Under the Boardwalk

Slap my paw, and say, "Bad Blog!" I haven't had time to spend doing something I love to do -- read and write poetry. As I've said many times, life interferes with living, and making a living...well, read the poem, and maybe you'll understand.


This is my contribution to the Poetry Jam. The challenge is to incorporate the first line of a song into your poem. This one happens to be true. You can find others here.





UNDER THE BOARDWALK


All week long, the boss sang
Under the boardwalk
While we carried boxes and arranged chairs
He crooned
Down by the sea
As we covered tables
With productivity tools
He hummed
On a blanket with my baby
To the whirr of projection devices
Laptops and camera fans
His tune carried us
Through the end of the conference
To where he wants us to be.

Cherries

Cherry Jam, anyone? This poem is my contribution to June 13 Poetry Jam.

Faithful chef NanU is stirring the pot again, and this week's challenge is to choose a picture and see where it takes us.This one takes me back, back to an innocent time before I knew where else I'd go.

To read other takes on the Poetry Jam prompts, go here. Why not join the Jam? It's sweet!


CHERRIES

I remember the longest branch
of the black cherry tree,

how we swung bare feet
to the music in our heads

and shot round stones
as far as we could blow.

I remember dreams we had
of the places we would go

and kisses in the leaves
as warm and sweet as summer,

as full of promise as the juices of the fruit
we plucked from that young tree.

Saturday Morning

Saturday morning,

 I close my eyes, and I almost hear
The sounds of children coming near;

I drink my coffee undisturbed,
Nowhere in this house, a word.

Out the window, a young bird

On the plum tree sings
Of feasts of grain and seed

Unaided by a mother's beak
Or hand or heart or need.

Cutting Into a Sweet Pepper

Cutting into a sweet pepper
As red as blood,
I scrape the inner parts,

Spongy membranes 

With little seeds attached.

Hidden away inside,
In the lower chamber,
Like a secret heart,
Is a growing twin,
A perfect copy of the larger fruit, 

Clinging to the septum
So that it takes more effort than it should
For me to pry it loose.

I lay it on the cutting board
And tip it with my knife,
Almost sorry to have taken

Such delight in exposing
Something so safe, so private,
And so closely held inside.