Author: Kay Foley

The baser difficulties it seems will 
pop up willynilly just when one is
carrying on rather well in the areas of
oh
personal fulfillment
friends and relations
gods and monsters
bigger questions of life.
Just when one feels oneself blooming
along comes the leaky roof
the fallingdown house
the rotting window frame
the flooded basement
the dental crisis
the decline of income
the sudden failure of automobiles.
Along they will pop, essentially innocent,
not meaning any real harm and yet.
Into one’s precarious equilibrium
they wedge themselves, overturning the
rickety old held together with bailing twine apple cart.

When change is called for
but how is a mystery
when becomes never.

Two days of rain and the creek is rolling merrily along again
fully alive with many items on its agenda:
Sweep up the fallen leaves and whoosh them along.
Pick up human trash and scatter it elsewhere.
Lay down fresh piles of fossils and rocks.
Laugh its way through the woods calling
Goodbye sycamores!  Goodbye Kingfishers!
So long banks and bluffs!  I’ve others to see.
I’d like to stay–well, I’m just saying that–but
I must rush off!  Another time perhaps (again,
just being polite).  And that, as some say, is that.

One dog on either side of me
Rufus under the covers in the crook behind my knees
Miles piled heavily on my shoulder.
Oh the aches and pains of love!

The Chinese character for happiness appears
to be twin symbols joined to make one
two pretty stacks of circles and lines
the longest of which touch the other’s
like arms encircling each other’s waists.
Balance, harmony, connectedness 
together creating happiness. 
And this makes perfect sense to me
for all I can know about such things
inside my Irish English German Swiss 
(not Chinese) brain.

Reckless wind blows as
yellow gingko leaves hang on
bright and courageous.

The things I want are simple really.
A cozy house that does not leak and
is not fallingdownbroken.
 
Well, and a ferris wheel in my backyard.
A treehouse big enough to sleep in.
And while we’re at it a small carousel
with colorfully painted horses, zebras,
tigers and elephants to ride on.
A gazebo hung with netting and sparkly
lights for dinner parties and such.
A green boat in a blue-roofed boathouse
on a lake that wanders on
around and back again.
A widow’s walk on top of my house
where I can sit of an evening watching
the stars pop out.  Or of a morning 
with a cup of tea, pen, some paper.
And have I mentioned a swing?
One has to have a swing strung with
ribbons there in such a yard.
 
Oh I don’t want much.  Not really.
A cozy house that doesn’t leak 
really would be quite enough. 
In case anyone’s listening.

 

We’ll save our daylight no longer.
Those days have ended, for now at least.
No longer will we store daylight in jars
to be let out in the evening.
No piggy bank, no safety deposit box
will hold morning light until past dinner.
Nor will we pinch beams of sun like misers
with their pennies nor clutch coupons
worth an hour’s free light each evening.
Now we are left to our own devices
candles, fires, electric lights
to illuminate our evenings.  For it is 
November and Someone has decided that
now we must follow the day’s true rhythm.
And so we’ll save our daylight no longer.

Days of tortured longing past
I enjoy the many without
the need for the one the only 
more most best.
This freedom is new to me
coming with the acceptance 
of who and what I am
where and how I thrive
a restful bed upon 
which I lay my head
at the end of days full
of words work and wonder.

Breezy sneezy pleasing day
of teasing easing on your knees
when fleas are freezing
ceasing and trapezing from trees’
tiny creases and we eat pieces of
cheeses that please us while 
nephews and nieces eat peas
to appease us and bees are
stripteasing while old men 
are wheezing and officials
are siezing fees for 
our sneezes.