Thankful

I remember waking up
In a hotel near Clearwater Beach
My new husband lying beside me
How it felt to watch him sleep.

I remember wondering

If this dream would be forever
For even at a wise twenty-two
I knew fairytales could end.

I remember how it felt

To feel blessed each moment, each day
Not take anything for granted
To be happy we love each other now.

I remember forty-one May 2^nd’s
How it felt to be loved by him
How it felt to love him more each year
how the bond grew more solid, more sure.

I remember now as we reach May 2^nd
That this man is still my superman
That my life wouldn’t be what it is
I’m so thankful for this man in my life.

He Was Bad

Sid McBroom killed a man

They threw him in the can
He was my granddad
To be honest, his whole family was bad.


Today’s prompt is to write a clerihew. These are brief, usually satirical poems. The clerihew is a four-line biographical poem, with an AABB rhyme scheme and no regular meter.

Problem

I seek, search, look, wander,
yet have no destinations, dreams, roots.
I’m a writer who doesn’t write,
an artist who doesn’t paint,
a knitter who doesn’t have a project.

I run to the mail box every day

hope to find something…special.
The letter I’m waiting for--
I don’t know who will send it or what it will say,
I just wait and run to see if it is here yet.

The problem with seekers is that sometimes

They look forever for things they will never find.
With the wisdom of my decades surely
I would have found what I was looking for.
Next problem, does it exist and how do I find out.  

Space

The space I inhabit becomes smaller, more cramped with each move.

Now my home is compact, exact, and it holds me accountable.
Smaller means everything in it’s place and if it doesn’t have a place, it goes.
I try to find a way to feel okay about giving stuff away, so I give it all
to charity or to family and friends.  I don’t feel better yet.

This Is Not Me

I feel like someone different today. I stand taller-

feel  healthy, like everything is aligned and right
in my world.I meet people head on, smile as I pass.
There’s something grand going on. I'm sure it’s self assurance.
But how could that be? 

It's not what I wear, I am in tennis shoes

and a comfortable t-shirt and slacks.  I look normal,
I look like me, but I feel a confidence I can't explain,
an assurance I've rarely felt. I left a message for Bill,

told him about my spectacular day. I waited there

in the shop while my car was serviced, I read ads,
checked my messages, nothing different  to note,
Just mundane tasks I’m forced to do on an ordinary day.

I want to capture the feel of this though, research, find

where it comes from and how I can plug in again. No
extraordinary events to note though, no answers come.
This feeling just came on the wind and I suppose it will

leave the same way. I go to the mall

to eat at the Cheesecake Factory to savor this moment
along with my favorite Shephard’s Pie.I  sit in
the  outdoor café, mild cool breeze blows over the sun

baked iron work café tables. Then I order

a veggie burger and a glass of ice cold water.
Now it's official. This is NOT me today.

Where I Am

On a treadmill again

Sweet acrid sweat drips
Into my eyes quicker
Than I can mop up
My YMCA neck towel in white
Black and red. I said,

I'll step it up today,

A little faster --  a bit longer,
But my feet say not today, Sister!
Instead I stretch myself just
To reach yesterday's goal.
No matter what I decide
My body always sets the pace..

Flickering Fall

An  ekphrastic poem — that is, a poem that responds to or is otherwise inspired by a work of art.

Spring is here, summer near - I am  thinking of fall.
It’s not that I can’t wait, can’t allow spring
to disappear while I long for another season.

I am content with the season I’m with,
though  I  change locations in the summer
to find a better season and some relief.  Still,

I wouldn’t want summer to die. It's just that
fall pumpkins, leaves,  colors of orange and brown,
and celebrations  flicker unbidden in and out

of consciousness no matter what the season. 
I can’t control the flow of thoughts like cool crisp air,
or visions of apple orchards and pumpkin patches,

long nights that cause us to gather round
the fireplace, light candles, and eat pumpkin pie.
No, I don’t wish for the seasons to leave me
but  I have  much  to look forward to in the fall.

Tomorrow I'll Write About Judging

I was going to write a poem about judging,
how we judge each other without thinking,
when a red bird landed on a branch outside my window.

I watch as the sun beams cascade to the west

and this perfect day is just about done. Like an old friend,
I want to say good-bye to a day I won’t see again.

I’ll take my dog with me and I’ll watch
her turning round and round from the joy of being outside.
I might turn round and round from the joy of it all, too.

Tomorrow I’ll write about judging others and how

I do it sometimes without thinking.  Today the red bird calls,
the squirrels are chattering, and I want to walk in the grass.

Dawn

Unlike the haiku, hay(na)ku have no syllable restrictions, so your words can be as long or short as you please.  My haynaku:

 Dawn

Sunshine wakes
Day splashed bright

Blank
My canvas
But so bright

Journal
Is empty
Cleared of yesterday

I
Couldn’t  hope
For better start.

The Grand Event

Yesterday you placed her in my arms; no that was a year ago.
Mimi, meet your great granddaughter, Kaylee, you said
as if the words meant something through the roar in my ears--
all the dreams realized and not, it all comes to this one miracle placed in my arms.

In my teary blindness I reach out for her, feel her first,

her precious body light as a feather, I know she looks at me.
I want to see my great granddaughter’s eyes, that’s where connection is made.

The tears fade but not the catch in  my throat as I finally see

this perfect little face, ears, rosebud lips, huge blue eyes,
my Kaylee D, mine, my grandchild, my beautiful miracle
I readjust you as I sit and see that I am given the world in my arms.

Lullaby for Kaylee

Goodnight, Kay-lee,
time to lay down your head.
Sleep tight - tonight ,
in your tiny bed.

Something

I see an old friend
she spends the day
so we can catch up on our lives.

She had a rare cancer

it’s in remission
she’s living the gift of life.

I want to start

a writing group
right here in my neighborhood.

The woman who would help

died of a heart attack
unexpectedly, in the middle of the night.

Red and Yellow Day

Once I open the orange with both thumbs pressed into the center

a fine smoky spray lifts around my seven year old head.
I begin to peel little bits of the pimply orange skin away.
My fingers are sticky but when I put them in my mouth
the bitterness stings my taste buds, I slowly peel some more.

One little girl with freckles on her nose and red hair caught up in pigtails

approaches and asks me what I’m doing.  It’s an orange for my lunch,
but I don’t think I like it.  She wants it, reaches out her hand but I shrink
back for I believe that inside that white pulpy layer lies something
wondrous and I want to be the one to discover it.  I’m not sure

 whether to take the white skin off  or not so I bite

into it and get a mouth full of pith that isn’t what I expect or what I want.
I begin to peel the white away, laboriously.  I feel like I’m coming down with
Something, for every movement I make is in slow motion.  Nancy with the red
hair finally disappears behind the leafless tree and I hear her yelling and playing
with others behind me. I keep to my task.  I long for something sweet and good

on my tongue and in my stomach for sustenance even though I don’t feel hungry.

The lack of food has me weak and my stomach growls in response to my slow
progress. Johnny, the meanest boy in class comes screeching up before the wood bench,
grabs for my orange still covered by a thinner layer of white.  His friends
stare at him then look at me and say, come on Johnny, leave her and her stupid orange

alone.  Johnny pulls my hair and tells me he hates oranges and he hates me.

I feel the presence now of my friends behind me and I hear my best friend, Lonna,
tell Johnny to get lost.  They start arguing but it sounds as if they are in a tunnel.
They walk out to the play ground, I continue to peel my orange. The white film sticks
 to my fingers now and it’s harder to peel.  I can wait. I’m not really hungry anyway.

The next layer nets an orange the color of the brightest part of sunset last night.

I turn the orange in my hands wonder how to tackle these glorious segments of flesh.
I nudge and wiggle a wedge until it pops free and I can’t help but smile even though
every muscle movement seems to cause me some pain. The smell of that pulpy orange
takes over my head and body.  I feel sunshine on my back when I take the first bite,

feel that sweet, tart juice on my tongue and as it drips down my throat.  One drop

along with the nirvana of orange fragrence escape out the side of my mouth. I lick the juice
back in quickly and savor every morsel, every pop of the sweet orbs  in my mouth, every
squish I  feel with every bite lets loose another burst of taste and fragrance
that  fills my insides with the sunshine feeling of last summer.  The cold closes in

as I finish my orange and the teacher blows her whistle. Time to go in.  I scrunch myself

down further into my heavy jacket that feels inferior to the task of warming me this
afternoon.  All day I smell the orange on my fingers and feel the warmth of it inside.
I never will forget the day I had the orange on the bench at Simmons Elementary.

Vision in a Baseball Cap

At dusk I see the shape of you against the waning day,

 a thin haze

of you drifts by, a vision in a baseball cap.

Your vague image answers a question I don’t know how to ask.

The answer will lull

me enough so that I can sleep tonight.

I can pray for an appearance in my dreams, but I know now

unanswered prayer

is an agony I should spare myself.

Your Presence

Today at lunch in the outdoor café

I hear your laugh but don’t turn.
Summer salad with strawberries,
walnuts, and romaine fills my plate.
My fork finds its way to each perfect bite.

I hear your laugh again, hear the two of you

talking about your classes and the girl
you met at the Ray’s game.  I order
white zinfandel and dark bread so I can sit
until you laugh again.  You say, I’ve got this, Mom!

My tears mingle with the raspberry vinaigrette.

You walk out with your arm resting on her shoulder.
The pain moves into the pit of my stomach
as I drink deeply and see you through the pink fluid.
I’m thankful you have blonde hair, and you aren’t tall.

Shade

I used to look for sunshine spots,
places that would warm me to the core.
My eyes and desires would seek them out,
patches of sunlight in a shadowy world.

Now my search is for shaded porches,

umbrella trees, shelter from the heat.
My shades are on when I’m outdoors,
slathered sunblock covers sun damaged skin.

Early Morning Blessing

His runny nose is pressed against my front door window.

Tears course down his chubby cheeks, his mouth
moves but I can’t hear his words. I stare out, don’t trust
what I see.  His little body shivers. I can’t guess how long
he has been there. 

He hugs his arms in closer to his body and I hear the sobs.

He looks about three years old.  Though I am not fully
awake at 6 a.m., I am filled with fear.  I worry about the little
one this Easter morn out in the cold with no clothes, and there
were the tears.  I worried for me, I couldn’t help myself.  Was
this a set up?  Would someone rush me when I opened the door?
Who would leave a little boy out in the cold and dark? 

I call the police first after I tell the little boy to stay there.

I call the police first, then open the door to this precious one.
I bring him in and hug his little, shivery body close to mine
until I can grab a soft blue blanket from the TV room to bundle
him in.  I sit him on the couch as I assure him
everything will be OK.  Where do you live?  In this house
he says.  Where is your mommy and daddy?  They aren’t home.
I waked up and they aren’t home, he cried.  I poured him
orange juice.  He said his mommy was dead.  I cried with him
and worried more.  I wondered what he had seen, what he meant.
I pick up Lexi-dawg and introduce them. The boy smiles

 for the first time.  The police take forever it seems but It

was probably minutes.  I open the door when I see flashing lights.
A man jumps from the car and I knew he was the father.
I know that look, the look of shock and absolute fear
when your child is gone.  I knew so much in that one
look.  D.J., the little boy, wraps lanky arms and legs around
his dad  and says I was scared, daddy. It was dark
 and you weren’t there.

My Easter blessing came early morning.  D.J. is a neighbor

In my new neighborhood.  The police want to take the man’s
Information. You aren’t in trouble, the officer tells him,
but we have to have the information.  The father keeps
thanking me. I didn’t tell him I called the police before
I opened the door to his three year old.  I didn’t say,
thought of me first.

White

White shutters slat the restaurant windows
I peer through. Sun rays shiny white fall onto
women in white bikinis.  They  strut  tan bodies
that shimmer from the slather of  sun block.

Two paintings of Snowy Egrets hang on the wall.

a picture of beauty and repose that make me more so.
Snowy petunias thrive at the entrance to the left,
made more brilliant against the backdrop of sand dunes.

Lunch is served, sautéed tilapia with creamy cole slaw.

I fill myself with food and cool, clear water, sit and soak
In time and place before I give up my seat.
Pearlescent is my car that sparkles in the parking lot,
White speaks to me, clears my mind, takes me home.

Side-kick

hops
through the Bahia
much like a beige bunny happy with her freedom.
still she stops to look back, to see that  I’m still there,
she wants to be sure of me

then
she is free
once more for minutes.  now she waits patiently
in her bed in the study, startles whenever my typing
breaks, when she hears the keys

tap

once again,
she falls back to sleep.  i come to the end
of my writing, silence palpable,  she appears by my
side, waits to be lifted up for kisses and snuggles.

First Day of the Season

I never watched the game but it was always in the background
of my childhood summers.  I heard names like Al Kaline,  
Eddie Robinson, and Harvey Kuen.  My brothers had cards
and talked baseball day and night. They compared hitting, fielding,
and batting stats as easily as they recited their ABC’s.  My information
came by osmosis. The sounds and feels of the game stayed long after
I left my childhood.

Today I turn the TV on and tune to the game.  I put on my jersey

navy blue and white, then  I mop the floors, or write a new poem.
I like the feel of a sunny spring day and the sounds of baseball
my background music. I still hang on the periphery of the sport.
Hear the commentators, statistics, and the solid hit of bat on ball.
Today the Tampa Bay Rays is my team.  Go Longoria and Pena!
Play ball!