Month: December 2013

THE LAST OF THE PEARS

The basket of pears you sent

From Harry and David arrived

On time on Christmas Eve.

They’d tissued each perfect pear

In festive and seasonal green,

Beribboned and bedecked,

But not yet ripe.  Each day

I nuked a pair in raw sugar

And rum,  and they were tasty.

However, on New Year’s Eve

The last of the pears called out to me,

Blushing and chilling in the fridge.

It yielded softly to the knife.

Sweeter than sugar and more

Intoxicating than rum, the juice

Ran down my chin, and I thought,

“What better way for an old year

To end or for a new year to begin.”

12/31/2013

• THE LAST DANCE
• When Death decides to come will he wear
• A tall hat and twirl a cane
• Like Fred Astaire? Will he ask me
• To dance?  And will I dare to say yes,
• Yes I’ve been waiting for you,
• And will he waltz me into the sweet
• Bye and bye down the primrose path
• And into the wild blue yonder?  What
• More could a girl ask, I wonder,
• Than a final whirl into eternal light.
• 12/29/2013

HOW SOON WE FORGET

Rising at dawn to join the long

Check-in lines, lost baggage,

Missed connections, luggage

Seized by porters speaking

In foreign tongues, on-board

Plastic snacks, and on arrival

Montezuma’s upsetting revenge,

Altitude headaches, the swing

And sway of undulating waves

As we lie in our bunks, unsoothed

By the whining winch and the engine’s drone.

On shore the cobbled streets

And unexpected steps slick

With rain, lintels too low

To duck and then the cough

Bestowed by our plane’s tainted

Air.  All these blessings we vow

Never to risk again, But then

The brochures beckon and wea

Recall the friendships, sunrise

On seastacks, sunsets on glacial

Peaks, discovery’s shock of surprise,

Eye-opening, mind-waking and

We begin to plan again.

The loons call out to me, circling below the rim

(As only loons can swim, proudly and gracefully)

At the top of the Leishman cup.  I hear their querulous cry

As I raise the cup to my expectant and willing lips,

On the perfectly tapered rim from which no drop will fall

As the curving handle will softly cushion my thumb.

So does the Potter mold a marriage of utility

With art in quiet harmony: the clay then turns to gold.