The Weekly Commuter

You forced the sunrise
on me, little girl. I’d rather
be asleep
but since we’re up
let’s open the shade—
watch the passing storm
harass the trees.

Streetlights still burn
against the gray light
blowing up the street.
Opposite us,
a light clicks on—
a neighbor
about to leave.
As she hurries to her car,
wind full in her hair,
you decide
enough with the scenery—
time to eat.
The cat agrees.

In favor
of the bright and fresh
I’ve heard
enough to burst
a fishing family’s
best net—heaving
with slippery fish.

While bracing, briny winds
whip me into frenzied life
as much as the next
sea maid, the dark and dim
welcome warmer feelings—
I’ve already drawn
the curtains,
pulled down
the guest quilt,
turned two loved friends away.

Okay. Maybe the next few poems I write and post aren’t going to change the world, but hopefully they’ll give your brain a nice little poem-y vacation. I’m planning to post at least once a week again, come what may, so be prepared for some FRESH NEW QUALITY COMING SOON.

A dry leaf,
a baby asleep,
a kettle thinking steam,
a pot
of steeping tea,
the mail
you set out
for me.

Ending the world
the way we did
felt good—a slow flood
of sleep
after walking ourselves
weak—nothing between
the square of sunlit rest
the window marked
on the bed
for us and softening
like a swollen stream
the moments
it meets
the sea.

The Plein Airs brush
eucalyptus trees
along my morning
freeways and bathe me
in an orange light
more sunset
than sunrise.

My windshield’s too wide
to focus on
from the inside
but I’ve got a song
that sounds just right
at the top of this curve
where the road
hits the sky—
so I’m fine for now
with the cars ahead,
the road,
the yellow lines.

Under a half moon
hair all leaf-blown
I see you home.

In through the window
we watch the sky
unfold. I listen
to stories about stars
against your arm.

—on a painting by Eva Lundsager

Up the earth split
and out spit
a fount of steam.
Though where it rose
it seemed the toes
of two feet
almost met
the effect was really
clouds of steam
and the ominous
color of wet cement
with the same pooling
tarnished silver gets—
all this event
and no wonder
we let slip
our molten core.

Hello all! I’ve been a little lazy in the poem writing department lately, but I’m happy to say that I’ll be posting four new poems today, and working on returning to my one-poem-a-week habit starting now. So…get ready for poetry overload.

Check out a newly posted “poem on the range” on Slice Literary - NYC, or read it here:

Not a Shadow to Scare

Allow for a boy
on his wide range
who fashions lassos
from stripped ostrich feathers.

Even on his slow mount, the high heat
makes life hard to see.
Noon, and the pheasants
(fat thoughts on the Pampas)
slip up suddenly,
in twos
and threes,
noosed
and so easily.