Migrations

Last weekend, a friend observed she could mark the seasons by the source of the blueberries in the supermarket where she shops. (For foreign readers- Safeway is a supermarket chain in the U.S.)

                                                        Migrations

                        Blueberries move north, just behind the birds.
                        You can track them at the Safeway.
                        In January they come from Chile,
                        transplanted treat the Incas never knew.
                        By March a hybrid that can take the heat
                         ripens among  Florida retirees,
                         a faint foreshadowing of the real thing.
                         Come August they are back where they belong,
                         growing New England wild for birds, bears,
                         and blue-tongued boys to taste how winter chill
                         becomes summer sweetness and how summer’s
                         surfeit makes way for winter’s long, spare rest.

Latecomers

  Just a few thoughts about the people who don't make it to the theatre in time for the start of the show.

               Latecomers

will be seated during a break
in the action, just as they have
fit our play into a break between
whatever made them late and
whatever they have left undone.

Parallel Parking

This one started with the title and some thoughts while driving to work.

   Parallel Parking

No signal does it justice         
since it is more than a stop
and not quite a turn,
depending on other
drivers to divine
we have passed
where we want to be
and are going to back up
until it becomes where we are –
close but not too close
to the curb and the cars,
filled with the comfort
and pride of all things
difficult and dreaded
when once well done.

 

Footloose

After looking at my bedroom floor one night, I wrote this poem the next morning.

                                                 Footloose

                                    In some places, shoes
                                    reside on racks
                                    confined in closets
                                    categorized by color
                                    or by class -
                                    brown, black, beige,
                                    the dress-up separated
                                    from the everyday.

                                    But here, we shed our shoes
                                             wherever we want
                                   so they end up
                                           under the coffee table
                                                or Ikea chairs
                                    beside the bed
                                              at the foot of the stairs,
                                    sneakers and sandals
                                          and slippers
                                    wingtips and work boots
                                                and even the loafers
                                     all huddle in herds
                                         or hide on their own,
                                    all ready to roam
                                                 the wide world round –
                                    or trip us in the dark
                                                                     where we all fall down.

Matryoshka

My daughter and her husband announced on Christmas Day that they are expecting a child in July.
This got me thinking about the relationship between generations and how parents feel about becoming grandparents.

                                     Matryoshka

                                                        for Meg

                          And so the generations nest
                                inside each other
                          like reversible Russian dolls:
                          the woman who is my child
                                has a child within her now
                          who may remember me
                                in future family tales,
                          just as I recall
                                my father’s strength
                          and my mother’s touch
                               when I think of infants
                                        in my arms.

                         Thus, the bigger begets
                           and is begotten
                               by the small
                            when we embrace
                              what we are
                               and were
                             and will become,
                             doll within
                                           doll within
                                                           doll,
                             with our love bearing
                                one another,
                             the holder and the held,
                               back to the cradle
                            and back from the brink
                            again and
                                         again
                                                 and again
                           until the very beginning
                           meets the very end.

               

                               

               

The Early Morning School Bus

Lately, I've been driving to work about the same time the public school buses are picking up high school students.

                           The Early Morning School Bus

                        stops and summons
                        young, dim shadows
                        from the dark with its
                        blinking red warning.
                    
                        Shades scurry down sidewalks
                        and glide across lawns
                        as the other drivers pause,
                        patiently watching what
                        they all once were,
                        anxiously waiting to get to
                        what they all will become.

Leaving the Lights On

A short poem about mortality and the electric bill.

                                         Leaving the Lights On

                                          I know it’s not frugal
                                          or planet friendly,
                                          but it makes me feel
                                          I’ve been here
                                          and might return.