Sample the edibles
while sauntering by a vendors’ stall
savor the sour and the sweet
lemon tarts with a marzipan carrot beside
devour her lover’s kisses by night
and wake up to humorous tidbits
and some evenings, dine by candle light
lick beads of moisture
from her wine glass
while supping alfresco by the sea.
She fancied herself a chef
stirring the pot
and turning up the heat
if it simmered too low.
Written for Margo’s Poem Tryouts, which I recently found thanks to Chalk Hills Journal, a wonderful blog. Margo asked that we find highly-descriptive words relating to a ‘simple’ subject, make a list of those, and then write to those words. I chose the “simple” subject of eating. Photo taken this past summer on the deck in Provincetown….indeed, eating alfresco!
The myth behind the woman loved by many,
richly layered flavors, cultivated to impress.
Miss Popularity, Miss Luther League
years later, a doctor’s wife
mother and choir member too.
Chameleon of many faces.
24 hours. 10 stories.
A runaway drama, no one really knew.
Instability lurked behind her masks
until the show of the week
forever changed her life.
wider than a tidal pool.
Knife in hand, surge of passion
husband prostrate at her feet.
Murdereress. A new role.
shocked by the script.
Prompts from WP Writing 201: faces, found poetry, chiasmus. Found Poetry: scissors and newspaper in hand, cut out words and phrases and arrange them in a poem. Words from THE WEEK, September 18, 2015 edition. Chiasmus: a reversal, an inversion (title to first line).
Winter comes so soon,
red flannel bathrobe mornings
padding through my room.
She was a primary color kind of gal
young at heart, year after year.
Neon chalk streaks adorned her hair
blue moon ice cream colored her tongue.
She wore bright yellow boots to walk in the rain.
Smiley face balloons attached at the wrist,
always her shadow of choice.
Her happy place
was wearing a clown-face red nose
making you laugh, wherever you met
in a car or a train or a bus or a van
or rocking in chairs here at the home.
We missed her after she died.
But the old man now in her room
wakes every day with a smile,
seeing the large crooked rainbow
painted wheel-chair height,
directly across from his bed.
The same white clouds,
the stuff of wispy filaments framed in blue
float o’er my head in quietude.
And soar above bright sunflower fields
flower heads tilted to the sky
in warm rays that beam on me.
And witness from above
far away killing fields
acres of blood with heads askew
eyes frozen grotesque in pain.
These same sentinel clouds,
how can that be?
Beads of wet
on grey wooden slats
reveal smooth foot prints
within pools of dew.
Purple veined hand
tames breeze ruffled pages,
etches black ink phrases
between blue lines.
Noon sun directly overhead
deck floor dry, tracks gone
in streams of sweat.
pen drags letters
as ideas dry up
like low tide sand.
Sea breeze carries a slight chill
as she pulls the sweatshirt close,
sips hot strong coffee under rising sun.
Later that day, sweatshirt off and visor on
she palms lotion between her hands
rubs coconut scent upon her limbs.
Feet on rail, notebook in hand
ideas float as gulls hover overhead
pen hits paper as birds dive into sparkling sea.
Sun shifts westward, coolness returns
she dons layers again
like words stacked upon the page.
Days in this place
turn into moonbeams
and she retires to be born again.
Cape Cod, Provincetown, little piece of heaven on earth. AND: this turns out to be my first poem published! Provincetown Magazine, October 1 issue, 2015.
That dog bit me.
Out of nowhere he came flying
like the proverbial bat out of hell
only bigger, with big teeth
a big bite
not like those feasting mosquitoes
on our sand dunes bike ride
not like the needle bite from
the tetanus shot
when you rushed me to ER.
So where were you this time?
When the dog bit me.
NaPoWriMo Day 9: Write a calligram: a poem or other text in which the words are arranged into a specific shape or image.
shriveled once green
donned vibrant red disguise
to ward off lurking decay
fallen tendon of skeletal oak
hardened veins stand out from brittle flesh
dull brown age spots on blackened stem
curled like death’s beckoning finger elasticity gone
your smallest pieces granular near dust
hearkened back unto your mother soil
tomorrow’s wind will hurl you
to another place
or unthinking footsteps
will grind you
If you haven’t read my About, now would be a good time. Looking at this post, it seems to fit with who I am quite well.
She was called a pollyanna.
Positive exclamation addicted
she high-stepped and varied her pace
through life’s shifting textures.
Retrieving sea glass and a scallop-cut piece of shell
from the day’s foam ruffled waves
at the edge of iridescent aquamarine.
She lived as a greeter.
Always expectant, rounding each corner
to meet until-now unfound friends or catch
a coin’s shiny glint from the sidewalk’s crevasse.
A collector too, she gathered smiles as she
walked past and sometimes toward faces
moving to their meeting places for the day.
She said regrets lead backward.
Ruminations rehash long ago or too current
memories looking for what-ifs and what-thens
not in her mind the stuff of collectibles.
She chose to live today
and dream tomorrow
always loving forward.
This was written in response to a poetry class writing prompt: think about your regrets. I sat down with my journal, a morning cup of coffee, and began to “spill” on the page. Thoughts, not coffee. And then I stopped. Not fun. And it wasn’t me. So I started again and out came Pollyanna. Have you heard the term? I can define it by something my daughter once said to me, Mom, every movie can’t be The Sound of Music!!!
The picture is from Provincetown, MA, many years ago. It just seems to fit with this post, right? Besides, sunflowers always make me smile.