Hope

Hope I

In these days of anger and anxiety
and dying inside from the stress of life
I will find hope in the cuddle of a dog

In these days of so much bad news
when everything is dark and bleak
I will find hope in the sunrise

In these days when things seem
to go from bad to worse to impossible
I will find hope in the crunch of leaves.

In these days when lies and hate
are more prevalent than tolerance and love
I will find hope in the smile at a stranger.

Hope II     

In these days unlike any in my lifetime
in these days of every day a new low
in these days where truth is on holiday

in these days where the enemy list grows
in these days where the press is persecuted
in these days when nationalism is praised

I will strive to find hope.

For Sherry's prompt at "What's Going On" -- Hope


(I must confess that I have trouble with the word "hope" right now, so I looked back at poems that I wrote in the past and found these poems from 2018, which are still relevant to me.  They still express how I feel today. In fact, I am amazed that even back in 2018 I was struggling with hope.)

Mathematics

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Mathematics

I learned that two plus two equaled four,

and for most of my life
that seemed dependable,
the sort of thing
that did not ask
who was speaking.

Lately, though,
it appears that two plus two
can become six
if six is more useful,
or three
if three serves the moment,
provided a certain someone
says it often enough.

Numbers no longer count.
They campaign.

A war can be stopped
eight times,
or six,
or ten,
depending on the day's applause.

An election can be won
long after the ballots
have been counted,
recounted,
audited,
certified,
and counted once more,
because arithmetic
is expected to surrender
to insistence.

Crowds become the largest
ever assembled,
even when empty sections
wait patiently in the background,
visible to anyone
who still believes
that addition begins with looking.

Deficits become larger and larger
but who is keeping count?
Fortunes grow, multiply each year,
but it is all legal, you know!

Written for Susan's prompt "Mathematics" at What's Going On?

Not Much Wildlife Visible

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Not Much Wildlife Visible

The day settles over everything with relentless heat.
Ninety-eight degrees leaves the fields without motion.
The deer have found their shelter in shadow.
The rabbit keeps to its cool hiding place.
Squirrels and chipmunks have withdrawn from the light.
Only the stillness of parched grass remains where I look.

The absence is not emptiness but quiet wisdom.
Life continues out of sight beyond what my eyes can find.
The hidden creatures understand the rhythm of this day.
Wise, they spend nothing against the blazing sun.
Within my home, I leave the afternoon to its silence,
knowing the slightly cooler evening will belong to them.

For Sumana's prompt at What's Going On? -- "Wildlife in Your Vicinity"

We are in the midst of an unusual heat wave.  It is difficult to spend
 any time at all outside. It will go on for a few more days.  This morning
I took Olive for a walk at 5:30 A.M. before everything heated up. 
Her paws would burn if I went out later in the day. Plus, on top of
that, air quality (due to fires in different places) outside is awful.

After the Scary Thing

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After the Scary Thing

Sometimes life is scary.
Medical appointments,
the waiting room silence,
the test results not yet known.

The eye exam that measures
how clearly the world can still be seen.
The dentist’s chair,
the small worries we carry in our bodies.

Gatherings with strangers
where words feel hidden.
Gatherings with people we don’t like
where we hold our breath.
Even gatherings with people we love
can bring the quiet question:
What will I say?

The sky turning dark
with high winds and tornado warnings,
standing inside, watching to see
what the storm will decide.

Rains that fall too hard,
water rising where it shouldn’t,
the feeling of being small
against forces we cannot control.

There are so many things in life
that ask us to be brave.

So I tell myself:
this moment will pass.
The door will open.
The storm will move on.

And someday soon
I will be sitting quietly again,
listening to the birds
singing as if nothing ever happened.

For Sumana's prompt at What's Going On? -- the Sanctuary Within

(I loved the poem that of Mary Oliver that Sumana shared for this prompt.  Really, what is the use of worry anyway?  This poem expresses my way of dealing with worries:  "This too shall pass.")

The Wall

 

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The Wall

We seem to grope blindly

as we look for the door through the wall

Whenever we see an opening

It seems to just as quickly close

we try to remain hopeful

there has to be a way through

maybe if we all join hands

we can together lead the charge

to kick down the blasted wall.

This is for my prompt at What's Going On?  -- Openings and Closings

I Am No Botanist

 

I Am No Botanist

I am no botanist
I cannot tell you the names of plants 
even if I have seen them one hundred times.
I forget names, though I know their faces.
I am struck by their beauty especially in spring
when so many colors dance together happily,
vie for everyone's attention and love.

I am no botanist
but I can appreciate beauty anyway
I can love them and tell each of them
I will really try to recognize them next year
and meanwhile continue to enjoy each of them
as summer continues on even though
their outer beauty will slowly fade away.

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

Just Circle

 

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Just Circle

Some days I just circle, go nowhere.
Every day a walk with my dog for about an hour,
the same path I always take just to move,
and I go to the Y to walk the treadmill,
and do my strength training to accomplish something
and to live to be a healthy 102.

But as I circle I think too much about the world today,
which is not good, so now I listen to an audio book
or read on the treeadmill to block the noise of the world,
to cover the pain with a story.  Today circling is all I have
in me. Move, just move. I wear myself out until I tire. 
Today's journey is not a direct path or straight line.

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

The Last Apple

 

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The Last Apple

Already so much has disappeared. I know
that one apple after another will soon fall.
What bothers me the most is that faith
has receded from view -- faith that people
will do the right thing, evil will not win,
God will use power to change things,
or that God has power  or compassion at all.

There is always something to grieve--
people I lost touch with, grew away from,
or who changed in such a way that is hard.
Thankfully, there are still reasons to rejoice--
life is precious and continues, I am not
yet under siege. I still have time, birds
sing, dogs keep me in a good routine,
the sun still shines giving life and hope.

But on tree in a far away orchard, there is
one last apple hanging on for dear life
knowing its days are numbered, that
soon it too will fall, as will we all.
No power can change that.

For Sumana's prompt "Power" at "What's Going On?"

Sometimes Sadness.....A Reflection on Fall

 

 

Sometimes Sadness.....A Reflection on Fall

 

 

Sometimes sadness hits all of a sudden without warning

and there is nothing to do but to acknowledge the feeling

and shed the tears that need to be shed and not question

but accept that feelings are what they are, cannot be fought,

must be acknowledged, knowing tomorrow is another day.

The leaves are beautiful in autumn, yellows, reds, oranges;

then all eventually turn brown, then fall silently to the ground.

Death is a part of life, sadness is a reality of life, everything cycles;

we must accept the cycles, work within them, acknowledge

whatever is momentarily happy will eventually turn sad.

Life can be, often is, beautiful, and I appreciate that

in fall with so much beauty everywhere in my midst;

but I cannot deny there is also another side for me --
sadness that hits all of a sudden without warning,
knowledge that green turns red, then turns brown.

For my prompt "Sadness" and What's Going On?

Revisiting my Childhood Backyard

 

Revisiting My Childhood Backyard


The backyard clotheslines were always full
sheets one day, towels another, then clothes
of all varieties. Sun bleached things, wind
gave them a fresh smell. I inhaled sheets
with eyes closed, fresh as rain, wind, clouds.
And I still see my mother talking to the neighbor,
clothespins in hand, also was hanging clothes

My mouth still waters for the Dad's hamburgers,
grilled on the large Weber grill, eaten at
the white wooden picnic table with chips,
or corn on the cob dripping with butter.
The picnic table also served as a rocket ship
or hospital for neighborhood kids at play
other times or other days.

Dad pitched baseballs in the backyard
under the elm tree, which gave us shade.
The summers were hot , sun beat down;
we didn't worry about sunscreen those days.
Mother watered flowers, tended vegetables;
nothing like a ripened tomato off the vine
or dirt-crusted carrots pulled from the earth.

Fourth of July we snuggled, covered with blankets,
on the cushions of metal glider in the backyard,
watched the fireworks set off from City Park
on the other side of the river. It was always cold
this mid summer holiday. We oohed
and aahed at the bursts and the flashes,
and it was hard to see the celebration end.

Sometimes we set up a tent in the backyard
to play camping or war or just to have a secret spot
where we could laugh, gossip, and tell stories;
and occasionally we acquired a large refrigerator box
and we would roll and roll and roll in it just for fun.
Sometimes we attached the sprinkler, ran through it
in bathing suits to cool off on hot summer days.

If I close my eyes tightly, I am back there in my backyard
playing badminton, marbles, reading beneath the elm,
soaking up summer as if there was to be no tomorrow,
and of course the summers of childhood came to an end,
and I grew up, moved away, my parents passed away,
house was sold, and nothing will ever be the same;
but the house still stands and the memories still remain.

For Sherry's prompt "Solastalgia" at What's Going On.

Pets I have Known

Basil and Olive
(My current pets)

Pets I Have Known

This is a hard subject for me
because I think back at four
beloved pets that I have lost
as well as being grateful for
two that live with me still.

Dixie was the one who started it all
came home  with us from Alabama 
given to us free in a souvenir store
an accidental offspring of an
American Eskimo and a 'black menace'
who taught me how to be a pet parent.

Then there was Bear, another offspring
of an accidental breeder, half chow chow
(she had a half black tongue) and half
something unknown.  She was a beautiful
dog, but she had some irritating issues
but I loved her anyway.

Next there was sweet Violet, 
a toy fox terrier from a breeder,
the first of my three fox terriers. 
I was able to take her anywhere,
carried her in a large yellow purse,
and no one knew there was a dog inside.

Then there was Tulip, my 'heart' dog,
my second toy fox terrier who came
from the same breeder as Violet, 
and who had a white heart on her face
(or was it a tulip?) and was the
best lap dog ever. I still miss her.

Then there was Basil who was part
of a rescue of a few dozen toy fox terriers
from a dog hoarder home.  He was very
small and spunky and still is with me
cuddling on my lap at age fifteen
and still relatively healthy too.

Then there was Olive who came from
a Havanese breeder, a delightful friend
turning two years old this month.
A lover of a dog who keeps me active
and melts my heart when she looks at me.
Olive is a dog that everyone loves!

Tulip and Violet
(Both Deceased)

For Susan's Prompt at What's Going On? -- Pets I Have Known

Forest

Forest

Forest
dark and silent
walk quietly
do not disturb
my reverie.

My mind wanders
as I walk
the path which
leads between
trees that bend
into me
hold me tight
in strong arms

My life is
wooded green
mellow
shielded by bark
with deep roots.

For Sumana's prompt at What's Going On? -- "When Nature Takes Your Breath Away"

Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow

 

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Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow

Yesterday's children roam free
everywhere in their neighborhood,
play outside after dark, walk by
themselves to school, bike with
friends to neighborhood parks.
They trick or treat alone for blocks.
do not fear pinned or poisoned candy.
They can wander into the woods,
pretend it's Sherwood Forest
and play for hours. They meet friends
at the mall or a movie or to bowl.
No mothers worriy.

Today's children roam within parents'
view, come inside when it is dark.
They travel to school by car or bus
or walk accompanied by parent.
Mothers take children to parks,
sit on benches to watch them play.
They trick or treat on their street,
as their parents walk along. They
play in their backyard, fantasize the
few trees as Sherwood Forest.
Friends play at one house or the other
Still mothers worry.

Tomorrow's children roam their home,
whether it is day or night. They travel
to school by computer. Parents watch
their children play video games at home
and assorted Halloween candy is now
prebagged and available at all stores.
They look at their backyard through
burglar-proof windows, see Sherwood
Forest on their iPad. They play
interactive games with friends via
computer, see all movies via Netflix.
No mothers worry.

For my prompt at What's Going On:  Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow

This Poem

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This Poem

This poem is an island
surrounded by water
I live on this island
I am surrounded by beauty
and the restless sounds of the sea,
waves speak in tongues I try to understand.

This poem is a forest
outside of the town
I live in this forest
I am surrounded by beauty
that lives beneath the trees,
between the depth of roots and the breath of leaves.

This poem is a mountain
reaching to the sky
I live in this mountain
I am surrounded by beauty
as I look down at the world,
clouds drift like peaceful thoughts below me.

This poem is a river
cutting through stone
I float on this river
I am surrounded by beauty
in its endless becoming,
each moment gone before I can hold it.

This poem is a sky
without any edge
I live in this sky
I am surrounded by beauty
in its widening silence,
which encompasses everything and is happy.

Written for Sherry's prompt at What's Going On:  "This Poem...."

Truth

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Truth

How can I write about truth
when so much of what I hear is lies?
There is little I can say.

I wonder how they live with themselves
when their mouths speak untruths
as if they were profound.

They claim to be people of god,
yet break the 9th commandment daily
and feign allegiance to their lord.

What message do the young receive,
with lies presented every day as truth?
Will society become truthless in the end?

Written for Susan's prompt at "What's Going On" -- Truth

Children

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 submitted for Sumana's prompt:  Child/Children at What's Going On?   Perhaps not exactly what she had in mind, but......


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!

Anger

 

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ANGER

Anger bites,
gnaws at my insides.
I feels so hopeless
cannot find a way
to rid myself of this anger
that hangs on.

One person single-handedly
destroyed this country
and is doing a good job
of destroying the world
as it was when I could smile.

There is nothing
I can do with this 
anger that sticks
in my throat
nauseates me
takes away my joy.

I feel hopeless rage
at this person,
his syncophants
who say yes to his whims,
all those who took 
a wrecking ball to the world.

I boil, seethe, shake my fists,
scream, pound the walls, 
my stomach churns.
I am sickened, I wretch.
My angst comes to nothing.
Just one more depressing day.

Written for my prompt at What's Going On? -- "Anger"

A Poem From 11 Years Ago

Tulip,Violet, and Basil

If Dogs Contemplate Death 

If dogs contemplate death I do not perceive it
they relish today, savor the bowl of kibble
delight in a walk or a game of fetch.

If dogs ponder death they do not reveal it
perhaps that is one reason I love dogs
they acknowledge,  appreciate what is today.

If dogs envision death they suppress it
occupied with their conventional lives
proclaim that death is inconsequential

If dogs consider death they overlook it
as part of life they cannot control.
What's the use of knowing after all?
-------------------------------------------------

I wrote this poem 11 (not ten!) years ago, and as I looked back at my old poems I still find it relevant.  By now both Tulip and Violet have crossed the rainbow bridge, and Basil is 15 years old and still going strong for his age.   I agree with the sentiments of the poem.  Basil, at 15, still savors life, still delights in his food, cuddles in my lap, shows some 'spark' when he plays.  Below is a photo of Basil (as he looks today) and his more recently arrived sister Olive living their best life!

For Sherry's prompt at What's Going On? -- "Ten Years Ago"

Hilary Knight

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Hilary Knight

Born in California,
she found her passion on ice,
then moved with her talent
to the colder midwest.

At the University of Wisconsin–Madison,
from 2007 to 2012,
she took classes, played hockey, and skated more,
earned a degree in history and
a certificate in European studies,
learned how past lives shape the present
even as she was shaping her own
not aware yet that she would be
a history maker herself.

After graduation,
her excellence at the game gave her options.
She became a professional player,
then a cornerstone of the game—
a force to be reckoned with,
a constant presence
on the U.S. women’s national ice hockey team,
always reliable, a symbol of the game,
excellence through endurance, strong.

She did more than score goals.
She helped build something lasting and greater,
pushed women’s hockey forward in North America,
shaping not only her career
but the future of the sport itself.

Five Olympic Games—
more than any U.S. hockey player
(man OR woman)—
two gold medals, three silver,
years measured not by seasons
but by the love of the game.

And in Milan–Cortina,
wearing the C,
she led as captain,
steady under pressure,
guided the American team
to gold.

In Women’s History Month,
her story reminds us:
excellence isn't inherited but
is built over years,
an example for young girls to follow,
leadership earned stride by stride
when no one is watching,
but the ice will remember
those who change the game.

Written for Susan's prompt at What's Going On? -- Women's History Month

Unspoken

Unspoken

There are whole conversations
I have with myself
that never reach the air,
things I would like to say
but do not.

I imagine saying the words aloud,
watch the room shift,
watch a face change.
I rehearse the aftermath
and decide against it.

Some truths are sharp.
There are things and people I detest.
There are sorrows and angers 
that weigh me down, 
but what would be repaired
by their release?

My fears would not disappear
under someone's examination.
My sadness or anger would not shrink
because of being named out loud.
Those I detest would not
become more likeable.

No one is holding the missing piece
that could make it all better.
No one carries a magic answer
for what lives inside me.

Most often  it feels wiser
to let the storm pass
without commentary.

So I keep the silence
not as surrender
but as restraint,
guarding others
from the weight
of what I carry inside,
guarding myself
from having to explain
the unexplainable,
knowing nothing 
would change with
the sharing.

Instead, I move
to another place.

I open a book
and step into someone else’s weather.
Or I walk my trail or
work out in the gym
until my breath drowns out thought,
until my feelings turn
into muscle and motion
and all is good.

The unspoken remains—
not gone,
only set aside
in the dark of my mind,
where even I may forget
what I meant to say.

Written for my prompt at "What's Going On? -- Unspoken

---

Let Us Bless the Earth

Let Us Bless the Earth

Let us bless the earth
the way it has sustained us
since the beginning of time

Let us bless the earth
its patience despite the
folly of humankind

Let us bless the earth
each season's beauty
remarkably sublime

Let us bless the earth
innumerable peaceful places
where beauty does shine

Let us bless the earth
its kindness to all beings
with wisdom crystalline

Let us bless the earth
let us bless the earth
yes it is now time.

For What's Going On - Sherry's prompt "Blessings"

Creation

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Creation

In the beginning God created
heaven and earth,
wildlife and plant life.

Last, God created humankind
and was pleased with
all that had been made.

Humankind was special,
meant to rule over nature,
and it was good.

But humankind lost its way,
and here we are today.
I wonder if God regrets.

And I wonder if God still
loves those created
in God’s image.

And if God is powerful
enough to create
this world we inhabit,

Why doesn’t God use
that power to restore it,
to change the hearts of Man?

Written for Susan's prompt "Creation" at What's Going On?

Seeking Shelter

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Seeking Shelter

I write in a trance today.
My heart isn’t in it,
yet I continue—
wondering why, and for how long.

I look for a place to shelter
from the evils of the world--
somewhere to burrow,
a little calm for my anxious heart.

I play the New York Times Wordle,
a small, clever escape,
a workout for the mind—
though the news still always finds me.

I play with my dog,
look into her deep eyes,
so dependent, so innocent.
Her warmth steadies me.

I find shelter in plans,
in dreams that may not happen—
to visit Copenhagen again,
the quiet utopia of my soul.

Written for my prompt at What's Going On? -- "Shelter"

A Hurting Heart

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A Hurting Heart

Sometimes there is
no help for a hurting heart
except to look away for a time
read a book, go to the gym,

take a walk, cuddle a dog,
watch a series on TV,
play a word game with friends.
bake banana bread, write a poem,

take a nap, organize a drawer,
eat ice cream, listen to music.
These are some simple ways
to help a hurting heart.

For Sherry's prompt at What's Going On:  Help for Hurting Hearts

Peace

 

 Photos With Permission of Photographer

Peace

They walk the long road
from Texas to Washington,
robes and sandals,
nothing extra.

Their lives are simple.
Purposeful—
resolved.

Day after day they walk.

I imagine myself beside them,
learning how to move
without urgency,
without rage
without fear
without anxiety.

Aloka walks with them,
nose to the ground,
heart untroubled
by flags or slogans
or evil intentions.
He loves the road
because it is there.

I want to be
like Aloka.

These days
my heart is loud
with politics,
disbelief, anger,
fear.

I cannot settle safely.
I want another way.

Peace, maybe,
is not silence
but choosing
where to place each foot.

One step.
Another.
Leaving something behind.

For Susan's prompt at What's Going On:  "Peace"

New Beginning

New Beginning

New year

new beginning

fresh hopes

spring is just over the hill

and once again

grass will green

flowers will bloom
birds will sing

there will be reason for

smiles

Written for Sumana's prompt at What's Going On? -- "A New Beginning"

Letting Go

Letting Go

Letting go
is not one clean motion.
It is a slow unfastening,
fingers loosening
around what once felt permanent.

We began at the bank,
adjoining teller windows,
passing jokes along as
we passed out cash,
a summer for me,
a life for him.

Later there were meals,
bars where the floor throbbed under our feet,
music loud enough
to make the future seem distant.
We talked until closing time,
until words felt endless.

Time moved us apart
without breaking our connection.
Letters replaced laughter,
cards stood in for voices.
Holidays, birthdays—
news folded neatly inside envelopes
never an occasion missed.

Then silence arrived
without explanation.
A fall.
A nursing home with no name.
A card unanswered.

Letting go
began as worry,
then became absence.

The news came sideways,
through a message,
through someone else’s grief.
I wanted one last sentence,
one more sound of his voice,
something unfinished to finish.

There was kindness after—
a brother’s call,
a small book returned,
my younger handwriting still held
in his keeping.

Letting go means
holding that tenderness
without trying to reclaim it.
It means letting gratitude
stand where loss wants to scream.

I remember the guitar,
the pranks,
the dancing,
but mostly the long talks—
how time once seemed like infinity to us.

Now I practice releasing
the future I didn't know had passed:
no more cards,
no more news,
no voice on the other end.

Letting go
is allowing the love to stay
while accepting the goodbye.

Written for my prompt at What's Going On?  -- "Letting Go"