Promise of summer to come

Sunlight filters through
the lime green spring leaves
wind stirring the fluff
of catkin and cottonwood
as though a stir of insects
slipping through the slanting sunshine,
promise of summer to come.

Thought for today - Time For A Reader...

Time for a reader does not change...
the lines of a letter,
a manuscript,
or the dialogue in a novel are seamless,
though innumerable moments
may have passed for the writer
an eternity between those lines.

In the center of a spider's web

In the center of a spider's web
each thread snipped
precariously we dangle
the quivering strands beneath
and walls closing in, claustrophobic.

10 poems, 3 lines each - Writing Exercise

The writing exercise for today is 10 poems, 3 lines each - using whatever your eye falls on around you. The goal is not to self-edit, but just to let whatever comes to mind flow, keeping your hand moving and not re-reading anything you've written until all ten poems are done.

1)  Glass
Reflective it falters
Emotionless stares
sleek and dead eyed.

2) Salt
Pickling, brining
flavoring, preserving,
once priced as though gold.

3) Water
A rush, relief,
flood released,
canary yellow in the bowl.

4) Light
Dust motes on the shade
ribs show through
bedside companion.

5) Window
Shielding, a portal,
speckled with hard water
spot stains like armor.

6) Portrait
She in white
he in black
a good knight and his veiled lady.

7) Mirror
Standing apart,
showing all the world,
yet hiding your face.

8) Tablet
An awaiting world,
pen beside, poised,
from grocery list to poem.

9) Box
Corrugated castles,
ramparts breached,
treasures revealed.

10) Hoodie
Dim the light,
cavernous the hole,
into which I, the turtle, retreat.

What can you come up with? Don't think, just write!

An Evening Stroll in April

A man mowing stripes into his lawn,
the blossoms feathering the trees in pink, white and blush,
a girl pushing her sibling in a stroller in tracks up and back
across the gray asphalt driveway,
a terrier racing silently along a chainlink fenceline,
assessing whether we two are a threat,
windows reflecting back the deepening sun,
shaded patios awaiting warmer weather,
nearly-opened leaves peeping from branches,
and catkins like snow still sprinkled across greening lawns.

To my Mother, who always catches me when I fall

Forever I will remember the bounty of Halls cough drops, honey & lemon kind, Wrigley's spearmint gum, endless puffs of Kleenex and some kind of organic, all-natural, no-sugar snack you would produce from the depths of your purse. I watched the things you would do, years of togetherness, genetic imprinting, social conditioning?

I find myself idly scratching my head when I'm thinking hard, or nervous, the way you would do. I worry a hangnail and fret over my lists. Our voices sound so much the same over the phone, no one can tell you from me, or me from you. And, to my great irritation, I find that now I clear my throat in much the way you do.

But I also devour books like you do, revel in my long baths, still love farmer's cheese, black olives and alfalfa sprouts in my omelettes, and have a fondness for four-legged critters, just like you. I talk with my hands, and USE TOO MANY CAPITALS AND EXCLAMATION POINTS!!! I make people laugh, and wait, like you, for the punchline of my jokes to strike up laughter.

I learned to plie in ballet, to plunk out Beethoven on the piano, to ski downhill, and how to ride horses all because of you. You encouraged me and picked me up when I fell - as a toddler learning to walk on two feet instead of four, teetering on my bike, or coming off a horse from time to time. Endless parades of piano recitals, band concerts, play practices, choir rehearsals, horse shows, Taekwondo tournaments, opening nights, graduation ceremonies and commencement speeches - you were there through all of them.

First loves, puppy crushes, break-ups with boyfriends - good, bad, or indifferent, moving me across states or across town, watching me walk up the aisle on a ski hill tucked into the side of a mountain, you were always there, my mother.

I love you Mom!

Tea & Crosswords - a short story

Tea & Crosswords

"It isn't hot today," she says, looking up expectantly.
Caught in a crossword puzzle in a long-across clue for "electronic inquiry about fabric" I look up and pause, running the clue through and around.

Fabric.
Electronic inquiry?
A message about fabric.
Electronic fabric?
No. Electronic message. 
Text. Text message. 

Message works. Text works, but there are blanks in between. That's not right. I frown.
"No, it isn't hot today," I agree. "Rained last night. Quite a storm. Banged about, but blew out fast."
She looks at me, pleasantly. I purse my lips, and having nothing further to contribute, look back to my puzzle.

Email message.

What does that have to do with fabric?

Inquiry.
A question. 
A question about fabric. 
Types of fabrics: satin, tweed, suede, linen, cotton...
Cotton. Caught in a storm.

I look up. Chilly from the storm. She sits, watching me work it out, saying nothing. I clear my throat. "Are you chilly? I could make tea, or bring you a blanket?" She smiles, so I hop to my feet and fill a kettle at the tap, setting it to boil with the click-click-WHOOSH of a gas stove that has equally fascinated and terrified me since childhood.

Electronic inquiry.
Electronic message.
A question.
An inquiry. 
Fabric. Questionable fabric?
What would questionable fabric be? 
Radioactive rayon? Psychedelic polyester? Viscous velveteen?

I walk to her arm chair, and ancient beast of a thing in a dusty rose, the arms worn down to the cross-hatch from decades of use. An afghan that she herself undoubtedly crocheted drapes over the back.

Jersey? Knit? What is worsted weight anyway?
It was the best of times, it was the worsted of times...

I drape the afghan over her shoulders and tuck her into it. One of her hands comes up to pat mine, resting on her shoulder. "Thank you dear." Her hand is soft, but also papery - an odd combination of fleshy and also dry, as though the years had worn thin the toughness and left only tenderness. I hesitate a moment, but the slithery hiss of the building teakettle summons me.

"One moment and I'll have your tea."

For better or worsted, for richer, for poorer.

"Chamomile or peppermint?" I call out as I pull the insistently screeching kettle from the flames, dialing them down from orange to blue until they wink out.

"Chamomile, I think. With honey." Comes the reply, muffled a bit through the clinking of cups from the cupboard and retrieval of teaspoons from the drawer.

Inquiring minds. Questions on fabric.

"Careful, it's still steeping." I warn as I set it in front of her. Her hands emerge to cup it as steam curls lazily in curlicues and the hot water deepens from light gold to bright amber. I look down at my crossword while waiting for my tea, idly stirring as my teaspoon clinks softly against the porcelain.

Three blank boxes in the middle glare back at me from the center of the word. An "electronic inquiry about fabric." I glance to the down clues against my usually strict self-imposed code of doing all the across clues first before starting the downs, which I always suspect are the easier ones. Though I cannot actually prove this theory as the letters from the across clues already in place fill in the words like letters spun into place in Wheel of Fortune. None of the down clues for those three blank boxes give any hints, and unwilling to tackle a new line, I persist. Text fits. Blank, blank, blank. Message fits. Textual. Textile?

"Thank you dear." She says, delayed, a slow response. Jolted from my thoughts I glance up. She takes a tentative sip of tea.

Three blanks. Three squares. Three mysteries. Three magic beans.

Textile seems so likely, but it isn't right.

Fabric.
Texture.
TEXTURE MESSAGE!

I fill in the blanks with satisfaction as the answer falls into place, smiling to myself and utterly neglecting my cooling tea.

"It isn't hot today, is it?" She asks me.

My heart suddenly throbs in pain as I look into her earnest face, the eyes milked with cataracts and papery hands poking out from the cloak of her afghan. I put up my pen and puzzle book, and reach for those hands.

"No Grandma, it isn't very hot today."


Dedicated to my Grandma and my mother, who cares for everyone's grandmas.

*Thank you to Newsday 4/13/14 puzzle "It's all Yours: Listen For it" by Charles M. Deber, edited by Stanley Newman and dist. by Creators Syndicate Inc.

Bug's Eye View

Bug's Eye View

Skittering along as quickly as possible,
a landscape of pink and mauve,
the tickle of a soft rug,
ever so swiftly passing under many legs,
red, jointed, faster, hurry,
no thought,
just movement across the open.
A bulge, mountainous and rippling
in its blue enormity,
the creases are valleys,
broad weave of light blue
stretching many times higher,
an obstacle to be overcome hurriedly,
scuttling up the side and across,
a chest heaves, a gasp,
an earthquake then falling,
lost in the folds, legs tangling in mounds
a trap of paper towel, crunch of exoskeleton.
Squish.

Mars

Mars winked his red eye at me
and I gazed back
incomprehensible distance terse between us
as I wondered how small my blue marble
must be to his inquisitive stare.

Hamburger Soup

Hamburger Soup

"You must eat," she said, "Wouldn't want you to starve to death."
I look down into the soup, a mix of colors, textures and flavors.
The white curve of the noodles,
the brown lumps of hamburger,
the fading green of the sweet peppers,
an errant tomato seed afloat in a reddish-tinged broth,
the smell savory and tantalizing.
It is a soup of ordinary life,
of comfort
and of home.
A bright orange carrot nestles
in a curl of onion, translucent,
and celery bits give a brief crunch
as I munch my way through each texture,
pondering the effort put into
chopping vegetables,
browning the burger,
seasoning to "just right."
I think of the origins of all the ingredients,
the sun and rain that fell on onion, carrot, pepper and cow alike,
the hands that picked the tomato from its vine,
and the waves of wheat bowing before the combine.

I eat two bowls full.


Dedicated to my mother-in-law.

History In A House

History In A House

The holes in the wall, they bother me. There is a desire in me for a smooth and unblemished wall - a sense of irritated curiosity about what hung there before, who the picture may have been of, as it stared, and left these faded outlines on the wall.

What memories were made here, in this place, where others have come before? What lives were lived in these scuffs on the floor that despite my insistent scrubbing, refuse to come out? What treasures lined these shelves in the china hutch, and what laughter and tears have resoundingly echoed from off these walls?

A house has history, and we humans flicker in and out of these rooms, hammer our hearts into these walls, and are gone, leaving behind only scratches in the floors, and a mystery of holes left in these walls.

Storm on the Horizon

Storm on the Horizon

He waits.
He listens, intently
with the knowledge that countless
eons have bestowed,
the sense of something coming.
Eyes bright, he looks,
cranes his neck and ears,
tuned to the sound of my voice,
of my step, of my smell.
He stands, reaching out his neck,
stretching out toward my hands
pressed to his so-soft muzzle,
ears curved to scythes,
nearly touching at the tips,
and follows obediently
as I lead him away
his body alert in its lines,
his hooves clip-clopping behind
in a sweet symphony of two.

Walking Home at 1 AM

Walking Home at 1 AM
the silence follows me as I make my way from pools under streetlights, glinting in the puddles left from melted spring popcorn snow, falling like the petals of newly-opened apricot tree blossoms.
Far off, a dog barks, so soft from this distance that it more closely resembles the hooting of an owl. A lone car grinds up the hills, the tires whooshing in Doppler waves on an asphalt shore.
Silence slides in around me as my shoes crunch on the gravel, a window here or there illuminated by the intermittent flicker of a big screen, though most windows are dark and houses quiet, their welcome mats awaiting visitors on dimmed porches, a smatter of stars peering at me through the veil of spring snowclouds.