Time comes for me to pen my words
On this, my poetry page.
My prose has had the starring role
While poems wait offstage.
Within me, rhymes intensify,
Insist to be set free,
Yet theme and subject oft’ elude
That poet-part of me.
Another sunny day outdoors
My neighbors working springtime chores
On grass, fresh-sprouted, lovely green
Most brilliant spring I’ve ever seen
I hear the soft whine rise and fall
O’er new-mown grass, familiar smell
“Come springtime, come with quiet step
Release cold, stormy winter’s grip
Invite us out into the swell
Of blooming flowers’ glorious smell
Awaken in our souls the sun
Our bright abandon has begun”
Hot summer we anticipate
Behind, the winter’s chills abate
But now, the world’s life energy
With warm grip, captures eager me
Where I want to live; you ask me to tell
Location in all the world where I most
So want to inhabit. That’d be swell.
I’d choose a spot on a rocky, beach-y coast.
The Mediterranean that I love
Since childhood, when I first learned how to swim
With snorkel. The sun blazing high above
Clear teal and aqua, silent world, so dim.
I’d buy a white home, set quite near a cliff,
With outdoor kitchen and a bright blue door.
I’d be sure I lived near that cafe where
They cooked the fish I brought; food I adore.
At night, I’d sit in peace upon my roof,
And wonder at this lovely place I found.
Stars wink at me, as though to give me proof
That I have chosen well, let life abound.
My home on Santorini I would make,
And hope that big volcano doesn’t wake.
When I reach my 53rd year
Kind wishes may fall on my ear
But still, most of all,
These dear wishers call
To my mind, I thought I’d not be here.
I now realize with wry chagrin
The time wasted when I was in
This terrified state,
Which bore no debate;
Now a change, I feel safe in my skin.
I’m no longer scared to delight
In my wakening after each night
I celebrate me
And each day I agree
To love life, with all of my might.
I am surprised, this late, to see
My first spring grackles on the wire.
A harsh and noisy lot they are,
But some concession they require
For grackles aren’t songbirds. They
Perch on our phone and power lines,
And squawk and shriek without a care
As if to fix in all our minds
That harbingers of spring arrive
Not just when flowers come along.
A touch of discord grackles bring,
Whose voices rise without a song.
My mom has two cats
Both come to me for ear rubs
Not at the same time
So smart, so talented, yet often scorned;
She knew how much frustration she provoked,
As if she somehow plotted to be born
To play that wretched role, like some cruel joke –
Expected to be perfect, but she knows
That standard is impossible to reach
Her words are vibrant now, not pale as those
She used to write, as if her ink was bleach.
Each idea, now, is free to sing, and soar.
Above the memories, now, her mind prevails.
The joy she feels is cresting more and more;
She writes her stories, now inspired to fail.
She turns now, unafraid to strive again
As, sitting at her desk, she lifts her pen.
