Words are powerful
yet not satisfying enough

Precious isn’t big enough
when looking at my newborn grandson

Love isn’t deep enough
when thinking about him

Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious isn’t wide enough
when feeling indulgent and full of zest

Grandmas are amazing

My own were akin to words
precious
lovely
indulgent
full of zest
powerful
inexplicable

More than enough for me

with the monarch butterflies rising like smoke and the young robins with their spotted chests still chirping for breakfast from mom and dad, the chipmunk flitting around the corner of the shed and the magnolia blooms preparing for launch, poison ivy snaking around the locust tree in broad daylight, snakes parting the tall grass in serpentine waves, everything out in the open, everything cooking under the morning sun, no hidden ingredients or preservatives, only now, here it is, take it or leave it, the breeze like honeysuckle, the shadows across the yard like well-oiled gears, ulterior a bullshit word, nothing and nowhere to hide, no chance for cosmic secrets, only iris blossoms on the fence line.

This is the same body you touched

Not the same person

But the same nerves

The same veins

The same soul

And yet everything has changed

Seasons gone by

Weight gained and lost

Skin shed into dust

Hair grown, let go, then regrown

And yet, nothing has changed

Inside of me still lives the part of me you crushed

Still holds the part of me you left

Stays the part of me that died

My feet are the same feet that carried me to you

My hands are the same hands that held yours

My heart, the same heart that longed for you

I can no longer trust it when it comes to you

For it is what led me to you, my demise

It stayed yours for years after you broke it

Shards of glass forgotten in the pocket of your black winter coat

My heart, abandoned

My body holds onto what you did to me

That girl you left stays here

Waiting

Almost like she’s waiting

For you to come back

a semblance of feeling long gone
shining dimly in the warmth of morning sun
free-falling from the bleached white cliffside
the surf below begging to envelop her in waves
dunes and sea oats ache for finger-tipped brushes
white-hot to the touch and speckled with seashells
curiously resembling her wearied and worn heart

I had a dream

No one
pays
attention

to
the barking
dog
in horror
films,

but
they do
pay.

 I am delighted to live where thoroughbreds roam
Raised on bluegrass and calcium-rich water
Mares running, foals frolicking, stallions alone
In their pastures unbridled, joyous, free  

I  am distraught to live where thoroughbreds race
Jockeys on their backs
Round and round on turf and poly and dirt
Blinkered, bridled, saddled, whipped

You look into each other’s eyes
in the ebb and flow of your wedding waltz.
Lifts throw your dress swirling into the air.
Dips fling legs and arms in opposite directions.

The room stops to watch, rapt
by your abandon. In your thrall, we start kissing
as we dance. Cameras cannot capture
your elation. We clap in unison.

The band plays “Sweet Caroline”
and “Wagon Wheel” and all break into song
circling you, sending their bodies akimbo
until the crunch of the final chords.

Was your heart spinning when you lay down
that night? Were you still singing along
to “Dancing Queen” Were you able to hear
the rain falling on the canvas of your cabin?

Billy and John fancied
themselves master fisherman

Their wives considered them
masters of nothing, 
other than drinking beer

Billy and John would be
the first to say
it ain’t even fishing 
without suds

So, Tuesday morning,
on the lake, 
the snick of opening cans,
partly cloudy, chance of rain

Billy and John,
lines in the water,
complaining about the game,
no bites

They felt a tingle,
like static electricity,
a shadow fell over them

A perfectly circular,
perfectly silent UFO
hung in the air,
twenty feet above them

First time either of them
had dropped a can of beer 
or been probed in 
a bright, featureless room,
surrounded by the little ones,
while the tall one,
the one who looked
like an angry
praying mantis,
watched

Later that morning,
Billy and John, 
the snick of opening cans,
feeling a bit disoriented
(too many beers?),
lines in the water,
complaining about the game,

still no bites

Their musical gifts are immeasurable.
Singing as naturally as birds in perfect pitch.
Fingers move across the fretboard with astonishing ease.
Bow and fiddle sing out far and wide.
The bass thumps in perfect time. 

And I, a toad, sit among them, mandolin in hand,
Clearly where I don’t belong.
Remembering the chord changes is a challenge,
Improvising a solo, impossible.
Yet here I am. 

They are angels, not just in voice, but in grace,
Treating me as though I am one of them,
Encouraging me to sing and to play
And cheering me on.  

A bucket list
Kind of thing for me, a poser,
Performing on stage
Before an actual audience
With musicians who are the real deal.