Day 9 National Poetry Month 2015

comforter, clock & pictures from Sherrie
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I missed the sunrise this morning;
the cocoon I slept in under my comforter
was just too cozy and warm to leave.

So, by the time I got out here on the porch
the sun was an inch above the trees
and the light was fading from gold to yellow.

Like my ideas for a poem are slipping away.
Instead I watch as my shadow, reflected
on the slats of the house, slides closer to the floor.

I think of the first comforter I ever had.  I chose
it myself before heading to college.  No more
bedspread for me, no more sisters invading

my space.  A fluffy comforter to read under,
or I should say study.  I loved that thing.
And so what if my roommates were nuts.

Karin with her Doors obsession. The heavy beats
of "Come on, baby, light my fire" like fog
to walk through.  And Norma sitting in front

of a candle, a picture of her lost boyfriend
in one hand, her depression dripping from her
like wax, trying to catch the flame with her fingers,

hoping the scorching would blot out her pain.
I haven't thought of them in years.  They're
like my shadow getting closer to the floor,

almost gone.  The past is an old clock
like the one I have of my grandmother's,
my mom's mom, that sits on my hall table

but doesn't tell time except twice a day.
It looks so pretty from the outside, all burnished
wood and fancy hands but the inside is empty.

Day 8 National Poetry Month 2015

Peacock, hula-hoop, frying pan. from Tuts

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We are walking through the frying pan
that is the Nature Preserve at the Shell
factory in North Fort Myers, Florida.

It's way too hot to be here but Kylie
loves animals so here we are.  Everything
is kind of dowdy but the creatures

seem healthy enough.  I follow a peacock
around hoping he'll fan his tail feathers
so I can get a picture of the colorful

design but he refuses to cooperate.  There
are birds all over the place.  Kylie tries
communing with one and puts her finger

out for him to perch on but he bites her.
She's done with the birds after that.  We
continue walking in the wilting air.

The dinosaur park seems safe since
nothing is alive but nothing is very interesting
either.  We walk on passing goats

and more goats until we get to the camel
rides.  Finally, something to do.  Erin and Ky
wait in line then climb up onto the hump.

I click photos.  The camel tender leads them
around the pen.  I can see them swatting
flies away and hear Kylie say it stinks.

Once around and they've had enough.
We continue our meandering then find
a restaurant.  When we walk in, the cold

air hits us, we order drinks, and begin to revive,
chuckling over this sad excuse of an amusement
park that was as much fun as a broken hula hoop.

Day 7 National Poetry Month 2015

Rag, orange, flower. from Grant
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I'm picking an orange from our tree,
searching for just the right one.
It has to feel a bit soft when my fingers
squeeze it but not mushy.  A sun

in my hand, warm and round.  I twist
it and if it detaches with ease,
I know it will be perfect.  It's like
choosing an idea to tease

into a poem.  Not all thoughts
are ripe enough, some are too hard,
others are stubborn and refuse
to budge.  Forget the ones marred

by bitterness; they aren't worth cutting
into.  I leave them to wither and rot.
I want one that turns into a flower
when I slice it open, like when I got

asked to dance, finally, after sitting alone
and I just felt so thankful I could cry.
That's the kind of topic I need.  I grab
a rag to wipe up the spills and know why

this common fruit with its bright color
and run-down-your-chin juice
contains all the goodness a writer
needs to turn memories loose.

Day 6 National Poetry Month 2015

Apron. portrait. linoleum. from Alissa

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They're here with me, now, hanging
near the old Hoosier I use for a desk:

two of Nonie's apron's.  One is yellow
with with black rickrack around the pocket

and hem.  The other is a brown and cream
print with a single row of orange rickrack

along the bottom and three layers across
the top of the wide pocket.  Two rows are orange

and the middle one is beige.  They've never
been worn.  Nonie wore aprons every day

around the house and they matched the house
dresses she sewed herself.  She even made

festive ones for the holidays when we'd all
descend on her home for a meal and presents.

It was a small home with only four rooms
and a small entry with windows along one side.

Grampy made a shelf to run along the bottom
of those windows for her purple and pink African

violets where they bathed in the morning light.  The moms
would gather in the kitchen helping Nonie prepare the feast,

their high heels tapping on the linoleum, their voices
blending with the clanging of pots and pans.

The dads would sit in the living room sipping high balls,
discussing work and world problems.  Portraits

of older generations lined the upright piano looking
on with somber expressions.  Occasionally, Grampy

would grumble at one of us kids to slow down as we ran by.
All four rooms were connected and we could circle

the house from room to room.  We'd chase each other
playing some sort of tag that only made sense to us.

Around and around we'd go just like the earth
spinning on its axis.  Around and around.

No problems ever got solved in that living room
but the world continues to this day; women still prepare

meals, men still pontificate, and children still play.
The sun and the moon rise and set and life goes on.

Day 5 National Poetry Month 2015

Compact disc, coin, magnifying glass from Tim.

I woke up about seven and got up right away.
I grabbed a quilt, the red one my sister, Nancy,
made with about a thousand tiny squares,

and went out on the porch to write today's poem.
I went to my list of words and Tim's three popped
out at me so I copied and pasted them here.

Then I waited.  The sky turned lavender.
I waited. The sun started slipping from behind
the horizon like a compact disc ejecting

from a computer.  I had to get up and take
a few pictures.  I checked Facebook and Words
with Friends, made a few plays, went to my

mail and had a message from Amazon about
new books for April.  One about grammar
piqued my interest so I downloaded a sample.

Okay, I know I'm a nerd.  Then I came back
here to write.  I waited some more.  Just sat
in a chair with my back to the bright sun

and thought about my brother, wishing he
and his wife could be here with us today.
We, the three female siblings who live

in Florida, are going for a boat ride with
our husbands, my niece, and a friend.
In the meantime, I sit here waiting for

inspiration.  The canal is Reynold's Wrap
smooth and silvery.  A notice pops up
that my Slotomania bonus is ready

so I collect it then return to these ramblings.
If you could position a magnifying glass
over my life, you wouldn't see much more

than what is right here.  I get up, I fiddle
on my iPad, I try to write, then continue
with my day.  That's it.  That's what you'd

see.  But, don't hold that magnifying
glass on me for too long, especially,
if the sun is shining through it, because

I might just begin to burn, burn
for something more, for coins
of excitement, drama, adventure.

So, stop.  I don't want to burn out
too quickly.  I bend my white curls
over my keyboard, My fingers

tap on letters.  I make words
turn into stanzas and stanzas
turn into the simplicity of my life.

Day 4 National Poetry Month 2015

My friend, Anne, sent these three words: mother's hand or fingers, a box of crayons, and a purse
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I open the yellow box of Crayola crayons
breaking the seal one spot at a time.

It's the day after Christmas and I finally
have time to play with my presents.

I put the new doll on a shelf, not knowing
what else to do with her. Tags have been removed

from crisp new blouses and they're hung
in the closet.  (I know my lips pursed a bit

when I opened this gift of clothes.  I'm nine
not nineteen.) The Monopoly game I'm saving

for when a friend visits.  The flying saucer
needs a little more snow.  I picture my mother's

hands wrapping everything, using just a little
Scotch tape and fashioning a bow with the

crimped ribbon she curls by running the scissors
down the leftover ends.  I'm young but I know

money is tight.  My mom went to the bank
every Friday and put five dollars into her

Christmas Club so we four kids could have
a good Christmas.  Ah, but this lowly

stocking stuffer almost glows.  I touch the cut-off
pointed tips.  I put my nose right up to them

and breathe the waxy scent of imagination.
Forty-eight different colors, forty-eight possibilities.

I find a piece of plain white paper, use two fingers
to pull the orange/red crayon out and begin to draw.

Day 3 National Poetry Month 2015

bride, dance, beach

April 3, 1948

The air this morning is filled with the brightness
of bird songs, each note a different instrument.
The sky an even blue, a bride's blue, an auspicious sky.

I can't tell if my mom was wearing something blue
in this pictures but I have a feeling she was. And,
even though she woke up to rain on the day

she married my father, she was okay with that
since it foretold happiness.  I love their little
smiles of anticipation. Oh, sure, the photographer

asked for them, but, the realness is there in the curve
of her hand through his arm and how her shoulder
nestles next to his.  See how the satiny material

of her dress waterfalls like a wave onto the beach
of the future. This is the innocence before the dance of life,
before the orchestra of work and children and paying

bills, of squabbles and making up.  Can you hear
the symphony of love in their pose?  The tune
of their laughter is the soundtrack of my childhood.