bridalwreath

IMG_1195antique lace
skirts garden steps
the train of a gown
still brightly bleached
and pressed
despite palpable dust
on fingertips
and faint fragrance
of ancient talcum

on swayed branches
catching my eye
each year
an unassuming
mid-May surprise
halfway between
the giddy parade of
spring’s confetti blossoms
and summer’s sizzling
thick green canopy
marking the memorial
of my first breath Continue reading “bridalwreath”

symphony

 

city dawn sq

It starts with a soft hiss
in the dark
that percolates into a jangle
like chains
being pulled through pipes
which, in turn,
complain
of growing pains
with loud clanks and bangs
as they learn
again
to radiate heat.

The sheets
and the dog are warm.
The bathroom tiles will take
a little longer to comply.
I lie awake and watch
the dark blue silhouetted peeks
wink open
as windows light
one-by-one
to the rhythm
of my radiator
symphony.

marcello’s lullaby

img_1529

Oh, how I love my sweet ‘Cello bello boy!
I love him right up!
Did you meet my sweet ‘Cello bello boy?
That rascally pup!
How I love Marcello.
How I love Marcello.
How I love my sweet ‘Cello boy.

On the street, my sweet ‘Cello bello boy
is growly and gruff.
If you greet my sweet ‘Cello bello boy,
he’s rowdy and rough.
But at home, Marcello
is my sweet Marcello.
How I love my sweet ‘Cello boy.

Watch him run, with his feet flying, ‘Cello boy,
a wag in his tail,
and the wind ‘neith the ears of my ‘Cello boy,
like flags on a sail!
On the run, Marcello.
(Cutest bun, Marcello!)
How I love my sweet ‘Cello boy.

Go to sleep, my sweet ‘Cello bello boy,
and dream of a day
when the squirrels and the wheels, ‘Cello bello boy,
have all spun away.
Go to sleep, Marcello.
Dream sweet dreams, Marcello..
How I love my sweet ‘Cello boy.

Lyrics by Jim Kempster, based on the melody of a waltz by Vince Guaraldi.

Continue reading “marcello’s lullaby”

waiting

The five-block walk to the subway.
The twelve-week sale of the house.
The hours to surgery.
The years to degrees.
The decades to wisdom.
From outset to threshold
of the threshold,
of the threshold,
counting minutes,
noting stones
mapping turns,
imagining the face on arrival,
the place of landing
in fragments and smudged sketches
as a trailing dream.

A zen master would counsel
to be in each second,
to learn from each minute
to acknowledge each step.
I try, lord knows,
I listen hard.
But with each boot plod
or sole flap
or hoof suck
I hear only halts:
Not yet.
Not yet.
Not yet.
Not yet.

history lesson

Cleaning out
is history research,
an archeological dig,
each layer revealing
moments from the past
weeks,
then months,
then years,
—what mattered at the time.

While cleaning out the garage
I found a wad of bread
some creature had stashed
between summer cushions
with dust, leaves, twigs
—an abandoned nest
built upon the boxes
we brought with us
intending to repair
an even more
ancient
past.