I'm a little behind in poetry posts...oops!

Work and home have been a little nuts these last two days. But today is Saturday, and I am home!! And in honor of it being Saturday and I am home, two originals, by me. (My friend Pete will be so happy.)

Twenty-Four Miles on a Rainy Morning

                       By Nicole Kapise Perkins

I began a poem this morning

driving in the rain.

I turned the radio off,

not interested in voices.

I repeated the lines to myself,

but I was driving

and it slipped away in curious, strange whispers.

I wanted to tell of the sound

the tires made on the wet road,

the tapping patter of the rain on the roof,

the thousand drops

scattered on the windshield

like seeds on a strawberry.

Cows stood in a field,

patient under their wet hides.

I was driving,

fifteen miles behind me,

nine ahead,

so I couldn't write how the low gray clouds

curved around the mountains

like the hand of an all-mighty being,

or how the leafless birches

glowed

against their somber cousins the pines.

Slowing, cruising down Exit 1,

downtown Brattleboro teeming with traffic

even at this early hour.

I wonder if other drivers

turned off the radio,

listened to the hushing slur of tires on the wet road

and tapped the rain's rhythm

against the steering wheel.

Driving past the hospital,

past the Meadows,

stippled and gray,

still but for the pattern of the rain on the surface.

Park the car, climb the stairs

listening to a quiet concert of birdsong

and rain on last year's fallen leaves

regretting that the drive is over

and the workday begun.

On Turning Thirty-Nine

          By Nicole Kapise Perkins

What have I done,

what have I completed?

So many plans,

such brilliant prospects.

I could have been anyone,

I could have done anything,

gone anywhere.

Decisions I've regretted

still follow me,

clinging like cobwebs.

Plans,

so many plans,

all those glamorous dreams,

dust in corners

waiting to be swept up and tossed away.

In some ways I've redeemed myself,

recovered from disaster and disappointment,

forged ahead,

built a foundation,

a life,

rekindled hope,

relapsed.

I never seem to get ahead.

I ask myself why-

why do I bother,

why can't things work,

when will they,

what's the point?

A goodnight kiss,

a quiet sleepy sigh

as small arms close around my neck;

laughter at the dinner table.

I look into rooms at night,

brush hair back,

tuck a blanket tight,

retrieve a Care Bear from the floor.

Thirty-nine years old,

and I have done far more

than I ever thought possible.