To My Mind's Ideal

I'm not in your league
of nations
my brain doesn't work that way.
It doesn't wake up
all organized
at the start of
a brand new day.
It doesn't file the spices
in neat and tidy rows
it doesn't have a to-do list
everywhere it goes.

I stumble and struggle
to function
to do what I'm meant to do--
to keep my head above water
much less to keep up with you.

I try to keep up my self image
as it climbs up and falls off the cliff.
It shuts itself down--its in free-fall
and nothing I do makes a difference.

I don't understand how my mind works
from whence its weird thoughts
come to pass
I'm just not the person
I've looked for.
I don't have that level
of class.

My Eden

After a day of furious weeding,
I cook a quick meal
of curry chicken and peas
and sit on the porch

The evening sun filters in
and softly falls on the
peaceful madonna
that stands on the
chest-of-drawers,
teaching her Child to read.

The rose in the vase
has past its prime;
the dogwood bloom
bows in reverence.

My tired mind has ceased
its attentionless rambling.

God walks the earth.

Witch on a Stick

I'm standing on the porch
with my witch-on-a-stick.
Surrounded by orange-and-black
gobblined children,
the witch starts
to foretell their
frightening futures.

My lilacs, like me, are late bloomers,
struggling on the side of a rocky hill
between the cactus and the pine,
they manage to bring forth flowers
while holding off the
unwanted attentions
of the brash forsythia.

My life passed before my eyes
in a moment
my hair went from dark to gray
and people came in
and out
of my life
in a horrifying flash
of recognition
I saw the results
of decades of decisions
in a sickening
decrescendo.

Tea, Time and Tears

She sits in the dark
with tea and old photos
mourning the inevitable changes
that come with the
passing of time.

The changes are
a shock
to her system
as if suddenly
she woke up one day
and the children were grown
the hair was grey
and the relationships
were skewed
like an old
pair of glasses
she'd forgotten
she was wearing.

I want the peace
that comes from a life
complete
with musical
accompaniment.

I think my dog
writes poetry
as she lays on the couch
and sighs.

I think
she's writing
the poems that I'm not.

Perhaps they are floating
from my brain
to hers
before I can catch them

like those fluffy milkweed seeds
born away by the winds
of my childhood
before I could grab them and
make a wish.