It's Sunday

He speaks.

We listen.
Try to interpret
his broken English.

The congregation

becomes my conspirator.
We kneel, recite, sing,
pretend to understand,
respond when we think it’s right.

What do I get from this?

Why do I keep going?

It’s what I do

on Sundays
It’s Sunday again.

Love Story

I can’t speak of love and be believable.

It’s all bells and confetti and “he’s the one!”

I saw him kneeling in an aisle at a discount store.

He looked up,our eyes met, and something
inside my head said, this is the man
I’m going to marry.  He was the first man

I couldn’t get enough of…his face, his eyes,

his voice, his body, his spirit.  He opened me
to love and it was everywhere. My life
became a wonder, an adventure.

He made me feel like an eagle soaring

instead of the broken bird I thought I was. 
He lifted me up to a place where I take hold
of every minute and squeeze. 

For forty-three years I have soared and he

is always amazed at me.  Even the days
that are sad or troubled
leave me with a soft landing in his arms.
No you won’t believe
my story of love for I can’t believe it myself.

I Love My Dentists

 

I love going to the dentist.

Hearing the drill is enough
to make my heart
pound faster with anticipation. 
I have two dentists,
they tell me the same thing,
I won’t hurt you, and they never do.

They have small hands and start

IV meds to put me out while I’m
In the waiting room,
that way there’s never the slightest
bit of anxiety.

Crowns, root canals, implants…

a piece of cake with these two
gentle souls.  They give me
pain meds when I leave that
are highly effective and by morning
I don’t even need them.

I hear stories about painful procedures

but I’m one of the lucky ones.
I love going to the dentist!

(Prompt: Write about loving something you really don’t love at all.)

Phantasmagoric

 

He said I was sitting up in bed
hungrily eating Altoids

out of the tin
as if they were candy.

I remember that dream:

He said, “what are you doing?”

No response, I kept eating. He took

the tin away ...I was thankful. 

We agree

this part is real:  I lay back down
and slept soundly.

 

Wordles

 

I don’t get Wordles

what’s the sense
of trying to make sense
of nonsensical
word patterns. When I read Wordle
poems, I easily pick out the words
poets had to use to stay true to form.

Every poetry site eventually asks

writers to write a Wordle. Some
sites are dedicated to Wordles.
I want to trust they make sense--
in an academic way? create
a new connection in the brain?
force you to connect words
we wouldn’t dream of connecting?--
How can that make sense? 

I love the name wordles. I love 
writing about Wordles and 
reading the word Wordle but 

I don’t get Wordles

Double Talk

I am a writer
of poetry, non-fiction,
fiction. Long periods of time
go by empty, no words, no care,
no work...sometimes months

Slip by without a sign.
Life interferes, keeps me out
of my chair and I'm empty of word
and will. Can I be a writer who doesn't write?
Can sun rise peak out; decide to set
for lack of will to lift itself?
I am a writer!

Desire – Betrayal

 

 

Nerves fray -   addiction

makes itself known,
takes over
in yet another way. Ochre hued

teeth. I didn’t know
color would be involved.
Dazzling smiles all around,
not mine, not now.  I’m
no perfectionist,
no innocent either.
I know the price some
pay for their addiction. Damn you
 
diet cokes. I’m sick of the shame
of your incessant pull.

I’ll go to the dentist,
clean away proof
of your existence in my life.
That will buy me more time
to get use to life without you.

Toothless Ache

Ache

deep hole.

Loss means pain.

It must be so

even if you are a tooth too far gone?

But why does the jaw, neck, eye, and head hurt?

In sympathy?

A drum beats..

miss you

tooth.

(double Tetractys--1, 2, 3, 4, 10, 10, 4, 3, 2, 1-- for Mini Sunday on http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/.)