Audience of one

We all have a guaranteed
Audience
Of one.
Sometimes it expands
Beyond ourselves.
Then we count it
Worthy.
We need to begin
With an audience
Of one
Before we ripple
Outwards.

Earlier times

Even in the summer
I begin the day
With something
Hot to drink.
My hands
Cradle the cup
Remember
Earlier times

Breakfast

My favorite meal
Of the day
Is breakfast.
It does not matter
Who I share it with.
Sometimes
A particular poem
Shares a cup of coffee
Gently offers
A word or two
Calls attention
To what comes next
If I only
Listen

Impressionist

The impressionist
Experienced
One moment
At a time
Like this one.
Saw it.
Painted it.
Wrote it.
The sun lit the flower.
The bird flew.
The wind changed
The leaves.
The snow covered
The thistle
One moment
And then
It was gone.

Purple topknot

My thistle
Wears a purple topknot
She is not
Native here
She hides
Under
Her thorns
Next
To the purple
Coneflowers
One bed over.
Maybe
She will succeed
In thorny
Subterfuge.
Somehow
I doubt it.

The parrot

The last living speaker
Of a tribal language
In South America
Is a parrot.
I wonder
Her vocabulary.
I wonder
If she's
Lonely
I wonder if she flew
To the next village
To have more people
To talk with.
Or even
To repeat back
Repeat back
Repeat back
Repeat back
What they say
To her
What they say
To him
 

You can't make me

The virus does not
Make enemies
Does not consider anyone
A friend.
The virus
Is the virus
No matter what.
Some believe
They are immune,
No masks
No handwashing
No distancing
You can't make me
They say
Like children

Front pew

While I understand why
We don't worship
In church
I think of my particular spot
In the front pew
My orange walker
Waiting
To return

Magnet

He fishes with a magnet
Who knows what
Is on the bottom
Of the lake?
His landlord
Wants to know
What the pile of metal
Is for.
The rusted bike
Is his prize.
Will he paint it?
Will he dress it?
Will he name it?

Best compliment

 It's important to write such things down before they get lost.

Best compliment I received
Two weeks ago,
Took me two weeks
To write down.
Now I don't remember
Who graced me
With the words
It may very well
Be my beloved.
Your poetry
He said
Reminds me
Of O. Henry stories.
They often
Have a twist
On the end.

Bruno

For Sawyer, Jon, and Bruno.

He knows his mind
That dog
All it takes
Is an open car door
He knows
It's his car
His driver
His home
He knows

Third grade

I remember the first poem I ever wrote.

I wish I was a hummingbird
I'd go to places you never heard
I'd buzz around
From flower
To flower
Every day
Every hour.

I wrote it in large pencil in big capital letters.

On the fly

Poetry flies through my head
At night
I come downstairs
It is gone.
Write it down
They say
Still
It makes no sense
In the morning.
Even from a scrap
Of paper.
Different poets
Take nature walks
With pencil
And paper.
They compose
On the fly.

Opening churches

Opening churches
Just tells us when
It will be safe
Is it ever safe?
We like
To think so.
Our God
Is not a safe God
Remember
Whenever we gather
It involves
Risk
We forget
So often.
Perhaps
Now
We are meant
To remember.

They arrive

The monarchs.
The backyard is filled
With monarchs.
It took them so long
To discover
The milkweed.
Now they communicate
By monarch antennae
To antennae.

Keyboard

Does the keyboard
Make sense?
No
It does not.
How did the vowels
Lose track
Of each other?
Why is U so far
From Q?
And F and G
In the middle
When they are so rarely
Used.
Sense
Why am I looking
For sense?

Two days ago

Two days ago I learned
That the rib cage
Extends
Behind us
as well
As in front
Yes
Of course it does.
Sometimes I learn things
The hard way.