Sunday, January 31, 2010

Monday Poetry Train: Open the Box

Open the Box

Square, definitely square.
And tied with a white ribbon.
A prim and proper bow.

Go ahead,
pull on the ends,
watch that bow

Tear the wrapping
paper off,
quickly, now.

Lift the lid
but be careful.
You'll have to dodge
all the words
flying out.

I caught a few
and left them
on this blog
for you to read.

Saturday, January 30, 2010

One Single Impression: Blowing the Curve

Blowing the Curve

I should be in the cellar
separating lights
from darks

I should be in the kitchen
sizzling strips
of maple-flavored bacon

I should be in our bedroom
feeling his warm legs
next to mine

But, I’m sitting in the living room
in a bright bubble
surrounded by sun and blue sky

reading Artful Blogging
and sipping creativity
one glossy photo at a time.

Monday, January 25, 2010

Poetry Train: It's Snowing

It’s snowing
into my notebook

covering the page
with black

See the design
they make
on the creamy

ground of this
paper? Each one
is unique.

I tip my head back
and let a couple
land on my tongue.

They melt into me.

Saturday, January 23, 2010

One Single Impression: A Sunny Day

Every chimney in town
is puffing away
this Saturday morning.

It’s -8 degrees F.
Mt. Forist is a frozen
gray elephant

sleeping in front
of my face.
Then the sun hits

it smack on the head
like an egg
splashing into it.

I watch the yolk
slowly spread
over its hide

down, down
until it’s flowing
into my living room.

I scoop it up
with the spoon
of my imagination

and pour it
into a poem.
Time for an omelette.

Thursday, January 14, 2010

A Quartina: brunt, sundered, froth, question for ReadWritePoem

He opened his mouth, words smelling of death, and sundered
our life. I shrank from the brunt
force of their whip. My eyes contained question
marks and poison began to froth.

He’d come home, poured himself a beer with too much froth,
then settled into after-work life sundered
by a long ride home. I asked him an innocent question.
Knives were his answer and my heart bore the brunt

of their sharpness. Blades and words equal brunt
trauma. Sure, our marriage hadn’t always been froth-
y, but I had never questioned
its longevity, certainly never expected the sunder-

ing. Picture the Titanic splitting asunder.
That was me, tearing from the brunt
of his iceberg words. “Can I ask you a question?”
I said and a volcano of “No” frothed

from his mouth, white froth as hard as the brunt
of fists. I tucked my question away and watched our ship sink, sundered.

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

3WW: Jolt, Ribbon, Zeal

The ringing
of my phone
jolted me
out of the stupor
of blogging.

It was my friend
asking if I’d like
a glass of wine.

“Sure” I answered
with zeal. So, she’s
on her way.

And I’m typing
to get this done.

Outside, the clouds
are turning
into pink ribbons,
the color of
white zinfandel.

Saturday, January 9, 2010

Suday Scribblings: Extreme

We had a sunny day
for the first time
this year.

At noon I went
for a walk
in the ten degree

The streets were salty
and the wind was
a slap

I clicked a few
of snow-covered

hunching under
the blue
blanket of sky.
When my

legs turned numb
and tears
slid down my cheeks
like kids

sledding down a hill,
I hurried
home to the smell
of baked

bread and my husband
for me with his warm arms
wide open.

Sunday, January 3, 2010

Poetry Train: Fat Sestina

I wrote this one in school from 6 random words the kids chose.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Fat Sestina

Last night I had a cup of decaf coffee
with light vanilla soy milk as I sat in my jeans
after a long day of plant-
ing knowledge in the brains of teenage branches
who sat there like mountains
wishing they were on a playground,

instead. Well, I need a playground,
too, and I’m really wishing this coffee
had Bailey’s Irish Cream and a mountain
of whipped cream in it. But my jeans
are too tight so I have to diet by eating leaves from branches
and less fat and more plants.

It doesn’t seem fair that blubber planted
itself on me. I’ve become its playground.
It even sticks to the branches
of my arms. So, I’m sipping low-cal coffee
and unbuttoning my jeans
to allow the mountain

of my stomach some room. Losing weight is a big mountain
to climb but I just have to plant
one foot in front of the other. I could buy bigger jeans
but, no, I exercise like a kid in a playground
and drool while my husband enjoys coffee
ice cream. (I’d like to whip him with branches!)

Instead, I get up and branch
out for a walk up hills as steep as mountains
the color of coffee
and while I walk, an idea gets planted
in my head: I should open an adult playground
and maybe call it “Skinny Jeans”

because exercise helps even though I inherited the fat tummy gene
from my mom. So, if I want legs like branches,
I’ve got to open my playground
and climb over that chubby mountain.
When I reach the top, I’ll plant
a victory flag and have a Starbuck’s coffee

and buy new jeans and eat mountains
of dip until my branches begin to swell again and I’ll have to plant
myself back in the playground and go back to drinking weak coffee.
Linda's Poems