Wednesday, October 27, 2010


I try to keep positive.
Worrisome thoughts intrude.
What if I drop tomorrow
in spite of other plans.

Hope for healing--
eliminate pain,
a plan for the house--
all new flooring,
give back what I can--
donate to a cause.

I don't want much
and loved ones
still there for me
when I need them.


Stiffness in my fingers
an arthritic knot in my left thumb
bone rubbing on bone
cramping, snapping, aching pain,
ouches and creaks.
Must rethink how I use
these worn extensions.

It hurts to unscrew lids
turn door knobs
pick up pots and pans
cut with scissors
write, type
tie my shoes
do laundry
water the yard
lift my purse
carry groceries
pull out keys
from my pant pockets
take out trash.

Must I do hand exercises
for the rest of my life?
Be a pill bag forever?
I don't enjoy growing old.

Dr. Baker says, "Don't say that,"
covering his mouth
shaking a finger at me --
"Those are bad words."

Weeping Willow

Dear petite weeping willow --
I have watched your frail, short strands
grow to long reaching branches.

You are more flexible and stronger
than the monstrous mulberry in front
that broke large branches
in the last ferocious storm.
Yet you survived, unbroken.

Your young leaves wave in the wind
long strands delicate and thin
skinny bark, half-wrapped and supported
to keep high winds from snapping you.
I shake my head and wonder
that you did not break and fall.

You are life - a resilient child
who sways with graceful bends
bouncing back, as youthful as
the active sparrow that jumps
around the delicate yellow
and pink petals on the small shrub
by the chain-linked fence.

I look forward to your cool shade
when you are more full-sized
I can see myself on a hot day
hiding inside your breezy house,
in a comfy white chair with a book.

Cucaracha Number Two

In my efficiency apartment
above a garage on Hadley,
I sit on a long bench eating dinner
at a white picnic table
in my narrow kitchen.

A large flying shadow
swoops across the white walls.
"Oh, it's just a moth."
I shrug it off without looking.
Moths are quiet.
This one is buzzing.
I look up and my calm heart
crashes into my ribs.

I shift into overdrive.
A red cucaracha,
longer than my palm
with extra long wings
flies around my kitchen --
a mad bug on drugs.
Quick, to the closet
to grab the broom.
I wrap my hands
around the stick end,
swing the straw end in the air
thrashing the nasty cucaracha
against the walls
shredding it into broken pieces.