Wanting to be somebody,
somebody who sips the
Piazza San Marco from the Caffè Florian
in the company of Byron and Balzac,
I jostle with people and pigeons,
then leave, feeling like a peasant.
To own the square
I rise at five in the morning,
stroll alone until I meet
a sweet Italian singing, smiling,
sweeping with his birch broom,
somehow already knowing
he is somebody.
A Backward Glance
Looking down the Grand Canyon,
I glimpse the woman I was,
back when she wanted to helicopter out,
but had to climb the eleven-mile trail.
Wanting a lighter load,
she'd skimped on water,
got red, dizzy, and scared.
Now friends cool her head with water,
panhandle for more sips,
and sit with her on the trail.
I love her and reach out
and like Eurydice, she's gone.
Psychologist, poet, Women's Press writer,
Hospice of SLO volunteer . . .
To the New Year
You burst forth from the starting gate
and though I pull on the reins,
I have to hang on for the ride,
longing for the 1940 snail-pace years
when I wanted to be older, faster, sooner.
While you race through days, weeks, months,
rushing to your own demise, do you ever
think of jumping fence,
lying in green pasture,
letting me slip from the saddle
onto the spacious terrain of silence
where I can breathe
conversations about my life,
feeling the texture of grass
while I gaze into your tender eyes?
the guy who runs my brain
takes the day off,
leaves some dude in charge
who wakes me late,
uses the wrong tube for toothpaste,
drops the shampoo on my foot,
walks me into wrong rooms,
forgets which pills I just took,
pushes my frustration button,
and leaves me screaming