Orphan

Dear Mom,
Last night I woke at 3:17 and
you softened into my dream-drowsy awareness.
I don't remember the
last time
I cried myself back to sleep.
It's been one month since you left
me,
a 51-year-old
orphan.

97 and 3

97 and 3

sum up to 100

at opposing ends of the

same bell curve.

For every 97 of Joy, there’s a 3 of

Sorrow, and time shall decide

when the pendulum arcs

between the two

Squirrel Highway

It’s a squirrel highway

overpass to the Redwoods,

a bird rest stop where

they must hear our buzz,

                feel it through their pronged feet

Face this way

                then that way

then this way again,

one claw expertly anchoring

                as the other lightening pivots

                                swinging red breast around

Crossing and crissing

                faster and faster

                until a blur of wings

                leaves our

Voices to themselves again

Over the road where

We drive our cars

While talking on our phones without

Noticing the act on

The high wire above

Galloping Pages - rev 1

P o e t I c

I d e a s

D e l I v e r e d

T o    M e

I n    S l e e p y

H o u r s

P h a n t o m

                                                                                S n o r t s

                                                                                                I n

                                                                                                B l u e

                                                                                R h y t h m i c

                                                                B r e a t h e

“B e

R e a d y

T o

T a k e

T h e

B I t

A n d

R u n

L e a v I n g

P r I n t s

A c r o s s

P a g e s”

P o n y

                W i t h

                                I n k  

S h o e s

                R u n s

H a r d

A s

F a s t

A s

W e

C a n

G o

I n

A n

E f f o r t

T o

K e e p

U p

W I t h

T h e

G h o s t

M a r e

Pink

I am pink softness, rose petal strength

I am pink variety of just about white to deep fuchsia purpleness

I am hilarious pink eruption of champagne giggles from those who experience me,

                Really me

I am the cold of baby animal noses, their tongues and teeth

I am joyful pink of snapdragons in spring

                The relief of winter’s submission to the new creating

I am nearly red courage with fuzzier edges that embrace

I am Valentine’s hearts with sweet messages making skin blush of me

I am whimsical shades of pinkness, many siblings in my family

Muddy rose tan

                Notebook hot pink

Delicate flower petunia

Carnation delightful simplicity

                Rose quartz clouds wrapped up in firm stone

I am pinkishly feminine ruffly clothes

                And Victoria Secret hidden fancy frills

I am wonderful woman folds of strength and capable can-do

I am the color of the source of creation

I am the pink of power

I am the intricate coral pink seashell timelessly tumbling

                In the eternal ocean, being ended as I begin again

I’m pink

More Than Outlines

Solitude with coffee and a sketch pad

                On a public tree-shaded deck,

                Outside in heaven and bliss

The barista, always happy, chirps to each

New customer that comes seeking soothing in a cup

Introverted.  Wanting.  Needing center before

Contact and being capable of even fluffsharing

pleasantries

The sketches have dispensed themselves to the pad

                Through the pen

Glancing up, the eye sees outlines of heads and trunks, possible sketches

                Of bodies

It hardly seems fair to do it

These unknowns are beings with their stories, their

                Heartaches, with their public faces on

By sketching only outlines, the soul

                Of these souls, the piece truly desiring to be glimpsed

                Remains elusive;

Outside of an uninvited intrusion

Mother's Day, May 8, 2011

Sitting beside your bed
     listening to your morphine softened breath
never knowing which might be the last.
How many thousands of breaths have there been
          rise and sink
          rise and sink

The scent of baby lotion from the hospital nightstand
     spills out a memory of
     bringing life home from this same place.

And now we are returning you here

That scent will never be the same
     as it was before we began
Letting you go