You’re pure gold these days               
Ripe for the sick greedy steal
You in danger, girl

...but epigraphs when they are not short, ruin the top

                    I capture a moment

            Reading poetry tonight,
            I am reminded of the shortest,
            complete poem,
             rising up fom silence,
            temporarily lost:

                     I?

                 Why?

            Think about that.
            Feel those two words.
            To answer those questions
            can be personal,
            philosophical,
            religious, 
            but to have written them.
            was the definition of a poet,
            poetry,
            humanity
            for all time.

There was a time when I
Would have sawed off my own toe,
Trudged in a pool of my own blood
To fit into a pair of glittery shoes
Two sizes small, but on sale.

With time, I have outgrown this urge when shopping for shoes.

Now, if only I could do the same with relationships.

In most the high and palmy state of Rome,
when Eroica assembled the throng to the agora,
to the exceeding special cabinet of curiosity, in fact.
a scalloped-topped cream-colored cabinet 
to ensconce her shoes of tan and taupe
and her silks and muslin—they thrilled 
and sang it matched the buttressed archway to the room— 
a feeling both dark-Gothic and at once clinical.

Her bedroom was useful now,
where high design met the nadir of Hellenism 
and an assorted dash of Edgar Allan Poe celebrated
with her rare and radiant iPhone covered in rhinestones
that would tell the world, “nothing more”.

Very few beauties are gabby,
but for Sleeping Beauty and Maleficent—
& my phone’s been getting photos 
dozens on the hour through my chamber door,
those kind of godawful drunken interruptions 
make me want to grab a notebook
to set down each alarum distinctly remembered.
But I’d rather hear proclaim her crazed furniture
worship in Franco-Farsi or French, then Farsi,
no I’m not crazy about pixilated renderings.
I’m not crazy about silicon dreams cutting 
my coffee streams.

Give me a woman that talks the entire
time like my lady

                    who clamors, apprehended

especially useful
                    at such given moments.

These fantasies could be problematic.

old world elegance
a culture all its own
frozen in time
sidewalk cafe’
steaming expresso
delicate stroop waffles
covered in chocolate
majestic fields of tulips
a patchwork quilt of
crimson and heather
blue delft & windmills
spinning in grandeur
pancakes with whipped cream
art of the masters
Van Gogh & Rembrandt
remembering history
Anne Frank 
moment by moment
my very breath taken away
Netherlands

Gardening today,
I got sick in the mean heat

and humidity
made by callousness of man
~

Sad to say, my grand-
children will not see glaciers.
~

Future museums
of lost animals—called zoos.
~

Rain will be a poor
substitute for snow and ice.
~

Brittle leaves bookmark
out-of-print books of winter.
~

In a reluctant
peace, the snowball fights shall cease.
~

Pacific land dots
drown under the laughing waves.
~

Poems tell stories
of the lost cold, it’s just that

we breed teens who won’t
(or can’t) read the books we write.
~

The president can’t
care when he can’t stay awake

at the biggest game
of the NBA season.

 *Bi-kus are haikus minus the third line (the final five syllables).
I spell the word this way because there is a transliterated
Japanese word spelled b-a-i-k-u that refers to bicycles, though
I have also seen baiku used online to describe haikus that are
about cycling. Are bi-kus an accepted form of poetry?
Damned if I know. 

 Mom’s favorite flower due to the scent.
Spent her last months with us in hospice.
Bought her a gardenia Yankee Candle
Lit it for her daily to mask the rotting flesh
the rancid, foul odor of death.

She smiled as I lit it and thanked me
as she lay so helpless in that twin bed.
Covered in blankets as she grew cold.
I would curl and spoon with her and
tell her I loved her. I know dear she
would answer.

 When she passed, I kept the room closed.
Got upset if anyone left it open. My husband
Said you are trying to hold onto her with
the scent of the gardenia. He was right.   

The switch is flipped so quick sometimes
Between laughter and despair
The gallows ring with humor just as often
As with the snap of ropes
Necks cracking like jokes

Two types of tears flow freely
With the news of a funeral’s delay
When the host quips that the guest of honor
Is late colloquially, and because traffic was bad
Coming from the coroner’s place

Perhaps that’s why so often clowns
Have painted tears upon the face