“The Sitting”

Lenoir,_Charles-Amable_-_A_la_Recherche_du_Temps_Perdu (2)Lenoir,_Charles-Amiable ‘A_La_Recherche_du_Temps_Perdu. (In Search of Lost Time)

“The Sitting”

The lady yearns for briefest rest

held captive by the artist quest.

A simple pause; her smile beguiles.

Her almond eyes belie the lies.

Mid curve of  lips, a cautious glance.

But youth is harmed; so brief the dance.

And, stealthily, her feelings flee.

Her cries are hidden hastily

behind her smile.

“DaVinci’s ‘Mona Lisa'”

MonaIt’s all about her look; a placid guile.
We know her well; that enigmatic glance.
Suggestive are her lips; a warmth of style.
She teases us; her eyes a bit askance.
A reticence enhances lady’s charm.
Anticipation in his mind may leap.
Expectancy has power to disarm.
A popular diversion pastimes keep.
The world still favors subtlety of sex.
DaVinci must have known his buyer’s dream
when he took brush-in-hand.  His Mona’s hex
elusive as her curving lips now seem.
She hesitates, and most agree with me
Time’s still not taken all her mystery.



at end of day

he comes to talk.

His dark, brown eyes are piercing me:

“I’m ready for my lesson, please.”

And, so, our game begins.

I mouth the dark, black, circled ‘ohm’.

Inspired, the terrier in him

‘tempts guttural with teeth and tongue

He must repeat, now, what he hears

yet issues forth his standard bark!

He tries again, a grinding growl

a lower tone with healthy howl

and I, excited, nod him “Yes!”

and he’s beside himself with joy.

The more my face makes round the sound,

he’s rolling on the floor, unbound

in doggy laughter!


The Garden

Field of Flowers

The Garden

Imagine all the love our lives enclose

 if placed within walled garden’s memory.

There gently falls the rain where grows the rose

as droplets tremble in the wind and flee.

A wondrous world with rain-bowed colors blown

‘neath places in the sun where true things grow.

So be our rose whose petals now are flown

yet youth and passion’s heart remain and glow.

Oh, love’s true colors want to beam and breathe.

She grows, undying,  in green bowers where

her petals show a bold, bright destiny

so wild,  her vines are willing yet to share.

And our imagined rose, forever free

remains within our garden’s memory.



Quiche For Sale

20171015_104802Quiche For Sale

She smolders in her warmth and subtle juice.

She’s filled with loves’ own complex condiment:

here made with careful heart at home to choose

the mystic of each cheese from heaven sent.

Here solemn sits she, wrapped in spinach green

whose rising odor soothes of smothered egg

chopped onions roasted with a glorious sheen

whipped peppers tingled-red now beg

among her mixed embellishments and sigh

the chef’s intentions with her fancy flair.

Yet, weep all those who would, with eager eye

share gold concoctions with abandoned air.

La Quiche, we sigh for sisters, tearful, all;

for unrequited love our duties call.

(One never knows what I might use for a poem.  The story:  my daughter rises early this Sunday am to make breakfast for her brother.  The plan was to visit his new digs with breakfast made with loving hands at home.  As she takes the gorgeous thing out of the oven, he calls  an hour before our arrival to say he will not be home for our planned visit 3 days ago!   This beauty is still warm as I write, smiling.)

Ode to an Oak

There’s majesty of scene where grows the oak.
You have more heart than most; my charming knight.
The winds of autumn hasten now to choke
but you resist the forest’s wintry blight.

You’ll not allow cold earth to freeze your heart
nor let the bitter breeze strip all your leaves.
You are that stalwart made of rarer part;
your leaf turns bloody beautiful, I see.

My bravest one, you face the cold ; unbowed
and I will marry you and place a crown
upon your shocked and bleeding, leafy brow.
My arms reach out to grasp and hold you round.

My love for you outlasts this winter song
as I will rest beneath you before long.

credit: Dreamstime.com


We pass, like strangers, quickly down our hall.
His night shift over, sun will speed his sleep.
No pity has the morn for me to stall;
It’s time to take the baby to his keep.

To work and to the sitter; life’s a sigh!
But on my coffee table, there’s a note
where I must quickly scribble out reply
to running quips we do, between us, quote.

“You are my Juliet and I love you
in dreams”, sez he.”And you will be my sun!”
But hark, my answer, though it be quite true,
conditioned by my feet about to run:

“Sleep on, oh Sun God, in our bed of brass!
Tomorrow, in the hallway, we shall pass!

(My cop worked the night shift. My teacher job meant we passed like ships in the night. But funny couplets flew between us during the week. One original, scrawled in pencil on yellowed legal, survives. We were together 62 years. And yes, it was a brass bed.)

original title:  “notes for a lifetime”

The Gift

lovebirds4-best-2(photo by J.Casey)

My snowy visitors have brought to me
a bright and beautiful December day
I offer them my Chinaberry tree.
I perch and stare before they’re on their way.

They pause and groom each other for awhile;
soft talk they share with cooing , cheek to cheek.
They stare at me and, sure I see a smile
upon the face of one who wants to speak:

“Coo-coo, it is the human heart we seek.
His sacrificial love was made by choice.
That splendid gift God gave us makes us meek.
As we are poets, we will be your voice.

On wings of care,  Nativity,  they sing.
His birth’s a gift  forever echoing.”

These doves were perched outside my 3rd floor balcony in Florida; Dec 11, 2012 (my mom’s birthday). They stayed; grooming themselves for a good fifteen minutes before they flew away and did not seem to mind my photographing them from only a few feet away.  In the many years I have lived here, before and after that date, those birds have never been seen again.  I have always considered them a gift and message from my mom,  gone since January, 2000.