Julia's Odyssey

“Which hand?” you asked,

hiding a tiny marble square.

Then you gave me the soap--

black lavender pure.

I inhaled, over and over,

as deep as I could,

“You’ll smell all the scent

out,” you laughed.

I’ve saved it for months,

on the sill of my window,

wrapped in crinkly

white paper.

Like the Flower Girl photos,

in our Fall wedding album,

it’s full of your laughter,

your tenderness and youth,

your splashes in the pool,

your patent leather shoes.

I inhale and remember,

you cut all your hair,

to give to a stranger,

a woman with bad news.

Now you’re moving to Memphis.

Pack your friends in your heart,

leave behind the Brownie dress,

put your cell phone on charge.

Give your teachers and neighbors

one of your big eyed sighs.

You’re moving to Memphis,

the Odyssey of your Mind.

New Neighbor In The City

New Neighbor in the City

Your blinds are drawn --

they finally came!

I live next door

20 feet away.

Our shrub is trimmed

this side anyway --

my welcome to you

on a sunny day.

An odd, but common arrangement--

at home, in our many rooms --

proximity with privacy;

we all live quite alone.

The leaves hang up tight in the trees,

holding back their autumn splash.

You arrived just in time for our block party;

we welcomed you at last.

But we’ve yet to see your colors --

will you be removing your mask?

Or will you keep your blinds drawn down--

sticking to private tasks?

This is life in the city, as I see it,

options, many as the stars --

neighbors, a dog’s-walk away -- or

anonymously passing in cars.

I see you’ve got a new mailbox!

The old name has been set free.

We heard you play the bassoon --

did I tell you my cat loves reeds?

Your blinds are drawn --

they look just great!

I live next door –

twenty feet away.

ellie

It’s my pal, ellie’s birthday
and she’s too busy, closing
Yellow Pages ads, to take
a phone call. She's a sales
person you completely trust as
she would not waste your time
or hers simply to make money.
She sells what she believes in,
is proud of the fact that she
can make customers think
about why they should invest
in what she has to sell. She’s
smart, has always been smart,
knows it, isn’t afraid to talk to
anyone about anything. She
will ask any question without
worry. She watches and listens
as she notices the nuances of
people, of their relationships
with one another. This stuff
feeds her soul. I always
lean on her when I need
wisdom. For decades,
when I was single, and
met someone new, I would
call her in Florida to share
my big news. She always
asked me the same thing.
It was muy importante,
yet, I might fail to notice,
right off the bat, if there were
other pulling forces. She’d
listen to me tell her how funny,
how attractive, how romantic
he was. Then she’d make me
wait, while she took a long
drag off of her cigarette,
exhaled and asked, “So,
is his head in a good place?”
el dropped those eight
words over and over
till I got it right.

Poem for My Sister, Marti

Marti's Poem

My words can't hold a tiny
little candle to you. These
lines are just bare feet to
your hundred pair of shoes.

You appear in a room, flash
your thousand watt smile--
Without even trying, you
raise the meaning of style.

Before I've got my coat off, you've
made a dozen new friends. And
each one will be there for you--
from that moment till the end.

You assume success,
and it comes right along--
like a puppy on a leash,
or a new hit song!

You're a whiz on the Internet,
at Trader Joe's and Chico's too--
you always find a bargain,
and you act so cool.

You overbook your days, but
somehow make it through.
You find some time on sale
and toss it in the stew.

You're my youngest sister,
but I look way up to you.
I would put this in a poem--
but I really thought you knew.

Maybe They Call it Spring

Maybe they call it Spring

because it's like a leap

across a chasm

from Winter to Summer.

Maybe they call it Spring

since it's like a dream

dripping away at

the shift from night to day.

You tighten your fluttering

eyes against the light,

protesting the loss of your

other life, no matter

how fractured or weird.

Night memories wiggle

out of the bed before you

find your feet on the floor.

Maybe they call it Spring

because it strings together

the two large seasons

we sing out our dharma.

You fight off the darkness

at night...you check your

list, as your lids resist

the urge to rest. You don't

want to leave the day;

it could be your last.

You plead one more icy

glass of kitchen water.

Maybe they call it Spring

because the thrash of rain

is calling your name, back to

the Winter you want to forget.

You fight off the brilliance

of noon day sun. You go

inside and hide in a book,

(the original sun block).

One hour later you check

the clock, change your

clothes, unwrap the hose,

take care of the garden.

Maybe they call it Spring

to draw your face to the earth,

where hyacinths break your

heart, like a one night stand.

Like circles upon circles,

maybe they call it Spring

repeating the lessons,

promising rebirth.

A Mother's Day Poem

Adoptee

There is a child who makes
the stars come out at night.
That's how a poem should start.
Don't say: we waited two years to adopt her
and then had only three days to drive
to the next town to bring her home,
like a dish to pass, just in time for Easter.

Don't say you never thought about racism
coming your way when you checked
a small box on a form. Interracial __ yes.
Say the love you imagined was only
a drop of rain in the ocean.
Say she is the light of day.
Say she is the speed of light.
Say she is the ground
on which angels play.
You play music; but she
is the music you play.
You sing; but she is the song.

Don't say you miss walking alone
with your husband every night,
tidying up the house, before slipping
into the bedroom to make love,
door wide open--then sleeping
for a blessed eight hours.

Say she keeps us young and laughing
Say she teaches patience and understanding.
Say only this child could show you
what things in life are key.
Don't say: We miss our friends.
Say: she is our guru, our dharma.
our greatest blessing.
She makes the stars come out.

For Lou with love

You're Gone Again

You're gone again...

another plane

to catch

before sunrise

before my eyes

are re-delighted

with your smile.

On our front porch,

potted pansies brag

up their little faces

what they know of

Spring and promises.

While hyacinths are deciding

which perfume to release,

you pass back yard daffodils

wearing nothing underneath

their see-through yellow costumes

heads bobbing, in garden gossip.

Forsythia bushes stretch their

freshly blooming stems

towards still-bare trees

above, sketching the sky.

As you glance through

the garage window,

Buddha sees you off,

his unconditional

peacefulness, his loyal

presence and friendship

solid as ancient stone.