There is a speakeasy in town on a high floor in an office building. “I wish we had a living room like this,” my husband said as we walked in. Inside the speakeasy there is a kind bartender named Mark (my husband whispered: “I wish I had a haircut like that.”) Mark good-naturedly allowed my husband to photograph his hair to show his barber.
The Stranger: Mark
The Word: Odd
The poem I wrote:
“Watching our babysitter watch our children”
Through the snow,
she watches them
working a jump rope belt
around the snowman’s
belly; she says: I remember
when I used to play
in the snow. Watching
her go as I have gone,
the way all kids go
at one point or another,
we are both thinking:
how odd to be grown,
how odd to choose
comfort over fun.
We are three tenses,
three forms of active
verb: past, present, future,
lined up like snow people,
carrot noses pointing west.
The Challenge: Do you have a poem in you on this word? Write one here.
February 7, 2020 at 7:14 pm
Patty Crane
I fed their baby mouths
opened wide like baby birds
impatient for the next offering.
I made sure they had their warm coats,
mittens and hats against the mounting snow
and frigid air which allowed for short spurts
of outdoor play with me watching, hoping frost bite
would not be their enemy.
I drove them endless miles that would culminate
in them not needing me when the age arrived
to be solo, off to adventures of parties and football games,
pizza nights and, later on, pretty girls in prom dresses and perfume.
Oh, my dear baby birds how I loved you and waited for you
to come into the bedroom to say, “I am home and all is good.”
Everyone grows up, don’t they? And they leave to get smarter to live
in a world where they will feed mouths and drive endless miles for
lives dear to them and the worries will come for so many reasons.
Odd. How now they make sure that I am warm and have the right clothes
and am protected from harsh winters as we go out for pizza.
They hold on to me so I don’t fall on ice and call me to be sure I am home
and that all is good.
February 9, 2020 at 2:12 pm
Questions, Not Answers
She had no answer,
only a wince.
“Why are you together again?”
Every eye-roll,
Each word, a thunderous weight,
leaving only “I don’t know.”
A problem can shadow a life,
grab the spotlight and sparkle there.
curious, exotic,
luring the eye,
loving the eyes that look
closer and closer
until nothing else is seen.
Every spotlight minute
feeds.
Everything else
competes,…
and nothing competes
like an odd new question.
“Why do you sometimes leave?”
February 13, 2020 at 9:40 pm
Grief
The casserole parade relents
No more propaganda on “God’s plan” or “How much I can handle”
(Side note: If I fall apart is it God’s fault or mine?)
Empty grieving can now begin
I close my eyes and scan my body:
Odd– each limb is still attached
I am a yellow cake with chocolate frosting
Round, decadent
A trilogy of fingers hooks in
Drags through the surface–
Crumbs displace and though every piece is
*Technically* present
I will
Never
Be the same