Everyday Mishap

Common sense
Should tell you
The pilots were
Not at fault.
Everyone knows
It’s time consuming
Working on a laptop.
The whole world
Can pass you by.
Your son takes
The Porsche for a spin,
Your daughter gets
A new tattoo.
Your wife leaves
You for the plumber.

Your password
Entered, reentered
Updates necessary
Before proceeding
Time for a virus scan.
These poor guys
Were simple victims
In the ebb and flow
Of cyberspace.

A Very Special Love/ Alternative Answer for Dear Abby

You find yourself falling for her,
a figment of electronic transmission.
No flatulence, eructation
or morning breath.
She carefully chooses her words
before hitting send, loves your work
and never criticizes your choice
for dinner, movies or music.
She loves what you love,
never mentions what doesn’t fit.
This perfect woman stops just
shy of over the top sensual,
doesn’t expect you to be on time,
take out the garbage or
remember her birthday,
but she remembers yours.
Admire another woman?
Go ahead, take her on,
it’s not a problem.

She really ought to tell you,
she isn’t always that loveable.

Her truth lies in cyberspace.

Rain-Auver by Vincent Van Gogh

I can almost see him,
Rivers of rain down
His hair and beard,
Darkened red to auburn,
Streaming over his face,
His eyes as he paints
Feverishly, striving
To cheer himself with
Brave sweeps of color.
Hills , fields, farmhouses
Still, lulled to sleep
By the music of the rain
As he strokes them
Boldly, with brilliant blues,
Luscious yellows, joyous orange,
Glorious splash of crimson.

Cornsilk

I was in a terrible mood when
I arrived home from the market,
Dark clouds filled the midday sky.
As I glumly filled the pot for pasta,
A breeze blew in the window with
The moist green smell of cornsilk,
As the rain began falling softly.
Suddenly, my mood lifted.

Stripping corn for dinner
With my sisters for my Mom.
That’s all we would have had
Those August nights
When it was first ripe,
Fat, sweet and slathered
With soft yellow butter.
.

Summer's End

Once meant dread.
Of a new school,
Up front, teacher’s
Hand on my head,
Causing a shudder,
Stammering my name
To a pack of strangers.

Walking home in
A new sweater set,
Wool skirt, too warm
For September sun
As mother warned.

Finale of a summer love,
A boy from out of town
Visiting his grandmother,
Who left with my address,
Never to be heard from.

Relief when my children
Who’d gotten quarrelsome
Went back to school.
Later, back to college,
House to ourselves again.

Then, time to get ready
For winter in southern sun.

Last year, a life together gone.

This year, a winter alone.

Mouse Play

Soft, sunny day.
Pale blue sky with
little tufts of cloud.
Nibbled by
tiny mice
who stopped on
their way to the moon.

It was said
to be made of
a special cheese
found nowhere
on earth.
How did they know?

Mother mouse told
them the story each
night when they were
Tiny and hairless.
She described the smell,
that made the nose
quiver and touched
the tongue with a tingle.
They would know it
By the creamy case with
Streaks of chartreuse.
The taste of this cheese
was out of this world,
one little bite to be sure.

The mice lingered
in the clouds to play,
waiting for
the moon to rise,
spied their path,
sped over the stars
in a quest for
unearthly delight..

Dreaming of Roses

I have a bar of soap
given to me three years ago
by my beautiful, no longer
daughter in law. Now she is
my friend. This rose scented
soap which I have never opened
is beautifully wrapped in
dusty red paper, delicately
decorated with cherry blossoms
and banded in gold. It sits
on the dresser near my bed.
Each night, when I lie down,
The powdery rose aroma brings
to mind my grandmother's rosewater.
I see a single magenta
petal, the fairy fine veins
in it, feel the baby skin softness.
The hint of roses I breathe
brings all this to mind as it
touches the very back
of my tongue with the
faint taste of raspberries.