Happy Valentine’s Day
David and Barbara Crooker in Florence
FIRENZE by Barbara Crooker
October, walking along the Arno, glazed in the saffron light
of late afternoon. . . .Earlier, we’d been to the Accademia,
seen David—Stop looking. I know you’re looking—said
the lecturer—the dimples on his knees, his magnificent culo.
What would it be like to spend just one night with that perfect man?
Today, the imperfections of our aging bodies become more evident:
my grinding knees, your screaming plantar fasciitis, which sent
you back to our hotel in a cab while I toured the Uffizi alone.
But oh, La Primavera! I want to be Flora, clothed in flowers:
forget-me-nots, daisies, buttercups, poppies, carnations, wild roses
circling my waist. But instead, I’m an aging woman in sensible shoes,
walking along the river alone, the light turning shifting shades
of tea-rose, lilac, peach, light that might be the lacquer
of an old master. I am trying not to stumble on the uneven pavement,
trying not to bump into impossibly chic women coming out of Gucci
and Prada carrying designer bags. The Ponte Vecchio looks tempting,
but we have dinner reservations near our hotel, where we will
hobble three blocks on the cobblestones, then eat crostini, bistecca
alla fiorentina, Chianti, meringhe con fragole. Age may have painted
us into a corner, tempered our desires, but when we finally lie down
at night, laying down the burdens of tendons and knees, we’ll pull up,
not the high thread count sheets of this fine hotel, but the waters
of the Arno at sunset, colors of Prosecco, Bellinis, and let them
carry us off into the arms of night’s soft chiaroscuro—
From Slow Wreckage (Grayson Books 2024)
Al and Sharon Knutson Photo by Jacob Boikian
To my Valentine by Sharon Waller Knutson
I loved the dozen red roses –
long stemmed,
drenched in water,
sticking out of a vase
wrapped with shiny gold paper –
you sent to your mother,
mine and me on our first
Valentine’s Day.
The lobster, crab, shrimp
and cheddar biscuits,
the lamb gyros, cucumber
sauce and Pita bread
in the Seafood and Greek
restaurants where we
celebrated
over the decades.
Trips to Santa Fe
and Sedona
where you bought me
turquoise and crystals
and we stayed
at the bed and breakfasts.
But what I love best
is when you pluck
a wayward balloon
saying I love You
from the cholla cactus
and sing Happy Valentine’s
Day in your tenor voice
and you broil lobster
and serve it in melted
butter with a baked potato
and we sit at the dining
room table and watch
the deer and doves
at the waterfalls
as the sun sets over
the Elephant Rock.
Alarie Tennille and her husband, Chris
Taking Forever One Day at a Time by Alarie Tennille
I love
the way you return from errands
with a present – a Danish, book, or bottle
of champagne
how you thank me for every meal
from coq au vin to a ham sandwich
and make coworkers think
I’m Julia Child
hearing your voice in conversation
downstairs before realizing
that you’re talking to the cats
in the same serious tone you use
with plumbers
how you told me I was funny long before
anyone else did
that time in France when I said our waiter
looked like Orlando Bloom and you answered
then we’ll have to come back tomorrow
the fun of reading a book you’ve just finished
and finding oops! duh! or what a jerk!
penciled in the margin
the way you reach for my hand
before crossing the street
how you describe every dark-eyed
brunette – she looks like you – no matter
how silver I go.
No wonder forty years have sneaked by.
First published in Minute Magazine
I expected nothing by Mary McCarthy
The same thing I always found
safe and plain as dust
But you surprised me
decided there was more
to desire than bodies in the dark
liked my refusal to fall
for all the magazine advice
that kept women busy
with themselves/ plucking
and painting/ courting illusions
of impossible perfection
You liked me simple
as I was, unworried
by wind and humidity
busy with better things
to think about/ we were not
all the same
but deep and often
found ourselves agape
at the gate of wonder
stopped by some sudden beauty
star or sunset/ the ordinary things
that are always more
than ordinary, never the same
two breaths together,
a world astonishing
to the eye and heart
found right where we stood
in some dull hour
a flash of wild divergence
singing on its own
inviting us into vision
like the light at the seam
of a closing door
I think I loved you first
for loving me/ taking me in
like the orphan you’d been
looking for forever
the one you couldn’t leave
even when you tried
because I was your home
your sanctuary, the earth
you stood on–even when
I slipped to sand, sliding,
losing myself, my strength
my steady heart, even my
words, stumbling drunken
from my faithless tongue
you never moved, never
wavered, never signed me off
still there at the end
of every story, every chapter
a rock, a bridge, a lodestone
my best and only home
My Husband, My Hero by Fran Abrams
I married a man who believed in the same dreams
I believed in, who supported my dreams, never
said, “Why don’t you stay home?” after we had children.
I married a man who could have written the definition
of take care of her. The man who
Drove 600 miles round trip to visit
me at grad school once or twice a month.
Waited for me to finish grad school
before we planned a wedding.
Never shied away from middle of night
wet diapers, bad dreams, upset tummies.
Juggled his calendar and children’s carpools
to allow us both to pursue our careers.
Wrote legal documents for nonprofits I ran,
made loans to cover payroll when funding was tight.
Cared for me as, over the years, I broke my pelvis,
my shoulder, and my ankle, each time driving me
to innumerable physical therapy appointments.
How clever I was to recognize
my knight in shining armor,
although he wore an ordinary suit and tie.
From I Rode the Second Wave
The Gift
By Arlene Gay Levine
In the lines of your face: sacred space.
Your eyes, pristine -- a place to float
peacefully in otherwise turbulent waters.
How lucky I am to have
your honest heart for an anchor.
How grateful I am for the smile
that melts icebergs in a sea
of frail humanity.
How blessed it is in this desperate,
beautiful world to know and hold
the reason for being here, my love,
happening upon your Light
and remembering,
this is the gift.
First published in Forever in Love (Andrews McMeel Publishing)
Strawberry Solution by Joan Leotta
Cherokee love
fruit tossed in the path
of an angry woman
fleeing home.
Entranced by their beauty,
she tasted one.
Sweetness charmed away
her anger.
I think on this as I slice
these heart shaped treats
for my dearest and myself.
We argued this morning.
I lean over as I place our
berry bowls on the table,
ending the rancor
with a double touch of love
a berry between his lips,
mine on his.
Originally published in Ruby for Women
A Less Loving Man by Jacqueline Jules
You may not think I notice
your quick “yes”
when asked to mail a letter
or pick up milk.
How you make the bed
every single morning.
How you don’t ridicule
my worries but Google questions,
leaning over to share your screen
so we can read together.
A less loving man
might be less patient
when I go downstairs
to check the stove
one more time before bed.
A less loving man
might leave the toilet seat up
or take the last chocolate.
Small things I treasure
because I remember
how large they felt
in a prior life
with a less
loving man.
First appeared in Poetry Super Highway
Two poems by Shoshauna Shy
Marriage Proposal
@ Age 93
My mother-in-law
finds seventeen ways
to squeeze mention of him
into an hour’s conversation
when we visit in her kitchen
for lemonade and forkfuls
of raspberry crisp
Giddy as a schoolgirl
who just got asked
to go steady by the boy
she’s long had a crush on
his name a melody the breeze
carries through the screen
sweet as summer itself
first appeared in Verse Virtual
MR MORRIS &
MRS WIFF
ARE IN THEIR 80’S
Backyard
neighbors
decades before
& three funerals later
they meet again
at the grocery store
after he’s wintered
in San Diego
Trade suggestions
for cinnamon rolls
Updates on great-
grandchildren
Spend July twilights
on her screened porch
Iced tea from a pitcher
There are story collections
to read aloud
Scrabble scores to tally
Netflix rentals DeNiro
& Streep for they have
rescued each other
from suppers standing
over the sink with a box
of Cheerios
telephones cobwebbed
and
dusty on desks
Presented themselves
with the bouquet of
Let’s & Would you
like to
No comments:
Post a Comment