When I Read a Good Poem

When I read a good poem,
I hold
each
word
for a
moment
in my mouth
before
---- moving
on to the next one, like
one
bite
of creme brulee
after
another.

Happy Record Store Day!

To Have and to Hold

If I can't hold a record or a book in my hands,
it doesn't seem quite real.
It's virtually invisible --
seemingly nonexistent.
While I can appreciate
facets of the digital world,
I want to hold art
in my hands.
I want to touch it.
I want to experience it
in a tangible way.
I want to own a piece
of the magic.
I want to commit to it,
like a partner,
like a spouse.
No cheap fling for me.
Nothing to consume quickly and
walk away from easily.
I want to invest in it.
I want it to mean something.
I want to connect to it
physically and emotionally.
I want to see it,
touch it with my fingers,
and hold it in the palms of my hands.
I want to engage with it.
I want to spend time with it.
I want to spread it out on the table
and study every inch of it.
I want to join myself
to the force of life and love
that created it.

Note: You can see the prequel to this poem, "A Johnnie for John," here.

(I danced with a bumble bee unwittingly)

I danced with a bumble bee unwittingly
during my afternoon walk
very carefully.

Poached by an Egg

Finished the last of
the hard-boiled eggs
this morning and
stabbed my thumb --
the shell shards
actually drawing blood.
I never knew
Easter eggs could
be so violent.

(Two bees)

Two bees
during mating season
gettin' busy

(Dear Co-worker)

Dear Co-Worker:
If you're picking your nose behind your clear glass office door,
I can still see you.

(Dear Co-worker)

Dear Co-worker:
"Soft" whistling still counts as whistling
in our privacy-free office.

(The loudest ones)

The loudest ones
in the office are often
the loneliest ones.

They Say That a Little Mystery Is Sexy

We know exactly
what you think and feel
about
every
little
thing
because you tell us --
unsolicited --
every
single
day,
all
day
long.

That is the one reason
I believe "sex"
belongs in the office.

(A splash of water)

A splash of water
does not a clean hand make, dear
lady of the john.

My Ears Are Bleeding

People who live alone --
or lack a healthy, romantic relationship --
often evolve into
filter-free social terrorists.
They have no one with whom
to share their innermost --
or most trivial -- musings,
so they hold folks hostage
by bombarding and blathering on,
sharing observations and opinions
not meant for public consumption.
They drop verbal bombshells,
sending aural shrapnel
into the ears of their victims
and operate as if they have no reason
to reserve these comments and concerns
or to relegate them to someone
who cares.

Polished and Professional

He
wakes up, showers, shaves, dresses, combs his hair, goes to work,
and is considered a polished, professional man.

If I
wake up, shower, shave, dress, comb my hair, and go to work,
I am considered an unpolished, unprofessional woman.

Operation Umbrella

I woke up this morning
to discover that
I had been living my life
under an umbrella
I was handed
years ago by
clergy, patriarchy and society –
an umbrella that
limited my view of the world,
shielding me
from the sky and the sun,
sheltering me from
fresh air, free thinking,
free movement,
and my assimilation
with others
(and, ultimately, myself) –
an umbrella that
I had been holding
above my head
with my right hand
for thirty-some years –
an umbrella
I held because
someone handed it
to me
under the guise of
"instruction" and
"protection" and
"tradition."
That's what
you do when
someone hands you
something, right?
You hold it?

It wasn't until I
noticed the feet
of someone else
moving in a different direction –
a different pattern
than me –
that I dared
to peak outside
of the confines
of my covering to see
how that person
was able to move
so freely,
so functionally.
The umbrella
got in the way of
my view of that person
and it was then
that I noticed
the pole in my face –
the handle
that had become
such a part of me
that I did not see
it
apart
from myself.

It wasn't until I
became aware
of the umbrella
that I realized
that I was actually
holding something;
that my view had been
almost entirely obstructed;
that I had the use of
only one arm
and one hand;
that there's a reason
I had felt so
tired and frustrated
and limited
along the way;
that I finally lowered
my arm, released
the umbrella,
and threw my head back
to an open sky
and the smell
of possibility.

Miss Misogyny

What if we gave
patriarchy a breather
and placed women
at the helm
of the world --
mostly large, loud,
"girls' club" cronies
with inside connections
who view men
largely as pieces of meat --
regardless of their
intelligence, experience
or finely tuned talent --
women
who snicker to each other
when a man enters the room
and verbally rate his hair,
face, pecks, crotch,
rear-end, weight and
sense of fashion
as soon as he
leaves the room;
women
who value the
opinion of other women
over any man
nine times out of 10;
women
who, as a matter of course,
assume that women
deserve to be consulted
and considered before
any man's opinion is ever suffered;
women
who appreciate a
good-looking, fit, fashionable
man as a means to an end --
flirty ego booster,
Playgirl playmate,
sperm donor, or,
maybe, if he's lucky
and hot enough,
a trophy husband --
women
but who deem all
men who don't pass
"the pretty test"
as nothing more than potential
back-room assistants,
ghost writers
and support staff;
women
who openly mock and belittle
any man who gets
"emotional" after
being treated as less
than a woman or simply
a sex toy or merely
an annoyance
to be endured;
rude, harsh women
who -- no matter
what they look like --
are only interested in men
who look like
fashion plates,
models and personal trainers;
women who base
their opinions of
a man solely on numbers --
bust, waist and inseam --
women who dismiss
any man who challenges
them with a genuine
concern or thoughtful
comment or genius idea?

Oh, but wait!
That would be
disgraceful,
disrespectful,
discriminatory
behavior,
wouldn't it?

(He is offended)

He is offended
when misogyny is found
to be offensive.

(Christmas cat)

Christmas cat –
bedside greeting
begins with a pounce

Office Motor Mouths

I have a co-worker who literally
eats in her cubicle all day long --
course after course,
odor after odor,
lip smack after lip smack.

I have another co-worker who literally
talks to everyone in sight all day long,
cornering and capturing his victims
in verbal spider webs
without restraint; without mercy.

Oh, that the eater
would share her food
with the talker.

Eating on the Job

I am well aware that we fuel our bodies with food.
We all do it.
But there's something annoying about the people
who eat all day long on the job.
I know you've got to eat,
but I don't want to hear every
crinkle of every potato chip bag,
every crunch of every blasted chip,
every burp of every Tupperware container,
every scrape of every spoon in your bloody Rubbermaid.

I don't want to hear every slurp
of every sip of your coffee, then tea, then coffee, then tea.
I don't want to smell every whiff
of your canned peas marinating in the microwave.

I don't mind witnessing the afternoon snack
or occasional meal at your desk.
I'm simply sick of being subject to your
eight-course meals all the live long work day.

Thanksgiving Traffic

Three miles in an
hour and a half --
bumper-to-bumper
interstate congestion and
stomach indigestion,
angry drivers with
hungry kids, no
exit in sight, and
no explanation.
Arrivals delayed;
hugs and hand-
shakes on hold;
dinners postponed.
It was easy to get
irritated and impatient,
until we saw
the white sheet
on the ground.
Suddenly, we were
thankful for the
fume-filled air that
we were breathing.

(the leaves mimicking)

the leaves mimicking
the sound of raindrops in the
wooded autumn hills