Door knobs and counter tops,
Paper money and coins,
Credit card scanners and screens,
Gas pump handles, a lover’s face,
Our phones, our eyes, our hair,
Children’s little noses, dogs’ ears,
Cats, when they’ll let us,
Faucets and tables,
Light switches and silverware,
Steering wheels and guitar strings,
The panic button, if we aren’t careful.
Peace, people.
When I march, it’s to a different beat, three quarter time, more a waltz than a Sousa piece
Oompah pah, oompah pah, the carousel goes ‘round and ‘round. One, two, three, again and again
White horses on poles, the occasional sleigh, me, trying to catch the brass ring on the downbeat
Hanging on for dear life, even though I’ll go ‘round more than once. It’s not at all like real life.
Petals plucked in time
He loves me; he loves me not
Anticipating
Seek daisy’s wisdom
But choose your flower wisely
Odd numbers suffice
A garden’s bounty
Yields answers; questions results
How dare blossoms lie?
(After I published this I looked back in my archives and discovered another poem I’d written with the same title. The original is better, I think, but it made me laugh. It was bound to happen sooner or later.)
After days in the desert
‘Neath a scorching sun
Failing to find sanctuary
Sporting a swollen tongue,
I fell to my knees
Intending to pray
Lord help me find water
Please show me the way.
A solemn committee
Plucked from the sky
Gathered together
As I lay to die
Black robed watchers huddled
‘Round my fading form
Whispering assurance
Yearning yet to mourn
Stoop shouldered graspers
Nodding their sage heads
Poised for the wake
Preparing to be fed
Through cracked lips I spoke
Syllables faint with dread
Fly away motherfeathers
I’m not yet dead.
If I were a writer
I’d dredge up the dirt
The stuff that stifles dreams
And makes everyone cringe,
The grit that scours my heart.
I’d lay my soul bare
Grieve publicly
Take the blame.
Instead, I’m just a wannabe
Writing about nothing that matters
Where no one gets hurt.
Especially not me.
Statue of Sorrow by T.J. Fowler
Carrying this torch
Searching for a man of truth
Even as hope wanes
Dear Diogenes,
Were you here today you’d see
Nothing’s ever changed
Corruption prevails
For all the world to witness
Naked before us
Monochromatic
This love child of black and white
A color between
I bathed in gray skies
Then wandered on white beaches
Draped in cotton robes
In this universe
Gravity takes the shape of gray
All things fall to earth
Peace, people.
I know a thing or two about dust
A Texas panhandle childhood taught me its sting on the playground
Grit-filled eyes and sandblasted legs
Days of dust
And tumbling weeds
When gray choked skies obscured and
Scouring winds grew teeth
I thought that was how the whole world worked
Nature’s castigation
For our sins.
(I do not miss those days.)
I wonder
Is there a better word than dappled
For the way the sunlight plays through the trees, speckling the road?
Variegated is all wrong; unless one is speaking of yarn,
And motley only makes me think of clowns or crews.
Discolored doesn’t work, suggesting there’s been a mistake, and make no mistake–
Dappling is perfection; poetry in shadowy motion.
Flecked? Checkered? Parti-colored? No!
Stippled? Perhaps. I could work with stippled.
Still, dappled comes to mind first, when I crest a hill and see the canopy of trees
Filtering the light on a sun-kissed day, painting abstract patterns on the pavement
And peace in my soul.
Peace, people.
Yesterday I posted a link to my friend, Julie’s blog post that featured her photo (below). Just in case my readers didn’t click on the link, here’s the poem I wrote to accompany the photo.
“Hung Out to Dry”
Passion had its way with her
Swept her up
Cast her about
Until she was
Strung out,
Wrung out,
Hung out to dry,
Swinging from tenterhooks
For all the world to see.
A lesser woman might’ve
Given up,
Shriveled up,
Dried on the vine,
Not she, no for
She claimed her place,
Staked her bets and
Stood on her own two feet.
Unbound.
