Discovery

We threw a bag together,
leashed up the dogs
and headed south,
Because the clouds looked thinner there.

Needless to say, we got lost.
And it rained.
And while we listened to the Beach Boys
And the dogs slept,
we watched the green get greener
And technicolor wildflowers brush the ankles
Of contented cows, and happy horses.

Then we headed back home,
And the clouds turned into popcorn

Since We Got a Dog (PAD)

Since We Got a Dog

We’ve gotten used to the scent of urine
On the carpet inside the bedroom door
Which we agree to sacrifice to save the rest of the house.
You want hardwood anyway.

We’ve gotten used to getting up with him,
As  soon as the sun peeks in the window
And we stumble to find the leash and our glasses
 and shoes, and the door.

But since we got the dog,
We’ve smiled more, walked more, slept better
And when he looks at you with those big black eyes
You can’t resist, and let him on the couch.

More for Poetry Month

 I'm trying to do a Poem a Day with Robert Lee Brewer's blog.  I'm not ordinarily a poet. Just playing with words.   Come and play too! 


 Call Me Back

It was like the sun had burst inside me,
light and laughter and joy combined.
Knowing, finally knowing
That it was you. Only you.

Leave a Message, the recording instructed
But after the beep, I pressed End Call
Because there are some words
That should never be spoken
 to a machine.


Journey

I bought my ticket with sleepless nights
Endless diapers and pureed squash
Skinned knees, broken hearts, lessons
For dance and art and baseball and science
and lessons in
Being kind
Telling the truth
Respecting others.

They gave me the receipt by growing up
Educated, good, contributing people
With jobs and houses and —lives.
“What will you do now?” They ask.
“Now you are free!” They say.
“Enjoy the world!” They tell me.
They think I don’t know how.
But I listened.  I will be kind
And respect their wishes, and tell the truth.
I’m off.  Farewell!

Opening Day

For Poetry Month, I'm going to play a bit.  See here:

 Opening Day

The kids get out last years gloves
Oil them down, tighten the laces.
Their sliders don’t fit, and
Their cleats give them blisters
And a bit of a shortstop’s strut.
We splurge for new, and
 Practice on spring break sand.
The wind serves up a curve ball,
They field, run, strike out until
One pitch. One swing.
The sweet hollow sound of
A home run.

They don the jersey of this year’s hero,
Hoping he’ll put their name on a foul ball.
Climb the stairs to the cheap seats, right field,
Oil hands with hot dogs, perfume with cotton candy,
(or spicy nachos in Texas)
Tuck in the cokes and
Watch the Jumbo-tron.
The line up is set, the crowd ready.
A cub scout color guard, a Vet holds the flag.
We stand for the anthem, proud.
We Are Americans and
This is Our Game.