I wake today
with the seed
of a fertile memory
and hope
the morning’s
translucent sun
will dance
its laughter
upon my tears
swirling
like a whirligig
and lift it
as leaves
in an October
breeze
upward to kiss
the branch that
wisely let go
yet the haunting
dreams that colored
my damp pillow
and clung the bits
of mixed emotions
into my tousled hair
can’t be brushed
away
There is a tapestry of life
with distorted dreams
and chaotic threads
that pull one day
into the next.
First one, then two,
then a blurring of a thousand
oil stained slats
that form a fallen ladder
holding up the train
as it fills the blue sky
with cheetah blackened soot.
And all the rubbing inside
can’t clear the outside
nor bullets stop the frantic love
that drove Bonnie and Clyde
to lie upon the dust
of a desolate road
deep in the piney woods.
So little Polly and I
couldn’t know our paths
as we made hollyhock dolls
and set them floating
first one, then two,
in a rutabaga platter dance
blurring a thousand dreams
of ours on Curry Street.
The world outside
where children giggled
and mothers shushed
was never kind
so her music
rarely left her porch.
Yet I longed to enter
her lavender house
through ribbons
that fluttered
instead of curtains
where I could see
her dance in purple
eating lilac cookies
with calming tea.
And we
could be the change
inside.
My last evening energy,
wasted on wishing
for your cryptic call.
But melodic music
drew me in too deep
where I knew I shouldn’t wade.
Tonight I sway my skirt,
a subtle slippery wave
willing you to wander by.
Yet no tap settles on my shoulder,
no lonely dashing dancer
coming to cut in.
I’ll be the juicy joke,
the horrid headline
in tomorrow’s tell-tale paper.
Yet tonight I tempt,
my princess parade wave
lost in your laughter.
PROMPT 7: Until _________
Skin has forgotten
how it used to dance,
soft and rounded
on my cheek.
Now it lays
tired and pitted
with lines
tracing back,
my forgotten path
from youth.
I didn’t see
the moment slink,
quiet in slumber
or loud in life,
that changed me,
distorted me,
broken my spirit,
cursed my years.
No mirror can show
how I feel inside,
so my words must become
my face to you.
They say,
“Stay in your own generation.”
“Don’t embarrass us
with your attempts
to dance,
or dress,
or speak
like us.”
“It’s just wrong
on so many levels.”
Some things,
like age,
level up
not down.
Newton’s theory
may be as dead
as he is.
If I wait long enough,
fermentation
or Alzheimer’s
might let me
dance again.
Then I will say,
“If you don’t want
a black and bruised eye,
Stay out of my way.”
A beat can be split
into two steps
like the main syncopation
in cha – cha.
We have no conductor,
no drummer,
to help us keep in step,
yet there a dance in the way
I carry laundry to the dryer,
passing you with electrical cords
on your way to the garage.
There is a soft repetition
of your kisses on my forehead,
merging with the melody
of my messages on the fridge.
There is a rhythm to our love,
the beat of our days together,
but if you want the band to play
our song,
neither of us can name it.
The corner of her mouth
lifted at his gentle teasing
is now a tightened line
that is afraid to laugh.
And her shoulders sighed
with a nagging stiffness
that begged for his relief,
but his touch never surfaced.
Nightfall is her only solace
where his passing shadow
no longer has the power
to darken her brightest day.
Every day
unseen particles
drift down
from where you dance
and swirl up a storm
or punch pillows
as you cry
down a drought
and land in a whisper
on the surface
of every solid thing.
Neat freaks
will never take the time
to amass enough matter
allowing them to push a trail
of memories
into a dusty heart,
an accumulation
of yesterday’s unspoken words,
lingering,
waiting
for you to shake things up
again.
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?
The curtain
soft and gauzy
was so thin
you could see
her fingers
retracing
sensuous
curves
against the glass
as she brushed
them aside
to wait.
He was coming home.
She opened
the window
allowing the air
to lift her
anticipation
and dance
the curl
across her
forehead
but she had to
tame it.
He was coming home.
He was coming home.
He was coming home.
He was coming home.
The curtain
hangs
its length
now long
and heavy
pooling
at the bottom
with the loneliness
she left there.
And she was going out.
My mother has a tape measure
that she keeps in a cellophane zip lock bag
tangled among bobbins and sewing machine attachments
with spools of fading thread unwinding
unwinding
down in the bottom of grandma’s old buffet.
She takes it out to measure me
for she says I keep growing
growing
and she can’t tell by looking at me just where.
So I have to stand up straight no slouching
slouching
and she shouldn’t have to remind me how to stand still
because I should be able to tell that she can’t talk
with a hundred pins in her mouth.
My disapproving lip curls
matching the rick-rack trim
that my mother is using to cover the lowered hem
but I can’t hide
hide
that I wanted a new store bought dress.
And I try not to cry
cry
when a pin meant for the dress
finds the slip of my thigh
and my mother’s tight lip frown
shouts that I haven’t measured up after all.