This Wondrous Now

This wondrous now

is time suspended.

You still hold my hand

when we walk to school

though you now look me

straight in the eye.

You laugh at my jokes

            turn to me for advice.

The eyerolling has yet to start.

Sometimes my words

seep out of you.

My guidance

has stuck, somewhere.

I am reassured.

I hold now
fast in wonder

At my lovely boy
nearly a man.

Cemetery Interlude

I went left as my children went
right through the waving
unkempt grass shrouding
bones beside a road in New England.

Stones tilted toward
me gently reminding
that we tread ground once
hallowed by death, if not God.

Roots twined through remains
whose names were long ago
smoothed by rain and blown away
by a kiss of wind.

My little ones galloped over
the silent graves indifferent then
clambered into the truck continuing
our long day’s journey into night.


From a prompt in the Poets of G+ Community, requiring that I use the phrase "Long Day's Journey Into Night"

Estate Planning

Two dozen graying

cotton pillowcases are

uncloseted for the first

time in twenty-five years

by a woman

Who has grayed as well.

With inexplicable purpose she

   bleaches

     rinses

       washes

          hangs them to dry.

Once inspected they will be

folded along old lines

by creased hands

and tucked away

for good.

I-95 to Baltimore

We must have been

The very image of

White trash that night

Battered truck

Holes in the knees of

My tattered jeans

I was barefoot

We had an upright piano

A toilet

construction tools

And two hound dogs

In the bed

My feet hung

out the window

to catch the breeze

We were headed

all the way to Vermont

in one long shot

That trip has become family

Legend: the first time we

traveled together

I-95 North was, then,

a wasteland between

DC and Baltimore

where drug smugglers baited

state troopers

in nondescript cars

Which might be why

a thousand cars

had passed the Toyota

sedan on the side of the road

But it was probably

because they were

Six young Black men.

The man who became

my husband pulled over

white knight to the rescue

without thought

to race or peril

I fell a little more in love

watching him cheerfully

offer a lift to the nearest

filling station.

Their astonishment speared

my heart as I squeezed over

to fit four into a

three-person bench seat.

Two for safety:

we could have been

crackers on a joyride

in rural America

We managed.

Me shifting the gear knob

between my knees

while he steered.

They prattled on

about their schooling

and their jobs

as if we needed proof

that they were harmless.

We left them under

sizzling fluorescents

two miles down the road

with a gas can and an

assurance that they’d

be okay from there.

It was just

a kindness between strangers.

The moment sticks in my mind

because I’m still waiting

For that to be true.

Spirit of Words

Poetry is

The essence

Of language

Oceans of words

Distilled

To a few lines

Not one word

Out of place

Not one extra

Grapes must pass

Beyond juice

Beyond wine

To become brandy

So must writing

Be tended

pruned

aged

To achieve poetry

Write a novel

   Cut it to novella

      Slice it to short story

         Pare it to flash fiction

Only then

Can you remove

The chaff

And call it

A poem

Fulgurite

Grit-clad glass tunnels

delicate hollows branch

downward through sand

jagged shards that

capture the sky

upside-down

lightning reflected

in white green black brown glass

just as love

leaves its mark

on our hearts

A fulgurite and a human heart

Theme Park

I'm at the amusement park on the 4th of July. We came late, The Boy and I, because we are staying for the fireworks. He can handle any ride; I am more selective. My time waiting on benches affords me an unusual opportunity for people watching.

The Boy sits alone in a car on a spinny ride. I once delighted in them as well, but my inner ear has aged to the point of extreme nausea. I see him chattering to himself before the ride begins. A giant grin builds across his face, soaring and whirling above me. This. This is why we came here. He sprints toward me afterward, shouting his joy before racing off to the roller coaster. I overcome my fear and ride with him, eating my stomach as it rises to my throat, breathing deeply afterward. We ride two, then three, and finally I point him to another spinner so I can sit and calm myself. My eyes--and my ears--turn again to the people around me.

The air swirls with the scents of chlorine from the water park, beer, and sunscreen. I hear surges of screams from the thrill rides, mostly drowned by top-forty hits on the piped music. The wave pool surprised me with twenty minutes of lively classical tunes. I may have been the only person to appreciate it; the cheerful gasps and splutters of swimmers were more noticeable.

I remember that it's the 4th of July. Once, when I worked in a grocery store, a woman asked me "I know it's Independence Day, but independence from what?" I like to think I answered kindly, explaining simply the roots of the celebration, but I was young and cruel then. I don't remember what I said. Now I see that same cruelness ripple across the internet, slicing and mocking those who think differently and I strive to set a better example. I often fail.

Right now, though, my heart swells with a universal love of my country and my compatriots. My fellow Americans. The phrase has more meaning here in a small typical theme park. Mixed with the scents of popcorn and corn dogs is the sound of Spanish and African languages I don't recognize. I catch the cadence of Arabic, Korean, Chinese. I watch and see an idealized cross-section of the United States. Women in burkas shepherd their children past white teeny boppers in minute bikinis. Latinos chat with the black families waiting next to them in line. A mulleted white man in a sleeveless tank top, a flag and cross tattooed on his bicep, ushers a lesbian couple and their children into a line ahead of him. It's a tiny courtesy, but the sweetness of it causes a hitch in my breathing.

We are here, all of us, together. There's a harmony of purpose and pleasure. We share the exasperation of parents with over tired children. Adults smile knowingly at the charged flirting of teenagers, who glance sidelong at each other from the safety of their packs. We cross our usual boundaries to comment on the weather, the day, querying each other on where best to see the show. Here, today, we are all the same. We are enjoying a holiday with our families and friends. We all holler with delight at the fireworks shattering the sky above. Whatever our differences, right now, here, we all are Americans.