Friday, June 24, 2016

Weekly Worded

         Philadelphus Coronarius

Was this shrub flowering
in ancient Rome or in Philadelphia?

Oh, its sweet citrus fragrance
strained by my patio screen.

Mock Orange.
A porch for butterflies to rest,

like my own rocking chair
tilting east to west

through dappled light,
my eyelashes fluttering.

Friday, June 17, 2016

Weekly Worded

        Campground Caution

PLEASE...
DO NOT put trash
in toilets, it is extremely difficult
for the bears to remove,
THANK YOU

Friday, June 10, 2016

Weekly Worded

         Life Lessons

    One thing I had going for me as the speed boat engaged its motor and the tow rope grew taut was my memory as a child of trying to skip stones. I concentrated on smoothly flicking my wrists, hoping that would be enough to finally get me up.

    Then the tow bar got yanked from my grip and the boat swung around so I could pick up the rope again.

    The driver shouted, “Are you sure you don’t want to quit?”
    “Let’s give it another shot” I called back.
    “But this is the fifteenth time you’ve let go, I’ve got other customers waiting.”
    “I didn’t let go, the rope was yanked from my grip by your aggressive driving.”
  
    As an instructor, he had a few things to learn about being supportive.

    “Can’t you start more gently?”
    “Only if I’m dragging your dead body.”

    I decided right then there would be no tip. Readying myself, I gave him the signal, he gunned the engine. The tow rope went on without me, only this time so did the boat. He piloted a straight line toward the opposite shore until the boat was out of sight.

    I remained in the water, bobbing like an carnival apple, strapped snugly into my lifetime-guaranteed vest. I waved, but to no one in particular, afraid that those who count skips might also be skilled at tossing stones.    

Friday, June 3, 2016

Weekly Worded

         Resuscitating the Rider

After a winter behind the barn
buried under boards, tarps,
and a nest of chicken wire
the lawnmower coughs,
then sputters to life,
fresh gas in its tank,
oil like patina slick
against the dipstick,
air cleaner wheezing
like an asthmatic,
tires as soft as the belly
of an aging man,
the blade stirring the dust,
scraping a layer of rust
from under the deck
as it spins, then lurches
having slipped into gear.
This mechanical bull
sire of nothing
but appetite.