Archive for February, 2012

Lonely Night

Lonely night—
on this ocean liner
of a bed,
I float with
both pillows under
my head.

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Housing Development

Miles into this
Forest, admiring the view,
With mountains rising
Off to the east,

He savors the
Silence, then, break over,
Climbs back onto his
Caterpillar seat.

Double

Life, more often than not, leaves
me feeling
like I have a double somewhere,
a saint doing
all the right things I do wrong.
There are even times
when we actually change places.
After all, this isn’t
really me here kissing you now,
I’m thinking:
Unable to tell with eyes closed.

Invitation

If I should fall asleep
too soon, please do wake me.
No matter what the time.
Come singing.  Throw rocks at
my window.  Bang on the
door.  Yes, get me out of bed
without a second thought.
Tell me the stars are dancing
or that voluptuous moon
will wink again on the hour.
Anything.  Talk with me
until the Sandman leaves my
eyes.  Convince me it is
a shame I went to bed at all.
I will listen and believe,
go out walking, too, just for
a chance to be with you.

Transformation

Seeing our red maple,
I am reminded of a middle-aged mother
dressing for a party.

This entire Saturday,
sans makeup, wearing a baggy outfit
she has turned no heads.

But now, zipping
on a dress to reveal her best features,
who could look away.

Just so that tree,
having stood nondescript all summer
in its workday clothes.

Yet overnight, it has
magnificently donned a fiery mantle,
the belle of Autumn.

Cattail Marsh

The red-winged blackbirds
won’t return to this cattail marsh
for another six weeks.
No ghost-like insects will emerge
at dusk lusting for blood.
Frogs are silent as death itself,
pumped full of antifreeze
and slumbering beneath the ice.
The best a noontime sun
can do is this crepuscular light.
But still the crunch of
our boots is not the only sound
here in winter’s cemetery.
All around us dead vegetation
rattles to attract attention.
Tombstones sticky with seeds,
the brush of a pant’s leg
redistributes the opportunistic.

Father’s Shoes

Mother, with red lips and
matching hair,
danced to Benny Goodman,
to Henry James, to
the Hit Parade.  Single and
new to Chicago,
she hummed Mood Indigo,
tapped her foot
to Sentimental Journey.
On a train
crowded with soldiers,
she dreamt of
Roseland, of Shangri-la,
of orchestras
playing Stardust as
mirrored balls
glittered far, far above.
She imagined
waltzing forever with
Fred Astaire
there in the moonlight.
Unaware that
fate would arrive with
two left feet,
wearing Father’s shoes.