Category: Poems

I have decided that I shall live 
to the age of 83.  A prime number
and respectable age to reach without
too much fuss.  A very good age at 
which to travel on to the next stop.
Not too old and yet what could be 
termed a full life. 
I don’t care to break records.
I have no pension plan or savings,
no husband or lover to cover me. 
But now I have this plan.
I stand relieved.  

In trying to love this summer of extreme heat
I imagine accepting a good-natured but irritating
in-law staying indefinitely in my house.
One whose sensibilities veer wildly away from my own.
Whose voice is loud, whose laugh is grating.
One who takes the last cookie, drinks the last drop of wine.
Leaves the wet glass to perspire for hours on the antique table.
Who smokes.  Who knocks things over completely by accident
apologizing profusely.  Who breaks my grandmother’s glass 
while helpfully washing the dishes.
Who nonetheless has a heart of gold.

Words fail.
No pithy thoughts
present themselves.
No deep musings.
No melancholic notions.
I remain stupefied.
Wishes, even dreams
disinterest me.  
Perhaps
a slice of cake
would help.

 

August is my birthday month and I 
picture ferris wheel and roller coaster
balloons confetti cake with candles 
hot air balloon with picnic basket
umbrella perched atop my glass
fabulous dress and frivolous hat
madcap fun a lovely dance
illicit moonlit naked swim
secret ritual scented bath
extravagant plans sixty wishes
with any luck a year of mischief.

The big yellow and black butterfly
(I cannot know its name)
routinely pauses and poses
with wings fully open
for me to see 
as if it knows it is marvelous
and wants to be seen by me.
Others open and close their wings
come and go, linger only a moment
or two near my large self and my two dogs.
I draw no conclusion from this except
to say that we humans need know very little
about the mysteries all around us
in order to love them.

How old will I be when I die?
Who will be there?  My boys?  These two dogs?
Will it be summer or fall, winter or spring?
Perhaps it will have rained that day.
I hope I am in this room with its windows
facing east, with the two smiling monks
on the wall, my books piled next to the lamp
with the polka dotted shade on the small white table,
my panda bear from childhood still perched 
on top of the wardrobe.  I would like to have said
goodbye and I love you to all who matter.  
I would like to feel satisfied that I have used
this one life well and audaciously.
Lastly, I hope that I will be able to
send rays of strength, luck and contentment 
to everyone I’ve left behind.
As needed.  

Where is it written
that the trees should love the sky?
That flowers should rest their sleepy 
heads in the palms of my hands?
That rain should fill the cups of 
leaves and offer itself to the birds?
That night should follow day
without question or argument?
That the soft wings of butterflies
should open and close, open and close?
Tell me where it is written and I 
shall read that book again and again. 
And then tell me why I should not love this world.

The one year anniversary of that moment
when Pam left her wrecked physical body and burst
out into the summer sky has passed.  I can only see her
smiling face now, light and loose as a puppy, 
all her old grudges left behind.
I do believe the best part of us goes on.  
I choose to believe it and why not?  
It makes me happy and having no evidence 
to the contrary why the hell not?

Once again my particular expectations failed me.
And so I trudged unhappily through my day.  
Any Buddhist could not fail to mention that 
had I had no particular expectation my day might 
have stretched out before me laden with every rich 
possibility.  Might have been in fact quite fulfilling.  
Ahh.  Ah yes.  I continue to learn.  
Luckily it is possible still to learn.

I love the words
umbrella
galoshes
cake
parade
nincompoop
dumpling
perplexed
Paris
unabashed
fedora.
I will choose one
(umbrella) and 
let it be the
watchword 
of this day.