My windsocks and my whirligigs
All dance and spin around
And with wind chimes, there would also be
A sweet melodic sound.
The wind’s a great companion
When it’s gentle, with a breeze
That allows these things to happen,
Meant to lift one’s mood and please.
Even when the wind is whipping,
It’s a marvel to behold,
Though perhaps that’s only to the point
When it can be controlled.
The supermarket carries beer,
(I love my IPA’s)
But every time we buy some here,
We hear the same old phrase;
“You need to show us some ID,”
Which doesn’t make much sense
Since, speaking for my spouse and me,
There isn’t much suspense
In guessing that we’re of an age
That’s legal multiplied
By 3 or almost 4, the stage
Where we can’t be denied.
Yet still, our licenses come out,
As Pa. law demands,
Although there isn’t any doubt
Each cashier understands
That our ID’s are far from fake;
It only takes one glance
To know it would be some mistake
To look at us askance.
I look around at all the stuff
I’ve purchased or created
To fill my home; it’s quite enough
That I’ve accumulated.
My husband lets my choices rule,
Especially my quilt work,
For he would have to be a fool
To share if some critiques lurk.
I never used to think about
Where all of it will go when
I’m gone, because, without a doubt,
There’s no way I will know then.
My children will not give a hoot
About my works of stitching.
My efforts they will not dispute,
Though that won’t stop them ditching
The pillows, hangings, tchotchkes, art,
Plus photo books and keepsakes;
All these tucked inside my heart
Will win the dumpster sweepstakes.
Since I will not observe it, there
Will be no tears or clashes,
But in my mind, it isn’t fair
To turn my stuff to ashes.
My friends have very different lives
From mine in
many ways,
From where
they live to how they tend
To spend
their holidays…
From what
they eat and read and watch,
The exercise
they do,
To how they
dress and where vacations
Might just
take them to…
From how
they spend their money to
What culture
they will track
And most of
these relationships
Are ones
that go ‘way back.
Yet still,
despite our differences,
Our values
are the same.
The feelings
that connect us
Form the art
within the frame.
And
everything outside that core,
Though worthy
to discuss,
Has nothing
much to do with,
What, in
friendship, equals us.
Quite possibly, where I reside
Might have a labor strike,
With building workers hoping
For a settlement they’d like.
An email let us know about
What we might soon expect,
Like no one taking packages,
No doormen to protect…
No maintenance in hallways
And no garbage down the chute.
Repairs will just be done
In situations most acute.
We’ve lived through this before
And it may not occur at all,
But the landlord has to let us know
In case the axe does fall.
There’s a woman I pass in the mornings
Who prefers
not to nod a hello,
Not unusual for
a New Yorker;
That’s the
way that these things often go.
She seems
close to my age, but walks slower
And her
clothing is baggy and loose,
Unlike most
of us out there with leggings,
Which she’d
likely not wear, I deduce.
Yet this
morning I passed her and noticed,
As I
swiveled for a double-take,
That her
t-shirt was very familiar
And quite
certainly not a mistake.
For it once
nestled, folded quite nicely,
In a drawer
with the rest of my tees,
But I’d
donated it to the thrift shop
Where I
bring things that no longer please.
I was glad
to see somebody wear it
Who’d
appraised it with different eyes,
Yet I
wondered why I hadn’t kept it
As an
exercise shirt in my size.
For something to be perfect
Patience surely is required,
Especially for projects
You would like to be admired.
A recipe you’ve never tried,
A quilt that you are sewing,
Some pictures to be framed,
A garden that’s in need of mowing.
A painting you are working on,
A home repair or cleaning -
You’re either patient or you’re not;
There is no in-betweening.
I am not a patient person;
Slap-dash is my stock in trade.
Behind each hanging on my walls,
Just count the holes I’ve made.
My quilting stitches don’t line up
Yet still, I do feel proud
When a project is completed;
Imperfection is allowed.
With my poems I’m much more patient
As I work on every line.
I would never call them perfect,
But most definitely mine.
