I never knew there was a book by this title, until I tried to find an image to go with my poem (below).

moments…

moments…

surprises sliced off the top

of skimmed milk; i

measure them discretely, swiftly,

knowing each will evaporate with time’s touch.

SHHhh, do not tell anyone what you have! they are stolen!

rare! not supposed to be there,

and you are the thief! shhh, take care! Time will get you too

and charge you, try you. You will never be free.

Quick! Think. You know what to do,

You are in charge of hiding them away,

deep in gramma’s shoebox,

do you know where it is? Can you still find it

in the knotty pine room with quiet quilts?

Open the door-you are the only brave criminal,

hide them, hide you,

and when it’s all done

look in the mirror,

see life smiling back while time creeps away.

you did it!

shhhh…………

Longing

In honor of my father, who died 28 years ago on November 20, 2009

We embrace life's

memories

as if they are today~

invisible and weightless~

yesterday's songs taking us places beyond

ourselves, above

the heaviness of the world.

Their notes lift us toward that space

shared by aching hearts, all seeking

hands of a father, mother, lover, or child...

longing for the touch,

skin upon skin,

or the breath

of the missing

on one's cheek;

they wait there, in this place,

alone and together,

beating as one.

One looks at the flaw and rejects it, ignores
its otherwise firm and blushing skin;
pushed aside for one with no outer
faults, nor guaranteed inner beauty.

The branches
speckle with imperfection as
over and over again they are
left, destined for the the press.

It is the way we pick
apples, so obsessed with beauty fit
well to our hand, driven toward the next
which may possibly exceed the last. Happily, we
cart our bags back to the trunk,
each selecting the chosen one to eat
on the way home. We compare, compliment and
complain as we gouge away--too grainy,
tart, juicy, crisp,


soft-silently wondering,
which one was best
and who had it. Then at home,
following tradition, we gather ‘round
the cider jug and taste
the faultless blend,
the anonymous
blood of neglected
fruit, quietly claiming
victory.



Laura King, 5/7/09

Music of a Deaf Cat…

Laura king/2009

Her quicksilver concerts demand
sudden attention,
white paws scaling ivory-ebony keys,
fill our resting air with dissonance,
she totally unaware. Startled awake I
scan the room, resent this pre-dawn
game of hide-and-seek
with a composing cat, who shatters sleep.
Her predeliction towards Beethoven
imitations boldy counters night, yet
she hears none of it; only knows that, like
every other night,
I will find her, spy her single fang
Shining in a sliver of moon.
My scolding words the encore,
Her purr the applause.

Me jazzin,’ me cat!
Me playz all night, me playz all dayz
Me crrrrraaaaaaaaaaa-
Zee cat!
Tail twitch wid’ a beat,
Same beat in my feet’n dey
Hipz and they hopz
‘til I’m on da top of da piiiiiiiiiiii
ana, and so,
da piana man go, he say, “Get down, blame cat!
Me playz za keys and you in my way, you
Crrrrraaaaaaaaaa--
Zee cat!”

Spring Snow

Spring Snow, like an unwanted guest,
showing up uninvited,
assuming hospitality, just being itself, while
cars curse and swerve.
Spring Snow, like a bill past due
directed at you,
that you assumed was paid in full,
yet wanting more and MORE.
You slow through the snow squalls and
worrisome white outs, behind the wobbly line of cars,
to the parking lot, yes, a bit late,
to the jumble of kids, waiting for you,
to "why are you late?" and trunk and doors opening
for the only ones totally unaware of the trouble,
completely oblivious to the air's annoyance,
the only ones that really matter on a day like today:
Weekend teenage skiiers,
in love and in step
with the sky's final burst
of spring white.

Getting a New Brain...

She told me she was getting a new brain,
streamlined, hotwired,
without the 20 cm lump, but at that moment, I
couldn't get mine to work, to send a message
to my mouth to form meaningful words
and ouput them toward her.
She told me it, the lump, had been growing for the last ten years,
secretly culturing in a frontal lobe hideout,
until it had its coming out party on the MRI screen, earning
immediate star billing.
"It's coming out next week, or 'so-they-say,' Tuesday,
unless they change the day again; they've done that, oh,
a few times now, 'cause it's benign-no worry, no hurry,"
I felt my lips begin to move, but
"hey, it's okay, I'm fine, just a headache here and there,"
I nodded instead,
imagining some foreign body inside, growing,
finding space within my space,
wondering what are the odds, benign? malignant?
knowing that the difference between her and me
was the God that let her hope and the one
that left me questioning,
why?
I nodded and smiled at her, now walking away with a cheerful "bye"
and I tried to accept it all at face value:
A benign tumor would soon be taken out of her brain.
The end. I tried in the silence
to still my thoughts
me, left alone,
mouth
closed.