April
9
April
8
#VerseLove Day 8, Tell Me without Telling Me
The squabble erupts
nothing about nothing
it escalates
voices raised
mom jumps in
tries to find the culprit
“it wasn’t me,”
each one cries
my stomach clenches
desiring calm
not caring who
is “right” or “wrong”
understanding
even when young
unity is more important
than absolutes
[tell me you’re a peacemaker without telling me you’re a peacemaker]
April
7
#VerseLove Day 6, Cherita
Daniel
you are in the backyard charging about unsteadily on your pudgy toddler feet
as I bustle about in the kitchen preparing dinner
I suddenly stop, my mommy-sense telling me it is too hushed outside
rushing through the patio door, sprinting through the gate left ajar
I discover you cruising up the street, waddling as fast as you can
To join your big brother and his big-kid friends
April
6
#VerseLove Day 5, 4×4 Poem
A remix of sorts of my friend Kevin’s (not) 4×4 poem.
give it a try
he sighed, a chore
four by four by
four, four, four, four
shaking up some jive
bouncing a new mix
taking us to five
sliding into six
ranting about rabbits
and breaking through the door
next he’ll bring the jabots
twinning not the mentor
also breaking
rules of four (4)
mischief-making
do evermore
April
4
#VerseLove Day 4, Burrows and Seeds
Thank you, Jennifer for guiding us today. The lines “sometimes the old is far better than the new” by Glenda inspired a nostalgic burrowing into the past.
sometimes the old is
far better than the new
the washing machine
that never quit
denim jeans admired
for sturdiness, not holes
typewriters clacking forever
(oops, change the ribbon)
automobiles repaired with
wrenches, not computers
meetings arranged in person
instead of by thumbs flying
store purchases that cost
a dime, not dollars
conversations enjoyed while
looking into another’s eyes
lunch dates in a cozy
spot, not on Zoom
sometimes the old is
far better than the new
April
3
#VerseLove Day 3, Collaboration Inspiration
Borrowed from Shaun Ingall’s poem.
my dresser looks like a brown ox,
taking up way more space
than it appeared to at the shops.
drawers half-open, covered with props.
sitting on the edge of the bed,
rummaging, looking for socks.
we should be grilling chops,
you wearing my old t-shirt,
me in shorts and flip-flops.
pain descends, my head drops,
wondering how to face a new day,
and my dresser that looks like a brown ox.