Linda's Poems

Pocketbook, Paper Towel, Dictionary I hear a jet taking off from the airport flying into the sugar-spilled sky. A neighbor is using a b...

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...

May 2: Weather or Not We decided not to go boating today because the weatherman is predicting thunder showers this afternoon. So, I'm s...

From everyone...... ------------ Leftovers I'm writing a poem for the thirtieth morning in a row. The first morning I sat in bed all coz...

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 afte...

Tuesday December 21, 2010 Packing a Suitcase I take words and fold them carefully into each other so they all weave together. Then...

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 ...

"Little Deuce Coupe" is blasting from loudspeakers, raining the sixties all over the classic car meet at Muscle Car City. M...

Finally All the blinds are closed. The drab dawn sits like fog outside my windows. Inside, tendrils of sunshine wrap around my br...

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...

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...

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 pas...

The sun is a figment dissipated into memory. Rusty trees are reflected in the steel water. Fog floats over the mountain and blends in...

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 wav...

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...

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

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 hap...

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 ther...

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...

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 t...