It's 4am
And in my lonely bed
I dream alone-
A vivid image,
Terrible,
That leaves me rocked
To the core:
We're on a sun-blinding road trip,
Cross country.
Suddenly
The rushing coastline freeway
Turns liquid.
The highway veers,
Leading all cars straight into the ocean,
One after another.
It's shallow enough to wade.
I trudge through the sandy bottom.
Knee deep in blue,
I'm in a numb daze.
The soft sea bottom squishes through my toes.
It's not cold.
But there in front of me
I look down and
I find the outline of a sunken car.
It's orange,
With two sunroofs.
I scrape off the mud,
Drying and heavy on the glass
Above the waterline.
Down inside I see
Them.
In an air-filled, sand-sunken capsule,
A family.
Tap, tap, tap!
No one wakes.
My nerves explode,
But "peaceful" says their faces.
The toddler in the back sways
With the rocking tide.
He's loved,
Fetal curled in his big sister's arms.
Tap, tap,tap!
Bang, bang, bang!
I am no use.
In the water,
There is no help,
Only miles of beach
And a blue horizon,
Dazed people emerging from their cars.
I am a helpless,
Hopeless
Observer
Of
Sweet Sleep.
And I wake.
My arm is shaking,
Electricity pulsing in my fingertips,
Is he OK?
I reach
For my own toddler son,
Whose pajama-ed feet
Have silently padded into my room,
Filling the sunken empty space
Beside me.
He breathes gently,
Blonde curls
Cover his dad's pillow.
And I am a quiet
Observer
Of
Sweet Sleep.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Monday, November 9, 2009
Like Mother Like Son
Your newly discovered pout,
Tiny bottom lip
Protruding out.
Your deeply furrowed brow,
Scrunched up nose
Red face without words
Telling me where, when and how.
You know what you want
And that you want it NOW!
A whine,
A cry,
A small pointing finger,
The power of your toddler gestures.
It's survival,
A mere carnal revival,
The essence of
Your independence.
Yet now you have me contemplating
The chasm between
Our own age seating.
Perhaps it never leaves,
That urge to wear it all upon our sleeves.
And looking in the mirror I see
You're not so much different
From me.
It must be true what they say:
The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
Tiny bottom lip
Protruding out.
Your deeply furrowed brow,
Scrunched up nose
Red face without words
Telling me where, when and how.
You know what you want
And that you want it NOW!
A whine,
A cry,
A small pointing finger,
The power of your toddler gestures.
It's survival,
A mere carnal revival,
The essence of
Your independence.
Yet now you have me contemplating
The chasm between
Our own age seating.
Perhaps it never leaves,
That urge to wear it all upon our sleeves.
And looking in the mirror I see
You're not so much different
From me.
It must be true what they say:
The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Monday, October 5, 2009
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Friday, September 18, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Monday, September 7, 2009
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Monday, August 31, 2009
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Pure Joy
From the kitchen
I hear their breathing,
Stomps and pounces,
A thud.
With pounding hearts
And sweat lined brows,
Daddy and his son
Rolly poly,
Tumble bumble
Across the floor.
"Pillow Fight!"
More laughter,
In big belly bursts
And shrilly thrilly shrieks.
The two
Boys of my heart
Together
Make a sound
I'll never forget.
A pillow fight,
Pure Joy.
I hear their breathing,
Stomps and pounces,
A thud.
With pounding hearts
And sweat lined brows,
Daddy and his son
Rolly poly,
Tumble bumble
Across the floor.
"Pillow Fight!"
More laughter,
In big belly bursts
And shrilly thrilly shrieks.
The two
Boys of my heart
Together
Make a sound
I'll never forget.
A pillow fight,
Pure Joy.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Friday, August 7, 2009
Monday, August 3, 2009
Cindy
If you're trapped inside on a really hot day, you've no choice but to sleep on most of your feet.
Kelley
The Lightning & Lyle
We saw Lyle Lovett,
My family and I.
He played by the river
Under a storm-threatened sky.
My grandma, 84,
A birthday flower in her hair, too
Rocked out with his Large Band
As the clouds overhead grew.
With a zoom lens on
And his iphone in tune,
My bro posted it to You Tube
As we sat there and wahoo-ed.
Upon careful exam
And serious debate,
We all concluded it's true:
Lyle's hair is a fake!
"It's a hair piece," said Ben,
"No it's an implant," said Sam,
"I think it looks real," I contested
"But more like an old man's."
He rocked and he wailed
In his suit and cowboy boots,
He sang of his pony
And of his Texas roots.
But before he could finish
The sky caved around,
Lightning and thunder
A collage of color and sound.
We ran for cover
The soundboard was struck,
And this concert was over
The band retreated to their truck.
But I'll hold forever precious the lovely
Spark in my grandma's eye,
From this adventure she'll know as
"The Lightning and Lyle."
We saw Lyle Lovett,
My family and I.
He played by the river
Under a storm-threatened sky.
My grandma, 84,
A birthday flower in her hair, too
Rocked out with his Large Band
As the clouds overhead grew.
With a zoom lens on
And his iphone in tune,
My bro posted it to You Tube
As we sat there and wahoo-ed.
Upon careful exam
And serious debate,
We all concluded it's true:
Lyle's hair is a fake!
"It's a hair piece," said Ben,
"No it's an implant," said Sam,
"I think it looks real," I contested
"But more like an old man's."
He rocked and he wailed
In his suit and cowboy boots,
He sang of his pony
And of his Texas roots.
But before he could finish
The sky caved around,
Lightning and thunder
A collage of color and sound.
We ran for cover
The soundboard was struck,
And this concert was over
The band retreated to their truck.
But I'll hold forever precious the lovely
Spark in my grandma's eye,
From this adventure she'll know as
"The Lightning and Lyle."
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Kelley
Lyle's Boat
Born into Texas farming
Hanging tight to his hat,
The late 60's began
And he left the boot mat.
Riding his pony
Hair shocked in those curls,
In search of the ocean
And a boat for his girl.
Signed on with the big wigs
An MCA Records fan,
Began writing songs and
Flaunted "Cowboy Man,"
Won a Grammy,
The top 10
And soon Best Country Album.
Finding his Large Band
Striking Gold with a movie star,
He packed up and shacked up,
But didn't get far.
Now he's back in Texas,
Made news by a bull,
Still playing his guitar
And shocking mop still full.
Lyle will be here tomorrow
And maybe I'll see
If he's atop his pony
In a boat headed for the sea.
Could be.
Born into Texas farming
Hanging tight to his hat,
The late 60's began
And he left the boot mat.
Riding his pony
Hair shocked in those curls,
In search of the ocean
And a boat for his girl.
Signed on with the big wigs
An MCA Records fan,
Began writing songs and
Flaunted "Cowboy Man,"
Won a Grammy,
The top 10
And soon Best Country Album.
Finding his Large Band
Striking Gold with a movie star,
He packed up and shacked up,
But didn't get far.
Now he's back in Texas,
Made news by a bull,
Still playing his guitar
And shocking mop still full.
Lyle will be here tomorrow
And maybe I'll see
If he's atop his pony
In a boat headed for the sea.
Could be.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Kelley
Just the Two of Us
You kick and you struggle
Scream and yell,
"It's only lunch," I say,
But you're so loud you
can't tell
That I'm trying to feed you
And get it quickly
Done.
Your crazy toddler antics
Are absolutely
No fun.
So I stop in the middle
Need to take a
Breath,
Laugh
Or pinch myself
That I've jumped into this
Mess.
"This time will quickly pass," they say
"You'll soon be sending them to school."
But your avocado face
And grimy food-stained hands
Go nowhere,
Time is where it stands.
You struggle and you kick
You scream and you fuss,
"It's just another lunch," I think
Just the two of us.
You kick and you struggle
Scream and yell,
"It's only lunch," I say,
But you're so loud you
can't tell
That I'm trying to feed you
And get it quickly
Done.
Your crazy toddler antics
Are absolutely
No fun.
So I stop in the middle
Need to take a
Breath,
Laugh
Or pinch myself
That I've jumped into this
Mess.
"This time will quickly pass," they say
"You'll soon be sending them to school."
But your avocado face
And grimy food-stained hands
Go nowhere,
Time is where it stands.
You struggle and you kick
You scream and you fuss,
"It's just another lunch," I think
Just the two of us.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Cindy
This is what a really hot, overly hot, disgustingly hot day in Seattle looks like. It almost has no color.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Kelley
My Hop-Toad
Leather jade,
A sandpaper tongue and
Bone dry belly
Click and crackle
In the summer's heat.
Dreaming of water,
Cool green water.
The blacktop swelters,
Ribbons of heat
Melt into the day.
He needs tall grass,
A Shamrock haven,
We don't have.
Across the street,
A burning barrier,
The creek runs cold.
His daytime playground.
Along the sandy bank
And mossy rocks,
He dodges kids' feet,
Cannonballs on summer's break.
Dreaming of water,
Cool green water.
When the sun goes down
And lurid heat
Rushes up
Colliding with the black night air,
Cold white sheets and a ceiling fan
Erase the sunburn.
I'm dreaming of water,
Cool green water.
And he crosses,
Takes refuge-
Crouched
Under the lush emerald cilantro leaves,
Camouflaged in a
Canopy of basil.
He floats sometimes
Spread-eagle
Down inside the cool abyss,
The wet darkness
Of a watering can.
Asleep now,
I dream
A parched dream.
Lips chapped,
Eyes squinted
A sand-caked body.
Wishing for my own
Watering can
Abyss.
My Hop-Toad and I,
We're dreaming of water,
Cool green water.
Leather jade,
A sandpaper tongue and
Bone dry belly
Click and crackle
In the summer's heat.
Dreaming of water,
Cool green water.
The blacktop swelters,
Ribbons of heat
Melt into the day.
He needs tall grass,
A Shamrock haven,
We don't have.
Across the street,
A burning barrier,
The creek runs cold.
His daytime playground.
Along the sandy bank
And mossy rocks,
He dodges kids' feet,
Cannonballs on summer's break.
Dreaming of water,
Cool green water.
When the sun goes down
And lurid heat
Rushes up
Colliding with the black night air,
Cold white sheets and a ceiling fan
Erase the sunburn.
I'm dreaming of water,
Cool green water.
And he crosses,
Takes refuge-
Crouched
Under the lush emerald cilantro leaves,
Camouflaged in a
Canopy of basil.
He floats sometimes
Spread-eagle
Down inside the cool abyss,
The wet darkness
Of a watering can.
Asleep now,
I dream
A parched dream.
Lips chapped,
Eyes squinted
A sand-caked body.
Wishing for my own
Watering can
Abyss.
My Hop-Toad and I,
We're dreaming of water,
Cool green water.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
Kelley
Running on empty
Laughter and morning shouts
Drift up from the kitchen-
My alarm.
I swing legs over,
Plop bare feet onto the cool wood floor,
Slide into Nike's
That look new
But aren't.
In a sleepy fog
I step over the
Cheerio landmines
And banana slime stuck to the floor.
Another breakfast with Daddy.
My own coffee awaits,
A true old friend,
My caffeinated confidente
Comme toujours.
"All aboard and out the door," I say.
We're off,
Me and my pal,
His blond mop of curls
Bouncing along in the BOB,
Our morning run.
Up the slow grade
Into the forest,
My brick-laden running legs
Moan.
They now think laps are
Chasing toy trucks,
Sprinting intervals to catch
A diaper-less toddler.
The track workouts
And daily mileage
Are a distant memory.
But I dream of running.
Legs moving
Fast.
Somewhere.
Anywhere.
For hours again.
A machine on auto,
Turning on and tuning out.
Quick feet, light heart.
But up the straight forest blacktop I go,
Pushing.
My sweaty palm grips the bar
And the pull to the left
Drives me crazy.
I'm thinking:
Gotta fix these wheels,
Gotta run more,
Gotta get up earlier,
Go to bed sooner,
Clean the house, take more naps, eat less sugar, read more,
Cook more, get out more often....
Looking down,
I see where the jolts originate.
Grandfather Frost's good work:
"Step on a crack, break your mother's back"
I'm careful.
They scream across the pavement
In random stretches.
So I jump,
After all-
I am a mother.
Passing mile 3
I see
My buddy asleep,
His curly mop resting on the side of the stroller.
So I turn.
Downhill,
Lead beads of sweat
Drip.
I feel lighter,
Freer,
More than a mom.
The wind picks up,
I don't even see the cracks
As they blur by under the wheels.
Legs flying,
My mind drifts:
To travel Europe by rail with only a journal,
To learn another language or two,
To teach abroad and play the piano.
To write a book and learn to cook
Well.
Someday.
My legs cramp,
The shadows retract
As the temperature climbs the morning ladder.
And I remember,
"Step on a crack..."
Slowing to a walk,
I hear our creek,
The steady applause of its tumbling water
Over age-old rocks.
And I know it's OK.
To this blond mop of curls
Maybe I'm the world,
For now.
I'm just running on empty
And living full.
Laughter and morning shouts
Drift up from the kitchen-
My alarm.
I swing legs over,
Plop bare feet onto the cool wood floor,
Slide into Nike's
That look new
But aren't.
In a sleepy fog
I step over the
Cheerio landmines
And banana slime stuck to the floor.
Another breakfast with Daddy.
My own coffee awaits,
A true old friend,
My caffeinated confidente
Comme toujours.
"All aboard and out the door," I say.
We're off,
Me and my pal,
His blond mop of curls
Bouncing along in the BOB,
Our morning run.
Up the slow grade
Into the forest,
My brick-laden running legs
Moan.
They now think laps are
Chasing toy trucks,
Sprinting intervals to catch
A diaper-less toddler.
The track workouts
And daily mileage
Are a distant memory.
But I dream of running.
Legs moving
Fast.
Somewhere.
Anywhere.
For hours again.
A machine on auto,
Turning on and tuning out.
Quick feet, light heart.
But up the straight forest blacktop I go,
Pushing.
My sweaty palm grips the bar
And the pull to the left
Drives me crazy.
I'm thinking:
Gotta fix these wheels,
Gotta run more,
Gotta get up earlier,
Go to bed sooner,
Clean the house, take more naps, eat less sugar, read more,
Cook more, get out more often....
Looking down,
I see where the jolts originate.
Grandfather Frost's good work:
"Step on a crack, break your mother's back"
I'm careful.
They scream across the pavement
In random stretches.
So I jump,
After all-
I am a mother.
Passing mile 3
I see
My buddy asleep,
His curly mop resting on the side of the stroller.
So I turn.
Downhill,
Lead beads of sweat
Drip.
I feel lighter,
Freer,
More than a mom.
The wind picks up,
I don't even see the cracks
As they blur by under the wheels.
Legs flying,
My mind drifts:
To travel Europe by rail with only a journal,
To learn another language or two,
To teach abroad and play the piano.
To write a book and learn to cook
Well.
Someday.
My legs cramp,
The shadows retract
As the temperature climbs the morning ladder.
And I remember,
"Step on a crack..."
Slowing to a walk,
I hear our creek,
The steady applause of its tumbling water
Over age-old rocks.
And I know it's OK.
To this blond mop of curls
Maybe I'm the world,
For now.
I'm just running on empty
And living full.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Friday, July 24, 2009
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Cindy
In the crazy whirlwind of the last couple weeks, we managed to escape for an afternoon hike to Granite Mountain. This is one of the first glimpses of the pass as you get above the treeline. I had a terrible summer cold, so I called the retreat early. A lovely and hot afternoon all-in-all.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Monday, July 13, 2009
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Friday, July 3, 2009
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Kelley
Burnt
Screeching,
Reaching
For the brakes
Nowhere to be found.
Outside the half-rolln' window,
Passing
In a blur,
Greens and blues
Like run-together watercolors of
A blender-blown Monet,
Life
Marches
On.
But passing Go,
I'm on a roll
Winded and blinded
Momentum,
My own.
At the wheel
Still screeching,
Reaching
For the brakes.
Oops.
Wasn't
That
A Stop Sign?
Screeching,
Reaching
For the brakes
Nowhere to be found.
Outside the half-rolln' window,
Passing
In a blur,
Greens and blues
Like run-together watercolors of
A blender-blown Monet,
Life
Marches
On.
But passing Go,
I'm on a roll
Winded and blinded
Momentum,
My own.
At the wheel
Still screeching,
Reaching
For the brakes.
Oops.
Wasn't
That
A Stop Sign?
Monday, June 22, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Friday, June 19, 2009
Kelley
An evening at home....
Finally feet up,
Ice cubes clink in my gin & tonic.
Blinds clap in the evening breeze, and
Birds chirp good night through the screen.
A ceiling fan whirs above my head, while
The dishwasher purrs.
Then, as expected...
A crash, clank and roll of Charlie's pacifier jetting out of his crib
Amplified across the wood floor upstairs.
The monitor detects a wimpy cry that
Escalates into full blown wails.
A major bedtime meltdown.
Up the stairs
To calm the storm.
And down again.
The ice cubes have melted,
Birds are asleep,
The fan is too cold,
And the sun has set.
Another evening at home.
Finally feet up,
Ice cubes clink in my gin & tonic.
Blinds clap in the evening breeze, and
Birds chirp good night through the screen.
A ceiling fan whirs above my head, while
The dishwasher purrs.
Then, as expected...
A crash, clank and roll of Charlie's pacifier jetting out of his crib
Amplified across the wood floor upstairs.
The monitor detects a wimpy cry that
Escalates into full blown wails.
A major bedtime meltdown.
Up the stairs
To calm the storm.
And down again.
The ice cubes have melted,
Birds are asleep,
The fan is too cold,
And the sun has set.
Another evening at home.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Kelley
You snooze, you loose...
Charlie is sound asleep.
But under his window, not more than 15 feet away, his all-time favorite entertainment is happening without him: A 310SG Deere 3-in-1 Excavation Backhoe tractor is absolutely shaking the house and tearing up our front yard. For those who are not familiar with excavation trucks, this one is like an amped-up Transformer toy; It has a shovel and dump end with jaw-like "teeth" to clamp objects between the lift and the blade (as it smashes the 50-year old cement slabs in pieces and hauls them to another dump truck). It has a scoop end with two crustacean-like retractable claws that break apart and haul smaller objects. The claws levy down to the ground, turning into "feet" that steady a 25-foot hydraulic scoop backhoe with sharp nails for digging. And it has a piercing, backup emergency beep- a sound that is driving me crazy at the moment.
But, my little truck-lover snoozes on.
I can't beleive he is missing the action, just under his window.
Sorry Charlie, you snooze, you lose...
Charlie is sound asleep.
But under his window, not more than 15 feet away, his all-time favorite entertainment is happening without him: A 310SG Deere 3-in-1 Excavation Backhoe tractor is absolutely shaking the house and tearing up our front yard. For those who are not familiar with excavation trucks, this one is like an amped-up Transformer toy; It has a shovel and dump end with jaw-like "teeth" to clamp objects between the lift and the blade (as it smashes the 50-year old cement slabs in pieces and hauls them to another dump truck). It has a scoop end with two crustacean-like retractable claws that break apart and haul smaller objects. The claws levy down to the ground, turning into "feet" that steady a 25-foot hydraulic scoop backhoe with sharp nails for digging. And it has a piercing, backup emergency beep- a sound that is driving me crazy at the moment.
But, my little truck-lover snoozes on.
I can't beleive he is missing the action, just under his window.
Sorry Charlie, you snooze, you lose...
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Kelley
Agitated
The inexplicable,
Irrevocable
Invisible
Sliver of
Annoyance.
A paper cut
Wedged
Between the
Index and thumb.
Shins
Sandpapered raw,
Kneeling in alcohol.
A backache
That wraps around,
Inside
And out.
A shard
Of high-noon light
Cutting straight
Into
The pupil.
Long polished nails,
A receptionists' red,
Raking
The chalkboard
In a drawn-out
Edge
Beside an open ear.
Droning music,
On and on,
A half-static
Country station
That will not turn off.
A hangover's
Fuzzy teeth
And pulsing head
Lasting well into
The next day's sunshine.
A spindly
Accusing finger
Pointing
Straight
Into the face.
Cracked dry hands,
Chapped
And sunburned,
Weathering like
A lizard
That crawls across
The hot desert sand.
A permeating
Smell
Of burnt toast
And old socks,
Ammonia and mustard.
Dirty dishes
Stacked again,
Eggs
Glued
Forever.
The inexplicable
Irrevocable
Invisible
Sliver of
Annoyance.
The inexplicable,
Irrevocable
Invisible
Sliver of
Annoyance.
A paper cut
Wedged
Between the
Index and thumb.
Shins
Sandpapered raw,
Kneeling in alcohol.
A backache
That wraps around,
Inside
And out.
A shard
Of high-noon light
Cutting straight
Into
The pupil.
Long polished nails,
A receptionists' red,
Raking
The chalkboard
In a drawn-out
Edge
Beside an open ear.
Droning music,
On and on,
A half-static
Country station
That will not turn off.
A hangover's
Fuzzy teeth
And pulsing head
Lasting well into
The next day's sunshine.
A spindly
Accusing finger
Pointing
Straight
Into the face.
Cracked dry hands,
Chapped
And sunburned,
Weathering like
A lizard
That crawls across
The hot desert sand.
A permeating
Smell
Of burnt toast
And old socks,
Ammonia and mustard.
Dirty dishes
Stacked again,
Eggs
Glued
Forever.
The inexplicable
Irrevocable
Invisible
Sliver of
Annoyance.
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