Loco Motive
Cell Phone
November 2010
Poetry, pictures and thoughts for starting over at 8.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Monday, November 22, 2010
HAIKU
HAIKU 3 – 2 – 3
It was good.
It’s ended--
what a waste!
HAIKU 5 – 7 – 5
being whole being,
3 years spent in the effort--
so not worth it
climbing many hills
looking for the trail markers--
instead of the trail
Winter white and cold
Spring and summer, warm and green--
Fall blows all away
Misunderstanding
or escape, either way: rude--
I know what is true.
Synonyms: abrupt,
bad-mannered and insulting.
Antonym: polite.
Furry little beast
Furry little beast
You are so funny!
What are you thinking?
Tummy up, paws extended
afloat between asleep and awake--
Are you dreaming about
a rustling breeze tickling your fur?
Supine on the bed
legs outstretched, jaws apart--
Are you greeting the day ahead
your enduring hope to be fed?
So relaxed, so languid, so tranquil;
one well-rested puppy--
Furry little beast,
what are you thinking?
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Friday, October 22, 2010
FuturPointe
Walking home from the dance performance, the sky, a deep, deep blue black is heartbreakingly beautiful with black crows rustling out of the trees and streaking across the sky. There were song titles on the wall in the theater listing favorites from the past. No need for me to add one. Mine was already there. Cat Stevens, Morning Has Broken—it’s actually a Presbyterian hymn. Disappointing not to add mine. Sort of like not lighting a candle in a catholic church because they have all already been lit. Am I there at the wrong time? Sort of like majoring in art--the wrong time to do that by about 200 years and a continent.
And the walk home—I will stick to the well-lit sidewalks on major streets because my daughter wants me to. However, I am drawn to the alleys and shortcuts. They are so mysterious and appealing. Oh well.
The air is brisk. There is a 10-foot snowman in Washington Square Park and we have not had a snowfall. Zero, nada, but there he is—complete with a carrot nose, stick-arms and charcoal for eyes. I imagine asking the box office person at the theater, “Why is there a snowman in Washington Square Park?” And she will say, “What snowman? I don’t know.” It is less than 75 feet from the front door of her theater and she will look at me as if to say, "Are you picking up a ticket or not?" So, I did not ask about the snowman. The dance performance was abfab. I want to take everyone I know back to see it.
I am home safe. Coming down from two pumpkin martinis at $10 a pop. A perfect Friday evening.
Walking home from the dance performance, the sky, a deep, deep blue black is heartbreakingly beautiful with black crows rustling out of the trees and streaking across the sky. There were song titles on the wall in the theater listing favorites from the past. No need for me to add one. Mine was already there. Cat Stevens, Morning Has Broken—it’s actually a Presbyterian hymn. Disappointing not to add mine. Sort of like not lighting a candle in a catholic church because they have all already been lit. Am I there at the wrong time? Sort of like majoring in art--the wrong time to do that by about 200 years and a continent.
And the walk home—I will stick to the well-lit sidewalks on major streets because my daughter wants me to. However, I am drawn to the alleys and shortcuts. They are so mysterious and appealing. Oh well.
The air is brisk. There is a 10-foot snowman in Washington Square Park and we have not had a snowfall. Zero, nada, but there he is—complete with a carrot nose, stick-arms and charcoal for eyes. I imagine asking the box office person at the theater, “Why is there a snowman in Washington Square Park?” And she will say, “What snowman? I don’t know.” It is less than 75 feet from the front door of her theater and she will look at me as if to say, "Are you picking up a ticket or not?" So, I did not ask about the snowman. The dance performance was abfab. I want to take everyone I know back to see it.
I am home safe. Coming down from two pumpkin martinis at $10 a pop. A perfect Friday evening.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
On the balcony
On the balcony
surrounded by warm, breezy air
I snoozed in my private lair.
On the balcony
I can hear the pool music & the traffic
and the whispery action.
With the stupidest book ever
I keep a lazy, watchful eye on the other guests,
while I pretend to rest.
High over all & halfway to the sky
yet halfway to earth,
I watch the comings & goings.
On my balcony
I am invisible...
I am a spy.
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