Small & Big

Time passes, in achingly long moments, slowed to a stand-still it pauses, sighs, pinches off a fluff of lint, waits to compute    out        e a c h                s  e  c  o  n  d  , triple-checking the moment for accuracy, in duplicate carbon copy, then holds a meeting, a final tally, a nap (dreaming on the prudent drying of brittle-brown porcelain saucers), followed by a wake-up herbal tea, sweetened with slow honey, and, Pardon me, might you have any Wite-Out I could borrow?, and then—finally— finally — Time painstakingly announces that single moment, on the clock: The one hun-dred nine-ty sev-en mil-lion, four hun-dred sev-en-ty eight thou-sand, six hun-dred and nine-ty ninth sec-ond. Only then does it proceed to repeat the entire cycle, for the next second in line, o...

A writer, she often doesn’t know the thought in her head or where it’s headed until it stands in this world letter by letter, fleshed into word, grown into sentence, paragraph, and a thoughtful story. Getting what’s in here out there is a physical act, a curious release through fingertips, the wearing down of fingerprints that leaks thought into print. One reason a writer writes is to see herself think. This is write thinking.

Day breaks open, sunny side up pouring out a light break fast before us. The setting placed, warm and welcome and waiting. Sweet pink folds into buttery orange melts into rich honeyed purple and on into the golden yolk of day. Open mouthed we devour the whole wide morning up in wonder. Abundance, more than enough. Sunrise image from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) library.

This poem is composed entirely out of Subject lines from my spam email. Each line, by line, is painfully unedited. Dearly Beloved Living out on the porch: our new all-weather wicker collection hotplate bayberries unimaginable BENEFIT hit the deck with our grasshopper chair Did you authorize Mr. Louis Henrik? Respond urgently evocatively Please I Need A Trustworthy Person... Monday May 05, 2008 foretooth Please Hear me Good day to you Good Day

A field, warm           bubbles over round red clover           singing song,           greenleaf song,           winding wood airs transparent wings           zig over zag           under bloom, animal stripes           land the open           blossom, pad           across long-shag six percussion           toes thrum against           living carpet one honey bee           her brown body  ...

An angel in the post office Wanted pre-1965 paper money for time travel, Free green tea, Hornets nest, Box of 60 doll heads, Mounted lobster, Carton of irregular cat hats. Is this your pet Couch - very uncomfortable, red - $3.75? Take my bees, please. Advice to young men from an old man: Potato cannon. I almost crossed the street From the Craigslist archives: 100 years ago. Large glass jar (possibly containing a ghost).

Over eons I add poetry to this page. But for now there is... Parade Wasps parade round the rusty steel door. Buzzing kazoo band six stepping in buoyant circles. Last summer their veteran parade marshal stung me twice for straying beyond the sideline. She was tight waisted black armored and expert at the precise use of her long sharp baton. I yelped away scooted far away. She accepted this apology. Today carefully shut behind the safe end of the creaky old door I peek out I admire I know my place. Walking Walking carries me And so I find myself, step by step. Ration(al) Gray gravel path Twines through green A moment as brief Trains to light summer sundown ocean lobster blossom red dalmation lady wingshell tippytap Hearing See seafoam bubble monster wiggle seagull grinding wave machine seagrass pebble pink'n seaweed beaching seaboomchurn seasalt stiff season see Canteen Horses Canteen horses sweat out a muscle, pour out their little mouses box and jab, lean punch a trail. Between A...

(There’s no accounting for the bad poet inside me.) My heart beats exponentially for you, thump thump, thump thump, endangering my pocket protector whose pens shoot out like Cupid’s love arrows, quick shooting and stabbing, tenderly all night. Your two brown eyes, like seeing zeros which I colored inside with a Ticonderoga No. 2 pencil, do they see my compounding interest? Baby, you can count on my return. For, line upon line, you arouse my calculation like something my clients say they will keep track of day by day all year long but instead panic and do in one day at the last possible day.

Kettle kind, black behind my slow cooker. Spit fire engine come full steam, chugging charcoal ash still crackling the woodland hearth. Acres of pine felled and stacked along this fire place, sooting it fine. Firey image from State of South Dakota Fire Meteorologist Randall P. Benson, PhD .

Parched dust gloms to her fur a mist of powdered straw dulls her dark overcoat fogging up the shine. Rolling in last year's stems she's a farm dog now wild fed, sand slept, flead, and full-time. Finding adrenalin in the dirt she twists quick, flaps into the wind and blinks her one-walk-a-day, feed-me-twice eyes. Barney the dog photo from www.whitehouse.gov/president/springatwhitehouse/07.html . Pretend that's dirt and dead grass he's rolling in and that he's a she. That makes it 'interactive' poetry.

Herd’s racing fast this morning, driven by a collective inner urge to keep moving, just keep moving. We tear over the charcoal gray trail, tracked smooth and hard as new asphalt. I quickly close in on the slow silver beast with soft rust spots. I curve into the fast lane and pass the old thing with a flourish, careful not to cut in front of him too closely and trip him up. Moments later I’m passed by a growly red Ram leading a troupe of luxury sedans. They swerve in front of me, their red eyes glowing back, unblinking in the early dawn. Fumes of oil exhaust cloud my nostrils and I snort. Hundreds of us wind over wavy hills, speeding up the inclines and coasting down the backsides. Young sunlight casts long teasing shadows. From afar we are a force of nature—a smooth, deliberate, fluid current running with singular purpose. But down here in the thick of it we keep one eye alert to dark overpasses, camouflaged silhouettes, any bush large enough to hide behind. High-stru...

Pet Peeve Our meetings have a stunning hail when Jack sets to clipping his nail. One lands square in my eye as I painfully cry, "Let's vote on putting Jack in jail." This one got an honorable mention on HumorPower blog ( go there ) Want to make your own limerick? You can probably do better than mine. See HumorPower.com ( go there ). Send me your limerick gem by clicking Replies below and I'll post it with link to your blog. The clean limericks anyway. Be sure to include your URL.

Reel it in, the belonging, the being, the yearning for every moment farther and nearer than the reach of two steady arms.

Take the meandering country road of weed and stone take it through close village, working town and city stampede. Come quick along the expressway past sign, font, and distant view tear along the dotted line coast over roller hill. Progress and procrastination to any destination. Take the detour, the scenic, the sudden road. Ride, ride away. Every road leads to another every road returns.

The Monitor published a haiku from yours truly. Yay! You can take a gander at it on this page of www.csmonitor.com .

Around lunchtime in summer’s scorching heat there’s a rich smorgasbord of cooking meat. Sizzled sirloin, grilled gizzard, roasted riblets, baked brisket, simmering shank, braised breast, and broiled butt! But a tasty meal I'm not creating, and hope, for my sake, you’re not debating. For my person, heated to the third degree means this summer dish is fillet of me! Sunny image from U.S. Partnership for Healthy Weight Management weightloss guidelines .

The Sun Rose A golden bloom of summer sun rose, then softly climbed over us. A rock is nothing but wait. Waiting in the wood the crisp bark of my dark dog grows thick round me. Turning home after many long years, my old heart it will lead the way. Kitchen faucet drips enough to wear a sinkhole in a thousand years. This wide man sails past in a billowy shirt. Summer is one long barefoot moment, toes stained green as a miracle. Puritan thought left a lingering resentment of my two elbows. Whenever I think of you I find I cannot remember. One long spring whistle tucks in fresh earthworms and pulls trees straight from the earth. Ruby, gold, and sea glass fill a window, telling stories to a home. Melting under hot suns, rich golden buttercups fatten the slow hill. Wide-eyed and surprised by its birth today, one wee daisy is dazed. You swam in the sea of me. Now we part, ever in our salty skins. Under and over twelve circles round the face time repeats itself. Sunny is the friend with yellow...

Poetic thinkings in not one line, and certainly not three or more lines. Ready or not, ears let in the wind. House dust settles softly atop all my major appliances. The tight black book honors the carpet with its complete weight. Maturity is in the eyes of the older. I lost the key to my Kia at Ikea. Honey home and sweetly buzzing. A slap is a sobering thought. Wood brushed by white puts up a good front. What does a scale measure when words weigh close to nothing? Bar room brawl by two unknowns and you know it. Slowly the mind speaks when the heart is singing. Neighbors tremble at the unlocked door but keys can drive, drive, drive. Monarchs rule in inches. Grease in the cook pan and someone was home at the time. Vinegar spider, why are you angry? Dog runs away from home meaning only to chase a chipmonk. We slip away light as day. Succumb to peaches. Fourteen stories are in this hand. Grasshopper trembles for dusk. His daily constitution needs an amendment. In the world to come we are a...

Among hollow days we lean tall and sure and taking. If the paragraphs don't suit you, close the book If the nightly news troubles you, click off the teevee If the neighbor angers you, change yourself. A small crack has appeared on the fleshy wall my house, re-routed to the Nile come to rest on the ceiling. Splintered homes close to hard-knock doors.