Stone Wheel

Before anyone
can remember
the mountain broke.

Nameless hands cut chipped
and rubbed the fractured
chunk to round
lifted its immeasurable weight
onto the sister base
and made it roll.

Missing the Record Store

Ten years ago, I could distinguish
between voices.
Sylvia McNair didnt sound like
Renee Fleming.
Sutherland, Cabbale' and Battle
were distinct and elegant.
Today I struggle
to name Angela Gheorghiu
or Anna Netrebko by voice.

It isnt my ears. It's time.
I dont listen.

Of the Sea

Blue turquoise
and green her favorite
skirt flowed down the line
of lithe legs to sandalled feet
that shuffled and skipped
to the bossa beat.

Leave the Door

she said
The draft is nice.

A bit of it stirred
a stone grey lock
of hair on her forehead.

In a chair in the dim
hotel room she quietly
rubbed her swollen knee.
That knee.
The one that needed
to be replaced
but her doctor said it
wasnt bad enough.

She smiled
bright eyes shining
like the photos
from her childhood.

Enigma with Cliches (or Election Theory)

A cloud of suspicion.
A veil of secrecy.
Thick as pea soup
or molasses in January.

It was all done with mirrors
but when the smoke clears
and the cows come home
keep your eyes peeled.

Heads will roll
and it wont be pretty.

Judy

On her last bed
breath was difficult
requiring effort
deep concentration.

She had no laughter.

The beautiful eyes
that shone vivid blue
when she spoke or sang
were grey.

When we all had come
the dark goodbyes
had been said
she drew a shallow breath.

Canta

The moon
cloaked in our shadow
makes its nightly circuit
horizon to horizon.
Silent.
Harsh as nothing
we will ever know.

Hear cool water.
Taste a warm breeze.
Feel the song that sings us.

It rained today.

Cloud shadows lay
cool across roads
and barns
...........houses
..................schools
.......and buses
that carried children
back to waiting homes.

They dont wear yellow
slickers anymore.

By June

my hair had turned
light as California
worked its changes.

There was nothing of Kansas
left on me
save the fragrance of
freshly mown hay
in the memory
of my nostrils.

Now the smell
of salty water
colors every breath
green-blue.
The touch of it cleanses
freshens and restores.

Old layers waft away
each exfoliated from each
leaving only that part
which is alive behind.

I am brown like bread.

I wish I were golden
like standing wheat
..................in sunlight.
On the street
people passing would say
..................How beautiful!

Golden

I wish I were golden
like wheat in sunlight.
When I passed people
on the street would say
...............How beautiful!

I am brown like bread.

Sheets

Cool white
against grassy green
and cerrulean

catching wind billow
and fall like skirts
of young girls who spin

themselves dizzy
on wide lawns in summer.