The memory disappears
like stars
we no longer see
in the light of day.
We know the twinkling lights
are in the heavens,
waiting for night,
hoping for a cloudless sky,
just like a memory,
intangible.

 

Ghosts follow us
like the stars we can’t see.
Both are always there
just waiting
to reappear.

 

Fleeting snippets
of our past
that our minds replay,
gift us with visions
of who we once were.

 

 

 

 

Thank you for the sun
that gives daylight
and warms our bones.

 

Thank you for the moon
that controls the tide
and provides
a romantic ambience

 

for lovers who walk
along shorelines,
tree lined streets,
or secluded pathways.

 

Thank you for the trees
that drop their leaves
and for those
that remain ever green.

 

Thank you for good bugs
who oversee our gardens.

 

Thank you for friends
who share our dreams
and are always there.

 

Thank you for family
that puts the sparkle
in our every day.

 

Thank you for turkey
that fills our tummies.

 

Thank you for life.

 

Another loss.
I try to forget.
Memories tumble from my head.
I try not to feel, but I do.

 

I can’t stand the pain.
Too many people I’ve loved
have gone to their forever sleep.

 

I gaze out my window
and begin to write.
Words drip from my nib,
purple ink colors my page
and I force today’s thoughts away.

 

A tree,
a squirrel,
birds in the honeysuckle bush,
sun hiding behind gray woolly clouds,
frozen water in the bird bath.

 

Soon, soon robins will return.
I’ll clean and fill the bath,
plant pansies,
and watch tulips bloom.

 

In a corner of my brain
thoughts of the past swirl.

 

I’ll survive.

 

 

 

 

I said goodbye to innocence
that September morning
when the sky wore blue
and the sun peaked through
my kitchen windows.

 

Mesmerized by clouds of dust
and rubble
that chased New Yorkers
who ran from the World Trade Center,
I stared at the t.v.
in stunned silence.

 

My world tumbled
along with people
that jumped or fell
first from one tower,
then the next.

 

Voices of newsmen
and witnesses trembled.
People cried.
Firemen, policemen, citizens
just like me,
ran,
ran to help,
ran up flights of stairs,
guiding others to safety.
Samaritans gave up lives.

 

We’re all victims
of this holocaust of freedom,
freedom gifted to us
by birth in America
and now threatened.

 

My virginal past
was buried with the dead.

 

Though my innocence
no longer flies free,
and I feel afraid,
my flag waves proudly
and reminds me
how lucky I am
to be an American.

 

We talk and walk
the two-mile path
around the lake,
his stride
long than mine.

 

Soon he moves ahead,
while I race to keep up.
I fall back, pant, catch up,
and hook my arm through his.

 

He’s like a horse,
needs to be paced
and I’m just the filly
who can do it.

 

 

 

 

Sea mist floats
toward circling seagulls
that wait for me,
sensing that I’ll toss poems
into the salty breeze.

 

Patiently, they ride air currents
and sing shrill songs
until I tear sheets
into a hundred bits       
and throw them
to the wind.

 

Scavengers chase
and snatch my discards,
useless nouns and verbs
I strung together
during the night.

 

When the gulls discover
my phrases can’t be eaten,
they drop empty calories
into the blue sea
and its unsettled waves

 

that crash against large
black boulders
where sunning sea lions sleep.
They awake and roll over,
enjoying nature’s bath.

 

But when soggy bits of words
and stanzas wash onto their rock,
they read, wince
re-write in their heads.

 

Ready to spout verse,
they wiggle whiskers,
pull back ears,
and honk,
creating Pacific poetry.