Linda's Poems

3WW: Downhill, Freak, Sliver

2012-01-18T09:24:00.001-05:00

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,
buoyant
in the swelling
tides.

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

Sunday Scribblings: Tribe

2012-01-14T19:32:00.002-05:00

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
working,
making a safe
life for her
daughter

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

Sunday Scribblings: Life Is Good

2011-11-13T08:41:00.002-05:00

Saturday

We kept breakfast simple:
pumpernickel toast
with peanut butter
for him
and a rice cake
with egg salad for me.

He puttered
on his boat
I changed the bed
and dusted.

We took a drive
to St. James City
for a light lunch:
beach bread for him
and creamy pumpkin
soup with cinnamon
swirl croutons for me.

He fished off the dock
and caught a few snappers
that he threw back.
I sat in the sun
reading two letters
from a friend
and The Daughter
of Smoke and Bone.

We had cocktails
and chips and dip
on the porch
of our stilt house,
the setting sun
turning everything golden.

I broiled rice cakes
covered with spaghetti sauce
and mozzarella
for supper.
We ate outdoors
watching fish
jump for their meal
in the canal.

I went for a walk
as the moon rose.
He went inside
to the TV.

We got into our bed
with its clean sheets
and drifted off
to Downy dreams.

3WW: Drank, Hitch, Muster

2011-11-09T07:04:00.003-05:00

Hallway to Death

She drank a bottle
of vodka

after the doctor
refused

to give her any more
Percosets.

We found her
on the floor

with a broken
wrist.

At the hospital
she complained

of snakes invading
her room

and hitching themselves
to her underarms

and wrapping
around her chest.

There was a broken pipe
under her bed

flooding the room.
Every nurse

was eyeing her man
and he was chasing

all of them. Weeks
later the hallucinations

eased. She remembered
nothing. And even

a stint in rehab
wasn't enough for her

to muster the willpower
to live without pills

and alcohol. She
has lost weight.

Her skin looks healthier
now that she's not

all dehydrated. Her back
is feeling better.

She's eighty years old.
But her remaining years

seem like an empty
corridor she has to walk

down alone
if she has to be clean.

3WW: Figment, Inclined, Vulnerable

2011-10-26T14:25:00.002-04:00

The sun is a figment
dissipated into memory.

Rusty trees are reflected
in the steel water.

Fog floats over the mountain
and blends into the gray sky.

I'm sitting in my son's living room
next to my in laws who are napping.

You might think this weather
makes me vulnerable to depression

but I am listening to soft snores
watching rain drip from the deck furniture.

My feet are inclined on the leather
La Z Boy and my fingers

are tapping away on my iPad
happy to be writing this poem.

My Back Yard for Sunday Scribblings

2011-10-22T08:38:00.001-04:00

My Back Yard

Is a strip
of aluminum foil
twinkling
in the sun.

I sit on the stairs
watching
fish jump
in the canal.

Circular waves
drift toward shore
then die
like ideas

for this poem.
The prompt
lured.
I bit.

But it wasn't enough.
I'm writing
nothing but
widening blankness.

Paper for One Single Impression

2011-10-16T08:00:00.005-04:00

Paper

I reach
into the bottom
left drawer
of my desk

to find
a sheet
of paper.
The one

I pull out
has a flowered
border. I
add a few more

flower stickers
then choose
a coordinating
pen. I begin

to write
a letter
to my friend.
I tell her about

my latest adventures
in care taking
in-laws, news
of my son

and daughter
and granddaughter,
what my husband
is up to,

opinions, hopes,
dreams, frustrations,
recipes, the minutiae
of my life.

I address the envelope,
add more stickers
and a matching
postage stamp

then hop on my bike
and pedal to the post
office. I slip it
into the mail slot

then check my box.
Sitting there
like sunshine
is a letter from her.

I continue on
to the beach,
get settled,
then sit

on the sand,
open her envelope,
and feel her life
float around me.

3WW: Eject, Impact, Render

2011-10-05T06:32:00.002-04:00

On Our Fortieth Anniversary

The old VCR tape
is stuck
in the machine.

If I press play
it growls at me.
If I hit eject

nothing happens.
The impact of this
is slight

since I rarely watch
movies.
But, just knowing

about it
is driving me nuts.
I guess

it's time to surrender
and buy
a new DVD player.

Language for One Single Impression

2011-10-02T09:35:00.003-04:00

Language

Phrases of accusation
like bombs
exploded in my brain
all day.

I ranted
a ribbon of griefs
to the bed
as I changed it
and to the dishes
immersed
in sudsy death.

My complaints
slid down
the length
of the broom
and left a trail
of resentment
on the linoleum.

I was ready.

When you came home
I was spent.
We watched TV
in silence,
the language
of our life.

Present for Sunday Scribblings

2011-10-01T19:32:00.001-04:00

Present

Today was wrapped in pale silver paper.
It rained from the time
I woke up
alone
to this moment
when I'm sitting
by myself
in the living room.

I took a quick trip
to Walmart to buy
a bookcase
then came home to put
it together with a little help
from my husband.

I ate leftover spaghetti
for supper with a glass of wine,
the lamp light reflecting
in it like a red sunset.

I walked under my umbrella
alone
for a half hour
through aluminum foil puddles.

My husband is in bed
wasting his time
watching The Big Bang
and here I am
typing away
enjoying the last hours
of this gift of a day.

3WW: Yawn, Race, Dull

2011-09-21T08:21:00.001-04:00

I packed a few things
in a paper bag

ran out to the car
and raced off quickly

before you noticed.
My phone rang

almost immediately.
"I saw what you did.

I can't trust you.
You lied. Don't call

me again." And I hung up.
I had no where to go

but I started driving.
The night yawned

and I could smell
the bad breath

of an uncertain future.
Raindrops dulled

my windshield. Or maybe
it was tears. I drove

all night. I followed
the half moon into life.

Betrayal for One Single Impression

2011-09-18T10:24:00.002-04:00

Betrayal

The wind takes my breath
and flings it down the beach
out of reach
one breath
after another
stolen
gone
I suck on emptiness.

Easy for Sunday Scribblings

2011-09-18T09:20:00.001-04:00

Easy Fun

We started by making a fire
to sunset the night air,

got the charcoal started
and warmed the steaks

to room temperature.
Donna sliced a tomato

from her neighbor's garden
and I contributed a salad

with all ingredients
from the farm stand.

I baked sweet potatoes;
she baked red bliss potatoes.

We shared everything
on the red-ginghamed

picnic tables. Laughter
floated in the dark silk

like embers. Later,
while the men talked

around the fire, Donna and I
played Banagrams with her

teenage son and his friend,
tiles clicking around the table,

words growing, bridging generations,
keeping night at bay.

Notebook for One Single Impression

2011-09-11T07:53:00.000-04:00

She wrote this in her notebook:

It’s a hole
A big black hole
No way around
The scent of dead bodies
No bridge
No ladder to climb down
and back up
Just an empty mouth
trying to swallow me.

Then she shut it
so the words
couldn’t escape
but they did;
they leaked
from between
the pages
and dripped
onto the floor
where they got tangled
in her sandals
and between her toes
and she fell
into them
and they swallowed her
and she disappeared.

Erode, Heart, Observe for 3WW

2011-09-07T07:46:00.002-04:00

I sit in the twilight
of a rainy dawn

observing how green
everything still is.

Fat oak leaves
slapping the wind,

blades of grass
like bird beaks

open to the drops
of water from the sky,

weeds growing
like babies.

No cold temperatures
have eroded their vibrancy

yet. The heart of summer
beats strong.

Drag, Mumble, Penetrate for 3WW

2011-08-31T06:56:00.002-04:00

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

2011-08-14T07:56:00.000-04:00

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

2011-08-07T09:05:00.002-04:00

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.

3WW: Banter, Fumble, Glance

2011-07-27T09:02:00.002-04:00

The old woman fumbles
with the bandage
wrapped around
her wounded wrist

like the pain pills
and booze
she wraps her mind
in to stop the pain.

I glance at her
and see the mess
she’s making.
I walk over

to help even though
she did this
to herself. I see
the stack of dirty

dishes in the sink,
the medication containers
lined up
like soldiers

waiting to fight,
the empty Absolut
bottle. I wrap
the ace bandage

loosely around
her arm. “Can
you go to the store
for me? I’m all out

of vodka.” I shake
my head no, too afraid
to open my mouth,
afraid all the negative

banter in my head
will spew out,
will cover her,
will kill her.

Carry On Tuesday: Neither a Borrower nor a Lender Be

2011-07-19T08:00:00.001-04:00

The sun is just starting
to smear butter
on the turning
leaves as my students

prepare modern
interpretations
of Shakespeare’s
“Neither a borrower

nor a lender be” speech.
I’ve divided the scene
into three sections:
one where Laertes

is giving Ophelia advice
about Hamlet, two where
Polonius is giving
Laertes advice

about living, and three
where Polonius is
grilling Ophelia
about her relationship

with Hamlet. I tell
the kids to have fun
with it, pretend it’s
happening today.

How would these situations
play out in the 21st century?
I roam around the room
as they practice

keeping an eye on them
and on the progress
of the sun now filling
the cup of each leaf

with lemonade. When
they’re ready, the groups
begin their presentations.
Laertes warns his sister

that Hamlet will never
marry her and he’s just
using her. Polonius
mangles his bits of advice

until nobody knows what
the heck he’s talking about.
I try to stay focused
but the sun, scampering,

now, through the underbrush
is drawing my eyes away.
Finally, the last group
heads to the front of the room.

Ophelia perches on the edge
of a table, legs swinging.
Polonius paces in front of her.
“So, Ophelia,” he says. “Are you

and Hamlet doing the no-pants
dance? The room erupts
in hoots. I can’t keep from
laughing, too. The sun winks.

3WW: Indecision, Option, Fate

2011-07-13T08:21:00.002-04:00

The sky
of my morning
is a white board
waiting
for words

or pictures
or scribbles.
I’ll start
with breakfast-
so many

options: yellow
and white eggs,
or raspberry
jam on toast,
or sliced

banana on English
muffin. I sit
watching
a squirrel
in the woodpile

flit back
and forth
like my indecision.
I’ll just let
fate

grab a marker
or two,
maybe a red
and a black
to doodle.

Oh, she’s choosing
blue and yellow.
Time to eat
and go
to the beach.

Woods for Sunday Scribblings

2011-07-09T07:47:00.001-04:00

I pick Kathy up
and we head
into the woods

first walking
up Labossiere St.
then past

the concrete factory.
Finally, we enter
the cool chapel

of green. We
scramble over rocks
that were once

part of an avalanche
until we reach
the base

of Mt. Forist.
We climb by grabbing
hold of bushes

growing on the edge
of the steep
rock face

until we are
opposite an overhang.
Then, inch by inch

we cross the gray
granite, patiently
planting our feet

and hands
into little cracks.
When we reach

the outcropping,
we sit, high above
the city, queens

surveying our realm.
I see my tiny
mother hanging

clothes on the line.
Kathy’s brother
is riding his bike.

My sister
and her friend
are playing tag.

A car turns
the corner from Fifth Avenue
and has to stop

to wait for the girls
who are playing
jump rope

to get out
of the road. All’s right
in our neighborhood.

We eat our snack,
talk about this and that,
then leave our perch

to slide down,
enter the tunnel
of woods, again,

that transforms us
from roayalty into two girls
going home.

Leaves of the Poet-tree: Journal

2011-07-01T09:43:00.000-04:00

Ah, retirement
minutes, hours, days, thoughts, words~
four new journals.

3WW: Bump, Knuckle, Transfix

2011-06-29T08:07:00.001-04:00

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

2011-06-28T14:38:00.002-04:00

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

2011-06-27T09:01:00.004-04:00

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

2011-06-26T08:58:00.001-04:00

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

2011-06-25T23:01:00.002-04:00

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

2011-06-25T10:27:00.002-04:00

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

2011-06-15T07:53:00.000-04:00

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

2011-06-11T21:24:00.003-04:00

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.

Writer's Island Visual Prompt

2011-05-28T07:03:00.000-04:00

The follwoing image by Michael Maeir is the prompt at Writer's Island this week. I've been in a bit of a poetry slump so decided to write a letter, instead.

Letter

Hi, Mom, I see Dad
has taken up the violin
again. It always amazed
me that those rough

and greasy mechanic’s
hands could ever make
music. But you knew
how magical he was.

It’s so nice to see you
young again and swaying
to the strains of the ocean
waltzing out of the violin.

Never look back, Mom.
We’re all doing fine here.
Open those wings and blend
into the gossamer forever

with your violin player
scattering confetti notes
around you until you both
become a whirlwind of one.

Love,
Linda

Damp, Incensed, Skid for 3WW

2011-05-18T13:59:00.003-04:00

I really need to write a good poem.
I’ve been trying
but the results are insipid.

I hate this poetic skid.
I’m incensed that it has happened.
Used to be, I could write

about anything so easily.
Tulips are shouting,
leaves are stretching,

but, my imagination is shrinking.
It must be the weather.
We haven’t seen the sun

for over a week.
Everything is damp and dreary.
And I’ve cranked out another dud.

3WW: Grace, Jitter, Thin

2011-05-04T08:33:00.001-04:00

I look around my classroom
at the messy pile of textbooks
at the world and U.S. maps
taped to the wall

at the posters in progress
draped over tables
like Dali’s clocks
at the hundreds of novels

sitting like crooked teeth
in makeshift bookcases
made out of empty boxes
at two plants gasping

for sun and water
at three hot pink recycling
bins and a gray garbage can
at a Purell dispenser

a pencil sharpener
a table with discarded
how-to-write-poetry books
waiting for new homes

at seventeen cranberry desks
four sky blue ones two navy
blue ones and a lone sunny
yellow student desk

at an old TV and VCR
on a raised stand with various
tapes strewn about
at a beige file cabinet

at the poster with flames
Carl King made
shortly before he died
three years ago

at my windows full
of white birch trees
and baby leaves
at a wall hanging

of Shakespeare
a moon poster
four schedules for this week’s
classes taped to the board

at piles of papers
bins with all my assignments
a pewter mug with a bouquet
of pens and pencils

at a mural of four gods
and goddesses painted
over twenty years ago
at bulletin boards

filled with imaginations
and creativity
at a poster that says,
“Poetry is honeycomb

so full that it drips
into a puddle
from which the hummingbird
sips”

at a clock that says
8:20 am and a red second
hand making its way around
taking me one click

at a time closer to the end
at a notepad with the words
grace, jitter, and thin
written in black

that I keep glancing at
wondering how on earth
I’ll ever use them
in this poem

at my fingers jitterbugging
on black computer keys
as I try to find a way
to stop writing when there

are still so many other
things to list about this room
this life this working race
to retirement.

Design for Sunday Scriblings

2011-04-17T14:32:00.001-04:00

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

Designing

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

2011-04-17T07:15:00.000-04:00

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.

Inspiration

2011-04-16T09:28:00.002-04:00

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.

3WW: Evident, Illusion, Tragic

2011-04-13T14:14:00.002-04:00

Choices

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,

instead.

Befuddled for Sunday Scribblings

2011-04-10T07:36:00.002-04:00

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
tweeting.

Adamant Fabricate Peculiar for 3WW

2011-04-06T14:30:00.000-04:00

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.

Epidemic for One Single Impression

2011-04-03T09:19:00.003-04:00

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.

3WW: Loud Persuasive Riches

2011-03-30T09:02:00.002-04:00

Another Bad Decision

She put her hand up and asked
in a loud voice, “Are you a science
teacher?” I shook my head no.
“Well, maybe you can answer
this question, anyway. If you

stick you finger in your nose
to scratch it, is it still considered
picking?” That was the last straw.
“Please leave detention.” I said
in a persuasive tone. She’d been

tapping her pencil, banging her keys
on the desk, complaining about
being bored. “Fuck that, I’m
not going to the office.” She mumbled
on her way out the door. She’s a beautiful

girl with onyx eyes and a soft complexion.
She’s smart and witty with riches
she doesn’t even know she has. The others
were quiet after she left. The room became
a vacuum. I wish I knew her better.

Nearly for Sunday Scribblings

2011-03-27T13:12:00.001-04:00

Nearly

It’s 17 degrees right now.
Our valley is a bathtub
of sun and father winter
put a fan in the window

blowing icy air all around.
I hung my sheets
on the back porch clothesline,
anyway. All morning

I’ve been watching them
tango, first stiff-legged
but gradually bending
in soft dips and whirls.

They’re nearly dry. Soon,
I’ll carry all that freshness
upstairs and make my bed
with sun and wind.

Sarcastic for One Single Impression

2011-03-20T08:40:00.004-04:00

We were watching Julia Stiles
as Katarina and Heath Ledger
as Patrick Verona in 10
Things I Hate About You.

Patrick says to Kat, “I
bet you’ve thought about
me naked.” She deadpans,
“I want you, I need you,

oh, baby, oh, baby.” My
husband and I cracked up,
our laughter flying out of
our eyes and settling over

us like a warm quilt. This
morning, he came downstairs
where I was trying to write
a poem and made a suggestion

for something else I could be
doing. That little smile,
that come-on twinkle. I glanced
up from my computer, said

in a flat voice, “I want you,
I need you, oh, baby, oh, baby.”
His laughter floated to me
on the scent of the coffee

he was making. When it was
ready, he carried a cup
in to me. I sipped it slowly.
It filled me with joy.

Sunday Scribblings: Big & Writer's Island: Tribute

2011-03-12T08:02:00.003-05:00

Big Move

This weekend
we have to divide
my mom’s possessions.

The creativity
of her braided rugs,
the work ethic
of her refinished furniture,
the perseverance
of her cross-stitched
pictures,
the lightness and joy
of her delicate
pastel champagne glasses.

From the whole
to the scattered.
A star exploding,
raining down
her goodness
all over the map.

I spray lemon Pledge
on her dining room
table one last time
and polish it
until it shines.

Big Tent Poetry Wordle

2011-03-03T20:17:00.002-05:00

He started by running his finger
along her thigh
to make her gasp.

By that time she was awake
and knew there was no way
she could slip out of bed.

She rolled over and saw
the question
in his boyish eyes.

What other way is there
to quench the flame?
She nodded her tangled head

ready to defy
the alarm’s insistent buzz.
The sunrise was a parade

of smiles. She reached out
turned off the alarm,
got up. Just a typical morning.

3WW: Affinity, Fidget, Mention-Cascade Poem

2011-03-02T11:59:00.003-05:00

Kylie and I went to the movies
and because she has an affinity for chocolate,
I bought her a box of Sno Caps.

We sat in the unnatural moon shine
of the screen munching, munching.
Did I mention Kylie and I went to the movies?

When we got home, she asked if she could eat
the remainder of the Sno Caps
because she has an affinity for chocolate.

Without thinking about how much she’d already had,
I said yes. When we got in bed all she did was fidget.
I so regret that I bought her a box of Sno Caps.

3WW: Figure, Juicy, Stress

2011-02-23T10:06:00.003-05:00

We stopped at Juicy Lucy’s
for hamburgers
on our way to the boat.

I ate mine knowing I was adding
to my figure.
It’s so hard to say no.

So, I just go along
even when I don’t want to,
even when it causes me stress.

I could have ordered a salad.
I should have. Next time I will.
Really. The ketchup squeezes

out and the meat dances
with my tongue. Jimmy Buffett
sings on the radio,

the sun tiptoes across the ocean,
the boat bobs, waiting.
My husband grins

and I grin back then reach over
and wipe away a speck
of mustard from his smile.

3WW: Abrasive, Handful, Loss

2011-02-02T07:14:00.003-05:00

Abrasive meeting after school
Late to get home
Husband follows right after
Loss of me time

What for supper?
Something quick
Old stand-by
Cream of mushroom soup

with tuna on toast
We sit in the warming house
eating on TV trays
Remember leaner years

Usually broke
always happy
Kids chatting about their day
Teasing, laughing,

whining, glowing
We're alone now
Husband glances over
Says, “I love you”

Smiles, goes back to eating
mushrooms and tuna
and a handful
of memories.

3WW: descent, kill, surreal

2011-01-19T08:42:00.003-05:00

My feet were killing me
in those white high heels.

The descent seemed too steep
and perilous for my inexperienced

feet. But I held onto the railing
took a deep breath, and started down

while you waited with the minister
in the living room, a confident smile

on your face, the sun flaring over you
creating a surreal atmosphere.

Blinded, I tripped on the last step;
you rushed over, picked me up,

straightened my tiny veil,
and carried me into the brightness.

Walk in the Park for Sunday Scribblings

2011-01-09T13:14:00.001-05:00

Coincidentally, I heard that phrase Thursday afternoon.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Dentist's chair
all bibbed
he walks in
says,

“The two repairs
we're doing today
will be a walk
in the park.”

Phew! No pain.
Two sticks
sticking out
of my mouth

numbing
the needle sites.
First shot
in the font.

Ow! It goes on
and on.
A tear runs down
my cheek,

Second shot
in a fattier area
muscles tight
he pulls

and pulls
my cheek
for thirty
seconds.

While the Novocain
works on that one
he fixes
the first

“Is the second one
numb yet?” “No.”
Another shot.
drill,suction, air

drool, hanging thing.
When I leave I go
for a real walk
in the park.

Calmed for One Single Impression

2011-01-02T08:34:00.002-05:00

Calmed

The waves are tiny
just six-inch slats
moving slowly
along the sand

I escaped the land-locked
mountains and stand
on the beach
breathing peace

Each sea gull
is freedom
each shell
is abundance

The salt kisses my lungs
Driftwood is my soul
My footprints
scream I am alive

3WW: Buckle, Evade, Wedge

2010-12-29T07:48:00.001-05:00

I caught the pink wedge
of dawn with my camera
this morning.

Our cold northern sky
was trying hard to evade
the sun

but, for a few minutes
it peeked through
with fiery eyes.

Then, the gray clouds
buckled back up
to the mountains.

But, it's okay
because, upstairs
my granddaughter

sleeps. I can't wait
for her to rise. I'll have
sunshine all day.

Big Tent Poetry: Wordle

2010-12-24T07:44:00.003-05:00

Christmas died for me
the day our tree toppled over.

Erin and I had lugged
the decorations from the basement

and were hard at work
turning our living room

into a magical fairyland.
I was holding Erin up

so she could place the angel
on the top when she leaned

too far, grabbed the branches
to steady herself, couldn't stop,

and all three of us landed in a heap
of broken ornaments and fir needles.

After making sure she was okay,
we started over again but it was

just a performance. My Christmas
spirit became slighter and slighter

and by the time Erin hung the last
ornament, it had vanished altogether.

I swept it up along with the debris
and dropped it into the trash.

3WW: Educate, Object, Silence

2010-12-22T15:33:00.003-05:00

The object for today
our last day of school
before Christmas vacation:
Make it through!

Directive from the principal:
educate them!
So, I choose a movie
with a loose tie to Shakespeare's

Taming of the Shrew.
I prepare them by giving them
a synopsis of the play
then have them analyze

Sonnet 141, which is in the movie.
Finally I put it on
and the kids are tickled
to see 10 Things I Hate About You

on the screen. I watch it all day
over and over and over.
Finally, the bell rings
and the kids leave: silence!

December for Sunday Scribblings, Stillness for One Single Impression

2010-12-19T07:33:00.001-05:00

December Stillness

I wake up early
and cleave my way
through the thick,
black morning

on this, one of the shortest
days of the year.
I glance outside
and the street light

illuminates the fresh
inch of snow we received
during the night.
I have laundry to do,

gifts to wrap,
a floor to wash,
papers to correct.
But, I sit

in my La Z Boy
and watch the neighbor's
chimney breathe.
I glance up

at the white bread
of the sky. I glance
down at the white
bread of the snow.

Then just sit
in the still sandwich
of a December
dawn.

Limits for Sunday Scribblings

2010-12-12T08:17:00.003-05:00

Limits

I stand on the scale
in our school nurse's
office and hold my breath

hoping to weigh less
than last week. I'm
participating in our

version of The Biggest Loser
challenge. It's a support
group for those of us

who want to control
our weight. The nurse
asks what my goal

is for this the next eight
weeks. I'd like to lose ten
pounds and I could do it

but I know I'd put it right
back on. So, instead I say,
“Two pounds.” The nurse

looks at me with a funny look
on her face. “I know it's not
much” I say defensively.

“But, it's doable and I know
my limits.” I glance down
and see that I've lost

a pound since last week's
weigh-in. I smile all the way
to the lunch room.

Big Tent Poetry: Wordle

2010-11-25T11:04:00.003-05:00

Here are the words we are challenged to use. I managed just a few.

My husband is awake.
I can hear the water running
in the bathroom

and the radio blaring.
I might have time
to write this poem.

I'm sitting in the lush,
early morning sun
as it is forklifted

from behind the mountain
on this our last Thanksgiving
in the cold north.

Soon I'll cook apple maple
chicken sausage, poached eggs,
and toast 7 grain sprouted-

wheat Ezekiel bread. I'll
smother it all with hollandaise
sauce. We'll sit cupped

in the palm of this day. I
hear footsteps on the stairs
and my poem is done.

Cascade Poem for Big Tent Poetry

2010-11-19T07:52:00.001-05:00

In a cascade poem, the lines in the first stanza are repeated as the last lines of the subsequent stanzas.

I wrote this poem yesterday during my British Literature class. The students were taking a quiz so I sat on my raised chair behind my podium, turned my seating chart over, and wrote this poem on it.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

A Few Quiet Moments

Outside my classroom window
trees are shivering.
Inside, students are bent
over their quizzes.

I can see their thoughts
swirling around their heads
like the invisible air
outside my classroom window.

Some kids chew their pens.
One has her glasses on her head.
Others are staring into space.
Trees are shivering

like the first students to finish,
all restless, looking around,
doodling, making eyes at each other.
Inside, students are bent.

Yes they are crazy as hell
but I love ‘em. Finished,
they switch papers and we go
over their quizzes.

3WW: Abrupt, Kernel, Wield

2010-11-03T10:27:00.004-04:00

My school day
is filled with
kernels of
delight.

We’re reading
The Kite Runner.
I’m trying to elicit
the idea

that the young boy
must learn how to trust,
again, after being
abused.

“What does Sohrab
now have to do?”
Faces crunch
in thought.

Abruptly, a head
pops up, eyes,
shining like little
Christmas lights,

meet mine. “Take
a poop?” Teachers
wield power
over students

but, sometimes,
students wield
joy over their
teachers.

Intense for Sunday Scribblings

2010-10-31T12:14:00.002-04:00

It's the last to change

and this year

I didn't think it would.

As the hillsides

turned fiery,

this tree outside

my kitchen window

stayed green. Summer

in autumn. Watermelon

rind green. Other leaves

drifted to the ground

creating multicolored

quilts but outside

my kitchen July

stubbornly held on.

Then one morning

I noticed a slight

yellowing along

the edges. Amid

the bare branches

of other trees

this maple turned

pineapple. A warm

sunrise. A treasure

chest of gold doubloons.

And this last day

of October

it illuminates

the snowflakes

swirling in the air.

Masquerade for Writer's Island

2010-10-30T07:53:00.005-04:00

Rob at Writer's Island offers this image for inspiration:

I always hated that damn bird.
And he hated me.
But I couldn't let my daughter know.

So, I fed him and cleaned his cage
and cooed and petted
but when we were alone

my mask came off and I'd glare
at him. “Stay right where you are,
buddy, and don't even think

of climbing onto my shoulder.”
He'd turn his head and hiss at me.
Then go back to preening

his snowy feathers, those same feathers
I'd stepped on one morning. The vet
said no bones were broken

but Flip stayed huddled in his cage
for a week giving me the evil eye.
I smiled beneath my mask.

3WW: Absolve, Hiss, Ridicule

2010-10-13T08:04:00.002-04:00

Tried to write a tritina instead of a sestina. It sort of worked!
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Save your ridicule.
It’ll only make me hiss.
Nothing you can do can absolve

you. You are a scab, solv-
ing your own ridicule-
filled life by trying to erase your his-

tory. You pick at the wounds and hiss
then try to hurt me to absolve
your own guilt from the ridicule

inflicted by parents who thought ridicule
was a form of love. Turn your hiss-
es into kisses and our issues will be solved.

3WW: Hint, Lust, Sheen

2010-10-06T08:29:00.005-04:00

A hint of wrinkles
along with a sheen of gray~
content holding hands.
WHERE HAS LUST GONE?
Not content with hands
he nuzzles under the gray,
kisses each wrinkle.

Writer's Island: Whimsy

2010-09-25T08:26:00.003-04:00

Whimsy

My friend, Dorothy, has moved into
her father's old house
and has chosen

the word “whimsy” to describe
the back sun porch
decorated

with pink and green quilts and stones
and chimes and plants. But,
really, it describes

The whole house. The hallway
is turquoise and has
a phone niche

in which rests a turquoise phone.
The living room rug is
orange with

matching grout between the stones
of the fireplace. The kitchen
is bright pink.

Upstairs, next to the master bedroom
is a tiny room filled
with magic.

From floor to ceiling are drawers
containing treasures
collected from

around the world by her father. This
is where Dorothy now sits
in the morning

with a cup of coffee to contemplate
her life and write in
her journal

and let the whimsies that surround
her keep her young
and playful.

Big Tent Poetry: Travel Haibun

2010-09-23T08:30:00.002-04:00

Haibun=prose followed by haiku.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Second-block students saunter haphazardly into class. Books are piled on desks. Conversations begin. I head out to the hallway, do the normal teacher duties, for the last time. This thirty-year trip will be over in June. I watch the teenage parade, each marcher so different. There's Joe with his three-inch platform boots, white cargo pants, and black make up. There's Felicia in her skinny jeans. (I'd kill for a body like hers.) Here comes Anthony with his baggy jeans half way down his butt and the crotch somewhere around his knees. And look at Tonya's new golden hair and secret smile. She has her first boyfriend. They are all on their own trips, traveling in separate bubbles, bouncing along the locker-lined corridors.

Cranberry, melon,
apricot: autumn-dressed leaves.
One drifts to the ground.

3WW: Gait, Nudge, Ripen

2010-09-22T14:05:00.003-04:00

Carol and I took a stroll
through her garden.

The tomatoes were ripening
in front of us

in the warm September
sun. In the house

her mother-in-law,
my father-in-law's wife,

was balking at going
into an assisted-living

facility. We'd been trying
to reason with her

for hours, to gently nudge
her into acceptance.

My husband, her husband,
and her son were with her

and even from outside
we could see her throwing

daggers at them with her eyes.
I took some pictures

of Carol's flowers as she
told me their names

but soon we had to return
to the house. Our gait

was slow and reluctant
as we walked across

the lawn. We opened
the door and stress

puffed itself up
and blew into our faces.

One Single Impression: Joie de vivre

2010-09-19T07:53:00.008-04:00

Joie de Vivre

Move curtain aside,
peek out bedroom window,
see waves of clouds

cresting slowly
over mountains. Notice
hillsides getting rusty.

Put on flannel pajamas,
the navy blue ones with stars
and moons.

Descend stairs in quiet
house, turn heat to 70,
settle into recliner,

power up computer,
make sunshine
word after word.

Sunday Scribblings: Wait

2010-09-06T09:34:00.004-04:00

My father-in-law
is staying with us
while waiting
for a spot
in an assisted-living
facility.

He had a mild stroke
earlier in the summer
that affected
his short-term
memory.

His wife,
suffering from her own
problems,
is in Connecticut
with her son
also waiting.

“When is Elli arriving?”
he asks several times
a day. “She's not coming here;
we're going to drive
you down
in a few days.”

“Oh, okay.” A few minutes
later he says, “Elli's not here;
she had to leave
to go to work. I hope
she's not having
an affair
with Roger.”

No, dad, Roger
is her son. He's taking
good care of her.”
“Oh, okay.” A few minutes
later, “When's Elli going
to get here?”

We're all waiting.

3WW: Joke, Leverage, Remedy

2010-08-11T08:45:00.003-04:00

Who’s that man
standing with his arms
wide open,
tears in his eyes,
and a smile on his face?

Oh, it’s my dad
welcoming my mom.
He’s been waiting
thirteen years
for this day.

See how fast
she’s running,
now, all long legs
and limber,
dark hair

flying behind her.
It’s no joke,
Dad; she’s really there.
Scoop her up,
give her a big

hug. You’re
the remedy
she’s needed
these last declining
days.

Turn around,
walk with her
like a bride
and groom
holding hands,

grins on your faces
down the long
aisle
of a heavenly
forever.

The Sun and the Moon

2010-07-30T15:20:00.003-04:00

The orange sun
was floating
like a big balloon
on the horizon
when I went out
for a walk
one morning
last week
in Florida.

I was there to visit
my mom in assisted
living. She knew me,
of course, since I am
part of her past,
but none of our conversation
made sense.
It was sad for me
but she was happy
wherever she had gone
to while I was there.

So, I got up early
to walk my sadness
away. I started
up the street,
looked up,
and saw the almost
full moon bright
in the blue sky,
hanging in there
until the last
possible moment.

I thought about Kylie
and how she’d asked me
when she’d get to see
her Nana Nana again.
When I said I didn’t know,
she said simply,
“I miss her.”

I miss her, too, Kiki.

The sun warmed
my back
like Kylie time
warms my heart.

I walked on.
The moon got fainter
and fainter.

3WW: Bait, Jump, Victim

2010-07-21T09:28:00.004-04:00

Swallowed the bait whole
then jumped around for a while~
another victim
MY HUSBAND’S DIABOLICAL LURING
Another victim
swallows the alluring bait.
The fish jump. I jump.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

To see a picture of the actual fish he caught yesterday click here.

Poetry Train: The Red, White, and Blue

2010-07-05T09:04:00.001-04:00

I wrote this one three years ago yesterday on Independence Day.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The Red, White and Blue

Today, I'll hop
on my red bicycle
and ride to the beach.

I'll sit under a blue sky
and watch the white
clouds play tag.

I'll listen to kids
laugh as they run around
their parents.

I'll read a few poems
and maybe write
one of my own

on plain white paper.
I'll stretch out
on my blue towel

and stay as long
as I want.
Later, I'll join friends

for a barbeque
and dip red lobster
meat into melted butter.

Then, in the navy blue
twilight I'll listen
to the pop gun

of fireworks and see
freedom written out
in multi-colored calligraphy.

Sunday Scribblings: Me

2010-07-05T08:42:00.003-04:00

Memories Underfoot

Ocean Park Beach
at low tide
provides a firm
surface to walk on.

My steps
leave only shallow
footprints,
little bits
of myself
that I shed
as I walk.

The worry
over money
is way back
at the beginning
because it is really
so insignificant.

That little spat
with Gary
is back there
seeping
into the sand.

School stress is left
a couple steps
behind
so that now
the indentations
are empty
just filled
with promises
and hope.

I breathe
salty air,
hold it in
my lungs,
every last
wordful
of it.

3WW: Hassle, Inject, Wealth

2010-06-30T16:48:00.003-04:00

Because it was too much of a hassle,
I decided not to write a poem today.

I had no insights to inject into one
and no wealth of cool words to use

except for the ones from 3WW
and even those were not doing it.

Instead, I hopped on my red bicycle
and pedaled to the beach. I wrote

a letter to my friend who lives in Florida
then read a book for awhile.

I took a picture of an airplane
flying by with an advertising banner

swirling behind saying, “J Greeks
lunch buffet $7.95 11-2.” On my way

back to our campground, I inhaled
the scent of wild roses, admired a field

of clover and buttercups, then sat
on the screen porch typing this nonpoem.

Sunday Scribblings: Life Swap

2010-06-27T10:27:00.003-04:00

We are sitting
on our screen porch
at the campground

listening to squirrels
scampering and kids
playing and golf carts

whispering by. Suddenly,
we hear our neighbor’s
piercing voice giving

her husband hell in French.
It’s like taking a hammer
to a row of champagne

glasses and pinging
and smashing every one.
Then her husband’s

banging reply
pounds through the air.
My husband reaches

over, takes my hand
and says, “I’m glad
I got you, Hon.”

3WW: Feign, Imply, Virtue

2010-06-23T08:47:00.002-04:00

A woman is walking
her little black dog
in the drizzle
on this gray morning.

The 8:30 Amtrak Downeaster
whizzes by in the distance
taking commuters
to their workday in Boston.

I’m sitting on the couch
in my bathrobe
watching Andy Roddick
feign the direction

of his shot on this third
day of play at Wimbledon.
How lucky I am,
by virtue of summer vacation,

to be lazy in the middle
of the week. Soon, I’ll make
bacon and eggs for breakfast
while my husband

imp(ish)ly tries to cop a feel.
We’ll giggle as I swat
his hands away then, leisurely,
we’ll sip the pleasures of the day.

3WW: Hidden, Noble, Roam

2010-06-09T16:49:00.001-04:00

I used to be able to see the sky
with clouds roaming around
poking their noses over the mountain
peering at the sunset
through bloodshot eyes.

But spring happened
and, now, noble trees
stand like kings
blocking my view
with their crowns.

I sit in my class room
contemplating retirement
trying to see the hidden future
through the filigreed leaves
of apprehension.

3WW: Abandon, Gradually, Precise

2010-05-26T12:14:00.001-04:00

Must abandon wheat,
not gradually but now.
My body hates it.
EATING PRECISELY FOR MY BLOOD TYPE
My hunger hates this.
I’ll gradually adjust.
Goodbye most loved wheat.

Sunday Scribblings: Dragon & Writer's Island: Imaginary Friend

2010-05-23T08:42:00.002-04:00

A room full of teenagers
ready to learn
how to write songs

how to translate
their emotions
into music

how to turn
their angst
into notes

that float around
become light
and land easily.

I have compiled
a list of the different
types of songs

and begin explaining
and playing the examples.
I’ve chosen contemporary

tunes that they can relate to
and enjoy.
They are polite

and listen and learn
but a spark is missing.
Then we get to one

I think they’ll hate
and make fun of. I
hold my breath and start

Puff the Magic Dragon
and it’s like I flipped
a switch.

Their eyes light up,
their heads begin to sway
and some even sing along.

The room is dancing
with melody
and energy

and this imaginary friend
from their childhood
is alive again.

The song ends,
they grab their pens
and on plain white paper

they begin to capture
the secret longings
in a land called Honah Lee.

Sunday Scribblings: Recipe and Poem

2010-05-16T09:01:00.002-04:00

Growing up in a Catholic family meant no meat on Fridays. It seems that about eighty percent of our meals on that night consisted of a sauce my mom would make with some kind of fish. It was sort of like Tuna Wiggle but my mom didn't put peas in and she used a variety of canned seafood. It was pretty simple and we just called it Sauce.

Sauce

2 cups milk
2 tblsp. butter
salt and pepper
2 tblsp. corn starch
2 cans of tuna, and/or shrimp, and/or crabmeat, and/or salmon

1. Pour milk into a sauce pan.
2. Add the butter and salt and pepper
3. Bring to almost a boil.
4. In the mean time, mix the corn starch with ¼ cup of water
5. When the milk is almost boiling, stir in the corn starch mixture
6. Cook and stir until thick and bubbly
7. Add seafood
8. Serve over toast or mashed potatoes with a veggie on the side.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Sauce

Family love
pours over us
filling in
our nooks
and crannies

sometimes whether
we want it to or not.
Our only telephone
perched on the wall
barely two feet
from my dad’s
place at the table.

When it rang
that Friday night
during supper,
I jumped up to answer.
“Hey, listen” said
my date for that night.
“I’m up at Flint’s
blowing my mind.
You want to meet
me at the dance?”

“If I’m there, I’m there.
If I’m not, I’m not.”
I responded and hung up.

All eyes stared,
all ears perked up.
I hadn’t even been out
with this guy, yet,
and, already, I’d have
to lie to my parents?

They sat there
expecting an explanation.
The phone rang again,
a slight reprieve.
“Hey, listen, you
want to go to the movies
instead? I’ll pick
you up.”

Acceptable.
I relayed that
and heads nodded,
eating resumed,
normal banter
flew back and forth
again.

He met my parents
as they were on their way
out to go bowling,
played a game of cribbage
with my brother,
then we walked
to the theater,
watched The Taming
of the Shrew,and returned home
to have hot
chocolate with my folks
and sister.

Conversation and smiles
drifted around
like the steam
wisping from our cups.

It was just another
Friday night,
another connection
of family,
another meal
of sauce
spreading it’s comfort.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

And in case you're wondering, the guy liked it so much at our house that we ended up getting married and we'll be celebrating our 39th anniversary in June.

Big Tent Poetry #2: Aural Experience

2010-05-14T14:14:00.001-04:00

Big Tent Poetry asked us to listen this week to something technical, jot down a few words from it, and see where they take us.

From “Criminal Profiling” come these terms: comfort zone, triggering trauma, brain damage, chemical imbalances, negative parenting
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Trip Out of Life

It’s a shift
chemical imbalance
continuing death
nausea
no comfort zone
legs push covers
sweat pops out
heart races
fan face
brain damage?
menopause
the beginning
of the end.

Writer's Island: Stowaway

2010-05-09T08:27:00.003-04:00

Stowaway

I got up early
on Saturday morning,

saw the aluminum sky
so turned the computer

on and flew to the sunny
shores of Writer’s Island.

There I found a shiny shell,
picked it up and put it

in my pocket. All day
I carried that stowaway

with me. I’d slide
my hand in and feel

it nestled there, smooth
and full of possibilities.

At night I placed it
next to my bed

and woke up today
dreaming about this poem.

Big Tent Poetry #1: Poetry Reading

2010-05-06T09:47:00.002-04:00

Big Tent Poetry is a new poetry site. Each Monday they put up a prompt and on Friday people can leave their poems for others to read. This week's prompt was to write a persona poem by adopting the persona of someone working in a circus. But I didn't do that. I had a chance to attend an evening with Naomi Shahib Nye so wrote about that.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Trip to listen to Naomi Shahib Nye, Poet, Speak in Manchester, NH

We went from baby leaves
to robust teenagers
in two hours

We left fisted lilacs
and traveled to open-faced
perfume factories

We said goodbye
to clean parks
where children play

and hello to Wayne,
a bum living with other
homeless people

Mountains shrank
in our rear-view mirror
while words

grew larger and larger
through the windshields
of our minds.

NaPoWriMo #30: Made it! Free Write

2010-04-30T20:40:00.002-04:00

Being Late

I remember that little breathless
moment
when I realized I was late.

This one was like a flower
opening
not like the ones

before you’re married
that are like
razor blades

nicking your brain
with worry.
No, this one

was the sun rising,
ocean waves
kissing the sand,

thoughts of blue eyes
and blond curls.
This late was a smile.

Poetry Train and NaPoWriMo #29: Headline

2010-04-29T21:26:00.002-04:00

Monday May 10, 2010

I've been thinking of my dad lately. He died 13 years ago today. When I saw this headline a couple weeks ago in the newspaper, it reminded me of an incident from when I was a kid.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Mt. Washington Auto Road
opens for 149th season May 1

It’s still covered in white
this peak of ours
poking up into the clouds.

My dad worked
on the summit
for quite a few years.

It is woven into our lives;
every night on the news
Marty Ingstrom would

give us the weather report
from up there in his dry
voice ending with that quirky

smile. One time my dad
got to sit there with him
and we kids gathered

around the TV in the living
room feeling pretty special.
It was like knowing

a celebrity. Every time
I see the mountain
I think of my dad.

NaPoWriMo #28: 3WW: Depart, Ignite, Rotten

2010-04-28T20:25:00.003-04:00

Late Snow Ignites Dreams of Future

Woke up to six inches
of late April snow
covering all the baby
leaves and flowers.

Winter takes his time
to depart in this neck
of the woods. I grabbed
my camera and snapped

a couple pictures to take
with us to Florida
when we retire in another
year, to remind us of why

we don’t want to live up here
where the weather is rotten
most of the time. Then I put
my boots on, got the shovel

out, cleaned off my truck,
and made my way
to school. One day
closer to being done.

NaPoWriMo #27: Acrostic

2010-04-27T23:04:00.001-04:00

ReadWritePoem prompts us to write an acrostic today. And for journal writing in my classes today the prompt was: Write about wanting to leave some place but you can't. I combined the two.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Left brain already out the door
Even though I know I can’t really leave.
Anchors weigh me down.
Velvet hands and words, always,
Instead of rocks but, still, I
Need to find my own space.
Going, going, gone.

NaPoWriMo #26: Rework an Old Line

2010-04-26T22:06:00.001-04:00

You Hear Church Bells in the Distance

And the notes sparkle
like tinsel
in the Christmas air.

St. Paul’s Lutheran Church
is playing carols.
See how the sharps

and flats float around
then settle
on the ground

like snowflakes.
I pick up a handful
and let them drift

down over me
like a waterfall
of song. Then

head to Walmart.
I go through the doors
and hear the canned

carols being played
and this time
the notes slap me

in the face. I get
my list out, crumple
it, and leave.

NaPoWriMo #25: First Things First

2010-04-25T13:43:00.002-04:00

ReadWritePoem prompts us to listen to the first thing someone says to us and write a poem around it. This is what my husband said to me this morning.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

He walks downstairs
and goes into the kitchen
to make coffee

and notices a new striped
cutting board. “Did you buy
a new cutting board?”

“Yeah, it’s from Avon.
I had to buy something.”
“Couldn’t you just

give her some money
each time so we wouldn’t
end up with all this crap?”

I laugh, he continues
to make his coffee,
then comes into the living

room and turns the TV on
to his fishing shows.
I write a poem.

NaPoWriMo #24: Just an Observation

2010-04-24T21:38:00.001-04:00

Addicted

His fat fingers
tap dance on the keys.

He lets his glasses slip
down onto his nose

and he peers over them
through near-sighted eyes.

He swears when he can’t find
what he’s looking for,

runs his hand through
his hair and rubs his forehead,

grunts and complains.
My husband is searching

for Harley parts
on ebay.

NaPoWriMo #24: Unlikely Couples

2010-04-23T22:23:00.002-04:00

The Fisherman and the Poet

Tuna were jumping
as we sped
across the ocean

to his favorite
fishing spot.
Once we were anchored,

he set his fishing
lines and I took
my notebook

and pen out.
The sun rolled
over me and settled

in the bottom
of the boat.
It was going

to be a peaceful
day. I started
writing then heard

a zipping sound.
“Tuna!” my husband
yelled. I jumped

up and did what
I could to help
him pull in

a 300 pound tuna
imagining the words
I’d use to capture

this incredible feat.
He sold the tuna
but I caught it on paper.

NaPoWriMo #22: Wordle

2010-04-22T17:11:00.002-04:00

ReadWritePoem challenged us to use these words in a poem: dizzy, squall, crow, fierce, flinch, tomorrow, emporium, reverberate, pepper, tendril, saffron, rust. I managed three of them.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The sun shimmers
on the pond
as I sit in my son’s
new home

He and my husband
are talking motorcycles
their conversation
peppered with timers

heads, pistons, flywheels
until I’m dizzy.
Tomorrow, they have
a landscaping project

and while they are doing that,
I’ll go to the bookstore
to check out the poetry
books and to Michael’s

for cool pens. Then, I’ll
sit on the deck and read.
Right now, I have a glass
of wine waiting

and more stimulating
bike talk. And the sun
is shining
at my son’s.

NaPoWriMo #21: Perfection/Imperfection & Monday Poetry Train

2010-04-21T21:35:00.002-04:00

The Perfection of a Four-year-old

Kylie is working
on math
in an activity book.

7-3=?
Seven fingers go up
in the air

and three get covered.
4 she writes
“Great,” I say.

And on she goes
until she gets to
11-5=?

She opens her hands
and counts
only ten fingers

Perplexed, she guesses
5, then goes on
to the next problem.

But then she thinks
about it
and knows she’s wrong.

This time she counts
an imaginary finger,
erases the 5,

and replaces it with 6.
When she’s done the page,
I correct her answers

and put 100% at the top.
She shakes her head,
draws a line

through her grade,
and writes 1X
instead.

NaPoWriMo: Hero

2010-04-20T19:30:00.003-04:00

Not her struggle
to overcome abuse

Not her dignity
during the divorce

Not her survival
after he cut her off

Not her determination
and positive attitude

Not her loyalty to me
by writing letters

No, none of those
make her my hero

the way her daughters
always come first

is like a medal
pinned to her heart.

NaPoWriMo: #19: Light Bulb Moment

2010-04-19T20:59:00.004-04:00

We sat in Mr. Russell’s
9th grade English class
and talked about the Beatles.

He sat behind his desk
and let us. We chit chatted
for all 45 minutes

of class while he sat there
in his frayed suit and thin hair
wishing for a cigarette.

If I was a teacher, I thought,
I’d engage the kids,
insist on quiet, make them

behave. Instead, he let
us do whatever we wanted.
I knew it was wrong,

and knew what to do about it.
That’s the moment
when I became a teacher.

NaPoWriMo #18: Cats

2010-04-18T16:31:00.002-04:00

Considering life from green-eyed
Attitude, cats slink around the corners of
Time and my blind side and make me
Shudder with their knowing.

NaPoWriMo #17: The Elements

2010-04-17T08:21:00.004-04:00

I’m the one
with a sense
of humor.

I don’t rage
like fire
with a hot tongue

nor am I stoic
like the patient
earth

and I don’t have
sun’s steadfast
hope

No, I like to play.
A couple days
ago I had fun

with Linda. She
needed cheering up
after visiting

an assisted-living
facility for her mom.
She and her brother

were sitting on the porch
having a beer
and a glass of wine

reading all 30 plus
pages of the contract
when I slipped

around the corner
of the house
and blew a puff

of fresh levity
their way. It lifted
those heavy papers

and twirled them around.
Linda reached to control
them and spilled her merlot

all over every singe one
of those white sheets
and her legs

and her chair. I
chortled at this
unexpected bonus

sashayed around
then moved on
knowng my work was done.

NaPoWriMo #16: Smells

2010-04-16T20:55:00.002-04:00

ReadWritePoem suggests we smell something then freewrite the memories it evokes.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The leather cover for my Kindle

I remember purses,
a checkbook cover,
ski boots,
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I lace my ski boots
and pull the laces
as tight as possible

walk out of the lodge
grab my wooden
skis and bamboo poles

and head toward
the rope tow.
Once there, I grab

hold of the rope
as it whizzes past
and hold on tight

as it takes me
to the top of the slope.
I can’t ski

don’t know how to turn
or snowplow.
I fall a dozen times

while trying to get
to the bottom.
People enjoy this?

I smell the sweaty
leather as I take my boots
off…forever!

NaPoWriMo #15: An Old Line

2010-04-15T21:01:00.004-04:00

These Are the Things Men Don’t Know about Love

That women divide
the mind and body
unlike men
where everything
blends together

That love is delicate
like lace
and can tear easily

That love is not shown
in words
but in deeds
like picking
up socks
and closing
the toilet seat

That love is a CD
containing many
different songs
and what you enjoy
one day
might annoy
you on another

That love is not
a bouquet of flowers
given because
you have to
Love is wildflowers
with deep roots.