penny candy

when i was a child
the highlight of my day
would come
on the way home
after retrieving my older sister
from school
we'd make a quick stop
at the Hitching Post
a small country store
the 7-11 of its day
mom would give us
each a penny
and while she collected
milk or bread
and whatever sundries
were needed for dinner
we'd head straight for the
shelves of candy
at the front of the store
it was a big decision
what tasty treat
to trade our pennies for
there were atomic fireballs
mary janes, tootsie pops,
double bubble or bazooka
sugar daddys, chunkys
bb bats in half a dozen flavors
i never pass up a penny
lying abandoned
on the street
though many
consider it
unworthy of the
effort to pick up
i remember the time
when it was
worth the world to me
and cherish
that sweet sweet
memory
of penny candy
from the country store

more dreams of spring

words worth

written words...
how many have there been
since man first pressed
a stick into damp clay?
the scribe, the monk, the wielder of the quill
Gutenberg, who multiplied words for the masses
novels, sonnets, limericks, lyrics
words of love
declarations of war
words chiseled into gravestones
or hastily scribbled on notes passed in class
words printed daily in the news
presses running at full speed to spit them out
words burned in hatred
as if fire and smoke could destroy ideas
words transformed into bits and bytes
hurling through cyberspace
words that will live forever
lining library shelves
words that die on the vine
jotted, quickly crumpled and tossed away
Shakespeare's 884,647 words
a spec of stardust in the cosmos
of all the words that have ever been

bumps in the road

short words

spite
it's a sharp word
the long i
the hard t
the single syllable
its intentions are bad
like an arrow
through the heart
that wounds both
the target
and the archer
akin to its
close cousin
hate
though few of letters
it packs a punch
and causes
more pain
for the one
who conjures it
than those
it is intended for

golden goose

weight

how light is your soul?
should it escape
the grasp
of your mortal
being
would it float
upward
like a balloon
slipped from
a child's grip
or sink
as a stone
skipped across
a pond
and run out
of momentum?
how to mend
the too heavy
soul?
will saying
a prayer
or two
do the trick
or committing
good deeds,
alms for the poor,
homes for
the homeless?
is there a
soul diet
to shed
the excess
baggage
that weights
you down
or like
extra inches
around your waist,
once acquired
are there to stay?

hurts so good

the sparks that fly
between us
even from
across a
crowded
room
could light
the whole
place on fire
incendiary passion
clouds all reason
caution
isn't just
thrown to the wind
it is blown away
by a typhoon
it's all so wrong
and i know it
but still
i am never sated
always left
wanting more
unchained desire
and endless pain
how can it
hurt so good?

a wake at sunrise

something new

i want to paint with a color
never before
mixed on
an artist's
palette
i want to play a chord
made of notes
that have
never known
each other
so intimately
i want to photograph
the world
through a lens
that sees the beauty
beneath the surface
i want to discover alchemy
that turns the ordinary
into gold and silver
i want to find
something new
that will change
everything
for the better
and mend
the break
in your heart

dreaming about spring

moonlit path

i want to be reincarnated

i want to be reincarnated
as a beat poet
haunting a smokey
dark cafe
wearing black, a beret
and smoking filterless
cigarettes at the end
of a long, thin holder

i want to come back
as Cleopatra
lounging by the Nile
on a hot Egyptian night
Nubian fan wavers
standing on either side
stirring up a cool breeze
and not a snake in sight

i want to return
as Marie Antoinette
so that i can be kind
to the poor
handing out cupcakes
at the gates to Versailles
and ending my story
on a much happier note

i want to be born
as a small girl
in the fifties
on a farm
in rural Virginia
but this time
with kinder parents
and a pony

silhouette

the meaning of love

what does it mean,
this phrase
so often thrown about?
"i love you."
when said by a mother
to her child,
you have to figure
that it is something
almost biological.
how could one
not love that
which she has made
from her own flesh?
but, what about
when it's said,
"i love sugar pops."
what sort of love is that?
maybe we should have
some other word for this,
like eskimos for snow,
so that love
doesn't get worn out.
and what of true love?
i hear so much about it,
but no one mentions
true hate.
aren't these two sides of
the same coin,
one quite easily flipped?
when you say to me,
"i love you."
does it mean
that every cell of your body
and every spec of your soul
are eternally devoted
to the
mystical union
that is us?
or, would a translator
from some other world
understand it
more to mean,
"i really want
to keep having sex
with you,
and that phrase
seems to do the trick."

school of dance

i think i remember
how this dance goes,
but it has been
so long
since i heard
the music
and felt its
rhythm
passing through
my limbs,
slow, fast-fast,
slow....
if i stumble,
will you
lift me up?
will you take
the lead
and sweep
across the room
with me
in your arms?
move slowly
at first,
let me fall
in step.
move slowly,
until our bodies
melt together
and we match
each other
breath for breath.
be patient
with me,
if i don’t
get it right
first time through.
remember,
i’m doing
this backwards,
wearing high heels.

escape key

it happens to the
best of us
sooner or later.
we end up
at a place in life
that is just not
where we want to be.
sometimes it is by mishap,
sometimes by design,
or even because fate,
in one of its quirky twists,
has dealt us a bad hand.
whatever the reason
or circumstance,
wouldn't it be nice
if life had an escape key,
or maybe a back button?
something like control z.
undo all of the mess
and put us back in that
comfortable spot,
the one without
all this stuff and bother.

century oak

towering above

the landscape,

each branch itself

could be

a handsome tree

should it surrender

its horizontal existence

and plant itself upright

on the ground.

the century oak

has never swayed,

surviving wind and storm,

drought and downpour,

adding ring upon ring

to its trunk each year.

every spring

bursting out with

bright green leaves,

dropping them,

turned brown, in fall.

it has shared its shade

with many a boy

who has since

grown old and died.

through all it has stood

content and calm,

as though it would

go on forever,

until the new owners

decided they would

rather plant

a garage

there in that spot.

heavenly bodies

lost and found

pergola at sunset

squirreled away

the squirrels begin
to stir about
at dawn
silhouetted by
the sunrise
scaling down
the trunk
of the oak tree
to search out
that acorn
hidden away
in September

for months you
live as if
life is fine
until one day
you dig up that
nut of sorrow
that you
squirreled away
then scamper off
to bury it again

sentinel

wonderment

live in a state of wonderment
amazed that we are here
on this spec of a planet
hurling through the universe
that we exist at all
is enough of a miracle
to hold us spellbound
enthralled by the very fact of being

all that we are, all that we see
are born of stardust
protons and neutrons
that embrace in a frenzied
dance to form a flower
or a gazelle
are kin to those that
create a comet

if there is divine intelligence
it is to be found in the
consciousness of the atom
each spinning in an
invisible galaxy
separate but bound together
vibrating with the
heartbeat of infinity

for life

wolves, despite their reputation
coyotes, perhaps not as wily as you think
beavers never split
barn owls, who-who-who who knew
bats never bat an eye at another
eagles grow old and bald together
albatrosses forever hang about each other's neck
black vultures, good looks apparently not a prerequisite
swans don't just look hopelessly romantic
doves, as in two turtle doves
condors, well, this hasn't worked out for them
termites eternally gnawing in unison
French angel fish, though amorous are true
anglerfish stick together in the blackness of the deep blue sea
ospreys
otters
prairie voles
pigeons
sandhill cranes
schistosoma mansoni worms
yes, even the lowly worm
they mate for life
but noticeably absent
from this long list
is man

reflection

fantasy life crisis

my fantasy life is in trouble.
of late it has been
a total snooze.
for example,
the other day
i fantasized
that i was scrubbing
the kitchen floor,
down on my hands
and knees.
that was it.
no handsome man
threw open the back door
and swept me up in his arms.
the phone didn't ring
to let me know
i was publisher's clearinghouse
million dollar winner.
just a bucket of soapy water
and a scrub brush.
this morning i had a fantasy
about riding the bus.
i had exact change
and found a seat
near the front.
no galloping bareback
on a black stallion
crashing through the surf,
or flying away on a jet
to an exotic resort.
just the city bus
lurching through traffic
on my way to work.
i'm open to suggestions
on how to spice up
my daydreams,
but maybe i should
try and spice up
my life, first.

tree at the Plaza

she stood there so wistfully
gazing at the holiday tree
in the lobby of the Plaza
wearing a dress that
was the height of fashion
thirty years before
that had been tailor fit
to her then curvaceous figure
in Bergdorfs or Saks
but now hung loosely
from shoulders stooped
by too many years
and too many worries
she stood there remembering
the times long ago
when she would meet
friends for tea
or her husband for a drink
before heading to the theater
she stood there as the
doorman eyed her with pity
and the man behind the desk
gave her a look of disdain
she stood there a long while
taking refuge from the bitter
wind howling down fifth avenue
her eyes a bit glazed
the hint of a tear on one cheek
and her thoughts many years away
a chill passed through me
as i wondered to myself
if one day fate might cast me
as the lonely old lady
standing in the lobby
in front of the Plaza's tree

the map

when we are young
anything is possible
or at least that is how it seems
so many forks in the road
the hardest thing is
deciding which to take
and watching out for
detours that can hang us up
if we find ourselves following
a path that doesn't suit us
there is always an exit ramp
or spot for a quick u-turn
if we get lost, there's a map
or these days, a handy gps
to set us straight
then at a certain point
we find ourselves
traveling a road that grows
increasingly narrow
sometimes we turn up
a street that is marked
dead end, no outlet
alternate routes are few
and we travel for miles
with no rest stops
no scenic overlooks
or roadside attractions
if only we could find ourselves
back at the start of our journey
and sit there a long while
to make sure we have things
all mapped out
and planned ahead
if we could see the trip
ahead of us with more clarity
ahhh, there's the fly in works
few of us can

crows to roost

circling together
like crows into the
treetops
dragging the sun along
behind them
to meet the horizon
a cacophony of voices
chattering at once
all jockey for the
best branch
to light upon
it's christmastime
at the mall
parking lot

body parts i never had before

what is with this
waddle,
this extra skin
creating a new
angle between
my neck and chin?
and what about this
flap hanging
from my upper
arm?
i could swear
that wasn't
there before.
and are those jowls?
i am quite certain
that i've never
had jowls.
and what about
this muffin top,
the bit of belly
overhanging
my belt?
this is a recent
acquisition.
what new parts
of me
am i likely
to find
tomorrow
when i look
in the mirror?
a third eye
might be nice.

maxfield blue

my, how you've changed

remember that sweet
warm summer wind,
the one that caressed
your cheek
and ran its fingers
playfully through your hair?

remember the soft breeze
that teased the trees
and almost smelled like
the ocean
as it lulled you to sleep,
sweeping your worries away?

how changed it is,
grown harsh and cold,
slapping your face,
it stings your nose
and numbs the tips
of your fingers.

no longer a friend,
you seal the cracks
to keep it out,
instead of throwing
the windows wide
to welcome it in.

fire in the sky

last gasp

as summer exhales
its last long-held breath,
the crickets sing in chorus
as though sounding a warning
of frosty mornings to come.
green slowly surrenders
its hold on the landscape,
while the flowers bloom
for all they're worth,
before sinking into their
long, silent sleep.
how to capture this day
and hold summer here
just a little bit longer?
like youth, it all too quickly
slips away.

fashion statement

i plan to adopt the burka
the flowing robes, the veiled slit
hiding every sin of age beneath
cocooned inside
no witness to the metamorphosis
the mysterious appearance of my mother's double chin
no one the wiser to my secret
it's either that, or break every mirror in the house
but i don't need that much bad luck

wind in the trees