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Visiting Stevensville, Montana July 2012

Slow Dancing Past Sixty

Her youth dreams smile.
Her heart cannot hear
The foot steps of sixty
Coming up the stairs…

Or see their presence stop
By the old swing,
Wrinkled eyes following
Painted toes in sandals…

Eyes peering into mirrors
Over a Walgreen’s counter
Watching innocence find
Love in a shade of lipstick…

Lips painted for love,
Changing to new colors,
As the seasons pass
On to her children…

At sixty the flannel gown
Draws tight around;
Her every breath evades
The pulse of her need…

She fears no body
Remains beneath the length
Of long sleeves;
She didn’t resist…

Slow dancing past sixty…

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Was That You?

Photograph “Night Fall on the River” by Scott Tucker

Was That You?

Was that you watching the moon
Lift the night out of shadows?

Tracing the path of trees I see
The continued memories of ourselves

Caught in a flux of alternative realities.

Eons of old thought play hide and seek.

Reaching for the sky, I watch the dark
Separate into star showers.

Light slips through my fingers.

The grass sparkles with the astral dust
Of beings longing to breathe.

Eternity whispers
As a sigh excapes the memories.

Was that you
Waiting in the shadows next to me?

Was that you
Waiting for the dark to breathe?

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Sweet Cherry Wine

Photo taken by Scott Tucker

Sweet Cherry Wine

She hangs a plastic rose
In the empty space;
Lineations of light caress
Her trembling hand and slow her thought.
A thought so close to revealing
Some mystery
Tightly pressed into the delicate craks
Of old window glass.

The cookie jar
Is filled with old pennies and dust;
The mending is tossed
Into a pile next to the coffee pot.
Endless seams wait
For her touch.

White wash drips in the morning sun;
A dandelion follows the breeze.
She can almost feel the loving
That surely never was
As she traces a dream that left its fingerprints
On the window sill.

In the absence of thought
The rose and memories breathe
And for a moment she remembers
The sweet cherry wine
And the woman she use to be.

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Porching It

Stevensville, MT November 2010

Porching It

In the twilight
Maple ltrees dream of tomorrow.
A star smiles.
The moon rises and miles of light
Fall on us
Measuring times spent
On the front porch swing
When laughter made love glad
And kisses
Tasted of lemons and honey.

Porching it
Meant baskets hanging with flowers,
And morning glories
Blooming down
The trellis.
Sunshine came
In a glass of cold cider with
Chatty neighbors,
Waiting for rain, complaining,
Lazy cats
And babies asleep in the shade.

Here we saw
The end of world wars,
Seasons change,
And the beginnings of
Moments of bliss,
And us
Eating apple pie
And homemade ice cream,
Never knowing how much
We would come to miss
Home
And porching it.

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The Secrets of Spring

The Secrets of Spring by Scott Tucker Photo by my son Scott Tucker.

The Secrets of Spring

You said,
“Just climb this hill
With me and talk.”
We walked
In the sunlight
Gathering sweet,
Wild berries,
Our thoughts
Wondering if this
Togetherness was right.

The honeybees
Blushed
As you let downMy hair.
The sun
Bathed us in
Warm expectancy
As tender shades
Of spring
Slow danced
Above.

Yellow butterflies
Wrote
Love letters
In the sky.
The sweet
Scent of lilacs
Fell from purple stars
And laughed
With us as
We caught handfuls
Of spring.

Spring,
Teasing you,
Teasing me,
Romanced us
Into love.

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Escape

A photo my son Scott Tucker took and one of the many inspirations for my own poetry!

Escape

Beneath the oak
Winded leaves watch a butterfly.
The silence, quite beautiful,
Draws the colors of
Innocence.

Antiquity is
Host intimate treading lightly,
Afraid of logic born
In the breathing
Of round worlds.

A strand
Of your dark hair falls out of place.
It escapes my reach.
In brandy pools I see my soul
reflected.

Suspended
In atoms of ancient dust:
Aware of the sun going down,
Its copper eye wooing
The butterfly…

Escaping round worlds.

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