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
Pet Lament
Pet Lament
I still look for you
under the covers when I make the bed,
hiding behind the love seat,
sitting on the windowsill –
watching trains go by.
Did I love you enough?
Leaving you alone while I vacationed.
Did I love you too much?
Spoiling you with crunchy treats on demand.
Was I careless in my caring?
I think I hear your purr
coming from the bathtub
where you would lay on hot days –
I still leave a bowl of water
there for you. And I miss the
fine white cat fur that collected
in the corners and on my clothes.
Day Ten
Un(bee)lievable
Un(bee)lievable
I know you think I shouldn’t be able to fly
but here I am, in your garden,
buzzing around looking for flowers.
You cling to the old myth that my wings
are not large enough to lift my fuzzy body,
yet no one bothered to ask me how I managed.
I was once considered a pest, just
another summer irritant as I flew too
close to your picnics and games, and
you sprayed and swatted to make me go away.
Still, no one realized the role I played as
I went from plant to plant collecting and
depositing pollen until it was almost too late.
Now I am the darling of your garden where
you put up special boxes for me to nest in,
print me on T-shirts, paint me on cute mugs,
and marvel at my aviation skills.
Poetry of Paranoia
Poetry of Paranoia
This poem is not too sure of itself
It’s always looking over its shoulder
Second guessing itself
Waiting for the other shoe to drop
It sleeps with the lights on
And is always on the lookout
For black cats and sidewalk ladders
And open umbrellas indoors
It is a “chicken little” kind of poem
Expecting the sky to fall
Mat Reality
Mat Reality
yogis doing downward dog
while I lay prostate, like a log
triangles and eagle arms
I really do not feel the charm
cat and cow and plow and chair
make me think I might not care
about the mountains or the trees
or boats that never sail the seas
we twist and bend until at last
laid out like corpses, end of class
growing pains
growing pains
this poem is boney meter and stanza –
gangly, dangly lines and phrases.
it stumbles over its own feet,
has no rhyme or rhythm. it dreams
of becoming a sonnet, even an ode.
and when its feeling optimistic, it can
Imaging itself a villanelle.
rhymeswithbug 