Friday, December 25, 2009

Christmas Passed

Now tell me no more about Christmas,
I have survived it once again
busy,  short-shrift  no less
than usual.

It’s the tinsel, the politics, the hype.
I have survived it once again
hungry, bereft no less
than usual.

Someday I’ll pass it all by
the tinsel, the petty politics, the hype,
and celebrate the astonishing love meant
to be usual.

                     Wanda McCollar

Wednesday, December 23, 2009

Into Every Life a Frog Must Fall

I wanted a frog
in my garden,
I wanted his voice,
his splashing around,
when one appeared
I scorned him.

Was it my aversion to
nictitating membranes
slipping over
blinkless eyeballs,
or webby-toed
sticky suctions, his
unforgivable froginess?

There are other things
that look like frogs –
flowers in green paper,
rumpled blankets,
a crumpled letter,
tear-soaked Kleenex
looks like a frog,
his pond-green Peugeot
leaping away.

            Wanda McCollar

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

ReadWritePoem post # 104


                     Sexual Selection

                    A nematode glides,
                    aimless, undulant, until he spies
                    a female opportunity,
                    then, excited, accurate, quick,
                    hot-wired for it.

                    On a broad leaf
                    fruit flies assemble,
                    displaying their greatest intentions,
                    she inspects these
                    contenders (for a week!)
                    One mating is all she gets                    
                    ever, but
no shortage of
                    healthy progeny --
                    good choice.

                    Echoing trills, moonlit
                    dances, aerial acrobatics,
                    erect feathers and
                    splendid blue faces,
                    peafowl, pheasant, penguin
                    all know what to look for, 
                    warbler, wolf, fox
                    better make good choices –
                    it's a mate for life.

                   Enlargement pills, trading,
                   selling, buying, cheating,
                   beating, addiction, abandonment,
                   pedophilia, murder –
                   you know the rest.
                   The species that exercises free will.

                                         Wanda McCollar

Sunday, December 6, 2009

In Defense of Apples

               Suppose an Apple

               of Queen Elizabeth I

               who lifted her spirits
               by its smell,
               and a boy tipping
               one after another into
               the pounder, of cider,
               of calvados,
               of Pliny who told
               about those who ate naught
               and lived by
               this smell alone. Suppose
               from a filigree of
               raggedy rows,
               from windfalls pillowed
               laden branches,
               one --
               perfect in the palm
               round, firm
               smelling of morning,
               of crispin, ginger gold,
                jonathan, winesap from
               the Shenandoah Valley,
               of gravenstein,
               paula red and ruby jon,
               of peelings yellow, green, red
               and nearly black,
               of firm white flesh
               sweet and tart.

                            Wanda McCollar

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

ReadWritePoem post # 103


                    A Pomegranate, of Course

A splendid scrotum of
                    juicy ruby seeds
                    caught Eve’s eye
                    and sin
                    is our penalty.

Persephone succumbed
                   to sucking seven juicy rubies
                   in Hades, and
                   is our burden.
About a nightingale
                   singing in a pomegranate tree
                   Juliet lied, and
                   lost love
                   is our sorrow.

Surely, there was never danger
                   in apples.

                                  Wanda McCollar


November was National Novel Writing Month. Write a novel during the month's 30 days - 50,000 words required to "win." I managed it - 50,000 words. It became easier as I went along. My characters took up their own lives and trotted off in their own directions. Amazing process.

Of course - it's a jumble of twisted threads - rather like a knitting basket the cat's been paying in. It's going to take patient effort to untangle/edit. And many more words. Tentative title is "Walking Backwards." Could change. -

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Monday Memo to Forests Department Chief

This morning the sun rose
a fraction north
of its normal spot.
You must shift the moss
a bit south on all barks,
reposition those leaves
tending to flip in morning breeze,
you know - aspen, birch.
Redirect the bees,
turn flower faces two degrees-
you can leave the dew alone,
I suppose, it'll be gone soon,
but you'll have to do something
about those birds.

I expect a report by noon.

Headline: Psychologists find Mondays really are tougher at the work place because of demands of the bosses.

Saturday, August 15, 2009

Two Tweets and a Twitt from very long ago

Tweet Tweet Twitt

Yonder she sits at table spoon poised over her hot broth's froth
listening to church bells knoll. Serenity amidst bustle. I think I love her.

Now a knave hitches his sagging hose and approaches his features
coarse his smile salacious. I fling myself at the brazen-faced varlet.

Willie, if you slack your duties I'll clip your tweeter. O woe is me to
have a son who takes up time to rant such foolishness.

Wanda McCollar

The prompt is found here

Thursday, August 13, 2009

ReadWritePoem prompt # 87

Wind is a Poet Tonight

rising over the house percussion,
swashing rain against the window,
a snare drum above the bed,
whooshing down spouts,
and in the darkness of that din,
we snuggle tighter, loving
the perfect safety of each other …

No, wait.
Those last two lines
darted in on poetry’s gauzy wings
seeking shelter, but
there’s no truth in them.

... and in the darkness of that din
I raise my voice and
sing an off-key duet with the wind
and its erratic band:
sssssssssshhhhhh under the eaves,
aaaaaaaahhhhh in door cracks,

Wanda McCollar

Thursday, August 6, 2009

Read Write Poem, Prompt # 86


Grown without roots, 
still stalwart in my old age, 
I'll fall swiftly.

That's the advantage for rootless things,
not to be regretted. 

The back seat of a blue '36 Buick
was all mine, their tall backs 
topped by heads looking forward,
talking forward, were 
my parents.  We travelled.     
Lights racing by as I tucked in
for the night, or shadows scurrying
across hotel ceilings, traffic still passing,
are fondest memories.  The murmur
of their voices.

Words were my soil, books
rocks I wrapped around. Friends
blossomed in my mind.
Rootless things do not exist long,
But I do.

                 Wanda McCollar