Curve for Sunday Scribblings

Casting a Spell

I am that worm
curved on the end
of your fishing line
pierced by the sharp-
ness of your words.

When you arc
your arm back
and cast me
into the world,
I fly away
from you
higher, deeper
and try to survive,
try to swim away,
avoid being eaten.

But eventually you
reel me back in,
sometimes intact
but mostly ragged.

Imagination for ReadWritePoem

Eyes

I moved my chair
into a coin of sunshine,
poured a glass
of merlot,
then settled in
for a little afternoon
reading delight.

I started losing
myself in someone
else’s life, flying
above the trees
and people
in the campground

when I felt
eyes
staring,
staring
at me.

No one passing by
on the road,
no sunbathers
at nearby campsites
but, still, those eyes
watching me.

Prickles on the back
of my neck.
Hair
standing at attention
on my arms.

I tried reading
again
but those glaring
eyes would not turn
away.

I glanced
at my own camper
and there
were the faces
of the pansies
I’d planted that morning,
bobbing
on thin necks,
frowning in the sun,
watching
my every move.

Triolet for TOP

This woke me up this morning! I even looked it up. I've got to get a life!
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Triolet

I have a problem with the triolet.
Does it rhyme with barrette
Or is it French like beret?
I have a problem; with the triolet
sounding like a three-way lay,
people might expect more than I bet
I have. A problem with the triolet
is that it rhymes with beret and barrette.

Similes and Metaphors for ReadWritePoem

When the snowstorm
of your words
swirls around me,
I find shelter
in my mind.

It’s like a reverse snow globe
where all is peaceful
inside the bubble
and I can watch
while ice flies
from your tongue
and your arms
generate the wind
on the outside.

You look so cold:
a bent tree.
a bruised cloud.

I sit in a swing
on the porch
of the little house
inside my head
and watch you unravel.

Soar/Sore for Sunday Scribblings

This is more of a story than a poem but it made me chuckle (and cringe!) remembering it.
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Mt. Washington Sky Adventures
was a business
owned by my son.

He gave glider rides
around the White Mountains.
I was his receptionist.

One day a man, with greasy
fly-away hair, stopped by
and paid for a ride.

I walked him
to the end of the runway
where the glider

was tethered to the tow plane,
an old Pawnee crop duster,
and got him belted in.

While the pilot
was getting himself ready,
the man reached

into his jacket pocket,
pulled out a mangy old comb
and asked me

to take care of it for him.
I held that dirty thing
while balancing

the wings as the glider
took off, and then,
all the way back

to the office. I put it
on the counter then washed
my hands with anti-bacterial soap

for at least five minutes.
When he got back
he was so discombobulated

that he forgot his precious
comb. It’s probably still there.
No way was I going to touch it again.

Finally, a New Poem!--3WW

Average Stretch Neck
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It’s after 10 pm.
My eyes have little fires
behind them.
The vise-grip
of late evening
has a firm hold
on the back
of my neck,
squeezing.

I’ve just finished
calculating averages
for my tenth-grade
students, playing
cards with my mom,
who is staying
with us for 6 weeks,
making pork roast,
mashed potatoes,
and broccoli
with cheese sauce
for supper,
and taking myself
and my frustrations
for a walk,
leaking the tribulations
of the day
onto the sidewalk.

Now, I stretch
my fingers over
the keyboard
hoping a perfect
ending to this poem
will magically
slide out.

Sci-Fi for ReadWritePoem

I tried a sonnet using the rhyming words. That felt like sci-fi to me!

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From our front window here on the moon, Earth is visible.
We see it out there in space like it’s on a stage.
Hubby watches TV and I grab a pencil to scribble
a poem, thinking about this life we’ve made in our old age.

When we lived on earth, we were exciting: lots of touching,
miles of conversation, subtle surprises, fingers
trailing up and down arms and legs, fetching
eyes soft as suede and glances wild as tigers.

Each evening we’d have a few drinks, avoid buzzkill
with brandy for dessert, take the remote on a joyride
through channels and never realized that our life was on a downhill
slide. Then, we came here where there is never high tide,

where yawning craters mimic us. I dream of a way to harpoon
our former life. Instead, we turn to Turner Classic Movies and watch High Noon.

Cowbird for TOP

Sadly, this is a true story about people I know. If you've read the two poems I wrote about a baby, here and here, you'll recognize the character in this poem as the mother of the boy who fathered the baby.
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Marijuana was her child,
Obscuring her duties to her children.
Thinking only of herself, she left them with their father.
He tried his best to be both parents.
Eventually, the boys became drug addicts.
Rivers of neglect never stop flowing.
?She hangs her head, now, shoulders slumped like a question mark.