Welcome to Four Lines! I have a goal I would like to write at least four lines of poetry or a haiku every day for the rest of my life. I'm excited about this challenge! Also, along with my daily poem, I will be reading at least four lines of another author's poetry. I'll try to include that here also. So I'm thinking - how difficult can it be to read and then write one poem a day? We will see! - Claudia

All poems on this blog, unless noted, are written by Claudia Callaghan.
© 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016 Claudia Callaghan
Used only with permission. Please feel free to join Four Lines and request permission.

Sunday, March 31, 2013

Laying in bed, a breathing line,
  I think how late it is.
My love, beside me, 
  holding my hand, disappears...

Friday, March 29, 2013

I know what the problem is.
I haven't hugged a tree in months,
retreating this winter from nature -
beloved siblings of leaf and wood.

Thursday, March 28, 2013

    Sun pours into this house,
   water from an endless pitcher
  filling a crystal glass to the ceiling,
            melting snow.
  I listen to a lullaby of drops
  like a mellifluous, soaking rain,
   a xylophone of sounds,
    a healing meditation.

   My son wakes this quiet house,
  energy drumming from his room,
 rhythmic waves he's practicing
         focuses our hearing.
I listen to the rifts repeat,
  mingling with melting icicles,
 as sun beams warm this little space
       in healing meditation.

Wednesday, March 27, 2013

She was covered more than a nun,
  black as coal. I knew nothing of her,
      except she could be me 
 by the blink of God
         and I her.  
Then I would trail behind him
  unaware he is eyeing a colorful woman
    head to toe coveting her,
  she, poet, speaker, creator of goodwill,
    suddenly senses being sliced,
         like a packaged commodity, 
   viewed naked.

Tuesday, March 26, 2013

The old poet speaks
to time vanquished.
We, one with her
step with her lithe feet,
see through her ocean eyes,
Even the powerful,
distant or fearful,
break on waves.
The old poet speaks.

Wednesday, March 20, 2013

Tuesday, March 19, 2013

She speaks uninterrupted, barely breathing
  or seeing, wound up, running on
pacing words and thoughts.
        Letting go of redirection,
(I used to try to stop her and she ran
  me over and over, run on sentences
shouting my words out of the way)
            I listen.  
I know her lonely story,
 the crying plot, cold without flowers.
She says she is grateful;
   I am the only person
  in the entire world who
listens.  She doesn't know,
  I'm also drawing her flowers.

Monday, March 18, 2013

"Breathe deeply.  Keep your eyes soft,"
  he says.  We're balanced in trikonasana,
   bending at the hip, right leg forward,
left back, heels aligned, right hand on a block 
  outside the front foot, left hand to the sky, 
face turned upward, legs and arms extend
  straight and even, energy flowing in and out.
I feel like a human four-pointed-star,
  a humble, little star, one of infinity.

Sunday, March 17, 2013

I'm dreaming of strawberry shortcake -
delectable, decadent strawberry shortcake, 
heaping with honey-sweet, ripe, crimson, 
spring berries, spooned over homemade
moist vanilla cake, perfect with lemon zest,
covered with a cloud of real whipped cream.

Usually, this time of year, I dream of tulips,
like first notes of a song, brushes of paint
on a vacant canvas soon to be a colorful burst,
the demise of soundless, snowy white.

Now I am dieting and dreaming instead,
dreaming of strawberry shortcake.  
Strawberry shortcake.  Oh!
I'm dreaming asleep and awake of,
not just a plate, but a garden,
a town, no a world of
strawberry shortcake! -
for everyone.

Saturday, March 16, 2013

Michael recites my love poem,
on his way to dog sledding
on the Iron Range -
last time it was from a helicopter,
before jumping into sky.
I sit silent on the sofa.
His sweet, strong voice
I would eat if I could,
clear, through the phone.
I tell him so, in the accent
of the Transylvania Count, 
"I want to eat your voice."
he laughs, then says,
"and I have eaten your poetry.
Many times. This poem is mine."
In the space between us I hear
swishing of wind shield wipers
clearing away snow.

Thursday, March 14, 2013

Some moments,
few now,
I see dislike,
annoyance or indifference,
not in myself -
but in the other.

Then I stand in days disappeared,
reappearing, traveling back in time,
not forward.

I let these moments fly across my sky, 
knowing I judge too,
choosing to let go and see
myself learning,
learning to love and loving,
in the other instead.

Wednesday, March 13, 2013

Dancing across the wooden floor,
in the mirror we see ourselves
and colorful night lights of Minneapolis
through floor-to-ceiling windows.
"One, two, three, four," the teacher says,
"five, six, seven." Eight is silent.  
He is perfect, our teacher,
an extension of music, an instrument,
a passionate soloist. I wonder if his feet ever knotted,
as we stumble and catch up, practicing stepping rhythm out.
Music is a river.
This, our first class, carries us away.
"I love being with you," you whisper in my ear.
Steps and sequence repeated,
we face each other.  
I love facing you.
I'd dance forever with you - 
through this snowy night,
from venue to venue, crossing town,
state, nation, ocean, from country to country,
around the world, through fire, flood
and wild flower meadows.
You lean in. I feel, I hear your breath.  
You kiss my cheek
just before the music starts again.

Tuesday, March 12, 2013

Saturday, March 9, 2013

      Four lines.
I can't decide -
like figuring out
what to wear.  There.

Friday, March 8, 2013

Wally looks behind as he walks
at stenciled tracks that are his own,
fleeting marks of water, ice and snow -
water, cracking ice, and snow
he joys in stepping through.
I pointed his footprints out to him.
Once a footnote in our journey, 
now they are in every chapter, of every day,
in every chapter of every day
as is music and tea.

Earl Grey or chamomile?
Maple syrup or brown sugar?
Vanilla soy milk or 2 percent?
Wally points to Earl Grey, brown sugar and soy milk.
At the table I follow him,
stirring my tea into a whirl before each slurp and sip. 
He follows me, clinking our cups. 
He always smiles as we clink cups.
We stir, clink, smile, slurp and sip through tea.

I think while in the rocking chair,
Wally is a shining, rocking star.
He sits on the couch tuning his radio 
to our favorite station, Kool 108. 
We listen, rocking back and forth,
in perfect rhythm, song after song -
song after song, back and forth.
I sing too, laugh, tap my toes, 
sometimes conducting notes in the air.
Wally glances at me,
seeing happiness pouring out of me 
at happiness pouring out of him.

Wally is Mary's music man
and she, his sister, truer than blood.
She tells me of her dream last night,
while I put my coat, hat, and mittens on.
Wally and she were in conversation!
"Wally was talking!  We were speaking to each other!"
"Really? Mary, that's so wonderful!"
"I don't remember what he said.
I woke up and cried -
realizing Wally's talking was only a dream."
A beautiful, wishful dream.

Thursday, March 7, 2013

Mr. T asked me to write a poem.
  Sir, I thrive and feel at home,
as you.  We have kindness to give;
  then, and only then, we live.