Big, puffy flakes
Drift down like feathers
The wind tossing them
In a crazy zigzag pattern
Frozen confetti
Celebrating the cold
On the ground
An accumulated drift
The pure white sheet
Tucked clumsily
Like a small boy would
Make his bed
The gentle fall
Covering the road
Pure and innocent
In appearance
Hiding future hardships
In the quiet
Of the beauty
Of a morning snow
ripe fruit
poems appear in my mind
like ripe fruit on a tree
near, but out of reach
ah, to muster the gumption
to climb the fence
and traipse through thicket
to pick them
wet words
sometimes my mind is a desert landscape
and thoughts are like bleached bones in the sand
then suddenly the words seem to fall like rain
from the sky – a trickle, then a downpour and I’m
frantically throwing out buckets to catch them,
knowing the dry spell may soon return
ball point
a poem may be like
the stubborn ball point pen that
refuses to leave a mark
I must scratch around in circles
before the ink will flow
don’t think – just write
I’m sorry we are
simply over-full, a bladder
of poems bursting.
Your poem does not suit
our needs at this time.
We regret we cannot comment
on rejections.
My poor poem just slinks away,
sips coffee, and gets up new
after a nap.
Might as well try again. And
again. And again. And…
The coal stove
In the little kitchen
Burned hot
A large pan
Of pinto beans
Boiled on the back burner
Sweat poured off
My mother
She took the iron skillet
From the cabinet
The weight so great
She used two hands
The utensil seasoned
From decades of frying
She opened the can
By the stove
Dipping the snow-white lard
With her big spoon
Lading it in the hot pan
She poured the corn meal
The same Martha White
The same flour company
That sponsored the Grand Ole Opry
She listened to
On the radio
Every Friday and Saturday night
The golden corn
Ground rough
Sifting it into the bowl
Saturating it with buttermilk
Then breaking an egg
Scrambling it in the mix
She poured a drop
Into the grease
Satisfied with the sizzle
That proved the readiness
She lifted the bowl
Allowing the ingredients
To freely
Blend with the hot oil
The pone formed
She took the skillet
From the top
Of the stove
Opening the door
Pushing the skillet
To the back
Of the oven
She sat the table
The mismatched dishes
The cheap metal forks
That passed
For her fine dinnerware
We gathered at the table
Mother offered the blessing
Thanking God
For the little
We had to eat
She poured the milk
Into my glass
Our crystal
Once Big Top peanut butter glasses
I broke a slice
Of steaming bread
Allowing the crumble
To slip through my fingers
Into the thick white
Stirring it with my spoon
I drank the milk
Then ate my beans
A true poor man’s dinner
That suited me fine
connection cut
but connection still felt
her presence is all around –
the strands of hair in an idle brush,
a smiling snapshot on the dresser top,
a note found stashed in a coat pocket
he roams from room to room
reaching out in vain, trying to
to penetrate the empty space
she left behind
the walls mock him with the
echo of his own weeping
grief has no expiration date
it does not diminish or subside, but
flows like an underground stream,
carving out new caverns of being
and flooding to the surface now and again
with a startling paroxysm of tears
but the sun rises and sets
life scrolls on
one copes,
learning to live with grief
just as one learns to tolerate
a pain in the joint or
to tune out a ringing in the ears
When I was in third grade
I heard the story
Of ‘The Tortoise and the Hare’.
I learnt the moral
That slow and steady wins the race.
I behaved like a tortoise
Until I came across the fact
That cheetah is the fastest
Creature on earth.
A cheetah isn’t slow
But can win a race easily!
Then what is this story
Of fast and slow?
It is not about these two words
Not about running
Not about walking like a tortoise
But more to do
With one’s consistency.
Now I know that
Steady was the word
I was ignoring
All those days!
My old man bones
Ached this morning
I began
The fight with the cold
I took the ice scraper
Cringing from
The up-the-spine screech
As I scraped
Making a porthole
In the frost
My vision a squint
I drove slowly
Devoid of the total
View ahead
The heater
Spit out cold air
A swoosh of frigid
I had to endure
Until the blower
Picked up heat
It was a short drive
A trip to the grocery
To fill an empty larder
A casualty
Of holiday eating
I navigated the aisles
Choosing fruits and vegetables
A penance
For two weeks of gluttony
I left the warmth
Returning to my cold car
The weather
Making a short drive
A long way home
Long hikes
Naps
Eat well
Show compassion towards animals
Spend less
Give unused things away
Reach out more
Clean out the junk drawer
All these things
The long lists
Goals, desires
Resolutions
But what
What are you doing right now
More at https://www.taralynnhawk.com/.
If I charged you a penny for
a poem, would you pay it, dropping
some change in my literary
jar – or would you go on walking,
avoiding the words, letting me wrap
up dead fish in manuscript pages,
giving or throwing them away?
Have you ever thought
Why sugar is sweet?
Why salt is not bitter?
If not then ask yourself now
I am sure you’ll rediscover yourself
And perhaps recreate your own fate!