Sunday, March 08, 2015

My Pollyanna Life

Today's Sunday Writing prompt was two-fold, awakening the senses and having a conversation with the morning. Here are two of my responses.

In Conversation

Good morning day,
drifting in snowflakes,
your cold gray face freckled with birds,
the sunrays of your smile absent,
beaming elsewhere.

Good morning day,
lightly slipping in beneath the curtains,
rousing me slowly, pulling me from dreams,
drawing me to the window
to watch the snow float down.

I recognize yesterday and tomorrow
in the steadfastness of the trees,
see the past heaped in white drifts on the ground,
feel the future on the wind,
taste the present in a sip of scalding tea,

hear the passing of the hour
in the tick of the clock,
see the light swell and illuminate every corner,
smell the time of day cooking on the stove,
an egg singing praises to the morning.

New Day

Wake up eyes.
See the light come creeping in
making friends with the shadows.
Watch the little bird with the red hood
eating the peanut butter suet
and the arms of the trees spreading themselves
across the gray horizon.

Wake up ears.
Hear the clock ticking off the minutes
and the rooster announcing its own presence.
Listen to the silence that lies beneath all sound
and the sounds that dip into the silence.

Wake up nose.
Revel in the scents of toast
and of bacon frying crisp in the pan.
Smell the gunmetal of new snow that drifts
down like feathers in the cold.

Wake up mouth.
Sing praises to the new day,
mimic the chickadee with a whistle,
bless the tea kettle and the breakfast plate.

Wake up fingers and toes.
Feel the silkiness of the sheets,
the chill of the floor and the warmth of fuzzy slippers.
Indulge in the softness of water.
Smooth the unruly hair and wipe the grit of sleep
from the eyes.

Wake up self.
Merge into the morning
watch the birds,
listen to the kettle,
taste an orange,
smell an egg frying.
Touch the day with gentle fingers.
Step softly.

Sunday, March 01, 2015

I Believe...

All that is uncertain beneath our feet,
all that we assume is bedrock—
an unshakeable foundation—
is really hope,
nebulous, alluring, beguiling hope.

Hope that somewhere in all the wrong
there is right,
in all that is terrifying
there is a moment of peace,
that the possibility of beauty

lies in every eye that beholds.

Sunday, February 22, 2015

12 ways of looking at snow

This Sunday's writing prompt was 12 ways of looking at snow.

an arbitrator between autumn and spring
keeping storm scores and stats on plummeting temperatures

a cat burglar, sneaking in on a passing cold front
stealing color, hiding the tricycle and the dog’s dish,
disguising the starkness of trees with fluff, covering its tracks
as it leaves

a bully, sweeping in on a fierce wind,
a white fury casting cold spells,
spinning and dancing like a colorless gypsy
tapping its tambourine fingers against the window panes

A blanket of silence covering sky and earth,
flung out and floating down silently
in heaps and wrinkles

an ice challenge, wicked, cold, and inhospitable
hard as rock, unyielding even to the distant sun

a nightmare like a thief in the night
stealing the familiar, leaving an expanse of
nothingness where light was

a gossamer dream, a fairy tale, a story of
eternal cold dressed in ermine, of diamond faceted jewels
that glitter under a pale moon

a blustery uncle, all noise and fake promises
who rushes in, pulls out his watch, and says, “I must hurry,”
as he dashes off

a lingering guest, one who arrives unexpectedly, expects a
room and food, languishes on the sofa with a hand to her head,
her scarf trailing across the roads and fields and tangling
in the branches of the trees

an artist with a monochromatic palette, painting with broad strokes.

an eraser, an impenetrable veil, a swirl of opaque white, a myriad of genies
escaped and coalesced, their arms and bodies so entwined that no light
pierces their pallid shadows

a silence so profound one can hear only his own heartbeat counting the seconds,
his own blood swishing to the same tempo of snowflakes falling on his sleeve


In Terms of Snow

Tlatim falls like flour from a sifter,
tlamo slaps at the windows like white wings

two mysteries enfolded in the word snow,

the very idea of which, penstla,
will become tomorrow’s deep drifts.
Tlun sparkles in the moonlight,

sotla makes prisms in the morning light,
while here in the lower 48,
snow merely drifts and packs,

powders the ski slopes,
blows itself into sudden squalls,
and turns to slush in the sun.

Eskimo snow terms from