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

December for Sunday Scribblings, Stillness for One Single Impression

December Stillness

I wake up early
and cleave my way
through the thick,
black morning

on this, one of the shortest
days of the year.
I glance outside
and the street light

illuminates the fresh
inch of snow we received
during the night.
I have laundry to do,

gifts to wrap,
a floor to wash,
papers to correct.
But, I sit

in my La Z Boy
and watch the neighbor's
chimney breathe.
I glance up

at the white bread
of the sky. I glance
down at the white
bread of the snow.

Then just sit
in the still sandwich
of a December
dawn.

3WW: Feign, Imply, Virtue

A woman is walking
her little black dog
in the drizzle
on this gray morning.

The 8:30 Amtrak Downeaster
whizzes by in the distance
taking commuters
to their workday in Boston.

I’m sitting on the couch
in my bathrobe
watching Andy Roddick
feign the direction

of his shot on this third
day of play at Wimbledon.
How lucky I am,
by virtue of summer vacation,

to be lazy in the middle
of the week. Soon, I’ll make
bacon and eggs for breakfast
while my husband

imp(ish)ly tries to cop a feel.
We’ll giggle as I swat
his hands away then, leisurely,
we’ll sip the pleasures of the day.

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.

Beauty for Sunday Scribblings

Beauty

It’s early Sunday morning
and every window
I look out of
is filled with golden
sunshine.

The forehead
of the house across
the street
is shiny and creased
by the shadow
of tree limbs.

The white birches
on Mt. Forist
are lifting their arms
like they’re taking
a shower in the spray
of the sun.

My off-white curtains
form a triangular
frame for the blue sky
peeking in through
the cedar branches.

And I’m sitting here,
in my navy blue
flannel pajamas,
the ones with stars
and crescent moons,
like the one I saw
last night,
sipping these bits
of beauty
one window
at a time.

Poetry Train: Essay

Essay

Weekends are parentheses

(I get up late,
wear pj’s all morning,
play games on the computer,
check email posts,
putter around the house,
have a glass of wine
in the middle
of the afternoon,
write poems)

in the paragraphs of my life.

Bump in the Night for Sunday Scribblings

Okay, this isn't really a bump-in-the-night story but it's all I've got today, and, really, the end of the summer season is scary to me!
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My Bump in the Night

The air smells
like sun-dried laundry
and sounds
like children's prayers

hopeful and true
on this Saturday
in October.
Gary's boat

is out of the water
and we'll be closing
camp on Monday.
I'm at the beach

taking photographs
of the sky
and ocean. The sun
waves its wand

here and there
highlighting the pier,
red maple leaves,
a lighthouse on a point.

Birds are flocking
and skimming
over the water
and I'm catching

it all in my lens.
It's high tide
and the waves spread
on the sand like snow.

Homework for TOP

All day
I breathe in
the alphabet soup
of school air

so when I walk
outside at the end
of the day
and see a fresh
couple inches
of snow,
I’m thrilled.

I get home
and change
into warm clothes
then grab
my shovel
and scrape
the driveway.

One strip
after another
the driveway
turns from white
to black

One strip
after another
the snowfall
of pressure
disappears.

I take deep breaths,
hold them
in my lungs,
work up
a little sweat,
and erase
my day.

Weather for TOP

I hear the Morse Code
of raindrops
on the roof
of our camper

tapping out a secret
message. To my husband
it says, “No fishing for you!”
To vacationers

here on the coast of Maine
it says, “Too bad you spent
all that money for this.”
But to me it says,

“Time to curl up
with Bel Canto and read,
time to write a poem,
time to sip a glass

of merlot and feel
the velvet spread
like the fog draping
the trees in gossamer.

3WW: Sweet, Yearn, Collapse

My brain has been on vacation! Sometimes I just need a break. Here's a little cinquain.


When I Yearn

Barefoot
I walk along
the mirror of low tide.
The problems of my day collapse.
Sweet peace.

NaPoWriMo Day 24: Listen

I wrote this at the Unity Street Park
overlooking the river.
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The Androscoggin River
in high spring exuberance
laughing and gurgling
and schussing
drowns out the cars
going by like toys,
and the jet
unzipping the blue
sweater of the sky,
and the humming
of the leaf buds
fat and bursting,
and the dying groans
of goldenrod
skeletons.

The world is a pantomime,
my ears full of raging water.

NaPoWriMo day 9: Paradise

Paradise

I’m sitting in the woods
sketching a burl.
I feel the breeze
on my neck soft

like my husband’s hand
as we fell asleep
in Hawaii
with the sound
of waves rushing
onto the sand
and the wind,
that had come
all the way from China,
puffing the curtains
and brushing
butterfly kisses
on our faces.

This is paradise,
being alone in the woods.

When it’s time to leave
I walk back out
through coins
of sunlight,
picking them up
and putting them
in my pocket.

Celebrate for Sunday Scribblings

I’m celebrating Saturday,
melting snow,
my husband going
to the IGA with me,
not having a cold anymore,
the smell of warm clothes
just out of the dryer,
listening to a show
featuring music by The Doors,
(“Come on baby light my fire”)
keeping up with NaPoWriMo,
(This is actually my second poem today!)
April,
no rain,
a letter from a friend,
ham, green pepper, and cheese omelet,
cutting a lilac branch
and putting it in water to force,
Planters Cocktail Peanuts with sea salt,
a cocktail,
crafting,
a good book,
blogs,
life.

Poetry Train: The End of the Day

I wrote this during block 4's journal writing a week and a half ago. The topic was: the end of the day

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The End of the Day

Settles like a deflated balloon
around the ankles
of the night

and I kick it
out of the way
into the corner

of used time.
Then I get into
my waterbed

and read for a bit
until I feel
the weight

of my eyes
sagging into
sleep.

Poetry Train #13: Walking

When my husband
gets home
from his logging job
he blabs and blabs
on and on
about the big pine trees
and the deer he sees

and when I’m full
to the top
of my head
with his sentences
I get dressed
and head outside
for a walk.

As I go up Hinchey Street
those words
begin to unlock
and slide down
through my body
and I leave them
in my footprints.

By the time
I get to the top
of Sixth Avenue
the fresh air
has room
to spread out
in my mind.

I notice the stars
like chalk
on the blackboard
of the sky.

I see the lights
of Berlin
laid out on black
velvet.

I breathe…
I breathe…

My thoughts
lay back
and relax
in the hammock
of my brain
and the moon
throws
a soft white afghan
over them.

Cadence Humble Resolve for 3WW

The Cadence of 5pm

The garish sun
is humbled by the mountains.
The pace
of day
slows to
an Enya tune.
I resolve to relax
into the lavender
fleece of evening.

The Night

For Sunday Scribblings. Okay, this isn't technically night but any time after school feels like night to me.
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It’s Five O’clock in the Afternoon

And the day becomes velvet.
The slippery silk of day
softens into a merlot twilight.

I change from school clothes
into my pajamas,
the navy blue ones with stars and moons.
Then I slip my feet into puffy slippers
and go downstairs to putter.

I move slowly through
the thick after-school air,
let it buoy me as I bump
against its soft edges.

A little cooking
A little reading
and a glass of wine.

Five o’clock embraces
me in its flannel arms.

The Sound of Solitude

TOP for January 10, 2008: In the Ear

Just a little cinquain about this moment.

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The Sound of Solitude

Silence
computer hum
keys clicking as I blog.
Boots bang on back stairs, peace over,
he’s home.

Now and Then

Sunday Scribblings December 30, 2007
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Then and Now

In 1980
we unplugged
our TV
and put it in the closet.

Suddenly, our home
was alive
with human interaction.
We played cards,
read books,
talked,
swung,
rode bikes,
laughed.

No more electric
waves piercing
us with arrows
of poisoned
programming.

No more stupefied
kids sitting
with thumbs
in their mouths,
blank looks
on their faces,
cotton batting
in their brains.

Tonight, I’m sitting
here in the living
room with my laptop
open; my husband
is watching
Combat Zoneon the Military Channel.

Our home is filled
to bursting
with canned words
and music
leaving no space
for us.

We haven’t spoken
in two hours.

All I hear is the pt pt pt
of a machine gun
shooting bullets
right through the screen.