Memories

Memories

Where do all my memories go
when they leave my mind?
Do they soar on wings of an eagle
heavenward through the sky?

Or do they travel on the back
of a gopher deep into the earth
of the cool meadow to be hidden
away, buried deep forever?

Or do they just evaporate like
rain on pavement into the clouds
to come down somewhere else
to invade someone else's mind?

My memories must go somewhere
when I can no longer find them.
Some days I search and search.
I wish I knew just where.

(Submitted to One Shot Wednesday)

The Image

The Image

The picture haunts me, harasses me,
I am not sure what I see. I keep studying it,
as if this will help. It doesn't. I'm not sure
of anything at all lately. Are you?

i wonder now  if color holds truth or lies,
or if indeed there is any difference at all.
Truth is only truth until someone disproves it,
lie is only lie until someone backs it up.

I wonder why patterns sometimes floats
into my dreams, mock me, test me,
then keep me awake. I hope this
unsettling  image will not  taunt me tonight.

(This poem is submitted to Magpie Tales, Mag 71)

Is That All There Is?

Is That All There Is?


Is that all there is? he wondered
as he picked up his briefcase, his
shoulders drooped, walked away
from the interview, down the elevator,
out the door into his car.

He would drive home again
to his waiting wife. He knew she
hoped, then prayed, then anticipated.
She would be there to greet him
with a smile, a kiss, a cool drink.

She didn’t give up, though he had.
He hadn’t the heart to tell her,
but how much rejection can a man take?
How many times could he repeat this,
pretend he really had a chance?

He knew it was a futile routine
which always lead to failure
a play with different characters,
scripts varied slightly, but
the ending was always the same.

Tears streamed down his face, blotched
his grey suit, the dated one he wore
for interviews as he tried to look proud,
confident, to position his tie just right.
It wasn't going to get any better.

He didn't have up-dated skills,
and companies wouldn't invest time
to train him ten years from retirement.
They wouldn't say out loud he was
too old, would find another reason.

The outcome was always the same.
I'm sorry I just can't offer you a job.
For two years he'd looked, failed.
He wondered again Is that all there is?
Is there nothing more? Almost home now.

He knew he could no longer take it.
He would not walk into his home again.
hear his wife ask the question, couldn't
admit they didn't want him another time.

His car approached the bridge, he studied
the water below, deep and cold he knew.
If he put the gas pedal to the floor
he could do it. He had the courage.
He would succeed in his own way.

Passersby’s were stunned as they saw
the car speed toward the rail.
They screamed as the car crashed
through metal, then tumbled to
the river below. The car filled

with water, its windows were open.
People screamed and cried Call 911.
But it was too late. The car sank.
He accomplished something, died.
That was all there was.

This poem was submitted for Carry on Tuesday.  The prompt was use the line from the Peggy Lee song:  Is that all there is?  I always used to like that song.  I think we all have this question some days.  It is also submitted to  Poetry Jam where we had to take a line or phrase from a favorite song and rhen see where rhe poem led..

Reflection

Reflection

The sun kisses my face
as I stand silent, reflective,
barefoot in copper sands,
silty-fine as pepper
that cannot be grasped,
but passes through my fingers,
an hourglass running out of time.
I inhale the soft breeze of yesterday
exhale gray haze of today, allow
winged memories to surface,
then flit away as shorebirds take flight.
seek grace as I do. Nature's way.
I turn from sun to seek shade.

(Written for The Sunday Whirl using the words kisses, pepper, sands, grace, copper, inhaling, flitting, shade, silent, surface, haze)

Finis

Finis 

Gossamer dreams
are etched in the sky
the night the bone dies.
Temple quakes, breaks,

shatters into sand.
Curtain is slit, slashed
until only threads of
tangled stories remain,

then fall to earth as
stardust. Lights shimmer,
then gray, then only
black.  Still.    Silence.

(Written for The Sunday Whirl - using the words stories, bone, etches, temple, tangled, stardust, lights, sky, threads, gossamer, slit, sparks)

Barefoot at Hapuna Beach

Barefoot at Hapuna Beach

 Bare feet sink into fine coral sand,
toes touch first, then ball of foot, heel,
sand surrounds, warms them, as they are
embraced by ocean, life, love, everything
good. Sun beats hot. Waves roll in, out,
footprints last only an instant in soft wet sand,
impermanent, unimportant, insignificant
among millions that once were, evidence
of existence erased, as will the imprint
of my life someday be washed away
by waves of passing time, no more relevant
to the world than my footprints in the sand
at Hapuna Beach.

(This poem is contributed for Poets United.  Prompt:  Beach.  The photo is indeed of my footprints in the sand of Hapuna Beach, Hawaii.)

Slipping Through My Fingers

Slipping Through My Fingers

Memories slip through my fingers,
memories I thought I'd have forever
are hard to remember now.
maybe I'll reclaim them once mroe

after this difficult time is over.
Today I have a hard time
remembering, memories pain
me, the hourglass never stops.

Time marches way too fast.
Life will never be the same.
I'd stop time if I could, relive,
one year ago all was good.


Written for Carry On Tuesday

Telephone



This image is courtesy of Rob Hansen, and it appeared at One Stop Poetry

Telephone
So much change in my lifetime
Dial phones, five numbers,
one phone per home, hardwired,
party lines, we used to listen
sometimes to the other party,
a household of young women
who talked to their boyfriends,
and sometime when we'd talk
they'd listen and interrupt,
say they needed the phone.
No real privacy, but at least
our phone had a long cord
and we retreated into parents' room
and behind closed door we
shared secrets, talked boys,
gossiped, planned futures.

Push button phones, seven numbers,
maybe ten, maybe eleven. Three
phones per home. Privacy. We
could walk anywhere in our home.
Talk in kitchen, living room,
basement, bathroom, out the
back door. Freedom from being
overheard. No party line. Secrets safe.

Cell phones. We could walk down
the street, talk on the bus, in airports,
in cars, everywhere. Always connected..
Phone stuck to our ears, sometimes
blue ray. Sense of importance, now
so many friends. No loneliness with
phone to our ears. Can I call you?

Blackberries, I-phones, Androids,
complex now. Hardly talk at all.
Text is the way to go. Fingers
speak in short messages. In
the now. Present tense. Short.
We sit in restaurants, all with
our phones. No one talks to
one another. We text. We play
games, read sports scores,
check the price of gas, Food
arrives. Phones are put aside.
We face the food in front of us,
but what can we talk about?

(This poem was inspired by the prompt at One Stop Poetry.  The prompt was the picture above.  It made me think of all of the changes in telephones that have occured in my lifetime.  Admittedly, I didn't live as long ago as to experience the pictured phone! And the last stanza is not autobiographical, so don't draw that conclusion.....but I have seen this time and time again.)

Lotus

Lotus

Enchanting lotus floats
alluring torsos twirl
kinship with the ages
inspiring strange stories
devious and bold
until, at last, there is sleep.

Written for  The Sunday Whirl 6/12/11

Next Step

 Next Step

Sometimes I wonder
what my next step will be.

Will it be expected
or unexpected?

Will it follow me from
where I am today?

Or will I follow it down
a yet unfamiliar path?

And where, oh where,
will the path lead?

I thought I was settled
in my life forever,

but now realize again
there are no forevers.

I knew that once, had
to relearn it once again.

I don't second guess fate,
try to enjoy what I have,

but know an unfamiliar step
looms on the horizon.

Sometimes I wonder
where my step will lead.

(Written for Sunday Scribblings - 'next step.')

Dogs

Dogs

I am Cro-Magnon woman
hunker in my cave
heavy blanket covers me
as I sleep close to the fire
surrounded by my dogs
who warm and protect.

We are family, clan.
safeguard each other
from enemies and cold.
We circle each other,
no more loyal friends.

(This poem was written for the prompt - animal - by Poets United Thursday Think Tank.  As dogs are my best friends - note phots on my blog - it seemed natural to write a dog poem, going back a little in time, however.)

Chocolate Fantasies

 

Chocolate Fantasies

I am fond of eating cherries
on a tranquil evening
as I sit on my peaceful deck,
though I  dream of chocolate

Some day again I will enjoy
chocolate guiltlessly, enjoy
sweet as it melts in my mouth,
but today I savor sweet cherries

I stopped eating chocolate
by choice,don't often miss it,
admit that sometimes I do.
I can't have it in the house.

I have fantasies of chocolate:
ice cream, cake, kisses, bars,
though my reality is altered,
cherries must fill my sweetness bill.

(This was written for Three Word Wednesday (fond, alter, tranquil) and Poetry Jam (where there was a picture of cherries, which I could not get to work, so I substituted a different photo.   Also subnitted to One Shot Poetry - Wednesday)

Beware

Beware

Beware thoughts that appear at night,
that lead you places you don't want to go.
Chase them instead to the light of day
where they can be investigated beneath sun.
Distrust thoughts that surface before dawn.
Obscurity never produces anything good.

Beware of dreams you have at night
that send messages you don't want to receive.
Scrutinize them instead under  light of day
where they can be neutralized by sunlight.
Distrust dreams meant to frighten, deceive.
Nothing good comes out of black.

(I wrote this for Carry on Tuesday. Prompt was words from William Least-Heat Moon's novel Blue Highways: Beware thoughts that come in the night.)

Storm Warning

Storm Warning

Sky glows gaudy pink purple
before it turns gray, then black
thunder first murmurs, then roars

as raindrops pummel into inky pools
puddling water soon an abyss
clouds undulate, rotate, swirl

wildlife burrow into secluded shelters
a common spring phenomenon
severe storm warning

possible tornado
my heart pounds as I repeat
I am unafraid.

I am unafraid.
I am.......

(This poem was written for A Wordling Whirl of Sundays using these words:  murmurs, inky, purple, undulate, abyss, glow, gaudy, unafraid, common, heart burrows.)

Wounded

Wounded

 All wounds are not visible.
The most serious cannot be seen
but are beneath the surface, invisible,
carried deep inside, fester beneath.

The most wounded may look normal,
smile, and most often really mean it.
They try to rise above, ignore, or forget,
but inside they cry, inside they die.

It is easier to heal a broken bone
than to heal a wounded heart.
Put a cast on a bone, it mends,
but how can one heal a heart?

(This poem was written for Poetry Tow Truck.  The prompt was "wounds.")

Contingencies

Contingencies

All is dependent on whether it happens
the thing which I hope to happen
but the outcome is as unpredictable
as whether or a tornado will strike.

Some things are not logical, possible
but not logical, and all one can do
is hope for the best of the worst or
the worst of the best empirically.

Even when it seems likely, or one cannot
imagine why not, there are unforeseen
complications. I have learned to beware
contingencies that return me to square one.

(This poem was written for today's Writer's Island prompt:  Contingency.  I was stymied all day.  At last I thought of something.  Motivated by a slice of life.)

I'lll Take it as a Compliment

I'll Take it as a Compliment

I'll take it as a compliment
that she wrote a poem for me.
It brought tears to my eyes to think
that someone I never met did that.

She could not have possibly known
how much this would mean to me,
that if this were to happen ever
NOW would be the very best time!

And it seems uncanny that the poem
is about the color blue, when blue
is my favorite color, and one of my
best features is my blue eyes.

This poem was written in response to  a prompt from my writing group, which was "I'll take it as a compliment...." and also in response to the poem Annell wrote today for me.  I was so very touched.  Thank you, Annell. Here is the poem:  The Color Blue    The poetry community is indeed wonderful!

The Bench

The Bench

Woman trudged to the bench,
felt an affinity to the aging wood,
marred and worn down.

Just like her, she thought.
Was she older than the bench
or was it older than her?

Toss up, she decided,
her grey hair matted,
skin lined and sallow.

Hollow eyes glazed,
clothes well worn,
she was tired of life,

exhausted by  struggle.
If only she could gain strength
now to rise and walk on.

(This poem was written for the Poets United Think Tank Thursday.  I tried to use the picture on the site, but I kept getting error messages.  Thus I found another picture that worked with this totally fictional poem.)

Serious

Serious

Most everything I write is serious,
as I can be no one other than who I am.
Sometimes I wish I were not so,
that I could release all worries
in a helium balloon, and when it popped
my worries would dissipate in the wind,
and everything would be okay
just as i used to be, and the future
would be golden, all good, hopeful.
Alas this is not so. Everything
I write is serious. Not always open,
as people don't want to read tears.
I cry mostly inside these days

(This poem was written for the Poetic Asides promt:  Write a serious poem    Many of  my poems are serious, as I can only write where I am at the moment.  But this poem is not 100%  accurate, as I do have a light side too.  Example:  the pikus a few days ago..)

Luminous Dreams

Luminous Dreams

Luminous dreams
invade my sleep
erratic images
frighten me awake.
Tell me, please tell me
it's not an omen of
what will become true.

(A short poem written for Three Word Wednesday.  The words were luminous, erratic, omen.)