Working On a Building

What if

this structure exists

only in my mind,

these rooms

in which I pace

tile floors to carpet

are of my imagining,

our talks and lovemaking

the trusses

of my dreaming-home,

our silence and pain

but girders

for a grander scheme than we?

If so, it will take

more than a crane

to bring this baby down--

Late entry for Kim’s weekend challenge: BUILDINGS

Sharing on the Tuesday Platform in the Imaginary Garden

Haiku Observation #4284

Rainy Monday blues--
worn like a home-made afghan,
tastes like cough syrup

Toast & Syrup

No sugar cereal

only Chex or Wheaties

but any day (or every day)

2 pieces of Wonder toast

spread with margarine

cut in 18 fork-size pieces

soaked in Golden Griddle

This breakfast

seems wrong for adults

(or for anyone in 2017)

but would be fulfilling

in a green year

Sharing with the Toads on the Tuesday Platform in the Imaginary Garden

Aubade

When the last of the fireworks

fizzles into grey-green night

under a lonely streetlight,

mosquitos retire, drunk,

the air’s as dense as local honey

and sweet, I’ll retire in your arms

Because upon waking, we’ll miss

this thickness portending loss,

the dozen verses sung in darkness

simply for sake of time, and wait

out pacing hours until the chance

again arrives to imbibe on shadows

Late entry for Play It Again in the Imaginary Garden

Springing

Gentle Readers, guess what? A friend from college sent me the September 1987 issue of Kiosk, a literary magazine. He had saved several issues, some including poems of his own, and some with poems written by friends. A poem apparently written by me appears on page 14. What?

I have no memory of this poem, or of the literary magazine, or of submitting anything to same. Or much memory of college, to tell the truth. This poem is not among the small stack of papers I have stashed away from when I was Very Young. But there is no doubt who wrote “Springing,” is there? Wow.

Sharing on the Tuesday Platform with my Toads today, who I know will appreciate this! :)

 

Thursday

I can feel myself retreating

into my own mind while wanting to tell

my friends I love them. I want to do nothing

but lie on the floor holding my kids in my arms

occasionally running off to bed with my husband.

I need to write but want to watch movies, read

a book but my body demands sleep. I want to drink

while sober, take a nap instead of exercise.

I’ll work hard but really want to quit my job,

resist yet surrender. Sparkle and glower. Holler

and whine. I want to run away but stay home.

For Sanaa's prompt in the Garden: OF INSOMNIA AND SLEEP

Little Bow Haiku

Back door wide open
to morning sounds, garden air
like nothing has changed

To/For, About, With

    in loving memory of Tracey McCartney

We balk

at the task of writing

about the life of a beloved

because it seems impossible,

the audacity of eulogizing her

rendering us wordless at first

but we try anyway.

We listen to Neil Peart

for inspiration

to pen stories and poems,

write songs and blog posts,

issue proclamations

using words like fierce

and justice, steady and strong,

talent and uproariousness,

passion and compassion

and love.

We search inside ourselves

for the same qualities,

wondering about the unnamed thing

that draws one person

to another

whether across time

and miles and constant change

or tucked in together

belly to back

every night for eighteen years.

We are drawn to her,

our brightest light.

We warm ourselves nearby.

We curl up beside her,

ever-closer as her flames begin to dim,

fervently scribbling down words

describing how much she means to us.

I wrote this poem for a Celebration of Life this past weekend in Nashville and it was read by Tracey’s spouse Nan. Deep sigh. Much love.

Sharing with the Toads on the Tuesday Platform in the Imaginary Garden.

The Judgment

Surrounded by beauty

needing no reminders

a peculiarity of souls

lines up to account

for thoughtless actions

The worst that could happen

is likely to happen

& souls judge harshly

but I will persist

as advocacy is my jam

As emerald favors pink

or as moths thrive in moonlight

I’ll observe from the floor

for as long as it takes

then dust off & keep on

I picked a tarot card as suggested by Mama Zen earlier this week, then responded to Magaly’s prompt: I AM MADE OF

Observing Love, Broken Things

I threw open a window

to melancholia

of cold and rainy spring

Lonely breezes blow in

like electricity

raising gooseflesh

straggled strands of hair

All I can think is

there’s so much love

yet everything is broken

 Sharing on the Tuesday Platform in the Imaginary Garden

Birthday

(I wish I had created this. I love it.)

Living Room

Bare walls,

straight chairs--

the only color

in this room

is his black piano

Kim asked the Real Toads to write about a place through a person or a person through a place: PEOPLE AND PLACES

The News Cycle

News charges forward

like the kind of train

that encourages counting

while we wait

behind flashing barriers,

shelters all the hobos

and intellectuals,

expects us to keep up

despite its desperate rush

toward the damsel

approaching the tracks ahead,

anticipates everything

except the cunning of women

who have held too much

for long enough

and are done with all of it,

who are ready to wield power

like never before,

who are ready to strike out

and torque that train

right the hell off its tracks

before we have the chance to say

I think I read that somewhere,

maybe in yesterday’s news

Brendan asked the Real Toads to opine in verse about The News.

#SML

Followed a car

with the plate

   SML

Some drivers might read

   SMALL

   SMELL

   or SMILE

but I could only see

   So

   Much

   Love

and appreciated

the reminder

Susie asked the Real Toads to write a poem from our immediate surroundings: MIXED MEDIA ART (I jotted some notes at a traffic light and wrote this upon arrival. Heh.)

The Wishing Chair

When

the Tyrant

is impeached

What

will I say

is the reason

for my depression

Sharing with the Real Toads on the Tuesday Platform

Etch-A-Sketch

Brilliant analysis of modern times in Slate:

Donald Trump Wants an Etch A Sketch Presidency

Everyone should read this to remind ourselves: "[T]heir persistent insistence that we do not see what we see or know what we know is its own form of madness."

That's all for today. Thanks for being here.

Both Sides Now

The sky at sunset

is a child’s science project,

tugged-thin cottonballs

& pink cotton candy cyclone

tacked to robin’s egg blue

construction paper,

pinned-on chunks of tree moss

for mountains, and high above,

a cut-out glossy photograph

of the waning gibbous moon.

Does a child notice this,

looking up? Imagine

if we all looked at clouds

like second-grade scientists.

Good morning!

Sharing on the Tuesday Platform in the Imaginary Garden

Untitled (Early May)

I wish I could show you

what I saw today--

a modest and orderly orchard,

trees planted like gravestones

on a lazy slope

behind a roadside apple stand,

perfect spring blossoms

glistening in the stately slant

of dinnertime sun

as if to say here’s how to stand

when it’s your turn to go

to seed

Flash 55 for Kerry and the Real Toads!

Essence of Effervescence

Fear becomes you

in a lockdown culture,

  violence is beauty--

Greed has wings

  to try trouncing

even the most quiescent

cloud-walkers amongst us--

But she will float on

   beyond your berating

            float on

May! May! Mayday! Sharing on the Tuesday Platform in the Imaginary Garden

Photo (Album) Synthesis

I think

you’re like spring umber--

just a glimpse of you

before all’s chartreuse.

One minute you’re here,

then away--

and in the next, I realize

you’ve always been gone.

Hey, it’s NaPoWriMo Day 30! What?! We did it!

This is for Bjorn’s prompt in the Imaginary Garden, having to do with particle waves and photoelectricity or somesuch.

Refection on a Stop for Death

As you believed

the egregious Miss D

should have stopped for death--

Reminded me that dashes

as punctuation

were used by you for your own

nefarious purposes--

I understood your meaning

and expected you to snort.

No cat’s pajamas! No sirree!

You simply could not see it.

Reflected that one never knows

who might be a worshipper--

You forgave me, but never her--

NaNoWriMo Day 29! A poem for Brendan’s prompt in the Imaginary Garden: VOYAGE'S END
Crafted from the penultimate text conversation between me and a dear poet friend prior to his death-- his own voyage's end-- musing on-- well, you know--

Padiddle

Rhythmic back-seat sway

& soft country music

lulls a small child

to drowsiness

while her parents talk up front.

Beams across the headliner

grow in intensity

awaking sleepy curiosity

so she shifts to look ahead

into the darkness.

White light eyes fly by

against the treeline

faster and faster until

in the distance a creature

with only one bright white eye

bears down on the family car.

Upon fearful questioning

Mama explains it’s a padiddle.

That sounds friendly enough,

but it looks really mean to her.

Late, but here is NaPoWriMo #28! For Rommy’s Boogeyman prompt in the Imaginary Garden. This is very much an incomplete draft. I got all wound up in this idea and couldn’t get my mind off it, but also I haven’t been able to satisfactorily express it in verse or come up with a conclusion. I need to put this aside for now and move on to the next prompt. Maybe after a bit I can come back and actualize what I was thinking about. Sigh!

Ernie Was Right to Wait Up for This

Uncomfort

-able not knowing

    when but cer-

         tain (as can

         be)  the moment

will come

when          the other shoe

dramatic

  -ally       drops

Photo by Marian Kent

NaPoWriMo Day 27! For the Real Toads: WRITING SHOES