This is another everyday poem. The Midwest has been pretty soggy lately. One morning after a storm, I was driving to work and the rain kept dropping off the trees. I had to keep turning my windshield wipers on even though it wasn't really raining. I decided there had to be a poem in this experience.

Residual Rain

Residual rain gathers in the trees
waiting for an opportunity to fall.
This rain doesn't make the long journey
from the clouds to the ground,
but takes a short hop
from the leaves
to the unsuspecting windshields below.
It drops with a plop,
blurring the vision
of the irritated drivers who flick it away
with one swipe of the wiper blades.
Just when we think the storm is over,
this splatter reminds us
that we haven't quite come in from the rain.

I do not write every day, but I have learned to write about the everyday. That is one reason that I am able to write consistently. About a month ago, I had to parallel park for the first time in a long time. Fortunately, the space wasn't too tight! When I finished, I scribbled down parallel parking on my list of things to write about.

Parallel Parking

How well can you maneuver into the available space?
Getting lined up at the start is critical.
Concentrate as you go back,
cutting in at the correct angle.
Make that quick spin of the wheel
that sets you straight.
Now, you are sitting pretty,
at least until the meter runs out.

The Kansas City Sculpture Park opened in 1989 and contains more than 30 sculptures. It is one of my favorite places to walk and to write. Thanksgiving weekend, there is a luminary walk in the park. I went for the first time this past Thanksgiving and plan to go back annually. I wrote this poem after that event.

The Lost Wax Process

The mold is made
of clay layered on wax.
When heat is applied,
the outside hardens;
but the inside melts,
never to have
the same shape again.
Only then is the figure
ready to be cast in bronze.

I have heard authors of fiction say that the characters take the writers in a certain direction rather than the other way around. I feel the same way about poems. They seem to have a mind of their own. When I began the poem below, I intended to write about flying. That only lasted for two lines. Instead, I ended up writing about getting away, even to the point of escaping.

Flight

Journey toward the sky.
Drowning in the blue.
Sprint down the block.
Ease into the speed.
Listen to the notes.
Let the sound surround.
Pick up a pen.
Wrestle with the words.
Empty a bottle.
Slide into the haze.
Take flight.