Thursday, October 3, 2013

Complacent



Oh, hey there, jet stream
Looks like you got left
Behind with me.
And we’re just fixed
Here unintentionally
like predetermined
objects pasted on
with miles of smiles.

And don’t you know

That we can go.

Anywhere.

Anytime.

But let’s just stay awhile
And we’ll make the most
of a blue sky.

Friendly Fire



She wraps her dreams in cellophane,
Sending them off like toy soldiers
camouflaged in brown paper bags.
But every war is started by someone
older; the young are lost on foreign
soil, grasping for meaning (or maybe
not) that is thrust upon their backs;
the dead weight of yesterday
is screaming for the light.

Tuesday, September 10, 2013

Mom

Weekend Writing Warriors
           Welcome Weekend Writing Warriors!    

Weekend writing Warriors is a weekly bloghop. Each week, participants sign up HERE at wewriwa.comthen post 8 sentences of their work, published ot unpublished, to go live between noon, Saturday and 9:00 AM Sunday EST Then we visit each other and read, comment, critique, encourage--all those things that do a solitary writer's heart good. 



My mind cannot separate
her from the brown earth
that raised up
her flowers
and me.

She said, “Reach.”
Oh, I did and she
did not insist
on superfluous things
like saying, “this is how.”

Her eyes would just
Smile as I found
my way,
like her flowers,
to the light.

Thursday, August 1, 2013

One Thing You Missed




Weekend Writing Warriors
           
Welcome Weekend Writing Warriors!    

Weekend writing Warriors is a weekly bloghop. Each week, participants sign up HERE at wewriwa.com, then post 8 sentences of their work, published ot unpublished, to go live between noon, Saturday and 9:00 AM Sunday EST Then we visit each other and read, comment, critique, encourage--all those things that do a solitary writer's heart good.
 


Here is your little girl’s

first loose tooth, six

years of pearly growth

down the drain.

No, literally, it went

down the drain.

Your son, though

younger, her champion,

composed of freckles and

energy, shovels every

ditch, certain he will

recover her lost treasure.


You see, they know loss

And they seek what is lost.

Megan Cypher copyright 2013 All Rights Reserved

Thanks for visiting!

Wednesday, July 31, 2013

We Were Young


August dust settles upon
overgrown fields of grass.
Under a dark canopy
of late summer green,
six skinny legs, bitten and brown,
splash heedlessly 
among smooth rocks.   

Skippers dance over the
surface, innately aware that
summer won’t last.