Poetry
Cold
A hot, sweaty mess
Tangled in sheets
Surging and throbbing
A shivering body
Twisted with need
Moaning and groaning
A sleep-deprived mind
Blistered with fever
Burning and dreaming
A damp night’s journey
Broken by sickness
coughing and wheezing
A cool morning salvation
Freed of discomfort
Sleeping and healing
End the -isms: I Hope You Will
When it’s time to stand up,
I hope you will.
When it’s time to speak out,
I hope you will.
When it’s time to rally forth,
I hope you will.
When it’s time to teach,
I hope you will.
Stop.
Look.
Listen.
It’s all around you.
Opportunity lost in silence.
Every day it’s time.
Break the silence!
Seize the opportunity!
End the -isms!
I hope you will!
(Full Definition of ism by Merriam-Webster: 1: a distinctive doctrine, cause, or theory 2: an oppressive and especially discriminatory attitude or belief)
School’s Out
Heat waves dancing in the streets
Birds singing to the rising sun
Squeals of laughter through the rain of sprinklers
Sidewalk chalk art
Popsicles and ice cream cones
Camping at the Lake
ATVs, SUV’s, no more ABC’s
School’s out for summer.
Holiday Time
Mutli-hued halos dance upon sparkling diamond mounds of cold powder, pushing back the darkness.
Smiling faces of package laden passersby, cheeks rouged by Jack Frost, exchange salutations of the season.
Music spills from garland festooned sidewalk Mom & Pop’s, drawing caroling shoppers across their thresholds.
Crisp breezes shuttle new snowflakes to and fro as the peals of children’s laughter break through all else.
My face aches from joyful expression of emotion. My favorite time of year.
Just a Thursday Afternoon
unsettled
clenched
irritated
fluttering stomach
crawling skin
throbbing
fire-seared skull
burning eyes
spinning room
concrete pillowcase full of rocks
neck with a thousand pinpricks
deep rolling ache
joint to joint
tip to top
electrified dance of arms and legs
medicate
black dark room
quiet
sleep
escape
sigh…
migraine
Gloomy Day Muse
Music notes dance across the room
Teasing emotions from my mind
Sweet serenades of longing
Pulsing charges of determination
Bouncy flutterings of joyous love
Twisting lyrical cries of anguish
Adding fuel to the fire that burns my brain
Making my fingers itch
To turn letters into words
Then words into thoughts
Spinning stories that must be told
Until the feelings drift away
Jean Page 