In other news

Roadside bombs,
test-firing missiles,
wars and funerals,
funerals and war.

And to lighten the mood:

Pachyderms outperform people
in NYC cross-species eating contest.

The Pilot

Little girl,
golden curls bouncing,
tries to run in
lime green rain boots.

“Hi Daddy! Look! It’s
Daddy!” she shrieks,
quickens her pace to greet him.
Arms up high.
Full speed ahead.
Lips pursed in concentration,
she jumps, groans, tries to
touch the sun.
We laugh, but
stop ourselves from
saying, “you can’t.”

Little girl,
golden curls bouncing,
runs home in rain boots,
dreaming of jet planes.

A poem about social networking

Social networking

I’d grow wiser if I watched
webcasts of the Dalai Lama.
But, no way I’m leaving Twitter:
I’m being followed by Obama.

What am I doing?
Do you really care to know?
I’m eating lemon pie
And dancing to “Jai, Ho!”

How’d you stumble upon me?
All these passwords; I’m confused.
They own all my content?
We’re the Users and the used.

Now, I won’t be a hypocrite;
I Tweet my time away,
change my status often;
check my blog stats every day.

But if people gave a dollar
for every single Tweet,
homes could be built
and cancer could be beat.

I like to be connected.
I’m not saying that it’s wrong.
But how’d we switch from
talking to texting all day long?

No, I don’t need to know
who your peeps are porkin’
but, no way I’m leaving Facebook:
I’m friends with Aaron Sorkin.

Promise

Today the lilacs opened;
and I almost missed it.

My spring tradition since childhood:
reaching up on my tippy toes,
plucking down a fresh bloom;
closing my eyes, memorizing that scent,
taking out the inner core, sucking
on the sweet nectar.

And I almost missed it.
I was distracted; glued to my computer screen,
stuck on my cell phone, head in the dirty laundry;
Caught up in things that just won’t matter
100 years from now.

Then you came home,
scooped up our busy
one-year-old, took us to a little lilac tree
you’d planted in our barren backyard.

The scent was so familiar, a reminder
strong and insistent like your
stubborn side,
damp petals poignant
grazing against my face.

So for a moment it was just the three of us,
carefree and content;
Surrounded by that powerful scent
and the promise of renewal:
The promise of purple.

'Promise' by Heather Grace Stewart

Responsibilities, Rewards

floppy head to hold oh so gently,
tiny fingernails to cut;
whispered breaths to check on in your sleep,
chubby rolls of baby skin to clean, dry,
dress in warm sleepers;
diaper rash to prevent,
cradle cap to clear up,
little rosebud lips to keep satisfied.
But when that mouth finally forms a smile,
the world stops spinning on its axis,
and all I can hear is the sweet song
that is your laughter.

'Pure' by Heather Grace Stewart

Valley

for Larry and Robin

Your pillow has a valley;
that soft place
where your head would rest.

This first night without you,
I’m lost in the valley.
I never want to climb out.

I breathe in your scent,
memorize every note;
pretend you’re still beside me.
My delusions are quickly
interrupted by an incessant
buzzing:  I’ve left my
cell phone on vibrate.

The minutiae of life
must go on; I must go on.
Somehow, I’ll make up
your side of bed.
Someday, your pillow
will lose its soft scent;
your clothes will be gone;
all traces of you
will have faded from view.

But you were my valley;
you were that soft place
where my head would rest;

Love like that
is a flower
that never fades.

Spring walk

purple crocus buds
rise from their
winter beds;

spotted ladybugs
dance upon
our window panes;

one small hand
holds my hand;
holds my heart.

Spring awakening by Heather Grace Stewart

Questions you never thought you’d have to answer

Come on, come on. This red light is taking way too long.

I do a double take in my rearview mirror.

There’s a six-foot tall, broad framed guy standing on the main street corner of our small, family-friendly, stand-up-community, wearing a pink Easter Bunny suit.

He’s jumping up and down, madly waving at the passing cars, trying to get them into a Chocolaterie.  Or a Subway restaurant. What he’s selling is not completely clear.

What is clear is the guy is not having a Joyeuse Paques. I almost expect him to say,
“You lookin’ at me? You lookin’ at ME?”

Our four-year-old daughter doesn’t need a rearview mirror. From where she sits in her comfy car seat, he’s precisely in her line of view.  However, she’s more excited about the balloons tied around the corner lamppost than the guy in the bunny suit doing some silly dance.

“Oh, balloons!” she says gleefully, and I breathe a sigh of relief, thinking I’ve once again avoided answering questions I don’t want to answer.

You know, “Why’s the Easter Bunny standing on a street corner? Or “Why’s Santa look different in this mall?”

Then I notice the guy in the suit isn’t jumping anymore. He isn’t waving, either.

He’s leaning against the lamppost. He’s on his break.

The light turns green. Not fast enough.

“Mommy?” I hear her small voice hesitate, then gain power as she formulates the difficult question in her mind.

“Mommy? Why is there smoke coming out of the Easter Bunny’s mouth?”

April Snow

The evening news
left us sleepless
with images of protests
in the holy city, terrorist
bombings, drive-by shootings
in our own town.

Yet on Easter morning
we awoke to snow sheets on
a wishing-well roof,
unexpected purple buds
bursting through the frost,
a silver steeple glistening
against the cerulean sky,

and our little girl toddling outside
to find golden eggs in the snow;
barefoot on icing-sugar-steps,
laughing and dancing
with her sister-cousins.

Driving west at sunset,
morning snow a memory,
the returning geese
called out to us
like old friends,
leading us home.

April Snow by Heather Grace Stewart

Nine Lives

She’s been married
nine times, she says
as she crosses her legs
and smiles at the
talk show shrink.

“I can always spot
husband material!”
she laughs, then
confesses that
“after number five,”
she started to
question her
abilities.

Maybe next time
she should
just get
a cat.