The story of her life, as told by the shoes under her bed
Twelve pairs of low-heeled pumps, idled by her layoff,
lie far under the bed, deep in the dust bunnies.
One pair of zebra-striped fuzzy slippers makes her smile
though they clash with her polar bear pajamas.
One pair of plastic slip-ons carries her from bedroom to
home office to kitchen and outside to feed the squirrels.
What if I were a cowbird
who hatched in a song sparrow’s nest?
That explains how my mother looked at me.
This poem comes from Totally Optional Prompt’s prompt of “like a cowbird.“
Caught between garbage cans,
my mother learned to parallel park.
Back and forth,
the clash of metal on metal
under my father’s glare.
Her life was as tightly prescribed
by my father and his parents,
as the car by the cans.
Stepping beyond bounds
was not sanctioned.
Easier to escape metal
than to impress herself on my father.
The resilience of garbage cans
may have soothed my mother
as she battled the family car.
Sea gulls line up for take-off,
face the wind, feel it run over their feathers,
calculate the right moment to life.
There’s an order here.
Liftoff progresses from front to back
as laggards groom their chest feathers
or peck at a pest underwing.
The next in line lifts a leg,
tests the velocity, then,
leery of its force,
sneaks to the back of the pack.
The last four preen and peck
in companionable silence
beneath brilliant sun and booming surf.
There’s no rush to join the bustle of life.
This poem has nothing to do with mythology, but I’m posting it anyway to Totally Optional Prompts.
Batter-fried clams,
lobsters dunked in butter.
Summer on Maine beach.
I couldn’t push food out of my mind when I brainstormed “regional poetry” for Totally Optional Prompts. The fried clams at Ken’s Place in Scarborough, Maine, are the best in the world. Far better than breaded clams. At least, in my opinion.
Atop patio,
lobe of daffodil bulb.
Squirrels play again.
Squirrels don’t like the taste of daffodil bulbs. But that doesn’t stop them from digging them up and dropping them in front of my back stairs. They don’t like my intruding into their space with my flowers.
Headlamps prick darkness
glint off metallic bumper paint.
My pulse races.
That car’s tailgating.
I’ll show ‘em
who’s boss.
I slow to a crawl,
creeping ahead
inch by inch.
I feel their breath
tickling my neck
so close.
Good, let them stew.
Let them choke
on their bile.
Don’t care if
they’re angry
as long as I sap their speed.
Rear-ending is
safer at 20 miles per hour
than at 50. S-l-o-w.
So what if they stop
at the next traffic light
to wave their hands at me?
I’m safe in my steel bubble.
Vroom, vroom.
I pull away, laughing.
Hawks swoop with
great momentum to snare their prey.
Squirrel in open air,
nasty snack.
Squirrel huddled against tree trunk,
nyah, nyah, you can’t get me.