A Funny Story for Totally Optional Prompts: The Kiss

I always do the same assignments I give my Poetry Writing students and this was the result I got from a sestina exercise. I went through magazines and cut out interesting words and each kid (and me) got 6 words to use as the last words in each line.

And, yes, this is partly autobiographical, unfortunately!
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -


The Kiss

I can’t believe I was all thumbs
when I got my first kiss.
There he was with his mouth a cute nugget
and his hair in that Beatles’ style.
I wish I’d had a camera
to preserve the moment in a picture.

Never in my dreams did I picture
what I would do with my thumbs
as we got closer and closer. No, forget the camera
and, really, I just want to forget the kiss
and that whole time when I had such a geeky style.
There we were with love between us like a nugget

of gold. I started with the nugget
of his nose, closed my eyes, and pictured
its adorable tiny style.
But then came the problem with my thumbs
and just as we were about to kiss,
just as his eyes were closing like a camera

lens, just as I was imagining perfection in the camera
of my mind, I accidentally grazed another nugget
of his, making him lunge at me for a kiss.
Our romantic tryst became a picture
of chaos. All because of my wayward thumbs
and awkward style.

When his lips met mine in such shocking style
I have to admit I became a little camera
shy. I pushed at him with my thumbs
and tried to get away but the nugget
of want he was feeling was certainly not what I’d pictured
when I imagined my first kiss.

I always assumed that we’d gently kiss
in pillow to pillow style
and never did I picture
his tongue and teeth in my mind’s camera
mashing my mouth and leaving nuggets
of spit on my face and my thumbs.

I told him to kiss-off. I wouldn’t need a camera
for my new celibate style. Love turned into a nugget
of coal. My picture of romance shattered by thumbs.

Solace for Sunday Scribblings

Sunday Morning

It was Sunday morning
and I snuck out of bed
to enjoy
some quiet time,
some me time,
while you stayed
cocooned in our
waterbed.

I quietly maneuvered
myself out from beneath
the covers like a letter
slipping out of an envelope,
reached for my bathrobe,
tiptoed
down the stairs
avoiding the squeaky ones,

then sat in a pond
of sunshine
and read a book
enjoying the poetry
of quiet Sunday mornings.

Ekphrastic Poem (I think!)

This week's prompt at ReadWritePoem is to use an image by Rick Mobbs and write a poem inspired by it.





The snail
of an idea
moves slowly.

I see it in the leaves,
brash adults, now,
in muscle T’s

It’s in the raindrops
peppering the sand
as I scurry
off the beach

It’s in the balsamic
vinegar of the night
air as I walk.

And they all curve
imperceptibly
into the clouds
of my brain

leaving the silver
trail of a poem
in their wake.

Ghost for Sunday Scribblings

Our ghost was a friendly one. We bought the house from is widow. He was also our friend before his untimely death.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Red

His name was Ron
and he had fiery red hair.

He’d visit us
at unexpected moments.

In the middle
of the night

our bedroom door
would open

and my husband
would say,

“Ron, get the hell
out of here.”

Some days I’d
get home from school

and the back door
would be wide open

and I’d know
Ron had been there.

He died on a motorcycle
when he was twenty,

a bike he’d been
working on

in the cellar
of what became our future home.

I think he was pleased
to see how happy we were there

and wanted
to be part of our lives.

I put touches of red
in all the rooms.

Oldest Friend for Sunday Scribblings

Anita and I became friends in kindergarten back in 1954. She lives in Florida, now, so I don't get to see her very often. Last September she came up to NH to visit her parents and we made plans for me to visit her after school.

As it turns out, I now live in the house I grew up in and my mom stays with us for 6 weeks in the fall so the following was like deja vu.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

A warm September afternoon.
I get home from school,
change into red shorts
and a white shirt,
tell my mom I’m going
to Anita’s

and walk down the street
to her house,
knock on the door
and sit at the kitchen
table chatting
with her and her mom.

We went through
this after-school ritual
for years
during the sixties
and here we are today
doing the same thing.

We talk about boys
(our husbands and sons, now)
and gossip about
school friends,
complain about homework
(now called housework)

and reminisce while the clock,
still above the washer and dryer,
slowly ticks to late
afternoon when I have
to say goodbye
and walk back home.

The sun is just melting
behind the elephant head
of Mt. Forist. Shadows
inch imperceptibly down
the street and I walk
into them.

My Blog as a Home for Rocking Chair Writers

My poetry blog is a dollhouse
that fits inside my heart.

It has a tiny front door
that blocks my husband

with his big ego. Occasionally
I let him sit on the porch

and have a beer. Once or twice
he’s tried to peek in the windows

but I quickly shut the curtains
so he can’t see all the little

knickknacks of truth
I have arranged in the living room.

Most of the time he just ignores
my writing and that leaves

me free to run around inside.
Sometimes I jump on the bed,

sometimes I cook up a savory
word chowder or bake

a loaf of poetry. Mmmm…
can you smell it? I think

I’ll slather a slice with butter
and sit in my favorite chair

to enjoy the syllables
of this home I’ve created

for myself.

Tempo for Totally Optional Prompts

We made it back from our trip to Florida then had company for four days. I haven't been very inspired for almost a month, now, and it was driving me nuts! Then on Tuesday we took our granddaughter to the beach for her first visit and she just loved the waves and an idea started to percolate in my previously dull brain. Today I hopped on my bicycle and rode to Ocean Park Beach and wrote the following poem. It's not the most original but I feel like the tempo of my life has resumed. (And I managed to get "tempo" in there!)
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Kylie watches
the swells
grow huge
with laughter.

She jumps
up and down
waiting
for the mirth

to break
all over her
like I’ve
been watching

words far out
in the ocean
building
with thoughts,

becoming pregnant,
closer and closer
until they cascade
onto this page.

Then I laugh.