Doodles

  

The desk belonged to my mother

I love the hidden compartments

where she kept importance.

I have kept them too.

Doodles, 

pencilled with abandon,

curled and draped,

 a face

a smile graced.

I see in pen

a girl with a big bow

and hair that flips up.

There’s a wooden boat,

and above it a chandelier

with bangles and crystal, 

where a winged critter

circles in circles.

Given a motor

all could fly,

little paper machines around the room,

or away on graceful silver thread of wing.

I know while she doodled

she talked on the telephone,

said how are you,

made appointments,

laughed in friendship,

all the while her crazy self-willed hand

moved unfettered and free.

I see she has named one,

horse and buggy,

but it looks more like a flower

with light bulb petals.

I fear I got my imagination from

that sweet mother of mine.

No, I hope I did.

Catching Air

Quietly warmth tracks the floor
and stops at the closed door
then turning in circles against the glass
it fastens on the cat's paw
as in lazy winter careful
she backs away slowly
stealth a cunning part of grace
her pink tongue licking nothing.

And I think of strawberries
and the warm roads of Oxnard
delicately sweet with juice
running my chin
catching the lace of summertime.

When longing pounces on the warming air
and catches flashes of light tripping in
like a dormant mood gone to wind
as chimes open the sky
and it would seem that all can hear
the first drop fall
on the trembling measure of time.

Small Things

Each small thing plays a part

maybe sleeping in the corner

a speck of leaf come in with breeze

unchanged for hours and kept safe

by wall's corner and a large green vase

Could a sneeze be born from such 

unnoticed piece of tree traipsed in by boot

tromped on flower petal smooched

then crushed within the pattern of an oriental rug

the color of old roses mixed with dust

So many small patterns fill a life

some touching and forever changing

what they touch like a knife gone dull

sitting in a drawer where water leaked

turning silver handle to tarnished piece

Perhaps there is no bigger answer

only little pieces that one puts together 

not even a plot to move the story along

like melody to song can change or rearrange

and sometimes one small thing like a child's toy 

was lost just to be found again

so it could ignite forgotten joy

Fire

 an elephant's back
not a national forest
yes  it looked like that