A charming charm of lemon and black
gold finches socialize every summer
in my yard. They fly like roller coasters
and glide over ethereal hills and valleys.
I sit still as a statue on my deck watching
them gather three feet away at the feeder.
Occasionally, I'll play the piano for them.
When they perch in the trees, I attend
a symphony of talented gold finches.
Could their music be partly for me?

And four lines from Emily Dickinson
A Bird, came down the Walk —
He did not know I saw —
He bit an Angle Worm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw,

Sometimes something happens and you didn't mean it to.
Then the pointing starts and you didn't mean that too.
Then the anger lights and you wish for water to douse
the flames.  Then you say you're sorry and hope
you are forgiven.

Four lines by another author
Emily Dickinson

Hope is the thing with feathers
that perches in the soul
and sings the tune without the words,
and never stops at all,

My heart is blooming.  I smell like roses.
Today I was asked for the name of my perfume.
I answered, Poetry, - the scent of words, the colors,
mix, and planting of words, the wonder of being a garden.

And a poem by Emily Dickinson
How happy is the little Stone
That rambles in the Road alone,
And doesn't care about Careers
And Exigencies never fears --
Whose Coat of elemental Brown
A passing Universe put on,
And independent as the Sun
Associates or glows alone,
Fulfilling absolute Decree
In casual simplicity --

I promised myself from now on I will love
trees instead of men.  Trees are easy to adore,
being beautiful, and their beauty changes
with the sky.  Trees are huggable, easy to talk to,
will not leave no matter what and are just
as pleasant to gaze upon at 39 or 139!

Today I saw a man as beautiful as a tree.
Our eyes met in that time-less space.
I was in seventh grade again unable
to stop starring at John Thelie on the bus.
And Nora Jones was singing in my mind...
"Come away with me in the night..."
Oh dear!  I ran like hell out of there,
but not before he ran after me
and handed me his business card!

Four lines from Emily Dickinson

I hide myself within my flower,
That wearing on your breast,
you, unsuspecting, wear me too --
And angels know the rest.

When you were in fourth grade, knowing nothing of hate,
we sat in the warm Florida sun next to each other
on one of the benches of our picnic table.
Through worried lines older than your years, you asked,
"Mommy, when are you going to die?" I smiled at your
sweet face and apprehensive eyes, "Probably not for a long,
long time...but really, I don't know when I'm going to die."
In one of the most cherished hugs of my life you wrapped your
nine-year-old arms around me and said "Mommy, when you die
I want to die too, because I never want to live without you."

I reminded you of this moment, my wonderful son now of 27 years,
with a DPT.  And my dear Zoli, how proud I am to know
that one day you will live on gloriously and happily without me!

We gather together with a feast of favorite foods: pepper
olive tapenade, artichoke garlic - with twice the garlic - dip,
toasty french bread, shrimp cocktail, lemon tarragon turkey,
walnut cranberry dressing and orange sauce, vegetarian gravy with
converting-carnivore-capabilities, rum apple cider with extra rum!,
velvet pumpkin sweet pecan cheesecake and celestial chocolate truffles.
I wish all people could share Thanksgiving abundance every day!
I wish all people could share love, acceptance, joyful repartee,
tranquility.  Ideologies differ as seasons around this table, city, state,
country, continent, hemisphere, world.  This exquisite, living world.
I believe one shared holy day of love on earth by all is all we need for
permanent peace.

Lines from The Course in Miracles:
"There is no order of difficulty in miracles.
One is not harder or bigger than another. 
They are all the same. 
All expressions of love are maximal."  
And... 
"Miracles are thoughts." 

Onyx, our lab husky mix,
hears a duck gently gliding
on the pond surrounded by
a forest of tan and brown
cattails a half mile away.

At the piano I am a bird
flying with a melody, then
through thundering chords and out -
to light upon a magnolia, singing,
solitary and completely a blissful part.

first snow
my dog is in love
refusing to come in
all day

Maria said it's like I'm beginning anew,
a life poem to joy in writing, that sings, dances,
paints moving pictures, cartoons, writes songs, cries,
loves family, friends, earns respect, benefits many,
overcomes with words and no words, colors and
no colors, earth and space, thoughts and Presence.

red vase with red roses and mums
on the oak dinning room table
roses dark as deep ripe cherries
bright mums like autumn maple leaves
in full bloom, filling the room with beauty.

There's no evening in Minnesota November through January,
day turns into night promising glistening snow trees.
I love the wind whistling outside the window and Orion
singing his songs at the piano. I look up from my poem
where the night is white and in the morning we're snowed in.

Warmed Target sour cherry pie
whipped cream on the side
a steaming mug of Earl Gray
to delicious to believe

Sarie bought home a gourmet walnut potica roll.
My daughter loves this classic European pastry
as much as I do, finely chopped walnuts with sugar
rolled in a thin layer of dough and not to sweet.
I slice it like my grandmother used to
and put on a kettle of chamomile tea, serving
them with my grandmother's grace and dignity.
When I was little, the grown ups, after dinner,
would discuss politics with politica rolls and coffee.
I'd listen as long as I could, savoring the potica roll,
that delicious recipe passed from generation to generation,
and then drift off to sleep with my head in my mother's lap.

His fix is medication to sedate her.
Being looses tone and meaning.
The wind she loves is only cold.
The 10,000 greens are only green.

Textures, blossums, beautiful branches,
sun loving leaves of all her favorite trees,
she cannot climb, she will not see,
as she writes sedated poems.

Tallest oak, rust leaves high,
in the sacred, sapphire sky.
Single flower, rust petals low,
in the first November snow.

Buddy has come to visit and will soon die,
Fred says, because of his heart. (I think
because of his heart he has years left!)
He's an old chihuahua with beagle ears
and brown eyes. One thing is certain,
in Fred's heart, he'll live forever.

Chili on the stove, wafting spicy goodness... mmmmm!

Warm air, cozy on my arms drifting from the fireplace downstairs.

Moon snuggling beside me contently purring - sweet feline fashion.  

                                 Three paths into a poem.

Beautifully played and read poetry
       needs light and attention.
How powerful is my intention
trying to write and read in the dim
       with one eye closed?

Peggy said it's time to face the dragon, face the dragon,
the ocd dragon that's chained my foot to his foot,
the ocd dragon who drags me back into the dreary dark,
the dreary dark.  How?  How?  How?  How to distract
the dragon so I can free my foot?
May be I should ask him out to dinner!

He left and I'm still on one side of the bed.
The other side, man-free, is occupied
by two cats, a 90 pound dog, uplifting books.
Now this is peacefully fabulous.

Listening to song after song,
not wanting to go to sleep.
Then singing clear and soft
enough to wake the dead.