Posts Tagged ‘Monday’

First, the alarm, five-thirty, a staticky hum needles

my brain. I’m awake. Then the husband shower-blocks

me, I’m barefoot on the cold tile, you can see how

the feeling begins. The morning is black; I make

coffee. My 7 a.m. students slowly raise their eyes,

drifting into consciousness like clouds, mere dreams

pushing through. Next, not enough coffee. I

cultivate hate: a thorn, buried in my chest, blooms

everywhere, with no origin. No coffee, no wifi, weak

tea. It’s not you, I tell the world, it’s me. My turn

to drift, home this time, where everything I see

blooms blue. On Monday, this is what I’ve earned.

Some days, demands exceed capacity.

Nothing to do then, but consume, and stew, and be.

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Monday (poem 7)



Small dogs blow down the street like leaves,

their small heads bobbing. The children shine

on their way to school, sails adrift amidst blacktop


and metal. I read them the way mystics

read tea leaves. The signs all portend

spring. Observe: the tulips yearn toward


blossomed branches, which wag and ripple in the wind.

The mountains dance on the horizon, festooned

with snow and ribbons of grass. I want to sing


my sorrows like an ode: Oh, Spring,

you are too much with me, late and soon,

your sunshine dogs my day, the long beams


lapping at my  legs; you run recklessly

over my desire to gripe and moan.

Oh Spring, you successfully seduce me. 


(for this poem, I came up with a list of verbs and then I just chose a form)

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