Peace

 

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Peace

Why conrinue to pray for peace when
the world's people have prayed  for peace 
for decades, for centuries?  Nothing changes.
Wars of hatred persist, blood  continues
to flow, and so many innocent lives are lost.

Who hears our prayers? If someone
with the power to respond listens, why
do they heartlessly do nothing?  Is prayer
a futile exercise, a crying into the wind?
How can one respect an unresponsive god?

Why continue to pray for peace in wars
or send thoughts and prayers when lives are
lost to gun violence? Are all prayers merely
empty words, feeble and pointless recitation,
ignored by an impotent or uncaring god?  

Written for my prompt at What's Going On? -- Yearning for Peace

Grandmothers

Grandmothers

One I never met, gone before I was born,
the other blind, dressed always in black,
her hair pulled tight in its silver bun,
shoes that shuffled across the floor.

She sat in the same chair every visit,
hands folded in her lap, not saying much
never seeing my face though I stood close,
her world shaped by sound and touch.

My small hand guided her to the kitchen,
this task given to me like a gift, a way to help,
the weight of her trust in my five-year-old fingers,
leading her where she needed to go.

One morning my cousin waked me instead of Mother,
his words falling heavy in my bedroom:
"she's gone," and I cried and said to him,
"Why didn't she wait until I saw her?"

Other children had grandmothers who baked,
who taught them to sew and told stories,
while mine lived/ lives in the space between
what I remember and what I wish I could.

For Sherry's prompt at "What's Going On?"

This poem is totally true.  The only grandma I knew died when I was five or six. I wish I did have more grandma memories than this.  I have one photo somewhere, but I cannot find it.  Thus no photo.

Unbirthday Reflections

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Unbirthday Reflections

I always forget how old I am
The number slips away like water
Perhaps forgetting is its own mercy
A gentle shield against the counting

I prefer to think of unbirthdays
Those days when I am simply here
Not marking time's relentless passage
Just being, without the weight of years

The mirror shows a face I recognize
But in my mind I'm still that younger self
Who believed in endless tomorrows
Before I learned to fear the calendar

Birthdays make me inventory loss
The empty chairs at smaller tables
Voices that once sang my name
Now echoing only in memory

I don't need gifts wrapped in bright paper
Just take me somewhere warm and fed
Let's celebrate another year survived
Not the birthday, but the breathing still

The numbers whisper what I know
How few candles may be left to blow
But I'll choose forgetfulness tonight
And let tomorrow find me young

For Susan's prompt at What's Going On? -- Birthdays

Summer's Gift

 

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Summer's Gift

At noon the sun reaches its jackpot height
spills golden light across the lake
where children splash like wild animals
free from winter's grip at last

The radio plays old songs on the dock
while ice cream melts like silk
down sticky fingers that clutch wooden
popsicle sticks as hearts dream summer dreams

This season cures the madness
of gray February mornings
calls us outdoors to chase fireflies
and stay awake past reasonable hours

For Shay's Word Garden

The Pull of Two Loves

Olive and her leash!

The Pull of Two Loves

Olive brings me her leash
Eyes bright with trail dreams
While the book waits open
A bookmark marking its my place.

She pictures us walking
Through forest path and trail
I picture myself reading
In the perfect afternoon light

She nips a bit at my ankle
The story pulls me deeper
Fresh air calls through windows
The plot is at a crucial point.

I put on my walking boots
Then sit down with the book
I bookmark my place
Then stand at the door

Good little Olive waits patiently
The good book waits patiently
I want to be the person
Who gives both what they deserve

But here I sit with boots on
A book in my lap, leash by the door

Written for Sumana's prompt at What's Going On? -- "Contradictiions"