Sunday, April 17, 2011

Design for Sunday Scriblings

I wrote this one a few Columbus Day Weekends ago.  It popped into my head when I saw the prompt this week.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -


I spent the morning
in front of a computer
designing a TeacherWeb page
and if I turned my head just a little
I could see the sun
designing a mosaic
on the fall leaves.

Now, in this caramel afternoon
I’m sitting on a beach
with that same sun
painting shadows
in all the little pockets
of the sand.
I watch the waves
rush toward high tide
crocheting an intricate doily
on the shore
and with a yellow pencil
I design a poem.

Shackles for One Single Impression

I’m in the gray cellar
cleaning out
my mom’s things.

I knew it would happen
I just didn’t know
when or how.

She died last summer
and I hadn’t been
able to really mourn.

My heart was bound
in chains and I hadn’t
found the key.

Until I discover
her well-worn
crossword dictionary.

Inside the front cover
are pieces and pieces
and pieces and pieces

of paper containing
obscure definitions
and meanings

written in my mom’s
neat penmanship
straight across

the pages. My mom
who was so embarrassed
because she never

even graduated from
high school, who
always thought

she wasn’t smart, who
completed the crossword
every single day

and recorded the words
she learned, who was
smarter than anyone

else I knew. I stand
in the cellar marveling
at this pearl

of a mother and wipe
my teardrops
from her precious words.

Saturday, April 16, 2011


I hear the squeaks
of baby birds
in the cedar tree
outside my living room

window. I climb
on the couch
to investigate
and kneel there

camera ready.
I see the blue sky
change into various
shapes as the wind

stirs the branches.
I see sunshine
resting on green
lounge chairs.

But I cannot see
a nest. I still
hear birds, though.
demanding breakfast.

I watch. I wait.
My finger
poised on the shutter
button. Then I see

some branches
stroking the glass
and making the squealing
sound. I put

my camera away,
open my computer,
and use imaginary birds
to write a real poem.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

3WW: Evident, Illusion, Tragic


Her agony was evident
in her slouched shoulders
curving like a quarter moon

protecting the child
of her depression.
She aimed her arrow

at the kid whom she imagined
had insulted her then picked
up her books and fled,

her illusions trailing
behind her like dandelion
fluff. I looked at the rest

of the class and they
were just as confused.
Innocent eyes stared

back at me. I should
go after her, let her talk
about her tragic life

but there are fifteen
other kids waiting
for me to teach them.

"Open your To Kill
a Mockingbird book
to page 238" I said,


Sunday, April 10, 2011

Befuddled for Sunday Scribblings

The clock ticks.
My heart beats.

My fingers itch
to write a poem

about Twitter
and how it befuddles

me. But I’m as mystified
about how to write

about it as I am about it.
Instead I listen

to time clicking by
on this Sunday morning

in my quiet home
with a blueberry sky

and a mango sun
and a bird outside

my window

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

Adamant Fabricate Peculiar for 3WW

My brain is adamant
about not thinking
today. It has shrunk
to the size of one

cauliflower sprig. I
look out my classroom
window at the shrinking
snow and patient

trees but they offer
no inspiration. Even
the wind scurrying
through the woods,

playing hide and seek
with the dead leaves
offers nothing fresh.
I’d love to fabricate

a poem out of the ordinary
and the peculiar
like the messy pile
of Othello books

or the checkered pig
someone drew
and taped to my white
board. But, it’s

2:20 pm and almost time
to go home. The sun’s out
so I’ll take my tiny brain
for a walk to wake it up.

Sunday, April 3, 2011

Epidemic for One Single Impression

Retirement Dreams

It started three years ago
with just an occasional thought,
a sunshiny day
in a week of clouds.

It was a favorite picture
I’d take out occasionally,
run my fingers over the image,
and let myself dream.

Two years ago it became
like my tiny pocket jack knife.
I’d slip my hand in and feel
its reassuring presence

nestled there, slim and smooth,
at least once a day. This year
it feels like Christmas every
hour. I hold that present,

tied with a big red bow,
shake it around, then untie
the ribbons to release
the magic of retirement

over and over again.
The mystery smells like
summer, the possibilities
taste like honey.

Reality interferes, but
as often as possible, I reopen
that sweet gift and breathe in
the future.
Linda's Poems