My Voice

My Voice

My voice is expressive, animated
soft or loud, tries not to shout.

Voice is blunt, tries to change, fails.

It likes to philosophize, discuss, read

to children, sometimes to remain silent

to listen to the voices of others.

Voice likes to think it knows when

to speak, sometimes is proved wrong.

Sometimes sad, sometimes happy,

Voice does not lie, wishes it could.

It can be caring, understanding, but

when pressed can cut to the quick.

Voice directs children, sometimes dogs,

sings in the car, but never in a choir.

Transformation

Transformation

Silence suppresses my senses
perhaps due to scarcity of stimulation.
So I disappear into obscurity in my mind
for a time until I surface, stand straight,
wave good-bye to the world, and with

gentle wings rise above and forget all
I leave behind on earth, only to evolve into
a spirit skimming through space
spellbound by a summery breeze
in search of a suitable sanctuary.

If Only

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

If Only


I always hope for happy endings
           in life or movies or books

someone lives happily ever after
evil punished, good rewarded
tornado doesn't touch ground

trapped miners rescued
bomb does not detonate
most qualified promoted

good deeds recognized
drowning man revived
everyone safe at home

friend a friend forever
families live in peace
every disease a cure

best candidate wins
prayer answered
brakes take hold

depression lifted
sick child healed
lost child found

gun unloaded
plane lands
wars end

every problem has a solution
                   if only it were so.

Journey

JOURNEY



I.  Departure


I left home the other day
but only in my mind.
I didn't know where I'd go
but needed to find my kind.

II.  Travel

I didn't travel far that day,
but left my worries behind.
It felt good to be wild and free
and to find peace of mind.


III.  Return

But then I discovered what I missed
and yearned to return to my base.
I knew I could leave home again
but this probably won't be the case.

Whatever........

This poem was written in response to Robert Brewer's prompt in Poetic Asides.  The prompt was "Whatever....."

Whatever......


Whatever hand life deals you
you have to play the cards.
In this world
              there is no redeal.

Whatever hand life deals you,
make the most of cards you have.
If they're not perfect,
               smile, persevere.

Whatever hand life deals you,
accept it, face it, roll with it.
don't argue,
               play a card.

Whatever hand life deals you
there is no time for complaint.
It's your hand to play,
              full stop. Amen.

After the Rain

After the Rain

My hands push into the moist soil
after the downpour. I wrest weeds
whose roots grow deep. Soil oozes
over my fingers, surrounds them,
muck settles beneath my fingernails.

I pull or dig violet, quack grass. clover,
dandelions, thistle, and crabgrass.
All can go. My knees ache, my back
throbs. I crawl around place to place.
Painstaking. Hard. I must continue.

One weed at a time I eradicate with
hand weeder and trowel. Dig too fast
and root breaks. My hands laden
with dirt learn patience, work slow.
My hands ache, wounded in battle.

Hands covered with dirt, tendons
cry out enough, veins protrude,
knuckles inflame. I am euphoric
with success, but gardening, like
life, is not for sissies.Quack, be gone

But weeds, like bad habits, erupt again,
will overtake the garden if they're
not dealt with time and time again
with patience mixed with pain.
and tolerance of dirty hands.

This was written in response to the Big Tent Poetry prompt ---- Hands.
I submit it also to Poets United.  Prompt ---- Water.

The Traveler

The Traveler

She is traveling toward you
at breakneck speed.

You cannot yet see her,

but she is on her way,

each day closer.

You  will  not recognize she's near,

may run but can't escape,

 may not see her countenance

as she breathes in your face

when you exhale your last.

She entraps you at your end.

Time Travel

This poem was written for Writers Island.  The topic was "time travel."  I decided to call the poem Time Travel, as, after all, that is what we all do as we go through life, isn't it?


Time Travel

Young time ahead of me appeared infinite
Now I count the summers I think I have left

Young each year brought possibility
Now each year possibility fades away

Young I was idealistic
Now more likely realistic

Young I was happy with work
Now I am happy with retirement

Young I experienced many firsts
Now I experience many lasts

Young many friends was the answer
Now a few true friends are best.

Young I worked at raising children
Now I hope to see grandchildren grown

Young the future is decades ahead
Now the future is next year

Young was good
Now is better

Tomorrow?
May be best!

Six Word Memoirs

We Write Poetry Challenge this week was to take a look at the Smith Six-Word-Memoir Project, and write six-word-memoirs on one or more topics.  I wrote six-word-memoirs on each topic.  I share them below.  An additional challenge was to turn a memoir (or more) into a poem.  I wrote short poems to accompany two of the memoirs.  This was fun!


Memoir Topic:  The best advice I have given or gotten:

Give everyone
benefit of the doubt.


Memoir Topic:  Milestone birthdays:

Each birthday
an occasion to celebrate.


Memoir Topic:  Holiday traditions:

Holiday traditions
mean more later on.


Memoir Topic:  A memorable meal:

Pizza in bed
late at night


Memoir Topic:  Siblings:

Siblings are not
always by birth.


Memoir Topic:  Cheating death::

Crashed down
twelve stairs and lived.


Memoir Topic:  Trip that changed my life:

I cannot decide
on only one.


Memoir Topic:  What a child taught me:

When swimming, you
 will always smile.

To Mya Who Does Not Quite Swim

Every day you swim, use your pink arm floaties,

sometimes a noodle, You ride on a little raft

or float on your back. Pool balls are your friends,

and kick boards are pizzas to deliver. You laugh,

splash, kick to propel yourself, chatter. We play

tag, ring around the rosy, and your big smile stays.

on your face as long as you are in the pool. When

you hang out at the pool ladder, hum a mindless

tune, I know it's time to leave the water for today.

Heartbroken, you sob. Tears run down your face.

Indignant, you sob I'm not tired. I'm not tired.

But Im not convinced. I take off your bathing suit,

dry you as you cry. I put fresh clothes on you,

as you cry. I carry you, relaxed now and no

longer crying, upstairs.  I put you in the little

bed.  Within ten minutes you sleep.

Memoir Topic:  Revenge is sweet:

Sweet revenge
is an ugly lie.


Memoir Topic:  The worst mistake I ever made:

I hated once,
now I don't.


Memoir Topic:  My life overall:

I would do
it all again.

Life

If I had to live my life again

I would change nothing at all

I'd want to end up exactly

in the place I am today.

If I made a different choice

anywhere along the path

outcome would be different

Who knows who I'd be?

Summer 2010 (A Wordle)

The following poem is a "wordle" written for Big Tent Poetry for 8/20.  It uses ALL of the above words.  I have bolded them in the poem below.
---------------------------------------------------

Summer 2010

Summer sizzles this year that
temperatures transcend two zeroes
The earth is baked, burned,
charred deep within, so deep
our stream has run dry

The hose is always necessary
to moisten the scorched soil.
and to water the plants in pots.
Cars have windows cracked open,
pineapple and silk are cheap!

911

In memory of September 5, 2007.... before which I really NEVER knew pain.  I fell down 12 uncarpetted stairs in the middle of the night, was rushed to the hospital by ambulance, ended up with an open scapula fracture, 5 broken ribs, punctured lung, broken tailbone, shattered knuckle.  Orthopedic Intensive Care for a few days, general Orthopedic for a few days, then home for a few months of painful recovery.

Oddly enough, I do not regret this experience.  When I was injured I was in top physical shape from working out.  I did not know if I could ever get back to this shape, but I fought hard as I could and achieved.  I think after one comes so close to losing life (truly I could have had a skull fracture or back / spine injury so easily) one appreciates life even more.  The only real ill effect that remains today is my finger injury, which one would think would be the most minor.  My left index finger really doesn't work!

I thank God for life!  Now here is my  poem about what was ONLY the beginning, when I didn't know what was ahead, what all was broken:


911

paramedics are shadows
i don't see their faces
only feel their hands
hear their voices

they ask me questions
i answer do not think
do what they say
totally their charge

hands position me
broken vulnerable helpless
lift me onto the stretcher
then carry me out

the ambulance awaits
silent red light revolves
i am lifted inside, secured
two medics by my side

the ambulance snakes
through city streets
winds its way to expressway
speeds up siren blares

the fast ride jars my body
i feel stabs of pain
live in the moment
hear voices feel hands

watch the green exit signs
pass by outside window
i see the hospital now
do not think beyond.

Trail to End

This is a 'blitz poem' introduced by Robert Brewer of Poetic Asides.  It is a 50-line poem following a specific format, which covers everything from lines to title.  I did it just for fun.


Trail to End

Walk the path
Walk the trail
trail with deer
trail with trees
trees with birds
trees with squirrels
squirrels scamper
squirrels hide
hide hickory nuts
hide from hikers
hikers alone
hikers with children
children run
children play
play with sticks
play for a time
time with self
time with nature
nature is beauty
nature brings dreams
dreams for today
dreams for tomorrow
tomorrow not yet
tomorrow begets fall
fall begets chill
fall leaves change
change to red
change to orange
orange of pumpkin
orange turns brown
brown leaves fall
brown begets bare
bare feet gone
bare trees desolate
desolate dreams
desolate dark
dark night
dark winter
winter hike
winter white
white sky
white snow
snow man
snow storm
storm is strong
storm will end
end of winter
end of white
white
winter

He Serves

This poem was written for Poetic Asides today. The prompt was 'service.'  What came to mind immediately was my son-in-law who definitely serves. 

He Serves


He went into the army at eighteen years to save himself from trouble
and gangs, married my daughter after he was in the army for a
few years. I didn't know what to think of the relationship
at first, but they have been married twelve years now,
he has served our country in the army fourteen
years, three times in Iraq, a warrant officer
respected by all who work with him,
respected, loved by me, a
wonderful husband to my
daughter, father to their
children.. If all US
servicemen are
like him, our
country is in
very good
hands.

My Life Shelved

This poem was written for We Write Poems.  We had to look at the above photo and write.  What I came up with was a surprise even to me.....It is totally fictional, but was fun to write.

My Life Shelved

So much clutter on these shelves.
Someone got the idea years ago
I liked to collect plates and vases
and they arrived birthday after

birthday, year after year. Each
one boxed and wrapped with
pretty paper, bows, so thoughtful.
Oh so kind. I smiled, said thank

you, cringed inside. One more plate
to find a place for. One more vase.
Buy another shelf. Decade after decade
they arrived. Decade after decade

I smiled as plates invaded my home;
One at a time, now hundreds
fill my rooms. All need dusting.
I spend my days going one room

to another, dust, dust day after day.
How I detest this chore, these plates.
Monday kitchen,Tuesday living room.
Wednesday dining room. Thursday

bathroom. Friday dining room.
Saturday and Sunday I rest,
exhausted from my week's work.
I put my feet up, dream, yes dream

that one day my walls will be bare,
with no shelves, plates, vases.
I dream my home uncluttered,
as will be my life. This I hope!.

Reality or Not

Quote from a character named Cobb in the Inception movie trailer is relevant to my poem:    "Dreams feel real while we're in them. It's only when we wake up that we realize something was actually strange."  This poem is totally fictional.

Reality....Or Not

World spins like a top

out of out of control
like my mind.
Floods, earthquakes,
tornadoes, war, chaos.
Is there any control on earth?

Life is fragile
I'm a puppet on a string
manipulated by a powerful force,
a pawn, part of a mind game,
but for what purpose?

I go to bed at night to sleep
and in the darkness
my heart pounds in fear
as I wait for the game to begin
and I am thrust into a nightmare
Perhaps tonight
a flood with water I choke on
a fire that suffocates me
an earthquake that buries me
a war with me caught in the middle of gunfire
a hurricane with water above my head
a plane engine failing, leaving me
to spiral down to earth.

I'll have to escape with my life.
Survive the night's trial
or face death.

But wait this
is a dream
isnt it?









Why can't I wake up?

My Eyes

My Eyes

My eyes are one of my best features, intense
aqua eyes like my mother's that really tune in
to whatever they observe . Above my deep
blue eyes arch full black eyebrows, odd really,
considering my hair has always been blonde.

My eyes see everything. Often I see
things other people do not, always have.
I have my father's eyes, as he didn't wear glasses
until very late in life. I still wear glasses only for
night driving. I thank God for my father's eyes.

My mother's eyes developed glaucoma, inoperable
cataracts, and nothing could prevent her
from losing her sight. My mother, who loved
to read, play cards, interact with others, drive, cook
went blind. This nearly killed her. Nearly killed me.

Eyes are so important. Without good eyes I could
not be writing this poem. Without good eyes I could
not read comments I hope you'll make.
Sad truth is both my mother and father went blind,
even my father from whom I inherited good eyes.

My Prized Possession

My Prized Possession

My prized possesion is my mind,
the sum of experiences, who I am,
and the seeds of who I will be.

With my mind I present myself
to the world. I speak, write,
share the core of my being.

Without my mind I am a shell,
nothing, a body whose heart
and soul has departed, dead.

Spare me from being mindless
while my body lives strong. I can't
fathom this cruel fate for myself.

I pray my body and mind will follow
the same path, will be strong until
old age, then die together at peace.

As I Was Saying

As I Was Saying

As I was saying
I'm still searching
for the answer
to the same question
I've asked for years.
And you, you look at me
with that quizzical look
which says without words
that by now I should have
given up on the question.
But I can't help chasing
what may be impossible,
won't give up until I die.
If there is an answer
I'll find it, or die trying,
as I was saying.

Very Real Fears

This poem was written for We Write Poetry. The prompt was to write a list poem.  One of the suggested topics was to write the list poem about what we fear.  My poem is about some of my very real fears.


Very Real Fears

The telephone rings at midnight.
I answer, no one speaks, click.
The phone rings again.

Someone bangs on my door,
I look outside, man with crowbar.
I pick up the phone. It's dead.

Weather radio blares warning
I spot a funnel cloud heading for me.
No moments to reach the basement.

Thunder cracks outside my window.
Lightning strikes nearby tree,
sparks fire, now spreading to my house.

I drive in my lane on the highway,
car speeds toward me, wrong direction,
no time or place for me to escape.

I walk into hot packed elevator.
It ascends for mere seconds,
jolts to a sudden stop between floors.

I travel by airplane on vacation.
As we ready to land pilot announces
landing gears won't descend.

I wake up in the night afraid from
an awful nightmare,open my eyes
to find it was no dream, it was real.

Silence

Silence

Where do all the poems go
when people are silent?
Where does life go
when people are silent?

Silence is heavy, but is
perhaps the new norm as life
evolves, changes. Other
things take precedence

or there is no time or
less interest as other
things fill the space and
sometimes it is just

so easy to forget. Part
of society's cycle. But
as a creature of habit
I cannot help feeling sad

and wonder if someday
I will cast my words
to the wind and they
will disappear on

a gentle warm breeze
and I will stand there
waving good-bye
to nothing in particular.

Writing Poetry

The topic for today's Writer's Island is Spellbound.  It didn't take me long to decide just what it is that holds ME spellbound at this moment in time!  Thus I positioned my fingers on my key board and began to write.......


Writing Poetry

Writing poetry holds me spellbound
I breathe it in, then breathe it out
it is my lifeblood, without which I wither
I wake up, yearn to write, and begin
inspiration, perspiration, I am addicted.

Poetry is a drug in its pull, grip
what it demands of me. It will not
let me rest as words swirl, twirl
tumble in my mind. A new approach
new point of view. I must find it.

Think metaphors, alliteration, sound
how to arrange, stanzas, spacing
my fingers and mind captive
I do not rest until my poem is finished
then cannot rest until I begin again.

Sanctuary

Sanctuary

My only sanctuary
is inside my mind
no one can find me
no one can follow
unless I permit them.
Sometimes I do
most often I don't.
It is my very private
and very still space.
It is there that
I visit my dreams.
One thing I want to know:
if you want to follow me,
will you let me follow you?

Wind

The prompt for Big Tent Poetry this week was...mix it up somehow.  Do something with poetry that you don't usually do.  I don't usually write from the point of view of a non-living thing. I tried to get inside the soul of  "wind" in this poem,  to become wind, to feel as wind feels. It was an enjoyable experience, and by being 'wind' I learned something about it.


Wind



I am the wind, born the child
of sun and moon. I live in the hills
of time, overlook the ocean of infinity
I am aged yet ageless. You are
insignificant before me. You can
hear me sing from the high rocks
over the shores. I am majestic
as well as meek, one to fear,
yet to pray for. Know that
my judgment alone prevails.

I can rustle leaves or topple trees
spread seeds of rebirth, new life,
as well as flames of destruction.
I sing from the rocks over the shores
originate tornados, typhoons, storms
of dust that make eyes burn.
If I choose, I will cool you on a hot day
chill you to the bone in winter.
I am master of your fate. Know that
my judgment alone prevails.

Scents of Joy

This was written in response to Ann's prompt......

Scents of Joy

Cinnamon, cilantro,
peppermint, basil,
molasses cookies,
pizza from the oven,
baby- powdered skin,
newly washed sheets,
hazelnut coffee in early morn,
sizzling steak on the grill,
bleach sanitized kitchen,
wintergreen gum.
grass after rain,
new shampoo,
and YOU.

My Blog is Back

It is unnerving to have my words visible.
It was years before I was willing to do so,
partly because poetry is so personal,
partly because I didn't think it  worthy.

Then I became brave, tiptoed into the water,
and shared poetry with a limited world,
and it was good. Then I expanded
to an even broader world, and was happy

writing and sharing and writing and writing.
Then I got wind someone I didn't want to
see my words read them, someone
who shares nothing of self but wants

all details of others' lives; and my poetry
reveals details at times. Details I didn't
want that person or other similar voyeurs
to scrutinize. I suddenly felt naked, freaked,

angry, sad, invaded, and felt I had no choice
but to put my words behind lock and key again.
And I limited the viewers of my blog. But this
didn't feel good either to me, as it penalized

me and others who might enjoy my work and
whose work I enjoyed. So I decided to unlock
the gates again. My blog is back, unlocked
and accessible. I have decided to risk it.

I guess none of us really knows who reads
our blogs anyway, but it is better to be free.
I hope, I just have to hope.

Grandma and Little Red

This poem was written for We Write Poetry.  Assignment was to change the Red Riding Hood fairy tale or another fairy tale.  I opted for changing Red....but especially the grandmother!!  Thanks for visiting.



Grandma and Little Red

Oh, hello, Red, nice that you phoned;
but I have little time today for a visit
with poems to write, bills to pay,

dogs to walk, my bed to freshen,
followed by a luncheon date and
a stroll through the dense forest

with that handsome Mr. Wolf.
I’ve talked of him before. He’s
the gent with the whitest teeth,

biggest smile, most intense eyes.
And when we’re out he commands
attention wherever we go, with his

beautiful fur coat and gloves..
Then we’ll come back home a while
for some….rest…and…refreshment

We’re not youngsters anymore, and
we’ll be a bit tired you know. But
perhaps I could work you in between

four and five if you can wait that long.
But knock first, knock hard, as my
hearing isn’t that sharp any more.

Please try to wear something stylish.
That riding hood has seen better days.
And don’t tire yourself carrying

a picnic basket. I’ll have eaten
a tasty gourmet meal and won’t
need additional food..

Invitations to Read Blog

Some of you may wonder why you have received an invitation to read this blog when you have read it easily before.  At the moment I am closing it except to people I choose to read it, and it is ALL poetry reading / writing friends.  I am trying to find everyone's address.  Once you enter the blog, you will always be able to enter it...by just going the extra step of signing on Blogger (where many of you reside anyway).  Thank you for continuing to visit my blog, as I will continue to read and enjoy yours! 

Mary