My sweet coworker
Visiting my desk, relief
From task filled thoughts
Joy apparent in the familiar
Circular caress of comfort
As she shares her delight
In what she cannot fully
Appreciate nor comprehend; yet
Memory providing in
Easy recollection, my own
Nine month sabbaticals
From loneliness
Joy, ceaseless wonder
Perfected companionship
Reveling each change
Every miraculous movement
Then a familiar interruption
My youngest, calling from home
His frustration evident, crying
His schoolwork is so hard
I will be home in an hour
We will figure it out together
His angry indictment
You always have to work late
He hangs up first and I hold
The receiver silently, hesitating
In momentary consideration
Suddenly, instinctively
My coat and gloves on
Leaving an every day list
Without all expectations
Crossed off in evidence
Of unseen accomplishment
Arriving home in time for
His singing like Pavarotti
To a steamed up mirror
Category Archives: Love
They Called Him Buck
My dad, telling the perfect joke
A favorite bartender
He would be amused
So many colored liquors
Lining the back shelf now
His drinks amber, gold and clear
Creme de Menthe and
Sloe Gin the exceptions
My dad, his arm bent like
A wing holding his cigarette
Out the window, steering
With the other, loving his
Buick, Chrysler or Olds
Sales cases not car seats
Keeping him company
Always deep in concentration
My dad, watching television
John Wayne, Creature Feature
Maybe golf, football or fishing
Always calm then, unless
The Packers lost the football
Then he yelled from a dark place
Me quietly leaving, startling
Him to embarrassment
My dad, cooking meals
Perfect steak and burgers
Spaghetti sauce, marinades we
Couldn’t really appreciate then
French toast on lenten Fridays
The never ending crispy soft slices
Butter and syrup sliding in perfect union
With glasses of so cold milk
My dad, trimming the hedge
Arms persistently tanned
Extended outward for hours
In work appearing effortless
Swaying back and forth
Slashing into shape
The perimeter of
His domestic jungle
My dad, temper flaring
Against only himself
Evidence now he lived
In a prison of fear over
Standards of perfection
That couldn’t be met
Left to wonder of the origin
Answers long buried with him
My dad, in remembering
The great and beautiful
Ingredients of him, a recipe
He was given, then gave
My memory’s mixture
Grateful for the good
Now, as a parent, contending
In empathy with the flaws
My Best Friend
My best friend and I laughing
We were seven maybe eight
My mom said the sound of it
Was like marbles falling off the table
That made us laugh harder
When there was nothing to laugh at
We would stare at each other
And force out laughter
Until again the marbles cascaded
In our giddy together song
I keep a supply of that memory
Stored safely in my heart
Like a favorite cologne in a fancy
Atomizer I spray around the room
When days get dreary
A light mist reminding me
There is a person
My best friend
Who can make laughter with me
Out of a simple desire for joy
We had no way to know
The wisdom in our easy effort
Between friends, the best kind
For 45 years, no blood or license
To bind us, just the marbles
Falling over the tabletop
The Petitions
This poem symbolizes for me the painful battle that human beings absolutely need to resolve within our own hearts and as a world community if girls are to have the opportunity to be considered equal partners in every culture. I don’t think equality will ever happen for any of us if we are viewed through a sexual prism used to dominate. This poem was written to honor the girls and women written about in a startling book titled, Half the Sky which was also a documentary on PBS. The gang rape in India, and its necessary newsworthiness will hopefully be a tipping point to help in this movement for equality. That girl riding a bus…it should break everyone’s heart to action when they hear that story. It would be lovely if the only struggle remaining for all women was how to break the glass ceiling.
The petition read
Worst place to be a woman
Funny, my mind cannot
Narrow down one place
Where that would be
Raped by six men
On a bus no less
As if private rape
Isn’t awful enough
Hate violated this girl to death
No doctor would treat her
While Hippocrates absent
At the unsuccessful labor
Of her third baby at 23
Poverty dictated this girl to death
A dirty unskilled scalpel
To mutilate her desire
For what she had never known
Her mother holding her hand
Ignorance bled this girl to death
The hands of her father
In fervent obedience to
One dogma which veiled
Her to a silence she couldn’t keep
Religion beat this girl to death
Strangers, one by one
Getting what they paid
To have, the look of virginity
Her blood carrying a virus
Desire giving this girl to death
So many places, too many girls
Never to be women
Our silence puts another
To death every minute
And all I do is sign
Another petition
Love or Money
On the radio, there is this constant talk of Kim Kardashian being pregnant by one man while being married to another. I asked a friend why she was still married to the other man, and the friend explained that Kim wouldn’t agree that the marriage was a publicity stunt for money, so the divorce is stalled. This poem is not intended to be about Kim Kardashian or anyone in particular, but I started thinking about all the reasons people get married. Money was historically a very good and respectable reason for marrying. It probably always will be. I do find it interesting that a woman marrying for money appears more acceptable than the reverse, so that was the only reason for the pronoun choices in the little rhyme below.
If you marry for money
Does it soon become clear
That life is much better
Drinking wine than just beer
Do you suddenly feel
The importance of self
That comes from the knowing
You have tangible wealth
How does it feel
This lacking of passion
When nothing else mattered
But how you could cash in
When your face gets all wrinkly
And your body sags down
Should he remember
He is solemnly bound
To love you despite
What you failed to see
That he has a heart
He gave you for free
Breakfast with Buse 