Poetry from my book, Diving Right In

Friendship’s Arms
I’m here, you’re there, this special day
Oh, how I miss dear Friendship’s arms.
The feelings thought, but not exchanged
Seem excess weight, unwelcome guests.
My censure bids me see all’s well,
But heart’s encased in dark cocoon
Till trust and time and tender touch
Again give welcome to Friendship’s arms.

To my Good Friend
It is you who first told me, “1 want to know.
What are you REALLY thinking?”
I used to dip my words into deep pools
Where propriety dictated
How quickly I dared plunge in.

You see, there are many pools that LOOK inviting,
Where I hear, “The water’s warm!”, and I rush in,
Only to feel chilled throughout.
Once I’m there, I stay and swim, but,
Braced against the assault on my skin,
I never freely splash and shout:
I know it isn’t warm.

With you, Friend, I rarely test the water--
The temperature nearly always welcomes my headfirst dive.
If I shiver, you notice,
And we warm ourselves before swimming further.

I notice we slow down when the water turns color
And the depth and cold intensify.
Dare we trust our bodies in unswum waters?

When one of us feels sure, we urge the other on
And feel triumphant several strokes later.
But, dear friend, dare we gauge each other’s mettle
On our own moment’s strength?
Do you feel weaker if you say,
“Today I only want to swim half way out?”
Am I just as desired a playmate when I only wade,
Or must we always go past the deep mark
Always push, always stretch limits?

I do not need us to swim as far and as fast
As each other every time.
So if I urge, and your body is a wader today,
Please tell me.
Either way, Friend, “The water’s warm!

Home’s Beauty, Inside and Out
She’s lived here four years, longer than the other roomers.
House and yard beauty is her chosen domain.
Blue and green pots, long wood planter boxes,
Bricks or rocks around these strawberries, those irises.
She mothers the plants, moving them from too little or too much sun.
She regularly places buds or flowers or leaved branches
In colored vases, on kitchen ledges, bathroom chests.
We walk up front steps and see cherries, new carrots.
Breakfast and lunch on the deck treat eyes with color,
Ears with bird songs,
Mind with gratitude for raspberries, for beauty, for profusion.
Even MY mind, so often full of plans and projects, emails and calls,
Sinks into sweet solace, swims in it
As I'm teased into the verdant restful space of Here,
The no-mind place of Now.
Breathing in the garden's rose, now on my desk
Offers release and respite.
I smell freedom from duty and stress.
I am content. And so is she.


Ripeness
I weigh both sides-—can’t know for sure
If this or that is better choice.
Remembering then to drop control
I wait till ripeness shares its fruit.