The Wheelbarrow

--has faded blue paint
    chipped, scratched,
    caked with clods of dried dirt.
--wobbles on one wheel
    heavy with burgundy-brown bricks;
    plastic packs of perky pansies.
--holds memories of bright blue days
    spilling laughing children
    on the ground.

Prompt: Joseph Harker’s Recursion prompt from yesterday.  In a nutshell, take a familiar object and think about its form, function, origin and symbolism.

The Lone and Level Sands

The lone and level sands stretch far away
and I remember feet that slide and sink;
the distant quiet crash of breaking waves;
my body salty, warm and wet; Yes, I
will close my eyes to bring the sound inside;
to muffle thoughts that climb and drop and slip.

Prompt: Miz Quickly’s prompt for today starts with a line from a well known poem.  The challenge is to write a response to that line, using iambic pentameter.  The line I chose, “the lone and level sands stretch far away,” is from Percy Bysshe Shelley’s poem Ozymandias.

The Robin

California poppy colored chest
blazing orange melting red
recklessly raps on the window.
His bashful reflection fails
to fly to his side.
He rests on the porch rail;
saucy black eyes bright —
scornful, undeterred.  Then
with brash bravado
he returns to peck some more.

Yes, I’m back.  I’m going to try to participate in the poetry frenzy of April.

For Leontien

An ordinary day
becomes lavish
when you open your eyes
to morning.
The December fields
are covered
with a khaki army blanket;
white faced cows
black specks on the fabric,
like whiskers
or lint.
Days dangle and blur
but thrice wedded love
stands strong
and steadies your slowing steps.
Abnormal cells steal your youth,
your dairy dreams,
but not your miracle mornings
piled high
past two weeks
pushing to tomorrow.

I wrote this for Leontien, a blogger friend, who is battling cancer.

Wordle 84

Scent of baby lotion,
fingers curled
on a silky blanket
soft and still.
Warm head cradled,
hips sway.
Laundry in a heap,
warm and dry;
socks fallen on the floor,
forgotten.

Eyes closed,
lungs fill
with end of day;
ocean spray,
flecks of gold
skim the sky,
cobalt cloud edges
smudge crimson,
then fade
into night.

Family Trees

Wearing sturdy shoes
and a faded burgundy jacket,
I walk in the autumn air
with my family trees.

My husband, the oak,
stands sturdy
ignoring phantom wisps of fog
weaving through the walls
of hard wood and dark leaves.
His roots reach into rocky soil
bending boulders to anchor deep.
His bark bears scars
from lightening strikes,
nagging woodpeckers,
and squirrels living in the hollows
of his trunk.

Kyle, the cottonwood,
grew fast, tall and narrow.
Limbs touch the sky,
leaves twinkle in the sun.
The roots grow deep and wide,
new shoots sprout
where his focus falls.

My daughter, the pine,
is evergreen, fragrant.
Long green needles cascade
down her back.
Pine cones feed squirrels
leaping in her branches.
Soft wood burns
warm and bright.

I am the sycamore,
growing by the brook,
cooling my roots in the damp earth.
My trunk peels,
exposing patches of grey.
Birds gather dry twigs and nest,
hidden in the spreading canopy
of dusty leaves.

Prompts: Sunday Wordle and Margo’s Wordgathering “metaphors”