Altitude

This one is not quite finished, but I like the idea that I awoke with this morning.

I have an attitude about altitude,

about flying on waxy wings

following sunbeams

back to where night's chill

replenishes.

What if Icarus could have flown

over the rainbow with the bluebirds,

would we then be able to believe

in the power of our dreams?

Warnings are warnings,

best heeded, and then seen

in the piercing light of the heart.

We are born lie detectors

with lifetime batteries

if only we believe it.

For now, I'll keep shooting arrows

at shooting stars, I'll be

careful to follow the arc of the universe

for the boomerang effect.

I've drooled on enough pillows

to know that dreams

are night's rollercoaster--

maintenance is required.

Packing a Life Into Paper Bags

As I cleaning out closets,

I think about death--

how personal

yet anonymous

our clothes are.

How they evoke the  seasons,

our hard work and simple leisure,

the photographable days and the time

that slips by in an increasing blur.

Shoes, especially,

warp and wear so differently

that I wonder who buys

our shed soles at the resale shop?

Who walks that mile in our ill-fitting

mocs when we leave them behind?

It is my own death I'm celebrating

today, a death of outfits

from one life, and the demise

of garb from another, moving on.

Several small deaths I pack

into bags and donate

so that others can dress in them,

make entirely different lives

of them. Maybe I'll see someone

wearing that shirt I loved,

and for a moment I'll think I

must know them.

I wonder, too, if I'll do this again

for someone else, packing the clothes

I loved seeing them wear, that nubby

sweater I wept on, the button I replaced,

the pants whose pockets I picked

every laundry day. I wonder who

will do this for me, when my clothes

outlive me, and go on to live other lives,

as unknowing as the four-eyed buttons
joining one side to another.

Next

green Subaru

just-married hearts

and streamer remnants

in line

for the car wash

In Bed at the Beach

I listen for it breathing,

as soothing as a kitten's purr.

But it has retreated now,

and all I can hear

is the mechanical snore

of the refrigerator, 

and, when that shudders to rest, 

a vaguely electrical buzzing 

which could well be the actual 

movement of current 

through the embedded

lines, it is that quiet. 

The Man With the Cane

The Man With the Cane

The dog is red right up to the muzzle,

which is white with a big raisin in the middle.

The dog is greyhound thin, with long legs

and a sharp scoop of stomach.

The bushy tail is setter-ish, and furls

behind like something burr-ish

got stuck in there.

The dog sets down one paw at a time,

so old the paws all work separately,

and the leash is dress-up, not a command.

When the dog trips into the street,

it blinks blindly at the light of day,

trying to please the man with the cane.

All the cars watch, and the helmeted bicyclist

and I begin to cry in the left-hand turn lane,

and when the light changes no one moves,

no honking or revving. We all stop and pray

at the old dog, even though we've never

prayed before.

Maybe we're all weeping--the loyalty

of a white-muzzled dog who obviously

doesn't need a walk anymore,

and the man with a cane who might love the dog

or not, and we all see, at last, how we could

be better people, and we give thanks in our

silent cars for that.

haiku continued

first fall rain
the gate has lost
its squeak

haiku continued

chipped blue
amputee
garden gnome