Morning’s first light leaves
tree silhouette frost shadows
on yellowing lawns.
Category: Poetry
Rhymed and unrhymed, form or free, this is where the poetry lives.
H2Ode
Dewdrops steam
Into a dream
of cloud ascension
‘til suspension
bursts the dam and sets them free.
Raindrops dripping,
splashing, stippling
pond and puddle
washing mud filled
tributaries to the sea,
tithe the tidal
aqueous idyll,
water grumbles,
roars and rumbles,
every form and size and shape
Flume and fountain,
spilling, spouting
torrents gush,
and rivers rush
to estuarial escape.
Waves come reaching
‘cross the beach and
claw the sand
with hungry hands,
draining freshet, rill, and runnel
salty, swollen
sated ocean
‘pon reflection
pays respect in
cloudy offerings to the sun.
Clouds grow heavy
break the levee
drown the world
with water swirling
downpour, outpour, rippling rain.
And in the first
refreshing burst
the raindrops strike
and start the cycle
tithe and tears and tithe again.
Doing the Math
I have spent half of my life
with you
though it feels
alternately like a moment or
an eternity.
One more reason why I know time
cannot be linear or lineal,
cannot be real or relevant.
In retrospect it seems less
amazing that I’ve spent
half of my life with you
than that I spent half of my life anywhere else.
The Man Who has Everything
What do I give to the man who has everything?
A heart, honest and trusting?
Love, unconditional and unshakeable?
Arms, warm and open?
Do I give him a son to grow tall beside him?
A special smile; one only he sees?
Private jokes and little ‘I love you’ notes hidden in his luggage?
What do I give to the man who is everything?
Just everything.
Every day.
Forever.
For my dearest partner, Bill, on his birthday. Always and forever, my love.
Haiku for the Geese as They Go….
Geese are ganging up
honking taunting ‘nyah, nyah, nyahs.’
Flipping me the bird.
The Fine Line
You start in the corners,
scooping out detritus.
Poke, poke, poke the straws in the corners
to loosen the greebles and bits.
Then the long swing to sweep it all into
the middle of the floor;
the very middle of the floor.
but the litter of dust bunnies won’t lie still.
First this way, then that, they overshoot the molehill,
jumbling, tumbling in the broom breeze.
Now lay down the dustpan flat,
press it hard against the floor,
scoot the bunnies and greebles with a swift swat.
But after sliding them all into the trash bin you turn
and see it.
The line of dirt.
The fine line of dirt the dustpan left behind,
pointing at you accusingly.
Again you sweep.
The line becomes finer.
Now sweep in the opposite direction.
The line becomes finer yet and points towards the broom closet.
Resignation settles with the dust.
Nature abhors a vacuum.
So does a fine line of dirt.
This was a challenge from my friend Margo. There you go Margo!
Nowhere
At the scene of the accident the driver swears
that the person he ran over ‘came out of nowhere’.
So you can see why I’m concerned
when I ask where you’re going and you say
“Nowhere.”
If you must go nowhere
at least look both ways before you come back.
The Plural of
Add an s and you should be done
but that wouldn’t be any fun.
If singular window is windows when plural
it follows that house is houses, surely,
but put a mouse inside that house
and soon you’ll have a lot of mouses.
They’ll spread and soon there will be mice
living in all your neighbours’ hice.
If the plural of tooth is teeth
then it only seems right to me,
that though I smooth the path for others
and they may smooth the path for me,
if we smoothed paths together
we’d have to say “we smeethed”.
Like a child in the wild
or children in the wildren
tedium for one medium
is tedia for two media.
And if someone decides to lay down and die
would two people then lie down and dice?
I think perhaps I’ve lost my focus
and wandered into hocus pocus.
If you did too, then we lost our foci
and wandered into hoci poci.
Red Handed
We caught the day red handed in
sun warm berries
winkled from shady green.
Tiny, achingly sweet first fruit,
a wild promise mounded
in summer starved hands.
Not enough for strawberry jam, we stand
and count to three and laugh as we
cram our mouths full.
Eyes closed, we grin and
groan with ecstasy,
red juice and memories
trickling down our faces.
We caught the day,
red handed.
Now That I am Home… a haiku
Now that I am home
laughter lines are deepening,
frown line fade away.
Linda Studley 