Sitting in the corner,
Inbetween the unwanted,
A small, unassuming dress,
Hidden by the hideous,
Passed by by passerbys,
I took it with me,
And in the fitting rooms,
Door number 11,
Surrounded by mirrors,
The squabblings of mothers and daughters,
I found my perfect fit.
I never thought there’d be a day,
When I’d say, “I’ll take my shower another day!”
It used to be, between you and me, that was only true of the elderly.
When am I old?
What is my elder worth in gold?
Who will care if I wash my hair?
Who will notice what I even wear?
When does pretty fly away ~ along with every single hay day?
Who earns the privilege of silver hair ~ safe and secure not even a care?
Who will stop and visit, bring some chicken soup?
Who will be around, when I’m down and duped?
No one wants to be alone ~ carry a loan on her own home.
Divine Mother Nature opens her arms,
Her trees bring breath healing and charms,
It seems as the elder body weakens and wanes ~ the spark of ‘Chi’ still flows not strains,
Meridian pathways no matter how old ~ pour energy like liquid gold.
Naturally we question the end, try to run the opposite way,
a sacredy-cat crisscrossing attempts to extend the stay,
Bargaining with that end date ~ convincing self it’s not too late,
Hoping there’s strength to hit the bell, at least give it one last swing ~
What the hell!
Grab a soda, cotton candy, throw a dime on a plate, and tell ourselves it’s not too late
to win a Kewpie
ride a tilt-a-whirl
shake the fear
give it one last cheer!
To lean and eye the tattooed guy,
the one holding the make-it-faster stick
Try to convince him to do his tilt-a-whirl trick,
and like a top, no one wants it to stop . . . just make the ride a laster!
Make it a ride, a Midway ride, to glide right on over to the other side . . .
Wild lilies like
fireflies spotted
the shadowed lake bend
a proud and lichen
crusted boulder watched
moss and minnows grow
Strong magnolia
grew up far beyond
the understory
our bright boats felt strange
among the grove so
we rowed in silence
spring unwinds
in the record heat, perspires
and stretches its full length
then expires, completely
unsprung
We wake from that dreamless land
cocooned for almost 10 years,
tubes down our throats.
Charlie coughs up what feels like a hairball.
Miranda files her nails to sharp points,
poking holes in the plastic wrap packaging.
You tell me that you can’t remember,
that my face is not the woman you signed up for,
that somehow, ten years ago,
the babies were switched at birth.
All the nurses said it could never happened.
But here we stand on Pluto,
holding hands with a stranger,
plucking the ice crystals from between our toes.
my conch shell knees still clank together
like some vintage enamelware pots
now lost and rusted in a beach house
and sometimes I breathe easy, forget
the years of tide, catching breath on shore
the rash where the chain dents my ankle
bones waiting, a ribbon through my ribs
keeping score ’til I’m pulled back under
was everything left unsaid.
reading the clouds takes some time today.
light cumulus puffs, brilliant white–
bright blue behind, a calm day.
intuitive thoughts see
reason to be still,
reason to watch
nature’s thoughts
float on
by.
I woke this morning, my muse,
mere vapor in the heat, rising
almost beyond my grasp.
Suddenly alert, like a weary
mother wakened by her baby’s
cry, I nabbed its fringes when
I glimpsed a solitary sprout
in my rows of beans. If seeds
store eons of energy to free
themselves from soil’s blindfold,
I, too, can be the one to water all
till muse’s mist falls as rain—
the beans, the verses, too.
