For my friend Randy Adams...in response to his poem Tears

Happiness and sanity are an impossible combination

                                                  Mark Twain

What troubles me most

is the sheer number of sane people
crouched under their umbrellas

unable to take the leap off the pier

absolutely certain disaster lurks there

when it is the insane leap of faith

that brings about positive change

one miracle at a time:

After reading about a Chicago toddler

who needed a new kidney 

to overcome a rare birth defect, 

a stranger donates one of his organs

saving the boys life

A French inventor develops

a car that runs on thin air

Petitions from women around the world

stop the stoning of a woman in Iran

Parents of a student volunteer

killed in the Haitian earthquake

build an orphanage in her honor

An anonymous woman 

drops a diamond ring in a Salvation Army kettle

Three graduate students at Rutgers

found “Giving What We Can”

and pledge to donate 10% of their incomes

to relieve suffering in the world

A five year old with a terminal disease 

spends his own allowance money

to buy Christmas toys 

for Children’s Medical Center in Ohio

An Australian mother’s embrace

revives her stillborn baby

after doctors have pronounced him dead

On land poisoned by toxins

of  a long-gone manufacturing era

more than 6500 solar panels face the south sky

ready to deliver power to New England

An off duty Colorado state trooper

pulls a boy from a frozen pond

A Christian Church and an Islamic Center in Memphis

share friendship, practicing the tenets of their faith

No sane person would believe these stories

because he sees what he is conditioned to see

He has his hat drawn down

to block out the sun he is sure will give him cancer

Don’t be accused of being sane, my friend

Take the leap

And let me preface this post by saying

This is not about my mother.

I don’t mean to be critical but

That’s how the sentence always began

and I knew

I was about to hear my failure again

I put the dishes away wrong

My new haircut did nothing for my face

It wasn’t right to wear slacks to Mass

You were busy

but you still had more than enough time

to be perfect

My friends’ mothers wore polyester pants

with elastic waists

and sometimes forgot their lipstick

Once I left my shoes in the living room floor

I tried never to repeat that mistake

but even in my shoe rack they were scuffed

I told myself

my daughter would never hear me

catalog her shortcomings

I would praise her complexion 

Making a B in Algebra

would be cause for celebration

Maybe I tried my best

I certainly put enough thought 

into her Christmas presents

Now and then I stop

at her bedroom door

and listen to her laughing on the phone

I’ve raised a happy child

Pretty and popular

She knows what a gem she is

I look forward 

to Mother/Daughter Day every year

Want her to know how proud I am

I am standing at my mirror

making sure my make up is complete

when I hear those words again

Mom, I don’t mean to be critical but

Coloring Memory

If I ever have a son, 
I*ll tell him the sky was denim,
stone washed blue, a hand like suede.
An indelible image.

Light filtered through rustling leaves
like some delicate open fabric,
made lace shadows on the grass.

If there was rain
it arose without cause.
Clouds were auras around the sun.
Puddles were dazzling, liquid fire.
Along the water*s edge
purple irises never lost their graceful bearing.

You can call me muddy and confused.
If our stories diverge,
you can say I*m misremembering.

The day was turbid, brown.
An unfriendly wind bent
the line of blooms in different directions.

For years you pored over
the book of purposes only to conclude
that gray gloom entrenched that day
never to release its grip.

So be it.

Remembered or recast,
I*ll retain my belief in denim sky.

coin

Burning Bush (ah brush)

This image was painted entirely with Photoshop brushes and enhanced with Photoshop filters. Not to give technology ALL the credit, I did actually envision, design and execute. I rather like my end product.

Writing can be frustrating

Reverse Metaphors

I wake up in a white room
not a hospital
more like a page in a book
where I am the only line of text

I have no context
in which to place my observations:

there is cold
the smell of strawberries
and a light without any obvious source

If this is heaven I am disappointed
If it's hell I am unimpressed

Perhaps it's a dream
where the metaphors have been reversed

Somehow I've been turned into an inkblot
in someone else's Rorschach Test

and the dream is interpreting me

Grapes

Found

When the night is cool-

stars spangled against dark sky,

silence spread like arms

pulling you in,

a thread of memory

around your finger-

comfort is a small place,

just big enough to fit your day inside,

with no room for tomorrow

Turning

I don’t understand 

  the revolving door.

Moving, always moving

       in one place.

  There is comfort

in an open door,

       a closed door--

  knowing just where I stand,

one side or the other

       of somewhere.

  But here I turn

forgetting where I got in,

       unsure when to exit.

  Okay, I’m an idiot.

I find I’m transfixed

       by the man two slots

  ahead of me.

He is both fat and flimsy,

       held together 

  by a bow tie, a ghost

between sheets of glass.

       I can’t decide if I  should follow him

or if he is following me.

Still Life

Fat fountain

becomes tilted jug,

spills water turned 

to wine by evening light

across concrete tablecloth.

Glass towers are bottles sparkling 

with reflections.

Sphere of setting sun,

an unpeeled orange.

No hand disturbs

the scene where silence slithers

between dishes set

for one. From the window, 

landscape is still life.

Changing Lanes

In the express lane, I frantically

count items. Ten only, ten only.

If I have eleven, will the clerk notice?

Will she humiliate me, declare

a bunch of grapes, a thousand items?

Store’s so hot,

the guy ahead of me steams.

Behind me, a woman with a dozen eggs

(how many items is that?)

shifts a baby from hip to hip.

The kid reaches for my hair with sticky fingers.

Grapes, toilet paper, bread, milk and peanut butter.

Lean Cuisine, mayonnaise, head of lettuce.

Can of peas, can of beans, shampoo.

Eleven essentials. One extra item,

only one. Let go of my hair!

As the clerk calls me next,

I change lanes.

On the freeway,

trapped between a Toyota

and a semi, I squint 

at the exit sign 300  yards ahead.

Names of streets

are doing a hula in the hot, yellow haze.

I turn on my signal,

squeeze a inch forward,

sneak a glance at the driver

in the turquoise Corolla.

He plays I Don’t See You,

keeps edging forward.

---he wants to shift left,

                   I want to shift right---

this ought to be easy.

Eggs over easy, one wrong move

wrecks breakfast. I hold my breath,

change lanes.

Home. Alone. Haven from choices.

No question where to park

in a one car garage.

Microwave Alfredo, peas in a sauce pan,

sit down to Judge Judy

in the only good chair.

I know this routine, bless its sweet boredom.

Tension uncoils as I sip my iced tea.

I pick up the frame,

study your photo, crinkles of laughter

framing your eyes. 

A picture in winter, still tanned from summer,

hair turning two-tone, still darker than mine.

I stick out my tongue--

half in jest , half in earnest--

at the face and its challenge to all I hold dear.

What the hell, one more time.

I’m changing lanes.

Pears

Lemons

Apples

Fruits

A new series of art images

Green Eyes

Happy Passings

in the South

we always say someone has passed

it’s a much kinder phrase than death

as a child I always imagined

the deceased drifting by

passing us as a parade float might

we could stand and watch

them smile and wave

on their way out of our everyday world

that’s why we were dressed up

because it was a party and afterwards 

people brought cake to the house

my grandmother passed

and in time my parents too

took that Rose Parade journey

though by that time I no longer expected

passing to be an occasion of joy

even if we do wrap it in flowers

the pageantry of death is grim

no bright streamers or balloons,

no raucous music with drums

we dress somberly

we speak softly as if we are trying

to keep the secret of their death from them

most often it is raining

though I have no idea

why that should be true

I rather hope the parade starts on the other side

that someone is as happy 

to see them arrive

as we are sad to see them go

that they get their brass band

and the chance to ride 

in the crepe paper carriage

my childhood fantasy

never followed the procession

farther than my own field of vision

the march was all about me waving goodbye

so where the passing ended up

was a just great mystery

it still is

pastel graphic portrait

Dream Pilot

the moon tumbles

into the refuse bin of morning

all dreams both large and small

contain a splinter

of truth, a chink of reality

which is why the comb 

seems to pull 

certain strands of light

from my hair as I blink

before the mirror

I spent the night flying--

a kite dragged across the sky

by an unseen string

dipping and curving, occasionally 

crashing back into my bed

in a dazed heap

of glowing sheets, luminous

pillows

I pick up my toothbrush

half-expecting 

to be pulled up through the ceiling

Drawing Blood

This won’t hurt a bit, they tell you

as they strangle your arm 

with a rubber tourniquet,

 begin slapping your flesh

to raise a vein.

The needle is small, as if to say 

Don’t fear my bite 

but I always look away at that point

I know it will burn, 

know they will likely withdraw,

stick again,

apologize

It’s like that

Don’t be fooled by cliche promises

Eat your vegetables and you’ll grow up tall.

study hard and you’ll succeed,

cheaters never win

Why can’t they just tell you

you’ll be a pint low after this

but don’t worry

there’s always more blood where this came from

And the series continues

one more....

These are proving to be quite fun.

More "Fema Art"

Art in works

I am working on a full series of art poster images created from Fema markings  on walls of homes post-Katrina in New Orleans. I think it would be cool to create something beautiful out of something intrinsically ugly. Here is an example of what I am going for.

Sunflowers in Glass

windows

titleless

Cold  hours

hugging the dark

Rainforest thunder, 

its grumbling bark

Morning runs barefoot

in the sleepwalk grasses

Sun thrusts fingers

through bird-studded branches

Dreams undress,

shed their meaning

I open my eyes

and hear the bread singing

Hopping on the poetry bus

From Karen's prompt: write about school or schooling

I walked home from school

in the days when a child could still do that

in the days before 

the wall-mounted telephone

fell in to disrepute

I carried my books in a plastic satchel

It was plaid with a red handle

and a metal clasp that looked like brass

but wasn’t

All the houses I passed on my 4 block trek 

were either white or gray

except one

tiny pink shotgun 

with a tumble-down porch

and screens full of holes

The lady there didn’t like kids 

to cut across her yard

with its patches of brown grass

sprinkled between the weeds

She glared

from the kitchen window

and sometimes

knocked on the glass

so I  would cross over to the other side of the road and quicken my steps till I was past that house

I crossed the street

without a crossing guard,

I walked home from school sometimes alone

or else I rode my bike

barefoot and without a helmet

with no fear at all

but for an old woman in a sad pink house

on a corner lot

of an old shell road

in a little town

were everyone knew my name

Title before the Poem/Egg before the Chicken???

I have this unfortunate talent for discovering a title before I can fully imagine the poem that goes with it. I woke up yesterday with such a title and ever since have been trying to come up with an opening line. Anyone else have this problem? Or am I uniquely insane?