Among the quiet
full bloomed beauty seen by all
blushes tints of pink.
happiness
Unexpected
Seven squares sit empty
in front of the number circled in red,
preceded by months of exes. Solid black lines
crossed at the exact middle point.
Belly so big, feet are questionable.
End of season sweet corn devoured,
dripped butter solidified on plate’s edge.
Slab of apple pie about to be devoured.
Fork stops. I stop. Puzzled. Wet.
Not like a dam’s breech,
more like the trickle of a creek.
Not exactly by the book.
Wheels spin, gravel crunches,
rocks spray at mewling farm cats.
Roads rush by.
Do you feel the earth calling you,
my moans stalling you?
Years later, we wait impatiently,
while you adjust lipstick, stalling.
This time, we’re ready.
But you’re not.
Garden Haven
A reflection pool lies elongated
surrounded by earth-tone tiles
lacey leafed trees, like still life
mirrored on water canvas.
Serene in symmetry,
myriad shades of soothing green
white clematis peek from vines
cascade down ancient stone walls.
Meticulous care by some invisible hand
so evident in this magical place
we tread lightly, voices hushed
afraid to intrude.
Junie Z.
West School, still here.
That metal bar around the schoolyard,
smoother now. So many years
of little hands sliding along its surface.
I bend low, touch its coolness
and you’re with me again.
Junie with the short dark hair.
Eyes closed, I see four anklet socks
in plain brown mary janes
kick up and over the rail,
cotton dresses in laughing faces.
Up the street, a car alarm blares.
And just like that,
your laughter floats away,
my hand lifted from the bar.
WRITING PROMPT in my June Challenge class: recall a memory of someone, what provoked the memory — a scent, a place?
Crayon World
Color me rainbow happy
your Red Sox cap next to my blue visor.
We sat in bright colored Adirondack chairs
kite string loose, then tight,
as you played with the tension.
Our dreams sailed high into cloudless sky
paled only by your art deco shades
as you stared out, looking for words.
Color me livid when you talked about her,
like lightning flashes in a raging sky.
Anger fueled by heat, dissipated over days of grey.
Rainbow chairs sit empty, lined up, waiting.
Color me invisible, when the door closed.
Photo:
from Provincetown, on Massachusetts’ Cape Cod. Poem and photo in response to the Daily Post Photo Challenge to interpret ROY G. BIV — the memonic to remember colors of the rainbow.
Not True
Do not say that to me.
I fall asleep just like you
just not for all night.
Shades down, lids down,
on my eyes, and on the loo too.
Do not say that to me.
Words fail everyone.
Talk stumbles when stress does not
children crave repetition. Repetition
teaches that sink-in kind of learning.
Do not say that to me.
My feet walk through that park
across the street, just like yours.
Except you’re accompanied by two wheels
and one foot pushing that scooter thing.
The one I gave Johnny for his birthday,
I think. I push four wheels in front of me,
all by myself,
and sing merrily I roll along
in perfect pitch.
Do not say that to me.
I will not leave my home.
I am not a hermit crab
that leaves one house for another.
And I am not ready to molt.
Do not say that to me.
I am NOT getting old.
You are.
And I’m pretty sure God is too.
Off-Season Romance
We waited
consumed with work
climbing the ladder
no time for escapades.
Now, in our winter years
past summer’s torrid heat
we meet on cool chilly nights
sailing into our dreams.
Your gentleness touches me
beneath a black sky lit by stars
until we blossom
in this off-season romance.
Written in response to the DailyPost Photo Challenge to interpret “off season”.
Photo is from Provincetown, Cape Cod. Muse to many a poet and artist.
Spring Harvest
Spring Harvest
We searched that day
for morels and fiddleheads
no words, no sounds, except the wind.
The rock laden stream followed us
deeper and deeper into wooded fields,
side by side seekers.
Heads bowed, eyes on nature’s floor
suddenly spied the curling greens
and soft brown spongy shapes.
We knelt as one, upon soft damp earth
hands outstretched to pluck the harvest
foretaste of the meal to come,
wild succulent edibles of spring.
Summer Peach
Peach juice dripped
indolent rivulets down her wrist,
as she felt the soft blushing
fuzzy peel on her tongue
and tasted its cool sweetness.
Magical Place: cherished series, opus 7
Everyone has a house, but not like 5018.
We took many a long voyage
at that address, sailing the seas
within basement walls.
Grampa was a Swedish immigrant
young idealist and painter by trade.
He sailed across the Atlantic
right into the heart of America.
Years later, he painted the scene.
Ceiling sky cerulean blue
dipped to meet the walls’ horizon
forever brightened by invisible sun.
Gulls soared in place
their cries imagined real
through misshapen clouds
fluffy white, no rain in sight.
Waves rolled with white caps
dabs of paint that never splashed.
Life preserver, hung lifeless
unused and not quite round.
Dry mops swabbed the decks
while lookouts watched for land
till dreaded words Time to go home
drifted down from too real stairs.
We abandoned ship to heed the call
packed into four-door cars
rode through busy honking streets
back to everyday landlocked homes.
lillian the home poet 
