I am going to try to post a poem a week. They are to be the final drafts, hopefully this will get my butt in gear and force me to do some much needed edits. Please comment on them as feedback is awesome sauce for a writer.
Of a Pretty Age
My friend Barbara,
with the long blond hair,
would come over
and we would surf
standing on the broad arm rest
of the old grey swing
to gain speed and create
while singing Beach Boy songs,
Because even in panhandle Florida, we were
Our hands, our arms, our bodies would grasp
the chains, rust chains,
that I dared Barbara to lick--once.
We would be stained a bloody orange
like the dirt road
we rode our bikes on
especially when the sun was setting
and we’d to race it home.
Then I would sit on the swing,
scooting to the edge of the seat
to touch the ground
with a foot to keep
the glide going.
Sometimes a splinter would catch
on the legs or hands
and with careful pointed tweezers,
the one my mother and sister used
to make their eyebrows almost disappear,
they would remove the sliver of wood.