From Morning to Night

I always said I’m a morning person. And I was. Up at dawn. Full of new ideas, I’d often go to bed with a problem and wake up with the solution.

Endless energy but to bed early in order to face the next day. Even on weekends.  I couldn’t sleep in.  Remember those lovely days in college when it was nothing to sleep until noon.

After years of retirement, it finally sinks in. No need to rise at a certain hour.  I can take naps when tired during the day. Now I stay up until all hours; then get up when I feel like it.

Some days I get on the computer while still in my night clothes and work on a project until noon.  But I’m having dreams every night.

Research shows that people who dream are less likely to have Alzheimer issues as they age. Sounds good to me.

These are vivid and action filled dreams. I can’t identify where they take place and nothing looks familiar. The people in my dreams, and there are many, are unknown to me.

I wake thinking I have something important to do. I feel a sense of dread. Then, once fully awake, I realize it was only a dream.

It’s like watching a movie. Though I’m in the movie, I’m only an observer and what happens doesn’t affect me. That’s perfect; unlike those days of work-related pressure.

I’m loving my transition from morning person to night owl.



When poets critique,
there is no end to thoughts, theories or thinking.
Just the sound of the word,
that’s the poetry of poetry.
Once the poem is read out loud,
only a moment until the first comment.

I think the word weary should be changed to tired.
No, that sounds mundane.

I think the word weary should be changed to drowsy.
No, that doesn’t fit the rhyme.

A better choice is drained.
No, that seems severe.

The sound of the word exhausted fits better.
No, that has too many syllables.

Sleepy sends a better message.
No, that’s too vague.

Since the language is casual, the word beat is best.
No, that’s not poetic.

The rhythm of the word fatigued adds charm.
No, that seems harsh.

So much is gained from group think.
A new word never thought of or an idea
that takes the poem down another road.
after much thought,
wistfully weighing the words,
and after all,
this is my poem
and I can do what I want,
though the process makes me weary,
weary is the word I choose.


Kindle Kaleidoscope

Preparing for a plane trip,
while toting an 800-page tome;
how to lug it through long lines.

Aha! Join the 21st century.
Buy a Kindle; always wanted to
and finally break that binge habit of book buying.

But it takes a PhD in library science to figure this out.
Putting a hold on a book only puts you in line.
Length of line depends on how many copies the library owns.
Twenty in line for five copies
will take longer than five in line for twenty copies.

Though carefully watching where the line is,
still, a book is finished long before the next arrives.
That leaves one desperate for something to read.

Or when miscalculating the suspension mode,
now there are two books coming at the same time
and only 21 days to read.
Hunker down and do nothing else!

The record holder is Michelle Obama’s at 2083 ahead in line.
The  Kindle cloud has unlimited storage.
Michelle Obama’s e-book is $14.99.
So much for not buying books.




Discombobulated 2019

It’s one day after the new year.
A new plan, simple but fun.
Internet check shows yoga at 12:30.
After that, lunch with a book.
Off I go.

Great parking place found.
Look in my purse,
no wallet.
Where did I last have it?
How can I sign in to my class? Aghast!
At the desk I explain,
no problem they say.

Strange, as I approach the room
the class is in mid-pose.
I check the schedule on the door.
Yoga at 11:30 it says. Pshaw!
What a mess!

No wallet, so no lunch.
Home I go.
When I arrive, no wallet to be found
in all the usual places.
Yikes, now I’ll have to replace it all.
Then there it is
under the table on the chair seat.|

Rattled and unbalanced.
Oh, just another sign of aging.
Is that what this is?
Maybe I’m doomed to such discombobulation
for the rest of the year.
Welcome 2019!








A Day at the Museum

Sun shining bright and clear.
Windows and whiteness everywhere
enhances the calm lake.

The museum is filled with children on a class trip.
Chatter, running, gleeful excitement.
Climbing on the art work when allowed.

Jane and I stop in the café
A chai tea and talk.
Happening upon long lost friends.
Welcoming comments from strangers.

Trip to the second level
to view the grand ceremony.
Calatrava wings,
like clockwork at noon
slowly close and open.

A docent group walks nearby
listening dutifully to the guide’s orientation.
Lunch in the restaurant.
A bubble of windows and light.
Endless talk.

Stop to see the newest exhibit,
a suitcase open on the floor.
Walk around each side to see the water below.
An adult’s legs cradle a child’s.
What does it mean. Who knows.
That was the only art seen on this artful day.




Stork Pose

Patience, balance, silence, breathe.
High on the mountain of repose.
Goddess lunges.
Vinyasa of warriors, humble and peaceful
opens in a flower pose.

Triangles give way to pyramids,
downward dog gone that feels good.
Seated twist creates
a sea of arms gliding from left to right,
closing to wide angle.
Serene, silent synchronicity.

Yoga touches all.
Stork pose morphs into tree pose
when foot rests on the leg.
 I forgive the mix of metaphor.
Perhaps that means the stork is sitting in the tree.
Or maybe it means something else.
Yoga is quite mystical, you know.

last week I sustained stork pose
on both the left and the right.
Patience, balance, silence, breathe.


Do Something Different

Yoga class was distracted from humble warrior pose
by rain coming down in a deluge.
Instructor Terri ended meditation with a kind suggestion:
today do something different; even a small thing.

As we hoped the pouring rain would abate,
Pat and I challenged ourselves.
Rather than wait, why not follow the suggestion.
Do something different.
Why be held hostage by the weather.
Let’s both use Pat’s umbrella;
walk to her car together then I take the umbrella to my car.

After jostling around for the just right mix,
me on one side of Pat and then on the other.
Me hanging onto Pat’s arm,
we wobbled and lurched across the parking lot.
I left for the last leg of the trip
with rain coming down in sheets.

The driveway was drenched,
water swirling down the sewer drain.
Walking carefully; small steps.
squishing shoes, soaked through,
clumsily jostling to close the umbrella and car door,
relieved when I made it.

Driving to the restaurant with wipers at full speed,
by now my backside was wet and shivers had set in.
Settled into a booth and looking out the window,
we see the rain had stopped.
We could have waited a mere ten minutes.
But no; we had to do something different.
Namaste, my ass.



My writing is blocked….
rocked from one topic to another…
taking stock of what’s needed to create….
even the clock of forced writing is a crock….
outside forces leave me shell-shocked…
who knows where our country is headed….

My reading is blocked….
I lock my mind into the story and instead wander….
after five pages, wonder: who is this character anyway ….
enjoyment, the bedrock of reading nowhere in sight……
disheartened by leaders who go off half-cocked….
and by others who stay silent but follow like a flock ….

My concentration is blocked….….
trouble following any conversation….
watch TV and lose track of the story……
rewind the recorder to hear that again…
this gridlock persists though I resist like a hawk….
the latest best idea is to arm teachers….
students balk…

My sleeping is blocked….
strange dreams full of people I’ve never met….
but who’ve mocked me and socked me ……
can’t remember the details but know I’m being stalked……
I wake thinking there’s something I have to do…
then realize it was in the dream….
shocked by the dishonesty and deceit of our government……
our whole country is in a similar deadlock….

My optimism is blocked….


Lunch With the Unabomber


The best of friendships is built around common interests,

laughter and inside jokes

The best of friendships is built around common interests,
laughter and inside jokes.
We accept our lapses of important information,
details of where we were yesterday or last week,
who starred in that wonderful movie and
what our plans are for tomorrow.

The two Pat’s and I began with yoga which naturally leads to lunch.
When Wisconsin weather warms we seek outdoor spots.
A little over zealous in late spring on a sunny but windy day,
hardy souls, we give it a try.

A well-kept secret is a hotel
with an outdoor restaurant set up like a beach;
tables with umbrellas, sand dunes and a plastic whale.
It turned out to be a bit much.

The first Pat put on her sunglasses to shield against the sun
then donned a black hoodie against the wind.
The waiter looked at me weird when I asked
if he thought Pat looked like the Unabomber.
But she really did!

I often test the second Pat:
will she be able to pick out my car in the lot.
The first Pat is frantic to go back for her sunglasses
which I see through the rear-view mirror, are on her head.

Just last week as we finished yoga
I asked both Pat’s if they wanted to have
another lunch with the Unabomber.
And, yes they did!






Note To Self

Inspired by Note to Self,  Collected and Introduced by Gayle King, Simon and Schuster, 2018.

Such a small book; but so inspiring; only one hour to read.
Visionaries, authors, celebrities write a letter to their younger self.
What is it you wish you had known at the beginning.
An intriguing thought; let me give it a try.

Dear Younger Me,
Lighten up;
don’t worry so much;
enjoy the ride.
Be comfortable not fitting in because in many ways you won’t.
And that’s okay.

The most important thing learned from your parents was what not to do.
That sounds harsh but wasn’t meant that way; let me explain.
They did their best having come from difficult upbringings themselves.
Negative messages meant to prop you up that dragged you down.
It was the times.

”You never finish anything.”
You are headed for a rewarding and challenging career.

”College is a waste for girls; you’re on your own.”
You’ll be the only one of six kids with an advanced degree.

“Maybe if you listened better, that boy would like you.”
Your two divorces aren’t failures. You listened to yourself.

I’m proud you forged ahead with so little support.
Your decision not to have children was wise.
You’ll thrive on friendships both in and out of family.
You’ll have a rewarding life for yourself.
On your own terms.

Older Me

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