Swirling new patterns
on my carpet.
I can tell
from where I fell.
Should have looked up.
Instead looked down.
Now my face is on the ground.
Wondering which device this time.
A sling, a crutch, a brace,
a bandage for my face.
Next time I’ll watch my step.
The time after that, as well.
How many times will it take?
Only time will tell.
From the last time that I fell.
Poetry Corner
If
If I were an angel
I’d sleep on a cloud
And kiss the moon goodnight.
To My Son
Your childish play has lighted
the corners of my mouth,
and filled my days
with endless pleasure.
Your impish grin
has touched my heart.
I feel your bumps and bruises
and the tears I’ve wiped away…
I see your face, asleep, angelic,
and the eyelash
which flutters to your cheek.
Your cheerful games
of hide-and-seek,
your giggles and glee.
How could such innocence
have passed so swiftly
before my starry eyes…
I am alone,
and yet not sad.
For I have love
that never dies.
Footsteps
He rides the antique wings of birds
whose golden tips have not yet touched
the edge of time.
The ancient songs of earth below
serve to remind…
Ancient of Days,
Creator of all mankind.
Mandolin Winds
The porch swing creaks
slowly back and forth
as you strum
a drifting melody
into the evening air.
You sip hot tea,
barefooted,
speaking little,
watching willows
play upon
the trees
as you play
upon the wind
your mandolin.
Breezes
touch your hair,
gliding softly
like a sail,
while your fingers
carve a trail
to the melancholy moon,
and your bright eyes
flicker to the moisture
in the teacup
by your side,
where vapors hover gently
to the hint of cinnamon,
arise to fill your senses
as you play your mandolin.
A fragile teardrop shines
within the corner
of one eye,
then tumbles
to your lap
where it melts
into your jeans,
and the porch swing
slowly creaks
as your laughter
peals forth
from a dandelion grin.
And you’re content once more
to sit and play
your mandolin.
Time!
Stand still!
Don’t move!
Too elusively-smooth!
Swifter than a weaver’s shuttle
the mist appears precisely subtle
in a small sense
raspberry muffins on a Sunday
and a walk in the park
lemonade nights
being careful not to step
on the crickets in the dark.
A Sweet Embrace
Your childhood has passed away.
It seems like only yesterday-
you greeted me with such delight.
I tucked your smile in at night.
Christ Is Born
Christ is born,
King of Kings,
Let men rejoice
And angels sing!
Sensory Imagery: A fun lesson for my poetry students
While crabbing on the shores of Maryland’s Wye River one intoxicatingly-sunny day, my husband and I netted and trapped about four dozen beady-eyed, bright-blue-shelled crabs. A rather unappealing briny odor arose from this crowd of clammy crustaceans as the overloaded bucket, which contained them, spilled over and they scuttled across the well-worn bottom of our wooden boat. A chorus of “click-clack-clee’s” resounded, as dozens of pairs of claws were raised in defiance – miniature prizefighters poised to lunge at our arrogant approach. Wincing with pain, as peevish pincers met with bare and unprotected fingers, we scooped our little dignity-damaged prizefighters back into their plastic pail. Back at home, after our soggy soldiers were relinquished to the cooking pot, our palates were treated to the savory, salty white meat of the once-feisty foragers.
The Scenic Route 