Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow

 

source

Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow

Yesterday's children roam free
everywhere in their neighborhood,
play outside after dark, walk by
themselves to school, bike with
friends to neighborhood parks.
They trick or treat alone for blocks.
do not fear pinned or poisoned candy.
They can wander into the woods,
pretend it's Sherwood Forest
and play for hours. They meet friends
at the mall or a movie or to bowl.
No mothers worriy.

Today's children roam within parents'
view, come inside when it is dark.
They travel to school by car or bus
or walk accompanied by parent.
Mothers take children to parks,
sit on benches to watch them play.
They trick or treat on their street,
as their parents walk along. They
play in their backyard, fantasize the
few trees as Sherwood Forest.
Friends play at one house or the other
Still mothers worry.

Tomorrow's children roam their home,
whether it is day or night. They travel
to school by computer. Parents watch
their children play video games at home
and assorted Halloween candy is now
prebagged and available at all stores.
They look at their backyard through
burglar-proof windows, see Sherwood
Forest on their iPad. They play
interactive games with friends via
computer, see all movies via Netflix.
No mothers worry.

For my prompt at What's Going On:  Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow

This Poem

source

This Poem

This poem is an island
surrounded by water
I live on this island
I am surrounded by beauty
and the restless sounds of the sea,
waves speak in tongues I try to understand.

This poem is a forest
outside of the town
I live in this forest
I am surrounded by beauty
that lives beneath the trees,
between the depth of roots and the breath of leaves.

This poem is a mountain
reaching to the sky
I live in this mountain
I am surrounded by beauty
as I look down at the world,
clouds drift like peaceful thoughts below me.

This poem is a river
cutting through stone
I float on this river
I am surrounded by beauty
in its endless becoming,
each moment gone before I can hold it.

This poem is a sky
without any edge
I live in this sky
I am surrounded by beauty
in its widening silence,
which encompasses everything and is happy.

Written for Sherry's prompt at What's Going On:  "This Poem...."

Truth

source

Truth

How can I write about truth
when so much of what I hear is lies?
There is little I can say.

I wonder how they live with themselves
when their mouths speak untruths
as if they were profound.

They claim to be people of god,
yet break the 9th commandment daily
and feign allegiance to their lord.

What message do the young receive,
with lies presented every day as truth?
Will society become truthless in the end?

Written for Susan's prompt at "What's Going On" -- Truth

Children

A Childlike Adventure

I yearn to be one of the boxcar children
or to live in the house at pooh corner
where I'll ride on my own black beauty
alongside the mouse and his motorcycle

Perhaps I'll discover the secret garden
in the place where the sidewalk ends
then wander up my side of the mountain
just the little prince and madeline and me

I'll solve the mystery of the wrinkle in time
and reveal everything that brown bear sees
then peer wistfully at the goodnight moon
as I wait for the time you reach me.

I'll travel on the little engine that could
to where the mountain meets the moon
to be able to answer the call of the wild
before I finally paddle to the sea.

This is submitted for Sumana's prompt:  Child/Children at What's Going On?   Perhaps not exactly what she had in mind, but......


I have referred to SEVENTEEN children's books in the poem above.  Fifteen lines have one children's book, and one line has the name of two!

Anger

 

source

ANGER

Anger bites,
gnaws at my insides.
I feels so hopeless
cannot find a way
to rid myself of this anger
that hangs on.

One person single-handedly
destroyed this country
and is doing a good job
of destroying the world
as it was when I could smile.

There is nothing
I can do with this 
anger that sticks
in my throat
nauseates me
takes away my joy.

I feel hopeless rage
at this person,
his syncophants
who say yes to his whims,
all those who took 
a wrecking ball to the world.

I boil, seethe, shake my fists,
scream, pound the walls, 
my stomach churns.
I am sickened, I wretch.
My angst comes to nothing.
Just one more depressing day.

Written for my prompt at What's Going On? -- "Anger"

A Poem From 11 Years Ago

Tulip,Violet, and Basil

If Dogs Contemplate Death 

If dogs contemplate death I do not perceive it
they relish today, savor the bowl of kibble
delight in a walk or a game of fetch.

If dogs ponder death they do not reveal it
perhaps that is one reason I love dogs
they acknowledge,  appreciate what is today.

If dogs envision death they suppress it
occupied with their conventional lives
proclaim that death is inconsequential

If dogs consider death they overlook it
as part of life they cannot control.
What's the use of knowing after all?
-------------------------------------------------

I wrote this poem 11 (not ten!) years ago, and as I looked back at my old poems I still find it relevant.  By now both Tulip and Violet have crossed the rainbow bridge, and Basil is 15 years old and still going strong for his age.   I agree with the sentiments of the poem.  Basil, at 15, still savors life, still delights in his food, cuddles in my lap, shows some 'spark' when he plays.  Below is a photo of Basil (as he looks today) and his more recently arrived sister Olive living their best life!

For Sherry's prompt at What's Going On? -- "Ten Years Ago"

Hilary Knight

source

Hilary Knight

Born in California,
she found her passion on ice,
then moved with her talent
to the colder midwest.

At the University of Wisconsin–Madison,
from 2007 to 2012,
she took classes, played hockey, and skated more,
earned a degree in history and
a certificate in European studies,
learned how past lives shape the present
even as she was shaping her own
not aware yet that she would be
a history maker herself.

After graduation,
her excellence at the game gave her options.
She became a professional player,
then a cornerstone of the game—
a force to be reckoned with,
a constant presence
on the U.S. women’s national ice hockey team,
always reliable, a symbol of the game,
excellence through endurance, strong.

She did more than score goals.
She helped build something lasting and greater,
pushed women’s hockey forward in North America,
shaping not only her career
but the future of the sport itself.

Five Olympic Games—
more than any U.S. hockey player
(man OR woman)—
two gold medals, three silver,
years measured not by seasons
but by the love of the game.

And in Milan–Cortina,
wearing the C,
she led as captain,
steady under pressure,
guided the American team
to gold.

In Women’s History Month,
her story reminds us:
excellence isn't inherited but
is built over years,
an example for young girls to follow,
leadership earned stride by stride
when no one is watching,
but the ice will remember
those who change the game.

Written for Susan's prompt at What's Going On? -- Women's History Month

Unspoken

Unspoken

There are whole conversations
I have with myself
that never reach the air,
things I would like to say
but do not.

I imagine saying the words aloud,
watch the room shift,
watch a face change.
I rehearse the aftermath
and decide against it.

Some truths are sharp.
There are things and people I detest.
There are sorrows and angers 
that weigh me down, 
but what would be repaired
by their release?

My fears would not disappear
under someone's examination.
My sadness or anger would not shrink
because of being named out loud.
Those I detest would not
become more likeable.

No one is holding the missing piece
that could make it all better.
No one carries a magic answer
for what lives inside me.

Most often  it feels wiser
to let the storm pass
without commentary.

So I keep the silence
not as surrender
but as restraint,
guarding others
from the weight
of what I carry inside,
guarding myself
from having to explain
the unexplainable,
knowing nothing 
would change with
the sharing.

Instead, I move
to another place.

I open a book
and step into someone else’s weather.
Or I walk my trail or
work out in the gym
until my breath drowns out thought,
until my feelings turn
into muscle and motion
and all is good.

The unspoken remains—
not gone,
only set aside
in the dark of my mind,
where even I may forget
what I meant to say.

Written for my prompt at "What's Going On? -- Unspoken

---

Let Us Bless the Earth

Let Us Bless the Earth

Let us bless the earth
the way it has sustained us
since the beginning of time

Let us bless the earth
its patience despite the
folly of humankind

Let us bless the earth
each season's beauty
remarkably sublime

Let us bless the earth
innumerable peaceful places
where beauty does shine

Let us bless the earth
its kindness to all beings
with wisdom crystalline

Let us bless the earth
let us bless the earth
yes it is now time.

For What's Going On - Sherry's prompt "Blessings"

Creation

source

Creation

In the beginning God created
heaven and earth,
wildlife and plant life.

Last, God created humankind
and was pleased with
all that had been made.

Humankind was special,
meant to rule over nature,
and it was good.

But humankind lost its way,
and here we are today.
I wonder if God regrets.

And I wonder if God still
loves those created
in God’s image.

And if God is powerful
enough to create
this world we inhabit,

Why doesn’t God use
that power to restore it,
to change the hearts of Man?

Written for Susan's prompt "Creation" at What's Going On?

Seeking Shelter

source

Seeking Shelter

I write in a trance today.
My heart isn’t in it,
yet I continue—
wondering why, and for how long.

I look for a place to shelter
from the evils of the world--
somewhere to burrow,
a little calm for my anxious heart.

I play the New York Times Wordle,
a small, clever escape,
a workout for the mind—
though the news still always finds me.

I play with my dog,
look into her deep eyes,
so dependent, so innocent.
Her warmth steadies me.

I find shelter in plans,
in dreams that may not happen—
to visit Copenhagen again,
the quiet utopia of my soul.

Written for my prompt at What's Going On? -- "Shelter"

A Hurting Heart

source

A Hurting Heart

Sometimes there is
no help for a hurting heart
except to look away for a time
read a book, go to the gym,

take a walk, cuddle a dog,
watch a series on TV,
play a word game with friends.
bake banana bread, write a poem,

take a nap, organize a drawer,
eat ice cream, listen to music.
These are some simple ways
to help a hurting heart.

For Sherry's prompt at What's Going On:  Help for Hurting Hearts

Peace

 

 Photos With Permission of Photographer

Peace

They walk the long road
from Texas to Washington,
robes and sandals,
nothing extra.

Their lives are simple.
Purposeful—
resolved.

Day after day they walk.

I imagine myself beside them,
learning how to move
without urgency,
without rage
without fear
without anxiety.

Aloka walks with them,
nose to the ground,
heart untroubled
by flags or slogans
or evil intentions.
He loves the road
because it is there.

I want to be
like Aloka.

These days
my heart is loud
with politics,
disbelief, anger,
fear.

I cannot settle safely.
I want another way.

Peace, maybe,
is not silence
but choosing
where to place each foot.

One step.
Another.
Leaving something behind.

For Susan's prompt at What's Going On:  "Peace"

New Beginning

New Beginning

New year

new beginning

fresh hopes

spring is just over the hill

and once again

grass will green

flowers will bloom
birds will sing

there will be reason for

smiles

Written for Sumana's prompt at What's Going On? -- "A New Beginning"

Letting Go

Letting Go

Letting go
is not one clean motion.
It is a slow unfastening,
fingers loosening
around what once felt permanent.

We began at the bank,
adjoining teller windows,
passing jokes along as
we passed out cash,
a summer for me,
a life for him.

Later there were meals,
bars where the floor throbbed under our feet,
music loud enough
to make the future seem distant.
We talked until closing time,
until words felt endless.

Time moved us apart
without breaking our connection.
Letters replaced laughter,
cards stood in for voices.
Holidays, birthdays—
news folded neatly inside envelopes
never an occasion missed.

Then silence arrived
without explanation.
A fall.
A nursing home with no name.
A card unanswered.

Letting go
began as worry,
then became absence.

The news came sideways,
through a message,
through someone else’s grief.
I wanted one last sentence,
one more sound of his voice,
something unfinished to finish.

There was kindness after—
a brother’s call,
a small book returned,
my younger handwriting still held
in his keeping.

Letting go means
holding that tenderness
without trying to reclaim it.
It means letting gratitude
stand where loss wants to scream.

I remember the guitar,
the pranks,
the dancing,
but mostly the long talks—
how time once seemed like infinity to us.

Now I practice releasing
the future I didn't know had passed:
no more cards,
no more news,
no voice on the other end.

Letting go
is allowing the love to stay
while accepting the goodbye.

Written for my prompt at What's Going On?  -- "Letting Go"

The Last Things I Remember

source

The Last Things I'll Remember

The backyard lawn where I would lie out in the sun to tan,
with a book in my hand, a transistor radio blaring the
popular songs of the day, the warmth, slight breeze, summer

The clothesline, filled with sheets, towels, shirts, underwear,
pajamas, drying all day in the warm sun, bleaching, the smell
of fresh air baked into them, so crisp and clean, blowing.

The petunias and geraniums, my mother knees on the ground,
hands in the earth, planting and caring for them, weeds did 
not have a chance, watered with care, tended with love.

The lawnmowers, first a hand mower, my dad pushing,
then a power mower, orange, easier to use, sometimes I
would mow the lawn then, work I thought was fun.

The smell of leaves burning in fall, my dad made a
fire in fall, the flames dancing, the smell pungent, sky
dark overhead, my dad standing watch with a rake.

The front porch, sitting out on a warm summer night,
talking to neighbors who walked by, playing starlight
moonlight, watching fireflies dance, under the moon.

For Sherry's prompt at What's Going On? -- "The Last Things I Remember"

Twilight

photo taken by me

Twilight

Twilight.
Between day
and night.

Life moves the same way:
childhood,
youth,
adulthood,
and then this—
late adulthood,
the hour before dark.

This is where I am:
late twilight.
Wine in hand.
The sun easing down.
Still active.
Still tasting joy.
Still aware
the light is thinning.

Twilight is not night,
but it knows night is coming.
There is no stopping it,
no bargaining
with the horizon.

So—
cheese with the wine.
A quiet toast.
Not surrender,
but acknowledgment
of the dark ahead.

Written for Susan's prompt "Twilight" at What's Going On?

Silence

source

 Silence

Silence welcomes me home—
at last  my tired feet are up,
tea is warm in my hands.

Silence unsettles
when calls go unanswered,
when texts are not responded to.

Silence stings and hurts
when I speak to someone
and nothing comes back.

Silence deepens on Christmas Eve—
distant church bells drifting,
the world celebrates a birth.

Silence troubles me
when harm spreads
and so many say nothing.

Silence becomes worship
when I pause in stillness,
and offer thanks without words.

Silence settles at bedtime,
the noise of daytime  fading,
rest finally near.

This is written for Sumana's prompt "Silence" at What's Going On?

Two Poems on Loneliness

source

The Season Everyone Smiles Through

December arrives with its scripted cheer,
lights strung across streets and windows
decorations on doors and in yards
as if brightness alone could lift the heaviness
that settles this time of year.

I walk through stores where music insists
on joy I can’t find a way to feel,
its cheerfulness brushes against me
like a stranger who assumes we’re friends.
Everyone seems to be performing—
laughing a little too loudly,
talking about plans as though the season
still carries the magic it once did.

All around I see a hollow imitation—
ornaments hung because they always have been,
traditions kept out of habit rather than wonder.
I feel myself going through the motions,
as if the holiday is a play and I’m reciting lines
that no longer fit my mouth.

Sometimes I look at others
and wonder if they’re acting too,
if they have that same quiet thoughts,
that same suspicion that the season
has become something to endure
rather than celebrate.
But we all smile for photos,
wrap gifts and sing traditional songs,
and I can’t tell if I am the only one
who hears the silence beneath all the music.

I tell myself it’s just another year,
that I’ll step through it as I always do
like a doorway I didn’t choose—
but still must pass through—
hoping, without expecting,
that some small flicker might return
and I will feel real and alive again.

What's Missing?

In a crowded room, voices hum like bees,
words weaving around me, never through me.
I stand among others with a cup in my hand,
wondering how to enter a conversation
when nothing in me seems to match its flow.

Laughter rises, familiar and distant,
and I nod, smile, drift away in my mind—
a person among people, yet invisible—
hoping I at least look engaged
feeling the awkward quiet settle inside.

Written for my prompt at What's Going On? -- Lonely

Resistance

 

source

Resistance

Resistance begins with a quiet mind
that rejects the media’s portrayals,
what they call truth (and isn’t),
simply refusing their story.

Resistance holds strong against despair,
enduring the flood of horrors
heard about each day,
with teeth clenched, arms folded.

Resistance pushes back against hopelessness,
eyes fixed on a flickering flame of hope.
It stands firm against giving up,
though some days make that hard.

Resistance looks toward an ending not yet visible,
noticing hairline cracks in the regime,
hoping the foundation will give way
while praying for a new dawn.

Written for Sherry's prompt at What's Going On? -- Resistance

---

Courage

Courage

Courage is a small thing
like going to work every day
when one is brown
and ICE is all around

Courage is a small thing
like standing near schools
with whistles to blow to warn
if ICE comes to call.

Courage is a small thing
like writing/speaking the truth
when so many bend the knee
rather than exposing lies.

Courage is being a survivor
and standing up proudly
demanding files be released
seeking justice.

Courage is six veterans
in Congress making a video 
explaining that service people
should not follow illegal orders.

Courage is doing something
either big or small 
even if only inside one's mind
which says I resist.

*******

Written for Susan's prompt at What's Going On:  Words of Fearlessness or Courage

Alive

Alive

Sunlight spills through the forest,
Olive trots ahead, ecstatic,
the air full of pine and impending winter.

Red and gold of colorful autumn,
and then a sudden hush of snow,
the earth shifts its colors again.

Alive!

The highway winds ahead of me,
loud music fills my car,
and I sing my favorite songs.

A table  bright with what’s fresh,
tomatoes, berries, melon, bread,
and to drink - turmeric ginger tea.

Alive

A novel captures my mind,
pages turn one after another,
I am immersed in a new world.

An engrossing conversation drifts
from laughter to serious discussion,
the gathering leaves warmth behind.

Alive!

Each small, full moment
reminds me I am here,
breathing, awake, alert ---

ALIVE!

For Sumana's prompt for What's Going On?  -- What Makes You Feel Alive?

Black

Black

At first, it’s only the absence—
then the presence begins to breathe.
Sometimes rage, sometimes sadness,
the darkness of a black hole.

Wind tears the night apart;
sky turns heavy, metallic,
the color of fury before it breaks
as the world fades to dark.

In a room a dress hangs
between celebration and mourning.
the color that expresses everything—
formality, the grief, or perhaps
intentional understatement.

The unnamed man who would be king
keeps it in his chest like a weapon,
the darkness of a narcissistic soul.
He calls it vision,
but it stinks of rancid smoke
and pollutes the atmosphere.

There is sweetness as well --
a strand of licorice pulled between teeth,
melting slowly, coating the tongue,
staining the teeth,
bitterness covered with sugar
delicious.

My dog’s nose—
cool, shining—
presses into my palm,
as if to remind me
with her soulful ebony eyes
that darkness can love, too.

For my prompt at What's Going On? -- "Black or White"

Little Squirrel

source

Little Squirrel

Little squirrel,
you scamper on the pavement
scamper in the yard,
dash through the colorful leaves.

What are you doing, little fella,
in this month of the year
(no longer summer
but not yet winter)?
Are you still burying nuts
or are you finding those
that you already buried?

Perhaps you are just enjoying
a frolic for pleasure
like I do, as I walk my dog
who finds you quite intriguing
and would like to chase you,
as she chases the leaves,
until you are both tired.

I wonder, scampering friend, 
what my dog would do with you
if she caught you--
but worry not, little squirrel.
I will protect you from harm
(and not let her loose)
as you go about your business
of living freely and happily
in this world we all share.

This was written for Sherry's post at What's Going On? -- Kinship

What I Used to Know

source

What I Used to Know

I used to think I knew
there was an eternity—
a place without end,
a promise beyond the turning of years.

But those days are gone.
Now I wake to smaller hopes,
to mornings that ask only
that I make it through.

I no longer plan far ahead.
Next month feels like fog,
next year like a myth.

If forever exists,
I wonder what waits there—
who will be gathered,
who left behind,
and whether I will still
recognize myself.

There is so much to fear,
so much cruelty walking the earth.
If eternity is real,
let it not carry
the shadows of this world.

For now,
I keep my faith
no further than the sunrise,
and call it enough.

--------

For Susan's prompt at What's Going On? -- "Eternal/Unchanging"

---

The Time of Covid

source

The Time of Covid

The book I tried to read, monotony
washing clothes, an order for pickup
a quick walk with the dog, gray skies
gray mind, new gray corduroy pants
sameness, stillness, frustration

impatience, writing, Netflix
deleting emails, covid cases climb
housebound, mask-bound, boosted
bitter cold, bitter mind, biting my tongue
people dying, democracy dying, loss of faith

the chilling cold, the boredom of the day
sameness of the day, same old same old
sadness, deeper, longer, bleaker
no respite, no escape, no change
the book I failed to read, monotony.

****

A Short Addendum

2022 peaceful times
Cocooned in my home
trapped but somewhat safe

Only today mattered
tomorrow was a question
would fear ever end?

2025 when I write this
tomorrow is still a question
will fear ever end?

For my prompt at What's Going On? -- "The Days We Stayed Apart"

The Quiet Watchers

 

The Quiet Watchers

Two small sentinels on the back of a couch,
Their ears like sails, catching every sound—
Eyes glimmering with a gentle question,
As if they know something I don’t.
Sunlight slants across their coats,
Black and white like ink on parchment,
Still and soft, yet so awake. Alive!

Behind them, blossoms fall silently.
Petals paused in their pink descent—
A world in bloom, framed by the glass
As life unfolds just out of reach.
The room hums with a hush
Only the heart can hear.

And now, they are gone.
Their warmth only memory
Their gaze now immortal
In this canvas of stillness.
The artist too has stepped
Beyond the edge of the frame,
Brush laid down, breath stilled,
Leaving me this moment captured.

I stand here now,
Looking at the ones
Who once watched me
with their intense eyes...
And shed a quiet tear.

O brief lives,
O bright sparks,
O joy curled in small bodies—
You remind me:
The couch was your throne,
The day was once infinity,
And life… a quiet, beautiful blink.

So let's love now, live now, 
Sit in the sun while we can.
Watch the world bloom.
And when the moment comes,
That we too must leave, 
Let it come gently,
Like this.

An Ekphrastic poem for Sumana's prompt at "What's Going On?"

(This poem is about the painting of my beloved pets Tulip (my heart dog) and Violet (my first toy fox terrier) done by commission by Tasmanian artist Nyra Aherne. Both the dogs and the artist are deceased. The picture hangs in my living room.)

In the Forest

 

Source

In the Forest

In the forest, Jane listened—
every leaf, every call a lesson.
She said the world is never empty,
only waiting for eyes to see.
Her life: to save Mother Nature,
and teach us to care,
so no heart grows bored or blind.

For Sherry's prompt at What's Going On?  -- "A Message from Jane Goodall"

So Tired

source

So Tired

I am so tired of
the news
the evil
the hatred
the lies
the greed
the uncaring
the intimidation
the suffering
the fear
of what will
happen tomorrow.

****

Written for Susan's prompt at What's Going On? -- "Weariness"