Yesterday

I don't even bother to lock the car since the area is deserted.
The sky is a paragraph of sadness and the wind a scythe
slicing through me. I put on my sweatshirt, grab my phone,

and almost run up the boardwalk to the beach, snapping a picture
as I go. I have a letter from a fiend in a sunny envelope I plan
to read on one of the benches, but, as soon as I sink my sneakers

in the sand, I know it will be too cold. Instead I walk around
and notice an area fenced off for the nesting plovers. I don't see
any, though. I take a few photos of the layers of steel waves,

then say goodbye for today. I tighten the strings of my hoodie
and head back over the dunes of short, spiky, grasses. Stop. Lilac
blossoms arch over the sidewalk. I put my face right up into them

and take a big sniff of memory. Of our old lilacs in the back yard.
Of a vaseful on my desk at school. Of walking by the neighbor's
and plucking a few flowers then chewing on them. That sweet

bitter fragrance on my tongue. I don't steal any today but I think
about it. I glance up and spy a sentence of blue. I continue on
to my car, lilacs in my lungs, breathing in the the poetry of nature.

Weather or Not

May 2: Weather or Not

We decided not to go boating today
because the weatherman is predicting

thunder showers this afternoon. So, I'm sitting
in bed playing on my iPad while Gary snores

beside me. I almost went outside like I did
during April but I just wasn't that ambitious.

By the time I woke up, the sun had already risen
and the light around the blinds was boring old

white not the gold that makes everything look
beautiful. So, I plumped three pillows

behind me and am leaning against them.
I checked Facebook to see what was new.

Looks like the Bruins lost to the Canadiens
in the hockey playoffs last night. Then I checked

the Weather Channel app: 75 sunny degrees here
and 52 in Old Orchard Beach. We'll be up there

in nine days. I played six games of Words
With Friends. Started today's Wordstorm.

I'm up to 68% but didn't get the big one yet.
Checked The Writer's Almanac for today's poem:

"Making a Bed" by Howard Moss. Then I came here
to Pages to write....anything. First, though, I went

to my Kindle app and checked out the prompt for
today in a new book I just downloaded yesterday

called The Daily Poet and found out the Weather
Channel began broadcasting on this day in 1982.

That's 32 years ago. So, they want us to include
weather terms in our poem today. Gary's snuggled

like a thundering cloud next to me, my phone is vibrating,
a mini earthquake, and I'm out of nothing to write about.

Beads

Thursday 3/19/09

Poem inspired by Dead Poets' Society

Beads

We were getting ready
to go to church.
I put on decent slacks
and a nice shirt.

My long, curly hair
surrounded my head.
At the last minute
I draped a rope

of beads around
my neck. When I
went downstairs,
my dad said

to get rid of the beads.
I refused. They looked
nice against my plain
shirt. Nothing wrong

with them. "You're not
going to church looking
like a hippie!" he yelled.
"Dad, everyone wears

them!" "Not my daughter!"
It was 1967, just the beginning
of the cultural revolution.
Tears in my eyes,

I took the beads off
and went to church
like a good girl.
But that evening

instead of going to CCD,
I met my boyfriend and we went
parking. I draped my beads
over his rear view mirror.

3WW: Fog, Lenient, Struggle

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

shore.

My sharp thoughts
cut through, separating
the halves of my

life.

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

win.

My lenient ways
have masked my true
feelings for so many

years.

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

slaps

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

gray.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Sunday Scribblings: Reflect

Reflect

Two bicycles
and a palm tree
are upside down,

reflected
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

running
through the air,
of escaping)

in the lens
of this poem.
Click.

3WW: Figment, Inclined, Vulnerable

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.

Present for Sunday Scribblings

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.

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.

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.

NaPoWriMo #27: Acrostic

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 #17: The Elements

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 #12: Secret Codes

The fog
descends over my brain
like spider webs
I can’t
escape.

See how
it nestles into the nooks
and crannies
of my mind
creating

lakes and pastures
of fuzzy thoughtlessness.
Sleep takes over
like melting into
clouds.

NaPoWriMo #11 The Thing You Didn't Choose

After Having My Tubes Tied

Snip, goodbye
Snip, goodbye
the poet,
the pilot,
the mechanic,
the waitress,
the logger,
the teacher.
Goodbye to future
children.
Snip. Snip.

NaPoWriMo #9: List

I limp into Friday evening
from the bruises
of the week.

Walk in the door
stow my school bag
away for a couple days

Massage the back of my neck
as I pour a glass of wine
and anticipate

the strum as it hums
through my system.
Settle into my La Z Boy

turn the laptop on
and try to torch a poem
from a list of words.

Kindle it like a campfire
hope to startle meaning.
But, no luck.

NaPoWriMo #4: Inside-out/Outside-in

Outside-in

In bed
the fan on
I smell the sky
I taste the salty stars
I inhale the moon into
my dreams.

Under layers
of quilts my body
cocooned, nestled, snug.
My head on a bracing ski slope
rushing headlong through the wind
into sleep.

Weird for Sunday Scribblings

I walked out
onto the snow-covered
porch this morning
in my slippers
and PJs
to take a picture
of the moon

just before it slipped
behind the elephant
shape of Mt. Forist.

During the summer
I bike to the beach
and sit among
all the sunbathers
with my clothes
on and a book
or pencil
in my hands.

When I read
the poem-of-the-day
to my students,
I wait until
everyone is still
and they all have
a copy of the poem
on their desks
to follow along with.

If even one kid
reaches into her purse
or closes his notebook,
I stop reading
and wait…
while the other kids
shift their eyes
but not their heads
to see the offending
student.

I walk
in the black silkiness
of night
when the stars
form a map
for my thoughts
and the moon
is a nugget of poetry
that feels like a heart
beating…beating.

Elusive for One Single Impression

This poem popped into my head as soon as I saw the prompt. I wrote it almost 20 years ago when I first started writing poetry and everything had to rhyme. What on earth I was upset about, I have no recollection. Maybe nothing since I remember that winter in Bradenton as being a really pleasant one. Maybe I was just exercising my poetic license to be dramatic.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Barren

My heart is a part of the desert.
My soul is a hole in the sand.
My cares and affairs are all shriveled
suppressed by this desolate land.

My need is the greed of the thirsty.
My wants are the haunts of the mind.
Desires are spires of longing
elusive, delusive, and blind.

3/16/91
Bradenton, Florida