you begin in the dark, ready to dance,
the scars & the pills & the aching joints forgotten.
on tiptoe you run across silvery grass
gray hair fading to chestnut wave
& tight ******* pulling your ***** high & firm
racing, dancing beneath the sky,
a shout, a leap,
and for a moment your fingertips
grasp the crescent moon,
for a moment you are she who was,
and time pirouettes aside
from its immutable journey.


1-3-14

it begins crisper than november,
still, chilly, ice blue sky,
then warm, then cold, then crazy frigid,
wind cat-yowling,
and on the windows,
frost feathers that do not melt all day.

the solstice sun creeps warily
across the south horizon,
glancing brilliant off frost-sheathed trees,
so cold the very air is frozen--
sparkling ice crystals float rainbow colored
like dizziness before my eyes.

Christmas eve starts grey and windy--
rain at two and snow at three--
the huge flakes my mom called "horsebirds".
And just at sunset, a patch of blue,
a sky tunnel for those tiny reindeer.

Christmas morning, four together,
first time in years we all are here:
Best-Beloved, sad eyed lady,
   maker of donuts and hi-test coffee,
      sings a bit, weeps, smiles;
the Exile returns, hoodied, shy smiling,
   coffee in hands, and heart full of plans;
and Carborundum Starshine bursts in the door,
   in corduroy & goofy hat,
     Paul Bunyan beard & glitter cheeks;
and  i
   am here.
Talk and cookies, hugs and pictures,
   Merry merry, the peace-pipe passed,
      carols on the radio,
the scents of spruce and tangerines.

the "week between" a roller coaster,
t-shirts one day, parkas the next,
wind that moans like Marley's ghost,
and snow tornados  on the road.

new year's eve and big soft snowflakes,
sparkling lights and laughing shouts--
on the street, drunken kisses and auld lang syne--

but not for me, i listen only;
there's work tomorrow, quick to bed,
a brief flight,
   all-night jazz    
     and sleep.

time tomorrow to begin again.

(1-1-14)

these days,
even in our small high plains town,
a boy can wear makeup, nail polish,
even a feather boa.
oh, my old friend,
you had to make do
with a brocade smoking jacket
and flocked velvet wallpaper!

I thought  60 miles was far enough,
I thought  an hour delay was long enough,
I thought  $20 for gas was high enough
that everyone would learn to stand alone:

that nobody would call me just for a ride,
or to find them a bottle or a place to hide,
or reinforce them when they cried;
I could find a life of my own.

I guess I should have thought it through
and known the thing I needed to do
was start when they were one or two
to teach them we're all alone.

But when they're small and cute and sweet
And the most they ask is a hug & a treat
You can't expect your babies to meet
the big world all alone.

And just because time rolls along
You don't see that they're not being strong
and when you realize something's wrong
it's too late to atone.

So you try to push them out of the nest,
Planning to get a little rest
You go east & send them west--
And--
You don't hear a word for several days
and figure they've all changed their ways
until suddenly a small voice says
"Thank gosh you answered the phone--"

So of course you say "OK"
"Yes, I'll be there right away"
(What the hell else can a mother say?
You can't just whine & moan!)

So the old lady rises, the old car starts
And you can guess the rest of the parts,
"Cuz we grump with our lips but love with our hearts
and it's better than being alone.

waking up at 2 am
to add water, subtract water
(old ladies do)
check the phone, no messages,
BBCAmerica whispers from the radio.
Outside the window,
something about a moon and tattered clouds,
in my heart, something about children and dogs.
Let tomorrow wait
and burrow into the sheets.
--something about a moon. . .

The soldiers stand in straight, straight lines,
ranks straight, files straight,
diagonals perfect;
white and black and every tone between,
dressed in olive green,
they are young,
they are ready.

* * *

The stones stand in straight , straight lines,
ranks straight, files straight,
diagonals perfect on the rolling hills,
every one as white as new paper,
standing in spring's greenest grass
on a Monday in May in the rain.

The people stand in huddled clumps,
spring dresses and rumpled suits
beneath black umbrellas,
the little flags red, white and blue,
the mason jars filled with fresh-cut lilacs.

The rain sifts down, and a few tears,
soft talk and memories;
then, the closing doors of cars
and going home,
winding roads and tangled thoughts
a little sad,
a little proud,
a little free.