Rebecca
All the beautiful sights I’ve ever seen
are faded photos from a long
forgotten dream
now that I’ve seen her mother’s smile
on that first November
morning
when Rebecca came a-borning. back
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Short
Distance
Mothers always exaggerate.
I suppose that’s why
Ma Bell calls it Long.
She wouldn’t, you know,
if she knew how close
I feel to you
afterwards. back
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Watching
Words Walk Up The Wall
Your sheet tangled
body
lies asleep now,
wombed around a pillow
from Tennessee.
And, alone, I chase smoke dreams
through the night,
watching words walk
up the wall
and fall off the ceiling
onto yellow pads.
Shhhhh!
You keep climbing
those feathered hills
all the way to Chattanooga.
Remember, yellow is your favorite color
and words have walked for ages. back
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Newberry
Summers
Like faces in the misty light
visitors from Rome
come sailing home in arks
full of Kermits and kangaroos,
drawing dreams of bubble gum and baseball
in the sleepy heads
we put to
bed at night.
And, for a time,
the world is warm again,
as it
has always been
in the soft embrace
of our Newberry summers. back
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Your
Space or Mine?
Just in case you wonder,
I don’t – mind, that is.
When you beg off,
wrapping yourself in that
musk cocoon,
drifting down to the river
on a snow sled pulled by herds
of mice,
I spend my time boxing kangaroos
and polishing 55 flivers.
Besides, tomorrow never comes later than nine.
Your space? Or mine? back
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Questions
Do you want to be a big girl?
No.
Don’t you want to be like mommy?
No.
Do you have to go potty?
No.
Won’t you even try?
No.
Are
your pants wet?
No answer. back
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Tennessee
Girls
The Beach Boys are frauds.
Singing that same old song
for more than twenty years
and never admitting
the truth:
they never played Memphis. back
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Harriet
From earth and sky she came,
half dream, half roots;
the dust of
floured fingers
on aprons with Italian names,
a quiet whispered linger
in the fall of Peter Pan boots.
A woman’s stubborn strength,
a child’s
simple smile,
wife and lover,
daughter and mother.
Tomorrow’s ever
opening circle
Yesterday’s constant closing larriet.
Harriet. back
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Beautiful
Words
Of all the words
we will
write in the years to come
And all the words
we have spoken since we were
young
The two most beautiful words
in the mind of Man
are those which
once a year say,
Yes we can!:
Merry Christmas. back
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Mad
Money
Sometimes I talk so old
you must
think my brain wears
worn out slippers
and baggy pants and such.
But I don’t mind much.
You see, those old dungarees
have a secret
pocket
where I hide a million dollars
worth of memories.
And
no matter where I go,
I can always dip inside
and find enough mad money
for a taxi ride
back to you. back
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| Close
Your Eyes
Close your eyes
and
open up a dream
of green dappled meadows
and bare feet
and cool running
streams.
Close your eyes
and drift down the night
on kites made
of jasmine
and roses
and swans taking flight.
Close your eyes
and listen for the dawn
and whippoorwills yawning
through sunrise
with love songs to sing.
Close your eyes
and slip away to sleep.
Shhh!
Not a peep.
Tomorrow will keep. back
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Of
Shoes and Children
There was a young woman
who lived in Florida
who had no children
and nothing to deplorida
So she married a man
who came with a clan
and moved to California
back
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Circles
Within in a circle of friends
the circle of hope is drawn again
Within
this circle of gold
the circle of faith once more is told
Within
a circle of friends
the circle of love is traced again
Within this circle
of gold
the circle of life once more is whole back
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Two
Happys
And, at last, I asked a child,
What is Christmas?
He simply hugged himself and smiled.
It’s the
only day with two happys,
he said.
Happy I got when I get up.
Happy I gave when I go to bed. back
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Of
Christmas Carols
Who can say
how
much Dickens has helped them
drift through dying days,
the Tiny Tims
hiding within us all?
I know that sometimes
I still dream of dancing
Like Gene Kelly. back
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| The
Jackson Smiths
A friend said
you came from Jackson
and I believed it.
But no more than I believed
your name was Smith.
And not nearly as much
as I loved you. back
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| Buttermilk
Sundays
They came to us as crystal gifts,
those long yawning Sundays,
empty
and waiting
for the spring wine of our lives.
And we poured ourselves
into them
like children splashing
into summer swimming pools,
filling
the day with laughter and loving
as rich and sweet as buttermilk.
back
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