Places

Joseph Harker threw out an ambitious prompt in his Reverie Thirty-Two.  Well, they are always ambitious.  I count on Joseph for that.  I’ve been mulling this prompt around for a week or so and finally committed myself to the process.  He asked that we write notes about five (or more) places: first impressions, last impressions, and unique features.  Then we were to draw a map — and post a picture of said map (mine is pretty sad, I am not an artist) — so readers can see the process.

I spent hot smoggy afternoons
in the sand box,
running up the porch steps
to get a dripping ice cream cone;
bouncy beagle puppies played
at my feet.
Sometimes, still,
I drive by the house
and cringe
at the cutesy country paint
and fake flower boxes,
at my father’s perfectly pruned pine tree
hacked to the ground.

My university years,
in a drab rented house,
were lived
lying in bed
missing you.
There was a bright yellow
smiley face rug
covering a carpet stain
by the side door.

I reluctantly rose from bed,
graduated,
and found myself married,
back in L.A.
living on a busy street;
chipped paint and bolted doors.
We sat at the kitchen table
and divided up the dishes.
He took his black cat
and I took mine,  milky white.

That white whiskered cat
followed me
until we landed
in a quiet cul-de-sac suburb.
I built a playhouse
for my children
and planted daffodils,
iris, roses and grapes,
trying to ignore my hollow heart.

Flower seeds followed me
up the mountain.
I planted gardens
and you built a barn.
A paradise place
where hawks soar,
and horses run
raising dust clouds
that blow
across the ridge
and away.

Playing with Hadron and Elfje

Walt and Hannah both offered variations on the hadron form prompt from a few weeks ago.  I played a bit with both of their forms.

Woven hammock,
knotted natural rope,
double wide
swaying.  Weighing
time
for rest.

Sooty
velvet muzzle
eagerly reaches out
to me — cookie
or kiss.

Thick
strong hands.
They’re sore.  Years
building me ranch
gifts.

Greenish-brown
composting manure;
the dogs snack
their breath stinks: puppy
pesto.

 

Grammie

I remember her
in the kitchen;
scarlet print dress
white eyelet apron
around
her waist.

Pear shaped;
short
in stature
and temper
a mean drunk
or a
sainted martyr.

Dark onyx eyes
changing moods:
warm mocha,
flaming fire flash,
gypsy barter glance,
mischievous
glitter dance;
rarely at
rest.

I wrote this from Donna’s Heritage prompt where she asks us to write about a grandparent.  Instead of exploring her heritage, I ended up painting her portrait instead.  Funny how poems have a mind of their own sometimes.

Day 7. Tribes

 

Day 7.
List the tribes you belong to: cultural, personal, literary, you get the drift. Talkabout the experience of being in your element with your tribes.
My obvious tribes:
White, 50-something,female.
Baby boomer.
Californian.
American.
Tribes that define myrole in life:
Mother.
Wife.
Healthcare executive.
Animal caretaker.
Personal interesttribes:
Dressage rider andhorsewoman.
Gardener.
Writer/ Poet.
Spiritual Director.

For Brett: On His Birthday

I see your eyes teasing twinkle blue dancing light,
  or sparkle proud bright shiny wet 
    at the corners.
Your hands large, strong, busy building fences;
  and fingers thick, stiff, fish hook scarred
    with nails chewed short –
 rubbing my back and pulling me close.

Is it any wonder my heart swells
  like a tulip lifting its face to the sun
   and exploding orange red with happiness?

 

Winston

With the swagger of a swimmer
approaching the starting block
or
January blooms covering a Christmas cactus
in magenta splendor;
He cantered toward the white arena fence
with his mane 
full of frosty wind.
He sailed over
cleanly.

We watched his spotted rump
trot away towards
a patch of winter grass.