Saturday Small Stones ...Poetry from the Week

This year, I tried writing poetry in a closed forum. It began as a way to fight writer's block, and to keep my brain from growing stale writing prose.  So 5-7 days a week, I write a poem.  Here are a few from that effort that people in the forum liked.   

Cinderella During the Day

Today,
I want something terrific.
Snow or wine 
or homemade pumpkin pie
red sweaters,
a party, a dance, 
a letter, a phone call
new shoes or a found earring,
just something other
than drippy fall rain
and a ton of clothes to fold.

November 6, 2013
We spent the morning
stomping at shadows
and flying up the driveway.

Later, in the interest of doing important things,
we rescued a pony and three hotwheels
from the vacuum cleaner.

Tonight, they repaid me
by screaming their loudest
frightening away the telephone solicitor.

The Reason
We write
and scratch
and hope
and love
and live
just for 
that moment
that never 
lasts long
or satisfies 
as our 
imagination 
imagines,
the moment
when we 
will capture
that thing
hidden
in words
that matters most.

Why I Think Any of Us Do Anything
At the heart 
of every artist,
ever person 
I think,
is someone 
hopefully hopeful
that they
will one day
be discovered
and remembered
as having
poured out every last drop of everything
in the hopes
of being something
like a star, like the sun,
to all the world around.

What Really Made Her Mad

was when her brother
took off her shoes
while she was sleeping,
he forgot
to remove the socks as well.

Blue

Whatever else you know, 
sharps and flats bleed blueness. 

They reveal the minor chords 
that fill all the cracks in our minds and hearts, 
where people and poems and dreams slipped out 

while we were overly busy 
with the redness 
and immediate readiness of life. 

Blue sounds like the echos
of loves lost and goals surrendered 
but which we still savor 

in those moments between sunset and night, 
before the stars and the moon distract us. 

To hear blue is to let yourself stop
and attune to the whisper 
that lets the world play like a flute, 

with all the punctured points where we wounded it, 
pressed just so to make all that injury 
pour out beauty.

Blue.