Tuesday, November 4, 2014

The Meadow

Sitting under a large tree
in an empty meadow
on the most comfortable day of the summer
when the heat is not as brutish
and you can lie in the warmth in safety.

Me and the most beautiful woman in the world
are side by side, drinking the day in
after a picnic lunch.
Both of us purr like contented kittens.
We can never remember being so happy.

Without my knowing it, my raven-haired, full-lipped
lover has a naughty smile pursed inside those lips.
I look up, wondering what she is thinking.

In a flash, she's astride me.
Kissing, nudging, nuzzling me,
thoroughly fearless,
totally free.

Her freedom is matched my surprise,
and my nervousness.
She senses it, and slows in her fervor.
She looks at me, seeing my fear.
Don't worry,  she says.
No one knows we're here.
Our love is a balloon.
No one can ever pierce it.

It reminds me of something someone very wise
told me once.
"Make love in the unknown."

I disregard my fear,
kissing those luscious lips
for all I'm worth.
I close my eyes and breathe in
the sweet air of surrender...
surrender... surrender....

I open my eyes again after what seems like a second
but what in fact was an hour.
My love is purring again, but with gusto.
She was right.
There are no bogeymen,
no judging looks.

No one has seen us
under the big shade tree
in the middle of the meadow.

No one knows that we have filled the meadow
with a love that transcends space.

Sunday, August 24, 2014

The Lanterns
to Annie

A clear, pristine night,
blemished only by the lack of stars.
Music loudly coruscates around my cranium
as I sit in a beach bar.

Suddenly, an orange dot comes from absolutely nowhere
flying up and up, closer and closer.
Not as fast as a shooting star,
but just as bright.

And when the dot is as high and as far
as the stars themselves,
it begins to fade, and fade,
and fade some more…

until it is gone.

“It’s a lantern”,  my best friend tells me.
Her face could be a star unto itself,
and her body glistens with the sweat
and humidity of the night.

And rather than me mourn for her whenever
it is she goes to Heaven,
she wants me to light a lantern
and send it skyward.

“It’s better than standing around in a black suit
weeping for you,” I tell her.
She smiles, because we know it is the truth.

Sunday, July 27, 2014

Paean to the Fire Woman

The world may solve its problems,
or not,
but nothing is stronger,
more powerful,
or more beautiful
than a woman
on fire.

It is her internal flame
that  makes everything around her
glow like fireflies.

She could take the setting sun
and lift it back into the sky
the way you pull a cookie
from a jar.

It is her bouncy, buoyant being
that makes the humdrum, workaday world
perhaps for the first time in
a very long time.

Her message is as clear as the water
and as plain  as the morning.
It is that of unconditional love.
And that is what makes the world beautiful.

The woman on fire could light up a galaxy
with her eternal flame of goodness.

And make men like me into
keepers of their magic.


Friday, July 18, 2014

The Sound of a Quiet House

The cool, crisp weekday morning
when the children are off to school
and my husband is toiling away at work.

The windows have been cracked open
letting the sweet chill into my house.

There are no children squawking or screaming,
no television caterwauling endlessly on
about nothing in particular.

There is only the gentle breeze
rattling the trees outside
and the occasional chirping of birds.

The only other sound I can hear
is the sound of my peaceful, relaxed breathing.

It’s the sound of a quiet house.

The pastel yellow walls glow in the sunshine
and the ions they conceal sing in silence.
The cool morning air
kisses my skin and caresses my being.

And as I turn the pages of the book I have waited
all night long to continue reading,
my heart swells like a balloon.

This is a sound I am grateful for.
Before I know it, the children will be home
from school, and my husband home from work,
and the flapdoodle will begin anew.

This sound, of silence, of peace, of quiet,
is also a sound of renewal, of rejuvenation.
This is what heaven must sound like.

A quiet house.

Saturday, July 5, 2014


Digging in my feet
into the soft, sweet, cool sand.
It’s the Fourth of July
on a semicrowded beach.
The senses that had been dulled
by the wretched workaday world
are alight and at peace.

Dusk pulls her blanket over the tiny town.
I can see for miles.

The lightshow begins.
Fireworks twinkle and pop
off to my left.
They dazzle the eye
and send jaws dropping
upon even the oldest of children.

Palm trees stand and sway
with the gentle Gulf breeze,
framing the fireworks.

To my right, a storm cloud
dawdles northward, away from us.
Lightning fights a losing yet fiery battle
for our attention.
Thunder thumps and rumbles dully.

In front of me,
the Gulf of Mexico, almost unnoticed,
laps calmly upon the sand.
I dip my ankles in the warm water.
Something about it relaxes me and loosens
my muscles.

The half-moon shines
in all her ethereal glory,
bathing us in the mysterious glow.
Soon she will shine her brightest
and bring out the best in us.

Nature almost always wins over man,
and usually by a wide margin.
Except when man wants to celebrate,
and Zeus surrenders, begrudgingly though he may.

And it’s a night like this, when
all of my senses are engaged,
that I feel the most alive.

Tuesday, April 1, 2014


Everyone is talking.
But the words mean nothing.
Mindless, meaningless, harmless
Words spilling out like water from a spigot.
Forced laughter.
Hopeless blather.
It all sticks to me like algae.

Everyone is talking.
Verbalizing every thought.
Every minor, miniscule, microsophallic
neural transmission.
Flying out of the larynxes, into
the air, onto my skin, like
stucco onto a house.

This is not the first you’ve heard of this complaint,
nor will it be the last,
but it seems everyone is too busy talking
in order to really say it.

Did Shakespeare speak in such
Or Freud, Chaucer, Frost or Pope?
Would gaudy generalities have
issued from Moses’s mighty throat?

Cliches and chatter, vacuous banter
have polluted the air too long.
Urbane and lucid dialogue sounds now
like a bird’s sweet spring song.

I hope one day soon the noise stops
and I won’t have to cover my ears
and we can all talk in voices
that would bring the angels
to joyous tears.

April 1, 2014

Tuesday, August 20, 2013

The Toll

The laughter,
the booing,
the jeering
and sneering.

The snubs,
the scoffs,
the slights and the stares.

Sooner or later,
they all take their toll.

The people who break your window,
break your spirit,
break your heart when you’re young,
always seem to win
when you are old.

They grow up,
snakelike and successful,
never giving you a second thought.

The bullies, the aggressors,
the terrorists
always seem to win.

And me,
afraid of the consequences
of fighting back.

I tried to tell them
that every punch leaves
a bruise,
every cut leaves a scar,
and that not all pain is physical.

Now look at them.
Richer than Getty,
high on the hog.

Now look at me,
down in the dumps,
left in the lurch,
alone and loveless.

I pay the toll.
They don’t know
how high it is.