Poems on this page have been judged “winners” over the years (since 2004). Honorable Mentions (HMs) are included. Most recent titles are listed first and the poems are in the same order below. Some were published later, as noted. I like a few of my “losers” better, but then who am I to judge a poem’s merit? Answer: A somewhat obsessive-compulsive poet, staying out of worse trouble by keeping track of stuff like this.

Substitutes: Second honorable mention at the 94th Annual Poets’ Dinner, 2020, Love category.

Two Woods: Third prize, Bay Area Poets' Coalition Contest 40, 2020. Published in the February 2020 Crockett Signal (Issue 336).

Chromatic Compulsion: First honorable mention at the 100th Annual Ina Coolbrith Circle Poetry Banquet, 2019, Humorous category. Published in the April 2020 Crockett Signal (Issue 338).

Many a Slip twixt the Cup and the Lip: First prize at the 93rd Annual Poets' Dinner, 2019, Humorous category. Published in the May 2019 Crockett Signal (Issue 328).

Vessel: Second honorable mention at the 93rd Annual Poets' Dinner, 2019, People category. Published in the May 2019 Crockett Signal (Issue 328).

Avian Angles: Second honorable mention at the 99th Annual Ina Coolbrith Circle Poetry Banquet, 2018, Nature category.

Published in the December 2018 Crockett Signal (Issue 323).

She Was Quotable: Fourth honorable mention at the 99th Annual Ina Coolbrith Circle Poetry Banquet, 2018, People category. Published in the December 2018 Crockett Signal (Issue 323).

Josephine (1986-2014): Second honorable mention at the 91st Annual Poets' Dinner, 2017, Beginning & Endings category. Published in the Ina Coolbrith Circle Poetry Anthology 2017-2018 The Gathering 14.

Vicarious Exercise: Third prize, 97th Annual Ina Coolbrith Circle Poetry Banquet, 2016, Humor category. Published in the May 2021 Crockett Signal, Issue 348.

Coastal Jewelry: Second prize at the Bay Area Poets Coalition (BAPC) 2015/16 Maggi H. Meyer Memorial Poetry Contest 36. Published in the February 2016 Crockett Signal (Issue 292).

On Kay Ryan's Facebook Fan Page: Third honorable mention, 89th Annual Poets' Dinner, 2015, Humor category. Published in Crossing the Strait (2016), the sixth anthology of the Benicia First Tuesday Poets.

Reconsidering My Relationship to the Artichoke: Second honorable mention, 95th Annual Ina Coolbrith Circle Poetry Banquet, 2014, Humor category. Published online in Issue 44, January 13, 2015, of MOREthanaPoemDaily, linked to: www.Beniciafirsttuesdaypoets.com

Also published in Crossing the Strait (2016), the sixth anthology of the Benicia First Tuesday Poets, and in Issue 340, August 2020, of the Crockett Signal.

Invisibly Peopled: Fifth honorable mention, 95th Annual Ina Coolbrith Circle Poetry Banquet, 2014, People category. Published in Crossing the Strait (2016), the sixth anthology of the Benicia First Tuesday Poets.

The Green Beans from His Garden: Third prize, 88th Annual Poets' Dinner, 2014, Theme: Forbidden. Published in The Ina Coolbrith Circle Poetry Anthology 2015-16 The Gathering 13, and the September/October 2020 Crockett Signal, Issue 341.

Not Keeping Up: Third honorable mention, 94th Annual Ina Coolbrith Circle Poetry Banquet, 2013, Humor category. Published in Crossing the Strait (2016), the sixth anthology of the Benicia First Tuesday Poets, and in the December 2020 Crockett Signal, Issue 343.

Notes: Third honorable mention, Bay Area Poets Coalition 2011/12 Maggi H. Meyer Memorial Contest 33, Maxi category. The footnote, which I did not submit with the poem, is interesting reading, so I've included its URL at the end.

Colonized: Fourth honorable mention, 93rd Annual Ina Coolbrith Circle Poetry Banquet, 2012, Humor category. Published in Bay Area Poets Coalition POETALK 2018-19.

The Poet at our Table: First prize, 86th Annual Poets' Dinner, 2012, People category. Published in The Ina Coolbrith Circle Poetry Anthology 2013-14 The Gathering 12.

Lunar Balance: Third honorable mention, 86th Annual Poets' Dinner, 2012, Theme: Balance. My moon photo was not included with submitted poem. Published in Bay Area Poets Coalition POETALK 2012-Winter 2013.

Enthusiasms: Third honorable mention, 86th Annual Poets' Dinner, 2012, Humor category. Added to "Why Joke" page (see menu to the left).

Seduction: Second prize, 92nd Annual Ina Coolbrith Circle Poetry Banquet, 2011, Nature category. Published in Sign of the Times/Anthology 4/Benicia First Tuesday Poets (2012) and in the November 2019 Crockett Signal, Issue 333.

Exit 27 Without A/C: First honorable mention, 92nd Annual Ina Coolbrith Circle Poetry Banquet, 2011, Theme: Heat. "Directed Curves" by Robert Chapla has been added to this page to make the poem more ekphrastic. Published in Light and Shadow, the Benicia First Tuesday Poets' 7th anthology, 2018, and the Sept-Oct 2018 Crockett Signal, Issue 321.

Herded: Third honorable mention, 92nd Annual Ina Coolbrith Circle Poetry Banquet, 2011, Humor category.

Fatigue is the Best Pillow: Voted best poem in the Benjamin Franklin Proverbs into Poetry Contest November 1, 2011; all poems on exhibit at the Benicia Public Library, Benicia, CA, August 26-December 1, 2011. Published online by ac5 in the November 2011 edition of ArtBeat in the Literary Corner's Selected Poets of Contra Costa by contributing editor Maria Rosales, as well as in the July 2021 Crockett Signal, Issue 350.

Connection Conundrum: Second honorable mention, 85th Annual Poets' Dinner, 2011, Light & Humorous category. See it on the Why Joke page at this site. Published in Bay Area Poets Coalition POETALK 2018-19.

Simplify: Third honorable mention, 85th Annual Poets' Dinner, 2011, Beginnings & Endings category.

Old Photos: 2011 Benicia Love Poetry Contest honorable mention, published in the Benicia Love Poetry booklet "honoring an early California romance," sponsored by the City of Benicia Poet Laureate Program and the Benicia Public Library.

Pedicure: Third honorable mention, 91st Annual Ina Coolbrith Circle National Poetry Day Banquet, 2010, humor category; published in the December 2010 Crockett Signal. Find it on the Why Joke page at this site.

Question Mark: Fifth honorable mention, 91st Annual Ina Coolbrith Circle National Poetry Day Banquet, 2010, Poet's Choice category. Published in Taproot & Aniseweed No. 33, April 2013. Published in Light and Shadow, the Benicia First Tuesday Poets' 7th anthology, 2018. Published in the August 2021 Crockett Signal, Issue 351.

Fumbling: Second honorable mention, 2010 Benicia Library Poets Love Poem Contest. Published in the Winning Poems Booklet by R. M. Shelby, Southampton House.

Fish Wrap: Second honorable mention, 84th Annual Poets' Dinner, 2010, Beginnings & Endings category. Published in The Ina Coolbrith Circle Poetry Anthology 2011-12 The Gathering 11, and in the April 2021 Crockett Signal, Issue 347.

Driving in Rain: First honorable mention, 90th Annual Ina Coolbrith Circle National Poetry Day Banquet, 2009, Loss category.

Returning: Fourth honorable mention, 90th Annual Ina Coolbrith Circle National Poetry Day Banquet, 2009, Journeys category.

Nexus: Third prize, 83rd Annual Poets' Dinner, 2009, Spaces and Places category.

She Carries Herself: Second prize at the Bay Area Poets Coalition Maggi H. Meyer Memorial Poetry Contest - 2008/9, Midi category (25 or fewer lines). Published in Issue 215, February 2009 Crockett Signal. Published in 2009 Gathering 10 (Ina Coolbrith Circle).

Explanation to a Grief Group: Third prize, 82^nd Annual Poets’ Dinner, 2008, Beginning and Endings category. Published online at FlakeHQ.com

Fenced: First prize, California Federation of Chaparral Poets, Inc., for November 2007’s theme: Fences. Published in CFCP newsletter.

To Our California Landlord: First honorable mention, 87^th Annual Ina Coolbrith Circle Poetry Day Contest, 2006, California category. Published in the May 2021 Crockett Signal, Issue 348.

Mango: Third prize from the California Federation of Chaparral Poets, Inc., for August 2006’s theme, Wine and Food. Published in CFCP newsletter.

Imaginary Occupants: Second prize with Mary Reusch at Lowell Arts Center, Lowell, MI, Hudson Gallery in 2006, where my poem accompanied her “Chelberg House Wash” painting. A pretty good photo of the painting is included below.

Amygdala: Third honorable mention, 86^th Annual Ina Coolbrith Circle Poetry Day contest, 2005. Published in the September/October 2021 Crockett Signal.

Berkeley Poetry Walk: Third prize, 79^th Annual Poets’ Dinner, 2005, Spaces and Places category. Published in Peter Bray’s Taproot & Aniseweed.

Heart of Darkness: Third prize, 79^th Annual Poets’ Dinner, 2005, Humor category.

Published in Issue 173, May 2005 Crockett Signal, in the 2007 Carquinez Poetry Review, and is on my Caffeinated Poems page at this site.

Before 6 A.M: First prize at 78^th Annual Poets’ Dinner, 2004, Beginnings & Endings category. Published 2006 in Gathering 8 (Ina Coolbrith Circle).

SUBSTITUTES

Your plastic tortoise shell comb

tossed into our wastebasket

because a few teeth were missing

I picked up and continue using

decades after your death.

Without it I can’t make a part.

To keep us together, I let your comb rest

in my blue metal hairbrush.

Magical thinking? Yes.

Yet I do realize we’re apart,

that you’ve left the realm

I’m still in and know

that if you’re a ghost,

we are now even more unalike

than these objects I use daily,

our substitutes I’ve again enmeshed.

TWO WOODS

Emerging into this world years ago,

I took shape to become what you see now,

a thick plum tree shedding fruit by a fence

while rubbing my bark against its wood.

We two have been together long enough

for me to note our differences—

I upright, alive, and growing,

the fence horizontal and dead.

If there is one,

I contemplate the afterlife

of whatever tree this fence was part of.

Listen to the squeaky music this afternoon's

wind is forcing us to make. I like it.

Even if my limbs abrade from rubbing

against this fence’s firm remains,

our music stirs within me a memory

of a forest somewhere,

perhaps where our ancestors lived,

a place I can imagine, but cannot go,

a place some part of me has known.

CHROMATIC COMPULSION

On sunny, cloudless days, she wore blue

with a touch of yellow. When snow fell,

she changed to white. If it rained, she stayed

indoors, not because she might get wet

but because her garb had to be diaphanous.

This caused her some inconvenience,

so she consulted a psychiatrist.

He checked his manual but could find

no name for this behavior. It was not psychotic,

since she was in touch with reality and did not

expect anything to happen, good or bad,

as a result of her wardrobe choices.

In his case notes he named her condition

Chromatic Compulsion. When the environment

wasn’t affecting her choice of what to wear,

what she ate began to do the same.

Wearing magenta, she chose beets for lunch.

Before she added lettuce to make a salad,

she put on a green sweater. Eating pumpkins,

peaches, or papaya sent her to her closet

for something orange. Over the years,

he dealt with her problems as they came

and went, but once they agreed about

how pleasant it was to sip coffee

and eat chocolate at their regular Wednesday

appointment, he wore brown on Wednesdays,

realizing it only when she asked him

if her condition could be contagious.

MANY A SLIP TWIXT THE CUP AND THE LIP

My grandmother, an excellent seamstress,

made her dresses from fabric strips,

some intricate, some plain.

By the time I was born, her cheeks formed vertical creases

next to her lips, a facial topography

that caused mealtime spills, sometimes a stain.

After removing ruined fabric, she would replace it

with an update to join the other strips that rode

to her ankles from below her chin.

These vertical panels did not match each other,

so her chest was protected by an ever-changing landscape,

her one-of-a-kind scrim.

Like my grandmother's, my face has slid

and creased. Our shared topography

sometimes keeps me from looking my best.

If I could recreate the clothes my grandmother

concocted, I'd carry on her fashion eccentricity,

continually change my upfront scenery,

and wear less of a mess on my chest.

VESSEL

Sailing from Seattle to Juneau,

borne by the ocean that we know

as the mother of us all,

four generations of our family

cruise together.

We two who are the second tier

gaze at the smaller vessel

who got us here.

Nearly 94 years old,

she sleeps solidly

as if in dry dock.

Her delicate hull is painted red

by a Chinese robe.

She could be a bright bird

briefly stopped in flight

after landing on a beach

as white as the ship’s

crisp cotton sheets.

Sharing a cabin with her,

my sister and I,

her brood of two,

catch each other’s eyes

and nod in shared gratitude

for our mom’s continuing

rhythmic breathing

while far below

in its own rhythm

the ocean rocks our vessel

in sloshing beats

of parting and meeting.

AVIAN ANGLES

Eight birds perch on a phone line

above a stop sign a block ahead of me.

All face the same way.

Joining the queue of cars

perpendicular to the birds’ perch,

I look up through their even avian spacing.

When their cheeping reaches my ears,

the feathered part of my brain

deciphers their chatter

about what copycats we humans

below them are, how we too

aim our beaks in the same direction.

One somewhat empathetic bird

turns to the next to caw her combination

of pity and disdain for our species

as we wait trapped

in the cages of our cars,

unable to fly away.

SHE WAS QUOTABLE

Wanting to feel safer in 1941

as she began her seventh decade,

my great aunt Mary left Ohio

to live in Hawaii near my grandmother,

her only living relative.

When the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor

and a stray shell landed near

Aunt Mary’s new residence

in downtown Honolulu,

Dad drove to pick her up

before joining his father

and our neighbors to clean spiders,

scorpions, and centipedes

from the cave inside the hill

over which we lived.

At sunset on December 7th

our family and neighbors agreed

the cave was safer for the night

than our homes. Everyone gathered there.

All night my great aunt leaned against a rock,

holding me, age three, in her lap.

Asked the next day how she had slept,

Aunt Mary replied, "I never sleep well

the first night in a strange place."

JOSEPHINE, 1986-2004

Which is it?

Light leaving

or dark seeping in?

Using a language she somehow understands,

I tell her she is too thin,

that soon the pain will be gone.

We’ve had eighteen years by my counting,

eternal nows by hers.

Does she feel

every night arriving later

during this, her almost summer,

the other seasons over?

In the fluorescent light

above the steel table

life will blend into its full spectrum of white.

The needle in, she may remember

an event or two

in the bright before dark,

before she becomes her lidded void,

her thought-out thoughts,

before her breath is stopped.

VICARIOUS EXERCISE

I lie here reading books on exercise,

but thoughts of calisthenics bring on sighs.

My lazy self claims moving is unwise.

In spite of threats it stays right where it lies.

Although I’ve tried my best, I now surmise

with disappointment but no small surprise:

my body will be flaccid ‘til it dies

except, of course, for two well-muscled eyes.

COASTAL JEWELRY

Pulsating along California’s

coastal throat,

we’re moving strands

of jewelry, walled off

from oncoming diamonds

piercing our sight.

Rows of rubies

stretch out before us

in sparkling bursts,

adding their color

to California’s

palette of twilight.

My rear-view mirror

shows our gems in reverse.

The double diamonds

glitter behind me,

our glowing threads,

knotted tight.

California cushions us

in one of her jewel boxes—

the nearest lined

with lush,

velvet hills,

rippling off to my right.

Like the price tag

on a necklace

where it clasps,

a sign warns of the toll

to pay before we bejewel

more of her darkening night.

ON KAY RYAN’S FACEBOOK FAN PAGE

one fan wrote that the latest fad

is tattooing poems on bodies

and that Kay’s, being shorter than most

(her poems, not her body),

might be a good fit for the fad.

In the Facebook comment thread I replied

that those kids can’t know how wrinkly

their skin will be in coming years,

how the tattooed words might be distorted

into an unintended meaning.

When I saw another Facebook post

defining wrinkly as the opposite of irony,

how could I not visualize it tattooed

on a well-defined muscle before inevitable

wrinkles ironized it with Kay Ryan concision?

RECONSIDERING MY RELATIONSHIP TO THE ARTICHOKE

Between my molars and incisors

squirms the heart

of an artichoke,

a flower whose leaf-green

petals I'd stripped

before my front teeth had torn

and scraped them clean.

I had steamed the vegetable,

but first, it had to be unsheathed.

As I had clipped

the plant’s protective thorns,

each petal seemed

to be shaped

like a feline paw

with its own small claw.

If feasting on greens,

cooked or raw,

is preferable to dining on meat,

and if what I eat

is not a mammal

or other animal,

why when I consume an artichoke

do I feel like a cannibal?

INVISIBLY PEOPLED

From a dish left on the rug

beside your half-drunk coffee

an orange scent evaporates.

Your scent is still not off me.

Curved back, a glossy magazine

sprawls open where you started.

The real you has left the scene,

but you have not departed.

Your plane is leaving, and I leave

to join a friend. We watch TV.

When I return, the flashing red

announces you invitingly.

You're in elusive ether now,

a longed-for realm I cannot see –

one more departed man allowed

to people me invisibly.

Before you left, we talked of death.

You said it was an ocean

of everyone with no more breath

to fuel our world’s commotion.

Bare wisps of you still circling me

bring back your personality.

I think you're happy on the wing,

set free from my reality.

Connection gone, past midnight now,

too late for phones to ring,

I ponder what you mean to me.

Your absence leaves a sting.

THE GREEN BEANS FROM HIS GARDEN

The rough way she handled

what they immediately recognized

as their harmless relatives—

the thin, green beans

he had brought into her kitchen,

how she snapped off their ends

and sliced them in strips

before tossing them

into a see-through dish,

covering it, putting it in the microwave,

how she didn't seem to mind

the heat they were suffering

as steam erupted

when she lifted the top off

what had become their coffin,

and almost worse, the way she forked each bite

with such zeal, how it scared all of them,

scared the greens she had long cared for—

the pothos, the ivy, the Christmas cactus,

and the dieffenbachia—

how it made them tremble in their containers.

They had never seen her

so vigorously attack one of their own,

had never witnessed that aspect of her.

They were still cowering

when she washed her plate, wishing

that this visitor would be forbidden

from ever again bringing her

anything else from his garden

to fuel their nightmares.

NOT KEEPING UP

How soon will I succumb

to typing with my thumb

on an iPhone, Android,

or a new Samsung?

So far I have not bought

what everybody’s got.

Disliking my tech void,

I frown a lot.

In 1984

I thought I’d really scored

when my job required a four-

teen-pound laptop.

Since 1993

I’ve had a home PC

that lets me email,

using well-shaped keys.

Now mobile’s where it’s at.

I should be buying one stat,

but when I type on glass,

the screen emits a flash

and takes me to odd places

I do not want to go.

I can’t find what erases

and know I should not throw

the gadget someone’s lent me

at a vexing person texting.

How can I buy a gizmo

I find so darned perplexing?

NOTES

When I look up from the piano

to see birds scattered along power lines,

maybe five lines evenly spaced

strung from one pole to the next,

the birds become quarter and eighth

notes, as in a recent ad on PBS.

If you label the lines, “E, G, B, D, F,”

from your piano bench,

you’ve translated those wires into the treble clef.

Black Anguses grazing ridged hills

can provide a variation

on animal-inspired musical notation,

but since cows are so large, a piano composition

couldn’t begin to encompass them,

even using all 88 of its black and white keys.

Not tiny and airy like black-bird notes,

bovine notes might require a different instrument

and produce a different sound. Cows might wish

that their notes were as deep as the low notes

the planet makes 29 octaves below middle C.

So far as I know, though, neither humans

nor cows can hear whatever score

conducted from the planet’s core

makes the white-haired waves

toss, break, wake, and snore

as we watch them vary their beat

while crashing and susurring

against our shores.

[The following was not included when I submitted the poem:

http://www.pianopianoforte.com/piano_music/piano_music_english/the%20sound%20of%20the%20planets.html

The earth - and with it, each of the planets of the solar system - revolving around the sun makes a musical note so low it cannot be heard by the human ear. If we imagine a piano keyboard without limitation, the sound of the earth is a "C sharp" placed 29 octaves below middle C (about 4.7 meters [or 15 feet] left of the piano bench).]

COLONIZED

… or where the blame lies ….

Last year I read an article that gave me stunning news:

we’re made of human particles that microbes have infused.

By cell count we are nine-tenths germs; our own cells, ten percent.

We’re colonized, yet criticized for what we can’t prevent.

When microbes’ avid appetites keep my weak taste buds yearning

for chocolate ice cream, cakes, and pies that humans should be spurning,

I exercise. To my surprise, the microbes just move faster,

demanding goodies that expand my girth into disaster.

Since microbes rule, I see as cruel all diet interventions.

By germs I have been made a fool despite my best intentions.

THE POET AT OUR TABLE

So intent was she

on what her pen was writing

and scratching out

that the poet at our table

seemed to be inside an arbor

that protected her

from all the other poetry

at the gathering.

When I peeked across the table

to glance at her evolving creation,

I saw more words her pen had blotted

than had escaped censure.

Branching connectors of thoughts

knotted themselves

in a vine-like architecture she pruned in process,

possibilities her mind had pondered

that her pen had put an end to.

When she rose to read

what she had composed

in a focus that had omitted the rest of us,

her poem, excised of excess,

arrived as if it had never experienced

what I had surreptitiously witnessed.

LUNAR BALANCE

As I walk, I make the moon move.

When I stop to admire its balance

atop a hill against the bright blue afternoon,

it looks so diaphanous that I feel as if

I’m seeing through its icy whiteness.

I take a few more steps, and it follows me.

We pass between two phone poles, and I slide

the moon along their connecting wires

from one pole to the other until I decide

to free it from its choreographed sky dance.

Although I’ve long known the moon’s

gravitational effects on tides and on us,

I appreciate anew how our mutable moon

makes things happen, silently, without fuss, and how

with or without my help, it never loses its balance.

ENTHUSIASMS

[This poem is on the WHY JOKE page; please see navigation on the left.]

SEDUCTION

When those eye-catching, shapely forms

emerge from a nearby coastal town,

when they begin to undulate

in crimson pink and orange

and float themselves delicately

in my direction, I can almost ignore

their source. Instead I admire

Nature’s ability to glamorize the nasty

byproducts of the local oil refinery.

Watching how she applies her sunset palette

with unmatched expertise, I marvel

at how much better she is at seduction

than we are, even with our best,

most deceptive advertising.

"Directed Curves" by Robert Chapla

EXIT 27 WITHOUT A/C

Swerving off I-80, windows down

to suck in gusts of oven air, I sweat

the hairpin turn that swooshes me

under the canopy of freeway loops

above my California town.

Descending below the spaghetti tangle

of cement that swirls like thick pasta

on the boil, I remember other ways

I’ve seen that overhead configuration ―

as a complication of twisted sheets

after love-making, a snarl of laundry

ready for the washer, or the curving

conveyor belt of another summer’s

steamy factory job. Lately, when

my sweet teeth kick in, the winding

off-ramp has been salt-water taffy

with the color pulled out of it.

Looking up again, I await another image

to help me escape my current state. It comes

from the overhead’s edge, now the rim

of a meditator’s bowl I slide my thumb

against to make a calming hum, blocking out

the rumble atop the long gray ribbon

that ripples like a heat wave

going past me across the country, I-80

and its frayed off-ramps that others also ride

into their own small towns this hot July,

summoning strands of cool recollection

while navigating what seems to be

their daily, eternal ordinary.

HERDED

[This poem is on the Why Joke page; see navigation to the left; thanks.]

FATIGUE IS THE BEST PILLOW

after Benjamin Franklin's quotation

The nap I'd hated as a child

because it wrecked my play

I longed for in the office towards

the middle of the day.

At keyboard I would sink into

a soporific state

that neither chiding from my boss

nor coffee could abate.

Retired from that tedious job,

I have a better boss.

Fatigue commands, and I obey.

She has such gravitas.

Fatigue's a kinder master than

the boss who chided me.

Her pillow's soft, smooth, welcoming,

and best of all, it's free.

“SIMPLIFY

your life,” reads the sign

on my fridge. The letters

are large and black;

the writing, strong.

I ignore it. From under

its directive small words

on white strips peek out

in piecemeal poems.

Months before he died

my husband arranged them

from a magnetic poetry kit.

Overlapping their beginnings

and endings are faces

of family and friends.

I rotate their photos

with the years

and refresh shopping lists,

but the poems remain,

an undercurrent embracing

two sides of the fridge.

Why can't I simplify,

put the poem pieces back

in their box? Am I magnetized?

Why do I hold on like this?

Because I can't let go,

won't strip the fridge

of words he touched

that touched him.

OLD PHOTOS

Photos taken a dozen years ago

show a slender couple, we two,

you, my best, in our best year,

both of us supple, vibrant,

laughing, moving together

through these boxes

of still shots.

Now we’re apart – you,

a box of ashes in the closet,

I, occupying the box

of our living room, still

using the keyboard

to cope.

Looking at these photos

for the first time

since your death,

I’m surprised by feeling

suddenly the way I used to,

elastic, full of possibility,

ready to laugh,

at what you once said was

this experiment called life.

Your personality came through

for a second or two,

and you briefly

changed my chemistry,

those molecular doors

only you had the keys to.

When I've read "Question Mark" aloud, I've included a dedication to Prairie Home Companion's Guy Noir, who is always looking for the answers to life's persistent questions ....

QUESTION MARK

Old and pencil thin,

he walks bent over his slow cane,

so slight he almost floats

above the pavement.

On the same block

also in profile

a teen, sitting on the edge

of the sidewalk,

crouches over her phone,

both hands engaged

in texting,

her hair falling

straight

into my thinking

as I curl

over my sushi,

their images still with me,

all three of us

forming a shape

one sees everywhere,

the question mark of life

that our hunched spines

exaggerate.

FUMBLING

Fumbling at the door,

I feel the knob’s

familiar shape.

It shakes.

I can’t locate

the keyhole.

We’re at the seashore

forty years ago.

I’m in your car,

in the moonlight, in your lap.

We talk and watch the wind unwrap

the waves and sails on nearby boats.

I rack my brain to find the anecdote

that made me laugh

as you insisted and persisted

past youthful fumbling that

I’m glad I only half resisted.

FISH WRAP

On pavement or in carport drive

I see this morning's news, alive

last night, but now decaying fish wrap,

print, plastic-covered, loosely packed

in see-through blue, pale pink, chartreuse,

Post, Times, and Chron inert in hues

of rainbow swimmers, lying dead,

discarded catch, so far unread,

tossed while subscribers snoozed. Some snored

while happenings occurred, ignored.

TV and other screens show news

on smart phones, desktops. Choose your views.

Like too much else, new news moves fast,

forecasting fish wrap cannot last.

DRIVING IN RAIN

We traveled the wet roads once,

but you’ve been gone five years,

and it hasn’t rained in five months.

This afternoon the clouds finally let loose.

Expected accidents were announced.

Oily rain slicks were cited as the excuse.

Autos glisten and the air feels clean.

Red, green, and golden ivies

cling to the freeway sound walls

as if enjoying their bath with a drink.

Seeing those refreshed leaves

I think of you, much loved husband,

best road companion, funniest friend.

Past our working lives,

beholden to no one,

we’d nap when it rained

with no need to explain

or pretend,

but the windshield wipers

nod their negation

as if I’ve forgotten,

telling me

relentlessly,

the end, the end, the end.

RETURNING

Wind whips us, us two,

sitting on a metal bench

the way we did in high school.

From the back of a ferry

we watch the city

disappear over water.

San Francisco, buttoned up then,

nothing like it is now,

shimmers memories of youth.

The two next to us

are making their own memories.

Dark hair blowing, they focus

only on each other. They don’t see

the expansiveness of a bay beyond beauty,

gleaming like vinyl under a diamond needle,

playing last century tunes on rippling grooves.

Covered over by the ferry’s motor,

the faraway music bubbles into a wake of foam.

The two next to us melt into each other.

Silently we watch our watery path recede

in fading light, as we’re bumped and blown

over the briny currents towards home.

NEXUS

We’re tall structures, crammed into a corner

of a Michigan farmhouse, the bathroom

mirror reflecting us as we brush our teeth.

Far away, Lake Michigan reflects giant

structures packed along its shore, a crowd

of buildings called Chicago, able to sway

but not move. In this house we move,

commuting to the bathroom from its suburbs.

We travel invisible highways to and from

our current nexus, the city of us, we five,

upright, repetitiously performing our duty

with brushes. Atop Chicago’s tallest,

window washers do the same, scrubbing

rows of white windows to a clean gleam.

SHE CARRIES HERSELF

out of the coffee shop

into spring’s billowing day

as if her prow were not

high and voluptuous,

her stern in full sway.

Each fellow follows her

up to the swinging door

with his unrestrained eyes.

When she fidgets a bit

with a flexible strap,

and it suddenly breaks,

we're all surprised.

Luckily, youth prevails.

Her parts stay intact.

After she sails away,

men slowly relax

into their steaming brews

of boring decaf

while I shrug to myself

from my chair in dry dock,

long past my sailing days

ticked off by the clock.

EXPLANATION TO A GRIEF GROUP

He started with an empty blackboard.

Pairing illustration with explanation,

he drew a rectangle, trisected it,

and announced, “The first box

is for the living.” I located myself there.

“The middle box is the relationship

to the departed, and the far right box

is the departed.” To make death

definite, he erased the right box,

and you were gone. Then

he explained that we had lost

not only our loved one

but the connecting box between,

where most of us remained stuck.

He erased that box too, leaving us

diminished by two thirds

of what we had before needing

this group of others like us,

fractions of our former selves.

FENCED

Wrists without watches

freed us as youngsters.

"Two hairs past a freckle,"

we'd giggle when asked

to tell them the time,

which then seemed so vast.

Two shrubs past a cow

on my route near its bend

make me glance at my wrist,

where time has an end.

Now worn by a watch,

fenced by schedules, I’m led

like a freckle of cow,

jogging off to her shed.

TO OUR CALIFORNIA LANDLORD

Please replace these weatherworn mats.

Most of their threads are missing or smashed

like yellow shags gone flat. It’s August,

and they’ve been like this for months.

Your summer neglect disturbs our aesthetic bent.

How can we cows, horses, and llamas abide

such aridity, much less thrive on the decrepit dryness

you provide? Carpets should be lush and plump,

not rough cement. We need fall's velvet green

to walk upon. Turn on the rain. We’ll pay the rent.

MANGO

I hadn’t eaten a mango since childhood,

so I bought one. For nearly a week

the fruit ripened on my kitchen counter,

losing green as its orange and red deepened.

When it gave enough to my touch,

I peeled its circumference, as my dad had done.

Gazing at late afternoon clouds over water,

I leaned against the counter to begin.

The first sliced bite of yellow flesh

entered my mouth. Clouds rolled back,

and the sun began its early winter plunge.

Mango juice rolled down my chin into the sink.

Each piece barely resisted my teeth and tongue

before giving way. Over and over I tasted,

finally opening my eyes for a last glimpse

of mango and sun, slippery orbs of color,

disappearing together.