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.

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.

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

smile,

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.

                 

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.

Senses

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.

NOISE

Everyone is talking.

But the words mean nothing.

Mindless, meaningless, harmless

noise.

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

trivialities?

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

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.