Sunday, January 19, 2014

Sunday Whirl: Toes and Basil

twine, conjure, nest,
carry, spirits, bend
through, curl, trinkets,
neglect, cap, back, sigh

Toes and Basil

I can't neglect
the sun as it curls
and twines and bends
through the basil.

I carry my camera
outside and sit
in a nest of gold doubloons
feeling rich.

I remove my lens cap,
focus on my toes,
conjure the photography
spirits, and click,

click, click, this way,
that way, near, far,
hoping to catch
bokeh trinkets.

I hear the door open
then my husband
rubs his hand
across my back.

"I didn't know where
you were. Aren't you
going to watch
the car auction with me?"

I glance at the light,
sigh, then head back
inside. He smiles
his own sun at me.

Sunday, January 12, 2014

Sunday Whirl: At Ponce de Leon Park

At Ponce de Leon Park

The ocean is a lifeless pool today,
the horizon a straight line.

I'm sitting on a bench with my notebook,
a pen, and my camera.

First I snap a photo of the water
a palm tree, and two empty

beach chairs. Then I open
my notebook and begin to write

about the scene, wondering
what it illuminates about my life.

My husband is away for a few days
and I'm loving the solitude.

His side of the bed is a cool prairie
of quiet. The TV remote is mine.

I eat when and what I want.
The toilet seat stays down.

One lonely sailboat slides by,
a triangle of remote longing.

But, for what? There is no answer,
only stormy ripples of haunting

need that litter the calm.
What price am I willing to pay?

I put my pen down, pick up
my camera, take another picture,

then just sit and contemplate
the quiet, the aloneness, the me.

Sunday, January 5, 2014

Sunday Whirl: Doing Laundry

The sky behind my clothesline
is a bride's "something blue"
on this January day in Florida.

The clouds are her veil. I shake
a scarlet shirt to get the wrinkles
out then squeeze a clothespin

to the bottom edge, first one side
then the other. Next comes a pair
of dungarees, midnight blue. There

is a bit of a breeze, silent music,
to which they waltz. It's been years
since I was a bride, years and years

of hanging laundry to dry, caressing
that fresh, sunny, Downy proof
of feeling stuck. You might expect

this poem to be maudlin, a wordy
whine, but, I'll spare you because
the day is too lovely. I pick up his shorts

and hang them next to my panties.
I'm struck by how this simple act saves me.
They shimmy next to each other all day.
Linda's Poems