Mother's Spring

On a rainy morning

she blinks slowly-

tears collecting in the corner

of her eye spilling out

over the slick asphalt

my tires roll across.

In daylight colored gray,

her soft green leaves

fluff in the wind

that will tear down

fleshy red tulip petals

previewed last week.

The rain will go away

but not before the

lay of the land is

surveyed, dug up,

and entrance’d by

the mighty gale force

that she often wields

with a strong steady,

sometimes sleepy yawn.

Out to Sea

A wave hits

from behind

and pulls me

into the surf.

Salt tears sweep

my cheeks-

my hands

cover my eyes,

pull them

across my face

like a dead sea mask.

I want to tell him

that I love him,

but the undertow

takes him out.

The Mantle Clock

The mantle clock has raced ahead twenty minutes,

it insists on living faster than me tic toc tic toc’ing.

Here in stuck, I wonder what happens in the time

warp that sits between me and the walnut wood.

If I had twenty minutes,

I’d sort through the mail,

or wash the kitchen floor,

or put away the laundry.

Instead, papers aren't graded,

dishes aren't in the way,

books are happy alone,

and the couch is lonely.

The mantle clock has raced ahead twenty minutes,

it is tic toc tic toc’ing faster than I imagined when

it came from the Netherlands where it lived before,

maybe it’s the time change that has it off-kilter.

But I’m soothed by the

knock of pendulum, and

the click that indicates

that chords will be struck.

Tic toc, tic toc, tic toc,

the sound has moved in,

settled amongst my things,

waiting for me to catch up.

The mantle clock has raced ahead twenty minutes,

it has left me in the dust that covers the floor,

its solemness the requiem for the minutes I lost 

since the day five ago that I last wound it up.

Thread

I stuck my hand

in his jacketed armpit:

shirted, t-shirted, still-

I was in.

Desire twines

every thought,

tender tendrils,

circling climb.

His pit was warm,

somewhat surprising,

his response to

physical such that

would suggest cool.

What was I doing

there with sirens

and a net he’d

find a hole in.

I pulled my hand out

clutching fibers

from its woolen vice

reluctantly curling

into a tight coil-

left weaving

thread together.

The Nap

My eyelids weighed

all that was in my head.

They battened down

as your fingers tapped

a lullabye on the keyboard.

I didn’t want to leave.

Here was a harbor,

a waveless haven,

where my dreams

would not tidal.

In my dress and stockings

and handbag, I curled.

Head down, eyes closed,

breathing rhythmed.

Pastel psychedelic waves

rolled over frantic

brain activity, soothing.

And I fell.

The Tale of Old Galway Bay

The storm battered     

the length of the coast

unearthing oak, pine and birch.

Tree stumps preserved in

the thick of the muck

staring straight at the sea’s approach.

A fast rising sea first raged

over five thousand years ago;

taking forest and sands to dig,

the shores that formed Galway Bay.

The forest rooted

undisturbed in time

holding firm to Western sky.

A carpet of mire

exposed in the depths

built of the settlers’ lives.

A fast rising sea first raged

over five thousand years ago;

taking forest and sands to dig

the shores that formed Galway Bay.

The rocky cladach built

sat on the  river’s mouth

men fished and bears roamed.

Legend has a young lass

drowned in the Gaillimh

Himself the chief of the town.

A fast rising sea first raged

over five thousand years ago;

taking forest and sands to dig

the shores that formed Galway Bay.

The first Galway was known

as the city of tribes

fourteen who were the law.

Akin to the crown

‘til the pride flamed up

the men let the Union Jack fall.

A fast rising sea first raged

over five thousand years ago;

taking forest and sands to dig

the shore that formed Galway Bay.

The storm battered     

the length of the coast

unearthing oak, pine and birch.

The story of  old Galway

was found in the storm

sure as the tale’s been told.

A fast rising sea first raged

over five thousand years ago;

taking forest and sands to dig

the shore that formed Galway Bay.

My George Clooney

On the slick page,

he looks wistfully

into his new lady’s eyes.

I know that look.

But it isn’t his adoring

that meets mine.

Some may not see it,

but it isn’t it for them

to find between us.

Whether stormy gray

or cloudlessly blue,

your eyes find mine.

And when they do,

I am in the picture

hair blown, sun dewed.