Inspired by Claudia's Poem

Inspired by Claudia's Poem

Inspired by her poem I wonder
if I met someone in person first
without knowing their poetry
would I judge them by appearance
rather than who they were inside
and would the other judge me
the same and would we walk away?

Which is the better way to know
which is the better way to see
to know how someone dresses or smiles
the way they walk or talk or laugh
the color of hair or skin
or to know how someone feels about autumn
what makes their heart sing or cry?

I am not sure I'd like to ask others
what was their first impression of me
as I would be afraid what they would say
and I wonder if others fear too that their
appearances would be judged harsher
than the reality of the poetic words
that express who they are when exteriors
are invisible but not their open hearts.

For dVerse Meeting the Bar - "The Things We See."

These lines of Claudia's poem caused me to reflect:

          “first time you walked through these company doors” he says

          “i was impressed.

         you wore a black suit, brown boots, still can see it

          hair cut really short, you were very straight-forward,

          professional &–“

          “–did i seem unfriendly?”

          “no” he grins “just very organized//effective–“

          flaShbaCk– last week– it is strange

          if someone tells you how they saw you

          years back&

I wondered what would be the difference between how people would be thought about -- if they saw someone in 'real life' first or if they saw someone in 'blogosphere life' first.  And I wondered which is the better way to really know and be known.  What do you think?

All Saints Day

All Saints Day

Light a candle for those who have died
for loved ones who have gone before
we all travel the same path
and sometimes I like to think
that those who have gone before
may light candles for us too
on the other side of the great divide.

This poem is posted for Poets United Midweek Motif.
where the prompt is Halloween or Celebrating the Dead.
I celebrate All Saints Day this week.  Sunday we will
light candles for deceased loved ones and place them in 
a cross of sand.  We believe we are all saints.

Broken

Broken

you can't fix another's brokenness
you have to live with it
accept it
forgive it
   or move on.

you face a broken dream
square in the face
think you cannot move beyond
but you must
   or wither.

you break an arm, a toy
a vase or a promise
they can be repaired or replaced
but a broken spirit
   not easily.

This is written for Poetry Jam for the prompt "broken."

Private Eddie Slovik

Private Eddie Slovik
(1920 - 1945)

Drafted into the United States army in 1944,
he never wanted to be a rifleman as he hated guns
but he was detached to join the army fighting in France
and enroute stated he wasn't cut out for combat

Slovik told his company commander that
he was too scared to serve in the front lines
and asked to be reassigned to a rear unit
but Slovik was sent to a rifle platoon

The next day Slovik deserted from infantry
and he wrote a note confessing to desertion
which his superiors urged him to tear up
and return to his unit but he would not

Slovik's hope was to be court martialed
and was convinced he'd receive only jail time
Tried on 11 November, 1944, where he was
found guilty and sentenced to death.

Slovik appealed in writing to General Eisenhower
but Eisenhower confirmed the order
noting that it was important to have this example
to discourage further dissertions in France.

Private Eddie Slovik died by firing squad
January 31, 1945, at 24 years of age.
His last words to the attending priest were
"Father, I'll pray you don't follow me too soon."

This is written for dVerse Poetics, where we are prompted this Tuesday to write 'war poetry.'

Although over 21,000 American soldiers were given various sentences for desertion during World War II, including 49 death sentences, Slovik was the only soldier whose death sentence was actually carried out.  The poem shares only bare bones details, but here are three articles which talk about Eddie Slovik in more detail, if anyone is interested:

Cowards: The Execution of Private Slovik

History Channel: The Execution of Eddie Slovik is Authorized

Wikipedia: Eddie Slovik

What Price Beauty?

Lautrec woman at her toilette 1889

What Price Beauty?

Department store cosmetics sellers scare me

with caked wrinkle-free faces, penciled eyebrows

and smiles with augmented red lips,

their bright eyes enhanced by tattooed eyeliner

as they envision commission dollar signs.

Predators, they stand in the aisles 

in search of yet another victim to make over

to take away all semblance of who you are

to become someone new, beautiful, artificial

someone even you may not recognize at all.

Products to remove wrinkles, dark marks, blemishes,

eyelids colored, lips in your chosen shade of red,

as au natural is not good enough

too plain, flawed, blemished, age showing

and what horrors to be judged by that.

After all it is cheaper than plastic surgery,

less painful than face lifts, eye lifts, neck lifts

what's a few dollars for beauty

what's a few dollars to buy youth

what's a few dollars to lose oneself ---

even though you must be sure to buy

the right products to wash all off at night!

This is written for dVerse Open Link.  Also shared with Sunday's Poets United Poetry Pantry.

Collections

Collections

I used to collect things
pennies in blue folders
quarters with state symbols
first day of issue stamps
sheet blocks and full sheets
beer mugs and coffee cups
cowboy boots and flag attire
CD's and poetry books
but now I collect nothing...

and only wonder........
who will want my stamps.

This was written for dVerse Meeting the Bar, where we are writing list poems.

Playing Cards

Playing Cards

Thanksgiving meant card games
when relatives gathered
two card tables set up after dinner

Kings in the corner, royal rummy,
later on sheepshead, then bridge
family togetherness young to old

Friendly competition, a few laughs
ginger ale the beverage served
peanuts to munch on

These days long gone now
but I still can picture the scene
though the older generation is gone

I still see the faces smiling
hear laughter, shuffling of cards
the movement of the chairs

I miss Thanksgiving card games.


This poem is written for Poetry Jam, where the prompt is childhood toys and games;
and it is also written for Poets United Midweek Motif where the prompt is to write about a day!

What's New?

What's New?

What is considered newsworthy
only lasts for a limited time:
two hundred Nigerian school girls
covered daily until ISIS beheadings
compelled the media to move on.

And the death of Robin Williams
was splashed all over Facebook
to be surpassed by the death
of Joan Rivers since Kardashian
happenings were out of view.

Three people contract ebola
and half of each news broadcast
is devoted to details,  speculations
while contentious talking heads debate
what went wrong and what next.

In time, will we become immune
to real horrific news of the world
unless something happens to affect
the safety of our backyard or if
a bulletin interrupts Sunday football?

As I yawn through contentious  debates
doze through news of yet another royal birth,
smile over Pope Francis' recent proclamations,
and scan Facebook articles before sleep,
I wonder what what will make news tomorrow.

This is my poem for dVerse Poetics, where it is my week to prompt, and I am
prompting people to write a poem related to news!

Apple Time

Apple Time

I always welcome apple time

the hues and flavors of the fruit

each first crisp bite is so sublime

it's sweet as sugar, sour as lime

as autumn shifts to wintertime

for zest there is no substitute

I always welcome apple time

the hues and flavors of the fruit.

Each year the orchards overflow

so many genuses abound

with gala, fuji, ginger gold

delicious, cortland, cameo

such flavors I will never outgrow

so many treasures to be found

this year the orchards overflow

so many genuses abound.

This poem in triolet form is written for Poets United Poetry Pantry. 

Autumn

Autumn

Autumn trees in rich tones
always show off their wares
aglow with warm beauty
anticipation reigns
as winter approaches
allure of color fades
and warm glow dims.

This is written for dVerse Poets Pub Meeting the Bar where we are writing the Pleiades form & also submitted to Poets United Midweek Motif where the prompt is Trees.

Unexpected

Unexpected

More than fifteen hundred people died that day
when the Titanic sank on its maiden voyage
and one hundred twenty one of them
are buried at Fairview Cemetery in Halifax
more than any other cemetery in the world
including the unknown child whose gravestone
still collects things given by those who pass.

We never know when our lives will be cut short
when our own bodies will be placed in graves
perhaps it is best we do not know these things
while we live it is best for us to dance as did
those on the Titanic who were unaware of fate
were on the maiden voyage of a luxury ship
and were having the best time of their lives.

I took these photos when I was at the Fairview Cemetery in Halifax, Nova Scotia.  The poem is shared with Laurie's prompt (graveyard) at Poetry Jam.

The Forest, a Symphony

The Forest, a Symphony

The forest, a symphony,

squirrels chatter, doves coo, crows caw,

silence interrupted by thunder,

patter of rain, pounding, boom,

triangles, cymbals, harpsichord, 

strings, horns, percussion

harmony blending into dissonance.

Major key changes to minor key,

Interdependence, tones work together,

animals reside among plants, 

musicians with their instruments,

symbiosis, a natural progression 

of growth understood without words.

The symphony, a forest,

ebb and flow, beginning and end,

Cyclic repetition of meditation,

Enriching, dense, lush

depth below the surface,

richness to be studied but never mastered

movement, giver, enricher of life.

This is written for dVerse Poetics, where Anthony is having us write about "music."  I may not be as prompt as usual in visiting you this time, but be assured that if you visit me I will find my way to you.  Smiles!

To a Young Squirrel

To a Young Squirrel

I see you there at rest in hollow tree

you have carved out a perfect sacred space

you peer intently deep into my soul  

I reflect on you as you ponder me.

I feel your innocence and your fear

you are so young and tiny in the world

I wish I could assure you with my touch

that I am just a peaceful visitor here.

You will encounter cold winter in this land

in a while your world will be overspread with snow

I hope your tree will be a warm refuge

and will aid you to harsh wind withstand.

I see you there at rest in hollow tree

your outside world is much smaller than mine

and yet I wish to linger and watch you play

as you scurry up and down the tree so free.

As I reflect on you as you ponder me

I find a kindred spirit framed by hole in tree.

This is shared with Sunday's Poetry Pantry.

As you may notice, Gabriella & I challenged each other to write a squirrel poem.

Farm Market Reflections

Farm Market Reflections

In the aisles that sell autumn vegetables
red apples compete with aubergines
where dreams make that possible.

The toothless man in the red sweater
captures ripe tomatoes before they escape
into the sky with a murder of crows

And red peppers chase cucumbers
rotting silently from the inside
without even a noiseless scream

What then would a red potato do
with all those sensuous green beans
who flirt with cauliflower in their bins?

What will happen when markets close
and vegetables sleep in covered baskets
and wait for one more crisp autumn day?

Where will the blemished apples hide
and who will heed the tomatoes' cries
when they are pitched into darkness?

For Meeting the Bar on Thursday Bjorn challenges us to write a poem with no meaning at all.  Ha, this is as close as I can come to something without meaning.

Unheard Scream

Unheard Scream

Where are the cures for Alzheimers, cancer, Parkinsons, multiple sclerosis, ALS, diabetes, and more? Despite trained researchers, money, and time the keys to unlock their devastating mysteries remain elusive.

                              Green changes to brown
                              joy fades to melancholy
                              sun obscured by clouds

Humankind has discovered a way to explore space, send a man to the moon, a rocket to Mars, a way to store information in the cloud.  Why can they not cure people on this earth who endure diseases that steal their minds and debilitate, then destroy their bodies and bring pain and suffering to everyone in their midst?

                             Trapped outside locked door
                             we rage and beat with bruised hands
                             futilely we scream.

This sort-of haibun is written for Poets United Midweek Motif, where the prompt is 'exploration.'

If I Were

If I Were

If I were someone other than who I am
I wonder who and what my destiny.

I really cannot envision
being anyone else but me

Nor can I imagine being
inside another person's skin

And cannot begin to  fathom
having any others as my kin

It would be so hard to wrap myself
around someone else's friends

Or to wander into another's future
following another person's trends

But if I had to change places with someone
perhaps I'd want to change with you

And I wonder if then perchance
you'd change places with me too.

This is written for Poetry Jam where the prompt is"If I were......."

Each Spring I Listen for You

Each spring I listen for you

Spring was always your season and you waited patiently 

for this time of rebirth so I know you are somewhere 

in my garden perhaps hiding behind the arbor vitae

overseeing and tending to the coming to life as you always did 

and sometimes when I stoop to tend plants in the greening earth

out of the corner of my eye I catch of glimpse of your smile 

between budding branches and hear your whisper in the warm breeze.


This poem is shared with dVerse Poetics today where Marina Sofa prompts: "Write a poem about the happening in the corner of your eye."      I found the wording of this prompt interesting, as my blog title is In the Corner of My Eye.    Admittedly I am doing something I seldom do for this prompt: I am sharing a poem I wrote in 2007 before I blogged at all.  Actually it is the poem that inspired my blog title when I eventually did begin to blog in 2008.  The poem is about my mother.......  

Number Fun

Number Fun

I like my numbers over easy

              2 4 6 8

I like my numbers scrambled

             2  5   9    7   11

I like them in a quiche

             [3 6 9 6]

But please don't serve them gambled.



Some numbers I like big

     $1,000,000

Some numbers I like small

       115 lbs.

Some numbers mean something

        98.6 F.    5280      100 C.

And some mean nothing at all.

        4283    146,210



Ha - just decided to write something for FUN today!  Victoria has us writing OULIPO (N+7) today for Meeting the Bar..   Being mathematically challenged (ha) I came up with my own sort of form, mathematical in its own way.  Apologies to Victoria.

A Childlike Adventure

A Childlike Adventure

I yearn to be one of the boxcar children
or to live in the house at pooh corner
where I'll ride on my own black beauty
alongside the mouse and his motorcycle

Perhaps I'll discover the secret garden
in the place where the sidewalk ends
then wander up my side of the mountain
just the little prince and madeline and me

I'll solve the mystery of the wrinkle in time
and reveal everything that brown bear sees
then peer wistfully at the goodnight moon
as I wait for the time you reach me.

I'll travel on the little engine that could
to where the mountain meets the moon
to be able to answer the call of the wild
before I finally paddle to the sea.

This is written for Susan's prompt at Midweek Motif:  Children's Books.


I have referred to SEVENTEEN children's books in the poem above.  Fifteen lines have one children's book, and one line has the name of two!