Forty years sober, eighteen years married
this wise kind man who claims there are
no bad days, who lives with persistent pain
insists there are no bad days.
His back’s been manipulated and fused
with metal rods and newly grown bone
to no good end and yet he will tell any
and all that there are no bad days.
Sleeps poorly, uses crutches, a scooter
to move about and yet: no bad days.
I want half his good will
half his acceptance
half his equanimity
half his serenity
half his pluck.
Quiet late summer morning awaiting
the storm they say we will have.
We’ll not hold our breaths but hope
for a soaking rain to slake the thirsts
of All long since parched and dry
weary of this summer drought.
Late summer malaise
Stuck in my own gloomy thoughts
My private prison.
Framed on my wall hangs the black and white photograph
of a dancer dashing with plucky aplomb, feet bare
head tossed back looking ever up and onward
one arm akimbo, the other flung gracefully back
her short dancer’s costume flouncing flying behind.
An impulsive purchase on my part a thing that symbolized
my spirit at the time, my plan to throw off my fears
send my hopes and wishes out into the world
to see, once and for all, what might come.
And so I have done, with that unknown dancer
on my bedroom wall reminding me of that
devil-may-care frolic that lives inside of me
and wants to come forever out.
Caught in the limbo of summer to autumn
summer’s heat still pressing down
yellow walnut leaves drift
and the ways of humans state
falsely that autumn has begun.
Children trudge off to school
cars and people hurry, impatient
to return to their dull routines.
Marching band’s practice
shoves itself out of place
into the woods
a jarring counterpoint
to birds and insects.
Human endeavors clashing noisily
with the rhythms of the natural world.
My kindergarten teacher was (or so I thought)
a man disguised as a woman and as such
(or so I thought) had evil intentions.
Dark hair and black rimmed glasses,
bright red lips, severe clothing.
I was kept in from the (terrifying) playground
punished for the offense of
drawing serifs on the letters of the alphabet.
Afraid to ever raise my hand or speak, I wet my pants
sitting in a circle on the floor for some dull activity.
How did I endure that whole long school year?
And why was I made to?
I hope for all children everywhere
gentleness
freedom
plenty
happiness.
Knowing full well my hopes at least for All
are dashed before I even put down my pen.
Ragweed stands defiant along the creek
spreading its evil dust about
swirling through our favorite places
settling on boots, hat, dogs, cars
creeping through cracks of windows and doors
insinuating itself into every happy facet of our lives.
Head aches
Cheeks tingle
Eyeballs burn
Throat scratches.
Evil weed!
What earthly purpose could you possibly serve?
Big branch of that old redbud tree split away
gave up the ghost at last in this dry hot summer.
But now it lies horizontally stretched across
behind the bird feeder offering many perches
for the cardinals, sparrows, chickadees, jays
and yes, starlings who come to visit and eat.
I cannot help but feel it makes a pretty
sculptural addition to the yard and having
no chainsaw anyway why not leave it just
as it is, au naturel, in the way of the woods
that I do so love, where whole trees fall,
the creek erodes its banks,
and all is ever changing?
Until it falls completely down
whyever not?
A goal met, a wish sent
out into the material world
and though the morning is hot
a cool breeze fills the sails
of the blue boat of my small life.
With a gentle shove away from shore
we shall see what is what and always
as always hope for the best.
Pileated woodpecker sat just there high up
in a tree very near our path and I crept along
hoping for a better and better view
my dogs wondering at my stealthy self.
We’ve seen a great blue heron every day
for five in a row at the bend of the creek
my dogs ahead of me always so that I
only catch a glimpse of her lifting up
and away, off immediately beyond
anyplace I can see. Miles chases.
The heron, like the Canada geese, is
tantalizing to him though what he would do
if he caught up to her I cannot know.
What would I, having caught up to
that one dream, do then with my ever
hopeful heart?