Echoes in the Rain

The rain has started
with a quietness
so warm and calming
that the tree
throws its back
into the gentle wind
and feels the wetness
rushing down its bark.

It allows the drips to slip
through its branches
between bud
and newly formed leaf
soaking down
through the dusty dirt
surrounding its trunk
and flow deep
deep down
to the thirsty straws
of its roots.

Throwing away
all safety advice
I stand with one hand
on the tree’s wet bark
and the other hand
out and up
allowing the drips to slip
through my fingers
between the rings
of our newly formed union
soaking down
through my clothes
surrounding my skin
and flow deep
deep down
to the healing place
of my soul.

And if my sighs of contentment
and renewed strength
were not so loud
you could have heard
the tree’s

Don’t You Look Now

but my feet are scuffling
along the dusty road
crunching pebbles
kicking stones
and stepping on the sidewalk
where my mother’s back
is suddenly in peril
and it doesn’t matter
that she too can feel my pain
and so I two-footedly stomp
coming down with a thud
that isn’t much heard
as felt in my shoulder blades
and it doesn’t help
the mood I’m in
when the red tip of a cane
pokes its way onto my path
and I feel annoyed
by its presence
suddenly in my way
for the blind man
is walking confidently out
he’s looking up and smiling
his greeting to me
but his aim is higher
than my scowl
and I regret
my disability
for now with the anger
is added the guilt
because what can I have
to be angry about
when I see the blind man
looking up

Don’t You Move That Pile

You don’t have to tell me
again I realize
that the counter is covered
with a pile of papers
magazine clippings
and fliers
with torn open envelopes
and random receipts
but everything
in the growing pile
is very important
and CAN NOT BE MOVED
by you because
I have it expertly filed
between later and never.

Don’t You Call Me Ma’am

“Thank you, Ma’am,”
the young ponytailed clerk said
so matter-a-factly
as she handed me back
my change.

“What?” I was confused.
She couldn’t mean me.
I am only thirty
and in my eyes
only a little older
than her.
I may be a mother,
but I’m nobody’s Ma’am.

Then the acne covered
bag boy picked up
on her cue.
“Have a nice day, Ma’am,”
he added with not a hint
of sarcasm in his voice
as he handed me my bags.

Ma’am.

The first time
you hear that word
you have already paid the price
and even with a receipt
they won’t take it back.

Legendary Joe

When Uncle Joe
was just a boy
no one thought
him visionary
or innovative
he was just Joe
sent to work
on the neighbor’s
chicken farm
spreading feed
and plumping fowl
for the summer.

Then came the day
when just Joe was told
to grab a chicken
by the legs
and throw it over
the v of the plank
so the farm hand
could swing the knife
sharpened at the wheel
on the other side of the plank
down on the chicken’s neck
with a slice
and a squawk
and a splat.

One by one
in the summer sun
the chickens were tossed
and beheaded
ready for plucking
but the job was hot
and tiring
and just Joe was thinking
that there were cement blocks
behind the barn
and wooden planks
long and strong.

Just before dawn
just Joe was preparing
the blocks down two rows
and the boards
on top of the blocks
and the feed
spread down
on the boards in rows
with a space in-between
just wide enough
for a hungry chicken
to stick its neck up
pecking for feed.

Just as they ate
Joe came driving
over the planks
on a riding lawn mower
so cleanly slicing
and bagging his bounty
of heads
and no one else
could have thought of that
just Joe.

A Well Stocked Pantry

Betty Crocker was the Martha Stewart
of my mother’s day
and luckily I inherited
Mom’s supply of cookbooks.

They are filled with perfected recipes
of luscious cakes and indulgent pies
and expert, expert advice
on how to set a flawless table.

But even if you borrow
all my books and instructions
you should just take
my experienced advice

because no good can come
from trying to cook
for your new mother in-law.
Everyone knows that.

So if she seems
to genuinely enjoy
your feeble attempts
at meatloaf and mashed potatoes

and her compliments of your efforts
are praises dripping
like sweet syrup
running down your counter

find a way
to sop them up
and stash them in the pantry.
You will need them later.

Preening Kate

Every day
a half used
tissue box
was put to good use
when she was sixteen
and checking
in the mirror
for the shapely curves
that take a lifetime
to come.

Every month
went by and
we must increase
our bust has taken effect
and the tissue
is gracefully dropped
for the romantic reality
of an observant man
that took a lusting
look.

Every year
went by and
many tissues
wiped mouth and chin
as the breasts increased
beyond the cup of curve
and flesh spilled out
from indulgent desires
like yeast on the stove
to rise.

Every decade
a half used
tissue box
was put to good use
wiping tears that came
after a lifetime
of vainly hiding
the bulging curves
that spoiled the dreams
of Kate.

Applied Mathematics

It is easy for a fourth grader
to see that a flight of stairs
is a series of connected
90 degree angles

but it takes an eighth grader
to understand
the Pythagorean theorem
enough to realize
the mathematical relationship
that allows you to slide down
that flight of stairs
in a cardboard box

and it takes a group of his friends
and an alcohol induced experiment
of sliding velocity
to determine the intelligence
of adolescent males
on a short ride to stupidity

Theory of Relativity

Einstein and I
must have been
brother and sister
in some past life.

But in his grave
he should not
be jealous of
what I know
but no one else
in my house
can figure out.

Some things I know
are beyond the scope
of the average man’s
son’s or daughter’s
intelligence.

I can’t hold that
against them
as they can only
do so much
with what they have.

It is the curse
that they must live with.
I can sympathize.
It must be difficult
to attempt so complex
a task.

So I will try my best
not to get a big head
as I put on a new roll
of toilet paper.

It’s a gift.

I Hold These Truths to Be Self Evident

I’m waiting
I’m twirling
I’m twirling
I’m waiting

my silverware
spoons up the light
and bends me

I’m upside-down
I’m bloated
I’m upside-down
I’m bloated

my anticipation
staring into the spoon
tests me

I’m waiting
I’m upside-down
I’m twirling
I’m bloated

my dinner is over
and the empty plates
are cleared

my inner struggle
between control
and losing me

my impatient tapping
breaks through
with a blissful crunch

my spoon slipping in
with another twirl
in a final decision

my digging beneath the surface
and indulging in heaven
in crème brûlée

my licking the spoon
thankfully
smearing both illusions

Morning’s Uncertainty

you awoke me to the dawn
of the way that it was
slumbering weight
of falsehood lifted off
pulling back blankets
of depression pressing
soul crushing down

through heart holding
questions arousing now
all the wishes of didn’t
and couldn’t and can’t
have stirred up the angers
you wouldn’t and won’t
tell my mind the things
that my heart can not hear
without sobbing and crying
the tears soaking through

my memories stained
by interrogation of fear
only tainted wondering
skeptical truth
leaving no one to tell
the comforting words
hidden in the cover
of this morning’s uncertainty

rolling over to hide
in the pillows of shame
my reality withdrawn
from the blinding shock
of day

go away

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