3WW: Bump, Knuckle, Transfix

I like to slide
out of bed early

like a letter
out of an envelope

without bumping
anything

so he won’t wake up.
But he stirs

and his first command
of the day

hits me like a knuckle
sandwich. “Turn

the air off.” Yes,
master. He falls back

to sleep and I become
transfixed by the morning.

Today, the trees
are entangled

in a hairnet of fog.
The oak leaves

are shiny as rubber
gloves from the dew.

I sit in the silence
with myself

but only
for a little while.

Basket for Leaves of the Poet-tree

I don’t have a basket
on my bike
like Dorothy for Toto
in The Wizard of Oz

but I do have saddlebags.
In them I pack
my life: stationery
to write a letter,

several pens, a letter
to respond to,
a water bottle
with ice,

sunscreen, a turquoise
and white striped towel,
my nifty folding
seat, sunscreen,

my Nikon D60 SLR
camera, mail to drop
off at the post office,
and my Kindle.

When I get to the beach,
I unbuckle it
and carry it
to an available spot

then it sits next to me,
like a faithful
dog while I use
everything in it.

The Poetry Train

Kylie said, “Grammy,
you want to go to the playground?”
I closed my laptop.

I saw two students
sneak into a secluded stairwell for a quick hug.
I closed my eyes.

A knock. Standing
on the threshold were two Jehovah’s Witnesses.
I closed the door.

Sun glinted from the ring
he asked me to return.
I closed my heart.

Seven Sins for One Single Impression

Seven Sins

I went a whole day
once without appreciating
the beauty of nature

I saw a beggar
at an intersection
and turned my head away.

I embarrassed a student
who had a hard time reading
by the impatience in my tone.

I turned poor people away from our motel
because the were smoking
in a non-smoking room.

I stole pennies from my mom’s
underwear drawer
to buy a York Peppermint Patty.

I spanked my young son
for no real reason
after a frustrating day at work.

And just now, my heart
fell when I heard my husband
get out of bed.

Give for Sunday Scribblings

Give

We made a fire tonight,
flames sunsetting the night.
Friends joined us
with glasses of wine

conversation and laughter.
Micheline gave us music
with her melodious
French accent.

Ralph entertained
by stringing Christmas
lights. Donna
regaled us with

stories of her winter.
Words flew back and forth.
They gave us their lives,
We gave them ours.

Writer's Island: Visual Prompt

 

Rob at Writer's Island is leaving us with the following gorgeouos image.  I interpreted it quite loosely.

I wobbled a bit
when my student
refused to keep
her head up

during Silent Reading.
“I’m not sleeping”
she said. “I don’t care.
I want your head up.”

I returned to my own
reading then glanced up
a few moments later
and her head was down

again. “HEAD UP!”
Blue eyes flashed,
her head came up,
and she said, “I’m

not a fucking dog!”
The steadying hand
of experience reached
out and in a calm voice

I asked her to leave.
I continued with the rest
of the class. She slammed
the door on her way out.

I smiled inwardly,
thankful for the guidance
and wisdom
walking beside me.

3WW: Thread, Grip, Prefer

I grip the handle
of my camera

feel the slight
roughness, squint

through the viewfinder,
and focus the dandelion.

I see a spider has threaded
her web around its stem

and up and around
the golden head.

Nothing is ever perfect
and that is good.

I set my camera
to aperture priority

which I prefer because
it'll blur the background

and maybe catch some bokeh,
those magical bubbles

of future uncertainties.
I feel the smooth shutter

button, press it slowly,
freeze-frame tomorrow.

Sunday Scribblings: The Next Step

Look at that foot
hanging in the air
ready to stomp
the ground.

There might be a puddle
or soft grass
underneath
but, that foot

will hit. A new day,
a new life, a new
chance to be me.
I smile

as I step
forward, totter
a bit, regain my balance,
move into retirement.