“French bread warming in the sun”

Sometimes a prompt comes along and I get a clear picture of what I want to write about. I hope I did this justice. The prompt was to write a preparation poem–something to do with preparing, I guess. I can’t count how many times I have heard that we are to show, not tell. Good advise. I hope I showed.

             “French bread warming in the sun”

 A spray of flickering taper candles anoints her sleek hair,
while silky skin marinates in lavender bath salts, her coy
eyes averting the brass mirror fogged with hope.

Only a woman can feel shy while bathing alone awaiting
strawberries and champagne and Old Spice and laughter.
An eyebrow pluck, a spray of jasmine behind both ears,

gauzy floral skirt tickling her painted toes, golden cross
resting in the cleavage of a loose cotton blouse.

Andrea Bocelli crooning in the background, English ivy swaying
around the wrought iron spindles on the terrace where hard-
crusted bread, covered in homespun eyelet, warms in the sun.

She praises the weather: Hallelujah—the sunshine is on her
side, but with the next breath, she curses the scalded chocolate
in the saucepan and the two wilting sunflowers in a single mason
jar and the blasted beads of nerves bubbling above her dry lips.

She sighs then wipes her palms on her hips and imagines his voice
spinning the flour dust into strands of silver.


(photo courtesy stock.xchng)


“What liars think”

The prompt from Poetic Asides this week was to take the phrase “What (blank) Think,” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem.”

This was just way too fun and I could write a million of ’em. (That is called hyperbole. A poetry term that we all indulge in–pretty much every day. I know someone who calls them “glittering generalizations” and relationally speaking we probably should reign in our tongues. But, for a poet, they are useful.)

On to the poem:

“What liars think”

I got you now

in my prison

story spinning
my mouth on fire

“The lady on the bridge”

Today’s prompt was to write a friend of a friend poem, either in the voice of the friend of a friend or about that person. Writing about a friend of a friend threw me for a few minutes. But, this was great practice at disassociating myself from the poem itself, keeping it from becoming sentimental, which a writing teacher of mine said was imperative for good poetry.

“The Lady On the Bridge”

I only saw what he told me—

Her violet hair in the moonlight,

face painted with thorns,

crying for silence,

arms and feet in an

arabesque leap,

voice catching on the

mooring line

snug around her neck.

(photo courtesy stock.xchng)