Compulsion

She combs the fringes of the rugs
categorizes then alphabetizes
the cans on the shelf color-codes
her calendar for her husband
and kids if it's Monday it's blue and
blue is who? If you don't have a color

you don't register. The world has
too many calendars and they all have
too many days, years are too long.
The world is a herd
of cats the world makes her
sweat more cry harder laugh wilder,
so she listens to gentle sermons
on the way to work (Volvo) (white)
driving exactly in the center point
between the lines. The world has
too many lines! Why so many lines?
The world is so hard to obey, everywhere
she turns things are outside the lines.

Bible (black) class is Wednesday (green)
night, surely the answer - surely it's gold -
is there if only she listens, those
who know the answer speak to her but
as if underwater, the answer is
in bubbles she can't catch
and she knows who's
to blame: she who cannot

herd cats (calico). Her goal is
to gather the whole wriggling
world in her arms, hold it
still, in one place, nice
and straight, all of it,
just for one second
pleaseohpleaseGod! she's
leaning over, she's on her
knees, interrupts her worship to
smooth a wayward fringe, her
prayers encompass all . . . unless . . .
unless she forgot someone, or a color
or a fringe, a cat. The possibilities

make her vibrate, life has
too many possibilities, they blur
the boundary between herself
and the world, people cannot
see her clearly, they do
double-takes - is she here or there?
Her tremors make the ergonomically
correct chair squeak and now someone's

dog-eared the pages, now blue
bleeds into orange, the soup can's
before the nuts can, the cats are
on the lam, the fringes are having
an orgy, she prays for serenity,
still she develops strange

strategic rashes, dismaying her husband,
Friday's the only night he sees her without
rollers in her hair, cream ladled onto her face,
he's making love and she's locked into desperation,
in desperation she whispers to him, whispers
because she doesn't want to wake
the fringes,

there's mildew in the mattress, honey,
the pillow case is wrinkled, darling,
see how I'm trembling, my dear,
how my nose is red
how my eyes
water.

Lazy hazy misty shadows lift
your eyes towards the warming sun
Catkin clear in golden morning glint
of dappled dewdrop light
Silver moonlight slivers now a distant memory
The freshly polished golden glow shimmers
As blurred thoughts turn to
pin sharp clarity
The new day's sheen, vibrant

One can feel the words, Dave, just like an oil painting glistening on canvas.
The changing season clarifies your vision as the new day shines brightly.
Have missed your pen and seeing your posts!

Those rules of writing are true pearls of wisdom.
Writing takes discipline as well as emotional response to life.
Sometimes the words just flow - sometimes the well runs dry.
Keep at it - write - rewrite - and when you get it right, isn't
it cathartic

April is National Poetry Month



The door is always open to friends.
Share a favorite poem. Comments are appreciated and welcome.

Don't be shy - Come on by

I sit at my desk, not a word in sight
Then somehow, they come, in a flow at night
This thread is home in a sense to me
Writing or reading our poetry

"Lazy hazy misty shadows lift"

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

-Carl Sandburg