Ghosts at my table

there are ghosts at my table tonight
I write, not mentioning that
my table is a pale rectangle
of wood, so that perhaps
you picture your own table,
round, white, plastic –
or a dark mahogany oval,
and your ghosts are
the dark ring left by
a wine bottle, the last time
you had dinner with
a long lost lover,
or the scorched place
where you set down a pan
too quickly, the day
you heard that news
about your sister, while mine
are the assorted stains
and scratches left by my
children as they leave their
childhood, not quite ghosts,
waiting to fade.

Metafictionfor the Toads

News

drip drip drip
the tap fills
the sink until
drip drip drip
it overflows
and suddenly
it’s everywhere
and the noise
maddens
drip drip drip
and yet somehow
we can’t turn it off
can’t turn away
can’t look away
we must know
drip drip drip
what she wore
what he said
where they fought
drip drip drip
who made the error
who told the lie
drip drip drip
the flood
the fire
the bomb
the war
drip drip drip
the child crying

Poets used to carry news with them, we are told. I’m feeling a bit newsed out at the moment, but this is for the Toads. 

Hairdresser – for real toads.

Each chair holds a story
because we each hold a story
of love or lust or dreaming
and the blue flowers hold the sky.

The scissors click and clack
and the voices rise and fall
and each chair holds a story
because we each hold a story
of fear or pain or sorrow
and the blue flowers hold
the heart of the sky.

A silver tree grows
and crystals sound like rain.
My coffee tastes bitter
down to the last drop
and each chair holds a story
and the blue flowers hold
the soul of the sky.

 

Toad Susie asks us to find a poem in the world around us:

For today’s challenge I want you to write a poem from your immediate surroundings. For example where I am sitting there is a vase of   flowers,  silver thermos, a mailbox nameplate from my father’s mailbox, a window, a rather sickly violet, books, a clock, a tape dispenser, the whir of an air conditioner. I could go on and on.  Your poem could be a combination of what you see, hear, taste, feel, just pull from the spot where you are writing. 

      Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

 

Three flames

Photo by M. Bednar. Prompt from Imaginary gardens with real toads.  

The first flame
takes the leaf
the first leaf
and from there
it swings from
twig to twig
wild cat, bright
bird, moving
swiftly, yet
staccato,
bursting out
in unex-
pected spots,
a fever,
epidemic
of heat, raised
temperature,
wild passion.

The second flame
is a candle in a dark
window, waiting:
the quiet light
that calls the
traveller home,
drifts gentle through
the trees, spills
down the garden path,
wraps itself around you
like a warm robe,
a breath of love,
as the door opens.

The third flame calls the bullet.
The third flame
calls
the bullet.
The
third
flame
calls
the
bullet.