park slope laundry

you’re sitting by the laundromat one day in late spring
the dew is resting on a patch of grass by entrance,
not quite a washing machine
but lovely to skim toes through.
You give a grin and hand me your change
remark on our luck it has not yet rained

sorting pinks, whites and baby blues
like sorting memories wearing wooden shoes
in lavender cotton with topstitched hems
like losing lovers and finding friends

this dear, looks like it needs a little bleach
don’t forget the softener honey
It’s right there—within reach.

Lying spread out on a dryer
feeling the steady churning vibrate
deep within our bones
look
there is the door for the six floor walk up across the street
wonder if anyone’s home

look at that lovely Klimt print
in window above the pizzeria
with that postmodern lamp
I daresay it’s from Ikea.

Perhaps they have hummels in their living room,
their pantry’s stocked with gin
Saul Bellow on their shelf,
And lime-green tiles in the kitchen

maybe we could drop in
and have coffee with these lovely folks
in their quaint Brooklyn residence
on Seventh Avenue
a nice conversation with strangers
feels so long overdue

No, you say
the lights are off.
They are surely gone.
Let’s grab our laundry
And head on home.
For some coffee and bagels and the sorting of socks.

you come from Harmony

in Nova Scotia

where the winter warms your mind

and ocean swirls around your pale legs

in these Maritimes

pulling Glasgow from your warm blanket in the eager sand

so cold for August and such a dark blue

in the shipwreck

some call your eyes

saffron and gingham cheerfully greet the corridors of Mendham

where your kitten clings to your frock

as you balance your groceries from one arm to the other

The loaf of bread falls gently to the pavement

Do you remember

remember St. Laurent and Rue Des Pins

on an autumn day

when you lost your friend

it came to an end

and you turned away

this is too precious

this is too precious to sacrifice for pain

you reach for the wooden spoon and taste the tomato

on your spine

memories of harmony

gardens by the sea

don’t fret

this is too precious

too precious to give up

feel it like the waves of Nova Scotia

swirling round your legs

This is too precious

Poetry 2006-2010 will be included in this new series....

First, a poem not written by me, but a favorite poem by my lovely and deceased grandmother, Ione Brooks Newgaard:

Sometimes we watch the days go by, wishing they could last.
And we can't help but wonder why time must fly so fast.
But we can keep in memory happy moments left behind.
And we can keep our special dreams of joys we hope to find.
And if we do the best we can through everyday live.
If we consider what we have as what we have to give.
If we will try to see some good in all that comes our way,
Then we will feel contentment at the end of every day.
For then we will have mastered that very special art of
growing rich in happiness while staying young at heart.

-Anonymous