my knees hurt
each day in new places
like that Jennifer Grey on that dancing program
what’s it called.
Fifty years old she was
doing the splits like a seven-year-old.
She had the knees, too,
but you wouldn’t know it to look at her.

and with that, the bench settled and sighed
warming against the cool morning.
Andrea´s last [type] ..poemaday 4

“The Green, The Tender”

I might sit down on the opposite side
of a Formica-topped table, and I might see
the flecks of color in the pattern like constellations
sparking, and the coffee rings that looked like planets
you had haphazardly placed over the years.

I might wait impatiently for the coffee to brew,
the percolator marking time, and forgive me,
I might not be able to wait to gnaw the corners
of a windmill cookie, eating the fan blades first
to leave only a place I might live, with a window.

I might ask to use the last bit of milk
to watch it swirl in the brown, and I might marvel
at the Corelle wear cup, how it could never crack
all the while knowing not to test this claim
I want to believe in the unbreakable.

And after a spell, I might return with you
to a hill where you planted each spring,
I might marvel at you there, conducting the dirt
wearing a threadbare cotton dress
hoe in hand, gently tending, taming.

I might remember the seeds
in your hands, and how they scattered
into rows like children awaiting a lesson
something along the lines
of growing tall and straight.

I might remember asking you
what kinds of flowers these might be,
but I won’t remember what you told me
in response, only the sweeping of your hands
upon your apron and the indelible mark of dirt.

I might do all of these, if I were young,
instead, the best I might be able to do
is bring this gift to you, not of my tending,
but from some seed planted by other hands,
an offering, a conversation starter.

But I can be sure of this—that I will remember
these places are for kneeling, and to linger
too long is a promise of supplanting,
you might inspect my palms to note
they are still tender; I have forgotten so much.

After some time in this place,
my knees might press into the grass
leaving a temporary impression resembling a heart
and earth might say softly, “Remember your root,
your season, and you will know how and when to flower.”

Web

Let me tell you a secret.

I lied.

That night when you asked me what was wrong.
I was in a strange bed in a strange state.
It was dark downstairs
because you had closed the door at the bottom.

Still awake? you asked.
Nightmares, I lied.

Dad was on the road,
headed back to L.A. for Mom and the rest of our things.
Now I wonder how we could have had enough
in those thin times for more than one trip.

Then TV won’t be good for you.
And you closed the door again.

I wasn’t having bad dreams,
just wanted to be close to someone who sort of
felt like my mom
and loved me like only grandmas do.

I lied and lost my moment.
Don’t think I ever got it back.

If I had a park bench that let me have you back,

I would sit for days and listen,
even if you didn’t speak,
I would listen to you.

For days on that park bench,
I would tell the truth.

Let me tell you a secret.
I lied.
Stephanie Elliott´s last [type] ..Poemaday 5- Web

All falls down,

You were closer to me than my breath, but now

My love is like the sun in this moment,

It is the moment of sunset,

It is the moment that all falls down,

the sun, the light, the temperature, and the love.

All falls down

You squandered my love

All falls down.

I wish I had seen you

I wish grand-father I could,

my heart is tumultuously hurting

I don’t think you should,

I always dream about you

and I think it is something good,

I miss you grand-father

I miss the neighborhood,

I wish I have seen you

I wish grand-father I could.
Yasir Ammar Jalal´s last [type] ..Extra credit post 3

I’ve had a dream,
Of you and me,
Sitting on the bench

I’ve seen a life,
With you and me,
Sitting on the bench

I’ve experienced nightmares
Of not you, but me
Where you’re not on the bench