My Spirit Soars

My Spirit Soars

My spirit soars

there is a place where you are not alone

in someone's shadow

colors passing through us

off the beaten track

do you remember?

My heart soars.

My spirit soars

as I contemplate a new day

there is a place where I am not alone

there is a place where you are not alone

we are here and there and everywhere

though I may live in someone's shadow

I see colors passing through us

beautifully rich colors

unlike any I have seen before

and though I walk off the beaten track

I know it is all good

I know you are good

and life is good

do you remember

how it was before your dreams?

My heart soars.

This poem is written using book titles.  Books are pictured above.  In the first stanza, I have used ONLY the book titles --no additional words of mine.    In the second stanza I added some additional words, but kept the book titles intact and in the same order as the first stanza.

I am sharing this with Poets United Poetry Pantry.

Imprisoned

Imprisoned

He sits behind bars pensive and bitter
the cell is lonely, cold as his heart
his world handed him a bum wrap
the f***ers were out to get him
betrayed his location, turned him in,
who could blame him for pulling the trigger
   
       his father's gift - a gun at fourteen
       "grow up, son, be a man, be tough
       protect yourself from no-goods
       the gangs control the streets."

       he fondles his gun like a lover
       loads it, unloads it, ready to use
       now he is king of the streets
       struts, don't meddle with 'the man.'

       his father sells crack to
       support his habit but
       'son don't mess with this s**t.'
       school is useless in his world.

He sits behind bars pensive and bitter
the cell is lonely, cold as his heart
his world handed him a bum wrap
the f***ers were out to get him
the cops were on his trail
if only he had not shot them with his gun.

This is written for dVerse Meeting the Bar - where Bjorn prompts us to write 'flashbacks.'

Summer Haiku

Summer Haiku

Summers  pass too fast
while we pay no attention
and then it's too late.

Summer sun rises
before birds begin to sing
to welcome the day.

Grass is richest green
day before mid-summer drought
does not know its fate.

Summer skies are most blue
nature's late afternoon gift
jewel before sunset.

Old man sits in dark
dreams about his summers past
behind drawn curtain.

This is shared with Poets United Midweek Motif -
Entering Summer or Winter.

Ode to an Ordinary Day

An Ordinary Picture of an Ordinary Day

Ode to An Ordinary Day

I take you for granted too much of the time
you are more valuable than a precious stone
I never know when you will be the last one
when your sun will set on my life the final time.

I try to savor each of your ordinary moments
each warm spring day with colorful budding flowers
as I walk along familiar or uncharted paths
my life is a novel with an uncertain number of pages

I thank you for all the gifts you bring
for love of God and people with whom to share
for memories of past and those yet to make
it is for you the sun continues to rise.


For Poets United Poetry Pantry
Sometimes one has to take time to reflect
on the wonderfulness of ordinary days...
which make up so much of life.

When Past is Present

When Past is Present

When past is present in your cards
your stories twist and turn your fate
though gossip fodder she disregards
when past is present in your cards
you heed the call of migrant bards
with thoughts you boldly agglomerate
when past is present in your cards
your stories twist and turn your fate.

You need a rope of seven yards
to clench the grasp around your neck
your party clothes are left in shards
you need a rope of seven yards
then hoisted by your own petards
malicious slander held in check
you need a rope of seven yards
to clench the grasp around your neck.

This is written in triolet form for dVerse Open Link.  I gained inspiration from Bjorn's triolet Past is Present.    Bjorn is a master of the triolet, I think. Actually I used two lines from his poem - 'when past is present in your cards' and 'you need a rope of seven yards' and went from there.  I intended my triolet to have a kind of 'Bjorn-like' flavor as well.  Don't know if I succeeded in that, but this was fun!

Just Peachy

Colorado Peaches Being Hauled from Orchard -- 1940's (public domain)

Just Peachy

I savor the enticing taste
of the piquant peach as it
dribbles down my chin
lingers on sticky fingers

and as I savor sweet pulp
I am transported
to childhood days when
mother canned peaches

she said colorado peaches
were the best of all
always waited for them
celebrated their arrival

the peaches she canned
lasted all winter and
I loved them most warm
with melting vanilla ice cream.

I savor the enticing taste
of the piquant peach today
never mind it is a georgia
it tastes of colorado to me.

This is written for dVerse Poetics where the theme is 'food.'  (As an aside, we can get Georgia peaches now.  Colorado peaches arrive later in summer.  There is a continuing argument to this day about which peaches are better!)

Foggy Day

Foggy Day

I scream
fog permeates my mind
clouds envelop the sky
sun is out of view
in the sky with shades of gray
its blanket moves lower
trapped by an invisible force
my arms flail, hands claw
no one hears my cry.


no one hears my cry
my arms flail, my hands claw
trapped by an invisible force
its blanket moves lower
in the sky with shades of gray
sun is out of view
clouds envelop the sky
fog permeates my mind
I scream.

I am sharing this poem as a second poem for my "palindrome prompt" at dVerse Meeting the Bar, where you can really read some wonderful poetry.   I am also sharing it with Poets United Poetry Pantry on Sunday, where terrific poets gather throughout the day.  It is motivated by the weather outside.  Constant fog gives me a 'trapped' feeling.

Summer Days

Summer Days

Now that it is summer
I realize how quickly time passes
and as I savor each sunny day
and bask in the warm breeze
I remember my childhood days
the blue raspberry popsicles
the swimming pool afternoons
reading in the grass beneath a tree
playing baseball in the street
oh those were the days.

Oh those were the days
playing baseball in the street
reading in the grass beneath a tree
the swimming pool afternoons
the blue raspberry popsicles
I remember my childhood days
and bask in the warm breeze
and as I savor each sunny day
I realize how quickly time passes
now that it is summer.

This poem is written for my own prompt over at dVerse Meeting the Bar on Thursday.
We are writing 'palindrome' or 'mirror' poetry.  The bar will open 3 p.m. Eastern.

Time

Time

Time flows at its own pace
a pace beyond our control
we all journey the same river
no matter how many miles we go.

Young I believed my time was infinite
I didn't imagine I'd ever die
I lived today and planned tomorrow
which was often twenty years away.

Today I realize my time is finite
years are fewer ahead than behind
and future is next month and next year
and this could shorten any time.

Time flows at its own pace
a pace beyond our control
we all journey the same river
no matter how many miles we go.


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

Neither Black Nor White

Neither Black Nor White

Since life is neither black nor white
we must acknowledge shades of gray
amidst other colors within our sight
Since life is neither black nor white
all is embellished in bright sunlight
life is hopeful in the light of day
since life is neither black nor white
we must acknowledge shades of gray.

This triolet is written for dVerse Poetics where we are writing 'black and white.'  To illustrate the difference color makes, I have shown two forms of the same photo...one I took at the Korean War Memorial in Washington D.C. last week.  (And, as an aside, wars are neither black nor white either.)  The header photo is the 'original,' and footer is a 'black and white.'

Corner Store

Corner Store

Near the bus stop is a boarded store
sign promotes  deli and liquor
and at 9 a.m. as I wait for the bus
a steady progression of single men
walk through the door of  the corner store
and emerge ten minutes later
opaque plastic bags disguise their wares
no food from the deli I'm sure
doubtful there is a deli at all.

Many come by foot but some by car
a black bag the size of a six-pack
another sack the size of  cheap whiskey
in this store men do the shopping
and though I watch only a few minutes
I surmise that the traffic will continue
through the day and into the night
men find their needed sustenance here
through the doors of the corner store.



For dVerse Open Link & Poets United Poetry Pantry
Just returned from Washington D.C.  One morning we waited
for a bus at a bus stop across from such a corner store.
We only were there some minutes early in the morning,
but there was a steady progression of activity.