Journey

This poem was written for the Writer's Island prompt:  journey.  It may seem to readers that the poem is unfinished.  It is......as my journey is unfinished....as is yours.


Journey

I have arrived in this place at this time
like it or not this is where I am today
but I have no choice but move on.

The train of life accelerates faster
decades begin, and decades end
the engine has no brakes.

I choose my course, battered by wind
but better to determine my own direction
than to shed tears as summers pass.

Clock hands rotate at a rapid pace
I wave to people along the way
Like it or not I must move on.

Mother Teresa Does New York

eI wrote this poem for the Big Tent Poetry prompt this week. Imagine a pop icon, and put the icon in a different setting. My 'icon' was Mother Teresa. I truly do have the utmost respect for her (may she rest in peace), and this is only a poem.


Mother Teresa Does New York

Mother Teresa bought herself a one way ticket,
Calcutta to New York, and with the stash of money
she hid in her habit, went to Macy's and bought
a designer dress and a wig. She chucked her habit

in the restroom, strolled out into the world, and
became a woman about the town. She bought
a red Corvette convertible in Midtown Manhattan.
Enough of this life of poverty, time to really live.

She hired a driver to chauffeur her until she
learned to drive her car and made sure she
covered her tracks so papparazzi couldn't follow
her trail. On to McDonald's to chow down

a Big Mac and fries, with a McCafe Latte to go.
Next stop NBC where she admitted who
she was and said she would be willing to be
interviewed for a price. The station didn't believe

her, thought the old woman was tetched, said if
she didn't leave they'd call the police.
So off went Mother Teresa and her driver in a
cloud of Corvette exhaust down the road

once more. Next stop Empire State Building
so she could get closer to Heaven to see if there
really was such a place. Man, that elevator gave
her quite a ride. She almost lost her wig and her

lunch enroute, but her fortitude paid off and alas
she had her view. My Lord, she cried out.
I think I have to invest in some glasses.
Surely I should be able to see Heaven from here.

Going down, said the elevator operator. Nope,
not me, said Terry as she now was called.
Not in your life. I must be almost home.
Is that Heaven over there? She pointed to a cloud.

Lady, do you have a diagnosis? said the elevator
man. She finally decided there was no way to
go higher, so she decided best go down again
and live a few years more before seeking Heaven,

and she continued to live incognito,
married her handsome chauffeur, and never
missed her habit or her poverty one bit!
Oh, and she did eventually learn to drive!

Untitled

I wrote this poem for the Poet's United Thursday Think Tank prompt: SULTRY!

Untitled

We close the door behind us.
Our lips touch, first soft
then fervent, passionate.
I dreamed of this moment,
yearned for this moment.
Now it is here.

I am breathless, wordless.
Your arms encircle me,
draw me close.

Skin touches skin.

You move closer,
your fingers reach to
touch the depths
that you've awakened
beneath clothing, now
dropped to the floor.

We lie together,
passion unleashed,
hold, kiss, move together
in rhythmic motion until
oh my god, yes, oh no,
no more.

Hearts beat as one,
two persons together,
intertwined and totally spent.
We sleep in each other's arms.

Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow

This was written for the prompt (my prompt actually) for We Write Poems. The prompt was Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow. I look forward to reading what others have writtrn.



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.

Soolaimon

This poem was written for the Writer's Island prompt: Use song titles to write a poem. I used titles of 27 Neil Diamond songs (songs from my iPod). Neil Diamond is probably one of my favorite singers of all times. I will be italicize the names of the song titles, as there are some titles that are less familiar. This was a fun challenge. (As an aside, I found out that "Soolaimon" means "Peace Be With You.")


Soolaimon

On this coldwater morningafter a night of red, red wine.
I've got Holiday Inn blues,
looking at life from both sides now.
Hell, yeah, I'm onto you,
high rolling man
man of delirious love,
I know you'll soon be long gone,but if you go away,
save me a Saturday night.
Soolaimon

As time goes by
I'll believe you can walk on water again,
are not a captain of a shipwreck,and we'll once again
turn down the lights.You'll face me, say Oh Mary,
play me evermoreand again make delirious love
just like at the movies.
You'll be Captain Sunshineand we'll share a midnight dream.
Thank the Lord for the nighttime.
the free life is done too soon.
Soolaimon.

Silence

This poem is written in response to the Poets United prompt. We were to write about a sound. As I am about to post the poem that I wrote, I find myself reflecting on one of my old favorite songs: "Sound of Silence" by Simon and Garfunkel.


Silence

We sit in the same room,
don’t speak. Silence is the
only voice. How did
we arrive at this place where
we have nothing to say when
we used to have so many words?.
Where do words go?

Silence screams,
reverberates shouts.
Silence is a nightmare.
Nothing to listen to, but
the Nothing roars. A
lion in my mind.

My hands cover my ears.
It is too loud I cry to No One.
No One only listens in silence.
No One does not speak.

I remember as a child eating dinner.
My dad quiet, my mother talks.
But, Dad, what did you do today?
I yearned to listen to my father’s
thoughts. He didn’t say. Where
do thoughts go? Does anyone know?

I drive five hundred miles with a daughter,
cannot converse with yes and no. What do you
think? Did you see a good movie?
Anything, anything at all? I tire of my
own voice, tire of killing stillness
with words. I give up, drive, just drive,
eyes on the road ahead. I learn to endure
the shriek of Silence in my ears.
Silence is always the loudest sound.

Army Life

This poem was written in response to Robert Brewer's prompt at Poetic Asides: An inverted pyramid poem.


Army Life

After three tours of duty in Iraq,
he built a house for his family
near Fort Hood. They were happy for
a year until the army transferred him

to Fort Bliss, so the family moved
once more, left dream house behind.
He knew his next deployment would
probably be Afghanistan, and

while he was away again the family
would be left behind at Fort Bliss,
an unfamiliar area, while renters
occupied their faraway dream home.

Solitary Stream

This poem was written in response to the We Write Poetry prompt that involved using "surrealistic automatic writing" and then using the material for a poem.



Solitary Stream

I sit at the kitchen table
savor solitude at dawn
my world is still except for thoughts
streaming through the silence
and the sporadic bark of a dog
who sees a squirrel scurry in the yard.

My eyes follow the squirrel
as it scampers up the tree,
atop the fence now, then down,
bounding here, there, like my mind,
unfocused, skipping, skidding, stop.

I savor my coffee slowly
stimulate my senses
one sip after another
I sense the surge.
Someday serendipity
shortly sensual, sedate,
sequential, subdued
still, soundless, serene.

My eyes sight the squirrel again
Sifting soil in my flower garden.
I scream, Scat, you scamp.
Scatter, like my thoughts.
Sanctimonious, sublime, shambles
subtle subconscious stream.

What's On My Mind?

Rallentanda, on POW (Poetry on Wednesday), challenged us to write what's on our minds. My mental process this week worked in short spurts. Here are three of these 'spurts.'

I.

Nothing on my mind today
I try to keep it that way
too many things to do
no free time to think
go through the motions
one foot in front of the other
I allow myself no distractions
will do what I need to do.

---------------------------------------

II.

Fortune cookie fortune asserted I will get news
from a subtle messenger so I'll keep eyes
open, pay attention to strangers I otherwise
might ignore and see what news I glean from
not looking only straight ahead.

------------------------------------------

III.

I am lucky to be a grandmother, to have
good health, and lucky my grandchildren
don't think it strange I too like to swing,
slide, ride merry-go-rounds in parks. With them
I have license to do what observers otherwise
might think is weird. After all, how many times
have you seen a jubilant woman of a certain age
in a park all alone on a slide? I'm blessed indeed.

Turning Ten

This poem was written in response to a prompt for Big Tent Poetry this week. Here is part of the prompt: " What is your favorite poem? What about it makes it your favorite? Does it contain an image that rocks your poetry world? Does it provide a realization that changes you? Do you admire its poetic devices (metaphor, alliteration, repetition, form, etc.)? Whatever it is you like about your favorite poem, try to use that in a poem of yours."

This poem is not my favorite poem. I really cannot choose one, but it is one I like. And the author, Billy Collins, felt somewhat the same as I did about turning ten. So I decided to write my own version, after having read his.

Inspired by a poem by Billy Collins - Turning Ten. Here is his poem:

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-turning-ten/



Here is mine:


Turning Ten

I despised the idea of turning ten
two digits seemed old, I wished
my euphoric childhood time to stand still.
Most friends yearned to be older
thirteen to be a teenager, fourteen
to dance, fifteen to date, sixteen
to drive, eighteen official adult.


Me? I wanted to pretend my bike
was a spaceship or galloping horse,
blonde hair blowing in the breeze.
Unencumbered by life's strife.
Play tag, kick the can, swing, be
forever free. I wanted to play
softball in the street with friends.
I hated to think of body changes,
make up, high heels, phone calls
from boys, proms, hard classes,
growing up, then growing old.

The day I turned ten, I cried, time
of innocence over, two digits now,
today and always, can't stop time.
Already I saw how fast time passed.
Ten, a blink, and then twenty, and
I abhorred that thought. From ten on
I despised birthdays when first digit changed.
Stark, they exemplified the passing of time.
Ten, twenty, thirty, forty, and....eighty. No!

What’s good about the passing of time?
A few things maybe, but not when it comes
to birthdays, digit after digit, year after year.
I still want to play outside, ride bike fast,
play ball, swing and slide, play tag,
and with grandchildren, not yet ten, I do.

If You Really Want to Know

If You Really Want to Know

If you really want to know what I think,
I will tell you, but most of the time
I sense you listen with half an ear
and think only about your own response.
I can tell the difference you know.
But if you want to know the truth
I learned from you. I listen to you
with half an ear too. Easier than way.
No expectations, but sadder. Anyway
just let me know if you really want
to know what I think. And then we
can talk about what’s important.

Shoes

Shoes


They died
an untimely death
on an early morning walk
along a nature trail
the day after the rain.
The path in parts
was muddy water
surrounded by muck
no way around it
except through
so I slogged through,
white tennis shoes
now brown sponges.
Squish squash.
And what squish
started out squash
to be a pleasant squish
walk squash
was now squish
a washout.

Reunion

I wrote this poem (below photo) in response to the Writers Island prompt: reunion.

Reunion

Overjoyed
their tails wag
as they greet me
with excited barks
lick my hand,
when I appear
at the kennel
It has been
so long.

Ecstatic,

my heart races,
eyes dance,
as I greet each,
hug and kiss

my best friends.
I missed them
immeasureably.
My vacation over,
together finally, home.

The Diamond Ring

I wrote this poem in response to the Poets United prompt: Diamond.


The Diamond Ring

He planned to move from Alaska to Wisconsin because of me,
Vietnam veteran who escaped into the wilderness after the war.
He warned me not to touch him unexpectedly, told me he'd recoil.
He said he always carried a gun, just in case. By the time he

told me he was going to move I was fearful. He was so sure.
I was not. He said he didn't sleep, went to the VA hospital
to talk to other Vets during the daytime. Then he shocked me
with a diamond engagement ring. I was speechless. Why?

By now I tried to distance myself from him. I told him I could
not accept it, was not ready for marriage. Anything at all I
could think of. I didn't want to make him angry, this Vietnam
vet with PTSD who thought he was in love with me.

When I refused the ring, he told me that the heavy box that
he had sent to my house, the one he told me held a battery,
really held parts of a submachine gun. I tried to remain calm,
but inside I was frightened out of my mind. He was unstable.

Every night I slept with one eye open, with my ears listening,
hoping that there would be no strange noises at my door.
I feared that he would break in with that gun, this guy who
cared so deeply about me, this guy who was a bit crazy.

I tried to see him infrequently, to wean him away from me,
to say no more than yes when he wanted to see me. At
Christmas he gave me a present. I gave him nothing. It
was a necklace. Gold with diamonds in it. My god.

It was the diamond ring, with the gold and diamonds melted
down, the gold now a formless blob, the diamonds surrounded.
It was not beautiful, was not a gift of love. It spooked me.
What could I say? I don't remember what I said.

I know I did not question. I didn't dare. I know thanked him.
It was the polite thing to do. I know I was still afraid. PTSD
is frightening. I didn't want to set him off. I wanted the
nightmare to end. As time went on, it did.

He eventually did leave the city. I don't know where he went.
Once in a while I do a search for him, but I never find him,
which is for the best. I still have the necklace, the crushed
diamond ring. I think of it seldom, thought of it today.

Guava

This poem was written for the We Write Poems prompt, which was: Write about an object. I chose the guava. In Hawaii I had often enjoyed drinking guava nectar, so I was interested in experiencing the fruit!

Guava

What do you do with a guava?
Eat it like an apple, she said.
Skin? Yes the skin.
Seeds? Yes seeds too.
On the skin, some salt.
OK, I’ll take one.

At home I wash the guava
cut it in pieces, touch of salt,
take a bite, anticipate sweet,
but it’s allure is tasteless.
How disappointing the fruit
compared to its nectar.

Not Yes This Time

Not Yes This Time

I could not tell you yes today
I needed to say no
I needed time for me
time to organize myself
time to relax, write poetry.
You asked me twice,
said you wouldn't be long,
only 7:30 you said
but to me this was long
when I craved to write
all day and could not
because I was caring for
your children while you worked.
I am beginning to know
when I can say yes and
when I must say no.
And not feel guilty.
But it is still hard

Storm

(This poem was written in response to the Poetic Asides prompt, "After the rain....")

Storm

Rain arrives unexpected, pounds pavement
in frightening torrents, floods everything,
including the basement. I watch at the window,
pray we won’t have to go to the basement.
pray for no tornado, pray the electricity will
stay on. Rain falls horizontally, pierces all in its way.
Leaves are humbled, shocked by the force of the rain.
Then, quick as it arrives, the rain stops. Then the
wind. The storm passes. I can breathe deeper
again. Dark sky brightens. Sun appears.
Clouds dissipate. Normalcy resumes at last..

If You Really Want to Hear

If You Really Want to Hear

If you really want to hear about it,
I will tell you, but don't pretend interest,
as this wastes my time and your time;
and neither of us has time to waste.

If you really want to hear about it,
I will share with you the details, what
I thought was important, how I did
what I did, how I felt about what I did.

But if you don't really want to know,
please spare me, as it takes energy
for me to recount my experiences
if you are just trying to be polite.

If you really want to hear about it,
I will tell you, and gladly so,
but know that I am comfortable
with silence. It's okay either way.

How to Sleep on a Plane

(This was based on reality. I never realized how long it took to do a total computer virus scan. I started it last night at dinner time, thought sure by the time I went to bed the scan would be completed. What I did not realize was everytime I walked away from it, and it went into 'sleep' mode the virus scan paused. The computer had to be active. Thus I had to keep it 'active' all night. Sigh.) I wrote this in response to a "Poets United" prompt.


How to Sleep on a Plane

To enable you to sleep on a plane flight,
plan to do a thorough virus scan
of your computer the night before travel.
You will have to check on it every hour
of the night because if the computer
goes into sleep mode, the scan will
pause until the computer is active again.
And after a certain point, when it is
more than fifty per cent scanned, you
don’t want to stop and start over another
time and go through it all the hassle again,
so you just stay awake and find something
to do, even if it is Facebook, until the scan
finishes about five o’clock a.m., and then
it is too late to sleep. You are excited
anyway, so you stay up, make coffee,
drink it, go to the airport, board the plane.
Though you usually cannot sleep, this
time you cannot stay awake. And you.
willingly pass on your simple secret
to other people who read your poem.

Finale du Jour

Written for Rallentanda's POW #1, in the style of Jacques Prevert, with a sprinking of French.

Finale du Jour

We look out the window, wait,
le garcon, la petite femme,
les deux chiens. et moi.
The children are hungry,
the dogs are bored
It has been a long day.
We see the black car approach
le garcon, la petite femme,
les deux chiens et moi.
The children put on shoes.
Barefoot, I open the door.
We go outside, except for
the dogs who bark, always bark..
The children run to la mere,
le garcon et la petite femme.
The car door opens, mother
smiles and hugs. I stand,
tired, wave. They drive away..
The dogs, not tired, bark.
We take a walk before I eat,
le deux chien and moi.

Buried Treasures

A response to the Writer's Island prompt: Treasures


Buried Treasures

Treasures from the past
stored in boxes bring yesterdays
to life as I retreat into the attic
late at night when I cannot sleep.

It is bitter cold in winter, torrid
in summer, sometimes musty,
often dusty. I close the door,
choose a box, open it with care,

explore its contents, whether
it be books, dolls, old photos,
certificates, framed pictures,
knicknacks, old wallets, jewelry.

With many treasures to investigate
during late night exploration, I lose
myself in my finds, embrace memories
brought by each, then bury them again

in the boxes of my late night hideaway
where they will be until I discover them
the next night I am unable to sleep.

Trial and Terror

This poem is written in response to the Big Tent Poetry prompt this week. This was fun!


Trial and Terror

Best way to finish a task --
if at first you don't secede
cry cry again, and eventually
if you put your tears aside,
hunt and peek from behind
clothes doors, by hook or
crock of bull, you'll succeed
with flying coolers.

Life Among the Roses

This poem below was written for We Write Poetry. You can find the link to the right of this page. The instructions are too complex to summarize. Let me just say, to complete the poem was a challenge. But first a quotation of Georgia O'Keefe.

"Nobody sees a flower, really, it is so small. We haven't time - and to see takes time like to have a friend takes time. " --- Georgia O'Keefe

Life Among the Roses

I am jubilant today
hidden here among the rose bushes.
Though the thorns pierce my skin
like sequential porcupine quills,
it is for absolute love that I bleed.
I remember when I planted these bushes
so small then, no flowers at all.
I cared for them as my children,
watered, nurtured, pruned, watched them thrive.
The red roses for love, white for loyalty,
yellow for warmth, lilac enchantment and desire.
Such a sultry summer day to be surrounded by roses.
Often I despise the intensity and heat of the sun
on Summer Solstice as it scorches skin and ground.
Georgia O’Keefe painted roses inside and out.
I am as loyal as White Rose with Larkspur
as I bask now in the summer sun I love
I have often dreamt about this sanctuary
surrounded by the beauty that I cherish.
Now I can almost feel the warm ocean waves
of Waikiki Beach soothe my mind and soul.

Forks in the Road

This poem was lightheartedly written for this week's prompt for Writer's Island. The prompt was "fork in the road." Thus, my poem.........



Forks in the Road


Every day decisions,
forks along the path,
which way to go,
this way or that.

One thing is certain,
whatever path I take
will lead to another fork.
My future is at stake.

Eyes focus forward,
there's no turning back.
I consider each decision,
keep myself on track.

Whatever path I choose
whichever fork I follow
I'll know I'll have to live with
today and tomorrow.

True Tale

A poem of conversation written for Big Tent Poetry


True Tale


Do you think your father loved you?

Yes I think he loved me, but I always
wondered if I was missing something
after my father left my mother.

I think you'd be a good father.
I hope you'll have kids some day.

First I have to find someone.
You don't know how it is in
the dating scene here.

How is it?

So many insecure women
who look for someone with
more baggage than they have
so they feel better about themselves.

Have you ever tried Match.com or
how abou E Harmony?

I have, but people can easily
hide behind a computer screen,
say anything they want, lie.
I'm a forthright guy. I'd rather
just meet someone, ask if they
want to go out, and if they don't
it has only been nine seconds
of my time. Life goes on.

But where do you meet women
then if not in the bars?

I was once auctioned off as
a date in a charitable event
for some cause. The woman
who won was a nice person,
but we really didn't hit it off.
I think that is the way to go.
Being involved with something.

You work here around so many
women. I'd think you'd have
an easy time finding someone
here in the workout room.

I don't believe in mixing work
and social life though. Could
cause problems. I'm okay
though with whatever happens.
Actually I've started writing
a book. I have lots of ideas.

Let me tell you about writing
a book. I think you should.

I'd really like my book to be
in bookstores, but I don't know
really how to get it there.

It isn't easy, let me tell you,
but keep writing. I know
it would be good.