Rainy day poems
A squirrel leaps from a low-lying raincloud.
It lands on the tip of a big maple.
It begins running down a long branch.
The branch is a path to the ground.
It is a magic squirrel.
Now maybe things will begin to change for the better.
Everything always gets better with magic.
In my dream
In my dream I was a doctor.
I wrote you a prescription.
You got better.
You bought a boat.
We went sailing.
We landed on an island.
There was a little hut on the island.
A man came out to welcome us.
We couldn’t understand him.
We had sea-water in our ears.
He said something and his face beamed.
He began laughing so hard he fell down.
It must have been a good joke.
I dreamed that the Pope wrote something.
He buried it in a dump.
I dug it up.
There was a picture too.
The picture was all squiggly inside a circle.
It turned into a journal.
I gave the journal to some young people on top of a building.
There was a lizard under the carpet.
It bit me on the neck.
I am upstairs writing
I am typing on my computer.
What will I type?
I smell breakfast.
Shirley is cooking a frittata.
So that is what I am writing about.
It is a good smell
It gets better and better until it is done.
Ayla, my cat
My cat, Ayla, sits under the car and watches the woodpile.
She is watching for a chipmunk to appear.
If it appears she will try and catch it.
If she catches it she will carry it around in her mouth.
It will appear to be dead.
If I see her carrying the chipmunk I will try to rescue it.
I will run outside and try to startle her.
If I succeed she will drop it.
Sometimes it really is dead.
Sometimes it revives.
That makes me happy.
It makes Ayla mad.
She doesn’t catch that many after all.
Ayla, my cat
Ayla has a boxtop with her name on it.
When she sits in it no one can touch her.
She goes there when she doesn’t want to be bothered.
The force field around the box is very powerful.
It has never failed her.
My phone calls me
Gary, I have an urgent message.
What is it now?
Somebody needs your money.
They only need ten dollars.
What do you mean No?
My phone gets angry.
It tells me to stop hoarding.
I say, What I do with my money is none of your business!
My phone hangs up on me.
What love looks like
I send out a photo of a baby elephant and it’s mother.
The baby is pressing its trunk against its mother’s trunk.
The look it their eyes is heartwarming.
I send this photo to a short list of my favorite people.
I include the caption: This is what loves looks like.
My sister writes back: That’s what Ed and I look like.
I don’t ask her which is Ed.
I am a Shambhala warrior
Today I am taking a break from being a warrior.
I am writing silly poems.
I am feeling sorry for myself.
The day is dark and wet.
We have a guest staying with us.
He is a through-hiker of the Appalachian Trail.
He is a wonderful young man.
I am a powerful shambhala warrior.
Today I am taking a break.
Ten people want to be my friend on Facebook.
They all have the same face.
I am suspicious.
Why would ten identical people want to be my friend?
My god was a butterfly
I sat in my house made of string and bark.
I made a religion of light and dark.
My god was a butterfly.
He had limited power.
He made me a lover.
She lived on a flower.
A strong wind caught her.
It blew her to sea
I set sail in the pod of a pea.
I sailed until I came back around.
Somewhere near Peapod I ran aground.
Everyone there was just like me.
They all had wives named Mary-lee.
I searched both far and wide.
I missed my tiny bride.
If you see her, send her my way.
I’ll give you a donkey that doesn’t bray.
Reflection: I was looking out my second floor window on a rainy morning and saw a squirrel starting down a long diagonal limb that looked like a path to the ground. It seemed as if he had just appeared from somewhere higher up even though the maple he was descending was the tallest tree and there was nothing close to it, so I imagined that this squirrel came from a cloud. After I wrote this first poem, it was as if a door opened to a lighter magical space and the rest of the poems came rapid fire. As far as how they are set up, the only rule I gave myself was that each line be a simple and complete sentence. (The last poem that was actually written on a sunny day.)