Thursday, August 25, 2011

In Quiet Coves


Digital graphic by Jinksy for In Tandem #7















My eyes were on my book, but I looked up
often for the streak of red - shining flash
of silver oars paddling around the pond.
The kayak maneuvered past the long wharf
where the fisherman waited silently.

I sat at the shore beside the boat ramp;
thought I was alone until I saw him
standing so still among the lily pads,
watching me, suspicious, prepared for flight.
I went back to my book - he kept fishing.

Reminders of the other world dissolved
in ripples of the water at my feet,
as floating yellow leaves dipped down beneath
the surface of the pond, with Orpheus.
A golden eye still watched, and silver flashed.

A soft drone overhead made me look up,
to watch the circle flight of a small plane
around the pond, to come into a path
for landing on a greenway - old rail bed.
A red plane with silver trim - yellow lights.

Did they matter – the colors – to the scene?
If the leaves were red and the pond was gold –
if he paddled a bright yellow kayak
through blue water lilies in quiet coves,
past a great pink heron with golden eye?


Posted for
In Tandem #7
 a prompt for writers
by Alias Jinksy

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Cruising the Decades


Photo provided by Tess Kincaid
for Magpie Tales #79
















Why did we need a rumble seat, anyway?
It was a 1937 Ford Coupe, I think -
but there’s no one left alive to ask today.

It was already older than me when I was eight;
The year that I was born was a missing link.
Why did we need a rumble seat, anyway?

No cars were built in 1944 - a year’s delay
before the World War ended - on the brink -
but there’s no one left alive to ask today.

I was an only child, by the way,
afraid and shy with heart so quick to sink -
Why did we need a rumble seat, anyway?

Under the staircase where I’d hide or play,
I wondered why the thunder made me shrink -
but there’s no one left alive to ask today.

Yet life’s a tumbling box on every day
wearing down and polishing my chinks.
Why do we need this rumble seat, anyway -
but there’s no one left alive who’ll ever say.


Posted for
&
Open Mike Night
at



Thursday, August 18, 2011

Catching Feathers

Graphic design by Jinksy for Tandem #6
and from Margaret Bednar





























The light of a linen white sun is dim
on the monochrome blue-gray sky and sea.
A pale gull dives, swoops and cries, soaring free,
as a feather drifts down – soft as a hymn.
Tides lick the sand-castle cones on the rim
of a shore where two little girls foresee
a princess world view with a guarantee -
diamonds and pearls evermore with a prince.

A sand crystal necklace swirls in their pail,
whirls in salt water, where old women see
dark tails of whales and dinosaur scales,
rocking and swaying in a sea of green tea.
Children reach up to catch feathers and smile,
as we hum a tune from a childhood dream.


Posted for


by Alias Jinksy
with Margaret Bednar this week.

Please click on the link above for In Tandem for inspiration from original graphic designs that free your imagination with a myriad of possible interpretations and ideas.
I am really enjoying these challenges!  

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

What She Used to Be



Photo by Tess Kincaid for Magpie Tale #78




















I suppose we’re too old to start over;
all that ripping and tearing - repairing -
jacking up walls to replace rotting sills,
painting and papering, staining old boards.
But I see her there still, just as she was
in the fall, before the widower died.

Simple white cape in a swathe of green fields,
stunning surround of flaming swamp maples.
Old fashioned garage for a new Model T;
red paint with white trim – a bit out of place.
I thought if I ever did own the house,
I’d move that garage, or I’d tear it down.

When the widower died, more changes came.
The house grew appendages all around
and tall solar panels up on the roof.
A porch on stilt legs leaned over one side,
hiding the old walk-out cellar stone wall.
A large plate glass window stares at the road.

The owner retired and moved away;
now the house is for sale - calling to me.
She knows that I live here, just down the road
and remembers we once lived side by side-
that the river flowed past me, on to her.
She knows that I love what she used to be.

It wouldn’t make sense to buy the house now;
to take down additions that spoiled her looks,
pay to remove them - start over again.
He says it would kill us, but I still dream…
I see her there waiting, just as she was,
in the fall, before the widower died.


Posted for
Tess Kincaid's

Saturday, August 13, 2011

Maine Earthquake: July 7, 2011



Digital graphic by Jinksy at 
In Tandem #5

















Maine Earthquake
July 7, 2011*

Looking over the edge,
I saw the whale breach
out of the depths,
fly across the face
of a glowing sun rise;
resurrect over dark hills-
a premonition, a dream.

An explosion somewhere!
I half rose to check the time,
see the sun, test my sanity.
Are they blasting rock
at this hour – that barge of stone
in tow did pass the other day…
Thunder - but the sun is up.

Calmly, a voice reported:
“Earthquake in Maine”.
Haunting echo of words
spoken in another year:
He’s gone - of lives shaken,
and sun darkened on this date
in an earthquake at home.

Did faults of spreading plates,
out on the far away edges,
force open the stone heart
of the earth in Maine -
to let whales fly to the sun,
weld a new link in the eternal
quivering chain that sustains life?

* On July 7, 2011, there was an earthquake in Brooksville, ME at 5:23 a.m. It registered 2.3 on the Richter scale. We were on vacation in an adjoining town. 

Posted for

at
 Alias Jinksy

Wednesday, August 3, 2011

Driving Home


cropped digital graphic - original by Jinksy
for In Tandem
Driving home in rain
words stepped out,
stood there in the road
confronting me.

You can’t talk to people -
only about the weather.

I pulled over.

Parked at the bridge
over the reservoir
where the long lane leads away,

I wrote.

Approaching
Walker’s cemetery
on Central Pike,
raining lightly,
gray.

Alone on the road.

On the verge of lush green woods,
blinkers flashing ,
poison ivy climbing
trees near the gate
to the long grass-covered lane.
Yellow and black lines
snaking on the road
in the rear view mirror.
tension,
waiting for a car to pass.

A bird laughing,
asking:
Who are you?
What are you doing here?
What do you want?

I pulled away.

Heading home again,
hearing:
Who made you?
Why did God make you?

I passed the cemetery.

I remember climbing the steps
that day,
finding the grave;
I copied the words on the stone,
kept them so long
in a drawer:
Sarah Walker
Age 21

I wonder

If she saw me back then,
if she sees me now -
if she’d like to talk.



Posted for


&





Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Driving Home


Google Images - Flicker.com

Driving home in rain
words stepped out,
stood there in the road
confronting me.

You can’t talk to people -
only about the weather.

I pulled over.

Parked at the bridge
over the reservoir
where the long lane leads away,

I wrote.

Approaching
Walker’s cemetery
on Central Pike,
raining lightly,
gray.

Alone on the road.

On the verge of lush green woods,
blinkers flashing ,
poison ivy climbing
trees near the gate
to the long grass-covered lane.

Yellow and black lines
snaking on the road
in the rear view mirror.
tension,
waiting for a car to pass.

A bird laughing,
asking:
Who are you?
What are you doing here?
What do you want?

I pulled away.

Heading home again,
hearing:
Who made you?
Why did God make you?

I passed the cemetery.

I remember climbing the steps
that day,
finding the grave;
I copied the words on the stone,
kept them so long
in a drawer:
Sarah Walker
Age 21

I wonder

If she saw me back then,
if she sees me now -
if she’d like to talk.



Posted for
d'verse poets



Monday, August 1, 2011

Tilting at Windmills


Photographer: Skip Hunt
Tess Kincaid's Magpie Tales

























The wheel is still, the vanes silent
in tracks where the wind blows dust,
where rust corrodes the axle.
Steam of the spiraling planet
furrows my brow, corrugates creases,
oxidizing the old iron clad
wisdom of youth - refrain of nun
and monk in scapular and hood.

A sword spins, the blades spiral
in whorls of revolt, circle the globe
in a dance of the whirling dervish.
Blood of the slain runs in rivers,
flooding the red-stained earth,
cleaving a red sea, seeking a route
to salvation. Sound of bellows, quakes -
blades of grass growing through rubble.


Posted for