A Poem Without a Pocket
This poem has no pockets
Nowhere to put the bits and bobs
it’s collected
Nowhere to stuff the laughs or hide
the tears. Nowhere to put the
pieces of joy to savor later.
This poem has no choice but to
give them all away.
A Just Right Day
A Just Right Day
It was a humble kind of day –
not too shiny, not too dark.
The kind of day you want to bumble around in pajamas,
or sit on the garden bench watching bees
jumbled together on the Zinnias.
It was a Goldilocks kind of day.
Finding a Community
Finding a Community
She thought she was the only one. Who else cries when
they look up at the night sky? Who else lies on the ground in wonder?
She tried to write poems about the stars, to capture them on film, to scribble them
on a canvas. Friends oooed and awwed. She knew her attempts were feeble imitations.
She drove to a State Park, known for its darkness, its lack of ambient
light, to see the glow, the glimmer, the magic of a sky filled with stars,
connect with the universe.
And there they were, a field of people, staring silently upward, crying.
They had their notebooks, and cameras, and sketchbooks but they knew
they would never capture the soul of the moment. She had finally found
her place in the world with people who understood. That’s when she knew,
the Starpainters are taking over now.
Changing Seasons
Changing Seasons
The geese don’t protest the summer’s end, complain about the
flight ahead. They trust the seasons .
Yet we decry each age and stage of our lives, wishing to be other
than ourselves. And in our protestation, our lamentations,
miss the loveliness of now
Quadrille #354: I Protest
Blue Sky Quilt
Blue Sky Quilt
The sky was an unrelenting blue
quilt this morning.
It wouldn’t tolerate any clouds
cluttering up the atmosphere,
or wrinkling its glossy finish.
And then one small puff appeared.
A little smudge of batting poking through
a small hole worn in the edge, along the horizon.
Slowly, more slivers of white came floating along and the harsh blue sky became softer,
worn to a more comfortable shade by time, and sun, and weather.
dVerse Poetics — Have You Ever Seen the Rain?
Catching a Poem
Catching a Poem
Spin around three times
Close your eyes and make a wish
Jump as high as you can
Let a moonbeam land on your hand
Put it in a jar
Sing it a gentle lullaby
Listen carefully – it
will whisper a poem to you
Some Mondays
Some Mondays
Monday tries to sneak up on you
tip-toes in, hopes you won’t notice.
It hears the moans and groans of a Sunday night,
the almost mythological dread of what might be waiting
when it shows up. Monday tries to be inconspicuous,
and, maybe welcomed.
Coat Pockets
Coat Pockets
They are like mini time capsules
nestled in the seams of an old coat –
the purple one pushed to the back of a closet.
Like an archeologist, you carefully put
your hand into the slot, feeling something hard,
hearing a crunching sound, wondering
what has been buried there. The treasure clutched
between your fingers is a sticky mint, a rolled
up tissue, and a wrinkled theater ticket from
ten years ago. Reminders of a night spent with
friends laughing until you cried.
Summer Cycle
Summer Cycle
and what of all the girls who never rode a bike
who never felt the passing wind plant kisses on their cheeks
who never got to speed down hill, flying free and birdlike
who didn’t ride through inky streets, headlight glowing – moonlike
what gave them joy on summer days, some book in ancient greek?
and what of all the girls who never rode a bike
who never slipped along a stream to watch new hatchlings, spy-like
who never pedaled all the way from home to Mozambique
then sped downhill, back home again, flying free and birdlike
what gave them shivers down their spines or made them giggle, childlike
did any comet, moon or star make them want to shriek
and what of all the girls who never rode a bike
what made them turn to face the sun, as it was setting, flowerlike
who found in books, some world of words, of wonder and mystique
but never got to speed downhill, flying free and birdlike
while I am cycling streets and lanes and gravel alleys, catlike
and jumping logs and chasing frogs along a creek
and what of girls who never rode a bike
who never got to speed downhill, flying free and birdlike
A Mini Complaint
A Mini Complaint
I bought a bag of mini chocolates
Individually wrapped
Where’s the FUN in that
More work, less reward
Day 10 PAD – write a mini poem
