It seems
At least to me
That…..they
Are always there
Hidden in those instants
Wherein I lose my focus
Drift into “un-thinking”
Move without my own consent
Call ‘em what you will
Imps, trolls, the Billy goats Gruff
A synaptic surfer
Washed ashore
Popcorn scattered on the beach
Pursued by satiations seagulls
An off-key note
Sabotaging a symphony
A keyboard cannibal
Consuming all thought
Hunting in the alphabetic jungle
Of scrambled words
I have cursed them and cajoled them
All to no avail
An effort less successful
Than a dog chasing its tail
Blue sky seagull chirp,
pealing plaintive strain oe’r tides,
weeping waters rush
Cherry dew song thrush,
weaves mirthful mist from spruce tree,
off-key forest fall
the goblins and ghouls were aghast and agog
a brilliantly bubbly boo creature was down in the bog
Friendly Freddy the flippant fly-by-night frog
Raced up to the barnyard to incite the hog
It’s Halloween, and things are not as they should be
The hive down the hill has lost its queen bee
There is a bear staggering around singing off key
Here comes a monster, I think we should flee
The hog was happily rolling his corpulent body in mud
He would not have moved for a crazy rabbit or Elmer Fudd
Halloween never worried him, he liked the extra candy
He always received on the first, when it was thrown out by Randy
Deep in the forest, critters convene,
decked out in red-white-blue
like a woodland parade gone wild.
Sam the squirrel arrives first
waving a tiny flag
and saluting every oak tree in sight.
The raccoons show up next sporting star-spangled bandanas,
looking suspiciously patriotic
for creatures who steal snacks.
Owls hoot the national anthem
slightly off-key,
but with tremendous heart.
When the fireworks begin, the whole forest gasps~
bursts of color bloom above the treetops
like sky-flowers of freedom.
All the creatures whisper a soft, patriotic chorus:
“God bless America…
and please pass the picnic leftovers.”
Whimsical white word wizzardry
Really something heard or said to me
Inspired by the greats of poetry
Teal thoughts hard soft like lake deep
Emerald energy synergy all bottled up
Red romantic fantasy that I’m the star of
Singing off key to songs in the blue truck
Black ink is strong driven by pen of love
Like a dragonfly buzzing boisterous around
Oil anointed by amethyst acrostic’s sound
Cringing at raspberry rough draft on my page
Keeping humble laughs indigo ideas I chase
Minnesota cold a curse and a blessing
invigorating breath-taking
bundled up yet wonder taken in
a call to ice skate until we couldn’t any more
stick-figures arms raised celebration
my girlfriend in fourth grade
or friend
infatuation
a white blanket
glistened under the distant sun
as it stretched across yards
toward untold destinations
the wind against houses a haunting song
sounded like my father’s
off-key singing
my eyes watered
he sang again
a whisper as I walked to the neighbors
an igloo in their front yard
made by a parent’s hands
all the pieces fit
stillness when I went inside
a soft glow through the walls
a warmth felt when left with my thoughts
youthful moments embraced before the season passed
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Granny’s recipe card is splattered with butter,
the ink blurred where her thumb pressed too soon~
butter, sugar, flour—all accounted for.
What’s missing is the way she hummed
off-key hymns between sifted clouds,
how the kitchen held its breath
when she cracked an egg one-handed.
The cinnamon? Yes.
But not the weight of her sigh
when the dough resisted,
nor the way her wedding band
left a faint silver streak in the batter.
The streusel is just crumbs and brown sugar,
unless you count the dust of her laughter
as she scolded me for sneaking bites
of raw dough between my teeth.
Bake at 375º, the card says,
but not how long to wait
after the oven light goes dark,
after the scent stops being hers
and becomes just a memory.
*If you'd like to read the accompanying memoir vignette, you may do so at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/intangible_ingredients_13578
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At dawn, your fingers
still trace the curve of my spine
like they're reading braille~
each scar, each shift in the landscape,
a sentence you know by heart.
You laugh when I steal the blanket,
when my knees find the hollows
behind yours, an old map
drawn without compass or reason.
Our fights are old books now,
their spines cracked open
to the same dog-eared pages~
we know the lines by heart,
but recite them softer these days.
We are two trees grown
into each other’s bark,
gnarled and weathered-together,
no longer remembering
which rings belong to whom.
Some loves are built like this~
not with grand gestures,
but with the quiet tyranny
of your coffee cup left warming
on my nightstand,
the way you hum off-key
in the shower, still, after all these years,
and I pretend not to hear it,
and you pretend not to know.
Forty-three autumns,
and your hands smell like sawdust
and onions, and I wouldn’t trade
our slow unraveling for anything~
not even the taut, bright thread
we once were.
Here I am, tangled inside my insecurities while I aim to conquer myself in that battle against myself.
The chill of solitude burns me with insecurities as my aging voice learns to sing again. At least the spice of this challenge has shoved me forward into a determined fire.
Flames kiss my off-key voice as practice strengthens my pitch and my confidence. Embers of hope glow as fresh lessons teach me breath control and control of notes.
The pain of my worries wears off with each deep breath that I take. The fear of my failure fades as I close my eyes and I sing . . .
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Steam curls from my chipped blue mug~
routine tastes like sleep.
You hum off-key, toast burns black.
This is how love stays alive.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the tree leans~
a little crooked,
just how you liked it.
tinsel clings to the branches
like the ghost of your laughter.
I peel an orange,
slowly,
thinking of your hands,
and how they always
peeled yours for me.
the Christmas tree lights
blink once,
then twice,
as if counting the years
since you last hummed
Oh Holy Night off-key.
I leave the porch light on.
Just in case.
Someday I’ll miss the sound
Of my mom singing carols
Off-key in the other room
While I’m trying to fall asleep
(We agree Bing Crosby and Dean Martin
Have astonishingly similar voices)
Mingled with her announcements
I got another one!!
Tallying up her finds
On our impossible cupcakes puzzle
Marooned on half our dining table
Ever since last Valentine’s
(She wants to entice me to help her find more
But I lost my patience long ago
So I just made her a glass of lemonade
With five ice cubes falling from the fridge)
It’s mildly annoying right now
Hearing her argue with cupcakes
Singing along quite out loud
With her unending playlist
Yet it’s also kind of comforting
To pause and think
This will be a memory of her
I can make it sad or happy
And I know I’d regret it if I complained
Because someday I’ll miss the sound
Of my mom singing carols
He’s been on the lawn
Every year…for 40 years
A four foot tall plastic
Glowing, snowman
I sat with him yesterday
As he looked a bit down.
Asked “what’s up old friend?”
He sighed, slowly spoke
Asking “where are all my friends?”
“There are no angels across the street
No bells chiming down the way
I haven’t heard one Christmas carol
Or seen one silly Christmas sweater”
I hesitated to tell him
The Grinch had actually
Stolen Christmas
Or at least held its joy hostage.
He flinched when I told him
“some even take offense at you”
Because of what you symbolize,
What you stir in the hearts of children
Reawaken in the hearts of alleged adults.
My neighbors are trying to figure out
Why I was sitting on the lawn
Singing Frosty the Snowman
Loudly and somewhat off key
Midnight.
Frost etches its score
on every windowpane.
Snowflakes land
with the hush of a page
turned in an old book.
Inside,
radiators hum an old hymn,
off-key,
while the tree stands
mute
in its tinsel robe.
Upstairs,
a child turns in her sleep
dreaming of
sugarplums and sleds.
The tree exhales pine,
needles brushing
the wrapped promises below.
Ornaments sway on their hooks~
tiny bells without tongues.
The fireplace crackles a low,
steady bassline
under murmured
verses of gratitude.
Footsteps soften in the hall,
carrying cocoa,
carrying sleep.
The house settles deeper into the hush.
Christmas Eve leans in,
holding its breath
between the notes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
morning light slants gold
through venetian blinds, slow as honey.
summer stretches its limbs,
yawns across the porch swing,
and time dissolves like sugar in iced tea.
hubby’s hand in mine—dry warmth,
the rustle of leaves underfoot,
a conspiracy of squirrels.
the woods don’t care about our plans,
and that’s the gift~
nowhere to be but here,
no clock but the sun filtering down.
December arrives wrapped in laughter,
a tangle of mismatched chairs,
too many forks, not enough plates.
someone always burns the rolls.
the carols rise anyway~
off-key, overlapping,
a chaos of joy sharp as pine needles.
blank pages are kinder
than mirrors.
They never judge~
only wait.
My pen bleeds
stories, coffee stains, and
ink smudges like bruises
I’m proud to carry.
the wind howls its complaints,
rattles the windowpanes.
I let it.
the mug warms my palms,
steam curling into the air
like a ghost of comfort.
The cocoa is too sweet.
I drink it anyway.
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