Leave 'em in Stitches

If you look too closely
at life
you begin to see the seams,
the stitches which bind us together,
are not made of a single kind of thread
but are layer
upon layer
of differing threads,
each stitched by a different hand
as we each noticed
what was worth
saving.

Periwinkle in our shoes

We mistake this beauty
as a backdrop,
a static scene
against which we play
out our small tales,
believing our foibles
are somehow grander
than grandeur
until some place
shocks the system,
forcing the eyes to open
themselves to the majesty
of an oak
twice our wingspan
which captures our life
in one of its branches.
So we stand,
oak bark against our cheek
and periwinkle in our shoes.

One Day, in the Woods

I imagine the woodpecker
to be tapping out a message,
which carries over time
and distance
to where Spring's love
lies buried,
captured
by Winter's bitterness
and distance
until
the woodpecker's rhythm
is joined by the blatting
of the cackling goose
and the calls
of small children
searching for first blooms.
So Spring stretches her arms
and runs a finger
down the back of Winter's neck
and he melts.

Where Hope Finds Me

I imagine hope
to be like other sub-atomic particles,
charmed and strange,
as it ricochets its way
through the human atmosphere,
looking to bond
with a host
who stands on frozen earth,
under azure skies,
arms upturned
and shivering slightly
at the thought
that today
is really
today.

Pumpkin Sized

The first three cuts are equal,
each an inch in length,
forming a small triangle
against an expanse of orange.
She asks for help then,
adding a circle
on top of her triangle.
I carve while she announces
that we are carving her,
then she hops down
on a quest for paint.
Brown first, for hair
followed by red and purple,
for a bow.
A bigger triangle is next
as her cousin is two years her senior.
(Green and yellow bow)
Then a square because this cousin
is a boy.
(more paint)
The geometric parade
continues
as Grandma,
then me,
then Mom are added.
(We all have blue shoes)
Aunts and uncles
complete the circle
until one touches hands
with her.
She sits back
then tells us
the title
is "Family Love Circle."
And
this moment
swells
to fill
All of the available space
and time
before collapsing back.
Pumpkin sized.

They are All Fish Tales, Really

"They are all fish tales, really"

-- When my mother’s memory began to fade, she asked me,
What will become of me when I don’t have a story?
Not knowing what else to say, I told her, Lie.
                                       --Jane Shlensky


The river that is memory
twists and turns as it winds its way,
picking up silt
and carrying it along
until another force
slows the current
and the silt falls,
sometimes forming a loess,
blocking the flow,
forming pools
on which we fish
for that which was easily
within reach, only yesterday.
So drop in a line
and if it comes up empty
tell the world you caught
a clownfish
and
go on
about the color
and the feel of it
as it wriggled in your hands,
just before
it splashed
away.

already fallen

And again
I found myself hanging stars
in the sky,
asking passers-by
for help
with the ropes and pulleys
(it's all ropes and pulleys).
Hastily running from
rope to rope,
trying to sustain the illusion,
that these stars
are worth reaching for,
avoiding
(for the moment)
the dreadful feeling
forming in the pit of my stomach
that
we've already fallen.

First Dirt

I imagine

the first dirt

you play in as a child

enters your bloodstream

through your fingers

and toes,

creating a bond

that cannot be erased,

though it can be changed

as layers of sediment

build

through travels,

compacting

this first dirt

into a layer of bedrock

on which

you stand.

Sandlot

"Baseball stories resemble wartime tales.
Some are told as they actually happened.
Others are told as we think they did.
Regardless of the specifics, all of them are true."
-- Dan Ewald

It used to be
that 7 year-olds
could slip out of the house,
just after dawn
leaving behind tells
(milk spilled on the table)
(dirty bowl in the sink)
for still sleeping parents,
who would know
(baseball bat missing)
    (glove too)
that their son
was doing nothing
other than spending
a glorious summer day
as it was meant to be spent --
shirtless
under the sun
on a makeshift ball field
with all of the time
in the world.

The Cinnamon Room

We painted the wall
in cinnamon

to accent the warmth

of our home.

Then added coffee 

colored carpet,

for comfort

no matter the season.

Orange cheddar cheese soup

gurgles on the stove top

sending scents

of beauty throughout.

White snows

finally

cascade down

forcing us from our sloth.

Warm bellies

wrapped in warm clothes

we play until cheeks

glow rose.

Then return to the cinnamon room

for cocoa

and blankets

and popped corn

then closed eyes

and bedtime

and dreams.

Time has passed

-- from P. Wanken's "Alone"

I long
for blinding sun
reflecting
off of white snows.
A sweet agony
to the eyes
soon to be followed
by muffled steps
and heavy breaths
frosting before my eyes
in cold air.
Time has passed
but still
falls rain.

Ordinary

Harvesting the ordinary magic
of a moonless night.
Foot falls on concrete,
creating the illusion
that my path
runs counter
to the rotation
of the Earth
and, somehow,
my small movements
extend the moment
enough
so I may notice
the wind, blowing through
autumn leaves,
hits many of the notes
of a spring breeze
but hidden in its song
rings
winter.

The Water Clock

Water
d
 r
  i
   p
    s
and flows
and fills
         t
         u
         b
         e
         s
            flow
which over/
        then
           d
            r
             i
              p
and flow
and fill flasks,
then bulbs
as the rhythm of time
moves forward,
relentlessly forward
until it is full.
Then it drains
and begins to fill

itself again.

* The water clock in this piece is from the Children's Museum in Indianapolis. We had a very nice visit.

Show them what’s behind Door #1

A small package of rebellion
shows up on the steps
as the brilliant Sun and
morning dew
open the shopping center
of ideas
which lead away from door #1 --
another day at the grind.
Aluminum desks,
topped with windows,
programmed to show
only prescribed content,
fit for a late spring day
of heretical thoughts,
as eyes travel
and thoughts meander
like water from spring storms,
cutting new paths
in dry dirt.
Pyramid shaped tracks
as resistance
channels
the stream
and finds
me late
but not sorry.