Box of Binders

I looked upon my cluttered desk

despaired again once more

my life all fluff, nothing done

and now it’s time to go.

I laid the binders on the floor

began to make the piles

of trips and friends, events and fairs

of what I’d planned and done.

I filled each binder carefully

with names, brochures and notes.

Then side by side until all full

I laid them in a box.

I looked around the tidy room

bent down, picked up the case

and held it close, my ex-pat life,

finally noticing, now, its weight.

My Parisian Life

                                                                                              
 
                  My Parisian Life

                              

“We’re moving to Paris, mon amie,” he said.

So thinking of wine, soft lights and the Louvre,

I avoired my friends and boxed up my shoes.

But when I arrived a shock I did find

a sea of new faces—not one person I knew!

I needed some friends—even one would do

 but who would talk to me?  Or like me?

would Margie, Pamela or Sue?

My confidence plummeted—my face broke out, too.

And my clothes, oh my gosh,

in the bin they were tossed!

Yet how would I ever ever fit into size 2?

French classes began—all a big blur

of private and group and conversational, too.

Homework and practice were all required,

but who could concentrate on that when I needed new shoes?

So off I would go to buy shoes, scarves, some wine

never giving a thought to my books or the time.

Surprisingly, somehow, I finally made friends—

I had group--I was in. 

My children would ask me,

“Hey, Mom, what do you do?”

My immediate response, “I go clubbing.  I do.”

I go to art club and hiking club, book club and writing club.

On Wednesdays, however, we volunteer at the Louvre.

I do lunches with some friends, coffee with others

and in between we talk for hours.

I worry over what to wear,

why I’m here and not over there.

Half the time I don’t know who I am,

where I came from or where I’ll end.

I feel like a two-year-old though I cover my grey.

I fret “Can I learn this?” and “Will I know the way?”

In short, I tell them the honest truth--

I’m definitely, absolutely, back in High School, Round Two.

Twickenham

22 February 2012

Honest Truth

Honest Truth

I give you sometimes

the best in me-- the loving glance

the tender touch.

On other days, it must be said,

I give instead--

the hurt I hide

behind the glance--

the pain that cuts through tender touch--

striking out with blinding force

hitting us

with the honest truth

I sometimes hold inside.

Generosity

 

The Moroccan was more generous today.

Yet still not as generous as his wife always is

when she tends the booth while he’s  away.

He heaped the meat higher in the pita bread

and even smiled at me.

Had the colder weather told him

with the benches wet

fewer people would stroll by....

no need to ration the meat so tightly

on this last day in November.

I hope to be so generous, too,

on my last days

when I see my chance of giving

diminishing

and I still have so much left to give away.

Richmond Farmers Market