Jennifer Dixey's Shared Poems

first train of the day
steam rising from passengers' mouths
into still-frosted winter air
as we wait on the platform,
exchange good mornings,
jostle a bit to find our way
on board (not
much, this
is not exactly tokyo)

then, I find my little slice of heaven:
a table, a window, a quiet car.

a little rumble,
the train shudders,
stutters forward
and we go

all I hear is muffled voices
of other riders, the whistle
sounding impossibly distant

watch familiar waters,
familiar fields
(mist rising above silver, then
ploughed, furrowed green brown
glimmering with dew,
crowded with resting
muddy ducks,
brilliant white seabirds)
approach, then recede
as if they were the ones
on the move

four rounds of
hunting for words,
for scores, hidden
in piles of tiles

we search
our minds for all
the combinations
that we know,
wonder at those
we've never even seen

surrounded by word-lovers,
I feel at home, wonder:
when does the
poetry tournament
start?

not far from
the evening moon's
bright belly,
a tiny pink cloud,
lit by sunset --
cherryblossom,
pink as petals
floating in a river
of darkening blue.
why does it matter?
I stare at it, all other thoughts
pushed aside, so I can
contemplate the beautiful,
memorize it, just
so I can write this later.
not for the poem's sake,
no, but for the sky's.

speed past the minutes,
fingers, like tiny
racehorses. make haste.
make sense. make me into an
insta-poet, flipping that switch
that turns on the wordlight.
can horses flip switches?
no matter. they can switch
their tails, running fast across
those keys, spitting out
well-broken prose
that is so much like
a poem you would
swear, it really was one.

midnight. who needs sleep?
the clock is a lie.
a silly lie. there are hours
yet before dawn, you can
think just fine, of course,
you can accomplish anything
with will power. it's one, then two.
it could be bedtime, now.
but some idea catches you,
and you think hmph, why bother.
soon it's three, four. they
always slide together, malleable,
doughy hours, elastic but hollow
like rising bread.
being awake
feels like dreaming.
and then there's five:
no turning back now,
it would be stupid to sleep
for two hours and then get up
and go to work.
you aren't tired.
you might nap, shower.
then again, as light begins
to trickle through the clouds
you hear a plaintive voice
from the back bedroom,
little feet on the wood floor.
you say it's okay.
you say you woke up early.
he already knows
it's a lie.