morning poem

It’s 4:48 AM

Our host home man is playing with the bathroom fan.

Our woman is calling like a humpback whale.

A flush, hubby’s up, too.

The cat’s awake, sitting on my lap,

perturbed she has to share with the computer.

Can I go back to bed now?

Probably not.

Time to pray.

The Lord’s awake, too.

Thankfully, He’s always awake.

from morning pages

Caring and Sharing

Years ago,

at Christmas time,

we kids would leave our gifts

out underneath the tree

for at least a week or so

 and others would come

and visit and see

what loot we had raked in.

It was like receiving gifts

all over again,

because we’d play together

throughout the year

and share our toys.

Now,  

as soon as possible,

we tidy up

and put our things away.

Poetic Bloomings water

From a Dry Land

My boyfriend from Wyoming

came to Pennsylvania for a visit.

As we crossed a ditch, he asked,

“Is this Shannon Creek?” I laughed

and pointed to a puddle saying,

“Yes, and that is Mirror Lake,  

or, at least, they would be in Wyoming.”

Sounds again

Morning Sounds

The whirr of my computer

The tap of the keys

J playing with toys

With nose to his knees

Tick of the clock

An isolated cough

The heat turning on

The heat turning off

Sounds

What Kind of Music Do You Like?

I find that an odd question.

I love all music, but played

at the wrong time could drive me batty.

A slow hymn while I’m trying to

clean the house could turn me

into a swearing woman.

Hard rock while I’m trying to sleep?

I could get violent.

I like to wake up to something mellow,

but happy like the Beach Boys.

Daytime chores is right for rock.

Exercise—peppy Celtic.

Dinner—instrumental.

Driving—country.

Writing and painting—classical.

Bedtime—slow praise music.

Music is like humor.

It’s all in the timing.

Poetic Asides This is

This Is What It Is

No side-stepping,

second guessing,

going back, but

face it head on,

deal with it,

get over it,

get real.

But there’s

always plan B.  

Nove Otto

Ice Skater

She glides along just like a swan,

No feathers, but a silken gown.

Her limbs are stretched so gracefully.

The wind flows through her fine blond hair,

With grace and speed, without a care.

Ecstatic, her spirit soars free.  

A tiny girl with giant dreams

From sidelines watches, wishes, schemes.

She sighs, “If only it were me!”