Turning The Clocks Ahead

Every spring I like to tease myself

from the safety of my pillow

my feet still abuzz with the day,

me, eyeing my alarm, my jailer.

What if I didn't turn the clocks ahead?

What’s the worst that could happen?

Does anything important depend on

my being aligned with a flat-faced thing

which couldn’t care less about me?

It’s true my employer would frown

on my tardiness and administrative

appointments would be hard to keep.

I may no longer be invited to family

functions with defined shelf lives

and paper mâché agendas to manage.

These would hardly be bad things,

I think to myself as I extend my hand,

click the hour button once, reluctantly

picking up the line at my feet with

both limp hands, awaiting the pistol,

of another day, though I’d rather just greet

the other runners here with a cold drink

and a soft chair for their tired bones

when they lap me again six months from now. 

Weight

All I need is a little time
an hour for this
two for that
at least half a day
for the dusty pile
on the desk
on the floor
behind the door
leading to other
piles I can't recall
couldn't say.


Just one more pile
then I'll rest
then I'll sleep
knees locked straight
still bearing weight
dreaming dreams
of piles neck deep
of piles no peep
or thought
will seep.

Entitlement

The next time you stroll
a manicured beach, 
postcard perfect sand 
white on a topaz sea,

stop and take it all in
with the ease of breathing 
all you like and then
consider the contrary,

how Mandela spent years
in the middle of it all
with a stamped spoon, 
a blanket and conviction,

no sea view,  no camera, 
no way to know when
conviction would become
reality one happy day.

A Recycled Poem For Autumn

Pine beneath my bare feet, a glass of Spanish red in hand,

Adréas Segovia plucking and fretting somewhere unseen

and a handful of receipts, ticket stubs and post-its

now sprawled across my lap like rune stones

are kind enough to spare the time to stare

out the window - every poet's pastime - and count

the leaves on the nearby trees which have already turned

their coats inside out and their collars up before leaping.

On the back of a hotel bill from August when

I could not have been further from responsibility,

I tell them how I recalled when they entered the world

and how much I enjoyed watching them grow up

over cups of morning coffee or beers in the evening

and how they never noticed me watching as they

danced like Gene Kelly in the rain as storms blew

spring away so the drier summer months settled in.

But most of all - as to not dishearten them

(you'd agree they have enough to deal with as it is) -

I tell them not to worry, that I will be here when they return,

a pen in one hand, my head in the other, a smile on my face.

Down the Drain

Down the drain,
the rain crawls on
its belly murmuring,
looking up at us
today, not tomorrow

The Grandmother Poem

Hello stranger,
it's been a while.
Too long, I know
you're busy.

Sit down,
stay a while.
Eat something,
just stay.

Put down your phone
or whatever that is.
Folks can't  stand
still anymore.

Now everything needs
a name, an angle
changing every
other minute.

Not like when I was
a young poem,
a rose, the moon,
even death would do.

Yes, I know,
you need to go.
Take one with you.
You never eat.

I'll just be here,
knitting time
'till you return
or not.

Challenges of Parenting

I was barelegged with you in a field this morning.
You couldn't have been a day past five. 
It was I who helped you navigate the long grass,

the dips in the soft, unseen turf,

you who found the ripe blackberries,

spread across your face like war paint.

Or was it your high school?
You walked off the grounds for the last time,
a sheet of paper pressed between leather 
under your arm as your  books always were,

I wore a simple floral top and black slacks,

a proud smile that just wouldn't come off.

I can’t recall. But no matter.

It's 4 o'clock , another sunny Monday, 

that day after Thursday,

when that kind young man
who looks so much like you

always brings warm apple pie

just the way I like it. 

He should smile more often.