New Life Gossip

(for Richard and Grace)

Right -- Poetry is not Memoir --
voice of the poem, yada, yada.
Are you kidding me? Did you
see him with her? Have
you read his new book?
Those love poems rise up
like hot air balloons at the
Bristol Balloon Festival --
purple, yellow, red, green,
and oh, my gondola—
when his shoulders
press into hers, tweed
jackets or not—you
know what I’m saying?
They were sizzling like
bacon on a griddle at
an Eddie Rocket Diner.
They had their lesson plans,
books, their serene teacher
faces – all-is-copasetic looks.
But when she lifted her
eyes to glance at him,
he felt it right through
the back of his head.
I’ll tell you this, girlphone--
that new book of his? He
is just getting warmed up.

Confiserie Delicés

for Sarah

Returning to New York

from France, encumbered

with all your old and new

clothes, paraphernalia, art

supplies, and souvenirs,

you thought of us, and

brought us dark chocolate

pralines. We’ve savoured

each one, (and in true Heveron

tradition, one petite piece remains).

We also thought of you,

exploring old Europe,

learning the fine points of

French, the customs, attitudes,

and anecdotes you’ll remember

forever in your mind.

We envisioned you laughing

in Paris, like Audrey

Hepburn in Sabrina.

Someday you will tell your

stories – (l’intrigue!), show

your sketches, -- (le croquis!),

write un mémoire merveilleux

of that notable year. I would

love to know which moment

stands out in your mind, like

a framed old photograph,

which speaks to your soul.

I know that you accomplished

something huge, and amazing.

And I know you kept our love

in your pocket, like a lucky

worn coin. And when you

came back, with a slightly

new smile on your face,

you gave us sweet chocolate.

Aural Love

Sometimes it’s not

what you say --it

is only your voice

that I hear.

And it is not

my deafness or

poor listening skills.

It is just that the sound

of your voice is enough.

Yes --you are right.

I am writing this

about you! I am

a visual learner,

but an aural lover.

I adore the sound of

your voice. I shiver

in the hills and valleys

of your tonal range.

Your words thrill

like fireflies in the

celestial regions

of my brain.

Then, gone!

I can not capture

or hold them –

nor would I.

Keep

speaking

I’m closing

my eyes.

Poem for Mystie the Cat

You ponder the placement

of a patch of fresh sunlight.

You pounce and capture

its heat; own it’s place

for awhile.

Then your warm little

body leaps onto my lap.

And I wish you long life--

even longer than mine,

though I know that’s

unlikely.

I let go of these

thoughts

like falling-down sand

through a child’s open

hands.

You settle in to

purring,

pure and soundly

content.

You have pondered

all there is;

there is only one

Sun.

It rises up high in

the morning,

Then bows out softly

when it's done.

After Valentine's ay

for Emma

Having given up

the charade of

freshness, of

forecasting Spring,

long-stemmed

mauve tulips

sagged, their

wide heads hung

over the side of the

proud little vase,

nearly touching

the cool marble

table, seeking

release.

“You pansies,”

I laughed,

wondering whether

to grab my camera

or pen. I checked

the light coming in.

Beside the beaten

blossoms,

an unopened

heart-shaped tin,

held foil-covered

Ferraro chocolates.

This gift from tender

teenaged hands --

glistened

with promise.

Mystery Pen

Wouldn't the Mercy nuns have loved to
to snatch this miniscule pen from my grip?
This is like a James Bond Pen. No--
This is like a girlfriend of James Bond's pen.
Someone who wouldn't ever use it,
except to watch the urgent message
disappear in thirty hushed seconds.
This is the thinnest pen you'll ever find,
chic, skinny black Mont Blanc, slim
like a julienned carrot, ready for ranch
dip dipping. Its secret, real purpose
has yet to be revealed. Some
perfume or poison, some odorless,
memory-removing puff of air
could be emerging even now,
as I dare to try it out
for my mundane needs.

Food, Family, Walk

Still chewing a snap pea, I rinsed the last of the

Thai leftover rice and lemon wedge down the disposal,

recalling the Tee-shirt I bought, as a joke for Peter,

“Visualize Whirled Peas.” Pete hated peas.

Still does, I think – even in Indian rice, where

they’re mostly there for color and punctuation.

Pete showed me how to make perfect popcorn

in a Whirly Popper and how to make scones

from scratch for breakfast. My older brother,

John, made me my first burrito. I was 27,

married, living in Coconut Grove, Florida.

How had I lived without Mexican food?

And where did my brothers learn to cook?

Growing up, they were only around at dinnertime,

for the pre-dinner wrestling match, on the living

room floor, when they called each other names

like fag or weakling ‘til they were a tornado of

arms and legs. We girls watched or got out of the way,

‘til Mom appeared and gave everyone chores, like “Go

finish your homework,” “Clear the table,” “Bring up a

can of asparagus,” (or beans, or a load of laundry) from

the basement. The Cellar. There were no risers in the back

of the stairs to The Cellar. I hated those open-backed steps.

I hated canned mushy vegatables. I hated frozen vegetables

too. I hated meat even more. I lived for the nights Mom made

spaghetti with her home-made sauce or baking powder biscuits.

Other than that, I lived for desserts — cookies, mostly. I spent

my allowance on dark chocolate covered Mounds bars, never

on milk chocolate Three Muskateers. It was a good half mile

walk to Gunther’s Grocery. We walked everywhere back then.

We walked to school, to our friends’ houses, to church, to the

playground, to the ponds in the woods, to the lake. Summer,

Winter, Spring and Fall we walked. We walked for years.

We’re still walking. When we all get together for Easter,

Mother’s Day, Thanksgiving, or Christmas, after dinner,

we put on our sneakers and coats, file out the door

and we walk.