulness,
 to still the senses, to remove complexities.