Two Tin Cans

Two tin cans hold taut

the cord between us,

a tight rope for

children’s secrets to cross.

Old telephone booth

beside a grave yard,

conduit to the dead for

the living’s confessions.

Put your ear to the can,

a coin in the payphone,

for I too have secrets

to whisper, to confess.

Are you listening?

I will tell my tales through

the air on a heart string,

send them sailing on the wind,

to fall like leaves at your feet.

Rake them up and jump in

like a child, or leave them

swirling among the graves,

the dead will always listen.

A Blue Jay: Self Portrait part one

A blue jay sings atop

the branch of a paper birch

before a luminous azure sky.

How often I have gazed through

this temple window.

A blue jay soars above

the expansive indigo Lake

sky mirrored on calm waters.

How often I have prayed at

this living altar.

A blue jay flies up

the cliff on Blueberry Hill

so high heaven can be seen.

How often I have reached to

touch the face of God.

Long Dry Grasses Sing: Self Portrait part two

Long dry grasses sing,

blown one way, then the other.

Divide for a tawny cat

stalking through the cover.

Pads across dampened sand,

leaps atop a rock.

Surveys white capped lake,

gulls bobbing in a flock.

Wind dies with setting sun,

water reflects the glow.

Cat wanders back through

grasses now woven gold.

Tall Sunflowers: Self Portrait part three

Tall sunflowers,

garden giants,

golden petals grace

black gleaming faces,

sun followers.

At summer’s end

heads hang heavy,

mature with seed,

bend to survey

garden’s harvest.

Stems bow in prayer

goldfinch whispers,

“tomorrow comes”

plucks a seed,

then flies away.

Snow soon covers

fallen remnants,

memory of sun

secured in seed,

waiting in soil.

Tucked In a Drawer: Self Portrait part four

Tucked in a drawer,

too old to be of use,

lies a pile of hankies,

laced with memories.

Each one unfolded,

its wrinkled face smoothed,

telling tales of tears,

farewells and broken hearts.

Delicate fabric,

whiteness yellowed grey,

colors faded, worn thin

that veil of passing.

Lovingly refolded,

no longer a piece

of today, tucked safely

back into yesterday.

This Gravel Road : Self Portrait part five

This gravel road is

long, hot, and dusty.

I keep walking on.

My feet are tired,

my shoes worn.

I have walked this road

a lifetime. They say

all roads come to an end.

Down the way there is

a bend in sight.

Along this timeworn road,

I gather flowers,

their beauty wilting

in my hands being

dropped, one by one.

I look behind. They say

never look back but

now there’s a path of

flowers to follow

when my soul returns.

The Child Laughs Aloud

The child laughs aloud,

not bubbling up

or holding back, but

erupting like Vesuvius.

There was a time,

when I too could laugh

without restraint,

tears rolling down.

This was before

I grew up, standing tall,

assured in the fact,

I knew something.

Uncertainty and fear,

now bend my spine.

Searching for answers,

my eyes grow blind.

Look up, my head says.

What should I see?

Pray, my heart says.

What do I ask for?

I hear the child,

laughter peeling like a bell,

resounding inside me,

an answer, a prayer.

The Down Arrow Glows Red

The down arrow glows red.

As the door slides open,

I step in, press LL.

People move aside, we descend.

I have been so tired.

My skin smells rusty.

I laugh imagining

myself as the tin man,

rusting when he cried.

The elevator stops

on every floor. People

get off. I reach the

lowest level, alone.

I have been so very tired.

The doctor does not laugh,

orders tests, procedures.

Then calls me saying, “Sorry

to tell you this on the phone”.

I exit down in the bowels

of the earth, following signs

that point to the tunnel.

My steps echo as I walk.

Cancer makes you tired.

My husband brings me in

for surgery. We hold hands

knowing love’s strength,

and life’s fragility.

Florescent light floods the hall.

Tiles line the narrow path,

just wide enough for the

ill and dying to pass.

I could sleep forever.

They cut out the cancer,

removing my uterus.

Womanhood a memory

I will have to forget.

The tunnel is long, twisted.

At each turn I think

this must be the end.

There is no end, it stretches on.

Curls Go With Girls

“Curls go with girls” mother taught,

pin curling my straight hair.

By morning my girlishness

was revealed.  The ads taught:

“Amp up your luscious lips.”

“A dab of gloss gives you a

plumper pout.” “False eye lashes,

glam bam!” Ideal beauty revealed.

Wear makeup to feel confident,

camouflage your imperfections,

fix your face. After all,

the mirror never lies.

With good grooming, plain girls

transform into nubile maidens,

ready for seduction.

Mother, was this your goal?

Grooming builds relationships,

leading to manipulation,

exploitation and abuse,

with no choice but to follow.

From the first time the glass slipper

is tried on, the soul is locked

into a turret to await

a fairy godmother.

“A woman without paint

is like food without salt”

the Roman Plautus taught.

What about curls?

I Was Born in Winter

I was born in winter.

Janus the gatekeeper

looking forward and back.

Grandfather’s ghost prayed

beside my bed.

The hairs on my head are

numbered, as are my days.

Past and future entwined

like stars whose light is seen

beyond their death.

In the woods stands an oak

bowed under the weight of

a fallen comrade, held aloft.

I too cannot let go of

those gone before.

They still can be heard in

my voice, seen in my face,

alive within my bones.

Like Lot’s wife, I cannot help

but look back.

When time’s gate swings shut

and life ends, only bones

will remember my name.

Look up, you will find me

in the stars.

On the eve of my 69th birthday

He Lies On My Lap

He lies on my lap,

curled like a comma,

dividing now, from then,

his head tucked to tail,

no beginning or end.

Like Regulus, the cat,

star in Leo’s constellation,

who prowled the night sky,

as the child in the womb,

swam through darkness.

Starlight born around her,

sixty-nine light years ago,

bathed the babe in brightness,

before and thereafter,

as old as she is new.

In a Dark Swirl of Wind

In a dark swirl of wind,

a tree fell leaving a

hollow in the canopy.

The crash was never heard.

There must have been a

splintering groan as it

let go of the earth and sky,

the sun, wind, and rain.

No one witnessed life passing.

You left us that way,

avoiding long goodbyes,

slipping off on your own.

When time calls our name

do we chose to let go,

or does the earth let loose

from under our roots?

That dark swirl of wind

may need to snatch me up,

refusing to let go

I’ll fall with a crash.

As a Child I Believed

As a child I believed,

wind was all I needed,

to make my dime-store kite fly,

if only I could run faster.

My kite would swoop and spin,

turn and dive into the ground.

I would try again and again,

until the kite crumpled.

The bus made its final stop,

dropping her at the Home,

to live out her days, in the

company of strangers.

She sat marooned with others,

powerless, mirroring despair.

Reaching out, she grasped the hands

of those seated beside her.

A tail on a kite helps it fly,

adding drag, pulling it

in the wind’s direction.

If only I had understood,

that kind of power. As the

World Trade Center tower burned,

when there was no escape,

strangers held hands and jumped.

I see a kite flying high,

bright against the blue sky,

reaching its way toward heaven,

its tail trailing toward earth.

So You Crossed the Finish Line

So, you crossed the finish line.

They congratulated you,

said you would be missed,

then locked the door.

So, you checked the time on

the watch you no longer need,

loaded up your memories,

and drove off into the sunset.

So, is that the end,

roll the credits,

the screen turns black,

everyone files out but you?

So?

If I Do Not Write It Down

If I do not write it down,

will I ever see the truth?

So many words go past us,

we skim with our ears the fat

that coats our toast, fries our eggs,

but will never sustain us.

Like an e-visit to the doctor,

who never sets eyes on us,

nods and says “Amen” at church

to assure God Incarnate

that He is known and loved

but will be passed on the street.

So I write down the words,

trying to see their reflection

off the wide lined paper,

that draws on the letters from

youth, traced over and over,

then graded on penmanship.

I stand before you fearful

that my lack of substance will

be discovered and paraded

round for all to see and mock.

So I’ve hidden away words

that may follow me to the grave.

Before that day of cremation,

I try not to look back while boldly

stepping forward, writing the words

that once were secreted away,

my sight blurred and clouded,

so only now, I start to see.

Time Has Set Me Apart

Time has set me apart.

On the street the child calls,

“Hey, old lady”.  I don’t look up,

my eyes are on my path.

You take one step, then another.

Each step brings you closer.

Each step, farther away.

The walk is uneven.

That first step, precarious,

a missed step, disastrous.

I have a fear of falling.

I have a fear of failure.

You can practice falling

so no bones are broken.

Should you practice failure,

so you can stand again?

Time warns me to watch my step.

My bones are fragile.

The path calls “Hey, old lady”.

This time I look ahead.

Welcomed in the Doorway

Welcomed in the doorway,

perches on a chair,

smiles same as ever,

Illusions to portray.

Well-worn gifted sweater,

hole opens under arm,

too late now to sew it,

onerous to maintain.

Every day, efforts made,

tries to make things last,

another coat of paint,

glue to mend a crack.

Endlessly the edges fray,

nothing stays the same,

time seems to accelerate,

marching to decay.

Helped into a jacket,

hugged fondly at the door,

loved for what once was,

ghost of what remains.

She Listens to Her World

She listens to her world

reading lips, gestures, eyes         irritation.

Hears it all

but not the words              in her head.

There is a drought

not colored red on a map.           A dearth.

Her mouth dry, tongue parched

lips cracked.

When she speaks, dust flies out

like a car leaving     down a gravel road.

It happened gradually

over years.               Everyone remembered

when words rained down.

No one noticed when it slowed

to sprinkle                then stopped.

Temporal lobe aphasia they said

abandoning her      to memory.

She listens

SLAPS the table.     That was understood.

The Woman Tips Her Coiffed Do

The woman tips her coiffed do,

smiling as she polishes,

her table to a glossy shine,

mirroring her image.

“Isn’t that a nice reflection on you?”

the Pledge commercial asks me.

Taught to dust back in the sixties,

you’d think I’d polish mine,

but my table shines with gravy

and greasy fingerprints too.

No amount of lemon polish

or elbow grease is going

to shine it like a mirror,

nor would I want it to.

My reflection is mine alone,

built on years of living,

life filled with memories,

brings back “nice” reflections.

Family gathered all together,

Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners,

roast beef as well as gravy,

licked from greasy fingers.

The Curtain Goes Up

The curtain goes up.

Scenes from yesterday,

memorized by heart,

replay in my mind.  I remember.

Warehouse windows stuck shut.

Struggling to open them,

the studio heating up

like an oven.  I remember.

You opened those windows,

fresh air flowed through, blowing

away deceit, the hands

around my neck.  I remember.

Golden curtains billowing

on windows filled with sunlight,

the breeze cooling sweat from

our languid bodies.  I remember.

Life flows through these windows.

One day the scene will end,

curtains fall, lights go dark.

Will I still remember?

Even now, my eyes grow dim.

When I no longer see,

slide open the window,

so I feel the breeze, and remember.

I Believe it was October

I believe it was October

when the long thin arms of

autumn sunlight stretched

across fields of dry grass.

Wind blew through remains

of corn stubble refuse,

stirring clouds of dust

that hung suspended.

Late in the day, your face shaded

by the thin worn curtain,

damp with sweat, glowed with

knowledge of our longings.

Where do I find myself now,

wrapped in your arms or

watching in the failing light,

shoes covered in dust?

Old Abandoned Farm House

Old abandoned farm house,

weather beaten, stripped bare,

windows stare out blankly

through fractured panes.

The front door boarded shut,

telling no tales. Not stopping

the curious who are drawn

to peer inside its decay.

I refuse to look through

those dark broken windows,

afraid of waking the ghost

still lurking there.

Haunted with memory

of a duplicitous grin,

devouring young women

to fill its rotten hollow.

Instead, I chose to stand

back in the shadows to watch

as this house is burnt down.

I’m drawn to watch the flames.

I am a Desert Owl

I am a desert owl,

looking for shelter,

flying over burning sands,

without a place to land.

I am a pelican in the wilderness,

tearing at my breast,

hearing children cry,

without a bite to eat.

I am an owl among ruins,

searching for creation,

finding desolation,

without a way back.

I am a sparrow in darkness,

watching through the night,

alone on a rooftop,

waiting for light.

Oh, Sweet Gift

Oh, sweet gift of sleep,

our bed a boat set adrift.

You lay warm against my back,

breath moves hairs on my neck.

The battle over pain and loss,

finally, at rest.

In the early hours,

the leviathan circles.

Heard over roiling waters

echoes from the past,

“Just shoot me. Throw me in.”

Ancient timbers groan.

Oh, sweet gift of life, time

blows us farther out to sea.

“I wish I was dead” was said

in pain, giving way to anger,

frustration preparing

a watery grave.

Your arms, a life preserver,

pull me to safety.

My body surrenders,

sleep washes our yesterdays,

love keeps us afloat.

Life and time still move

with the tide.

Hard Wooden Doors

Hard wooden doors

hinges creak apart

dim light filters

stained glass panes

suspended cross.

Solitary.

Hard wooden pews

groan under stress

echoes emptiness

loss, life’s questions

death’s conclusion.

Hallowed answer.

Hard garden bench

sunflowers sway

geese circle south

dusk envelopes

consummate peace.

Sanctuary.

My Life

My life is a Word Find.

Searching for “FATE”.

Discovering “FAITH”.

Looking for “HEAVEN”.

Finding “HAVE”.

Four Walls

Four walls a fortress

sometimes turn prison,

thick walls of heat

close in on me.

I dive out the door,

swim through humidity,

gasping like a

woman drowning.

Under a tree’s shade

my mind empties out,

worries fade away,

hands hang limp.

Verdant leaves droop,

a pale moth lands,

tree toads doze,

cicadas hiss.

On this hot summer day

I have no direction,

I have no goals,

I have no cares.

I breathe in,

I breathe out.

That’s enough.

The Curtains Part

The curtains part as she peers out

through the window, down the drive.

The school bus passes below.

No children live here anymore.

The curtains part as she peers out

through the window to the barn.

Metal doors clang in the wind.

No one works there anymore.

The curtains part as she opens

the window. Fresh air fills the room.

Dust dances in the sunlight.

Smiling, she writes down this poem.