Sunday Scribblings: Big Dreams

Someone took a crayon
and colored the tree limbs
white

then placed cotton batting
on all the roofs,

covered the telephone wires
with toothpaste

and dressed the sky
in a gray fleece.

I close my eyes
and see our home in Florida.

I'm sitting on the porch
writing this poem

as the rising sun washes
over my feet

and inches up my legs.
I open my eyes,

see chunks of snow
beginning to fall

from tree limbs,
put on my jacket

grab a shovel,
and start clearing a path.

3WW: Occur, Ragged, Tidy

Ragged winter trees.

Brushes tidying the sky.

When will spring occur?

One Single Impression: A Sunny Day

Every chimney in town
is puffing away
this Saturday morning.

It’s -8 degrees F.
Mt. Forist is a frozen
gray elephant

sleeping in front
of my face.
Then the sun hits

it smack on the head
like an egg
splashing into it.

I watch the yolk
slowly spread
over its hide

down, down
until it’s flowing
into my living room.

I scoop it up
with the spoon
of my imagination

and pour it
into a poem.
Time for an omelette.

Suday Scribblings: Extreme

We had a sunny day
today
for the first time
this year.

At noon I went
for a walk
in the ten degree
temps.

The streets were salty
slushy
and the wind was
a slap

I clicked a few
pictures
of snow-covered
mountains

hunching under
the blue
blanket of sky.
When my

legs turned numb
and tears
slid down my cheeks
like kids

sledding down a hill,
I hurried
home to the smell
of baked

bread and my husband
waiting
for me with his warm arms
wide open.

Lithe, Grave, Offend for 3WW

The lithe snowflakes twirl
in the sad, offending wind~
I fall on his grave.

Crushed Red Flowers

Poem inspired by "Cold Poem" by Mary Oliver
for Poem: A Virtual Poetry Group
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Crushed Red Flowers

A blanket of winter
settles over us
after supper.

Him in his recliner
and me in mine,
two boulders
sitting in the snowflakes
of television babble
and computer clicks.

“Do you want to watch
Wings with me?”
He holds out this bouquet
but I’m in the middle
of writing a poem.
“Maybe later.”

I sit in the little sunshine
of my creativity,
fingers playing
hopscotch on the keys.

He punches buttons
on the remote,
finds the Outdoor
Channel,
and watches hunting
in Alaska,
grown men chasing,
gunning down,
and killing
deer.
The blood splotches
are crushed rose
petals.

“Are you ready
for Wings yet?”
But I still want to post
the poem
on my blog,
meander down
the path
of other people’s
poetry,
and make comments
about their writing
so I shake my head.

“Well, I’m heading
upstairs, then.”
He drags the frozen
quilt with him.

I turn off the TV.
The leftover snow
melts
as I type away.