Poetry Train: Last summer was a cemetery

Last summer
was a cemetery
for poems
that were never born.

Small sperms
of ideas
swam toward
blank eggs
then died.

Long, lazy days
stretched out before
me like miles
of sandy beach

but no waves
of words
begged to live
and all those poems
that could have been,
seeped into the sand
leaving behind
bubbles
of empty foam.

Aging for Sunday Scribblings

I'm recycling this week. I wrote this one a couple years ago.
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If she tilts
her head
just so
in the golden shafts
of sun,
I can see
a lone hair
growing
on her chin.

I consider telling
her about it
but we’re in the middle
of a card game
and she’s winning
so I don’t want
to spoil
this time
we have together.

Later that night
after she has climbed
the stairs
one step at a time
carrying the weight
of eighty-one
years of laughter
and sadness,

I, too get ready
for bed.
I brush my teeth,
wash my face
and apply
a night cream.
The light
catches a glint
on the curve
of my chin
and I stand there
looking in the mirror
at my mother.

Stolen First Lines for ReadWritePoem

Thanks to Gautami Tripathy for this great first line.
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That word you lost I found it under a rock
all dirty and flattened.

I took it home and washed it
then hung it on the line

in the sunshine to dry. See it there
sashaying in the breeze

becoming plumper and clearer
as it dries. The T is holding

its head up and the rust
is shining. That word you lost

I found it under the rock
of your heart.

Season Change for TOP

Yesterday Afternoon

The front porch
was a pan
full of melted butter.

I sat like a bowl
of popcorn
and let the sun

drizzle all over me
on this first real day
of finally spring.

Earnest Layer Reactive for 3WW

Earnest as tulips
your feelings pop out in spring
layer by layer
REACTIVE LOVE
Layer by layer
your feelings pop out in spring
earnest as tulips

Sestina for Poem: A Virtual Poetry Group: ABCs

Learning My ABCs

Right now, I should be correcting an essay
or planning what my next assignment will be
for British Literature class. But, you see,
all I want to do is de-
vote time to writing a poem e-
ven though I know it will take ef-

fort. Today, as a teacher, I get an F.
I’m here physically but my mind is away,
dreaming of letters and words that will, e-
ventually, become thoughts. I turn on my computer and be-
gin to type a black and white de-
sign on this school-owned PC.

I take a poem from its infancy,
nurture it though childhood, survive the ef-
fing teen years, and gentle it with de-
tails into an adult. Shh, don’t let the PTA
know what I do when I’m supposed to be
teaching. I haven’t even checked my e-

mail since there’s barely e-
nough time to finish this, never mind see
about my students’ needs. Be-
fore the lunch bell, while ideas are still like ef-
fervescent bubbles, I want to parlay
them into something meaningful~a word melody.

Sometimes, it’s so easy to let myself be de-
toured from writing. So, now, while my e-
motions are high, and letters are dancing a ballet,
I have to lasso them, whip up a poem fricassee.
Instead of being a teacher I must be a word chef
for a little while. But kids keep coming in to be-

devil me with questions and the intercom is be-
coming annoying. There is no remedy
for these interruptions; inside I’m screaming, “F
You!” but outwardly I must remain e-
ven-tempered and capture se-
clusion where I can. I lock myself away.

I’m just a wanna-be poet with an e-
normous desire to sea-
son my refugee heart with word play.

I Come From for Sunday Scribblings

I Come From…

I come from words
like love
that jumped
from my dad’s eyes
to my mom’s,

and integrity
that was woven
into my character
the way
my mom pulls yarn
through her cross-stitch
projects.

I come from the garden
of kindness
and caring.

I come from words
like seeds
and grow
in the paragraphs
of life.