Sunday Scribblings: Life Is Good

Saturday

We kept breakfast simple:
pumpernickel toast
with peanut butter
for him
and a rice cake
with egg salad for me.

He puttered
on his boat
I changed the bed
and dusted.

We took a drive
to St. James City
for a light lunch:
beach bread for him
and creamy pumpkin
soup with cinnamon
swirl croutons for me.

He fished off the dock
and caught a few snappers
that he threw back.
I sat in the sun
reading two letters
from a friend
and The Daughter
of Smoke and Bone.

We had cocktails
and chips and dip
on the porch
of our stilt house,
the setting sun
turning everything golden.

I broiled rice cakes
covered with spaghetti sauce
and mozzarella
for supper.
We ate outdoors
watching fish
jump for their meal
in the canal.

I went for a walk
as the moon rose.
He went inside
to the TV.

We got into our bed
with its clean sheets
and drifted off
to Downy dreams.

3WW: Drank, Hitch, Muster

Hallway to Death

She drank a bottle
of vodka

after the doctor
refused

to give her any more
Percosets.

We found her
on the floor

with a broken
wrist.

At the hospital
she complained

of snakes invading
her room

and hitching themselves
to her underarms

and wrapping
around her chest.

There was a broken pipe
under her bed

flooding the room.
Every nurse

was eyeing her man
and he was chasing

all of them. Weeks
later the hallucinations

eased. She remembered
nothing. And even

a stint in rehab
wasn't enough for her

to muster the willpower
to live without pills

and alcohol. She
has lost weight.

Her skin looks healthier
now that she's not

all dehydrated. Her back
is feeling better.

She's eighty years old.
But her remaining years

seem like an empty
corridor she has to walk

down alone
if she has to be clean.

3WW: Figment, Inclined, Vulnerable

The sun is a figment
dissipated into memory.

Rusty trees are reflected
in the steel water.

Fog floats over the mountain
and blends into the gray sky.

I'm sitting in my son's living room
next to my in laws who are napping.

You might think this weather
makes me vulnerable to depression

but I am listening to soft snores
watching rain drip from the deck furniture.

My feet are inclined on the leather
La Z Boy and my fingers

are tapping away on my iPad
happy to be writing this poem.

My Back Yard for Sunday Scribblings

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 waves
drift toward shore
then die
like ideas

for this poem.
The prompt
lured.
I bit.

But it wasn't enough.
I'm writing
nothing but
widening blankness.

Paper for One Single Impression

Paper

I reach
into the bottom
left drawer
of my desk

to find
a sheet
of paper.
The one

I pull out
has a flowered
border. I
add a few more

flower stickers
then choose
a coordinating
pen. I begin

to write
a letter
to my friend.
I tell her about

my latest adventures
in care taking
in-laws, news
of my son

and daughter
and granddaughter,
what my husband
is up to,

opinions, hopes,
dreams, frustrations,
recipes, the minutiae
of my life.

I address the envelope,
add more stickers
and a matching
postage stamp

then hop on my bike
and pedal to the post
office. I slip it
into the mail slot

then check my box.
Sitting there
like sunshine
is a letter from her.

I continue on
to the beach,
get settled,
then sit

on the sand,
open her envelope,
and feel her life
float around me.

3WW: Eject, Impact, Render

On Our Fortieth Anniversary

The old VCR tape
is stuck
in the machine.

If I press play
it growls at me.
If I hit eject

nothing happens.
The impact of this
is slight

since I rarely watch
movies.
But, just knowing

about it
is driving me nuts.
I guess

it's time to surrender
and buy
a new DVD player.

Language for One Single Impression

Language

Phrases of accusation
like bombs
exploded in my brain
all day.

I ranted
a ribbon of griefs
to the bed
as I changed it
and to the dishes
immersed
in sudsy death.

My complaints
slid down
the length
of the broom
and left a trail
of resentment
on the linoleum.

I was ready.

When you came home
I was spent.
We watched TV
in silence,
the language
of our life.

Present for Sunday Scribblings

Present

Today was wrapped in pale silver paper.
It rained from the time
I woke up
alone
to this moment
when I'm sitting
by myself
in the living room.

I took a quick trip
to Walmart to buy
a bookcase
then came home to put
it together with a little help
from my husband.

I ate leftover spaghetti
for supper with a glass of wine,
the lamp light reflecting
in it like a red sunset.

I walked under my umbrella
alone
for a half hour
through aluminum foil puddles.

My husband is in bed
wasting his time
watching The Big Bang
and here I am
typing away
enjoying the last hours
of this gift of a day.

3WW: Yawn, Race, Dull

I packed a few things
in a paper bag

ran out to the car
and raced off quickly

before you noticed.
My phone rang

almost immediately.
"I saw what you did.

I can't trust you.
You lied. Don't call

me again." And I hung up.
I had no where to go

but I started driving.
The night yawned

and I could smell
the bad breath

of an uncertain future.
Raindrops dulled

my windshield. Or maybe
it was tears. I drove

all night. I followed
the half moon into life.

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.

3WW: Banter, Fumble, Glance

The old woman fumbles
with the bandage
wrapped around
her wounded wrist

like the pain pills
and booze
she wraps her mind
in to stop the pain.

I glance at her
and see the mess
she’s making.
I walk over

to help even though
she did this
to herself. I see
the stack of dirty

dishes in the sink,
the medication containers
lined up
like soldiers

waiting to fight,
the empty Absolut
bottle. I wrap
the ace bandage

loosely around
her arm. “Can
you go to the store
for me? I’m all out

of vodka.” I shake
my head no, too afraid
to open my mouth,
afraid all the negative

banter in my head
will spew out,
will cover her,
will kill her.

Carry On Tuesday: Neither a Borrower nor a Lender Be

The sun is just starting
to smear butter
on the turning
leaves as my students

prepare modern
interpretations
of Shakespeare’s
“Neither a borrower

nor a lender be” speech.
I’ve divided the scene
into three sections:
one where Laertes

is giving Ophelia advice
about Hamlet, two where
Polonius is giving
Laertes advice

about living, and three
where Polonius is
grilling Ophelia
about her relationship

with Hamlet. I tell
the kids to have fun
with it, pretend it’s
happening today.

How would these situations
play out in the 21st century?
I roam around the room
as they practice

keeping an eye on them
and on the progress
of the sun now filling
the cup of each leaf

with lemonade. When
they’re ready, the groups
begin their presentations.
Laertes warns his sister

that Hamlet will never
marry her and he’s just
using her. Polonius
mangles his bits of advice

until nobody knows what
the heck he’s talking about.
I try to stay focused
but the sun, scampering,

now, through the underbrush
is drawing my eyes away.
Finally, the last group
heads to the front of the room.

Ophelia perches on the edge
of a table, legs swinging.
Polonius paces in front of her.
“So, Ophelia,” he says. “Are you

and Hamlet doing the no-pants
dance? The room erupts
in hoots. I can’t keep from
laughing, too. The sun winks.

3WW: Indecision, Option, Fate

The sky
of my morning
is a white board
waiting
for words

or pictures
or scribbles.
I’ll start
with breakfast-
so many

options: yellow
and white eggs,
or raspberry
jam on toast,
or sliced

banana on English
muffin. I sit
watching
a squirrel
in the woodpile

flit back
and forth
like my indecision.
I’ll just let
fate

grab a marker
or two,
maybe a red
and a black
to doodle.

Oh, she’s choosing
blue and yellow.
Time to eat
and go
to the beach.

Woods for Sunday Scribblings

I pick Kathy up
and we head
into the woods

first walking
up Labossiere St.
then past

the concrete factory.
Finally, we enter
the cool chapel

of green. We
scramble over rocks
that were once

part of an avalanche
until we reach
the base

of Mt. Forist.
We climb by grabbing
hold of bushes

growing on the edge
of the steep
rock face

until we are
opposite an overhang.
Then, inch by inch

we cross the gray
granite, patiently
planting our feet

and hands
into little cracks.
When we reach

the outcropping,
we sit, high above
the city, queens

surveying our realm.
I see my tiny
mother hanging

clothes on the line.
Kathy’s brother
is riding his bike.

My sister
and her friend
are playing tag.

A car turns
the corner from Fifth Avenue
and has to stop

to wait for the girls
who are playing
jump rope

to get out
of the road. All’s right
in our neighborhood.

We eat our snack,
talk about this and that,
then leave our perch

to slide down,
enter the tunnel
of woods, again,

that transforms us
from roayalty into two girls
going home.

Leaves of the Poet-tree: Journal

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

3WW: Bump, Knuckle, Transfix

I like to slide
out of bed early

like a letter
out of an envelope

without bumping
anything

so he won’t wake up.
But he stirs

and his first command
of the day

hits me like a knuckle
sandwich. “Turn

the air off.” Yes,
master. He falls back

to sleep and I become
transfixed by the morning.

Today, the trees
are entangled

in a hairnet of fog.
The oak leaves

are shiny as rubber
gloves from the dew.

I sit in the silence
with myself

but only
for a little while.

Basket for Leaves of the Poet-tree

I don’t have a basket
on my bike
like Dorothy for Toto
in The Wizard of Oz

but I do have saddlebags.
In them I pack
my life: stationery
to write a letter,

several pens, a letter
to respond to,
a water bottle
with ice,

sunscreen, a turquoise
and white striped towel,
my nifty folding
seat, sunscreen,

my Nikon D60 SLR
camera, mail to drop
off at the post office,
and my Kindle.

When I get to the beach,
I unbuckle it
and carry it
to an available spot

then it sits next to me,
like a faithful
dog while I use
everything in it.

The Poetry Train

Kylie said, “Grammy,
you want to go to the playground?”
I closed my laptop.

I saw two students
sneak into a secluded stairwell for a quick hug.
I closed my eyes.

A knock. Standing
on the threshold were two Jehovah’s Witnesses.
I closed the door.

Sun glinted from the ring
he asked me to return.
I closed my heart.

Seven Sins for One Single Impression

Seven Sins

I went a whole day
once without appreciating
the beauty of nature

I saw a beggar
at an intersection
and turned my head away.

I embarrassed a student
who had a hard time reading
by the impatience in my tone.

I turned poor people away from our motel
because the were smoking
in a non-smoking room.

I stole pennies from my mom’s
underwear drawer
to buy a York Peppermint Patty.

I spanked my young son
for no real reason
after a frustrating day at work.

And just now, my heart
fell when I heard my husband
get out of bed.

Give for Sunday Scribblings

Give

We made a fire tonight,
flames sunsetting the night.
Friends joined us
with glasses of wine

conversation and laughter.
Micheline gave us music
with her melodious
French accent.

Ralph entertained
by stringing Christmas
lights. Donna
regaled us with

stories of her winter.
Words flew back and forth.
They gave us their lives,
We gave them ours.

Writer's Island: Visual Prompt

 

Rob at Writer's Island is leaving us with the following gorgeouos image.  I interpreted it quite loosely.

I wobbled a bit
when my student
refused to keep
her head up

during Silent Reading.
“I’m not sleeping”
she said. “I don’t care.
I want your head up.”

I returned to my own
reading then glanced up
a few moments later
and her head was down

again. “HEAD UP!”
Blue eyes flashed,
her head came up,
and she said, “I’m

not a fucking dog!”
The steadying hand
of experience reached
out and in a calm voice

I asked her to leave.
I continued with the rest
of the class. She slammed
the door on her way out.

I smiled inwardly,
thankful for the guidance
and wisdom
walking beside me.

3WW: Thread, Grip, Prefer

I grip the handle
of my camera

feel the slight
roughness, squint

through the viewfinder,
and focus the dandelion.

I see a spider has threaded
her web around its stem

and up and around
the golden head.

Nothing is ever perfect
and that is good.

I set my camera
to aperture priority

which I prefer because
it'll blur the background

and maybe catch some bokeh,
those magical bubbles

of future uncertainties.
I feel the smooth shutter

button, press it slowly,
freeze-frame tomorrow.

Sunday Scribblings: The Next Step

Look at that foot
hanging in the air
ready to stomp
the ground.

There might be a puddle
or soft grass
underneath
but, that foot

will hit. A new day,
a new life, a new
chance to be me.
I smile

as I step
forward, totter
a bit, regain my balance,
move into retirement.

Writer's Island Visual Prompt

The follwoing image by Michael Maeir is the prompt at Writer's Island this week.  I've been in a bit of a poetry slump so decided to write a letter, instead.

Letter

Hi, Mom, I see Dad
has taken up the violin
again. It always amazed
me that those rough

and greasy mechanic’s
hands could ever make
music. But you knew
how magical he was.

It’s so nice to see you
young again and swaying
to the strains of the ocean
waltzing out of the violin.

Never look back, Mom.
We’re all doing fine here.
Open those wings and blend
into the gossamer forever

with your violin player
scattering confetti notes
around you until you both
become a whirlwind of one.

Love,
Linda

Damp, Incensed, Skid for 3WW

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 happened.
Used to be, I could write

about anything so easily.
Tulips are shouting,
leaves are stretching,

but, my imagination is shrinking.
It must be the weather.
We haven’t seen the sun

for over a week.
Everything is damp and dreary.
And I’ve cranked out another dud.

3WW: Grace, Jitter, Thin

I look around my classroom
at the messy pile of textbooks
at the world and U.S. maps
taped to the wall

at the posters in progress
draped over tables
like Dali’s clocks
at the hundreds of novels

sitting like crooked teeth
in makeshift bookcases
made out of empty boxes
at two plants gasping

for sun and water
at three hot pink recycling
bins and a gray garbage can
at a Purell dispenser

a pencil sharpener
a table with discarded
how-to-write-poetry books
waiting for new homes

at seventeen cranberry desks
four sky blue ones two navy
blue ones and a lone sunny
yellow student desk

at an old TV and VCR
on a raised stand with various
tapes strewn about
at a beige file cabinet

at the poster with flames
Carl King made
shortly before he died
three years ago

at my windows full
of white birch trees
and baby leaves
at a wall hanging

of Shakespeare
a moon poster
four schedules for this week’s
classes taped to the board

at piles of papers
bins with all my assignments
a pewter mug with a bouquet
of pens and pencils

at a mural of four gods
and goddesses painted
over twenty years ago
at bulletin boards

filled with imaginations
and creativity
at a poster that says,
“Poetry is honeycomb

so full that it drips
into a puddle
from which the hummingbird
sips”

at a clock that says
8:20 am and a red second
hand making its way around
taking me one click

at a time closer to the end
at a notepad with the words
grace, jitter, and thin
written in black

that I keep glancing at
wondering how on earth
I’ll ever use them
in this poem

at my fingers jitterbugging
on black computer keys
as I try to find a way
to stop writing when there

are still so many other
things to list about this room
this life this working race
to retirement.

Design for Sunday Scriblings

I wrote this one a few Columbus Day Weekends ago.  It popped into my head when I saw the prompt this week.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Designing

I spent the morning
in front of a computer
designing a TeacherWeb page
and if I turned my head just a little
I could see the sun
designing a mosaic
on the fall leaves.

Now, in this caramel afternoon
I’m sitting on a beach
with that same sun
painting shadows
in all the little pockets
of the sand.
I watch the waves
rush toward high tide
crocheting an intricate doily
on the shore
and with a yellow pencil
I design a poem.

Shackles for One Single Impression

I’m in the gray cellar
cleaning out
my mom’s things.

I knew it would happen
I just didn’t know
when or how.

She died last summer
and I hadn’t been
able to really mourn.

My heart was bound
in chains and I hadn’t
found the key.

Until I discover
her well-worn
crossword dictionary.

Inside the front cover
are pieces and pieces
and pieces and pieces

of paper containing
obscure definitions
and meanings

written in my mom’s
neat penmanship
straight across

the pages. My mom
who was so embarrassed
because she never

even graduated from
high school, who
always thought

she wasn’t smart, who
completed the crossword
every single day

and recorded the words
she learned, who was
smarter than anyone

else I knew. I stand
in the cellar marveling
at this pearl

of a mother and wipe
my teardrops
from her precious words.

Inspiration

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 there

camera ready.
I see the blue sky
change into various
shapes as the wind

stirs the branches.
I see sunshine
resting on green
lounge chairs.

But I cannot see
a nest. I still
hear birds, though.
demanding breakfast.

I watch. I wait.
My finger
poised on the shutter
button. Then I see

some branches
stroking the glass
and making the squealing
sound. I put

my camera away,
open my computer,
and use imaginary birds
to write a real poem.

3WW: Evident, Illusion, Tragic

Choices

Her agony was evident
in her slouched shoulders
curving like a quarter moon

protecting the child
of her depression.
She aimed her arrow

at the kid whom she imagined
had insulted her then picked
up her books and fled,

her illusions trailing
behind her like dandelion
fluff. I looked at the rest

of the class and they
were just as confused.
Innocent eyes stared

back at me. I should
go after her, let her talk
about her tragic life

but there are fifteen
other kids waiting
for me to teach them.

"Open your To Kill
a Mockingbird book
to page 238" I said,

instead.

Befuddled for Sunday Scribblings

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 how to write

about it as I am about it.
Instead I listen

to time clicking by
on this Sunday morning

in my quiet home
with a blueberry sky

and a mango sun
and a bird outside

my window
tweeting.

Adamant Fabricate Peculiar for 3WW

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 the shrinking
snow and patient

trees but they offer
no inspiration. Even
the wind scurrying
through the woods,

playing hide and seek
with the dead leaves
offers nothing fresh.
I’d love to fabricate

a poem out of the ordinary
and the peculiar
like the messy pile
of Othello books

or the checkered pig
someone drew
and taped to my white
board. But, it’s

2:20 pm and almost time
to go home. The sun’s out
so I’ll take my tiny brain
for a walk to wake it up.

Epidemic for One Single Impression

Retirement Dreams

It started three years ago
with just an occasional thought,
a sunshiny day
in a week of clouds.

It was a favorite picture
I’d take out occasionally,
run my fingers over the image,
and let myself dream.

Two years ago it became
like my tiny pocket jack knife.
I’d slip my hand in and feel
its reassuring presence

nestled there, slim and smooth,
at least once a day. This year
it feels like Christmas every
hour. I hold that present,

tied with a big red bow,
shake it around, then untie
the ribbons to release
the magic of retirement

over and over again.
The mystery smells like
summer, the possibilities
taste like honey.

Reality interferes, but
as often as possible, I reopen
that sweet gift and breathe in
the future.

3WW: Loud Persuasive Riches

Another Bad Decision

She put her hand up and asked
in a loud voice, “Are you a science
teacher?” I shook my head no.
“Well, maybe you can answer
this question, anyway. If you

stick you finger in your nose
to scratch it, is it still considered
picking?” That was the last straw.
“Please leave detention.” I said
in a persuasive tone. She’d been

tapping her pencil, banging her keys
on the desk, complaining about
being bored. “Fuck that, I’m
not going to the office.” She mumbled
on her way out the door. She’s a beautiful

girl with onyx eyes and a soft complexion.
She’s smart and witty with riches
she doesn’t even know she has. The others
were quiet after she left. The room became
a vacuum. I wish I knew her better.

Nearly for Sunday Scribblings

Nearly

It’s 17 degrees right now.
Our valley is a bathtub
of sun and father winter
put a fan in the window

blowing icy air all around.
I hung my sheets
on the back porch clothesline,
anyway. All morning

I’ve been watching them
tango, first stiff-legged
but gradually bending
in soft dips and whirls.

They’re nearly dry. Soon,
I’ll carry all that freshness
upstairs and make my bed
with sun and wind.

Sarcastic for One Single Impression

We were watching Julia Stiles
as Katarina and Heath Ledger
as Patrick Verona in 10
Things I Hate About You.

Patrick says to Kat, “I
bet you’ve thought about
me naked.” She deadpans,
“I want you, I need you,

oh, baby, oh, baby.” My
husband and I cracked up,
our laughter flying out of
our eyes and settling over

us like a warm quilt. This
morning, he came downstairs
where I was trying to write
a poem and made a suggestion

for something else I could be
doing. That little smile,
that come-on twinkle. I glanced
up from my computer, said

in a flat voice, “I want you,
I need you, oh, baby, oh, baby.”
His laughter floated to me
on the scent of the coffee

he was making. When it was
ready, he carried a cup
in to me. I sipped it slowly.
It filled me with joy.

Sunday Scribblings: Big & Writer's Island: Tribute

Big Move

This weekend
we have to divide
my mom’s possessions.

The creativity
of her braided rugs,
the work ethic
of her refinished furniture,
the perseverance
of her cross-stitched
pictures,
the lightness and joy
of her delicate
pastel champagne glasses.

From the whole
to the scattered.
A star exploding,
raining down
her goodness
all over the map.

I spray lemon Pledge
on her dining room
table one last time
and polish it
until it shines.

Big Tent Poetry Wordle

He started by running his finger
along her thigh
to make her gasp.

By that time she was awake
and knew there was no way
she could slip out of bed.

She rolled over and saw
the question
in his boyish eyes.

What other way is there
to quench the flame?
She nodded her tangled head

ready to defy
the alarm’s insistent buzz.
The sunrise was a parade

of smiles. She reached out
turned off the alarm,
got up. Just a typical morning.

3WW: Affinity, Fidget, Mention-Cascade Poem

Kylie and I went to the movies
and because she has an affinity for chocolate,
I bought her a box of Sno Caps.

We sat in the unnatural moon shine
of the screen munching, munching.
Did I mention Kylie and I went to the movies?

When we got home, she asked if she could eat
the remainder of the Sno Caps
because she has an affinity for chocolate.

Without thinking about how much she’d already had,
I said yes. When we got in bed all she did was fidget.
I so regret that I bought her a box of Sno Caps.

3WW: Figure, Juicy, Stress

We stopped at Juicy Lucy’s
for hamburgers
on our way to the boat.

I ate mine knowing I was adding
to my figure.
It’s so hard to say no.

So, I just go along
even when I don’t want to,
even when it causes me stress.

I could have ordered a salad.
I should have. Next time I will.
Really. The ketchup squeezes

out and the meat dances
with my tongue. Jimmy Buffett
sings on the radio,

the sun tiptoes across the ocean,
the boat bobs, waiting.
My husband grins

and I grin back then reach over
and wipe away a speck
of mustard from his smile.

3WW: Abrasive, Handful, Loss

Abrasive meeting after school
Late to get home
Husband follows right after
Loss of me time

What for supper?
Something quick
Old stand-by
Cream of mushroom soup

with tuna on toast
We sit in the warming house
eating on TV trays
Remember leaner years

Usually broke
always happy
Kids chatting about their day
Teasing, laughing,

whining, glowing
We're alone now
Husband glances over
Says, “I love you”

Smiles, goes back to eating
mushrooms and tuna
and a handful
of memories.

3WW: descent, kill, surreal

My feet were killing me
in those white high heels.

The descent seemed too steep
and perilous for my inexperienced

feet. But I held onto the railing
took a deep breath, and started down

while you waited with the minister
in the living room, a confident smile

on your face, the sun flaring over you
creating a surreal atmosphere.

Blinded, I tripped on the last step;
you rushed over, picked me up,

straightened my tiny veil,
and carried me into the brightness.

Walk in the Park for Sunday Scribblings

Coincidentally, I heard that phrase Thursday afternoon.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Dentist's chair
all bibbed
he walks in
says,

“The two repairs
we're doing today
will be a walk
in the park.”

Phew! No pain.
Two sticks
sticking out
of my mouth

numbing
the needle sites.
First shot
in the font.

Ow! It goes on
and on.
A tear runs down
my cheek,

Second shot
in a fattier area
muscles tight
he pulls

and pulls
my cheek
for thirty
seconds.

While the Novocain
works on that one
he fixes
the first

“Is the second one
numb yet?” “No.”
Another shot.
drill,suction, air

drool, hanging thing.
When I leave I go
for a real walk
in the park.

Calmed for One Single Impression

Calmed

The waves are tiny
just six-inch slats
moving slowly
along the sand

I escaped the land-locked
mountains and stand
on the beach
breathing peace

Each sea gull
is freedom
each shell
is abundance

The salt kisses my lungs
Driftwood is my soul
My footprints
scream I am alive