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Pink Frisky Poem
Game day snacks were on my mind
as I quickly got into the check out line.
March Madness enlivened a cold, gray day
and made me impatient with any delay.
Still, my line was express so I had no doubt
that in just a few moments I'd be checked out.
But there I stood; the line was still
as the man in front rang up a huge bill.
I saw some white hair. He looked 70 or 80
and the bags being packed looked awfully weighty.
10 items or less? That sign was a rip-off!
I needed to move. I was missing the tip-off!
He finally paid, then his bags nearly tore
and his feet seemed attached to the new vinyl floor.
Next came a struggle with his over-sized cane.
My God, he was finished and still blocking the lane!
He made a last wave with a toothless old smile
a break-away exit just wasn't his style.
Because of his age, I hadn't the heart
to say to his face, "Move it, you old fart."
But I watched with relief as he went out the door
and I prayed that he'd never come back to this store.
When I finally got out and ran to my car
I saw that he still hadn't made it too far.
The bags were all packed in his rusty, green van.
yet he stood guarding something in his wrinkly,old hand.
The game beckoned me, but I just had to pause
for a moment to see what he had in his claws.
As I walked over closer, I had nothing to say
but my impatient soul softened slightly that day
For there in his hand, making madness stand still
was the beauty and joy of a March daffodil.
Copyright © Pink Frisky | Year Posted 2024
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Pink Frisky Poem
The Eastern window is open
and early morning birds sounds
invade the room.
Drawn blinds are no defense
as one after the other
the inevitable rays of light
sneak in around each shimmering slat.
At 5 o'clock.
The sun hangs like a red ball
in the middle of the white horizon,
a flaming standard.
The steam clings softly to the
bathroom mirror and like misty,
glorified remembrances masks
the true man's reality.
At 6 o'clock.
A breeze brushes the wind chime
hanging by the kitchen window,
a tiny cry.
The slant of the August sun
is already painful to my eyes
and tears make short trips down
the side of a breakfast glass.
At 7 o'clock.
Across the street, a dry field
plays home to a waiting boxcar.
My gaze drops down.
Hot water burns the face
of the egg-covered plates
as the softened yolks
slide off like skin...
8:15 and 32 seconds.
Where are the songs of yesterday?
I hear the echoing screams.
Turn off the air conditioning.
Sit down in the halls.
It's not over until the last
Fat Man falls.
Copyright © Pink Frisky | Year Posted 2024
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Pink Frisky Poem
I discovered love too soon and easily destroyed it.
I discovered love could bloom again and so I tried it,
I discovered like a child with stubby hands and greedy heart
who sees a flower by the road and tears it all apart,
I continued to live my life in the expected ways.
I continued to play the part and smile through scrapbook days.
I continued like a tired teacher at the board
who talks of love and literature and prays she's not ignored,
I believed that one day we would meet and understand it.
I believed that fate would make it just as though we planned it.
I believed like fragile little ladies with their beads
that you would surely rise again and answer all my needs.
But now by cold gray stone I stop and kneel
to trace the wounds I know can never heal.
Copyright © Pink Frisky | Year Posted 2024
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Pink Frisky Poem
Like autumn leaves tossed by the wind,
Memories of you spring up
from the concrete corners of my mind.
The brilliant colors surprise me
and I smile at things too easily forgotten.
Copyright © Pink Frisky | Year Posted 2024
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Pink Frisky Poem
They amaze me with their Athena thoughts -
full-grown at birth -
while I sit silently, my stereoscopic vision flat.
As they speak, hypnotic images emerge with a three-dimensional power.
I'm overwhelmed.
Then suddenly, a bright jewel shines in my eyes.
A thought is beating in my blood.
I try to grasp it,
but each facet of the small crystal is a singular knife that slices my tongue.
My delivery fails
and I gaze on the backs of Athenian armor.
Copyright © Pink Frisky | Year Posted 2024
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Pink Frisky Poem
I feel an October ache
when moonlight lies on branches
and dreams as old as the South
drift on the Western breeze.
If I wake,
I'll buy turquoise on Tuesdays
and wait for a bus to the Grand Canyon.
Copyright © Pink Frisky | Year Posted 2024
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