It's Lonely

to be a poet

in our culture

where truth

held by leaves

of grass

in red wheelbarrows

as time goes by

slow and fast 

at the same time 

it completely stops 

and we breathe

yes

yes

Memory Embedded Deep

Periphery of yellow weed, absent-minded artist 
swiping at mountain.  Bitten brush. Weighted seine 
nets falling beneath the long ago water. 

Mourning distance, plate shards. Forgotten
answers.  Still I peer into history. Travel
layered cake. Fingers curled under   
into perfect fists.

Wooden Head, what I carry

I carry steep expectations, inherited 
intolerance often screwed on tightly
weathered wooden head, full of unspoken
slights which I try and try again to discard 

replace with softer intentions, holding 
my six keys on a ring and an address book 
full of names of people 
who love me, regardless

A poem from the POETRY mobile app

THE BEAN EATERS

By Gwendolyn Brooks

They eat beans mostly, this old yellow pair.   

Dinner is a casual affair.

Plain chipware on a plain and creaking wood,   

Tin flatware.

Two who are Mostly Good.

Two who have lived their day,

But keep on putting on their clothes   

And putting things away.

And remembering ...

Remembering, with twinklings and twinges,

As they lean over the beans in their rented back room that is full of beads and receipts and dolls and cloths, tobacco crumbs, vases and fringes.

Gwendolyn Brooks, "The Bean Eaters" from Selected Poems. Copyright © 1963 by Gwendolyn Brooks. Reprinted with the permission of the Estate of Gwendolyn Brooks.

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Read more about this poem and poet on the Poetry Foundation website: http://bit.ly/1tIAwth

Sent from The Poetry Foundation POETRY mobile app. Download your copy from AppStore now!

Sent from my iPad

Everyday Carry

in my messenger
bag with lipstick and Carmex
my iPad and keys
the little book that holds little
books a wallet
a plastic bag to use
if I go shopping
I carry five faded memories
which reminds me
what do you carry
everyday

Promise of More

And though it may be 
dry outside now
there is recognizable
assurance, trusted
suspicion that you 
recognize
the water 
will run again

Yes, you can
smell it
the abundance of 
lilacs in this city 
every year, one 
after another
the welcome 

of heady bushes
purple and green 
against the ruddy
earth, the little 
acequia

the rain.

1130 Miles: Pink Umbrella: Peregrine

if one is uncareful

a turkey buzzard can be mistaken

for a hawk

at a distance infatuation can be mistaken

for love

the sweep and soaring are the same

and the tears at the ending

so years later you

will be hesitant

uncertain

reluctant 

to embrace those past murmurs as a sign of anything more than past

Folded Parasol of the Alabaster Body

This twenty digit nymph with far off eyes
rested in the dirt with Spring in all its holy 
almost Easter nakedness as the sun skirted

wearing only blushes of blue and pink
as we walked past her on Canyon Road last evening 
crossing and then crossing back across the road 

Feather Arms, Red Breast

And the heart's beating 
Mimes infinitesimal pulse
Agile fingers fold feathery 
Down of seasonal birds
Spring with its arms 
Holding 
Collections of paper 
Gathered again 
Provoking a smile
                  no matter 
How temporary

Pink Umbrella: Almost There: Almost Here

here and there

here too

there

are 

small 

piles

papers

remainders 

after a drawer is put

in order

the slight confusion

after coming upon

this row of

hearts

Pink Umbrella: Catching Up; Unseasonable

unseasonably warm

the winter flowers bloom

in confused profusion

I on the other hand

or turning a new page

or dusting myself off I  

love the warm days 

the cool nights under the wool blanket

the hummingbird drunk on red

bags full of clothes to give away

old letters from old lovers

bundles of clothes to give away

winter squash and the first asparagus

clear skies with no trace of fog

the sight of you in the chair next to mine

Just in Case #8

No sign of rain or snow today but this gentleman

removes his grey hat and places it with his 

wooden handled umbrella on the plaza cafe table, 

wooing the waitress to bring him extra cream. 

His red t-shirt advertises his ageless heart.

He steps outside for a smoke, waiting on huevos

rancheros and a side of Christmas chile in March.

Rose Margins #7

Cafe red and yellow, waiting, I 
anticipate your overdue arrival 
and a strong chai just ordered. 
Chocolate and steam milk artistry, 
barista painting the top of 
the sleepy smoke stack,
palm full of timeless petals. 
I wait on the umbrella of you 
as weather is confusing and 
the walls are bare of any other 
thoughts, save for one cherry on top.

Pink Umbrella: Perhaps Six: Ranunculus

row upon row of paper

petals as fine as an eyelash

you cannot separate them

a rose can lose

more than one satin curve

but ranunculus'

watercolor crystal shatters

then all fall

down

Stick Figure Valentine #6

The straggly, yellowed yucca you pulled from the trail while hiking stands half buried, timid now and upright in our side yard. Thin frosty valentine takes ready aim for sky. All sharp edges but pretty. We revitalize sight with each hopeful transplant of painted sticks fastened together with glue and lacy paper. Where formerly there was only dried earth, adventure 
will burst into perfect flame, one whole mosaic of blues.

Pink Umbrella: A Fifth: Skysick

the rain yesterday softened

the Liquid Ambers' spiny seed pods

while the Eucaluptus trees exhaled 

the scent of menthol

in the warm moist air

the bridge rode the waves 

clouds replaced sail

I afraid of flying turn

and drive home

Dreaming Bridge

There was something about the entrance
that always stopped her. Iron promise. The arc 
of the old welder, his tools spitting, Breath
sequestered. The day that her husband hoisted 
the header of metal at the dry road's edge 
and they were all prouder than when they 
first moved in. She was younger then.

If she closes her eyes against the sun, it isn't blue
that seeps in but crimson of attempting to forgive 
the dusty end of the earth where she lives still,
raising boys named Tanner and Hunter, 
and a girl named Elizabeth after all the others,
in a modern world left wishing on them.

Yet the animals remain her friends, fresh water
in silver tanks, and an arc of invisible electricity 
that transmits her wireless dreams at dusk 
on the flat screen diary. Her sideboard desk littered 
with unimportant papers, save for a tiny paper umbrella 
of yellow, folded touchstone, bookmark for a different story
drink that she begins, writing about the city and a bridge.

Hoofsteps

once upon a time 

she ran up the street of breathless 

anticipation

men stopped to watch as she

a gazelle far from the dry savannahs

made her way up the hill

her breath warm and quick

her heart beating faster faster

faster than the big cat who waited

once upon a time

Pink Umbrella: 4; Wingd

the motor scooter

with memories of Italy

and Audrey Hepburn

conveys a stylish panache

suitable for Orpheus 

and me in my dreams

Parasol Storage #4

What would the wooden trunk hold? 
Or the rusty, elegant hinges curled around
adolescent diary of pressed gardenias, broken 
clasps mended. Hair waved. Her mother's 
mother's elbow length gloves. Red.
Hint of moisture on the skin.

The Pink Umbrella: #3:

winter blossoms

callas camellias magnolias

embrace this unusual unseasonal in winter

they emerged early

some as soon as November

continue to lift their beauty

pure scentless strong 

despite the endless blue skies 

despite the fogless nights

despite the lack of rain

Red Umbrella #3

En route route to southwestern pan-
handle homestead where Great Aunt 
Evelyn's final resting hands
and family will gather in familiar

Oklahoma air to sit in straight back chairs
to eat and honor in their Sunday go to church 
meeting clothes that drape us all in crossing over

Sounding one last dinner bell to Heaven 
wintery rain soft on the tin roof that hears 
the generations with petals in their hands
corn husk gold with grape juice for communion.

Shi

soft

white

petals

blush

Absence

words you don't hear

cobbler

haberdasher

winter

The Rose Umbrella: Week 2: Magnolia Denudata

the deciduous magnolia

pure and calm

as it opens to reveal 

it's hot pink core

life passion tomorrow 

contained in that dark center

wait for the petals to fall

one by on

Corridor: #2

Good day I believe
it is established 
that you are fully 
mine: fajita cart
& shoppers resting 
corridor to fresh
taste of courtyard 
winter pulling back 
along the walls
promenade to red
and gold street art
profiles of people
on sturdy wooden
doors to french pastry 
& window moccasins
historic postcards
greet me   their 
invisible paint-
brush bearers 
pillar umbrellas 
that will not display
today for the day
is aligned for wander
no icy puddles save for
splash of light on
vendor's folding
tables of silk screen
blues and turquoise
green bangles 

The Rose Umbrella: Looking to the Sky #1

for Homer Akers

The mourning doves have come, my small
oval saints, touchstones that some say
pester with abundant presence 
in their front yard winter trees. 

But as I drive by I nod to them, momentarily 
knowledgeable of the names of things which 
gives me fleeting confidence in simple ritual, 
in sightings. Furry down with wings.

The Rose Umbrella: Week 1: Disciple

the carefully made bed

a black wool blanket over down and feathers

each pillow fluffed and placed at angles

the walls I think are white

yes white and the blanket black

there is grey too and silver

books and bits of jewelry

at night I create a nest of feathers and wool 

sink in and stretch out

no order except comfort

but when the morning comes

I make the bed

lovingly

repeating

my discipline

my spirituality

my imperfection

Evening

pink and apricot

against the palest blue

trees soften along branch edges

Spring lies hidden in Winter's embrace

I see her shy smile as I drive by

So Far

the little bit 

the slice

of concrete 

the pile of bricks

a sign telling you the way to

a place you will never visit

a place you pray to God you will never visit

I was talking about concrete

about building materials

piles of geometry

that catch the

aperture

unaware 

If Saturday: Considering a New Name

If Saturday were sky and the cupboards all were emptied, 
we would have each other, silent save for these tassel 
missals sent like homing arrows, like patient pick up sticks.

If silence were an animal it would surely have long hair 
and you and I would bend to pet her or him, passing 
through the quiet crowd, the color of the air 

outside. The sky is my sister and I dare her to take these 
well-guided arrows, these prayers that no one's best friend 
pass away this year or that we might love our daughters

without pause, that these walking sticks standing upright, 
red and natural earthen brown, will stake a place where 
we will dance a rainless dance and anticipate 

the future new year weather stacked in this, our shared cupboard, 
that we will flag a new name like fortunes tucked in cookies 
a restlessness folded under, pinned like a hem

A Saturday Pup