Inheritance

She left him money, not much
but enough
to get something special
from her to him

First he split the money
with his wife.
He knew she loved
his mom, too,
and because
that‘s the way he was.

He took the rest
and purchased
an overstuffed
leather recliner.

Why?
Why a recliner I asked him.
His reply?

Every time I sit,
I’ll feel her arms
around me
as if she were a huge
old stuffed recliner
bringing me comfort
after a rough day.

Green Life

Sallow green,
tummy churns
hold it all in
what ever it is
until I can unload.

Oh, I’ve felt this before
felt the color of revolt
when combining
sugar, wheat,
and diet cokes.

Ready to Wear Red

Dim memories
of a knock down dead
satin red dress
fitted with curvy bodice,
and size sleek waist. No

self consciousness
in the wearing. It was part
of me. I’m thankful

for the memory
of me in a red dress.
I must have been twelve.

Between Two and Four

I disappear around two p.m.
Down time
is a stretch of time after
work out, errands, meetings,
writing, painting, lunch.
Then I fade to a beige caramel
melting…into the color of my walls.
No one can reach me -
I am gone.  My eyes
flicker, heart begins to beat
again - first signs I’m coming back.
I revive, become alive after
four.  I‘m ready…

Snow White

Architectural bodies
gather, float to show
what is perfection in form
and motion.  Soft silhouettes
pirouette on the mountainous
terrain like ballerinas.

All that is  beauty
drifts, builds
to a crescendo
until all the world
is cleansed in the purity
of white flakes.

The winter sun
appears as if on cue,
spotlights them all
and they are transformed
to a dazzling diamond
radiance.  What a performance.
What a show of beauty
and grace. Bravo!

One Year

This year looks much like

last year.  Blank slate, pen

in my hand, resolute, intent

for a personal best.

Two thousand fourteen.

The only one I’m given.

One glorious year

to orchestrate,

then await

my fate.

Liars All

 

Who doesn’t lie? Those that say they don’t,
do.  Every writer lies.  Fiction writers the best
liars of all. Creative liars.  That’s the most
desirable.

Poets lie -- embellishments are strung through

dull ornaments to provide the glitter.  We make
it difficult to discern with our turn of the word.

Even if we tell our truths-- they are ours,

not shared by others who have their own
vision of the same event.  These are the liars
that don’t know they are lying.

Does the compartment for liars need to be

reduced to only those with evil intent ?
Not the lier that says you did the right thing
when you obviously didn’t. What of, the color
of your dress compliments your eyes,
and omit the dress makes you look like
a pumpkin with a belt.
That’s a creative lie, but one of omission.

I am a liar.  I hope a creative one.  I hang

by a thread to my truth but embellish, relish
the results as my fingers type faster and I
see what I have said.  Is it a worthwhile lie?
Will it make you smile?  I love your crooked
smile!

(it would be sweet if you’d brush your teeth

--omitted)

 

Christmas

This season of love

Light shines bright in heart and soul
Let all that look, see.

Sounds of the Night

 

Something is out there

I'm not sure what,
critters and sitters,
and probably a cat.

They chime and sing,

growl and cry,
chirp and make music--
drive me insane.

There's no traffic,

no neighbors noise--
just the sounds of the country
a cacophony of sounds.

Turning Toward the Sun

I get mired in the muck-

a lot. It aggregates around

my feet, holding them like

cement to a spot I no longer

care to be. When I can

 

I take a step, each movement

leaden and heavy; I go

to automatic pilot until

comprehension forms

like the mist

 

in the mountains.

When I can look back

see the sludge begin

to fall with each step

forward. Easier to stay

 

mucked in the dark,
there’s a comfort

that lets me rest,

hopeless in mygloom.

I know that place

 

that serenades me

with music of the damned

is not for me, so I close

off from my stinkin

thinker and move –

baby steps until I see

 

a ray of sunshine

that melts away

the crap and gloom,

releases me to a life

I was meant to live,

allowed to live, if only

I make the right choices.

I move.

Birth of a Poem

Birth of a poem comes

slowly even when the idea

is inspired. The labor

to find the right word

line breaks, and stanzas

does not come quickly

or easily. The pain

of editing is different

with each poem.

There are changes

some rearranged, then

critique groups or editors

are called to solve

problems I don't even see.

With this push, I finally

have a finished poem.

Don't read it again...submit!

 

A Knot in the Wood

The perfect grain interrupted.

Calm color of honey displaced
by russet and black ulcers.

I wait for the new cabinet to arrive.

One unified slice of wood, no blemish,
stain or fault; run my hand along
smooth, cool wood and stop short.

I see them side by side, perfect and flawed.
Clear to me now, I crate up the new
cabinet and gaze at the beauty of the
knotted old one.  Knots display character.

Question of Place

How to recognize the right place for you?
Do you know when it’s time to stop looking?
If you make a mistake will there be a safety net?
How do you know when it’s time to compromise,
when it’s time to stand firm? Does it matter?

Bonded By Our Words

Against all odds our online poetry critique group
has lasted twelve years.  We’ve been through a lot,
diagnosis, loss, worry, birth of grandchildren, children’s
weddings, grand celebrations, and publications. We hear
each other’s joy and pain through the writings. 

We carry on to encourage, critique honestly, learn from,

and inspire each other. Each of us are stronger for our union.
Our lives, personal and writing, keeps changing but the core
of the group, the friendships we have forged holds steady.
We are band of women, The Skywriters, bonded by our words.

My Face Turns Up

My face turns toward the rain.

Drops plays on my skin, dribble

into my mouth, drum a steady
beat on my skin, and hang

like crystals from my eyelashes.

My clothes are drenched, weighted.
Nearby dahlias dance in the shower.

There is no better remedy, nothing more

liberating,  than the glorious rain

and me caught without an umbrella.

Hour Before Dawn

 
The hour before dawn

I lie awake, half dream world,

half reality. I long to stay

one more

hour, one minute. Why must

I be pummeled and crushed

by reality each morning.

In the hour before dawn

I want the dream.

Scruff

He was a scruff of a boy

traipsing along the dirt road on Rocky Point.

His overalls were worn thin at the knees,

he wore no shirt, no shoes.

A straw hat fit cockeyed across his

head and sheltered half his face.  I heard him

whistling a familiar tune as he sauntered

on whittling down the dusty Queen

Ann’s lace that overgrew the soil

and lay on road like maidens in wait

for the guillotine. He whomped their

heads off with his walking stick and never

missed a step. He never looked my way

even when I stopped the car

but I couldn’t take my eyes

off this scene as he turned off onto the path

that led to the cool spring with grapevines

swings that my brothers and I would

go to on summer days like these. Time

reverses for me for a while until I start

the car up and travel forward, leaving

the innocence of that time in the clouds

of road dirt behind me.

A New Friend

Her heart is broken
I see it through her eyes
before the tears appear.

I know that pain,
raw, open, intense.
It has only been a year
for her. I don’t want

to go back, but I do,
I must before she can trust me,
can know me, will take my hand,
accepts my words, my gift
of understanding, my hug

filled with solace.
To hear her story is to
feel her pain and spiral down
however, I have the tools to rise
again, and the hope that I can bring
her with me if only for a moment.

The Magician

The illusionist makes wide sweeping gestures

walks across the stage and back again

all the while he produces the magic

he is well known for.

There is a moment in the performance

when I’m lost in the show, don’t see

the strings or mirrors, don’t care about

the trick.  He smiles.

I try to stay in the moment but the spell

is broken.  I see him through the fog,

no magic, no special powers, just a man

of subterfuge and lies.

The Estate

Acceptance is a place,

an estate arrived at by

many paths that twist

and turn, lots of switch backs,

pits,  and mountains to climb.

The way there bought by

work, tears, pain, and grief

but at the end of the road is that

elusive estate of beauty, serene

countenance, and peace of mind.

Acceptance is a place, come sit

at my table, I’ll share what I know

of it.  I’ll tell you of my journey.