POEMS -- 1971-June, 2000
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    • I WISH I WERE A DAFFODIL
    My First Poem

    I wish I were a daffodil,
          a lovely little bloom,
    Then you would come and pick me
          and place me in your room.
    You then would soundly go to sleep
          with me in my pot,
    And, while you dreamt I was a flower,
          you'd find out that I'm not.

    1972, The Dark Ages

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    PASSAGES

    I went for a short walk the other day;
    Up until now, the sky had been quite grey,
    Cloudy as only a northwest sky can be.
    But then the most exquisite scene of aquamarine
    Ballooned out in every direction.

    Made me smile.

    I went down to watch the players volley;
    I couldn't get onto the courts...private property,
    So I walked to the grade school; What was it like?
    I tried to remember as I wiped my hand along the span
    Of a brick wall...trying to restore physical memory.

    It wouldn't work afterall.

    I picked a dandelion and touched it under my chin,
    And thought of yellow buttercups, petals so thin,
    And that reflection of yellow told you truth.
    I would when I was younger check to see if I liked butter;
    You didn't have to like it to have faith.

    Sometimes you have to make due.

    Now I use flowers, ones that don't grow from seeds,
    And everyone roots out dandelions as weeds,
    Except for the children who trust in their whimsy.
    The wind carries their feathers as they scatter forever,
    Blowing wishes to places unknown.

    I hope I forget to forget.

    Adapted January, 2000, from a poem written in 1972.

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    PROVING THE HEART

    Everything will work free
    The way it should be
    For those who will listen afar
    As the bell tolls for you
    Chosing paths old and new
    It's a matter of proving the heart

    It's the ultimate plan
    Some just won't understand
    'Til they look back over space and time
    Each personal history
    Is an unfolding mystery
    Only one chance to open the blind

    On the road that unwinds
    As you pass through your time
    On your way to the end of the line
    Listen close for the whisper
    That calls ever clearer
    So you don't miss what you're meant to find

    November 7, 1999

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    THE LAST PARENT

    I sat in the hospital by the hour
    Watching her breathing while she slept
    This last parent in my life
    And I silently wept
    Is she ready to go? Not really...
    Or is it me not wanting to release?
    That's some of the conflict I felt
    For I know she's at peace
    With our God, hers and mine
    He'll welcome His saint with open arms
    But please...don't go yet
    I'm still in need of your charms, Mom

    All that's physical from my childhood days
    Will evaporate when this last parent dies
    The place where I would roll down a hill
    And get dizzy; MY room, so small in size
    All packaged up and parcelled out
    To strangers who don't even know
    The battles that raged; the love exchanged
    That's the way it is, I suppose
    They'll make their own set of memories
    In MY house that I watched emerge from the ground
    Both parents built it when I was six
    (I'm rambling, I know...nothing profound)

    I'm just missing my last parent
    Before she's gone
    For the legacy of one's parents,
    When it's all said and done,
    Doesn't exist in the burnable things
    But for better or worse, good or bad,
    They live in your heart; it's just the tangible ones
    You can touch them and know that you had
    A life, a connection, a past...
    I told her I loved her, I made it apparent
    It's so difficult to imagine
    Life without the last parent

    January 22, 2000
    Click here to see pictures of my parents and grandparents.

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    ODE TO A MIDDLE-AGED JOGGER

    It's been far too cold to put on running shoes
    But when I don't jog I start singing the blues
    I've been feeling these days like a HUGE butterball
    But it's been way too icy; I was afraid that I'd fall
    And end up for my trouble with a bump or contusion
    Or a concussion at least, spending my days in confusion

    But shorts season's coming; gives me justification
    Provides me with the right kind of self-motivation
    I head up the stairs where the equipment is stored
    And attack the fat cells that cannot be ignored
    I want to be ready and look swell in my jeans
    In fine two-piece shape, so svelte and so lean

    My desire to stay healthy is one of the reasons
    I stay in good shape throughout the four seasons
    Stairsteps in winter and some tummy crunches
    Water for thirst and salads for lunches
    It's for me that I do it, but also for loved ones
    They're used to the sight of me in my sweats donned

    Soon spring will be here and good weather will flourish
    And once again I'll be out jogging the dog-on-leash
    But until summer sun shines in my sweats I will smother
    I'll keep up the running; it's really no bother
    I'll add up the miles to keep from expanding
    'Cause it's worth all the energy I've been expending

    January 23, 2000

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    ONE HUNDRED MILES OR SO AWAY

    One hundred miles or so away
    A two-hour drive
    My mother sits ill from the effects of drugs
    That will help keep her alive
    for some as yet undetermined amount of time
    Another few years maybe?
    No one knows but God and time
    I wish I could be there more often
    To hold her hand
    Make her smile
    Ease the demand of loneliness

    I make the trip whenever I can
    Sometimes I have other plans, though
    My life has its own set of callings
    Family, job necessitate my presence here
    She's only a phone call away
    But I'm so aware
    of her earthly fragility that we all are encased in
    It's really all any of us can do...wait
    And enjoy each day, each moment we're given
    That true gift from heaven
    And one that I can't take for granted

    Life is like that
    I've come to accept it
    That loved ones come and go
    They grace our table for but a short while
    but memories grant each of us immortality
    So I'll hold her hand while time allows
    And honor the mother whom I love
    Never taking for granted what small kindnesses can show
    Cry, weep, think how unfair
    Yes, there's that, but also laughter
    And a common hope in the hereafter

    February 6, 2000


    Mom and Me on her 77th birthday -- September, 1995

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    WHAT CAN I TELL YOU THIS VALENTINE'S DAY?

    What can I tell you this Valentine's Day?
    How best to express what I want to convey?
    Of the oceans of words that I could choose
    Will a simple "I love you" be enough, make due?
    I think so.

    I've elected to write you a poem in my hand
    (It's a gift that I know you will understand)
    To tell you of things that reside in my heart;
    Forever and always, I love you apart
    from all others.

    February 8, 2000
    For my Valentine.

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    SLEEP WELL, MY FRIEND

    Sleep well, my friend
    The pain will wait
    It's resting there beyond the gate
    Take care to listen to you heart
    And always trust in that part
    Of you that loves the best, the most
    Then pain will soon become a ghost
    A memory which slowly fades
    Into the fabric of life's shades.

    (She tries to write a paragraph,
    Nuances of dross and chaff
    And yet she has to stay the course
    And learn from pain's cruel discourse)

    And time?
    Time can oft erase
    The grief we feel and soon replace
    The keenest hurt with duller ache
    And finally what was then opaque,
    That darker glass, comes crystal clear
    And pain no longer grips in fear
    Sleep you now in quiet calm
    Time heals all wounds, a cleansing balm

    (The pain that waited to embrace
    Her spirit, begins to efface
    Battles won and lessons learned
    Peace the reward that she has earned)

    February 21, 2000
    For a friend in need.

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    YOU READ IT HERE FIRST

    Sometimes by luck
    I am the first
    To stumble on the prose
    The first to read
    The work displayed
    Before my very nose

    It's almost like
    A sacred trust
    This poem I'm first to see
    It's now alive
    Inside my mind
    A bond of rhyme and me

    Sometimes I think
    Of that myself
    When I hit "Validate"
    Who will by luck
    Become the first
    To read MY poem of late?

    February, 2000

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    GOD IS THERE

    In the midst of all my trials
    When my human courage fails me
    And the storms that come assail me
    When pain attempts to drown me
    And disappointment haunts me

    God is there

    He upholds me in His strong right hand
    It's then I know I can withstand
    All things through Him

    And when I'm called to walk a path
    Into a valley of overwhelming fear
    A place that can be filled with tears
    And I have nowhere I can turn
    Learning lessons I'd wish not to learn

    God is there

    My compass in this desert of uncertainty
    Ever pointing me to my Father's love and mercy
    His leading never fails

    It's through a dark glass that now I see
    And yet His promise - "I will be there"
    Of that I always am aware
    It stands as Truth forevermore
    As surely as waves come to shore

    God is there

    February 27, 2000
    Dedicated to my mom who passed away March 21, 2000.

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    AN EXERCISE

    Our calico cat crouched on an upstairs window sill,
    mesmerized by the small sparrows
    hip-hopping among the winter bare branches
    of the neighbor's poplar trees.
    A mere four feet and a force field of glass
    were all that separated her from the innocent antagonists.
    She was all prick-eared concentration--
    whiskers pulled forward, as if electrically charged;
    golden green eyes following each tiny feathered flick;
    the tip of her tail synchronizing with every tantalizing movement.
    Her velvet soft body was perched taut and tensed,
    at the ready to pounce on the prey
    when a fly buzzed and bumped against the window.

    March 16, 2000

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    SANCTUARY

    A conga line of quail scuttles
    across the blacktop as I jog down
    the road, spine jarred in rhythm
    to my measured gait. The mallard,
    accustomed to my footpats, drifts
    down the irrigation ditch, no longer
    a watchdog who urges his mate
    to flap away.

    The partially dissected house demands
    daily observation. Cut-away, only back
    and one side wall are left standing--wind-weathered
    ribs and spine, an autopsy in arrest.
    The refrigerator has been left, door agape
    to receive the contents of grocery sacks.

    Blackberry vines cloak the skeleton
    in a brambled body bag. They climb,
    the seasons at their disposal;
    the shell will be shrouded
    within the millennium, sanctuary
    for the covey.

    April 6, 2000
    Revised April, 2001-August, 2002


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    EEK! A HAIKU

    Arachnid spotted
    Icy chills run down backbone
    Feet do flamenco

    April 10, 2000

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    SHADOW ESCAPE

    Sunlight-filtered
    batik shadow materializes
    on the wall, a Balinese
    botanical print on
    painted plasterboard.
    Translated to a tropical nirvana
    for thirty-two seconds.

    April 12, 2000

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    THE TULIPS

    Prized rusty shears
    retrieved from the shed
    rest in my hand. Nineteen
    angled snips made: black-centered
    blood reds, lettuce edged
    burgundies, seven more
    the color of butter; and
    my basket flows over
    with fragrance.

    Jeweled bubbles cling
    to leaves and stems immersed
    in refracted glimmer. All but one
    stand tall, that ugly duckling rebel
    a counterpose in faceted glass.

    This vase full of spring
    crowns my bedside stand.
    A dropped petal, a stamen
    and a dusting of saffron on lace
    testify to the daily decay.

    Tomorrow this garnish of color
    joins egg shells and grass clippings
    in the slatted compost bin.

    May 6, 2000
    Revised, June 26, 2000


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    AMOROSA

    Between the head-high shelves
    that inspire conspiracy,
    I found myself alone with Neruda.
    A chance encounter. I listened,
    beguiled, as he spoke of love
    in his native tongue--
    "...tu alma es una botella llena de sal sedienta
    y una campana llena de uvas es tu piel."

    Legs entwined on the couch,
    I sat alone with Neruda.
    Enraptured once more by his
    whispered words,
    I closed my eyes
    and saw lovers entangled
    in arbor and olive grove.
    Earth and bodies mingled
    in far-away Spain, nights
    with longings fulfilled--
    "Solo puedo quererte con besos y amapolas,
    con guirnaldas mojadas por la lluvia...."
    --until he was thrust from my arms.
      It’s a dangerous thing for a married woman
      to be so close to a poet.
    As my husband slept, his back
    turned to me, my fingers
    idly twisted the hairs
    that touched his neckline,
    I listened to his steady breathing.
    I turned and found Neruda,
    who took me to a warmer place--
    where bells chime from spires
    in a suburb of Madrid
    amid clocks and trees,*
    calling lovers to retire--
    "Quiero hacer contigo
    lo que la primavera hace con los cerezos."

      How delicious for a married woman
      to be seduced by a poet at sunset.
    *Adapted from "Explico alguas cosas," by Pablo Neruda
    Other quotes from "Oda con un lamento" and "Juegas todos los dias," by Pablo Neruda

    May 18, 2000

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    SNAIL CINQUAIN

    Snails roam
    over concrete
    after the rain, leaving
    inch by white inch evidence of
    grand tour.

    May 24, 2000

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    NO PRISONERS

    This is war--
    an all-out assault
    waged on the denizens
    who would dare defoliate
    my dahlias, infest
    my forsythia, munch
    on my marigolds, ravage
    my roses or blight
    my begonias.

    Sitting under the
    green-striped umbrella,
    like General Grant planning
    the Siege of Vicksburg,
    I plot their demise--
    aphids asphyxiated
    with spray blast of
    soap water, cutworms
    most certainly
    cut off at the knees,
    gophers guillotined
    by traps that are tripped
    and snails slaughtered
    with sinister intent.

    No deer dare show
    white flag of surrender
    nor slug plead for mercy,
    for none will be granted.
    This garden has
    no court of appeal
    and this gardener
    shall take no prisoners.

    May 26, 2000
    Written after a long day of working out in the yard.

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    WHAT A PICKLE

    "Kumquat-ly," the policeman said,
    "Lettuce not delay."
    "Peas don't resist!" Rosemary cried,
    "Oh, honey! Dew what they say!"

    "We cantaloupe; I have been caught,"
    Arti choked back bitter tears;
    "That darned hot potato had to turnip
    And now I'll get ten years!"

    She touched his arm so gingerly;
    Too short their thyme that night.
    "I'll a-peel!" Arti cried out
    as they pulled him from her sight.

    And so they sentenced him to life
    and threw him in the bin.
    He sits and ponders what might have bean
    and romaines there for his sin.

    June 14, 2000
    Must be that cheesecake I ate before going to bed.

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    A COUPLE OF DOUBLE DACTYLS

    Patty cake, patty cake,
    Lady Von Havishire
    spoke with an accent, but
    now that she's aged

    Lessons in diction and
    respectibility
    rewrite her past as she
    spends all her wage!


    Dactyl-y, Wacktyl-y
    Gilbert and Sullivan
    Wrote lots of musicals
    Tripped off the tongue.

    Now that I've learned to sing
    Wonderful craziness,
    Multisyllabical
    Tunes will be sung.

    June 11, 2000
    What the heck is a double dactyl, you may ask?     Click here to find out more.

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    HAIKU FOR MY DOG

    Dog groomed; bolls of black
    blow across concrete prairie
    like fur tumbleweeds.

    June 25, 2000

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    MOMENTS OF MOTHERHOOD

    Crash of glass and I about-faced
    mid-fold toward the unwelcomed
    sound. Too many chores
    and now this interuption.
    Sarah stood shell-shocked,
    toes recoiled from shards
    and slivers. A puddle
    swept around the footstool,
    carrying the head of a daisy
    in its wake.

    Small hands pulled at the
    pockets of dandelion-stained shorts,
    never to come clean; cockleburrs
    velcroed to once-white socks;
    a decision made as quickly
    as the jar became fragments.

    Brown eyes never left my back
    as I walked to the hutch and
    took out a prized vase of cut crystal,
    then stooped to collect
    the weeds that had been plucked
    with childish wonder.

    And Sarah arranged her
    priceless bouquet as I
    mopped up the glass shards
    and water.

    June 27, 2000

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