Spring Break Poetry

I wrote something like a poem of the most memorable point of my day or the feeling I took away from the day for seven days of break. Some are stretches but other ones I truly like as poems. I plan to write a poem inspired by my day no matter how mundane in order to get into the habit and possibly write some decent poetry.

Saturday: Poemless Day
A pretty poem-less day
as far as my memory backs up;
I can’t focus on something
I might have written about
creatively.
I do have turquoise capris
to make my butt pop
in the spring,
except snow is coming.
We watched an 80s movie,
enjoyed dinner
made some notecards,
roamed the internet;
a to-do list of emptiness

Sunday: Booze Baking
There are twelve different bottles of liquor on our countertop
paired with shotglasses and crystalware and wineglasses
around these fragile glass items I place the glass bowls
where I mix the usually baking ingredients
and add in some booze

This one night before the end of winter, an excuse to drink
with crème de menthe overpowering crème de cocoa,
reminiscent of milk after a certain cereal breakfast,
fueling our dominoes game while playing holiday trivia
Mainly: why are there snakes on the table?

By the end of the night I’m covered in ganache and alcohol
but there are two dozen cupcakes fit for consumption
by hands half buttercream, half batter,
new birthmarks specks of dark chocolate;
a sign of a born again baker

Between kitchen counter and kitchen table
I spend most of the night back and forth
playing games, making liquor-laden sweets,
discussing a saint, mythological feats
and after all this: waking up on Monday

Monday: Dog Chases Deer
I didn’t see the deer
But the two dogs did
And my sister saw their namesake
Bobbing out of view as two dogs
Leapt and loped out of view as well
The big guy came back
Always afraid he’ll lose us
He knows we feed him
Provide him beds
And couches to lay on
The little girl has a simple mind
Usually running, after nothing
But this time there is a goal
That has legs twice as long
And knows the twists and turns
Of this small forest
So we holler her name
The winter woods are quiet
Even the trees aren’t speaking
No creak or groan of neighbors
But we don’t hear her light step
Or faint jingle of collar tags
And the big guy is worried
But knows he’s no scout
And she’s thrice as fast as him
We worry silently to ourselves
And after what seems like fifteen
She returns in about five
From a completely different direction

Tuesday: Ache of Climb
The underside of the space between your first and second knuckle burns
It is not used to gripping, holding, pushing for such intense bouts of activity
Fingers open door and jars and shampoo bottles, grip pens and forks and knives
But aren’t relied on daily to pull you out of trouble, to climb that mountain of work

Fingers burning weren’t the only obstacle upon The Wall
High in the rising heat of a building where sweat sneaks imperceptibly into palm
Into the crevices of the handholds now damp clenched by dry winter hands
The heat making the sweat in the pits rise ever-so-kindly to your nostrils striving for fresh air

The muscles beneath your armpits ache when shivering from cold
Where the bottom of your wings may have attached in a fantasy world
Feel as though you’ve been flying all day with greater vigor
But in this real world flying would negate the reason for that slightly prideful ache

Wednesday: Friendship’s Effect on Time
Roads to friends are shorter than roads to work
even if they are physically longer
words pass the time as we pass sign after sign
we speak of the future and of the past
rearrange the timeline into conversation
where we may go from October next year
to three years from now, two months back
graduation six years ago or our first movies
sitting in theaters two decades passed
and presently we sip our drinks, pay the bills
once chocolate milk and monopoly money
that path to those play dates takes two blinks
even though we’ve driven thousands of miles since.

Thursday: Perils of Painting
Has anyone ever painted something and not come out with blue hair or new-colored clothes?
Pouring bucket flows over fingertips or side of the tin into little puddles feet must avoid
But they won’t and you’ll track it over sheets of plastic, maybe carpet, but at least that’s blue too
The cylinder of foam slides off the roller the longer you paint and required readjusting
Usually meaning circles of paint on your palms as you quickly push it into place
And if it needs more than that the handle gets to rest between thighs, sweatpants get marked
Wiggling around the furniture pushed to the center of the small room means brushes with blue
The seat of black sweats are now multicolored along with thighs where hands wipe mindlessly
And a splotch of blue on one side of the ponytail indicates where your head bowed idly
Your body parts and clothing aren’t the only marked things
Pieces of ceiling and wooden trim and the curtain to the closet you should’ve removed
Screwdrivers and hammers previously used for nail and screw removal get painted too
And occasionally important things like cell phones dive into the paint tray

Friday: Immortality
Immortality is imparted unto us in the smiles
made by the cells we created or nurtured;
in those voices telling stories to the children
who may only remember an inkling,
a snippet of who you were multiplied
in their lives and their stories.

Creative Commons License
This work by Sarah Holmes is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License

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