Trees

for ReadWritePoem march 17, 2008
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White Birch Tree

I am a prom queen
in a slinky
little white number
waiting
for the wind
to ask me to dance.

I am a bride
in a white negligee
just waiting
to be peeled
layer
by layer.

I am an Eskimo
in a white parka.
Snow softly lands
in my hair.

I’m a sunbather
in a one-piece
white bathing suit
stretching my arms
over my head.

I am a nurse
in a white uniform.
My leaves drop
like pills
regenerating the earth.

I am a poem
producing
my own white paper.
See that girl
carving a heart
on me?
She has healing
slash marks
on her wrists.

Smorgasbord

for Sunday Scribblings March 16, 2008
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By the time I get home
from school,
I’m hungry.

First I change
into jeans
and a sweatshirt

then I turn
on my computer
and begin to eat.

I nibble
on a few email
appetizers

take a sip
of wine
at my own blog

then peruse
the array
of entrees.

I pick up a few
exotic tidbits
at Writers’ Island.

At Poem:
A Virtual Poetry Group
I find meat to chew on.

I munch on three
wordy veggies
at 3 Word Wednesday

and try
the casseroles
at Totally Optional Prompts.

For dessert
I still have some sweet
puddings left at Sunday Scribblings.

Sated, I click
to Word and begin
cooking my own poem.

Rising

for Writers' Island March 11, 2008
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The corner store
ran out of the homemade
wheat bread
that my husband likes
so I decided
to make a loaf
for him.

I got a big bowl
out, the beige one
with the blue stripes
around the outside.
I added whole wheat
flour, sugar, salt,
yeast, honey, olive oil,
and water just warm
enough to feel warm.

I washed my hands,
took off my wedding
rings, and dove in,
mixing that gooey mess
until it was dough.

Then I floured
my counter top
and kneaded
and kneaded
that living heart
turning it into satin.

I took a clean
dishtowel and draped
it over
to let it rise
in the warm, humid
kitchen.

After an hour
I punched it down,
rolled it to fit
the loaf pan,
covered it again,
and let it rise
a second time.

When it crowned,
I put it in the oven.
There it rose
a third time
and turned golden,
its scent
permeating
our whole house,
our whole lives.

I sliced it
while it was still
hot and we
ate it,
butter
melting down
our chins.

Dreams

for ReadWritePoem March 10, 2008

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I waited
through the fog
of Mrs. Landrigan’s
grammar lesson
then asked
if I could talk
to Norm
about my senior project
on dreams.

As I walked
to his desk
I saw
the sun
break through
like egg yolk
and dribble down
Mt. Washington
in the distance.

“So, what did you dream
about last night?”
I asked him
loud enough for the teacher
to hear.

In whispers
soft as pussy willows
he asked me
about my sister,
whom he wanted to date

and I wondered
if Mike
his best friend,
had asked about me.

I told him
that Nancy had drawn
a heart
on her notebook
with his initials
in it.

He told me
that Mike
was hoping
I’d be at the dance
on Friday night.

Mrs. Landrigan eyed
us so Norm
started weaving
a gauzy tale.
The sun
moved onto the desk
and lit up
the dust motes
of our dreams.

Experimental

Sunday Scribblings March 9, 2008
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His first plane
was an ultralight
that had two seats
so was considered
experimental.

I insisted
it be a two-seater
so we could go
together.

We certainly
couldn’t afford it
but I couldn’t afford
to object.

On weekends
we’d go to the airport,
belt ourselves in
and take off.

People became dolls,
cars and trucks
were Hot Wheels,
the forest
a shag carpet.

We needed a new car,
money for bills,
a new furnace.

But, as we skimmed
through the silk air
and sat like royalty
in our seats,
legs dangling,

he’d reach across
the controls,
grab my hand,
and smile,

the wind
ballooning his cheeks,
the whole sky
in his eyes.

Pantoum

for ReadWritePoem March 3, 2008


She sits alone in her rocking chair behind lace curtains
rewinding the movie of her life.
She remembers hanging those curtains
when her husband was alive to help her.

The movie of her life unspools around her
like a ball of yarn.
When her husband was alive
Their lives were so happy and perfect.

But now the ball of yarn has unraveled
and only memories remain
of a life so happy and perfect.
A tear slides down her face as she watches the ending of the movie.

Now only memories remain
of hanging a life with her husband’s help.
She cries as she watches the ending of the movie
while sitting alone in her rocking chair behind lace curtains.

Message

for Totally Optional Prompts February 28, 2008

This is diffferent for me. About a month and a half ago my brother-in-law asked me to write the lyrics to a song for my mom's 82nd birthday. Then he'd put it to music. I almost never rhyme so this was a challenge but I managed to come up with the following.

My mom's name is Fleurette which means "Little Flower" so I knew I wanted to use that idea in the lyrics.

I really suck at titles so let my brother-in-law name it.
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Our Flower

VERSE
We want to write a song
about how great a mom you’ve been
We want to mention all the things
you’ve done again and again
We search our mind for memories
of you throughout the years
And there are just so many.
Some bring smiles and some bring tears.

VERSE
We see you sewing in the night
and braiding hair and rugs
Cooking meals and cleaning
and always there with hugs
You slowly knit us sweaters
after we were tucked in bed.
You always put yourself last
and did for us instead.

CHORUS
You made our lives a garden
giving us a loving start.
You may be a “little flower”
but you’ve got a big, big heart.

VERSE
We see you beating us at cards
and winning at the slots,
Playing golf, and bowling,
and washing tons of pots.
And when the days got cloudy
and cancer tried to win
We see you fighting bravely
and never giving in.

BRIDGE
We grew in sunshine
and in rain from above
We grew tall and straight
because of your love.

CHORUS
You made our lives a garden
giving us a loving start.
You may be a “little flower”
but you’ve got a big, big heart.