hope

there is poetry
in the veins of leaves
there is music
in the swish of your cat’s tail
there is magic
in the smell of sweet roiboos tea

there is enough
there is wholeness
there is enough

Sunday morning with starfish and ships

careful waves find their way to the dock
my feet hover just over the surface
dipping one toe, then another
minnows are dancing country reels
over to the left
beyond them the anchored ships are calm
as though listening in church
the breeze is just cool enough
for a hint of goosebumps

a large pink starfish and I sing songs to the sun.

uprooted

we move, unaware
tree roots listen all the time
this ground is alive
angry at cement ceilings
severed umbilical cords

dehydrated

dust collects slowly
planted seed that never grew
your skin was too dry
love needs rivers of fresh rain
ours met death in your desert

camping on top of the Sausenburg Tower

it was cold that night
ancient stones bled the bitterness
of a ruin abandoned 400 years ago
but I remember being mesmerized
by the night sky
watching the dance
from a 150 feet closer to the stars

dogs

the Bateman’s pug, Beanie, was always my favourite
she and the black lab lived next door
that summer their owners were gone
and we got to pretend to have a dog for awhile

one Christmas Sunshine came to stay
only he spent most of the day sleeping
and smelled as old as he was
the fireworks New Year’s Eve made him panic

when I was ten
I bought an encyclopedia of dogs
memorized all the breeds
and gloated over my favourites for weeks

by then I’d decided on big dogs
little ones were yappy, unimpressive
but lately the superiority of pugs
has reasserted itself

someday, I’ll have one
(named Beastly)

forgotten bodies

eat
too worried about calories and expense
to taste the exquisite combination
of peanut butter and jelly

look
far more concerned with our own appearance
than the fantastic exhibitions
on now in the art gallery of the world

hear
memorize all the words to a hundred greatest hits
and then have to be taught
the skill of listening to lovers

breathe
so inured to sterile air-conditioned rooms
the smell of fresh rain on hot summer pavement
registers for only a few seconds

touch
practicality of steel and wood utensils
usurps the experience
of warm sheets against bare skin

the problem with today is
forgotten bodies

the genetic history of souls

I have Dad’s green eyes
and the sweet tooth from Grandpa
Mom shows up in my cheekbones
and someday Grandma will leave her legacy in my laugh lines

but where does my soul come from?
is there some genetic map
highlighting trace elements of other incarnations
pointing down through generations
to place me here
at the crossroads of mystery and certainty

or is its origin unknown
and only my body bears witness to history

p.s. April is National Poetry month, so I’m participating in the Poem A Day Challenge hosted by Robert Lee Brewer at Poetic Asides.

at semester’s end

March is a fine-tuned tension
downpours threaten sunshine only minutes later
winter waits for one last curtain call
spring stumbles over newly memorized lines
I must walk a tightrope
of endings tactlessly running into new beginnings

late afternoon

the hum of rain
seeps through the cracks
in the window frame

4:30 at the end of February
feels isolated and uncertain
seeds waiting in the ground

only sometimes does the wind
rustle through the downpour
touching branches lightly

stirred for a moment
the trees fall quickly
back to silence

the streetlights will wake up soon
in the meantime
it is not quite spring