Sort of on Fire....

In a convergence of modern

Conveniences, leftovers

Dash from fridge to microwave. 

That pesky need to eat

Checked quickly off the

List of more pressing to-dos.

Poppoppop.

The sparks and smoke.

Efficiency spoiled by the

Marvel that is aluminum foil.

Dammit.

“A.Y.C.E.”

"He fed his spirit with the bread of books.”  ~Edwin Markham

Winding through the

Maze of aisles,

Books stream

Along the towering

Shelves. Running her

Fingers down the spines,

Stopping now and then to

Crack the cover for a

Taste, she piles her tray

High with Joyce to feed her

Mind, Dickens to keep her full, and

Austen to sweeten the meal.  Her

Spirit sated on the bread of books.

“Getting Ready to Get Ready”

Knolls of clothing dot the rug, a

Rainbow of empty plastic hangers

Sway with every pass.  Hot rollers

Get a little hotter, round and rectangle

Compacts litter the counter, waiting to

Give her a face to face the world. 

She picks up things and puts them down,

Making decisions and easily changing her

Mind.  A timid little queen of a tiny kingdom,

Running her life within the walls of her

Walk-In, avoiding the subjection that waits

Outside the closet door.

Poetic Asides- 

Prompt: procrastination/proactive

“Wistful Reverie on an Afternoon”

A breeze whispers through the

Trees.  I think I’d like to

Fly away. Surely tree-top

Conversations are much more

Pleasant than anything to be

Had in a fancy restaurant

Full of towel-armed waiters?

Ripples lap at the shore line, stealing

Pebbles. I think I’d rather grow

Gills and dive, deep down to a

Place where words don’t

Exist so we’d just shake fins and smile.

                          poetic bloomings- prompt #20

"SOME KEYHOLES NEVER LEARN"

“I know just what you’re thinking,”
Said the keyhole to the key,
“But I object and will not let
You stick that thing in me!”

“Who knows where all you’ve stuck yourself,
By accident or not?”
The key then blushed a shade of rust;
He knew that he’d been caught.

“Those other holes mean nothing, babe!
You’re the only one for me!
After all what's a keyhole
Without her special key?”

"You know that we’re a perfect fit
And I make your insides turn.”
The keyhole sighed and said, “Alright.”
Some keyholes never learn!

"Summer Promises"

Poetic Bloomings "View from a Park Bench" picture



Fall nibbles away at summer’s
Potential as the sun fights its way to the
Piebald ground,
Bartered for shadows by nearly lifeless leaves, knowing
All too soon they will lie in
Bleached heaps and be blown into gutters,
Soaking up the sunbeams while they still can.

That season of openness, of tank tops and
Candor, closes. Hidden
Now behind coat buttons and scarves
Wrapped round and round and round.

A park bench sits empty and thoughtful, its wooden slats
Remembering the warm,
Cloudless days when young lovers
Sat with thigh pressed against thigh and made their
Summer promises.

“Doppelganger”

"Poetic Bloomings: etheree"

 A

Stranger

Strolls in, and

Plops himself down

In your favorite

Recliner, props his feet

On your wife’s coffee table.

Smirking at you with your own face.

Your voice, not yours, snags onto your brain,

“Now how long do you plan to be content?”

*based on Shelley's supposed encounter with his doppelganger just before his death

“Everyday Magic”

PA- "when you're not looking"




The drone of the vacuum
Smothers all other sounds,
Its pull and push painting
Pyramids on the deep green
Carpet.

On a handmade blanket, a
Little one balancing on her
Belly, head wobbling on a
Fragile neck, polka-dotted
Diapered bottom wiggling.

Pulling out chairs and
Maneuvering around end
Tables, a milestone is crossed. A
Helpless baby a little less
Helpless as she rests on her
Back, legs kicking, giggling at the
Antics of the ceiling fan.

Right in the middle of the
Everyday living, a little bit of
Magic pokes in; until one day the
Vacuum is switched off and
You’re surprised to find
She’s all grown up.

“June on the River”

prompt: water   


Old tennis shoes
Scruff up dust on a
Country road and matte
Back inner tubes float
Along a lazy river,
Hovering over hopeful
Fishing hooks.

As the sun sets, and the
World’s lit up only by
Starlight, fireflies, and
Campfires, laughter
Floats through the
Darkness and soothing
Breezes carry a whiff of
Burnt marshmallows.

And in the night, the
Crickets croon and
Rain tings and chinks on the
Old tin roof. And it’s
Summer.