freedom poems

Freedom Poems

Red Dress, Place Vendome
Cat Door, Place des Vosges

The
I'm
Possible

Can you imagine the impossible?
Or do you look between your fingers
At the horizon?

The unthinkable can free you,
break the bars
of old thoughts,
shatter habit,
open space for new thinking.
Even if it is truly outrageous,
the impossible can still, perhaps,
scatter a seed,
so a new plant can
possibly
grow.

But don't confuse the impossible
with the merely implausible,
for there's a
difference-
The implausible fits.
The impossible has to come from outside
to shake freedom
loose.

Feathers in my shoes

Gull feathers–
I wind them in my laces
to remind me
how much I need to fly!
Break free from weights
that pull me down,
and spread my wings,
muscular,
feel the wind against my face
as I soar with gusts,
down drafts,
pull up again,
powered by my dreams.

Don't clip my wings,
lace me in worn out ideas,
tie me down in habits,
mindless routines.
My being flexes from within,
bones and tendons arch
when heart beats too much joy
to be contained in sitting,
and feeling bursts like fire into my hands,
my feet,
till they leap out,
flying,

Blowing up the Microwave

I'm out the door at noon.
But thinking it would be nice,
and a conciliatory gesture
for skipping our common mid day meal,
and it will only take a minute anyway,
I decide to heat the soup
and take the bagel from the freezer,
so lunch will be ready
at precisely 12:30,
when he comes home.

Posh bagel, lite Philadelphia,
red tomato thinly sliced, and
home-made soup
for perhaps the thousandth time.
It will only take a moment, I am thinking.
(I don't count the hours of slicing, chopping, blending,
Seasoning, packaging into neat 2-serving containers).

Swiftly I punch
the numbers for the soup container.
He likes his soup hot,
Hot enough to burn my tongue.
I don't notice I have hit five twice,
not the five minutes I intended,
but closer, as it turns out, to my age.

No wonder the microwave blew up!
Severe melt down of the plastic,
Smoke everywhere,
Homemade soup vaporized.

It was all about
time.

First Supper

I chop the greens,
choi sum.
I bought from the
Japanese woman
at the farmer's market,
and the green onions and asparagus,
5 curving stalks.
Into the pot with the ginger
the old Chinese man
put on his scale, the small piece
he added last, to make the
weight come out even.
I throw in some leftover meat
and huli huli sauce that Jeremy loves,
and I stir--
all ready for the brown rice,
I set to cook an hour ago.I eat right from the
stir fry pot,
each bite, delicious, the
only sound, pleasure.So this is what it is to
eat alone?
Cook for myself,
remembering where each part
of my stir fry comes from?
Stirring them together
into a new dish,
eating it all
scraping leftovers into the sink
cleaning up.

Dancing.

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