In Honor of Mary Oliver (September 10, 1935 – January 17, 2019)

Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

-- Mary Oliver, "The Summer Day"

My One Wild and Precious Life

My one wild and precious life
does not belong to my
parents or predecessors
nor to my
pastor or priest or preacher or pope.
My one wild and precious life
does not belong to my
president
or to my
principal
or to my
peers
or the
privileged pillars
of my
patriarchal society.
My one wild and precious life
does not belong to
politicians
or to the
"pretty people"
or the
power hungry
or to my
pocketbook, property or prosperity.
My one wild and precious life
does not belong to a
painful or problematic past
or to
perfectionism
or my
propensity for people pleasing
nor to a
profession, promotion or pursuit of prestige.
My one wild and precious life
does not belong to
purveyors of prejudice
or to
peddlers of propaganda
nor to the
principles that someone else holds.
My one wild and precious life
belongs to me
to protect and preserve it,
to pursue peace,
to practice compassion,
and to progress as the particular person I was put on the planet to be.

I Knew You Enough (Your Big, Beautiful Brilliance)

In remembrance of Celeste

I didn't know you well,
but I knew you enough.
I knew you enough
to miss your big, brown eyes --
eyes that lit up a room
almost as much
as your broad, beautiful smile.
I knew you enough
to miss the fresh perspective
and lighthearted laughter
that you brought
to every corporate meeting
and every friendly conversation.
I knew you enough
to miss the strength and brilliance
you brought to the world
as a woman; as a minority,
and the sense of pride
and courage I felt
as you enlightened
and inspired us all.
I knew you enough
to feel the weight
of the loss
of you
and your big, beautiful brilliance.
I knew you enough
to miss you now.

(cat dusty)

The last of this week's series I ran in memory of Angel:

cat dusty
from her romp
in the windowsill

(cat in a frenzy)

In remembrance of Angel:

cat in a frenzy:
from the window --
watching falling leaves

My on-Again, off-Again Bedside Companion

In honor of Angel:

She doesn't like to cuddle
or be held.
She likes to be in control,
to call the shots.
She comes
when she's ready.
She comes
to get what she wants
and leave.
And she practices the most
peculiar positions.
She often prefers to rest her head
near my hips
and press herself against me,
begging to be stroked.
When I pet her in just
the right places,
she purrs with pleasure
and lets me know,
in no uncertain terms,
that she's glad to be
my pussycat.

(the cat)

Remembering Angel:

the cat --
my second
alarm clock

Between Catnaps

In memory of Angel:

Her silky, black paw
claimed a red circle
on the pillow
as if to begin
a silent, solo
game of Twister.

(cute:)

In remembrance of Angel:

cute:
a chirp from
my happy cat

My Girl

NOTE: My cat of 14 years, Angel, passed away on Friday.  The following poem is the first in a series I will run this week in her memory.

She knows how to be
cute.
She knows just the
right pose or look
to give me that will
send me into a
state of acute
appreciation --
the kind that seizes
me until I pet her velvet
coat.
She knows the cutest
ways to meow and
purr and stir her paws.

And she knows it.

She knows she's
cute.
And there's no way
I can help myself
from loving and
stroking and cooing
and thinking how
lucky I am to have
found her.

Another Work Poem

In Memoriam: This is the third in a series honoring the soon-to-be defunct Borders bookstore.  While at work, I often daydream about escaping to a bookstore or coffee shop.

I write my best
poems at work on
company stationary
and company time
on rainy Fridays when
all I want to do is
escape to a coffee shop
or bookstore and sip
the day away surrounded
by books, magazines
and literary dreams.

Note: This is one of the pieces featured in my latest chapbook, Sugar and Spice and Nothing That's Nice, a collection of tea and coffee poems co-authored by Randy Foster.

Bookstore Boar

In Memoriam: This is the second in a series honoring the soon-to-be defunct Borders bookstore.  I wrote this poem a few years ago in the Brentwood (Tenn.) Borders cafe.

"We have a no-snoring
policy," she assured me
from behind the counter.
The large man in the
true blue sweat suit and
camouflaged vest had been
disturbing my reading for
10 minutes and counting.
The deep, nasal vacuum
vortex sounded more like
an industrial machine
than a man. The barista
called for the manager
as I angrily took out
my notebook to write.

Bookstore

In Memoriam: I wrote this poem a few years ago in Borders about Borders.  I'm having a hard time coming to terms with the end of the bookstore's era.

The silence of readers reading,
the screech of the espresso machine,
the whispered conversations shared
between bites of bagel, biscotti and bisque,
each one a part of the quiet community --
learning, leaning and listening.

Note: This is one of the pieces featured in my latest chapbook, Sugar and Spice and Nothing That's Nice, a collection of tea and coffee poems co-authored by Randy Foster.