Poetic Blooming Body part word

Swarm

This morning

when I awoke,

a swarm

of to-dos

buzzed between

my ears.

I smiled.

I may

get to

some of them,

or not.

I turned over

and went

back to sleep.

First day

of retirement.

Poem Away Sicilian Octave, u

Solo Concert in the Rain

She’s feeling under water now.

The air is useful breathing in.

It’s urgent that she breathes somehow.

Umbrella there could help her win.

Her ukulele’s dried with towel.

She plays until her fingers grin.  

With  umber tool she takes a bow.

The audience unites--and wow!

Poem Away repine, pendulum

Squeaky Wheel

Repine each day at pain in hand.

It’s more than I can stand.

I wait for docs.

Watch clocks.

Gets old.

Need to be bold

and yell, ”Please fix this now!”

So squeaky wheel gets greased somehow.

poem away S, wind, oxylet

The Leaf Catching Dance

The leaves went sailing through the air,

a moment we kids liked to share,

the simple fun of dancing there.

We chased them in the setting sun.

“Caught seven!” someone would exclaim.

‘’Fourteen” a sure boast would proclaim.

The sun a strip, we’d end our game,

and be back next day for some fun.

poetic asides something goes wrong

Little Sister

In June, cellulitis took over my right arm

and it took two rounds of antibiotics

to convince the painful itching that

it didn’t belong there, but before

the pink faded, pain in my right shoulder

showed up with a vengeance. Chiropractor

and team busily set about manipulating

my bones until the pain reluctantly softened,

but a nerve got pinched and took it out

on my right hand which alternately

tingles, feels like it’s gripping gravel,

or on fire, scalded or stuck with needles.

Rubbing it helps and I do it so much

that Hubby says it looks like I’m petting

a dog. So I named my right hand Little Sister

and patiently wait until the docs figure out

what to do with my pet hand. Meanwhile

Big Sister is getting impatient from doing

all the work. Did you ever type a poem

using only your left hand? I did.

So after three months, I’m sleeping little

and petting and naming my right hand

like it’s a dog, hoping something

will go right with my right hand soon.

Poem Away octodil, radio

Fading Message

Radio plays

Christian music.

”This is my Father’s world.”

I contemplate the words.

Old hymns feature Biblical truths.

Often new choruses fall short.

“Jesus who died” versus

“Let’s jump in the river.”

poetic bloomings forgetting

Mnemonics

In eighth grade, my reading teacher,

making a point about our memories,

drew the number 8 diagonally

in the top right-hand corner

of the chalkboard. He said,

“You’ll always remember this.”

At the end of the year,

he did it again.

I had forgotten.

But the second time stuck.

It’s been over forty years

and I still remember it.

Now I can’t even remember

what I put in the microwave

a few minutes ago.