Memoirous

 The Leaves, leaving   Taking out the trash a tree backlit in the parking lot light glows like a soft ripe mango   Beneath the gray sodden sky across the street from my shop foliage blends into the brick wall   On a morning run there’s a tree shaped like a mushroom, exploding flames flickering upward   At a corner, a signpost maple taillight red, shouting staccato See me, see me, see me   Leafy confetti thrown into the wind a raucous circus of color gardens of cherry tomato red, chili orange   after a hard frost,                    gone

 Days Off As opposed to Eugene where there was this weekend fever to do epic outdoor activities, Michigan has felt way more laid back, leafy crunchy Midwestern homey. There’s been the pumpkin patch fall festival food truck apple cider mini donuts. The mornings / afternoons riding my bike back and forth to watch baby Jack for an hour or two or more. He wakes up from his nap disheveled, crying, unsure of his surroundings. Upon entering his room he quiets, and smiles. This.   The geese honk overhead as the deer skirt across the road, everywhere the smell of woodsmoke and wet leaves. I ride into a Wysocki 1000-piece puzzle. Then as day slips under a leaden sky and the windows fog from mist, I’ll light a candle, sip tea from a mug that reminds me of the sea, and listen for the geese, for ghosts.

Tea, forgotten On the counter, on the tea warmer In the cup, in the mug Tea bag still left in, growing darker, more tanic By the hour, minute, second left untouched . . . forgotten. Until I look up and ask myself: Didn’t I have a tea somewhere?

My baby has a red cheek from where it rests against the breast His cheek is red when he wakes up from how he lays his head Jack’s rosy cheek is warm and dew-drop soft as I nestle my cheek next to his Baby’s one red cheek melts my heart bursting into tongues                                          of joy

Anatomy of a Good/Bad Day   The outline begins with line A Wake up, tea, stretch, a little music --pull the bike out and begin to ride --in the cold morning air, uphill Arrive, line B Begin watching my grandson --who smiles, tries to roll over --achieves, tummy to back --we both look up at the ceiling --hours pass Lunch, line C He gets a bottle, I heat up pizza Line D repeats line B --add walks, story time --Dad comes home from hospital, showers Dinner, line E At my house! --rush home, stir fry chicken --add cashew crème and curry --yum! --someone says let’s go get a designer dounut Line F Walk downtown with baby in front carrier --strangers smile at us, a family on an evening stroll --purchase crazy-named donuts sprinkled with Cap’tain Crunch,Oreos Etc, etc, etc!! Later, line G Ride bike to Washington Park for birthday/bike polo gathering --talk and tell stories until the arc lamps extinguish themselves --left in darkne...

  What She Heard                            for Jack   Is that the chimes outside my window, singing in the wind or   is it a squirrel chatting on a fence post, his orange-brown fur so soft   or   is it a raven on the high wires, his caw-caw heard loud and lonely   or   is it the garbage truck trawling the alley looking for whom it may devour, its mechanical arms reaching and shaking heavy barrels into hungry jaws   or   is it the wind in the tall-tall fir trees whooshing and swaying the boughs—             sounds I hear every morning                         before moving...

In this time of no live music, no concerts, I am entertained daily by the sound of a train whistle, woo-wooing, a slow serenade, adagio, growing in intensity, a blaring horn, the rise and fall of a contra-alto, a bass beat trilling inside of me, reaching a crescendo, that sudden place both empty and full, blowing out all the stops the sound riding on the wind, full of melancholy, regret so sorry, so sorry, so sorry The last note of the orchestra, echoing like a memory A thread pulling me along, my heart in its grip Hush, a lullaby, falling, falling I fix dinner, the train radio left on to keep me company Moonrise, the whistle fades, leaving with the last light Now time for the crickets in the cracks of the patio, starting to tune up

Why? I wake up when it is still dark Stars outside my window Black square of sky Cold dawn To write these few lines Shout out to the universe A distant simmering on the horizon It is this interlude where I feel the most lost Powerless and waiting I can’t change my life, my fate, the coming day A halo, lightening slowly, anxiety, believing That scary place where I’m not sure what I’m capable of I haven’t disappeared, yet Dusky tree branch-outlined unknown The future is too hard to see What?

First & Last Ride The scent of pine everywhere & the sound of Christmas                                     music a one-legged vet waits at             the corner for the light to change, to roll backward             into the intersection             of Broadway & Oak we shop at St. Vincent DePaul Boutique where everything is picked over— Can we stay close             though far away Can we harness time             & stand still? Lights twinkle, the      ...

A maple tree flames, catches fire As the sun slowly slips over the horizon The cross-country runners lap the track The world continues to glow Shooting golden rays over the frosted blades I am reminded of the movie, Dead Poet’s Society Autumn leaves trigger scenes of prep school boys Crossing manicured lawns, school books under their arms Captain, Oh Captain, Robin Williams, the blue twinkle in your eyes Knox Overstreet, Richard Cameron, Steven Meeks, Pitts and Dalton Puck, Ariel, The Tempest , Midsummer’s Night Dream Make your lives extraordinary There will come a time when you must choose Which way will you go, who will you follow? Plotted on the horizontal and the vertical —or to some other drummer Will you disappoint the status quo, Lead a revolt, stand against power Run you own race? Pay tribute to the ethereal gods of nature Of poetry and dance— Oh, Captain, my Captain! Follow your heart! In this one second of standing stil...

Uptown, A Walk Through I am the tarnished penny abandoned on the sidewalk the lone glove left on the fence post the key-shaped pacifier gathering grit on the park path I am that plastic bag floating, caught in the shrubs the empty Starbucks cup blown into the curb the scratch-off littering the pavement in front of the 7/11 the limp condom by the loading docks behind Ace Hardware I am the footprint in the snow between The House of Prayer and the House of Hair.

I remember going to the lakeshore with my daughter on a weekend day. The brightness, the blue, the dizzying crowd as we unfurled blankets, set up chairs, dumped sand toys from a plastic bag. I watched as she darted to the edge of the water and back again, making sure I was watching. Then sometime during this game I slacked, I looked away—lost her. Just as water seeks its own level, people flowed in and surrounded her. For an absolute second everything stopped, time and space peeled away. My senses lurched, razor-sharp. That’s a lot to remember, yet still to this day, I recall relief when at last a blonde head bobbed, she, squealing in delight.

Group Names for Birds: A Partial List A bevy of quail A bouquet of pheasants [when flushed] A brood of hens A building of rooks A cast of hawks [or falcons] A charm of finches A colony of penguins A company of parrots A congregation of plovers A cover of coots A covey of partridges [or grouse or ptarmigans] A deceit of lapwings A descent of woodpeckers A dissimulation of birds A dole of doves An exaltation of larks A fall of woodcocks A flight of swallows [or doves, goshawks, or cormorants] A gaggle of geese [wild or domesticated] A host of sparrows A kettle of hawks [riding a thermal] A murmuration of starlings A murder of crows A muster of storks A nye of pheasants [on the ground] An ostentation of peacocks A paddling of ducks [on the water] A parliament of owls A party of jays A peep of chickens A pitying of turtledoves A raft of ducks A rafter of turkeys A siege of herons A skein of geese [in flight] A sord of mallards A spring of teal A tidin...

The last month has been taken up with blogs on bicycling. Sorry. It's just that with all the cold weather and snow falling down the collar of my coat and fill the tops of my shoes that I've needed an escape. My bike trip to Florida was just that. Now that I'm back, reading and writing about bicycling has also been a form of escape. It helps me recall sunnier, warmer days. The recent issue of PMS=Poem, Memoir, Story =contains heartbreak. Actually my story, Heartbreak Wall. I got the idea for this story while cycling in Wisconsin. I used to take vanloads of women up to Door County for a retreat. We'd camp at Newport State Park where the campsites are all primitive, meaning you have to get yourself and all your gear out to them. We'd strap stuff to our bikes and ride through the forest to our own private beach and set up camp. One day we'd ride to the ferry and go over to Washington Island with our bikes. It was maybe 10 miles around the island. I had schedu...

Places I still see newspapers: --left on the commuter train --at Starbuck’s --my parent’s house I naturally reach toward them, drawn in by an old friend. Also I am in the current issue of PMS= Poem, Memoir, Story out of the University of Alabama-Birmingham. It is a journal that celebrates and encourages women’s writing. LOVE IT! Kerry Mad­den is an editor there and she has several really great non-fiction books: Up Close: Harper Lee  "I encourage my students to delve into their own lives to mine for material." Sound familiar?  Check out my story entitled Heartbreak Wall