My Mother
(Beverly Hills decorator)

My mother was a hard case—if she’s in Heaven
right now, she has it redecorated to suit her taste,
and will move on to redoing that "other place" next…..

When she entered a room, she’d take in the layout,
the range of colors, the patterns and angles, seeing
how things fit together—and wherever she looked she saw
possibilities—in rooms, in houses—above all in people.

Then would come the solutions, uninvited, pointed,
sometimes on the mark, perhaps, but still—
not everyone is ready for a complete makeover.

Sadly, she’s gone now, but thought to leave me here
to continue her good work—the thankless, unending
task of setting things right, the proper balance…..

Now, about that so-called life of yours,
I have a few suggestions...

First published in Scent of Apple: An Anthology of Poetry on Family Relationships, 1997, Pittenbruach Press.



My Father
(News Reporter, Publicist)

My father didn't live on a hill,
was not famous for his generosity
or his horses,
or even for his garden.

My father didn't run the country
or a corporation
as fathers do.

Or hurl the javelin,
cut down trees,
or fill the banks with dough.

What my father did do was—
taught me to spell obbligato,
to whistle through my teeth,
to always dance with one wallflower
at every dance,

and to make a fist.

First published in Scent of Apple: An Anthology of Poetry on Family Relationships, 1997, Pittenbruach Press.