still screwed ... in

A light bulb burned out
And broken off in your hand
The rest still screwed in

Valentine

Friday the fourteenth

A number of years ago

In September

Friday the fourteenth was the day after my birthday

Thursday the thirteenth

Neither day unlucky

But both tinged with foreboding

One the sort that strikes you when you wake up on the day of a big test

And it looks much brighter

And much more like the middle of the day

Than it should

The other is the kind of foreboding folks experience in horror movies

When they hear themselves say something like

“Sure, I’ll go see why Rob hasn’t come back yet”

Today

I’m not even mildly suspicious of what is waiting for me in the next room

And I’ve never felt more than five minutes late all day long

Today

Had candy

Cookies

And homemade cards

But no presents to open

Or play with

Or contemplate

Today

It is Friday the fourteenth

Of February

Snow Ice Cream Recipe

Milk
Two cups
Any kind
Even soy

Sugar
One third cup
Plus a free lesson on fractions

Vanilla
One Teaspoon
And everyone gets a whiff

Salt
Just a pinch
"It tastes even better now"

Waffle cones
And

Surprise
Two tablespoons or so

Snow
Eight cups
Completely buried in a bowl set outside almost twelve hours earlier

Mix

Take pictures

Eat

Don't forget the kids
Two
If you have more
Double the other ingredients

She Is

She is

Blue tights

Blue turtleneck

Blue tartan patterned headband

Khaki jumper

Today

She'll be Jeans

White socks

Non collared

Non turtleneck

Non solid colored

Shirt

Hair tied back in a pony tail

Tomorrow

At the surface

It's a snow day sea change

Beneath the surface

The change is 

Les climatic and

More climactic

I am

Jeans

She is

Something else

Something less comfortable

Now

She is

Flowered footie pajamas

The Point of No Return Is Nearing ... Bless You

I wish

The point of no return

Came on

Like a cold

As you came within range

You’d start to sniffle

Then

As it came into sight

You’re head would start to hurt

Just a little and

As you moved within shouting range

The snot would start to flow

Just a little more

Out your nose

Back down your throat

And then that feeling

The sick feeling

Would descend over you like a cloak of darkness

Right as you arrived

And you would know you were there

It would be great for making meringues and

Deciding whether or not to take a job

And right about know

I’d be wondering

Whether Sudafed

Might give me a few extra days and

Whether

A cold would be easier to handle

If you didn’t know you had it

After all

There is no cure

and it was all yellow

Red cabbage juice revealed all

Pink and it was an acid

Blue and it was a base

Vinegar was an acid

Old red wine was an acid

Baking powder was a base

Toothpaste was a base

Milk was neutral

Whether it should have been or not

Turmeric

However

Was yellow

Humans must be mostly water and

Just a little

Turmeric

life is short and so are green beans

This poem is short

Because

So is life and

Today             

Twenty minutes of mine was

Devoted to

Convincing a seven year old

To eat                      

Half a green bean

Testing The Limits

If

Testing the limits

Is an admirable trait

In a fighter pilot

Flying a supersonic jet

What about

In a five year old

Trying to get

Both

A bowl of cheerios and

A bowl of popcorn

Before

Bed

Olympic History

ice, snow, pageantry
over top of history
a big stained glass door

Little House, Big Woods, Combustion engine

If I had grown up in the little house in the big woods

With Laura

Mary

Little baby Carrie

Ma

Pa

And their good old bulldog Jack

I would never have known the smell of burning gasoline

Heavy in the cold morning air

I would have known cold morning air

Even if I didn’t recognize it

As I waved goodbye to my grandparents

From the covered wagon

Probably forever

And headed

Pots banging

Dog barking

For the prairie

But I wouldn’t have known what I was talking about

Had I tried to explain to myself what it smells like

When you walk up and down your in-laws’ ice covered driveway

Between the house and your car

Which is running

Warming up

Loading dirty clothes,

Leftover vegetable pasta, and

Jalapeno yogurt dip

Into the trunk

So that you can return to your home

Which you have to hope

Has electricity flowing into it

Once again and

Probably

Luckily for me

If I had grown up

Churning butter

Gathering honey and

Dodging bear

In and around the little house in the big woods

I wouldn’t have cared

crying in color

Crayons are scattered about on the coffee table

One coloring sheet lies upside down on the floor

The evidence of angry scribbles rising above and through the otherwise white surface 

Another sheet lies face up 

Slight crumpling visible in the lower left corner

The fairies float above the yellow and blue flowers in a hazy gray sky

Purple wings

A pink hue reaching out from the bottom of the frock

But not yet transcendent 

Like me

Standing there

Reluctant to follow the noises into the next room

Wondering

If life is 

Ever again

Quite so colorful

Watching Them Change And Grow

One hundred pieces of pasta

Counted out

One at a time

Placed in a plastic bag

Sealed up

Zipped into the backpack

Are now waiting in the front hallway

Tomorrow they’ll head out to school

When they come back

They’ll be changed

I wonder

If I’ll notice

Anything beyond chips and breaks

I sincerely hope

That

Normally

I do

I wish I could blame winter

Four inches of snow

But I am stuck here without

Proof of causation

honest prognosticator

sixty on Sunday

four to six inches Monday

he saw his shadow

The Recipe For Success

What you achieve

At the moment of your birth

Is akin

To balancing an elephant on the head of a pin

What you achieve thereafter

Is dependent on

Acknowledging

Each and every morning

That no elephant will sit on the head of a pin forever

And

On

Eating a healthy and substantial breakfast

During which

You digest that knowledge along with your

Bran flakes

And

Let

It

Pass

Right

Through

Into

The

Toilet

Happy Birthday ...

I am content with these words

On this day

For you

Because

Writing

Painting

Sculpting

Aren’t supposed to be like studying for an exam
Or training for a road race

At least not a single road race

That has a finish line

Because

In two months

I might add a line to this poem

Or take one away
Or decide that I shouldn't have used contractions
And

Because

I have a feeling

That 
While turning seventy

Might feel like reaching a milestone in a road race
It's really 

A lot more like

Writing
And 
Rewriting 
A poem

The Space Between

Sitting in class

I used to draw lines in between the words in my text books and

Handouts

Starting at the top of the page

Going from left to right

Or right to left

I would draw lines

Down

Jogging in and out

To move between the words

Later

I would fall in love with the …

Ellipsis

A way to draw out the space

To use it

To be used by it

In prose

Poetry

E-mails

A way of letting the words breathe

Without letting them fall apart

Although there is a time and a place

To feel as if things are falling apart

In the back of that two tone Astro

Sitting in the driveway

Loaded up

With words

In a taxi in New York

Crying in your lap

Unable to find them

Alone

In a youth hostel

Fastidiously listing everything I wanted to do with you

One line after the other

No space at all

And so much

That I barely even tried to fill any of it

Barely tried to lay claim

I didn’t know any better

I didn’t know

That there is space and

There is space between

If the devil is in the details

God is in the connections

One

Word

Feeding

Off

Of

The

Next

One word feeding off of the next

So

Now

When I write poetry

I seldom break it up into separate verses

And I seldom cry

When I think of how far away you are

For I know

That you

Will always be the word right in front of me on the line held together by the space between

motherhood: that which, in any season, renders rational the irrational and familiar the strange

avocado pit

hanging by toothpick over

water filled egg cup

Footprints

Yellow siding

Spotted with the footprints

Left behind by ivy

Flower beds

Begonias

Geraniums

Concrete steps

Screen door

Usually broken

I may never actually take that walk again

But I

Obviously don’t have to

I would think

It could have been the same

For Pete Seeger

And

We shall overcome

He could have stopped performing it years ago

He knew that walk all too well

He could have inhabited only new songs

But he didn’t

If you watched him perform it over the last decade

You watched him gradually retreat from it

Cede it to fellow musicians  

To the audience

Imploring others to step in where his faltering voice was leaving off

He needed help up the driveway

Up the steps

But he never stopped going inside

I have

Because

A house isn’t a song

It can be neatly severed from what was

Is

Always waiting just inside the door

To the right

Past the basement stairs

Through the kitchen

Past

Formica

Checkered Wallpaper

Dark Lacquered cabinets

Greens

Browns

Yellows

In the three attached light-filled and professionally decorated

Squares

On eleven acres

And

Deep

In my heart

For
Your footprints

Are spotted across more than just the siding

And you aren't finished leaving them

My Mother’s Life: The Musical … You’ll Wish You’d Been Within Earshot

She’d write it

She’s written it

Diaries

Poems

Letters

Cards

Bulletins

Minutes

She’s written it all

And it’ll be great

Because it’s not always been easy

Trust me

I’ve lived within earshot

She’d choose the cast

Calling in and texting her vote as many times as it takes

Busy lines be damned

Trust me

I’ve been drafted into the election effort

I’ve been loitering within earshot

She’d direct it all

The crew

The actors

The orchestra

I can see her now

At rehearsal

Calling out missed sharps and flats

From the front row

The back row

Backstage

An office upstairs

The parking lot

Anywhere within earshot

Trust me

I’ve missed an F sharp within earshot

She’d sing lead vocals too

On every song

Whether she chose them or not

Whether she was in the cast or not

Whether she was supposed to or not

She’d sing them all

And she would sing them all

Choir style

Probably as an alto

Though she’d give the soprano line a try

It wouldn’t matter if it was

A hymn

An original country ballad or

A cover of Guns N/ Roses

Or Prince

Or Eminem

Trust me

I’ve been within earshot

She’d serve cake at the cast party

Telling everyone

As she handed them a plate with a piece of cake on it

How thankful she was

And how wonderful they’d been

And they’d believe it

Because she believed it

They’d believe it and

They would be that good next time

Even if they hadn’t been this time

Because she believed in them

I’d be cutting the cake and placing it on plates

And I’d believe it

Because

I was within earshot

Because I’ve been within earshot