Category: Poetry

Hello Yellow

· 2 Comments ·

Hello Yellow, how good of you

to make an appearance before

Santa and his reindeer land.

I’ve missed you and your

colorful red and orange cousins,

your crunchy-yet-sunny

disposition, your earthly scent

as you hang, glide and tumble

to be collected by the magical

metallic click and swoosh of

yesterday’s backyard garden

rake. Didn’t we once gather

with your friends in a pile or

several for one last heavenly

autumnal celebration before

carols and flurries cascaded and

winter’s drifts and desolation

froze us in our tracks?

Now I remember us together,

surviving in a simpler, more

defined, orderly civilization.

You don’t need to worry.

As long as I am here, you

and your seasonal friends

will remain alive, constant,

distinguishable, and everlasting

… at least in my imagination.

You Wouldn’t Believe

· 6 Comments ·

Since you’ve been gone, you

wouldn’t believe how the world

and our lives have changed.

You never knew that I married

a man I love, or that we live

in the desert where I can swim

outside in the winter, or that

I survived a heart attack on

my sixtieth birthday, in the

city where both of us

were born, or that

the grandsons you loved as

children are thriving, though

they have nearly reached

middle age, or that some people

now ride in cars with no

actual drivers, or that it’s kind

of a metaphor for our

country, which has lost

its moral compass, or that

the flag you defended and

saluted is no longer yours, or

that I am thankful to write and

sing in my late sixties, because

I was meant to do those all

along. All of this is true, and

it prompts me to worry and

hope–mostly worry–that

even though I am thankful

for good health, my kind and

compassionate husband, my

own boundless empathy, and

the relationships I’ve nurtured

with my sons, and many diverse

friends, I feel heavy uncertainty

in our country, and anticipate

more losses ahead only

to protect myself, and

of course, it reminds me of

other losses I’ve endured,

especially on the anniversary

of your passing the day after

a big Thanksgiving meal

with your sisters. By now,

you can see that the world

you knew is most definitely

gone, but you live in

my memories, and

I still love you, I grieve for you,

I grieve for me, I grieve for us.

Most of all, I still remember the

many monumental moments

–the good and bad–we shared

so long ago, Dad.

Four-Letter Words

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When they appear side-by-side

on the same written page,

cope and hope may appear

to be close cousins.

In truth, these four-letter words

on the winding highway of life

are miles apart emotionally.

As Thanksgiving approaches,

on another sun-swept

Sonoran November day,

I realize I reside

somewhere in between

the harsh, heavy realities of c

and the lofty prospects of h.

Maybe the best I can do

in my numbness

is to stand tall and

keep breathing,

to extend my gifts

to those I love,

trust, and respect,

while protecting

the passions and ideals

in the strands of my DNA

from greedy, heedless fools

in this broken, foreign land.

Desert Moon

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As we count our losses,

we brace for shadows

and ripples lurking

in the darkness.

The comfort of an

undeterred desert moon

shines stillness.

It conjures hope

and the ebb and flow

of constancy living

on their own cycles.

It rises with flickers

of unfulfilled promises

and etched memories

of loved ones gone

but never far away.

Down, But Still Out

· 12 Comments ·

When I saw you

from across the room

high-five your conspirators,

the simmer of my sadness

escalated into a boiling frenzy.

What audacity … to celebrate

at the funeral of my beloved,

to dance on graves and marble stones

that ripple and repeat on rolling hills.

While I grieve for her and them,

I grieve more for all of us

and what will come next.

Yes, I am down … gutted really.

But I am still out and

I am determined to rise up.

I still have my past and present,

even if I don’t know my future.

I still have my passion.

I still have my chosen family.

I still have my truth.

I still have my identity.

I still have my voice.

Blue Light Special

· 4 Comments ·

There is no deep discount

for you to collect,

no razzmatazz reward

or ragged punch card

for you to accrue,

no extra credit

for you to capture

from the check-out lane,

no savings to realize

on the way out the door.

It is just these twinkling

blue lights of hope

that exist to frame

our fleeting worldview,

that implore us all

to imagine better possibilities,

that remind us

if we act now

to salvage our future freedom,

if we move forward

to heal from the past,

we may still be able

to rescue our civilization

from the jaws of decay.

Worth the Journey

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On Thursday, as I was flying home over the Atlantic Ocean at 38,000 feet with my husband on an eleven-hour, nonstop British Airways flight from London to Phoenix, I wondered “what will I choose to write about our week-long journey through England and Scotland?”

Today, it is this big picture observation. At this somewhat advanced stage of life–I am sixty-seven going on sixty-eight–traveling to previously unseen, faraway places is both the great rejuvenator and the not-so-great discombobulator.

Even so, as I shed the remnants of jet lag, I’ve gathered new memories and experiences that fire the creative and sensory synapses of my brain … reigniting splendid moments that transcend the ordinary view from the couch.

We certainly brought home a boatload of those: from performance #29,771 of The Mousetrap at the St. Martin’s Theatre in London’s West End; to fascinating tours of Buckingham Palace, Windsor Castle, and the Roman baths of Bath, England; to heavy rains on the road that led us to William Shakespeare’s family home in Stratford-upon-Avon; through the Lake District of the splendid English countryside and discovering poet William Wordsworth’s grave in Grasmere; to a photographic moment with statues of The Beatles in Liverpool; to a blustery climb up the cobblestones in Scotland into the sky of the Edinburgh Castle; to winding down circuitous streets that finally led us to find the Writer’s Museum proclaiming the literary achievements of Scottish icons Robert Burns, Sir Walter Scott, and Robert Louis Stevenson.

And that says nothing about the fine food and acquaintances we met along the way.

I will be recounting each of these adventures and more in the coming days. But, for now, I simply want to remember this serene moment, gliding on the top deck of the Swan on Lake Windemere in England on Tuesday, September 24, 2024.

Yes, it was a short week and two long flights across the pond.

But it was worth the journey.

Shadows and Memories

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Our funhouse shadows

lead us on new adventures

that unfold and stretch

in September’s sharp light.

We depart on weightless legs,

newborn colts

weaving and wandering,

ready to gallop

in the golden glow,

transformed with

magical memories

to carry home and savor.

***

I’ll be traveling for the rest of September. While I’m away, purchase my latest book, A Path I Might Have Missed, and enjoy more of my poetry.

What About Play?

· 6 Comments ·

I’m everybody’s neighbor or nobody’s, but I never labor.

My lives are too short to stray too far or work too hard.

It’s way more interesting to watch, wait, and wonder.

Sure, it’s okay to honor hard work. But what about play?

Shouldn’t we devote more days, more space for that?

Shouldn’t we pause every day for at least an hour or so?

Cause when it’s all over, I know what will happen.

We’ll wish we worked less and played more.

Nosy About Numbers

· 5 Comments ·

Not to be nosy, but do your numbers keep repeating?

Are you superstitious about the numbers game?

I think I am, though I don’t play the lottery.

Twenty-six keeps popping up in my life.

As either a beginning or an ending.

The other three members in my family of origin?

They were born or died on the 26th.

My mother wins the jackpot.

Born July 26; died January 26.

My father did his part.

He died November 26.

My sister got hers out of the way.

She was born September 26.

I hope she sticks around for a while.

So far, I am the only dissenter–born July 6.

I got nervous when I saw today’s calendar.

My mantra?

Just get through today.