What writing - Curb

 What Writing - Set 4. Five minutes

Curb

Bad luck with curbs

The sound and bump when the car tire hit a metal piece sticking out of the curb

Didn't see it 

Until after the jolt

When I got out of the car and watched as the tire flattened.

Ssssss.

The car slowly settled as the tire deflated.

ANother time, another place,

A car coming from the other direction was crossing into my lane

As I rounded the curb.

So I cut the corner a little more tightly than usual.

Thump, scrape,

Why does it sound so loud from inside the car?

Parked and looked.

Exhaled in relief

Scraped plastic hubcap no tire damage.

I shuffled to the store,

Checked the tire after shopping

Checked it every time i drove for the next few days.

No change.

Got off easy that time.

Watching as the surgeon removed the bandage from my daughter's ankle

Several days after surgery

She slipped on a curb while walking her roommate's dog

Snow and ice on the ground

He couldn't be bothered.

So she was out there.

She's loyal,

To a fault.

It took every ounce of strength I had to not gasp. 

Or gag.

© 2023 Sue Schnitzer

The Feather

Song lyrics in progress. Almost done, I think, Need to fit them with the chord progression I have in mind. And vice versa.

It was just a feather but she couldn't let it go

It was just a feather

But she wouldn't let it go.

Walking through the woods

They saw a feather

He picked it up and gave it to her

Along with a kiss.

Soft against her cheek

Now it's in a metal box

She keeps in a drawer

She opens the box, takes the feather out

And gives it a kiss

Soft against her lips

It was just a feather but she couldn't let it go

It was just a feather

But she wouldn't let it go.

Soft against her hand

It whispers to her

She waves it in front of her face

And remembers

That first soft kiss.

It was just a feather but she couldn't let it go

It was just a feather

But she wouldn't let it go.

Feather from a wing

She wishes she could fly

Back to him,  Back in time.

feather light, fly.

Aging Rockers

 My commentary on today's bakery band. LOUD! Wish I had brought a pair of ear plugs.

Aging rockers

Amps turned up loud enough 

to rattle the windows.

Not loud to them.

Years of rocking have damaged

their ears.

And now they are working on damaging ours.

Micing the drum kit.

helps with that.

Playing the oldies,

most are goodies.

That high hat and those cymbals

when hit full force,

Ouch!

© 2023 Sue Schnitzer

Believe

Poem #2 on the theme of listening. This one is about beliefs and the conflict between believing and listening.

Believe

Believe in something, 

  Anything,

  They say when you're young..

So you do.

And then they say,

  How could you think that?
But you told me to believe

  in something

  and stick to my guns.

Now you criticize my beliefs

  and someone else criticizes yours.

I try to keep my mouth shut,

  while inside I am stunned, hurt,

  disappointed, crushed.

On the outside,

  I grit my teeth

  and watch as

  your defense of your beliefs gets louder.

The negativity builds,

I have choices,

Continue to believe in

  the things that fit my personality and ethical code.

Waiver and switch so I

  don't make waves,

  avoid negative fallout.

Fight back,

  with words or physically.

Keep on believing 

  and keep quiet about it.

Keep on believing

  and quietly speak my truths.

Keep on believing

  and occasionally shout my thoughts

  not worrying about who listens

  or what they think

  or what they will do in response.

The point is

  we are taught to

  and we want to

Believe in something

  and have the confidence

  to hold onto that belief.

It's a double edged sword.

If I stick with my beliefs

  and you stick with yours

  and we never agree

Where are we?
What happens next?

Listen

Listen

Let the voices speak for themselves,

and listen.

Let the words be spoken, sung, chanted, screamed,

and listen.

Hear the words, hear the message,

pay attention,

be alert,

Truly listen.

What Writing - Feather

What writing - set two - day three. 90 seconds (edited).

Feather

Feather soft

stroking her chin.

Reminds her of lost family and friends,

childhood dreams,

hugs and love.

She saw it on the ground,

picked it up

and for a moment

relived the innocence 

of her childhood.

Happy, content.

What Writing - Hair

Trying to write this one without using the word "I". Not sure I can do it.

What Writing - set two - day two

Haur

Morning hair, hat hair, windblown hair, wet hair.

Curls, brown, gray, white, red highlights.

No comb, no brush,

Fingers, leave in conditioner, and done.

The rest is left to nature and chance.

Individual hairs fall lightly to the floor,

hang onto clothes,

White against the black fleece vest.

Brown on the purple jacket.

Invisible in the rug.

Soft, so soft to the touch.

Thin, so thin.

It used to be thick. 

Long, then short.

Now it's to the shoulders.

Too thin for a pony tail or braids.

Long enough to get wet with sweat.

Short enough to not get too tangled.

It moves with the slightest wisp of air.

Bounces with gait.

Hair with personality, so they say.

Unruly, unpredictable, quirky.

Changes color in the light.

A small bald spot in the back,

Nothing like a man's bald spot,

but it's a bald spot nonetheless.

It bothers her.

So does the scalp visible at the center part. 

She tries a side part to let hair grow back.

It doesn't work.

Somehow, after a shower, her hair falls

back into a center part.

Hair that has a mind of its own,

like its owner.

Headstrong, even if it does randomly fall out.

Nothing rigid about the hair cut or the hair style.

The part isn't ramrod straight.

Sometimes there's a tightly coiled curl that falls

on her forehead.

Once there was girl who had a curl in the middle of her forehead

When she was good she was very very good

And when she was bad she was horrid.

The childhood refrain

chanted by her mother,

by other kids.

About her hair,

which was not at all horrible

no matter how unruly it was.

What writing - Umbrella

What Writing, set two, day one

Umbrella

Folding umbrella.

Convenient,

except when it is windy.

Then it becomes a struggle to hold it

tight against my shoulder,

Hoping, hoping, hoping,

the wind won't catch it just right,

and invert it,

snap the cheap metal,

and make it a useless piece of trash.

The rain rarely comes straight down.

My pants legs get wet,

from the knees down,

If I'm lucky, that is all that gets wet.

Folding umbrella.

Not designed for two people.

Not designed for wind.

Not designed for longevity.

But, oh, so convenient.

Fits in my backpack,

except when it is wet.

It lives on the floor of my car,

back seat, passenger side.

Sometimes it slips under the front seat

and I think I left it somewhere.

I once thought I left it in my grocery shopping cart

and bought a replacement,

Only to find it weeks later 

when I was cleaning out the floor of my car.

There it was

under the seat,

Hidden by an empty to go cup

and the summary of an oil change.

My umbrella.

Appreciated when it works.

Cursed when it doesn't.

Black.

My purple one bit the proverbial dust.