On Day 6, I asked you to record the details of your day and write a poem about it. The resulting poems were great. While they may seem “routine” or “ordinary” to you, the rest of us “on the outside looking in” get to read a poem that is either out of the ordinary or something we can definitely relate to our own lives. Thanks for the great writes!
Here are today’s highlighted poems.
A Day in the Life Of
Soft sunshine on Frank’s face.
Clock says 8:11—oh no!
Turn on coffee machine.
Kitchen clock says 7:12.
Reset new-fangled clock
(manufactured before Congress
voted in new Daylight Savings times.)
Turquoise-stripped towel on the carpet.
Back exercises. Frank in the dining room
chair sipping coffee. Watching me.
Discuss Chris Vogler’s personal paradigm shifts:
1) Everybody’s gotta be happy=everyone but me.
2) Me first=monster!
3) Me too, but first=balance.
Pray for work for next week.
Blueberry pancakes, bacon, and strawberries.
Nauseous. Kneel by toilet. Salivate. Spit. (Repeat.)
Almost throw up. What’s wrong? Those triple-action
weight-control pill before breakfast?
Go to church. Hugs. Love. Connection. Sing.
Song of Solomon—dating is the
process by which you observe and evaluate
a person’s character to determine if
they are the right kind—not entertainment.
Carol-super-sandwiches for lunch.
Central Oregon Songwriters Association
annual awards. Wow! What talent!
Pinto beans and fresh yeast rolls.
Sense and sensibility.
Post this poem.
Carol Brian |csp2000AT NOSPAMearthlink dot net
I shuffle my way into the kitchen.
I crack an egg,
pour in a teaspoon of wheat germ,
a pinch of salt and pepper,
and whisk the mixture.
I put an English muffin in the toaster.
I pour a dollop of olive oil in the skillet, and
as the turkey bacon and sausage
I attack last night’s dishes.
One plate has dried pasta sauce on it
and I must use my fingernail to
scratch the red mass off.
After we’ve eaten breakfast,
I walk past the hamper full of laundry.
Upon entering my bedroom,
I stare at the unsorted mail
and the papers that must be shredded.
Had my mother come over
I am not sure she’d understand
that the reason for the disarray
was that I had
a poem to write.
Carla Cherry |cmcmagiconeAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
We slept late, my hand gently
laid across your sore ankle,
your hand tangled in my hair.
You bought pepper plants and
marigold seeds. We pulled weeds.
Read stories aloud to grandhildrem,
corrected rough draft, packed ice chest.
You kissed me before you drove back
to your weekday life. I already miss you.
Victoria Hendricks |seastarvshAT NOSPAMaol dot com
the morning stretched
six cigarettes long
and after weeks
13 years later
to eat indian food
then we say good-
bye but don’t fall
i nap cat-like
on my bed
in a sliver
across the sheets
and for 3
over my flaws
and why i probably
from you again
even as a friend
law and order
to the backyard
where i count
and the smoke
of an evening
k weber |ilovehateyouAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com
Sunday the Sixth
I awoke in my hometown
to warmth, open windows,
from the open kitchen door
to my bedroom,
then walked down to Main Street
to meet Dad for lunch.
I watched the cars pass
from a tiny park bench,
wondered how so many people
could be driving through
such a small city.
I joined the dreary deluge
of carbon and chrome
to come back north.
I stopped to see my man;
he was waiting, cross-legged,
his bright bicycle leaned
against the donut shop.
The sun was still shining,
but our shadows were so long
as we pedaled to day’s end,
singing songs of spring
and sliding with the wind.
We said goodbye at nine,
and another week began.
Callan Bignoli-Zale |shehadausernameAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
SUNDAY, THE DAY OF REST?
Sunday was meant as a day of rest, that’s what I’ve always heard
But when I think of the average mom, that statement seems absurd
Now since I am a grandmother, this day seems harder still
For now I have five grandchildren that go to church with us as well.
Today I got up early just barely half past six
I wanted to sleep in awhile but I knew I had to fix
Breakfast for my little gang, no small endeavor by far,
“I want some cereal,” “Well I want oats” “There’s no jelly in this jar.”
“Is soy milk all that we have left” “When did you get this bread”
I finally get one child in the tub, while another sneaks back to bed.
“Nanny can you find my shoes” “I lost my underwear”
“The zipper is busted in these pants.” “Where’s the ribbon for my hair.”
“Honey, can you iron my shirt? It’s almost time to leave.
Can’t you try to speed things up? Hey, you forgot to iron this sleeve.”
I finally make it to my room, and there’s a runner in my hose
A rapid knock, says, “hurry up” “Can I please put on my clothes?”
At last we make it to the church, a mere ten minutes late
And though I feel all tense inside I try to seem quite sedate.
But then I look at my little crew, and my heart is filled with pride
And I know that I am blessed of God to have them at my side.
Bonnie |bcholbrook05AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
But You’re Not Here
I rose not at the crack of dawn
but at the static just off station
of the radio on your side of the bed
where I now lie.
I rattling around in the kitchen,
putting something on for lunch,
brewing three cups of coffee
just for me.
I would have made more
but you’re not here.
I grab a quick shower then stare
into the closet for something warm
but not quite wintry.
Any other day I’d crawl back
into bed for five more minutes,
just a quick snuggle.
Maybe I would
but you’re not here.
At church I slide into our pew
Leaving room for you–a habit’s
hard to break. I’m ready
if anyone asks
why you’re not here.
I grab a bite; what I eat
can hardly be called a meal,
just a few bites taken standing up.
Then dragging in the never-empty
well-traveled bag of student papers
from the trunk of the car.
I lug it to the couch, spread out
the folders, rubrics, find a pen
under the cushion where I sit.
Then I spread the Sunday paper
right on top, read what’s new in
Arts and Books. You’d tell me not to
Work the LA Times crossword puzzle
in pen–if you were here.
Even procrastination fails
as the clock chimes slowly,
needing to be sound–
Something you would do.
But you’re not here.
At least a dozen phone calls,
one wrong number, no one here
by that name, and no call from you.
The Sunday evening blues slide
in my windows underneat the doorjamb.
Friday evening’s promise not quite met.
I move from my place to yours,
leaning back in the chair that bears
the imprint of your body.
I feel its chill
since you’re not here.
Finally back to bed, not quite
to sleep, piles of unread books
and papers scattered on the covers.
I slip undercovers on your side of the bed
Since you’re not here.
Nancy |nposeyAT NOSPAMembarqmail dot com
he insists that the trees
make the wind, imagining, perhaps
tiny pursed mouths exhaling on each leaf
great trunkfuls of waiting air pushed
out by rhythmically beating branches
the trees: Earth’s respiration
he says that the bird’s nest
visible from his bedroom window
is full of eggs we should take and eat for breakfast
and also full of baby birds that will soon fly
but the eggs have nothing
to do with these baby birds
eggs are eggs and birds, of course, are birds
he contends that reading is impossible
without speech, reminds me disdainfully
that you have to say the words
to read, that word and sound
are inexorably bound
Two Days After the Dentist
Before I even got out of bed,
I took Darvocet on an empty stomach.
Dizzy and queasy all morning,
I spent the afternoon munching tiny bites
of mac and cheese and watching NASCAR,
ate my third Wendy’s frosty–chocolate–
and dreamt of meat.
Sarah |MusicToKnitToAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
I wake up before him, quickly switching
off the alarm. I make him breakfast, thankful
for the microwave oven at 4am. Getting him
up, ironing his clothes, pushing him out
the door; each day begins pretty much the
same. I try to do some housework, usually
surrendering to the TV at some point. I write
poetry, prose, emails. Having dinner ready
when he gets home from work, so he can
quickly eat, grab his books, and head to
class. A typical Monday since I lost my job
Susan M. Bell |maylandwritersAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
Back in DC
I woke up alone again with a bloody
nose on a fold-out couch
to the sounds of NASCAR.
After I showered, we drove
to see the cherry blossoms in bloom.
We parked near the Capitol
and walked the length of the Mall,
my Mall (I hadn’t been gone so long)
with my museums and my trees
and my sculptures and grass and life.
In the sunshine, we wandered
around the Tidal Basin, snapping
pictures with the other tourists.
Sometimes, we’d catch a whiff
of the flowers on the breeze
and sniff like dogs to find it again.
We walked back through the city,
and I found my buildings
there, warm but still imposing.
That night, we barbequed hot dogs
and hamburgers in Alexandria,
and I hugged all my old friends
and tried my best
their new ones.
JL Smither |jlsmitherAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
Even after the bitter
words of morning, he
canceled his plans
and drove back to me,
just so I could leave
him. Again. He put
away shotguns and shells
then opened the hood to
see what made the “check
engine light” ignite
before I made it to the
end of our road. Me busy
transferring bags and
books from one vehicle
to another, then dumping
dog paraphernalia back
inside. A brief kiss,
a serious look, and “I’m
sorry to ruin you day.”
“It happens. Drive safe.
Call me when you get there.”
A.C. Leming |fackorfAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com
I read essays online
with a lavender clay mask drying on,
my lips slathered in a balm of
the labor of bees and lemons
and herbs tweaked, symphonic,
eat your heart out, Estee Lauder:
here in my nightgown, in the living room,
listening to the conspiracy channel,
with truffles and green tea by my side,
I am happy as a sunflower
living through my computer,
making a living, diva-nerd, a library mule.
Maria Jacketti |medusashairdresserAT NOSPAMmsn dot com