Mary’s Morning

Morning blessings
as I count them:
wake
stretch
greet the sun

both smell and taste
of coffee
steaming in my favorite mug,
the one Darrell made,
that fits smooth
in the curve of my hand

sitting and fitting
with Otis
my sweet dog
in our favorite chair

and
writing
a few words
while the day is still new

This is for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads where we are asked to write something keeping the words of Mary Oliver in mind, “It mustn’t be fancy.”
Mary Oliver’s passing leaves me so very sad, yet mindful of little wonders all around.

The January House

The January halls
are empty;
they echo
with thin, pale memories

The January house
is bare and
spare,
empty

There are no tchotchkes
no collections
no trophies
no books
no pictures
to distract the eye,
or absorb the sound
of a single pair
of slippers
shuffling
through the January halls.

Hollow echoes
bounce
off the hard,
bare surfaces.

The January house
stands empty,
waiting
to be filled

This is for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads where we are challenged to write something springing from the word hollow.

Lay or Lie

What lies
beneath you smile
behind your eyes?

What lies
within your mind
cloaked by your guise?

What lies
spread by your tongue
caused my demise?

Tea Time

There’s a storm
in my tea cup
though
I was
hoping
for Earl Grey

*This picture is not mine, but I couldn’t find who to give credit.  If it’s yours let me know and I’ll give credit, or remove, as you wish.

Changes

Today is unseasonably warm
The shed wall is thick with Asian beetles
We’ve had once-in-a-century floods
the past three years.

Running through my brain,
insistent as an unfed cat,
is the thought
this isn’t right

Is it too early to panic
or too late?

This is in response to  dVerse Poets,  whose writing prompt is a quadrille (44 words) including the word ‘early’.

Wordless – 55

There are
things older than words
dark, feral things
without form
that gather in my mind
and crowd my throat
pushing down
against the back of my tongue

Or, at times, they rest
thick and heavy
in the ends of my fingers
and the tip of my pen
as I try to write

even now.

 

Once upon a time, a wise man named Galen began writing 55 words on Fridays.  And he invited others to joined him.  Then one, sad day he left us.  But a good witch, Hedgewitch, took up the 55 and carried it for as long as she could.
I think of these people every time I manage to coax 55 words from wherever it is they come from.

Mom

Sometimes I feel
as if my mother’s story
got lost

She was
an only child
and that singularity
is a two-sided beast

Of course it allowed her
the freedom
to tell her story
any way she liked
without contradiction
or interruption

But it also left her
with the burden
of carrying that story alone

 

This is for Hedgie, keeper of Galen’s Friday 55, at Verse Escape.