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Poems
by Diane Webster
Summer Picture
A hot air balloon
blasts its flame
inside a multi-colored
envelope rising.
With not even a bark
the black and white dog
trots across the grass
on its doggie mission
led by tongue taste.
Brown-stripped tabby cat
crouches in a shadow
beneath bush branches
unseen by doves
strutting like a king
escorting his queen
until a boy wearing
a blue T-shirt
races by flying doves,
unpouncing the cat
with an ear flick
that decides a dream
would be more productive,
and the hot air balloon
lifts off like a fluff
of dandelion riding
wind’s destination.
When one on one she drops the little girl “act”
of anything we say or do toward her.
She apologizes so much we want to smack
her on the back and yell, “Stop being so wimpy,”
but face to face her opinions crab out
in selfish spirals of judgment
like pushing another in a mud puddle
and laughing until Mom arrives,
and “real” tears stream down her cheeks.
The mud puddle victim is forgotten
in all her dripping glory in the eyes
of the “I’m sorry” little girl smiling
over the shoulder of her hugging Mom,
and it’s hard not to fist a ball of mud
and missile it toward the little girl.
Dislocation
Earthquakes – when liquid in ears
surf to the other side, and vertigo wobbles
a moment of dislocation like turning the light switch
off at night and darkness rushes claustrophobic close
until the alarm clock numbers focus in.
When big kids held me up on the teeter totter,
then dropped me almost to the ground;
my stomach met as I flew to a standstill
again at the apex of the big kids’ laughter.
When my sister and I begged Dad to go fast
on the back road home where a bump
in the road lifted us from the back seat
and bounced us back into giggles and pleas
to turn around and do it again.
When crossing a creek, but the rock
I chose lived up to its name and rocked
my gravity back and forth between
wet and dry, left and right, upright, downfall;
no location exists that can’t be dislocation.
She Sits At Attention
Like a ship unshackled from dry dock
the woman and her scooter sail sidewalks;
the American flag unfurls with speed
and wind bends its pole
like fathoms-deep fish caught and fighting.
The captain woman’s cowboy hat tugs
at her forehead but never releases its grip
as she anchors near the canal’s bridge,
rushing, lapping water soothes her ears
as dampness breathes into her lungs
like memories conjured from the past.
With an admiral’s stare she reviews
the maiden-voyage of ships in cars
on the freeway passing her parade dais,
and when her duty is done,
she reverses her course
and docks her scooter at home port.
Gutter Growth
Below the building’s eave
I grow in the gutter,
an eavesdropper blown
across the roof to find refuge
in silt built up
of improper drainage, neglect.
Grass grows tall
like a sentinel above the trench,
a ready target for sharp shooters.
I am a vine snipper crawling
stealthfully along silt.
When rain bursts forth,
I hold my breath or peek
over the edge
to catch a breath.
In time, the building is surrounded,
and I rappel down the walls
capturing, imprisoning all inside.
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