Not a Glass House

Not a Glass House

My house is not glass
but neighbors are distant
so I leave my blinds open,
do not close curtains.

It is a good feeling
to look out at the moon
to be able to walk naked
and know no one sees.

If my house were glass,
voyeurs would lose interest,
look elsewhere for titillation.
I feel safe in my space.

Last Waikiki Sunset

Last Waikiki Sunset

Does anyone really want to think
it is their last view of somewhere loved?

In retrospect, I wonder if I use my camera
to preserve scenes of today

I might be viewing for the last time,
taking photographs of places, people

I will never see again. Click
Waikiki sunset, spectacular always.

I was awed by it often, always,
but this was my last time.

I did not realize it then.  (Who does?)
but am glad now that I clicked.

This poem is submitted to A Picture Speaks - Photography and Poetry Challenge and also to this week's  Poetry Jam where the prompt was to write from a photograph, either yours or someone else's.  (This photo was taken by me.)

After My World Ended



2006 Maui


After My World Ended

After my world ended,
music transported me underground
to a familiar place I didn't want to be.

Iz, the Beatles, Elton John,
Black Eyed Peas, Enya.
Neil Diamond, those she loved.

Sometimes I turned up the volume
to drown out the red, yellow, white moon
that loomed above on the horizon.

Sometimes I tried to escape because
so many dreams had fallen through,
and I didn't want to begin anew.

(This poem was written in response to all of Victoria's - of my writing goup - prompts this week.  They were:  music takes me...., underground, after my world ended....fallen through, turn up the volume, red yellow white moon, begin again.  The intent was for us to write many poems, but I looked upon it as a wordle and wrote just one.)

Aloneness

Aloneness

What do you do with aloneness?
Ignore it, pretend it is not so?
Or maybe you aren't lonely at all.
Perhaps it is only lonely  me.

I tend to ignore it, stay busy,
push lonely from mind. But then again,
I sometimes drown in it, hug my dogs
close, as I sob in the long  night.

But sometimes  I write poetry,
set my words and thoughts free.
Perhaps someone will read them
and send some words back to me.

(Submitted only to dVersePoets Open Link Night Week 9)

No, Thank You

No, Thank You

I didn't ever really indulge
prefer my own reality.

The one time I was prescribed
strong painkiller drugs

I got off them quick as I could,
could not stand the side effects

which were more painful
than what they were to treat.

I'll suffe rather than partake, thanks.
Spare me from oxycodone misery.

(This poem was written for Poetry Jam where this week's prompt was PRESCRIPTION DRUGS.  It brought to mind the time a few years ago when I was prescribed oxycodone for a very serious and painful injury.  The drug brought me more problems than enduring the pain.  I got off it as quickly as I could.  Sometimes pain is far better than its cure.)

When I Look Into Your Eyes

When I Look Into Your Eyes

When I look into your eyes
I see all you never meant to say.
I read eyes, you know,
though you wish it weren't so.

In your eyes I read your pain.
Though your mouth smiles,
in your eyes I read sadness.
Eyes do not lie, you know.

I won't tell you what I see,
your secret is safe with me
I'll go along with the charade
when I look into your eyes.


(This was written for Carry on Tuesday's prompt "When I Look Into Your Eyes")

I Am the One

I Am the One

I am the one who enters your dreams
when you least expect it. My gun
is hidden from view. It is the same one

that blinded my left eye, the eye you
cannot see, will not see. I do not smile.
Nor will you. This time I am not a dream.

(This poem was written using the photograph above, which was the prompt for this week's Magpie Tales)

Communication

Communication

Communication happens in an instant;
text messages, email, no time passes.

We are an impatient society, immediate,
can't tolerate a wait. An hour is too long.

Get back to me. Now. Not later. I stare
at the screen, wait for your timely response.

I drum fingers on the table, don't understand
why I haven't heard. Fifteen minutes is too long.


This was written for Theme Thursday where the theme is "Communication."  Also linked to Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads..for Open Link Monday.

Windows on the World

Windows on the World

Windows on the World,
we ate there once,
best table in the house
arranged by our friend
who worked for NBC.

We sat next to the window
overlooked lights of New York,
ate and drank in elegance,
toasted each other in friendship
not a care in the world.

That was then, this is now.
1999 morphed into 2001.
Windows on the World shattered
when the Twin Towers fell.
Our lives were the same again.

I'll be forever thankful I was there,
that I have a happy photo to prove it,
but now only  pieces of glass given to us
by the mother of a NYC fire fighter
who worked tirelessly that awful day.

(This was written for Thursday Think Tank of Poets United.  Prompt was "Windows."  It took me a while to come up with something, but I knew what I had to write when I contemplated 9 / 11 tomorrow.  It is also submitted to dVerse, where the prompt was "In Memoriam" of 9/11 & to Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads) The photo  of us at the top of the Twin Towers at the Windows of \the World Restaurant was taken in 1999.  That is me and Diane on the left.  On the right, the woman in the forefront was the one who worked for NBC and got us the 'best table in the house.'  The other two were our friend and her daughter.  Our friend''s son was a NYC firefighter.  On 9 / 11 he worked tirelessly.  His mother did not know that he was safe until quite late in the day.  It is she who gave us pieces of glass from the World Trade Center.  I discovered them again the other day.  The NBC employee was to serve on jury duty that day in NYC.  She was in the court house when the first plane hit the WTC.  The jurors were released.  She ran home in horror....The other photo is of me with the World Trade Center in the background.  We were on the Staten Island Ferry.   May something so awful never take place again!)

Dignity

Dignity

He holds dignity in his pockets
a black and white photo, a cross,
three smooth stones, a child's top,
a silver ring, key ring with no keys.

He needs things to grasp onto
the days he scrapes his knees
cuts his fingers as he tries
to build something from nothing.

He repositions his scrap lumber,
pounds and whittles urgently
to still the roaring in his head,
to salve his urgent need to create.

He's found his own key to pass time
that crawls from yesterday to now with
jolts of gibberish he doesn't understand.
But he always holds onto his dignity.

This poem was written for   The Sunday Whirl   (September 11) where the words this week are urgent, simple, pockets, jolt, build, now, dignity, cut, bold, scrape, roaring, pass.  At least the poem I have written THIS week did not take place in a bar, as it has the past few weeks!!   I had been thinking a little bit about 'dignity' today and how every person must find a way to hold on to dignity.

September 11, 2011

September 11, 2011

Ten years ago in September
Diane and I were in Hawaii.
I awoke early, September 11,
signed on my computer half awake.

My German friend messaged me
when I arruved online, told me that, god,
the World Trade Center was under attack,
was going down. THAT is how I heard.

What? I said in shock, turned on the TV,
yelled, in disbelief, for Diane to wake up
The World Trade Center has been attacked.
She woke up with a jolt, joined me in disbelief.

Glued to the television, we were stunned, shocked.
How could this be? It seemed surreal,
unbelievable, as we watched events unfold,
the horrific along with heroic. Fear.

We were scheduled to fly home September 12.
Needless to say we did not. No flights.
We waited and watched. Sky was still.
No planes. Mourning. Disbelief. Sadness.

And when we did eventually fly home,
I have never been on a more quiet flight.
We all studied each other in silent fear
All of us were watchful. Eyes open. Alert.

Ten years later I can still feel the fear,
the vulnerability, the sadness of so much lost.
Something of me died that day. something
of all of us. Security no more. Safety, never.

What have we learned since 9 / 11/ 2001?
Why is there so much hatred in the world?
I still have my flag scarf bought that year,
which says Never Again. I hope and pray.

(Shared with Imaginary Gardens with Real Toadsl)

Light

Light

I sleep with a flashlight close by,
have to, it is my security blanket.
I can reach for it in seconds,

never know when I will need it,
when the electricity will fail,
or there will be a noise in the night.

When I travel, I carry one as well,
hold it close to me as I sleep.
We all have our oddities, I think.

Most hide theirs; but I share mine,
would rather it be brought to light.

This poem was written for the first Midnight Snack challenge from Poets' United.  The challenge was the photograph above.  I do have a 'thing' about flashlights, so I decided to write about that!!!

Curious

Curious

I'm curious how many places a heart can reside,
how many ways a heart can embrace
every person and situation it knows
without being spread too thin or torn asunder.
I wonder where my heart should call home.
Perhaps I'll discover the answers tomorrow.

This short poem was written for  Sunday Scribblings where the prompt was "tomorrow," Carry on Tuesday where the prompt was "Home is Where the Heart Is" and Theme Thursday where the prompt was "curious."

Silent Film

Silent Film

I want to make a silent film of my life.
Here I am laughing and loving.
Play the piano loudly, a strong rhythm,
lively, happy music, always happy please.

This is an illusion, but I want to portray it.
In a silent film anything is possible.
They do not need to see my tears.
Keep that piano playing loudly, I implore you.

I want to make a silent film of my life.
It may be a tragedy disguised as a comedy
or a comedy disguised as a tragedy.
The right music will help you decide.

Silent movies are good, words not important,
actions portray everything, one has to watch,
interpret, cannot look away from the action,
I can't decide yet the theme. Must I?

I want to make a silent film of my life,
my life as it is, but I have no supporting cast,
no piano player. Life sucks, and I cannot
make my movie alone. All is silent now.

(Written in response to dVerse silent film theme!)

Mermaids

Mermaids

Mermaids?
Why not?
We can still imagine
what might exist
in another dimension
or might be clear
if we were five years old,
had childlike eyes.


Mermaids?
Why not?
There is Santa Claus
an Easter Bunny, tooth fairy.
Peter Pan is real,
just ask Tinkerbell.
Don't rain on anyone's parade.
Truth is not only in the seeing.

(I wrote this for the above picture prompt at Imaginary Gardens and Real Toads.)

Another Friday Night

Another Friday Night

Friday night again.
Lonely pallid aging cougar
adorned with blooms of hope,
ablaze with red lipstick
that camouflages birdlike beak,
thick makeup to cover wrinkles,
is ready to take on the town.
Lord, is she ready!

With bleached blonde hair
and too tight, short dress
studded with carnival jewels,
she journeys to the same old pub,
smiles her bright canary smile,
laughs loudly, bats eyes, feigns fun.
Life is a beach you know, but
thank God for low lights.

With mouth quivering, bracelet
jingling, she orders her first drink
at the bar. Classy woman, she.
No gin or whisky babe. Daiquiri,
cosmopolitan, or simple red wine.
A woman has to live, life's too short.
Who's looking at me? There's one.
Must be twenty-seven. Smile.

Evening is young, She crosses legs,
shows a little skin. Racks up points
with this goof to hitch to for the night.
Drinks, a dance in shadows, a subtle
kiss out back. Dare she dream of
anything more than perhaps pizza
after bar closing? Will she be able
to crawl to her car? Or care?

She has to call him a goof, as it's
her honor you know. She wants
someone to love, it could be him.
Never mind his age, she feels young.
But if nothing happens, nothing lost.
Goof hides her pain, protects her.
Lord he's walking over. She smiles.
Maybe tonight she'll fall in love.

Each Friday is the same. The same bar,
another dream blooms then wilts.
Different men, yet each the same,
another wasted night most likely,
but for the dance, the drinks. She is
young again. He likes me, doesn't he?
Let's pretend tonight will be different.
Let's just dare to dream. Just tonight.


(This poem was written for the September 4 Sunday Whirl, where the words to use were crawl, rack, pallid, women, blooms, quivering, studded, hordes, hitch, bar, goof, birdlike.  I used them all, except I changed 'women' to 'woman.')

Not Yet Dawn

Not Yet Dawn

In the hour before dawn
I lie in my bed, hug dogs
who await my cue to rise.

I watch early morning TV.
Not time to get up,
but I cannot sleep.

I will watch sunrise from bed.
I make myself wait,
though dogs are ready.

I stay in bed longer,
restless, TV bores me.
Finally, sun or not, I bolt.

Warning

Warning

try to stay calm
though the tornado siren blares
try to stay calm
you may want to recite a psalm
as you wind your way down the stairs
bring a radio with your prayers
try to stay calm

This poem is written in the 'rondelet' form.  A rondelet consists of 7 lines with a particular rhyme pattern and fixed number of syllables per line.  You can find more about the form here:Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads.       I chose the subject because we may be in for severe weather later. Strong thunderstorms.  However, the dreaded words 'tornado warning' have not yet been spoken.

Sunflowers

Sunflowers

Sunflowers
brilliant reminders
of the wonder
of God's universe
before season turns to fall.

Sunflowers
elegantly tower
over all other flowers
remain humble in attitude
their creator's gift.

(This poem was written for today's Poet's United Thursday Think Tank prompt:  "Sunflowers."

Nine Lanturnes

Nine Lanturnes

Dreams

may not

come to pass,

but then again they

might.

Love

is good

while it lasts.

Take many photos

now.

Moon

will not

remember

later that I

cried.

Dog

cuddles,

infringes

on all of my

space.

Time

passes

as it will.

It is hard to

age.

Dance

today,

tomorrow

the music may

die.

Sleep

all night

if you can.

If you cannot,

write.

Friends

always

there for me.

as I am for

them

Wake

early,

live each day.

It may be your

last.

These short poems are examples of a poetry form called the lanturne, which I learned about on Margo Roby's Wordgathering.  The poems have five lines.  First line has one syllable, second line has two, third line three, fourth line four, and fifth line one.  Thank you, Margo.  These were fun.

Happy Birthday to Me!

My Birthday

Today, August 29,  is my birthday,
happy birthday to me, thank you.
It doesn't impact me much,
no real reason to celebrate.
The day passes as any other day.

I can't believe how old I am.
Who can ever believe how old they are?
I think of myself as many years younger
and I look in the mirror and see myself
at, hmmmm, say forty, a reasonable age.

What is age anyway? I used to think
I knew when Mom and Dad were old,
but I will outlive both of them
still wear blue jeans,shorts, t-shirt, young,
long after I thought them old.

Am I sad? Only a little.
I hate the passing of days, months, years,
but I have to celebrate my achievement
and gifts of connections that bless me,
including my connection with YOU!

No Umbrellas

No Umbrellas

She didn't believe in umbrellas
would rather rain run down her face

I follow her lead, rain is the tears
I do not often shed...for her.



(This poem was written for Magpie Tales 80, where the prompt was the picture above.)

Love is Like a River

Love is Like a River

Going downstream is a breeze.
Easy, we smile and laugh,
put our feet in the water,
no need to paddle,
life jackets not needed.
We flow freely on our own,
know this is the right place,
we live in the right time,
savor the day, toast happiness,
believe it will last forever.

Paddling upstream, well,
who ever plans to go upstream?
Fighting the current is hard,
almost insurmountable at times.
We still try to smile, laugh,
but now wish for life jackets.
We try hard to have faith,
but it's harder now to continue.
We have no energy to toast,
realize there is no forever.

Carry on Tuesday this week had the prompt "Love is like a river."  The poem above is written in response.

My Muse

My Muse

With writing I'm often obsessed.
My muse won't let me rest.
She is often quite a pest,
keeps me too close to my nest.

So often she devises a quest,
continues topics to suggest,
welcome or unwelcome guest,
but so much time to invest

My muse drives me, revives me,
but, alas, she will not survive me.

(This was written for Sunday Scribblings #282 where the topic was muse.)

The Trunk

The Trunk

Dust gathers in the trunk,
cloaks the residue of truths
long hidden away by one
who lied to save his skin.

He turns the key to view
letters, pictures, gold vessels
which hold silver coins of
fervent love never revealed

The breeze blows, it always has.
It doesn't matter to him any more
One last look, and he casts fate to wind,
watches the river sweep memories away.

(This poem was written for The Sunday Whirl for August 28.  The words were residue, turns, skins, truth, dust, trunk, matter, breeaze, cloak, vessel, sweeps, fervent.  I used all of them in one form or another.)

A Place With a View

A Place With a View

Life is a labyrinth.
You ramble first one way
then another, wind through
the maze which shifts
with each turn as you twist,
swerve, never return
to where you were before.

You discover a back entrance,
come upon a place with a view
of all you left behind,
but there is no door.
Frantic, you scream,
pound fists on the window
of your old life, but no one
there hears you, sees you.

Despondent, you are destined
to move on, continue to weave,
wander the labyrinth until you
discover yet another back entrance,
another window with a view
of all you left behind. Again
you shout, wave hands, pound,
but no one looks your way.

Disheartened, you walk on,
until you tire of walking forward,
instead choose to leave the path,
lie down between stalks of sustenance
in the darkest corner of the labyrinth
where you rest peacefully alone,
forever surrounded by all memories
you had wished to relive.

(Written for Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads where the prompt was to "allow ourselves to become lost in the maze of language, magic, and endless possibilities" and also for dVerse Poetry where  Brian's prompt was to share what you see what your third eye!)






  

Politics as Usual

Politics as Usual

In today's world
one must adapt
to the reality
that many lie
to gain advantage.
Whatever it takes!

As misleading words
glide so smoothly
through smiling teeth,
foul breath oozes
overpowers opposition
before facade can crack.

(This is my second contribution this week to  Three Word Wednesday, where the words to be used were glide, adapt, lie.  This is a much different poem than my earllier one written a few days ago.)

Always Looking Up

Always Looking Up

She taught me to always look up.
Though she had Parkinson's disease,
she dreamed of future, had no illusions.
She is my role model, I love her for that.

I can still hear her saying she had to
verbalize her worst fear, Parkinsons,
and if she did this it wouldn't be true
but it was true. I cried. She cried too.

But she fought long and hard,
didn't roll over to her diagnosis
She always looked up, thought future,
taught me much by her living, dying.

(This was written for Poetry Jam.  And thank you, Diane, for the inspiration.)

Something Stinks

Something Stinks

Unappetizing smells
armpits without deodrant,
dirty underwear, rotting fruit,
garlic breath, a dead rat.

So often we pretend to ignore
unsavory smells, thus I admire
my three-year-old granddaughter
who simply announces I farted!


(This was written for Poets United Thursday Think Tank: Theme - Something Stinks.)

Life as It Is

Life as It Is


I adapt to what life presents me
but I'd lie if I said I had the key.

I try not to glide through life,
but rather strive to soar.

I do the best I can, I think, but
perhaps I could do more.

(This was written for Three Word Wednesday.  The words were "lie, glide, adapt.")

Sunday Drives

Sunday Drives


I remember those summer Sunday drives
no air-conditioning in the fifty-seven Ford.

Dad driving, mom his trusty navigator,
sister, aunt, and me sandwiched in back.

Windows open to dust and fresh air,
everyone's hair blowing in the breeze.

Cooler with sandwiches and beverages
waiting patiently in the hot trunk.

We didn't go far in those days,
not much time, even less money,

but it didn't really matter, as we
enjoyed the thrill of journey.

A picnic and walk at Point Beach Park,
a visit to the fish hatchery at Wild Rose.

A yearly look and marvel at Keshena Falls,
an afternoon of cotton candy at Seymour Fair.

And no matter what else, we always knew
we'd stop at Dairy Queen on the way home.

I remember those summer Sunday drives.
Weren't they only yesterday?

(This was written for  Magpie Tales and is based on the above picture. Pardon my bit of childhood nostalgia.  Life was so much 'simpler' then. It was also submitted to Open Link night over at dVerse.)

Time to Say Good-bye

Time to Say Good-bye

Time to say good-bye forever
to the woman who claimed to be friend,
yet deserted me in my darkest hours
when I needed kindness, understanding most.

I realize I was duped, the word friend
an empty platitude, a cheap lie
for which I fell, gullible, though
I never thought the word applied to me.

I trusted, cared, thought I knew her.
We shared so many good times.
All past now. I still hurt, but am wiser.
It is her loss of integrity, not mine.

(This poem is based on truth and a situation that happened recently.  I don't take friendship lightly.  It is hard to realize I was duped....when I really HAD believed.  This poem was written for Carry on Tuesday.  The prompt was "time to say good-bye."  I thank them for that, as the poem was catharsis, something I needed today.)

Texture

Texture

I reach out to touch
with my fingers, mind,
all that is smooth
prickly, soft, sharp,
slippery, rough, uneven.
Many different facets,
life must be embraced.

Life is changeable,
textures shift as
situations change.
We have to embrace
what is to abide.
There is no alternative
if we wish to survive.

(This poem was written in response to the    dVerse   prompt:  Textures.)

Desperation

Desperation

Spin the bottle on granite floor,
cheap saloon, cheap booze,
low ceiling, low light, low life.

Cigarette ash clouds choke
those who slouch in desperation,
reek of stale spirits and sweat,
wasted by their alcohol god.

Together they huddle hopeless,
raise their glasses to a revolution
they're unwilling to achieve.
Cheers to you.  To you!

Spin the bottle again, night is young.
Who's next to seek reprieve, be cleansed,
if only for a moment by the stranger savior,
(the phantom looms at the door)
if nothing else, a screw? You?

(This was written for The Sunday Whirl, where today's words were desperation, granite, slouch, screw, ash, light, wasted, revolution, cleansed, spin, cheap, stranger.  I used all of them. )

Silence

Silence

I am surrounded by silence.
Not that I mind, you know.
Silence is peaceful,
allows me to ponder,
is salve for my soul

Ideas form in silence,
in silence I dream,
remember other times,
in silence I laugh,
in silence I cry.

In silence I replenish,
fill myself once more,
invigorate life anew
forget past offenses.
In silence I renew.

Six Short Poems

The Door

The door swings open
the door swings shut
same door has so many options

sometimes I feel
I am inside the door
trapped swinging


Mine and Not Mine

Hard to know sometimes
the difference between
mine and not mine

My children? Are they
mine now that they are grown?
Were they ever...... really?

Most often I conclude that
mine only exists inside
my mind, as long as I have it.


The Art of the Possible

What really is possible
I sometimes wonder and
how does it become so.

Is possible simply luck
or is possible attained
through toil and sweat

Who is to be given credit
for possible, who blamed
for impossible? Enigma.


Without People

Without people
would there be meaning?
Without meaning,
would people be necessary?


Full Circle

Often I find I end where I begin
still have questions without answers
continue to go round and round
attempt to figure it all out.
Full circle doesn't always end
but pretends to find a solution.
no beginning, and no end.


Confession of a Ghost

I have tried to haunt you for years,
but you haven't noticed. Did you not
feel my warm presence next to you
as you slept last night? You did

not hear me cry, thought it was
only the wind. I am so close, yet so far.
My voice is loud to me, but you're deaf to it.
Don't you know that I love you?

These poems were all inspired by poet Stuart Dischell  (his book - Dig Safe) titles.

An Eye for An Eye

An Eye for An Eye

An eye for an eyeaccomplishes nothing good.
One bad deed returned in kind
only multiplies bad feelings
and causes more ill will.
I prefer to follow instead
to embrace Let go and let God,
to allow Him to judge,
to decide another's fate.

This was written for Carry On Tuesday, where the prompt was "An eye for an eye...."

R

R

Restless (on occasion)
Reclusive (sometimes)
Reasonable (I think)
Rebel (but silently most of the time)

Redundant (never)
Refined (if I have to be)
Religious (with doubts)
Reserved (another word for shy)

Risk taker (no way)
Responsible (to a fault)
Rich (in experiences)
Rational (indeed)

Romantic (there was a time)
Raunchy (in my dreams)
Reflective (is my middle name)
Ramble (who me?)

This poem was written for  Poets United, where the challenge was to use the third letter of your first name.  For me, that is an "R."

Mute

Mute

Often I am mute,
cannot express what I feel.
I gasp in short breaths,
hope to express
all my viable thoughts,
but alas I fall short.
Few really know me.

(This was written for  http://www.threewordwednesday.com/.  The words to be used were gasp, mute, and viable.)

Evening

Evening

It is evening.

Everything to be accomplished  has been done

or will wait until tomorrow.

Evening brings relaxation, quiet, solitude,

my time to do whatever I want.

I choose to write poetry or emails,

 walk dogs,  play mindless games, watch TV.

Evening is my special time to be.

Written for Poetry Jam.  The prompt was :  Evening.

Urban By Day

Urban By Day

I used to like to go downtown
hit the bars, enjoy the discos,
dark and smokey, strobe lights.
Do you want to dance? It was
exciting, fun on a Friday night.

Somehow it didn't seem dangerous.
Maybe it was then, I can't say.
But now I steer clear, too many crazies,
drugs, people with guns, shootings.
It wouldn't be worth it to me.

I will go downtown in the daytime,
high-tail it out before night.
Maybe my fears are irrational,
but I watch the news. Urban by day,
suburban by night, suits me fine.

(This poem was written for dVerse which encouraged us to go 'urban' with our poetry.)

Torment

Torment

Stillness is not sacred.
in the nether worlds where
sporadic seditious subterfuge
is enmeshed, but not stigma.

Demons of darkness rage,
pledge demolition, hinder reprieve,
as tremors tread treason,
crack plaster of anything sane.

Tufts of trickery rampage,
doubters disbelieve no more,
hell is no childish illusion.
Eternally trapped now, too late.

(Written using all the words from The Sunday Whirl:  tremor, enmesh, tuft, seditious, tread, pledge, sporadic, stigma, sacred, plaster, hinder, nether)

Summer Love

Summer Love

 Night is late
summer is hot.
hearts throb
on front porches.

Lovers stand
under the moon
speaking words
never spoken before.

There is only today,
no tomorrow, and
may this be the
beginning of forever,

(This poem was written for  Magpie Tales 77.)

Prophets in our Midst

Prophets in Our Midst

Unheralded, unobtrusive, prophets walk among us,
their ethereal essence illuminated by morning sun,
their messages scrolled in the rusty wisps of clouds.
articulated by the tender rustle of forest leaves.

Scars are covered by silk, torments erased.
Revelations cast crawling shadows on cement,
while their notes billow in the mountain stream
before they're swept away, imperceptible once more.


(This poem was written in response to Wordle 16 - The Sunday Whirl.  The words to use were torments, swept, tender, notes, walk, prophets, crawling, cement, sun, morning, scars, rusty.)

If I Should Die

If I Should Die

If I should die, think only this of me
that I lived  the best I could,
that I loved you, never wanted more
than to be with you each day,
that I tried to live an honest, authentic life
as that is all I knew. If I should die,
know that I will die a better person
for knowing you.

Moving On

Moving On

Alone in the present,
trapped between past and future,
I roll my hoop down the lonely street
try to find my place.
My shadow follows me
conveys past along.

A foreboding shadow looms ahead,
friend or foe I know not.
I must keep going
as the present is temporal,
the past is fixed,
and I must discover
what future brings

(This poem was written for the prompt over at dVerse.  It was inspired by a painting of Giorgio de Chirco, a Greco - Italian painter.  The painting is called Mystery and Melancholy of a Street.)

Six Short Poems

Letting Go  #1
 
I let go of expectations
disappointment not possible
better that way


Letting Go #2

I will never let go of memories
stories or photographs.
I will never let go of love


The Feisty One

She was always the feisty one
loved color and dangling jewelry
red lipstick. She wore her hat cocked
elegant, bold. She left her mark.


Acceptance

Acceptance is necessary
not easy but necessary
so we can go on
even though sometimes
we question why.


Juggler

I am a juggler of time
time for this, time for that,
time for so many things
but seldom am I able
to juggle time well enough
to give ample time for me.


Murmurs

Murmurs in the corner
I wonder what they say
maybe I don't want to know
they are not smiling.

(These six very short poems were written in response to challenges given by my writing group.)

Pig Fair

Pig Fair

Early summer Saturdays
before the heat of midday
we journeyed to the weekly pig fair
to delight in its sights sounds smells
tastes and wonderful things to buy

Crisp head lettuce
large juicy tomatoes
carrots with their greens
fresh cucumbers and zucchini
potatoes by the pound
used tools and toys
hand-crafted pillows
useless gadgets and games
hot dogs and soggy pastries
chickens in wire cages
puppies and kittens in boxes
and yes! there were pigs.

Farmers in muddy overalls
marketed from open trucks
wobbly tables and dirty crates
weighed and bagged their harvest
asking how many pounds d’ya want?
and do ya have your own bag?
ok see ya next week okay?

Saturday after summer Saturday
month after month year after year
time was measured in pig fair days
one year sister and I sold painted rocks
from our set up card table
successful merchants for a day
under the scorching sun and then
I turned away for only an instant
blinked my eyes looked back
and pig fair had faded from view
and yes! there were pigs.

(This poem is shared for Poets United Thursday Think Tank where the theme is "market days."  In my hometown, when I grew up, the weekly Farmers' Market was called by everyone the Pig Fair.  Thus, my poem.)

Summer

Summer

Summer again ends too soon
and I wonder
how many more summers I will see.

I try to enjoy just this one summer
as every other summer before
though more and more I am aware

time is running out
my summers are numbered
that this summer, such as it is,

is the best it will ever be
I am mortal, things can change,
things will change sometime soon.

(This poem was written for Magpie Tales,)

Elegy

Elegy

If I had to do it again
knowing I'd lose you
I'd do it anyway
live every day
with you at my side

        but

I'd buy more roses
eat more pizza
sing more songs
write more poems
take more pictures
to remember you.

For D. - July, 1948 - July, 2011

(This poem was written for  Poetry Jam.  The prompt this week was to write an 'elegy.')

If We Hide Our Faces

If We Hide our Faces

If we hide our faces
we obscure ourselves from view
prevent others from knowing us
and what do we think we gain?

It is better to stare life in the eye
proclaim who it is we are
rather than present an illusion
which no one will believe.

Those who hide their faces
deceive no one but themselves.
Everyone sees what is hidden
beneath their fractured facade.

The person who hides her face is a fool.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow

We can't relive yesterday,
nor can we relive today,
but we can look forward, realize
tomorrow is another day.

We can't rewrite the past,
we can't redo today.
We can only look ahead,
plan tomorrow in the best way.

Life is never long enough,
we must make good use of time
until our life is behind us and
all we have is  yesterday.


Written for Carry On Tuesday.  Prompt is:  "After all, tomorrow is another day."