Wildcard Wednesday
A Poem

I don't usually write poems. It wouldn't be fair to say this is because I don't like poems. I am just old fashioned. I admire the classic poems of Frost, Dickinson, or Blake, and some of the French surrealists who either follow the rules with resounding epic beauty or break them and forge off on their own with the elegance of a new song. Poems are a writer's love letter to the musicality of words.

The problem is I'm poetically tone deaf.

I often feel that rhythm, meter, and poetic forms are better left untainted by me. That's okay because I've found my home in prose where I can still appreciate language in my own way. But I have been forced to write poems before and here is one result that wasn't a complete and utter loss in my opinion. It reminds me a little of Shel Silverstien's work. The poem's inspired by all the time I spent as a child finding pictures in the tile or wood floors of my house.

Linoleum Dreams

Fingers trace the strings of beads

surfacing from the linoleum dreams

pictures of daisies and bright butter folds

of coffee and hair bits and apricot holds

the attention of one little girl on this day

rapt sailing soldiers in the thickening haze

rat a tat tat where the dancing man’s found

of wavy brown lines and a-tipping his crown

to the silver-haired duchess encased in brocade

as her servants below her serve pink lemonade

outside the people who live in the pine

tap on the window in keeping their time

hair of green needles and fingers of thatch

move in a serenade rhythm to match

What

are you doing,

little girl dear of mine?

You need to be moving,

not wasting your time

Come with me and we’ll read

many tales that we’ve read

and then,

wash your hands

before going to bed.