Day 1 National Poetry Month 2015

Pocketbook, Paper Towel, Dictionary

I hear a jet taking off from the airport
flying into the sugar-spilled sky.

A neighbor is using a buzz saw
on his new deck.  It's April first

and I'm sitting on the porch with sun
on my legs, my iPad on my lap,

and a dictionary full of thoughts
in my head that are refusing to

come out to play.  The zipper
on the pocketbook of my memories

is staying firmly closed.  I can feel my fingers
wanting to tap dance on the keyboard

so I let them shuffle around a bit producing
black words on the paper towel-colored

background.  Then I tear off the sheet,
crumple it up, and throw it away.

Instead, I take my phone over to the flower
box and snap a few pictures of yellow,

orange, pink. Brightness on water.
And the beauty that is America

on this ordinary morning in the middle
of the week in my 66th year knowing

some poems have no words.

Triplets

Saturday April 12, 2014
-------------

Triplets

I took my notebook
for a walk when I went
to check the mail.

I planned to sit
on a bench near the marina
to write a poem

but the sun was an electric
blanket thrown over me
and I couldn't find my way out.

Instead, I sauntered back home
and settled in the shade
under our stilt house

to read two letters from a friend.
The first has an owl, a snail, a blue bird,
a pink flower, a tiny butterfly, a star,

and cloud stickers added for my
enjoyment. The second is framed
by colorful polka dots.

I had a hard time writing a poem
earlier when I first got up
so thought a change of scenery

would help. I was wrong. But, I'm
writing, anyway, just putting my pen
on the page and watching

the black letters emerge and curl
into words. See how I'm faking it
by enjambing the lines and dividing

them into triplets? There is a small bird
on a rain gutter across the street
warbling away, turning his head

this way and that, creating his own
poem. Wish I could, too. I glance up
but he has flown away.

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.

Day 30: Leftovers

From everyone......
------------
Leftovers

I'm writing a poem for the thirtieth morning in a row.
The first morning I sat in bed all cozy comfy
but that woke Gary up. The second morning
I sat in my recliner with my feet raised while the sun

smeared the room with butter. I wrote about that.
The next day I went out on the porch and have been
here ever since. I won't bore you with another sun
description or what the breeze feels like on my bare

shoulders. Instead, I'll write about....well, I don't know.
Sherrie's remaining word is Timeless. It's a beautiful word
like these moments of solitude. Dayle suggested Seasons
and I think she meant the seasons of life. Like Bob's

winter occurring in spring. Anne gave me a mouthful
of words: Sunrise, Sunset, Surviving, Coping, Hoping,
Retirement, Dreams, Baby, Birth, Luck, Weekend,
Tides, Waves, Freedom. They braided themselves

into most of my thirty poems. Like the long braid my mom
saved after my first haircut. Years later I lent it to Anne
and she incorporated it into her own hair on Prom night.
Gina passed along Friends, Peace, and Community.

Those ideas are in just about everything I write.
So, even if I didn't single any one of these words out,
they were with me. Each morning I took them out,
held them in the palm of my mind, burnished them

until they outshone the sun, then tucked them away
in my heart's pocket. They waited patiently for the right
moment to burst free. Today I released them
to cavort like dolphins in the ocean of my words.

After Writing Too Many Poems

Thursday 4/30/09

After Writing Too Many Poems

I think
I'm poemed out.
I need a break
from figurative
thinking.

I need
an afternoon
of sitting on the beach
looking at the waves

and just thinking
about them
as waves
and nothing else,

just water
being pulled
by the moon
splashing
onto the shore.

That's it~
not waves of emotion
or waves of sorrow
or waves of troubles,

just
plain, simple waves
that do not beg
to be put into
a poem.

Packing a Suitcase

Tuesday December 21, 2010

Packing a Suitcase

I take words
and fold them carefully
into each other
so they all weave
together.

Then I place them
into the suitcase
of a poem
smoothing them
down.

When the bag is full,
I let it take
me away
into another
world

where thoughts
are airplanes
and meaning
is a tropical
beach.

And It Was at That Age

And It Was at That Age

Is a line from a Neruda
poem. I love Neruda
with his celebration

of common, everyday
items. He could build
a poem out of nails

and boards, and cement.
I wish I could iron
poetry as crisp as his.

I take words out of the laundry
basket, smooth them a bit,
spray Niagara all over,

and begin to press.
Steam rises but, somehow,
the creases are crooked,

the collars buckle,
then they hang lopsidedly
on hangars in my kitchen

waiting to be put away.
I hide these poems
in a dark closet

then sit in the living room,
open a book of poetry
by Pablo Neruda

and read of the sea,
his home, food, carpentry,
and fresh laundry.

Sunday Scribblings: Instinct

"Little Deuce Coupe"
is blasting from loudspeakers,
raining the sixties

all over the classic car meet
at Muscle Car City.
My first instinct

is to remain in our car
reading while my husband
walks around. He convinces

me I should go with him,
though. I see shiny Corvettes,
Cadillacs, GTOs, Model Ts,

a VW bus with peace signs,
and an El Camino my husband
loves. But I've have enough

of the past. So, here I sit
listening to Chubby Checker
twisting again like he did

last summer. I see my husband's
yellow cap stuck under a hood.
I'm typing away in the present.

3WW: Drab, Pulsate, Tendril

Finally

All the blinds
are closed.
The drab dawn

sits like fog
outside my windows.
Inside, tendrils

of sunshine
wrap around my brain.
I'm writing a poem.

Words pulsate
on the tips
of my fingers.

Tap, tap, tap...
Black on white.
Smile, smile, smile.

Mud for Sunday Scribblings

Mud

Mix imagination
with the water
of words

Add in a slice
of morning
sunshine

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."

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

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.

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.

My Back Yard for Sunday Scribblings

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.

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.

Leaves of the Poet-tree: Journal

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

Damp, Incensed, Skid for 3WW

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.

Inspiration

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.

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
tweeting.

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.