Mowing the Lawn

Standing on the sidewalk
with lawn mower growling

the leaves of grass,
quivering in anticipation,

stepping into motion
walking back and forth

cutting long swaths
each sweep crossed over.

Gazing back at my efforts
I see a finely trimmed lawn -

a broad expanse of green,
from cement to planter box

calm and uninjured
ready to grow again.

Night Reverie

The moon doesn’t seem to be in the same place at night.
I can’t predict its location from day to day.
I check each evening and am constantly surprised.

Is it me or is there a shift in the orbit of this heavenly body?
Instead of going from east to west
it seems to be doing the boogie woggie across the sky.

Is my head spinning and I’m the one
off balance trying to locate myself in space
in relationship to my changing world?

The sweet smell of normal wafts through my home,
scent of garlic and steaks on the grill,
sounds of garage doors opening… closing…

and neighbors disappearing behind shuttered windows
not even a hello or goodbye.
When did everyone become a stranger?

Sirens get louder, then pass along the highway,
and why can’t I locate that damn moon in the sky?

This poem was inspired by a conversation with my husband, Bill.

If Walls Could Talk

I never watched the program but their frequent appearance
in the news inpsired this poem for Jon and Kate...



















Peeling paint and wall paper,
like a deflowered queen on prom night,
so much promise ruined
by one indiscrete act,

life dissolved
the home disintegrated.

Where laughter once filled the rooms,
private jokes and common goals,
all gone and in its place tears,
and shouting… too much shouting.

The kids cover their ears to stop the noise.

Yesterday when they moved
suitcases rumbled, children argued
no tinkling from the upright piano.

Movers packed the dishes and the silverware,
love was dead so the furniture divided.

He wanted the flat screen TV and his favorite chair,
she got the furniture and all the kids' stuff
each selected their own CD’s .

She took the children
and by default he got the dogs.

Their roads diverged but paths,
on court orders, still cross.

Sweet faces forever altered
plastic surgery won’t hide the sadness
money can’t camouflage the fears.

The mail will be delivered
to boxes at the post office
until new addresses are decided.

Death is easier to withstand than
divorce when love is lost.

Too bad they can't turn back the clock
so each can make different choices.

Driving at Night

My mind fills with thoughts of driving late at night
after I turned eighteen there was freedom in my Dad's 56 Chevy
going over 70 miles an hour along the coastline on Highway 101.
The road curved and at any point we could pull over and make-out in the sand.
The balmy California air invited exploration and careless dreaming.

During the family years nighttime driving meant freedom for a few hours
It was great to get away but I was anxious to go home again
to kiss the children while they slept, finish a few tasks,
and maybe cuddle with my husband before the sun rose at dawn.

After the kids were grown, driving at night meant working late,
too tired to enjoy the scenery, the path familiar, blinded by my
desire for a warm meal and my husband’s company for a few hours
before I fell asleep on the sofa to be ready for work the next morning.

Now the thought of driving in the dark scares me. The headlights
distort my vision and the damage to my eyes makes me see things
that are not there. Medication has lowered my response to sudden
moves or changes in direction. I’d rather snuggle in the safety of my home.

Yet, when I recall my earlier years, I do remember with satisfaction
the feeling I had behind the wheel of the car while driving after midnight
The expanse of road calling me forth to adventure and freedom.

The Dream

Last night I couldn’t sleep until I fell into a dream about the future, a scene from
a disaster movie. Survivors competed for resources, fighting forces of darkness.

People of all kinds banished to the outskirts of civilization huddled
in structures of flotsam and restraining walls,

abandoned automobiles and ravaged buildings.
I walked along the damaged roadways, ignoring cries from the injured.

My head bent down,
chest tight as I saw hearty people gasping for breath

and weaklings falling limp, littering the alleyways.
Some reached out to me but I plowed through the human suffering

looking for my group… a band of warriors,
We needed to make a plan. How could we save what was left of our world?

"Springtime," one said, trying to recall the season of renewal,
a time when living things reproduced and bloomed.

“We must become the Phoenix, rising from the ashes,” another said,
“focusing on detail in order to assemble a better future.”

“Values must be integrated for contrast and depth,” I responded,
“In a time when nothing matters, everything must matter.

We must take action rather than languish in despair,” we shouted in unison.

We decided to clear land to grow a garden,
learn a song to sing while planting,

show kindness and compassion to one another,
choose words to heal and inspire,

smile and hug one another often.
We continued this way until our reality changed

all hands and minds working toward common goals.
Sadness, we realized was an illusion.

Alienation a choice
all we had to do was reach out to each other.

As a group we celebrated life
rather than clung to it in desperation.

We rejoiced and were happy,
not because of our circumstances, but because life was a gift

we didn’t want to squander
and over time our circumstances turned around.

The Sound of Morning

It’s 2:00 A.M.,
another restless night.

Humphrey, my yellow lab, follows me
down the hall to the bathroom.

His tail like a metronome,
keeps time while he waits outside the door.

Memories wrestle loose from dreams with questions,
the tools to unravel convoluted visions -

Why did the nun fall from the limousine on to her head?

How could my mother have an e-mail address?
She’s been dead since before the internet was invented.

What was my son doing standing ankle deep
in dark water with gold fish nibbling at his feet?

Until the world makes better sense
I think I’ll go back to bed.

Maybe I can fall asleep again
until my recollections unfold more lucidly

rather than these ramblings
filling me with dread.

The Earring

This poem was inspired by a small article in the newspaper
about the discovery of an earring underneath a parking lot.


















An emerald and pearl earring
encrusted in burnished gold,
found beneath a parking lot
in the city of old Jerusalem,

Archeologists assumed
it belonged to one of royalty
perhaps a family heirloom
of Roman or Egyptian artistry.

Who was the woman who lost it?
Was her hair dark, her eyes green?
Was she dressed for a celebration?
Was she listening to words of love,
was there a struggle?

I imagine the earrings dangling from her ears,
her eyes reflecting the glimmer of his
as he offered the gift accompanied
by a matching necklace, a double helix
he carefully clasped around her neck
before he kissed her on the nape
causing chills to run along her jaw line.

I see her start to cry
when he tells her of his affair.
Those perfect ornaments weighing
on her heart are no longer suitable for her outfit.

She pounds him on his chest,
then shoves him out the door,
tearing off the jewels
and throwing them to the floor.

She never finds that single earring
found beneath the asphalt
lost in that Byzantine home
turned to rubble long ago.