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Poems
by Diane Webster

 

 

Polished Narcissus

 

The polished floor trips

the pedestrian to its level

to double the experience

in a reposed reflection,

 

a meeting of prone bodies

atop each other

both facing upward

to the ceiling

 

which doesn’t care

one fleck of paint

what lies below

except perhaps

 

it’s a disruption

of its Narcissus

admiration.

 

 

 

a line, (a short blue one)

 

 

Rainbow Speed

 

The highway drowns

in morning rain –

a cautious pickup drives

with slower traffic

as I splash left to pass.

 

Sunlight catches

the pickup’s backsplash

arcing rainbow colors

on the highway’s horizon.

I slow to savor the phenomena

of 70-miles-per-hour rainbow speed

until we curve a different

angle in sunshine.

 

In the arc of windshield wipers

the backsplash smears away

in its own twin rainbows

not colorful at all.

 

 

 

a line, (a short blue one)

 

 

Stroking

 

Stroke, stroke, stroke

as oars pull water

in swirly ripples

echoing out behind

the craft caught now

in a whirlpool

sucking, tugging

below, deeper

until water mirrors

shore in reflection

of self.

 

Stroke of luck.

Stroke of genius.

Stroke of buzzard wings

as Mom dies of a stroke.

 

 

 

a line, (a short blue one)

 

 

Whopper Story

 

Before “Jaws” scared crowds

out of the ocean, beneath the surface

of the river a 20-foot sturgeon

story drifted among old fishermen

passed down to grandchildren

made believers by snapped lines

and monstrous swirls in lazy currents.

 

Afraid to peer in the water

from a boat’s edge to see a dark shape

or a drowned girl’s face

for a moment, a nightmare eternity

as your father nudges you

almost plunging you into the depths.

 

 

 

a line, (a short blue one)

 

 

My Own Two Feet

 

I stand on my own two feet

reflected on lake shore.

Not alone but connected

to myself

constantly grounded.

 

Flip me upside down

I am balanced

on my own two feet;

no vertigo ripples

disturb my stance.

 

I stand on my own two feet

even as I wade away

my reflection hides,

but I believe in its survival

as sure as I feel

my own two feet.

 

 

a line, (a blue one)

 

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