I Borrowed My Father’s Circular SawWhen I was young
my arms could curve
all the way to my father’s smile,
and his warmth encircled me
till I saw my dreams.
Then I turned my back
as I built my life,
eclipsing him into darkness,
yet I always knew where he was -
my ebb and flow of life.
Now the dimming stars
foretell his numbered days.
There seems no time to ask him,
“Can we extend our ladders
and demolish these growing clouds?”
(Inspiration from: Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Cinderella – My Own Little Corner)
On the wings of my fancy
I can fly anywhere
and the world will
open its arms to me.
In my dreams I am floating
though the gossamer clouds
and the bird’s wings
flutter against my own.
My gauzy ribbons flowing
have braided as I twirl
and I cry out
frightened as I fall down.
‘Cause failing clouds can’t hold me
as I tumble to earth
and the bird’s squawks
keep ringing within my ear.
I’m hoping you will catch me
if I die in my sleep.
Will you hold me
more tenderly than soft clouds?
PROMPT 5: Write a poem about too much information.
Covers rolled over me
clouds billowed past
my distortion of day,
my mixing of night.
Dreams dropped the words
that slumber used to describe
my mixing of people,
my confusion of time.
Somewhere in the pillow
that holds my jumbled words
my poem was left in pieces,
my frustration wakes again.
I thought I would remember
all the feelings of the dream
my clarity of morning,
my forgetfulness of you.
Weights that I carry
Through years of agony
About to end finally
A new window of hope
Bridges between the gaps
The unknown and the past
I will dare lose my doubts
And should I need to forget
To find the right rough path
A leaf of life has fallen
Comes a new, better one
Nourish it, for it to bloom
Avenues of the future
Promise of new adventures
With touch of sweet tortures
Float, the dawn has come
Pack your spirit with dreams
Sail away with optimism
A new journey has begun…
Stop
your blubbering.
The fact that I have been
up since six
running ragged,
worn and shredded,
asked to solve
yet another person’s
urgent trauma,
is apparently not
a concern of yours
as you drop your demands
onto my overflowing stack.
But you caught me
at the end of my Jonah day,
exhausted, crabby,
and downright
drowned
and no amount
of sweetly sticky
gooey compliments
will help me
swallow that.
A languid dude
tells absolute location
with attitude
in lounge wear;
pain and just living
co-exist
in his world.
It is hard to locate
the energy he needs
to find her,
so he sleeps.
No place for dreams.
Only blackness needed,
so necessary to heal
the anguish
he leaves
on his pillow
where love and betrayal
crossed lines.
floating around,
lost in time,
forgotten by all that live on.
lost in the dust of times long past,
unknown to all,
forgotten except when something goes wrong.
never there,
always standing by,
this will forever be my own fate.
left alone to fight my tears
time will never change my emotions.
left alone in a world all my own,
where I am never heard.
always silent,
always here yet never there.
staying in the same old place,
forced to be here while the world forgets,
no one hears my calls or pleads,
time will never set me free
imprisoning me forever more.
searching for someone who understands,
never shall I find such a person,
for I am left here to face eternity alone.
a slave to my past life’s feelings,
I shall be trapped for I’ve lost the key.
I gave it to those I left behind.
they threw it away once they forgot,
even though they tried not.
I became a slave to eternity.
lonely from the many nights I’ve spent alone,
wishing for the affection I need so.
single I shall stay,
until I find the one.
gotta find him soon,
before I go mad.
from seeing him,
only in my dreams and wishes.
forever it seems,
him so close,
and yet so far.
an inch in my dreams,
forever in life.
it seems I will never have him,
and so I wish with all my hopes and dreams,
that he will find a way to me,
before my time is gone…
You started sleeping in the recliner again,
feet and arms crossed as you lie,
your chest rising and falling
as you catch a quickie nap.
I can tell you’re dreaming
’cause your forehead’s cutely crinkling
while your eyes are twitching slightly
in the sweetest sort of way.
Then the smallest naughty smile
starts curling up your lips
tempting me to wake you
with a tender coaxing kiss.
I ask you who is in your dreams,
and you’d better cross your fingers,
’cause you don’t want to cross me,
if I catch you in a lie.
I am frying
this one hamburger patty
alone in the pan.
Even with a crunching
of freshly ground pepper
and a slathering of ketchup
that is heal of my hand
thumping thick,
it bites.
Because I have piled on
layer upon layer
of onions in crisp white rings,
now taunting halos
of my self-proclaimed perfection.
You tried in vain to teach me,
with recipes and directions
how to cook and sizzle,
and just about everything else,
but I never seemed to learn.
This simple hamburger
could taste even more delicious
if I could just kiss you again,
sucking the mustard
off your mustache,
so spicy and brown
and hold those buns
just one more time.
But I let you leave me.
Fried.
Your hands
press the towel
radiating heat
from the dryer
against your face
the warmth drenching
your spongy cheeks
tipping your head back
dripping sighs
of saturating comfort
allowing you
to absorb it all.
Then come to me
when you’re hot enough
for the two of us
to wrap ourselves
in the cuddling warmth
that only you can radiate.
Set the dial to TUMBLE.
He has a job to do.
Tools, wood, nails, and dirt
are a part of who he is
with the end of his labors
caught up in sweat and beer.
His superior workmanship,
as the evening shadows lengthen,
joins his skill for mending fences
with a layout of our plans.
His gentle roughness
presses on my skin
so I lean in closer,
our breath already building.
He has a job to do.
My eyes closed
I slept beside you,
holding you,
loving you,
and waking today, you’re gone.
Someone stole my dreams.
“Clean your room already!”
she said for the thousandth time.
But six years said I deserved better
so I loaded my Radio Flyer with licorice and toys
and headed down the sidewalk.
The block was long but I was determined
to leave my chores behind.
Running away from everything
is a luxury that only children can afford
with a twenty-five cent allowance.
And I would have gotten all the way to Michigan
if only I had been allowed to cross the street.
It was a lazy summer day
with nothing to inspire a child
until Mom took me to the garden
and picked the hollyhocks.
With only her knowing fingers
she pinched off the opened flowers
and handed me the tiny buds
before going back inside.
I couldn’t see her vision
until flowers were flipped like skirts
and green removed from buds
left tiny eyes and upswept hair.
We filled a dish with water
and the flowers were transformed
into floating floral ladies
and imagination danced away.
There is no more our song
just pieces of love gone wrong.
Yet the broken glass of the disco ball
keeps on spinning its dancing light.
From ceiling to floor dappling shadows
transform my imperfections.
In time I’ll move from dark to light
wherever the music takes me.
But now all I want to do is dance
and learn the tune of my song.
Some days I kneel to the order of things
watering flowers and pulling weeds,
but deep furrows grow in my brow
and confusion chokes my life from me.
For if God is in the flowers
and the Devil’s in the weeds,
then where am I in the garden
when I can’t tell them apart?
Any six-year-old can tell you
that time is an elusive creature
who slips and slides around you,
a mercury edged chameleon.
Morning comes with parental directives
that pulls you from bed
with reminders of the bus
and time is measured in the smoke of toast.
At school the teacher’s explanations
clutter your thinking
and mistakes happen
and time is measured in eraser crumbs.
And recess allows the freedom of spirit
and you run and scream
while friends play kickball
and time is measured in innings.
Boredom comes in the afternoon
and you pick off fur fluffs
from your favorite stuffed animal
and time is measured in the bald spot.
It takes an eternity to for seven birthdays to come
and tomorrow holds the promise of presents,
but the chameleon is shape shifting once again
and time is measured in dreams.
The water is crystal clear
so you can see the desires
of a hundred people
thrown in the wishing fountain.
Two dimes kiss with the promise of love
and huddle together for comfort
while reflecting quarters flash like cameras
and boast the cost of fame.
But my little penny slowly drifting down
settling small upon the bottom
is distorting my dreams in the waves
and I wish I hadn’t thrown it.
There was a small spider that I easily squished,
but then another large bulb shaped one
came crawling out of a hole in the wall.
I called for my daughter to squish it
but she just lightly poked it with a pencil
only making it angry enough to bare its teeth at us.
The odd thought for me is not really the spider
and what it might represent in my dream,
but I seem to know that we are in our home.
A place where I know to look for my broom,
and surprised to NOT find it where I know it should be
in this home where I have never lived.
How can my mind create images and memories so clear
that I can tell the color and feel of the cloth on the table
and count the coarse hairs on the back of a spider?
