No Return

Each time I go back to visit, they ask,
“When are you moving back home?”
How many ways can I say it?
“Never” seems a little cold;
Closer to the truth: This isn’t home
anymore.

And while I love the time I spend
eating Mama’s cooking, playing
with the children that keep growing,
even when I’m not around to witness,
I can’t wait to return, to reach
the other end of the road.

We cheer as we cross the state line
back to Carolina, when we first see
signs marking mileage to Hickory,
back to our home, our own beds,
pillows still dented by our heads,
to friends awaiting our return.

BECKETT'S LAP-DANCE

every second's return reruns the rest
the morning's uprooting from dreams
the afternoon's check-list gauntlet
the evening's sacrifice of gutted ambitions

to wake up once again to the nothing new
Beckett book on my lap
a Wednesday routine
rooted in dreams' gutted gauntlet

a body to blend together same and new

Robert, your poem just blew me away - it may be the best one you've posted here. I'll "return" with my poem later....

Wow, Robert, exceptional piece, love especially the way you brought about a feeling of the situation resolving, the triplicity of moving on. :)

ACQUAVIVA


I will return to Acquaviva someday,
perhaps not now when life is so demanding:
there's work and rent to pay and bills galore.
I will go to Acquaviva sometime
and walk those cobblestones as times before.
Those long-lost days of youth as bright as sunlight--
Where have they disappeared? Oh, back then,
the laughter that echoed off the white-stone
houses! Aunt Rosalia calling me
for dinner. The boys playing soccer in
the fields. Padre Mendola waving us
to mass. Someday I will go there, relive
those joyous days I saved in my memory,
laugh again with those who've survived the years.

I'll pretend I hear my Grandpa Papa 'To'
as I pass the house on Via Crispi
where he once lived. I'll breathe into my soul
the scent of bougainvillea and recall
how once I carried home some blossoms
and kept them till they turned to dust.
I will go to Acquaviva sometime,
but who can say when that day will be.
For now I'll take what sleep will bring me
as I lie in bed and dream me there.
I will return to Acquaviva someday.
Perhaps not now, perhaps one day,
perhaps, perhaps.

#

Robert: excellent! I love your story poems, they're your best work, imho.
Salvatore: very moving

I don't know if anyone has been checking out the Perseids, but they're beautiful...

SAMSARA

When I'm dragged back, I think I'd like to be
a Perseid, like clockwork in the sky,
incendiary as a star, and free.

Their annual return is marvelous to see,
and worth attention from a watchful eye
when I'm dragged back. I think I'd like to be.

I could come back a mouse, a stone, a flea,
but a celestial form is worth a try,
incendiary as a star, and free.

And if I must be bound to earth or sea,
there's just one thing I crave, I hope to try,
when I'm dragged back: I think I'd like to be

a thing that gazes upward constantly,
each incarnation wishing it could fly
incendiary as a star, and free.

I'm piling karma by my bodhi tree,
paying off the debt of every sin and lie.
When I'm dragged back, I think I'd like be
incendiary as a star, and free.

ENCOUNTER

Ocean woos me,
waves whisper
silent semblance,
reminders of
time spent.

Seafaring voyage
Monhegan Island
being the
Green, glistening
tropical destination.

Self sustaining village,
smiling residents.
Red rocking chair
set in motion by
the sea breeze.

Vivid still shot
images planted.
Enchanted place,
Fruity, fragrant
wild pink roses.

Velvet nosed
doe, unafraid,
tamed by the
hunt less ways.
Hand I displayed,

satin snout did
not startle at my
reaching out, touched.
Imprinted, forever
gifted, island visit.

Ocean waves in my
neighborhood bay,
sing the secret of
this sacred place;
beckoning me to return.

~Hannah Gosselin

Joseph, your right on with this one, once again excellent. Loving, "incendiary as a star, and free."

Nancy liked the visual, "pillows still dented by our heads."

Salvatore, "I'll breathe into my soul the scent..."

Hold

just hold it there, in time and in pose,
so you don’t leave my picture of you.

I want to hold you longer that you are
willing to be, your smile will be gone

in the next minute, unless I stop you
to take a photo, because later, you will

be gone.
So,
be still,

Hold this time tight, taut like a rope
Across the bridge from here to there,

Because none of us can stop our age.
You may not want to smile tomorrow.

Son, from here to there is not very far
And you will age faster that I can hold.

Our House

Huddled in towering pine trees
sat a little white house on a hill.
I’ve walked, biked, rode in or drove
a car up the winding driveway
thousands of times. Most people

today would call it a cottage: three
bedrooms, kitchen, living room,
bathroom all barely big enough
to hold the essentials. Dad built it
for Mom when they got married,

sixty years ago. My four sisters and I
all grew up in it. We learned life there.
Every time Mom left the house she
would say, “Off, off, off, off, off,
bye house,” as she checked the lights and

the burners. After our parents died,
my youngest sister bought it, but lived
in California. The first renter remodeled
and after he moved out, we stayed there
during our family reunion. We wondered

how seven had ever fit. The second renters,
(it turns out) eight people with dogs,
cats, and rabbits destroyed it. My
sister said you could smell urine from
the outside. Though it was difficult,

she decided to level it. She posted
pictures on the family blog. Before:
like we remembered it. After:
dilapidated. And then: an empty
patch in the dirt, like in our hearts.

It’s almost like losing a family member,
but we’re thankful we stayed there
together one last time. Off, off, off,
off, off, bye house. We can never
return home, except in our memories.

RETURN TO SENDER

Returned unopened.
The letter,
an explanation,
an apology,
an "it's been so long
and I've been thinking..."
It says address unknown.
Insufficient postage.
No number found.
The reasons become
more wordy than your note.
All you wanted to say
was thank you for
everything, I'm sorry for
everything. You want to do
everything you can to
heal the wounds. But,
even though time can heal,
too much time can render
one obsolete. Unavailable.
Resting in Peace.
Returned unopened.

RESURRECTED

The phoenix rising,
back from the dead.
Lazarus called,
he wants his life back.
Lost in the depths
of a broken spirit,
left in the lurch
with much more to say.
You stand in silence,
wishing for the return
of your sanity, and
your security, and
everything else that
leaves you feeling empty;
dead from the floor up.
The randomness of words
tossed together with ease
and flair, brings your voice
from deep within you and
gives cause to express
every heartfelt pang,
poem and passion,
delivering your work
to an appreciative audience,
offering peace and
confidence to your lifeless
rhyme. Infusing your heart
and soul with the breath
of a million soft sighs,
for the poet has regained
his promise and drive.
Once again alive.
Resurrected.

LONG TO RETURN

to carefree days
when the swimming pool
was the main hang-out;
the whole town,
open for bicycle exploration
until suppertime.

The world at peace.
Government leaders
served the people,
not far-out
special interest factions.

Guns were used to
hunt animals,
not shoot people.

A weed was something
pulled in a garden.
High, someplace you
strived to climb to.

People worked
in order to eat,
and took pleasure
in a job well done.

Good ones today. Interesting phrases and word arrangements.

Sally, I'll borrow your last line, "...a job well done."

Popped in on my lunch break. What a wonderful place to relax and enjoy all the beautiful scenery.

Robert: Wow. "In a Mood" is simply exceptional.

Every piece posted so far is well done, and contains phrases that I'd like to hold on to in my mind.

TV LAND

The days of youth
cemented in front of
the cathode ray tube of
inactivity. Security
of familiar faces,
friendly places in
convenient thirty minute
situations and solutions.
Black and white,
to living color,
sometimes the nuclear
family gets cancelled
for low ratings.
And in time you see
episodes played over,
and over, and over, and...
a regurgitation of reruns.

Years pass and the
Cathode ray is a
plasma based flat panel.
Inactivity is repossessed
in new ventures of video
madness. Games of villainous
vermin, and heroic guitarists,
between, twenty-four hour news
mayhem; death and destruction
in convenient twenty second
sound bites, meant to bring
the world to the same place
but leaving you isolated from
your cherished past. For in the
span of years your dreaded
reruns have come back to
return your innocence to you
in convenient thirty minute
situations and solutions.
Familiar faces, in friendly happy
places, welcoming you home.
All is well in TV Land!

Nancy: pillows still dented by our heads,
Kevin: rooted in dreams' gutted gauntlet
Salvatore: I'll breathe into my soul the scent of bougainvillea
Joseph: Entire last stanza
Hannah: I may commit the whole to memory
J. Martin: Hold this time tight, taut like a rope Across the bridge from here to there
Connie: an empty patch in the dirt, like in our hearts
Walt: even though time can heal, too much time can render
one obsolete. Resurrected is perfect.
Sally: Simply, Amen.

Back to my seminar. Thank you for a lovely lunch break.

Joseph, I guess you and I are on the same track here. What a sky-show!


BACK TO THOSE NIGHTS
[the Perseids]

Remember, when we were kids in backyard
sleeping bags, counting shooting stars....
Remember, we were lovers watching
the moon turn full and counting stars...

Tonight on TV, America’s Got Talent. Instead,
I walk out as the sky goes dark and darker,
Jupiter rising in the east. Then WOW!
A comet whiz-bang low and close

as if some neighbor’s kid set off a rocket
over the backyard fence; a kid tap-dancing
sparks from his shoes, somersaulting over
rooftops, incandescing into star.

Forget the small-screen talent search.
Come outside with me and watch
that great old crooner, the August
moon; come count the shooting stars.

Returning to Blonde

Goodbye black roots,
you've been an onus too long.
I am returning to blonde,
in a heartbeat and a song.

Gone are the awful days
of covering you up in shame;
wearing baseball caps and hats.
Now my hair color will be the same.

Goodbye black roots,
and pricey highlights from a pro.
I am returning to blonde,
thanks to Clairol, my hair will be aglow.

Laurie K.

I Miss the Sound

Before the personal computer
before the word processer
before hardrives
and floppy disks
and RAM
and ROM
and bytes
we had the typewriter
and the typewriter produced
a most glorious noise
at the end
of every line
a bell would sound
and then the carriage
would return

Soldiers Return

they returned in grey and blue
to a nation torn asunder
after all the years and more and more wars we still have no clue
they returned in grey and blue
as harder winds of war blew
soldiers are ignored buried under
returning in grey and blue
to a nation torn asunder

Collections

Could you please return
my green socks the fuzzy ones I think I left them
under your bed that night we ate pineapple pizza and watched Friends reruns until dawn.

Could you please return
my copy of Leaves of Grass I know it’s tattered
and stained but it’s got sentimental value and it’s underlined in all the right places.

Could you please return
my toothbrush I’m only going to throw it away but it
contains my DNA which you no longer have any use for since choosing to split the atom.

Could you please return
the postcard I sent from home when you
went to San Francisco for that conference the one with the pitiful puppy that says
I miss you.
Could you please return?

John F. Murray..."I Miss the Sound," too! Beautiful.
Hannah..."Encounter" Oh, how a place can become part of us. Love it.
Great work all, but I was particularly struck by these lines:
J Martin: "And you will age faster than I can hold."
Nancy Posey: "Pillows still dented by our heads"
Kevin Spenst: "a body to blend together same and new"
Salvatore: "the laughter that echoed off the white-stone houses"
Walt: "the breath of a million soft sighs"

Nice poem, Robert. I really like this one. I know this isn't a "Workshop Robert Brewer's Poetry Blog," but if you'd like a piece of feedback, here goes. (Stop reading now if you don't want it.) For me, then ending is too pat. I like the experience better when I stop reading at the penultimate stanza.

DA

Marie and De, thank you ladies! :)

De, "collections," was so you, you have such a unique voice.

Walt, I also liked "the breath of a million soft sighs."

Connie, deeply moved, to say the least. We had a house that still stands but we can't return to, my grandfather built it. Very well done!

Outstanding writing from everybody! I'm perpetually pleased by the quality of talent here, thanks you guys! :)

Escape or Return?

Fill in the answer and hit return.
Tell us what we want to know
or you will receive a letter from us
asking the questions all over again
in different ways that mean the same thing:
You aren't free of us and never will be
as long as you want what you're owed.
Tell us the answers.
Bare your soul
Will you escape
or hit return?

Many happy...

Back and forth.
To and fro.
In and out.
Ebb and flow.

Up and down.
Volley set.
Rod and reel.
Zero net.

Boomerang.
Ping and pong.
Pogo stick.
Going long.

Fly fishing.
What you say.
Dingbat ball.
Night and day.

Addresses.
Yo-yo string.
Envelope.
Metal spring.

Bungee jump.
Echoed hoot.
Space shuttle.
Parachute.

Newton's law.
Sun and moon.
One-eighty.
Profit/boon.

Rubber band.
Memory.
Bad penny.
Come to me.

Echo

Hi!
She
hollers
to the night.
Hi! right back atcha
Answer teases from canyon walls.
Do you love me? she asks of wind
as it calms her face
but this time
no one
calls
back.

Love it, Willy!

:these things take me back:
“my father gave me the greatest gift anyone could give another person,
he believed in me.” ~jim valvano

i might miss him when the yellow star thistle
touches lightly the button of my blue jeans

when i lay me down in these foreign grasses
and gaze up at mountains mirroring my own

when my memory’s tide goes in i’ll slip
and, shoosh, i slide and there he is again

swampy like my twilight thoughts
an enclosed world of limbs and leaves

the glimpse of river we’d catch on long rides
swaddled like the baby i once was in his hands

sometimes i think this slow choice changed him
and soon sunset will be seeding me home again



(this poem is for my dad, who i will miss dearly come the 18th, when i take my first big step away from home and head 'cross country for school)

Blackberries Back Again


Now in August, they turn black, sweet,
and tempt the risk of thorn and tear.
I have not picked the bramble clean,
and in an hour, there will be more.
With seven picked, going each one
inside me, I go back indoors,
try to count the drupelets the sun
coaxed this solstice-window from weeds.
Thirty? Forty-two? I lose count
returning ‘round the circumference
that I want to eat. There’s no hint
of red to add sour or reference.
With my tongue I reckon high tide
has returned to the muddy bay--
they’ve come back. I waited, hungry
for the pick and taste and thorny
trails by the shore; and in the hills
some paths have grown narrower since
last year’s hunt. (We had four free pies!)
Now I taste how summer resolves
its reasons for leaving back then.
It returns as the word RETURN
does: starts on R then E-T-Us
before revisiting its or-
igin, and then, stepping again
onward to N, but not to end.
Winter’s berry bramble is sweet
with anticipation, and in
summer, the berries ache to eat
the heat away again; and here’s
a father, grown older, balder,
his tongue twisting like a toddler’s,
or a bee’s, sucking out the black.


DA

I, alone, await Return


Yo-
Rock the baby,
Walk the dog,
Around the corner,
Over the falls.
Pop the clutch,
Double or nothing,
Around the world.

Forward pass, gravity pull, warp drive, time warp
Brain twister, roller coaster, ferris wheel,
Man on the flying trapeeze.

-Yo

John F. Thanks--I had that thought but couldn't get it right: you did, because it isn't just the return, it's the bell.

Willy, this one's a gem.

Y'all, let's just pretend I know how to spell.

Thanks, Walt. Back at ya!

Man! Some good stuff here already!! Gotta devote some time to grok it.

Thanks, De & Barbara - y'all made MY day (and I needed that, big-time!).

W

Penelope’s Lament upon His Return

They say the wife’s the last to know,
but I deserve a little credit.
I heard the stories—men turned to pigs,
a bag of winds, a one-eyed monster,
years spent stranded on a temptress’s
isle ? I’ve heard better stories—
and worse. But answer me: What
doesn’t change in twenty years?

In truth, each day our son reminded
me of the young, strong man
who sailed away from me, from Ithaca,
off to his glory. A wreck of a man
returned to me looked more like
Athena’s swineherd than that boy.

Yes, I took him back, but please,
don’t think me weak, too helpless
to fend off suitors by myself.
Can’t you just believe I loved
to weave and then unravel,
sitting alone at peace each night
in that bed he had made for me?

Daniel "returns" for seconds...


"Volver Loco"


The change in Spanish is literally “to turn crazy”
rather than our English understanding, “to go crazy.”
In the Spanish sense, one goes nowhere, but simply
turns in place, like milk or a plot or a phrase.

That’s terrifying because it means it takes merely
a convulsion, an unknown adjustment of chemistry,
a change of position, a pivot to face toward a dark way,
and you arrive without leaving in a skew of place.

This applies to every brand of mad, shocked or zany,
from the trouser-dropping abandon of the unleashed party
to the flytrap dreams that presidents invade your privacy
to implant microphones in your molars as you sleep.

But the idea of turning crazy is comforting, too.
It’s hopeful to know that facing depends on you,
that you might breathe, check in, and turn anew
to a saner return, for your soul to keep.



DA

Again
We spend a life time together in a few years.
I can bring to mind, Leonarda, the convent and the future wedding dress.
She blessed me in it. You were thrilled; I knew it would never happen to us.
The river, the fun, the love, it all comes to mind.
We had tragedy and peace, you withstood it all, and I went away.
I married, you didn’t and now comes the time.
We face each other in a room with a casket.
You sit by my mother, she never approved.
You say goodbye but never leave.
I can bring to mind.

“Traveling”

You travel almost every week
and call me when you take your seat
I always wish you a safe flight
and hope I can sleep through the night;

You always call me when you land
to let me know your safe at hand
and when you return home to me
we want a moment, let us be;

Sometimes the worry demon rears his head
and my nights become long and filled with dread,
you might not return, you perhaps are dead;

So I whisper my prayers and knock on wood,
Anything so you return where you should.

Joseph Harker - love you SAMSARA poem - gorgeous!! particularly " icendary as a star, and free." Thanks for sharing!

Return?

I’m the slow one in the
Crowd
Thought I knew you better than that
Tried to do what my mother
Told me,
Took the longest path to
Worry and found
Myself in a mess and
Today isn’t for the
Weak
We aren’t going to get
There
Are we?

Wish I wasn’t so big,
That these hips didn’t shake and
Jiggle like they do
When my finger wags and this
Non-cultured,
Unkempt, one-size- too-big
Bra doesn’t hold
Enough love for us to
Change,
Does it?

Je Reviens

A signature scent, it was the only thing
She wore, and he knew her the moment
She arrived – jasmine, ylang ylang and
Something else – maybe orange blossom
He wasn’t sure – something subtle but
It was always her, never any other woman

As distinctive as a fingerprint or DNA
She left traces of herself imprinted in his
Bed, on the throw cushions upon his couch
Even in the fibres of the sheepskin rug
By his fireplace – as he lay there gazing
At the flames, the warmer it got, the more
Intensely he could sense her scent and he
Found himself so aroused sometimes
It was all he could do to keep himself
From calling her in the wee hours begging
Her to come to him wondering why he
Didn’t do just that, why she wasn’t
Already there, in his arms, in his bed

Wartime and it became hard to get perfume
He found he wondered if she would favour
Him if he could just find hers and began
To hunt it down, as if possessed, wherever
He was stationed, he would shop the black
Markets, searching seedy areas, illicit shops
Always asking for the blue bottled fragrance
From the House of Worth; knowing eyes
Watched him, it seemed, with something
Akin to pity, and always, “Je Reviens?”
They asked him, “I will return?” it was apparently
A favourite amongst the enlisted men
For obvious reasons but he found it odd;
He had never smelled it on one other woman
Still, he continued to search, eventually
Discovering several reliable sources, if he
Had the cash and as it happened, he was
Quite wealthy – but that hadn’t seemed to
Matter to her, no – money hadn’t made much
Of an impression on her at all; the only thing
She had fretted about, he thought
Was that her supply of perfume was dwindling

He remembered how her violet eyes had filled
With tears when he told her could drink
That scent in and never tire of it, not ever
Then she told him how ashamed she was to
Be so vain, so upset over something so trite
While the world was at war – he thought that
Was probably the moment he knew he loved her

More than a year passed before he could return
While he had started many letters to her
He hadn’t sent even one but by the time
He got leave, he had collected more than five
Bottles of her precious scent – five blue bottles
Of that loveliest of perfumes and it had been
All he could do to keep from opening even one
Just to revel in the aroma that was hers

When he came down the ramp from the plane
He was tired and dirty and wanted nothing
More than to go home, clean up and prepare
To call her, arrange to meet for dinner, anything
Just to see her again, give her his gifts, hoping
Against everything that she would want him
As much as he wanted her – he tried not to
Get his hopes up but it was hard, loving her the
Way he did; as he walked, head down across
The tarmac, trying not to think about anything
Except getting home, getting some rest and
Getting ready – he was startled out of his
Reverie by the sound of a woman calling his name

As if in a dream, he turned in the direction
Of the voice and there she was, the girl of the scent
The woman he had hardly dared think of all
The time away, except in relation to her perfume
She had her arms open and was smiling at him
Disbelieving, he actually looked behind to make sure
She wasn’t looking at someone else – she wasn’t

Striding purposefully now, he crossed to her,
Swept her into his arms and oh – that scent
His nostrils were filled with that wonderful scent
He couldn’t help wondering if some other man
Had bought her a supply of the perfume and
Almost asked when, as he nuzzled her neck
She said, “Ah my love, just for you, the last
Of my Je Reviens – I saved it just for you...”
He thought his heart might break for happy
“After all, you promised – remember? You said
You loved me, you said you wouldn’t die, that you
Would return – I made a pact with myself that
Until you did, I would not wear the scent again
Until you were home and safe – and now
Here you are – drink me in, my brave
Soldier man, Je Reviens, I will return, you said
And you have – I love you so – and one day
One day, there will be perfume again
Until then, we will have each other, yes?”

Felt so fat despite the size worn,
Only ate when staring eyes probed
The body hiding underneath
The baggy clothes I wore.
Just sixteen and working as
Quick check at the grocery,
Saving money for later while
Getting weaker and weaker.
Starving myself until empty.
Driving down the road, fading then
Noises so loud, shattering glass,
Twisted metal, the impact followed by
The pole that finally stopped the ride.

Blood all over, clothes torn,
Memory a distant scream.
With teeth shattered in my head,
My mind had only one thought:
“Please don’t tell my mom.”
The rescuers called her anyway and
After the hospital stay I went back
Home to the voice that said,
“Hey fatty, kitchen’s closed.”
But now I was relieved because
After being that broken I
Wasn’t even hungry anyway.

Robert, Fabulous poem. Here’s mine.


Returns

If you want a good return
on your investment
return to me. If this product
is not all you hoped for,
you can use the return label
and return it for a refund.
This wheel keeps on turning
but is it re-turning?
Many happy returns
of the day at Home Depot
is cause to be placed on
a Constant Return list,
after which you can never
return again.

Back in Town

The quiet little road we used to live on
has spread to four lanes, plus a fifth,
decorated with left-turn arrows
lit under a cluster of traffic lights.

The quaint nursery across the street
is now a bustling garden center
with a parking lot that sprawls
across most of an acre.

All the peach orchards are gone,
every single one.

The rolling meadows
now grow McMansions
with their atria entrances
and overdone chandeliers.

The field where we used to fly kites
now holds a big-box super-pharmacy
an assisted living center,
and a chain Italian restaurant.

We can deal with all that,
till we pass our old house,
its yard littered with cars and boats
in various states of disrepair.

Outside, it looks like it hasn’t
seen a paint brush in years.

Contrary to the old saying,
you can go home again.

Just don’t expect it
to feel the same.

Nancy Posey: Penelope's Lament...simply incredible.

Fire in an empty house

It’s the shape of a cloud and the color
Is blacker than gray and it’s roiling
A sound in the distance that may
Be the howl of a dog then the boiling
Is tall and it’s wide and it’s foul
And we know it’s not rain so we crowd
On the street and we run and we gaze
Sharing fear of the pain as the sheet
Of bright fire in its silken sweet splendor
Has lit up the sky we remember
The things that we’re longing to keep
Then we pray the impossible please
Let it all be okay
Someone rescued the dog.

And the strangers the neighbors the friends
Of the strangers and neighbors return
To the ending and memories burned
But at least they’re okay
Someone rescued the dog.

Summer Anticipated

Summer anticipated


Sitting on the sun-kissed balcony,
hot air all around.
Cicadas buzzing, lavender in flower,
green olives dripping from the trees.

A holiday plane flies over head,
carrying eager tourists.
Tavernas bustling, calamari sizzling,
beaches rowed with sunbeds and sunbrellas.

The sea twelve blues all sparkling,
fish glinting in the light.
Afternoon boats packed with families
diving for squid with spears and snorkels.

I'm waiting for that to come again,
watching the Spring return.
Crocuses, Daisies, and other yellow flowers
promise me it won't be long.

I drink my ouzo quietly, wait, and yearn.



I'm worried about this one - it isn't new - I found it in my pile of poems on my computer and I have forgotten writing it! Even to the point where I'm wondering if I might have copied it from somewhere. Yet the images are all very clear images of 'my summer' and I've Googled the life out of it to see if I can find it anywhere as if I did copy it - it would be from somewhere online and I can find no trace of it.

Also if I do cut and paste someone else's poem I always always always include their name and where I got it from in the file and this hasn't got anything like that attached.

Does anyone else ever get this happening? Where you forget writing a poem until you find it again later?

I want to put it in my new book - but I'm uneasy. Does anyone recognise it from here? Or am I just having a senior moment?

Frankly, Robert, the best effort I've read from you in the few months I've been visiting this site.

Well done!

Take care,

Joe

I Return

I return each day
To see if promises
Have been delivered
Even if they are not mine
To realize
And every day I see
The promises are undelivered

Like political proposals
Or papal bull
The promises are undelivered.

Good morning, brilliant writers! Once again, every single poem is well done and worth the read. More kudos...

De’s Collections
John F. Murphy’s I Miss the Sound
Willy’s Many Happy… (Wish I’d written that!) :)
Very sweet tribute, Khara.
Nancy’s Lament
How terrifying, Patti. Your description is heart wrenching.

Sharon: Je Reviens, in my mind, is in a class by itself.

Banana: There are times when I wonder if my ideas are truly my own ideas. Perhaps I read this somewhere else? Am I unknowingly stealing someone else's work? That very thought was what "prompted" my April 1st PAD piece ("Origins" prompt):

Origins of Thought

My thoughts I think are my thoughts, I think.
I think my thoughts are mine.
If others thought of my thoughts first,
Well, I think that’s just fine.

My thoughts I think are my thoughts, I think.
If others think them too,
That doesn’t make them not my thoughts.
At least, I think that’s true.

My thoughts I think are my thoughts, I think.
And I think it’s insane
To spend a nanosecond more
Just to ascertain.

Thanks for the nice words, everyone. It's rare that I feel happy with a first draft (which is what these Wednesday poems always are--just typing directly into the box on the screen), but this one seemed to turn out okay.

Daniel, thanks for your review of the finish. I was going back and forth on whether or not to take out the last stanza--even before I posted the poem.

I will not think of your return


In the richness of summer, the memory of winter.
And I am saving scraps against a time of want.
Threads of thread, too small to ball
Wire that would require a thousand kindred bits
to surround one worn brown cent.
I will put today's red ripeness by,
unsavored but dried safe,
and feed on carrot tops and remnant crusts,
sensibly secured against the lean times.
Nineteen brief days and you are gone once more
And I anticipate the want of you every day,
and ready memories against the flat silence.
On page by blue lined sheet
I note your moments and your movements;
I have your smiles on paper,
secure against the lean times.

Funny, Robert. I suppose it's all a matter of taste, but I love the very ending. "...the rain moves on, and so do they." To each his own. :)

Of the ones I could get to read in the seconds before the work hands start

Nancy loved no return
Walt tv land was a great read and got a chuckle out of your reference to tubes made me think of my dad and the superbowl but that’s another story er poem
Salvatore yours made me want to travel sigh

Thanks Marie Elena - that has helped me feel less anxious :)
It's going in the book anyway - I must be brave.
I will dedicate it to you.
X
Michele

banana--yes--it happened just yesterday for th first time. I was updating files and found one I have NO memory of writing. Along trh line fo standing on the shoulders, here is the theme poem from my book, Graffiti from the Narrow Road

All my original discoveries,
this pioneering of the soul,
turns out had long been recorded
before I was two years years old.

It's the scientific method,
valid findings can be repeated.
Every saint in every century
finds his thoughts already completed.

Frustrating,but such a comfort:
this must be the narrow road.
Prior travelers have left graffiti--
dropped portions of their load.



Nancy Posey and Taylor--well done
Walt--liked return to sender a lot
Khara "when my memory's tide goes in..." oooh, great image

Robert, we've all had that "argument" in some form or other. It could have gone the other way, but there are days that it "just moves on". The "Waffle House" aside was fantastic. There seems to be so many out there, doesn't there. And sometimes, the shortest distance between two points has a lot of hair-pin curves in it. Love the piece.

Robert, that is one of the best poems I have read recently. So very well done. Eaton.

This prompt really exploded in my head. Three at a time, bang bang, bang


ONE WAY

Mind swimming in th Sea of Doubt,
I waited my turn
at the ticket window.
Just ahead two men talked business
while a younf mom
fought that eternal battle
of wills with a three year old.
Recently freed from the Slough of Despond,
I was anxious to move on,
but unsure of my destination,
so I studied the list
of places these buses could go.
Arriving at the Mount of Decision,
I got no help.
The clerk stred fixedly
at my nose. "Where to?" she sighed.
I think I said "home"
she replied "what?"
"What leaves next?'
"3:10 ro St. Charles, Columbia,
Independence, Kansas City,
and points west."
I laid my cash on the counter.
"That will do. No return."



WIERD THINGS HAPPEN

Aunt Ethel's porch was vast--
right around the corner
of the house. Becky and I
played paper dolls while big folks
did their all day talking,
and rain puddled gently
in the low spot on the walk.
As Aunt Ethel aged,
the house shrank in around her
til the porch was cramped-
too narrow for a wicker chair



Evening News

How do people walk away
from innocence--
leave children wondering
where they went wrong?
Or desert old folks
to people who don't recall
days when they were
captains of their own ships--
creating, serving
changing the world?
Who never saw them laugh
or bat a ball, or dance a jog?
You see it on the news
most every night.
Where do they go?
Do they never ponder
the holes they've made
in people's hearts?
Although I know no one
who hasn't stared at the horizon,
thought about freedom and yearned
after the way not taken,
we're glad we woke up and returned

SUMMER: LOVE A FAIR

A summer of discontent,
suffering the slings
and arrows of torrential

downpours, and foggy
misty colored mornings,
lacking of brilliant sunshine

and carefree days of
all your reminiscences.
Another solstice come

and nearly gone with
nothing to show but your
pale pigment and saturated yard.

The days long gone, or of
summers past; one day to
bring the universe in alignment.

In your rambling search
for the one moment that
takes you home, you realize

your smile just brightened the room.
And you have returned.
The County Fair opens today.

And you recall it all.
The animals and their "fragrances"
The fruits and vegetables

of some dedicated 4-H-er's success.
The games of chance more
giving than a lot of choices

you've made by yourself of late.
A grand Midway of rides and
thrills that you no longer

have the mind (or stomach)
to encounter anymore.
And the people.

The melting pot of humanity
clutching cotton candy
and twelve foot tall

plush dust collectors.
Melt in your mouth chicken barbecue
feeding the masses and

making you long for a moist towelette.
The exhibits entice you,
just as they did when

you were twelve and snot-nosed;
short pants and dirty knees,
and a curiosity befitting your age.

You remember it all, through
those eyes, and you crave for
that one more day to be twelve,

to sully your knees, and sicken your
stomach on an abundance of fudge
and the odor of rancorous cow pies.

Calliope music is your soundtrack.
Shouts and screams are your chorus.
You love these days, the last vetages

of another summer gone amiss.
Youthful exuberance drips from
you like a cascade; washing you

in memories not soon relinquished,
and giving you that sense
that if you can get yourself to

another Fair season, it will be
a very good year. For this day,
your father's "Sonny-boy" has returned.

Robert: (My first comment was lost? so apologies if it turns up later.) Echoing other comments above, your "sample" poem excites a comment from me! Beginning with the billboard and cross, levels within each image within the poem, which is deceptively simple at first read, turns the reading "drive" of your poem into a marvelous multi-level journey: Using "carpe" (thought carp, then harpy); her bare crossed legs (possible variation of taking the shirt off, and aggressive/closed stance); Waffle House (consider how waffles are made, and where you took this in the next couple of lines in your poem; the capitalized ENGINE LIGHT, repeated; very subtle use of weather (it could have easily become cliche, but never did.) I could go on and on. Well done, Robert. I really enjoyed this one.

... should be CHECK ENGINE; oh and boiled peanuts. Boiled! Great.

Returning Home

Every afternoon, along about three
She's there waiting for me
Her cute nose pressed against the glass
She runs to greet me,
refusing to let even one second pass
Her tail wagging ever so fast

What did I do
To deserve such unconditional love
If I only knew
in truth, nothing special I can think of

Though she hates me when I take her to the vet
Just as soon as we come home
She decides to forget
Oh, the kisses, when we are alone
She drowns me in kisses
as if to say, that's what you get,
for taking me to a vet

When I return home to the cats
they act like they could care less
A couple of little aristocrats
putting my love for them to the test

They are nothing like my dog
so aloof and on their own
often only coming out for food
While acting like I'm not even home. . .

© Ralph J. Fitcher, August 12, 2009, a returning poem

... her feet are "naked" on the dashboard, possibility exposing vulnerability, but still crossed (I imagine a woman standing by their bed, she waits naked for her lover/husband, with arms crossed protectively over her bare chest.) Okay, I'll stop now.

Wrong Turn

I can't go back to the moment
before you kissed me
to find those signals
that you must have read
and turn them off.

We are crossing the bridge
over the chasm of our mistakes.
There is no return
to the place where we
were just friends.

Now as I look for a place
to take hold within your eyes
I breathe in our past
knowing I must run
before our future disintegrates
beneath us.

Sorry for second post. (Should have taken the hint when it took 4 times to post that something was missing! First stanza disintegrated!)

Wrong Turn

I lost my place
when you interrupted me.

I can't go back to the moment
before you kissed me
to find those signals
that you must have read
and turn them off.

We are crossing the bridge
over the chasm of our mistakes.
There is no return
to the place where we
were just friends.

Now as I look for a place
to take hold within your eyes
I breathe in our past
knowing I must run
before our future disintegrates
beneath us.

*Nancy Posey – “No Return” touches a nerve. “Penelope’s Lament” as well.
*Salvatore – I hope you get your “perhaps, someday”. Brilliant.
*Joseph – “Samsara” Nice!
*Hannah – Every “Encounter” with you is life-affirming and most welcomed. Your writing is…”Happy”.
Has that same effect on me.
*J. Martin – “Hold” is gripping.
*Connie - …and thank God for those memories! Love “Our House”. It was painful finally getting rid of Dad’s place. At the moment of sale, it felt more like home than it had in years.
*Taylor – “the great old crooner” is excellent imagery.
*John F. – That bell was punctuation all by itself. Good memory.
*Megan – I’m a sucker for Civil War references. You had me at “blue and grey”.
*De – “Collections”, you do heartache that gives me a run for my money. “Echo”? Such a fib I’ve never loved more. As I love all your work.
*Willy – This prompt seems to scream “Reminisce”. Those memories from “many happy” evoke smiles.
*Khara - As long as Dad stays embedded in your heart, he’ll be with you. Good Luck in your move upward.
*Barbara – Yo
*DA – “Volver Loco” finds me.
*Sammy – Heart rending!
*Michelle – “Travelling” is moving.
*Sharon – “Je Reviens” goes there and back expressing a wonderful tale.
*Sara “returns” with flair.
*Bruce – Concerning “Back at Home”, Amen Brother.
*J. Alvey – “I Return” delivers, even if the promises don’t!
*Marie – I think I thought that myself, I think? Nice thought, I th…oh, never mind!
*Penny – “pioneering of the soul” is a great description. Nice “head explosions” as always!

If I missed something or somebody, I catch you on the second read through. Great work all!

hmmm..I was rushing to get to Curves before it closed. I think I set a new record for typos. "The clerk stred at my nose" is the funniest. Any suggestions for a definition of "stred?" (it was meant to be stared of course)

My poems could do stand up today. "Dance a jog" is an interesting image.

"3 PM"

He slipped away after lunch
before his daughter came home
from her boyfriend’s house to watch
the Red Sox with him.
Lianne was downstairs,
putting the dishes in the washer
and the dog was lapping at
his bowl of water.
The mail man was late;
the newspaper lay in the driveway
in its blue plastic wrapper.
It was raining.
It was Thursday.
It was August.
He made no sound – not a thump
on the floor, a cough,
not a shout out or a cry.
He went just like that,
Lianne said, telling the story again,
snapping her fingers in the air.

THE HOMECOMING

I had a little dolly,
As cute as she could be.
Tommy broke off both her arms
And ran away from me.

He tossed my precious dolly
High up into the air.
That threw her curly wig off.
So, then her head was bare.

I chased after my dolly;
Caught Tommy by the scruff;
Swore I’d knock his front teeth out
‘Cause dolly’d had enough.

He gave me back my dolly
But then began to cry.
I said, “Your teeth are safe now.”
(I punched him in the eye).

My pretty little dolly,
Not gorgeous any more.
But now she’s here back with me;
I settled up the score!

Thanks for the nods, Marie and Walt.

And Walt, speaking of "titles", "prompts" and "reminisce", "SUMMER: LOVE A FAIR" is so spot-on in my memories-circuit!

Stred is the opossom of Shacken

I thought a Stred was a gaggle of menageries. Or is Marie infiltrating our psyches with her alien speak again? Zurg looks down favorably on her carflug, so it could be!

Summer Returns

In a couple of weeks I return to the classroom
The kids will be different, yet the same
Overhead a burden of responsibility will loom
while I try to figure out what to do,
while I memorize each child's name

There will be added accountability
The same old portfolios'
Reading logs, Promotional folders and responsibility
Homeroom chores, and what else god only knows

I can expect new behavior issues
while others just try to develop their math skills
For most what I teach will bring new views
while the rest will just see four walls with new drills

What of those four walls
I will go in a week too soon
even decorate the halls
Just to prepare my classroom

Oh, on the first day
they will all behave
asking questions in the right way
Seeking the knowledge they crave

Unfortunately, by day two
I will begin to see
the students from a more realistic point of view
and not whom they pretend to be

In a couple of weeks I return to the classroom
I know it's too soon
But, there are young minds to cultivate
like flowers of knowledge, who need my help to bloom. . .

© Ralph J. Fitcher August 12, 2009, Return poem.

RETURNING TO HIS MAKER

Les Paul.
Guitar innovator.
Pioneer and designer.
Given to the dictates
of his own rhythm and
and melody. An original
giving his all so others
can give their all in every
riff, chord, and musical meandering.
The original guitar hero has passed away,
and gone to join Holly, Vaughn, Lennon,
Harrison, et al. Returning home.
Les Paul, rest in peace.

Ebb

He used to come regularly
in and out of her heart
as if it had a back door.
And she let him.

He used to leave regularly
marks on the wall
her face, the floor.
And she let him.

He used to flow regularly
through her fragile veins
even as the edges screamed and tore.
And she let him.

She used to die regularly
as if her breath were in his hands
until her senses awakened once more.
And she left him.

Oooo! I HATE it when I forget the space, and my name is the last line of the poem. Shoot.

Hey Robert, I want to welcome you back. Umm, regarding all that nasty trouble with the party, and all of the destruction to your home. Blame it all on Brett. He is the one who made everybody part. He is fully to blame. Not only was the party his idea, but he also supplied everyone with the booze and other recreational party favors.

Ralph.

Penny, I'm so happy I could "dance a jog," I'm with ya, I don't think I've laughed that hard all day! Funny thing is my brain is so traind I nindn't evn notie. Nice Poems today!

Walt, thanks for your kindness, makes my day! :) Love your play on words with the title of Love: a fair, I do love fairs!

"We are crossing the bridge over the chasm of our mistakes" like this a lot, Patricia.

Sharon, very well written as usual!

banana, nice images in that one!

Marie, thanks for revisiting the thought thunked! ;) Fun one!

Barbara,"saving scraps against this time of want."

You ALL are super, I'll be back with more, I'm sure! Happy writing!!!

Willy-very evocative--always thought you were a boy, --but no boy I ever knew so fully understood the importance of certain dolls who were worth defending and and retaining though tattered.

Thanks Hannah, it's even better medicine to laugh WITH someone.

Oh no, I hope you didn't think I was laughing AT and not WITH you, Penny!! Me and what's left of my left liver was just happy to not be the brunt of the joke this week! lol ;) But if you know me, you know I don't mind just as long as we're all happy!

Penny! Thanks for the notice.

Ha! Ha! Sometimes it pays to take the role that, say, maybe an aggressive/possessive sibling (are they ALL that way?)expressed so "eloquently" to "Tommy". Hmmm...?

W

PLEASE BE KIND...REWIND!

Let's go to the tape.
Your life is an action movie.
Always a triumphant hero at the end.
A happy ending, in a blood and guts way.
A tempting and tantalizing love interest
that stays (or doesn't stay) in the final reel.
but after the dust settles and your heart calms,
you are still standing; still battling to survive.

Your life is a comedy
of errors and missteps
in a slapstick sort of way.
A humorous romp with you as the
comic foil, the crown prince of
calamitous hijinks finding strengths
your never knew you possessed.

Your life is a mystery. A series
of surprises, never knowing what will
happen next, just knowing that behind every
corner there exists a new unknown direction that
makes you feel alive and vibrant. The discovery
shows you all the possibilities your life can achieve.


And every so often you look back
to where you've been to appreciate
where your unscripted life will lead.
In your kind reminiscence you see your life
is exciting; it is a laugh a minute;
and the only mystery is life itself.
Keep watching, or you'll miss something.

DEPARTURE

Weight of sleep
lifts
from my lids.
Dreams
sucked into the
vortex
of buried thought;
deep
in the grave of
unconsciousness.
I arrive in a world of
endless
needs, the reality of now
awaits.

~Hannah Gosselin

I like that one a lot Walt, life IS a big adventure, good thing I woke up!

I think the adjustments made create a more positive piece, don't you think?

ARRIVAL

Weight of sleep
lifts
from my lids.
Dreams
sucked into the
vortex
of buried thought;
deep
in the grave of
unconsciousness.
I arrive in a world of
endless
opportunities, reality of now
awaits.

~Hannah Gosselin

after watching the Perseids

to return...

my soul longs to return
to the awareness of eternity
wherein I will once again be able
to hear the symphonies of the stars
the flashing notes of meteors
and the long slow rhythms
of the movements of the galaxies

I have no time to read!! Maybe if you guys had come and cleaned me up...Oh. That rash offer was made during a wild cyber-party. Nuts.

Trudi, what a galactic gift, nice to see you!

We Are The Same

I call this house home -
where I was born,
where I grew up,
where I left to go grow up.
Not a lot has changed.
We both have aged
through college, marriage, and into motherhood.
We are the same.
When I walk into this same house I grew up in
that hasn't changed,
I feel the same.
I feel seventeen.

IN HIS HANDS

Swift on the wing
of dragonfly,
I pine for the
return of summer.

Hearty as the bounty
of Autumn,
I hunger for the
presence of happiness.

Sweet are the words
of babe,
I strive for the
strength of childlike faith.

Rich is the love
of God,
I abide in the
hands of the Lord.

~Hannah Gosselin

Let's Eat

Calc-i-um Panto-then-ate,
With Glyc-e-ryl Dist-e-a-rate,
Cyano-co-balamin,
What is this I’m consumin’?
Emulsi-fi-ers, Cata-lase,
Throw in Alpha Amy-lase,
Cetyl Esters, Cochi-neal,
Does this really make a meal?
Eico-sapen-ta-e-no-ic,
Spelling this makes me heroic.
All this in my cereal?
Is nature immaterial?
The words themselves are curious,
But EATING it? Injurious!
Why can’t we return to days
When rice was rice, and maize was maize?

Thanks Walt! :-)

Enjoying a late-night cup of Lady Gray Tea and more wonderful poetry.

Michele, is it possible to be humbly elated? I cannot think of a better description for what I feel right now. Thank you. You are such a dear.

Hannah: Absolutely love “In His Hands.” Beautiful.
Departure and Arrival actually make a very nice study in perspective.
Trudi: LOVELY job on “To Return…”
Patricia: I love Wrong Turn, but particularly the last stanza.
Fitch: “there are young minds to cultivate like flowers of knowledge, who need my help to bloom. . .” Wishing every teacher felt this way. Also, you make me want a dog again. ;)

Willy: Homecoming is endearing. A favorite doll is very much a dear friend. One of my friends had a doll named Cindy that was destroyed and then lost years ago. At her wedding shower, she opened a gift from her grandmother. You guessed it … Cindy. She was bathed and sewn; had new hair and lashes; and wore a hand-sewn, grand wedding gown. A labor of love.

Walt: Nice dedication to Les Paul. Please be Kind is truly enthralling. Love the words … love the attitude … Summer Love A Fair makes me feel like I’m there. Brilliant title. There is a reason you are ALWAYS my first read.

Penny: Speaking of brilliant titles, “Graffiti from the Narrow Road” makes me want to buy the book. Excellent.

And now, thanks to Penny and Walt, our language lesson for today. “STRED” is an acronym for Standard Terrestrial Radio-Equipped Droid. These, of course, are commonly used on Mars.

I knew you wouldn't let me down. You don't see many standard terrestrial radio-equipped droids anymore. They're so 2525. Must have gotten them on z-bay.

Marie Elena - how very sweet of you...and thanks to Walt and Hannah also; loved your homage to the master Les Paul, Walt - even though he lived to a goodly age, still felt like he left the building too soon.

You're quite welcome, Sharon.

Right you are, Walt. z-bay consistently has the best buys on all universals. Now, what are you doing up so late?

Uh...I'm...a...a...Good Night Marie! Good Night John-boy! Good Night Grandpa! Say Good Night, Gracie!

Good night, Gracie. :)

RETURN OF THE PHANTOM

The mockery of music blares,
filling my cavernous void
with the nuance and meter
of new music to re-fill my empty
room. Silent, as music can be,
sometimes blatantly vindictive;
rebellious, shaking the rafters
to extricate the dusty webs
of connective thought, hauntingly
beckoning, calling, reverberating
through the pipes of my wheezing
behemoth, this, my instrument
embossed in ebony and ivory,
belching beauty into my now
cacophonous catacomb, music.
New music. My music.
I have reclaimed my errant
melodies, hidden for a lifetime
within the sheet music of my mind,
willing me to compose and create
a symphony, an enticement to your
vocal accompaniment; the Christine
to my euphonious Phantom, reborn.
A fiery fugue to emblazon your heart
once more and allow my muse to
massage the meager strings of love's
mandolin to soften my own night music,
unmasking my soul and giving living
breath to its dark and brooding abode.
I have entranced you as I have serenaded you,
and night finds me in your shadow!

RETURNING

When I first heard Dan Fogelberg's "Another Auld Lang Syne,”
I was sure he had written it for us –
the way the two parted lovers
met in the neighborhood grocery store
on a dark, rainy night
years after they had last seen each other,
and that pitter-pat in their hearts
was still there.

There's something about returning to the past…
especially the past
of a love like ours.

I thought of you today
for two reasons:
I heard Dan Fogelberg sing that song again,
and today is your birthday.

Once again,
you returned to my mind
and my heart,
and,
although it's been years,
it seems like only yesterday
that I saw you
on that dark, rainy night
in our neighborhood grocery store.

© August 14, 2009

It’s just past midnight, but I just HAVE to make some comments on a few of you writers! Having been at this wonderful craft for over 45 years, I am thrilled to death when I see this kind of quality and talent in one place!

Robert, I’ll start with you, since you’re “The Boss!” “In A Mood” is a wonderful piece…very well-done; something everyone can identify with! I think it’s one of my faves of yours!
J. Martin – “Hold” is absolutely an awesome poem…very touching!
Walt W…”Return To Sender” – WOW!!! “Summer: Love A-Fair” – clever title, wonderful poem!
Taylor Graham – I haven’t yet seen the awesome Perseids yet, but your poem “Back To Those Nights” proves you are a rising star!
John F. Murray – Way to go, Dude! I remember those typewriter days!!!
De Jackson – WHOA!!! What can I say? You touched some torn heartstrings with “Collections”… “Ebb” and “Echo” are both fantastic, too…you need to put together a poetry gift book! You are one great writer!
S. E. Ingraham – “Je Reviens” – OMG!!! My heart is still beating a thousand miles a minute!!!
Sheila Deeth – Your “Fire” poem is so powerful – sent shivers up my spine!
Penny – Love your three “returns!” Isn’t it amazing when the muses grasp you like that and MAKE you write??? Great job on all three!
Patricia Hawkenson – Really good – love the criss-cross effect of back and forth emotions in your piece, “Wrong Turn.”
Ann Malaspina – “3 PM” – too sad for words…but your words are beautifully put together!
Way to go, writers!!! Awesome work!!!
Linda Robertson

no fear, Hannah--I knew we were laughing together, and i really liked "In His hands"

Marie--thanks. you can get it on Amazon ;) Nothing like a subtle sales pitch to start the day

got caught up in the reading but now have to head for the work links but wanted to say really enjoyed the ebb of de jackson

Phantom ... my goodness, Walt. Yet again, just shaking my head. Incredible. Can you package up that talent and ship it to me?

Linda, you hit on one of my favorite Fogelberg songs. Nice.

How many pounds you need? I'll check stock a get back to you.

POUNDS?! With your highly concentrated formula, a lil dab'l do ya.

Trying to find time to write. Can you send a free hour or so with that as well?

Okay, I'll send a squeeze tube (should last you a few seasons) Three hours, too. But if you agree now, I'll double that offer. TWO squeeze tubes of talent and six hours for the same low OSU discount of $0. AND THAT'S NOT ALL!!! I'll even throw in this spot in the shade where I am "crafting" this afternoon. Laptops is wonderful people!

How to Return to HTML circa 1996 (an Acrostic poem)

All you need:

Notepad, a modem,
And a vision
To see yourself
In lights, or, well…
On a computer monitor.
Next, all you need is a

Break: shift-comma “br” shift-period.
Or a paragraph: shift-comma “p” shift-period.
Real html-ers know this hypertext markup language without a Dummy book.
Elaborating on <html> is an exercise in futility to us common Netscapers.
Deal with it yourself, Ahmed said, when I asked one too many times about tables.

White space needing color
Is all about the <BODY BGCOLOR="#000000">.
Try it, don’t like it, try another cool combination or image.
Hey, said Larry, here’s a site with nothing but free icons and buttons to <img src>.

Please return me to that college computer lab
Across 15 years, when life was simpler, but html was new, so it was hard.
Paragraph tags, horizontal rules, tables and image dimensions notwithstanding,
Everyone who wanted to try it, could do it, if they wanted a page on the Internet.
Record your life, your hobby, your love for a boy band, and amaze your family and friends.

ROUND TRIP

The goings and comings of
the jet set seems rather arbitrary.
Frequent fliers wracking miles
and air sick bags, mile high
and straight on 'til morning.
If you maintain elevation
for more than four hours,
call your physician. Or better
yet, just keep your tray table
in the upright position.
In case of emergency, your
traveling companion will
be used as a flotation device!
For your trip is never over
until your get back to where you
started, half-hearted and longing
for a reunion and a familial embrace.
A homecoming brought about by
jet propulsion, mild turbulence
and an equally mild sedative.
You are making your approach
as your white knuckles return
to their natural flesh tone.
You open your eyes and marvel
at the sameness of the scenery.
You have returned home again.
Thank you for flying the friendly skies.
Buh-Bye!

THE COMEBACK

Age plays a part.
It always plays a part.
You have the drive; the heart,
a plan to make a fresh start
thinking, if only you play it smart
and don't put your horse before the cart
you'll be able to impart
a fast ball like a laser dart
every time you ply your art.
But it's a bitter pill, so tart,
that you swallow as you depart.
The comeback, ends before it starts.
Age plays a part.
It always plays a part.

CAPISTRANO

Little birdlettes on a mission,
St. Joseph’s Day will find you
harbored in the San Juan Mission.

Swallows, given God’s permission,
flying yearly, straight and true,
Little birdlettes on a mission.

Never prone to indecision,
traversing cloudless skies so blue,
harbored in the San Juan Mission,

sadly found in ruined condition.
St. Francis’ little friends so true,
Little birdlettes on a mission.

Then on the Day of San Juan, envisioned,
swarms of swallows circle through,
harbored in the San Juan Mission.

Hail to you, “Jewel of all Missions”
Mud nests left to soon return to,
Little birdlettes on a mission,
harbored in the San Juan Mission.

Ash Wednesday

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

In single file, waiting for the cross,
ashes marking us

We awake momentarily from
numbly going through the motions,
gulping coffee
without savoring the taste,
driving like somnambulists,
same route, same time each
morning,
sleeping through
each day

Alive now, at least for now,
through ceremonial contemplation,
acknowledging

Our return
one day.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Returns

Peals of laughter, screams of joy, family members
In a huddle, other passengers step around them,
Look, smile. A little girl is lead by a flight
Attendant into the arms of her waiting mother.
Older children with their carry-ons, their back
Packs try to act cool and sophisticated as
They relish the joy of familiar hugs and kisses..

Arrivals and departures. At the end of the
Terminal a line of hearses waits on the hot
Concrete. A gate in a wire fence opens.
Little tow trucks move boxes to the waiting
Hearses. Inside the boxes are coffins. Some
With American flags. Some days there are
TV cameras. But the war is not as newsworthy
As it once was. Your coffin is placed in the
Hearse of our local undertaker. He heads out
On Route 2, west. In an hour and a half, you
Return home. You are not a casualty of war.

Our wars have been private, carried in our
Hearts and guts. Those long years when you
Refused to speak to us on the phone. Then the
Slow thaw, As your father put it, she’s taking
Down her Berlin Wall. We do not travel to
The airport, The undertaker calls us when
Their hearse has arrived. A private showing
Is arranged. Your face looks just like you did
Six weeks ago when you were home for a
Visit. We kissed you good-bye as your brother
And his wife drove you to the Cleveland
Airport. We expected to see you again.

This is not the return we planned. We are
All in a state of shock and disbelief. Your
Sister arrives from California. You have not
Spoken since you took her child away from
Her when you were living in Palm Springs.
The child has grown up. She has a little boy
Of her own. Your sister goes around in a daze.
At the church, sitting in the front row where
You sat together as school children, she loses
It. Your father is able to calm her. I only
Remember bits and pieces of your last return.

FOREVER MANANA

Yesterdays are left for those afraid
to live their lives through plans they’ve made.
We have our pasts, with futures unsure,
and much more life for us to endure
to flood our memory cascade.

Tomorrow is the choice we’ve made,
the first day of this cavalcade,
living thoughts; these dreams of yours.
Yesterdays are left for those afraid.

Raise your flag in life’s parade,
carried proudly, words unsaid,
Always looking straight and sure
toward each tomorrow to endure,
standing sure; stoic; staid!
Yesterdays are left for those afraid.

MAN-OH-MAN, WALT! You are just rolling through here like a steam engine!

Nice pieces also from J., Sue, and Marian. :)

returning...

I keep returning to this website
Filled with wonderful words and wacky banter
Woeful lines and amusing notes
On life and moments high and low
When I am not sure where to go
With a line or a thought
I just ponder the words of
Walt and Marie Elena and Hannah and Trudi and
So many names I
Forget-me-not
While I reflect on my son's return from Vancouver--
Will Ontario still hold any wonder?

Patricia

Heads flung forward
and jerked back again
to rest
not quite suspended
just away from the red, plastic,
covered foam.
Racing hearts
slowly recovering.
White knuckles regaining
their flesh toned hue
as the bar is lifted up and over.
I exit to the right
as the next eagerly comes on the left.
I grin to myself
the joy of the day
as I listen to the click-click
of the cars
easing down the track.

Joseph, Liked "incendiary as a star, and free."
Hannah, liked the contrast between velvet nose and satin snout...
Walt in Resurrected, liked "dead from the floor up"
Taylor, "that great old crooner, the August/moon; come count the shooting stars"
De, like the structure of Echo
Daniel loved "in/summer, the berries ache to eat/the heat away again;"
Barbara, loved the Yo--thought for a moment and then grinned!
Nancy, Penelope's lament very powerful
Daniel loved "that you might breathe, check in, and turn anew/to a saner return, for your soul to keep."
S.E. Ingraham, the Je Reviens poem just pulled me along, a poem with a plot...
Ralph, so true!: "Thous she hates me when I take her to the vet/Just as soon as we come home/She decides to forget"
Trudi, loved the Perseids piece
Hannah, I loved the In God's Hands poem
TaekaGes, I smiled at that poem!
Walt, loved the Phantom alliteration: "allow my muse to/massage the meager strings of love's/mandolin"
and I loved the Capistrano piece--I love that mission and the swallows and it totally evoked that for me.
Marian, very powerful.

ALL the poems are wonderful, these are things that "jump out" at me.

Sue

Thanks, Sue. I didn't know if nobody got it or if nobody liked it. So, out of stubbornness, I rewrote it.

RETURNS


Yo-

Rock the baby,
Walk the dog,
Pop the clutch.

Double or nothing.

Forward pass, gravity pull, warp drive, time warp,brain twister, roller coaster, ferris wheel, man on the flying trapeze.

Rewind.

Around the corner,
Around the world.
Over the shoulder,
Over the falls.
Shoot the moon.

UFO.


-Yo

Customer Service

I hate to be the one
but I have to.
Products that are not
what they should be.
I pull them carefully
out of their bag
placing them one by one
before the lady who's name
tag simply reads "Customer Service".
I manage to unfold the
creased receipt
and I watch as she circles
and initials the paper.
She doesn't say anything
and I stare at her name tag.
Curiously I squint
and prepare to ask
but I stop myself short
when Customer Service asks,
"why?"
"Why what?" catching her eye.
Then gaining her meaning and
cued by her silence
I say, "wrong size."
With outstretched hand
I collect seven dollars
and thirteen cents.

Marian: Exceptional and emotional! Near perfect.

Dink...dink...dink...dink...
Paddle ball game
is lots of fun
Whacking that ball
is fun for one

There is no chasing
this ball will return
But don't you dare miss it
or the returning will burn

Patricia (PM27), we're glad you keep returning for the right word to spark your muse which fits in with the aforementioned names and talents. I always wonder about Ontario myself being a stones throw from Fort Erie.

Sue, thanks for the shouts. Alliteration always intrigues me; not to excess or forced. Sometime, from the floor up even falls short, but not often enough to worry about it. Capistrano is one of those destinations on my "wish list". My first instinct when I saw the "return" prompt; The swallows returning to San Juan Capistrano.

Great offerings all. Write on.

return to the
rooftops which
dominate my
backyard view.
strong contrast to
the rolling hills
and rocky hikes
of yesterday.
struggle to find
beauty, though
it's normally there,
today it escapes
unwitnessed.
I close my eyes
and see trickles
of water cascading
down the walls
of Conkles Hollow.

Barbara,

I like it even better as rewritten, bravo.

And Walt, you do have to visit the Capistrano mission, it's beautiful. The altar is amazing!

Sue

Disorderly Conduct

He won't return to his early days
where his mother cut his hair
into severely distorted shapes,
summer buzzes of uneven depth,
her accidents of loving thrift.

His rebellious strands of hair
now twisted from his scalp
down to the disordered tips,
a copied style of Rastafarians
and lovers of ordered chaos,
shouting his anarchy of youth.

Dreadful things that teens can do
would look foolish on the old,
like Grandma in a mini skirt
or Grandpa talking smack.
Mom cuts the cheese with pride
while Dad grills out with bling.

Conduct yourself with dignity
before you think to answer me,
but what kind of twisted mind
could think of things like that?

Beyond My Control

I can't blame the brandy
because of my high spirits,
laughing and reliving the past,
I remembered what I lost.

I try to control myself
knowing my limitations,
the facts so clear, no speculation,
no spirit of compromise.

I have no exceptional abilities,
no clairvoyant skill with rods or cards,
connecting me beyond here
to the side where the spirits walk.

I have no way to find the things I lost,
no sobering blame to distill.
Just return my grandpa's footprints
that you spirited away.

He drinks with you, smokes
with you, parties with you- BUT
he returns to ME.

PM27 (Patricia), I can think of no greater honor than to be included in someone's poem. That just leaves me speechless every time. Thank you!

Ginger, cute stuff out here!

Chev, when were you in the Hocking Hills? I'm very, very jealous you know. Keith and I go down there every spring for our anniversary. This year we are going in October as well. Can't wait to see the beautiful colors. Conkles Hollow, Old Man's Cave, Cedar Falls ... all are simply stunning.

Penny, I'm splurging. I've got a cart loaded with your book, and a Shel Silverstein 3-book set. YAY! :)

YASGUR’S FARM REVISITED

Forty years ago this week
the mighty stoned and the mighty meek

converged on old Max Yasgur’s farm
for music and peace; they meant no harm.

A cosmic energy brought them there,
this thing called Woodstock Music and Art Fair.

Half a million stood in wait
through the fence; past the gate

a generation now defined,
and quite prepared to blow their minds

for a chance to be “free” in this
new consciousness in history.

Myth and legend four decades old,
tales once too often told,

a music festival of acts so varied
as the audience present, and as scary.

Sometimes braving torrential downpours
but the teeming crowd expected more.

Havens, Shankar, Melanie,
Joan Baez, Arlo Guthrie,

Country Joe McDonald played,
John Sebastian, Grateful Dead,

Santana, Canned Heat, CCR.
Joplin, The Who. They all came far,

Jefferson Airplane, the Family Stone,
with Jimi Hendrix driving it home.

Through the mire and through the muck
Four Hundred thousand were in luck,

to hear the musical montage then,
to remember it again and again.

It still comes back to haunt today.
We’ll never miss it if it won’t go away?

Walt--age plays a part--very well done

Ginger-very nice (although as I say that I am remembering how I hated to be described as "nice" when in my teens. let me change that to evocative)At a fairly advanced age I returned a couple of years ago to the joy of the roller coaster--the cool wooden one just inside the gate at Hershey Park. Not a twisted metal upside down monster. I highly recommend it.

Marie--thanks, and I love Shel Silverstein too.

Nonambiguousical Depictorical

Prompticious verbiosity
Induced by Robert Lee B.
Profucious nonpomposity
Sustained Wojtanikly.

May I change the title, please?

COME AGAIN?

Prompticious verbiosity
Induced by Robert Lee B.
Profucious nonpomposity
Sustained Wojtanikly.

Thank you Sue.

Plinko Pro

Starting at the top, you let it go
banging against obstacles, fast or slow.

Changing your direction as you go
having no control of where it will flow.

Finally landing where it wanted to go,
a prize of the poem you wanted to show.

Wishing for comments, you post and go
waiting till later for a woe, or WHOA!

Just one more:
Relative

My ironic laugh reminds me of someone—
I can’t quite put my finger on it though—
when I hear of retro parties, rocking to the sound of
the nineties, costumes scavenged from Goodwill,
when the kids say my cell phone is old school,
when George and Jerry wax nostalgic over Frogger.

Having survived a lifetime of transition—from vinyl
through eight-track to CD, from drive-in movies
that charged by the carload on Disney nights to DVD,
from a single black-and-white set in the house
to high-def plasma in every room of the house,
from picture postcards and three-cent stamps to texts
and tweets—and living to see mass-produced tie-dye
remembering our own made with Rit, plastic tubs,
and a fork, and seeing peace symbols as fashion statements,
not heart-felt philosophy, and holding onto my scratchy
forty-fives for sentiment and my vinyl collection out of love,
I still fill my iPod with the oldies but goodies—Son
of a Preacher Man and That’s the Way Love Goes.

Then my self-righteous self—longing for a return
to simpler times—recognizes the laugh, a rippling
peel from giggles to guffaws from my parents
and theirs, upon hearing my wish to return
to what I naively call simpler times.

Plinko's a GO .. Not a whoa. You have a way with rhyme, Patricia.

Amen, Nancy.

Double amen, TaekaGes. ;)

Just blew my cover. Rats. :(

Nancy, We may be naive, but the perspective did make it look simpler, didn't it? My iPod is filled with late 50's to early 70's. It's better than listening to someone else's idea of good music. Sometimes "Self-righteous self-longing" meets "to thine own self be true". We're entitled from time to time.

Castlebaum has his suspicions!

I've really gotten behind.

Marian, Returns is memorable.

I like Ash Wednesday as a return to consciousness, Sue.
Trudi's take on the meteors is a cousin of a thought.


Chev, the short line form really works for images of chimneys and waterfalls.

Ginger, those are some nifty ones. I think I like the roller coaster best, although Customer Service is a line I'm more likely to be waiting in.

Walt, birdlettes? That is priceless. Like the Woodstock, too. (what's that it makes me think of...."how can I miss you if you won't go away?" )

Patricia, the Plinko's cute, but I don't know the game. Is it like gravity pinball? The spirits poem's nicely twisty.

J. Martin, code gives me such a headache, but I do get a kick out of filling in the blanks and watching to see what comes out. Here's one back at 'cha:
SIREN OF SUMMER.
FF6347
CODE RED TOMATO.

"Prompting" you to take a guess
Was my double: TaekaGes.
Blew my cover ... Geez-o-pete.
Note to self: be more discrete.

Ya'll seem to have so much fun posting under cover, I just had to give it a shot! :)

Thanks Barbara, we're overrun (overflown?) with canaries lately. And next to the other birds around here, I called them birdlettes. Sparrows would qualify as well. That was actually the last line of Yasgur's Farm Revisited. But I have a fondness for the music (That was some great music). Thanks to my twenty year old cousin, Bobby, it was more education (and adventure) than a thirteen year old needed at the time.

You go girl! Take your shot!

Barbara,

All you ever need to know about Plinko, and then some: http://gscentral.net/plinko.htm

Methusala: Tried. Blew the shot to bits. Yelled 'NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!' at the poor monitor. Not surprised Castlebaum already suspected. ;)

So, not everyone does stealth well. Nice try, though.

I agree with the old guy!

So, what you tipped you off before the spotlight glaringly broadcast the bodacious blunder?

Marie Elena, we were in Hocking Hills just this week. In fact, I was in Conkles Hollow when the prompt came out (not that I was obsessively checking,I just noticed the time stamp). I would like to go back in October too but vacation worked out to be August this year.

Barbara Young, in my original, longhand, version, I have the line about trickles of water tumbling down the page in the spirit of e.e. cummings but that doesn't translate well to this forum.

Off to read now.

Marie, thanks a bunch and also for the thought on the two versions of the one poem, your the best! :)

Penny, you have a great sense of humor and I thank God for "In His Hands," I'm glad that you liked it.

PM27 (Patricia) Thank you for including me in your poem, I'm with Marie, always honored when my name appears in poems! :)

Sue Tanida, thanks for picking up and commenting on the part about the does nose! That made me happy! :)

I can see I've missed a lot who's this "Taekages?" lol! Nice work!

I've been MIA, helping an older friend with a garden and taking my boy to the fair! Good times! I'll have to catch up with the reading :)
Happy Saturday, happy writing!

PICKING BEANS

Heat defeats,
we retreat,
to the shade.
Sun displayed,
super strength.
Energie's spent
much to soon,
sweltering noon.
We'll return
after the burn;
early evening
sun's retreating.

FAIR'S FARE

We've returned
this year
much older,
much wiser.
Feeding goats,
flying hopes,
tall enough
to ride the
tiny coaster.
Ride the pony,
play the games,
win the prizes,
eat the ice cream.
Watch the big trucks,
pet the live stock,
fun n' games at the fair.
This year we've returned
faring much better,
lots to do when your two.

Okay, so that is probably the most mistakes I've ever posted combined, what with the grammatical and spelling errors! Opps, we'll just assume another name to blame for this!!;)

That's a good fair, Hannah. I'd put quarter after quarter toward the wheel of fortune, just to watch it spin.

It IS all worth it, bless you, Barbara. :)

Back and Forth



When did
that woman in the mirror change
to be a more accurate rendering
of me than--not memory,
but something else, fancy or fantasy.
It's not that she's old,
that woman in the mirror,
old women have soft faces;
their wrinkles are sweetly powdered
with years of scented creams and care.
Not so her, with her wide pores
and age spots in amongst the freckles,
and her puzzled scowling squinting creases.
Invisible eyebrows make he look surprised.
And perhaps she is.
As startled to be seeing me
as I am seeing her.

You reappeared

You appeared with his smile and in the way you lay your hands beside his head.
You appeared in this smallest form, you have your daddy's face and the actions he once had.
You appeared, who would of known that I would see you once again. The smallest form of being. You appeared and we are so happy. I know you will be a joy, because you are just like your daddy, who is loved so much.

What tipped me off? Taekages? Take a Guess? I knew it had to be one of the "playmates". Brett, Castlebaum and van Wendt all came clean. Your sense of humor has perfumed that attempt. Good try though! Now, if you could get yer spell checker working...

I guess I'll have to try harder next time. ;) 'Nite all!

THIS IS LOVE

Dead
and
buried.
The third day
He had arisen.
God so loved the world, that He
gave His only son,
who died so
man would
live.
Love.

HOUDINI

Now you see him,
now you don't.
The grand illusion begins.
You watch closely trying to decipher
the magic wrought by his slight hands.
Playing a Three Card Monty on your
psyche; a shell game on your mind.
You concentrate on his manipulations
and dissect his nimble meandering,
determining that his Cheshire Cat
smile was just a diversion. He placed
the blindfold across your eyes, and
the binders on your wrists, as he
locked you in his trunk; he's done
this trick a thousand times.
You hear his footsteps get fainter
and you realize he has disappeared,
never to return. The trick was
getting you to watch his hands,
so you wouldn't see his feet
whisk him away forever.
He won't be back.

RETURNING TO THE SCENE OF THE CRIME

Deja vu, all over again.
Time has passed, the people have gone,
and you stand there, lost in thought;
lost in the memories this place holds.
You would have loved to have been able,
to stay here where it all began,
but time and life have sadistic ways
of reminding of the fragility of one's
mortality. You walk through one last time,
tracing your life with each metered step;
reliving your formative years with every
floor creak, remembering the love that
presented itself in every fragrant aroma.
The notches on the door frame marked the
growth of you and your siblings over the years,
the nails in the drywall that held the
photographs documenting your whole life.
The rooms your brothers shared with you
when the four of you were too big for a single
bunk bed, remain empty. Your father’s recliner,
the last place he was before he left for good.
The view out the side bay window that was his
panorama, is now your last look as well.
Your finger reaches to corral a single tear
and your heart knows you can never return.
The place of your origin has been sold;
your childhood now fits in a cardboard file box.
The rest is stashed in your memory banks.
In those reaches of your mind, you can visit
as often as you’d like. But, you can never return.
Home just won’t ever be the same.

Wow, wow, and wow. Amen to "This is Love." "Houdini" is magically, tragically, hauntingly sad. Brilliant lines and metaphors contained within. And how many of us can relate to "Scene."

Look to The Skies.

Christ
Lived
On earth;
Fully man.
Tempted in all ways.
Yet He, sinless, died for our sins.
He then conquered death.
He’ll return.
Look up.
Watch.
Wait.

Inspired by Walt's fib. I used to tell my kids to think of Jesus whenever they saw a restaurant sign that said, "Thank you. Come again soon."

Root of Choice

The buried seed lying in wait
Took root.
Feeding off her very soul,
Leaving nothing but a trace
Of her heart’s nourishment.
Hideous, twisted vines
Devour life from within:
Enveloping her being.
Masking her beauty,
Pilfering her creativity,
Squelching her pleasure.
Life in its entirety
Turned on end,
Shaken to its core.

Distant Hope glances back
Momentarily.
Return. Take root. Reside.
I implore you.

Return to Escape

Day after day
Here it is to which I return
just to hear what others have to say
that I might understand and learn

Oh, there is much pleasure as well
I love to just sit back and read
Engulfing myself in the tales others tell
when my heart is hungry, here is what I need

Where of course, Poetic Asides
Where the best of the best resides
Poets from all over the place
Penning just enough to give us a taste

Why there is Walt, Marie, Heather, Sharon, Banana_The_Poet
Among the best of the best
through their work they really show it
lets not forget the rest

Of course our father figure slash leader
Robert who guides us weekly
teaching us to write meter by meter
though, I must confess, from some I shy away meekly

But, Robert, has found a way
to help me and most of us find and write our best
And when he's away
Those party's really put his patience to the test

Now there are more to this tale
many who might be quite sore
that is if I were to fail
to include each name
Things would just never be the same

So, without further a due
lets remember Barbara, Shelia, Bruce, Daniel, Sammy and Sue
Let's not forget the man who
Gave us a party, and a double whammy

Yes, that old trouble maker Brett
The one nut, no one will ever forget
But, since his writing style reminds me of mine
I guess, I can forgive him, just this one time

There is a place to which I return day after day
Just to hear what my fellow poets have to say. . .

© Ralph J. Fitcher, August 16, 2009. Return poem. To anyone whom I have left out, I truly apologize.

Sue, you are an animal lover too I see. I have a dog and two cats myself.

Ralph.

By the way, Brett keeps trying to steal one of my cats.

Ralph.

You can't steal a cat.

Great week of poems by all! You never know what a prompt will prompt, I suppose... happy to see so much creativity and wordplay!

Last Name First, First Name Last

Men can't appreciate
the identity crisis in a name
when women say they must try
to find out who they really are.

How can I return to the name
I was before I became
Mrs. Hawkenson, your Teacher?

Some call me Mrs. Lavota,
the name of my first marriage,
but divorce, a time in-between loves,
and I became La Vota,
a symbolic mistake that lived for a while.

Before then, Holvick,
my Daddy's girl
who answered to Patsy
but add then Anne,
a middle name of no purpose,
until middle school
demanded Patti
because I can dot the i
with a little heart,
and Elizabeth,
a confirmation name
that Catholics must have
until college forms insist
on Patricia, my full given name.

I am Patsy, Patti, Patricia Anne Elizabeth Holvick, Lavota, La Vota, Hawkenson.
Call me what you like,
but mingle in
daughter, sister, wife,
mother, mom,
teacher, artist, and poet.

It's not hard to get confused.

Yeah, Barbara, You tell that Ralph for me.
Ralph the big mouth.
Brett.

A CLASS REUNION

1974

Thirty-five years have come and gone
since you've been capped and gowned,
accepting your diploma,
your achievements have been crowned.

You say farewell to classmates
and teachers you've enjoyed,
with hopes to head to college,
or at least to be employed.

Your future is ahead of you,
Your dreams yet unfulfilled,
If you could accomplish half of them
your parent will be thrilled.

So you attend your parties,
your end-of-school celebrations,
you find your peace in your release
to fete your graduation.

2009

Thirty-five years have come and gone
since you've been capped and gowned,
you've sowed your oats, you two old goats,
your lives are slowing down.

The girls have grown and stray from home
your empty nest is still.
You plan for long vacations
but know you never will.

Then comes the invitation,
your thirty-fifth reunion,
a chance to reignite your past,
and join in life's communion.

A few old teachers make the scene,
(the ones that still survive)
they don't remember faces,
they're just glad to be alive.

There's the gang, they haven't changed
except for loss of hair,
a few more inches around the waist
you just can't help but stare.

And over by the punch bowl
your old girlfriend holds the floor,
you carried a torch for that old flame,
but she's not so hot anymore.

Some success has made the rounds,
while others struggle through,
you stand there in the middle,
there's nothing wrong with you.

Your past is past, your here is now,
and ne'er the twain shall meet.
Your plans are just an after thought,
and the life you live is sweet.

So you haven't been a millionaire,
your job's not presidential,
your palace, not palatial,
just merely residential.

So, you have found your happiness,
it keeps you feeling youthful,
You don't wish to return to then,
you love your now, it's truthful,

Your children love you as you are,
you love what you've become,
it takes a school reunion for
you to see your rising sun.

Your yesterdays have served their time,
they were good while you were there,
but your present is the gift you live,
it's love that returns you there.

My God is very real and very personally involved.

I HAD to write "Root of Choice" this morning. It is about my daughter's mental illness. It would not release me until I wrote it. A while after I'd posted it, I prayed for God's assurance that He is in control. I turned to the book of Psalms, and my eyes fell to the following verses in Chapter 80:

7 Turn us again, O God of hosts, and cause thy face to shine; and we shall be saved. 8 Thou hast brought a vine out of Egypt: thou hast cast out the heathen, and planted it. 9 Thou preparedst room before it, and didst cause it to take deep root, and it filled the land. 10 The hills were covered with the shadow of it, and the boughs thereof were like the goodly cedars. 11 She sent out her boughs unto the sea, and her branches unto the river. 12 Why hast thou then broken down her hedges, so that all they which pass by the way do pluck her? 13 The boar out of the wood doth waste it, and the wild beast of the field doth devour it. 14 Return, we beseech thee, O God of hosts: look down from heaven, and behold, and visit this vine...

Now, I realize this chapter speaks of Israel. However, the God of Israel often uses "her" as a picture of ourselves. My poem was written with the use of "you," referring to my daughter. I changed it to "she/her," mid-posting. I didn't know why at the time. I also used a capital H in Hope, in reference to Him being our Hope. Imploring our Hope to return, take root, and reside. With all of my being, I know that He looked with compassion on a mother's heart-felt prayer, and led her (me) to His word, where he uses a similar analogy for His beloved.

My God is very real and very personally involved.

Oh, Fitch. Once again, I don't know how to respond ... such an incredible and generous compliment. Thank you so, so much.

Patricia and Nelle, I believe nearly every woman can relate to you both. Nice work, ladies.

And Walt, speaking of being able to relate ... 35th coming up in 2012. Yikes!

I wrote this for a prompt elsewhere, but it fits the Return motif, as any nostalgia would.


Fair Park

On the outskirts
of the old fair grounds,
somewhere between one bony ankle
and the knobby knee
where the grandstand sat,
we small
played fair
on baby rides
safe as laps and granny hugs
but starred with midway lights.

I wrote this for a prompt elsewhere, but it fits the Return motif, as any nostalgia would.


Fair Park

On the outskirts
of the old fair grounds,
somewhere between one bony ankle
and the knobby knee
where the grandstand sat,
we small
played fair
on baby rides
safe as laps and granny hugs
but starred with midway lights.

oops

Marie, our God IS very real and personally envolved, bless you, my prayers go your way concerning your daughter. I always say don't worry God has your back! :)

Barbara, I like your fair too! :)

Patricia, my middle name is Elizabeth too! Crazy now we have three things in common: poets, 5'2" and same middle names!! :)

Ralph, don't worry my feelings arn't hurt!! Boo-hoo! ;)

Walt, prolific as usual, nice work! :)

Nice work writers!!

Hope's
seed
now planted.
His desire that
none should perish, but that we have
life everlasting.
He who knocks
shall
see.

NEITHER A LENDER NOR A BORROWER BE

My brother borrowed my miter saw,
then loaned it to a friend.
He used it for a couple days
then sent it on again.

His girlfriend's father needed it
to trim some windows in.
He used it on a job site
and forgot to bring it in.

His partner in construction
put in on his truck, and
when I needed it again
I was out of luck.

My brother tried to track it down
but he fell flat, you see,
he didn’t know where it had gone
to give it back to me.

I went on e-bay on a lark
to find another one,
the one I’d seen was hunter green
just like my other one.

I won my bid and paid the freight
and waited patiently,
the saw arrived on Tuesday,
a big surprise to me.

For just below the nameplate
there was a metal tag,
And etched into the surface
my attention did get flagged,

The name was so familiar
as far as I could see,
This miter saw I bought online
had once belonged to me,

This favored tool four times removed
did make my stomach churn,
after paying a hundred bucks
my saw had been “returned”.

Hannah,
One more thing in common: Ralph didn't hurt my feelings either!! Boo-hoo! ;)

Walt, thank you for your kind words

To all who "Shouted out" Thanks
Patricia, wait til you add one more name - "Grandma"

Marian V.

LOL, Walt! True story?

Loving all the "fair" pieces out here. Barbara, loved yours twice. ;)

Hannah, Hope's Seed is wonderful. And thank you for your thoughtful words and prayers, my dear.

Unfortunately, yes. I don't loan my tools out anymore. I should've known better. But you live and learn. Also unfortunate, back to a one-handed correspondence. Lopped off the tip of my left thumb chopping veggies. After three hour in Immediate Care, I'm back in action.

Marie Elena - Your faith is an inspiration. Do you know the saying of Padre Pio? "Pray, hope, and don't worry." You've got the first two covered; you're ahead of the game. We support you in prayer.

Walt and Sue - We're just back from my first trip to California. One of my favorite stops was to San Juan Capistrano. Walt, Sue is right. You must get there! The altar alone is worth the trip. What a beautiful, uplifting, holy place. If I were a swallow, I'd get back there every year for sure.

Here is one offering for this prompt. Coming to it so late, I've really enjoyed reading everyone's work. There are so many different kinds of "returns" represented.

Dividends

Time
spent
with you
always brings
this happy result
sweet return on my investment
and you can take that
to the bank.
Your bank,
or
mine?

Can't imagine what I did to make all those blank spaces appear. Blast.

Theresa, Dividends is a keeper. Nice work! Missed you earlier, btw. And thanks so much for your kind words and prayers. You are consistently one who turns my eyes back to my Maker. Grazie, il mio amico.

Now, WALTER! What am I supposed to do with you?! Lopping off your digits does not a lovely Sunday afternoon make. Settle down over there, will ya? ;) My dad chopped of the tip of his finger years ago. As he was being sewn up, he asked his doctor if he would be able to play the violin. The doctor said he saw no reason he would not be able to do so. To which my dad responded ... you guessed it ... "That's great, doc. I've never been able to play the violin before."

Coming Home

Just yesterday
six o’clock was three, noon was nine
three thousand miles separated us
from everyone and everything we love

Just yesterday
a miracle spanned those miles
in far less time than it takes for most births
and made all three thousand disappear

Just yesterday
we traded beneficent sun and cooling breeze
for familiar swelter and heavy moist air
avocado for soft pretzels
snapper for cheesesteaks
Padres for Phillies

Today
six was six and noon was noon
California was awesome
vacation was wonderful
but coming home is best of all.

Ah, Theresa ... coming home is descriptively well done! And congratulations! :)

Yeah, T.C., what the lady said! She's smart.

I have no interest in playing the violin, and can't be any worse on my keyboard. But I am worried I'll never be able to hitchhike again.

Shouldn't be a problem. Just hike up your skirt and use your toe.

Oops. Better clarify that last statement. Just realized how that might sound. Keep your toe on the ground, Walt. Okay, I'm going away to let my candy apple red face cool off now. Bye.

Tomorrow

Better grab handfuls of sand outside the boundary
Between where sea plays with beach until dusk,
Because tomorrow, friend, only we with our callous
Boredom will find reason not to return in the same
Body, while the beach is still here, wearing away
Under the reach of sea, millimeters by the minute
While we, rubbing sand free from seashells, tuck
Every last bit of earth we can find into a slow death
Until, one day, we look miserably, regretfully dumb
At the seagull drowning as she pines for that beach
Where she used to perch, and us, unable to retrospect
That day of plentiful sand back to present, because
Dusk never returns the same way twice, nor do we.

Hanna and Patricia, I am sooo sorry, I will do an immediate rewrite.

Ralph.

Return to Escape

Day after day
Here it is to which I return
just to hear what others have to say
that I might understand and learn

Oh, there is much pleasure as well
I love to just sit back and read
Engulfing myself in the tales others tell
when my heart is hungry, here is what I need

Where of course, Poetic Asides
Where the best of the best resides
Poets from all over the place
Penning just enough to give us a taste

Why there is Walt, Marie, Heather, Sharon, Banana_The_Poet
Among the best of the best
through their work they really show it
lets not forget the rest

Of course our father figure slash leader
Robert who guides us weekly
teaching us to write meter by meter
though, I must confess, from some I shy away meekly

But, Robert, has found a way
to help me and most of us find and write our best
And when he's away
Those party's really put his patience to the test

Now there are more to this tale
many who might be quite sore
that is if I were to fail
to include each name
Things would just never be the same

So, without further a due
lets remember Barbara, Shelia, Bruce, Daniel, Hannah, Patricia, Sammy and Sue
Let's not forget the man who
Gave us a party, and a double whammy

Yes, that old trouble maker Brett
The one nut, no one will ever forget
But, since his writing style reminds me of mine
I guess, I can forgive him, just this one time

There is a place to which I return day after day
Just to hear what my fellow poets have to say. . .

© Ralph J. Fitcher, August 16, 2009. Return poem.

Hi, I want to apologize to anyone who gets upset that I pick on Brett so much, or Brett picks on me a lot, but to tell the truth, Brett and Ralph are just pen names I use. We are all one and the same, and neither name is my real name. So, in essence, it's all in good fun, basically making fun of myself.

Ralph.

Ralph is a stitch; Brett is his niche. Ralph shouldn’t ditch The Brett, nor the Fitch.

But, who is this Fitch and his sidekick and niche that he turns on and off like a true toggle switch? Tell you what we need -- we need a snitch!

And that's my pitch.

Just itchin' to know.

Okay I'm done.

hahahahaha, :-) I love it Marie.

Ralph

P.S. Brett really is the bad guy here, just look at what he did at the party, not to mention with my cat. OMG, am I the snitch?

Hey, if the snitch fits...

That's rich!

I just counted. I have enough alter-egos for a baseball team.

HA! Nice top-off, Barbara!

I gotta quit hoppin' back on here and get down to business. This place is utterly addicting.

If it's just a matter of making fun of you, Ralph, if that is NOT your real name, then why didn't you say so. I would be very happy to help out a friend and pick on you too. And Brett, the same goes for you. I'm good at two-for-one mockery. Good luck on your separate and equally confusing endeavors. I relegated Castlebaum and van Wendt to historical perspective. Castlebaum didn't think any of my arguments were Kosher. And van Wendt? That dude insisted on talking my ear off. No wonder I got off track there. "Write on, Happily" to paraphrase my and Hannah's catch phrases.

Robert,
I enjoyed the dream-like quality of your poem. I felt like I was wandering around in someone else's head while they were asleep. I don't know if it was intentional, but I liked the effect.

THE LIBRARY

Stacks and racks,
shelves of self-help
books and manuals,
periodic annuals and magazines
fill this scene with amazing muse
and falderall, whose where-with-all
says "That is something I could have written".
Deep within this forest primeval of wooden
book holders oak benches, security
in the guise of the quiet sanctuary
presented here. Hushed whispers to
hushed shouts, you take out the books
that pique your interest, in the best
representation of education and leisure,
that it would please you to find the time
to read more and write more, than to
never have written at all.
You draw your card to charge these
trusted tomes to read at home, but
you're presented with a "situation".
Your calculation of which books are
still due was off by one. Late fines ensue,
for "failure to return" should have
been the rule, and not the exception.

Ralph,

Thanks for the rewrite, although not necessary. You are welcome to add any name or omit names as you please - it is YOUR work. If I need my name in someone else's poems, I could always copy and paste it in there. (I already do that will all the love poems I read, doesn't everybody? HA!) It is nice to be acknowledged for my work, not just for my presence in the room. Starting to list names is a dangerous business, always bound to miss someone in the listing. Safer with a generic y'all. In that light, I love the poems and happy banter from y'all! You too, Ralph, Brett, and any other name du jour.

Thanks to Marie Elena - twice! - and to Walt. It's good to be back and also good to know I was missed.

A RETURN TO INNOCENCE

In the pursuit of innocence,
your conscience plays a major role.
To extol the virtue of naivete
and ignorance, is to retain
your grip on your humanity.
For in all the expressive
words you present to flummox
yourself and your fan base,
you find that your original intent
was to accept a mantle of
wide-eyed wonder and plead innocent
to all charges. Going back to basics
has opened your mind, releasing it
from bondage, to blanket you with
the newness it espouses; pristine and clean.

...and so you know, I have legally changed my name from Walt to Y'all.
So I'd like to thank everyone that singles me out time after time. It feels good to read, "Nice work, Y'all!" It emboldens me to write more. To that I say, Thank You. Y'all.

Some other comments from all of you:

"Y'all, let's just pretend I know how to spell."- Barbara, I've seen your work. I think you spell very well. Don't put yourself down!

"y'all made MY day (and I needed that, big-time!)" - Willy, glad I could deliver to make your morning and afternoon special. I aim to please!

"Safer with a generic y'all" - Patricia, I'd agree, but sometimes, the script has to be filled as written. I have no problem with generics, but the Doctor knows best!

"I love the poems and happy banter from y'all!" - Patricia, you flatter me greatly. Happy banter is what I do. And the fact that you love my poems means a lot coming from you. Thanks for that.

(y'all constantly surprise and amaze me) - Robert Lee Brewer, That is the ultimate compliment. I've always hoped you appreciated my attempts at this poetry thing, and now I know. Your the man!

Thanks everyone!

Y'all

Y'all just crack me up.

And while we're changing names, just call me Hannahbananabarbaratheresapatriciaralphfitcherdanielwillychevsharondianemartinmariansalvatorenancykevinbrucelauriekconniebrucejosepphkevintaylorjohnmegandejacksonnellilynncastlebaumwalterleebrewer Marie Wojtanik, Jr.

Or any variation thereof.

Thank you for your support.

Hannahbananabarbaratheresapatriciaralphfitcherdanielwillychevsharondianemartinmariansalvatorenancykevinbruce
lauriekconniebrucejosepphkevintaylorjohnmegandejacksonnellilynncastlebaumwalterleebrewer Marie Wojtanik, Jr.,

I'm happy to crack you up. It's my nature and twisted sense of guffaw! But, you may want to shorten that name.
Did you ever think of going with Wojtan? Just a thought. Besides, a rose by any other name would be just as long!

Y'all.

Y'all: Not a bad idea. I'd thought about just going by "me." That would definitely work, being a variation of my new elongated formal name. Actually, I'm hoping everyone will call me Hannahbanana. Has a nice ring to it, eh?

Up
where
air becomes
acrid and bitter;
full of yourself, you've become full.
Haughty ways displease.
Meekness shall
ground
you.

I also like Name du Jour, although it seems Patricia already knows someone by that name.

Hey! There's half-o-hannahbanana right now! Nice one, Hannah. Makes one think.

Indeed it does Marie!! ;) I mean "me," I mean "Hannahbanana!"

Y'all r' just plain crazy lol!!

Yes, but ... you really shouldn't talk about Y'all like that. He might get pretty steamed.

Good to see everyone in good spirits as usual and equally as entertaining!! :)

Yes, Marie I know but I mean crazy in the nicest of ways!

Ya'll, I apologize for that, I retract my last statement!! Not crazy just...ummm... ahhh... Help me out Hannahbanana!!

Walterrific? Wojtanikly challenged?

Sometimes I think I'll eventually HAVE TO change my name, before Robert kicks me to the curb.

Unconventional, avant-garde you know eccentric, wordy and wonderful! Is that better?

Perfection, Hannah! ;)

Wouldn't a half of Hannahbanana be a Hannahbanana split?
And I'm NOT crazy, I'm just drawn that way. Also, way to go
me. You threw the whole dynamic out of whack with your entire
name.

Those work too! I hope we'd get strikes, at least three before we're out!

Yes, I believe that's correct and now I must split, time for the lil' tike's bath!!:)

POINT OF NO RETURN

You put your name out
on the line, you thought
no one would know,
that your one chance
got up to dance,
it put on quite a show.
you wrote a poem
full of pathos
flowing from the rhyme,
but when you went to sign the thing
you had an awful time.
You started it on Wednesday,
you thought you'd finish sooner,
but everybody loves to read
the work of Hannahbananabarbara
theresapatriciaralphfitcher
danielwillychevsharon
dianemartinmariansalvatore
nancykevinbrucelauriekconnie
brucejosepphkevintaylorjohn
megandejacksonnellilynn
castlebaumwalterleebrewer
Marie Wojtanik, Jr.
You had me at Y'all!
And now you can't take that back!

Good one, Y'all. ;)

Y'all are entertaining for sure!! :)

Thank you, Nobody in particular. Leave 'em laughing, I say Hannah!

Oh Nobody, your the best!

Okay I 'm really outie now!!

Nope. I'm just Good. And even with that, I've only been Good for as long as I've been married to Keith R. Good. Although, I did date a Best.

Okay. I'm outa here too. Y'all (and ALL y'all) are just too much fun. Catch ya later!

My Wurst trumps your Best. I'm just saying! A bit backwards though.
You usually go from Good to Best, not the other way around!

Wurst? That's great! But not Great. And sometimes Good is better than Best. And the lady I work with is a Payne.

And I have to tell Y'all, Nobody's comment waaaaaaay up there that said "Good one, Y'all" was not referring to your Point of No Return. I didn't see that until just now when I stopped back by. But it IS a good one, and thank Y'all so much! (Nobody was actually referring to your "split" remark.)

Now, Y'all quit pulling me back into this room. ;)

Just don't let anyone notice that Hannah was showing off her 'outie' again. Marie admitted the same, but personally, I have an innie. No pictures, please.

Here is an Innie and Outie (return) poem that I posted on my blog today:

No Key

Doors are two faced,
entrances or exits,
depending on which way you walk.

To the amateur ear it is the same,
the resonance of the door’s shuttings
with our comings and goings,
countless times over all these years,
but it slams today
with a reverberating sound.

It echoes the finality of your
untrained,
unqualified,
inexperienced,
professional opinion
that our relationship is closed.

Thank God,
I finally listened.

Thank God,
you finally walked.

Patricia, that poem is very well done. I like your expressive portrayal. It also works nicely with the return theme. If this is an event that just occurred (to you), my heart goes out to you as well.

And btw, innie here. ;)

Just so Y'all don't get confused with that last comment to Patricia, I'm not Inniebody. I'm still Nobody in Particular. Are we perfectly clear on that one?

Marie,
TKS for your kinds words once again. No, actually, this poem is not from a recent experience. I did experience a divorce almost 15 years ago, but it didn't end this way. It is not, in fact, an experience - just the fact that the front door is always in my sight while I write. Felt like it had something to say. I'm glad it resonated with you.

Yikes! Everybody's been way too busy while I was out of town! I'll never get caught up! :(

Welcome home, De! We missed you!
Word of advice: Just don't attempt to read from the bottom, up. It'll be confusing enough from the top, down. Reversing it will give you a headache to beat the band. :)

Patricia: Just read "Warning on the Label" out at your website. Good stuff, that. ;) Don't have time to sign up out there right now ... gotta head to work. But wanted to let you know I really liked it before I forget.

Oh that was not a statement about my belly-button because that's an innie! Guess I'm with the innie crowd here! Okay that was cheesy! Any way, Patricia, outstanding piece "the resonance of the door's shuttings," really stuck out to me. Made me think about if the door could tell us about all the opens and closings of its entire life...

De, hello there! :) Glad you're back, I'd heed Marie's advice if I were you lol! It is quite the bunny trail! Can't wait to see what you stew up for us!

Hey, Y'all!
(WHY do I have the feeling I'm going to regret this?)
Now I'm REALLY confused:
If Marie isn't Inniebody, and Nobody's Best;
Wurst Trumped Best and Hannahbanana's split,
Who's left?

(LOLROTF ! Sides hurt!!)

W

Me, not to be confused with me!!!

P.S. ME IS SHORT FOR MARIE ELENA, NOT TO BE CONFUSED WITH THE WOJTANIKLY CHALLENGED ONE!!

Willy, I believe you're Right. Obviously, Hannah's Me is Left. Nobody knows for sure. Just ask Anybody.

Just dropped in a minute to see what....YOU GUYS? are up to. Playing with Bobbylee's nasty new game is giving me the headspins, and I needed to catch my brain and set it back where it belongs.
(Is it just me, or is there something a little odd about the site? In addition to the company.)

So, are you asking if a Little Odd is lurking about? Don't know. Haven't seen him.

And where is Anybody Anyway?

Y'all apparently went south.
All of the good lost lines are scattered
on the fields for fertilizer.

Feel free to cultivate, Nelle! :)

I attribute my growth as a poet to all the fertilizer flying around here.
As you sow, so shall you reap. Get busy.

Anybody had been seen doing nothing with nobody. Somebody told them both
to check in, but we haven't heard anything.

Okay, so what I hear you saying is: Anybody and Nobody are accounted for. But Them Both is missing in action. Good thing Somebody's on it.

Noticed Tuesdays come earlier and earlier around here?

FERTILIZER? NAW!

'Tis the return of pollen-infested air
which clogs the tender inner passages
of our means to survive; to breathe freely;
to oxygenate our deprived brain cells;

the return of ripe corn tassels and silks;
newly set, yet aged, second- and third-
cutting-ready fields of pasture grass and alfalfa,
seconded only by bursting seedheads of giant ragweed;

the return of cucurbit blossoms poised,
anxiously awaiting the bees' arrival;
field grasses slowly coming of age
next to the heavily-petaled, drooping sunflower heads;

the return of now-spent tiger-lily trumpets,
battered and beaten by hummer tongues and wings;
the fickle tykes moving on to the pink
"Naked Ladies" who are tossing their blossoms' powder

from their pale heads as they announce their return,
waving to-and-fro at the swelling, coloring stalks of goldenrod.
O, to breathe freely and think clearly,
that I might anticipate, in calm, the return of the prompt.


W

WEll DONE, Willy! Unfortunately, I can relate to the allergies. Meds really do help me though. :)

BACK AGAIN

I had to stop to have a look
at what was wrought today,
and without rhyme or reason,
I could not keep away.
It seems the course that brought us here,
is one most daily taken,
and all the work that does appear,
is good, there's no mistaking.
So rest assured if you've not heard,
this Tuesday night will leave us,
With Wednesday breathing down its neck
a new prompt will relieve us.
I'll bid good night to poet pals,
our parting is sweet sorrow,
and start afresh with poems new
when we're back again tomorrow.

Good night my friend.

Willy love your floral descriptions!

Walt, good night poet pal.

Marie, is Everybody accounted for? :)

Sweet dreams!

Oh no! Hannah! We're missing Everybody! (Especially at this time of the night...)

One last post for this prompt. It needs tweaking, but at 1:30 a.m., I'm all tweaked out.


Youngstown’s Million Dollar Playground
(1899-1984, R.I.P.)

A “Trolley Park” back in The Day
With no admission fee to pay.

This once-sought park was Youngstown’s pride
At railway’s end on its South Side.

Greeted by Jack Rabbit’s hills,
Promises of coaster thrills.

Wild Cat’s three-minute ride,
Claimed in “Top Ten” nation wide.

Lost River, Carousel,
Kooky Castle, Wishing Well,

Rocket Ride, Kiddie Land,
Laffin’ Lena’s Loony Land,

Helter Skelter Bumper Cars,
Picnic shelter, monkey bars,

Cheyenne Shoot Out, Wacky Shack,
Of course, the CP Railroad Track,

Porky Pig the Paper Eater,
Ferris Wheels that rock and teeter,

Candied Apples, Caramel too,
Painted face and fake tattoo,

House of Mirrors, Tilt-a-Whirl,
Dip your fries in ice cream swirl.

Ballroom, built in 1910,
Drew in famous acts from then.

Dorsey, Tommy; Miller, Glenn;
Truly Big Band anchor men.

Tough times hit the park, and hard
Fire left it scarred and charred.

Sheet and Tube went belly up
Leaving Youngstown near bankrupt.

Idora Park, as it was known,
Soon become a vacant zone.

The Ticket Stand is all that’s left,
From demolition, fire, and theft.

Rats roam where we once had played,
No midway rides or penny arcade.

Yearly visits, gone astray,
Revisiting my heart today.

Marie,
I share in that memory, almost to a "T". Mine was called "Crystal Beach". It stood on the Lake Erie
shore in Fort Erie, Ontario, Canada. We had the Magic Carpet (fun house), Laffin' Gertie, Leo the Lion
Garbage eater, and the Comet, (at the time, the largest wooden roller coaster. It was dismantled and
still seeing service At the Lake George (NY) Great Adventure Park), along with the attractions you've
mentioned. The Ballroom doubled as a roller skating rink. Used to love watching the nuns whisk around
the hardboard holding hands. We called it the holy roller derby. There was a boat, the Canadiana, that
ferried across the lake to Buffalo and back. "Progress" has turned her into condominiums and talk is they're
closing the beach for more. Melissa got a chance to see it when she was four. Andi never did. "Crystal Beach
Loganberry and "Hard Suckers" are nostalgically still made. Wow, what a parallel that was. Thanks.

A coaster-lover’s site, featuring shots of the over-grown Idora coasters: http://www.negative-g.com/IdoraPark/Idora-Park-2000-1.html

Cool black and whites, some of the fires: http://www.vindy.com/photos/galleries/2009/apr/25/idora-demise/

Long before my day, it actually had a salt-water swimming pool. That was later filled in to make Kiddie Land. Just like your beloved park, our ballroom doubled as a skating rink. (“holy roller derby” – priceless!) The closing of Sheet and Tube was the already-faultering Idora’s death sentence. One amusing last-ditch effort to attract people was the revamping of the Jack Rabbit. The cars were reversed for a backward coaster thrill ride,renamed the Back Wabbit.

Glad I could spark fond memories for you, Walt. Only adds to the feeling that we are long-lost childhood friends.

Whoa and nelly too - slipped on over on string theory from a parallel universe, stepped off the curb and into a room in - omigod, it's another freakin' loony bin! Hellooooo - M.C.Escher if you can hear me, would you lower one of those infernal ladders or staircases of yours that goes nowhere and get me the heck out of here? The asylum is looking like sanctuary suddenly...

Returning
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder


Returning
to the labyrinth is never easy,
worse when the memories
of why you left in the first place
still hide in crevices you‘d
forgotten still fester.
A veteran at the weathervane within
you spook like prey at a waterhole,
avoid direct eye contact
so as to not attract attention,
shy away from potentials
for safety’s sake, and still
sweat and tremble in your sleep.

But now that you’re standing here
again at the door of the Lion’s den,
Courage stalling out like an tired old car,
Anxiety making out with Guilt in the backseat,
it’s at that very moment you realize
the longer it goes unconfronted
the longer you allow Shame to
brandish that knife at your trachea,
and the reason why you’ve returned
to face the Serpent, your knuckles
rapping white against the door.


© 2009 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

(NOTE: In this poem, the age old question of "Why on earth would you go back for?" is answered. I left it open-ended so that anyone could see themselves here -- the spurned lover, the abused child, the molested neighbor kid, the school bully, etc. all coming back to confront their demons. --JLS)

had to find herself
before she could try to give
anyone her self

RETURN TO INNOCENCE

Brightly, infant fun lights up the early days
outshining the sun with carefree baby ways
But innocence yields; childhood joy turns faded
reality un-shields attitude grown jaded
experience wields pow'r to render shaded

freedom once enjoyed to its full potential
until hope is void and stress exponential
Wait! Fight for your peace; never live resigned
that joy is deceased, no, it's there in your mind
waiting to release bright innocence confined

The dashoboard said "check engine light"
We still had twenty five miles to go.
We lived so far away from everything that even returning a video
Was a big freaking deal. We pondered whether
To stop at a gas station, pop the hood, and try to check things out
Or just take our chances
and keep on going.

Unsent letter

I glance sadly at the
Return key
And circle it slowly
With my mind
Lips fluctuating
As I scan my last
Words
So much to be said
So much to be read
So much for us
My finger pushes
My well worn
Return Key