Tag Archives: poem a day

Summer Conversations With a Teenage Boy

7 Aug

I don’t mean to be a bother

it’s just that I think

I saw something move under your bed.

It might have been a sock monster,

Springing sui generis perhaps.

More likely the result of sympatric speciation

between the socks and mold spores,

now feeding on sunflower shells dropped down the crack

between your mattress and the wall.

I know. You didn’t notice, being very busy and all.

I’m going… oh, but if I may bring up

the issue of the drinking glasses?

On precursory glance I estimate seeing perhaps a half-dozen of them,

and not to be alarmist, but one appears to be growing a fur coat

or a new strain of penicillin, which would be quite a find.

I hate to hinder science.

Nonetheless, I would prefer the glasses be placed in the dishwasher.

Sanitized for our protection.

Again, I know you’re  extremely busy.

Get to it when you can.

Lastly, I truly rue to mention,

but your closet door seems to be bowing outward

as if it were a womb for some alien life form trying to claw out

I don’t want to speculate recklessly,

but it could have something to do with the fact

that you last did laundry sometime in June

if my admittedly rough calculations are correct.

Perhaps you could get on that eventually.

No rush at all, but apropos of nothing..

I’ve changed the wi-fi password.

You may have it when your room is clean.


Didn’t See That Coming

4 Aug


You ate

the one vanilla buttercream cupcake

even though

I bought four chocolate ones for you,

sprinkled with sugary celebrating confetti

Because I thought that’s what you wanted.

It wasn’t. So I settled for a chocolate one

instead of

the one vanilla buttercream cupcake

you ate.

Hank Writes

2 Aug


The possum balances

on the the weathered fence rail

Hissing down, red eyes glaring.

I reluctantly stand sentry

because the frantic terrier shows no sign of retreat.

Of course.

Bark. Bark. Bark. Bark. Bark.


This is why dogs don’t write poems.

Going, going, gone

2 Aug


This poem is a summer Friday

melting faster than you can eat it






and getting all over your fingers



you have to lick them free.


This poem twinkles

like elusive fireflies

chased through meadows

mason jar in hand

maybe you catch it

maybe not.


This poem makes you

run                 across                 the             street

to save your bare toes

from hot asphalt.

You still don’t

put your shoes on.


The poem is nightfall

gentling the summer heat

until it barely brushes your cheek,

whispers in your ear

‘fall is coming.’

Stained Glass

1 Aug

By Ludwig Schneider (Own work) [CC-BY-SA-3.0-2.5-2.0-1.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0) or GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html)], via Wikimedia Commons

By Ludwig Schneider (Own work). Used with Creative Commons permissions.

For Bren

In Chartres, as the Germans marched in,

The French dismantled and hid the great cathedral windows.

Refusing to surrender beauty to the battle.

Not French nor Catholic

I lay claim to the story nonetheless, and whisper it to your sleepless night

as the footsteps of another enemy echo in your ears.

One summer, in the glow of Chartres’ stained glass,

I lit a candle, said an unclaimed prayer

that tonight, I know was for you.

10 Items or Less

31 Jul


Peter Rabbit waves at me

in the express lane,

inked into the forearm of the hipster girl

loading guava jam and pinot grigio

on the black conveyor belt.

Unloading my cart, I tell her

“I like your ink.”

She smiles and holds out her arm for inspection

and I tell her about a colleague

with the Wild Things circling his bicep,

Max leading the parade.

Her boyfriend in skinny jeans has been listening,

rubbing small circles on her back while we talk.

“Let the Wild Rumpus begin!” he exclaims.

We laugh together as they push their shopping cart into the night.


The cashier smiles

scanning my bottle of Greek dressing.

“We used to tease my brother because he used this on everything.

Now, it says ‘for everything’

right on the bottle.”

“Maybe,” I say,

swiping my debit card,

“you should dare him to put it on ice cream.”

She’s laughing as she hands me my receipt.

The old saying lies.

The devil is not in the details.

They compose the sacred threads of  divine connections,

drawing us to fellowship in

10 items or less.

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