Untitled Pikus

Untitled Pikus

Baby cries
loud
for bottle. More.

Lady sighs
long
rejecting. Bore.

Young man tries
can't
embarrassed. Whore.

Mother pries
hard
no answers. Lore.

Pilot flies
high
in the sky. Soar.

Golfer swings
wrong
look out. Fore.


(These are pikus written for We Write Poetry. A piku is a cross between a haiku and the first three numbers of pi.


three lines
3 syllables Line 1
1 syllable Line 2
4 syllables Line 3


Next
choose one or two key words
find rhymes for them
slightly re-write the first piku)

Thoughts

Thoughts

Much blows through my mind
that I do not hold onto.

It is my choice to try not to
embrace unpleasant thoughts

about things I have no control over,
could not change even if I wished.

I try to blow them on without
scrutinizing them deeply,

to rid myself of the pain,
but sometimes they don't

move fast enough and I'm
forced to study them, fret,

wring my hands, endure
sleepless nights. If only

I could always censor,
choose thoughts that enter,

pass through my mind.
If only I had peace.

Memorial Day

Memorial Day

As day wanes, I stride
into dense depths of forest
to think my own thoughts,
to mourn in solitude.

Afraid, I build a twilight fire.
Fanned by the wind.
leaves burn as dusk
transforms to darkness.

Planets hide above the clouds,
comet tails are unperceivable.
I imagine each unseen comet
a fallen soldier, and weep.

So many die, so young.
I grieve, lean against aged elm,
look to heaven, question why?
Silence, the only answer.


(This was written for A Wordling Whirl of Sundays, using the words cry, wind, planets, twilite, tails, turning, fire, leaves, against, afraid, striding. As tomorrow is Memorial Day, I chose a Memorial Day theme.)

The Bass

The Fine Bass

This fine bass
will
be waterlogged

This picture
is
too fanciful

This angel
lacks
reality.

(Written in Piku form for Writer's Island)

Raspberry Rhubarb Jam

Raspberry Rhubarb Jam
(which I will never forget)

I won't forget raspberry rhubarb jam
my mother used to make,
along with delicious rhubarb torte
until the year she passed away.

I transplanted rhubarb plants
from my childhood home to
my adult home, and then
I transplanted them again.

But this time I'll them behind.
They will grow where they are.
It saddens me greatly, as part of
my childhood will be left behind.

Perhaps I'll take some rhubarb
one more time tomorrow,
I'll make one more rhubarb torte
and remember Mother's rhubarb jam.

I hadn't thought about this
until I began to write today.
I didn't know just how sad I'd be
to leave MY rhubarb behind.

(This poem was written for Poetry Jam)

Useless Things

Useless Things

Useless things blow through my mind
worries, images from another time,
another place. Bleak and dark,
no way to censor what prevents
me from sleeping, dreaming.
I lie awake, eyes wide open
aware of the passing of every
moment of the endless night.
Television no longer puts me to sleep.
I struggle to trick myself somehow
knowing I must sleep, I must
find a way to deaden the pain of
useless things that blow through my mind.

Chocolate

Chocolate

Chocolate
an addiction for some
an aversion for others
me, I don't need it
me, I don't want it
me, I don't crave it
but when chocolate is in the house
unfortunately I'll eat it.

(This short poem was written for the Poets United prompt:  Chocolate)

When the World Began

When the World Began


When the world began

              where was I
              where were you

in the mind of
Omnisicient God
who in the long ago forever
was sitting in His heaven          

                                   was there heaven then

and decided to create
a diversion from boredom

                                perfect can be lonely
                                after a while.

what words did He use

                               abracadabra
                               alakazam
                               shazam

what part did I play
what part did you play
in His experiment

                        was it an experiment

or was it random chance

                          is God ever random

what I want to know is
did God know me then
did he know you

                             did he know we would be we?

(This poem was written for We Write Poems.  I didn't know what to do with this prompt until the morning responses could be posted. This is my attempt at the difficult prompt.  I really do want to know what God knew ahead of time.  Is everything predestined?  The good as well as the evil?  If He is omniscient!)

Shadowed Reflections

Shadowed Reflections

Shadowed reflections
in the middle of the night
remind me of what was,
what is no more.
That is why i cannot sleep,,

why I worry so much
why I cry, why I cannot
even remember the
way life one time was
even when I try.

Beads of Life

Beads of Life

The beads were arranged in order
as they were to be strung.
Perfect order, beautiful pattern
to make the flawless necklace.

But as I was stringing them
the cord broke and the beads
dropped randomly to the ground.
No more perfect. No more order.

I picked them up one by one,
strung them incidentally,
random as they came,
no pattern, much like life.

God, Are You There?

God, Are You There?

What if God were one of us,
what would He think and do?
Would He be disappointed
in us? Would we be disappointed in Him?

If God is really God, why doesn't
He work for good? I know I would
if I were God. Why wars, natural
disasters, deaths of those so
young?  Damn, God!

God, why diseases, why pain,
why so much evil in this world?
God, if you are one of us, what I
want to know is if You care
God, are you really there?

This poem is written in response to Carry on Tuesday

Wings

Wings

In the lull of an early evening autumn
as the light waned, reality rearranged
angels gathered outside my window,
beneath the branches of a spreading elm

Their luminous yellow wings fluttered
as they muttered words not understood.
I risked, peered from behind my curtain
as they uttered their absolute truth.

As the sun melted into the horizon
and surreal surrendered to shade
luminescent eyes gazed heavenward
and a host of bright light took flight.


(This poem was written from a wordle at A Wordling Whirl of Sundays)

Sizzle

Sizzle

Words are stirred,

seasoned, left to simmer

and steep until

at last they sizzle, snap,

succulent with spice. A poem

is set to serve and savor.

(This poem was written to "sizzle" prompt at Writer's Island.)

The Telling

The Telling

I tell it like it is
don't mince words
dislike platitudes, dishonesty,
have sometimes been called blunt
but I've learned that's a complimenrt,
Sometimes I fear I tell too much
of the way it really is.

Written for the Poetic Asides prompt:  Tell it like it is.

Untitled

Untitled


If I pen a story of my life
I will title it Untitled.

Simply that,
nothing more.

I will join hands with other Untitleds,
some spectacular, some mundane.

Simply that,
nothing less.

There is a certain pride in Untitled,
one has to read it to find its plot.

No one can reject it by its title,
though original it's not.

(Written for Poets United, Thursday Think Tank.  Prompt:  Untitled)

In Times of Crisis

In Times of Crisis

In times of crisis, don't panic,

stay calm, act as if you know

what you are doing.

Left foot, right foot, left,

all will work out. You will

get through this somehow

Always Another Side

Always Another Side

There is always another side.
A side we don't think of,
perhaps don't even see;

one we may try to ignore,
an underside or dark side
we don't wish to acknowledge.

Right is not straightforward,
wrong is a matter of perspective.
Truth is relative, a sliding scale.

Beyond

Beyond

Beyond this life there is something more
I have to believe that.
I cannot fathom this is all there is,
that the point of it all is this shabby life.

Beyond this life I will meet you again
I have to believe that
or I don't think I can travel on.
I have to, I must, have faith.

In Times of Sadness

In Times of Sadness

In times of deep sadness
I have learned to go on.
My life  remains, must continue.
I must find joy in every day,

cannot focus only on the difficult,
which lives with me always,
from which there is no escape
though this would be easy to do.

I must laugh, smile, plan future.
In times of deep sadness.
I have learned I must,
I simply must, go on..

Silence




Silence

My house is mostly silent.
I write and the dogs sleep.
Only the wind howls.
I want to listen to someone,

but there is no one here.
I want to say listen to me,
but the dogs don't care.
My keyboard pounds loudly,

so loudly I cover my ears.
I want to scream stop but
then the words would cease,
and I don't want that.

I hunger for words at any cost,
will endure pain for words.
One dog curls on my lap.
She is warm anyway,

does what she can, but
she cannot speak. Perhaps
I can dialogue with myself,
tell myself stories, jokes.

Perhaps I can find out
just what it is I think.
Maybe I'll  find words
to erase the silence.

Rural Life

Rural Life

Brandishing shovel and spade
in weather-textured hands,
the farmhand rests a moment
in the chimney-shaped shade
slurping chilled lemonade.

He hopes the cool beverage,
a sorry substitute for a cool breeze,
will stop the salty sweat
that drips from hair to eyes,
if only for a moment..

He tries hard to eke out a living
for his small family, to bridge
the gap from destitute to simply poor.
He prays for an infusion of energy
to simply go on. Again. Rural life is hell.

(This poem was written for A Wordling Whirl of Sundays #4)

Imperfect Forms

Imperfect Forms


Bound in these imperfect forms
skin covering bone, mind, heart
we humans strive for perfection
but when we approach eternity,
it moves out of reach again.

We are destined to forever be
prisoners, failures, seeking,
never finding, hope unrewarded,
driving down a one way street
to find a dead end.

Trapped within skin and mind,
deceived by vulnerable heart,
we hope and pray for miracles
that will never happen while
bound in these imperfect forms,

(This poem was written for Big Tent Poetry. I used Mr. Walker's line "bound in these imperfect forms" as my inspiration. Thanks, Richard.)

When You're Not Paying Attention

When You're Not Paying Attention


When you're not paying attention
for even one moment, life could change
forever, when a car in the other lane
veers toward you out of control, or

you drive over a patch of black ice,
or your cell phone rings and you
think it is a friend but find out
the one you love is in the hospital

or you make a misstep and you
fall off the ladder, or a storm
takes a deadly turn and tornado
spins out of control, or the child

you thought you knew begins to run
with the wrong crowd when you
thought you were watching but
were really paying no attention at all.



(The Poetic Asides prompt for Wednesday was to write a 'when you're not paying attention' poem. The above poem is my attempt. I had posted it ON Wednesday and had received many comments.  Then Blogger went down, and I lost the posting of this poem and its comments.  I waited to see if it would return, but it did not.  So if you see it again, and have already responded, sorry.  I just wanted to preserve the poem, and wish I could have preserved your comments.)

Still Breathing

Still Breathing

We are on a primeval river in a reptilian den,
do not mean to complain.  We know how it is

in the semi-dark.  We take everything off,

nearly die laughing.  We aren't drunk.

You yell out a nonword and hit the doors.  I run.

The doors throw themselves open.

So it is not paradise. Everybody enters the green.

Today is the best day since yesterday.

Count the times the phone rings.

Count the  the friends you've got on the inside

Count the days of summer ahead.

We are here. Still breathing and constellated.

(This is a poem written for We Write Poems.  This week the challenge was to write a  'cento poem.'   A cento poem takes a selection of lines from the poems of another poet and forms them into a totally different poem.   One of the poets I have been reading and enjoying recently is C.D. Wright.  I took various lines from poems in her book Steal Away to create the poem above.  I am always up for a challenge. )

Lord of Life

Lord of Life

Oh Lord of Life,
You who claims the name of God
how can You let the good suffer
as You do?

You say You are a loving God,
but what kind of love
allows those called Your children
to endure what they do?

You say You are  a just God,
but I don't see that either,
as justice is fair, and
You don't play fair.

I'm sorry about sin entering the world,
sorry that Eve ate the apple,
but why should good people
pay the price?

I apologize,but don't comprehend.
If I were God I would reward good
not punish it. How can I
have faith?

Oh Lord of Life,
please tell me, tell me how.
Tell me how I can have faith.

(This poem was written based on an Alan Shapiro poem, "The Match,"which began with the words "O Lord of Life."  I liked the line, and went witth it.......   If anyone has an answer to my question, please tell me......)

The Sea

The Sea

Sea rolls in
day after day
in the same rhythm.
Nothing changes but the date.

What No One Could Have Told Them

What No One Could Have Told Them

What no one could have told them
when they were young has come to pass.
They are now old, in a nursing home they
never planned to go to. Who does?

They sleep in hospital beds, double rooms,
wheel themselves down the hall, or not.
A parade of wheelchairs. No one walks.
Diapers again. Bodily processes tracked. Urine,

bowel movement, weight, temperature recorded.
Bland diet. No spice. Healthy but tasteless.
A woman yells, Help me, help me continually.
Please stop.  Another backs her wheelchair

into people on purpose and takes off her blouse
and bra in the presence of males who visit
someone else. False teeth in and out.
She was probably a hot mama when young.

She has the look. Still. A man curled in recliner
asks a CNA for a kiss. She tells him his comment
is inappropriate, she is married. He doesn't care.
A preacher reads a sermon, plays canned music.

Some sleep. No one sings. Nearer My God to Thee.
Very near, too near. Accordion music at 11:00
Bingo at 2:30. Word games at 4:00. Do you want
your fingernails painted? Hair done? Don't forget

bath on Friday, Lawrence Welk on Saturday..
Do you want to choose your clothes today?
Champagne brunch on Mother's Day. Will you come?
No. Oh well, have a mimosa. Or two. You'll forget.

Not a bad thing. Everyone is friendly. Caring.
Responsive. Bell rings. Someone comes. Alarm
goes off. Someone is going into the toilet when
they should wait for assistance. CNA comes.

Bed time comes early. But one can still watch TV.
What no one could have told them has come to pass.
There is no mistaking this is the end of the road.
Leave the lights on, I'm afraid of the dark.


(I have been reading the poems of C.D. Wright.  One of her poem titles was "What No One Could Have Told Them."  I wrote my own poem with this title, nothing at all similar to hers. It's pretty rough.  I will work on it.)

Splash

Splash

Boy breathes,
bravery supersedes fear,
tiny tug on the rope
and he swings above river

He pumps his legs now,
to and fro, fro and to,
cares evaporate in mist,
until water beckons.

Releasing rope, he glides,
slides into water below
exhilarated, embroidered
in seaweed.

(The poem was written in response to a wordle at  A Whirl of Wordling Sundays. )

Seasons

SAFFRON

Seasons

My days of ginger, nutmeg, and cinnamon
and a dash of thyme

lead to

evenings of cumin, cilantro,
with a touch of jalepeno

and then

my dreams, yes my dreams,
sassafras and saffron.

(For Writer's Island: Seasons)

Childhood Summer Nights

Childhood Summer Nights

I remember summer nights when
we'd  be outside long after dark
trying to determine what to do.

We didn't care about mosquitos,
played Starlight Moonlight, statue
maker,  told ghost stories for fun.

Once in a while we'd be mischievous
ring neighbors' doorbells, then run,
hide, laugh, and watch them answer doors.

We played hide and seek, truth or dare,
as late as we could stay out at night
until parents began to call children home.

Then sometimes I'd sit even later
on my front porch with my parents, no
air conditioning those years, to keep cool.

Neighbors strolled by, we'd greet them,
and some came to sit and chat for a while.
Childhood summer nights were carefree.

Good Mirrors

Good Mirrors


Good mirrors are not cheap.
Framed by strong oak of aged
trees imbedded with pearls of
experience, they reflect the rubies
of hopes, sparkle with diamonds
of dreams. They reveal emeralds
of experiences, sapphires of
accomplishments, but conceal
flaws, cracks, wrong turns, pain.
In good mirrors everyone shines.

(For Big Tent - a revised poem.  This poem I wrote May, 2010.  I revised it at an earlier time, but I never really shared it with the online community, though I am quite fond of it; so I will share it now.)

Toes

Toes

Three-year-old toes
place themselves on my back
to play footsie with me.

Shoes always on wrong feet
doesn't matter to her.
She put them on herself.

Small toes find my hands
when we sit on the couch
together, barefoot by choice.

(Poets United Prompt:  Toes)

Days of Me

Days of Me

Days of me weigh heavy
one day after another.

 Me, me, me, me.
Too many days of me,

days with little to say,
days of nothing to say.

Days of me weigh heavy
upon me without you.

Three Questions

Three Questions

The young man visited the seer
and could ask only three questions.
He thought long, and his first was
Will I live a long life?

The seer said You will live long
as the late afternoon shadow.
And the young man was pleased.
Will I find love?

The seer said You will find love
more beautiful than the first rose
of spring. And the young man
was pleased. Will I have health?

The seer was thoughtful,
looked into hopeful eyes.
First I must ask you a question:
Do you really want to know?

(What I want to know from you who read this poem, would YOU really want to know?)

Limits

Limits I

People say they have their limits
but I wonder sometime if they do.
Whenever limits are proclaimed
something stretches them,
and they achieve or endure
what they declared
was beyond their endurance..
They continue on.
I do. I know.


Limits II

When I write
I don't censor subjects,
write from depths,
am honest, even though
honest is hard to read.
That is also the writing
I prefer to read.
Real above drivel
any day!


Limts III

My time is limited on earth.
My good years are even more limited
I realize when I look in the mirror.
I so enjoy summer, but each summer
I think how many more? How many more
GOOD summers? I am glad I don't know.

(Written for We Write Poems.  Prompt:  Limits)

So Far Off and Yet Here

So Far Off and Yet Here

So far off and yet here
there is no lapse in time
between now and forever.

A door opens, she hesitates,
then walks through into a
stifling, lush forest of night

where yesterday meets tomorrow
and tomorrow is not what it seems
as clock hands turn backward

then do an about face, march
forward again as second hand
spins ominously out of control

and trees move in closer,
their arms reach to surround,
then tighten around her neck.

So far off and yet here
future is part of past
at the moment she turns away.

The Last Scene

(William Shakespeare:  All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players.)


The Last Scene

 You really never knows it is your last scene
when you are living it. You do not realize
the curtain will soon crash down, aren't prepared
to take a final bow, to walk off stage forever.

In a play you are prepared for that last scene.
There was intermission, the plot line winds down.
The audience is restless, knows the play will end.
But life is different, your last scene is unexpected.

You live as if there will always tomorrow, do not
recognize the signs, or if you do you ignore them.
The lights dim, the heart stops. You are forced
to take your final bow, there is no curtain call.

Sweet Revenge

Sweet Revenge

Thrumming guitar,
mind locked on her objective,
thirst for revenge animates.
She trains her aching fingers
to sustain the pulsing melody
she had scribbled at night.
Hillside visions whisper
Be resilient, he will die.
Play on, play on........

(This wordle was written from a prompt at  A Whirl of Wordling Sundays and was written just for fun!  Really!)