02 November 2008

Breakfast (NaBloPoMo)


I sit at the kitchen table,
reading and sipping,
coffee and words
just the way I like them,
thick and hot.

I choke on the word ergonomic
and see you from the corner of my eye
cracking eggs with one hand,
the yellow yolk always landing first
in the sizzling skillet.

After each shell empties
you hold it
for just a second,
your hand rising in the air
as if applauding its own dexterous flair
before you fling it into the trash can.

I was never very good
at cooking breakfast,
too much motion
too early in the day
leads to operator's fatigue.

It's better this way;
the early bird makes eggs,
dancing across the kitchen
like a spiral doodle on
the edge of a notebook page,
the night owl perches on a chair,
warm sweater buttoned to the throat,
greeting the morning
reluctant as a semicolon.


It's November 1st (well, okay, technically it's November 2nd, but I haven't gone to bed yet, so it's still the 1st in my mind). I'm participating in NaBloPo(etry)Mo. My goal is to write a poem a day, for better or for worse.

09 August 2008

Weekly Prompt - Poetry


Love has not the power
to steal salt from the sea,
it does not wash the dishes
or cast out yesterday's trash,
reeking in the hallway,
it cannot fill the emptiness
of a starless sky.
But if you can reach a lover's hand
amid the swelling storm,
and hold on, even for one
fluttering second, you may look
out the kitchen window
and see a rose branch, headless,
thorns dripping with rain,
and roil in the beauty.

Christina Hile

01 August 2008

Poetic Asides Weekly Prompt


The art of losing
isn't hard to master;
Nothing can ever
happen twice,
so far be it that
I should repine.

We slept and woke
entering the golden room together,
O how your fingers drowsed me!
Oh, scandal of the honey of twilights!
What a million filaments!

It was lovely then,
But it's lonely in the body;
The sheets grow
heavy as a lecher's kiss.

I am the blossom pressed in a book,
Speckled like a sky;
With the shadow of the moon
at my side, I search
for traces of wildlife
in the white snow.

One cannot
begin it too soon.

25 July 2008

Poetic Asides Prompt - "How To"


Eight hours, give or take,
sweaty hair undulating
like a kelp forest
on the bleached white pillowcase.

From across the curtained room
vibrating waves of Dylan
compete with the rogue buzz
of florescent bulbs.

My husband and somebody wearing
a top smothered in rainbows
pull my legs, white as ghost crabs,
farther apart
while voices
at the foot of the bed
discuss fetal heartbeat
and fourth of July plans.

I clench my teeth,
tight as a cockle shell,
bear down,
watch the clock,
and remind myself to breathe
through the burn.

I vow never to do this again
and push, push, push,
wondering if I could,
supposing I wanted to,
do it just one more time.