Intersections for TOP

I couldn’t think of what to write about so when my husband turned the TV on, I decided to use the subject of the first two commercials: shampoo and cholesterol.
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She starts with a special cleanser
for her face
then continues with an expensive shampoo
and conditioner.

Foundation, makeup, gel, mousse,
all follow
until the exterior package is polished
and perfect.

For breakfast she fries bacon and eggs,
toasts a white English muffin
then slathers it with real butter
and peanut butter.

And the little cholesterol nuggets waiting inside
get fat and smile.

3WW: Caress, Jaged, Ruthless

Caress Jagged Ruthless
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Cauliflower waves
caress the brown sugar
sand

late in the afternoon.
I know I have
to get back to camp

to make supper,
do the dishes,
take in my laundry.

But the sunset
is leaving
jagged shadows

all over the beach
and I’m comfy
in my nifty seat

and I just want
to stay here
and ignore

the waves
of ruthless
time.

Ceremonies for TOP

I sit in the audience
with other proud parents
listening to Governor
Jeanne Shaheen

talk about accomplishments,
but looking at my daughter
standing with the other
scholar athletes.

For this honor
they must play at least
two sports and maintain
an average of ninety or better.

I catch Erin’s eye
and we both smile
remembering…
remembering….

Erin loved first grade,
well, the mornings,
anyway:
songs, stories, snacks, recess.

After lunch, though,
she’d put her head down,
stick her thumb
in her mouth,

and take a nap.
At the end of the year
her teacher suggested
that she repeat first grade.

That summer she weaned
herself from her thumb
and asked to have her hair
cut into a sassy short style.

In September she entered
first grade, again,
her head held high,
the best reader in her class.

Today, her head is still
held high, her eyes shining.
I applaud the loudest
For her accomplishments.

Phantoms and Shadows for Sunday Scribblings

This is a bit melodramatic but I was eighteen and life seemed so much more intense.
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You materialize
in the heat waves
of the Notre Dame
Arena parking lot.

I smile, happy
to see you
after a couple weeks
of being away.

But, rats slink out
of your mouth
and sneak into
my ears

enemy soldiers marching
through my brain
machine gunning
my heart.

The sun glints
off the onyx
ring as I take it off
and hand it back to you.

You rev
your motorcycle
engine and accelerate,
leaving me

standing alone
in your exhaust,
watching as you
become smaller

and smaller
until you turn
the corner
and dissipate.

I stand
in the flames
of the shimmering
tar, burning.

Cadence Humble Resolve for 3WW

The Cadence of 5pm

The garish sun
is humbled by the mountains.
The pace
of day
slows to
an Enya tune.
I resolve to relax
into the lavender
fleece of evening.

Poetry Train #11: Gorilla, Butterfly

This is one I wrote with the kids during Poetry Writing class a few years ago. I forget exactly what the assignment was but it had something to do with metaphors. I think I had them pick two words out of a hat and try to use them, somehow, in an unusual way. My two words were gorilla and butterfly.
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Communication

You wanted steak
so I jogged
to Rudy’s Market
and bought
two
one-inch T-bones.

On the way home
I imagined
a quiet evening:
laughter,
companionship,
and the scent
of charcoal.

Maybe that’s why
I was so shocked
when gorilla
sounds growled
off your usually
butterfly tongue
and hit me
as I came in the door
with the wrong
kind of steaks.

Speak to me
with wings of softness
or not at all.

Pilgrimage for Sunday Scribblings

This is a dream I've had for forever.
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A small Winnebago
chewing up miles
like Pacman
gobbling dots.

The whole United States
unraveling like a ribbon.
Me,
alone,

going where I want,
stopping when I want,
answering to no one.
Alone.

Someday.

From the Point of View of a Bad Person for TOP

I like to sit
at outdoor cafés
watching the swirl
of women’s skirts,
the curves of their legs,
the dance of their hair,

their scents braiding
into the steam
from my coffee,

imagining them
tied to a bed,
their arms above
their heads,
statues
that I sculpt,
one part
at a time,

chiseling the anger
of my mother
into their skin.

Poetry Train #10: Rocking Chair

Displaced

I remember
sitting in back
of the rocking chair
as you
soothed Nancy to sleep,
hard, black rockers
under my four-year-old
hands,
pushing to help you,
to be a part of your bonding

you humming a pretty
tune
not for me
anymore

your back
a corrugated
barrier

me drawing patterns
on the dusty rockers,
tempted to let a finger
slip underneath,
to feel tangible pain,
to have a real reason
to cry

and to have you
gather
me in your arms
once more
and rock me
on the other side
of your back.

Organic for Sunday Scribblings

I’m not looking
for a corn-on-the-cob
type of love
that is only sweet
once a year.

And you can keep
your radish
and carrot
and rutabaga
endearments

in the dark ground
where they belong.
Green bean songs
and broccoli flowers
won’t win my heart,

organic or not.
No, I’m holding
out for buttercup
squash love,
as bright as a sunset,

as soft as your smile.
It fills us up
year round
and never
lets us down.

Quartina for TOP

Get Me Out of Here

The bald face of Mt. Forist,
powdered with snow,
grins at me like a clown
grabbing attention away from the blue.

I need space to chase the blues,
to find my way out of the forest.
Like all claustrophobics know,
being enclosed is nothing to clown

around about. I hate clowns
and mountains. The wind that blew
last night got caught in the forest
of hills choking me, flinging snow

into my lungs. I’m breathing snow-
y death. I dream of that summer clown—
the sun sparkling on miles of ocean blue,
wide open spaces, a shorn forest.

I yearn for rest from walls of snow.
I’m a stuck jack-in-the-box clown and I’m blue.

Poetry Train #9: Horoscope

Horoscope

Aquarius (Feb 21, 2006)
When the whimsical Dr. Seuss quipped, “There is no one alive who is Youer than You,” he most certainly was talking about an Aquarius. Your originality is even more original tonight.
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Me? Original?
I’ve always been vanilla.
I’ve always been soft mashed potatoes.
I’m a pillow of marshmallow.
Outside, anyway.
It’s only when I write a poem
that vanilla turns into Chunky Monkey,
Cherry Garcia, & New York Super Fudge Chunk.
And those potatoes
are mashed
with garlic and cheese
and that marshmallow
is on a stick
being cooked over a fire
and it’s flaming.

for Richer or Poorer for Sunday Scribblings

Bills were balloons
inflated fatter
than our income.

Payday was a hungry
week away. The fridge
wasn’t empty

but contained
mostly condiments.
For supper

we broke
into the kids’
piggybanks

and bought hotdogs,
chips and dip, then
spread a blanket

in front
of the open-faced
woodstove,

cooked our dogs
on sticks,
and had a picnic.

Cinquain for TOP: She Sleeps

I wrote this one this morning while watching the news on television and watching my granddaughter sleep in between my husband and me while the wind was howling in the -12 degree morning.
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Innocence

She sleeps
while the wind bombs
and trees shiver with fright.
War flashes on TV, but still
she sleeps.