Wishful Thinking

Fall Colors Nearby

 

Wishful Thinking

 

Wishful thinking is impermanent;

we can only fool ourselves so long.

We can commend ourselves for creation,

reward ourselves for our thoughts;

but we must not put stock in them

nor ask for empty promises

from those who have no answers,

from those who wish for certainty,

from those who don't recognize

wishful thinking is just a game.

There can never be a winner

in the game of wishful thinking.

 

This was written for Carry On Tuesday #175, where Keith provided the prompt words "wishful thinking."

If Only

If Only

He scurries through his rituals,
breathing the smell of incense.
Why is it so hard to pray?

He empties his soul of his sins
dazed by fear and longing.
He wishes he had faith.

If only he believed in prayers,
that water of his baptism saved him,
that there was something holy in incense.

But as the  mouth of the preacher flaps,
he feels not tenderness but numbness.
He wishes he could believe...something.

This poem was written for The Sunday Whirl.  This is a Wordle site, and Brenda provided us with the words:  dazed, incense, ambivalence, empties, holy, scurries, breathing, fear, flaps, prayers, water, tenderness.  Obviously this poem was NOT autobiographical.   I am also linking this to Poets United Poetry Pantry #117

Church Rummage Sale

I took this photo at the church rummage sale,
which was a very good place for people watching today.

Church Rummage Sale

In line at 7:30 a.m. for the
rummage sale that opens at 8.
I dress in warm jacket, not to
freeze outside for half an hour.

I come  every year,
this year I drink coffee
to keep out the chill.

Woman ahead of me says
This one of the best.  Good prices.
She carries her own large sack.

Every year I hit this church sale
and every year I arrive at 7:30
always end  in the same line position
waiting for the door to open at 8:00.

At 8:00 the parking lot is full;
about fifty  people ahead of me
quadruple that  behind me.

We all shuffle feet, adrenalin surging
as if it is a half marathon and we
are awaiting  the starting bell.

At 8 a.m. sharp the door opens,
we all wind in fairly orderly,
head in predetermined directions.

I head for the winter jackets first
as grandson needs a new one.
Found it. Struck gold.  I was
the first shopper with jacket priority.

Next to shoe area for grandson,
no luck in shoes, move on quickly
into children's area:  two winter jackets
for granddaughter for next year
and one very pretty dress.

Do you know you are humming?
says a worker.  No, I say, I didn't.
I'll stop.  No, don't, she says.
It means you're happy.  I try
not to hum.  Embarrassed.

You have to wait your turn,
someone says to me
as I try to go down an aisle,
as if I don't know that. 
I say nothing, wanted to say
What do you think I'm doing?

People are mostly polite,
generally wait their turn,
the workers smile as they
try to keep things in order,
give shoppers big boxes.

I bump into someone with my loot,
say excuse me, and she says
that's okay and we move on;
but by now it's so  hard to maneuver
and my patience for crowds has gone.

So I decide to check out, go home.
Three winter jackets, one pretty dress
Not bad for a thirty minute wait outside
and forty-five minutes shopping inside.
I still have time for more coffee
now that I am back home.


Brian over at dVerse Poetics: 6 Billion Others is challenging us to write a poem about People Watching today. As I was at a large church rummage sale this morning, I decided to compose something about that.

Magic

My grandson is behind this bronze at our zoo.
Those are his arms.  And 'Samson's' face.'
I think this photo is quite magical.

Magic

We each make our own magic,
cast spells with our special wand.

Whether for evil or for good
magic originates in one's heart.

We can make someone happy
or we can make someone sad;

we each have the magic power
in our ordinary human hands.

I wrote the above poem for    Fireblossom Friday  at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads.   Shay challenged us to write about 'magic.' I do believe each of us has 'magic' within us and we each can use it for good or for evil.  We can help make someone's life better by using our good magic.  And we can hurt people greatly with bad magic. We each have a powerful 'wand' and decisions to make regarding its use. 

The Poet Who Writes of Food

A mealI had  in Puerto Vallarta!
What a beautiful presentation, isn't it?

 

The Poet Who Writes of Food

The poet who writes of food
will never grow hungry.
The soup contains something from each moment
of your life
where milk and cream
are merely memories,
like history.
Eating is never so simple as hunger.

You eat it with a porcelain spoon
waiting for a sign.
I stand here
savoring the sound
like salt.
I am teaching myself love
& dreams are coming down the hall
by moonlight.
Hold me up to the light;
you will see poems.

Remember how it happened?
Our dreams rise above our heads
& embrace.
Hand in hand in hand we flew.
We were both crying
It proved that you were God.
What other evidence did I need?
& now I sit here writing,
breathing you --
leaving no footprints.

This poem is a Cento....a poem written using ONLY lines from other poetry. I chose to use lines from Erica Jong poetry, specifically from her  collection called Becoming Light.  I probably took lines from17 - 20 different poems.  No more than two lines in succession followed one another in a poem.  They are written in this poem the exact line length they were in the original.  I did not combine lines, nor shorten them. I took the liberty ONLY of changing punctuation in a few places.  I have written this for dVerse where Sam is in charge of the bar today.

By the way, if anyone has not read Erica Jong's poetry, I recommend it.  Some of you may know her only for having written the book Fear of Flying.  But truly she is a very good poet.

The Best Fashion Show of All

Taken on a forest path - yesterday

The Best Fashion Show of All

Though the performance is a yearly repeat
and the designs more familiar than novel,
there is no more watched fashion show                         
than nature's  presentation  each autumn.

Brilliant oranges, reds, and yellows
grace the path of the forest runway
to awe me each September anew
as if it were my first time to view.

As I observe the varied compositions,
admire and savor  the majesty of fall
I know there is no show more striking
than the one God, through nature, gives.

Taken on the same forest path  as the one above...yesterday

This poem was written for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads: Ella's Edge, where Ella has given us a prompt about 'fashion.'    She used a quote from Coco Chanel:  "Fashion is not something that exists in dresses only. Fashion is in the sky, in the street, fashion has to do with ideas, the way we live, what is happening. "  And from that quote, I launched my poem.          I have REALLY been enjoying the beauty that is fall in my area.....my kind of fashion!

Ceremony of Tea

Photo by Ellen Wilson

Ceremony of Tea

I seldom drink tea
but appreciate ceremony of tea,
which seems more a ritual
though of what I do not know.

I prefer the caffeine of coffee,
more a jolt than genteel tea;
but drinking tea is more elegant,
dainty and one sips rather than gulps.

I admit I am more a gulper;
give coffee to me strong and black
in a very large cup to go please
though I appreciate ceremony of tea.

This was written for Ella's prompt over at Poets United:  Wonder ???? Wednesday.  Take a look at it and join us there.   Anyway I really am not much of a tea drinker, but I have enjoyed tea VERY much on occasion......in Germany, in Scotland, in England, in Canada.  I even own a tea set AND a tea ball; but here in the U.S. drinking tea really does not 'take' with me, though I am very sincere when I say I appreciate the ceremony of tea.

Viewpoint

Hickory Nuts Not Quite Ripe

Viewpoint

I have no viewpoint to share
advocate no rationale
neutrality is the key
except with trusted friends
and even then I hesitate
because friends can change
forget  one exists at all
with the blink of an eye
friends of fifteen years leave
with no regret
no contact
nothing

So if you ask my viewpoint
forgive my neutrality
I'll keep it to myself
I doubt you want to know
or will care tomorrow
when you walk out the door.

This was written for Poetry Jam.  One part of Dani's prompt was:  Write advocating one viewpoint or another, with your rationale.  The above poem is in response to that.

On the Other Side of the Page

Berries on a Tree - taken on one of my walks

 

On the Other Side of the Page

On the other side of the page

is the most beautiful drawing

perfectly rendered.

On the other side of the page

is her poem soon to be featured

in a national magazine.

On the other side of the page

is the first chapter of her

novel accepted for publication.

 
On the other side of the page

are her dreams and hopes

and          her imagination.

 

As my time is short today to write a new poem, for Open Link at dVerse, I am submitting this poem I wrote in 2007 before I was blogging.  (I think with open link this is permissible.) I read it over this morning and thought to myself....yes, I like that one!  Hope you do too.

Sevenling (The Pears May Not Be Beautiful )

Photo by Ellen Wilson

Sevenling (The Pears May Not Be Beautiful)

The pears may not be beautiful
though they are succulent and sweet;
it is the taste that matters.

Life is not always a beautiful picture,
dreams often do not come true;
life, like pears, often has its flaws.

We must learn to accept what is.

This was written for Kerry's Sunday Mini-Challenge (Sevenling) at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads.

Unexpected

View from my Home one Day Last Week:
The View was Unexpectedly Beautiful



Unexpected

 

Unexpected doesn't phone in advance
but just arrives at the door.
Unexpected isn't always welcome
but he doesn't really care.

 

Unexpected may bring flowers
or a sudden trip to the ER.
Treat or tragedy
Unexpected has his own rules
and one has no choice
but to play as

 

Unexpected
holds his own set of cards.

Karin, over at DversePoetics today is talking about the  "Unexpected."  This is my contribution.

Fences

Fences

Fences keep one safe
and separate people.

The gate swings open
when one wills it
often just a crack
but mostly one stays behind
peers out at the world beyond
from between the slats.

Other eyes squint to see in
two sets of eyes meet
neither looks down.

Both yearn for what is imagined:
protection or freedom
privacy or openness.

Fences keep one safe
and separate people.

This poem was written for my prompt at Mary's Mixed Bag (9/21) at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads.  The prompt is Fences.  I hope to find some of the rest of you there as well.

Ultimate Solitude

Ultimate Solitude

Hope is what you have

when you have nothing else

when you can do nothing else

when prayers fail

when the tsunami is about to strike

when death is inevitable

and so you dream you can

ride the wave, and with

your arms outstretched

and a smile on your face

you surf into eternity

.............alone.

This was written for dVerse Poets, where Claudia is tending the bar today and having us write about 'solitude' and 'escapes.'  This poem is about both the ultimate solitude and the ultimate escape. 

Bliss

Bliss

 

One  absolute is
 in each life there is
 a time to rise
a time to fall

and in between
if one is lucky
     someone to nestle with:
bliss  for a moment in time.

 

 

This was written for  Three Word Wednesday, where we had to use the words absolute, nestle, and fall!

Just For Fun!

Basil - 4 1/2 pounds - doesn't he look innocent?  Ha ha ha

Just For Fun!

There is a little dog name Basil
who is agile and leaps onto the table
and if he cannot leap
he weasels his seat and feet
until he finds his way atop the table.

Basil will curl inside of my shirt
you would think he is quite the flirt
he likes to be near skin
and if I let him come in
I hold him so he doesn't get hurt.

Basil knows when he does something bad
if he pees on the carpet I am sad
so he goes into his little cage
to avoid my kind of rage
but I really find it hard to be mad.

There is a little dog named Basil
who has however a very big bark
when he opens his wide mouth
he can chase the geese south
and clear people out of the park!

Well, I had hoped to write in the style of Dr. Seuss, but this is what came for Ella's Wacky Wednesday prompt over at Poets United.  Take a look at it, if you happen to visit my blog.  Wacky is 'in' today.

Basil fits 'wacky' sometime.  Ha ha.(So do I.  Ha ha again.) I just can't believe how he can weasel his little body up to the dining room table.  Even if I have all chairs totally pushed in, he jumps on a chair and weasels himself around.  And though he is the smallest of my dogs, he DOES have the loudest bark. Thankfully, he uses it the least. LOL.

Sometimes it feels good to be 'wacky.'  This is one of those days.  Join us if you wish!!!

Look Closer

Look Closer

She walks proudly
head held high
is dressed neatly
strides purposefully
with her little dog.

She looks happy
smiles at walkers
who greet her
often speaks first
with her little dog.

No one gives her
a second glance
looks closer as she passes
sees that she is lonely
but for her little dog.

This was written for Peggy's prompt at  Poetry Jam: Take a Closer Look. 

Through a Child's Eyes

Through a Child's Eyes

I sit and watch as you do preschool gymnastics
one move at a time, confident and free.
You don't worry how good you are
just try your hardest one move at a time.

With a smile of pride on your face
you balance barefoot on the low beam
then grasp the low bar with hands and feet
then swing as you hold onto the rings.

You jump backward through hula hoops
are given help to do a back flip
then end with a victorious somersault
to the thunderous applause of my claps.

Life is so uncomplicated for you still
in this world where everyone is yet nice
and you are so happy with yourself
believe you can do anything you want.

I smile with you as you share your joy
while you are yet so confident and free
and know how lucky I am to be able
to experience life through a child's eyes.

Shared with dVerse Poets: Open Link Tuesday.

I do wish I had taken a picture of my granddaughter at her preschool gymnastics class yesterday, but alas I did not.  Rather than 'working out' myself while she was in class, I just sat and soaked up her experience, enjoying gymnastics through her eyes.  The kids are so unjudgmental of themselves and each other. They just enjoy.  And I enjoy with them, as I know these 'innocent' times will not last long. And one of these days she will encounter 'mean' and 'insecurity' and 'judgmental.'  But not yesterday.   Or today. 

Cold

My Grandmother

Cold

I met death for the first time
at age six years old
when my grandmother died.

I knew Grandma was old
but didn't know she was sick,
and no one had talked about death.

The morning Grandma died I woke up
and instead of seeing my mother
my cousin was at the side of my bed.

Cousin said my mom was with grandma
who had died;      and I asked him
why she didn't wait until I saw her first.

At the funeral home my mother held me
so I could kiss grandma in her casket good-bye
and that's how I learned what death felt like--
             cold!

This poem was written for dVerse Poetics, and today we are writing about FIRSTS  Fred is 'tending the bar' at dVerse for the first time! Good topic, Fred.  Let's give him a warm welcome.  I will also submit this for Poetry Pantry of Poets United on Sunday morning!

I only knew one grandmother:  this one.  When I knew her, she was always blind and very old.  My mother was the youngest of many children; and my mother married late in life....so I never knew my grandma to be a 'young grandma.'  My only memory of my grandma is leading her to the table to eat.  Then the memory of her death. I am glad my grandchildren will have different memories of me.

Bottlenecked

Bottlenecked

Bottlenecked
     can't get through
     can't breathe
     can't scream

traffic jam
at rush hour
we're all stopped
     stopped up
          stopped short

unmoving
     just plain stuck
          within and without
bottlenecked.

This poem was written for Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads: A Word With Laurie, where we were given the word 'bottleneck' to use poetically!

Timeworn Jeans

My most timeworn jeans

Timeworn Jeans

My jeans are timeworn,
legs shredding at the bottom,
slightly faded but still strong.

Denim fabric lasts forever,
zippers don't wear out,
styles never change much,

but if they do I ignore them,
content with my timeworn jeans,
so very comfortable to wear.

I'll wear jeans the rest of my life
even if I live to one hundred three,
my jeans more timeworn than me.

I wrote this for Ella's prompt at Poets United Thursday Think Tank #114.  Ella featured the beautiful work of Vicki Sheehan, a visual poet for this prompt.  Ella describes her art as speaking of faded memories from the past.    Visit the above site to see some of her beautifl work. What came to mind for me is probably not what was hoped for; but my faded jeans come with many memories. Truly many have stories. Though faded and timeworn, I keep them forever.  I never EVER get rid of jeans!

I am also sharing this with Real Toads Open Link Monday.

Conversations

Conversations

There are conversations
I wish I could remember
had paid  attention to,

now irretrievable data
except for hazy details,
essence not substance,

and how I wish now I
preserved each thought
instead of thinking

there'd be another chance,
not realizing chances run out
that I'd be left but with regret..

This was written for Theme Thursday.  The prompt was 'conversations,' which really resonated with me.

Remembering 9/11/2001

Remembering 9/11/2001

Every happening can be distilled into moments;
everything happens one moment at a time,
and they all add up to something,
but sometime we don't know what
until much time passes.

Take September 11 when the first plane hit
the World Trade Center, and no one knew what it meant,
what would follow moment by moment,
and how many would die we didn't know then,
couldn't fathom; and when another plane struck
and the Tower began to fall down, down, down
and people died painfully in slow-motion moments
our nation screamed soulfully and soundlessly,
and we all held outraged hands and prayed.
We were unified in  anger and pain;
moment after moment a nation cried.

Eleven years have passed since then:
moment by moment by moment we healed;
and I wonder sometimes what was the lesson.
I look at my scarf that says Remember 9 - 11-01
and I wonder as a tower rises on that same spot
if the world has changed or if we are safer
or if there will be another such moment
in which hundreds or thousands of people will die
which will draw us together as a nation again
to be unified in a nonpartisan way.

I hate that it seems to take a tragedy
to create such unity.  I want to hold hands
with everyone again as I did after 9/11.


I am still greatly moved as I remember 9/11/2011.  I was in Hawaii on that day.  I arose early Hawaiian time, but by then the first plane had flowen into the World Trade Center.  I was on my computer, and my German friend was the one who alerted me and told me I should turn on televison.......  I had a friend in NYC who was supposed to serve on jury duty that day.  I worried about her safety.  I heard later she was sent home.....and ran home with the smoke behind her.  Another friend of mine had a son who was a firefighter in NYC.  She was worried about his safety and did not hear that he was okay until much later in the day.  Many in his battalion died that day, but he lived.  We were not able to return from Hawaii to the continental USA for 3 days after 9/11.  When we flew home, it was the quietest flight I have ever flown on.  We were all petrified really....and silent.  I truly do remember with sadness that day.  Will always remember.  We must never forget.

I am posting this for Real Toads Open Link Monday,    also  dVerse Poets Open Link Tuesday.  It is also posted for Poetry Jam where Mary Mansfield prompted us to write about MOMENTS.  Hope you will also take a look at each of these fine sites and join in!

September Again

Crumbling brown leaves among the stones - September 2012

       

September Again

Where did summer go?

Where do all summers go?
 

It is September again

gone are swimming pool days and burning sun

butterflies and marigolds.
 

I try not to mourn

as green turns to  vibrant yellow, orange, red

before inevitable brown crumbles to earth.

Autumn is just another season

as the hands of the clock continue to turn.

my only choice to enjoy what is now.

I pack away short-sleeved clothes

and bring out the sweatshirts again;

it's football season, time to cheer.

I flavor September with cider

and savor the warm pumpkin pie.

wave as the last geese overhead fly south,

I kick my feet through crisp leaves,

then  light the fireplace once more

and cuddle cozy in my warmest quilt.
 

And though I hate to look ahead
as the flames leap and turn,

I can't help wonder what winter will bring.

This is submitted for dVerse Poetics: Autumn Chill is in the Air.  Check out the scene.  Everyone is friendly 'at the bar.'

It is also posted for Poets United Thursday Think Tank: Signs of Autumn.

Also  posted for  Poets United Poetry Pantry #114 on Sunday, an open link opportunity.

Milkweed Pods, September 2012

Visits

Photo by Mary Kling

Visits

She sees him
in ladybugs and found pennies.

He sees her
in a visit from a deer.

I see her
in a flitting dragonfly.

We all find messengers
from the other side.

This was written for Victoria's prompt over at dVerse: Meeting the Bar, where she challenged us to write using symbolism.  (I didn't have a picture of a dragonfly; so I substituted a butterfly which also often gives me pause.)

Cold Eyes

A Railroad Track I Often Walk Under on dog walks

Cold Eyes

You told me that you hated me
when I was the most vulnerable
and you sat there with stone heart
looking at me with your cold eyes.

You added that you hated me for years
(and the thing is I didn't know it
though I knew something wasn't right
which I couldn't put my finger on).

It's over now, you're nothing to me
but I do hope what you did will torment you
in nightmares for the rest of your days
and it'll always be my face you'll see with cold eyes.

This poem was written for Kerry's prompt at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads. The prompt was: write an internal monologue.

Shy

Seven-year-old Me

Shy

I held my mother's hand tight
at the top of the stairs
that descended to kindergarten,
didn't want to let go.

When school recess bells rang
I  wished I could stay inside
rather than go outside and wonder
who would play with me.

When I took high school speech
I became sick to my stomach
didn't want to go to school
and stand in front and speak.

Though I knew many answers
I didn't want to raise my hand
and hoped I wouldn't be called on
because I might be wrong.

But all  changed when

I became a teacher
stood in front of class every day
twenty-five  eyes upon me
no place to hide.

Why?

Sometimes people choose a profession
to overcome their own weakness:
Mine? Shyness. And I overcame
with a heavy dose of act as if.

Today most would not consider me shy,
but inside the shy child still lives
and she comes outside to play sometime
and then needs her hand held too.

This was written for Peggy's Personal Challenge prompt at Poetry Jam.   I was a pretty 'shy' child. I don't really know why.  The first stanza shares my very first memory. I was 4.  I have many 'shy' memories of my K - 12 school years. In college years I made a conscious effort to change, as I considered it a fresh start.  I did; but the shy child still DOES live inside and makes herself known  on occasion.

It's Hot

Weeping Willow Tree I saw on a dog walk

It's Hot


The sun beats
too much heat
people burn
people yearn

heart beats
indiscreet deceit
the dog barks
the anger heats

tempers spark
whack smack
cognac attack
maniac

walking feet
running feet
hot concrete
busy street

gun crack
hits its mark
all is dark
life is stark.

This is my poem written for dVerse Poets Open Link.   We are continuing to have hot, hot weather here....which was the inspiration for this poem.

Doubt

Photo by Mary Kling

Doubt

Doubt is very familiar to me

I just can't believe one hundred percent.

Certainty is quite rare for me

as I struggle to know what I believe

and wonder if those who seem most certain

only pretend to be.

I wonder if doubt will increase or diminish

and struggle often with what I believe
most often push doubts from my mind

just  live and enjoy  life

as it presents itself each day

but in quiet moments doubts  surface
and I wonder if they haunt you too.

This was written using the words for  Poets United Vice/Versa  which opens Tuesday morning at 12:01 a.m.  It is also shared with Open Link at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads.

Alone

Photo by Laurie Kolp

Alone

I sit here
alone but not lonely;
my cell phone keeps me connected

lets me know that I exist
that people care who I am
even when I feel lonely inside.

Let me check now to see
who cares that I
wrote a poem today.

This poem was written for Laurie Kolp's challenge at Imaginary Gardens and Real Toads.  She included this self portrait.  I used this image.  I think we all like to know who really cares if we wrote a poem today.  Don't we?

Inevitable Winter

Inevitable Winter

A number of bare trees is always the

last thing one wants to see --

evidence that winter is near

that the shift is final

and we must again gear up for the white.

With nine warm months behind us

we refresh ourselves with smooth talk

though gassed with a dose of cold reality

on the horizon.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl, where the words today were:  bare, last, gear, fina,l evidence, refresh,, gassed, smooth, number, white, shift,. nine.  These words were HARD!

The Rebel

James Dean - 1955 - publicity photo - publc domain

The Rebel

James Dean

my favorite rebel

with or without a cause

giant in my eyes

when I looked for heroes

east of Eden but west of the moon

in the years I was drawn to larger than life

a little bit bad, fast cars, fast life

eyes that could melt a glacier

a swagger I wanted to follow

but knew I'd be left behind

by the elusive guy in my dreams

someone so cool

I'd fear him in real life

where I was far from rebellious

far from wild trying to find myself somewhere

and for a time James Dean was the hero I needed

who said Dream as if you'll live forever.

Live as if you'll die today

and one day he died  -- my hero, on the fast track

now trapped in time,  immortalized, forever a rebel.

his story ended way too soon; so often the good die young

and sometimes in my dreams I still wonder

if he would still be my hero today.

This poem was written for DVerse Poetics, where Stu challenged us to write a rebellious poem.  As I am hardly rebellious (LOL), I had to write about someone else. James Dean lived from 1931 - 1955.  He starred in East of Eden, Rebel Without a Cause, and Giant. He died in a car crash (driving FAST) on a California highway in 1955.  It is also submitted for Poets United Poetry Pantry #113.