Sara says Moon is mad we left,
following her around the house
meowing.
I have not called.
It passed my mind,
like a street car several times.

I'm sorry for not calling, I tell her -
sad, self absorbed in my own happiness -
actually forgetting for moments,
forgetting for moments! -
I am a mother.
For years being a mom was me,
the most important, worthwhile part of myself.

We've talked of living on the same block,
my three children with their families
and me and my happiness -
my happiness I'm finding,
will continue to practice
more and more, each day.

My happiness - the greatest gift
I will give my children.

Here is my hand,
held out to you,
my curtsy or bow,
if you like.
Namaste.
Here, too, is my apology,
for a poem unwritten.
I could bake you
a chocolate cake,
decorated with raspberries,
filled with raspberry liqueur,
and dark chocolate frosting
or sing you a song.

What is a woman to do
taking in all the world in one city -
all symphonies in The Cleveland Orchestra,
all music ever written in Hungarian dances by Brahms,
every pianist in one Emanuel Ax,
all pianos in Peter's soul-filled piano,
every conversation in one conversation?
While time may be a concept, last night
my body turned into a sleeping pumpkin.
Pumpkins can't write.
I woke up a refreshed woman -
no longer a gourd -
a woman ready to take in all the world!

Here is one poem.
with some poems in it -
wheel barrels,
nests in beards,
how do I love thee.
Move letters around;
you will find them.

In the mean time,
I give you my hand,
my curtsy or bow,
if you like. 
Namaste.
I'll sing you my songs,
bake you a dark chocolate raspberry cake
because... you read my poetry.
Thank you for reading my poetry!
I promise to find my voice.
I am finding my voice...

May be one day...
one of my poems will
have all the poems of the world in it.

I am part; I'm wind in a violet sky,
  listening to exquisite notes...
    that I am playing.

I'm playing to my Creator...
  Peter's working and I'm living 
   my day with his Steinway,
a Steinway grand that sounds
  like a cello, an ethereal cello.
    I'm drawing a cello bow.

This resonance is from 1912
when Steinway aged sounding boards
  composing metal harps with the finest 
    metals on earth.

I'm playing, too, for all animals...
  for the keys are ivory
    and move themselves.

It doesn't matter what I hear,
  my own songs, Claire de Lune,
   or one note repeated pianissimo,
     the sounds echo like waves
       in my heart.

         I will never forget it
           for as long as I live.

In Cleveland at The Wellness Center
this computer seems like a alien object.
Staring, writing, deleting, the gavel pounding ...
words.  I love them and yet... 

Down the hall there is a wooden floored
yoga room, with a mirror on one wall -
side to side, floor to ceiling, 
tall windows on the other.  I told Peter
all it needs is a ballet barre.

I'm going in there to dance.
Tomorrow, I'll write at a coffee shop
about holistic cranial sacral massage
and how healing and heavenly it is -
the world would benefit to know! -
like dancing.

Born in the USA
July fourth fireworks

Southwest Michigan Symphony Orchestra flying
1812 Overture
Music from Apollo 13
American Salute

Cleveland tomorrow

going to bed 1:30am

zzzzzzzzz

(a Matsuo Basho plop!)

dreaming of singing

singing in my sleep

To Matsuo Basho -

Startling frog -
low and loud -
mooing like a cow.


Every time I visit my mom, we drive to Fernwood, a botanical garden, 35 miles from Dowagiac.  We walk among the ponds, gardens, forest trails down, down to the St Joe River.  This time as we passed a pond with tall grasses, golden-green in the sun and lily pads in pretty patterns, we heard a frog with a, kind of, typical croak.  We stood there listening for a curious moment. Suddenly a low, loud, sound, truly like a cow's slow, continuing, melodious moo filled the area around the pond.  We looked at each other surprised and amazed.  Never had we heard a frog sound like that!  Immediately, I thought of Matsuo Basho and his timeless haiku I so love - Old Pond.  

Old pond,
frog jumps in:
plop!

by Matsuo Basho

It's like I'm wondering
what to wear at the last minute,
with so many choices I can't think.
There's no one to help me, but me.
The world full of 10,000 things.
Covered with blankets,
with my lap top on my lap,
a fan swirling above me,
a clock ticking beside me.
Lightning bugs fly
outside my window... okay.
I'm dreaming of my day.
I'm dreaming of love too -
how I want it.
How love makes life worth
everything, everything.
How giving makes life worth
everything, everything.
I'm going to choose with my soul
this time, wearing my choices,
every day, every moment,
never looking back.