Slashing at Windmills

These replace

the old style. We needn't

slash at them Don Quixote. 

Graceful field growing

a crop of windmills

harvesting wind instead of

wheat. Man can't live on 

bread alone. 

Dreams of Steel

Grounded beside iron feet

I look up and through

crazy house of mirrors. 

The tunnel repeats support 

again and again

waiting for its reason 

for being. 

The trestle bridges valley 

and river anchoring

bluff to bluff where

brave men taunted death 

straddling 

someone else's blueprint dreams.  

This train I wait for 

comes speeding,

rumbling along

trust's thin, taut 

 high wire.  

No Clue

A few months ago we were able to go see the opening of a movie. It was happenstance. Through the blog world of poetry, I had become facebook friends and twitter friends with a young poet in Bellingham. Little did I know he was shooting a film. When he announced the showing close by, we went.

As we were finding a place to sit, we saw the brother and sister in law of a long time friend. We made small talk until I spied the young poet. I recognized him because of his gravatar. I went over to meet him and his parents. I told them they must be proud - to which they agreed - and asked if he would come over to my little group.

I introduced the poet / movie maker to our friend's family, thinking they would be honored. They were so anxious about finding a seat they couldn't be bothered. They missed the best part of the entire evening. It would have enhanced the movie without 3-D glasses. And it was a free opportunity. The saddest thing? They don't have a clue what they missed.

Anxiety robs. Worry wastes moments. Both put blinders on my noticer. I don't have a clue how many wonders I've missed, myself.

Lord, let me see and be anxious for nothing ~ simultaneously.

Clothespins

The line strung between posts 

doesn't sag dangerously close 

to the ground anymore.

The heavy wet wrinkled washing

wrung out by the wringer doesn't

flap or snap. Clothespins put crimps

in sheet corners and made companions 

of shoulder seams and Levi legs. Rules

were followed for correct 

ways of hanging and attaching.

 Jessie (Jesus) Viviana Victoria 

Cota de Jose brought her 

pins inside with every basket of 

crunchy ritual. Noel didn't know 

the rules or follow laundry protocol

when she ate the crotches, the all 

important part, out of grandma's

underwear. How do you punish

a donkey who only leaves elastic

hanging lonely on the line with 

a wooden clothespin? Hot 

steam melts wrinkles flat 

and sends donkeys to the 

farthest back forty. 

This is my grandmother's clothespin bag. I think a couple of the clothespins might have been her mother's. The Pacific Northwest is too quirky rain wise for hanging clothes. Unfortunately. 

I played under her flapping sheets for hours using dropped magnolia pods for people. 

Man in Black

Harnesses and hames hang 

with dusty reins 

tangled in single trees.

The surrey sings

 a red fringe on top song.

Horseshoes fit hooves 

as big as dinner plates 

for working horses 

 drafting with pride.

Yoked together

 beasts obey bit

attached to reins 

held gentle. 

Knowing hands feel 

current passing through 

leather ~ master and team ~ 

at one. 

Double trees, cutters, and sleighs

collect our storied past.

The springy buckboard

 dream made from scratch

 takes his lady easy

on Sunday drives slow.

Runners, wheels, and antique 

saddle frames restored 

preserve history.

Bells and rings attach 

when it's time

 to play dress up. 

Prancing, they put on a 

show for us and 

the man in black. 

I love the prowess of reinsmen. Garfield and Uncle Cliff have given us many hours of pleasure. The sleigh rides and hay rides on the wagon are epic memories. Thank you. 

Making Rope

Three strands twist until 

they twine about each other 

shortening their length by half

and multplying their strength in 

triplicate. But even unbreakable 

unity has tangled knot capabilities. 

Pulling rope strands apart is difficult 

for they have permanently indented

each other. A ring finger minus its ring 

doesn't lie. It waits for oneness to return 

A welcome weight.  

This is a tribute to Loverby. Seeing a woman through all the hormonal stages of her life must be a challenge for a man. After menopause, what will I have for an excuse? His patience and kindness towards me when I'm most difficult ~ sometimes fails in a weak moment ~ but he decides to agape me again the next moment. This grace never fails to keep me completely devoted.

Love never fails. It is the true......a cord of three strands is not easily broken.  

Craig's dad let me have an old rope maker we found in the barn last summer. Craig helped me try to make rope tonight. The rope turned into poetry. Poema means workmanship. The in-progress-whenever-it-is-now-kind. Continually. Ongoing. The Ropemaker's. His. 

We All Get One

One acre given at birth
One acre for everyone

One acre plants flowers and trees
One acre collects garbage

One acre births art
One acre breeds violence

One acre provides nourishment
One acre poisons the ground

One acre attracts butterflies
One acre draws flies

One acre gives life
One acre aborts thinking

One acre gives succor
One acre pillages

One acre craves more
One acre refuses growth

One acre learns new ways
One acre parrots old news

One acre values wisdom
One acre seeks fame

One acre celebrates freedom
One acre crimps ideas

One acre dreams awake in light
One acre hides in nightmares dark


This is my stab at a catalogue poem. I found it very difficult. LL Barkat offered a Random Acts of Poetry prompt over at High Calling. Check it out. Join in.

The thoughts that created this came from Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird where she talks about all of us receiving the equivalent of an emotional acre when we're born. What do we do with it?

Redemption. The desert may bloom as paradise. Direction may be changed. We may make U-turns, make changes, and start again.  We get to choose how we live on our one emotional acre. Often we are the recipient of someone else's largesse. It makes us want to turn our wasteland into garden.

Upon Waking

Last night I ran out of gas on the way to a wedding. A rodent of a man offered me three pepsis and one 7up. He said it would be a good substitute for gas. As he spun away I heard an evil laugh. This gave me red flags. 


I knew before I started the motor I had to wake up - to wake Loverby up - to ask him his opinion. He said, "Don't start the car!" 


He recommended me going back to sleep to siphon it all out. 


He couldn't do it for me. I hated that. He always rescues me. 


Loverby went back to sleep mumbling, "It might have worked if it had been coke." 

Learning Prepositions

aboard, about, above, across, after, against, along, amid, among, anti, around, as, at, before, behind, below, beneath, beside, besides, between, beyond, but, by, concerning, considering, despite, down, during, except, excepting, excluding, following, for, from, in, inside, into, like, minus, near, of, off, on, onto, opposite, outside, over, per, plus, regarding, round, save, since, than, through, to, toward, towards, under, underneath, unlike, until, up, upon, versus, via, with, within, without

How did other children learn their prepositions without the benefit of Mrs. Orr's legendary arms? 

She was a few years from retiring when I was in fourth grade. It was obvious the shine had worn off teaching. She seemed tired the entire year, except when we learned prepositions. 

Frozen in the 1920's, her jersey dresses looked like costumes off the set of Cannery Row. Belted with short sleeves. Classy, but outdated. 

She became animated during this rote memory work. We were embarrassed, but had to stand and repeat them together, while doing the hand motion for that word. 

Her arms had an indecent enthusiasm for the task. They escaped the confines of their sleeves upon any hint of a prepositional list. 


As she wrote the list on the chalkboard - and while she energetically did the hand motions - the underneath, fleshy part of her arms flew about. They flapped like worn out, leathery elephant ears trying to fly. No amount of hydration or lotion could have brought them back to life. 


It formed an unforgettable trauma bond. 

My worst fear has come about. I'm glad I don't have to write on a chalkboard. I'm also grateful for long sleeves, and try diligently to stay hydrated. And moisturized. Perhaps it's not too late to find a preventative exercise? 


Weight and gravity, can they be defied? It's too late. It is. But maybe I can use them to fly. 

My Space

The cranky lady next to me on the plane jumped out of her seat to frantically keep anyone else's luggage from harming her Ferrari (?) laptop. She didn't want to put her second piece under her feet, but it was a good thing for two others to put their only piece under their feet. Everyone within a four row radius knew her opinion about my space.

I was angry at her for being so self centered. Later I softened when she told me of the places she'd been, the businesses she had started and been successful at. She needed to be a spitfire to accomplish what she had. When I found out she was eighty, it was hard to believe. She looked 60. Begrudgingly, I came to admire her as we parted. Still, I thought she was completely out of line and selfish.

A few days later I felt the grinding ugliness of my space. The beach was sparsely populated. Brita and I had a sweet little spot under the sun filtered fronds of three palm trees. A group of senior citizen's with visors and clothes screaming Tourist tottered over and plopped their chairs right between us and the water. Inconceivable! The whole beach beckoned..... and they picked that spot? Ruining my view? My afternoon? My vacation? My life?  

It was unbelievably rude and inconsiderate of them. They didn't notice my scowl. They were oblivious of my offended huffing and puffing as we laboriously moved our pile of stuff to another place.

They wrecked my space. It was mine. I was there first. Acquiring two year old emotions came easily.

As lady dragon smoke continued to puff out my ears and nose, the frail older man who picked their spot came up to our chairs. Extending his hand he apologized. "We come from the East coast where the beaches are packed like Honolulu. I didn't realize we were sitting between you and the water. I'm sorry."

His timing churned my stomach. Brita had just been reminding me that they probably had been oblivious and weren't purposely being annoying or mean. She gently helped me remember times I had probably been unaware myself.

What could I do but blush and welcome him to the human race while taking his warm, wrinkled hand in mine? It was hard to make eye contact. His knobby knees had become fascinating.

David Rupert at Red Letter Believers does a monthly roundup of featured posts at High Calling. Check out the other featured posts Around the Network.