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.