I Didn't Forget

I didn't forget--
I just remembered too late.
By then, the plant was dead,
the appointment missed,
the birthday past, and
the sick was well again.
I lost the moment;
Opportunity stopped knocking.
But I never forgot;
I just remembered too late.
Lori Fiechter
February 27, 2000

Can't Hold all those Dreams

I tried to hold them all
But my arms just got too full.
I couldn't see to get around;
I had to set a few dreams down.
But what haunts me--
what I'll never know
Is--Have I let the right ones go?

Lori Fiechter
March 15, 2000

The End of Purgatory?

I was awakened this morning
by sunshine;
soft sunrise-shine
and sweet singing of the birds.
Winter's spell seemed broken,
shattered by the chirping minstrels
singing ballads without words.
Convincing sirens--
ah, that they are clairvoyant;
that they mark the end of winter's glory;
the end of purgatory.
Can these warbling songsters see
something hidden from my view?
They make me feel like waking up
to join their spring revue.
(but I'm afraid I'll scare them off
when I start singing, too.)

Lori Fiechter
February 21, 2000

Our trees were all furry with ice this morning; beautiful,
but not as lovely as fresh buds and blossoms. Not even close.

Cold Jewels

Bathed in ice,
decked out in
heavy jewels--
the branches bow
beneath the weight
of elegance.
Costly spangles--
not in terms of
wealth, but health.
Who can bear the
heavy burden of beauty?
How much better
the simple garland
than the heavy crown.
But the ice is
twice as beguiling.

Lori Fiechter
2-18-2000

Having the Prime of my Life

When does prime morph into "old"?
Is there a year? A tell-tale sign
that one is not a fine, aged wine
but just expensive vinegar?
In some, the face shows age the first;
in others, it's the heart:
the attitude is dull, resigned,
the eyes have lost their spark.
I pray I never will outlive
my curiosity;
I would die first--
before my hope
and creativity.

Lori Fiechter
February 16, 2000

I hope the diagonal bangs look is "in" this year; it's the only cut I know.)

Hair Cut

I cut my own hair
and no one can tell;
I just trimmed my bangs a bit
(didn't know when to quit)
I cut my own hair--
just as easy as that--
and no one can tell it
(I'm wearing a hat.)

Lori Fiechter
February 15, 2000

Cactus on the Kitchen Sink

I knew it was a bad idea--
The cactus on the sink.
The tiny, spiny fellow fell
and toppled on the brink.
I bumped it once,
I bumped it twice;
It spilled its sandy gut.
I moved him to the living room
and wished him lots of luck.

Lori Fiechter
February 7, 2000

Winter is Leaking

Winter is leaking
but spring has not sprung.
Oh, the snow may be melting
and the birds may have sung
(a quick song or two,
a few cheery notes;
just to practice a bit
and to warm up their throats)
But--
It is still February;
this is only a pause,
a temporary defrosting,
not an adequate cause
for premature celebration;
And I know you must know
that this is not spring
but a thaw before snow.
The last of old winter
has not yet been seen
and I can't write a spring poem
until I smell green!

lori fiechter
february 11, 2000

I think that Charlie Brown epitomized Winston Churchill's definition of success:
"Moving from failure to failure without any loss of enthusiasm"

A Valentine for Charlie Brown

The play toured nearly 50 years;
The actors seemed a little tired
but no less loved
and no less lovable.
And then, before the final curtain falls
the one who gave life to them all
succumbs--
and never hears the curtain call.
On the Eve of St. Valentine's,
the mailbox is full, Charlie Brown.
And we will fly a kite for you
and try to throw a strike for you
and cry a fond "Goodnight" to you.
We loved you, Charlie Brown.

I'm a Real Bear until Spring Comes

lori fiechter
2-11-2000

Living in the Ice Age

Dreaming of sand
and of sun-kissed surf
When all that I see is snow.
Dreaming of freshly plowed,
fragrant earth
When fields are all
frozen and cold.
Dreams do not help much;
Dreams so unreal;
Dreams I can't savor
or smell or feel.
Spring is a memory,
Summer a fantasy.
While winter's reality
is chained to my heel.

Lori Fiechter
February 7, 2000

(our best efforts--our own good works--amount to nothing more than
shoveling rapidly accumuating snow; we need the Son)

Shoveling Snow

We shovel snow;
It piles high;
The path we cut,
the wind blows shut.
We work--work hard--
it's not enough:
It takes the sun
to melt the stuff.

Lori Fiechter
January 16, 2000

A thanks to the friends who help me out of ruts.

A Broken Record

I am an old phonograph record
and my needle is often stuck;
I play the same tune
endlessly.
Thank you for picking up the needle
and putting it back
in a groove.
I am an old phonograph record
and my needle is often stuck.

Lori Fiechter
January 15, 2000

(I'll leave the fishing and cleaning to others; all I can do is cook them;
But then, I'm not really talking about fish.)

Fish Bait

I used the wrong bait
and the fish wouldn't bite;
My hook wasn't tempting,
the bait wasn't right.
I've given up fishing
and digging for worms;
But what do I do with
the pole?
I haven't won even one sole.

Lori Fiechter
January 15, 2000

To Hear a Poem Sing

I write to hear the music,
But mostly I hear noise
or elevator music--bland--
or harmonies that don't quite blend;
A note that drags
and then falls flat;
A broken string, a crooked bow;
The tempo off--too fast or slow.
And close is never good enough;
I want a symphony:
smooth and flowing,
perfect pauses;
no annoying, jarring clauses;
measured meter,
ringing rhymes,
perfect poetry--
just one time.

Lori Fiechter
January 11, 2000

The First Step

The first step
seems a mile high;
a chasm lies below.
If it is but illusion,
It's a convincing show.
The only reason I will take
that first step even now
Is because I know that others
have stepped first--
safely, somehow.

Lori Fiechter
January 18, 2000

Worm's Eye View

I am a creature of the earth.
All I even see is dirt;
Dirt is food, dirt is home.
Nourishment and security.
(until it rains and floods)
I don't believe in sky
or stars or sun.
Such words mean nothing to me.
Dirt is all there is;
It is sometimes warm and wet
or crumbly and dry
or soggy and cold
But I don't wonder at these changes.
All I need is dirt;
Dirt is all there is.

Lori Fiechter
January 15, 2000

Twenty-six Ingredients

With twenty-six ingredients--
No, I'll use but twenty-three--
I can shape and bake a poem
Without a recipe.
You need flour, water,
yeast and salt
to make a loaf of bread;
I need some letters and a key
to unlock what's in my head.
My only fears are rusty keys
and a mind
that's underfed.

Lori Fiechter
January 15, 2000

The Meaning

A good poem says more
than it is saying
but it must also say something less
or it won't make any sense.
The deeper, inner meaning
needs a superficial skin
to hold it all together.
Most people only eat the skin
and wonder why oranges
taste awful.
Lori Fiechter
January 15, 2000

(for Bessie)

Old Recipes

I was flipping through my recipes
in the yellow box;
Passing by the glossy, photo clippings;
Searching for a handwriting
on a dog-eared, faded card;
creased with time,
with several corners missing.
Recipes from pens now silent;
Memories of hands that kneaded;
Hands that measured, stirred,
rolled-out, and baked.
Hands all flour-dusted,
greasing tins with bottoms rusted;
Hands quite used to working
till they ached.
Recipes for Good Grape Jam
and Creamy Raisin Pie;
For Toll House Cookies
(at 70 cents per batch).
Heirlooms in the kitchen
from another generation;
I touch the treasured
pages from the past.

Lori Fiechter
January 12, 2000

All from watching Moby Dick, I suppose)

Deep Skin

If beauty is only skin deep,
Then I want to have
deep skin.
Thick and pale?
Like a whale?
Whales have deep skin;
It's called blubber.
Beautiful?
Perhaps to other--
only to other--whales.

Lori Fiechter
January 15, 2000

It's Hopeless

Hopeless can be good
if you realize it.
You will yell for help sooner
and may be rescued
instead of dying
while trying to tread water.

Lori Fiechter
January 15, 2000

I was reading Isaiah 64 when the phrase, "we all do fade as a leaf" struck me.

Like a Leaf

Fading like a leaf;
Like a leaf no longer green;
clinging to a twig
against the wind.
I watch another leaf,
brown and brittle,
tattered, torn;
swinging on a swaying,
rotted limb.
I glance away;
that leaf is gone;
the leaf that was my friend.
And I am left--almost alone--
to fight against the
wind.

Lori Fiechter
January 11, 2000

Inspiration Flashes

Inspiration strikes like lightning;
One bright flash and it is gone.
It comes seldom, never tarries,
leaving me to struggle on.
If I could catch all those flashes,
seal them, store them, save them all;
Then I'd have fresh inspiration
serving at my beck and call.
But it doesn't work that way;
And so my progress is quite slow.
For work itself is all I have

When inspiration fails to show.

Lori Fiechter
January 11, 2000

My sister Jean told me that their bathroom door doesn't close quite right and her husband blames the heavily laden bookshelves in the living room; that they made the house shift.
I thought about homes with no books in sight--and how sad they seem by contrast.
This poem is in honor of bibliophiles everywhere.

A House of Books

I've been in homes
devoid of books;
No shelves of tomes;
no littered nooks
of paperback
or leather-bound
and seldom is there
heard the sound
of pages turning;
sages learning.
(The newspaper doesn't count, I think--
a prefab home of smudgy ink)
And though the floor will never sink
in homes that are not thus endowed
Still, homes without their
share of books
seem sterile--
and rather sad, somehow.

Lori Fiechter
January 11, 2000

Praise is Perfume

Praise is pleasant;
Praise is sweet;
But it's not good for you to eat.
Praise is like a fine perfume;
Inhale, but do not swallow.
And don't expect
a daily dose;
Be sure to save the bottle.

Lori Fiechter,
January 1, 2000

Connect the Dots

Treacherous Beauty

Imperious and dazzling;
bejeweled; iridescent;
Haughty beauty;
robed in white;
splendid in the light.

Gaze in awe, and yet beware--
for this same fairy-- lissome sprite--
who frosts the trees with sugar snow
paints the roads with ice.

Lori Fiechter
January 1, 2000

But That's Different

I only criticize the nitpickers.
I gossip about the gossips and
Judge the judgmental.
My only prejudice
is against bigots;
I can tolerant all
but the intolerant.
I am so sure about my
doubts of others
That I fail to see the irony.
I have become the thing I loathe,
and yet feel justified.

Lori Fiechter,
November 16, 1999

I read this maxim: Everybody is someone else's weirdo.
A corollary might be "Everybody is someone else's bore".

Boring Definition

A bore is someone
who talks only about himself
and things in which I am
not interested.

A brilliant conversationalist
is someone who listens
with rapt attention
while I talk about myself
and things which interest me.

...Too bad there aren't more
brilliant conversationalists.

Lori Fiechter
December 9, 1999

It's How You Said It

You didn't mean to be
condescending, stuffy
or rude,
to puff and pontificate.
It's just that
I am adept at
imagining insults and
misinterpreting intent.
My overweening pride
does not take well to punctures.
Your advice had merit;
It was just the way you said it--
You sounded too much like me.

Lori Fiechter
December 1, 1999

Sticks and Stones

Never criticize a wordsmith;
You'll be pilloried, lambasted,
and skewered,
Then grilled to perfection
and devoured with relish.
Your puny arsenal is
no match for his--
And he knows how to use it.