Healing

Healing is

words of understanding
the touch of a hand
listening without interruption
silent prayer

curtains open wide
to welcome the sun
rising up from a chair
silent prayer

walk on a forest path
a bowl of homemade soup
hand-written card
silent prayer.

This is written for Susan's prompt at Poets United Midweek Motif --  Recovery / Healing.  We are so glad to have Susan back at the helm!

The Watcher

The Watcher


I am the one who watches you
as you leave home each day
because I find you beautiful
oh please won't you be mine

as you leave home each day
I wonder will you notice me
or turn your head away

because I find you beautiful
I wish you to be my wife
and not to be thought pitiful

oh please won't you be mine
my knife held to your neck
first let us share a glass of wine.

For dVerse Poetics Tuesday we have a guest pub tender today.  Kelly, Mrs. Mediocrity, challenges us  to write from the point of view of the opposite gender.
I wrote in the "trimeric" form.

The Emperor Once Again

The Emperor Once Again

The emperor tires of new clothes
yearns to be a common man
his dreams were put aside
in seeking adoring fans.

He yearns to return to roots
roots with people who care
not about superficial accolades
but he wonders if there is time.

There are many who see
only his fine new clothes
but few true and loyal friends
who see the person he is inside.

This is my third poem recently about 'the emperor.'
We probably all know an 'emperor' in our lives.
This is submitted to Poets United Poetry Pantry.

Death Plays No Favorites

Death Plays No Favorites

(1)

The end when it comes
is as it is meant to be
the ledger will close
take its place on the shelf
to be dusted now and then.

(2)

When I lay my head
on my pillow at long last
I do not fear the night
after night a brighter morn
life redeemed by His grace.

(3)

Breathing is shallow
fool is finally going to pass
Alas the wait ends
soon he will reap his reward
make legal with cheating wife.


Three VERY modern-day "Tanka" (5-7-5-7-7) death poems written for dVerse Meeting the Bar.

Choices

Choices

Should I rake leaves or
take my dog for a walk?
Should I organize the kitchen
or write a poem?
Should I grocery shop
or read a book?
The choice between what I
should do and what I want
to do is often difficult.
And whatever choice I make
feels half good and half bad.
I wish there were more
hours in the day, especially
to take my dog for a walk.

For Poets United Midweek Motif
where the prompt is 'choice.'

Shooting Eggs...or is it Rotten Tomatoes

Shooting Eggs...or is it Rotten Tomatoes

Flood me like a lone streetlight among the darkness

tell me you are a poet and I will buy into your deception

like a lioness with belladonna in her eyes

I will believe anything you say just because

a lost love found me, in you, and after a while

I don’t give a damn whether your poem has meaning

or the fact that you keep shooting eggs with guns.

So much meaningless pap is presented as worthy

and after a while I nod my head and smile and

join the throngs who admire the emperor with no clothes

and marvel at the shade like shadow, calling it art,

all this because I craved images of you and only you

with the fluidity of your presence making up for it all, yes,

the heart makes the simplest things so damn complicated.

This was written for Anthony's prompt at dVerse Poetics.  He gave us EIGHT phrases and asked us to use at least 3 in our poem.  I used all seven.  They are italicized.

Abba Father

Abba Father

Arrogance wears humility's clothes
a trickster in a modest robe
underneath - an arrogant rooster
and people say yea, yea
stand in line for his grace
bask in  his every word
bow before him singing
abba father we adore thee.

He blesses with his presence
enlightens with his wisdom
enriches with his experience
envelopes with his feigned care
only a few on the sideline see
it is all about him him him
it has always been about him
but his followers sing on and on.


**Abba Father we Adore Thee

Written for dVerse Open Link and also Poets United Poetry Pantry #270.

Let Your Way Be Delicate

Let Your Way Be Delicate

Let your way be delicate
as you walk the path of life
and your voice ever gentle
not one that causes strife

let your talk be accepting
with well chosen word
rather than divisive
when many feel unheard

     pluck each flower at its prime
     and not one moment before
     enjoy each bloom's splendor
     may it make your spirits soar

let your hands be for helping
and blessing those you meet
for lessening others' burdens
as they stumble down the street

let your voice be for singing
and for sharing God's love
not for cursing and blaming
fists shaking with heavy glove

     pluck each flower at its prime
     and not one moment before
     enjoy each bloom's splendor
     may it make your spirits soar.

This poem was written for Midweek Motif where the prompt is "Let Your Song Be Delicate....or Not."

Seasons

Seasons

He saunters with his dog along the woodsy trail blanketed with crisp brown leaves and pine cones. Some trees have green leaves yet, though many more are shades of yellow, red, or brown. Leaves drift to the ground as he walks beneath the rustling limbs. He hasn't seen a robin in a few weeks now. Could it be they have already gone? How could he not have noticed the last one? His dog barks, wishing for a chase, as a squirrel scampers ahead on the path. Nuts need to be gathered, and there is so little time. He empathizes with the squirrel.

Life changes quickly
so much is predictable
everything cycles.

His little dog tugs at the leash, urging him to walk faster. But he feels himself slowing, his mind reflecting back to spring when the world was beginning to green, when the crunchy leaves now under his feet were new. Then there was hope, rebirth, robins, sun. Warmer each day. It seems an epoch ago. Things were different. She was alive then. Still. He did not know what summer would bring. No one knows what each season will bring. The little dog does not understand his slowness. The little dog did not understand death, but does understand missing. The man understands both. And he understands seasons deeper than he wants to.

The wind blows stronger
more leaves flutter to the ground
soon trees will be bare.


This is submitted to dVerse Poetics, where Toni is prompting us to write a poem on the theme of change....using 24 lines or less.

In the Drizzle

In the Drizzle

In the drizzle of  early morning

I see the silhouette of her face

in the lagoon near the shore.

She looks so far away

her face ripe with death 

on which are sprouted lines

such as I've never seen before

and though the years may pass

my heart will never forget

what it sees this early morning

in the lagoon near the shore

when birth is a lost memory.

This fictional piece was written for The Sunday Whirl.  We had to write a poem using these words:  far, birth, shore, drizzle, sprout, down, silhouette, face, ripe, lines, itself.   And, of course, I am also sharing with the site which is my home base...Poets United Poetry Pantry.

Though it is fictional, I do think sometimes that we can look into puddles or clouds or reflections and find meanings....especially when we are seekers!

Conversation

Conversation

What do I wish I'd asked you?
So many things I'll never know
not because you don't know
but because you cannot say.

I thought we'd be able to talk
forever, had all the time in the world
to chat, reflect, philosophize;
but life didn't turn out that way.

A person doesn't know what
she'll miss until it's gone.
Too soon. Gone soon. Gone.
I wish I'd asked you more.

Submitted for dVerse Meeting the Bar where Victoria prompts is to use dialogue.

Bored

Bored

Today the sky is gray
clouds low in the sky
the air hangs so heavy
boredom looms nigh.

The novel lies unread
poetry cannot be written
bread is not baked
walk will not be taken.

Television unwatched
bed remains unmade
shopping trip untaken
bills are still not paid.

Projects sit unfinished
house in disarray
telephone is silent
nothing to do today.


This poem was written for Poets' United Midweek Motif, where the prompt was "Boredom."

Somehow We Forgot

Somehow We Forgot

Somehow

we forgot what is important

we forgot how to compromise

we forgot how to keep  peace

we forgot that all lives count

we forgot how to do it right

we forgot words are not enough

we forgot how to care

somehow.

This is written for dVerse Poetics where Grace's prompt is "how we forget."

It's Time

It's Time

There is sadness at the end of summer. The days become shorter, and ducks sense they must soon move on. Ducklings that hatched in spring have matured, are ready to assume their predetermined roles.  As leaves change from green to orange or red, then brown, a spirit of restlessness enters the air. Food becomes harder and harder to find. Gusts from the north bring a chill to the air until finally are no more reasons to stay. The cycle of life is relentless, moves forward one beat at a time.  The ducks' inner clocks tick on until at last they rise, rise, RISE into the sky and FLY.

Rhythm of life relentless

to survive one must move on

today the journey begins

This poem is written for the first dVerse Haibun Monday!
Happy Labor Day to all who are celebrating.
I will be spending today with family, so I will catch up with commenting later.

Homeless

Homeless

He lives under the bridge
next to the cell tower,

unconcerned about his DNA,
eats fish with poisoned organs

caught from polluted factory pond.

He survives by the skin of his teeth

his money gone, he skirts the law

he is poor as he totals his money

but wealthy if he tallies his friends

but to him that is all that matters.

I haven't done a Sunday Whirl for quite a while.

I decided to try one again.  The words are:

friends, pond, bridge, money, poor, teeth,
Skirt, cell, organs, DNA, tower, signal.

I am also submitting this for Poets' United

Poetry Pantry!  Please join us on Sunday.

September

September

September reminds me of endings

the time of the harvest is near

birds begin to migrate

there is a slight chill in the air

the time of the harvest is near

tomato plants begin to yield fewer

there are limited peppers on the vine

birds begin to migrate

their songs decrease each day

I wonder where the ducks will go

there is a slight chill in the air

a jacket must be kept ready

sunrise is later each day.

A trimeric poem written to share with dVerse Open Link.
Though September may have beautiful and warm weather,
there is something just a little sad about the month.

Watershed Moments!

Statue of Crying Woman

Watershed Moments!

And when he asked her
after so many years
she thought her heart would burst
and she cried!

And when the doctor told her
after so many years trying
yes you are pregnant
and she cried!

And when the child left for school
she felt the passing of time
held the girl's hand tightly
and she cried.

And when he told her
he'd fallen in love with another
she held back her tears
and then she cried.

And when she told him
I'll take you to court and win
she had no need for tears
and now he cried!

This poem is written for Poets Midweek Motif, where
the prompt is "Watershed Moments."

Watchman Sees.......

Watchman Sees.....

Watchman sees
    bigotry rampant
    in the land
    but says nothing.

Watchman sees
    tongues that cluck
    in bitter disdain
    but says nothing.

Watchman sees
    racism, homophobia,
    ageism, sexism,
    but says nothing.
   
Watchman knows
    those who judge
    will themselves be judged
    and waits for the time...

...when bigots see
    their erroneous thoughts
    and realize God loves
    all His children the same.

Watchman knows
    he may wait and wait...

This poem was written for dVerse Poetics:  What Does the Watchman See?