No poetry today.
by Sandra Linville-Thomas

Dry as a bone.

Words swimming in my head
but none are able to come to shore.
None can gain purchase.

None of these words can arrange
themselves to make a poem.

There seems to be no way to help
them gather themselves, to help the words
come together
in any new way
to find a way toward something new to say.

What hasn't been done before.

Or said before.
Perhaps tomorrow.

 

Winter Turns Its Back
by Sandra Linville-Thomas

Understated so
against the sky, elegance
erupts in fuschia

In the Kitchen with Niki and Dick in 1958
(another found poem, stretched a little)
by Sandra Linville-Thomas

Niki
I want to show you this kitchen.

This kitchen ain’t nothin’ but a thang Dick
We have such things.
In Russia.
Only better.
Everyone who wants a house has one, Dick,
in Russia.

Oh Niki I’ve been insulted by experts.
(You are no expert.)
Never mind.
This is a good kitchen.

Well Dick we will soon surpass you and
as we pass you by, we’ll wave to you
and then if you want
we’ll stop and say, "please come along
behind us."
Snap.

Dick, If you want to live under capitalism
go ahead, that’s your question
an internal matter,
it doesn’t concern us.
We can feel sorry for you, but really,
you wouldn’t understand.
We’ve already seen how you understand things.

You’re a lawyer of Capitalism,
I’m a lawyer for Communism.
Let’s kiss, Dick.

Well I don’t know about that, Niki.
I’ll have to get back with you on that.
So…this is a great little kitchen, isn’t it?
Niki

Found Poem While Watching Wednesday-Night Television

by Sandra Linville-Thomas

I kicked the hornet's nest last night.

It was all tangled up like a beaver dam.

And then I took to the road with an abandon;
like it was a calling.

I took off my musty coat halfway down the lane,

took a few wrong turns until

it became clear to me.
And then I started running;
like it was a calling.

The super moon hung in the sky
gorgeous
explosive

And then I started dancing;
like it was a calling.

I'm publishing 2 poems since I missed yesterday

Communion Wine
by Sandra Linville-Thomas

It’s written on the water
and whispered among the tall grass.
A fleeting
sign
of things to come
or that were once
and never will be again.
Confusion infused with
a communion wine is
taken at dawn,
then sprinkled over the parched earth
as a grasshopper chews and
spits tobacco juice.

Expandable Memory

by Sandra Linville-Thomas

Wait.

I remember that but

not the other.

Why?

Year-end Vigil
by Sandra Linville-Thomas

Snuff out candle flames.
Baby smoke signals erupt to exhume regrets.
Change of plans.
No cozy meditative greeting for the new year,
sitting by the fireplace.
Boots on, I seek the bitter cold and trudge
a half mile.

In the stillness, I look back
at small craters in the snow.
Then I move on.

Until
I reach a flat field and my lone vigil begins.
Lighting the leftover Independence Day sparklers,
I shower the parade of seconds.
Stars sing doo-wop behind the festival moon;
a celestial backup to the sparklers’ syncopated sizzle.

Back at home, the old year, wearing a ski mask,
pockets full of loot,
slips out the back door.

Here, the new year, hope in hand,
moonwalks around the field’s perimeter,
brooding in Ray-bans and a hoodie,
and waits for me to leave.
I get nothing.
not even a knowing wink or thumbs up

Next year, perhaps a bonfire.