I asked my husband
the best way
to greet the day.
the spoon stands up
I am a settler settling
in the present tense, my past tense
is my luggage that retired to somewhere else.
I eat canned food with plastic spoons
I stored for this world’s end
that starts again each morning
when I roll up my bed.
My elbows crash and smash
the glass, the stillness of the day.
They wander where they want to go,
my body has no say.
A round rubber room
No edges or angles
to dangle lost bangles,
it all circles back
to me, words
from my bad mouth
that cut to the quick.
FIRST THOUGHT, BEST THOUGHT
Thoreau was wrong,
she always said,
first was not the best.
More was better, she declared.
She filled her mind
with second thoughts.
Reverse-park a car
is a backspace.
Mascara that sticks
All your cash to a friend
is a backbend.
Gossip can give
you a backbite.
Taking a stand gives
Back at you
means I agree.
We fight for space.
Three dogs who sprawl
kick us humans off
the bed. They win.
I trip upon a doggie toy,
it hits my coffee cup.
The coffee spills
and stains the rug.
I discover what goes down
can be a bother
to clean up.
WHY THE ANGELS LEFT
The choir couldn’t sing in tune.
The organ played too slow.
The people fell asleep
while homily droned on and on.
The service lasted way too long.
The children screamed and squirmed.
Nobody had the coffee ready
for the after-worship crowd.
The angels sighed and shook their heads,
they packed their wings and walked
to find another church
that offered better service.
I scored big time at the thrift store,
found four dresses I had never seen before.
One, a formal, red and gold that rustled of dry
One, a white fur dress that sparkled in the sun.
One, a pattern of spring flowers, hummingbirds
One, a sunburst mini that made this old lady look
I bought them all, and want to thank the one who
I’ll be back to see if there are more like these
I learned to appreciate
poetic form in high school.
The taut little butts
of the football team
running for the only
touchdown of the season—
poetry in motion.
He’s a beach ball that bounces off your biceps.
He rides the ocean winds, you can’t keep up.
He sews up winter storms into a beach bag
he leaves underneath the pier to catch a wave.
He glows with tan and oil and a smile
that melts into the end of summer days.
He’s always young as long as he can find the surf.
He cannot die, he’s sand and sun and water
even when his blonde hair fades to grey.
If I could save
time in a bottle,
how it tastes.
—Medusa, with thanks to Nolcha Fox for today’s peppy poetry! And our condolences to SanekPal Carl Schwartz ("Caschwa") on the passing of his wife, Jo Lynn, last Saturday. Carl has written a wonderful Elegy which will be posted in the Kitchen tomorrow. Check it out.
Northern California and otherwheres,
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
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at least twice an hour
the bluejay finds something
that pisses him off—