Friday, October 14, 2016

Weekly Worded

On Procrastination’s Shelf *

as I keep adding to the top,
what I’ve stacked up
starts to shift
eventually sliding 
to the floor.

Shuffling the stratigraphy
makes it impossible 
for archaeologists
to document any history
of my good intentions. 

*Dear Readers, This blog will be temporarily abandoned by me in an effort to complete a project that has surfaced from the bottom of the shelf. Thank you all for your reading, your comments, and your patience in waiting each week for the next installment. I have been blessed by your support.  

Friday, October 7, 2016

Weekly Worded

My Inner Child Is Blind

which explains these bumps 
on my skull, as if a note in braille 

had been embossed there 
by my unconscious.

Evenings before bed
I touch them like a worry stone

but I can’t figure out 
what I’m trying to tell myself.

At night when I dream 
the child comes to me. 

I hold him and I weep, his fingers 
like fireflies against my skin.

Friday, September 30, 2016

Weekly Worded

Troop 93

scouts camped in the trees
half a mile from a farmer’s cornfield
sending braided campfire smoke
into a watercolor sky 
anyone glancing up
couldn’t help but stare 
at the gilded sunset
tasseled with burning oak
but not the boys
too busy punching sticks into the flame
or their scoutmasters  
sitting in the outer circle
warming themselves
inside and out
discreet with their whiskey 
monitoring how fiercely the boys might spark

Friday, September 23, 2016

Weekly Worded

From the Top 

looking down
it’s impossible to say

with any certainty, 
there’s my house.

Climb higher and clouds 
obscure the town.

Look again
at the dirt road 

switchbacked into 
the mountain.

A plume of dust 
rises like smoke 

from a bridge 
you can't remember burning.

Friday, September 16, 2016

Weekly Worded

Along My Driveway

mushrooms, the size of clenched fists
are punching through, 
loose gravel in a ring

around each domed cap
like a crude fairy necklace
glittering in the moist air.

I stand and stare, amazed.
Yesterday when I drove over that spot
they weren’t there.

Friday, September 9, 2016

Weekly Worded

                                                                    Watercolor by p.smith

Tell the Truth

The sun is not going down,
sinking in the West,
or dropping behind any horizon.

It’s not losing steam,
slipping over the edge,
or pulling any global shades.
Copernicus is revolving
in his grave.

Friday, September 2, 2016

Weekly Worded

Standing On a Ladder

with a chain saw rattling,
the electric cord dangling 

like a climber’s rope,
I’m trying to prune dead limbs

from under the canopy 
of a century-old Russian olive.

It’s all precarious, the horizon
seeming to bob like the bow 

of a boat, the chain’s teeth  
circling like an oiled shark,

the ladder tilting slightly, 
matching the earth’s wobble.

Clusters of olives shiver
as the saw touches wood.

Like raindrops, they grow
heavy and fall. Peripherally 

shadows flicker, my fear, 
my impatience for wings.