Nighttime Tea

They meet when
 the others
are long home
perhaps
putting feet up,
watching football
or soap operas
saved from
the workday.

They take
off their coats
and sit, pulling
their chairs close.
Their server
places two cups
of hot tea
and honey,
without asking,
on their table.

She quietly lights
the candle,
turns the lights
down low,
and leaves them,
only returning to
fill their cups
in silence.

He takes her
hand in his,
and they talk
about their day,
all the while
looking into each
other's eyes,
sometimes laughing
with silliness.

They get up
to go; and
breaking her
self-imposed
silence, the
server says,
"I don't often
see such love
in this place,"
and refuses
to take
his dollars.

On Keeping Secrets

*This month our prompt was "Secrets."  I wrote the second poem first, and then on my way to Writer's Group, I was sitting in my car in bumper to bumper traffic, thinking about secrets and wrote this one:

Secrets
are
wild birds
caged,
beating wings
against
the bars
bloodying their beaks
for freedom.

Or they plead
quietly
for release
even
if only
for a minute,
bargaining...
promising...
to return.

But once let
go,
the cage
is open.
No matter
how hard
we try
to put
them back,
we can't.

They are
free
and now
the bars
 are ours
alone.

kathi

Secrets

Secrets

I have none 

anymore-

well, except those 

of others who've 

given me

theirs.

They tumble

 around

 in my head 

or sometimes 

in my gut.

Some, I'd like to tell, 

but promises are promises

and they must be kept.  

I gave up on

whispering 

my secrets 

long ago.

It seems

they always 

escape

one way or another.

So now,

if I have one, 

I tell it freely 

and realize

it will be 

out there for

anyone 

who wants 

to find it.

kathi

Welcome back to the blog!
One of the timed writings last night was: "Happiness Is...."

To get us started back--what if each of us contributes a response to this question?
Those who wrote about it last night could copy what you wrote, right here?

Linda

Sitting on the side
of the pool
I noticed a wasp
in the water,
struggling to gain
his wings.
I watched for a moment,
soon realizing
that he was
getting nowhere.
How does one,
 afraid of the sting,
save a frantic stinger?
By carefully lifting him
from the water,
hands cupped
fingers slightly
 crossed.
I imagined him
buzzing his thanks
as he took to the sky,
and left me standing
in the shallow blue.

A Poet's Prayer

If I could spend just an hour
inside Rumi's spirit,
I would know love
that lasts an
eternity.

if I could write with Billy Collins'
 hand,
I would find
myself on the edge
 of a cliff
 admiring the way eagles
glide.

If I could share a thought
with Mary Oliver,
I'd understand
the language of geese
and the other birds that fly
across time.

If I could sit in the mudbaths
with Walt Whitman,
I'd call him my captain
 and we'd laugh
out loud
at the thought
 of it.

O, be my muses, and
come turn
my eyes, my hands,
my heart into
poetry.

graduation

Wasn't it such a short time ago
 that my youngest
 learned how to tie his shoes?
 Today I noticed a picture of him
 on the refrigerator
 just a little boy
 big smile on his chubby face.
 This evening,
he asked for my car keys
and off he went
 now over 6 feet tall
 big smile on his bearded face.
 Time flies-such a cliche
 but truer than I knew
 when I still tucked him in
  at night.