Sunday, December 4, 2016

A SIMPLE POEM FOR DAISY







Not everyone understands, I know
How alone I feel
Her absence
My radiant shadow is gone
No longer close
Attached like glue 
Walking behind me, eating, sleeping
While I wrote, cooked or simply lived my day
She absorbed my thoughts, my moods
Reflected back a constant, soothing tranquility
A conduit to my own serenity

Not everyone understands, I know
How now only imagination remains 
When I think I hear the silent presence  
Of the wise companion
Who enriched my spirit
By teaching me about my own animalism


Not everyone understands, I know
My grief, which connects to all 
My other losses, each unique, but woven
From the common thread
Of suffering.

My tears suddenly flow
As my memory flashes
To sweet scenes of our love
I intensely feel
How much I miss my Daisy
Some would say, "She was just a dog."
I know, not everyone understands

(For Poets United.)

Wednesday, November 2, 2016

GRANDMOTHER'S FRIENDS

On November 2nd my house was always a little spooky.
The smell of incense wafted outside our door
Making others curious, suspicious
Because they didn't understand
How my grandmother honored the dead.

She knew
How to attract their attention,
How to implore their help
Through the veil of smoke that separates
The living and the dead.
She knew they were compassionate
because they remembered their lives.
But she didn't know that death creates wisdom.

The dead scrambled to my house
Where Grandmother offered respect through ritual.
They liked inhaling the scent of life,
to watch the fumes of candle fire
Illuminate the adventures of the living.

In their wisdom, they helped Grandmother 
the way ghosts help.
They waited for her to get wise
While they often sighed mourning themselves.





Sunday, October 30, 2016

FEAR




You 
Afraid
Run
from monsters
In your darkness
You
Trip on your light
Where do you fall?


Happy Halloween 


(For Poets United.)

Sunday, October 23, 2016

Hello friends.  
I've been unable to write or connect with you during the last two months.  My husband has been quite ill after a surgery that became infected and attacked his nerves.  These have been difficult, nightmarish times, but after two surgeries, he is now recovering, his pain is subsiding and he is home.  I know, had I reached out to you, I would have received many good wishes and prayers but I was immobilized by my fears.  I am sorry.
During this time, I also had to put my beloved friend, Daisy, to sleep.  I am mourning her gentle and loyal presence.  How I miss my angelic dog.  

A few weeks before Daisy's departure.

It is so nice to be writing here again.  Life is beginning to normalize.  I've missed you.  Am looking forward to reading your poetry and resuming one of the things I most enjoy.   





                  To My Husband, 
                  re: Our Blur 

There are so many blotchy blurs of memory
We've stored during all these many years.  
The latest is already fading
Into the mist that is our past
Someday we'll remember even less 
But never will we laugh at the flashbacks
That remain
The pain
The fear
Future unclear
Multifaceted spectrum of suffering
Making us feel helpless, alone
Forgetful of our communion with all humans
Whose lives zig zag just like ours
between degrees of joys and sorrows
I wish, like the enlightened ones,
We could be grateful even for darkness.
But all our gratitude now
Is for the light we're beginning to see
Dispersing our nightmare
Forming a blur.

Sunday, September 4, 2016


I've been preoccupied with some life demands lately.  I also feel like I've forgotten how to write, which is one of the things that makes me most happy.  But, I'm just going to scribble a little each day, until I remember.





   SADNESS

Every day the sun and I 
silently communicate.
It is the teacher,
I the needy student.
I don't like it when 
Clouds dim its light.
But the sun cannot always
Burn in my sight.
When it hides, 
It teaches me to wait
With faith that its fire
Still burns, 
With hope that I will see 
its radiance tomorrow.



(For Poets United.)

Sunday, August 21, 2016

Sunday, 7 A.M.



On Sunday mornings it seems
silence sings a sacred tune.
The air is crisper,
more real, cleansed 
by bird song's sound waves
through the breeze
communicating nothing/everything.

I feel
the strength of connection
as I listen
to the beauty of nature.
I fall in love again
with this earth
forgetting for a moment
threats exist,
knowing that love comes first.
Before I commit to defend it
I must wallow in my passion. 

On Sunday mornings,
hypnotized,
I find myself falling
into the irrational,
incomprehensible seduction
of love's abyss,
attending to my love
with no worries about self
or how long this affair will last.
I simply trust the current
lust of lover and beloved

On Sunday mornings, at least,
I dwell in my little speck of infinity
with my love.



(For Poets United.)

Wednesday, August 17, 2016

QUESTIONS ABOUT A CAT





When I was a child I had a cat.
Her name was Mishew.
We played cat games.
I chased her down the long hallway
of our train-like apartment
the way I now chase my inner joy.
Then she chased me.
I gave her little treats off my plate.  
We slept together.
We loved each other.

When my grandmother threatened to "get rid of her" 
if she didn't stop scratching at the drapes, 
I cried.  Mishew stayed.
One day, when I got home from school, Grandmother said
Mishew had to move to the basement.
She was going to have a baby.
She had several -
the tiniest, cutest kittens imaginable.
I visited them as often as allowed. 
I loved them too
until the grownups told me Mishew had eaten them.

I went to the basement where Mishew, wishing
she could speak, meowed so loud. 
She looked at me with pleading big brown eyes.
But I had been betrayed. 
I thought she was a good cat.
I was wrong.
She committed this vile crime.

I don't know what ever happened to Mishew. 
I never saw her again.  
I've chosen never to live with a cat again,
or love one.

Today I question the lesson in this.
But a life examined only produces more questions.
When did Mishew go out to procreate?
Did grandmother love Mishew just a little bit?
Did Mishew really eat her kittens?

What was truth?
Is it possible I've avoided, disliked cats based on a lie?
What other prejudices do I harbor, 
believing untruths 
that curtail my love?
How much of myself will I never know?

Perhaps to be human is to live a riddle.
Perhaps my answer is:
I need to love another cat.


(For Poets United.)