Mom works the pedal of the Singer,
driving the needle through
crisp rose-colored taffeta.
As she sews we make small talk,
she smiling at her pesky Chatty Kathy
while I, with deepest intention,
thread myself
into the eye of her life.
Threading the Needle
August 11th, 2013 | Posted by in Family | Love | memory | Mom | Reflections | Sewing - (Comments Off on Threading the Needle)Bluesy Lady
June 30th, 2013 | Posted by in Broken Heart | Joy | Love | Poetry readings | Reflections | Romance - (Comments Off on Bluesy Lady)That’s the good thing about women, man. Because they sing their $!#% insides, man.
Women, to be in the music business, give up more than you will ever know. ~ Janis
Love her or hate her but you can’t deny her
because deep down you knew she was the
free spirit you secretly wanted to be.
Maybe your mama didn’t like her an’ your daddy
called her white trash, but on that stage
she had a presence that couldn’t be denied.
Maybe you got high an’ maybe you didn’t
but you grooved right there with her an’ you
became her an’ she you because Baby, Baby,
when those bluesy notes rose up from her throat
you wanted to jump up on that stage an’ bawl
your eyeballs out right there with her.
Love her or hate her but you can’t deny her.
When she sang the blues you felt her pain right
down to your pretty pink painted toenails.
Talk about love, how it catches you on fire
an’ turns you inside out, well Janis wrote the
book on love Baby!
Whether that love was Southern Comfort or
Bobby McGee her emotions were out there
for everyone to see with no apologies or
pretenses; writhing and wailing on stage till
you’d take that piece of her heart, that ball
an’ chain just to relieve her pain ‘cause
she shone brighter than any stars in your sky.
Love her or hate her but you can’t deny her.
When she was up there on that stage she was
bigger than life itself.
She made love to that microphone an’ her
deep raspy voice reached clear down to your
soul an’ you didn’t care about her looks or
bad habits or sexual preferences.
It only mattered that she sing and keep on singin’
because when you got a little sprinkle of that
sunshine you knew, it didn’t get any better
than this.
Love her or hate her but you can’t deny her,
no more than she could deny herself!
Sentimental Journey
December 1st, 2012 | Posted by in Family | Fantasy | Joy | Love | Reflections - (Comments Off on Sentimental Journey)Home again… arising early
I wander through my parents’ house
in search of memories.
In the pantry are the small clear glasses
hand-painted with tulips.
Instinctively I lift one to my lips,
almost tasting the Seven-up my grandfather
used to pour, remembering how the fizz
tickled my nose, grandpa’s laughter.
I imagine him standing there wearing
his felt hat and checkered flannel shirt,
puffing on his long stemmed pipe.
But too soon, the image fades, as set in the past
as the tulips are in their glass prisons.
From a dusty shelf in the den I retrieve
the old Currier and Ives, copyrighted 1952.
Through its pages I’d traveled America,
journeying by steamboat down the
Mississippi, flat boating the Ohio River,
riding the rail to California. Always
enjoying my imaginative adventures,
always thirsting for more.
Wistfully I close the book, leaving its
people and places, now slightly faded,
to a future wanderer.
Photographs crowd the living room,
each one caressing a memory-my birth,
birthdays, school days, first date…
every event cascading for eternity in
wood and glass.
The floorboard creaks as my mother
enters the kitchen. I hasten to greet her
blinking back the tears. Our eyes meet
and we smile, scattering the memories
amongst a million dreams, the air
shimmering with the essence of their
beauty as they surrender, each one
to its designated place.
Spell Check
October 30th, 2011 | Posted by in Growing old | Love | Reflections | Romance - (Comments Off on Spell Check)My body is no longer the flawless manuscript
most men would take time out of their busy day to read;
no longer as exciting as the latest novel,
nor as interesting as the daily news.
There was a time when everything was capitalized
in all the right places,
the i’s were dotted and there were no uncrossed t’s.
Everything was worded right.
Sentences had the appropriate emphasis and titles
fit me perfectly.
Now, I am more like the comics, and even some of them
aren’t funny, but rather tragic.
I was beginning to think I was of no more use
than a rolled up newspaper used to swat flies.
But then you found me.
You read the manuscript, overlooking the flaws.
There is no need for spell-check, you accept me as I am.
My words come off your lips in the form of poetry,
and in your eyes I am the sonnet,
I had always hoped to be.
The Houses of Bees
October 30th, 2011 | Posted by in Bees | Creation | Love | Nature - (Comments Off on The Houses of Bees)You anticipate the bees arrival with that same wonder lust in
your eyes that a child wears on Christmas Eve,
spending the whole month before their arrival planning,
thinking out the construction of their houses,
going back and forth on the decision of where you will put them
in the backyard.
I listen with fascination as you explain to me about the workers,
drones, and the queen, who from a larva you tell me,
feeds solely on royal jelly.
You have become a beekeeper extraordinaire,
intent on teaching me everything you know about bees.
And it is quite funny when you mimic the bee dance,
buzzing around in circles, then abruptly changing direction
and buzzing around again.
I watch you with the same wonder lust in my eyes as you have
when you talk about your bees, feeling a wealth of love for you,
this man tenderly caring for and loving one of God’s smallest creations.
I anticipate the bees’ arrival with dread, careful not to let on how
much they intimidate me.
After they arrive you take out a few and gently hold them up for me to see,
the thought of their sting sending chills over my body.
That night, as we do our own tango between the sheets,
I think of them out there buzzing, buzzing; the virgin queen
leaving the hive to mate with drones- the lazy bees who make no honey,
their sole purpose to mate then die.
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