Hope

Hope

The attic of my mind is

my tranquil refuge where,

though incongruous images

sometimes jangle and rattle,

calm voices pierce the silence,

spark stray splinters of dissension

to sprout holy seeds that propagate

profusive as weeds into sacred visions,

remembrance of happiness, hope.

This poem was written forThe Sunday Whirl, using the words  holy, image, rattles, jangle, splinters, fear, forthress, weed, pierce, vision, voices, sprouts.

Temptation

Temptation

It is tempting to take the easy road,
the path of least resistance,
tell the story others would like to hear,
shield people from  myriad details
they might find unpleasant.

Sometimes I succumb,
for my readers and for myself.
Sometimes this is for the best
for everyone, for me, for you.
We all need relief from pain.

It is also tempting to put all out there,
but it is something I will not do.
I write my private journal, letters,
cry my solitary tears, pull myself
together silently as best I can.

(Written for this week's Poetry Jam.  Prompt:  Temptation.)

Casablanca

Casablanca

In the soundless still of summer
lateness, one full-mooned night
the ceiling fan whirs magic
while shadows cast by dancing curtains,
as they part, whisper dreams.

It is hot, humid, hallucinatory,
and as the fan blades birr,
I blink myself into Casablanca
where I'm rendered helpless, hapless
in a reprehensible cheap saloon,
drink brandy with Bogart and Bergman.

It is 1942, clouds of war hang heavy.
I twist in terror, scan the clientele:
Germans, French, Italians,
all armed, gilded with sweat
and the stench of stale cigarettes.

The band plays As Time Goes By.
Bogart turns, implores me to dance,
swoops me to the dark dance floor
where we swing, sway. I marvel, swoon.
Ceiling fan whirs, timeless smoke swirls
Saloon is silent now, all eyes are on us.

Bogart gazes into my eyes,
cradles my chin in his hand,
smiles, says Here's looking at you, kid.
My heart leaps. I reply I think this is
the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

In the soundless still of summer
lateness, one full-mooned night
the ceiling fan whirs magic
while shadows cast by dancing curtains,
as they part, whisper dreams.

(Process Notes: This poem was written for The Sunday Whirl. I used all twelve words. I don't know why I began to think about the 1942 movie Casablanca, but I did. Probably the word 'whir' triggered it, as I pictured that Casablanca ceiling fan. For those who have never seen Casablanca, it starred Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman. It took place in Casablanca, Morocco, in World War II. "As Time Goes By" is a song that has a prominent place in the movie. There are movie quotes in this poem: " I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship and, "Here's looking at you, kid." This was a fun poem to write. I never would have come up with it if it had not been for the wordle.)

Footwear

My Three Pairs of Cowboy Boots!

Footwear

 It used to be Birkenstocks,
then it became Tevas

when I'm not just barefoot.
I still love cowboy boots,

three pairs, no less.
My American flag Keds rest

except for the 4th and Memorial Day.
I walk the track or trail with Nikes,

hate high heels, never wear them,
but have butterfly flats I wear

for the special occasions
I cannot subsitute my Tevas.


(Written for dVerse / Poets Pub)

How can it be?

How Can it Be?

 

How can it be that indecision

can make one contemplate options

and ask questions of fate?

(This was written for 3 word Wednesday.

Tricksters

Tricksters


Don't be tricked by those who want to borrow,
know that they might just want to steal.

Live within your means, let others live with theirs,
don't be so quick to say yes to those who cry,

Don't be swayed by those who want others to do for them,
those who quickly  accept what other people offer to do.

So many plead indigence, wearing their Nikes,
their Victoria Secret underwear, and Abercrombie jeans.

People who claim poverty have their priorities,
and at home they may have the biggest TV.

They enjoy more cable channels than you, so don't
 be a fool and  lend what you'll never get back.

(Written for Carry on Tuesday where the prompt was " Never a borrower or lender be," based on William Shakespeare.)

Illusions

Illusions

Jangling celestial rhythms
jostle memory, winged
spectors dance on my balcony.
Divine illusions observed?

Their emerald bones clatter,
ominous pantomimes
fill the void, wings flap
flutter. Phantoms, fly away!

(Written for Wordle 13, which can be found at The Sunday Whirl, using the words emerald, flap, balcony, void, bones, rhythm, ominous, divine, illusion, pantomime, celestial, jostles, observe.)

Memories

Memories

Memories captivate me
soothe me, comfort me.
I spent morning with pictures
and with your music,

and I saw you again
smiling, dancing, laughing,
so alive and vibrant
and I heard you speak.

Now that you are gone,
I'm glad I have pictures
poems, words, memories,
your paintings, your books.

A friend suggested I
write a letter to you
each day. I will do that,
as I don't want to lose you.

I will send  my words off
on the wings of a butterfly,
trust you will see them.
treasure them where you are,

and I  know that
       we will see one another
              on the other side
                     sometime soon.

(Written for Sunday Scribblings.  The word was 'captivate.')

Poets, thank you!

Thank you, Poets!

Those of you who know me in 'real life', or those of you who have been following my blog in the last months or have come to know me through emails, or perhaps visited my blog only once in a while, know that I have been going through a very difficult time.   I could not write a lot of  'up' poetry when as my partner / best friend / soul mate was going through health crises that headed only in one direction. She was a beautiful person, and in these past months she suffered more than any person should, and passed away on July 6. I am a pretty private person.   I knew what was to be inevitable, but is one ever prepared?  Oftentimes poetry served as my escape, a way that I could really share,  a way that I could for a moment lessen pain, a way to get my feelings out of my head.  I am grateful for so much support.  (Some of you have been amazing.  You know who you are!)  Your comments always helped me so much.  Poets are wonderfully understanding people.  Diane was a poet too.  Some of you have read her words! Her words, as well as her poems,  will live with me forever.  I will try to begin to write about other things soon.  So far it's been hard.  I don't try to drag anyone down.  I just have to write what I feel.  Thank you, Poets, from the bottom of my heart.

Loneliness

Loneliness

Loneliness
will slap me in my face
every day of my life
from this day forward,
as i miss you.

Loneliness
is part of my journey
I travel without regret.
I reflect on your life
as I miss you.,

Loneliness
has so many faces
has very little reason.
Few of them matter,
as I miss you.

Loneliness,
I wouldn't trade it
for life lived without you.
I'm happy I knew you,
though I miss you.

(For Diane who lived 7/17/48 to 7/6/11.  I miss her..  This poem was written and posted for the Poets United prompt:  lonely.)

Five Short Poems

Silence

 I prefer silence
absence of noise
absence of voices
only my own thoughts
pound the keyboard
make poetry
silent, serene,
real.



Dark Room

I prefer not.
Even when I sleep
the television is on
casting light
so I can see.
blinds open
so I can see first light
And I always
have a flashlight
just in case.
Dark room,
I prefer not.



In and Out

In the morning
I wake up expectant
of a new day.
I hope for good,
something positive,
nothing to drag me down.

Out of pain
arises strength
sometimes more tears
unexpected responses
honesty above all.


Peal

The bell will peal sometimes
and  I will hear it, wonder
for whom the bell peals,
for what, whose death this time.


Pizza


Pizza is the food I love.
I could eat it every day,
no hesitation at all.
Pepperoni, cheese,
black olives, mushrooms,
green peppers, more.
Add crushed pepper
and I'm in heaven.

(These poems were written to 'challenges' within my online writing group.  They are short, so I grouped them all together.  Sometimes short is good.)

Little I Need

Little I need, my wants are few.
The older I get the less I want,
the more I realize possessions

do not bring happiness. Ever.
Happiness is only found in
experiences with those loved

or experiences with oneself,
the only one who can fill a void,
is always there until the very end.


This was written for this week's Carry on Tuesday prompt, which was to "Little I ask, my wants are few" frin a poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes.

Untitled

Untitled

Melancholy desolate images
combine with twisted logic
and gallop through my thoughts
like the whirr of a buzz saw.

I struggle to resist, to release
myself from their agonizing grip,
 instead to cool myself in the river
of relaxation and saunter serenely

through flaxen fields of memories
to ignite the instinct to revive.
Though the world is a darker place
than it was yesterday, somberly

I will attempt to rekindle hope
through the flutter of butterfly wings,
the flow into gentle whims,
and the writing of a poem.

(This poem was written in response to the words at today's  Sunday Whirl.  I didn't know if I would be able to do it today as this is a difficult time, but a poem arose.  For those of you who have known  or  sensed on some level, or those  just responded kindly to my poetry of the past few months, I just want to acknowledge:

Rest in peace, Diane.  You are now in a better place.)

Bedtime

Bedtime

Bedtime comes earlier than it used to.
I rise early, but tire early.
Sleep is good. Rituals are few.
Make coffee for the morning,

brush my teeth, wash my face,
take dogs out for the last time,
charge the iPad and Blackberry
find something on TV to watch

which will lull me to sleep
or which will not annoy me
when I awake, restless, later on.
I take sleep when I get it!

Curtains

Curtains

Curtains

She always wanted curtains open
needed to be able to see the light
disliked darkness, curtains drawn,
went about opening blinds, despised

darkness, did not want things hidden,
wanted to see the sun, the moon,
all that went on outside. I learned
from her about openness, honesty:

Curtains open in a symbolic sense.
She tempered me, moderated me,
helped me see the value of light.
Now I see it is the only way!

The Candle

The Candle

My candle burns at both ends

I am trapped in the midpoint,

feel the searing heat of flames

advance ever closer to me.

I know soon ends will merge,

and as I scream in pain

I will change into mere wax,

weep onto the counter top

to spread my thin essence

all directions before

I solidify once more

changed forever.

(Written for today's Carry on Tuesday prompt, "My candle burns at both ends," from the Edna St. Vincent Millay poem First Fig.)



 

Fading Away

Fading Away

Day is fading into night
I am reaching for positive
something fresh, something clear,
but the siren hurtles boulders
through my windows, destroys illusions,
and I clean up the pieces, flossing gently,
one by one. Will I survive?

I have turned in so many directions
tossed coins into the fountain of dreams..
I must do something, mustn't I?.
Or am I wrong in that? Perhaps
 I should just wait and watch
 flecks of paint peal from the window,
 hopes dashed, my dreams destroyed,

(Written for The Sunday Whirl.  I think I used all of the words.  Sorry it is not much of an upper.  I am not going through the 'uppiest' of times.)

But Could She?

But Could She?

She bloodied her knuckles on the fence
she hid behind, but did not make a sound,
her eyes transfixed on the headlights
that searched for something in the forest.

The car drove slowly, then stopped.
A man got out, looked around,
checked to see if anyone was watching.
She knew she had seen that car here

three days earlier before she watched the news.
A woman had disappeared, foul play expected,
and now the car turned around, spotted her
using its high beams. began to drive

in her direction. She had to run,
her life in grave danger, she must
get beyond the speed bumps, back
home to call 911, but could she?

(Written for Three Word Wednesday:  Knuckles, bump, transfixed)

The Journey

The Journey

Everyone has her own journey.
Sometimes we are not prepared
for where it will lead, but we must
find the way. There is no other.

Sometimes the journey is one
that would not have been chosen,
but in some things we have no choice.
Sometimes deep sorrow is
part of the journey. Loss always
comes in its own way.

Another's journey is not ours;
but another's journey can touch ours,
as we can touch another's journey.
Journeys may join for a time,
but in the end one travels alone.
Some things are a mystery.
We just must have faith in
its meaning and feel the love.

Be in the moment,
prepare for the next.
Death changes life, but
life never touches death.
Remember to breathe,
it is the only way.

(This poem, in fairly rough form at present, was inspired by Annell. Thank you.)