Archive for the 'Poetry' Category


the true milestones

Not marriage, maybe, nor childbirth,
grandchildren, retirement;
not those.

Just a few moments.

The moment that you realize

that the world
owe you anything;

that the one-hundred-percent-right
to Raise Your Own Children
would have Lasting Professional Impact;

that you have a
to be happy;

that there is not a single person on this earth
who can learn
from your mistakes;

that you are,
in some ways,

and that this is,
in fact,

that it all matters
if you make it.

So make it.


I used to love you. . .

I used to love you
With a kind of frantic breathlessness
Every hair follicle screaming

My hands would tremble when
I saw you on Fridays
I would lie

on my office floor in the
Dark feet on my chair
Talking to you on the phone for

My day ruined if I didn’t hear your voice
In my ear At least four times
Now the soles of my

Love you
I love you with the patient resilience
Of the seasons I

Love you even when I know I’m
Disappointing you
Or splitting my infinitives
Or when the world we imagined
Is not the world in which we find

It seems to be, really that I’ve always
Loved you. Al


so true, so true

Wonder when this stops making me tear up a little.

Son #1 would probably scoff at my sentimentality. Maybe someday he’ll understand. . .



As the boys bones lengthened,
and his head and heart enlarged,
his mother one day failed

to see herself in him.
He was a man then, radiating
the innate loneliness of men.

His expression was ever after
beyond her. When near sleep
his features eased towards childhood,

it was brief.
She could only squeeze
his broad shoulder. What could

she teach him
of loss, who now inflicted it
by entering the kingdom

of his own will?



russian novella

russian novella.


That’s all.


ah, autumn

Drove home this afternoon through a gentle “rain” of golden leaves. The whole world seemed to gleam with them.

Wanted to stop and stand in the middle of the street. It was a busy street, and I had 25# of carrots to buy (don’t ask), and, well, it was a busy street, so I didn’t.

This made me kind of sad, how living sometimes gets in the way of enjoying those moments. I have a friend who is a pretty fantastic photographer who takes his (really really nice and not all that small) camera with him everywhere, and is often posting photos he took of the fog catching in the branches of the tree across from his house or the snow drifting across his back field and I always think “Wow, these are beautiful” and “Doesn’t he have to get to work on time?”


It did remind me of a poem I wrote for my BFF J____ once a really long time ago. It’s a bit juvenile, I think, and I remember I was experimenting with a kind of chanting rhythm, and the first part is kind of confusing regarding “who” I’m actually talking to “when,” so I’ll just put in the last bit:

. . .I want to stand arms lifted
in fall’s golden shimmering shower
face and eyes and hands and breath in
fiery splendid autumn air. . .

Maybe I’ll drive down there tomorrow, when the streets are less busy, and stand in the middle of the road with my nice-but-not-that-fancy camera and my broken foot in my delightful little “boot,” and take some pictures.



a journal of an event too long to chronicle, with none of the dates right except this one

this will be way too long to be a poem, probably
can’t be bothered with the pentameter or the rhyme

five years ago
or so
on my way to see mom after her second cancer surgery
wearing green pants and red sneakers
only daughter asked
you’re not wearing those shoes with those pants are you?

be careful what you wish for
(a girl in my house,
someone to tell me
if my shoes went
with my outfit)

not what they thought it
but a “glio”
and then

and mascara on husband’s pants
from crying with my head on his lap
(he said he didn’t mind)
(I believed him)

DVTs and oxygen

today restacking the long shelf of music
unbending the scores to stand them up against the
shelf above
reminding me of shifting mom in her bed,
nurses at corners counting one two three
while I “mind the feet”

crying in the tub as the water climbs

I am her
her disappointments and her defensiveness and the fact
that what I say is rarely what the world hears
and my attempts to order the world
without ever ending up really knowing
how I feel
about anything



just found this in my drafts box

from May 22, so not even the date is right

am not going to edit it, so here it is, in its raw form


time, and truth; from “Aubade,” by W. A. Auden

. . .But Time, the domain of Deeds,
calls for a complex Grammar
with many Moods and Tenses,
and prime the Imperative.
We are free to choose our paths
but choose We must, no matter
where they lead, and the tales We
tell of the Past must be true. . .

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