Day 2 National Poetry Month 2015

feather, candle, and pine cone (from Karen)

The cool humidity sits on my shoulders like a shawl
this morning.  I'm in my nightie on the porch
hoping no one can see me like this.  I need
my bathrobe but forgot to get it before leaving

the bedroom and there is no way I'm going back
in there; I want my husband to sleep longer
so I can enjoy these peaceful moments alone.
And, as I write this, guess who pokes his head

out the door.  So much for solitude.  Do you
choose a word every year to keep you grounded
and focused?  Last year I chose "write" and I made
it official by writing it out in the sand using a feather.

And, I did write so that was good.  This year's word
is more personal.  It's a tiny word that glows like
a candle flame only I can see.  It's the important
pronoun "me." Not wife, not us, not him for sure.

He just poured himself a glass of V8 and has joined
me on the porch.  He's had his shower and is walking
around with just a towel wrapped around his waist.
He's making small talk I'm trying to ignore.  He asks

me to check the weather on my phone so he'll know
how to dress, his voice as gravelly as a pine cone
scratching my ears and face and eyes and my me
is getting smaller and smaller, a pearl closed up

in an oyster shell.  He asks if I'd like a glass of juice,
delivers it, then goes back inside.  And my selfish
little word begins to hum, again.  It's a patient thing,
braiding its two letters into the complexities of marriage.

He's back out, now, announcing the coffee is on.
He's dressed, too, in shorts and a tank top.  In and out.
In and out.  Him time.  Me time.  After breakfast I'll help
him with a repair job then he wants to fly to Sebring

to take me for lunch.  Us time.  Then, tomorrow morning
I'll slip out of bed and quietly make my way back out here
to sit and write and be by myself, again, and that oyster
shell will be wide open and the two letters capitalized.

Day 1 National Poetry Month 2015

Pocketbook, Paper Towel, Dictionary

I hear a jet taking off from the airport
flying into the sugar-spilled sky.

A neighbor is using a buzz saw
on his new deck.  It's April first

and I'm sitting on the porch with sun
on my legs, my iPad on my lap,

and a dictionary full of thoughts
in my head that are refusing to

come out to play.  The zipper
on the pocketbook of my memories

is staying firmly closed.  I can feel my fingers
wanting to tap dance on the keyboard

so I let them shuffle around a bit producing
black words on the paper towel-colored

background.  Then I tear off the sheet,
crumple it up, and throw it away.

Instead, I take my phone over to the flower
box and snap a few pictures of yellow,

orange, pink. Brightness on water.
And the beauty that is America

on this ordinary morning in the middle
of the week in my 66th year knowing

some poems have no words.

Triplets

Saturday April 12, 2014
-------------

Triplets

I took my notebook
for a walk when I went
to check the mail.

I planned to sit
on a bench near the marina
to write a poem

but the sun was an electric
blanket thrown over me
and I couldn't find my way out.

Instead, I sauntered back home
and settled in the shade
under our stilt house

to read two letters from a friend.
The first has an owl, a snail, a blue bird,
a pink flower, a tiny butterfly, a star,

and cloud stickers added for my
enjoyment. The second is framed
by colorful polka dots.

I had a hard time writing a poem
earlier when I first got up
so thought a change of scenery

would help. I was wrong. But, I'm
writing, anyway, just putting my pen
on the page and watching

the black letters emerge and curl
into words. See how I'm faking it
by enjambing the lines and dividing

them into triplets? There is a small bird
on a rain gutter across the street
warbling away, turning his head

this way and that, creating his own
poem. Wish I could, too. I glance up
but he has flown away.

Crochet

I'm wondering if there was a storm
out in the ocean over the weekend
that produced these huge waves.

I was here on Saturday
and the ocean was flat
with just foot high slats.

Today they're six feet giants
building, building, falling
into lace, a doily crocheted

by my grandmother. I can see
her hands grasping the hook,
twirling the thin, white thread

over and under, punctuating
each move with her anger, her
dissatisfaction, her mouth a straight line,

creating beauty out of her everyday
disappointments. The sun is warm.
The wind is cool. The waves keep pounding.

Yesterday

I don't even bother to lock the car since the area is deserted.
The sky is a paragraph of sadness and the wind a scythe
slicing through me. I put on my sweatshirt, grab my phone,

and almost run up the boardwalk to the beach, snapping a picture
as I go. I have a letter from a fiend in a sunny envelope I plan
to read on one of the benches, but, as soon as I sink my sneakers

in the sand, I know it will be too cold. Instead I walk around
and notice an area fenced off for the nesting plovers. I don't see
any, though. I take a few photos of the layers of steel waves,

then say goodbye for today. I tighten the strings of my hoodie
and head back over the dunes of short, spiky, grasses. Stop. Lilac
blossoms arch over the sidewalk. I put my face right up into them

and take a big sniff of memory. Of our old lilacs in the back yard.
Of a vaseful on my desk at school. Of walking by the neighbor's
and plucking a few flowers then chewing on them. That sweet

bitter fragrance on my tongue. I don't steal any today but I think
about it. I glance up and spy a sentence of blue. I continue on
to my car, lilacs in my lungs, breathing in the the poetry of nature.

Endings

......from my sister, Sally.
-------------
Endings

We're sitting in bed on this last full day
of our third winter in Florida. Retirement

is a good novel and we gladly turn the pages
one day at a time. We're watching a documentary

about a group of boat racers trying to set a circumnavigation
record in a boat using biofuels. They're in Panama

right now trying to get through the canal but are having
problems. One guy just sliced his foot and they are behind

schedule. I didn't realize it takes twelve hours to get from
the Atlantic to the Pacific. It took us over sixty years

to get to these lazy mornings. Tomorrow, we'll head back
north for a summer near the sea. I'll ride my bike

to Ocean Park Beach, see my kids and granddaughter
often, have cookouts with friends, and play a little golf.

Gary will get his boat ready for tuna fishing and, pretty
much, drive everybody crazy until he catches one.

But, today, we're enjoying the ending of this chapter.
The Earthrace crew are currently in the Indian Ocean.

It's monsoon season. They're miserable but ahead
of schedule. We have a few chores to do today to close

our house up. One thing at a time and it will all get done.
Just like the racers who complete their quest successfully.

We aren't racing, anymore; just floating along.
We read our book slowly, savoring the shape of time.

Weather or Not

May 2: Weather or Not

We decided not to go boating today
because the weatherman is predicting

thunder showers this afternoon. So, I'm sitting
in bed playing on my iPad while Gary snores

beside me. I almost went outside like I did
during April but I just wasn't that ambitious.

By the time I woke up, the sun had already risen
and the light around the blinds was boring old

white not the gold that makes everything look
beautiful. So, I plumped three pillows

behind me and am leaning against them.
I checked Facebook to see what was new.

Looks like the Bruins lost to the Canadiens
in the hockey playoffs last night. Then I checked

the Weather Channel app: 75 sunny degrees here
and 52 in Old Orchard Beach. We'll be up there

in nine days. I played six games of Words
With Friends. Started today's Wordstorm.

I'm up to 68% but didn't get the big one yet.
Checked The Writer's Almanac for today's poem:

"Making a Bed" by Howard Moss. Then I came here
to Pages to write....anything. First, though, I went

to my Kindle app and checked out the prompt for
today in a new book I just downloaded yesterday

called The Daily Poet and found out the Weather
Channel began broadcasting on this day in 1982.

That's 32 years ago. So, they want us to include
weather terms in our poem today. Gary's snuggled

like a thundering cloud next to me, my phone is vibrating,
a mini earthquake, and I'm out of nothing to write about.