A Teacher of Art

Today, he was sitting on the bench,

Sketch pad and pencil in hand.

The wind ruffled the paper

While clouds dimmed the world.

I have seen him about the town.

Sketching, drawing, painting

In bright summer dancing in color

And dismal winter of charcoal gray.

I sat next to him and glanced at his work.

His hands were sturdy, the fingers gentle.

“Wouldn’t it be easier in a studio?” I asked.

He adjusted his pad, hand flickered on.

Paints have to spill,” he said.

“Brushes have to hit, tickle, and wave;

Pencils cut, trace, kiss, and break;

And easels get knocked down.”

“Color must be grabbed, smelled,

Rubbed between fingers and tasted.

Form dances, skulks and caresses.

Light and shade play hide and seek.”

 He closed his pad and pocketed pencils.

“Yes, it would be easier in a studio.”

With crinkled eyes, he threw me a wink.

“But, then how fun would that be?”

This poem is a part of the Wordz collection.

We Play the Game

Our silk we wear has a sash
               of grass stains and dirt

from battles royal.

Bruises blossom dark and purple,
               mixing with last week’s yellow
               and green to make our bouquet.
We wear a crown, but it is nothing
               more  than headband or prewrap

jeweled with sweat.

Soft slippers? No.
               Bright laces don our cleats,
               Double knotted, tough.
Our regal presence on the field
               is a bruised jaw set firm,
               tasting grass and grit.
Heart and Determination
               burns in our eyes,
               a sigil to our oath.
We are pledged to teamwork,
               a sisterhood of Go!
               Crusading for victory.
Yes, we are girls,
               Beautiful and Bold,
               And we play the game.

The Toughest Job

Just a few days old, a precious little life.

The husband stands next to a tired wife.

Its time to rest, this she does know.

Carefully, with tears, she lets go.

Bright September morn, a boy kicks a stone.

Impatiently waiting,  he wants to stand alone.

Mom stands back, Dad says the bus will show.

She waves at his grin as she lets go.

Bands and books hype the late August.

Dad aches from luggage, his back will adjust.

Mom smiles bravely  but moves away slow

Her child to the ivy halls, she lets go.

The height of June, flashbulbs pop bright.

A man in black, and a woman in white.

A dad brings her down, passes her hand aglow.

The two moms look at their babies and let go.

Dads smile and nod and make a joke or two.

Although similar, he has a different job to do.

Done with grace, though it hurts her so

A loving mother’s toughest job, is letting go.

Passing the Torch

With static breath,

The runner stumbles, shuffles, regains balance.

The torch bobs, the flame flickers.

It is heavy, the arm sags, the head drops.

The trek has drained color from the cheeks,

Curl from the lips,

Glint from the eyes,

Blood from the heart,

And even, spirit from the soul

Feet grumble in the dirt.

Neck complains of weight.

Air fails to reward the lungs.

Yet, the turn completed, straight away ahead.                                            

The successor awaits,

Bouncing on toes,

Shaking the wrist.

There is color in the cheeks.

A curl, a glint, blood, and spirit.

The runner’s eyes drink,

The soul sighs, then surges.

The pace quickens.

Heart pounds,

Feet clap, arms wave, and the flame flares.

Close together,

Both in motion.

One leans forward, reaching, giving.

The other, stretches back, waiting, accepting.

Gone.

The runner shuffles to a halt.

Hands on knees, gasping.

Watching the other fade away.

A knowing grin thinks of the course ahead,

Watery eyes recall the one just traveled.

Limping, aching, the runner sees the torch

On a distant hill.

The heart sighs with contentment.

The soul aches with tears of pride.

The hand flexes, missing the weight.

The torch passed.

The fire still burns.

Passing the Torch is part of the Wordz collection.

Let's Put On A Show

Hey! Hey! One and all!

            Welcome to Drama Class!

Let’s tell a story.

            Let’s put on a show.

Wait. Wait. What’s it about?

A hero and heroine.

She is smart and beautiful,

            and he is goofy but true.

Don’t forget the nasty villain,

            deceitful, yet slick and smooth.

Good. Good. What happens next?

            They fight against the odds.

and when all looks bad,

            friends to the rescue!

They get back up again,

undaunted, ready to fight.

Good triumphs, a happy ending

where love and courage wins.

Quick! Quick! Energy abounds

with much to do.

Round up some costumes,

something bold and bright.

Does anyone have paint,

            hammer, a drill to use?

Build a wall for the room

            Put the door over there.

Move the lights a bit,

            we want a spot to hit here.

Oh, yes. Oh yes.

            Come on in.

Let’s sing and dance,

            laugh and cry,

despair and hope,

            and raise our voices in joy.

Let’s tell a story.

            Let’s put on a show.

I Am Afraid

I am afraid in the cold sweat clutch of deep night

when my heart panics desperately in my chest

that life is nothing more

than a swirl of dust throughout space,

forever growing colder and distant

till nothing can be shared with anything

I am afraid that my arms will strain

my aching fingers to grab lifeless sand from

the dusty burlap bag of dreams.

Grit will dig under my fingernails, grating nerves

as my mouth tastes ash, and I disintegrate;

flaking, cracking, pieces fall like pebbles

swirling in a cloud till nothing.

I am afraid that true will be Whitman’s tragedy

of a quiet desperation mumbling gibberish.

That the rooftops will not only not hear my yawp,

but they will remain unattainable, with steep gables,

cold winds, and ice slick betrayed dreams.

And the sounds I make with be muffled by my pillow

Causing no stir in the heart or ripple among man.

from The Refrigerator Door collection.

Flair (for Claudia)

                                    Flair

It is said that ‘many a flower blushes unseen.’

   These tender buds quietly bloom, smile bright but timid.

Ah, but these words do not apply to all blossoms

   For some, like the red-topped wildflower, life is a dare.

Yes, yes, this natural work of art does not shy away

   But steps out of line with a mischievous glint in her eye,

Unseen is not for her. She laughs out loud, drinks her beer cold.

   With radio playing, she dances, an exploding smile under red hair.

Oh, her fragrance is sweet, her love exuberant and real.

   Blue jeans, leather and walking shoes completes her bold bloom.

Ay, yes, a dynamic joyful soul she is, with a crazy hat or two.

   She is a wildflower, blooming, vibrant, an everlasting firework of flair.