Fantasy

When she was little, just a kid

– still is -

she promised to marry me

in a castle, with a ballroom,

dancing together in a princess

dress of satin and lace, pale blue,

a Cinderella fantasy in sneakers, dreaming

of fancy balls and happily-ever-after;

... and every day now I wait outside

the castle gate for her to return

into this dream of my own making,

just to see her happily-ever-after again.

Cafe Creme

- or your favorite coffee shop, wherever it is -

It’s noisy here,

the sound of intermixed conversations

overheard mingled with laughter and giggles

at something I didn’t hear, didn’t catch,

and the scrape of a chair or the shutting

of the door letting in the cold, the stomping

of feet pounding off the snow carried in

by the very soles on our shoes, heavy boots,

whatever’s fashionable, attractive – and warm –

or lightweight summer-wear defying

the season, addressing our hardiness, here,

and the buzz from somewhere above us,

electric lights or the sounds of busy-ness

filtering down through the ceiling, up from the floor,

or behind the counter where we ordered our drinks,

this constant din we accept, barely aware it’s there,

just the noise of this place that touches our palettes,

even as we sip our lattes and tea, home-baked

goods sweet on our tongues, enjoying the company

of friends and strangers among us, their mingled laughter

and conversation, voices reminding us we are not alone,

humanity in need of others’ company, others’ lives,

and a good cup of coffee, a warm muffin.

Old Friends

(For Vicki, my old friend)

We’ve been friends for fifty years,

more or less, much longer than

we ever thought we’d be alive to tell,

what with the world coming to an end

before we reached our thirties,

pessimists that we were in our boomer years

awaiting the end, nuclear annihilation,

our enemy’s warheads pointed at us,

and ours at them, threatening war

and destruction, fear-mongers, hate-mongers,

a catastrophe ending it all in a world gone mad

- but the world didn’t come to an end,

struggling along, muddling through,

as we all did, perhaps better for the battle,

battle-worn and cynical, changed anyhow,

but hopeful, now, in our old age,

having survived this long and holding

on for that slow slide into senility

and the loneliness of the old folks home –

but, here we are, still together, old

friends weathering the years, the decades

slowing down, holding on and muddling through,

though hopeful, now, less cynical, looking back,

and looking ahead, holding on to the memories

we share, holding on to each other

and the uncertainty of the days ahead.

Untitled Poem

In Fairy Tales, a villain arises,

terrorizing the villages of the kingdom,

those gentle souls too easily

falling prey, a princess usually,

blonde of hair and fair of skin.

The villain is defeated by magic, or trickery,

and the princess is rescued by some handsome

prince we all wish we could be, could become,

one strong and sure enough to defeat

the evil forces that we fear, powerless to overcome,

but we stand tall and firm in our resolve

to save the princess, whom we’ve fallen in love with

by this time, rescuing her and richly rewarded

with her hand to live happily ever after. Then,

in our fantasy so far removed from who we really are,

we attach the reality of today, of our own lives,

the princess but a heavy-set woman nagging us, reminding

us of the princes she could have had, the castles

she didn’t get, her crown now tarnished by time and a parcel

of kids, and the prince himself, that prince becoming

a villain to our fantasy, that prince we didn’t become,

couldn’t become, and the dream, too,

of happily ever after, it never came true;

but what else is there to believe in,

in the final tally, but happily ever after

to save us when the villain arises, terrorizing.

A Confusing Time is Autumn

It’s a confusing time

this time of year, stuck

between the heat of summer sunshine

and winter’s blustery cold,

mourning one and not eager

for the other in the dropping temperatures

of autumn, preparing us, perhaps, gradually,

in small increments, tempering us

for the winter months ahead, the barrenness

of wood and field and ourselves,

the darkness of our seasons going forward.

Today is hot and dry, and I work

up a sweat removing the fallen leaves,

staying ahead of their falling

in the winds of yesterday, but tomorrow

calls for rain and the chill of moisture

lingering, wet and cold and dreary,

snow in the air, predictions of winter.

So we break out the warmer clothes,

the coats and hats and gloves, the sweaters

and sweatshirts with hoods we pull tight

around our faces, shutting out the elements,

second guessing the weather and dressing in layers,

keeping close, though, the layers we remove, hanging on.

And our spirits, too, are caught in-between

the seasons, the layers we carry there preparing us,

too, for slowing down and remembering; for the darkness

and wondering; for the long days spent alone,

restricted and locked inside ourselves,

confronting the darkness, the limits of our lives.

This is a confrontation we’d choose to avoid,

prolong if we could, too afraid of ourselves

laid bare and open in winter’s cold

and darkness, our own heat cooled now

by the season before us, a time of fear

and shutting out, darkness and light.