I Whisk, You Stir

Most people wouldn’t find
anything romantic about baking,
I whisk, you stir
music in the background, always
to bring the joy;
to drown out the evening news-
the gloom and doom
we don’t want to hear about,
at least for tonight,

a little peace on Christmas
and a pot of coffee
to keep me motivated.

Ah, the deliciousness
of your chocolate cream pies,
usually five of them,
for family and friends
made with love
and your two hands

in a kitchen
with a wife covered in flour,
sneaking a taste of batter
and an adoring glance
at someone with a twinkle in his eye
that comes from his selfless nature;
his joy in making others smile
with something as simple as dessert.

Milk Run

It used to be difficult
to make eye contact with anyone
afraid they may catch a glimpse
of the sadness, the tension
that lay behind the smile,
beneath the surface

where everything seemed normal,
but wasn’t.

If I had let them close enough,
they may have seen the emotion
I tried hard to suppress
except in the shower
or on that drive to get milk
when the music was so loud,
I could finally scream;

empty everything I had bottled up
to make room for more.

One For Each Bead

Grandma wore the same cardigan
when she was at home,
forest green, heavy, worn,
started her mornings in the kitchen,
always in the kitchen
with her rosary, in tears;
one for each bead.
She put her apron on by 7:00,
the white one with lemons,
just in time to make breakfast,
served, washed dishes,
then started on lunch,
(usually tuna sandwiches
with apples and celery,
cut diagonally, with a toothpick.)
She went to church twice on Sundays
and I went with her;
watched her brush her violet hair
pin it up with a beaded net
and only on Sundays,
she would wear her dressy sweater,
the pale blue one with pearl buttons.
It was dark when we left
I counted the stoplights,
watched the colors change
reflecting upon her face
in the glimmer of her tears.

.

I Just Want To Be Read

If I were a book, I could be held,
opened, to reveal my thoughts,
with each page turned,
allow the reader to discover
another facet of who I am, inside,
all the wisdom I have to offer,
the lessons I could teach.

I would be worn with some pages
folded on the edges,
scuffed up from being carried around
in a backpack,
laid on the sand at the beach,
tossed in the seat of the car.

Perhaps, I could rekindle a lost love,
get someone in touch
with their innermost thoughts,
take them to places they have never been
and may never be able to visit;
be someone they can identify with.

I wouldn’t want to be read on a screen,
or listened to on a phone,
but held close
by someone wrapped in a blanket
holding a cup of coffee or tea
settling in, when everyone is asleep;
the subject of their quiet time,
the last voice they hear
before they close their eyes.

Moonflower

True beauty,

sometimes hidden
beneath the surface,

luminous to a chosen few
who have the perception
to see.

.

Homily

Grandma pinched us,
when we fell asleep
in the pew.

Kneeling,
our knees were cold,
but, hearts were warm.

The Gathering

She wanders, aimlessly
when pressure mounds,

but, from far across fields,
leaving the others,
he comes

to carry her home

Precious in his Eyes

All fear fades away
and her insecurities
are transformed

until her image
in the mirror

reflects what he sees.

Little Black Dress of a Poem

Searching through the closet
for something to impress,
I decided you deserve more
than that little black dress of a poem
we take out on special occasions,
always playing it safe.

Thoughts flow
like the river you always write about
but never dare to swim in;
words tugging, pinching
prying up all the moments
you want to forget;
the people who weren’t
what you built them up to be.

Sometimes, the story we create
is the one they want to hear
until the characters fall away
one. by. one

when the lights go out

and the narrator
has left the building.

Priceless Gift

I feel you, resting
between beats
wrapped
around the heart
like ribbons
so sweetly,
so tightly woven;

joy blooming
in every breath.

Snowflakes

On the difficult days,
your smiles
soften the blow;
your little faces,
no matter the age,

warm my heart
like no summer could.

.

By a Thread

We are all connected;
invisible line running
through hearts,

strung like paper dolls.
He holds the scissors

and ties a knot

in the beginning
and the end.