When the lights went out

When the lights went out

And the winds blew hard, harder

Than Appalachian summer ever sees,

And the children ran dripping to the house

While Poppy held then gave the umbrella

To the yard, family and guests --

Fourteen in all, gathered beneath the stairs,

Children up and down like popping corn,

The littlest one cried mommy, mommy, mommy,

Who was somewhere, later learned,

Moving trees that blocked the road,

Unable to go forward or go back.

When the  winds died down

And the sky cleared off as if it never raged,

And the damage was surveyed,

And neighbors came together for a change

To tell their various stories (all the same),

The children gathered pool toys from the yard,

The men, the bent umbrella from the tree,

And the eerie sound of no electricity --

The lack of sound, gave life a different sound,

Pure and clear, the sound of feet and breath,

The sound of living on and living through,

The littlest gathered candles for the dark

And built a tale to tell again, again, again

As the power hums, of the fun we had 

when the winds blew hard on the day the lights went out.

Three Cups of Tea

When I'm between poems, I like to write to prompts provided at a number of sites run by great poets. A recent Poetry Jam prompt says to use the title of a NY Times bestseller as a springboard. I chose Three Cups of Tea (or it chose me), maybe because its subject is education. In truth, I own the book but have not read it, so it was easy to go in a totally different direction.

Visit Poetry Jam to see what other people did with this one.

Three Cups of Tea

As if her knees
no longer hold,
suddenly, she sits.
Her arms fold
upon her work;
her head falls
upon her arms.
Her heart listens
to the sorrow
singing in the rings
upon the wood.

Poplar Creek

Poplar Creek

Rocks covered with moss,
rough bark I scratch
against my palm,
the swarm jousting
in a patch of light
that sneaks beneath the trees,
the inimitable sound
of water fleeing
over sand and stone,
the silly smile I wear
when wandering alone
as a child wears
when hoarding secret treasure,
the need for pen,
for words, for record,
the small winged thing
that rides inside with me
when I come
to tell my pleasures.

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.

At Fourteen

Here's my first attempt since hopping off the Poetry Bus (now permanently parked at the magazine stand) and jumping into the Poetry Jam. The prompt is "thunder and lightening," two of my favorite natural wonders! Thunder and lightening may not remind you of porch swings, but that's where memory takes me. You can read other Poetry Jammers here. Why not join us with some jam of your own?





At Fourteen

Nothing was better 

Than a porch swing in summer
           With the rain pouring, pouring

And a blanket on my shoulders
            And me, pushing, pushing

And my voice singing,
           Ringing louder than the thunder

And my dreams dashing,
           Flashing brighter than the lightening

In the sky.