Belinda’s Dream

Belinda in San Francisco

dreams she’s riding a white pony

through a sandstorm of pink roses.

Beautiful Belinda I’ve met only

in blog posts and comments,

as I’ve met most of you

who knock politely at my blog’s door,

you mysterious sweeties leaving

cake and champagne on my top step,

 
each of you just as awesome as my blue guitar.

55 words of fictional reality inspired by the “Belinda’s Dream” shrub I recently met in our Bontanical Gardens.

55 words for the one, the only, the incomparably incomparable — G-Man.

xoxoxoxoxoo to all.

Deeper Into The Rorschach Shawl — a poem

My Rorschach Shawl is trimmed

along its thrift store edges with

Van Gogh’s almond blossoms,

his sunflowers courting my

shawl’s picnic-blanket allure

upon which my coffee sits

among love sandwiches

and heaping plates of hope

I’ll happily share with you.

The icing on the cake

at the feast — a little girl,

graces a scene in the

heart of a beautiful city

where many souls are

rejoicing in the sweet

golden gift of the day.

Yay for One Stop Poetry’s One Shot Wednesday — the Net’s ultimate poetry sharing blogsite!!

xoxooxoxoxoxoxoxox

(Kelly photo, yesterday.)

Linda You’re More Than Just Snippets

Linda you’re more than just snippets
of the shine on your bike I learned to
fly down the street to the store on,

more than your sailboats of eyes
that shined up a thousand Sundays
we swirled in worlds of jump rope

and wore our beach glass tiaras,
our driftwood treasures on window sills,
us so sure we’d one day be ballerinas,

2 girls in fluffs of hand-me-downs,
your colors usually late morning glory,
mine in clouds of salmon and rose.

One day I’ll see photos of you and me,
ones tucked into albums somewhere in
the gardens of our mothers’ collections.

Us on beaches at picnics, and smiling near
snow mobiles suddenly quiet in winter’s hush,
the naked birches dreaming of July’s eyes.

In the photo above — for my readers, are me,
your sister Melody and my brother Pat. 1969.
Linda, you up there dancing with Pat now.

You dead a few weeks ago at only 47
from a massive heart attack while driving.
Patrick killed in a crash when he was 16.

You and he maybe chatting daily now
at barbecues and such, endless parties
up there with all our ones long gone

and Einstein, Montessori and Cole Porter,
Heaven one constant garden party brunch,
champagne 24 / 7. No dishes ever to do.

Always thought I’d see you again.
And I will. Just not at this level my
elevator of time is still parked at.

Remember our last day in Grade 1?
Lori wore her long pink flower girl gown,
I the pale yellow one above, and yours

all October ocean blue with those little
diamonds of possibility stitched into the hem.
Remember? We had popsicles that day!

Then sang every song we knew on the
bus all the way home, three Big Girls soon
moving all the way up to Grade 2.

Linda if I never told you I loved you, it
was only because I still hadn’t learned how.
So, I’m saying I love you now. And you’ll

always be more than just snippets of 
those candy necklaces, caramel flakies,
greasy fries, and eventually, nips of rum

on the beach where all the time in the world
still stretched itself across the Bay in streaks
of gold I’ll always remember your hair as.

With love from Jannie

xoxoxooxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

That’s my One Shot Wednesday Poem.

We All Know — a poem

We all know
we should be
doing dishes

folding laundry
sweeping floors
baking cakes

writing novels
songs and letters,

getting new clients
flatter abs and
firmer buttocks

while simultaneously transplanting ferns
and whistling tunes as we hide
in the dunes by the seaside,
plus a bunch of other stuff

instead of blogging poetry.

But should is an “s” word
best kicked to the curb.

And tho a clean house
might lift the spirits,

love knows it’s really
sharing poems on the Net

not money, muscle or Mr. Clean
that makes the world go ’round.

That was a poem for One Shot Wednesday.

Jannie’s current toenail paint is Sally Hansen’s Diamond Strength in “Peach Pave.”

xoxoxoxo

14 guys in kilts — a poem in 55 words

on an April morning smelling on and off
of maple fudge boiling on an old wood stove,
she sat on a bench where no bills were owing
and nothing sad had ever or could ever happen,
her camera zoom lens having almost as much fun as
14 guys in kilts dancing the can-can in an Easter parade.

Those evershall remain 55 Friday Flash Fiction words for The G-Man.

xoxoxooxox