Curious at first this house with the pilings
Instead of the white picket fence and the
Weathered, slightly hunched man emerging
The snappy light blue fishing hat,
Every morning picking up the 6, today 7
White bowls that once held probably
Cool-Whip, now milk and the brown pellets
Nourishment that he scoops from
A very large economy size bag in his
Tidy well used garage, organized efficiency
One can see it as he bends under the boughs
Of the pines that stand at the foot of his drive
As shelter for the cats who gather in society
Dining by moonlight, he, now busboy to last night’s
Prowling cats, those bowls in the same
Haphazard semicircle every morning
Greeting me in a Boston accent,
Surprising this landlocked midwesterner
The breeze of the sea in the ease
Of his Good Morning, the raised hand,
As he shakes out the midnight snack
Remnants of those mysterious felines
Who must expect its delivery as much as
He enjoys the regularity of the gift giving
Category Archives: Poetry
Threshold 40
Perfectly indispensable in a world
Of throw away everything,
Already by mid life having
Been shattered twice, putting
Herself back together, better
Than the original, not simply
New or only improved, instead
Her qualities deepened into a
Finer patina of experience
Far more relevant than
To be placed behind glass
Safety’s sake, protection
From the touch of true love’s
Appreciation, her colors,
The depth of her hue and light
Requires care, the touch of
Joy gently, quietly lifting from
This resting place, proudly
Stepping over a new threshold
Her brilliance shining into
New rooms of hope, adventure; life
My Friend the Artist
A voice that caresses
Explaining ins, outs
The go to for how to
New ideas made solid
Positive strokes
Happy thoughts
Of friends, loves
Giving memories life in
Portraits penciled
Photos and film
Capturing in stillness
And Action, his artist’s
Perspective giving direction
In a patient, gentle sculpting
For canvas, film and screen
Generous to all
Creating snapshots in time
To love forever
This Mother’s Imperfections
Reflecting on the imperfections
I never dreamed, when ripe with
Pregnancy now mine to bare
Slights and inconsistencies
Attentions more to this or that
Instead of on you, for you
Fantasy of being the one
Who remains conscious and
Never left nor right of the true
Forgive me, and know
Duties held the struggle of
Standards I could not meet
Others assigning desires
Which lacked love’s intentions
A confused responsibility
Yet steadfast and firm always
In quality and duration
The love I feel for three
Dream Aloft
The dream I had last night
My brain in rote memory
Reminding my resting heart
In its dormant state to
Awake into a belief of the
Possibility of a wish that can
Be to me more than thought
Like the blown silky soft
Dandelion weed we easily
Pluck from its waiting,
Lips almost kissing,
Hushed whistle, eyes pinched
In hope’s concentrated effort;
Giving these para trooping
Seeds now aloft to unknown
Destinations a blessing
Until landing in a golden
Field will soon be picked
Fingers holding stem steady
Under a smiling chin
Breakfast with Buse 