Intangible

Intangible

So often it is the intangible
that brings me satisfaction.
I hunger for meaning,
strive for it each day of life.

Concrete bores me, is passe,
and I seek something more.
I thought in earlier years
I'd have answers by now,

would no longer seek,
would have found answers,
would rest smug, my feet up.ete
This is so far from tru.

I want many more years
to seek my own meaning,
to return what was given me.
I treasure intangible.

I wrote this for Writing Vice Versa, where we had to make use of the words concrete / intangible and hunger/satisfaction.  Take a look, and perhaps write your own contribution.

Halloween

Halloween

Halloween is pumpkins carved,
candles inside flickering,
costumed children walking sidewalks
in search of yearly treasure.

Witches flutter, crooked noses twitch,
potions gurgle, broom sticks thump.
We pray for vanished chidren,
that perpetrators are caught.

The world today is very afraid.
Is that a fake bloody hand I see?
A mysterious bottle? Who goes there
or anywhere on Halloween Eve?

Evil is rampant everywhere I look.
I want to hide under blackened sheet.
to sleep well tonight, for once to be
caught up in reverie of unspoken dreams.

This poem was posted at The Sunday Whirl, where the wordle words for us to use this time were twitched, crooked, bloody, sidewalk, bottle, flickering, gutter, gurgle, thump, vanished, carved, caught.  I could not work in 'gutter.'

Where Does God Live?

Where Does God Live?
Where does God live, Grandma?
she said to me one day as we walked.
I wasn't thinking about God,
was thinking about walking the dog,
getting exercise, the nice day.

But she was serious, so I said
He lives everywhere (what does that
mean to an almost four year old?).
He lives in the sky, trees, earth.

I wish now I said he lived in her,
but I wasn't prepared to talk God.
He lives in flowers, animals,
well, everywhere. (That word again.)

Then she said, with eyes bright,
I know where else, Grandma.
Where? said I She had a
gleam in her eye now, as if
she had made a discovery.
God also lives in church!

I could tell she felt smart.
Yes, I said, He lives there
perhaps most of all.  And,
of course why had I not
thought of the obvious?

She figured something out,
was so very, very proud.
She shared it with me,
and I was proud of her.

I hope she will always
feel free to ask me questions
that we will always talk as now,
about most anything, even God.

This poem was written in response to Claudia's prompt in dVerse Poets today.  Claudia asked for a poem which involved a conversation.  The person I talk to most of all right now is my almost-four-year-old granddaughter. I am happy for this prompt so I can write this poem.  Thank you, Claudia. The photo above was one I took yesterday after Mya got her face painted.  It is tipped sideways, doesn't look like that on my hard drive.  And I can't find a way right now to fix it.  I am thankful for my conversations with Mya, and hope she is also happy to have conversations with me.

Blank Canvases

A Mythical Horse she painted

Blank Canvases

It's a very hard thing to miss her,
to know I will not see her again
I spent time with her paintings today,
remembered when she painted them,
the joy she found in creating. And
the talent she didn't know she had
until late in life. I found blank canvasses
also, never to be filled. Paints, paint brushes
never again to be used. I cried for
what never will be painted, the gifts she
intended but wasn't able to give.
I miss her words usually, her voice and
thoughts and poems, but today I missed her
as I remember her painting, so intent,
so serious, one who hated to be disturbed.
I will hang her paintings. She is my
favorite artist. I miss her so.


I will surround myself with beauty.
She would have liked that, but she would
be surprised I will hang her paintings.
They are art. Her life was art.
I will not miss her so much when I
surround myself with her essence.
I tell myself that anyway. Hope it is true.
She will never be far away. Her words,
her paintings, her photographs.
Memories. She is here. Though gone.
I will not focus on gone. I will focus
on here, paintings, poems, her music.
She would want me to be happy,
not to think about the blank canvasses.

I would have wanted the same for her.

Emmett, over at dVerse Poets: Meeting the Bar prompted us to write a poem using 'conflation.'  This means “To bring together: meld or fuse; to combine (two variant texts, for example) into one whole "  This is a word I had never heard of before, so I did my best to fulfill his request.  Emmet also mentioned that the poem he wrote was 'personal,' and mine is as well.  I looked at the same subject from two different perspectives.  Stanza 1 is more downhearted.  Stanza 2 is, hopefully, less so.  I am not so sure about conflation, but this is what came to my mind based on my day today and the prompt.  Thank you, Emmett and to all of you who read..

Writer's Block

Writers Block

 Writers block --
the demon we all know.
It sits on us, suppresses us,
stares us down, dares us
to try to write a single word.

Writers block --
something to tackle broadside
a devil we must not let win,
one which we must stare back
and tell to go to hell.

Writers block --
not a permanent condition,
an irritant, nothing more.
We must not give it power
but must write anyway.

Writers block --
the cure is sitting to write,
bum glue as some call it,
playing hardball with the demon
until words do come. They will.

I wrote this today for the Poets United Thursday Think Tank where the prompt was "Writers Block," something we all are familiar with for sure.

Reflection

Reflection

I strive mainly for sweet
love, caring, understanding.
but it isn't always easy,
Some days I must try hard.

My skin may be wrinkled,
but in my mind it's smooth
unless sour permeates
to wipe smooth away

along with love and caring.
Many days I avoid thinking
about what isn't any more.
Some days I avoid mirrors.


This was written for Writing Vice Versa, a site where we were directed to write a poem using the words wrinkled / smooth; sweet/sour.

A True Tale

A True Tale

In the middle of the night I hear a noise.
I think it comes from the basement.
I listen carefully, will it happen again?
The dogs don't react. A good sign.


Heart beats fast. I'm not usually afraid.
I program 911 into my cell phone, wait,
lie quietly, then walk quietly to see
if there's light under basement door.

No light. Good sign. I check the lock,
return to bedroom, lock that door too
for the first time ever. I sleep with phone,
listen for nothing, but don't dare turn on TV.

I need to hear, just in case. I want sleep,
but I want to hear. I trust the dogs.
Their ears are good. I am tired,
and 911 is programmed on my phone.

(This happened last night.  In the morning, I went into the basement to see if all was ok.  It was.  No break-in, which was what my mind feared in the middle of the night.  No idea what the noise was.  This is a safe area.  I am usually not a scaredy cat, but I am grateful for the dogs and the cell phone which has 911 programmed, just in case.)

Exhaustion

Exhaustion

My brain is rusted-out, my head nods,
my eyes begin to glaze over.
I find myself stretched ragged, worn
on my always welcoming bed.

I straighten pillow, sheets, blanket,
and with thoughts rocking and rolling,
bridges of thoughts lead to the clouds.
I pray I will sleep tonight. Close, eyes.

There is yet a blade of light visible
outside the window. I force my tired body
to arise one more time, to drag the curtain
closed. I do hope I am able to sleep.

The above poem was written for Wordle 27 on The Sunday Whirl . The words to use this week were rusted-out, nods, beginning, glaze, stretched, ragged, straighten, rolling, bridges, clouds, blade, drag. I used them all. I doubly challenged myself this week by making myself use the words in the order that they were presented in Brenda's email which listed the words. Somehow, a poem resulted that made this possible, and that pleased me.

Is That All There is?

Is That All There is?

I remember how it was when we married in '72,
we were so in love. I went to work each day,
came home at night, and she awaited me,
dressed special for me, makeup, perfume,
and greeted me as if I was the most special man
in the world, and she made me believe it.
Some days I brought flowers, some days candy.
Some days I called from work, said Don't cook, Honey.
We're going out on the town. Yes, it was good then.
We danced our private dances, made love as if
there was no tomorrow, and turned out there wasn't.
Everything was good, and I thought it would always be.

Now I come home from work, find her sitting in the chair
watching Dr. Oz on TV. She hardly looks up as I
enter the room. She wears her sweats, hair uncombed.
Oh hi she says. How was your day? Not looking at me.
Good I say, as I plop myself down in the chair.
Not looking at her. How was yours? Same old, she says.
I force myself to move next to her, to reach around her shoulder.
Nothing stirs anymore. She seems oblivious. I rise,
go to the refrigerator, grab a beer. We've both gotten fat.
We don't even like each other any more.  I drink my beer,
sit and wonder what went wrong, why it happened,
and of the Peggy Lee song Is that All There Is?

I wrote this poem for DVerse.  Today the prompt, as I understand it, was to write a poem from the perspective of  "the other," someone much different than oneself.  I chose to write from the perspective of a man who had been married many years and who saw his relationship erode over the years.  This was an interesting prompt.  Thank you.

The Show Must Go On

The Show Must Go On
The show must go on,
the curtain must rise.
Ready or not, turn down the light.
Actors in their places
with smiles on their faces
hide their hostilities
grudges, and jealousies.
Please the audience,
Spread the welcome mat,
give a good show.
Life's kind of like that.

The show must go on,
one performance at a time.
The actors may change,
their roles rearranged.
Costumes become threadbare.
Never mind that, we'll chat
about the next big show,
promised riches and fame.
Makeup can't cover shame.
It's all tit for tat
life's kind of like that.

(Keith's prompt this week at Carry on Tuesday was "The Show Must Go On."  I am a bit late this week, but I contribute my poem is above.)

Quest for Love

Quest for Love

She seeks love, deserves it, hasn't achieved it.
She's looked at men who offer nothing,
offer something but nothing lasting or good,
or those who promise but don't fulfill.

But now something has changed. She's grown up,
looks for a man from a more mature perspective,
one with ambition, achievement, not just talk.
I'm pleased, today hopeful. I dream along with her.

I haven't written much this week, but I'm back!  This poem is written in response to Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads, where the prompt was to write a list poem.  This list poem is supposed to be comprised of a list of specific things connected by an idea which progresses from the beginning to a desired solution at the end. It should make a point or tell a story. The title reveals what/who the list will be about. This particular list poem is supposed to involve directions or an element of how to get somewhere.  Well, I think the  person in this poem is figuring out how to get from point A to point B.  The 'list' includes steps that have been taken so far, the unsuccessful leading to the more promising.

Grandmother



The Two Children Referred to in this poem:  My Grandchildren



Grandmother

Sadly
I hear my voice
It echoes as I scream,
but no one hears the plaintive voice.
Angry.

Fuck you
Father in just name
Asshole par excellence
You are paid in cash for your work.
Zero.

Children,
do know I love you.
Your mother does her best
I will be there for you always.
Support.

I do
the best I can do.
Today I went to church,
so I try to see only good.
Love you.


I am not usually one who uses profanity in my writing. In this poem I could not do otherwise. I am sorry for the language I don't often use if it offends. It was not my intent. It is not my usual. 
I wrote this for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads for a kind of cinquain form described there. First line 2 syllables, second line 4 syllables,  third line 6 syllables, fourth line 8 syllables, fifth lilne two syllables.

Five Short Poems

Kellie and Sheila, over at dVerse challenged us today to write a poem about a taboo subject.  The top three 'taboo subjects' were said to be   sex, politics and war, and religion.  Just so happens that this past week I wrote a few poems on religious subjects (which I have been thinking about a lot lately). I  truly was not going to blog them; but, Kellie and Sheila, because of your prompt, I will be brave.  Here they are:


Prayer

I question so many things:
Does God ever intervene,
if He doesn't, what is the use?
I try to understand,
doubt I ever will.
perhaps that is all right
but does God hear, and
if He does, does He care?

Immortality

I cannot believe this is all there is,
I must believe there is something more.
I have faith I will meet you again.
You promised, Lord.
I must believe you.
God?  God?


Mortality

We all are born
We all live
We all will die
I hope I do justice
to the living.


Where Is God?

My granddaughter asked where God is.
How could I explain to an almost four-year-old
what I am not really sure about myself.
All of my words to her seemed so very trite,
but then she told me He lives in church,
and I agreed with her. An easy answer.
Complex is not what she wanted, but
I wonder sometimes too where God resides.
And if He is there, why is He so illusive,
impotent, invisible in the world today?

Belief

I believe what I believe is right,
but I don't believe what you believe is wrong.
Someday we will all find out, won't we?
We all hope we are right, and I hope God
 loving enough to accept all good intentions


Tolerance

I like to think I am tolerant
but damn there are some drivers
I'd like to give the finger to.
I hope one of them isn't you.

Forgive Me

Forgive Me

Forgive me if I do not dance,
if my feet hurt, if my spirit is broken.
I would like to drop all pretense,
heal my broken spirit.

I'd like to jump through hoops
for all the hopeless causes
that have burst into prominence,
but I bolt at that, sanity gathered.

My shoulder is sore from
bearing everyone's burden.
Reason topples emotion.
Forgive me if I do not dance.

(This poem above was written for The Sunday Whirl for 10/16.  The words to use were:  forgive, shoulder, topples, shallows, bolt, broken, gathered, dancing, drop, burst, causes, feet, hoops.  I did NOT find a place for 'shallows.' )

Self-Portrait

Today, over at dVerse today (where my poem is linked to), Victoria gave us this challenge:  "For this week’s prompt, consider writing a poem in imitation of another poet—but please allow your own voice to sing out."  I absolutely love this kind of prompt. Thank you!  ( Am also sharing this for Sunday's Poetry Pantry)
 
I chose the poem "Self Portrait" by Erica Jong.  It is from her book Loveroot.

 I will copy Erica Jong's poem here before I share what I have written. 

Self - Portrait


She was not a slender woman,
but her skin was milk
mixed in with strawberry jam
& between her legs the word purple was born
& her hair was the color of wheat & yellow butter.


Her eyes were dark as the North Atlantic sea.


She learned the untranslatable words of dawn.
She studied her own fear & wrote its verses.
She used the hole in her heart to play wind-music.
She built her book-houses over her empty cellar.


She nursed on the muse at first,
then became her own mother.


                  -----Erica Jong


Here is my poem in 'imitation' of Erica Jong's poem (including using the & symbol), but definitely has MY voice.  It is 'the truth.'


Self-Portrait

She is a slender woman, not muscular.
Years ago she'd claimed muscular, now claims endurance.
Her skin is wrinkled, but only when she looks in the mirror.
Otherwise it is smooth; soft as a baby's back.

Her hair blonde-brown mixed with imperceptible gray.
She likes her hair; its style never changes. It becomes her.
Her eyes are blue as the sky on a bright summer day.
They laugh, twinkle, can also pierce someone's soul.

They are eyes that express, do not hide.
Those who try can read her eyes. She likes her eyes.
She learns the nebulous words of hope, joy, love, sorrow,
studies her dreams, her decisions, her angers and sadness.

She writes verses that express all she holds in her heart.
She built her life anew from scratch at least three times.
She had to write, was driven to write, somewhat like her mother,
who composed on a Black Smith Corona nightly for decades.

Sound of Silence

The Silence of You


It hurts my ears to hear the sound
of your voice absent from my life.
You proclaimed my guilt,
I know my innocence.
It doesn't matter.






We will both move on.
occasionally when we walk
our separate trails will think of one another.
I can live with my actions.
How can you live with yours?






(This was written in response to Writing Vice Versa, where the prompt was to write using these words:  sound/silence; guilt/innocence.)

Seasons

Seasons

He saunters with his dog along the woodsy trail blanketed with crisp brown leaves and pine cones. Some trees have green leaves yet, though many more are shades of yellow, red, or brown. Leaves drift to the ground as he walks beneath the rustling limbs. He hasn't seen a robin in a few weeks now. Could it be they have already gone? How could he not have noticed the last one? His dog barks, wishing for a chase, as a squirrel scampers ahead on the path. Nuts need to be gathered, and there is so little time. He empathizes with the squirrel.

Life changes quickly
so much is predictable
everything cycles.

His little dog tugs at the leash, urging him to walk faster. But he feels himself slowing, his mind reflecting back to spring when the world was beginning to green, when the crunchy leaves now under his feet were new. Then there was hope, rebirth, robins, sun. Warmer each day. It seems an epoch ago. Things were different. She was alive then. Still. He did not know what summer would bring. No one knows what each season will bring. The little dog does not understand his slowness. The little dog did not understand death, but does understand missing. The man understands both. And he understands seasons deeper than he wants to.

The wind blows stronger
more leaves flutter to the ground
soon trees will be bare.


The poem above is a Haibun, written for the  Margo Roby Wordgathering site. A Haibun is composed of both prose and Haiku. Mine consists of two of both. If you are interested in the form, either follow the link above or check the internet for information. I do like the Haibun form very much. In this poem I tried to create a mood.  I also submitted it to dVerse Open Link Night.

Morning News

Morning News

Politics is a chess game
move, countermove.
One piece attains prominence,
is admired, followed by masses,
then sabotaged, surrounded,
wiped out of the game. Now
once lofty king stands alone.

This poem was written in response to Three Word Wednesday  (which provided 3 words:  admire, follow, piece) and for Magpie Tales (which provided the above picture).  My inspiration:  It seems lately political candidates and politicians already in office are rising and falling in popularity at breakneck speed....no matter which party. 

Shall We Dance?

Shall We Dance?

Formerly rambunctious woman
subdued elderly now, is dressed
in her musty moth-eaten finery,

once beautiful, from another era.
She leaves her obsolete automobile,
casts crumbs to swarming swallows

that inhabit the fallow land
between the decrepit ballroom
and the moonlit garden pond.

Ready to dance, she rings the bell
which announces her arrival to no one.
She flounces past the dusty hat rack

into the dingy ballroom, begins
to waltz rhythmically with a reflection
envisioned in shadows, to a

Viennese waltz only she hears.
Though she is old, the night is young.
She knows this may be her last dance.

(This was written for The Sunday Whirl where the words that had to be used this week were  rambunctious, admire, swallows, pond, ballroom, obsolete, hat-rack, fallow, crumb, bell, automobile, and garden.)

If Not Now, When?

If not Now, When?

If not now, when?
We only have today,
cannot expect tomorrow.
This may be the last day
you have to live. Savor
this moment, this hour,
this day.  Stay in the present,
not yesterday, not tomorrow.
Live now.

Forgive those you need to forgive
Tell those you love that you love them.
Do today what you planned for tomorrow.
Give now what you planned to give later.
Take time today, as you have it, to do good.
Write the letters you meant to write last year.
Tell everyone what you thought they did well.
Thank those who have done for you,
so you know that you appreciated all.

Have a dinner for all you love today.
Invite everyone you care about.
Celebrate your life, rather than wait
until others commemorate your death.
Play music, dance, laugh, reminisce
as if there is no tomorrow.
Be aware there may not be.
If not now, when?

(Side note:  I think Steve Jobs would agree.)

Quite a while ago I read the book The Quest for Christa T., by a (then) East German author named Christa Wolf.   (Claudia, are you familiar with this book?)One of the quotes that stood out for me in that book was "When, if not now?"  which is basically the same.  It actually became my motto, my mantra, is still something I follow today.  I checked to see if there was a bumper sticker with these words on it.  There was!  (A slight variation.)  I am submitting this poem to dVerse where Brian's prompt today was Bumper to Bumper, for which we had to incorporate a bumper sticker in our poem! 

Four Haiku

Two browned fallen leaves
yesterday alive and green;
nature's message clear.

Autumn arrives subtlety
one leaf at a time;
soon all trees will be naked

Not much time will pass
until fallen leaves crumble;
next summer's soil.

Life is short but good,
Each entity has purpose;
I still mourn dead leaves.

(I took the photograph above of the two leaves in the grass outside my door this morning. I am posting these four haiku /senyru to dVerse FormForAll - Haiku and Senyru.  Each of the poems can stand by itself, I think; but they work well together too, I think.  Three of them have 5//7/5 syllable counts.  One has 7/5/7 syllable counts.)

MARY

MARY


My name is Mary which in Latin means 'sea of bitterness'
which does not fit me at all. My parents named me after
Mary in the story of Mary and Martha. Mary listened to Jesus
as Martha worked to serve. I think  I was given the wrong name,
as my role most often is the one who serves, prepares, cleans up,
makes sure everyone else is comfortable, not the one who listens.

I've always somewhat admired this Mary  I was  named for,
admire women able to relax and listen as someone else works.
I am not one of those people.  I cannot rest when there is
work to be done, but only after the necessary is accomplished.
I should be "Martha" because of my most usual role, and also
because  'sea of bitterness" is not true of me.

(I wrote this poem for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.  Laurie's pompt was to look up the meaning of your name and then to write a poem incorporating that meaning.  My name is Mary, and one of the meanings is 'bitterness,' which I never identified with.  As I said in the poem, my parents named me after the Mary in the Mary and Martha Bible story.  I have long thought I should have been named Martha, but then again I aspire to be Martha.  My parents knew what they were doing.)

Words

Words

 Words are all we have
to prove our existence
to say who we are,

to let others know
what is important.
Words are all we have

when we are dying,
when we have nothing else
besides our prayers.

This was written for Carry On Tueday where the prompt was " Words are all we have..."

Waves

Waves

Waves surge, waves recede.
We may think this trivial
but to nature it is significant.
Nature knows no bounds.
Trust me, God knows,
understands, is in control.

This poem was written for Writing Vice Versa where we were challenged to write with surge/recede & trivial/significant.

Trains

Trains

Trains were not a part of my life,
but must have been a part of the world
when I was born though I did not ride them.
No big city girl, no familiarity with
the Atchison and Topeka and Santa Fe.
Trains were used by someone else, not me.

Today I still think about taking a train
to Chicago sometime, I'll do this,
promise myself to do it just for me.
I dream of a cross country train ride,
The whistle calls. I'll heed its call
someday before it is too late.


I wrote this poem for  the challenge to write a poem about the song that was  #1 on the day one was born wasat Imaginary Garden With Real Toads .  Here is the song if anyone wants to see / respond to it. It truly does not do for much for me.  Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe..  But,oh well.

Mya

Mya

Each day I spend with you

I am thankful for our time.

You are a gift, make me

glad to be alive.

This short poem is an example of Naani Poetry.  Naani poetry consists of 4 lines, and 20 - 25 syllables.  It is not bound to any subject.  It is written for A Picture Speaks.   The subject of the poem is my granddaughter who is almost four years old and with whom I spend about ten to eleven hours a day.  She is at the age where she enjoys looking 'pretty.'  I took this picture this morning when she was ready to go to church.  Oh to be so uninhibited and carefree as she is!

Language

Language

I offer you words.

You offer me words.

I think I am understandable.

You think you are understandable,

but sometimes we don't understand

through no fault of our own,

and we don't realize

until it is too late

understanding

eludes us

both.

This was written forOne Single Impression, where the prompt was "language."

Enigma

Her face is steely, almost expressionless.
She wears green dark glasses, it is night.
Who is she, and what does she hide?
Black eyes of domestic abuse or tears,
perhaps the cold eyes of revenge,
or deep sadness of loss of her love.
Perhaps nothing at all, but how do we know?

And why the bright red lipstick on her stern lips?
She hides her eyes, but accentuates her lips.
Are they the lips of passion that entice the gullible,
the lips that lash out in unbridled fury,
or lips that vow not to speak their truth again?
Who is she and what does she hide?
Perhaps nothing at all, we'll never know.

(This poem was written for dVerse Poets Pub where the prompt was to write something to do with Pop Art.  I searched Google for PopArt images and came upon this one.  It transfixed me.  I couldn't get beyond it.   Thus, thinking about this image, I wrote this poem. I also submitted it to Poets United Poetry Pantry #69)

Enigma

Full Moon

Full Moon

It was full moon fearful late.
She hid alone in the church
lost in torment, imprisoned
in her cobbled mind, and

destined to cower until dawn                                                
behind the concrete statue
of Jesus with little children,
illuminated by myriad candles

flickering brightly, circling her mind
like myriad fireflies flitting.
She knelt, prayed for a peace,
a salvation she could not find.

She was frozen in fear, paralized
by thoughts of the frightful face
she knew she'd see in the moon
if she were to leave her safe harbor.

She dreaded remembering
what she wanted to forget:
why she hid from the full moon,
why the concrete screamed,

why Jesus sat strangely silent,
how what started as adventure
mutated to this hellish horror
that haunted her full moon late.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl (October 2) where the 'wordle words' were adventure, fearful, signs, face, cobbled, myriad, lost, alone, concrete, remember, church, circle.  I used each of them.  It was also submitted to Imaginary Garden With Real Toads where we were challenged to write something 'surrealistic' from a picture given.  I took part of the picture as a moon, about which I wrote.  I also submitted this to Poets United Poetry Pantry #69.