Drag, Mumble, Penetrate for 3WW

I wake up at 5:30
that inner alarm
clock still buzzing

me awake in school mode.
No need to drag myself
out of bed, though.

No need to hurry.
No preparations to make.
I get up, anyway,

sit in my robe
watch the sun penetrate
the pine trees,

listen to it mumble
sweet nothings
into the ears

of the morning.
Today, I will hang
laundry on the line,

play golf with a good friend,
write a poem,
check my balance

for a retirement deposit,
and let the hours
fill my teacup with freedom.

Silence for One Single Impression

Silence

“Where am I sleeping tonight?”
my father-in-law asks.

“At your place.”
“I don’t know where that is.”

“I’ll take you over, Dad.”
“Oh, okay.”

We’re sitting at the picnic table
with friends eating baby back ribs

fresh corn-on-the-cob, salad,
and cornbread. “Where’s your

mother, now?” he inquires. “She’s
in the hospital, Dad.” “Oh, darn.

Are we going to visit her tonight?”
“Tomorrow.” “Okay. Where

am I sleeping tonight?” “At your
place on the hill.” “Do you know

how to get there?” “Yes, I’ll
take you over.” “Will your mother

be there?” “No, she’s in the hospital.”
“Are we visiting her tonight?”

After supper, they leave and two
friends and I ride to the beach

to watch the full moon rise
in the lavender sky. We stand

on the brown sugar sand
as silence pours over us.

Pleasure for Sunday Scribblings

Pleasure

I wake to the sound
of rain typing

a poem
on the camper roof.

I’m alone
for a change,

my bed a cool lake
of dreams.

I stretch
from corner

to corner
from thought

to thought. My
fingers tap

an imaginary
keyboard

on the sheets,
the rhythm

of my heart
slowed to a couplet.