Amidst the vast expanse of starry sky,
we spin like an old LP as it
plays a symphony of life

amidst the green fields and forests
a gentle breeze rustles every leaf
and blade of grass in sweet caress

from the deepest sea to desert dunes
from ice capped mountains to ocean’s shore
may there be harmony, peace, balance, and beauty

let us tread softly on this precious place
so the young ones who follow us
can still hear its song

We sold his pick-up truck
admittedly, it was handy
I claimed we could get by 
with only one vehicle
now my SUV is the truck

he flattened the back seats
opened the back hatch
and filled it with 
damp, stinky mulch
it’s been there for a week

finally the rain has stopped
finally he is shoveling 
mulch to the fairy garden
where he rakes as if brushing
the fairy queen’s hair

next he’s stuffing chopped lilacs  
trunks and branches 
etching scrapes in the car’s walls
he says it will take five trips 
to get the lilacs dispatched

then comes railroad ties
he says with a devil’s grin
24 he thinks will do it
maybe 3 ties per trip
I will have to help load
I will have to help unload

but I suddenly have a better idea
how ‘bout he gets a pick-up truck?

The rest of the story: He is a man who loves hardship and enjoys making do. It’s some kind of pioneer mindset without which I was raised. He is now convinced we definitely have no need for a pick-up truck.

It rhymes with sprocket 
It’s not a rocket 
It’s just a poem 
So please don’t mock it 

It rhymes with locket 
It’s on the docket 
Today’s the day 
For poem in pocket 

Your face, I’ll sock it
If you knock it
I’m the poet
About to rock it

No one knows
How this rhyme blows
Here it goes
Grab your toes

Poems are red
Pockets are blue
Here is a copy
I made just for you

no shovel today
I dig with two hands
feeling the earth’s welcome
as it seeps between my fingers
cool and moist like
my bare feet on dewy grass

the scent of damp soil
fills me with the hope
of raindrops
and sprouting life
reaching through warm mud
for sun’s light

this ancient ritual
older than fire
seeds blessed by grandmother
as she pats down the dirt
beseeching it to keep safe
this growing secret

For the last part of senior year 
I lived in a rooming house
I got a bed and shared bath 
for ten bucks a week

everything I owned 
was in a cardboard box
during the day I went to high school
during the night I cried

and though that sounds tragic
it truly wasn’t  
mr. bittrich taught me 
to see the sparkles

he filled my life with wonder
literature and theater,
comedy, tragedy, wizards, 
and clowns, scripts, costumes, 
improv, and laughter

each of the plays he directed were
big and important
beautiful and hopeful  
they changed my life

and not just mine 
but thousands of his students  
faced with the prospect of
dreary lives after high school

our soul’s locked in cubicles 
or soul-crushing factories
our spirits destined
to be strangled by a gray life 

although Mr. B taught the curriculum 
he also taught us we needn’t succumb
he empowered our imaginations
his lessons brought us epiphanies

there are no small parts just small actors
the roles we play are not the player
the lines we say are just the script
the real story is written in our souls 
not in the newspaper reviews

he taught us we can conjure magic and wonder
our life can be beautiful
and we can be heroes
only we are the playwrights of our story

he taught us
to stop looking for that 
elusive thing called happiness
to use our hearts and minds to just make it 

over fifty years later
I still keep it in my purse
just in case I need to make some happiness

my red clown nose

Haiku 1
the flowers shivered
a forced last bow to winter’s
unexpected snow

Haiku 2
you reach for my hand
for the hundred thousandth time
love’s touch transcends words

Haiku 3
the world inhales spring
new air fresh with new blossoms
each breath is sweetness

Haiku 4
I have a small bin
of seldom used kitchen tools
unopened for years

I think they are sad
devoid of purpose, crying 
tin kitchen tool tears

Haiku 5
he digs quietly
heaving away heaviness
shovel by shovel

Haiku 6
there are daffodils
my true yellow happiness
springtime’s first hello

Haiku 7
there is one haiku
that is yet to be written
my heart’s perfect words

for my deepest love
that is still ever smitten
my soul can’t find words

There is a mass shooter
he works in the paint department
by his FU attitude
I think he’s got the gun and ammo
in the back seat of his truck

he exerts his best effort
to be completely unhelpful
doesn’t make eye contact
except for that moment of loathing
when he refuses me a free stir stick

hatred that seething
is more than a bad day
it’s billions of dollars
building millions of algorithms
to grind his soul to violence

I’m afraid to tell him
the paint doesn’t match my sample  
I think he did it on purpose
practicing to not care 
for later when he needs to be numb

I wonder if I should warn someone

Passionate and hopeful
seventeen year old love
the one where you’re certain
he is the one

such a perfect little love basket
I filled it with candy
and fresh flowers that grew
on the sunny side of our garage

for our first May Day
I hung it on your back door
I rang the bell and hid
like a third grader

you were taken aback
even though you are THE MAY’S
the day’s waiting to be reclaimed
destined to be our holiday

I’ve never missed a year since
but so many grandchildren
and so many baskets to make
this year I forgot one for you

your makeshift 55th may basket
was filled with apples 
(the ones you bought the day before)
I wrote you this poem to atone

when i rang the back porch bell
I knew it didn’t matter
72 year old love
is the one where you are certain
he is still the one

If you’re wondering what got me started writing poems, you’ll find the story here. Or, if you’re wondering why this collection is called Slender Stalk, click here. If you’re wondering where you can read the past issues of Slender Stalk, click here. If you’re wondering where you can read more of my poems, check out my website: Life at 240.

If you know someone who you think would enjoy these poems, please feel free to forward this email to them. If you’re reading this poetry letter for the first time, you can subscribe here to get ten poems emailed to you at the beginning of each month.