Writing with a Migraine

Writing with a Migraine

is an exercise in willpower.

Sunglare wince.

I must get this down

before pain,

disorientation,

confusion hits.

Before eyes

can’t  distinguish

one key from another,

see past the sparkle,

the visual aura –

the first warning.

Slow keystrokes,

deliberate, pull

muddled thought

down the arms, out

reluctant fingers; 

stunned, heavy eyes. 

Done then?

A nap to wash away

pain. Hide under

pillow, something soft

to sooth. Clouds move in.

Rain taps the roof.

Summer Kiss

Not sure if this is done yet, but it's the first Pantoum I've ever attempted:

Vignette While Driving

Sunlight on their smiling faces

they sat rubbing shoulders on the summer grass

under a bright bus stop sign

as I drove by on my way to somewhere else.

They sat, shoulders touching on summer grass

sharing a moment that made them laugh

as I drove away toward somewhere else

I saw her soft smile and bend toward him.

Sharing a moment of laughter

I caught them there, a vignette of hope and love,

she bent toward him with a soft smile,

and brushed away a strand of hair that had fallen on her face.

I caught them there, a snapshot of hope and love

reflected in their smiles and their youth,

she brushing a strand of hair from her face,

he turning for the kiss that waited there.

I saw myself reflected in their smiles and youth

and remembered as I drove away to somewhere else,

I, too, once turned for an anticipated kiss,

soft as a smile on the summer grass.

Solstice Dream

Here's day eighteen's submission of NaPoWriMo (a poem a day for the month of April in honor of National Poetry Month): another Summer Solstice poem (I know it's early, but it's for a contest, alright?). Here we go!

Solstice Dream

I was never the one

invited to dance naked

on the beach

in the woods

within a circle of stones

when the shadows were shortest

and the sun swung its arc

across the apex of the sky.

No I didn’t get passed the joint,

smoke hash from a pipe,

or eat the mushrooms;

didn’t sacrifice my virginity

to whatever goddess demanded it,

or shave my head

wear robes

and walk barefoot

over burning coals.

Not me.

Not that I didn’t want to.

But I stayed home,

helped put tin foil over the kids’ windows

so they’d finally go to sleep,

and fell into the mattress

like she was a mistress,

cradling me from the energy

demanded by so much light.

She would cover my eyes with her pillows,

and rise to me, pushing

sensuous, inviting, suggestive.

But I was already snoring,

passing a pipe,

twirling naked in my dreams.