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