Writing poems.
A challenge I can't resist.
Fussing and fuming over
the exact right word
coupled with the
exact right meaning ...
It's for me.
It's not for everyone.

It’s not like a novel or a whodunit, with
a race to the finish to find out how the
story ends. In a book of poetry, you’ll find 
a story on every page. Each with its own 
beginning, middle and end. 

“I finished it!” crows my friend, as he holds
up my book. Proud. Satisfied. As though 
now the task is done. Hmm… I want to say, 
how can I put this…

The goal is not to finish. In fact, there is no 
goal except to enjoy. One poem at a time. 
No rush. Take a breather. Walk the dog.
And rather than stash it up on a shelf 
alongside other books you’ve finished, 

keep it handy. By your bed or favorite chair. 
Then - there it is. Ready for you to grab a 
poem... take your time... let it make its mark  
... then back on the table it goes. For now.

Let one story fill the moment. Move you, 
make you laugh, even offer a new idea. 
Remind you how nice it feels to slow down. 
Perhaps you’ll find a few poems to your 
liking. And then maybe... 

... want to tell me about them.

I climb the narrow ladder and as
my eyes reach its floor I peer into
the faded, musty clutter. It seems
other-worldly, for dust rises in
shafts of light as though something
breathes up here. Do I dare disturb it
with my clumsy curiosity? I finish
the climb and haul myself into the past.

Here’s the baby doll from that Christmas
it snowed. A cracked red satchel my
sister and I fought to the death over.

The autoharp I strummed just like
Joni Mitchell. My breath catches and
my heart skips for I realize they’ve stuck
to the ribs of my memory all these years,
and I wonder whether time matters at all.

What’s this fancy box? I lift the cover
to find a pair of high heels. Red. Spangly.
What Lucy might have slipped on to dance
with Ricky at The Tropicana. My Mother.
Totally out of character. She must have
indulged for a special occasion that never
came to pass, for these shoes have clearly
never been worn.

I lift them and admire the sparkle and inhale
the still-new aroma. I imagine what kind of
fancy dress she might have worn to match them –
the kind she never owned, at least not in my
lifetime. And then I picture the day she sat
right here - where I sit now -
and packed them carefully away,
with tissue paper and regret.

makes its way in fits and starts, day in
     and day out, from the east side to the 
         west and the doors hiss and the brakes 
             screech and people get on and people
                  get off, one corner after another, until
                    it’s time to turn back around, which is

		where he queues up, same time each day,
                except this day the wind’s icy intention
	       threatens to steal his hat and he feels 
	     a blast of heat as he boards, but soon
	   it suffocates, and off comes the hat 
      as he looks up to read those same

    ads he read yesterday and thinks
       like every day that he should buy a
          copy of the Times for no one speaks 
             or makes eye contact as once again mass 
                transit picks up the masses to bring them
                  right back where they started, but this day

		      he spots his face in the glass and no longer
         	  recognizes the man who once stood out in 
               a crowd and knew where he was going and
           it occurs to him this day that he is the same
         as everyone around him. Whose lives are 
       not turning out the way they planned.

You 
are important to me
We’re connected
at the heart
the hand
the nervous system
You’re part of me
You distract me 
Can’t let go
Can’t live without
How did I manage
before you
Can’t imagine
Wouldn’t want to
You’re my other half
You share my days
my bed
my life
You are my conduit
to the world

Sometimes there is a day
that goes unnoticed
slips through the fingers
for I have better things to do

than remember the light
in my mother’s hair or
the way her housedress swayed
as she worked in the kitchen,
its rhythm a kind of silent music

Sometimes there is a day
that claims a place all its own,
lodges permanently
in the mind, a keepsake

to take out and hold
in the hand, turn over,
examine from all sides
How he looked at me
that last time

Then there are days
I look past the face
in the mirror,
don’t meet the eyes

staring back at me
don’t recognize who
I am or what I want
as the crush of days
swirls and rushes past

But sometimes there is a day
that rises brilliant and clear
Stands alone
and I stand at its center

And that is enough