POETRY lies firmly in the present, gently stopping time to relish the details and help us slow down so we can relish them, too. Kind of like sharing a small child’s right-now moment as she discovers a butterfly for the first time. And will you ever again look at a butterfly the same way?

That’s reading poetry. Writing poetry demands that we poets also stay in the present in order to relish, and reveal, those details . . . drill down endlessly for meaning . . . crystallize our message in as few words as possible. It’s a challenge I can’t resist. Fussing and fuming over the exact right word to make the exact right point . . . well, it’s not for everyone.

It’s for me.

It’s not a novel or a whodunit, that
you hurry through to find out how
the story ends. In a book of poetry
you’ll find a story on every page with
its own beginning, middle and end.

“I finished it!” crows my friend, as he
waves my book in the air. Proud and
satisfied. As if ‘another task is done.’
Hmm ... what can I say to him ....

The goal is not to finish. There is no
goal except to enjoy. Start with a few
... take a breather ... walk the dog ...
And rather than stash it up on a shelf
alongside the other books, why not

keep it by your bed or favorite chair.
At hand, to pick up once in a while,
let a poem make its mark ... then
back on the table it goes. For now.

Allow each story to fill the moment.
Move you, entertain you, offer a new
point of view. Perhaps you’ll find a few
poems to your liking, and then maybe
. . . want to tell me about them.

I climb the narrow ladder and as
my eyes reach its floor I peer into
the faded, musty clutter. It seems
other-worldly, for dust rises in
shafts of light as though something
breathes up here. Do I dare disturb it
with my clumsy curiosity? I finish
the climb and haul myself into the past.

Here’s the baby doll from that Christmas
it snowed. A cracked red satchel my
sister and I fought to the death over.
The autoharp I strummed just like
Joni Mitchell. My breath catches and
my heart skips for I realize they’ve stuck
to the ribs of my memory all these years,
and I wonder whether time matters at all.

What’s this fancy box? I lift the cover
to find a pair of high heels. Red. Spangly.
What Lucy might have slipped on to dance
with Ricky at The Tropicana. My Mother.
Totally out of character, she must have
indulged for a special occasion that never
came to pass, for these shoes have clearly
never been worn.

I lift them and admire the sparkle and inhale
the still-new aroma. I imagine what kind of
fancy dress she might have worn to match
them, the kind she never owned, at least
not in my lifetime. And then I picture the
day she sat right here - where I sit now -
and packed them carefully away,
with tissue paper and regret.

makes its way in fits and starts, day in
         and day out, from the east side to the 
                 west and the doors hiss and the brakes 
                         screech and people get on and people
                                    get off, one corner after another, until
                                        it’s time to turn back around, which is

                                    where he queues up, same time each day,
                          only on this day the wind’s icy intention
                      threatens to steal his hat and he feels 
                 a blast of heat as he boards, but soon
            it suffocates, and off comes the hat 
    as he looks up to read those same

       ads he read yesterday and thinks
             like every day that he should buy a
                    copy of the Times for no one speaks 
                                 or makes eye contact as once again mass 
                                     transit picks up the masses to bring them
                                          right back where they started, but this day

                                 he spots his face in the glass and no longer
                             recognizes the man who once stood out in 
                               a crowd and knew where he was going and
                        it occurs to him this day that he is the same
                 as everyone around him. Whose lives are 
       not turning out the way they planned.

You 
are important to me
We’re connected
at the heart
the hand
the nervous system
You’re part of me
You distract me 
Can’t let go
Can’t live without
How did I manage
before you
Can’t imagine
Wouldn’t want to
You’re my other half
You share my days
my bed
my life
You are my conduit
to the world

You are my phone.

Sometimes there is a day
that goes unnoticed
slips through the fingers
for I have better things to do

than remember the light
in my mother’s hair or
the way her housedress swayed
as she worked in the kitchen,
its rhythm a kind of silent music

Sometimes there is a day
that claims a place all its own,
lodges permanently
in the mind, a keepsake

to take out and hold
in the hand, turn over,
examine from all sides
How he looked at me
that last time

Then there are days
I look past the face
in the mirror,
don’t meet the eyes

staring back at me
don’t recognize who
I am or what I want
as the crush of days
swirls and rushes past

But sometimes there is a day
that rises brilliant and clear
Stands alone
and I stand at its center

And that is enough