He wears open-toed and
Backless sandals, as if
To confirm that it's his
Sunday and he's still or
Should still be relaxing
In his jammies, or would
Be, if the little pup hadn't
Forced him to the street
Burt’s dad David
1. So often it is the small things,
The little acts or habits a son recalls,
Fondly remembering gestures,
The tilt of the head, or the scrape
Of a spoon on a breakfast plate,
Those were endearing, dear man,
Minute but specific memories of A father beloved and lost,
Watched over with affection, While he cleaned […]
Burt’s dad David
My mother-in-law, Frieda
She waits wearing her jacket with the fur collar,
Perfectly still, perfectly made up, her handbag on her lap,
If she is anxious it doesn’t show
She is as still as a statue, her snow white hair neat and combed
Her legs close together, her skirt pulled down,
Her gloves held loosely, rest on her […]
My mother-in-law, Frieda
Words
I listen not for meaning,
I cannot understand but
Every sixth word, but for
The rhythm, the pitch, I
Feel the music pulsing in
The delicate delivery. It
Is deliberate, written with
Care, I know this from an
English rendition I heard
First, and that knowledge
Has me listening, careful,
Listening deliberately, for
That sixth word I might
Catch, as if my butterfly
Net is dense enough to
Keep foreign words from
Escaping into the ether
I listen for the pleasure
Sound brings as words
Hit the air, reverberating
With sense or nonsense
I listen, not for meaning,
For the pleasing rhythms
Silhouettes
The perfect light spilling
Through the window,
Splattering a path, a rug
At her feet, the light
Scatters as she steps on
That silhouette swath,
Then reforms its shape
A shadow in reverse,
The photo-negative made
Out of moonlight and
Window panes leads her
Across the room
Sunshine high
The sun, high and strong,
Does not mock your mood,
It does not taunt your truth,
The sun, strong and high,
Is impervious to what you
Feel. It did not notice you
Brooding or worrying, the
Sun is doing what it must,
Brings a fine day, whenever
It can. It's not about you.
The sun's indifferent! Don't
Take that personally. The
Sun, strong and high. It's
Not about you.
Walking on clouds
Science tells me that
When fog envelops us
It's just low-lying clouds,
Clouds at waist-level, it's
Cold, the vapor gathers
Into fog, thin clouds at
Street level
It’s clear
It's such a clear, such
A bright blue day, that
Every object I see in
The distance is clearer
And brighter, reveals
Its own outlines with
Moral clarity and the
Strength of defiance.
That water tower is
Defined by its bulk
And by the lines of its
Shape held high in the
Clear blue, traced by it.
There are, for instance
Also windows that shine
Today, looking out and
Inward, brightened by
The clarity, clarified by
The brightness.
Hope
The tumbles of childhood,
Boo boos, and cries, and
Pick yourself ups, give way
To missteps made by the
Young, then to the slips
And falls of adulthood, and
The trips of the aging, each
Stage a level more serious,
Not always as dire as it
Seems, worrying, but still
There's the pick yourself
Up, the start all over again,
The steps are harder but
It's not all uphill or down
Here. Now.
In the abstract
I welcome death
In reality I will
Hate it. Oblivion
Is not for those
Who seek
Attention
Tamara, really 