John

there's something so poetic
about the candle
never moved, never opened
fire never playfully teasing the wick
the smell of apple cinnamon
never fills the room
never performing the expected task

only touched three times a day
so as to hold a tube in place
as liquid drains
in a slow steady pace
leftovers of some
unsatisfying nourishment
for one who cannot taste or smell

other tools may think it useless
but its consistence is vital
it, being there, near the sink
helps the helpless
live.

Miriam

I see her in their faces
though lacking lines from years still to come
framed in heavy hair
not as white or wispy soft
Mother's movements look so familiar
the way she softly taps the table with her hands
just as she had done
just like Miriam

As they retell her stories re-retold,
passing them from mouth to mouth, reverently
as one should handle one of her precious quilts
I see her in them

The stories form bit by bit
pulled from each memory
sometimes interjection
correction
on the particular wording
she may have used
even so,
the morbidity
of Big Clause and Little Clause
or the shocking lack of mentality
of dear lil' Epaminondas
is clearly communicated

there's laughter at the accuracy
then tears at her memory

I cannot yet recite her words as they
and my youthfulness does not reveal much resemblance
but I see her
in that ancient skirt
its unusual style for these times
but my favorite to wear

I see her
in my desire and attempt
to sew patches of random old projects
into something to keep someone
warm and comfortable
much time is spent
and every stitch says "I love you"
I'm beginning to understand her

She called me "friend"
and I become my own
friend
as I begin to see her in me


(NOTE: This is a bit different from what I came up with in the free write. I hope I did her justice.)

Craig's house

Dusk.
air pleasantly warm
reminding us of a sun-baked day
steady creak of the porch swing
keeps time for a soft orchestra
of crickets
distant highways
and subtle wind
whispering wisely to ancient trees
your sharp intake of breath*
indicates the first sighting of a firefly
They ignite!
And gradually the field is a vast galaxy of stars
which live but a moment-
just long enough to fascinate
then, stifled out
one by one
in Night's thick blanket.
Darkness.
like nothing happened at all

*Alternate line: "you squeeze my hand/[indicating]"...
which do you like better? Please comment. :)

Dawn Clouds

power lines slice through faintly pink

dawn-streamed cloud

like kitchen's sharpest knife

silently

effortlessly separating

the thick sweet blanket

of "cloud" that mom likes to make

with thawed whipped cream

hint of strawberry jello mix

generic brand of cottage cheese

God's recipe shows no sign

of Miss Muffet's preference

but in His broad bowl we call sky

long, thin leftovers of night

greyish blue

after my eyes have had their fill

the flavor tastes of orange

like mother's after I've already

removed the squishy mandarins

still changing

as rays begin peaking over lofty mountain tips

my eyes taste a

dampened, inoffensive lemon

all traces of night now seem but shadows

as sky lightens

and earth is made ready

for vibrant sun's

reentry

[I miss you all, club friends. Don't forget me. :) ]

Sir Robert

Like steadfast knight
with foe to conquer, boldly he stands,
with not a sword but
rubber weapon in my father's hands.

He strikes! Impact
causes crumbs to dance on the table.
Mother glares: she
just wants a nice meal, if we're able.

Determined to
slay the small black wing-ed enemy,
he slaps and slaps
but buzzing means the fly still lives free.

Fly swatter hits
right in between celery and chives.
The fiend is dead!
Our father has saved our very lives!

All cheer but mom.
Table is a graveyard for dead flies,
But through her hand
I see her smile, twinkle in her eyes.

Ball

If I had ears I first would hear
The wind's high pitch from moving fast
Then painless crash as I met house
crescendo-ed laughs with each return

If I had eyes I'd keep them shut
For being thrust into the air
would be enough to lose one's lunch
With blurs of color streaming past

My nose would smell the young boy's hands
His sweat from repetitious play
And then, too soon, the paneled wall
the ling'ring cedar still remains

If I had nerves I would feel pain
As bruises blue became rebruised
And wounds were not allowed to heal
Forever suffering-- endless game

Suspicious

Swine flu? Or Swine fluke
Thought up by some Duke
Feeling bored and having the urge--I am sure--
to instill fear in the hearts of all in the world
and keep Miss Dianey here, which is far
from that fiesta- siesta-filled splendid lugar.
It's far too ironic to be left to fate
that the trip would be canceled with just days to wait.
"That Spanish you learned? Those needles you felt...
We were really just kidding. Oh man, you got dealt!"
I'll let them all laugh and enjoy their cruel jest.
I'll pretend to be bitterly angry at best,
But deep down inside, I'm alright, feelin' fine,
For this disappointment created this rhyme.


fiesta= party
siesta= nap
lugar= place

Princess Di: age 7

A galloping child
knows nothing of guile
head crowned with golden flowers

Holes in the knees
of hand-me-down jeans
escaping the evil king's powers

She's frightened and still
she sprints down the hill
Eyes wide and breath short with excitement

The horses draw near
but the prince she can hear
to save her, much to her delightment

She climbs up a tree
from there she can see
him slaying the guards all around

The king runs away
Her prince saved the day!
He helps her back down to the ground

But now it gets dark
The forest's a park
Her playtime and daydreams are done

Thanking her friend*
for the fairy tale end
she goes home to sleep with the sun

*This friend (the prince) is intended to be imaginary.

A poem describing how it feels to go take a test as late as you possibly can without preparing much before hand.

Hepe. Not happy.
Please don't confuse the two.
No trace of mirth is on my face:
I don't know what to choose!

For "A" seems reasonable I s'pose,
But "B" could also be true,
And "C" has words I can't define.
I haven't got a clue.

I tightly squeeze my tired eyes
And hear the clock race on.
No inspiration to my mind.
I stifle my tenth yawn.

Filling in my last best guess,
I race back down the stairs
And give no glance to that crude screen.
It's Hepe, man. Who cares?

Friend

Bits of paper cling to a notebook's spine
Confessions to be pulled out of my soul
I need firm hands to tear them all away
and ears to listen as my words spill out
The job is messy, quite undignified
and yet rewarding when the task is done
Fragile, weak, small without my paper bits
you kindly help me take them to the trash

"Poet's Query"

What shall I write of?
It seems the books
are bursting at the bindings
with poems of love
or nature's glories:
of rain, leaving tear stains
on Mother Nature's weathered cheeks.
Surely this should not add to the masses.
What is my purpose?
Shall I write with hopes
to change a life, a nation?
or to simply scrawl my thoughts down,
leaving this, my fragile poem
unfinished and...

Perspective

Gloomy, burdened, dark with pain
It’s cause I could not find
It slowed my step and thoughts of me
Were flooding up my mind.

Then suddenly, through some small sort
Of miracle I guess,
The cold wind stilled and sunshine brightly
Lit upon my face.

I felt such joy and gratitude
And that I will get by.
I am convinced it was a gift,
That comfort from the sky.