Mag 55

"Short Season"

Red painted fingernails tap against

the martini glass -- staccato tink tink tink --

the rhythm a counterpoint

to the knife on the block.

Coolly, she watches him chop.

Sipping the blood orange 'tini

through blood red lips

"Ramps or some morels

would be good with the

risotto," he thinks --

"Damn!"

He watches blood drip

-- then sticks that finger

in his mouth as painted

red fingernails tap

against a martini glass

-kls 2011

This poem was written in response to the photo above, which is courtesy of Magpie Tales.  Write your own and link up here with the rest of the gang.

I haven't posted a poem in a while -- my goal (I never make resolutions) was to do at least two per month. But February flew by with nary a poem posted.  I really liked this picture and even though I'm really busy right now, I managed to make the time to write this.  So I guess I have no excuse.  Except that I don't like to post stuff when I don't have anything to say.  And the stuff I wrote in February wasn't "blog worthy!"  So no poems for February.  Hopefully, March will be better.

Mag 48

In staccato light

that the sun throws

through the blinds

I face your music

Your voice ricochets

in accusation's gloom

unspoken words form

a conga line from

you to me.

Like a twisting black mamba

we dance our mambo

one foot out

and then the other.

-kls 2011

This poem was written in response to the picture above which is courtesy of Magpie Tales.  Write your own and link here to share with the gang.

For more information on black mambas -- look here.  

Mag46 -- A New Year

Defrocked Christmas trees
grace dirty snow
awaiting gloved men
with noisy chippers

Mere days in --
gloves already off
resolutions chipped and worn
shine and ornamentation gone

Chipped trees segue to mulch
in a garden layer below
the snow, holding warmth
concealing new growth

 -kls 2011

This was written in response to the picture above, which is courtesy of Magpie Tales.  Write your own and link here to share with the rest of the gang.

I took some pictures of trees today --

 I played around a little with these in PhotoShop.

It always makes me sad to see them tossed onto a snow bank --

Friday Magpie -- Mag 37

Deep water, flooded culverts,

young pup unleashed on a highway.

I turn to you, spaniel-eyed,

heart wide, blood pounding

through -- thrilled, yet terrified

Tangled sheets, a battleground,

love's struggle -- twining testament --

lovely proof framed on a wall

above:  love's consequence

A sham -- it's all been shallows

softly suffocated on pillows

to the sounds of trees

sighing quietly in the breeze.

-kls 2010

This poem was written in response to the picture above which is courtesy of Magpie Tales.  Write your own poem or story and link it here to share.

Mag 36

In or Out

"Aw geez," he said.

And there went the marriage,

right out the window.

The door slammed shut

and the window looked out

over a ten story drop

(trees notwithstanding).

Standing there without 

nets in branches

No parachute, no gold,

no sweat.  Only surprise.

Golden light pours in 

through the window,

beckoning... a lure

like a sunrise.

She closed it

and moved on.

kls - 2010

This poem was written in response to the above picture which is courtesy of Magpie Tales.  Write your own and link here to share.

This was a strange write for me -- NO! it's not autobiographical -- my marriage is not in trouble.  Although I know that all writing is autobiographical to some degree because it is part of the person who wrote it.   And lest anyone think I do protest too much; well, there is no relationship without its trials.  I firmly believe that writers should not explicate their own work; but my father, my husband, and (occasionally) my kids read this blog.  And I hate for them to worry.  Much.

I just finished reading Mennonite in a Little Black Dress by Rhoda Janzen.  I highly recommend it.  A very funny read -- I laughed out loud.  Really.  And I learned stuff.  The reason I mention this is that if you've read it, you might be thinking that I'm worried about Bob.  Nope.

Mag32 -- The Wrong Side of the Line

On quicksand, tiptoe.
Shifting silently for and fro
barely balancing between
fine lines that've been drawn

the grains slip through,

immortal, pouring to

the end of the line.

The end of my time.

-kls 2010

This was written in response to the picture above, which is courtesy of Magpie Tales.  

Write your own and click here to link up.

Mag31 - The Peeper

I like to walk my dog at night
a good excuse for peeping
leave your window uncovered
let me peek inside your life

I like to walk around your house

at night, see through glass illumine

maybe touch a bit of you

while I peep through your panes

I like to stroll in darkness

see the visitors inside your home

I stay outside where I belong

your uninvited guest

-kls 2010

OK -- I know -- this is just creepy.  I have to quit watching those blood and guts slasher/cop/murderer/CSI/bloody/detective/strangler/lawyer shows.  And reading those books.

Maybe I'll cuddle up with Triple D tonight.  Or watch football.  The trouble with food shows is that they seem to lead to weight gain.  And I don't want to waste any art supply dollars on larger clothing.  That I can't wear on my feet.  Which, for the record, I'm thinking of soaking again.

This poem was written in response to the picture above.   I think it might be a nun in there.  Let me go get my dog....um...never mind.

Write your own and link it here at Magpie Tales.

Mag30

First Day

A shiny crisp apple and a long yellow bus

New old clothes from Jamie next door

Mother cooked us eggs and toast 

A whole new year for a whole new me

leave those old bullies behind and find

some new ones to torment me

Lockers of terror and desks of despair

taunting teachers with chalk

blackboards and erasers

Dark-fanged student emissaries

a cadre of peerless trolls bent on

butchering self esteems

A shiny crisp day and a whole lot of fuss

hand me down worries

and another damn bus

-kls 2010

This was written in response to a prompt at Magpie Tales.  Write your own and click here.

Mag25

 

A rusty old lock

on my rusty old heart

the good and bad secreted inside

together like gum stuck to my shoe

on a hot summer day.

Step, scwintch, step, scwintch,

trying to run through the minefield

that life has become

tossed from bash to blast

like children skirt the cowpies

in the baseball diamond out back.

A rusty old lock on a splintery 

sagging wooden gate,

missing its silver key --

all tarnished and black.

-kls 2010

This was written in response to a Magpie Tales prompt.  Write your own and link here to see the others.

I have been an AWOL blogger for a week or so now because I have been working on the tiger and cow quilts.  I've almost finished the tigers -- all the blocks and inner borders are quilted.   I have only the last three borders to finish -- hopefully tomorrow.  I'll post pictures when it's done.  

The Attic Bedroom

In your attic bedroom we sailed seven seas.

Your bed our ship a-sailin',

swaggering scallywags were we, parrots on shoulders --  

peg-legged plunderers apracticin' "arrggghhs" and "yohohos."

Thick blankets hung on chairs, our tents,

Night sky: endless with stars and dreams. 

Camping on the rug with a campfire circle,

toasting lego marshmallows on lego sticks.

In our attic bedroom, a glass of ice

and rum on the table.

Stars through the skylights

illuminate and hark of ships and dreams.

Wool blankets cover and warm us,

muffling soft night sounds of content.
-kls 2010

This was written in response to the picture above on Magpie tales.  Write your own and link here.

Vine Ripened Tomatoes

 

Ripe and sweet, you plucked my heart from the vine

With promise of a life of perfect summer days.

Rich crimson -- the fruit is sliced,

slashed -- its seeds splayed on paper plates.

In fall, memory of that summer shines
in the faces of children who play,

slowly ripening; our tangled vines

threatening to trip small bare feet.

Winter makes me wonder

what might have been

had you left me there

to ripen further on the vine.

This was written in response to the picture above from Magpie Tales.  Write your own and click here to leave a link.

Only the Good

Grandma’s dish drops, splits into shards

Sharp as the knife slipped into holiday roast

Sharp reminder every morning since

Mother’s passing.  Not immediately upon

awakening, but as soon 

as cognition sets in – 

they’re gone now.  

And their friends.  

Leaving us:  their children and

(surprisingly) their men 

to fend

without the wisdom from the portal

through which our lives began 

and will eventually end.

After the first year’s markers, the knife always dulls.

Only stories left of a young Uncle shot down

over France.  He sent those plates

before I was born.  And left nothing 

but shards.

-kls 2010

This was written in response to the picture above from Magpie Tales.  Write your own and click here to leave a link.

What's Underneath

A forest of possibilities

Sharp and pointed as thoughts

That lurk just beneath

The smooth veneer in lots

Paved by the ragged tires

Of broken down cars

And crowned by a memory

Of what might have been

                       -kls

This is a poem written in response to a prompt from Magpie Tales.  Click here to see what others are doing and to leave a link to your own.