Tenth Anniversary Dance

He tries to sneak up,
but she can smell him coming,
his workout complete.

She knows that he's there,
but he likes playing this game,
so she ignores him.

Giving him her back,
she's slowly unbuttoning,
fanning his desire.

Now he's against her,
his maleness encompassing--
he's her entire world.

He kisses her neck,
his prickly whiskers scratching
away her layers.

His hands come forward,
her hands reach backward for him,
all part of their dance.

Family Life

Saluting stiff-armed,
her twelve-year-old son calls her a Nazi,
his words like acid in her face.

Her daughter, seventeen
and bent on going to hell,
keeps still behind her closed door,
making pretty incisions
and humming softly.

Marie sighs and quietly shuts
her own bedroom door.
Curled on the bed,
she reads the crumpled collection
of meaningless words once more--
her husband's terse goodbye.

Five Haiku

Elegant Bandit
Oh Great Kiskadee,
lemon-yellow vest, black mask,
elegant bandit. 
***
Doves
They are not mourning--
sentimental more than sad--
pink-gray wistful doves.
***  
Transformation
Voracious eater
becomes delicate sipper
with rice-paper wings.
***
Pulse
Palm on cool granite,
she feels the earth's steady pulse
and forgets herself.
***
Woodpecker
Red top-knot ablaze,
piliated woodpecker
pounds tamarack tree.
***

Dumped

I became less than a stranger,
easily left behind,
an impetus
for your departure,
a muse who inspired
your plans
of solitary devising,
carefully polished in your mind,
savored by a heart
that no longer knew me.

As I shuffle through
the scraps
of what you left me,
I think I see
you watching,
and then the image
pops,
the way a light bulb does
as it ends its earthly life,
a burst of brightness,
leaving me startled,
surprised
that I’m alive.

Vulture Haiku

I've recently fallen in love
with haiku. So elegant,
such an economy of words,
so Zen!

I love it so much, in fact,
that I've compiled five of
them here together to be read
either as free-standing haiku, or
as a five-verse poem.

What better subject than
the much-maligned vulture
for my haiku-ish debut?

* * * * *

The despised vulture
soars high like the noble hawk,
dines on his leavings.

Hawk likes his dinner
to be fighting for its life,
scared and protesting.

Death is delicious.
Tasty decomposition,
the vulture's delight.

They were made without
feathers on their bony necks--
their eating messy.

They rip and wallow,
rotting flesh so delightful
to hungry vultures.

Bon apetit!

Unfinished Obituary

My first today
with no tomorrow.
The clock is broken,
no time left to borrow
a half-cup of hope,
a dash of compassion,
something to wear
that's not out of fashion...

Montana Memory

The summer sun dapples the forest floor,
piercing through the pine and larch branches,
warming the blanket of needles,
inches deep, releasing the aroma
of slow coniferous decomposition.

The air seems thick, as if it harbors forest spirits,
invisible, yet palpable. Suddenly, everything
goes quiet.

The familiar rustlings of mice and voles,
the comic scolding of squirrels,
the hammering of a piliated woodpecker,
the ongoing conversation and song
of smaller birds, the buzzing of horseflies, all stop dead.

There is no crash of deer through the brush as
they bound away, white tails waving good-by,
no stirring of rabbit in the dry grass.

The logging trucks, with air brakes like jackhammers,
have gone quiet on the road far below.

Familiar landmarks shimmer like heat waves,
and shift, just enough to let me know
there is magic here,
waiting to warmly enfold me,
to keep me---forever.

For a moment, I want to stay,
to burrow into the sweet pungency
and rest, time suspended. But,
then I feel a tingle on the back of my neck,
a stirring in my gut.

I turn slowly, afraid of what I’ll see,
not expecting bear, or cougar, or even gentle deer,
but something that shouldn’t be there---
a door, perhaps, or an empty chair, or something dark.

Completing my rotation, I see only the sunlight,
the trees, and dappled forest floor.

My heart pounds in the silence.
I feel that I am about to learn a secret.

I run all the way back to the cabin.

The Poetry Parade

This poem is dedicated to all my fellow poets on a poetry forum I participate in. Some of the devices used in this poem, such as the throat clearing, the dashes and ellipses, are things that have been criticized by our peers on the forum, thus earning a special place in this poem.

A-hem! Dearly beloved,

we are gathered here together...

the oh-so-solemn traditionalists,

whose poetry smiles not,

the love-so-true,

sky-so-blue crowd,

the subtle ones who reach out,

grab your heart

and shake your psyche,

with their streamlined genius---

their words tenderly polished,

or cruelly pointed,

a brooding youngster or two,

whose words amaze,

even as they try to slink off the page,

their tails between their legs,

the ones who come from

the open wound school,

whose pain pulls you in, every time,

for an empathetic wallow,

a brilliant one or two who make you feel

that you're not quite brilliant enough,

to catch the tail of their high-flying kites,

and the one, missing the poetry step

on the ladder of his DNA,

who wanders in one day

and starts splashing through

the slow-moving currents of

the poetry forum,

with poetry so bad that

even the harshest critic

finds compassion lurking in his heart

and refrains from making comment...

We all come together here

in search of that elusive

perfect turn of a phrase---

the sweet embrace of poetry

our innocent pursuit.

A Matter of Taste

Peacocks posing prettily,
preening periodically,
prideful, plumed, poetically parading,


pretending 
they don't taste
like chicken.

Yellow Rose of Texas

McAllen, Texas, just eight miles from the Mexican border---Today I went out in my back yard, where most of the plants are either dormant or dead due to some very un-typical cold weather last month. All by its lonesome, one "mid-winter rose" was blooming. Bright lemony, buttery yellow, it was opening itself up to the February sunshine, where it basked all day long. This is my first post on this blog that is not a poem. However, I believe this rose is poetry enough! Enjoy! And, by the way, Happy Winter!

A poetic tribute to this beauty is sure to come. I invite all my poetically-inclined friends out there to submit their own "ode" to a rose!

cory

A Day in the Life of Patches

Patches is a pampered pet
but still one of the boys.
He's got two good buddies.
Here's what he enjoys:

He rides with his friends
in a dapple gray car.
It's quite a short trip,
town's not very far.

He needs lots of room,
so he sits in the back,
as he and his buddies
head for a snack.

They go to the drive-thru,
like regular folk---
cheeseburgers and fries,
please hold the coke!

They eat their lunch
then drive around town.
Patches likes the view
with the top down.

They see dogs in cars
while they're out on their lark,
but Patches is cool---
he'd never bark.

When they get home
they watch the TV.
Patches likes westerns,
as you soon will see.

His friends take advantage,
and make him their lackey,
"Patches, get me a beer!"
How very tacky!

Patches never complains
doesn't give any lip,
hoping they'll give him
just one little sip.

There's a loud ring.
Patches answers the phone,
but he doesn't talk,
he's not verbally prone.

A few beers later,
they put Patches to bed.
He pulls up the covers,
all the way to his head.

Patches had a long day
but he's not what you think.
To see more of Patches,
click on this link:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=teHfyby_veU

the poetry makers

I think of them as tiny people
that I carry around in the pockets
of my mind
along with lint
rusty paperclips
missing buttons
and small change from a misspent life

they tiptoe through
the disorderly conduct of my thoughts
collecting bits and pieces
of people and places
books and songs
comic strips and movies

things that drifted into
and out of my life
a hastily discarded feeling here
a long-forgotten idea there
possibilities scattered like ashes
in the rubble of my regrets
all shaken, not stirred, with a few missing links
that came from who-knows-where

day in and day out
for over sixty years
the greedy little scavengers
followed my sloppy thoughts around
happily hoarding
whatever I left behind
like tiny little pack rats

somehow they knew I needed them
stuck as I was
at the bottom
of a cracked glass
filled to the brim
with the stuff of exquisite isolation

so, now they clamor for my attention
eager to give me back all those things
lost in life's translation
a word here
a word there
grain after grain of hope
their gift to me
I think I'll call it poetry...

**********

winter in McAllen

(click photo to enlarge)

on one of those

rarest of days

in McAllen, Texas

when winter

has descended

ever so briefly

on the town

leaving lush

tropical plants

burned and blackened

(like no summer heat

can do)

the air is palpable

crisp and

deliciously cold

on church-going

noses

(the church-goers

all safely bundled

against any more

serious exposure)

the sun still shines

(brighter it seems

than in summer)

and flaunts itself

high in the sky

well out of

winter's reach...

* * * * * * *

ben

(click on photo to enlarge)

his black is the black

of the beady eyes

of well-loved

but long-lost

childhood teddy bears

shiny as if

he'd polished each hair

carefully

in the early morning

promise of the day

a lustrous compilation

too beautiful

to be called

merely a "coat"

much too elegant

to be called "fur"

the envy of

the prince of darkness

Ben is dressed

in a garment

fitting to his station---

the cat who came

to visit

several halloweens ago

and decided not to leave

he condescends

to appear

from his private feline

hiding places

only when

the laundry

(especially the white

laundry)

is done

and warm and

on the table

waiting to be folded

because of his beauty

(and great conceit)

Ben never imagines

that this blatant interference

with the hoped-for

household order

may not be

happily embraced...

* * * * * * *

origami birds

like a second-hand
book
found trampled
on the floor
at an estate sale
her pages
are folded back
upon themselves
over and over
like so many
origami birds
without flight
without life

words trapped
inside the creases
and folds
her clumsy hands
made
trying to shape
a sanctuary

refuge somehow
turned to jail
home-made solitary
confinement with
no escape
no parole
crumpled paper birds
crushed against the bars...

* * * * * * *

turning seventy (or not)

This is something I wrote when my friend, Linda Sue, was 55 (more than a few years back) and her son, Erik, was 15. My view of 70 is much different now than it was at 50!

do you realize---
my dear girl
that when your son
has doubled his age
you will be seventy?

he will have a wife
(or not)
several children
all tow-headed and lovely
(or not)
and you will be seventy
(or not)

you might be dead instead
and flying freely among the stars
or riding without a saddle
in a flea circus somewhere
grinning and singing
and leaving the ghost of joy
in your wake

something for the living
to catch in their hands
like fireflies
and crush to their hearts
in remembrance of you

(or not)

you might be alive
and sitting with me
somewhere between
cat spring and utopia
before a dancing fire
smiling at the memory
of all those times
we killed ourselves
using only pens, paper
and dark imaginations

happy now
that we never really
took the leap
or took ourselves
too seriously

your hair a sterling silver
mine dyed a rusty red
we'd breakfast on blackberries
that the bears had overlooked
and wait for your son
and those tow-headed
kids of his
to come knocking
on our door...

(or not)

* * * * * * *

twitter speak

Twitter is one of the most popular means of "social networking" these days. In case you haven't heard, any message you put on twitter has to be 140 characters (including spaces between words) or less. A while ago, someone asked "tweeters" to submit poems that fell within the 140 character limit. Here are a few that I came up with:

life can be joyful

life can be sweet

it's much better shared

so you might as well tweet

***

life can be cruel

life can be bitter

for some comic relief

i'll see you on twitter

***

perhaps i don't know you

and we'll never meet

but i still love you

so just watch me tweet

***

here's some advice

that bears repeating

if you want to be cool

you'd better start tweeting

***

life's not too bad

but it could be sweeter

i fell down the stairs and

broke my damned tweeter!

* * * * * * * *

fall into winter

day breaks gray

fall's gentle chill

hardening into

a bite

by three pm

good

summer finally rests

curled up

cozily somewhere

with a good book

or on vacation

maybe

on the world's

lower east side...

* * *

winter

lurks always

behind the facade of

spring and summer

and even brother fall

jealously demanding

tribute

angry at being

the least loved

season

stretching out

icy fingers

to grasp at

happy hearts...

* * * * * * *

the god of winter

It's very cold in deep south

Texas tonight---a place noted

more for its totally uncalled for

summer heat. They say it may

freeze tonight. The following is

from another winter here, eight

years ago.

I rush from my car
to reach the refuge
of my cozy little house

wind blows coldness

up against my soul

layers and layers
of clothing

skin and bone and fat

no defense against this

biting visitor

trampling downcast leaves
beneath my feet
golden yellow
mottled brown
discouraged green
I hurry up the path
but still can't help
but notice

the butter yellow

papaya flowers fallen

sadly to the ground

potential destroyed

fruit unborn

sacrificed on an icy altar
to the cruel god of winter...

* * * * * * *

she held her god so close

(click photo to enlarge)

she held onto her god

with a simple faith

and abiding trust

that withstood everything

the world had done to her

she was battered

and scarred

and had even lost

large pieces of her self

yet she never wavered

in her love of god---

it was carved in stone

others looked on her

with pity---

she seemed to them

a tragic victim---

and they

looked away

never seeing

the sweetness

of her smile

as she held

her god so close...

* * * * * * *

This charming (but crumbling) monument is in one of the small cemeteries along the highway between McAllen and Rio Grande City, Texas. In case you can't tell by the photo, one of her legs is missing and the object that she's clutching is a broken cross.

These old grave yards are filled with a wide variety of fascinating monuments, ranging from the simplest possible wooden cross, to large concrete guardian angels, and everything imaginable in-between.

doing dishes

This was inspired by a friend, a much older woman, who had endured a fifty year marriage. She had a bit of a temper, and there were just times...well, when she found it extremely helpful to hurl a dish against the stone wall of her little house. She told me that she'd buy cheap plates at the thrift store, just to have them on hand for this purpose so she wouldn't have to waste her good ones.

go break a dish

go throw a dish

against the wall

and let it shower

you in a satisfying

barrage of destruction

you can't take your life

(or your marriage)

and hurl it with all

your might

against a wall

or throw it over a cliff

or put it down the garbage disposal

so, go throw a dish

or two or three

or more

and enjoy what you can...

* * * * * * *

best friends

and so they jumped

off the golden gate

knowing they'd meet again

somewhere

maybe in hell

maybe in a movie

or maybe in a book

like thelma and louise

they were outlaws

but just hadn't broken

any laws yet

except the unwritten law

which says

you must be good girls

you must be bland girls

you must be

life support systems

for the only thing you own

that really matters

and so they jumped

off the golden gate

leaving giant bras

and licorice cats

and fountain pens

and plastic dishes

and old old dolls

and mountains

of things behind them

their legacy of things collected

piled up around them

as the emptiness stayed

inside them...

* * * * * * *

Back in 2002, my friend Linda Sue,

who lives at the opposite end of

the country, and I exchanged a ton

of emails, playing with poetry, testing

our wings. We both bought and sold

things on ebay, like the things mentioned

in the poem and we were both inveterate

collectors of all manner of junk! Neither one

of us ever intended real suicide.

for a connection

daunted by

the empty expanse

of a book

i'm supposed to fill

i realize

that i've become

a creature

of the computer

addicted to sending off

bits and pieces

of my small

inspirations

knowing there's

a human heart

waiting somewhere

to receive them

before i wrote

only for me

thoughts committed

only to myself

words arranged

like so much

of my accumulated

treasured junk

in a way

pleasing only

to my lonely eyes

meaningful only

to my solitary heart

remembered images

feelings pushed down

dredged up

words playfully

put down on paper

a childish amusement

in love

with the shapes

crafted by

my own hand

pretty flamboyant

letters boldly

scribbled

across the page

pledged to

staying the same

forever

witnesses to

my having been

but now this

creature i've become

has thrown over

her own pretty hand

in favor of

thoughts and words

dancing merrily

across a screen

blurted out

for someone else

her own posterity

forgotten

sacrificed gladly

for a connection...

* * * * * * *

This was inspired by a

lovely blank journal I

received as a birthday gift

several years ago. I confess

that it's as empty as the day

I received it.

blankety blank

blankety blank

blank email

i feel like an oracle

trying to discern

the meaning

from a plain white page

without benefit

of a safety net

or those helpful

little marks

very much

like these

that make meaning

so much more clear

my mind is cloudy enough

my spirit in question

how can i guess

from all the things

to guess about

to wonder about

to ponder about

in this world

and the mysterious

world of e

what meaning is meant

what message is sent

by a blank page?

am i to cast the runes

stir the leaves left

in my cup of tea

rattle some bones

and throw them

at the screen

to read the message there?

what o what is meant

when blankety blanks

are sent?

my powers are great

i know my vision

ranges far

but how o how

to know for sure

what's really in the cards

when those blankety blanks

appear...

* * * * * * *

(This was my response to a blank email I received from my good friend, Mary Ann back in 2002. She subsequently filled in the blanks).

preparing to leave me

the old, old woman

my friend

forgets to remember

more every day

talking like dreaming---

scraps of what's real

all stirred up

together

with things

that never were

doves in her mind

beating their wings

scattering

the pieces of her life

the sticky notes pasted

on the woman

she once was

she talks

and talks

her strong contralto

now breathy

and wavering

a haphazard tear

forms and rolls

ever so slowly

down her velvet cheek

once artfully painted

now exposed

her pride put aside

her wispy white hair

glittering silver still

hangs lank

and unattended

like a garden

of memories forgotten

she looks at me

closely

and clutches my hand

for a moment

as if to anchor

us to the present

then she tells me

about the friend

she once had

a long time ago

never suspecting

that I'm the one

she's talking about

"oh, the times

we had together"

she says

her eyes young

and bright

i nod and

i smile and think,

"oh, the times

we had together

indeed."

she loves

my memory

but she doesn't

know me

i've been fixed

in her mind

in another time

i mourn her passing

even as she talks on

remembering

forgetting

preparing

to leave me...

* * * * * * *

dolls

i like to look at

all the old dolls

with glassy eyes

and fixed expressions

pretty dolls

once loved

for their beauty

cold dolls

without life

they started out empty

but somehow

as the years went by

they absorbed pieces

of the souls

of the ones who

loved them

and now

deep inside them

hidden safe from human eyes

they guard

a spirit of their own

a composite

of the little girls

grown old

who had to leave them

behind...

* * * * * * *

the poetry closet

(click on photo to enlarge)

i opened the door
of the closet
ever-so-slowly
taking care
not to awaken
the sleeping voice
of a rusty hinge
making sure
there was nothing
too dangerous
lurking outside
waiting to
snap me up
crush me
grind me
into pulp
in the grip
of yellow teeth

my hiding place
was dark
filled with the
musty odor
of poems
too long
held inside
and the
dusty air
made it hard
for me
to breathe

through the
tiny opening
i quickly noticed
that there
seemed to be
nothing or no one
paying the
slightest attention
to that
sturdy
closet door

so, with only
the slightest hesitation
i threw
the door open
letting the light
pour in
on me
and the
dusty treasures
i had guarded
for so long

then i stepped
in the most
determined way
out of that
gloomy
sanctuary
(or had it
been a prison?)
and came
out of the closet
at last...

* * * * * * *

green stamps

she dreamed of redemption
wondering if she could
dig out all her old memories
(nearly forgotten
in a drawer somewhere
curled
and discolored
with age
some of them stuck
together in layers)
and like so many
S & H green stamps
put them all together
in neat little books
and trade them in
for something better...

* * * * * *

For of those of you too young to
remember, green stamps
were given away at grocery stores,
gas stations, and the like back in
the fifties and sixties. People
saved them up and redeemed them
for all sorts of useful (and not so

useful) things.