I'm ambling in Monet's garden.
I recognize these metal arches crowded with blooms
And the flowers reaching out from beds below,
How I came to be here
I do not know.
I am afraid to fly
And my Illinois home
Is a world away.
Here I am, all the same
How and why do not press me for answers.
I am calm.
I marvel at the colors in this haven
So lovely against today's blue sky.
Monet's pink house and green shutters
Rise up as the perfect foil.
The sun is warm on my shoulders,
I wander on listening to bird conversation
And the sound of my own footfalls crunching on the path.
Looking for cooling shade,
I take a turn toward tall trees and find the pond.
I sit along its edge to trail my fingers.
I am content.
Water lilies are blooming,
Resting their beautiful faces upon the glassy surface,
Dangling their bodies in the depths.
I am jealous.
The water settles mirror smooth
And my own attire catches my eye.
The filmy white blouse, long blue skirt and odd shoes
Are not mine,
But I might have chosen them myself.
I am pleased.
I hear footsteps on the walk nearby
And look to find a straw-hatted old man
I smile at him,
Nod and wave.
I am to have an art lesson now
In a two-way exchange of fluent French
I never learned.
This is sugared French toast
Relished before waking;
A light-filled, bursting blue window
Created by Chagall,
Stepped into and through by me;
A sweet sleep
I love to dance, but my dear husband is a little bit inhibited on the dance floor (maybe I am not inhibited enough), anyway one can imagine what it would be like to be of the same mind on the dance floor, just having fun, not worrying too much about doing it right or wrong, the occasional stepped on toe, etc. I have some married friends who share all kinds of imaginative fun like this together. This poem was inspired by them. The names have been changed to protect the innocent. Heehee.
A lion to enjoy her as lioness.
In each others projected sun
And by night
In black-tie moonlight.
They move through a whirling
Laughing at stepped on toes,
And that is the way
Cutting lilacs in the Spring.
Feeling the sun on my cheeks,
Hearing the snap of the branch,
Then the brush of cool petals against my skin.
Breathing deeply in
Their purple, heady scent,
I am amazed by this perfectly regal perfume
By a common bush.
I carry my basket of blooms
Back to the castle.
|Admittedly, none of these flowers are lilacs, but aren't they wonderful? I love flowers.|
When I was in college, I learned in English about the hidden observer in all of us, that part of ourselves that sees our lives as if from above at a slight distance. This part of me has always been pretty strong and time conscious, though previously I hadn't a name for it. Sometimes it needs taming, so I can really enter into the moment and enjoy life without worrying about that clock ticking, thus the following...
Bad Dog Shopping
Can you help me, please?
I need a leash with a muzzle
Or perhaps a curtained cage
With only a peep whole in it.
I need it for my very wayward pet.
You can see her here, I'm sure,
My harried Hidden Observer,
Resting her heavy paws on my shoulders.
She keeps stepping out of her den
Into the brightness.
See, like that, jumping
"Night is coming."
I would turn her out,
I think I would
If I didn't need her so
To help me write
And perhaps to see and grasp and hold
Some of now for later.
Maybe I'm in the wrong shop.
Maybe what I need is a rain coat with a hood.
Then I wouldn't feel the wet
When she spills her bowl of sadness
Over moments so completely good.
I'll take care of it myself.
Stop dogging me!
|Speaking of "bad" dogs, here is our beloved Josey after having a joyous moment of mischievous fun.|
And this where I do a lot of my daydreaming...
A front porch swing is a lot like an airplane.
You can get in it and ride,
You can read,
You can fall asleep if you want.
It will take you places
You've been to before and want to revisit
Or to places you've never been
And can't wait to see.
A swing is more convenient,