Trash Day

she lets the curtain fall
shuffling back
to the recliner
worn and dusty
both she
and the chair
waiting for someone
anyone
to change her view
tuesdays are best
the cans line
the narrow street
the poor come to
find the good stuff
the men come
to take it all away
she can pretend
they came to see her
and wave at them
as they pass out of sight
and the curtain falls
again

I was moved to write this after reading Rachel’s poem here.

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Hats

look at her hat

it seems to be

throwing itself

all over the lane

my hat

on the  other hand

is behaving nicely

thank you

perched just so

nice and neat and trim

just a little wear at the banding

but neatly mended

thank you again

it is of a hue

of black or blue

can’t tell anymore

without strong light

my hat speaks primly

of please and thank you’s

my hat shouts

well, nothing

a strong gust

will not dislodge it

but if you could

peep under that

well secured

neatly groomed

tight and tidy

brim

you might find

a bit of sequin

a lick of flame

maybe even

a touch of porn

but of course

no one

would ever

know

Julie at The Buffaloe Pen has written a wonderful whimsical piece about her hat. Her work has inspired me to write a little something about my own.  Thank you Julie, that was just plain fun!

Let the watchers beware

Sentinels keep
stone unmoving
Let the watchers beware
less birds forget to fly
and eastern glow brings
somber relief
no green of the earth
Let the watchers beware
If paradise only lingers
will they see it fall?

soft

Soft

that was the only way

to describe the night

she’d lane awake

restless and yearning

as a woman child will

unable to sleep, unwilling

slipping through her window

she had escaped

into a mystical night

the fog was thick

trees loomed as she wandered

hands buried deep in pockets

not cold, only alone

it was easy to pretend

she was far away

sounds came muffled

the bark was damp

where she touched

clearing the wood

the meadow was a bowl

of rolling cotton

as she slid open

the creaking barn door

her nose tickled by

the dry smell of

well cured hay

she climbed the old wood ladder

and opened the doors

on the east

nestled in the warmth

of sweet grass and hay

she slept till the sun

brought her home

fate

oh how your words whisper
of such grand designs
leading us toward a future
whatever your heart inclines
promises full of hope
a garden willing to grow
an audience of suspense
for which the wine would flow
yet sad and lonely on a hill
the smallest ones await
we simply forgot to ask one thing
were you drunk when you sealed our fate?

secrets

a deep drawer
full of this and that
a little wooden box there
at the bottom
even older
than the old cigar box
it hides under
faded yellow ribbon
holds the lid
now slightly askew
tiny brass hinges
held loosely
by tiny brass brads
outline of a latch
long gone
bulging a bit
with yellowed pages
that look
to a curious eye
like letters of love
written long ago
tell me
what secrets do they hold
so dear?