Wednesday, September 21, 2011

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.

Sunday, September 18, 2011

Betrayal for One Single Impression


The wind takes my breath
and flings it down the beach
out of reach
one breath
after another
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.

Sunday, September 11, 2011

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.

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

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.
Linda's Poems