Anaphora for TOP

I bought a book of poetry
because I was in a bookstore.

I bought a book of poetry
because it jumped off the shelf
and into my arms.

I bought a book of poetry
because poetry is the moon
to my sun.

I bought a book of poetry
because I needed shelter
from the winds of life.

I bought a book of poetry
because I was on vacation
and it was an inexpensive treat.

I bought a book of poetry
because, when I opened it,
I smelled a whiff of prayer.

Twilight in Berlin, NH for One Single Impression

All day you scowled
grumbling about this and that
Finally, at five

we sat to relax
opened a bottle of wine
and you smiled at me

The gray clouds of life
turned to lavender and slipped
behind the mountains.

Poetry Train: Anger is an undressing

Nick is one of my students. He was abused horribly as a kid and now has anger management issues. Unfortunately, no one told me about this and I used the wrong tone of voice with him and he blew! He called me every name in the book, threw his Othello book across the room into the back wall, and kicked my garbage can and every locker on his way to the office.

I've been teaching for almost thirty years and nothing like this has ever happened in my classroom before. I was majorly upset but, the next day, when I'd had time to absorb it and after learning about his background, I wrote the following poem.
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Anger is an undressing
and you disrobed
in front of my eyes,
not slowly
but all at once~
buttons flying
cotton ripping
zippers screeching.

Today
I wish I had
soft yarn
and could knit
a sweater
for you.

Trust for Sunday Scribblings

The sun was busy
making sharp shadows
on the early evening
mountains

when Gary suggested
we fly to Martha’s Vineyard
for a couple nights
of R&R.

I packed quickly
and we were airborne
in an hour, he piloting,
me awed

by the Monoply houses,
Hot Wheels vehicles,
and ant people
below.

Suddenly, with about
a half hour to go,
the land disappeared
into gauze

and we were alone,
hanging like a falling leaf
in the middle
of the foggy sky.

I suggested we turn around
but Gary said not to worry;
he knew what to do.
I freaked, anyway.

To calm me down,
he gave me the job
of looking out
for the lights

of the airport.
There was just the sound
of the engine,
and the thick gray

swirling around us.
I imagined us crashing
into the ocean or
the land.

Gray, gray, gray
then…ghostly glows.
Lights! We were right
on course.

We landed. They closed
the airport. Since then
I’ve flown miles
of skies

with him, through storms
through blue, through night.
Trust looks like a leaf
landing gently

and safely
onto the soft
floor
of the earth.

Naisaiku: Under Quilts

Impulses, yearnings,
managed risks, and candid love~
pieces of romance
UNDER QUILTS
pieces of romance,
managed risks, and candid love~
impulses, yearnings.

Coin a New Word for TOP

Paligal

When snowflakes
of girl friend issues
settle cold
and icy
on his neck

and stress
builds up
in a suffocating
down jacket,

he can’t wait
to get home
and IM
his paligal.

Those winter
problems
melt away
drip by drip
as they
type sunshine.

Poetry Train: The End of the Day

I wrote this during block 4's journal writing a week and a half ago. The topic was: the end of the day

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The End of the Day

Settles like a deflated balloon
around the ankles
of the night

and I kick it
out of the way
into the corner

of used time.
Then I get into
my waterbed

and read for a bit
until I feel
the weight

of my eyes
sagging into
sleep.

Spectral for One Single Impression

The ghosts of conscience
shine through the clouds of denial~
full moon of regret.

Sports for Sunday Scribblings

I wrote this one during journal writing with my British Literature students the day after: Thursday 10/28/04
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Red Sox Sweep St. Louis Cardinals to Win World Series

My husband was snoring
in his La Z Boy
when Johnny Damon
made his homerun.

My scream woke him
up and he grumbled
but smiled
before heading upstairs
to bed.

When I joined him
he was sleeping again
and it was the 3rd inning
and two more runs
had scored.

He woke up again
in time to see
the lunar eclipse
red brown and glowing

like the hope
that was blooming
slowly and scarily
in my chest
inning by
inning.

Even the moon
was too nervous
to look.

I sat in bed
with my sleeping
husband
alone
with the whole world
and a new moon
smiling
freed from
the shadow.

Aubade for TOP

I didn't have a chance to write a new one so will share this older one I wrote a few years ago during the summer.
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I know you are dreaming
of fish hooks
and slippery mackerel
sliding through your
hands.

I know your boat
is waiting
like a patient
lover,
floating on the water
of anticipation.

I know the blue sky
is a magnet
drawing you on
and the sun is a siren
luring you away.

But if you stay
here in the swallow
of our bed,
I’ll let you hook
me.

I’ll be your best
catch yet.

Poetry Train: The clouds are Bruises

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The clouds are bruises
outside my window
full of purple tears.

I wish I was lying on the beach
in Hawaii again, looking up at
the animal clouds, and
digging my feet into
the cool underlayer of sand
and watching Nay
try to surf.

He is a ballet dancer on skis
but here in the ocean he is
an elephant trying to waltz
flipping and flopping and flubbing up.
I can hear the waves chuckling
As they toss him once more.

But he is a golden boy and never
gives up.
I smile with pride
and know he will succeed
because the future is mapped
out in the friendly clouds.

I wish I was back there
feeling the warm sun
warm my son.

This is not a poem about
the past;
this is a poem about
the improbable,
about elephants that
leave the sky
and dance
on surfboards.

Art for Sunday Scribblings

His skid road
is frozen now
so I decided
to take a walk
in the woods.

About a mile in
I saw him
getting ready
to cut a tree down.

First he backed
the skidder up
to within a few feet
of the pine tree,
climbed off,
and did a little dance
around the tree
to tamp the snow
down.

Then he wrapped
a thick cable
around the base
about three feet up.

He had to use
an extender
because this tree
was so big.

A quiet moment
followed.
His glance slid
all the way up
contemplating
the direction
of the fall.

Then he grabbed
his chainsaw
and took a notch
out of the fall side
of the tree,

made his way around
and sawed straight in
opposite the notch,

until the pine
started to tip,
rip, groan, snap,
crash, fall.

After repeating this
procedure a couple
more times,
he winched the trees
up close to the skidder
and proceeded
to skid them
out to the yard.

I followed that
grumbling monster
with a gigantic tail
out of the woods

breathing fresh air
and pine scent

thankful that we live
in an area where
trees are plentiful
and men can make
a living from the art
of tree harvesting.

Repetition for TOP

I wrote a pantoum, a poem in which the second and fourth lines of the first stanza are repeated as the first and third lines of the next stanza.
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This is the reason to leave
now that love has died:
We are total opposites;
I am warm sunshine and you are cold snow.

Now that love has died
we can go our separate ways.
Since I am warm as sunshine and you are cold as snow
we have nothing left in common.

We can go our separate ways
pursuing our individual interests.
We have nothing left in common
except for broken hearts.

A new life pursuing our individual interests
would heal our crying hearts.
But is this a valid reason to leave?
Why can’t you be cold sunshine and I be warm snow?

Poetry Train #13: Walking

When my husband
gets home
from his logging job
he blabs and blabs
on and on
about the big pine trees
and the deer he sees

and when I’m full
to the top
of my head
with his sentences
I get dressed
and head outside
for a walk.

As I go up Hinchey Street
those words
begin to unlock
and slide down
through my body
and I leave them
in my footprints.

By the time
I get to the top
of Sixth Avenue
the fresh air
has room
to spread out
in my mind.

I notice the stars
like chalk
on the blackboard
of the sky.

I see the lights
of Berlin
laid out on black
velvet.

I breathe…
I breathe…

My thoughts
lay back
and relax
in the hammock
of my brain
and the moon
throws
a soft white afghan
over them.