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 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.

Sunday Whirl

I think I've chosen
my word for the new year.

It's been slipping softly
into my thoughts

for the last few weeks
tinting each day with smiles.

I thought it would blast
into my life and slap me

in the face with its importance
while shouting how integral

it would be to how I live.
But, no, it was just a tiny

tincture dropped into my daily
living where it spread

into every crevice until
it became a map

to the answer of why
I've been so glum.

At the beach I found
a white feather by chance

and wrote my word
in the sand making

it official. Then, I took
a picture of it. Now,

it's mine. When I write
I synchronize the ups

and downs creating
balance so I don't tip

over into self-loathing.
Today, I'll print

my word, frame it,
and place it on my desk.

It will sit there
a quiet sunrise.

Finale for the Last Sunday Scribblings

Finale

Palm trees are sweeping
the clouds up
into piles of spilled sugar.

My husband is sitting
on the porch
listening to music

and drinking a beer.
It's 84 degrees
on this last Sunday

before Christmas.
I'm sitting inside
in the air conditioning

playing on my iPad,
trying to come up with
a poem about endings.

I see the colored lights
we have strung
along our roofline.

We'll be putting them
away soon. I see the wreath
I added sand dollars

and shells to. It will go back
in its box and slid
under the guest room bed.

I see the poinsettia
in the middle of white
petunias. I'll replace it

with something else
as soon as the holidays
are over. My husband

just finished one beer
and came in the house
to get another one,

music breezing in with him.
I go back to looking
out the window.

The palms are still cleaning
the sky. I'm still
writing this poem.

I hate to stop
because as soon as I leave
the link to it

on the Sunday Scribblings
site, that part
of my Sunday will be over.

I swallow the little lump in my throat
and, and, and...
put a period right here.

The End

The End

I check
the mail,
see an envelope
from my sister,
and know it's the end.

I wait
to open it,
drive to the beach,
get settled,
then slit it open.

A check
with my mom's name
in the corner:
Fleurette G. Ryan
and her last

address: Sterling
Assisted Living.
She didn't die there;
that was hospice.
Still....

I fold
the check
and slip it back
in the envelope.
Once all four

are cashed,
Nancy will close
the account.
End
of an era.

End of playing
cards and sipping
wine in the late
afternoon
sun.

End of watching
her enjoying
lobster, melted
butter shining
on her chin.

End of sweet
conversations
while driving
to the cemetery
to place

flowers
on my dad's grave.
End of trips
to Foxwoods.
End of winning.

It's warm
at the beach
but goosebumps
spring up
on my arms.

Open the Box

Thursday 2/16/06 Block 3

Open the Box

I don't dare.
Not yet.
The ribbons
are still tied
with a red bow.

But, that color
is a hint
I've let slip out
because sometimes
the life
inside the box
is too big
and alive to remain
cooped up.

It's like a pan
of boiling potatoes.
If you don't crack
the cover
and let some of the steam
out, it'll overflow
the sides
and make a big mess.

I'm not ready
for the mess
untying those ribbons
will....

well, maybe
I'll start pulling
just a little bit....

Stranger

Tuesday 2/7/06 Block 2

Stranger

When my husband
looks at me,
he sees a wife
making his supper,
putting his next day's lunch
together, bringing him cookies
and milk for dessert.

What he doesn't see
is what my mind is doing
all that time.
I'm in a house
by the sea,
living alone,
making myself an omelette
just the way I like it.
I'm sitting on the beach
writing a poem.
I'm in a foreign country
on vacation
without him.

But, I'm definitely
not in the house
tending to him.