Poem a Day: Eating with the Birds

Four sparrows hop upon the concrete
dancing a feast upon my porch,
with snatches at tiny seeds fallen
from the feeder swinging overhead.
Sometimes blue-black suited crows,
or matronly pigeons in afternoon grays,
chase them from their banquet.
A small red headed, red breasted tree bark brown visitor
throws more food upon the ground
in search of the perfect seed.
I watch from the kitchen table,
with my feast of peanut butter toast
halfway between my plate and digestion.

Also from May 2002.

Poem a day: (Warning, risque) Wardrobe of Lust

The Wardrobe of Lust

Some people keep sweaters, TVs, and jewelry
in their armoires.
Not me.

Mine is filled with wonderful tomes,
“The Guide to Getting It On,
“The Joy of Sex,”
“The KamaSutra for Modern Americans.”

My wardrobe has stacks of old Penthouses.
I only read it for the articles, of course.
And an odd letter or two,
as you can see by the worn out pages.
There is a box, rather long to hold a book,
so it doesn’t.
I keep my dildo, Mr. Purple, in there.
I had a cream vibrator, but it gave me muscle cramps.
I got a red one for Christmas.
It shares the box with Mr. Purple.
Some old photo albums show me
and old boyfriends.
On my honeymoon.
Up on the high shelf is the
and the warming oil
and the body paints.
They are all opened, but not used up.
Otherwise I’d buy new ones.
Boredom won’t set in with a good book to heat me up
and something to feast the eyes on
and something to relax the inhibitions with.

But you can’t just leave those out around the house.
The baby might get into them.
So I keep them in my wardrobe.
Along with the odd negligee.

And, no, if you come to my house this is not what you will find in my armoire. But it was a fun poem to write. Written on May 6, 2002.

Poem a Day: Haiku Garden

I wrote this May 27, 2002. It describes my garden still, although I took out the yellowest ixora and I have the orange butterfly bushes overtaking the purple plum now.

Hot pink petunias
Stretch full length to meet the sun.
They climb the pine tree.

Japanese plum
Stands with branches reaching up.
The leaves scan skyward.

Orange ixora blooms
Next to its yellow brothers.
Boquets of flowers.

Crepe myrtle fills in
Root system growing outward,
Conquering the yard.

Silverado sage
Graces gray upon the bed.
Raindrops turn purple.

Poem a day: I’ll Hold You in Heaven

This poem was written long ago for my niece/nephew who did not live long enough to be born, Keegan.

I’ll hold you in Heaven.
I’ll hold you in Heaven.

Down here on earth
I’ve never seen you smile,
I’ve never heard you laugh,
or held your hand in mine.

Your fingers weren’t so perfect
I cried to see them grown.
Your hair was never tangled,
as if it didn’t know a comb.
I never changed your diaper
or sang you back to sleep
and when I think of all the things
I’ve never done
I only want to weep.

I’ll hold you in Heaven.
I know it’s really true.
And when I get to Heaven
I’ll know it’s really you.

Up there in Heaven
I will see you smile;
I will hear your laughter
as you put your hand in mind.
Your fingers will be perfect
even though they’ll be full grown
and your hair, it will be beautiful.
In Heaven, who needs a comb?

I’ll never change your diaper
or sing you back to sleep,
but when I think of all we’ll do together there
I can only weep.

I’ll hold you in Heaven,
I’ll hold you in Heaven,
I’ll hold you in Heaven,
in Heaven itself someday.

Poem a day: Words Waltz

from 2003

Words waltz in my head
keeping time to the music
no one else hears.
Plump, ripe rhythms
luscious letters
wend their way
through my mind.
I love to watch them dance.

Poem a day: Man in the Bookstore

This is from 2003. I remember this man quite well, perhaps because he made enough of an impression to send me home to write this. The book store was Half Price books on 1960 behind Willie’s.

In a month
I came four times
Friday, Saturday, Wednesday,
Saturday morning.
Each time
he was there—
the Asian gentleman
on the couch,
holding a book of music
and a pencil,
rocking back and forth
humming—
to the music?
Once I came to wander.
Once for drama.
Twice I read romance.
My sons purchased
a role playing book
while I bought a history
of the theater.
Always he was there—
alone and
not quite oblivious.
He watched me walk by,
answered my query about a book.

I wonder
if he is here with family
and knows no one else
and is lonely
for a world he understands
and because of this
sits in a bookstore
rocking himself
and humming music.
I wonder
is he retired
and lonely for the music
he used to teach?
I wonder
but I don’t ask.
Asking would be personal
and rude.

Poem a day: The Book of Miracles

The book of miracles,
From conflict to creator
In the middle of everywhere,
Heals your heart.

Forget the little dragon’s creed.
It takes a worried man

With every drop for sale
To swim the moon
Or climb his mountain of black glass.

from 2002 daily poems

Poem a Day: Thus she sang

This was a poetry exercise I wrote back in 2002.

I was given a first line and had to write a poem. (I wish I had not loaned that book out and lost it.)

And thus she sang, all naked as she sat,
surrounded by air and water,
the original for Boticelli’s Birth of Venus,
popping bubbles in her mother’s bathtub.

Poem a day: The Books Tell the Tales of My Life

Stacked into shelves, squeezed into spaces,
The books tell the tales of my life.
Cicero, Quintilian, Aristotle, Plato,
Legacy of rhetoric and a PhD.
Margaret Wise Brown and Dr. Seuss,
Stories I read as a child
And read to my children.
Ancient history, archaeology, and Latin American culture
Classes I took for fun in college
And books I still occasionally browse through.
Mysteries- Ellis Peters, Robin Paige, Temprance Brennan.
Romances- Suzanne Brockmann, Marie Ferrarella, Sharon Sala.
Sci fi and fantasy, all my favorite authors write both.
Can you name them?
They grace the walls of our dining room.
Hello, Moon, Hello, Bunny, Momma do you love me?
Books of a week or so of my sons’ childhood.
Dinosaur legends and medieval knights and ladies
Remnants of classes I taught at the local homeschool co-op.
The books, if you know them, you can trace my life.
They are my autobiography, if you know how to read them.

Poem a day: The Women Who Made Me

Three women,
Grama Bunny, educated, talented.
A master’s from Berkeley during the Depression
And a hand that could draw the world,
Even after a stroke struck.
Grama Haston, tiny, bustling,
The farm wife who hated the farm
But peeled ten pounds of potatoes for my breakfast.
Momma, teenage wife and mother,
Wrestling four kids into submission
While waiting for my father’s attention.
Three women.
There are more.
They are more.
But these three women made me.