I was the goose to
Your gander. It is
A past only in this
Funny way, calling
Myself a goose isn't
Serious. It isn't
Meant that way, of
Course. It's meant
As a funny. I was
Never your goose,
My gander. I am not
A goose. I am very
Serious. A woman of
Substance. And you
Cannot have been a
Gander. Geese are
Squawkers. Ganders
Too. Of course, they
Are. They are geese
Are they not, my duck!
Tag Archives: #about
Summer’s ending
Shorts, sandals, boys to
Men would never have when
I was a girl. Not shorts,
So unAmerican, not macho.
No sandals either. Times
They've a-changed. We're
More cosmopolitan. More
Comfortable. Wearing out
The summer in shorts, a
Little casual, a little
Self-conscious, cooler
Then when I was a girl.
My wares: redux
If you were going to open up a shop, what would you sell?
My wares, where? I carry themMy wares
On my cart and my back. I want
To open my shop. Envious, I am
Of Oram and Jonah, who taunt
Me with their square footage in
The new bazaar in Bahram Arag.
Their success is so marvelous in
Oh, so many ways […]
I think I was impressed with the peddler character in Oklahoma, the one, if I remember correctly, who ends marrying I Do Annie.
Gooseberries
It's of gooseberries I
Am thinking, out of the
Blue, or reminded by a
Pastoral image of berry
Picking in an imagined
Hamlet. That activity,
Village and all, are on
My telly, the scenic
Quiet of these little
Towns, the rural peace
Disrupted by murders,
The mayhem soothing as
The vision of thin red
Berries on thin green
Vines, the berry bulbs
All even and perfect,
Sour or a tad bitter, a
Bright, beautiful color
Your life
Your life falls open,
Like a suitcase, what
Did you forget to pack?
The shirts rolled into
Neat rows, shoes wrapped
Sweaters, it might be
Colder than you expect.
You've brought one very
Dressy outfit, just in
Case. It's your life and
You are right to dream
Of balls and parties, of
A time when that dress,
Wrinkle-proof can come out
With you to dance the
Night away, let it fall
Where it may, but keep
That bag close in the
Overhead compartment, near
Enough so when your life
Unfurls like a paper fan
You have a carry on, packed
Carefully with what you need
You forgot nothing
A.I.
May I let the LLM write
My poetry for me. Is that
Ethical. Is that right? Is
It fair? It'll pick my words
For me or edit them. Pick
'em outta the air, or twist
'em and turn them to fit a
Narrative that isn't my own
Snow days
It hugs the bark, held in a
Mutual embrace, holding
On against all odds, in the
Warmth of melting snow
It drips off balconies, yet
It blankets the rough pane,
Covers the edgy spaces on
This otherwise independent
Tree, in surprising symbiosis
Between snow and tree, the
Trunk stands bearded with
A dash of cushy white, will
The snow hold last another
Day?
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
