Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Broken Glass

I heard the crash of broken glass
before I saw the blood run red.
My brother and I were chasing
each other. He slammed the door.
I stopped it with my hand.

Not too smart, mother will be angry.
Whose fault is it?
Dad is tired
and there’s a mess to clean.
Fun turns to panic.
I get the broom, my brother
holds the dust pan. One of
the younger ones runs
to tell about the shattered glass.

We lie, “Don’t know
how it happened,” we said.
We got closer that night
after we decided to deceive.

Dad finds a scrap of wood
It has to do for a week or two.

I still have the scar
right here on my pinky finger.

Monday, June 29, 2009

Lessons From My Mother

My mother told stories before we went to sleep,
nothing was ever written down, but she loved
to tell about when she was young. We would gather
at her feet to listen to tales from her childhood.

There was the time her uncle saw her eating
an orange peel she picked off the floor.
She was given a dozen oranges,
and told to eat the peels off each one.
She never liked oranges after that,
and we never ate things that fell on the ground.

One incident made her sad when she tricked
her grandfather, who was blind. She took the string
that lead him to the outhouse and tied it to the barn door.
She had to clean his chamber pot for a week.
We realized it wasn't nice to play practical jokes
and were glad we had indoor plumbing.

She remembered summers on the open range
where she whistled to bring in the cows
and handled horses and cattle with ease.
We galloped around on our wooden sticks,
herding the chickens into their coops.
We blew spittle until we learned to whistle.

My favorite was the one about the rickety buckboard
she rode to school and how dad was the best basketball
player in fifth grade. She blushed anytime he looked at her
but waited to marry him until after the war.
He looked so handsome in his Coast Guard blues.
We learned there was never a right time to fall in love.

I don’t know when she stopped telling stories.
Some of the younger kids don’t remember them at all.
Then one day she was gone but her stories linger on
of that time, long ago, in the farmlands of New Mexico.

Life Unedited

We watch the flicker from the black and white clips
no sound, bad lighting, camera jumps
from subject to subject
a quick view of grainy faces
in the eight millimeter click, click, click.

Aunt Bessie wiggles her butt while tending
her faternal twins. She turns around, smiles and winks.
We got word, the girl committed suicide at thirty-four,
there is nothing in the clips from her first birthday
revealing things would turn out that way.

Elva and Ellen, like gray haired teens, dance
to the Anderson Sisters’, Boogie Woggie Boy.
A blood clot took one at fifty-six the other died
at eighty five. Are they together again, shaking
those hips, twisting their hands up high?

Tony and Callie kiss every time the camera
finds them. They can’t keep their hands
off each other. A marriage of nineteen years
tossed aside. He died alone last year
on a Colorado mountainside.

Tick, tick, tick,
the projector sputters,
this reel is done
but life continues on...unedited.

Sunday, June 28, 2009

No Birthday This Year

I want to stay 59, do you hear?
No more aging or growing older
So cancel my birthday this year

I’ve given up my youthful fear
With age I’ve grown bolder
I want to stay 59, do you hear?

All my daily schedules dear
are neatly arranged in that folder
So cancel my birthday this year

I’m comfortable in my career
I don’t mind the pain in my shoulder
I want to stay 59, do you hear?

I thought it over, my mind is clear
My blood, once hot, has grown colder
So cancel my birthday this year

When I die …then I’ll smolder
But for now I won’t get older
I want to stay 59, do you hear?
So cancel my birthday this year.

This is a birthday wish for the twins,
my brother and sister who celebrated
their birthdays yesterday.

Friday, June 26, 2009

Grim Reaper

Reaction to all the news in the headlines.
No disrespect intended for the deceased or their families.

The most famous sidekick,
a beauty queen,
and King of Pop,
all died in the same week.
The media hurried to find their
legacy on reels of old film
and archives from T.V.

Headline news showed
Ed McMahon was losing his home
medical bills had overwhelmed him.

Farrah Fawcett, brought her death
into our living rooms;
reality T.V. at its most intense.

Michael Jackson on the
eve of his comeback
had a heart attack
and couldn’t recover.

Money, fame, beauty and talent
couldn’t protect them
from the grim reaper.

A shiver goes down my spine,
is it my turn the next time?

Oops, guess I'm not,
Billy Mays took that slot.


Mediterranean Sea
Warm temperate climate
Blue gentle waters lulling
Travelers to dream

Sorrento, Italy
Winding mountain roads
Villas overlooking sea
Splash of emerald green

Thursday, June 25, 2009

Three Poems Created From A Single Word

This style takes a single word and then do a free write to whatever follows. Like the chance poem there can be surprises.


My girlfriend said she fell in love
with a man so handsome
he could have been a model for Michelangelo.
So attractive he could have graced the Vatican
or been on the cover of GQ
wearing the latest fashion.
Of course I expected to see a Greek God.
A man with chiseled features, carved in marble.

Instead I met someone whose heart was generous.
I was startled by his gentleness and didn’t notice
the scars on his face until he mentioned them.
His princely charm was reflected in his easy laughter.
I was captured by his clear conscious
and sincere desire to be civilized.

I too fell in love and will do whatever
I need to take him from her.


Some said he was thrifty
he didn’t waste so he didn’t want
horded today for tomorrow.
Some called him prudent
but his family found him stingy,
a rain cloud in the Mojave.
All would surely die
if they didn’t leave him
so one by one they ran away.


When his wife died
his blood turned cold
he didn’t talk
didn’t covet.
A stationary artifact
long forgotten except
for an occasional lizard
perched on his shoulder
gathering heat from
the afternoon sun.

Daylight or nighttime
he could be found,
a silent creature,
like a stone,
sitting alone
in his garden.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

Nature’s Sandbox

My feet buried in the sand,
waves washing on the shore,
a sea gull calls
amid the sounds of children
playing tag along the waves.

The fine grains of time
slip through my hands
daylight gives way
to the pastel sky
of dusk's muted glow.

Supper needs fixing,
but I’m quite content
sitting on the shore
building castles
letting them crumble,

making them again
seeking the perfect mixture
of moisture and sand
to withstand the pull
of earth and daily routines.


We have lived our lives
with the information
that dinosaurs,
became extinct,
with nothing but
enormous bones left
to tell the tale
of their existence.

These giants,
who once roamed our earth,
suddenly disappeared.

We grieved, especially boys between
the ages of three and ninety.

New evidence suggests
transformation rather than extinction.

These creatures took flight,
broke the limits of gravity
and their descendants...
became the birds who soar
through our skies today.

This shift in thinking could
change our future
and how we view
the road map to our evolution.

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

Hot Chili

With the slip, slap, clunk, of the rolling pin
I flattened the dough and shaped it round
She chopped, chopped, chopped on the butcher block
onions and peppers tossed in the pan.

First I heard the sizzle then tasted the burn
I’d hiccuped with the first spoonful
Wiped the sweat from my brow,
dabbed my eyes, blew my nose,
then took another bite of her hot chili.

Later that night her smile was highlighted in red lipstick.
Her dark hair, earlier in bobby pins, now styled in a 40’s curl.
Manicured nails, coated in clear polish,
fingered her rosary while shadows
played hide-n-seek on the wall.

Finally my father arrived,
His eyes brightened when she ran to him,
He held her in his arms and I watched for a second
then stepped back in my room
when they tumbled to the ground.

Yesterday I found a place, deep in the desert, to buy red chili peppers.
I brought them home and prepared them like we did so long ago.
I dreamed about her last night. I felt her hand on my shoulder
and heard her whisper, “Remember mi’jita, make it hot.”

Monday, June 22, 2009

The Comedian

He had the talent to tell a joke
to look at himself and make a poke
at the aspects of his life
filled with strife.

He could turn the screw
to reveal what we knew
letting us laugh out loud,
anonymous in a crowd.

He could have been famous,
illuminating jokes for the ignoramus,
but in the bright light he faltered

became afraid and it altered
his ability to step out on stage
to tap into that unspoken rage

to describe his conceptions
with finely tuned perceptions
exposing himself in his humor.

Sunday, June 21, 2009

S. Dakota and San Francisco

These photos were taken on other vactions. I've added Haikus to go along with them.

Mt. Rushmore, South Dakota
Headstones to greatness
Sacred grounds where ancestors
Wept at defacement

Golden Gate Bridge
Rising through the mist
Spanning opposite coastlines
Connecting people

Saturday, June 20, 2009

Arizona and Colorado

The photos were taken by my husband while we were on vacation. The Haiku pattern is five, seven, five syllables.

Sedona, Arizona
Red rocks touch blue sky
Blow on a dandelion
Scattered wishes fly

Rocky Mountains, Colorado
Love’s tender footpath
Fades with summer memories
Thunder clouds converge

Summer Fun

Here is an abstract of Summer Fun. Now all I have to do is capture the effect with oils.

The Fighters of the Storm

I wrote this during the wildfires last season.

The flames appear across the clear sky
Bursting over the ridge wild and bold
Rushing through the fields where hot embers fly
Snapping, crackling, exploding with gold

Sweeping through the hidden canyon passes
Sending out crimson tendrils burning bright
Reducing all to rubble and ashes
Smoldering, simmering just out of sight

Firefighters arrive laden with tools
Working together they make their attack
Conquering fear they're nobody’s fools
Advancing forward they never look back

Fighting, struggling and dripping with sweat
A mission well done we’ll never forget.

Friday, June 19, 2009

Making Choices

My yellow lab dug a hole to bury his bone
I groaned and then shouted, “Nooooo!

I have been trying for a year
to get my garden to look pristine

and in one terrible scene he destroyed it
now I’ll lose my Grand Prize ribbon.

My husband said, “Choose the garden or forgive the dog.”

When I looked into my puppy’s eyes I realized
that gardens were made for digging.

Thursday, June 18, 2009

That Ugly Girl Can Sing

Another poem written from headline news. This is a little dated and I've shared it with some but for those who haven't seen it here it is for the first time.

That Ugly Girl Can Sing

She wanted to be a star
to shine above her situation.
She was poor and unassuming,
ugly, as a matter of fact but
the only attention she received
was from her cat and her mum
who accepted her frizzy hair,
wide hips and raucous laughter
none of which she sought to change.

If she could dream,
she used to say,
if she could have anything
she’d like to sing upon a stage
to bring her voice to a larger audience
to be accepted or rejected
on her talent alone.
Why should she limit herself
because the world thought her ugly?

The opportunity came,
a talent contest, if selected
to go before a world audience
to belt out her song for everyone to hear.

In that bright light where she stood
with everyone’s eyes upon her.
The judges smirked,
the audience twittered
but she did not falter
and with the chance
she brought them to their feet
shouting to each other,
“That ugly girl can sing.”

See video Susan Boyle - Singer - Britain’s Got Talent 2009 (With Lyrics)

Airport Kiss

Here is another shape poem, every line beginning with the letter "W" and working with descending number of syllables. If it was done perfectly each line would have one less syllable than the one before.

Airport Kiss

Watching a monitor for the plane to arrive
Waiting for the first class to disembark
Weary coach passengers exit last
Wanting a glimpse of his face
Whisking across the floor
Weeping as he enters
Wishing for a kiss
Wet pursed lips

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Mosquito Song

Many poems have been written
about love songs, bird songs,
and whistling through the trees songs.

Rarely, if ever, have I seen a line
about the mosquito’s song.
What would the music be?

The buzz, buzz, buzz
before it lands on my skin
and starts to suck and fill its
gut with my red blood.

No romance with a vampire.
No lover's bite on my neck.
No music in my ears.

A buzz and then
the awful pain
followed by a slap
and maybe a curse.

If I hit it the first time
I can relax, but if not,
I’ve got to get up,
turn on the light,

listen carefully,
then with a swatter
held real tight,

hunt until I find
the little critter
to whack it again
until the music stops.

Fear of Falling

I walked along the edge of the clouds
when I heard my mother’s words,
"We don't need another mouth to feed."
She pushed me and I tumbled through the sky.

I reached for the cypress tree, hanging
on to the scent of my father's aftershave.
"You are no longer welcomed here," he mumbled.
He shook the branches and I continued my descent.

I clung to the church's steeple and dangled
from the cross "I don't recognize you,"
the pastor hissed. He pulled back his hand
and let me resume my downward plunge.

My long hair flew in every direction
exposing my shoulders and my breasts.
"Beware of vanity, my child," Mother Superior
whispered then she kissed me on the cheek.

I grabbed for the rooftop of my grandma's house
the shingles, too damaged to get a solid grip,
"Take the cushion," my auntie cooed,
"It might soften the impact."

This poem was based on a memory
from an adolescent dream before 
I turned eighteen.

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Catching Bluebirds

Elm trees stood in front like two thirsty
sentinels guarding the few blades
of grass underneath the wooden porch.
In the distance, a trail of dust followed the
rusted car rumbling up to our house.

We waited at the door, my brother and I, listening
to beans bubbling on the stove, savoring tortillas
toasting on the cast iron grill. We pressed against
the mesh straining to see who was coming.

Mother hollered, “Don’t slam the screen door.”
Too late, we tumbled out to greet our guests.
No sooner did they cross the threshold when
my brother shouted, “Look!” pointing to a
burst of color outside the picture window.

Everyone rushed out and there
across the street, in an empty field , were
splashes of blue against the desert monochrome,
a family of bluebirds, three, four or maybe more.

Mother and Aunt Josie hurried out in their cotton dresses
holding their brightly colored aprons high above their heads.
Dad and Uncle Leo followed, chasing the birds from weed to
sage. We squealed, hoping they would catch one for us to hold.

Out of the west a dust devil twisted onto the landscape.

The women
bowed to the harsh sting of

They buried
their faces in squatting laps
around folded legs
blowing their skirts up to reveal
the color
of their

bending, losing leaves.
free from

We started howling waiting

Then, just as quickly it disappeared.

“No,” we gasped, the flurry of blue was also gone.

Laughing, the adults went inside for their meal.
My brother and I refused. We lingered by the window.
He scratched the paint peeling from the ledge.
I traced the crack along the dusty windowpane.
We closed our eyes and the tears began to fall.

Monday, June 15, 2009

Children of War

This poem was based on a newspaper article.

Children of War

On the deserted streets before the sun emerges,
several emaciated children appear
from under makeshift shelters.
A scuffed ball is tossed and soon
without a sound they mark their boundaries
and form competing squads to play until
the fingers of sunlight spread over the horizon.
No parent calls, yet each one knows
when it is time to withdraw and sink back
before the soldiers arrive. Back into the recesses
of the bombed buildings into the dark safety of the
underground until next morning when they can
crawl out again to resume their childhood games.

Sunday, June 14, 2009

Chance Poem

A chance poem is written by using 14 pairs of guide words from the dictionary then rearranging the words to form a poem. What comes out is often a surprise to the writer because it allows random thoughts to converge. I've also formed it into a shape poem. If this works it should look like an ace of spades.

Wall Street


capitalists sought

ways to defraud the public.

Waging against the odds, they found

the sorceress huddled at the side of the road.

Her long braid hung down her back like a wispy tail

suggesting wisdom but they believed it was ruse to elicit

sympathy. The businessmen tried not to express their disgust,

because to them, she was a dumpy whore, with dull incantations

surrounded by stories exaggerating her ability to spew spells of

magic with skilled witchery. They finished their interactions treating
her like a naive teenager and much to their chagrin she soaked them
in bile and today they appear like damaged artifacts on the world
stage. Carriages bring the curious to observe the sight. Eruption
at the point of devastation transfixes their views. Many
sing hymns and some use humor to dispel their moods
but the arrogance of Wall Street precluded
this untidy end.
Karma seeks revenge,
however long overdue.

Saturday, June 13, 2009

Hollywood Garage Sale

Driving past Sunset and Vine
I turn in the direction
of a garage sale sign

stopped at the home of a faded beauty
sitting underneath a bright umbrella.

I smiled and gave her a casual glance
looked under a table
then spotted a container,
stuffed with postcards written but unsent,
telling of her life in the forties.

She was younger, left Iowa to become a movie star
one of several beauties invited to the parties.
Served as an appetizer to producers and directors,
who could make her career if she became their lover.

She never found fame and all she had at eighty six
were remnants of those dreams, memories of a better
time; designer dresses, baubles and furs,
now smelling of moth balls.

I thought she had the look, from
her faded black and whites, to be a leading lady,
but she never made it beyond the sidelines.

“Why?” I wondered.

“I held on to my virtue,” she said.

I asked the price of the postcards.

"You can have them all for a dollar," she sighed.

I paid her in quarters and headed to my car
taking her dreams in a old shoe box .

Thursday, June 11, 2009

Brain Surgery

Where is the inspiration that bubbles up
from the depths of my unconscious cup
the lost love and lonely musings,
the long roads and nightly cruising?

Where are the words that jab like a knife
that cut and whack and carve out my life?
Are they wrapped in cellophane sitting on ice
or lying on a table waiting to be sliced?

Do they wiggle like Jell-O, are they frozen and cold
pleasant dreams, nightmares whose actions unfold?
Like a scalpel the poetry pierces my skin
to open my wounds to explore what’s within.

I can’t stand by and watch this murderous act
To expose my vision completely intact
To reveal my emotions so vulnerable and raw
To open my heart before it can thaw

I’ll stop and lock it away in my chest
Hold it forever I think it is best
At this time it is not necessary to bleed
I’ll keep my secrets. I don’t have the need.

I’ll hide in the alley or way under my covers,
find a good friend or maybe become lovers,
I’ll write a to-do-list, keep myself busy,
I won’t write poetry it makes me too crazy.

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

First Love

First Love

My mind filled with thoughts of cotton candy
In that little glass booth at the County Fair

Delicate feathers of sugar wrapped around a paper handle
The taste of peppermint dissolved on my tongue
Reassembled hard and sticky between my teeth

Accompanied with bright lights of laughter
Dizzying screams of fear then pleasure
The prize won in a game of chance

Shared with another
The wispy feelings of love

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

His Car Wouldn't Start

Daddy shouted, "He's no good for you."
Mama cried, "Use your senses girl."
My friends tried to talk me out of it
but I ran away with him because
he wore a cowboy hat and mullet.

I met him after midnight
with my suitcase fully packed,
but his car didn't start and there we sat,
waiting for a boost, or a little push
so we could get to Vegas by sun up.

We watched the moon traverse the sky,
darkness shattered by the dawn,
while we sat there at the curb
unable to elope because
he couldn’t turn his motor on.

Grease beneath his fingernails
mucus on his mustache,
teeth stains and armpit sweat
all exposed with the rising sun.

I crept inside my house again
left him sitting in his car
all because he couldn't start it.

Monday, June 8, 2009

Mama Needs A Little Time

Mama needs some peace and quiet
for everything to stay clean awhile
a time that’s uninterrupted
a space to call her own.

She needs to think her own thoughts
with a moment to write them down
to take a bath and soak for hours
to be a person for a while.

She is happy you want to sing,
“I love you,” one hundred times
outside the bathroom door… just not now.

Later she will wipe your face
and lift you up to carry you,
and clean the milk you spilled
eating your chocolate chip cookies.

Tomorrow she will plan a party
and spend all day at Disneyland,
but for today it will be okay
to let Daddy read you a story
and tonight, he will be the one to tuck you in.

Mama just needs one minute… maybe more
to take a breath and get some rest
and then she’ll be back all refreshed
to be a mom again. Just give mama a little time.

Sunday, June 7, 2009

An Ode To My Brother; First Day of School

This poem was written in memory of a childhood friend who lost her
brother when he slipped into the Rio Grande River.

Millie went to an artist retreat with a desire
to express herself without constraint.
She was instructed to go to her core
and reveal what was hidden there.

Behind her eyes she found the space
where the scent of panic was linked
to her hunger. Sorrow she recognized
by the pain in her shoulders the place
where she hid her tears.

They fell like raindrops and splashed
on to her canvas. No more struggles
with shadows or gestures, nor
did she focus on facial contours.

She poured ebony brown from corner to corner
creating a background dark and deep.
Then she drizzled a circular web using
hues of royal blue and lemon yellow,
adding slashes of black with splatters of scarlet.

Millie discovered the color of fear
remembering the playground
on her first day of school. She recognized
the tinge of joy when she found Jimmy,
her brother, at the end of the day.

He drowned later that year at the age of nine.

Some paints outlined the hole in her center,
and others highlighted the color of love.

Friday, June 5, 2009

Tattered Slippers

I watch my youngest grandson, Danny on Fridays. He loves dinosaurs.
He used to bring his toy dinosaurs with him but Humphrey loves anything Danny and when Danny puts the toys down, the dog takes off with them to chew them up.

In memory of my dog who likes to chew here is a classic poetry
form called a Villanelle. It has a specific rhyme pattern.

Tattered Slippers

Tattered slippers are scattered covered in drool
A small shimmering trinket, a buckle, a hook
Get Humphrey, my lab, to an obedience school.

Pieces from the recliner and little foot stool
Tossed in the living room wherever I look

Tattered cushions are scattered covered in drool

Where is the remote, my eye glasses and tools?
Why are my things not left where I look?
Get Humphrey, my lab, to an obedience school.

Before he ran out to play in the pool
He knocked over the trash can and carelessly shook
Tattered rubbish, now scattered and covered in drool

I think I am correct he must be part mule
He is stubborn and refuses to learn from a book
Get Humphrey, my lab, to an obedience school.

Perhaps he will learn to play games that are cool
Like chase a ball, roll over, or swim in a brook.

No more tattered slippers all covered in drool.
Humphrey, my lab, went to obedience school.

Thursday, June 4, 2009


This looks like art but it is a splatter design when I dropped a bowl of red hot New Mexico Chili on the floor. It reminded me that I wanted to learn to paint.

Here is an acrylic I did on my own and decided I needed lessons.

This was the first lesson a black and white acrylic with a focus on values. The glare behind the middle apple is created from the reflection of the flash and is not part of the painting.

My first painting in color taken from a magazine picture.

I really like the water in my second picture. I think I'm getting the hang of working with water soluable oils.

This still life I'm still working on. The picture looks like I've got to straighten out the water pump but I think it is the angle of the canvas when I measure it things are straight. I do need to get more contrast as well as add items to the foreground.

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

Fear of Flying

My friend is flying today and this poem was stimulated by her words:

She said, “I’m flying today, say a prayer for me.”
The words in themselves were not that unusual
but I sensed a fear I never heard in her voice before.
My friend, an international citizen, travels
around the globe four or five times a year.

She travels from Europe to New York,
New York to California, and back again.
Ensconced in first class beyond the discomfort
and crowds of coach she has everything
from gourmet meals to hot towels upon arrival.

Her words reveal a crack in
her bravado and all her experience
can’t hide that she is now afraid.

Maybe the news of Air France
falling from the sky or terrorist
becoming more aggressive on the ground,

perhaps her knees hurt more than they used to,
or the fact her mother is closer to death
whatever the reason, she sounded vulnerable.

She is aging and needs to settle down
in a safe place where the familiar surrounds her.

A cappuccino or red wine, family and friends
her favorite chair with her husband close by.

Loving the life she once led but letting it go,
allowing time to unfold more slowly

but never having to go up in the air again.

Tuesday, June 2, 2009

Stuffed Animals and Stuff

I've been busy building stuffed animals; bunnies, kitties, a puppy and one large calico kitty. The clothes for the female critters are easy but the pants for the guys come out too tight. They look like leisure suits from the seventies. They just need a gold medallion or curly chest hairs. I wonder if my time would be better spent giving them tails and letting them go au natural?

Here are the big kids:

now the guys

and finally the girls.

The large calico kitty I will dress in baby clothes to send as a gift to my niece for her first baby,
Baylee Rose. The kitty itself does not have any buttons, or extras to dislodge and will be very safe for a young baby. The fleece is soft and nice to the touch and the calico pattern is adorable.

Monday, June 1, 2009

iRobot Dirt Dog

iRobot Dirt Dog

What a glorious name for a machine that has the potential to transform my time and keep my house clean with very little effort on my part. The whir, bump, roll, bump, whir, swish all music in the early morning hours. Two dust puppies form with all the fur and debris gathered already.

What does this have to do with art etc.? Simple. Tasks that take time away from art are time robbers. Finding tools and other resources to restore that time allows the artist to focus on her art.

Another great tool is sharp scissors. Yesterday Bill went to Michaels with a 40% coupon making a $25 pair of scissors very affordable. I couldn't believe how easy it was to cut the fleece I've been struggling with. Snip, slice, so easy and very nice.

Here is a poem to the iRobot


Engineers go to school to design
these finely tuned machines,
to take the work out of everyday
tasks, however mundane
and I, in my sincere desire
to have a clean floor,
will purchase said items
whatever the expense
and allow them full reign
of my home.

Whir, bump, swish, bump
the yellow disc moves across
the floor, whir, bump, swish
gathering up debris and dirt
bump, bump , bump, it finds
its way around most obstacles.

Whir, whir, across the expanse of floor
swish , swish - dirt and fur safely
trapped deep inside
the belly of my iRobot.