Summa Summarum

Sparkly Day (For Want Of A Better Title)

He makes every moment seem
like the early morning’s
shimmering promise of
a sparkly day, where each minute gets
better than the last;

Or, like the nightfall
when it is at its
most bewitching hour,
and enchantment begins to happen, as the sky
is littered with fairy dust, moonbeams, and
the best of dreams.

He makes the mundane magical,
the ordinary, unique,
and every second seem like the most exciting
adventure is about to be embarked upon.
He makes me want to
climb a mountain,
go to Fiji in the middle of winter,
sing “Life is a Flower” on the top of my lungs,
and play with dewdrops while he plays with my hair.

first published in BMP
photo taken and copyrighted by anitha

Fairy Dust

You helped me buy my schoolbooks,
Though we went to different institutions of learning
In two separate countries;
You helped me learn Latin and Greek,
Conjugate French verbs,
And write run-away, flowing poetry,
But I did not know you then.
You were with me on my first day at a new job,
Had lunch with me every day in the cafeteria,
Rode the bus home with me,
And showed me how to sort laundry;
Even though we are oceans apart,
You are every rhyme I write,
Every verse that’s free
Though I didn’t even know your name.

first published in BMP

image taken and copyrighted by bcw1

Warm Coke And Chaucer Moments

 

He said,
“Write about it! Write a
poem about how you cannot
find anything to write about.
Tell how you pace for hours and
look out your office window trying
to find a metered metaphor or a
patterned simile in the bend of a
tree, or in the way the sun hits your
wall that day.

"Tell how you drink warm Coke for
breakfast, and overdose on Keats and
Chaucer when you should be meeting
deadlines and doing paperwork.

"Tell how you keep scraps of paper and nubby
pencils even in the laundry room, and how you
often forget to add the fabric softener because inspiration
hit between the rinse-and-spin cycle.

"Tell how you can turn just about any life
experience into a poem.”

I rolled my eyes at him, took a sip of room-
temperature Coke, put down my book of
Chaucer, and turned to my computer, completely
ignoring his silliness for the day

previously published in BMP

image taken and copyrighted by Corinna

 

He said,
“Write about it! Write a
poem about how you cannot
find anything to write about.
Tell how you pace for hours and
look out your office window trying
to find a metered metaphor or a
patterned simile in the bend of a
tree, or in the way the sun hits your
wall that day.

"Tell how you drink warm Coke for
breakfast, and overdose on Keats and
Chaucer when you should be meeting
deadlines and doing paperwork.

"Tell how you keep scraps of paper and nubby
pencils even in the laundry room, and how you
often forget to add the fabric softener because inspiration
hit between the rinse-and-spin cycle.

"Tell how you can turn just about any life
experience into a poem.”

I rolled my eyes at him, took a sip of room-
temperature Coke, put down my book of
Chaucer, and turned to my computer, completely
ignoring his silliness for the day

previously published in BMP

image taken and copyrighted by Corinna

in the antique shop
delicate, fine-boned china...
I remember
the regal beauty
of my mother

first published in Wisteria
photo taken and copyrighted by Yair

Cerebral Hemorrhage on A Wednesday Afternoon

Half your brain
And the other half of mine
Ran away this afternoon—
Skipped off,
Just like that,
Holding hands and
Throwing caution to the wind

They left us
With myriads of work,
Befuddled minds,
And the inability to spell simple conjunctions;

They played chicken,
Each daring the other
To do something bold,
Crazy,
Out of the ordinary --

They told raucous jokes,
Played tag,
And did the watusi --
Right in the middle of the street,
In broad daylight,
Not caring what anyone thought --
Oh, they were very naughty!

It took us all afternoon
To find those rascals
And, after a stern reprimand,
The promise of ginger cookies,
And steaming mugs of cocoa,
They finally returned

But they didn’t seem too penitent,
In fact, I think they’ll do the whole thing over again,
Because the rest of the evening,
One side of my brain
Tapped her toes
And hummed a jazzy little tune,
And when I told her to cut it out,
She said, “Yes ma’am”
In her finest Southern drawl

If your side of the brain
Starts talking Serbian,
Then we’re really in trouble!

first published in Poetic Voices

photo taken and copyrighted by Scarlette

Run Away Muse II

It's not like I didn't treat him right
I was at his beck and call,
ready to be awakened from the soundest sleep
never protesting when pen was shoved in my tired hand
obediently writing whatever he dictated
whether I felt like it or not

And now he's gone

Lured away by a writer in Georgia
with promises of cheap wine and wild nights
he set out for balmy weather
and all the grits he could eat

One week, two weeks, many weeks gone by
Unable to see through the tears,
I lifted my hands and cried,
"Come back, little muse,
All is forgiven and forgotten!"

And then, one day,
he did come back,
smelling like cigars and beer

I hung him out to air
a clothespin holding him to the clothesline
he flapped in the wind as I
happily sat before him with pen and paper

He didn't want anything to do with sonnets any longer
Tanka made him snort
Instead, he wanted to write about Hemingway and boats,
and punctuate his lines with "Y'all"

At breakfast, he cried over Cream of Wheat
and hankered for peaches in April
The snow he once love, depressed him
he forlornly sneezed his way through winter

and so I let him go
in hopes he would return,
but I don't think he's coming back

With the jingle of the car keys
and the first smile I'd seen in ages,
he gave a jaunty cock to his head
and with a gleam in his eye reminiscent of someone
whose picture I'm sure I've seen,
He waved merrily and said,
"See you around sometime – y'all".

first published in WAH
photo taken and copyrighted by BJ Clarke

his granddaughter
meets me at the airport
to tell me he died
before my flight landed
somehow, among the clouds, I knew

first published in Ribbons

Christmas present
from my friend
far away
swathed in a scarf
that smells like him

first published in Eucalypt

photo taken and copyrighted by tenia

La Fée Verte

He looks at the mesmerizing pool of
circling green liquid
squinting for traces of fairy dust

the sugar cube long ago dissolved
he takes an eager sip:

no sweetness remains
mildly ponderous,
reflective,
awaiting deep thoughts

what did he expect?
what did he know?

no promised Cure
nor pensive meditations
in this cup of pungency
only a taste of acrimony
bitterness
and a good dose of pretension
hang in the milky louche
thrown in
for good measure

first published in Megaera

at the cafe
you wait for the friend who
never shows
you drink your first cup of absinthe
and shudder at the bitterness

first published in Simply Haiku

photo taken and  copyrighted by April Melton