The Things We Touch

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.

Sculpture in Venice tackles the topic of climate change

Peace, people.

A Different Drummer

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.

Loves Me; Loves Me Not

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.)

Patience

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

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

The Dust

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.)

The Right Word

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.

Hung Out to Dry

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.