Have you tried an oatmeal bath?
CeraVe? 
Eucerin?

Yes to all of it.

Late at night
hands itching wildly
I justify:
maybe scratch
just a little?

*The poem is a Byte — written in 140 characters or less, inspired by the original character limit for a tweet. Form idea courtesy of Irene Latham & Charles Waters from Dictionary for a Better World.

The cute couple
with a contract on the corner house,
explored their surroundings.

First,
the brand-spanking new
elementary school
within walking distance —
a big selling point.

Next,
a visit to soon-to-be neighbors.
Lush lawn,
well tended bushes —
a good sign.

Finally
the duo,
using the crosswalk,
headed back to take measurements —
fully satisfied
with their sparkling choice.

Author Linda Sue Park asks:
“Imagine your home is on fire. You’re allowed to save one thing.
Your family and pets are safe, so don’t worry about them.”

In a house filled
with art,
travel mementos,
heirlooms,
my eye zeroes in
on a football-shaped
stuffed animal.

Army,
a worn brown-stripped
armadillo,
joined the family in 1996.

Until Army’s arrival,
my three-year old son
had shunned all stuffed animals —
no Winnie the Pooh, Peter Rabbit,
or Bert & Ernie rested
in his junior bed.

Picked up
at the San Antonio airport
by my perpetually traveling husband,
Army was an after thought…
until he wasn’t.

Our son Nash carried him everywhere.

Army has been to London,
Boston, New York, Key West,
California, Canada and more.

Like any family member,
Army has endured
injury —
our beagle pup chewed off one ear;
neglect —
left on a Boston hotel bed,
Army ventured into the laundry facility;
smothering —
our son held Army so tight
when nightmares visited
he could scarcely breath.

Ask any member of our family:
what would you save in a fire?
Army will likely top the list,
he is family after all.

*Inspired by Linda Sue Park’s book, The One Thing You’d Save

Sometimes
nature surprises me:
startling a fox around a corner,
catching deer
munching in our yard,
spying bunnies
by the pond.

But this morning,
nature outdid herself.
I opened the door,
laughing
in amazement.

Watermelon pink,
flaming red,
bruised violet,
deep, dusky blue.

Whether to amuse herself
or astonish mere mortals,
Mother Nature
dressed the day
in breathtaking glory.

Letter in hand,
the twins stood sheepishly
at my front door.

“This is for you…
we are so very sad and sorry.”

I have known the girls
since they were small.
First, as playmates
for my two frisky pups.
Lately, as thoughtful
middle schoolers.

The two scurried back across the street
leaving me lost, confused.

Opening the creamy envelope
I found a single spaced,
one page letter.

“Dear neighbors,
it is with a heavy heart
we must inform you…”

My breath caught in my throat.

“The beloved oak tree
in our front yard
is dying.”

“We have consulted
multiple arborists…
there is no saving the tree.
Development, weather and age
have taken a toll.
The spirit of the tree
will live on in our memory,
but after next Tuesday,
the tree itself will no longer stand.”

“With the help of our three young daughters,
we are selecting a new oak
to occupy the space.
But,
nothing can replace this giant.”

“As a sapling,
she witnessed
the aftermath of civil war.
She stood tall as houses
began to dot the landscape.
She watched two new centuries commence.”

“We wanted everyone
to hear the news
before seeing the empty space.
Sincerely…”

Our street
is empty
without broad limbs
sheltering us,
as we trudge on hot days
or dash
in a sudden downpour.

I am surprised
how often
I notice the absence,
the void.

Yet,
I am as sure as sure can be —
we are the lucky ones
for having lived
in this magnificent oak’s universe.


*memory unearthed thanks to reading Amy Juengst’s wonderful post First Degree

One level,
wood floors throughout,
bursting with sunlight –
the house on the corner is perfect
for a young family
or empty nesters.

Two weeks ago
the For Sale sign
was replaced with
an Under Contract sign.
New neighbors were on the way.

A moving van arrived
loading up a sleek dining table,
a comfortable leather couch,
a child’s dollhouse —
leaving the house bare.

What would the new neighbors
be like?

Would little ones
populate the yard,
maybe a small dog or two?

Finally,
yesterday the couple arrived.
She
circled the garden bed
looking for a comfortable spot.
He
paced in the sprouting green grass,
a watchful eye
turned toward his bride.

I have no doubt
young ones are on the horizon.

The pair,
eying my small troop of dogs
as we passed,
surely must wonder
whether we will be welcoming.

I could not be more pleased
with this spring addition
to our neighborhood.
With a pond
merely a block away,
the new neighbors
should feel right at home.

Three bananas
well past their prime
greeted me from the kitchen counter.

Valiantly holding their form,
the trio attempted to hide
deep bruises,
as if any of us can halt aging.

Reaching for the Martha Stewart Cookbook —
nestled next to old friends Ina Garten,
Julia Child, Christopher Kimball, Alice Waters —
I flipped to the best banana bread recipe in town.

Over the years,
I have sampled dozens of recipes.
But,
none match
the moist, aromatic loaf
currently rising in the warm oven.

Soon,
my family will awake,
burst into the kitchen
and beeline for the treat
resting on the cooling rack.

Next time,
can you make a couple loaves?
Next time,
can we take a loaf to work?
Next time,
we should let six bananas linger —
all the more bounty for us.

For young Jim Henson
visits to his grandmother Dear
stoked a flickering flame
of creativity at his core.

Together
they would listen to the radio –
ventriloquist Edgar Bergen,
variety shows, comedy hours –
and spend hours
drawing, crafting.

Like Henson’s grandmother,
my Dot
delighted in entertaining
her grandchildren.

A teacher in her youth,
Dot led us tramping through
the New Jersey Pine Barrens
in search of tree frogs, mushrooms
and deviously beautiful pitcher plants.

In the evening,
I would scoot close
to watch her knitting needles
fly at lightening speed.

Today my own needles
charge through
soft scarves, cabled sweaters,
patterned mittens, scrumptious cowls.

When heartbreak visited
in my early twenties,
I drove hours
to sit with Dot
over an ever present cup of tea.

Wisdom
comes with living.
And grandmothers,
have seen it all.
They have been loved
ignored
burdened
blessed
forgotten
and feted.

When Dot‘s grandchildren arrived,
she didn’t ask about homework
or grades or misdeeds.

Dot knew what truly mattered
lay just outside the door —
along a wooded path,
in a canoe,
walking the beach.

I miss her every day.

Growing up
I knew every beat
of my favorite songs.
I sang in the shower, in the car,
full throat, no surprises.
Live concerts were a chance
to sing along — same rhythm, same notes.

Last night
The Bad Plus,
a jazz quartet of infinite skill
charted a new map,
an ever-changing landscape,
keeping listeners on their toes,
enraptured.

I grew to love jazz
when I married.
My husband, a drummer in his youth,
played record after record
on Sunday mornings
as we drank coffee, read the paper.

Bill Evans, Miles Davis, Nina Simone,
Oscar Peterson, John Coltrane —
brilliant artists
who I will never see in person.

But,
the jazz scene is alive and well.
Ravi Coltrane, the Marsalis family,
Gregory Porter, Kandace Springs,
Kenny Garrett, Jon Batiste,
Diana Krall, Marcus Miller,
Esperanza Spalding, Christian McBride,
the list goes on.

If you can,
head to a jazz club.
Whether local group or living legend,
you will never hear the same thing twice.

Jazz
is invention every night.
The drummer pounds a solo
out of metal and skin.
A saxophonist reaches the peak
of the scale before descending
to buttery low notes.
The bass
reminds your heart
it is the essential rhythm.

Yesterday,
my husband got off a plane,
hurried to change,
and we sailed through the night
on an ocean of rolling notes.

Padding down the stairs,
two pups at my heels,
I head straight for the kitchen.

A jewel-toned foil bag
holding coffee beans
beckons from the cabinet.

Grinding the beans,
releases a heady aroma
of nuts, earth, smoke.

I watch the morning elixir
drip into a clear carafe,
nectar from the gods.

At the bottom of a ceramic mug
I splash a layer of cream,
enough to lighten the brew
without dropping the temperature.

Finally,
cup in hand,
I snuggle between the dogs
and take up my book,
grateful on this Saturday morning.