165. SHE'S SO NICE I'm a very nice person, ask anyone who knows me, I'm sure they'll agree, unless . . . I'm tired or hot or hungry. I've caught my pocket      on a door knob, I'm wearing a new bra, or I'm playing Monopoly  with sore losers. I have to "cook" tonight, my back hurts, or I'm sitting next to a sniffler. I forget to hit save, I might actually have to iron, or it starts with T and ends with P. I guess then I might be not-so-nice. But seriously, otherwise, I'm a dream! Just ask my husband. *comments welcome

  164. night filled with sadness wisps of consciousness drift past melancholy stars *comments welcome  filled with endless sky wisps of consciousness drift past melancholy stars morning thunderstorms sky  endless sky tumbled and rolled sliver of melancholy

163 (117). Battenburg curtains bits of gold sun poking through  cozy grandma chic *comments welcome

 162. GRANDMA'S HOUSE The first thing I saw when Dad turned the car down Grandma’s street in Merriam Park was the sky-high catalpa in her front yard. A beautiful tree, with frilly white flowers in spring that magically became long, brown seed pods in late summer. The only cigar tree on the block, when I spied it, I knew we were almost there. There was always an endless supply of Juicy Fruit gum in the top drawer of the sideboard in her dining room. I wasn’t allowed to chew gum at home, but I inhaled the sugary sticks at Grandma’s. Grandma had a green thumb, she could make anything grow. My favorites were the tall hollyhocks that bloomed beside her garage. Grandma taught me to make hollyhock dolls, clever flower ladies in petal gowns and turbans. Grandma's gone now, other people live in her house. That towering catalpa tree is still there, watching over her tiny bungalow summer and winter. Life has come full circle, and I’m a grandma myself. There’s blue-eyed Nora and her sister...

161.  DRAGONFLIES AND DRAGONS When I was a girl,  willow thin and achingly transparent, we swam in the lake every day, sleek seals gliding in and out  of the water. Dragonflies,  sage companions,  skimmed the surface  of refracted light, acrobats with  loop-the-loop maneuvers. My brothers called them the Devil's Darning Needles, claimed they'd sew  my fingers together and stitch my mouth shut. I hoped they were teasing. Once upon a time, dragonflies were dragons,  mystical fire-breathing monsters. Now, scurrying across the water, they're a symbol of change, change far beneath the surface,  evolving to find a deeper meaning of life. *comments welcome

160.  UNDER THE STREETLIGHTS Fickle as leftover shadows, papery  moths trapped in endless orbits crash under the streetlights. *comments welcome

159. MY DAUGHTER Languishing on her end of one of our daily phone chats, she tells me she's in the Freshman Class of Old Age. I laugh. That's not the answer she's looking for. OK, so at 46, maybe there's the barest glimmer of a beginning, but when I look at her, I see gorgeous smooth skin, clear eyes, beautiful posture, her smile spectacular. I note from my exalted position as a mother and "knower of everything," commentator on all that piques my curiosity and pitters my patter, if this is what it looks like, add me to the list. *comments welcome

158. my granddaughter sobs reading about snow leopards  becoming extinct *comments welcome

  mounds of snow white clouds sky so blue it breaks her heart first day of summer great billowing clouds fill the early summer sky bird song in the air

157.  HAPPY BIRTHDAY Born in Corpus Christie, Minnesota transplant. Mid-century modern, Dylan fan, icy cold Dr. Pepper. Smell of cut grass, old Twins T-shirt,                     my guy.  

 156.   summer's longest day the wonder of the solstice triumph of daylight *comments welcome

155. MIDSUMMER'S EVE He brings a sack filled with good things: a jar of pickled okra, vintage Irish cheddar, Lavash flatbread crispy with sesame seeds, tomatoes still sun-warmed from his garden. Armed with plate, knife and basket, he mounds crackers, slices tomatoes, lays out gherkins and cheese. I contribute sepia bottles of icy cold beer. The breeze picks up but it's still too hot. I hold the chilled glass against my forehead, lift my hair, let the air cool my damp neck. Easy together, we laze in the backyard beneath ancient oaks; eat, drink, laugh and tell stories until the slow arrival of darkness is complete and the fireflies click on. *comments welcome

  154. THURSDAY The weather perfect, we met for a picnic lunch, cold beers and sun tea. He asked me to marry him; I brought dill pickles and chips. *comments welcome TANKA Five lines, traditionally following strict 5-7-5-7-7 syllables. I have not tried this form before but Vince Gutera inspired me with his wonderful poems about his mother. He makes it look easy, but it's not. I hope I did it right.

153. EATING TOGETHER She sets the new frying pan on the stove, (Harvest Gold Club Aluminum, a wedding present), browns hamburger in oil, spatters grease. Juicy canned tomatoes sting a cut on her finger, red chili powder in dark red liquid. The year is 1971, and they're newlyweds barely old enough to be married, and yet, here they are. Their first apartment: tiny kitchen with Harvest Gold dishwasher, more tiny rooms and a tiny balcony with a tiny hibachi. They share dinner, her mother's chili recipe, at their hand-me-down pine table from his family. Laughter and funny stories about their days prevail. Sometimes, promises aren't made for the moment; they're made for a lifetime. *comments welcome Living together is more than sharing a bed, it's learning to keep track of finances, goals and obligations, it's how to respond when you're exhausted. Starry-eyed, they have no idea what's ahead, their future is bright.   learning to manage our goals, plans, obliga...

 152. BUYING SQUASH I saw her at Cub three days before Christmas, looking for black-green scalloped winter squash, no different from any other busy woman heading home after a long day. It comforts me to know this about her; nothing pretentious about buying vegetables. This woman monitors my blood pressure, sent me for a mammogram when I discovered a lump. She's the real thing, my doctor; a wife and mother, her life a constant juggle to find the right balance between career and family. I like this homely side of her. *comments welcome

  151. THIS OLD HOUSE There’s something special about our house and what it represents. It’s home, our home together, you, me, the kids, us, our family. I feel most like myself here; it's my safe place. When we move, I won’t  just lose the house, I'm afraid I'll lose part of myself. *comments welcome **Because of the atrocities carried out by ICE last winter (and still) here in St. Paul, I appreciate how lucky I've been all  my life,  to actually belong, to have a home.

  151. ONE DAY One day my daughter will have to go through my things. It's probably time to get rid of those racy love letters I got from a boy when he was on active duty in the Army. She'd be grossed out, more than anything, especially since the boy in question is her father, and my husband of 55 years. *comments welcome

150.  I'm waiting for pain to become interesting so far it just hurts *comments welcome

  149. PEONY BLISS In the garden, she discovers a blossom of palest pink with layers of tulle petals, skirted ballerina toe-dancing on a dark green stem. The peony bends deeply to perform a grand plié, almost touching the ground. Unrehearsed, executes an impressive pirouette, spins gracefully in soft summer air. The choreographer arrives with basket and scissors. Snip-snip, blades open and close, open and close, arranges the last performance in a crystal vase. Radiant, the peony takes a final bow. *comments welcome

148.  PICKING RASPBERRIES AT GRANDMA'S Bursting, too excited to wait, the child went out at first light, before the birds sang for breakfast before August heat claimed the day. The grandmother gave her an old Cool Whip container. Rosy cheeked, she plucked one perfectly blushed berry from velcro-tangled brambles, then another and another. The red heap grew, tiny fingers stained crimson, taste of berries  sweet on her tongue, one long scratch ran up her short arm. Magnanimous, she offered her juicy prize to the rest of us. *comments welcome.

147.   NIGHTS LIKE THIS On sultry nights like this she loves to drive listening to the  comfortable sound of the black road beneath black tires. She becomes one with the road driving until first light when birdsong returns she sings along day begins glory be. *comments welcome

 146. OLD NOW she spends her days in deep reflection visiting the past, stringing her memories together like pearls or prayers. And all the while, June pours through the open windows. *comments welcome

145.   the first real thunder  of the summer rumbled in rain hard and heavy power out for hours trees down all over St. Paul more bad storms tonight *comments welcome sweet spring drifted in  with stubborn patches of green air thickened, electric and uneasy

144. IT WAS THE SIXTIES and I was the girl who dated the guy who sang Moon River at parties. Long before I met him, it was a given: if he drank  enough beer, he'd sing. He didn’t have a good voice. In fact, it was terrible. And that was the magic - the beer-soaked bravery of a man  who could only sing off-key, and sounded awful, but loved every second. *comments welcome NOTE: I had one more stanza because  I thought it needed a strong ending  but I deleted it. It just wasn't right.  Almost sixty years later, those days are long gone, he doesn't sing anything anymore, but he'll forever be remembered as the guy who sang Moon River at every college party,  his legacy!

143. stars fade at first light soft blue-pink serenity fills the morning sky *comments welcome

 142. SQUEEZE OUT THE WARM Her husband does the laundry. When it's washed and dried, he brings it up from the basement to the second floor. She, in turn, neatly folds each piece, arranging meticulous piles of washcloths, nightgowns, pillow cases, hankies. He likes his T-shirts and Hanes boxers rolled up; she has a place for them, too. The fresh-out-of-the-dryer towels are her favorites, warm and safe, exactly like a hug. Right now, she snuggles one against her cheek, squeezes until the warm is gone. For a minute, all's right with her world. Then she carefully folds the towel in half, in half again, and on the shelf it goes. *comments welcome

141. fledgling light blossoms inside the night dark garden of my mind - Ah-ha! *comments welcome

Sharing for Vince Gotera, who recently posted a wonderful poem about his mama and Laundry Day in the Sixties. 140.  LAUNDRY DAY IN THE FIFTIES Mother washed on Mondays, heavy cotton sheets, towels and fancy embroidered pillowcases strung out to dry on the old rope line between the oak and sugar maple, brown-eyed baby on one hip, bursting laundry basket on the other, tiny socks trailing behind, wooden clothespins stowed in her apron pocket, one or two wedged in her mouth like straight pins porcupining from a pincushion. The maple was a good climbing tree and while Mother tacked up dripping bedclothes I'd scramble to my lookout post, the skipper navigating swirling grass green seas. The breeze billowed those sun-bleached sheets, flapped and filled them like sails on a schooner, whipped make-believe waves into meringue whitecaps, collided them over and over against the sandy shore. Best of all was the sweet smell of the bedclothes when Mother unpegged the wind-dried sails and tucked t...

  139. SHE REMEMBERS when her life came in enormous gulps eagerly consumed. Now it's more likely to arrive in small sips, quieter, more precious. Life's closer to the end than to the beginning, and that makes her sad. It's all happened faster than she ever  thought it could. She feels regret; she loves her life,   doesn't want it to end. Suddenly greedy,  she wants more, more of everything. *comments welcome

 138. A STUDY IN REGRET The old woman dozes, frail and rusty, head shrouded against the afternoon sun. Too warm, she wakes with a start, squinting and confused, choked  with grief from uneasy dreams. Regret piles high on every side,  stacked cinder blocks of sadness. No do-overs, s he can't go back . Remorse and disappointment prevail . *comments welcome

WELLNESS IN A WEED No toking or smoking,  hers comes in a capsule.  Same dispensary, new name, unproven so far. "Dr. Solomon's Restore," 5mg CBD & 5mg THC; the doc sounds like  a snake oil salesman. Her pain big, it softens sharp edges . *comments welcome

summer uniform 1960s Dr. Scholl's  classic wood sandals *comments welcome

  137. WHEN NIGHT COMES Summer darkness sucks the light from the flowers and the day's petals fall. Invisible winds swirl against the black night sky whispering lullabies. She remembers everything and nothing. *comments welcome

136. SPRING TWILIGHT There's something about the quality  of the light on a spring evening. It's sharper,  but more than that,  there’s a radiance that fills  the shadows,  an ethereal glow. Otherworldly, almost magical,  everything stands out for a fleeting second before boundaries disappear and and time flows into infinity. *comments welcome there's a clarity