The leading edge would
Have us jumping at each flash
Of tensile lightning
Flinching at thunder
Cowering ‘neath the covers
Yearning for a pause
Rumbles grow distant
Downpour tapers to sprinkles
This storm fades away
(Found all the photos on Pinterest)
I’m always fascinated by the flow and rhythm of a storm–The light and sound parade that precedes the rainfall, the tapering off of rain followed by an encore of the opening chorus. I get chills when I get to be a witness to the greatest concert on earth.
During an intermission of the storm I’m watching a small turtle make its way across my yard.
Looks like he/she has an appointment.
Do not marry an impatient man
Consider all the ways he’ll make your life hell
Driving you to distraction
Making you forget how to remember
Gaslighting in double time
Afraid to take a breath
Or a break
Or a good cry
Kiss him, if you must,
But let someone else take his last name.
I embraced the rain
From the safety of my den
Felt the thunder shake the house
Watched the lightning scorch the sky
Saw saplings swaying
To the rhythm of the storm
Such a dance within the forest
A rhumba in the jungle, if you please
Sketch a girl in black and white,
Pigtails flying, slapping against a plaid shirtwaist
Skinny sun browned legs skip-hopping to a rhythmic chant
Cinderella, dressed in yellow,
Went upstairs to kiss a fellow.
Made a mistake and kissed a snake,
How many doctors did it take?
Rope twirls ’round, up, then down, over and over again.
All in the wrist, she thinks as she counts, “One, two…twenty…ninety,” and beyond.
So many doctors! She can jump all day, or at least until recess ends.
Hovering on the
Edge of nothingness
Visions quiver ‘neath closed lids
In the fourth state
No kingdoms conquered
No triumphs over death’s grip
Nary a prince kissed
At the very least
Shouldn’t she be the hero,
Star in her own dreams?
Artist Kinga Britschgi
This is another of my collaborative pieces with photographer Julie Powell. I just love her artwork. Be sure to click the link to also have access to Julie’s site. Thanks!
I’m not feeling very energetic this morning. I’ll spare you the details, but hoping to see my doctor sometime today. In the meantime, I thought this previously posted poem might suffice for my daily offering.
I tried to write a poem, but the words fell off the page
They puddled on the floor in coils of rhymes gone wrong
And no matter how hard I tried to gather them together
They slipped through my fingers too agitated to coalesce
No scheme, no order, no reason or reflection, no arbitrary alliteration
Hell, I’m no poet. I don’t even play one on tv.
Huddled under cardboard,
Old Annie shivers.
Surrounded by layers of rags and bags,
Scavenged bits hoarded against the cold,
Shoved into cracks, or
Worn as a layered mantle
No room open for her tonight
No place to warm her tired bones
They say it’s not cold enough.
The winds howl,
Sweeping down these city streets
Stirring up ghosts of every December
Those souls who couldn’t be saved
No place to warm their bones
No room opened for them
Someone said it’s not cold enough.
“Besides,” she said, out of the blue, “We have nothing to gain now, yet nothing more to lose.
So take my hand, no, this one. Hoist me up from my place in the sand.”
Together they eyed the waves, sidelong glances at one another
Wedged between sighs masquerading as cogent thoughts. Neither had the means,
Nor the answers. “Will you love me still once this is done?” He asked.
“What makes you think I love you now?” She replied, as the gulls wheeled over head.