Thursday, July 28, 2011

Down that road

Personally, I think the poem is a bit of an old tale, but I had fun playing around with spaces trying to create a visual effect.

Broken Lines

We were so clearly defined:      we loved;
and      the goal – till death,   together
down  this road      everyone  calls life.
No one told   us, there    would be forks,
detours,  sidetracks,  shortcuts,   scenic
distractions –    so many       ways to go
so many ways      to get             lost;
no one      said, there might be  sections
closed    because       of construction or
accidents    or simply      (No Thru Road)
because     the road leads      to nowhere
except to an edge of cliff that looks down
to a     wide open    ocean    with no way
to get to the beach.   We thought we could
go on     forever the day          we left
with cans   dragging,rattling    behind us
and our families        and friends waving
goodbye,     wishing         us happiness;
we thought      that was all     we needed 
for fuel  –- good luck --   we took no map
because       we wanted an       adventure
but   the     car          b r o k e  down
and neither  of  us   wanted    to get out
to push,      as if    blame would haul us
back but all      it did     was put us to 
the side   of the road. I sat  on the curb
looking at   the broken      painted lines
of this road, while you sat in     the car
waiting    for the engines    to cool off.

Inspired by HVP's photo "Park Between The Lines"

Submitted for Thursday Poets Rally Week 49.

Sunday, July 17, 2011

It's the cost we're thinking about


I think we need a new ladder

hear that rattle, I think
something is loose,
a screw

     that needs tightening
     get the screwdriver
     out of the toolbox

under the leaky
kitchen sink?

     not rusted, is it?

the screw or the

     it's just a screw
     -- see it

remember the stool
you said you could fix?
just a nail, you said

     and a weak leg,
     don't forget it
     was the leg that broke

when grandma sat,
grandma broke
her hip

     and there, see
     feel it, it's done
     screwed tight
     no more rattling
     not even a creak
     step on it, try

not using it
and not arguing
getting a new one
over a screw.

(Inspired by HVP's photo "Broken Ladder")

Submitted for Poetry Potluck Monday Week 44

Friday, July 15, 2011

For once, take the stairs instead


When the escalator is about to break down

At first it's just little shakes
at unpredictable intervals
like someone with Alzheimer's
who keeps forgetting
who he is, what he's doing
and what you are doing
being here with him,
depending on him to take you up

or down;

it brakes with no warning
then turns around, goes
the other way,

and you don't


see it coming, the jerk
that will send you tumbling down
its conveyer herd of metal teeth
that comes out row after row --

you'll be ripped to shreds.

(Inspired by HVP's photo "Under Construction")

Submitted for Thursday Poets Rally Week 48

Saturday, July 9, 2011

Anything but funny

Fat Lady Fell

She sits there on the stairs
leading up
to an overhead bridge,

broken plastic bag
by her bare feet,
spilled coffee staining
the steps, worn
pink-green slippers
upturned --
one here
            one there

her greasy haired little boy
wordlessly takes a piece
of tissue from the pack
she holds out in her hand;

he wipes her arm with it,
firmly, but gently, as if
trying to coax her into
getting up, but without
hurrying, gently wipes
her arm with the piece
of tissue.

A man standing nearby
throws a glance back
at them and frowns
(sour coffee? It's a hot day,

what time is it

steps away, joins the crowd
watching, waiting for the bus
out of there.

She sits there staring
at nothing as a steady stream
of office shirts and skirts,
polished shoes and heels
avoided her, squeeze through
the space between her son
and her as they descend
and stand equal spaces apart

at the sheltered bus-stop,
all heads facing one way
watching out for the bus
(where is that damn bus?



She sits there as her son
comes back to her, takes
another piece of tissue
held out to him and wipes
her arm with it, the little one
just wipes her arm with it.

A Poetry Potluck Monday submission.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011


Thanks to the folks at Promising Poets Poetry Cafe for this award.

The Perfect Poet Award 4 Poets Rally Week 47

This poem is something I wrote a while back, it's just how I feel when I post my work on the web.  :)


With each post
she deposits
a little bit
of herself

and distributes it
to all the world's
linking in,

to her space
what's on her

Every hour
she logs in
to see
what everyone
thinks of it.


I accept this award with gratitude. Thanks to those who voted for me.

I would like to nominate Elaine Danforth, zenmirror and dsnake for the Perfect Poet Award Week 48.