A Heart for Writing

Wednesday, July 30, 2014

Wise Choices

Barely as tall as the shopping cart,

I could tell that we were getting closer to the produce aisle

As fresh peach and apple fragrances greeted my nose.

I reached upward toward the sparkling display of grapes.

I noticed that my mother’s navy blue sneakers kept on walking.

“We’re boycotting grapes,” she said as she pushed the shopping cart

Past the green and purplish-black jewels

Without missing a beat.

(I thought of one day during the previous school year

When we had an assembly because a great man had died.

We saw a film about bus boycotts and lunch counters,

And signs that said who could drink at which water fountain.)

I turned and looked at the forlorn grape display,

Realizing that they did not look as sumptuous as they did two minutes ago.

And that was the day I learned to shop.

Shared at Poets United Midweek Motif . . . this week's prompt is BOYCOTT

Friday, January 31, 2014

Ah, to be a knight!
I'd slay the devouring serpents:
Those screaming, voracious dragons that
Crush our joy.

I'd guard our castle,
Deflecting smouldering darts
That would not dare inject
Their venom into your
Sweet poetic mind.

Until then, we will find refuge, you and I,
Between the lines of sonnets,
As the perfume of homemade blackberry jam
Drifts through our kitchen
And envelops the acrid smoke
Of old nightmares.

Thursday, January 23, 2014

Unshattered

A collection of mismatched shards:
That is how I saw myself
Until You handed me the missing pieces.

Examined in the light,
Each piece offers
Unexpected colors that change context
And deepen perspective.

Nearly whole,
Revived by Your breath,
I speak with my voice
For the first time.

Tuesday, January 7, 2014

I Left Her There

She's there somewhere.
She used to be here,
But I left her there.

The one who loved to sing
As much as she loved the smell
Of a new box of crayons
(That first-day-of-school smell).

The one who drew stories
Others might have written.

The girl who let her Muse
Take her on winged journeys,
Farther than her imagination could see,
Higher than her thoughts could breathe.

The child who held up
Fists full of sunlit beach sand,
And let the fine, tan powder
Sift through her fingers
And sprinkle her face with stars
That sparkled the rest of the day.

I left her there,
An unfinished sentence, past tense,
Testing the sparkling clear waters with her toes,
Unaware of the icy tides
That crashed on the shore
And stopped the heart.

Friday, November 22, 2013

The Model Shipwright (for John)

(for my husband John, who'd been at work for many hours by the time this picture was taken)

Refining, shaping,

Plank by plank,

The model shipwright at 3:00 A.M.

Knows that the time is right

For perfecting his craft.

History of a thousand years

Passes through his fingertips,

Through his blood,

And into digital images

Joining the noble history

Of those who went before,

And those yet to come.

It's a labor of love,

A passion reborn.