Locations of Site Visitors

Saturday, April 26, 2014

Poem for April 26


With a flash, a crack, you threaten my life.
I defy your hunger, sit on the side porch swinging
on this metal glider—a parched August afternoon.

You gush in, wipe sweat beads from my forehead,
blow around my ankles, pull wet hair from my shoulders,
open my shirt with your breath.

I drop my head back, inhale your promises, listen
as your rain pelts every oak and maple tree that lines
the street to my house. Ever near to me you draw,
then blow on by like some lover’s afterthought.

Patty Cole

Thursday, April 24, 2014

Poem for April 25

At first our lives were measured in hours and days,
Marked by sleeping, crying, nursing, diaper changes and first smiles.

Next it was measures in weeks and months,
Marked by first steps, teeth, first words, stuffed animals and birthday photos.

Then it was in years,
Marked by new siblings, best friends, puberty, summer jobs, drivers’ ed,
            graduations and beer parties.

At the peak it was in decades,
Marked by marriage, babies, new cars, family vacations, job changes and
            new houses in unfamiliar cities.

Then it became years and months again,
Marked by grandchildren, retirement parties, social security checks, class
            reunions and travels to exotic lands.

And now we live by days and hours again,
Marked by SMTWTFS pillboxes, doctors’ visits, dietetic meals and the
            obituaries of old friends.  

Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Poem for April 24


How easily happiness begins by dicing onions,
You dice. You cry. You get it out.
For a dash of drama, put “The Warsaw Concerto”
on the stereo. It peels your outer layers
and pries open Sunday confessions.

The outer rim of the song, like the onion
is strong. A torrent of spice and tears
runs wildly over my cutting board.
The heart is splayed open with the horns’ fortissimo.

When the onions are transparent and mellow,
the Concerto has dwindled down to a soft, still voice,
the piano sings and the onions whisper in the pan.

Patty Cole

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

Poem for April 23


The melodies of my mind are heard by many.
Some smile and hum along.
Some frown and turn away.
Some don’t listen at all.

The melodies of my heart are heard by a few.
They applaud the finer harmonies,
Tolerate the sour notes,
And patiently continue to listen.

The melodies of my soul are heard only by God,
Who forgives all the discord,
Tells me to keep playing,
And gives me free lessons.

Herb Wakeford

Monday, April 21, 2014

Poem for April 22


This morning I warm
to the notion we own
twenty-five years
and seventeen acres
out where they stopped
planting street lights long ago.

I hit the alarm for five more
minutes, curl to my left, lick the salt
on the back of your neck, stop
at the scooped out curve of your
lower back.

You don’t move. I get up.
Fry sausage.

Patty Cole