Some Poems
And On Getting Sh*t Done
Hi friends,
Happy Wednesday. I’m filing this one under Midweek Missives, those personal off-the-cuff musings I send between Monthly Vibes. I hope you’ll indulge me by reading these five short poems I cobbled together this morning. I’m shooting from the hip, so to speak, with the help of a book I’ve been reading, How to Write a Poem by Tania Runyan, and from shimmers and shards in my Notes app, a phrase taken from Jeannine Ouellette’s Substack, Writing In The Dark. I almost didn’t hit publish. These poems are not perfect, but I’m learning to stop holding back. I’m not looking for perfection anyway, but it’s too easy to get caught up in the what-ifs, and maybe I’ll wait until this is better, stronger, polished, etc. One thing I know to be true: life is short.
I hope something resonates with you and/or prompts you to do one thing this week without holding back. Happy Wednesday, or whatever day it is you’re reading this. As always, hit reply or comment below. Your support means so much to me. Thanks.
Maureen
XO
SEEING RED
There was red paint on the swing set at the city park
Of my youth
Where I swung with my sisters and friends,
And we shouted “higher, higher” as we pumped our skinny legs toward heaven.
There was the shiny flame-red car I zipped along the winding backroads of Central Florida,
As if I was on the Daytona Speedway instead.
The air thick with humidity, the electric windows tight against the seal, protecting my hair from frizzing out
During sales calls and later, after work, on dates with men who thought I was too bossy.
And then there was the red couch.
Bought by a man who said he loved me.
With its sexy, smooth microfiber touch
And curvy top that reminded me
Of the hips of the other woman, he left me for.
FOR THE LOVE OF WATER
One must have a mind of oceans
To appreciate the waves and the tides
Of the sprays of soft, silky water.
And to have been thirsty for a long time
To behold the lagoons teeming with algae and sea cucumbers
The mangroves like a fortress along the banks
Of the February sunset; and to pray
With the sounds of the wind
Weaving through the leaves
Which is the sound of the Universe
Pouring across the galaxy
Shushing in places barren and cold
For the observer, who observes from below the surface
And, nothing herself, beholds
Nothing that is within and nothing that is without.
TRAFFIC SIGNS
On the drive home from the park,
Winter sun, a shade of pale yellow and blindly white, shoots through the bare trees, laying long shadows across the road.
A gray squirrel lay in the middle of the road,
Its furry white belly faces north, a green light signaling the resident hawks and vultures.
SEASONS
Winter. A lone moth flutters under the yellow glow of the security bulb, and the dog and deer stand off as the wind howls through the bare limbs, a reminder that this is how it has always been.
Spring. Chartreuse foliage, magenta morning glories, and English ivy live like old friends from college, safe, snug, secure in the knowledge that they will nurture and feed off each other for life, yet they grow and drape down from the wire basket against the backdrop of cerulean blue sky and cotton ball cumulus clouds. Geese cry out, unseen. Their song fades, and the dog tugs on his leash.
Summer. Sunlight sparkles on the tips of tiny waves. The thick summer air mutes a weed whacker far off, and a dragonfly hovers above the water, too close and not fast enough this time to flee the gaping maw of the bass jumping for lunch.
Fall. A cool breeze ruffles the forest canopy, signaling a turn. Releasing yellow poplar leaves, one at a time—a soft, slow drift like a dance in the kitchen after a glass of red wine—to the thick grassy lawn below.
THE COLOR WHEEL OF LIFE
I rest a while on the old piano bench.
My glutes warm against the faux leather stuffed with foam nailed to the wood.
Eyes linger on tubes of indigo, cobalt blue, Payne's gray
Fingers caress a round number 6 brush, stroking the faux squirrel fur brush.
2B graphite lay waiting to scritch across the bumpy texture of the cotton paper.
Is primrose red mixed with cad yellow, or is it cad red and lemon yellow?
My memory fades like the first wash after the paper dries.
Painted jellyfish on canvas sneakers
Unfinished on my desk
The brushstroke strings of tendrils float in imaginary turquoise waters
I will be here forever, the jellyfish whisper, just as I’ve been from the beginning,
They blossom and thrive on the most acidic of palettes
Like when I mix the wrong shade of blue with red and the result is muddy, not violet.
But jellyfish thrive there, too.
Stay curious. Stay safe. Make an impact.
Beautiful poems, Maureen. I really like "Seasons" and "Fot the Love of Water."
I love your poems, Maureen! I'm so glad you shared them with us.