Signs

The charcoal clouds are pregnant
with rain and distress.
The chilled breeze foretells
a day of unrest.
Witches-hair
moss sways
from  live oaks
that  knarl their way
upward.  I watch
as leaves scatter.
The world becomes
silent except for the sound
of  shaking, breaking
trees and whistles
of warning from
the wind. It’s time.

Decisions, Decisions

 

Weigh and research,
set up through the night,
feel fire consume gut,
headache constant companion.

Conclusion: Decisions  made

without much thought
turned out well
at least half the  time.

Sacrifice

 

She sacrifices her enjoyment in life
for those around her.  She can live
with anyone is her reply when asked
how she lives with a husband like that.

Her secret is to get used to all the things

she hates about him, prays, and goes on.
Her children she has sacrificed
every ounce of her being from day one.

She tells her daughter when she visits her in prison

how she is sacrificing now by raising her
grandkids.  People ask her how she does
it, she beams before she gets serious
and tells about how she sacrifices herself.

Would Yes Be Easier?

Do you want breakfast – no.

You have to have breakfast
I’ll fix you something good.

Want to go somewhere tonight – no.

Why don’t we go to Sam’s
You always feel better when you get out.

Do you remember Johnny – no.

Yes, you do. Remember, he is the one
That cut the grass for mom years ago.

Life is a Treat

 

The best time of the day
is when he comes home.

He’s big and sees me
as soon as he comes in the door.
We play the game where he
chases me down and rubs
my belly. Then he says, “whose the
best dog in the whole wide world?”
as he lifts me high in the air.
I don't have to do anything 
he answers his own question.
“YOU are” he says, and pets me
some more. Then the best part. 

He puts me down,
goes into the room where my treat is kept.
I have to sit when he says,  I can’t
go  until he says the magic word
“COME” and I do.  I run so fast and get
so excited that I get choked up sometimes.
Then I run away to my rug
so I can eat every crumb.  I only get one a day
so sometimes I go back to my rug
to see if I left a crumb. I'll wait until
tomorrow for another treat but now
I get all the belly rubs I want.

Breaker of Rules (I’m not)

 

I don’t break the rules.
Don’t cross streets
except at a crosswalk.
I’m a keeper of policy,
organization in life.

I seek others who follow, too. 

If the prompt says jump,
we all jump, don’t try to get
by with a hop or a skip.

Rules are made for us

to have a better world.
I keep to the rules and laws.
My only regret is I’m
a mind-numbing bore.

Anticipation

 

(Tanka)

 

Christmas is over.

I consider what comes next
while I still bask in
joy, warmth, and love today
from precious family times.
I look forward -- a new year.

Celebrate Good Times

Some celebrations reach so far into heart
And pit of stomach...so deep inside, we can’t call it.
I wait for more than four hours, not long on many days
but taxing when I'm waiting for an all clear
from the oncologist who has our future in his hands.

I know the signs now; wait for them with trembling knees.

If doctor comes to the side chair to talk to me, it’s good news.
If Pearl, his assistent,  tells me to come to the room in the back
where doctor waits, I know its bad news; terrible news.

Dr. Dhalaki walks into my vision, mask hanging like a necklace

around his neck. A small, serious man whose brow is always
furrowed. He never gives away an answer in his expressions.
Then he takes the turn, his head buried in some kind of report,
sits down in the chair by the side of the front desk.

We make eye contact and the tears well up, he’s OK,

my husband is OK for another three months.  No cancer.
All this before the Doctor opens his mouth.  He shows
me photos of Bill’s bladder and prostate so I’ll understand
I don’t need the photos.  I have all the information I need.

I want to see my husband so we can celebrate life anew.

Deluge

Sit with me in one of the front porch rockers.

Black wood slats fit our backs and the soft
red cushions contrast (and make you smile).
Have a glass of wine with me or a cup of coffee
while we watch the rain slant down off the roof,
and splashes onto the bark, displaces the moss,
runs through the gutters, and settles round us  like a
a symphony. Smokey gray clouds bring on the automatic lights
and the perfume of newly mowed grass surrounds us.
I’m glad you stopped by for the show.

Interesting, Mona.

Interesting, that look you have.
Nothing I would want hanging round me
but I would recognize you anywhere.
Boobs so contained. Nose so long. Big hands.
Strange hairline for this day and time.
I’d remember you.

At the Louvre I think it will be interesting
to see you in person. If it isn’t too crowded,
if I have lunch first so I won’t be hungry,
if there are no shops nearby to peruse.

There you are in front of me
I part the crowd as best I can, one small step
at a time. We make eye contact you and I.
I can’t turn away, can’t see anyone else in the room.

I take as long as it takes to get closer, the world goes dim
in periphery. I see you follow me as I make my way.
I feel the tears drop onto my cheeks, I think there must be a leak
in the roof. Why would I cry over something I’ve seen
so many times. Interesting.

Forest Home

Forests in the Western North Carolina
mountain range gives me shelter
from the rain, and tempest winds.
The serenity quinches my thirst, 
fills me with sustenance--
with spirit that is nature, and a vastness of  life.
I can live in dense growth of  underbrush
and in  mists of  clouds. How small I am standing
there, how huge my heart grows as I see what is real.

The forests of the Smokies ground me as fast and hard

as the old time revivals of my childhood.  The creeks
cleanse me like baptismal waters until I am new.
The forests there give me strength I long for,
make me stand tall next to the elder oak
until I can stand alone without it’s shadow.
I’m a wanderer until I reach the foothills,

a seeker until I am home.

Note*: Forest Home was written for Peggy's prompt "Forest" over at Poetry Jam.

Nobody Knows

Nobody knows your heart

On any day of the week
Life changes around us
Forces changes in us
Moment to moment

Everybody knows

My thoughts today
If they read my poem
But as for tomorrow
Nobody knows
Not even me.

Solitary

I gaze outside my window,
look for a bird, a squirrel.
Hear a baby cry, maybe it was a cat.
Look for the walker with Siberian Husky,
late today, I wonder if she’s ok.
I’m at my desk and wonder why
I can’t produce one solitary poem.

The Past

The wrinkles mask the face of his past, a face so smooth,

so handsome he had his choice of women.  This tower
of a man stoops at the shoulders and walks with a gait,
but still the strong body of his past shows when he attempts
to stand or walk. He was a man who rode horses and built

his muscles on the farm he worked.  His glazed over eyes hold visages

of the eyes of his youth, as blue as snow at dusk. Fleeting life can’t
camouflage the knowledge in his past.  His slowed heart beat
doesn’t tell the story of a good man who saw beauty in those with a good heart.
He raised his family to do the same. They prospered and carried on that legacy
of this man now wrinkled and stooped who is their hero. He died with them at his side.