Pens

Accordions?
Pens fight with pencils
One allows mistakes,
the other demands perfection.

At the mercy of the hand
manipulating it.

Frustrated by scribbled out mistakes.

Chewed, turned, cracked, lost, and forgotten.

A flying acrobat in fidgety hands.

The silent listener of our inner thoughts.

Hand held distractions one click, twist,
and flick at a time.

Running out of ink just in the

Pens are like accordions…well, not really.

My Mother's Clothes

A free write prompt turned into a poem.

Function over form, that is my mother’s style.

Conservative fashionista with simplicity guiding the way.

Any hint of worry or fret about what to wear,

Disappears with a swift and simple decision to trust the basics.

Each label and tag is a replica of another.

“No dry cleaning needed, wash and dry”

Simplicity explains the clothes hung out on the line.

Avoiding too much.  Too fancy, too loose, too tight, too short.

The go-to favorites become classics in their own right.

Walking shoes that have traversed every sidewalk in the neighborhood,

Along with the streets in foreign lands.

A simple haircut, simply done, leaving time for other simple joy’s in life.

Poem

Her Garden Poem

Her Garden

The wallpaper bloomed

Under her watchful eye and loving care.

The flowers envelop the kitchen

Separate, warm and special.

Her face framed with wisps of silver,

The blue gingham apron upon her happy self.

Those thin, strong arms ready to

Take up a task.

A laugh, a hug, and time

Spent within those flowered walls.