jdbphoto
Hard to tell if this star flower is about to burst or in the act of bursting.
For Cee’s Flower Prompt.
Shooting Star: Flower of the Day: August 3, 2017
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Monthly Archives: August 2017
Morning Symphony
Sounds of Morning
The music I awaken to when I’m at the beach
is a symphony of sounds nearby and out of reach.
The gentle whirring of the fans beside me and above,
and sounds outside my kitchen door that I have grown to love:
the spread out carpet of the surf, the stirring of the dog—
as I lie here on the couch, sorting out my blog.
The day can’t really start for me until I’ve shed my words.
We cannot walk upon the beach to watch the soaring birds
and throw or chase the tennis ball as we do every day
until I shake the words out and put them all away.
The subtle tapping of the keys, the gas truck passing by
outside the bedroom window with its annoying cry
of “Ze-ta, Ze-ta, Ze-ta gassssss.”
(I cannot wait for it to pass!)
Then other traffic sounds fill in
to fill the space where it has been.
One room leaks in beach sounds to tell tale after tale
of needle fish and rooster fish and tuna, snapper, sail—
my porch like a receiver that gathers all these sounds
of nature and of passers-by with which this beach abounds.
Yet the bedroom window opens to a busy street.
I hear the passing traffic, the sound of passing feet.
Neighbor greeting neighbor and the gas truck’s bray—
all the usual street sounds of a noisy Mexican day.
The dog protests more earnestly. He’s ready for our walk.
He has no patience for this blog—its ponderings and talk.
So I save what I have written, content with what’s at hand
to wander off to other worlds of wind and surf and sand.
The prompt today was symphony. This is a rewrite of a poem published earlier.
Bird of Paradise: Cee’s Flower of the Day, August 2, 2017
Foggy Weather
Foggy Weather
For weeks I’ve been suspended in clouds and foggy weather.
Up here on the mountain, I can’t determine whether
there’s another world out there or if I am alone,
banished for a life of sins for which I must atone.
I don’t believe in Purgatory. Don’t believe in Hell
or other childhood stories that grownups chose to tell.
Yet something living in the mist has seeped out into me.
Suddenly I’m restless. I’m not content to be.
There’s something still left in the world although I don’t know what.
What I’ve thought of as security is suddenly a rut.
I haven’t lived my life out. There’s much that I have missed.
I’m needing much more laughter. I’m needing to be kissed.
As soon as this fog lifts away and full light reappears,
I’ll solve all my confusions. I’ll sweep away my fears.
The road will be much clearer when it isn’t half-obscured.
I’ll see the bait that life has set and let myself be lured.
The prompt today was foggy.
Tabachine and Progeny: Cee’s Flower of the Day, August 1, 2017
Dental Retaliation
Dental Retaliation
Do you remember toothbrushes lined up on a rack
in the medicine cabinet, at the mirror’s back?
Your father’s brush was ocean blue, your mother’s brush was green,
your sister’s brush the reddest red that you had ever seen,
whereas your brush’s handle had no color at all—
as though it was the ugliest sister at the ball.
How you yearned for color, reaching for your brush
as the first summer’s meadowlark called to break the hush
of the early morning while you were sneaking out
to be the first one out-of-doors to see what was about.
Making that fast decision, your hand fell on the red,
thinking your sister wouldn’t know, for she was still abed.
You put toothpaste upon it, wet it at the tap
and ran the brush over each tooth as well as every gap.
Each toothbrush flavor was different, your older sis had said,
so you thought it would be different brushing your teeth with red.
Your father’s brush was blueberry, your mother’s brush was mint.
Your sister’s luscious cherry—its flavor heaven-sent.
“But because you are adopted,” your sister had the gall
to tell you, “they gave you the brush with no flavor at all.”
You waited to taste cherries, but that taste never came.
That red brush tasted like toothpaste. It tasted just the same
as every other morning when you brushed with yours.
You heard your sister stir upstairs, the squeaking of the floors.
You toweled off her toothbrush and hung it in the rack
and started to run out the door. Then something brought you back.
You opened up the mirror and grabbed her brush again.
A big smile spread across your face—a retaliatory grin.
The dread cod liver oil stood on the tallest shelf.
You were barely big enough to reach it for yourself.
You dipped her toothbrush in it, then quickly blew it dry.
Replaced it, shut the cabinet, and when you chanced to spy
your own reflection in the glass, each of you winked an eye.
Then you ran out to cherry trees to catch the first sunbeam
and brush your teeth with cherries while you listened for her scream.
Yes, we really did have a cherry orchard behind our house. You can see the trees peeking up behind the wild rose bushes directly behind the trellis in the picture above. This is my older sister Patti and I. Yes, she really did tell me I was adopted. (I wasn’t.) No, I never did smear her toothbrush with cod liver oil. The retaliation part is just a mental one, sixty-some years too late, I’m afraid. She has since redeemed herself.
The prompt today is toothbrush.
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 