Friday, May 29, 2009

BUNNIES AND BEAVERS (Wildlife not Wild Life)

If you get up early and go down by the river before the joggers and dog walkers
you will be a witness to the best part of the day. Cottontails breakfast in the soft shadows. New grass is food and a screen from intruders.
If you go too near, they gather and unfold across the path
and melt into the briers.
Spring makes the river big and busy. The water splashes and sparkles in the low light.
And plays in the mud along the banks.
A loud SMACK on the water announces the presence of a beaver.
He is built for work, not beauty.
Trees along the river
show evidence of his labors.
He's aware of intruders, but has sticks to ferry
to his latest project.
You wish you had more time to soak up the peace of the morning. The road returns you to reality.

Wednesday, May 27, 2009


I was flat on my back. The face looking down at me was vaguely familiar. I slowly realized the last time I had seen her; she had been an unruly teen hiding behind a curtain of dark hair. “Do you want the gas?” No wonder I did not recognize her. I had never seen those charming eyes. But she was so YOUNG and she was poised behind a tray full of very sharp steel instruments. “Yes, by all means, bring on the gas.” I inhaled both lungs full. Dr. S. sat down behind my right shoulder. When he bent over I could see the hair in his nose. I trusted Dr. S. He’d had his hands in the mouth of all my children. Once he had put everything on hold to stop a pain in my jaw that threatened to make my head explode. His office sported more new digital equipment every time I stopped by. But there was that same NEEDLE stabbing into my mouth and threatening to shoot out the back of my neck. I have found that silently reciting poetry helps me disregard alarming situations. I shut my eyes and got through most of John Masefield’s “Sea Fever” (“I must go down to the seas again”), when the drilling and slurping started. An old silver filling was being replaced with a pretty white porcelain job in a back molar. The nitrous oxide was making my brain foggy (Try something easier, uh, “Whose woods these are I think I know,”) I smelled smoke. (My head is on fire!….. “His house is in the village, though.”) Brown Eyes handed Dr. S. something that looked like a plate of bubble gum. (“He will not see me”….uh…duh). “Bite down…hmmm a little high” (Yeah, I think I am). “How does that feel?” Dr. S. grinned. My tongue felt like a hunk of raw liver. The whole left side of my face was dead. “Pleddy Gub! Flls fwine!” Dr. S. left. Brown Eyes brought me down from the gas and sent me out the door. I sat in my car with dried drool on my face. I looked in the mirror with slightly crossed eyes at the glistening white in the back of my mouth. I wondered if I should be behind the wheel in this condition. I took the back streets home.

Sunday, May 24, 2009


Plates yellow with yolk Cemented by syrup In stacks.
 Silverware Gathered and scattered With glasses and bowls.
 Dripping pans, greasy pots Drying and sticking together.
 No release from the chore Or hope of escape or parole.
 But, lightened, distracted By music; and being alone,
 She shook back her hair in the sunbeams,
 Kicked off her sandals,
 And danced and danced And danced.