Ice
cream,
an indulgence
inspired by summer’s
heat – cool mouthfuls
creamy sweetness melting
ecstasy – torture for those
whose systems cannot cope
lactose intolerance condemning
sideline drooling – until
manufacturers develop
alternatives –
coconut bliss
and soya
so good –
kudos
to
non-dairy treats.
(Thank you to Fandango for kudos, Daily Addictions for cope, and Ragtag Daily prompt for indulgence.)
Crumbs seductively line
Corian countertops –
abundance for flies,
I understand
It’s a trap!
I’d warn, but
buzz is not a language
familiar to my tongue
temper unsuited
to accommodating pests –
we navigate an end
to the ensuing discomfort
fly doomed,
my senses rattled
effort now exerted
to vanquish crumbs.
(Inspired by the daily prompts of Fandango (temper), Daily Addictions (Abundant), and Ragtag (navigate). Thanks for stopping by.)
Hush Child; you are safe –
torment ended, threat dispersed –
we have survived, whole.
(Ronovan Writes Weekly Haiku Poetry Prompt is child & safe.)
Strawberries ripen, their scarlet-red sweetness staining the cheeks of students whose bodies, unripened, rail against the conformity of stiff backed chairs and bolted down desks. Spring has dared to don the cloak of summer – green emboldened fields trampling over delicate beginnings; and we are splash pad, motorcycle revving, boom box crazy: ready to plunge into the swelter, restless.
Strawberries ripen
Spring’s sweet offerings foretell –
Summer games begin.
(Jilly at DVerse challenges to be unconventional in our halibun writing. Not sure how unconventional I am, but this was fun to write.)
The loom on which
I weave
these threads
is more foreboding
than machinery
These fibers
neither silken
nor wool,
cottoned
from misadventures,
miscommunications,
and inner unraveling
(Written for Sammi’s Scribbles Weekend Writing Prompt #60: Weave)
If searching for love
was like shopping for shoes,
I’d fixate on the simplest
of finds, choosing practicality
over fashion flair.
My preference is for earthy,
unassuming: plain is fine
as long as the structure
gives me room to breath –
no grasping too tight.
If I shopped for love,
like I do for shoes,
I’d ignore those pushy
sales lines, opt instead
for a supportive sole,
settle for guaranteed comfort
over flashy heels, can’t bear
the instability of pedestals,
love flattery like most,
but need to feel grounded.
No doubt I’d question
my selection, offer it up
to my children for feedback
be mocked, dissuaded,
put it back and search anew,
discover futility in my seeking,
realize that I need new love
like I need new shoes –
only a foolish indulgence
for a woman who lives in bed.
(This poem, inspired by a dream, was penned when I was still bed bound, two years ago. Hope it made you smile. If you found yourself on the hunt for love, what would you look for?
p.s. my husband fits the criteria still, lol.)
Picnicking with mother
happened only once –
The summer’s day
a perfect pitch of bright,
the breeze a welcome companion
Laid our cloth atop rickety table,
perched in anticipation
of waxy wrapped sandwiches
and homemade bread and butter pickles
and the certainty of some fresh-baked treat
Hadn’t taken so much as a single bite
before the buzzing started –
bees inviting themselves to our repast
lured by the sweetness of our fare –
sent mother screaming
commanding us to pack up at once
Never again did we venture
further than our back yard,
reserved the park for drive by visits,
and, if lucky, the occasional
opportunity for a swing or a slide,
as long the bees stayed out of sight.
What lies ahead,
when pain has clouded the past
and fear is choking the present?
Is it possible to glimpse the future
without projection, without prejudice,
or do we need to clear the heart
before we can be guided by hope?
Physical prowess
a weighty goal – bliss delayed
by self-punishment.
(Written for RonovanWrites Weekly Haiku Poetry Challenge: brawn/bliss)
Summer of ‘67
the British had invaded
and Canada celebrated
100 years of confederation –
and Dad, at the top of his game,
came home with a brand new,
powder puff blue convertible
Eagerly, my sister and I
loaded into the back seat,
laughed at strands of our long hair
flying into open mouths, strains
of our uplifted voices competing
with the 8-track bellowing:
“Do you believe in magic?”
We were so alive then:
I, just barely nine, and my elder,
and idol, rocking sixteen –
she was hippie, go-go girl
and model all wrapped in one
and always humble, never mean.
We headed to the shoreline,
Sauble beach, where muscle cars
prowled, and tunes blared,
and all eyes lit on sister
and I wondered what the draw was,
still too naïve to understand the lure
of feminine wiles, my sandcastles real.
Barbequed steaks and mom’s
homemade apple pie, and
a trip to the ice cream store
if we were good, and Dad
shooed away the men who buzzed
about and lectured sister about “friends”.
I surfed the waves, and
avoided baby sister, her brash cries
and quick, chubby legs a distraction
for our mother, constantly in pursuit;
and observed the life, Neil Diamond
promised I was about to enter:
“Girl, you’ll be a woman soon.”
Ah to be nine, in the summertime,
when cares are few, and ideas
like popcorn, burst and pop,
filling my head with such fancy,
and then to forget it all, plunging
head first into the oncoming waves
still content to be a child.
(Thank you to Laura Bailey at All the Shoes I Wear
for the photo, song and word (summertime) that
inspired this memory.)
One Woman's Quest 