Betrayal for One Single Impression

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.