I have no idea where I am.

Not that I’m exactly lost-
apparently home and the UK Arboretum
are within walking distance-
I just don’t know the way
that gets me back
to comfort the quickest.

When I found the curious woods
deep into my morning stroll,
my explorative spirit was ensnared
by its spiderwebs of dirt paths.
Taking care not to step
on the skittering daddy-longlegs
venturing across the trodden trails,
I marveled at this so unknown slice of nature.

Soon the trees gave way into
open sunny spaces, and I was mystified;
thought, surely it couldn’t be the college
but then I saw the watchful water tower.
From new angles I approached sculptures,
flowerbeds, and butterfly gardens
I hadn’t visited in years and sat in the shade
of massive trees dotting the hills.

Not once had I ever considered
the reach of this conservatory land,
how small the world can really feel,
how far you can go with just a piece of truth.
With better preparation,
I can brave going further quicker,
spend more time appreciating nature,
the beauties of outside.

Of course, that will mean knowing my way, too.
So caught up I’ve been in wanderings and wonderings
I never marked the path that brought me here
but that only adds to the adventure.
I know, in time, I will get home
even if I have to spend another hour walking.
For today, I have no idea where I am.
Tomorrow, I will be all the better for it.

When one generation dies
The following one carries
Within
The sound of their
Voices
Which reside in their hearts
Echo in their letters
And laughter is heard jotted on cards

Yet wth each new generation
Vocal vibrations of ancestors
Lessen in intensity
Over time
With fewer vestiges left to
Remind us of them

As I gaze at these family photographs
I ask myself
How can I pass on to my
Grandsons
All that know about my
Grandparents
Without the music of their
Voices

caretaker
you give 
so much 
from the care 
you take 

caregiver 
you take 
so much 
from the care 
you give 

When I hit the scene-         Run the scalpel            Quick whisper                 The ocean was my 
the crowd parts.                down my spine’s             at the table,                     first long-distance
Splits open.                            invisible ridge.            Aperture-round                   lover. She pulls
When I hit the             Fragile- do it fragile.            in my memory.                                her sand
scene I split open.             Aforementioned             We know better.              through my soul- 
Hit me and I’ll                           dirty fingers-            We have stars                        I carry a pearl
split right open.             like clumsy thumbs            on the ends of our       eleven hours home
Get me all over        into mandarin oranges,            eyelashes.                         to horse country.
your shoes.                             like juice down            We have gold                Everywhere I am is
Pat me on the               slender, bony wrists.            in the soles of                          somewhere I 
back and I’ll bruise                    Polish me to            our boots.                     belong. Everywhere
like moldy fruit-                     shining pearly             I have always been       I am is somewhere
like i’ve overstayed          white, something              in love with people                      I wish you
my welcome.            you could be proud of.             with round-bedded nails.             were too. 

It was my first real job.  Two years invested in secretarial school – long stretches of shorthand, typing our fingers into devotion, poised hours walking around with a book on our heads. Every month they took us to lunch – best dresses cleaned and pressed, hat pinned to styled hair, gloves starched white.  We used the correct silverware, made small talk between polite nibbles, placed our gloves discreetly on the lap below the napkin.  Nothing there prepared me for my boss – a balding man in a tatty brown suit.  That first morning, he told me his wife was from Texas, liked that he wore his cowboy hat and boots to bed, made him say giddy up at just the right moment, leaned his clammy bulk over me, pulled open one of the desk units, and said he would have to get into my drawers now and then.  I went home for lunch, called the office and said I wasn’t coming back, then took a job at a fast food restaurant.  Nobody mentioned my drawers, and the only hat I had to wear was made of paper.  

Spent with gardening
Boots shed    feet propped to porch rail
She digs the sunset

I am too lazy and cheap
     to plant the garden I want.
So…. I took a painting class
      and I will paint it.

There are many advantages to
     my potential, virtual garden.
No watering, weeding or wilting
      no deadheading.

I don’t have to wait for things 
      to grow, no surprises.
No freezing and dying when 
       The season is over.

Seasons will not matter    
      in my garden.

I can paint daffodils 
      with sunflowers, 
      lilies of the valley with mums
      crocus with marigolds.

My garden will bloom on the
        wall in the cold of winter.

But, I wouldn’t be able to pick it’s
         flowers for the table,
          feel their softness
          smell their fragrance.

It will not feed the bees.

And, no matter how much I learn,
          how long I practice.
I will never come close to replicating
          the beauty and grace
          of the simplest flower.

“Don’t talk about how he ran away
Took Another woman to another state
For awhile.”

He came back.

Stayed Still………..
                                Like
                                The 
                                Tap
                                Root
                                Of
                                A
                                Dead
                                Walnut
                                Tree.

We cannot eat cake
if circus is expensive.
Choose, choose, choose, dollars.

What comes after a bad day? 
Something relatively better or just the same? 
Do we only appreciate the sunshine after the rain, 
or after the cold five months of winter’s pain? 

Maybe there’s a daily silver-lining, 
but I’m having a hard time trying to find it. 

I recall times when life was lofty, 
now I lay at night reflecting on them fondly. 
When the days were long, but not so daunting,
and when we were grinning softly,
before the gloom embodied us.
Tomorrow we shake it off,
and wear it in a whole new way.