Music of the Spheres

I bask in it,
I bathe in it,
I exult in it.
It makes me whole.
It exalts me to a new
level of being.

What it is about my music that
lifts my spirits,
that encourages me to see beyond
my four walls,
that gives me new
energy?

I stand in front of the music,
swaying, dancing, stretching,
smiling,
even laughing,
delighting in my existence
at that moment.

Yet sometimes
tears come to my eyes,
as the music transcends beyond the moment
to the past, to special moments,
to heartache,
but also to happy times.

And even so,
tears come to my eyes.

Submitted by Betsy

Untitled

copyright 2008 Roxanne Kazda

The Ficus Tree

You arrived with a ficus
a living tree in my house
something new.

We moved the ficus to our house
dressed it up with lights
small white ones.

You watered it
Sundays and Thursdays
at least a thousand times.

Nourished to death,
no space to grow,
we moved the ficus out.

Uncontrollable growth,
no space remaining, and
motionless, they moved you out.

I bought a ficus the other day.
I water it
Sundays and
Thursdays,

of course.

Submitted by Theresa
theresa0714@comcast.net

Home Depot Lust

Ah ha!
I see you have your clipboard
and a pencil too.
You survey, walking slowly,
inspecting from all angles.
You bend, you climb, you crawl.
I watch – as your chosen instrument
moves across the page, filling spaces –
a gliding motion, a pause,
staccato scribbles, it glides again.

A new roof, you say, sometime next year.
And the chimney, a brick is loose.
We’ll need cement – just a bit
to hold it together.
The windows, you mention windows,
they must be scraped, caulked and painted.
Need some putty, too.
And the foundation – a shovel.
Keep that moist earth away from
the clapboards – or they’ll rot.

I smile, gently take the pencil
from your hand.
I say,
within this rigid shelter,
of sticks, stones and glass
a softer refuge breathes.
Mark me as you do your paper.
Fill my spaces.
Bend, climb, crawl into me.
Brush the dust away and seal my cracks.

Search deeply, seek them out, probe.
Smooth the uneven edges.
Mold and warm me with your finger tips.
Hold us together with your cement.
Cold and dampness rot my casings, too.
I am your house, you live in me.

Submitted by Theresa
theresa0714@comcast.net