Thoughts as Steady as a Tick of a Clock
It was a surprise that on such a chilly day
her feet felt so hot. Poor little things’d burned-off
miles, and now she sat herself on the flattest
rock she could find, smiled, and let the Pacific
wash steady as the tick of a clock over her feet.
You see, she’d decided to leave, to lose him,
like dust, and if she couldn’t … then she lose
herself instead. She stared long across the sea,
” penny for your thoughts,” he breathed in her ear.
Written for Miz Quickly’s Day 2 “Two” -
the parting of two lovers.
A Dimmed Misty Forgotten
I am that slide out of summer
with sudden shivers from somewhere
you choose not to recognise any more,
somewhere deep in scattered sprinkles
and dimmed misty seaside forgotten.
And I am your slumber, demanding
submission, and dreaming stories
of tumble down slopes, well-sodden
with squelched shoes, and there stood
in your simmering silhouette
shines the flushed sum of scarlet,
and a forgotten lazy Sunday stroll.
Written for Miz Quickly’s Day 1
Write a piece in which every noun begins with the same letter
The Peculiar Side of Dreams
Sometimes when I’m on the spiral of sleeping,
when I slide dark into holes long as school halls,
I ponder those who looked for purposes dismissed,
for reasons that suit, I suppose. And I wonder
why we can’t choose our own name. Why must I
wear this label given by someone else. I’d never
wear another persons shoes, so why must I wear
another person’s name…. And I do so dream
the most strange and peculiar things.
Written for Red Wolf Poems We Wordle 25
A Life Rehearsed
I came upon your arrested spokes,
Those rims of told,
stretched reach in dust,
And there turned beside your rimless soul,
Long bones of strength,
there too fell dust.
And did you go in sorrow filled,
spilled floods of tears
from those endeared,
Or was that travel to freedom’s flight
A joy traversed,
a life rehearsed.
Written for Margo’s Tryouts, photo from http://www.novinite.com/view_news.php?id=154033
The Crumble of Lilac Blossoms
I can smell it, she said, and I could, too.
It was in the moss, gauze in the breeze,
an old man’s beard, like whiskers rough
and ruffled-up and stiff as net curtains,
and it was in the crumple of lilac
blossoms, dried and crook’d-pokery,
an old crone’s finger with accusatory
wagging. And it all sniffed of summer’s
end, smelled of those last few gnarled
days before fog slipped into long months
ahead, and gloom swallowed us whole.
Written for Creative Bloomings.
The Man with the Hanging Geraniums
There’s a man who lives across the street,
He carts himself around in pain, his stance
Is the language of osteo-anguish, absence
Of postured erectness, he’s a geological rift,
A crumbling chalk cliff of broken rickety bones.
And did you see that, that stutter in his feet?
I think that only his hanging geraniums
Sustain his body’s longing for a stretch.
And so it is, I suppose, as longevity’s numbers
Take on flight, rattling by like cards pinned
On bicycle spokes, that we are all rattled
By the end, bones baffled, and yet ….
It seems our desires remain intact:
I often bring him cakes and bread.
Written for Sunday Whirl words: stutter, cliff, rickety, bones, cart, absence, rift, flight, longing, sustain, baffles, language
The Shape of Things
Given five minutes, he’d fall asleep in his big
Brown leather chair, soft as a belly, he’d sink
Deep into his dreams, but me, I take my naps
In a cotton thread hammock, a crescent moon
Waxing and waning between two low slung
Bare branches of an old apple tree, and when
The breezes play in my tousled hair, gently
Nuzzling my dreams toward forks and spoons,
Dishes and moons, and something about a cow,
Well, that’s when I wake-up with a sharp start
And begin questioning the shape of my mind.
For Quickly’s prompt: Shapes
Three Words: Life, Letters, Twelve
They were tied in knots, some with bows, a few bundled with kitchen twine.
Those last twelve were held in a tight block with white ribbon.
There they were – every letter, every postcard I’d sent her, year on year.
Every Christmas card, birthday card, wish you were here card, she’d kept them all.
My life tied in bundles and kept as if some ju-ju was part of the parcel.
She kept me in shoe boxes, saved, some letters never opened, not read.
Now she’s gone, and it’s left to me to clear this old house.
Not just her memories but also mine, including those last twelve she never read.
For Miz Quickly, Part 3 of September Warm-up
A Morning Chorus
There is no peace in this fledgling
morning, where windows usher
uninvited noise, gleaming bowls
fill with splashed echoes of milk,
and cornflakes drown my thoughts.
And so I sing.
Margo’s Tuesday Tryouts: Comics and Inspired by Garfield, 18 August 2014
A Widow’s Dream
My dreams drop in swirled grey, and there you are.
There in our time lost. We are soaked in loss. We drop.
Embrace. Our life is here, in dreams never finished, life
Beyond my awakening, where finished is the beginning,
Never the end. All we need is here, our needs by daylight
Never met but these brief dream hours are for drinking
Slow our conversation, as clouds drink rain for their want.
And the horizon calls up another sunrise, calls the finish
Of dreams where we are loved, and we say farewells again.
Step 2 from Quickly’s Warm-up Prompt Take six of the words and write two lines with each of them. Two lines that work together. Use your word once, or twice (or three times if you can manage it artfully). My words are: drink drop needed life finished call