Sunday, November 11, 2012

Mud for Sunday Scribblings


Mix imagination
with the water
of words

Add in a slice
of morning

Stir with the spoon
of emotions
until soupy

Drop in a tear
or two
for salty sass

Serve it in bone
china teacups
with cream

to soften
the impact.
Hit "publish."

Wednesday, October 3, 2012

3WW: Dignity, Lacerate, Ripe


ripe as apples

cling like a child

a coat of dignity


My husband
was a logger

He'd pull
the cord

on his

and lacerate
one by one


their faces

to the naked

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

3WW: Affair, Expectation, Free

Sharp slices
of brightness
slash my morning

I'm sitting in bed
with no expectation
of anything
for today.

Free hours
are maple syrup
sticky and sweet.
I should get up,

open the blinds,
make breakfast.
Instead, I've begun
an affair with laziness.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Saturday, July 28, 2012

Distance for Sunday Scribblings

The boat rocks.
Birds fly around
eating the chum
my husband
put out.

We sit,
waiting for a tuna
to take our bait.
"I blind the mackerel,"
he says, "because

if they see a tuna
coming, they'll
try to avoid it."
I picture
that fish

doomed to swim
around and around,
go nowhere
and, now, can't
even see

the aqua bubbles,
the sun melting
through the water,
other fish,
and his death.

We are quiet.
"I wish you hadn't
told me that,"
I say through
the lump

in my throat.
He laughs.
I get up
but there is no
place to go.

I need to put distance
between us,
The sun blinds me.
I can't see how
to get away.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

3WW: Feel, Shade, Tangle

I know there is a poem
resting in the shade
of my brain.

I can feel its shadow
lurking just
out of sight.

It's an angry thing,
a monster,
waiting for the right

moment to lumber
awake, stomp the ground,
untangle itself

from the branches
of sweetness
I've so carefully

arranged around it.
I hear it grunting,
feel the vibrations

of its snort, smell
the stink of its truth.
I peer at it,

try to bring it into
focus, but it slinks away,
that cowardly lion

of resentment.
Not yet, not yet, it says
but soon.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

3WW: Fog, Lenient, Struggle

Sand, like wet cement,
sucks at my sneakers
as I walk along the foggy


My sharp thoughts
cut through, separating
the halves of my


I struggle forward
trying to make a decision
where only I will


My lenient ways
have masked my true
feelings for so many


A stray wave builds,
builds, fast, faster,
gains momentum,


me in the face, wakes
me up. I head home,
the same person, still


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Wednesday, April 25, 2012

3WW: Bloody, Kinky, Tender

There is only one
little smear
of morning sunlight
left on my kitchen floor.  

I woke up too late
to enjoy a couple hours
of solitude.

He's already making
awake noises
so this will have to be
a quick poem.  

Too bad I can't think
of anything
to write about.  

No bloody emotions
lately. No kinky past-
times to secretly enjoy.
My days have been

unusually soft and tender
like a mound  
of bread dough

we've been kneading
and kneading and, finally,
it can rest and rise. And I think
he's even fallen back to sleep.

Sunday, April 15, 2012

One Single Impression: Shells


She's wearing
her Hello Kitty
bathing suit
today. We walk
along the beach
at Cayo Costa
State Park
in Florida.
We are looking
for butterfly shells.

That's what Kylie
calls them. When
they are open,
they look like they
could fly away.
Her favorites
are pure white
like angel wings.
Mine are the ones
that look like sunrises.

She finds a half one
and picks it up
to discover
it's still alive.
She helps it
back to the water.
"If the shell is empty,
does that mean
it's dead?" she asks.
"I'm afraid so."

She's quiet for a moment.
"My dad took a bunch
of pills and I
couldn't wake him up."
We walk hand-in-hand
for a minute. "You
we're so smart
to call your mom
and get help for him."
I squeeze her hand.

She bends down
to pick up another shell.
This one is pale pink.
She examines it
for life and finds
it pulsing.
In the water it goes.
"Let's just look
for live ones
from now on."

Sunday, April 1, 2012

Sunday Scribblings: Reflect


Two bicycles
and a palm tree
are upside down,

in the mirror
of our canal.

I'd rather be on
one of those bikes
pedaling to the beach

but, all I can do
is capture
the freedom

(of wind slipping
through my curls
and filling

my cheeks
with its laughter,
of my feet

through the air,
of escaping)

in the lens
of this poem.

Wednesday, March 28, 2012

3WW: Fragrant, Jostle, Remnant

Canteloupe sky
behind a palm tree

jostles my eyes
awake. The remnant

of last night's disappointment
shrinks as the sun

peeks from behind
the fronds. A new day

winks. My eyes fill
with possibilities,

again. The fragrance
of hope is a sunrise.

It's just too bright.
I close my eyes,

wait for you to wake up.
I become less and less.

Sunday, March 25, 2012

Sunday Scribblings: The Rest of the Story

The Rest of the Story

The clock is ticking
seconds away
one after another.

I try to catch the clicks
but they dissipate
into the past

faster than my hands
can grab. I've been
up early waiting

for the sunrise
but my living room
remains gray.

I could be cooking
breakfast, making
something special

for my husband.
I could be starting
the laundry.

I could be updating
my blog. Instead,
I sit on the couch

in a rainstorm of lost
seconds...oh, wait,
I just snatched

a few and they turned
into words, like pearls
that I'm stringing

together, a necklace
of not-so-wasted time
on a sunless morning.

I fasten it around my neck.
I'll wear theses moments
all day. The clock ticks on.

Wednesday, January 18, 2012

3WW: Downhill, Freak, Sliver

Downhill, Freak, Sliver

I sleep later
now that I am
on the downhill
side of life.

Most mornings
I miss the sun
coloring with her
orange crayon.

I awake to watery
yellow and sigh,
but I don't freak
anymore about my age.

I'm letting retirement
carry me along
like a leaf
floating by

in our canal,
in the swelling

I close my eyes,
feel the sun,
and enjoy this last
sliver of time.

Saturday, January 14, 2012

Sunday Scribblings: Tribe

My Tribe

Kylie is in the guest room
with Danielle
playing a game,
their voices
like Christmas bells
ringing in my heart.

My husband and son
are sitting on the porch
talking about boats,
watching the water
in the canal
float by.

My daughter is not here
but back in NH
making a safe
life for her

I'm in the kitchen
chopping onions,
red bell peppers,
and celery
for macaroni salad
humming a soft tune.
Linda's Poems