Day 30: Leftovers

From everyone......
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Leftovers

I'm writing a poem for the thirtieth morning in a row.
The first morning I sat in bed all cozy comfy
but that woke Gary up. The second morning
I sat in my recliner with my feet raised while the sun

smeared the room with butter. I wrote about that.
The next day I went out on the porch and have been
here ever since. I won't bore you with another sun
description or what the breeze feels like on my bare

shoulders. Instead, I'll write about....well, I don't know.
Sherrie's remaining word is Timeless. It's a beautiful word
like these moments of solitude. Dayle suggested Seasons
and I think she meant the seasons of life. Like Bob's

winter occurring in spring. Anne gave me a mouthful
of words: Sunrise, Sunset, Surviving, Coping, Hoping,
Retirement, Dreams, Baby, Birth, Luck, Weekend,
Tides, Waves, Freedom. They braided themselves

into most of my thirty poems. Like the long braid my mom
saved after my first haircut. Years later I lent it to Anne
and she incorporated it into her own hair on Prom night.
Gina passed along Friends, Peace, and Community.

Those ideas are in just about everything I write.
So, even if I didn't single any one of these words out,
they were with me. Each morning I took them out,
held them in the palm of my mind, burnished them

until they outshone the sun, then tucked them away
in my heart's pocket. They waited patiently for the right
moment to burst free. Today I released them
to cavort like dolphins in the ocean of my words.

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.

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.

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.

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: Whimsy

Whimsy

My friend, Dorothy, has moved into
her father's old house
and has chosen

the word “whimsy” to describe
the back sun porch
decorated

with pink and green quilts and stones
and chimes and plants. But,
really, it describes

The whole house. The hallway
is turquoise and has
a phone niche

in which rests a turquoise phone.
The living room rug is
orange with

matching grout between the stones
of the fireplace. The kitchen
is bright pink.

Upstairs, next to the master bedroom
is a tiny room filled
with magic.

From floor to ceiling are drawers
containing treasures
collected from

around the world by her father. This
is where Dorothy now sits
in the morning

with a cup of coffee to contemplate
her life and write in
her journal

and let the whimsies that surround
her keep her young
and playful.

NaPoWriMo: Hero

Not her struggle
to overcome abuse

Not her dignity
during the divorce

Not her survival
after he cut her off

Not her determination
and positive attitude

Not her loyalty to me
by writing letters

No, none of those
make her my hero

the way her daughters
always come first

is like a medal
pinned to her heart.

NaPoWriMo #3: Fear

Kathy and I are playing in the Red,
White, and Blue caves
on Mt. Forist. We’ve named

them that because there are three
of them. We play house in one,
school in another, and eat our lunch

in the third. Before leaving
we do a little exploring
and I notice a slim passageway

like a flat snake leading out.
Kathy’s too big so I start slithering
through. There are rocks

in the way that I bend my body
around. It smells like dirty feet,
skunk urine, and rotten hamburger.

The tunnel gets narrower,
my head scrapes against the rock
above and the ground below.

I decide to retreat, start backing up
but get snagged on a rock. I try
going forward, again. Nope.

My chest swells like an air mattress
being blown up. I can’t breathe.
Confetti is waltzing in front

of my eyes. The cave is shifting
and falling in on me. There is no way
out. I scream, taste salt and dirt,

then hear Kathy’s voice at the end,
open my eyes and see daylight
just around the curve. “You can

make it.” I begin to deflate, wiggle
my head and body to make them fit,
and claw my way out. Kathy

saved my life that day. Whenever
I get an attack of claustrophobia, now,
I picture her face, like a full moon

bathed in morning light, smiling
and encouraging at the end
of the tunnel.

Sunday Scribblings: Dare

It's crazy hectic this week with holidays, travel plans, and school (We have to go through Wed.!) so I'm reposting a poem from two years ago that I wrote for 3WW.
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It was Kathy’s idea.
I was two years younger
so she was the thinker
and I was the doer.

On our way home
from grammar school
one day
she challenged me
to run
right in front
of a moving train.

It was a warm
September afternoon
and the sun
was a shawl
on our shoulders
as we waited
for the St. Lawrence
and Atlantic Railroad
to make it’s
slice through
our neighborhood.

We competed
like tightrope walkers
to see who could walk
the farthest
on the rails
until
vibration
shimmied
through our feet
alerting us to the arrival
of the train.

I waited
waited
waited
until that engine
grew bigger
and bigger
then I dashed
across
the ties
and tracks.

Oil
coal
sweat
black

An extra moment’s
pause
and I would have met
icy death.

Afterwards, we continued
home, our shadows
walking ahead of us
and I wondered
when had mine grown
longer than hers?

Descent for One Single Impression

My husband's best friend fell off a roof this morning. He's in critical condition being transported by ambulance to a decent hospital 2 hours away. He's not breathing on his own, has bleeding in his brain, and various broken bones. Please send healing thoughts his way and to whatever deity you believe in. Thanks!
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Descent

The roof was metal
that you slipped
off of.

The driveway was tar
that you landed on.

What thoughts
went through your brain
as you fell

before there were no
more thoughts?

Thirst for One Single Impression

The Thirst to Fit In

The Beatles
are singing,
“I Want to Hold
Your Hand”

on Anita’s record
player. I’m sitting
in her kitchen
with ice cubes

on my ears.
As she pushes
a darning needle
through each one,

I hear the crunch
of cartilage.
She inserts
the tiny gold studs

then hands me
a mirror.
I see the beginnings
of conformity

sitting like birds’
eggs in the nest
of my lobes. Curls
frame my face

as unfashionably
as ever, though.
“Hey, you wanna iron
my hair now?”

NaPoWriMo Day 19: Friendship

I breathe a sigh,
pack my book bag,
and head home
after a day of teaching.

When I get home,
I wait for footsteps
on the front porch:
mailman!

I lift the top
of the mailbox
and sunshine
glows out;

there is a letter
from my friend.
I carefully slit
the envelope

then sit in a warm
breeze of friendship.
There are stickers
and pictures

and poems and words
about the simple,
and frustrating, and joys,
and worries.

The best part
is our own acronym
at the end:
TFBMF.

(Thanks for being
my friend)

NaPoWriMo Day 10: The rock Queens

The Rock Queens

Michelle 9 in her horse T-shirt
Tori 8 in pink ruffled tank
bored
decided to sell rocks
one day
at camp.

They gathered them
from the neighbors’
gravel driveway,

made an Open sign
and another
with prices,

then stood there
with their purses
and smiles
as people walked by.

Who could resist?
Everyone got such a kick
out of them.

Even the neighbors
bought a couple
of their own
rocks back.

They made $23!

Such imaginations
and entrepreneurship.

Now, as they become teenagers
will they display these qualities
or will they be hidden
behind sulky faces
drained through cell phones
and ipods?

Will they ever
be this young
and old
again?

Ghost for Sunday Scribblings

Our ghost was a friendly one. We bought the house from is widow. He was also our friend before his untimely death.
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Red

His name was Ron
and he had fiery red hair.

He’d visit us
at unexpected moments.

In the middle
of the night

our bedroom door
would open

and my husband
would say,

“Ron, get the hell
out of here.”

Some days I’d
get home from school

and the back door
would be wide open

and I’d know
Ron had been there.

He died on a motorcycle
when he was twenty,

a bike he’d been
working on

in the cellar
of what became our future home.

I think he was pleased
to see how happy we were there

and wanted
to be part of our lives.

I put touches of red
in all the rooms.

Oldest Friend for Sunday Scribblings

Anita and I became friends in kindergarten back in 1954. She lives in Florida, now, so I don't get to see her very often. Last September she came up to NH to visit her parents and we made plans for me to visit her after school.

As it turns out, I now live in the house I grew up in and my mom stays with us for 6 weeks in the fall so the following was like deja vu.
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A warm September afternoon.
I get home from school,
change into red shorts
and a white shirt,
tell my mom I’m going
to Anita’s

and walk down the street
to her house,
knock on the door
and sit at the kitchen
table chatting
with her and her mom.

We went through
this after-school ritual
for years
during the sixties
and here we are today
doing the same thing.

We talk about boys
(our husbands and sons, now)
and gossip about
school friends,
complain about homework
(now called housework)

and reminisce while the clock,
still above the washer and dryer,
slowly ticks to late
afternoon when I have
to say goodbye
and walk back home.

The sun is just melting
behind the elephant head
of Mt. Forist. Shadows
inch imperceptibly down
the street and I walk
into them.

Cowbird for TOP

Sadly, this is a true story about people I know. If you've read the two poems I wrote about a baby, here and here, you'll recognize the character in this poem as the mother of the boy who fathered the baby.
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Marijuana was her child,
Obscuring her duties to her children.
Thinking only of herself, she left them with their father.
He tried his best to be both parents.
Eventually, the boys became drug addicts.
Rivers of neglect never stop flowing.
?She hangs her head, now, shoulders slumped like a question mark.

Day 13 and ReadWritePoem

The prompt this week was to speak for those who cannot speak for themselves. This is a follow-up poem of one I wrote a while back. You can check it out here:
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Morning Smiles

The day enters
my eyes first
then my tummy
tells me it’s time to cry.

But where is mommy?
Why doesn’t she wake up?
My diaper is wet.
I stop crying
and put my thumb
in my mouth
but it isn’t like a bottle.

Now I can hear mom
and dad sleeping
in the bed near my crib.

I cry some more
and finally mom
opens her eyes.
I start smiling
and waving my arms
but she doesn’t pick me up.

Instead she takes
a long shiny sharp
thing and puts it in her
arm. I wait.

She leaves the room
then comes back.
She props the bottle
up for me and goes
back to bed.

I can see her smiling
but not at me.

Day 9 NaPoWriMo and 3WW

funny remember theater
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It started with the gigantic crash
of a chandelier. Jeweled light
reflecting everywhere
and music filling every space.

My friend, her mom,
and I were at the Wang Theater
in Boston viewing
Phantom of the Opera.
The costumes were great
and the acting impeccable.

But what I remember most
is my friend’s mom
singing out loud
to all the songs.

Heads swiveled,
eyes became daggers,
throats were cleared.

But she kept right on singing,
her face a happy moon
her head tilting from
one side to the other.

It wasn’t a funny play
but I could feel a little
volcano trying to erupt
in my chest.

I covered my mouth
to hide my smile,
coughed to disguise
the sound of laughter
bursting from my throat,
and had to run
to the restroom
and use toilet paper
to wipe the tears
from my cheeks.

After the intermission
and a stern reprimand
from her daughter,
she toned it down
to just a low humming.

That’s all I remember
about my trip to the big city
and a real stage production:
a crash,
unbridled joy,
and laughter.

3WW for Nov 14: Icy, Train, Pause

3WW for November 14

icy train pause

I woke up at 1:30 last night and couldn't get back to sleep because the idea for this poem was like a freight train in my brain. I finally got up and wrote it before going back to bed and falling asleep 2 hours before I had to get up to go to school.
-------------------------------
"Hey, Linda, Let's..."

It was Kathy’s idea.
I was two years younger
so she was the thinker
and I was the doer.

On our way home
from grammar school
one day
she challenged me
to run
right in front
of a moving train.

It was a warm
September afternoon
and the sun
was a shawl
on our shoulders
as we waited
for the St. Lawrence
and Atlantic Railroad
to make it’s
slice through
our neighborhood.

We competed
like tightrope walkers
to see who could walk
the farthest
on the rails
until
vibration
shimmied
through our feet
alerting us to the arrival
of the train.

I waited
waited
waited
until that engine
grew bigger
and bigger
then I dashed
across
the ties
and tracks.

Oil
coal
sweat
black

An extra moment’s
pauseand I would have met
icy death.

Afterwards, we continued
home, our shadows
walking ahead of us
and I wondered
when had mine grown
longer than hers?

~Linda Jacobs
November 16, 2007