Poetry Sunday

come check it out! Today's Sunday Flash Fiction has turned into a poetry fest at Silver EXpressions!

The original theme was weather--and I thought that was hot. But all the poetry it's inspired is truly awesome.

A little less awesome, but perfect for this very sunny Summer Sunday, is one of my own poems, posted below. And if, after reading it, you feel like you just have to have this wonderful poem to read over and over again (yeah, I know I'm tripping, right? Think maybe somebody laced my iced tea or something? *g*) you can download it, and a whole bunch of others right HERE Enjoy!

SUNDAY AFTERNOON/PUBLIC SWIM TIME

Boys at the pool crash through sparkling water, push each other under,

come up splutteringsplashing, water dripping from their long, long lashes.

Teeth flashing giant smiles, they toss, or try to toss, each other

through the air. Then push each other under, once again.

Water is the perfect medium in which to play

adding grace and speed and power to their movements.

They immerse themselves entirely without ever losing sight

of who they are, or where the water ends and they begin.

Girls at the pool –– at play –– they bob and sway. They weave

their way through intricate dances, set to music only they can hear.

They pause. Engage in conversation. Bask in mutual admiration.

Exchange encoded messages bubbled in each other’s ears.

They float. They leap and dive. They look like large enchanted flowers,

like rainbow painted porpoises at play.

In this turquoise–colored, sunscreen–scented, chlorinated otherworld

they are set free.

Now the boys: a roiling, rollicking mass, lurch through the pool

like a piston driven steam engine gone wild

arms and legs churn the water, waves erupt around them

pushing everything out of their path.

Girls scatter like a flock of birds.

Some––bursting into tears––emit small, wounded cries.

Some shrieking in mock terror while joy sparkles in their eyes.

Frowns crease the flower faces: They dare not approve such rude behavior.

They’re still too young to be enchanted by the boys’ antics.

The boys, too young to care, too young to charm,

too young to yearn to be entangled

in their floating coils of hair.

Indifferent to the differences that link them.

Their lives as magnets have not yet begun.

For now, the boys recede. The girls resume their labyrinth patterns.

Water ebbs and swells and ripples all around.

On the dancing waves,

time has cast a silver net

to capture them all