This was so much fun! Only yesterday I picked up two more cards. Soon as I've finished posting all mine (I have another two posts after this as I sent some to folks who weren't on my list) and a few more, hopefully, have trickled into the big green box down the road, I'll take a picture of all the ones I received. According to chat on the Facebook postcard poem site, hardly anyone gets the full 31 count. There is some pondering as to what happens to the ones that go AWOL. Are they out there somewhere with the dryer socks? This is one reason I post mine; if your name was on my list and you don't get a card from me, it's here somewhere!
It really is hard not to edit these. I tend to write and cut, write and cut, but as these are first drafts, the cutting of all the pesky little words like "the", "a", "and" hasn't happened. In the spirit of the exercise, I've left the poems as written, except for obvious spelling glitches and I will admit to having added a comma in one of the poems below and will readily confess should anyone call me on it!
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She decided against
long gloves, afraid
of being treated
with derision now that
everyone else wore
short, or none at all
which she was not
prepared to do for
what could she wear
with nothing except nothing
and that would never do
so long gloves it was
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All those years playing
Pin the Tail on the Donkey,
Run Sheep Run,
Red Rover Come Over
and skipping Double Dutch
had taught her
the most fun games
involved freezing water
and too-small towels.
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You’d have to have been there
I expect, when the call
for calamari went out.
Several little round ones
were rolled away
from the ladies who,
everyone knew, were
hard to please. No one’s
told them — yet — that
the new guest is poised
to take over. Can Whoopi
be the only one to think
something's a little fishy
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In the middle of the night
the refrigerator opens its door
to an empty room
It calls to the stove
which heats up a burner
The fridge wants so much
to see what it’s like
to be hot for once
and the stove glows red,
moves a little closer
to the fridge,
while outside in the yard
the grass turns brown
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The planet needs some new pills—
one that will make it forget
to encourage its people
to fight with each other,
one that will calm rough waters,
snuff any fires not for warming,
one that will teach us
to dance each others’ steps,
speak each others’ words
and laugh like a baby
who’s just learned how.
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What nerves indeed, she
might ask, her fingers,
clutching the cup’s handle
in a last act of defiance.
Once she was a happy
morning person, swilling
coffee like it was the
last drink on Earth.
Now, in an attempt to
calm herself down, she sips
tea while assuring us
between her teeth it’s not
the same.
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Sometimes
the very act of being
careful what you wish
for
lets you hook up
with what you want
even if you didn’t know
that’s what you wanted
and the one time
you think you have nothing
you really have it all.
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Oh, to see his eyes light up
when he opens the fridge,
gazes past the day-old
homemade soup,
spurns the fresh-picked carrots
and corn in the crisper,
ignores the left-over chicken saltimbocca
and pounces on the brick of cheddar
and the half-full jar of pickles
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