How did I get from two behind to six behind?! I need to put myself in a corner and work on mindfulness.
An elderly man, white bearded,
blue jeaned, takes his time, bicycles
down the sidewalk along Peachtree
Road. He waves at a car. When
he turns back I see the parrot. A yellow
parrot with orange and green wings.
A man and his parrot. Cycling
along Peachtree one winter’s day.
Better. I didn’t quite get to the file right after I hit Save, but I did remember on my own and before noon.
Seven floors down, cars shush
and hiss on the wet tarmac; tires
send up spray to dot other
windshields. The road is black.
**********
On the beige carpet
long bars of sunlight
and the shadows
of vertical blinds
imprison me.
I really must learn, as soon as I have typed the stone to IMMEDIATELY go here and post. I keep forgetting that part and running into something, during the day, frantically waving a flag at me.
Two versions. The second is an experiment because I was curious.
red blue green orange pink
in the middle of a grey day
after several days of grey
a string of leftover Christmas
lights brings cheer to the room
red blue green orange pink
in *red* the middle of a grey day
after several *blue* days of grey
a string of *green* leftover Christmas
lights brings cheer to *orange* the room
I think I like it, but am not sure whether it works. At any rate, it was fun. Now, OTHERS’ BLOGS.
Yes, I am having far too much fun playing with the post titles. Thirty with ‘stone’ in them in some form? We’ll see.
I peer at the three white
puffs with streamers.
Trees? Jellyfish? I wonder.
Broccoli, says my friend
who took the photograph.
Thousands of miles apart
we study clouds together.
It does help if I type up the stones sitting in my notebook. Then I’ll only be four days behind. Below, three stones. Can you tell the kind of weather we are having?
Everything outside is grey,
even the rain with its half-
hearted mizzle.
Inside, on the stove,
a Le Creuset pot sits,
a bright orange enamel sun.
************
A gumball machine rests on the granite counter
top, its base a red enamel with chrome trim.
Cashews fill the glass globe.
************
Mist swallows the dreariness of grey
wraps buildings in silent shrouds.
I did it again. Managed to get the stone typed this morning and was distracted by something. I only noted I hadn’t posted when I changed the theme.
In January in the evenings
when I go to draw the curtains
the sun reflects molten copper
off the faces of mid-town high-rises.
Anyone else having problems remembering that not only do they have to write stones, but they then have to type them, post them even? It’s not as if this is difficult! One thing good about my seeming lack of focus is that I am accomplishing something I hoped to: I am writing on the fly [you should hear my brain: Oy! Wait. I’m still processing. Where are you?], not something I find easy — unless a teacher is standing in front of me saying, ‘Write a poem following these three steps. You have nine minutes’. It worked a treat.
Yesterday’s and today’s:
stone 6
As if I exist on two planes, I look down
to where early morning cars rush in and
out of my vision, marked by red tail lights
and the glancing reflection of street lamps.
Up here, on the seventh story, the trees
outside my window lift their bare, twiggy
branches and stand like sentinels waiting
for the sun. The road sounds recede.
All is still.
Stone 7
Turning my head I catch the moment
of arrival. A splash of salmon with a deep
rose centre colours the horizon
pinks into low-lying cloud streaks.
The surface is bumpy and uneven,
like looking down on a miniature desert.
Flecked with crystals, the scone is triangular
with cliff walls, from which shine rubies.
Wave a scone in front of me, I’m done. I adore them, although the American version is not quite the same as the original. Both are delicious.
I think what I appreciate most about Fiona [I will shift to her new name as soon as I remember to find it and learn it]and Kaspa doing this, is that, if I haven’t been writing, I slowly and creakingly move back into the rhythm.
the greys
It’s that time, past dawn, when colours fade
and everything stretches grey, from me
in my woolie, looking out the window,
to the porch, the street with morning cars, the church
across the road, the trees, the rooftops, even the sky,
at this moment, before the sun tops the winter horizon.
I missed Day 1. In the possible that I will write and post every day, I thought I would catch up with two. I realise they seem to go together. Pretend they don’t.
On the stove a rattle,
lid to pot, escaping
steam hisses,
the turkey renders.
On the floor, sorted
laundry is piled, a box
holds the Christmas
centrepiece, a black bag
shrouds the table-top tree.
Pine needles are strewn.
Random Stones 