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, 2017, 2018, 2019, 2020, 2021, 2022, 2023, 2024 Claudia Callaghan
Used only with permission. Please feel free to join Four Lines and request permission.

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.

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
      aware he is eyeing a colorful woman
       head to toe coveting her,
        she, poet, creator of goodwill,
         suddenly senses being opened,
          like a packaged commodity.
She doesn’t know I am a poet of prayers,
creator of goodwill too and I’m sorry.
   

Tuesday, March 26, 2013

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


Wednesday, March 20, 2013

Tuesday, March 19, 2013

The Help Line

Uninterrupted, wound and wounded,
barely breathing she runs on
without pacing her words and thoughts.
Letting go of redirection,
(I used to try to stop her and she’d shove
my words away.)
listen.  
I know her lonely story, the crying plot,
though she does not cry.
She says she is grateful;
I am the only person
in the entire world who listens.
She doesn't know, I’m drawing
her chrysanthemums.

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.


Tuesday, March 12, 2013

Saturday, March 9, 2013

Four lines headed
into the sun, can’t decide,
what to wear. Not to much -
just enough.  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.