I don’t have anything against them flailing about,
With their commanding stare and whisper shouts,
Don’t get me wrong it’s not an easy job,
To keep all in time with a clean kebab,
And I don’t think I could keep a civil look when an oboe’s flat.

I think that’s when my brain would crack,
Just as when you break a twig,
First you feel the wood bend and give,
Then Crack! Like stubbing your toe,
Sudden pain and yelling, I’ve thrown my shoe at the tone deaf Oboe

I smile a lot
and never cry
my heart is soft,
my mind is sharp,
my eyes are dulled with truth.

in clouds i ponder in oft
the fluff so precise
wondrous but frowns
for I only beseech them in dice
If i'm feeling down
I see the colors of the sky
If i'm up, to them I wave goodbye.

To them, they go unnoticed
not a care in the world
Unless I'm touched by a hateful lotus
in that case the natural art unwhirls
Orange- blue- white A phone click beholds
then saved in my album labeled
' cloudy days of old'

I had taken two steps farther again hoping you would notice the distance, but this time I fell off a cliff screaming for you to ask me to stay . I was floating, wondering, “if I died when I hit the ground would the bruises of my past hurt more than being gone?” I couldn’t decide so I just let myself fall. I was looking up to every sharp edge of my life that I had created as my body twirled through the air. I’m not sure why I couldn’t form any thought but “I wish I would have worn shoes, I always hated that my second toe was longer than my first”. Next thing I could remember was you shaking me. I could not figure out when I had reached the ground. You kept saying “please stay”, it was as if your voice was on some sort of prerecord loop. I had needed to hear those words for so long that when you finally spoke them I didn’t understand. How could you not keep your eyes open long enough to see I had been slowly walking away for quite some time. Why did it take the distant thud of my body hitting the ground to catch your attention? You had to realize; you are my only home. I had hoped for so long that you would remember to repair the roof and paint the walls that shade of yellow we loved. But the only bedroom that wasn’t falling apart was the one where you laid your head as you dreamt, and I wept.

My mother dearly wanted  
to be Dorothy Parker.
She yearned for a taste of the power that comes
from a truly witty response.

She craved to deliver
A statement so powerful
and sardonic that it would terminate
all argument or discussion.

My proximity made me an easy target to practice on
as each of our arguments ended with a bon mot
delivered with the all the acerbic flourish of Bette Davis.

As I listened to her footsteps receding down the hallway
I had only to take one more breath
before the footsteps reversed direction
and - standing at the doorway to my room -
She would deliver another culminating witticism
turn, leave and repeat.

In the fifties and sixties an intelligent woman –
a single mother of three
with no high school diploma,
but a surfeit of imagination –
Savoured what little power she could find
even if it was a fiction, a delusion
or just a punchline sharp enough to draw blood.

a fixation
ludicrous that
flush charmingly
dill today
assuage the
dopiness in
market square
when such
alarm might
coffers redeem  
flowers that
wilt but
resonate for  
stale perfume
that has
really pouched
the air