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.