On a cold day here in New England
The shoreline still calls out to us
Our trips here are usually never planned
We just know we must get out or sit at home and rust
JT is always ready for our trips to the shore
We never have to tell her that is where we are going
She sees him get the metal detector out and she goes right to the door
On this day she was sad no Frisbee with the way the winds were blowing
He swung his machine over the sand
He left a path of places he had dug and filled back in
Nothing ever seems to go as planned
With him though it usually ends with a grin
His collecting apron has many treasures within
Pull tabs, copper wire and piping and so many coins and rings
Want to know the reason for the grin
Well he is always happy when finding THINGS
So on a cold day with nasty raw winds gusting
JT and I walk into the wind defiant to let it ruin our day
I remind myself we could have been home rusting
So glad we went it was such a pretty day given the fact we stayed
If I had married a poet
he would sing me to sleep with simile,
march into morning with metaphor,
brew the coffee, set the table,
a woven placemat for him,
a green one with lilies for me.
The white porcelain teapot, steaming
with water for my cup, two sugars, a slice of lemon,
and his strong coffee, black, no sweetness
except for the flavor of him
across the table.
We look, see much more,
speak, don’t speak.
The air is charged.
he is not a poet.
He listens to my words,
understands my simile, my metaphor.
We have combined
He is morning. I am night,
I the moon and he the sun
who has become my poet.
After so much rain
a day of proper autumn.
Sunshine and crisp cold.
When the sky’s that blue -
almost forget it’s autumn
and winter’s coming.
The sun dances upon her skin,
engulfing her in a caress more passionate than any of her lovers,
a heated breeze swirls around her,
she dances with the steel drum.
Her joy is apparent
to all who witness her worship.
A crowd gazes at her,
yet she hides in plain sight.
A calypso Queen-
the sun is her crown.
It’s 9:00. I’ve slept six, count them, hours.
The sun shines on the springtime trees and flowers,
but not on me. A fading of my powers
results from nighttime wanderings through towers
of mazes. What went wrong? I couldn’t sleep.
The Tired Bird had not begun to peep
to draw me into slumber soft and deep.
I need more hours so I can count those sheep!