On Little Feet

Death doesn't come
in an instant; rather,
it creeps in, a series
of smaller moments.

Some believe we
start to die when
we crown, before we've
inhaled more than
meconium, but I think
we start to rot when
we no longer want.

Prompt: death

I've already written several poems on death. Enough already. Let's hope tomorrow's prompt is about daffodils or some such bit of sunshine.

Peace, Linda

Summer

Orange smudges
your distant horizon
the end of your world:
waves collide with sky,
churn orange into
some kind of molten lava
or a Creamsicle savored
later when the sand
burns our undersoles.




Today's prompt: horror

I tried. Really, I did. My horror-writing friends know I've wanted to stretch in this direction. But... I couldn't get it up, despite blasting Bodysnatchers (Radiohead, In Rainbows) at full volume all afternoon between errands. I tried to get myself into a dark place, a gory place, but... the sun was shining too brightly, the vast amount of coffee drunk all morning, the late breakfast of feta omelette and more coffee, the fabulous yard sales (including this gorgeous Native American terracotta and black slip vase by Armanda Rodriguez for two bucks but might be worth --> THIS and books, of course, including oodles of YA stuff), and the long walk, the roasted asparagus and hamburgers on the grill, and the glass (or two) of homemade traminer-reisling, I mean... I just thought of summer all day. Horror-ible. I know. Whatever.

At least I'm happy.

Peace, Linda

Apron Strings

Cutting rhubarb in the rain,
the mottled leaves thick with mud
and slugs, I wonder if these plants,
robust now, will stand another
season in this shaded corner.

If not, next spring my husband
will surprise me bearing rhizomes,
and plant them so my garden
will be as my mother’s, and
her mother’s and, perhaps, all
our mothers’ before.

I’ll slice the stalks into chunks
for pie, mine has strawberries,
though she says berries ruins
the rhubarb; she makes sauce
and eats from the pot, still warm,
spoon clanking against the sides,
a smile trespassing her face.

Tendering these stalks, making the pie,
heralds me a holder of apron
strings, honoring our history
unmarked with words or trophies, and
thus, all the more important.

I wonder how my daughter
will grow her rhubarb.


***

Prompt: history


Peace, Linda

Unction

I.
The sun burns a hole
through blue sky,
waves churn grey-cold, a wintry coffin.

By the time we gather one mile
past the ramp, the sky mirrors
sky. Mother sighs.

Time.

II.
We clutch handfuls of you
not fine as dust but
chunks, stubborn bone
like you, refusing to burn to essence.

III.
The wind lifts you,
sifts you fine between our fingers;
you want to leave.

With hands lent-like
we walk our paths,
children and grandchildren,
protecting our hearts,
full of you.

The wind shifts, you
loosen between fingers,
waft to the dunes,
contrary as always.

The grey sea swallows you.

IV.
Salt spray on our cheeks,
hearts to burst, we scatter
you, a final wish.
But you sneak behind
a rogue gentle wave,
covering shoes and pant hems.

You always hated when we cried.

V.
We leave milepost 33.
The sun burns holes again.
The light pains us.

VI.
I’m not sure why I favor
forgotten detritus from
God’s great tumbler: the cracked
scallop, the lusterless
oyster, the conch which
sounds a half-sea.

Perhaps because without you
I am broken upon a foreign shore.


***

Prompt: water

I imagined scattering my father's ashes in The Blues Are Running. This is how it really happened...

Peace, Linda