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.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Thursday, July 9, 2009
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.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
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.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
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.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
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.
When I Yearn
Barefoot
I walk along
the mirror of low tide.
The problems of my day collapse.
Sweet peace.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
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.
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.
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