Center

That I sit here
surrounded by
crayon drawings
of big headed girls
(she’s in her big head phase)

and photographs of family
sometimes startles me,
as
looking back,
I identified with
(then) planet Pluto.
The smallest
furthest away
speck of a world
and I marvel
at the collisions
which brought me
here.
Center.

What is this daytime you speak of

Morning
distinguishes itself from night
only in the quantity
of gray light it provides.
The rain still falls,
pulling color from life
as it washes down.
School buses splash by,
no longer yellow
but drifting in to
goldenrod
on their way down spectrum.
The color white
is only an abstract idea,
a Platonic ideal,
that exists
only in a perfect world
where perfect rain
reflects
perfect sun
and warms
souls.

Cabbage

Perhaps I’ll dance,
this afternoon,
while snowflakes cascade down,
clinging to my eyelashes,
blurring my vision,
presenting me a kaleidoscope world
where I’ll spin until
I’m too dizzy to stand,
so I’ll fall harmlessly
into a pile of leaves
then roll
into the cabbage patch
and see
if my head
stands out
in the crowd.

Whenever the Grays meet the Blues

Sandwiched between harsh light
and gray windows
I choose gray light
where at least a water color sky
offers cold greeting
and the small remains of yellow
dot the still green grass.
I color in the rest with red socks
and blue sleeves
before confronting the first day
of melancholy.
Perhaps I’ll dance
this afternoon.

Forced Focus

Dense fog

forces me to focus

on the world

in front of my eyes.

The horizon is a myth.

Turning the corner

reveals

November chrysanthemums,

burnt orange and butter

against

the gray-white fog,

brilliant color

planted

as though knowing

this day would arrive.

Revealed

only in the shroud.

Once Upon a Sidewalk

Darkness falls earlier.

Shorter days and time change,

change the atmosphere

of a simple walk downtown.

Shorter days and time change.

Downtown feels cosmopolitan

though it’s only three blocks long.

Lighted windows and inviting warmth.

Downtown feels cosmopolitan.

Coffee shops and frozen custard.

College students à la mode

smiling at the one holding my hand.

Coffee shops and frozen custard.

Frozen treats from the warmth of inside.

Looking out at the sidewalk, watching

as home passes by the window.

Why we have more than sight

Lying on my back,

under a tree,

in the woods,

wanting to capture

the perfect image

of a leaf in descent.

It seems important

to try and focus

on one leaf

among millions.

That there is something

one flight

against blue sky

can say.

But warm sun

distracts me,

begging me

to close my eyes

and listen

to the woods

whisper

and sigh.

I can hear

the sound of leaf

on leaf

as they crash

to the ground

with all the force

they can muster.

A slip of sound,

never noticed,

perhaps

only imagined.

Pushed or Fallen

She sits

at the furthest edge

of the playground.

Knees up toward her chin,

holding the notebook

in which she has sketched

the delicate leaves

which have fallen

to the asphalt

in front of her.

Small bits of beauty

but,

like herself,

they are sketched

each one,

alone.

Some Days, I Hate Yellow

Yellow streetlights
Against yellow leaves
Throw me into a sepia toned world,
Where the streetlight
throwing my shadow
flickers and dances
as gas burns.
My frock coat opens
in the breeze,
exposing my waistcoat
in the light
for just a moment
before the light
winks out of existence,
leaving me in a darkness
not experienced since childhood.
The world smells different,
both cleaner
and dirtier
depending on the shifting winds.
I blink
and it’s gone.
I stand, shod is ASICS,
jacketed in fleece,
transfixed by yellow.

Carry On

With one pull of the rake
the wasps nest bounces
to the top.
So light
as to belie its very substance.
Hexagonal walls
still intact,
offering resistance
to my hand
as pressure is applied.
Beauty in design
I could never
replicate.
Nor want to,
as the master
of this craft
lives here
today.

Another Ordinary

"I know it sounds a bit cliché
There's no such thing
As just an ordinary day " - Phineas and Ferb

She shuffles through
the piles of leaves
at the edge of the trail,
then clambers up onto a stump,
posing for a photograph.
As I snap the sun washed scene
it occurs to me that this is, perhaps,
the thirteenth
or fourteenth photograph
from this same spot.
The first, of a small girl,
barely walking, who needed to be picked up
and placed on the stump
while her mother worried she might fall.
This last, for now, of a girl
tall enough to ride
a roller-coaster.
I discretely wipe my eyes
as I tuck away
another ordinary day.

Ordinary

Harvesting the ordinary magic
of a moonless night.
Foot falls on concrete,
creating the illusion
that my path
runs counter
to the rotation
of the Earth
and, somehow,
my small movements
extend the moment
enough
so I may notice
the wind, blowing through
autumn leaves,
hits many of the notes
of a spring breeze
but hidden in its song
rings
winter.

Beauty tried to hide

Under matted hair
and mottled clothes
she shuffled through
wet grass and fallen leaves,
picking up stray slugs
and carrying them to safety
before cloaking herself
under piles of orange
and umber.
But green eyes
and giggles
give her away.

Shadow Play

Long shadows
play in ponds,
making ripples
without making waves.
Water strider’s
skate through the shadow
touching the surface
barely more.
Light, playing games
as it stretches and yawns,
creating day
from darkness.

The Distance Between

Trying to forget about time.
That seconds
bleed into minutes,
into hours.
That somewhere, on a line,
there is a point
waiting for me.
This moment should exist,
pure and unencumbered
by mounds of ticks
or blankets of tocks.
Yet my ability to exist,
here and now
fails me,
as does the sun
as it rises higher,
robbing me of
my moment in amber.
So I curse,
brew coffee
and start the day,
lest it start without me.

The Water Clock

Water
d
 r
  i
   p
    s
and flows
and fills
         t
         u
         b
         e
         s
            flow
which over/
        then
           d
            r
             i
              p
and flow
and fill flasks,
then bulbs
as the rhythm of time
moves forward,
relentlessly forward
until it is full.
Then it drains
and begins to fill

itself again.

* The water clock in this piece is from the Children's Museum in Indianapolis. We had a very nice visit.

The Next Sound You Hear

The pack of runners

hustle past with the sound of

athletic shoes on gravel

and snippets of conversation.

On another day

I would join them

but today, it feels like an invasion

by those whose measure distance

in miles

while I measure distance

in the time between ridges

on the bark

of a one hundred year-old oak.

Redefined Oasis

Heat
radiates from progress.
Blacktop and concrete,
redefined oasis,
melting my resolve.
Feet ache as they melt
and meld,
ceasing to be a part of me
but becoming a part of it.
Wishing for rain
but knowing it brings
only brief salvation
as the dial changes
from bake
to poach
and nasty.

* In response to Three Word Wednesday

How Many Petals Fall Before it’s not a Flower

One last call.
One last obligation it seems
and with no answer
we head out,
down the highway.
Travelling, at first,
the same way we travelled
on our last trip - toward Detroit
and Comerica Park.
But we veer off,
toward Ohio. Toledo
and beyond.
And it seems
that we buried our family.
First Mom, then Dad, now you,
my brother.
Now it’s me
and our sisters
but the glue is in the ground
and I know that the final pages
of the family album
will flutter free on the wind.
Never filled.

But next time, for sure

The Sun settles lower,
changing the shadows,
playing with the light
between the slats of the fence,
catching the robin,
partly in shadows,
part way in golden light,
making me wish
for a camera.
But Time
sends the robin away.
And the day
soon follows.

Show them what’s behind Door #1

A small package of rebellion
shows up on the steps
as the brilliant Sun and
morning dew
open the shopping center
of ideas
which lead away from door #1 --
another day at the grind.
Aluminum desks,
topped with windows,
programmed to show
only prescribed content,
fit for a late spring day
of heretical thoughts,
as eyes travel
and thoughts meander
like water from spring storms,
cutting new paths
in dry dirt.
Pyramid shaped tracks
as resistance
channels
the stream
and finds
me late
but not sorry.

Let them eat . . . oh, Never Mind

He wore his camouflage hat,
sitting on his stoop,
smoking a cigarette,
and I wondered why he bothered.
He was invisible to most people
anyway. Maybe
he sat there, watching them
scurry past, eyes averted,
hoping to be a beacon.
Flashing his message:
Life is not always
tea and cake.

* In response to Sunday Scribblings

Leading the Charge

The scent of lilac
            and dirt
               commingle
                 on the wind
                which pushes
                           out
                    the rain.
Hints
of late day sun, orange
as it burns through
the atmosphere,
spark a renewal
as neighborhood children
lead the charge outside.
The power tool brigade follows,
churning through wet grass,
hoping,
to beat the end of day
and the next rain.

Free Rain Shine

The rain is falling,
flowing, swirling,
puddling, pooling,
ruling the land.
Brilliant greens shine,
making up for the lost sun.
Verdant suburban lawns,
wild in their natural state.
Raindrops dance off of
over-passes,
cannon-balling into pools.
Makeshift streams
flow down sidewalks,
carrying tulip petals
like ships,
floating lazily
to whatever end
may find them.
I water myself
before heading in-doors,
natural
for the moment.

This Découpage Life

Thoughts,
cut out of magazines
are not mine.
But,
pasting them together,
covering part of one
with part
       of another,
the ideas
bleed together
forming a
new
idea.
A belief
that is mine.
Until the scissors
come out again.

Maybe I Shouldn't Have Splashed

Playing in the rain
             again.
Spl      ing,
   \   /
    ash
             dancing,
trying to find
the small kernel of truth
that lies at the bottom
of a puddle.
Spl      ing,
   \   /
    ash
              again,
spraying
passers-by
who hurry on past
for fear
I may contaminate them
with hope.

After the Rain

Ten drops of rain remain on my window.
Each reflecting a world I cannot see.
Tiny details of life, now refracted
warped, then twisted and turned to fit the curves.

I think I spot the daffodils in bloom,
flavescent yellow under bluing skies.
My daughter's red wagon, wheels distorted.
A silver maple, begining to bloom.

Spring designs stencils for Summer to fill.
Painting them, first with rain, then with color.

Like a Sunrise

I am eating color for breakfast.
Ripe yellow and blood orange.
Coffee, caramel colored
as it pours
          from
               the
                  carafe
turns muddy brown in my mug.
Brilliant white cream
spills
and ca
       s
         ca
            des
down the cabinet
to earth colored rugs
where it pools
and reflects
the first gold
of day.

*In response to Poetic Asides Day 18

Snapshot of my Daughter

The contrast
between her tie-dyed dress
and the gray sky
is almost enough
to make me think
the world is over-exposed.
Pink, striped socks
with ladybugs
crawling toward
the bruises on her shins.
Her proud collection,
hard earned
through tears
and perseverance.
Her eyes,
changing with the weather,
seem blue today
but green will show
with the sun,
if the sun should choose
to compete,
knowing it is
overmatched.

The History of Light

Reflected light
paints a window on my wall
but it is only an illusion.
Stepping forward, I look,
and time wavers so I can see--
This house
before it tragically became
yet another office building.
When it housed life
and family.
Back when gas lights burned
and horse drawn wagons delivered ice.
History is evident in the cracks
if you open your eyes
when a window presents
an opportunity.

*In response to Three Word Wednesday

And now for something completely different

Because one can never have too many blogs, I now have a new one focusing on my Young Adult writing. If you are interested, check it out --> Fostersberg

Two for Tuesday

Today is two for Tuesday over at Poetic Asides. While the prompt asks for a form and an anti-form effort, I have two form poems.

"Damn Spring"
(A Shadorma)

coldest winds
blow strong on spring days
when the sun
has shown through
and warmed the ground, the soil
before retreating.

"Tanka to Nancy Posey"

cold spring days confuse
spring with her cousin, autumn.
mown grass on cold winds
trigger thoughts of golden leaves
and warm cider, waiting, home.

Maybe I'll Learn to Tune it Out

There's a bitterness at the back of my throat
that makes me want to shout out words
like Justice and Fairness,
but they're meaningless,
lip-service words, created to prop-up
an illusion.
Drowning in our vocabulary
we build walls with words
creating opaque thoughts
that even a poet
cannot see through.

An Agony of Hyacinths

Lying sideways in the wet grass,
trying to capture the hyacinth
in late day sun.
The click of a shutter and I look,
instantly,
at the image and smile.
Then a shadow passes
and I wonder what I've lost.
No longer waiting
in excusite agony
for the film to be processed,
wondering,
hoping,
that just one image
would match
what I saw with my eyes.
Befuddled by progress.
Unwilling
to go back.

Don't Fall into the Nothing, You Can't Get Out

Trying to imagine nothing
and failing at something
so small
seeming
of a task.
Adamant,
that empty space
cannot be nothing
for it is space
filled with hope
and dreams
and the fabrications
of millions who hoped
and dreamed and failed.
Peculiar time,
night, as a wakeful mind
and tired body
compete
for attention.
Each losing.

In response to Three Word Wednesday and Poetic Asides Day 6

The Sky is Falling

Today, there is no sky.
Low hanging clouds
and ever-present mist
give the illusion of
cardboard cutout buildings
pasted to Damask backdrops.
Stick, crayon-drawn, trees
are smudged into the cloth.
The space which used to seperate
here from there has been compressed.
Paper doll people try their best
to take form in this
two-dimensional world
but find little hope
of standing out,
so they huddle inside
and dream
of substance.

The Hopeless Romantic

The distance between our hands
is 2 inches
at their closest point.
Yet I can count
a nearly uncountable number
of objects in our way.
Atoms of oxygen,
protons and neutrons.
Quarks,
be they strange or charmed
is the mind of physics,
cannot compel
your hand
to reach out
and touch mine.

*In response to Day 4 of the PAD Challenge

Another Real

The dream shatters
with the noise of morning,
so delicate is the night.
Morning rises, gray and wet,
intensifying the disconnect.
Real seems less concrete,
like it could simply be a message
from another real, onto my own.
And, what I see with my eyes
and touch with my hands
could shatter.
Just like the dream.
I hold the counter for balance,
then pick up an apple.
I can feel the resistence of the skin
as I bite and hear the solid crunch.
Juice trickles down my chin
and I let it roll down,
tucking under my chin.
My vision clears as two worlds
rejoin as one.
Real.
Again.

*In response to Sunday Scribblings #261

In the Cosmic Sense

The world spins in retrograde motion
on Fridays,
though time does not follow.
Clock faces melt like Dali paintings,
to deal with the paradox.
Time shrugs its shoulders and laughs
at our silly machinations.
How we can believe we have a chance
versus the eons.
Against particles of nothing
which have existed since time did not.
So we ask for an explanation,
in terms we can understand.
But Time smiles at the small dimple
in the fabric and knows
that a single stitch
can mend whatever hole
we try to tear.
And so it continues on.

*In response to the first prompt for the April PAD here.

Well, I'm part French Anyway

Listening, loud, to French songs,
which I do not understand.
Songs about riches
and love
sometimes leading to heartache.
Melody and voice
carry the story.
Persuasive enough in tone
that I can understand.
Or, perhaps I am a fool,
dreaming of the French countryside,
a bottle of Bordeaux
and the time to look at you.

*In response to Three Word Wednesday

Distraction as a Plan

Nearly became distracted,
trying to detect the distance
from violet to plum,
amethyst to eggplant,
as the Earth moved,
revealing the midwestern morning.
Saved, by the chirp of a finch
and the chitter of a squirrel,
I returned my focus
to the task at hand.
Nearly.

*From the prompt at Sunday Scribblings

This Unbroken Line

Never
saw it in the mirror.
harsh lights
and just waking eyes
focused on the business
of being presentable
mean the edges are blurred.
But the snapshot,
under cold, blue skies,
bundled from the cold,
I focus
on my face
and I see, plainly,
bits of her
are still with me
and I smile
knowing
life doesn't end
sharply
but continues on
this unbroken line.

*In response to Carry on Tuesday

The New Normal

Words volley back and forth
as we speak without listening.
The new normal,
as we lead dual lives
each with identical roles:
parent,
spouse.
Sublimating one
so the other can shine.
Identical goals
but different routes
that someday
can cross
again.

Exit, Stage Left

Spring snow
nestles into eager blooms,
individual flakes
keeping their shape,
showing their beauty
against a backdrop
of what is to come.
A fitting dénouement,
as another beauty
dances
to center stage.

If the Guilt Fits

Seed catalogs arrive
bursting with good intention
and photo ready gardens
filled with fresh looking folks.
I try on my mid-western guilt
but it no longer fits
so I place the catalog
in a pot, outside,
and let the spring rains
make it swell
and bloat
and wrinkle
and return to pulp,
which I then sprinkle on my garden
filled with weeds
and good intentions.

Done Gone

She called it hillbilly music.
listening to tales of heartbreak,
heartache,
helping it down, first, with beer,
then whiskey and water,
wondering why her snow-white dove
had been delayed.
Shot down, I expect,
like happiness in a world without horizons
only haze filled yesterdays,
already gone.

Turning Hope Around

Clouds roll in.
Obscuring the sun,
diffusing the light,
turning ochre to amber
to rust
as the rains fall
       (again)
on already sodden ground,
flooding past hope
and, strangely,
leaving me dry.

Better off with a charcoal pencil

The Grays still play
the dominant role,
ruling over this domain
with iron fisted strength.
Scant color attempts
to bleed through
but is quickly back under cover
of clouds
and snows,
blackened by exhaust
have exhausted me.

You can take it from here.

This newest angel weighs heavily upon me.
Emotions for which words -
touch my lips only to escape unspoken.
But I can see myself,
the very definition of alone,
before she demanded I take part
in my own life.
And the rear-view mirror
clearly shows two paths
and a moment in time
when someone saw me,
plainly better than I saw myself.