Life

Life

Life never comes with guarantees
health, wealth, love, happiness are not givens
and even if one has them today
with the blink of an eye they unexpectedly leave.

So cherish what you have when you have it
when you have health, climb mountains
when you have wealth, give to those you love
when you have love, savor every moment.

Know that happiness is your greatest treasure
seek it in all that you do; as tomorrow you may
experience the nausea of losing everything.
Easy come, easy go. Only memories remain.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday, where the three words to use this week were guarantee, cherish, and nausea.   Nausea was definitely the hard one.

Red

Red

Red

There is no color more vivid than red,
its brightness is beauty to behold,
in dreams it surges through my head.
There is no color more vivid than red.
Wear it proudly, there's nothing to dread.
Blood, shoes, hearts, lipstick bold,
there is no color more vivid than red.
It's brightness is beauty to behold.

The prompt for today's  Poets United: The Thursday Think Tank is "Red."    I decided to write a poem in the "Triolet" form, an old French form that I just recently learned at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads.  If you want to find out about the form, follow that link.

Autumn

Autumn

The days of autumn are crisp and bleak.
As plants spread seeds, squirrels scurry
to bury plentiful nuts for the long winter.
The days of autumn are crisp and bleak.
Geese fly south, warm weather to seek
before the advent of the first snow flurry.
The days of autumn are cool and bleak,
as plants spread seeds, squirrels scurry.

This was written for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, where the prompt was to write a "triolet," which is a Medieval French poetry form.  It was actually quite fun to write once I got started!

Memories

Memories

I collect memories

everywhere I ramble;

photographs, poetry, too.

So many treasures to accrue.

Paintings, music, boots, dreams,

trinkets, toys, clothes, more.

and thoughts of a few like you.....

Merci beaucoup.

Thus some day in the future

when my traveling days have come to an end

I'll have memories to pursue

and stories my spirit to renew.

I'll consume them for one last time

as I overlook the encroaching horizon

I know it's my time to soon fade into,

aware of the arrival of my last canoe.

As I contemplate taking leave of earth

it will be without things undone, without regret.

Words will have been said, my mark small, but true.

I'll look forward to, in a different plane,  life anew.

Therefore after I relive my time

I'll simply lie myself down

content to say a final adieu

anticipate one more rendezvous.

This poem was written for Writing Vice Versa; where the prompt was to use these word pairs:  consume/collect; regret/content in a piece of writing.  It is also submitted to dVerse Open Link Night

An Open Book

An Open Book

I am an open book with no secets,
embrace myself, nothing hidden.

Echoes from the past emerge
the long lost is found, hallowed.

ostriches do not bury heads in sand
nor do I. When myths are busted,

yoyos of deception disdained, and
promises kept, life quenches as water.

I live today and from now on, with
past, present, future, as one!

(Oh, that I continue to feel this way.)

This poem was written using  the prompts from a member of my online writing group:  Echoes, The ostrich, Women and water, Secrets, Lost and found, Promises, Yoyos, From now on…     Rather than look upon them as individual prompts, I decided to use them as a 'wordle' and write one poem incorporating all of them.  The only slight deviation was that I used simply 'water' rather than 'women and water.'  And, by the way, it is true that ostriches really do NOT bury their heads in the sand.  I learned that they put their beaks in the sand to turn their eggs.  Interesting.

I also linked it to Imaginary Garden With Real Toads.

Manifesto

Manifesto

Life has sent intense storms,
but I fear neither the wind or rain.

I will take what life hands me,
not fear today or tomorrow.

Give me thunder, lightning,
flood my life with misery, pain,

sickness, and I will still survive
as the crow does. We are kin.

Crow and I, we accept fate,
live fearless, every day strong.

(This poem was written for Magpie Tales 84, which used the picture above as its prompt. I am also submitting it to Poets United Poetry Pantry.)

Untitled Haiku

Leaves watch over path

that leads to sanctuary

just beyond our view.

The haiku was written for A Picture Speaks Challenge #4.    The poetry form was to be 'haiku,' and the photograph 'landscape.'     I took this photo in October on Prince Edward Island, Canada, on the Anne of Green Gables properties a few years ago!  What a beautiful area and wonderful time of year to be there.

Those Were The Days

Those Were the Days


Those were the days, my friend,
I never thought they'd never end.

I thought they would go on forever,
that nothing our bond would sever.

But life didn't turn out like that,
life changed at the drop of a hat

Death claimed you in your prime,
for me death had no reason nor rhyme.

I don't regret the days we had,
and for my memories I am glad

Though much I'll never comprehend,
I'll remember all our days, my friend.


This was written for Carry on Tuesday, where this week's prompt was "Those were the days, my friend," from Mary Hopkin's 1968 hit.  I truly am most often NOT into writing things that rhyme.  But this poem kind of wrote itself.

Choice

Choice

He chose to talk on his cell phone
     as he drove into the city
     as he circled the shopping area
     as he looked for a parking place.

He laughed with the other
     as he motioned strolling passers-by cross
     as he bought himself seconds to look around
     as he found time, but far from enough.

He didn't see the van approach the intersection
     as the light changed before he felt the jolt
     as his phone jostled free of his hand
     as he heard himself scream in slow motion

He clutched his head as it shattered the windshield
     as he viewed the accident outside himself
     as he occasionally faded from consciousness
     as paramedics wrested his fractured body free.

This poem was written for  dVerse Poets for 9/24, where Hedgewitch challenges us to write a poem utilizing repetition & for   The Sunday Whirl, for 9/25, using the "wordle"words Brenda gave us:  accident, chat, jostle, motion, move, shop, occasionally, strolling, passers-by, outside, clutch, look.

Remember

Remember

 Life twists unexpectedly
even when you think you have
a secure path. You never do.
Remember that.

Status quo is momentary,
false security before floor drops,
leaves you hanging and gasping.
Remember that.

Life is a game of chance,
you throw dice, hope for a win.
Avoid those who twist knife in back.
Remember that

Meanwhile, enjoy each dance.
Twist, rumba, cha cha, waltz.
Music will not play forever.
Remember that.

This poem was written for Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads where the one word prompt was "twist."

Autumn Rain

Autumn Rain

Rainy autumn days deplete me
as I contemplate transition.
Summer, fall,
                 soon winter.

Time appears to race doubletime
green leaves turn orange, red,
dull brown,
               before limbs bare.

Ahead I face desolation, hibernation.
My weary yawns bore even me, as
active summer-fall body grinds,
               slows to winter's crawl.

Rain pelts down, snow to follow.
Ice bound world looms on the horizon.
Cycle repeats, nothing new,
               but each year harder.

Written for Poets United Thursday Think Tank, where the prompt was "rain" and for  Three Word Wednesday, where the words to use this week were "dull," "race," and "yawn."

Little Red

Little Red

Don't you think Red Riding Hood should know better
than to walk alone through the woods with a basket of goodies
wearing a red dress with a red hood, no less?

Don't you think Red Riding Hood should know wolves lurk
in the deep and dark, follow instincts beyond control,
are hungry, curious, opportunistic, and crave?

Don't you wonder what brought Red to this path?
What she was looking for, and what was in her basket anyway?
And...was she foolish, naive, or simply seeking the forbidden?

Don't you think it a bit unfair the wolf got a bad rap?
After all, the woods is the wolf's domain, and couldn't
Red Riding Hood at least have waited for the bus?

Posted from a prompt at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, where the prompt is too complicated to simplify.  Check it out.

Sun Flower

Sun Flower

Fall
sun
flower
beautiful
as it faces home
short lfe but enough to enjoy
won't live forever
but will be
lovely
here
now.

Somehow I missed that the photograph this week at A Picture Speaks had to be a 'macro photograph.' And the poem to a 'macro photograph.   I subimitted a poem to the prompt earlier, but I will submit also a 'macro photograph'  and poem for a picture I took just today. Another fibonacci poem for A Picture Speaks, a new site but one I really enjoy.

Pure Joy

Pure Joy

Young
joy,
beauty,
happiness
uninhibited.
Effervescent and natural,
delighting in self.
How long yet
to be
this
free?

This is a Fibonacci poem. It follows a mathematical form. The lines are in set syllables. 1,1,2,3,5,8,5,3,2,1,1. If you want more detail, google it. (Hard to explain.) I wrote it for the challenge at  A Picture Speaks (which combines photography with poetry), and I also submitted it at Open Link Monday at Calling All Toads.  The child is my granddaughter Mya who is almost 4 years old now, with whom I spend most days, and I wish she would never get any older than this!

Easy

Easy

It is easy to tell someone else
what he should do, to give
advice to someone, to be
the authority on another's life.

So many have advice, know
how another should proceed,
stand in judgment, waggle
their tongues and fingers.

It is easy to judge others,
to find another's flaws
from a seat of perfection
where one knows all.

But it is not so easy
when the table is turned
when someone confronts you
with what you didn't do.

Most often it appears
easy is a one way street,
easy to impart  wisdom to others
hard to accept another's view.

I am submiting this to Sunday Scribblings where today's prompt was 'easy'  and to Poet's United Poetry. Pantry.

Frankfurt to Stuttgart by Train

Frankfurt to Stuttgart by Train

Flight Chicago to Frankfurt,
train Frankfurt to Stuttgart.
I don't speak German, but
thank god I boarded the right train,
heavy suitcases at my side.

My friend will meet me,
someone I have never met
I have faith she will be there.
Tired from transatlantic flight,
I hope I am on the right car,

one which will go to Stuttgart,
hope I will not fall asleep,
hope I will not miss my stop
hope she'll be there, have no
idea what to do if she is not.

In the days before cell phones,
I depended on others to tell me
when we arrived in Stuttgart,
had faith my friend would be there,
and, thank god, she was.


Claudia, at dVerse, thank you for this prompt.  I have had my experiences on German trains.  The experience I wrote about was my first.  More than 30 years ago.  This friend and I have visited one another many times since.  I will never forget this time, and the relief I felt when I got off the train in Stuttgart and she was there waiting for me.   I am happy I have opportunity to preserve this in poetry form.  This friend is now, was then, one of my best friends in the whole world.  She has enriched my life, and I love Germany.

Seek to Find

Seek to Find

She yearns to look into the mirror
to find the opal thread to her soul,
but her fingertips, raw from yearning,

hesitate to visit that corridor where
her muse, illusive as a lost sheep,
has lost its verve. Strengthened

by her yearning, she thrusts forward,
a good omen, opens the door and
finds good in her own reflection.

This poem was written in respone to  The Sunday Whirl where the wordle words to use were: 
raw, sheep, verve, yearn, fingertips, omen, muse, mirror, strengthen, opal, corridor, thrust, thread.  I used all of them.  Your comments will be most appreciated.

Not a Glass House

Not a Glass House

My house is not glass
but neighbors are distant
so I leave my blinds open,
do not close curtains.

It is a good feeling
to look out at the moon
to be able to walk naked
and know no one sees.

If my house were glass,
voyeurs would lose interest,
look elsewhere for titillation.
I feel safe in my space.

Last Waikiki Sunset

Last Waikiki Sunset

Does anyone really want to think
it is their last view of somewhere loved?

In retrospect, I wonder if I use my camera
to preserve scenes of today

I might be viewing for the last time,
taking photographs of places, people

I will never see again. Click
Waikiki sunset, spectacular always.

I was awed by it often, always,
but this was my last time.

I did not realize it then.  (Who does?)
but am glad now that I clicked.

This poem is submitted to A Picture Speaks - Photography and Poetry Challenge and also to this week's  Poetry Jam where the prompt was to write from a photograph, either yours or someone else's.  (This photo was taken by me.)

After My World Ended



2006 Maui


After My World Ended

After my world ended,
music transported me underground
to a familiar place I didn't want to be.

Iz, the Beatles, Elton John,
Black Eyed Peas, Enya.
Neil Diamond, those she loved.

Sometimes I turned up the volume
to drown out the red, yellow, white moon
that loomed above on the horizon.

Sometimes I tried to escape because
so many dreams had fallen through,
and I didn't want to begin anew.

(This poem was written in response to all of Victoria's - of my writing goup - prompts this week.  They were:  music takes me...., underground, after my world ended....fallen through, turn up the volume, red yellow white moon, begin again.  The intent was for us to write many poems, but I looked upon it as a wordle and wrote just one.)

Aloneness

Aloneness

What do you do with aloneness?
Ignore it, pretend it is not so?
Or maybe you aren't lonely at all.
Perhaps it is only lonely  me.

I tend to ignore it, stay busy,
push lonely from mind. But then again,
I sometimes drown in it, hug my dogs
close, as I sob in the long  night.

But sometimes  I write poetry,
set my words and thoughts free.
Perhaps someone will read them
and send some words back to me.

(Submitted only to dVersePoets Open Link Night Week 9)

No, Thank You

No, Thank You

I didn't ever really indulge
prefer my own reality.

The one time I was prescribed
strong painkiller drugs

I got off them quick as I could,
could not stand the side effects

which were more painful
than what they were to treat.

I'll suffe rather than partake, thanks.
Spare me from oxycodone misery.

(This poem was written for Poetry Jam where this week's prompt was PRESCRIPTION DRUGS.  It brought to mind the time a few years ago when I was prescribed oxycodone for a very serious and painful injury.  The drug brought me more problems than enduring the pain.  I got off it as quickly as I could.  Sometimes pain is far better than its cure.)

When I Look Into Your Eyes

When I Look Into Your Eyes

When I look into your eyes
I see all you never meant to say.
I read eyes, you know,
though you wish it weren't so.

In your eyes I read your pain.
Though your mouth smiles,
in your eyes I read sadness.
Eyes do not lie, you know.

I won't tell you what I see,
your secret is safe with me
I'll go along with the charade
when I look into your eyes.


(This was written for Carry on Tuesday's prompt "When I Look Into Your Eyes")

I Am the One

I Am the One

I am the one who enters your dreams
when you least expect it. My gun
is hidden from view. It is the same one

that blinded my left eye, the eye you
cannot see, will not see. I do not smile.
Nor will you. This time I am not a dream.

(This poem was written using the photograph above, which was the prompt for this week's Magpie Tales)

Communication

Communication

Communication happens in an instant;
text messages, email, no time passes.

We are an impatient society, immediate,
can't tolerate a wait. An hour is too long.

Get back to me. Now. Not later. I stare
at the screen, wait for your timely response.

I drum fingers on the table, don't understand
why I haven't heard. Fifteen minutes is too long.


This was written for Theme Thursday where the theme is "Communication."  Also linked to Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads..for Open Link Monday.

Windows on the World

Windows on the World

Windows on the World,
we ate there once,
best table in the house
arranged by our friend
who worked for NBC.

We sat next to the window
overlooked lights of New York,
ate and drank in elegance,
toasted each other in friendship
not a care in the world.

That was then, this is now.
1999 morphed into 2001.
Windows on the World shattered
when the Twin Towers fell.
Our lives were the same again.

I'll be forever thankful I was there,
that I have a happy photo to prove it,
but now only  pieces of glass given to us
by the mother of a NYC fire fighter
who worked tirelessly that awful day.

(This was written for Thursday Think Tank of Poets United.  Prompt was "Windows."  It took me a while to come up with something, but I knew what I had to write when I contemplated 9 / 11 tomorrow.  It is also submitted to dVerse, where the prompt was "In Memoriam" of 9/11 & to Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads) The photo  of us at the top of the Twin Towers at the Windows of \the World Restaurant was taken in 1999.  That is me and Diane on the left.  On the right, the woman in the forefront was the one who worked for NBC and got us the 'best table in the house.'  The other two were our friend and her daughter.  Our friend''s son was a NYC firefighter.  On 9 / 11 he worked tirelessly.  His mother did not know that he was safe until quite late in the day.  It is she who gave us pieces of glass from the World Trade Center.  I discovered them again the other day.  The NBC employee was to serve on jury duty that day in NYC.  She was in the court house when the first plane hit the WTC.  The jurors were released.  She ran home in horror....The other photo is of me with the World Trade Center in the background.  We were on the Staten Island Ferry.   May something so awful never take place again!)

Dignity

Dignity

He holds dignity in his pockets
a black and white photo, a cross,
three smooth stones, a child's top,
a silver ring, key ring with no keys.

He needs things to grasp onto
the days he scrapes his knees
cuts his fingers as he tries
to build something from nothing.

He repositions his scrap lumber,
pounds and whittles urgently
to still the roaring in his head,
to salve his urgent need to create.

He's found his own key to pass time
that crawls from yesterday to now with
jolts of gibberish he doesn't understand.
But he always holds onto his dignity.

This poem was written for   The Sunday Whirl   (September 11) where the words this week are urgent, simple, pockets, jolt, build, now, dignity, cut, bold, scrape, roaring, pass.  At least the poem I have written THIS week did not take place in a bar, as it has the past few weeks!!   I had been thinking a little bit about 'dignity' today and how every person must find a way to hold on to dignity.

September 11, 2011

September 11, 2011

Ten years ago in September
Diane and I were in Hawaii.
I awoke early, September 11,
signed on my computer half awake.

My German friend messaged me
when I arruved online, told me that, god,
the World Trade Center was under attack,
was going down. THAT is how I heard.

What? I said in shock, turned on the TV,
yelled, in disbelief, for Diane to wake up
The World Trade Center has been attacked.
She woke up with a jolt, joined me in disbelief.

Glued to the television, we were stunned, shocked.
How could this be? It seemed surreal,
unbelievable, as we watched events unfold,
the horrific along with heroic. Fear.

We were scheduled to fly home September 12.
Needless to say we did not. No flights.
We waited and watched. Sky was still.
No planes. Mourning. Disbelief. Sadness.

And when we did eventually fly home,
I have never been on a more quiet flight.
We all studied each other in silent fear
All of us were watchful. Eyes open. Alert.

Ten years later I can still feel the fear,
the vulnerability, the sadness of so much lost.
Something of me died that day. something
of all of us. Security no more. Safety, never.

What have we learned since 9 / 11/ 2001?
Why is there so much hatred in the world?
I still have my flag scarf bought that year,
which says Never Again. I hope and pray.

(Shared with Imaginary Gardens with Real Toadsl)

Light

Light

I sleep with a flashlight close by,
have to, it is my security blanket.
I can reach for it in seconds,

never know when I will need it,
when the electricity will fail,
or there will be a noise in the night.

When I travel, I carry one as well,
hold it close to me as I sleep.
We all have our oddities, I think.

Most hide theirs; but I share mine,
would rather it be brought to light.

This poem was written for the first Midnight Snack challenge from Poets' United.  The challenge was the photograph above.  I do have a 'thing' about flashlights, so I decided to write about that!!!

Curious

Curious

I'm curious how many places a heart can reside,
how many ways a heart can embrace
every person and situation it knows
without being spread too thin or torn asunder.
I wonder where my heart should call home.
Perhaps I'll discover the answers tomorrow.

This short poem was written for  Sunday Scribblings where the prompt was "tomorrow," Carry on Tuesday where the prompt was "Home is Where the Heart Is" and Theme Thursday where the prompt was "curious."

Silent Film

Silent Film

I want to make a silent film of my life.
Here I am laughing and loving.
Play the piano loudly, a strong rhythm,
lively, happy music, always happy please.

This is an illusion, but I want to portray it.
In a silent film anything is possible.
They do not need to see my tears.
Keep that piano playing loudly, I implore you.

I want to make a silent film of my life.
It may be a tragedy disguised as a comedy
or a comedy disguised as a tragedy.
The right music will help you decide.

Silent movies are good, words not important,
actions portray everything, one has to watch,
interpret, cannot look away from the action,
I can't decide yet the theme. Must I?

I want to make a silent film of my life,
my life as it is, but I have no supporting cast,
no piano player. Life sucks, and I cannot
make my movie alone. All is silent now.

(Written in response to dVerse silent film theme!)

Mermaids

Mermaids

Mermaids?
Why not?
We can still imagine
what might exist
in another dimension
or might be clear
if we were five years old,
had childlike eyes.


Mermaids?
Why not?
There is Santa Claus
an Easter Bunny, tooth fairy.
Peter Pan is real,
just ask Tinkerbell.
Don't rain on anyone's parade.
Truth is not only in the seeing.

(I wrote this for the above picture prompt at Imaginary Gardens and Real Toads.)

Another Friday Night

Another Friday Night

Friday night again.
Lonely pallid aging cougar
adorned with blooms of hope,
ablaze with red lipstick
that camouflages birdlike beak,
thick makeup to cover wrinkles,
is ready to take on the town.
Lord, is she ready!

With bleached blonde hair
and too tight, short dress
studded with carnival jewels,
she journeys to the same old pub,
smiles her bright canary smile,
laughs loudly, bats eyes, feigns fun.
Life is a beach you know, but
thank God for low lights.

With mouth quivering, bracelet
jingling, she orders her first drink
at the bar. Classy woman, she.
No gin or whisky babe. Daiquiri,
cosmopolitan, or simple red wine.
A woman has to live, life's too short.
Who's looking at me? There's one.
Must be twenty-seven. Smile.

Evening is young, She crosses legs,
shows a little skin. Racks up points
with this goof to hitch to for the night.
Drinks, a dance in shadows, a subtle
kiss out back. Dare she dream of
anything more than perhaps pizza
after bar closing? Will she be able
to crawl to her car? Or care?

She has to call him a goof, as it's
her honor you know. She wants
someone to love, it could be him.
Never mind his age, she feels young.
But if nothing happens, nothing lost.
Goof hides her pain, protects her.
Lord he's walking over. She smiles.
Maybe tonight she'll fall in love.

Each Friday is the same. The same bar,
another dream blooms then wilts.
Different men, yet each the same,
another wasted night most likely,
but for the dance, the drinks. She is
young again. He likes me, doesn't he?
Let's pretend tonight will be different.
Let's just dare to dream. Just tonight.


(This poem was written for the September 4 Sunday Whirl, where the words to use were crawl, rack, pallid, women, blooms, quivering, studded, hordes, hitch, bar, goof, birdlike.  I used them all, except I changed 'women' to 'woman.')

Not Yet Dawn

Not Yet Dawn

In the hour before dawn
I lie in my bed, hug dogs
who await my cue to rise.

I watch early morning TV.
Not time to get up,
but I cannot sleep.

I will watch sunrise from bed.
I make myself wait,
though dogs are ready.

I stay in bed longer,
restless, TV bores me.
Finally, sun or not, I bolt.

Warning

Warning

try to stay calm
though the tornado siren blares
try to stay calm
you may want to recite a psalm
as you wind your way down the stairs
bring a radio with your prayers
try to stay calm

This poem is written in the 'rondelet' form.  A rondelet consists of 7 lines with a particular rhyme pattern and fixed number of syllables per line.  You can find more about the form here:Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads.       I chose the subject because we may be in for severe weather later. Strong thunderstorms.  However, the dreaded words 'tornado warning' have not yet been spoken.

Sunflowers

Sunflowers

Sunflowers
brilliant reminders
of the wonder
of God's universe
before season turns to fall.

Sunflowers
elegantly tower
over all other flowers
remain humble in attitude
their creator's gift.

(This poem was written for today's Poet's United Thursday Think Tank prompt:  "Sunflowers."