This Smile

Outside— her
obviously enviable,
pinky-peach palette
of ruffles and ruching
her
simpatico essence,
includes
a smile.

This smile
must have been
passed down
through generations.

One doesn’t
get
a smile
like that
just by
accident.

Careful planning
and a finesse
is needed
to find just
the right qualities
to introduce
something of pure
splendor
like this,
into the world.

It’s the kind that brags
eternal youth,
American
apple pie beauty
and a
deep peach
sun-tea
naiveté.

It’s welcoming,
and honest,
and true.
And exudes
an ease
that is attached
to a woman
of wisdom,
and strength—
Who at times
has had to
simply smile
just to get
through hardship
that has snuck
into her life.

At times I am
too far away
to witness
the visage of
tenderness
that is her smile.

But I know
that it is a
constant in
life—
just like how
each morning
in Summer,
when the sun
rises, and its
rays caress
the petals of
poppys and
morning glories,
they will
no doubt
open.

And with each
return
from wherever Life
has led me,
her sprawling,
deeply set
with use
smile,
appears—
And things just
seem to
fall into place
easier.

It’s the feeling
I have—
always a bit short
in the monetary
system of life,
and she’s there
to hand me
the exact change.

Bubbles

My knees ache,
and my back hurts
from rocking her
back and forth,
but I sit—
to get down
on her level.

She had pointed upward,
communicating in her
foreign baby language,
at the blue cylindrical
object with the neon
mustard yellow wand.
The item that made—

her eyes widen,
the drool from her
forthcoming fifth tooth
intensify, the piece of cracker
in her right hand fall
to the floor.
It was bubbles.

Beautiful
floating bubbles,
that if one touched
lightly enough
with the magical
plastic wand,
would bounce—

and softly land
on one’s skin,
or Persian rug
or the tongue
of the toddler whom
I’ve been sitting for.
She can’t get enough—

of the soapy
nontoxic (thank goodness)
balls of iridescent splendor.
I’m not entirely sure the reasoning,
but I must say how easy it is
to become captivated—
they’re hypnotic.

So, what the hell—
I stick out my tongue,
mimicking the 15 month-old
and let the soapy spheres land.
Mmmmm, they don’t taste
the least bit appetizing,
but I’m nevertheless in bliss.

My Vow

Blank,
staring
straight
at the
tiled
backsplash
of my
mother’s
kitchen.
Bad
chardonnay
to my
left—
ice cubes
in it
because I
tend to
keep it
classy
in life.
I’ve
made
an
executive
decision
that I
have got
to get
back to
normal
and start
drinking—
You see
I tried
to cut
back.
Lets be
real, I’m
a bit
vain about
my figure,
and I try
to stay
healthy.
Alcohol
was bloating
my stomach,
drying my
skin and
deepening
the single
wrinkle I
have between
my brow
that no
amount of
$120/ounce
miracle cream
could fix.
Plus I
had an
awful
memory
partly because
I kept
blacking out
at night.
Good
old
days.
But I had
gotten sufficient
at functioning
while thoroughly
hung over,
or still
drunk
from the
previous night.
At least
I had
stories to
draw upon.
But now,
I’m just
incredibly
unsatisfied
empty and
uninterested
in any
of the
recent “inspirations”
swimming around
within my
head.
No alcohol
must mean
no writing
when it
comes to
me.
So to
aid myself,
back to
normal—
regain,
my passion
to write
I’ll raise
my glass—
after glass.
A bottle
after bottle,
shot after
gag-inducing
shot.
I
will
write
with fervor,
with fiery
zeal,
with life,
again.

A Moment

Wobbling toward me,
she smiles
the most warming smile
I’ve ever seen,
punctuated by
four small teeth
just starting to come in.
Her tropical blue eyes
glisten with reflections of
a spitfire personality
and stand out among
her charmingly cow licked
mahogany-hued
locks.

Watching her daily,
is like enjoying
my grandma’s spread
of ribs, potato salad,
baked beans
and berry pie on
the Fourth of July
with my entire
family around me.
It’s simply
pure
rejuvenation
of the spirit.

Her tiny hands,
arms, angled head,
signal,
Up!
Never have I
or will I
resist this kind
of request.
As I lift her
obligingly to me,
she nestles her head
into the comforting
cranny that all children
can find on a woman.
The spot that is created
by the curvature of
neck, chest, and shoulder.

I start instinctively
bobbing and rocking
to the sounds
of silence
in the background—
ever so softly shhhing
in her tiny ear
that resembles the
delicate shells birthed
from the sea.

Her arms become limp.
Her legs dangle
around my waste
and she sighs
and coos in relaxation—
every so often
sucking her pointer finger.
It’s teething time
and I can feel the
puddle of drool
growling larger
upon my blouse.

As time passes,
my arms grow tired,
my lower back aches
and my shirt will
need to be laundered,
but never
would I think
to put down
this little girl—
selfish reasons really,
I’ve never felt so at ease
and willing
to love
as I do
when holding a child.

Guestroom

Seaweed walls,
to soothe.
Mint bedspread with underlying
duck feather-stuffed blankets,
to impress with luxury.
Matching porcelain goose and
complimentary floral reprints
of lands one visits only in dreams,
to inspire.
Feminine mahogany accents
To add subtle strength.
Perfectly bloomed
fake exotic orchids,
to simulate life.
A single blue whale encased
in ice-like glass,
to hint at times long gone.