Monday, September 19, 2016

on walking the dog

Lady, circa 2010

This morning I put down my phone
and went for a walk.

I used to walk often, with the dog—
her compact chestnut body leading the way
to every irresistible sight or scent
or sound.

We used to stop together,
I, at her command,
experience having taught me that
her moment of reflection could become
also mine—

a time to watch the pond weeds
dress themselves for fall as
the cirrus clouds danced across the sky—

a time to stand in the misty rain
on a gray winter's day
and note the astonishing whiteness
of an ibis on the wing.

I miss those walks,
those moments that became
days that became weeks and months
and years,

marking the changes in us both
as we comforted ourselves
with each season's familiar cadence.

So, this morning I put down my phone
and went for a walk.

The dog would have been proud.


Saturday, August 27, 2016

paper chains








The chimes are like the paper chains
of childhood;
rings of color building
and building
until the magic of them
could take you anywhere,
grant any wish,
even the ones where
your parents would stop fighting
and the cat wasn't dead
anymore
and this Christmas would be
happy. And
though you secretly know
the truth,
when you walk in the garden
on a summer morning
and the light makes them come alive again,
the magic still
shines


Saturday, August 13, 2016

in which the cat rescues us.




With a few intriguing manners
and a tendency to purr,
the cat has managed 
to rule us all.

It was her master plan, no doubt,
when we rescued her—
a soft and yielding bundle
of tabby stripes and gangly legs
and a voice any Siamese would envy.
(We found that out later.)

Last night
as I walked back to the house
from taking the trash out to the curb,
I saw the cat silhouetted in the lighted window—
looking like a picture book where
all the homes are filled 
with light and warmth 
and love.

And I thought, the cat did that.
The little tabby cat who used to be a stranger,
made our house 
a home.


Friday, June 10, 2016

an informal treatise on the nature of ducks




A family of mallards
has taken up residence
in the garden, among the creeping
jasmine
and the nearly impenetrable
indian hawthorne,
where
the black snake lives.

It doesn't seem like a
wise choice of
habitat,
but then mallards are not exactly
wise.

They are, however, genial,
also punctual—
marching in each morning
on their marmalade feet,
emerald feathers slicked and glossy,
ready for the ladies.

They are two brothers,
playboys, I suspect—
but sometimes their sister tags along.
or is it their sister-wife?
you never know with mallards,
and I never ask.

They stick around for
breakfast
and sometimes they
fly over the fence to visit
the city ducks
with their virgin white
feathers.

I guess I should tell the neighbors,
but I figure everyone needs
a walk on the wild side,
now and then.



Monday, May 23, 2016

existential.


my ear is ringing.

my ear is ringing, and

the raven sounds his dire warning

from the pine tree in the garden,

where he waits for the unwary chickens

next door to leave their eggs

unattended.



my ear is ringing,

and a jet whines above me,

above the white plaster ceiling 

and the curling roof shingles

and the cannibalistic raven 

waiting in the pines.


my ear is 

ringing, ringing, ringing,

inside my head inside

my house

beside the pine

under the late spring sky where

the raven 

waits




Sunday, May 1, 2016

a poem for my brother






This poem is for my brother,
who called to wonder why
I haven't been taking pictures lately
and if I was still

alive.

So here I am, brother,
still holding the camera you gave me
and keeping my eye out for light,
wherever it may find me.



Saturday, April 2, 2016

e.e. cummings on the secrets of living




“may my heart always be open to little
birds who are the secrets of living
whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them men are old

may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
and even if it's sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young

and may myself do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there's never been quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile” 

― E.E. CummingsComplete Poems, 1904-1962


Wednesday, March 23, 2016

spring revels


yesterday the trees 
danced chastely
in their new spring green—
until the lowering sun
painted them with
consuming fire




Friday, February 26, 2016

of black holes and other matter






Black holes are real, they say;
they've proved it now.
How they bend the fabric of space and time
when they collide;
their siren songs luring the stars
to endless sleep—
while down here, in the dust
and infinite solitudes,
we hold on.



Thursday, February 11, 2016

self-portrait in my mother's mirror





The reflection is mine,
yet I see her there, too—
shimmering across
the beveled edges of her mirror,
the one she left to me.
I see how her spirit dances close,
stopping to brush my cheek
and maybe chuckle with delight
over the horn rimmed glasses
so much like hers.

("They look good on you!")