Strawberry Season

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.)

Love, Like Shoes

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.)

A One-and-Only Picnic

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.

A Convertible Summer

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.)

Chronic

Mitochondria,
research says,
holds the key
to this malaise –
DNA failing to generate
required energy

I push against
facts, strive
to hoist
this stricken body
from the tedious mire –

fail,
plunge,
succumb
await renewal
of momentum,
push again

a hopeless cycle.

(Penned for DVerse’s Quadrille #59, prompt: cycle.  Thank you to kim881 for hosting.)

The Boy in 3C

He like to walk across desktops,
bright eyes filled with challenge,
a shock of unkempt blond tuffs
lending a distinctly menacing air.

Had him for three classes a day,
and plentiful as my patience could be,
I must say, I was stretched –
searching for a suitable approach

He was all brawn, you see,
and I, nearing fifty, body frail,
was ill-equipped to deal with blows,
and besides, his ostentatious behaviour

netted me plenty of sympathy,
his classmate no more impressed
than I, my colleagues deeming him
incorrigible – surely, a lost cause.

And yet, I saw in him a wayward self,
glimpses of such anger and pain
as I had known in youth, and I
appealed to my own longing

assigned him helping tasks,
befriended the notorious lad,
inviting another side, appealing
to a scarred vulnerability

Stellar progress we made –
he passing every class, aiming
to remedy his days, and then
we let our guards down

Neither of us prepared for
the downside of success –
he, mired in unworthiness
slipped back into old ways

drank himself into a stupor,
arrived at school wielding
a pellet gun, waving his weapon
at unsuspecting peers, stirring

mass mayhem, and as they
took him away in handcuffs,
he called my name, “I love you”
echoing through the stunned halls.

(Written for Fandango’s Word of the Day: ostentatious, Ragtag Communities: stellar, and Daily Addictions: plentiful.

The boy depicted did manage to complete his school year, with the help of school administration and lessons provided by yours truly.  After high school, he went into social work, a field I think he will thrive in, given his background.  There is always more to the story, and there is always hope.)