Free Verse

[Westerly_2]

Or end rhyme verse, if you prefer. Give us the best of your verse,

[Westerly_2]

Falling Down

 

I’ve seen it before

but never with blood

Before, he would fall to his knees

slide down the wall

reach out and grab

crumple

and convulse gently

Fixed eyes,

lids uneven

like shades at a window

 

This time there’s a crash

unseen

And there’s blood everywhere

on his still face –

nose

forehead

brows

running red

from riding the bookcase

all the way down

 

Still, awhile, before he struggles

to his knees

and looks around

straining to focus

mouth agape

pinball eyes darting

 

He stands with knuckles dragging

arms swinging

herky jerking

his battery low

staring unseeing

 

He wants his…

What is it he wants?

Where’s my…?

He plucks the fabric

of his shirt

 

He must identify…

Name and label

these unknowns

And take a step

toward the words

 

 

 

 

 

[Marilyn]

Chilling, Westerly ... masterful. Thank you!

[Westerly_2]

Thanks, Marilyn. It's nice to be read and get coments.

[Bmichael]

Very powerful!

Submit.

[Westerly_2]

Coach

 

 

The big white mini-van,

basic model, crank windows –

in its first year, chariot for a sick man –

outfitted with an extra battery

to run his oxygen condenser

for the longer trips to the hills

aside from the slow pass through the suburbs,

to stores, to doctors,

to the nurseries for trees and plants,

for the enjoyment of the quiet old couple.

 

Later, he had to hoist himself

from his scooter to the driver’s seat.

It winded him

and the trips were less frequent.

 

Their children filled the car with toddlers’ toys,

car seats,

and covered it with decals –

rock groups, lipsticked kisses.

 

It was after the youngest son took out the seats

and got his party on

it became a rolling Liquor & Food

with empty beer bottles, butts

and plastic bags of stuff

littering the floor and glove box.

 

It sits here now – a gleaming bullet in the rain,

waiting to be launched

rattling and thumping,

the second- or third-choice ride

of the kids – 

 those discerning reprobates.

 

I miss you, old man, she says,

and the empty pumpkin shell

that has outlasted its enchantment.

 

 

[Bmichael]

!!!

[Westerly_2]

Lemons from Trees

 

These lemons are heavy with juice.

It will take ten for half a gallon,

twelve if you like it strong.

 

Cut them into quarters lengthwise,

Leave the skins on and don’t bother with seeds.

Set the pulp bin in place,

Slide a bowl under the juice spigot.

 

Stuff one or two cut pieces

into the top of the juicer,

press down with the plunger

into the grater:

pulp flies out and juice runs down.

 

It’s thick and frothy,

the color of lemon chiffon pie.

The bowl’s full in no time.

 

Add sugar to taste,

 roughly 1:1,

water to thin, maybe two or three times.

Some of the water can be from ice cubes

 

Tip it to your lips.

Ah! Fresh!

It’s good when life gives you lemons.

 

 

[Westerly_2]

Mixed Bag

 

He was a mixed bag,

a grab bag of chancy prizes

you had to eat yourself through stale popcorn to get.

Sometimes you wrapped your finger

around a spearmint gum drop

or you came away with a cold lima bean.

You could get a big, juicy strawberry

or a lump of iconic coal –

as in Santa’s stocking coal –

smutty and smudging up your face and your hands.

 

Sometimes what you got was a guy

who took a poor family shopping

and loaded their cart with meat.

Another day he passed out at the party

under the table,

and people had to walk around him.

 

When a question, any question, needed an answer

he had it

and it was verifiable.

Other times he insisted the sky was red

and scorned your belief in the contrary.

 

He refused to judge those who were broken and limping
and not holding up any end at all.

Other times he wouldn’t  let go

of a bad first impression,

preferring to let the thorn in his side

fester and ooze

and slop over onto healthy tissue

gumming that up too.

 

He turned up his nose at Robert Frost,

scorned the wine list too,

 and he gave that junkie who worked for him

pay for extra hours that were made up,

knowing that they were.

 

There was no predicting what lay at the bottom of the bag,

and that’s what kept me holding it so long.

 

 

[Carol T]

Lovely!

[Marilyn]

It's all lovely, Westerly. Thank you!

[Westerly_2]

Thank YOU!

[Westerly_2]

Sharing

 

There’s a wooden train set, track and all,

on display at B & N near the kids’ books,

and of course she stays there.

We wave great books before her face

She tunes out

She wants the trains and the other kids:

 

My son’s kid –

taller and thinner within the group

than I noticed her alone –

pale,

big eyes,

serious,

calm…

 

The children’s nook in the back

is set up to snare –

a deep buy-it pit baited

with bright, talking, moving, thinking toys

luring you in

And your arms are full of sale bargains

before you know how they got there.

 

They sit around –

the presumed dad with the dandelion hair

and far-away stare,

reading a magazine,

someone’s mom in jeans and button-down,

tapping on her iPad.

Her big-headed boy is a grabber.

“Don’t forget; it feels good to share,” she says

The boy does not look convinced.

He tightens his grip, holding onto what he has.