KANSAS WIND
It whined all night,
pestered me to play,
banged shutters,
slammed doors,
howled down the chimney,
daring me to come outside.
Not one to bypass challenges,
I headed east, while
fifty mile an hour gales
sped me down the walk.
My flimsy shadow soared ahead,
its helter-skelter close-cropped hair
standing on end.
I held my arms like giant wings,
a child, pretending flight.
Then turning west, to face the foe,
my timid shadow crouched behind,
hiding from the blast.
One giant unexpected gust
froze my stance,
like children playing statue.
Immobilized but for laughter
that wafted down the street,
I curled my toes to grip the earth,
to anchor me.
The sun, squintingly brilliant,
acquiesced; eclipsed by wind…
wind that stung my face
and blew away stale residue
of yesterday.
-----------------------------
Drought
thunder teases heartlessly
making sultry promises
it doesn’t keep.
Lightning flicks seductive tongues
against my bedroom wall
and then retreats -
while clouds, grown fat with moisture,
hang heavy with intent.
We wait for rain that doesn’t fall --
doesn't
fall
All poetry on this page
Copyright © by Naomi B. Patterson, 2006
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|
DECORUM
If you simply must dance
outside…
wear something.
Even if you choose the patio
where morning glories climb
to shade your feet and cool your step,
where half the world can’t see…
wear something.
The other half peers wide-eyed
through languor and lace curtains,
tisking tongues at nude jetes,
frowning at your naked arabesques.
Appease them with a flowing scarf
made of flesh-tone gossamer,
streaming ribbons in your hair,
or satin shoes that leap all by themselves.
Don’t hide among the blossoms
or take your dance inside. Just…
wear something.
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October Chase
Poems swirled past me in the street
bright leaves from autumn’s journal
blown aloft by Kansas wind.
Hands pulled into sweatshirt sleeves,
I stretched my arms like scarecrow
wings to catch some bits of verse
or capture harvest cadence.
Wind-sock witches swayed from eaves.
Eager outdoor chimes marked time
with every gust. Few hunters
braved the breezy day. Most crouched
in humdrum shelter, hiding
from the whirlwind, forgetting
there were sprightly poems to catch.
Notes on rusty golden scraps
escaped my grasp, absconded
down the street; fresh metaphors
in maelstroms twirled out of reach.
My baggy sleeves snapped smartly,
promising a fruitful hunt.
But all I reaped was one slim
verse, found tangled in my hair.
Poems elude the mesmerized,
we devotees of autumn,
disciples of the wind. |
