Monday Poetry Train

I saw time
this July morning
on I 95
between Saco
and Biddeford, Maine.

In the middle
of a bank
of lavender clover,
a clump of brown-eyed-susans

staring at me
through autumn
eyes.

I rolled
my window
up against
the chill.

Fireworks for TOP

I went to ReadWritePoem and used their prompt generator to get 5 five words that I hoped I could produce some sparks with: willow, pell-mell, swerve, pleat, cedar. It didn't really work all that well, but this is what I came up with, anyway.

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As I swerve
into my sixties,
I can feel the steering
wheel of my life
shuddering.

The scenery
is changing:
leaves falling off
the weeping willows,
cedars bending over.

The road feels like
it is pleated, now.
I bounce along,
hoping I never have to
shift into Park.

3WW: Gloom, Kneel, Transparent

In Spite of the Gloom

Oak leaves
as big as hands
shine as if they’d
been painted
with polyurethane,

Fog, transparent
enough to see through,
settles like kneeling
parishioners in the pews
of pine trees.

I sit
inside the yellow sun
of our camper
typing letters
into words,

linking words
into sentences,
then watch as they
braid themselves
into this poem.

Weather for TOP

I hear the Morse Code
of raindrops
on the roof
of our camper

tapping out a secret
message. To my husband
it says, “No fishing for you!”
To vacationers

here on the coast of Maine
it says, “Too bad you spent
all that money for this.”
But to me it says,

“Time to curl up
with Bel Canto and read,
time to write a poem,
time to sip a glass

of merlot and feel
the velvet spread
like the fog draping
the trees in gossamer.

3WW: Sweet, Yearn, Collapse

My brain has been on vacation! Sometimes I just need a break. Here's a little cinquain.


When I Yearn

Barefoot
I walk along
the mirror of low tide.
The problems of my day collapse.
Sweet peace.

Abecedarian for TOP

She sits on the sofa
sometimes all day

and traces my movements
to and fro
through the tired afternoon

until the umbrella
of evening unsheathes
its shadow over us

and I’m verging on violence.
I love my mom
very much and treat
her as tenderly as my Nonie
took care of her African violets

but wearing away
by doing nothing
wears on my world.

So I offer her a glass
of wine and we play
a game of cards
which she wins

in exceptional excellence
and my xylophone whining
mellows out.

The soft yellow
of the dining room light
bathes us in butter
and instead of yelling
my frustrations at her

I laugh and enjoy
the buzz, the companionship,
and the zippity-doo-da
of being in mom zone.

Yard Sale for TOP & The Monday Poetry Train

A father and son
play baseball
in their yard.

Every time the boy
hits the ball
a dog chases it

then they have to chase
the dog. I slip
this image

into my word bank.
A scrawny woman
sits on her porch,

cigarette dangling
from her lips,
watching ragged kids

run around her messy
yard, the butt bobbing
as she yells at them.

I add her to the piggy bank
getting heavier
by the mile.

A fine, muscled specimen
of maleness
is mowing a lawn

shirtless, all bronzed
and chiseled. Another
shiny coin

of detail slides
into the bank.
I continue driving

my eyes eating up
every morsel.
When I get to camp,

I’ll break the bank open
and write a poem about
the human yard sale.