Double-dutch
two ropes twirl like egg-beaters
and I watch
on the outside leaning in
sway to catch the rhythm
wait for that right moment
when the aperture appears.
Take the chance, slip right in
jump one foot, then the other
double-time to the beat
conquer these ropes
or not
misjudge the opportunity
and I’ll be the one
twirling, standing still.
They sit behind closed closet doors
in back of the shoe rack, gathering dust.
Two-toned in black and white,
four inch heels to elongate the leg
toes so narrow their tips turn up
after years of emptiness.
Ground-in talc mottles the inside
used oh so many times to smooth the sole,
pressure points etched in long dried sweat
from happier bare legged days.
Witness to her previous life
they sat primly crossed in corporate talks
hid behind podiums and knelt at pews
clicked down hallways, sat quietly grieving
in cold rooms filled with overwhelming floral scent,
danced at weddings and stood higher still,
tips of heels up off the floor
for a lifetime of New Year’s kisses.
These Spectators, aptly named
sit waiting to see the sun again.
Flirtacious, sultry summer
sizzles then rains cool
young men strut shirtless
female bosoms tempt their eyes
summer slyly bares their lust.
I do enjoy the Tanka syllabic form: 5-7-5-7-7.
Gives a little more leeway than a haiku:
when 17 just won’t do.
She was the argumentative sort,
preferring a corrugated path,
emery boards not allowed.
She grew up in a poker face house
curtains drawn, emotions stuffed
inside walls, inside heads, inside everywhere.
Except anger. Sometimes it came flying out.
After a lull. Unexpected.
So loud, it shook the rafters.
No wonder she flew the coop,
using that old vernacular.
Married, with kids, she broke the mold.
Babies babbled, inside and out
sometimes screamed, mouths wide open
no plugs, pacies or binkes allowed.
I love yous and table talk
campfire banter, tell me true
talk it through to eyes that listen.
She insisted on a barcode kind of world
emotions easily scanned
on an every day conveyor belt.
She was not a cook,
the Cuisinart soufflé pan
Calphalon pots and
ten-speed blender, simply signs
of her optimistic soul.
Tanka fun: 5-7-5-7-7 syllabic lines.
Centenarian rock
diamond set in golden rings
still shines the passion of youthful love.
Three generations of women
hands adorned in conversation
gestures through time.
My hand, etched with fine lines
like my mother’s
and her mother’s.
Ancestry defined by blood
through blue hills of vein
solidified in stone.
Daily Post Photo Challenge: Up-Close.
He took to soap and water from an early age,
standing on a stool, sleeves rolled up
playing in the suds.
As a college chap,
he was a regular with his chums,
second stool from the left at Chauncey’s Pub.
Not in it for the guzzling,
he liked to watch the suds drip down his glass
and feel the foam against his upper lip.
Retired now, no children of his own,
he’s become a summer legend
in the neighborhood corner park.
Washtub at his feet,
nets of string on two long poles
he dips and waves, and dips again.
Magic billows out across the lawn
this man, doing what he loves
is now, and always has been
the bubbles man.
My dad was a whisper whistler.
You know the kind.
Instead of puckering up your lips
into a little oh,
you put your tongue between your teeth
sort of in a smile, and then you blow.
Anyone can do it.
Except most people don’t.
He’d come walking down the hall,
the whisper whistler,
to the tune of Hail Hail the Gang’s All Here,
and how I wish they were.
She wandered outside this early morn
stunned to be alone
last night’s storm, still wet upon the lawn.
She walked the garden
unaware that wisps of cloud
accompanied her overhead.
Reaching out,
she cupped the tulip crown
within her saddened hand
and watched, as petals dislodged,
weighed down with rain,
fell slowly to the ground.
Feet damp and cold,
she sat in one of two chairs
on the cement slab they called a patio.
Eyes pressed shut, face tilted to the sky
she felt the sun, breathed in the lilac scent
and finally understood.
lillian the home poet 