Friday, September 21, 2012

Ghosts of Fairmont Ridge Trail

Just beyond the Eucalyptus trees lined up
Like chorus girls with skinny arms
Holding out their skirts

The bench beckons.
A name’s carved in the wood and a title--
“lover of dogs, dancing and sunsets.”

I enjoy the company of ghosts
And talk to this one lightly: 

Did you look at the hills to the south
And think of pyramids?

Did the sky seem painted with a sponge?

The fog veils the trees, a shroud deep
with ghosts on an evening stroll.

The lover of dogs, dancing and sunsets
drifts in that mist beside me--I feel
A change in gravity.

To every question, she answers, yes---
Yes everything stays a mystery
even after death, 
yes, I'd rather feel the breeze
than be it---and always her voice
sounds much like my own.

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

The Better End

Pity her
whose mind
can’t flee 
the hospital
bed and 
ends there
like a bug 
a bulb.

Envy her 
who sees
of geese
above a lake
her eyes
roll back.

Monday, September 17, 2012

A Good Mood!

If the sky were any bluer,
If my love for self much truer
If my needs were any fewer
If this moment would divide
I couldn't keep my heart inside.

Here’s a cliff above the sea
And I am on it! 

With adequate health
and adequate wealth 
and time on my hands to enjoy it.

The surf’s all sound and I’m all ear,
my life’s not perfect but this will do!
A beautiful dream that will not last
But that doesn’t spoil my view.

So this for sure I must remember 
On the day timed as my last:
Many days were lost to memory
but some like this surpass! 

Sunday, September 16, 2012

Another Day

Another day slips away
into the stream 
from now to then.
On and on
the seconds flow
with little notice 
and much that’s noticed
only barely so
and even less 
and what’s
hardly fills 
a spoon and 
much of that 
regretted or
and some
second by second. 
And so 
another day 
just slips 

The Sink

Their eyes look blank
as buttons.
They've given up.
Except one
whose eye seems
hooked on me.

Dad carves a knife,
pours oil in the pan.

Poor little beings
pumping hard 
to catch a breath.

I'm pushed aside.
I hear a whack.

Flesh deep frying
but poor little Button
is pounding harder
against the sink.

Eat! dad orders.
But I just can't,
not with Buttons
pounding ever harder
against the sink.

Wednesday, September 5, 2012


My hair in the bathroom mirror 
looks longer, much
darker, sun-touched. 
Can it do that overnight? 

It sways when I cock my head
to observe my nose
--a little slope to ski on--
Some man some day will moan.

I’ve seen this face before
in magazines, on film.
The beacon eyes and blooming lips 
and cheeks as red as beets. 

But that face is mine--
unwashed, unpainted--
no subterfuge at all. 

And I’m a child, 
she’s woman!
How can this be?
I can't take my eyes off me.  
If it is me.