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.