Thursday, June 18, 2009

Abecedarian for TOP

She sits on the sofa
sometimes all day

and traces my movements
to and fro
through the tired afternoon

until the umbrella
of evening unsheathes
its shadow over us

and I’m verging on violence.
I love my mom
very much and treat
her as tenderly as my Nonie
took care of her African violets

but wearing away
by doing nothing
wears on my world.

So I offer her a glass
of wine and we play
a game of cards
which she wins

in exceptional excellence
and my xylophone whining
mellows out.

The soft yellow
of the dining room light
bathes us in butter
and instead of yelling
my frustrations at her

I laugh and enjoy
the buzz, the companionship,
and the zippity-doo-da
of being in mom zone.

Saturday, June 13, 2009

Yard Sale for TOP & The Monday Poetry Train

A father and son
play baseball
in their yard.

Every time the boy
hits the ball
a dog chases it

then they have to chase
the dog. I slip
this image

into my word bank.
A scrawny woman
sits on her porch,

cigarette dangling
from her lips,
watching ragged kids

run around her messy
yard, the butt bobbing
as she yells at them.

I add her to the piggy bank
getting heavier
by the mile.

A fine, muscled specimen
of maleness
is mowing a lawn

shirtless, all bronzed
and chiseled. Another
shiny coin

of detail slides
into the bank.
I continue driving

my eyes eating up
every morsel.
When I get to camp,

I’ll break the bank open
and write a poem about
the human yard sale.

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

3WW: Dangerous, Keepsake, Restless

Ants in my muscles~
feels like dangerous spasms,
keepsake of old age.
Keepsake of old age
feels like dangerous spasms~
Ants in my muscles.

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

3WW: Folly, Ordinary, Hostile

Sunlight eases itself into my classroom
and wraps around the students
sitting obediently reading Antigone.
The word “folly” is mentioned
several times describing
Creon’s disastrous decisions.

The person reading inevitably
pronounces it as “foley”
and I can feel myself

getting hostile. I think
What is so hard about this word?
Dolly, Molly, golly, jolly, Polly.

But folly becomes foley
like holy or holey or wholy
and I just want to scream.

Instead, I look at the morning
making it’s way over the bent
heads of the kids, turning them

from ordinary to golden
and swallow the annoyance.
“Good job! Thanks for reading.”
Linda's Poems