The Door

The Door
 

Middle of the night

I hear a noise

the dogs bark crazy-like

I get up to check

with phone in hand

the door is there

I have to decide

what to do

open the door and check

or go back to bed and hope

I listen again

hear nothing

dogs are still excited

I am still afraid

know I cannot sleep

I telephone 911

right before I decide to risk

opening the door...........

This is written for dVerse Poets Open Link Tuesday.  You might want to know if this is based on fact or not.  Yes....a much shortened version, with many details omitted. I probably should just let the words stand by themselves....and allow the reader to imagine what happened THEN to the narrator. But, I will tell you,  I did 'entertain' the police in the middle of the night (for the first time ever) just to be safe.  And eventually I got some more sleep. 

 

Choices

 

 

Choices #1

 

I decided to tell you who I was

whether or not you could accept

who I am

knowing you would probably judge me

unfairly and harshly

write me off

and label me unworthy

but I could not

feel good about hiding

or denying myself

or her.

 

Choices #2

 

I have made choices

that seemed the best at the time

and I do not question them

after they have been made

as they cannot be reversed

so the best I can do

is accept them and move on

as they cannot be reversed

but must be lived with.

 

Choices #3

 

I don't impose my choices on others

nor do I wish you to impose yours on me;

I get tired of your parrotings on social media,

which you think will convince me and others

of your political rightness and enlightenment

when, don't you know, it has the exact opposite effect.

Self-Portrait

Self-Portrait

Hair streaked with blonde and red which covers any grey that exists
and there doesn't seem to be much; it is still her bright blue eyes that
stand out. Her eyes always her good feature. Blue, intense, they dance.
Face she realizes is now lined with wrinkles where smooth pink used
to be. She never sees lines in her mind. Only in mirrors or photographs.
She sees herself still with a soft summer tan, hair blowing in the breeze.

She is tall and lean with small waist, breast, and butt. She likes her
body. It fits her, and she fits it. She is as lean as she's ever been
and wants to keep it that way. She is active, energetic, walks inside
and out, uses weight machines, though doesn't enjoy them. She's
always hungry, watches what she eats, enjoys healthy foods, watches
numbers on the scale, doesn't want to gain weight, won't.

She organizes, multi-tasks, moves fast, likes things in order,
in their place, clean. She is a perfectionist, frustrated as she
cannot be as perfect as she wants. She knows what's right,
may be blunt, is persistent, impatient, likes to write and think
and laugh. She likes to be with people, prefers individuals
or small groups, and treasures her own company most of all.

Shared with dVerse Poetics, where Fred introduced the challenge of "Self Portrait."

Always My Luck

Wikimedia Commons - Public Domain

Always My Luck

Ready to check out  a few items
no express checkouts open,
I scan the lines to find the quickest,

unload my ten items only to find
the woman ahead has twenty coupons,
an item of questionable  price
so the manager must be called.

And then the customer writes a check
so her drivers' license must be pulled,
viewed by the checker, and recorded.
Her groceries still are not bagged.

Meanwhile I notice that
every other checkout is  clear
and I am seething, waiting for
my very few items to be rung!

Always my luck!

This poem was written for my prompt over at Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads: Mary's Mixed Bag: "Pet Peeves."  I hope you will stop over and join the 'fun.'  It sometimes feels good to unload!!

Friendship - A Villanelle

Friendship - a Villanelle

A friend is someone who always speaks your name
He will stand beside you and never betray
whether you are common or have achieved fame.

He will never be one to point the finger of blame
and will enjoy your company in work or play.
A friend is someone who always speaks your name.

A friend is someone who'll walk with you in rain,
but won't remind you of mistakes of yesterday
whether you are common or have achieved fame.

If you phone him at midnight, no need to explain.
He'll listen if you need him night or day.
A friend is someone who always speaks your name.

If you deserve praise he will be the first to exclaim,
and if you're troubled, he'll be the first to pray
whether you are common or have achieved fame.

If you succeed or fail he will  treat you the same
with a kindred spirit  life can be a holiday.
A friend is someone who always speaks your name
whether you are common or have achieved fame.

This was written for  dVerse Form For All: Villanelle introduced by Samuel Peralta. (Thanks, Sam.) I always enjoy forms, but they take a bit of time.  I would have to work on this poem a bit to achieve iambic pentameter. That will be a project for another day.

Black Widow

Black Widow Spider
Wikimedia Commons

 

 

 

Black Widow

 

 

I have not forgotten how naive I was

before you trapped me, unsuspecting and trusting,

 

in the web you spun, but then I should have known

that's how black widows work!

 

 

This was written for Ella's prompt at Poets United: WEBS  

 

 Those spiders are surely sly!

What's Love Got to Do With It?

What's Love Got to Do With It?

 

Where has love gone when
the woman once loved and cherished
becomes the woman to terrorize and beat,
to threaten disfigurement with acid and flames?

 

Where has love gone when
three days after restraining order is issued
he takes the gun he was forbidden by law to buy
to shoot seven people -- three of them,  including his wife, dead?

 

 

This is written to Dani's prompt at Poetry Jam:  What's Love Got To Do With It? Many of you may have seen on television news the Salon shooting that took place last Sunday, October 21. After the shooter shot the women, the man turned the gun on himself and shot himself in the head. It truly is a very sad story.  In addition to the three employees of the salon who are deceased, three of the other four shot still remain in the hospital.  I have been a client of this Salon in the past.  I recognize photos of two of the three deceased.  And truly, thinking of this prompt, I wonder "What's love got to do with it?"

Loss

Solitary Autumn Fisherman:  Greenfield Park

Loss

She said her mother would remember me

but when I sat beside her and told her my name

she looked carefully at me, then scrunched her face

searching deep within her mind for the memories

she needed to make a connection with my name.

I told her I was her daughter’s friend and had

often come for dinner at their house and

what a wonderful cook she was with all

the fresh vegetables picked from the garden

her husband had loved so well, and she shook her head,

asked me who my husband was,

still trying to figure it out.

I told her I felt bad about her husband

and she held my hand and though she didn't know me,

she told me it should have been her and I said God has

His own plan and she nodded her head

as I felt her loss        and mine.

 

Submitted for dVerse Open Link.  (Because some early commenters were drawing the conclusion that this situation just happened, I will clarify and say it happened a couple years ago....but I just happened to be thinking of it again. Thus the poem.)

Two Short Poems for Real Toads

Jue Ju

Her hair wafted in the wind
as he whispered her name
watching her walk on water
so wild yet so wise.

This short poem was written for Kerry's Sunday mini-challenge at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads.  She introduced a Jue Ju, which is one of the oldest of Chinese patterns (four lines; each line having five words), one which was popular in the 3rd century AD. It often carried 'suggestively erotic themes.'  Ha, I don't think mine comes close!  But I enjoyed it.


Zen

Peace appears in waves
as I clear my mind
one thought, another, another

      until
             only light remains!

This was written for A Word With Laurie: 'Zen' at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads.  A little late, but better late than never!

Life As It Is

Seven Ages of Man - William Mulready - 1838
Public Domain

Life As It

The stage is dark

the actors have gone home

roles no longer to be played.

Love affairs ended

feuds resolved

crimes punished

songs sung

costumes hung

lights out

doors locked.

     Baby

     she sleeps powder fresh

     filled with with potential and warm milk

     smiles, gurgles, coos

     is held in loving arms.

     Child

     she runs, plays, learns, laughs

     holds pens, toys, and wishes

     hair blows carefree in the breeze

     will become her dreams.

     Young Woman

     she searches for self, meaning

     sets goals, strives, accomplishes

     finds knowledge, love, working

     grows into her future.

     Woman

     she becomes who she is

     person, worker, wife, mother

     looks back with gratitude, ahead with hope

     rests well in her life.

     Elder

     she is who she is, sure, confident

     lives and loves, children grown

     no apologies, her heart is full

     speaks her wisdom.

     Aging

     she questions what now

     eyes have lost their sharpness

     movement slowed, bones creak

     wonders who sees her.

     Aged

     she no longer wonders

     sees but does not recognize

     gurgles, sleeps powder fresh again

     no longer knows, cares.

Love affairs over

feuds resolved

crimes punished

songs sung

costumes hung

lights out

doors locked.

 

The actors have gone home

roles no longer to be played

The stage is dark.

 

I am tending bar at dVerse Poetics: It's About Time today .  And we are talking about Shakespeare's All the World's a Stage Monologue  from his play As You Like It & the 'seven ages of man.'  Hope to see you and your poetry!  This is also submitted for Poets United Poetry Pantry #120.  Also submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads Open Link.

Front Page News

Public Domain

Front Page News

There is no such thing as a mundane life
if only you knew the person behind the

words he didn't say but wished he could
and behind the questions you didn't ask

and the answers he couldn't give
about the look he had on his face

that you dismissed because you didn't care
or didn't have time or didn't want to intrude

when he really wished someone would notice
on that day before he became front page news.

This was written for dVerse Form For All, where Victoria discusses enjambment. 

Mates for Life

 

Mates for Life

 

Wolves mate for life
and still humans say
they are superior beings.

 

 

This was written for Ella's Wednesday Writings where the prompt today was Wolves.

 

I have here a signed and framed serigraph by artist John Neito, pictured above.  It shows two wolves, and the title is "Mates for Life."  I took a photo of it tonight, which does not do it justice.   

 



Give Me Light

Give Me Light

If I walk in a dark place
I cannot perceive
who lurks in shadows

I prefer light of day
so I can see clearly
who can easily stab me.

Friend or foe
I prefer to be aware
eyes wide open.

This was written for Peggy's prompt at Poetry Jam.  Her prompt this week is "Shadows."  I am much more a creature of the light than a creature of the dark.  I like to see what or who I face...head on!

On the Eve of the Second Presidential Debate

On the Eve of the Second Presidential Debate

Opinions flow like spilled ink
smiles and back pats count as much as words
shake up the facts in a cocktail shaker
they will produce an interesting blend.

But don't water down information
too many ice cubes freeze the tongue
give equal time to the audience
play them as a well-tuned violin.

Hand out goodies to those who back you
Don't let anyone wipe your brow
or show their strength by lifting you
pepper your talk with zippy one-liners.

If it hasn't worked so far don't jump ship
if it hasn't worked, let's try something new
I will, we will, our country will, trust me
be sure to vote for me, me, ME, ME...

As that is the reason we're spending millions
instead of feeding and clothing the poor
expensive fund raisers are the American way
just don't let Big Bird steal the show.

I am submitting this for dverse Open Link.   I am not making a political statement here at all nor supporting or criticizing either candidate in the work above, just trying to poke a little fun at the political  process on the day of the second Presidential debate....plus get in a bit of a jab at both parties and all of the millions that are spent on the process that could be used for more useful things. How many children could be fed, clothed, educated, given medical treatment using the money spent for American elections?

Storm Warning

Storm Warning

I joined the parade on a rainy day
vowed not to be deterred by weather.

If only I would inherit an umbrella
to diffuse excuses and thunder;

but instead I stand unprotected,
try to perceive deeper messages,

and to interpret shifts of rainbow light
that project the dreams of childhood.


This was written for The Sunday Whirl #78 -- a Wordle site.

The words  to use this week are:

umbrella, deeper, inherit, excuses, stand, become,
thunder, childhood, joined, vowed, shifts, light

Fear of Flying

Photo - Wikimedia Commons

Fear of Flying

I wait for takeoff
fidget, distract myself
watch people board
study safety diagram
read in-flight magazine
flip through my book.

Door closes
flight attendants smile
discuss safety
demonstrate equipment
I study plane diagram
plan for fast exit.

The plane taxis
increases speed
prepares for takeoff
my hands grip arm rest
I glance outside, pray.

The nose of the plane rises,
we begin our ascent
slowly, above the airport
trees, highways, water
Everyone is still
most people relax
read or sleep, not me.

The plane levels out
seatbelt signs turn off
I breathe a sigh of relief
hope for non-turbulence
escape into the movie
sip my beverage
try to read a book
I feel powerless, study
my watch each minute
closer to landing.

The pilot's voice announces
Flight attendants prepare
for arrival, they walk
through the cabin
for the last time, landing
gears crank down, comforting.

We're almost there now
slight turbulence, the plane
bounces its way down
I hold on, look outside
pray again, study others
no one shows fear
I grip the armrest, inhale
and hold, we land.  I exhale
Solid ground, at last.


This is submitted for  Saturday's dVerse Poetics: "Poeticaphobia" - where Stu is tending the bar and guiding the discussion.

This is also shared with Sunday's Poets United - Poetry Pantry #119.

The Candle

Photo Taken by Ella Wilson of Poets United

The Candle

The candle burns so bright, sustains my gaze.
The flame is hot and white,
illuminating the night.
Oh what a peaceable sight.

The flame symbolizes love which never dies,
warm as a winter glove,
reminiscent of a dove
originating above.

Candle will slowly melt into nothing,
its message has been dealt
and the love it spreads is felt
while on bended knees I knelt.

This is written for Dverse Form For All, where Gay Cannon introduced us to the  Englyn, which is a Welsh verse form.  As far as I could figure, there are various varieties of this.    The one I chose to do is composed of four-line stanzas.  The sixth syllable of the first line rhymes with the other three lines. The syllable counts are 10, 6, 7, 7.  I followed this form.    I will also submit it to Poets United Wonder Wednesday, where Ella prompted us to write about WAX.

An Angel in Human Form

An Angel in Human Form
(disclaimer -- this is not intended to be a poem -- is written for Theme Thursday: Angels.
maybe I can do a poem sometime, but not today...... )


One angel I met was a Roman Catholic nun.
I met her when I was in graduate school one summer.
Every night of summer school three of us would gather
in her dorm room, and we would talk religion.

Christine, the Catholic nun;
Norma, the confirmed Atheist;
me, the Lutheran.

Sometimes we were joined by another Atheist
and another Christian of unknown denomination.
And we talked and argued and disputed points
and I read my Bible more that summer
than any other book as I wanted to prepare myself
for the discussions we had each night.

But mostly I knew I wanted to hear Sister Christine talk.
Her voice was the voice of the angel,
or perhaps I should say a 'Pied Piper.'

Her words came from a high place,
I think they came directly from God.
I argued with her vehemently on some points,
and the Atheist argued with her too,
but she stood firm and when she talked
we both listened to every word.

It was the voice, I think, the calm sureness;
and it was her faith, and I remember all summer
trying to find even one fault with her;
it never happened.  She never fell from her pedestal,
though I tried so hard to make it happen.

If I did not agree with her, at least I found what I believed
as I had to prove it to myself, justify my beliefs to her,
but our differences really were inconsequential
and our sharing was very consequential.

We were an odd group really: Nun, Atheist, Lutheran
I don't think the Atheist's opinions changed at all
but I know my opinions became broader, and
I read my Bible like I hadn't done for a while,
and that is no small thing.

I wrote this for Theme Thursday: Angels.      Don't think of what I wrote above as a poem.  It isn't meant to be one.  I was just moved by the topic, and it took me back to those grad school days and to my memories of a very special angel.

Afterword:  I saw the nun a few times after that graduate school summer. One time I met with her, asked her some questions, taped her answers...just to have them.  I used to receive mailings from a group she was involved with.  She lived in a neighboring state.  At one point I learned that she had become ill and died.  The Atheist went in and out of my life, one time found me through Facebook, then faded away from contact with no explanation. I have a feeling that some day she will fade in again

Monsters

Monsters

 

Fictional monsters do not scare me,
though I do not seek them out
or welcome them into my life.

 

It is the real monsters  I fear
such as the one who hides under my bed,
visits at unexpected times

 

to whom I am easy prey.

 

 

This poem was written for A Poetic Monster Mash over at Poetry Jam.....where Mary Mansfield asks us to write about monsters.  I remember, as a young person, sitting and watching old movies such as Werewolf movies  and Frankenstein movies with my parents late Saturday nights.  I sat with a blanket I could put over my head during the scary parts.  Now these movies appear very tame...compared to the real monsters of today.    

Holding On

 

Greenfield Park

 

 

Holding On

 

Sometime I jump in too soon
ride with smiling face to the wind
as the  branches bend and break.

I am on the crest and don't fathom
how quickly  I can clatter to earth
and it can all simply end.

Dreams weave in, then out
but the smooth stones sink in the steam
when I try to skip them as I once could
I just don't have the technique anymore.

But I can still hold on tight to sails
To ride the wave until the sun sets

or I can paddle my canoe downstream

until I discover that place
where the rainbow recedes --
slips over the horizon like ink,

where all lost dreams are found.

 

This is being shared with today's dVerse Open Link...where Joe Hesch will be tending bar.

 

Is There a Magic Charm?

Is There a Magic Charm?

Is there a magic charm

to be found  in the willows
that will make life less unbearable,
will explode piercing loneliness in the breeze,
keep the knives of sadness in their sheaths,
help a brittle mind to mend before it turns to crust
where fever dreams dwell and only the leaves rustle?

This poem was written for The Sunday Whirl #77, where Brenda has given us these words:     

charm, willows, crust, rustle, unbearable, explode, 

mending, fever, brittle, breeze, piercing, sheaths

I used them all.  Thanks, Brenda.

Pine Cone

Granddaughter With Pine Cone

Pine Cone

See the pine cone I hold.  In my hands I embrace the future,
though  many seeds in the cones die before they produce life;
life continues, has a will, overcomes obstacles, is......

This very short poem was written for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads. I wrote in to "Sijo" form to the best of my ability.  If you wish information on the form, check the link.

My Mother's Cookbook

My Mother's Cookbook

This is my mother's self-made recipe book,
the one that holds all of the recipes
she collected over the years.

This is one of the inside pages.
She typed recipes on her manual typewriter.
The frequently used recipes often have spill marks!

My Mother's Cookbook

I'm not much of a cook these days,
prepare myself simple fare,
healthy, for the most part,
except for the occasional frozen pizza.

But today I reminisce as I peruse
my mother's old and worn cookbook
filled with recipes she typed
on her manual Smith Corona
or cut out from the newspaper
(now browned with age)
or hand wrote on a paper scrap
(stained with dough spatters).

     mock chicken from 1944
     Watergate salad from 1976
     unbaked cookies from 1943
     pecan dreams from 1942
     apple surprise from 1948
     rhubarb crumble pie 1958
     zucchini bread 1981
     potato pancakes 1969

What a treasure this book holds
a history of foods Mother cooked
a passed-down legacy of love,
and I am reminded again
of the importance food plays
in the history of any family.

Today I  have resolved to revisit
some of these recipes
to keep the legacy alive
rather than stored on a high shelf.
I know this would make her smile.

Today over at dVerse Poets, Claudia is having us write about food!  I look forward to reading a lot of delectable posts.   Also shared withPoets United Poetry Pantry #118.

Afterword:  Here is a recipe my mother collected in 1976.  Actually it is a recipe we still ALWAYS have on Thanksgiving, Christmas, and various other family events.  Maybe some of the rest of you are familiar with it or a variation.   I love this Watergate Salad.  (Ala Richard Nixon - LOL)

Watergate Salad
    1 large can crushed pineapple (16 oz. or more).....do not drain.
    1 1/2 cups of small marshmallows
    9 oz. Cool Whip
    1 pkg. Instant Pistachio Pudding
    3/4 cups cut-up nuts

    Mix all together.  Refrigerate.  

Grey Squirrel

Grey Squirrel

I see you often --
scurrying, burying nuts
this time of year.

.
I am thankful for you
and the seeds you bury--
next year's trees.

 

 

Hannah, over at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads prompted us to write about the 'coniferous forest.'  One of the animals of the coniferous forest is the grey squirrel, which is also VERY prevalent in my area........which is not officially part ot the 'coniferous forest.'  My granddaughter and I often walk with dogs, and we find  nuts which we help the squirrels break open (with our feet), so that they can bury them easier for winter.   I am teaching her a lot about seed dispersal this time of year.  She knows about grey squirrels.   I truly appreciate them and want her too also.

Sometimes Sadness.......

Leaves of All Colors Here -- Photo Taken Yesterday

 

Sometimes Sadness.....

 

 

Sometimes sadness hits all of a sudden without warning

and there is nothing to do but to acknowledge the feeling

and shed the tears that need to be shed and not question

but accept that feelings are what they are, cannot be fought,

must be acknowledged, knowing tomorrow is another day.

The leaves are beautiful this time of year, yellows, reds, oranges;

some have already turned brown, have fallen to the ground.

Death is a part of life, sadness is a reality of life, everything cycles;

we must accept the cycles, work within them,  acknowledge

whatever is momentarily happy will eventually turn sad.

Life can be, often is, beautiful, and I appreciate that

this fall with so much beauty everywhere in my midst;

but I cannot deny there is also another side for me --
sadness that hits all of a sudden without warning,
knowledge that green turns red, then turns brown.

 

I wrote this for dVerse Meeting the Bar, where Anna challenged us to write a 'prose poem.'  This is what came to me in response....as, though I have written it as 'poetry,' it would work just as well as prose.

Predictable

Predictable

She met a man
from India on the internet
he married her
she had his child
he became a citizen
brought his parents over
wants a divorce
not a surprise.

This was written for Mama Zen's Words Count over at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads.  The poem had to have 'conflict' and have 30 words or less. This is a true tale.  I think this kind of situation  happens way too often. 

Writing Poetry

Writing Poetry

I love writing poetry,
it makes me feel good.

     I hate writing poetry,
     I feel like a fraud.

Writing poetry is a natural high,
something I look forward to each day;
I have so many ideas.

     Writing poetry is frustrating.
      time-consuming, pure drudgery,
      my mind is often blank.

Writing poetry is positively addictive,
I look forward to writing every day.

     I hate feeling I have to write,
     writing poetry is a chore.

I feel successful,
I love what I write.

     I feel like a failure;
     my mind is often blank.

I always feel so good when I  accomplish a poem,
I despise myself the days I write nothing.

Poetry I truly love
except for days I hate;
I do because I do;
how about you?


This was written for my prompt over at Poetry Jam
where my challenged for poetsthis week is  to write about a love-hate relationship.
We all have them, don't we?   Hope to see you there.

Ordinary Miracles

First view of the deer today.
I just loved how they looked at us!

Then they crossed the path we had just walked.
I am awed by deer every time I see them,
even though I frequently see them.

Ordinary Miracles

Today as granddaughter, youngest dog, and I did our daily forest walk
we heard three deer stir in the field, saw them glance in our direction,
then majestically and proudly cross the part of the path we just walked
and I couldn't help but be awed by the beauty of all of nature this fall.

I know it has always been this way but this year I appreciate it more,
want to take in everything I see, my eyes the lens of a camera
focusing on everything within my view while telling granddaughter
to look and then taking a photograph so that I can preserve the memory too.

Today we picked milkweed pods, just as I often did when I was a child,
and we opened them up, and I explained about seed dispersal
and she asked if she could take one with her, and I said yes, that we
would do some dispersal in the field next to my back yard and we did.

These are the ordinary miracles of my days, the special memories,
the moments I want to savor, the times I hope granddaughter remembers,
times of observing the leaves changing color, acorns falling on the path,
deer crossing in front of us, and just the times the two of us shared love.

Submitted for Real Toads Open Link Monday and also for dVerse Open Link Tuesday.