Chirping Up the Wrong Tree

Chirping Up the Wrong Tree

He pounded one more nail in the gilded cage
after stealing the apple of my hand
then asked me to bury the envelope
as I beat around the wrong tree.

Then I spied a bird in the bush
who left no worms unturned
as the wolf at the end of the tunnel
turned off the light at the door.

At the crack of a doornail he died
while pushing the hot potato hatchet,
always a block off the old buck,
Thus the chip, like this poem, stops here!

Bjorn is having us do a bit of fun metaphoric/idiomatic word play for 
dVerse Meeting the Bar. Join us at 3 p.m. Eastern.

Justice?

Justice?

What is justice
and in whose eyes?

When the Supreme Court decides
is the verdict final?

Which is more important:
Justice or mercy?
Are you sure?

Is God's justice
a reflection of Man's
or vice versa?

When someone dies
for a just cause
and wins,
should we celebrate
or mourn?

Can justice ever
be just      for all?

Written for Midweek Motif:  Justice

Where I'm From

Where I'm From

I am from hard work, punctuality, thriftiness, structure,
blue-eyed blondes, motivated and determined, white wine,
beer and bratwurst, sauerkraut and dirndls, Berlin Wall
built and torn down, kuchen, castles and cobblestones.

I am from the land of Martin Luther,  Johann Sebastian Bach,
Gabriele Munter, Adolf Hitler, and Simon Wiesenthal,
from crossing the Atlantic, crossing the country, settling,
starting a new life, learning a new language, keeping the faith.

I am from blacksmith, factory worker, railroad worker, housewife,
teacher, candy salesman, bar tender, auto mechanic, secretary, soldier,
tradition, new paths, struggles and successes, sadness
and smiles, hard times and dreams, one step follows another.

I am from pride despite difficulties, stubbornness, persistence
and no tears will fall while you are looking, and strong traditions,
pride, and the first automobile bought by a blacksmith
who had the first camera to photograph it all.

I am from one who phoned mayors and radio stations, wrote to
senators and the President, typewriter always busy, hung wash
couldn't, quietness, insecurity, stubborn bluntness, fish fries, used cars,
struggles to make ends meet, watching boats go through the locks.

I am from beef roast with potatoes and carrots, chocolate chip
cookies, rhubarb torte, baseball in the street, kick the can after dark,
Robin Hood in the woods, bicycles, stilts, wagons, picnic table
space ships, late night werewolf movies, fireworks in Fourth of July.

I am from teaching, learning, reading, writing, traveling, painting,
love, parenting, grand-parenting, one step follows another, reflections,
plans, reminiscing, risk it all, walk with eyes open, take a chance,
blue jeans and Tevas, dogs, and watching deer outside at dusk.

This poem is written for my "Where I am From" prompt for dVerse Poetics.
Also shared with Poets United Poetry Pantry.

My Mother's Kitchen

Public Domain Source

My Mother's Kitchen

My mother's kitchen was the home's center
heart and soul of my childhood home.

My mother's kitchen smelled of chocolate chip cookies,
rhubarb torte, or beef roast with potatoes and carrots.

My mother's kitchen had pots and pans in the sink,
waiting for someone to wash them.

My mother's kitchen had flour or sugar on the counter
waiting for someone to wipe it.

My mother's kitchen had an ironing board
where dad's shirts were starched before ironing.

My mother's kitchen had a floor which someone
had to sweep with a broom nightly after dinner.

My mother's kitchen had a wooden table around which
stories would be shared and gossip exchanged.

My mother's kitchen table often had a typewriter
and its keys click-clacked late into the night.

My mother's kitchen table was used for homework
and on it a glass of milk and a cookie on a plate.

My mother's kitchen had a refrigerator filled with staples
plus always a stash of chocolate candy bars for treats.

My mother's kitchen often had a ten dollar bill
tucked into the latch on the window sill by my dad.

My mother's kitchen had a portable radio
to listen to the baseball game or latest news.

My mother's kitchen was the home's center
the heart and soul of my childhood home.

This is shared with Poets United Poetry Pantry. 
It involves memories of my childhood kitchen.

What Must They Think?

What Must They Think?

What must they think
in their horse-drawn carriages
on a blustery spring day?

Are they envious of cars
that pass them by
do they notice at all?

What does God tell them
about the world they observe
but do not partake of?

I wonder about Amish women
who work in the stores
with  electric lighting.

I am sad for their education
that keeps them ignorant
of life outside of the farm.

Do they even notice
the view of others
who speed by?

Would you?



As we returned home today we passed through
an area with many Amish.  I do wonder about
their perceptions & their life.

Submitted for dVerse Open Link.

The Snake

Hygieia - Gustav Klimt - 1907

The Snake

She yields her power snake in hand
her beauty twists around her arm
with cold deception makes demand
she yields her power snake in hand
not hesitant to give command
to teach it to exploit its charm
she yields her power snake in hand
her beauty twists around her arm.

She twists its beauty round her arm
its evil she can e'er command
while mind is fraught with foamy barm
she twists its beauty round her arm
pretentious beast of golden charm
together tangled in contraband
she twists its beauty round her arm
its evil she can e'er command.


A Triolet for dVerse Poetics.  We are writing 8-line poems. Hygieia, in actuality, is not evil.  She is the daughter of the Greek / Roman god of medicine......but I interpreted the picture in a different way.

Doors

Doors

There are doors that easily open
and doors which send one away.

There is a door with a rusty hinge
who was the last to  leave?

There is a door with no windows
he has something to hide.

There is a door that is barred
she kicks and screams behind.

There is a door that slams
before he speeds away.

There are doors to heaven or hell
which door is easier to walk in?

There are doors that attract and invite
everyone welcome please come in.

There are doors to open a heart
does anyone have a key?

There are doors to happiness
who will  discover the way?


I read Wendy Bourke's poem on Twig on a String this morning, which Wendy said was inspired by doors, thus when I thought about what I wanted to write for PU I decided to write about doors. This is contributed to Poets United Poetry Pantry.

Foolish?

Foolish?

Wear red checks with green stripes

go for a walk at midnight

eat only a hot fudge sundae for dinner

snap your gum loudly in church

drive with your car top down in winter

read the last chapter of the book first

sing a lullaby to your canary

give a banana to the first person you meet

present a friend with a dandelion bouquet

Do something you did not do before

life is too short not to enjoy

being just a little bit foolish.

This is written for Poets United Midweek Motif, where the prompt is "Foolishness."

Sometimes It Is Time

Sometimes It is Time

Sometimes it is time to move on
sever the rope that binds
leave behind what restrains you
though you will miss it

as you miss the last sunny day
the moment you last saw their smiles
or the door in your dream that opened
before the last wave of good-bye

you can't hang on forever
to your own expectations
a rope restraining you in place
when you know you should go

You must seek the words to the poem
the one you have not yet written
you dare not anchor yourself too long
to a ship languishing in lassitude

sometimes it is time to move on.

This was written for the Poetry Jam prompt....Sometimes It is Time...

Brother

Brother

you protect me

support me

tell me I'm smart

say I'm so pretty

show me how to bat

teach me to dance

put a worm on my hook

kill bugs in my room

play with me on rainy days

     

comfort me when I'm afraid

are the brother I don't have

but  dream of.

Written for dVerse Poetics on the topic brothers.

Season of Greening

Season of Greening

This is the season of greening
the rebirth we all wait for
brown fades as life returns
and we begin to dream once more
try again to be better people
alive as we were  back then
when our whole lifetime was ahead
and our hair blew in the breeze.

We drove in the Mustang convertible
no seat belts we were invincible
and everything was possible
because it was spring again
and springs were infinite
as the stars we didn't count
and life an endless highway.

This is the season of greening
the rebirth we all wait for
and though we know
green will eventually brown again
we are thankful for one more spring
and we raise our arms and sing
and our hair blows in the breeze.

This is written for Poetry Pantry.  I took the photo today.  Our area is finally greening up a bit after the torrential rain we had for two days.  But you can see that the leaves have still not returned to the deciduous trees. It will be a while.  Sigh.

Time

Time

I have not found a way to stop time yet

so must be content to use my time instead

there is so much I never will forget

I have not found a way to stop time yet

I want to live my life without regret

make memories to savor in my head

I have not found a way to stop time yet

so must be content to use my time instead.

This is a triolet I have written for dVerse Open Link.  I have been a bit philosophical lately, realizing that we cannot stop time but that we have to continue to USE the time we are given, however long it is.  How do deal with the passing of time?

Impossibility?

Impossibility?


Who would have thought one could
....carry a music collection in a pocket
....Skype with people around the world
....transplant hearts, lungs, and kidneys
....stand on the surface of the moon

What is impossible today will happen tomorrow.
as it has since the beginning of time.
If you say it won't or can't there is someone
who will say it will and prove it.

This is written for the Poetry Jam prompt -- Impossibility.

Dear John

source

Dear John


Dear John
this is just to say there are
leftovers in the refrigerator
and I have turned the heat down
so as not to run up the electric bill
the garbage has been taken out
the fish have been fed
your laundry has been done
and I went to the bank and
closed out the bank account
to have funds for my travel
you won't hear from me again
and oh by the way I have left
your gambling debt for you.
Love from Bernice

For dVerse Poetics today we are writing letters!

Destiny

Smithsonian Public Domain Photo

Destiny

I am your ancestor
you know next to nothing about me
but bits of me reside within you
 
perhaps my ability to dream enough
to follow my heart to a new land

perhaps my ability to work hard
pick and shovel in hand

perhaps my determined stubbornness
which strengthened my backbone

perhaps my faith that God
would sustain and bring me home

I am your ancestor
you know next to nothing about me
but my genes impact your destiny.

This is written for Poets United Poetry Pantry!