Casperson's Beach
We padded, tigers, along wet edges
searching for shark teeth,
our toes tangled in seaweed.
Small shovels, our fingernails,
threw shells back.
Evening cast his hooded head,
bending, bending old man,
until we lost ourselves to his dark shadow,
breathing quick as the waves rush
against our feet and ankles.
In our pockets,
shark teeth hit shark teeth,
beads from a broken string.
No windows,
we swam right through
a sky filled by stars.
They silver-speckled his face.
As we opened the car door,
a tiger leaped to the stars.
Coming Home from Birmingham
City lights burned like sad stars
as the plane descended lower.
Like sorrowful eyes
blurring with tears,
the lights--dim in fog--
struggled to hold their glow.
The black sky filled with rain,
and with its full fall,
the plane landed--slick.
Passengers scurried to the building,
but I let the night and the rain
fill me up, and I listened
for the buzz of city lights
and soon drove off into the black
and lonely Tampa night.
Green-eyed Susan Touches the Universe
Susan wants to be a mother;
her life pulls together
at the thought.
Her dark-green eyes flash
as her grin deepens her dimples,
and she talks
about her September wedding
and what dreams they have.
Purple linens and attire
will mark the moment royal.
Susan, may all the flowers
of your dreams
bloom to full perfection.
May your role as wife
and--in future days--Mother,
make you a part of it all--
everything the world offers
as it turns you from bride
to the giver of life,
a part of Mother Earth,
who--in all things--
rocks the cradle,
sowing seeds that bloom
into worlds, the universe--
beauty in your eyes
will shine in your
future children's eyes
and in their children's eyes.
Like Flowers
for Irene Rundell
All the world blooms in flowers,
the Earth wearing royal blues
and plush purples,
soft petals and fields of petals
glistening in the rain.
When these beautiful flowers
curl away at winter's hand,
the magic of their hours
comes back each year
in the seeds they shed
like so many tears of happiness
that nourish tomorrow.
There are no sorrows
among the flowers;
they know they cloak
the world in their season,
and know, too, that flowers are forever.
As you run--in all our dreams--
you blossom in smile and strength,
always heading towards us,
never away, like the flowers,
always coming forth,
shining in sun, glistening with rain,
always blossoming with love.
Promise of the Sky
The sky--ice blue--
early morning--Earth--alive.
Hot summer sun
still brings gardens to life.
The world's people kill
the earth, each other.
Families burst apart--
mere balloons.
Still, among the diseases,
between the disasters,
and through the pain--
timeless wonders comfort:
babies are born,
each one a tiny answer,
each one full of magic,
bringing people together;
the ocean waves and backwaves,
all life a curl, a curve,
a cycle, shifting;
flower gardens thrive
and some people have learned
to love and share, to care
about one another
and to look together
in marriage and in friendship,
at the ice blue sky
early, early, before its hue deepens
and the clouds drift by.
Tarpon Springs: a July Afternoon
We strolled along streets,
passed tiny shops crowded with sponges
and souvenirs from Florida,
tee-shirts, hats, mugs, the usual.
We looked for a restaurant
to have lunch,
ate gyros and talked soft talk.
Bob had Greek beer.
We finished and strolled again,
saw the sponge docks,
the charter boats, the marina,
the overcast sky,
impending rain.
We saw an old copper diving suit,
a dolphin fountain near a statue
of Neptune/ Poseidon.
Soon we got flavored ice
to cool off some. Hot.
As we walked to the car
and sauntered off,
music chimed from every shop.
We drove home and talked
soft sweet loving talk.
Easy Sleep
Twelve midnight
against the dark
a clock resounds, crickets hum,
wind chimes sing
and she sits on her balcony,
looking at hanging plants
all in a row,
stars all aglow.
Suddenly she thought of him,
loss of him,
and the wisdom she gained
echoes against the pain,
over these many years.
She tries to forget,
puts on running shoes,
goes out under the moon,
runs around the golf course,
hair soaked with humidity,
each porous cell swimming.
As she passes the pond,
the ducks, geese, and frogs,
all sing or rant.
As swans glide, pain breaks:
temporarily free.
As she pants up the stairs,
heart jumping in throat,
she looks at the moon's light
on the grass: joy, hope.
Her key turns the lock
and she's really home,
by herself and at peace,
not worried about the light or dawn.
She showers and sleeps--easy.
The Prairie in her Mind
Her heart is half city,
half country lane.
She's put coins in the bus bank,
and she's ridden a horse.
The dust of her country days
has settled in her bones.
She's back in the city,
adjusts--a must.
Some people have one place forever.
Some people move and move
and never feel at home.
She's luckier than these kinds.
She's at home wherever she is
because she's half wild, half civilized,
half nature girl,
half cultured, worldly--
raised on Pittsburgh art galleries,
museums, libraries, plays, ballets--
and all the wildflowers
in the prairie in her mind.
She's city and country,
enmeshed, forever.
In Your Dreams and when You Wake
As you sleep deep at night,
the Earth cries out, and you
dream of blue sky,
--so blue as it spreads
over all, over the sun,
over your country road run,
all dust and farmland,
and your every dream
is surrounded by blue sky,
nothing but sky blue sky,
and then you get up in early morning,
well before the sun;
the lure of the blue sky as it moves in
from the horizon,
pulls you through all the miles,
and by the time you
reach your door,
the blue sky world
opens wide.
