"Spoon" by Phil Meyer
WE ALL LIVE IN A...
yellow submarine. The sun rises
and the teapot fishes in the sky.
Art awakens my mind to play,
splash in the pond of dreams,
slip into black holes.
THE MORNING DANCE
After a walk and meditation, I’m ravenous.
My husband returns from his swim.
With unplanned synchronicity
we take our places in the kitchen for a ritual tango.
He hoards the cutting board, slices a peach and banana.
I prepare coffee. We pivot for a
choreographed collision at the refrigerator,
him for almond milk, me for an egg and jam.
No words exchanged for we know
we are dangerous before we eat.
Toaster readied, pan sprayed,
kashi mixed with granola poured,
a simultaneous finish of gold-medal caliber.
I covet his bowl of cereal heaped with fruit
while he eyes my lightly over egg with jellied toast.
I bring coffee, his in a thermos, mine in a mug.
Safely seated in a no-chatter zone,
we snatch favored newspaper sections.
Earlier I meditated on wherever I go, there I am.
My mantra shifts to wherever I go, there he is.
"Landscape" by Phil Meyer
PASSING ART
A
snowy
stallion,
sculpture
in the sky…
wish I could
capture it,
wonder if
clouds
once roused
cave artists.
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Poetic Meanderings
by Jeanie Greensfelder
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A POCKET MEMORY
I joined my father as he got ready for work.
Before trampolines, I jumped on the bed,
came to life laughing with him.
Pop, dressed in his gray, tweed suit,
slipped his watch into his vest,
swung his tie around his neck
and with magic twists and turns
of his arms, tucked it into place.
Each morning I begged to go with him.
His eyes sparkled. He’d smile and sing,
“I’ll carry you in my pocket, Sweetie.”
I imagined fitting into his hand,
sliding into his pocket,
ready to dance on his desk.
The ritual completed, off we set,
me to first grade, him to the office.
Several years later he died.
No longer jumping, lying on my bed,
I feared I’d forget our time together.
Then I heard his lilting whisper,
“Carry me in your pocket, Sweetie.”
Peregrine Falcons by Cleve Nash
MORRO ROCK CALLING
Come, look in my scope,
a peregrine pair, full plumage.
Been watching every day.
That male flew in last year,
replaced her mate who’d vanished,
but when her young tried flying,
he hit ’em hard with his wing.
One sat stunned for hours.
Those fledglings hopped over the top
and got adopted there by another pair.
We’ll see how this one treats his own,
if he teaches them to hunt gulls.
The eggs will hatch in a month…
they’ll be flying by Memorial Day.
I ought to be at the gym--
high blood pressure, you know—
but I’m held tight in their scope.
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