Peeking in the window,
blanketing our dreams,
It is a welcome harvest moon
whose straight and narrow beams
filter through our window blinds,
bathing us with light,
coming once again
to fulfill its yearly rite—
a calm and soothing presence
that mitigates the night.
Not the blue of a heart before forgetting.
The blue of the sky above Colima Volcano,
no other clouds in it except one puff
of earth’s hot breath becoming visible
in the cool morning air.
Like blue caught in icicles.
Give me that blue.
Once talk at the next table had hushed, I made the observation that it was likely they were listening to our conversation. And though they were both smirking and though their eyes were glistening, they swore they were not eavesdropping. They were just overlistening!
Plant some flowers, and they will come, and though they have a fuzzy bum, curb your finger, curb your thumb. Have another sip of rum. Crack your knuckles, pop your gum. Call your sweetie, call your mum. Bake some brownies and have you some.
Sing a ditty, whistle, hum. Play tuba ‘til your lips are numb. Strum your cello, pound your drum. Sand your chair legs ‘til they’re plumb. Pat your kitten’s furry tum, but as these bumblebees go and come, to pet one would be really dumb!!!!!
In our youth, we’re given to wild rambles, coming home with burrs and brambles to share on carpets and on towels that prompt our family’s shrieks and howls. These thrills we find in fields and ditches well worth sharp things brought home on britches.
I must admit that I had to sacrifice words to meet the demands of the Quadrille, but I can’t resist sharing my first longer (against the rules) version as well. Here it is:
When I was lithe and limber and given to wild rambles, I came home from my wanderings complete with burrs and brambles. I shed them on the carpets, I shared them via towels, never taking credit for the curses, shrieks and howls. I thought my meanderings among the fields and ditches were worth the sacrifice of things brought in on my britches.
See the motley little band trudge the beach, tip cup in hand. A funnel stuffed into a hose–– is held to lips and then one blows. Two other small musicians lug a twenty-liter water jug. Later, one begins to hum accompanying his buddy’s drum.
Your tongue is loose, it has been said, and though you swear “Better off dead than tell your secret,” still, it’s true you’ll find someone to leak it to. So though you did it without knowing, I fear, my dear, your slip is showing.
For the dVerse Poets Quadrille Challenge: Slip I hope you don’t mind that I used this photo I took of you a few years ago, Erin, and Pat. In no way is the poem about you. it was just the perfect illustration!! xoxo
She’s on the fix: repairing hems, cleaning the oven, puttying cracks, organizing drawers, straightening picture frames with no idea of how to fix a cracked heart. She needs a breaking of old habits —a lesson on letting be, leaving her broken things to heal themselves.
Wish upon that falling star and put a four leaf clover in your button hole. Carve our initials into soap and rub them into us. Light a candle and chant a spell, because I want, because I’ve got to have magic.