Summer

Remember the way they rattled,

the coins on the dash as we

drove over washboard roads,

in perpetual pursuit of something to do?

 

We were nonstop restless

drowning in summer heat and itching

to wrap ourselves in some sort of

mischief or mayhem or both.

 

She will respect this, we said,

as we dove from the cliff above the quarry

splashing into breath-taking water

desperate to impress.

Writing so much there's no time to write

I know. The title doesn't seem to make sense, but in my reality, it does.

I have been so consumed by writing things for my clients that I have had no time, or maybe it's no energy, to write for myself. I normally enjoy writing poetry, flash fiction and the odd essay. But lately, none of this.

This isn't unusual for business writers. It is, however, still frustrating. 

I'm going to change this lack of balance. I have stories that are pushing to be told, and I will comply.

I Love A Parade

 

The last marching band turned the corner and the drum beat echoed against the city’s buildings before gradually fading away. I looked around. Parents began to gather their belongings – chairs, blankets, coolers, tired and sweaty children clutching handfuls of candy thrown from floats and snatched from the street. Soon traffic would resume and the litter left by spectators would be ground under tires or lifted in the breeze to be deposited randomly around.

I thought back to parades I attended with as a child with my family. We lived just up the hill from our school district football field, so we’d nestle into the grass and watch the parade before the annual homecoming game. When I was in upper grade school I belonged to a city-wide drum and bugle corps. I loved the discipline of the practices and routines, but, being a deeply shy child, I quit before I had to perform. This unfortunate choice came on the heels of being ‘promoted’ to the front line. I was fine if I could blend into the background, but no way did I want to be front and center. The horror! 

When I was in high school I played in the marching band first with my flute an piccolo, and later in the flag corps. I didn’t have the option of quitting because participation was a mandatory component of being in band, and I loved being in band and playing music. 

Later, I would take my own children and foster children to parades. They too liked to scrabble in the road for candy, but the drum’s first downbeat, followed by cadence, sent chills up my spine – in a good way.

Canadian wildfires

Smoke from Canadian wildfires

tints the sunset and my eyes red.

My longs rebel and my heart

aches for the displaced,

the people and animals who've 

lost their homes and habitats.

I think about our U.S. president

and what it takes to make us

want to leave here, possibly move

there, among the raging fires

and winter ice, but without

a despot for a ruler.

Emptying Shelves

 

Unused domestic items, relegated to the garage 

clutter shelves, collecting dust 

and spider webs, purpose misplaced.

Sticky wok. Pinwheel remains. A feral 

Barbie with ratty hair. Bits of sidewalk 

chalk, now just powdery remnants of our 

lives as foster parents.

Old flowerpots and tattered cloth grocery bags. 

Awards from a growing career. 

Metal footlocker sheltering a Korean War era 

Marine uniform and medals.

Bits and pieces of our lives. Our family  

history. Us.

Focus

 Focus is the locus

but mainly on the plain.

The plane in the sky

flies by with nary a glance

at the wide expanse below.

 

The pilot is focused on

instruments and altitude while

flight attendants are focused on

passengers with attitudes

and snacks, scarce as smiles.

 

I used to look forward to a flight

my belly tight with nerves at ascent

the pleasant drowsiness of the climbs.

But now, the chimes of seat belts on

creates a rock at my center.

 

An hour or more in the air and

careless folks cough into no mask;

the task of preventing illness

a willingness no one shares.

I feel a sniffle coming on.

 

The focus of the locus

is mainly on the plain

and that’s where I wish to be.

Transformation

I use the plastic edged razor

meant to slice Christmas wrap

and envelope paper

to cut your beautiful hair.

 

No quick snip of the barber shears

but an urgent hack and hew

leaving you with a ragged fray

about your face.

 

Head liberated and light

eyes clear and bright under the rising sun

you stand transformed and ready

to do battle in a new world.