Pretty Decent

"pretty decent" or "fine"
is for him, effusive praise.
Phlegmatic to the core,
evasive, even-keeled;
He’ll say, "not bad"
But not much more.
He drives this
melancholy baby
crazy.

Lori Fiechter
May 20, 2000

She's a Cactus

She's a cactus,
dry and prickly;
A saguaro—solitary.
She doesn't need
much water
But she needs a little,
now and then.
Though she looks dead,
She can revive
and maybe even bloom—
for just a day or two.
But she'll never be a willow
or a maple—She's not able.
She's a solitary cactus,
unwelcoming, alone
Still a solitary cactus—
warm as stone.

Lori Fiechter
May 20, 2000

Put me in a Better Frame

If I’m a nag,
It’s just my nature;
If I’m gracious,
It’s a fluke.
If you could just reverse
the way you see me and
put me in a better frame.
Cut all the old tags off my name.
I’ll try harder—although
it’s hard to change one’s nature;
even harder, one’s reputation.
Preconceived notions need
a determined exterminator.

Lori Fiechter
May 20, 2000

Ah, the childhood memories of eating fried liver. I doused mine with ketchup and held my nose but I couldn’t mask that indescribable livery texture. (Any liver lovers out there? Skip this one.)

Eating Liver Poems

She made me eat a liver poem;
Said it was good for me.
It was slimy and slippery
and shapeless;
I shuddered.
Even ketchup couldn’t
help it.
I held my nose and
chewed a bit;
I nearly gagged
and had to spit
it out.
I still have the
taste in my mouth.
Shivery, quivery, livery poem.
I doubt that cooking
would have helped it.

Lori Fiechter
May 27, 2000

Screwdriver for a Poem

I had a loose poem;
it fell off its hinges
completely last night.
Didn’t mean to break it;
Still think I could remake it;
But I need a Phillip’s head
sized for a poem.

Lori Fiechter
May 25, 2000

I gave my nine-year old son  one of the disposable cameras when we went to Cedar Point. I haven’t seen any photos of myself for awhile; it was a shock. But I have to face the music—and the camera, from now on.

Rear View Fear

Watch out for
cameras clicking
close behind you;
They always find you
that way:
duly recording
posteriors
for posterity.

Lori Fiechter
May 26, 2000

Moved On

In my mind, I’ve packed my bags
and changed my address;
Moved on to other things
that occupy my time.
But sometimes I am stung
with the remembrance
of how I once was
before apathy settled
and mental cataracts
clouded my vision.
I lost a part of me
that I never meant to lose;
My stay-fresh packaging
got stale; out-dated.
I’m faded.
Jaded.
Sated.
I've moved on--
too far.

We have an opening for our cats to get under the house so that they can catch mice but we didn’t bargain on other, more noxious visitors.

Skunk at Midnight

You announced yourself
at midnight;
I was awakened by
your perfume—
That sickly, pungent odor
that pervaded
all the room.
Underneath the house,
you were;
you black and white
stinkball of fur.
Who can sleep
under the spell
of your distinctive smell?
You take my breath away.
Go back to where you came from, skunk,
Go back, young skunk and stay.

Lori Fiechter
May 16, 2000

I’m not partial to dandelions; I don’t even like them. They are a nuisance, and quite ugly once their bloom is off; they refuse to be mowed. But, still, there was something pathetic about these dandelions in the ditch.

A Ditch of Dying Dandelions

Someone sprayed the ditch again;
The dandelions writhe in
helpless death throes.
Their pale, skinny bodies
contorted and twisted together
like snakes of Medusa’s hair.
They seem to be trying to
crawl away from the poison;
sad little headless stems.
It is too late to save them;
I don’t like to look at them.
I cross to the other side
and pity them.

Just Standing Still

Everyone else is
moving and shaking
While I’m just standing still.
Everybody else is
making their mark;
I just try to pay my bills.
Everybody else has
a plan and a goal
As they’re racing around the track.
I’m just standing here,
holding my ground,
eating the dust they are throwing around;
Everybody’s chasing wealth and renown
With a bundle of stress
on their backs.

I read a great article recently on true empathy by Roberta Israeloff. This is my favorite line: "What we all hope for when we’re feeling low or agitated or wildly happy is to find a friend who sounds as if she has all the time in the world to listen. "I read that article four or five times; it convicted me. I’m not a very good listener, always interrupting. I need to remember especially to listen to my kids with both ears.

Lend me Both Ears

Too busy to listen-
one ear tuned my way;
Too busy to hear
what I don’t say.
Too full of yourself-
the little world you
live in;
My hopes and concerns
are just
words in the wind.

Oh, what I’d give
for one unhurried friend…

Lori Fiechter
April 26, 2000

I did not take turning 40 well; it certainly didn’t help that I had to renew my driver’s license in the same week.

Let them be Anathema!

Let them be anathema—
birthdays past 39;
No more black balloons,
no more cards to remind
that I’m now past my prime.

Let them be anathema—
driver’s license I.D.’s;
With my weight and age stamped
for any salesclerk to see
(right next to that photo
that looks nothing like me.)

Anathema—
wrinkles and gray hair and bags;
and sags where there used to not be any sags.
Of course, if I were a man,
I might likely be bald.
Perhaps I am not so bad off, after all…

Lori Fiechter
April 24, 2000

I've taken zinc lozenges countless times with no side effects, but this time...

Tasting Nickels

I went to sleep last night,
Zinc lozenge in my mouth;
I woke up tasting nickels
in my tea.
I tasted metal in my melon,
in my bagel and my toast;
Will I be tasting nickels
endlessly?
Well, I scrubbed my tongue
with Pepsodentâ
(more likely, it was Crestâ )
It made my breath smell better
but my taster's still a mess
I have metal-coated taste buds
That toothpaste cannot clean.
(My appetite is not diminished,
my nose is working fine
but when my mouth begins to water,
it makes a nickel-brewing brine)
and after thirteen hours
of countless remedies, I find
that I'm still tasting nickels
I can't see.
Yes, I'm still tasting nickels in my tea.
bleah!

Lori Fiechter
4-6-2000

...is Never Done

I dusted the dresser;
It's dusty again;
And the grass that I mowed
is all shaggy.
Is this all there is to life--
dusting and mowing our
own little corners,
never quite catching up? never any letting up?
The dust will come back again;
The grass will grow up again.
The dust and grass always win.
The battles fought yesterday
refuse to just go away;
like mowing and dusting,
they're determined to stay.
And that's why I'm thinking
It must not be
the dusting itself that's important
But rather,
the lessons we learn on the way.

(if the dusting's important,
I'll take off and run;
if dusting's important,
I've flunked life 101)

Lori Fiechter
3-21-2000

Frozen by Everyday Fears

I specialize in growing mountains
that accumulate
from molehills in my mind;
Fear is a pet constrictor
squeezing firmly on my heart
until the coils wrap
too tightly to unwind.
and I squeak a feeble plea:
Deliver me!
Deliver me from my thesaurus of fears:
from the fear of things that are
and things that will not ever be;
From futures framed and hung
on the walls of my fearful, fertile mind,
robbing me of today,
scaring me about tomorrow;
I even fear to try to save myself;
Deliver me!

Lori Fiechter
March 21, 2000

The birthday cards show me
at the top of a hill,
sliding down.
I don't feel much older
but the mirrors that I see
always frown.

Maybe this watershed year
is a good time to sit back and think and
slow down--
to stop running faster in furious circles
and take a good look all around.
Is my life "unexamined"
(Plato, quoted by Socrates),
Are there things I can do without?
(thanks here to Diogenes)
Am I spending my money and time
on things that will go out of style?
(Thoreau's "details" that fritter away)
Maybe, at forty, it's time to slow down,
To take a deep breath
while I can still breathe
on my own.
The hourglass sands
are flowing much faster
but I can't stop them flowing
by going and going.
But it will take more, take more than just knowing
that I need to
Slow down.

Lori Fiechter
March 21, 2000

The poems in my head
Do not translate well on paper;
They float and dance until
I tie them down with words.
They sing in perfect pitch
until they spot the microphone.
They sparkle with vibrant colors--
I can only paint their shadows.
I am so dismayed;
I want to throw them all away.
But these cheap replicas
still remind me of the
imagined perfection in my mind.
And so I keep them
and hope to find a better way
to translate.

Lori Fiechter
March 18, 2000

I'm not very good yet
but what drives me is
the hope that
I can get better;
I will get better;
I must get better.
I can't live forever
with this mediocrity;
I'll keep working toward
the day when
I'll catch up with my hopes
and expectations--
to catch up with them even once,
before they catch the wind again
and blow away.

Lori Fiechter
March 20, 2000

The real question is not
what He would do
But Who He is
and what He already did.
(And what you think about that.)
Lori Fiechter
March 20, 2000

(I wasn't at home when my son was rummaging under our bathroom sink for a bucket. He needed it  to throw ice water on his brothers. The bucket had toilet bowl cleaner in it. He took out the cleaner and set it on the bathroom floor. This cleaner has one of those spouts that breaks a fingernail to open it; I'll keep it closed anyway, from now on...)

Got a Hole in my Carpet

Cleaner for the toilet bowl
that's spilled on carpet
eats a hole.
Baking soda makes it fizz
(it wasn't my fault, it was his.)
Hungry, noxious, caustic cleaner--
"The Works" was aptly named
It did a fine job on my carpet
it alone is to be blamed.
It ate a canker sore on the floor
Yes, ruined it for good
Dissolving shaggy worms of carpet
(I hope it can't eat wood.)

Lori Fiechter
March 14, 2000

Haunted by The Raven
(with apologies to Poe)

I think myself, at times, a writer
But I know I'm a pretender,
knocking at the hallowed door,
Only this, and nothing more;
Just a spurious pretender,
knocking at the sacred door.
And I hear a hollow mocking,
(Raven eyes with mine are locking)
"You a writer? Nevermore."

Lori Fiechter
February 22, 2000

(Luke 6:41)
Beam in my Eye

"Let me help you with that mote;
you can't see well like that."
(I reached across to pick it out
But my own beam knocked him flat.)
Moral:
When you're half-blind,
don't try to find
a speck of dust in the other guy's eye.

Lori Fiechter
March 2, 2000