Snow Day
this poem is taking a snow day
a let the wind blow day
a curl up with a book and cup of tea day
an adagio kind of day
and if it finds peace in this day
this poem might take a snow week
Category: poetry
Art Me
Art Me
Sketch me a small pine tree,
scribble me a forest.
Draw a sky full of inky stars, and then
smudge a thumbprint moon.
Erase the cloudy haze of fog
that hides the owl and rabbit.
Pencil us into the peacefulness
of this charcoal world.
Quadrille #190
To Whoooom it May Concern
To Whoooom it May Concern
I see you move silently through the trees
never touching branches or getting tangled
In swaying vines, as I move silently through
dark rooms never stepping on the bits and
pieces of a family’s life once strewn across
the floor. You are probably hunting – for a meal
or some furry morsel in the open fields,
to satisfy your hunger
I am also hunting – standing in front of
the open fridge, looking for some leftover
or piece of pie that will assuage my sadness.
I hear your call and another answers, so
I know you are not alone in the darkness,
and when I call softly there is no reply –
for now, my nest is empty.
With love from a fellow night owl
Poetics:For the love of letters
Freedom to See
Freedom to See
She holds her camera high
and defies the rules of photography –
Rules of thirds
Rules of composition
Rules of aperture, and focus, and light
She holds her camera high
and declares that she will follow
her own rules
Rules that find beauty in the mundane
and wonder in the ordinary
Rules that show heroes on street corners
and angels in sneakers
Rules that shine light in the shadows
Day 1 of the November Chapbook Challenge – write a declaration poen
Free Falling
Free Falling
I stood on the brow of the mountain
watching clouds cast shadows below me.
Vultures were gliding on warm currents of air.
As I watched, a single yellow leaf released its grip from
a bare tree branch, twirling in a free fall of delight.
Tell Us
Tell Us
Tell us your stories
so that, in the telling, we
may begin to understand
the beauty of your lives
Sing us your songs
so that, in the singing, we
may begin to hear the
beating of your hearts
Read us your poems
so that, in the reading, we
may begin to glimpse the
tenderness of your souls
Show us your art
so that, in the seeing, we
may begin to know the
wonders of your minds
Meet the Bar by writing from a collective point of view
Secret Messages
Secret Messages
She emptied her heart.
Wrote all her secrets on little
slips of paper and put them in
old glass bottles she found
buried in her garden.
She carried them, in a cardboard box,
to the sea where she set them free –
a flotilla of her deepest thoughts, her
fears, her longings. All the things she
could no longer hold. She waved goodbye
as they bobbed away with the tide and
made a wish that whoever finds them
will know what to do with them.
—
Writer’s Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompt 674 – write a secret poem
Cat Nap
Cat Nap
This poem would like to fold
itself up, like a napping cat,
curl its tail over its eyes,
block out the raucous world.
This poem is tired of scribbling
words of peace that don’t work –
lines of ink that fade before its eyes.
Quadrille #186 – Fold
The Collector
The Collector
She collects old bottles that she
finds buried in her garden,
and places them on a windowsill.
When the sun shines in, her kitchen
is filled with a kaleidoscope of colors –
blues and greens and browns. Bottles
from old remedies for headaches and
stomach aches, laundry bleach, and ketchup.
Smooth bottles, square bottles, tiny bottles,
one that still has a piece of rotting cork
in its neck. Bottles that tell a story of hard work
and pain. She feels like an archeologist discovering
a lost way of life through the colored glass
detritus of another generation, and she wonders what
future generations will think of her when they
uncover the bits of her life left behind.
Haunted
Canned Memories
Canned Memories
The days have grown shorter and
there is a chill hovering around the
last of the Maple leaves, as they dangle
listlessly from the branches that nourished them
Thoughts turn to all things warm – sweaters and
blankets and soup. My freezer is stocked with
containers of tomato soup made from the
fruit of our garden. Ripened by the sun, picked
and peeled, chopped and simmered with garlic and
basil and onion – ready to warm the body when
Winter makes itself at home, here.
But the soup that warms my soul with memories
is the kind that came in a red and white can, the one
made famous by Andy Warhol. The soup my mother
served for lunch with small round crackers and a
cup of hot chocolate.
Poetics: Time for Soup!
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