POEM: Something Missing

Where Have All the Pictures Gone?

Just 17 years ago,
I needed a camera that printed the date.
I certainly couldn't remember
because there were so many firsts to photograph.

First teeth, first steps, you get the idea.

Now Spring Break is over.
I have memories
and ONE picture
because everytime I raised the camera
or snuck around the corner
they caught me.

Those two wonderful teenagers of mine.

But one photo is better than none.

Does that fall into the "quality - not quantity category"?

There should be something missing
A gap in my life
A hole in my heart

but there is so much
that filled the missing pieces
so my jigsaw is complete

and today
I wouldn't even recognize you
on the streets

****
That was easy - somehow I had this already on my mind the whole morning...

Conveying

I thought I looked everywhere
for the right words to tell you
how much I love you, and there they were
in the back of my underwear drawer
slipping around behind the cotton line,
eloquent and smooth.

Linda Voit

Missing

I try to hold onto things
so nothing will ever be missed
I can't though
things go missing
people too
I've even gone missing
and only came back twenty years later
and when I came back
I found you
missing

Something Missing ?
You think you put the car keys where?
I already looked in there.
No their not on the special hook
Yes, I’ll take another look.
Not in the drawer or on the shelf
They weren’t taken by an elf
Think, think , think I need to go
The boss is waiting you know
No their not on the bed
Dear your making me see red
Check MY pockets now you say
There they are hooray, hooray
When I get to work I’ll call
They weren’t missing after all

"Missssssssssing"

When the highway’s mirages melt into sunbeams...
and light erupts from breaks in the clouds...

And time’s footprints are ragged.
And the grass shivers with dew.

I find that I have lost the way of it
and the words to all music escapes me.

And I hum discordant melodies into the black
and lie in the shivering midnight
looking for the different shades of pitch
in the ceiling...

Which threatens to careen into the stratosphere
and return once more
to crush me
beneath its expanse
of nothing...

And to trace never-ending stories in the spiderweb cracks
filled with dark matter
that leaked from the hole I made in the universe
the night I dreamed of angels.

Something missing in my life!
*************************************

I am missing something in my life,
The love of my life where are you?
I want to get married and be a wife,
I want a love that is so true.

I want an equal partner whose knowledgeable,
A partner I can share things and opinion with,
He should be as sweet as an angel,
It is better if he is a wordsmith.

Th Missing Lttr

W nvr think about things
w tak for grantd vrday
until thy’r gon and
w ar lft worrying
about how to kp going
without thm

I have this faint hope
that from far out
this house is the Milky Way:
unfathomable
to those living here, but
miraculous
from a few thousand
light years away.

I can't find that
asteroid you sent me.
I know that one day
it will fall out
from a book I
haven't read in years.

What are you doing
down there, Mary asks,
from the surface of this
deep blue trench?

Nothing,
just going through
some of my old
poetry.

Cheryl Lemine your poem is cute and so true! I tell my teenage boys if they don't let me take their picture now, I'll just have to show their girlfriends their baby pictures...haha.

No, not there. Not under the loveseat
or behind the fridge or in the shredded wheat.
Not on the terrace in the petunias
or prostrate in the street.

In the morning mist, sequestered there?
somewhere on Saturn twirling in the gassy air?
in a book, under the carpet, incognito? No.
I've lost my youth and I know not where.

Bill Stewart
bstewart192@aol.com

something missing:

it's the risk-thrill
possibility of another boy
in our tribe
to keep the numbers even
of course three is more than enough
for this planet to sustain
and there's money and my age

but this squiggly wire
coated with some kind of
slow-dissolving hormone
that squishes any hope of fetal
implantation takes some of the fun
out of fucking

still there is the touch
and the flush and
the arch up to meet you there
in the place of release,
of sinking back down
the spiral bound spring

still something is missing:
possibility

Missing

It doesn’t make a lick of sense.
She’d been gone, really, the last few years.
Sitting with her vacant smile.
Singing her songs and asking for Papa.

She died in spring, after all,
Months before the holidays.
Gone to rest in a better place,
At peace and with her Papa.

It doesn’t make a lick of sense.
All this crying and sniffling
Scissors in my hands
Wrapping a Santa red sweater.

Empty Houses

We leave our car before Cardigan bridge
and walk across and up the riverbank a ways
before us a modern family house and a lone tree
gaunt, barren and tall, and in those branches
a handful of noisy children who came here in cars
wave sticks and skate gleeful circles between
a pair of hockey nets bathed in golden sunlight
that gilds the silver face of the frozen river.
The village is full of large Sunday-best houses
all faced in wood dressed in edible paint
toffees and lemons, chocolates and creams
up high on the hills on short dead-end streets
safe places where traffic goes seldom these days
constructed by crafters of fine wooden ships
once powered by nature’s persistant raw winds
that today chill the aged in quiet dark rooms
with large windows built to watch for sailors
which now look out for visits from gone away children
who are frantically building their own empty houses.
Hugh

Finality of Death

There was an oddness to the moment
as I sat next to you
at your brother's funeral.
It wasn't the emotion
of the loss of my uncle
that caught up in wells
of my eyes
and I quickly dabbed away.
It wasn't the picture frame
that came crashing down
letting everyone know
a spirit was about.
It was the simple gesture
of a toddling child
that reached for you
recognizing his grandpa
and you took him
in your arms.
A coldness
an emptiness
a hurt
beyond death
settled upon me
as you turned
your shoulder from me
to reach for him
a mirror of the choice you made
those many years ago
when you left us all
eight crying children
left without our dad
time has made that choice
more costly than you knew
it grieves me that
my child
your other grandchild
never felt that
hug of recognition
my child
your other grandchild
grew up alone
no grandpa to know her
no grandpa to hold her
twenty now
she does not cry
not knowing
what she missed
but that toddling child
is screaming
for us all

fllw yr blss

spkng yr mnd
cn b hrd
kp mvng

grp mnd
clzd?

thy r nt yr
rspnsblty

dnt try t
chng thr mnds
wlk. tlk t yrslf

fllw yr blss
kp mvng
blss fllws

Time Machine by Ian Phillips

I need to go back in time with a dufell bag
To collect what I had but have now lost.
Laughter with absolute abandonment
Living a day with no plans or maps
Feeling sun on the face and knowing there’ll be more
Lying by rivers and hearing breeze and ghostly voices
Evenings that lay ahead like a mystery
The plot not yet written, the characters not cast.
My bag will be full and one by one
I’ll take them out and regenerate my perfect self.

Lost in the Woods

Can you name the one who peers through your eyes?
Have you met yourself--man of meat--walking in the garden?
Heard the footsteps of of the man of stone
Whose soles touch your soles?
You are the Sun's child--Ignite!
Or have you forgotten what it means to stand together in the woods?
To burrow through my breast and place a pine cone in my ribcage?
To walk along the rim of the moonlight, where the darkness
Starts to muzzle it's way in, like a stone-skulled mink,
And hear the tongues of the juniper--
Demanding that we add our bodies to it's stew of humus,
To wrap it's toe-roots around our bones until,
Clogged with clay, we begin to sing.
Already, I begin to feel the feathers fill my mouth--

What did I come in here for?
I can’t quite recall
I stand there a moment
My mission on stall
What was I saying?
I’ve lost my whole thought
I think for a second
My mind all a fraught
When did we go there?
I can’t think of when
My memories the gist
Of my life way back then
Why am I worried?
Because my mind seeps away
With each passing moment
Wait… What did I say?

I couldn’t find the “rhyme check” either

I sat dwon to write a few lins
And then tried to check for grammar
But I coulnd’t find my spel check button
So I hope you can read what I wrot

WHERE ARE YOU NOW?

Sitting here,
I watch your pictures on the wall,
dancing to the gentle strains of melodies we knew.
The memories we've shared,
and the times that showed we cared,
fade away in thoughts of you.
All alone at night
I wonder where you are,
and I wonder if you think about me now and then?
The thoughts inside my head
were better left unsaid,
since my heart fell from your hands.

Where are you now,
now that I need you?
Where are you now?
Wishing somehow you still need me too
the way you used to do.

Looking in your eyes
was like a dream come true,
feeling all the little things I've learned so hard to need,
But, now I look around
and realize I've found
just how much I need you still.

And where are you now,
now that I need you?
Where are you now?
I just don't believe love anymore since you walked out my door and were gone.

Where Something Should Be Planted

Everyone’s mailbox in my neighborhood has a flowerbed or a bush at its base. Something to welcome the bills and the birthday cards. But at my house, it is barren soil. There is no grass to mow there at the bottom of the hill where the box sits, not even a weed patch to spray with poison. It is a mailbox planted in stone, one that stands as resolute as the government man who drives past it on the way up my long drive, bearing news worse than anything he could stuff in a metal box.

It's been twenty-four years
since I've asked you to stay,
but how can I miss you
if you won't go away?

If you must leave,
will you please leave

your breath on my neck
your hands in my hair
your words on the surface of memory...

If I forget you, then you are completely gone, so I will
hold my pain and tears with such care.

Missing You.


Gone.



one.

IN THE LIGHT OF CANDOR
By: Hannah Bowles


The remains are like that of a carcass,
picked over skeletal structure and cartilage,
this Thanksgiving cadaver.
What good resides after the moral decay?
With which tendons have been stretched thin
holding together the last of the virtues,
to be passed on to the next generation.
What words of thanks to what God?
We partake in shifts and shovel in rations,
of which consists the labor and toil of a few.
What gratitude has gone amiss?
What ideals have we so easily dismissed?
Of what will one query without regard for others?
With no concern of what may result.
No genuine thought placed in these questions,
heedless to the good of whom it is destined.
One wise crack here, a solitary cuss word there,
a hurt feeling here, one smack and a sore cheek there.
Poor kid, never had a chance, all he’s ever known is negligence.
Country abode all decked out,
rustic stars and home-made quilts.
Pg.1
Wanna know what lost it’s way home?
It’s the love that is missing,
withdrawn from the stitching.

“Wedding Gift”

After the wedding,
we moved to a new apartment
and the gift of white tablecloths
from Margarita in Greece
got mixed in with the garbage.
We drove to the city dump,
and the man pointed
to the mound
from our street in Queens.
You lifted every black plastic bag,
until we gave up
and started our life together.

Missing

I had it, right there
in the front of my mind
A poem of something missing
I now can not find.

Just bits and pieces,
fragments of ideas
swirling out of my reach
between my ears.

Valiantly I try
to string them together
as my mind now turns
to thoughts of the weather.

Something missing,
I can't recall
Words elude me
Heck with it all!

Guess Who?

M-Money from the cookie sale
I-is missing, along with the bag.
S-Stolen from her bright, cheery kitchen
S-sometime last year.
I-Is she ever going to find what
N-now has become her debt?
G-Guess who took the blue bag.

Hint- Not a Girl Scout!

Laurie K.

Just to say 'Missing You.' - is the title of the poem I posted. The poem itself is just the two 'lines.'

In case it wasn't clear.

nice poem Robert... i am a wedding photographer. along with those smiles come sore throats from speaking instructions and very sore shoulders from carrying lots of equipment. still, its a pretty cool job.

my poem

Fun-damental:
'da mental' need for truth
and a reality to base your life on.
'Fun' isn't always a part of it.

THE "pg.1" is not part of it. Sorry about that. I composed this on my files first.

Late Again

I don’t care to discuss
why I missed the bus,
It is just my fate
to be always late.

Okay you're dead.


I didn't want to write this cliche.
I've been trying to skirt the issue,
trying to write 'funny',
trying to write 'clever',
trying to avoid knowing
I'll miss you forever.

Did Anyone Notice?

When I got on the wrong bus after school
did anyone notice?
When I didn't make it home for supper
did anyone care?

When I wasn't sleeping in my own bed
Did anyone inquire?
When I was lost and angry at you all
Did anyone seek?

When I was telling the truth that day
Did anyone believe?
When I sought justice from them
Did anyone understand?

When I ran away from home that day
Did anyone watch?
When I tried to come back again
Did anyone open the door?

Did anyone even notice I was missing?

A Missing Touch

What ever happened
to touching?
A grandmother's caress,
patting a fuzzy cheek,
straightening
a wayword curl;
young (and old) lovers,
hand in hand;
gate-blocking
airport hugs;
all so very public,
all so very sincere.

Well, 9/11 happened,
and AIDS happened, and
sexual harassment
happened, and any number
of repressive
ideas happened.

So, let's fight back,
resist the fear,
reject the nonsense,
get off that computer,
be back in love,
hug our neighbors,
kiss our spouse,
wrestle with children,
shake with both hands.

This touching thing,
too good to miss.

A Job

Maybe it is a good thing, to, on Monday, not rush through a morning routine.
I let thirty minutes give on each side of the hour before getting out of bed; I leisurely shower.
I drink a cup of coffee and decide what to do that day.
I can take an extra moment to search for tulip bulbs pushing out of the earth.
My pay check no longer measures my worth.
I look out the window at a leafless tree, brown matted grass, grey sky with a low ceiling of clouds ripe with raindrops about to break loose.
An egg about to hatch.
A volcano about to erupt.
Maybe it is not as pointless and empty as it seems.
Maybe it is the time to dream.
It is time to live the kind of life I choose.
To put my mind on poetry, music and my muse.
Why not?
I have nothing to lose.
Days bleed into days without cubicles, meetings, strangers or memos.
Time is my friend; embraces me.
This is freedom and I am free.
'Look inward', urges the unseen messengers sitting on my shoulder.
It was as cold as it gets, it will not get colder.
The sun waits behind the clouds ready to burn bright again.
Maybe this is who I am.
Maybe I will win.
Free. Searching. Alone.
Ready to roam.

Loyalty

Whatever happened to Loyalty?
Sticking up for,
Believing in,
Always having the back of,
Depending on?
We’ve gone from helping and serving our fellow man to
“Every man for himself.”
We have become a nation of
Spineless,
Backstabbing, what’s in it for me,
Fickle,
Fair-weather fans.
Wearing a team’s colors when the weather is sunny,
SHOWING our true colors when the outlook is bleak.
Loyalty.
Where did it go?
Why did it go?
What took its place…?

Twinkle Lost

it is a twinkle in his eye
that was
and is no longer

those around him hope
for its return
speak of possibility
cast minds toward future dimpled smiles

but just as bad habits
become inseparable from conscious thought
twinkles lost join with frowns
to weave themselves securely into faces

smiles whisper memories
into his downturned heart
desperate to regain control

it was a twinkle in his eye
that was
and is no longer

IT

It's been so
long since
I had it
I can't begin
to say where
its gone
I think I
lost it on
Beatty street
but I could be
completely wrong
It could be I
lost it in
Texas or
somewhere along
the way
Greyhound trips
are ardously
cruel
I really must say
I could have
lost it at the borders
or in the
Halloween store
the local mall
has played a part
in the mystery
of that I'm sure
I may never find
it again or
have it within
my grasp
It seems that finding
a replacement is
my next task

Missing- Haiku

Second grade photo,
The dance of the Tooth Fairy,
A big gap-toothed grin.

Here

I miss the places I have been,
and all the ones I’ll never see,

I miss some things I used to own
from which, thank God, I’m finally free,

I miss the folks I used to know,
although, they never did know me,

I see no point in looking back,
I’m in the place that I should be.

“My Father”

So many holidays and events
Have come and gone
My heart still waits for your visit
For you to sit in my backyard
On the deck that you’d fix
With your carpenter’s hands
If you’d had the chance

To look at my wedding pictures
That you never got to see
To see your grandson get taller than you
And my old cat would sit on your lap
Making rashes on your face
With her affectionate rubbings
Though my house is full of your stuff
It is always empty without you

take the oath
solemnly swear
that you will
do no falsehood
nor consent to
the doing of any
not wittingly
or willingly promote
or sue any false
groundless or
unlawful suit
that you will
delay no man
for lucre or malice

and yet

you convinced
the woman whose
mother died
last week to
sue the doctor
who did all he
knew to do

you convinced
the man who
tripped over
the rug edge
that is was
their fault
he did not
watch where
he was walking

perhaps you should
listen to the words
before you agree
so help you God

“Wrapped up in her little girl’s world”

She spent all her time wrapped up in her little girl’s world
Her daughter grown no longer her little girl
She drops her off at the school dance
She goes home and is now alone
She wonders when did she lose her
To friends and life and growing up
She seems to have forgotten to grow and make friends of her own
So now she waits until the dance is over
How much time will they have to spend together
Before the next dance or date or even college
Funny how she thought they would never be separated
Did she somehow feel obligated
No that was not it but it could have been fear
To live her own life and have her own dreams
She just now wakes up and needs to figure it all out
It would seem
She wonders what do I want to do with my life now
Now that her little girl no longer needs
To be wrapped up in the center of her mother’s world

Missing Morgan

lonely mornings
missing you days
where have you gone,my love?

you're right beside me
yet far away
where do you go, my love?

just when i think
i'm missing you more
you surprise me with a kiss

hello, my love
my partner, my friend
where have you been, my love?

DAFFODIL

A daffodil bloomed
in Chicago in April:
then cold, white snow fell

If the snows melt soon,
the yellow flower will live:
joyful in springtime!

If the snow lingers,
the tender petals will freeze,
and my heart will grieve.

Jane Beal
sanctuarypoet.net

“Consider the flowers of the field. They neither toil nor spin. Yet not even Solomon in all of his splendor was dressed as one of these.” Matthew 6:28

IMPACT

The brick building
takes up two blocks downtown
the steeple rises high
casting a shadow
on the building next door
every Sunday morning
the congregation
crowds through the doors
to hear the message
extend the right hand of Christian fellowship
sing the old hymns
and discuss the state of the world

Their new gym was just finished
and now they can play basketball
and vollyeball with each other
and not have to mingle with others
they can have potlucks
and Sunday night suppers
in the safety of their own sphere

The gym and the building are beautiful
the Singing Christmas Tree
was world class
the lawn is manicured
no weed would dare grow
among the pansies
or the dogwoods
that have to bloom
in time for Easter service

I drive by on my way to work
and marvel at the architecture
of the big brick building
and how it stands in stark contrast
to the homeless shelter
next door
and the people waiting outside
for soup and bread
and warmth
and a kind smile

A Love Lost

My heart feels low and my eyes are filled with tears from the pain of what heartbreak brings.
My mind wanders in a state of confusion and shock that you will no longer be there.
I took you for granted and did not keep your heart pounding with the thought of love. All I did was leave your eyes with the moistness of the morning dew.
I cannot resuscitate my heart for you have moved on to a sunny day.
No more tears for you, no more empty thoughts I left you with and no more cries for help unanswered.
I am the one left with a fear of the future and with an empty soul with no one to fill it.
I cannot be mad at you for you sang your song so sweet and clear. I was the one that did not listen for fear from my inner self.
I cannot look at you now for reasons of shame and longing ness to hear your whisper.
I must lay my heart in the black hole of memories and thoughts.
I will never resurface until I no longer hear your lament of love. You will be missed.

4.6.09

On the window sill
Morning sun highlights the dust;
Cold tea in his cup

"Awww...."
I said to two sets of big round eyes,
"I think we missed it..."
And then it happened again--
We laughed with great surprise!

Missing Sleep!


When eyes are closed and sleep descends so sweet,
The demons of the night, they like it not.
They bid my Guardian Angels to retreat
And hinder their fine works with all they’ve got!

I try; I strive to be the best I can;
Yet strife and doubt beset me all day long.
Each wee success is but the flash-in-pan
Each tune a mournful dirge and not a song!

Each time I laugh, there’s bitter tears in store
For each success, a failure’s sure to come.
I will get less, for I dared ask for more –
I’m bound to fail, when all is said and done.

Welcome insomnia, wakefulness at night;
I cede my sleep – though not without a fight!

Ode to Love

I never thought you would find me.
But you did, and in the most remarkable man.
Your force is constant...relentless...through him.
And it is through him that I came to realize you were always there. In me. For me. Hiding in the shadows of my soul, but always there.

You silently and patiently waited for me. And when I didn't respond, you brought him to me. You knew that he would be the one. My true love... my soulmate.

He is the one who has helped me see that I am worthy. Worthy of loving myself as much as I love him. And I am worthy of being loved. Totally, completely, absolutely.

Thank God you didn't ignore me the way I ignored you.

Something's Missing

She tasted the soup
and turned her nose up
brow wrinkled and twisted
and tasted again
slurping from the spoon
then dipping the spoon back into the pot
blowing across the steam
sniffing and slurping
pausing and then dipping again
smacking her tongue against the roof of her mouth
she lifted the shaker with her left hand
flailing it vigorously over the pot
satisfied
she put it back down again.

Clever, Laurie P.!

S mething is m ssing
in th s poem
I cant put my f nger on it
I cant fi ure it out
but Im tell ng you that
some hing is mis ing

Besi es the fact th t I cant
come up wi h a good idea
but I do ha e words
but yet, som thing is still missing

some hing is m ssing and I will
g t to the bot om of this
you just wat h

Im going to f nd out what it is
even if it ta es me all ni ht
and I ha e to look at eve y single letter
lol

I’d like to file a missing persons report….

Runny noses, teary eyes
Who has the bottle?
Clean up in crib 2!
Callous hands rock the cradle.

Rashy bottoms, fevery noggins
Can we distribute Tylenol?
It’s my lunch break!
Dual purpose gloves change the diaper.

Hungry whimpers, sticky bribes
Which one is allergic to peanut butter?
Pick up is at six!
Everyone goes home after work ends.

AIR
---

What is this nothing that we call air,
Blowing through our waving hair,
Or sitting still without a care,
Live without it we wouldn't dare.

Gas elements common or rare,
Most important the dioxide pair,
Invisible to the human stare,
Missing? Yes, but always there.

Something local to miss on this earth

Burlington Northern’s howl
so distant it’s nearly dream.
Its note---notes the final five of a glissando
stacked on its four predecessors.
An organ-grinder’s concertina
the pleated bellows
like a child’s fan of alternatively folded tablet paper
The air old and then like someone you used to know,
someone only
you can miss.

"Home"

They say it is wherever you hang your hat,
That's not completely true.
I've hung my hat a number of places,
And none have felt like you.

I tried to recreate,
I thought I could bring you back.
It's not the decorations,
it's the memories the walls lack.

Honestly, I'm not sure if it fits the prompt or not, but as soon as I heard "missing," I thought of my (way overdue) taxes, and wrote this. I think it does fit, since there's a lot missing in this scenario. So here's mine:
-----------

Taxes

I wonder what my forced contribution
really buys. Perhaps my meager earnings,
which never seem enough to house and feed
me, to whittle down my debt, were used
to buy the stray bullet that bore
a hole through the head of a civilian child.

My 1040 may number the shrapnel
I’ve lodged in hospital patients, or pieces
of a shattered roof that once
sloughed rain from a family.

My green gives birth to slate grey
sky swarming with metal birds
who drop death, stretch smoke tendrils,
acrid in the early morning air.

Across the world, I am leaving work
where I teach children the complacence
I do not feel myself. I tell them to better
themselves, contribute to our great society.

I am a liar and a coward. I remember
it is early April. I cannot bear to do them
by myself, as if to relegate the task
to another relieves me of complicity.

As I drive to a tax accountant, the sun strobes
through a copse of dead trees. What toys,
I wonder, shall I buy for tots this year?
I exit the car, shamed, toward
my grim task, and the sun cuts my shadow
into the earth like a grave.

Serenity Absent

Peace of Mind.
Vanished.
Need to find.
Gone.
Is it behind?
Covered.
Fates be kind!
Hiding.
Ties that bind.
Shrouded.
My spirits wind
Away.

POT OF GOLD

500 miles in eleven hours.
I paid for this trip
with the saddle I’ve hauled around
for 40 years. My horse long dead,
I’ve been hauling horse dreams
until finally, in these thin times, I sold
the saddle for less than it’s worth.
And here I am paying out saddle-
gold for gas and a cheap motel.
500 miles of country, pastures greening
just past the corner of my eye, eyes
cinched to the solid line, bucking a cross-
wind, driving to a place I wonder,
now, if I really want to go.
What have I done with my life?
All I remember of this trip
is a black mare named Molly (dead)
and a shred of rainbow
beckoning across the Mojave,
getting richer orange-red-purple
and wide as wishes
where it touched down
just ahead of me, just out of reach.

Lack of Faith

He pauses in the act of sweeping down
a statue of the hidden god and says,
in case they understanding him not, “A frown
upon your midnight face! The end of days
is not far off so you should sing your hymns
and go to mass and evensong and praise
the Lord your God and kneel: confess your sins,
seek absolution ere the world’s ablaze
and seals are struck to set the demons free
to walk upon the earth these men to slay
and boys for whom these pagan gods decree
a fate for which their bodies will decay.
Here me the words of Lucifer and cry
for Heaven lest your beasts and loved ones die.

Hung out to dry

A middle man
A one of many men
Many men as journalists
Journalists as martyrs
Martyrs with burning car tires
Placed round their necks

A petulant little despot
With lots of dirty laundry
Hung out to dry
Like bones

Bones of skeletons
From walk-in wardrobes
Ransacked and now
There are odd pairs of haute couture socks
And a battered Russian gun, older than its owner
Has a cosy.

WHERE IS MY SANITY?

Where is my sanity?
I've had it for years.
I only blinked for a second
and it just disappeared.

I looked in my sock drawer
(because I was there),
but found only toe holes
and heels full of wear.

I searched under furniture,
saw nothing 'neath the table.
Behind the TV?
There was a winding of cable.

I checked all my pockets,
just coinage and fuzz,
I called all my neighbors
and my brother, just because.

It's not in my briefcase,
it's not 'tween the cushions,
it's not in my "safe" place
it's nowhere I've been lookin'

Truly frustrated, I phoned to the "Ex"
(wishing, of course, that I just sent a text)
I had my suspicions, enough so to "book" it,
relieved I was right, the @#*%!! up and took it.

I sought its return
but she laughed in my face,
"I can't give you back
what you lacked in the first place!"

a bit of family folklore
with the four year old me
which involves a hasty flight
to sin again city

my mom and me,
dad left behind
I got my wings
and toured the plane

my mom’s mom and dad
our hosts for the trip
no one ever said
how long we stayed

I can’t say I remember
any of this but the
story’s lived on
and ends with a miss

a teddy bear named kiki
I loved oh-so-much
forever was lost
and never returned

I learned the lesson early
a gambling loss
don’t take it to Vegas
the house always wins

Piss Pot

There are times when staring at the ceiling
all night, counting tiles to make equations...

how many are the minimum number based on this
configuration from which to make an alphabet

understandable to people or to corporations
for their logos or their language including all

of the squares
and triangles and oddly fitting pieces that are there

...is far superior to listening to the dragonfly of death
with its whirling wings and droning

break the night and shatter sleep with longing for you
lying there in hoses, tubes, and needles,

catheter and picc line, unable to piss
without an army of technology to haul along

unless you piss into the bottle and hope
you do not kick it over

where you left it and forgot it
hours ago

before there was
such a thing as darkness

before there was
a dragonfly of death warming up for takeoff.

Missing Me
By Melli Lantz

My life got quiet for just one day
When all of my children went away

Just once, I was able to hear my thoughts
To enjoy "pieces" of my mind
To relish parts I thought I'd lost
For the longest time!

Peaceful conversation I engaged in with myself
A bit surprised by how much I enjoy Me
For over the years I'd quite forgot
The pleasure of my company

T'was a re-acquaintance most content
A friendship in full bloom
This reunion of myself with Me
We must do it again real soon!

Conversation

The joy of a good conversation.
People getting together to talk.
No texting, emails, I'm's, facebook, blogging or
anything that doesn't require face to face
togetherness. Where is the intimacy of
a good conversation? But I digress,
after all, I am not face to face to
compete in this challenge. Therefore, I must
still wonder. Where is the joy in a good
face to face conversation?

The Lottery

i don't ever sign my name
as yours anymore.
not since the ink dried
in the pen.

and when people call,
i don't ever say, 'so-and-so speaking,'
or, 'just a minute, please--'
not that you would have answered anyway.
it was always a chorus of 'i'm not here,'
or 'leave me alone,'
or 'can't you see it's too soon?'

you're like a sharp light
on a wet day--
blinding me while i drive down the 20
or the 40 or wherever there's a ditch
that i can't see--
and like a breasted Icarus,
a quick pause before the fire and glow,
all i can think is 'how did i get here?'
feel guilty as i beg to know
'when can i leave?'

i heard a story once
about a nectar that drips from a flower tree
in Scotland,
or some other place just as far,
and that when you drink it,
your skin turns to shell,
and you never feel the cold sting
of a closed door or the soft hush
of pursed lips
against your eyes again.

i always thought that was sad
until i knew you
for more than seven months--
until i laid with you in bed,
your feet so far away
i wondered if they were even there--
like a back door missing from a key,
a finger bone without a hand,
or the impossibility of remembering
what it was like
when you said my name
without harsh syllables
or even colder vowels.

Relics

[The Dubrovnik Cathedral in Croatia] is like a curio cabinet for holy body parts. The beautiful gilded gold shelving was custom-built for relics of all shapes and sizes; each bone fragment and mummified remain in its proper place.
http://curiousexpeditions.org/?p=404



Upon their deaths, the saints are not taken to burial tombs and the corresponding markers but are instead dragged several miles to underground caverns where the natural subterranean wells are filled with silver and gold and heated until the metal reaches boiling temperature.

Then the saints are flayed and dismembered, taken apart piece by piece and dripped into the metal, so that arm bones become made of silver and pelvises are gold. The heads are held over a smoking oven for nearly a year, until the flesh has come away from itself, leaving only a coal skull.

It is then that the wonders are taken back into the sunlight and peddled in street fairs, simultaneously horrifying and illuminating housewives as they struggle to fit the femurs into their baskets along with the chicken and leeks. The saints' spirits follow behind, moaning, doing cartwheels and back flips past the stalls, screaming for the missing body parts but no one can see them

and the saints cry blood when the women go to the churches to offer the relics for sale. The priests bite the gold and silver, hold their jaws until the pain subsides, and consults the biblical works kept behind false stone walls. Golden shelves are constructed so that the blackened heads are arranged neatly, and the many bones and hands and feet are assembled in careless designs within the tight spaces.

The day one of the saints' come to take back a foot which he has been missing, the priests order great glass walls to be erected and placed around the outside of the shelving, high, thick glass to create an impenetrable box. When the crowds come to see the relics, the saints come with them, standing outside the glass, salivating, staring at their bodies, all those small pieces which they once took for granted but now desire more than promises of salvation, of communion wafers.

And so they remain, whispering and reaching, arms and legs beckoning, while they can touch only glass,

while they contemplate where they have been and how to take it all back.

A tour of English Abbeys

In a niche above the gate
In the close of the cathedral
Stands nothing.

Glastonbury arches
Yearn toward each other
And do not meet.

Tintern's ruin of lace
Floors of grass and
exposed drainpipes.

Garden-edge chains
Mark out grave beds and
History removed

I don't know whether to be angry
or pleased with Henry.
I'd never visit an intact abbey.

Something Missing


Oh where did I put it
Oh where could it be
that higgly jiggly
thing that was me
That laughter that
sprung from a mouth
with no line
Oh where did I put it
it was oh so fine
Oh where did I put it
Oh where could it be
Those thighs rock solid
and smooth as could be
Those breasts rising
high on a rib cage
defined
I seek, look, and
peer and still
am sidelined
Found it once
in a picture
in a bottom
desk drawer
peering up out
at me
as I sat on the floor
Oh where did I put it
it wasn't the flesh
the face or the bone
it wasn't the laughter
it was more.. yes... the tone

The time when it all was
so fresh and so clear
when the luminous future
ribboned out so not near
where melancholy was precocious
an "old-head" kind of thing
and uncertainty dismissed with
soft smiles and a ring

Oh where did I put it
Oh where could it be
the sparkly spirit
that danced within me
danced on bright turquoise waters
on calm deep blue seas
On high snowcapped mountains
Always I was sure it would be
I was sure it would stay
in the face of spring's bloom
I was sure it would stay
in the face of all doom
Oh where did I put
Oh where could it be
Perhaps if I stop looking
it will dance back to me

Day vs Night

Throughout the day I feel betrayed,
Shadows are jumping at me everywhere.
They sneak upon every corner without warning.
Even the buildings, the trees, the birds, the bees,
They are coming at me from every which way.

How I miss my moon during the day.

During the night I feel like a bird in flight,
Free and overpowering.
I will now stalk you around every corner withiout warning.
I am lurking for you, for food, for excitement, for enticement, maybe a fight.

How I do not miss the sun during my night.

Never mind

Nothing has its uses.
Absence is a presence.
Nonsense. Leave a place
without a door. See a
space without a window.
Nothing appears as
the shoe you step into,
the lock for your key,
a pan for the loaf, the
ring for your finger.
The space where stars
are born and life vanishes.

Just One More Thing


The tv is turned on
Oh so loud
The dog is barking
Trying to fit in
Someone turned the radio on
So they could dance
While cooking
Mac and cheese in the microwave
Storms are coming
So thunder booms at random
Causing the bird
To squawk and shriek
Too much chaos
No way to edge in
To get a grip
To get the morning moving
Under control
Then, someone’s knocking
All attention bursts
The mail’s here
Oh yeah
Of course

Missing Magic

When I want to be a wizard
I perform a magic trick for you.
I don’t expect you to gasp at a rabbit’s
appearance out of a hat, or to fear
the woman’s dead who’s been cut in half.
All I need is a gown sparkling with stars,
a black wand, you addressing me as Gandalf.
I know I can’t materialize money
in your wallet to buy food or pay rent.
You’d love to win the lottery, but all I can do
is slide rings through one another
without breaking them. The numbers I recall
belong to a combination for public storage.
Your boss threatens to make you disappear daily.
I can’t cast a spell to knock him over
with a heart attack, only love sorcery
that entertains children, amuses parents.
If I showed up at your workplace
colleagues would ask when Halloween is,
refuse to believe I have any powers.
My self-esteem is low enough.
All the loved ones who lie in hospital beds,
your mother with diabetes, your cousin
with an eating disorder, would kiss my hands
if I had a cure in my bag of tricks.
All I can promise is to appear for you.
No puff of colored smoke or popping out
of a black trunk. We need the Statue of Liberty
to melt in mist, the Brooklyn Bridge to fade away
as if it was a ghost. I’m unable to complete
any miracle, but we can both pray,
with all my heart and yours, saying words
we hope are the keys to God’s magic,
for his hands to pick out disease,
shout, Abracadabra! It’s gone.

Missing - my son

One day my son
was replaced by a changeling.
He went into his room
a loving affectionate
boy
and emerged
the next day
a moody monster.

That person turned thirty today.
He's a good man
Polite, concerned,
pays his taxes on time
works hard
sees us
regularly.

Fairies
now that I've
civilized him
can I have my boy
back?

Something missing
"Lose something every day."--Elizabeth Bishop

I spend my morning hours badly, upset,
or on a train, reading thoughts others tossed
off with just a moment's pondering, watching
Tom Baker as Doctor Who. Or worse, in traffic,
among the tens of thousands, in our bubbles,
inching down interstates toward our dread,
cursing toward hated places we can't arrive
at fast enough. Dante could not do better
for castigation. Exhaust fumes, shock jocks,
Diane Effing Rehm! I miss rising at noon,
breakfast at two, opening the bar mid-afternoon
(I don't miss Robitussin as a cure-all,
uncertainty of tips, smoking cigars as part
of the act). I lie. I hated all of it.

Lori P... I love your missing letters! Very creative!

Walt... Your missing SANITY is fabulous! I can totally relate!

WHAT IS LOST

I’d like to have the chance to watch you sleep again,
worry that you might be getting sick,
that we should have had your tonsils removed.
Just for the chance to rub your back,
ruffle your beautiful hair, hold your little hand.
I thought you would be a child forever
you thought so too!
On the other side now it seems like it went so fast.
Sometimes I go back there in my dreams,
it leaves me feeling sad and old
longing for what is lost.
You used to do your laundry here,
leaving some shirts for me to iron.
With special care I pressed your collars,
the hot iron forcing up the smell of you
so familiar to a mother’s nose.
Now you do your laundry at home and iron your own shirts
and have no need to visit every week.
But I hold your mail hostage
that you might visit between holidays
and I try to make time to call my Mother.

“Looking Back”

I look out at their faces as I speak.
I am used to them, a family by choice.
One adjusts her oxygen, digs in her purse for a Lifesaver.
Another gets up to go to the restroom.
“You should have thought of that earlier,”
said in what they think to be a whisper.
Someone straggles in late, and a program is passed across the room.
But they nod in the right places.
Shake their heads or smile or laugh.

I look out as his face as I speak.
I am not used to it, an uncle by choice.
He stares straight ahead.
His eyes barely move.
The muscles in his face hardly change.
A year ago he no longer knew my name.
Just three months ago, I no longer looked familiar.
Now he wonders why we are here,
At this church in which his name is on the charter.

Forever Gone

How can I write about some “thing”
That might be missing from my life
When my whole life has been over-
Taken by this Black Hole that we have
Been plunged into
When you left this world and nothing
We or anyone could ever say or do
Will bring you back?

I don't normally disclaim, but I am guilty quite often of what my poem accuses. I wanted it a bit more tongue in cheek, but it turned out grouchy instead.

"Capability"

They came before us and squeezed
The thoughts into little boxes.
Couplets reigned, sonnets reigned,
Sestinas roamed like little foxes.
And we came along with typing
Eschewing pen and pad
Never quite realizing
How easy we had
Our writing of the stuff.
We broke apart the walls
Refused to be constrained
And forgot to clean up
The cell once in a while.
It lies lost away from us,
Refusing to go away.
And we ignore it and say
We are better than that
Neglecting a challenge.

My Enthusiasm

I wake up in the morning
My mind like a chasm
Something’s gone missing
My enthusiasm

Whirling in the mist
Like some phantasm
Escapes my grasp
My enthusiasm

Like a beached whale
Breath just a spasm
Must be off to sea
My enthusiasm

What’s good about morning?
Hear my sarcasm
All because of missing
My enthusiasm

Before I’m found guilty
Of poet’s pleonasm
I’ll end this grieving of
My enthusiasm

Key Lime Pie

Today I baked
A gorgeous pie.
Very proud of it,
Am I.
My crust is fluted,
Tender, flaked.
And might I say,
Perfectly baked.
Meringue turned out
Exactly right;
A mountaintop
Of fluffy white.
It smells like heaven,
Looks divine.
I proudly boast
That it is mine.
My company
Heaps praise on me.
I soak it in
Immodestly.
I cut each perfect,
Lovely piece,
Displaying
Flair and expertise.
I watch as guests
Take their first bite.
My pride quite quickly
Turns to fright.
As lips now purse,
And eyes now tear.
I know what I forgot.
Oh dear.

Patience Gone

How did I raise three kids?
Now I find I'm clenching my teeth
When I keep my niece,
And she asks me for the thirteenth hundred time to get her something to drink
I want to say, Are you helpless? But she's only five and
Well she pretty much is.
How did I smile at their questions?
When she wants to know what time it is, every five minutes
Do you have somewhere to go? I ask
maybe she says, can I have something to drink?
I'm tired, I'm hungry, I'm itchy, I'm scared, I'm thirsty,
I'm bored, the dog is bothering me, I'm really really thirsty
Finally when she's picked up
I breathe a sigh of relief
Yeah, I'm not so ready for Grandkids after all!

Leaving Tony

“I don’t get your point,”
he argued, as I reached the
point of no return.

Summer Boots

Used to trek hard
Laced up tight
High boots and boho dresses
I didn’t care to give a fuck

Laces undone through dirt, storm and blood
Black boots, laced up
On a windowsill pondering normalcy
Rubbing the boots like honeysuckle
Mystic, child-like subtlety

And the rain hit them hard, walking up hills
Down creeks, shopping malls, Paris, London, city streets
Cut blades through the tip, bouncing at concerts
Not fearing a bit

He took them off slowly, dirty boots
The zipper, buttons undone like lace
I like your boots, Me too

With books I read, holding fast to their buckle like a puppet
My lust for life instilled in the faded leather, the interstices between love and hurt

Four years later, looking at her blankly
Where are my old boots? The ones I used to wear?
Destitute, looking underneath rubbish, the bed

And more years later through photobooks seeing them printed on a page
Intoxicating me with memory,
They’re gone I said

he is somewhere else
my lover
he is on the moon
he is under the sun
he is riding the pollen to
grecian urns of flowers flowering
in sacred circles of elusian
mysteries unfolding
he is gone, off
picking wildflowers from the side
of some other road
he is missing in action
he is out of time
he is gone
and yet
the sun rises
sends its rays to connect me
and the moon, she comes too
and brings all of her universes
of stars
and love spills out from every basket
dripping joy on every floor
the earth sings, sings the story
and joy is mine once more
so is he missing?
is he gone?
or has he sprung from everything?
is he here?
am i wrong?
or is it love that gives these wings
their joy of flight
throughout the night
a flying kind of dream
i go, we kiss, i wake again
back where he is not
what happens now?
to missing things?
when missing is forgot?

If a childhood has been locked away
behind doors with no keys
does it still exist?

lol Marie!!

The spilled milk, the cold bathwater,
the frequent crying over tripped
limbs and thumps in the night,
all night, the missed kiss, the vacant
bed, sheets singing loneliness, the burnt
pie, the disastrous recipes, the constant
dashing into danger, danger-thicket:
concrete and cars and charged out-
lets and dogs and cat-claws and side-
walks, hydrangeas and flown staples, cups
of coffee and car keys and bottle
caps and, occasionally, my feet.
Late, I look to the sheets
and sink from caresses
with a whale's heavy grace, rush-
ing slowly to her private fathoms--
leaving juries and judges
to their strict, dark books,
fighting no-
one, humor-
less.

Thanks, Rachel! :)

Distant Lover

So many miles between us
The Highway we venture for...
Once maybe twice a month
Just for the touch
That I adore.

Missing his lips, his word's
Of compassion
The way he makes my womanhood
These are our feelings,
Dominance only one could imagine.

Making waves to please
This old girl...
From the miles
The journey, the distance,
This is how my lover does it
For this man is so consistent.

Persistant to tell in so many word's
What he want's, and his need's,
But it's not with selfishness
Harsh feelings, or ugly lines.

He pick's up the dreary day
With the late night
Early morning phone calls,

Just to hear his whispering voice...
Makes me anticipate
Climbing and scaling the walls.

Vocalizing what happened
The day before
How much stress to be apart

My distant lover
Knows this agony
For we're in each other's heart.

Tanka

Where now is the simple solace of those mornings when I loved you / and all the words which passed between us hung like prayers on the air?

A Reward for Rascal

They came to my door
with a stack of fliers,
a boy of about eight and
his little toe-headed sister--
wide-eyed and serious.

"Our dog is lost," he said,
handing me a crudely written description
with a blurred photo of a
wire-haired terrier named Rascal;
"If you see him, would you call us?"

"Sure honey, " I said,
"I hope you find your dog."
"Thanks," he said and taking his sister
by the hand he turned to leave--
"Oh," turning back around he added,
"There's a reward."

I took the flyer and
stuck it to the refrigerator
with a magnet made by one
of my kids years ago in craft class.

I never saw those kids again
and I never saw Rascal,
but I left the flier on the frig
for several months.

Somehow throwing it away
seemed a bad omen and a betrayal
of two earnest children
searching for their missing friend.

M.E., your Key Lime Pie had me salivating like Pavlov's Dog. And I experienced the pucker at the end. Tart is smart! Keep it up!

Sanity

That sweet, precious entity
That grounds you
That revitalizes you
That creates some semblance of stability.

Too often it is lacking
Too often it disappears
Too often people desire to steal it from you
Too often you border on losing it.

How do you monitor it?
How do you keep it from turning into the opposite?
How do you keep it?
How do you keep others from stealing it?

Questions abounding
Raucous noises ensuing
Stressful situations
Too much overreacting

Once you have it,
Once you have warded off all who seek to infiltrate it,
Once you have come to an understanding of just how much you can take,
Once you have your sanity,

Keep it, and don’t let it go.

Thanks Walt! I just read your Insanity -- hysterical!!

Missing you

I've lost my mind
and cannot find
what you have taken
with you
when you left me
brokenhearted.

Oh I try to remain
sane and not insane
and strong
but it hurts more
than you will probably ever know or care
how utterly unfair!

I'm not like you
I was honest and true
and trusting, yes, naive
even though I hate you now-
I love you always. jerk.

I've lost my heart
but will try the art
of loving again
someday
far far away

which is where
I would like you to go
but because of the kids
I have to see you (and her)
more than I wish

selfish.

I like your haiku Ken

Been there done that Kim--or have I? I can't remember.

Something Not There

All those bamboo shoots on desks
Promising a life of good fortune
Just shorter than expected

Scraps of papers blow life stories
Across the churchyard,
Down the alley.

A friend there calls and reports
He found a signature and feels lucky.
He carries his token with him and cries over it.

On this other Coast
I feel opportune to have nothing in writing
No ground zero souvenir

No remembrance of a time
I hoped you’d be more than you are
From this disaster, I walked away clean.

Where is it
I seem to have misplaced it
the key to house
the key to the car
Could it be a mouse
took it off the bar
or i just lost them again
why does this always happen
when we have to see your mom

It’s Not the Same

We all receive them now and then
A cyber message from a friend
Birthday wishes, and thank you notes
Penguins, pigeons, and flying goats

Sent with love and good intentions
A new spin on old conventions
They all mean well, I can’t complain
But somehow they don’t feel the same

I’d rather get a written note
And eagerly read what you wrote
With all those words held in my hand
I sense your feelings where I stand

If you want to see me smitten
Send me something that’s handwritten
Sure, ones and zeros are okay
But help me feel those things you say

When some occasion comes around
And at your keyboard you sit down
Please stop and take your pen in hand
Then both of us will understand

PUZZLE--MISSING J

country and city
we met at university

friends 'til the end
maybe, if not for...

on a snowy April morning
still miss those days...

Farrah Fawcett

When we saw you there,
Before the cameras
It was obvious
That something was wrong
Gone amiss, drifted away,
Just up and left
Our blond poster girl,
Our Texas angel

I know what it was,
Vigor was removed
Luster had grown tired,
Worn thin
Vibrant eyes without shine,
Melted into weakened smile
Of magnificent strength

Natural disaster will do that,
I thought
Dammed cancer
Its unholy devastation
It will always add age
To beautiful body and soul

She’ll Never Know

just how beautiful she is.
I lie next to her just after
she has fallen asleep.
She has these gorgeous
full, wine-colored lips.
Her nose is so perfectly formed.
Though I’m sure I would never
be able to convince her of
this fact, her complexion
is so flawless, her coloring
so spot-on and her eyelashes
so beautifully long and curly
that she will never really
NEED to wear one drop
of makeup. It’s unfortunate
that we are never really able
to see ourselves through
the eyes of another.

Circling About

we fall into the same bed
wrinkled sheets,
even holding hands some nights

we talk occasionally-
those poor cops in Oakland-
tragedies of a recession

we kiss often
on the lips, on the cheeks
even deeply and full

don't worry, I will always be here
I don't worry, I know you'll be here too

I just wish the deepness existed -
where we existed on the same plane
lost in thought, lost in soul
lost...together

so I didn't feel so lost alone

Health

You know what's missing?
me feeling fine
not feeling like
I need to puke
every time
food enters my boy
yeah
that's what's missing
my health
and my peace of
mind

Classroom Door

I miss my door
It used to work
I could open it with ease
And enter as I please
But now the lock sticks
It makes me sick
I just had a new door handle installed
Now I bang on the door and feel mauled
By the continous problems of this door
Does it not want me in the room anymore?

Missing Out

Custard pie, anthrax and flying monkeys,
Chatty Cathy, love and high school flunkies.
There's much to miss, movies mostly,
of family reunions and wedding toasting.
Where did all the people go?
Freeway's empty but the internet's slow.
Bird flu and hydrogen bombs,
No one to make apple pie like Mom's.
Libraries empty, skyscrapers gaunt,
I inherit everything, but nothing to flaunt.
They warned us this might transpire,
glaciers would melt and we'd expire.
Some said they'd fly up in a great Rapture
but they're burning in hell, surprised and captured.
They said the germs would get us next
contracted by breathing, doorknobs and unprotected sex.
There's no one left, but me and two others.
One's gone mad, one's catatonic, I just suffer.
"The living shall envy the dead" is not just a saying.
I missed flickering out with you and now I'm paying.
Front row seat for the end of the world.
Hope it was quick for my wife and little girl.
Don't come back, Houston said, wild laughter.
Things are bad, earth is dead, no hereafter.
Me, too, I said, full of all the predictable regrets,
Dawn's coming over an empty Africa and I'll miss the sunset.
I cast about, looking for something to hold on to,
I'm feeling dizzy and there's nobody to send a message to.
I've been in the habit of regular respiration,
but oxygen's almost out on the International Space Station.

“Tempe Arts Festival”

The day was beautiful,
The sun was shining
The artists’ tents neatly lining
Up and down the streets.
I passed at the curb
Catching colors like so many ideas
Floating in and out meditatively.

Until,
I came upon the smell of
Funnel cakes on the air
Tasted the wet tart fresh lemonade
In the sweat from my hand
While I was wiping my mouth

The best noodles I’ve had in Arizona
Came from a vendor at an arts festival!
And if you tasted them you would immediately
Identify the smell
(delicately distinct from the funnel cakes)
of wok fried
Asparagus, broccoli, mini corn,
Pea pods, and boc choi from blocks away.
A comfort among so many people

And the free samples!
Four salsa tents, an olive oil tent,
A pasta tent and a dried meat tent
All enticing by offering tidbits of
Their oh-so-fine-and-down-home-goods.
And each of them was!

I spent more time and money
On food than art that day
And once sitting with a full stomach
And not much else to show from it
I think I might’ve missed the point.

What's Wrong?

Okay, I've got what I wanted.
My own home,
No one to answer to,
Eat what I want
Sleep when I want
Wear what I want
Go where I want,
Free as a bird.
I should be happy,
right?
Well, I am, sort of
but
Something's missing.
Maybe it's
compansionship
someone to say good morning to
Someone to look after or
Take care of
Someone who wants me
Or needs me
in their life.
Funny how when you wish away all your responsibilities
And it finally happens,
You've reached your own idea of utopia,
but
Something's missing.
So what do you do?
You throw away that utopia,
gladly, wholeheartedly,
and find what you need to
bring the meaning
back to your life.

The Missing Hummingbird

There’s a hole in my backyard, dear Davie, dear Davie,
There’s a hole in my backyard, dear Davie, a hole.
Then fix it, dear Lynnie, dear Lynnie, dear Lynnie,
Then fix it dear Lynnie, dear Lynnie, then fix it.
With what shall I fix it, dear Davie, dear Davie,
With what shall I fix it, dear Davie, with what?
With a hummingbird, dear Lynnie, dear Lynnie, dear Lynnie,
With a hummingbird, dear Lynnie, with a hummingbird, that’s what!

Late Chain Survey

i.m. Michael Donaghy




We dragged the chain towards the vague margin,
the field for us the only field on earth -

all else was blur. We’d formed the sight line -
behind us upright rods of red and white

and the one set distant in front. Twilight fell.
Beyond the boundary hedges all faded to black.

Our thin tape rasped out offsets and ties
the rye grass offering no mark,

the same in one station as the next.
Then you took the chain forward,

your figure questing on into dark -
then link and link, there was only the moving chain.


Christopher North Alamsser vella

Missing – By Jane Eamon 2009


There is a hole in me that can’t be filled
No matter how many glasses of wine
I drink or how many mindless television shows
I watch
The hole is still there
I listen to old records we used to play
And drink scotch hoping to fill it in
But it only makes me cry and re-open the wounds
Like ripping off the band-aid
There is a memory that wakes me
In the middle of the night
It looks out from the centre and demands
My attention
I know it’s there, I sense it in every waking moment
They say time heals all things
But this time it’s not working
There is a hole in me that can’t be filled
Missing you

Pain, screaming, searing,
Tearing, stabbing.
Encasing me like a shroud.
I crawl into my cocoon and try to hide
But it finds me there.
In its gentler times it only gnaws or twinges
Yet most of the time it roars red and blazing.
Slashing through the quiet of sleep or the rumble of day.
I have nowhere to run. I cannot escape.
It seems only death will give surcease to my pain.

Then, hospital and blackness of anesthesia
Give way to light and consciousness.
The pain is gone! No more do I suffer.
My days are bright and filled with peace.
Even the exertion of therapy cannot darken
The joy of no more pain.
Once again I walk without aid.
I have immerged like a butterfly from my cocoon.
The grimace of pain no longer mars my face
But I did not know it was only a period of grace.

Pain, screaming, searing,
Tearing, stabbing.
Encasing me like a shroud.
I crawl into my cocoon and try to hide
But it finds me there.
In its gentler times it only gnaws or twinges
Yet most of the time it roars red and blazing.
Slashing through the quiet of sleep or the rumble of the day.
I have nowhere to run. I cannot escape
Until another surgery can give surcease to my pain.

(missing)


***
applause
***

we press our hands into a basket of flies.
the blind believe they are walking on snow.
the dead don’t talk, but the dead they know-

the sound man has gone to bury his own.

Missing

Can you tell me
Where you’ve been?
Where you’ve passed
Your time unseen?

Have you hidden
In the light
Or have you kept
Yourself from sight?

Has your voice been silenced
Everywhere
Or is it only quiet
Here, not there?

Have you touched
The surface yet
Or have you lingered
In the wet

Cold depths of life
Avoiding untimely strife
Between your yearning
And their spurning?

Mom’s Garden

You died in January. The crocuses came up
in March, forsythia bloomed in April.
And still today your perennials bloom,
like a message from you, so joyful.

For several months the birds came
to the feeder that I kept forgetting to fill,
then stopped coming and the feeder,
made of wood, rotted, fell from the sill.

A form letter from some charity, addressed
to you, occasionally lands in the mailbox
but there hasn’t been a phone call for years.
The crocuses are here, and soon the lilacs.


©Priscilla Anne Tennant Herrington

Peddling

The old man at my door
is peddling happiness with a
handout on religious morality,
Jehovah Witness style.
I’ve just finished a cigarette,
and graded all the papers
-my students’ thoughts on building
a better high school.
The old man asks if I watch
the news
and reads a verse from the bible
to prove there is still something
that holds promise
in a world where welfare spending
is four times higher than spending for education,
violent crime rates are rising
while average prison sentence length declines,
where forty-six percent of the population
of the wealthiest, most powerful country in the world
is still illiterate,
the old man at my door finds
hope in written verse.

This Morning’s Walk

It begins as usual. Seventeen steps to where
my driveway joins the road – a shallow
stream bonding with the slow, black meander
of its mother river. Turn right – patient strides

past the neighbor’s yard where a pine looms
as tall as Rapunzel’s prison. I consider asking
an unseen owl to let down its hair – but here
such magic ends. The stockade fence, wood slats

tipped like sharpened swords, fails to startle
imaginations. And no enchanted lady rises
from a street puddle’s drowsy water to offer
steel or blade. Although my lips siphon breath

from lungs, shape air into soft songs, rodents
fail to parade behind me, their hearts bent
on corn and meal. I doubt tree gnomes will
poke their smiles from under twisted knots,

offer pipes heavy with spiced tobacco. Still,
breezes are sweet. Turtles crawl above the pond’s
water, mount stone perches as sunlight punctures
ebbing clouds – the warmth my skin has sought.

Something Missing

Every Christmas
She and I
Exchanged packages.
Some years I spent months
Quilting a pillow or a blanket.
One year she gave me
A book on American Literature,
Full of scary tales. But the last year
I sent her a gift
And she didn’t send me
Anything at all. There was
Something missing from
The hallway that year--
The old green broom
Exchanged for a new red one.
New décor hung
On the door. I felt
Empty, lost,
Like a leaf from a forest
Carried into a town.

Copacetic

I used to have this switch
that would send me from focused
to furious in two seconds flat.

Much of my indignation was righteous—
evidence of any ism made me nuclear;
I was always defending the underdog.

In junior high, it was the red-headed girl
with the unfashionable clothes
and the target on her forehead.

In college, it was mostly literary
crimes of all stripes, but sometimes a professor
choosing favorites or falling short.

In grad school, I believed words
would change the world—
their poetry and passion.

The fires weren’t all cleansing
or high-minded, sometimes
just pique and peevishness

but the same shot of adrenaline
and energy, the same urge
to speak, write, or act.

These days I’m tired, resigned,
lazy, but I tell myself I’m
choosing happiness and peace.

SOMEHOW I KNEW

I was ecstatic just to have begun
Emotions high and piety certain
Somehow I knew, there was something to this


Life in all its gore was gonna happen
What I thought fixed, was still clearly broken
Somehow I knew, there was something not right


Moral certitudes began to cheapen
Leaving my heart heavy with real burden
Somehow I knew, there was something very wrong


Gently encouraged by a few brethren
Though most pointed crooked fingers of caution
Somehow I knew, there was something much more


Looking back at provision to deepen
In broken cliché my heart does gladden
Somehow I knew, there was something missing

My Lovely Daughter's Smile(C)Richard-Merlin Atwater April 6, 2009

She was only eight when it began to wiggle loose,
It was the pride and joy of her flashy smile!
Something special to talk about to her Dad,
He had forgotten the occasion in his own life all the while.

Then one morning, seemingly unexpectedly, the same
Came completely undone and dropped into her hand.
She had pulled, and did a little twist from side to side,
This big, beautiful "baby tooth" that stood in front of all the band.

Yet, one by one, the band of harmonious "baby teeth" all came undone.
It seemed quite obvious as though there was 'something missing'---
When you looked upon her lovely toothless smile.
And when she spoke it sometimes seemed as if she was hissing!

In reality, the loveliness of her childish face and sounds
Were heavenly, and innocent, and there was 'nothing missing',
For she was God's gift to Mom and Dad for joyous life;
Only "the tooth fairy" perhaps understood why all the fuss and kissing!

Being a December baby it's quite easy to understand
The importance of that long ago, almost forgotten song:
"All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth",
Like the joy of a Christmas wreath, new ones’ will replace the old 'ere long!

Anniversary

I put the X on the anniversary of your last day but it seems wrong to sully it. It makes it seem so final. The day speeds by as I bake to fill freezers and counter spaces. I start with Valentine Orange Cookies in misshapen cupids, heads snapping easily off into crumbles. Peanut brittle next. The recipe we perfected over long winters as children, a time of big sister bonding I never got in other seasons. The advent of the microwave reduced waiting times and the hourly process is now over in minutes.

It’s a blur of breads and muffins, cakes and hard sweets, crowding for space on the fridge and table. Some trays are even creeping into the lounge. That night he finds me on the floor. The last batch in your favourite. Cinnamon piercing the air in exotic arrows as I curl by the stove, flour covered dough hands pressed to the oven window. Eyes closed. Pretending the warmth is you.

Something Missing

Every Christmas
She and I
Exchanged packages.
Some years I spent months
Quilting a pillow or a blanket.
One year she gave me
A book on American Literature,
Full of scary tales. But the last year
I sent her a gift
And she didn’t send me
Anything at all. There was
Something missing from
The hallway that year--
The old green broom
Exchanged for a new red one.
New décor hung
On the door. I felt
Empty, lost,
Like a leaf from a forest
Carried into a town.

Good Old Number Four

In the grey gloom of another winters bleak blister day,
I ventured from a welcome winters fire to a more dour clime.
Bundled bulky from cranium cap to toasty toe boots,
I ambled anxiously to explore my Golf Club's icy grounds.

I passed the Club House bar, besieged with buddies boozing,
Old Bill Wager, was retelling his recorded three under par.
Sliding past the Starter Booth with faltering footing,
I paused at the crest of the top of Tee number one.

"A challenging par four", I shouted.
"Not impossible to do and I even bagged a birdie or two!"
Cutting through the snow covered woods, I past number two.
The wind bit my nose, as I climbed the hill past number three.

Chilled to the bone, finger tips numb, I oddly began to sweat,
For there in the distance was the nasty nightmare of mine.
My glasses fogged with steamy breath, but I could still see,
There before me-my nocturnal nemeses-Good Old Number Four.






In my years of trying, hot days and cool, this ground has stood,
With friendly partners, and many golf goofy fools, never giving.
Oh once, on my third stroke, I glazed the pin gently, but alas,
The white orb bounced back to the rough, on Good Old Number Four.

I looked forlorn at the course ahead, locked in winters rest,
I visioned the traps hidden by snow, and more.
The corridor to the hidden green, a tortuous torment indeed,
Now seen, the frozen flag, the heart of Good Old Number Four.

In haste, I chipped and brushed the snow to the bear ground,
The turf was still glazing green, not burned brown.
I used the Iron, hidden under my coat, to tap the tee upright,
From a pocket I took an orange ball and placed it on the stand.

Rising from my toil to look down range, "A short par four",
I said. "Only three hundred and fifty-five (yards) to the pin."
The wind blew behind me. "A good sign", I did sigh.
I removed my jacket, and warmed up, I swung the club to the sky.

I stepped up to the target, no practice swing would I take,
My grip was sure and on the ball I did give my gaze.
I sprang at my mark, long and smooth and endless the strike,
The club cracked, a stroke well delivered to Old Number Four.

The moment was over, I was suddenly chilled and I put on my coat,
I tried to follow the ball, but an early dark dusk had fallen.
Anxiously I moved toward the pin, I hastened my pace,
I would conquer, you would be mine today, Good Old Number Four!

I looked as I approached, no ball was seen, no track in the snow,
Past the hundred and fifty(yard marker)my happy hope faded.
Never had I driven over two-fifty, with an iron- not even that.
I had hoped, but alas, it was impossible to beat Old Number Four!

"No more golf, Number Four, I admit my dismal drubbing", I shouted,
I will become an observer of baseball, basketball, or Bean Bags.
My nightmare must end, I strive to conquer or dream no more,
I threw my cub at my numb feet, I sulked away from Old Number Four.


"How absurd can one be? " , To give up the thing I love .
Back to the frozen green, where the ireful iron now lay,
As I passed the cup, I pulled the red flag and heard a "plop",
The orange orb appeared from the hole of Good Old Number Four!

Not to question from whence it came, or to its' true identity,
I accept the possibility of the impossible- a hole in one.
In the game of golf and of life, determination is the key,
For with it, every challenge will be met and every hope-a reality

REDEMPTION

by Therese Haberman


Tick talks in time to classical music.
Crow’s feet trudge on tired eyes.
Tears evaporate in dormant drought
Of freeze-dried feelings for You.

Dreams You drag from me as I lay me down to sleep.
Like an innocent Lamb of God,
You fleeced away the winds of my world.
Grant me one piece of my stolen soul.

Take me back
Into the folded napkin.
Spring water and fine wine,
Flicker on inner blights.
Rye bread of Your body
Feed my starving spirit.
Lord Jesus,
Take me back tonight.

He calls to me in undying echoes.
I turn and lean into the darkness,
Hoping against faith He will pull me back
Into the halogen light of eternal forgiveness.

Preparing my purgatorial perch,
Angels bustle about with profound purpose.
Drips of sarcasm spill over my golden chalice,
He laughs at the lies I try to make true.

Take me back
Into the folded napkin.
Spring water and fine wine,
Flicker on inner blights.
Rye bread of Your body
Feed my starving spirit.
Lord Jesus,
Take me back tonight.

Missing Face


There was a day she forgot to put on her face;
Hardly anyone noticed. They regarded themselves
and their people in big mirrors. Her invisibility
grew as no one looked for her. She arrived at
begging strangers in the street, “Can you see me?”
“Yes,” they said. “Of course,” they said. “Is
Something wrong?” But they only responded
when she cried heavily, like tears alone could make
her default silver reappear.

She spent a long time looking at the wall mirror
through her head, into purple paint, the next morning,
said, “What should I let define me? My nose, lips,
art, shape, views, friends, colleagues? Can’t anyone be
honest these days and admit that what we seek is
recognition, which is hard to get when we cannot
recognize ourselves? Dear god, I am tired of being
marketed to, of demographics and pedestrian
pursuits of fame and pop stars and American news that is
more what commercials are to news than news, and
tired, too, of the shortened amortization schedule on all
available products, done like

deliberate sabotage towards consumers to make them buy
more often every cheaply made piece of mass produced crap.
I hate things made to break as soon as possible, outmode, outdate
go bad. There is a site called Married, But Lonely? What the fuck
is that? I want my life as an intellectual back. My potential to
do more with less. This view is reinforced by the fact:
Everyone hates shallow Americans, so


I do not want to be one.
I want my news real,
my wood solid,
my time valued,
my people up close and personal instead of here-gone flickers;
I want to be me
as I should have been
again!”

Her face reappeared. “Oh, there I am,” she said,
but turned on her computer moments later, when she
got bored, and later went again to where she could
find all the pages mass-made exclusively for her
and several billion others, her and everyone else, and
flickered in like strobe of light returning to its source—

only then to disappear again.




___

What Was Missing

Sixteen years I didn’t think of you,
buried you deep inside my heart
among the dangerous dreams
locked in my hopeless chest.
Sixteen years until
she died and you
burst back to
life for
me.

I can't find something
again
my life of disorganization
has kicked my booty
yet another time.

I know I had it
yesterday
that slip of paper
I tore out of a magazine
intending to file it soon
like all the other recipes, coupons,
links, articles, receipts, paid bills
ticket stubs and cash register strips.

All the ephemera of my life
a paper blizzard that never ever ends,
my good intentions not keeping up with
the deluge of printed material
that swamps my mail box, purse, coffee table,
kitchen junk drawer.

It's hard to let go of it- what if I throw it away and I need it?
Then I get pissed off and clear it out anyway.
I file for hours. The shredder gets a workout, confetti
littering the floor by my favorite leather armchair.
Bags of trash accumulate on the curb.
The lost is found- sometimes. Sometimes not.
I swear I will turn over that new leaf-
lasts about a week usually- then I'm back to where I started.

I can't find something.
I wonder what it really is.

M1

The traffic slows up long before you reach it.
Three lanes down to one slow crawl.
Downhill towards London and the office.

The sat nav has not warned of road works
and you know they are not the cause
of these delays

The police usher the cars onto the hard shoulder
leaving all three lanes clear.
There is a red fire engine. Firemen with cutting tools.

Since the crash you have trained yourself
not to look but your eyes catch glimpses
of twisted metal, a white car on its back.

You stare ahead muttering a prayer.
There is a blue air ambulance waiting.
It is only after you have inched past
you realise it is parked.

You keep looking and looking
in the rear view mirror
for signs of the blades turning.

I’d like to Bail
Bailouts. Bankruptcies.
More money talk on TV than Wall Street
Regulation. Taxation.
Less control than Cell Block C
Conversation. Negotiation.
The G20 barely concurs on to agree
Golden Parachutes. Luxury Yachts
All I have left is a punctured life vest and leaky canoe
Deluge spending, nobody will float me
I pull the oars for all I’m worth
The flooding seeps through the cracks
I’d like to bail
But there’s not a pail or spoon in sight

While Sleeping
It seems to me, while sleeping,
people should be held.

I tuck my knees in,
and wrap my arms.

But nothing is there
to lean into, press against.

A “body” pillow fits
nicely between my legs.

But it’s only fluff, and
has no arms to respond.

I don’t mind waking alone.
Coffee for one is nice.

But, while sleeping, I wish my dog’s
snores weren’t my only company.

Something is Missing

It's known, and proved to me,
that everything we focus on
becomes true, alive;
we give life
to what we put our attention on.

That being said,
I shouldn't mention
that I'm missing that,
'cause it can be the cause
for more lack,
more tension.
I'd better hit the pause,
instead...

But, no! I'll tell you,
and this is just between
you and I, if you will,
there's one thing missing: it's sheen,
a big emotion that you can't fulfill.

Rosangela C. Taylor / 04-06-09

I thought I would miss...

Your touch,
Your scent,
Your voice.

Sunday crosswords,
Weeknight Jeopardy,
Tuesday trivia.

But I didn't.
I don't.

Three years later
I know that you
Miss me.

NEWSPAPER CLIPPING FOUND


latest craniotomies reveal that back of brain
resembles the underside of couch cushions
a domestic lost and found of old neurons

proof is in putting mild electric shocks
onto areas of grey matter whereupon
still conscious subjects respond:
“small slips of change,
crumbled cheerio dust,
eternal popcorn kernels,
isolated socks,
puzzle piece to starry sky,”
and so on and so forth

in honor of pioneering neurologist,
Wilder Penfield,
this portion of brain will be called
Penfield’s couch

Not Knowing

Midnight, that’s the time I found him,
Suitcase open, shirts folded in rolls.
I need to get away, is what he said.

Don’t go, I said, it’s my fault. I always knew,
If I slept, you’d leave, I always knew.

It’s me, he said, I don’t know who I am. I don’t know
Where I am, in my life. I need time to find myself.

Find yourself, but you’re right here,
In our room, our home, where I need you, where I
Want you, desire you, don’t go.

But he went. Walked out the door,
Leaving me not knowing

Who
I am,
Or where
I am.

Not knowing anything but this:
I am not here, I could not have been here.
For how could I have not noticed, how could I not
Known he had gone missing,

How could I not know
He’d gone missing.

At the Fair

I wonder what it will look like
when it all goes away. Amidst,
the chattering crowds and hot cotton
candy air, I envision it all

erased. I remove the sobbing kids
with ice cream melting down their chins, angst
ridden adolscents locking fingers
on the fairway and their unamused parents
swatting flies with free coupon books. What will become
of all this fiberglass and sugar? Who

will ride the glittering Tilt-a-Whirl? Who will
fill the empty parking lots with overheated
cars? Who will fly in the tree swings
and gaze across our gray distances?

Miss you

by extension and definition
it is only the extrapolation
of sentiment and emotion
a palpable absence of things not there

a trace of the invisible
portrayed by the mind
bridging reality and sanity
so that all makes sense

by cold engineering logic
I can touch you, by touching not you
I can feel you, by your lack
I can formulate you with a graph
whose line follows the curve
x =

I am
a framework with gaps
hollows of the soul
screaming to be filled
by the presence
of you

©DP April 09

Robert--just wanted to say a great big thank you for doing this, especially given the amount of time and dedication it must take. And the prompts are wonderful. Thank you :)

“Missing You”

I was up at daylight’s first peak
Watching the morning hue’s
Grow and blend into light
Just standing in worn and faded
Jeans and flannel shirt, barefoot
The warm breath of tea rising
To caress my face as I watched
Natures’ byplay
I was still standing in the arch
Of the high sun watching
The avian and mammals
Go about their daily tasks
The tea had quit breathing
Hours ago unheeded and full
I watched and waited but
You never appeared again

OLD

Where is it? you cry
through clenched jaw
pulling at drawers and scattering
tiny pots of creamy youth
jars of flowers long gone wrong
sold by the ounce

In your face I see a terror
fluttering beneath the storm front
Someone stole it! you wail
wringing your bulbous knuckles until
I fear they will snap
your eyes dart through shadows
inside and out
It was that man!
you seize him in your head
The one who fixed the thermostat!
The one with the tattoo!
I look down and stifle a smile
imagine poor Frank Mills with horns and tail
you see my mouth twitch
stiffen and turn
vibrating with the indignity of it
Frank fixed the furnace two years ago, I say
and though you insist
I see the wretched turn of your mouth
and think of all you've lost

“Missing”

Up at daylight’s first touch
Not I today
Singing in the showers hot rain
Not I today
Dancing while the vacuum inhales
Not I today
Talking for hours on the phone
Not I today
My voice has gone missing

Missing She

She lived in New York City
Had "made it"
Was known for her poetry
Was embraced by many
She had her own place
Many friends
The love of her life
Into her life after nine years past.
He came up on the tenth
They married on the sixteenth
She was excited at the move
The wonder of the beautiful rural Arkansas
Ten acres on the side of a mountain
They found it together
His from Texas
Hers from New York
A trailer piled full
As if they’d always been from Arkansas
To Arkansas
And she remained
And wrote
And published her first book,
Pregnant
An illness of the landlord
Another move to a larger city
Another move after baby
Homeschool
Attempted friendships with other mothers
Less than kindred spirits
New experiences
New lifetimes lived
New skills
Same forever love by her side
She is full
Where is she…

Kevin - NEWSPAPER CLIPPING FOUND is one of my favorites I've read so far this month. Just had to let you know.

"What will be lost by the end of this day"

Ten degrees of warm weather, predicted chill
moving behind thunder’s warm front, cloaking
early April blooms with frost, two books
pulled from my shelf and sent to friends;
but before that the dark beans
ground for coffee, and the milk poured
over cereal, and the grain itself exchanged
for body’s work; lost too, fourteen hours
of boyhood from my two sons’ ticking lives;
and some unaccounted daily joy or sorrow
from this marriage lost, all things irrevocable
as the sweet notes from someone now
singing at his station, his voice clear
above the radio tune, and pulsing
like starlight across the universe
brilliant, diffused into eternity’s lost rim.

Reverse Image

Four thousand nine hundred
ninety nine pieces all carefully
interlocked, and still my mind catches
on the minute empty space
that should have held
the last little bit of sky.

_April, again_

coyotes sing to my lack of sleep,
each yip and aaaaaoooo grates me
into awkward shapes on the one half
of the bed I allow myself still.

the smaller beasts cower this time
of year, hunger drives the crows
swooping down on the swallow’s nests,
some tendrils of jasmine insist their ways

around last year’s growth of dead bamboo.
if I opened a little I could see
the points of light above me shift in
arcs that were familiar to me once,

another night has me by the throat, only
the hollowed slinking and me roam this
awkward hour, shamed that after all of
this time there is something we are needing.


.

missing

one day, i went missing.

some people thought i'd moved without telling them,
they were angry, seeing callous disrespect.
the letters piled up and there were hours of messages,
slowly worry became indignation at my neglect.

some people thought i'd actually died!
or that i was hiding from some kind of debt..
some people thought i'd been kidnapped or lost,
maybe hanging from a tree in a cruel trapper's net.

the ones who came closest were the ones who didn't know me
and the ones who i'd only recently met.
they said "anyway, he was never who i thought he was"
and amazingly, they were absolutely correct -

for i was never really there, not really where they saw me:
that was just a mind, with a body as a pet.
and when the mind and body parted ways, i never changed.
i was, i am, will always be. can you see me yet?

Okay, you guys are too funny. We should all be healthy this morning if laughter is really the best medicine!
special kudos to RIck Bush, Marie Elena, and Connie
More seriously:
Taylor--oooh, really good!
Rachel Green--good work for 6 days on a challenging subject
L Vidal-made me cry, as does my house sometimes. I'm even sitting at his desk.
Daniel--I'll sign that petition


Day 6 Something Missing


Where did I put it?
It always lives just here,
behind the peeler,
against the solid front
of my junky drawer.

Or maybe not me--
daughter doesn't know stuff,
though she lived here years.
She came so quick to help,
I shouldn't complain.

But now where is it?
No one would have stashed it
in fridge or oven.
I'd best check anyhow--
you can never tell.

Ha! Right here in plain sight,
in the banana bowl.
Why, do you suppose
anyone--even me--
put a corkscrew there?

Can you Figure it Out?

There's something missing here, you see
Will you resolve this mystery
Or will you simply move onto
The next entry up for review

I'll cheer you on with sweetest song
If you will find before too long
The thing I opted to omit
So will you try or will you quit

This is such fun I must believe
It's something I could not conceive
Without the present prompt to guide
The subject here Robert supplied

I didn't know if I could write
This poem but to my delight
I've pulled it off; I need to see
If you will solve this mystery.

Missing

I had it
I’m sure I did
I remember it so well

It tasted sweet
I enjoyed the scent
I took it for granted

Is it gone
Or just hidden away
Will it ever come back

Sweet love words
Tender heartfelt caring utterance
Deep needful clutching powerful expressions

Visions

I saw visions of the Past, Present and Future
They all reveal the same faces- You and I
I saw smiles and winks
I read lips saying, "I love you"
I saw visions of the Past, Present and Future
Only the Past was true
I heard you say, "I love you"
Only the Past was true.

“The Thorn in my Side”

I am missing you,
My love.

You said you needed to think about this,
Which doesn’t look too good for me,
But I refuse to believe it’s over now.

I’ve been there for you,
And you for me,
For oh so long…

But we’ve never gone a week in all of the 2 years you’ve been around again,
That was not a good week,
And I just know,
This one will be better.

I want you around,
And I want this more than anything,
And though you may not know that,
I know you do, too.

I think I’m in love with you,
And there’s nothing I can do…

Gratitude

Gratitude is hard to find
Mad as hell
Mantra too long

Half a foot of snow
Crushing my daffodils
Metaphor for life

I look around society
Eating itself alive
Lacking compassion for Self

Wealthiest nation on Earth
Crippled by ego
Surrendering to greed

Confusion overwhelms me
Don’t ask for much
Have all I need

Look in the mirror
World reflected in my eyes
Addicted to dissatisfaction

And yet the world turns
Today becomes tomorrow
What will be a dream

Hierarchies forgotten
Democracy flourishes
All equal in the eyes of God

Life is what we make it
All we can change is ourselves
Mea maxima culpa

I was never taught gratitude
Had to learn it on the fly
Still forget too often

Breathe deep
Air is Divine
Brings me focus

Surrender to what is
Imagine the possibilities
Choose what will be

Matter and energy
Affecting change
In the here and now

Acceptance brings peace
Contentment clears the mind
Love opens the heart

Gratitude for Now
A choice
To be or not to be

I must learn
To celebrate life
Before it’s too late

Peace

What am I missing?

The Brits used to be the only ones who said
“gone missing”

It used to be worth it to lose something
Just to be able to say
In a Monty Python accent,
“My argyle sock
Has gone missing.”

Now everyone uses that phrase:

The neighbor’s tabby cat
Has gone missing

That 6-year-old girl in Florida
Has gone missing

The aid worked in Sudan
Has gone missing

Bernie Madoff’s records
Have gone missing

The tapes of interrogations
From Gitmo
Have gone missing.

Please explain to me
How globalization
Has improved our lives.

Days gone by

Summer time was always fun,
Lots of picnics, lots of sun.
So much food for all to eat
as on the ground you'd take a seat.

Baseball games started just like that,
Though I never liked to go to bat.
Running bases was not my cup of tea,
Other's loved it much more than me.

Holiday's were so special too,
there was always so much to do.
Family celebrations filled with love,
For both family and God above.

Sibling rivalry between us five
made us feel totally alive,
And I guess if I were to tell the truth,
The thing I miss most is my lost youth.

Missing You

My heart’s a birdhouse
nailed to a winter tree.

On my stomach on your side
of the bed, my face turned left,

right arm tucked behind,
I take your shape and thaw.

My mind’s like wind chimes
in a thunderstorm. I’m falling

in love with the lint roller
because of how it sticks to me.

When you’re gone, life
tastes like a bitten cheek.

It’s gone

Your lips mouth words
but shadow clouds your eyes,

greyness bleeds the colour
from your laughter,

your voice trips over tears
caught in your throat.

You slip between the ghosts
of your regrets,

you conjure up
a dream of missing footprints:

of love and loss
of candy floss, of childhood.

And one toy elephant
no longer plays its tune.


Carol A. Stephen
April 6th, 2009
PAD Challenge Poem

lost objects and what they convey

she lives in a world of lost objects:
things buried under clothes and papers.
once she lost a ring in the bathroom
and it reemerged from the center
of a toilet paper roll
stored in the cabinet
filled with old astringent
hair extensions, nail polish,
combs.

he says she has not too little
but too much;
but she and i know better --
we need the chaos of surplus;
the constant searching
keeps the emptiness
at bay.

i'll never forget when she found
that ring.

look she said nothing is ever really
lost
it all comes back to us.

so i hope that she will come back to me
always
when i search for treasures
at the back of an overstuffed
drawer.

On Missing Winter, Though I Do Not Miss the Cold

I slept in on Sunday, later than I have
in months. The bed was wide and clean
and the sun filtered by blinds to a soft
warmth that lulled me into immobility.

When I finally rose, I started coffee
before walking the dog. There was a time
not too long ago when I rose much earlier,
when someone else made coffee
as I circled the block with Lucky.

We would sit on the couch, hands curled
around steaming cups, knees touching,
arms touching, slowly separating ourselves
after the indistinguishable nights. Mornings
were the hard part, the days short and cold
in winter, the nights warm and dark and close.

I welcome the spring sun. I praise
the warmth of long days and the freedom
of soft open-windowed night, but I miss
the tangled hair and the tangled lives
that made up the winter just past.

I thought I had arrived
Splendid in white
Exquisite and frail
Perfect beauty
Surrounded by relations
Friends and “hello, how are yous?”
Veiled eyes
A train of ivory satin and lace
Checks flushed
Lips glistening
Sumptuous fare
Champaign for everyone
Everywhere
Silk gowns and
The flower girl dewy and sweet.
The flowers
The cake
The guests
Oh and the ring
A sparking testimony
A whole diamond
Not clusters or pieces
But my first whole
Pledge of shiny forever
Oh what a time
What a day
What a milestone
What could be missing?
Missing?
Shh , listen
Why love, of course
Love is missing…

You are things
that I thought
that maybe I just might
want
but not really--it was
more a fantasy, like
I don't really need that, like
no one gets that in real life, like
you're perfect and
why would you want
me?

I haven't been
anything
but bad for you.

Question

Up and down
Around and around,
The cycle repeats
Same cast of characters,
New day,
Never enough,
Continue to stuff
Feelings
One question remains
Where’s the
Love?

Heather

I have a thin red cut
on each thumb,
not wide
but deep,
and they sting
all day and
throb me to sleep
at night when
the pain is constant
even in dreams.

Perhaps I should
dull them a little
with adhesive tape
like daddy did or
maybe Neosporin®
like momma did:
two remedies,
which they said
could heal anything.

But now they are gone,
and what remains?
This sting,
this throb
to remind me
I’m still alive.

Obscure Addresses

How can I know all of these people well enough
to want to invite them to my wedding,
and no longer have their home addresses?

The earth where they stand
now or yesterday
is still made up of land stranded to mine through mycelium.

But the circuits don't care
that post office boxes have become obscure
that I can only IM my best friend.

Only me, here with the last stand of postcards
and envelopes lined in pretty patterns
try to make permanent

that which the internet
has finally rendered ephemeral.

Inside

Strange, isn’t it, to go through life
not knowing just what it is
you should be doing.
Or exactly who it is
you even are.
Sometimes I wonder---
and sometimes
I don’t care.
Ignorance is bliss
they say.
So I must be happy.
But even that I’m not
too sure on.

Obscure Addresses

How can I know all of these people well enough
to want to invite them to my wedding,
and no longer have their home addresses?

The earth where they stand
now or yesterday
is still made up of land stranded to mine through mycelium.

But the circuits don't care
that post office boxes have become obscure
that I can only IM my best friend.

Only me, here with the last stand of postcards
and envelopes lined in pretty patterns
try to make permanent

that which the internet
has finally rendered ephemeral.

Having at last left Desire behind,


you pull in ahead of a semi with nude
silhouettes silvered onto the mudflaps

and in the minimart lay out your change
for a Big Gulp and a tank of gas.

Glass doors slide open and shut at will.
You step out into a husky breeze that’ll

rock you when you reenter the highway
but for now you are shielded by the body

of your car and the crash of others waiting.
You sip the brown cold burn and watch

a woman struggle with the pump. She slips
the neck of the nozzle into the mouth

of the tank but it doesn’t click on.
You can see the octane buttons’ flash,

walk toward her as your tank fills. You press
89 and she tells you that all she wanted

was to be adored. Behind dark glasses
her eyes are red but you can’t see. You say

nothing, toss your cup into the bin.
You have done all that you have not been asked to do.

What I Miss

Nine years didn’t erase him.
He is still with me everyday.
The memories haven’t dimmed.
His round face, his thin body dressed
in second hand shirts and jeans,
his dark blonde hair buzzed short
are clearly visible
in my mind.

I miss his sounds:
hearing him play
his original music
as his bent fingers
lightly trickled up
and down the keyboard,
hearing his footsteps
on the stairs,
on the hardwood floors
as he prowled
around the house at night,
hearing his deep voice
as he said, “hello”
when he came home from work

I also miss his expertise. How
he’d work on our computer problems
at night and leave carefully written instructions
in childish printing
for us to find the next morning.

I don’t miss his smoking,
I don’t miss his bad moods
during those last few years,
I don’t miss that his sickness
sometimes made him angry
and me angry at him.
No, I don’t miss those things.

But, I don’t think about them.
I just think about the things about him
that I miss.

Her Looks Were Gone


Her looks were gone.
What was left were eyes that drooped,
A smile that sagged,
Hands with ropey fingers that wanted to twist inward.
A pouch replaced the board that once befell her middle;
Toenails orange with age,
Her face a crumbling page.

Her looks were gone,
Abandoned in a crystal glass,
Empty,
While the band played on.

Her looks were gone.
She peered in the mirror
At rutted lines that traveled from her eyes to her chin.
She sighed,
Painting on her mouth.
But it was too late.
Her looks were gone.

Something missing

The thing is;
Is it missing or is it not?
Ephemeron is hard to measure.
Try as I might I cannot help but play
what if, and believe myself capable;
there are many things that could have been.
Don’t cry over spilled milk, yes,
but what about milk
still in the glass
but never drunk?
At night it is so much easier to
agonize over things that,
by daylight,
seem nothing more than preludes to a dream.
Finally, I must confess that I am blessed,
and to not be happy with that
would be a terrible mistake.
Even so,
what if?

:reflection:

I lost myself today. Gazing in the mirror
I see strangers eyeing me. I hid my shadow
In a distant hall, and now I don’t know me
At all. Walking down the street I see people

Who don’t see me. We are shades to one another
Distant brothers on an empty wall. My
Reflection is a specter of someone
I used to be. When we gaze at one another
I never see me.

Am I hiding for a future? Is it destiny I’ve lost?
Did I shatter my reflection while
Reflecting on this glass? Have I lost myself forever?
In a phantom place I roam. I am gazing
In the mirror, and I can’t see home.

Missing

What is missing from corporate is
color, gray walls, black suits, careful
words, don’t offend lest the rungs
be pulled out from under you

meanwhile, color pulls, give me
Akan cloth, Key West cottages,
Hawaiian shirts, let me paint
myself into a raspberry corner

what is it about color that makes
my heart beat stronger, if I could
write my briefs in crayon, would I
be happy?

"Void"

Filled, too filled with
---

Wide, too wide to
---

Deep, too deep for
---

You fill in the
_______.

Nice dog-WHA?


My dog sits next to me,
I reach my hand down to pet her, but…WHA?! I scream.
I find out that my dog thought I was signaling for her to lay down,
And so I fell off of my stool.

Lament

The thrill is gone
The joy if you will
The seasons have turned it to dust
How once we filled
Our days with praise
Didn’t realize that silver could rust
Now tarnished gold
Our tale has told
And torn a hole in trust
The thrill is gone
But we stay until
Forever because we must

Training Wheels
She giggled as she peddled.
Her unsteady wiggle bringing her this way and that.
How much farther before her father let go?
The bike, once so unsteady now zoomed along.
In a straight line down the road.
I was free and it was fast.
There was no more grinding of plastic wheels on asphalt.
Only the smooth hum of rubber and a road.
How much faster should she go before her father let go?
She wasn’t scared, she wasn’t frightened.
She was ready to do it on her own.
She looked back to tell her Daddy
He was too far away for telling
She could see him smiling.
When had her father let go?

The Difference of a Year

I look at the photo with your face and mine. The light eclipsing
us so that we stand both in shadows. Perhaps superstition should have taught
me, but we and those who shared with us that day, were so very happy.
Filled as we were with beautiful voices that drowned out the future
that I learned at a later date. In the half -light, you can see that
I have your nose, flared out instead of tapering in. I’ve come to accept
the legacy you left me, carried along on this distinctive nose of mine.
But I wish I could trade and have you back again. Hear, again, the way
you say my name. The joy of your smile out spilling into your voice
and I, secure in the knowledge that you loved me, smiled back.

I'm wondering if others are waiting an hour or more between when they submit and when the poem appears. I don't know if it's better to resend more than once or just keep checking every fe minutes, but it seems like either makes the site that much slower.


---
little boy blue

we’d seen her picture in the paper of course
heard her pleas, even on mute
glance at the small blond head nearby
change the channel
murmur ‘isn’t it awful?’
feel a bit grateful, guilty, glad
maybe pray
suspicion and skepticism settle into dark corners
and quickly
too quickly
surprisingly quickly
‘i just turned for a second’
as quickly as a boy becomes a man
as a laugh becomes a sob
as quickly as a breath
as a breath stops
as hope becomes a hole
misplaced, replaced,
until I saw her that night, recognized,
remembered the shattering fear
without the safety of a plasma screen
hands fluttering like heartbeats
face eroded as a forgotten headstone
washing away a tiny carbon footprint
folding evidence that once upon a time
she had been happily ever after

Day 6: Something missing

“I’m not gonna be there
For you
Save it for your prayers.”
Duffy

Something is missing
When there is no spark,
No shine.
Laughter can’t be felt
When living under a
Heavy hand.
Kindness, respect affection
Are nowhere to be found.
Safety is not here,
Love is not inside.
Something is missing
And I’m afraid
It’s gone for good.

Trust

One time, she followed him to work
Hid behind three parked cars to lurk
He was cheating with another
Casual talk led him to flirt

Two kids, married for 13 years
Daily arguments caused her tears
Leaving him was not an option
Penniless, without job, brought fears

Was the competition better?
Rummaging, she found a love letter
Knees buckled, drop to the floor
Crumpled it under her sweater

Walk out together, holding hands
Smiling unashamed with her man
Wrinkled brow puts her in the mood
He's injured now, needs a bedpan

Missing Connection

The connection we once had is missing.
I cannot feel the bond between us now.
There was a time I felt your presence near,
but it seems to have vanished somehow.

Why can I no longer feel your presence?
It seems you have suddenly disappeared.
I have searched for you far and wide,
but I have lost you just as I feared.

Just wanted to give a shout out to Bill Stewart, Kristy Worden, Melli, Connie and Marie Elena!! Enjoyed your poems today!

Here's my entry for April 6th:

FUSS-BUDGET

SOS - LIMERICKED THROES ON ECONOMY'S WOES

Find it here:

http://nickersandinkblog.blogspot.com/2009/04/fuss-budget.html

Day 6 (something missing)

I reach out to grasp her breast
and pull her in closer for cuddling,
to position myself
comfortably against the small of her back
and the curve of her derriere.
But she is not there.
She is only in my dreams,
my fantasies,
my hopes.
She is the reason I refuse to date now.
I want to give her more than I make now;
want to show her sites outside of the ghetto that binds me.
She is missing because I am still
working on making a
home and a life worthy of her affections.
As if in practice mode,
I reach out to grasp her breast and pull her in closer for cuddling,
in my desires,
in my aspirations,
in my dreams.

(Day six)

Im missing you

I took the book from the shelf,
and with the turn of a page,
I saw your life from long ago,
taped to every page.
There's a picture when you were younger,
how funny you looked back then.
It's nice to know the pictures are there,
to look at now and then.

Now your older and away at school,
a life to call your own.
No laughter running through our home,
No clothes strewn on the floor.
The weekend visits are farher apart,
The phone calls way to few.
You've grown older and moved away,
and I am missing you.

Missing

When into the mirror I happened to glance,
To see if my tie was fastened on straight,
I suddenly noticed by happenstance
That there was a bald spot on my pate.

My forehead had claimed, by invasion it seemed,
Some upland beyond its allotted domain
By denuding the slope ‘til the light fairly beamed
From a place that had formerly sported thick mane.

That the hair had gone was abundantly clear,
“But wither?” I asked my puzzled reflection;
No answer returned from the face in the mirror,
So I leaned in close for a thorough inspection.

What appeared to me then allayed all my fears,
For there it was peeking out of my ears.

Missing

We still sit by the fire, the two of us
framed in the glow on the windows,captured
within its glass painting of domestic harmony.

The wife stands to boil the water,
returns with toast, silently picks up knitting
to occupy her hands. Tin soldiers neat on the hearth,

little horses, with no gallop for bridges beneath my feet.
Not one thing out of place in our cottage.
Quiet now, but for the split of wood in the grate,

and the tick of needles, click, click,
like a one handed clock attending and taking leave
of the same hour. Tonight we will take to our beds

with full stomachs, round and alike as a cruet set.
Outside the moon rises, looks in,
drops its sister, pale as a pebble into the well,

Ripples deforming, and a reuniting of white
as I draw down the bucket for water,
hear the cicadas open and close,

tap tap on the door like tiny hands.

Fine Time For A Glitch

I just got up
Got out of bed
Dressed and left through the front door
All without saying goodbye
I told myself
That I didn't want to wake you
Bullshit
I wanted to disturb your sleep
Caress you
Linger awhile and admire you still
I wanted to drink from your beauty
Engage myself
Enrich myself
Bathe in the endless pleasures you give me
I sit here
At my computer at work
While you call to me from home
I long to be with you
Instead of this keyboard
I'd rather have my hands on you
Staring into your screen
I'll be home soon enough
And I'll turn you on
Please don't give me that error again
The one about the virus
I'm tired of rebooting you
You're so fickle
So lovely
You're mine
Mine

How Did We Get Here?

We met
Her and I
Barely out of our teens
Struggling to make sense
Of our lives as women

Far from the shelter of family and home
Out of the safety of campus and dorm
Trying to survive
In an army of men

Our friendship at first
Was slow to grow
We were separated by barriers
Too numerous to name

Both strangers in our new found home
She had more in common
With the residents there
She spoke the language, still foreign to me

Sexuality, intelligence, trust
Foundations of the community
She readily deciphered
Had different meanings for me, the true outsider

Like bees to pollen
Our affinity grew stronger
Towards the pain inside each other
For each recognized

A fellow survivor
Shrouding the agony
Of parental abandonment
Under sweet natures and beautiful smiles

Beneath which we struggled to remember
We were special, loved even
Despite the rejection
From family and peers

Our bond was smelted
Through years of shared laughter
And unyielding expression
Of love for each other

We held each other
Through the darkest of nights
Sometimes holding the candle
That brought each the light

So when I entered my darkest abyss
I knew she’d be there, holding the light
But when I emerged with one ounce of strength
My friend’s outstretched hand was missing from view

It took my remaining strength to find her
Nursing hurt she said I inflicted
Refusing to tell me how, or when and where
I caused it

I know her wound is deep
For she will not let me near her
She wears a dark tarp
To hide it from view

But when I’m not looking
She’ll remove it for you
So you can see
What I

The friend she once loved so fiercely
Inflicted on her soul

While I
Who still loves her so
Am left wondering
What, where, when, and why?

Daunette Lemard-Reid
4/6/09

“The Grind”
She woke up in the morning,
feeling very forlorning.
She rushed to work,
where she cooked some pork.
She made some cash,
but not enough to stash.
She paid the bills,
all except Will’s.
She went to sleep,
without a peep.
To do it all again,
in the morning.

Reflections
I have good news
and want to tell
you, but I have
to wait.

Something pulled at us
and it was not good.

Maybe looking for something
lead to us missing
what was really important.

Just This
____________

The space between us is not a void.
It's not all the things I wish it could be.
Nor can I just pick up and leave it behind.
I can see straight through it, so there's no use lying.
Unlike hope, it cannot fly away.
For clarity's sake know that I know you built it.
Yet, it is your master now.
For the record, I would not destroy it even if I could.
I can still see the blue skies at night.
In that darkness I know somewhere there is comfort.
I know you can hear me.


And This
__________

When you die there will be a great fire
burning, raging in the sky. I will still be lost at sea
and I will use the light you cast to navigate
and find my way home. Not knowing the compass
I will simply sail my boat in the opposite direction.

Reflection

This is called reflection,
taking a moment to think
about where I am and where
I want to be while Sawyer sleeps
in the Fairfield Inn in Boone, NC,
on a snowy day in February,
one hand folded neatly
beneath her cheek, her other
arm rising and falling
with each counted breath.

My worries are the usual ones.
I worry that I’m not doing
her justice or myself,
that what I do now won’t lead
to happiness, health, security
twenty years from now.
I worry that in all my busyness
with work and home, I’m missing out
on what should matter most of all.
I worry that she’ll inherit
my worries and be crippled by them.
I worry that I don’t even know
what I should really be worried about.

All day I’ve helped her slide
recklessly down hillsides,
watched her run amok
with children her own age or older,
making friends, taking risks,
perfecting vital skills
for an unknown number of days.

I worry that even now,
sitting here, across from Sawyer
sleeping in the Fairfield in Boone, NC,
on a snowy day in February,
I am losing time in mere reflection.

Here's a poem about a wedding guest assumed missing until it is proven otherwise.


Wedding Rain

Saturated clouds cast no distinctive shadows
and pallid skies deny the tincture of purples,
reds, blues, greens, and ambers expected,
hoped for, through the church’s windows.
Why do we miss it? Tell me why rain
cannot be just as good for marrying
as the anticipated set-up of the sun.

Witnesses gather for the ceremony
defining themselves with black umbrellas
they deposit, dripping, in the foyer.
The bride scurries toward the church door,
lifting above the puddles her gown’s long train.

But tell me that tears do not give blessings
more sustaining than the momentary dazzle
of exaggerated smiles. Wedding vows
are weightier missing their careless lilt.
Paper-doll Bride and Groom dissolve
as they are wed. As they begin to breathe
the unaccustomed breath of rain.

Forks In the Road (a villanelle)

I pick a path and hope my choice is smart.
When storms rage all around, it's never clear:
"Go down the road your head wants -- or your heart?"

Spring; the choices seem so far apart.
Go one way: hard to say. The other? Engineer.
I pick a path and hope my choice is smart.

Summer; I might as well have thrown a dart
at life's big wheel -- no whammies now, you hear?
Go down the road your head wants -- or your heart?

Fall; at last, my hands creating art!
Is it too late to branch to other spheres?
I pick a path and hope my choice is smart.

Winter; far I've come since that false start.
Just ask and this advice I'll volunteer:
"Go down the road your head wants -- or your heart."

No right. No wrong. No telling how you'll part.
Too late to ask what's down that other pier!
So pick a path -- I'm sure your choice is smart,
Go down the road your head wants ... or your heart.

For Maria D. Laso and others having a hard time posting: Enter your submission at the prompt. Before submitting, refresh the page. It will return to your post as you typed it. Enter the code and submit. It has worked for me every time when my first try failed to send. Give it a try. It could beat being frustrated for most of the afternoon.

Tom

My buddy disappeared
Unknown to me

I miss him everyday
In every way

The hawk gave me a warning
That I did not heed
Until he never returned to me

I miss his flops and his rolls
Nobody will ever know

The rock lies bare
Without him there
My heart is in such despair

The couch lies empty
Without his face
Nobody has seen his trace

His toys lie silent
As if to wait
For him to return someday

My heart is with him
And there will always be
An empty hole
In the core of my soul

I love you, Tom
Remember that
Because in my heart
You will always be my cat.


By: Melinda Elmore

I used to want to save the world,
I used to be so sure
I always could tell right from wrong
And evil versus pure

And then when I had children
I found the lines had blurred
What seemed so right at twenty
Now seems quite absurd

I want to teach them tolerance
Of everyone around
While teaching them all how to live
a lifestyle safe and sound

Is there a way for me to walk
along so thin a line
And end up with that confidence
That for now is not mine?

Native Tongue

eyes above earth
smooth brown terrain
and bare stick trees
no understory:
shrubs, groundcovers or falling leaves
leap leap leap the bullfrog goes
stop double back zig zag
till rousing a native tree frog
he goes bounce bounce bounce
The bullfrog catches sight
leap leap lunge
wide mouth fast tongue
overtakes him one
gulp

June Cleaver Opens the Door to Retreive the Mail, Stumbles On the Mailman Taking Off His Socks

You must be new here.
The socks are always missing.
Look around—you won’t see
beds, sheets, underwear
undershirts for the little one.

In this home you won’t see
past the big black front door.

Stepping up
to the threshold is standard
procedure. The mailman
has not stepped
to the plate as manservant (old cliche)
just yet, but there is time.

The occupant sent him a letter
an invitation, really, to join the hunt
for lost socks
lost dreams
(they float in the ether above the beds that aren’t there)

In its hey-day this home might have been someone.
Today it’s the house with missing numbers
the mailman can’t seem to find.
If you’re missing your mail (male)
do you really exist?

Not so much an existential question
as the simple fact that your feet are never dressed.

Something’s Missing

Something’s missing
Again
Where are my keys?
Who took my eyeliner?
Anyone seen my shoe?

I try to put things back in place
Where they belong
It wasn’t always that way
A pair of mittens never made it
Through a winter
I could never find that library book
On time
Remember to do homework?
Sometimes, but then I couldn’t
Find it to hand it in.

I worked hard to improve
Set up routines and take the time to put
Everything in it’s place
It was getting easier for me


Then I had three kids
And two dogs
A job, a house, a car
And I turned 50
Now something is missing
All the time
Again

“Mirage”


Sweet word ‘love’ and its content
It seems to be left ten years ago
Was he real at all? –question.
Tears want drop down calling for memory about fellow
That let my emotion ebb and flow.
Who was he, burst in me?
It looks or truly he came many times
Complaining about his lives, as though
I’m the clue for him to solve his blues.
Has he gone or still around, waiting for
Sometime, to find again the ground?
Does he have more to say to me?
I’ve been responding as I can.
You know, I can’t do more than I can.
Oh, he was really handsome man!
Can I return him or is it all in vain?

Missing

Her arms grumble,
they growl in protest
of the telltale emptiness
of a hunger born from her belly,
it has eaten her arms from inside
until she is left with two hollow
shells unable to support
the weight of a child.

You are My Only Landmark



My spine is open and exposed to the
elements. My eyes are fastened shut
with pins. I cannot see you, do not want
to be without you, to bend or kneel or sit


if you are not there with me. Not there to pick
me up. I would not rewind and live it over,
try to stay, for then I’d lose my children.
I cannot fast-forward to another day when you


will want me. Why can I not splice the two
together, past and present? Make the perfect
cocktail: your cock, my tail, and my two
chickadees nesting in another room. I want


to eat you and be eaten, devoured whole,
your shoulder to cry on, hand in mine when
walking. I miss you terribly, and you have
given me no reason to do so.

She’s Missing
by Diana R. Wilson


All day long he searched for her.
In her favorite sunbeam,
Under the sunflower quilt.
Familiar windowsills stalked,
Dark corners whisker poked

Her sunny yellow bed is still there,
With the mangled pink mouse
She used to taunt him with.
Won’t she need those?
Surely she’d want them still.

He sits so still,
Tail curled tight.
Anxious, azure eyes watching
The uneaten food.
She must be so hungry!

How can he know
She’ll never come back?
Who will he protect now?
No last lover-spat,
Ear folded, hissing protest.

His shadow lounges
In the empty spot
She used to fill.
A human lap is little comfort.
I can only watch and cry for him!

BURIAL

I had seen him before, this jay, too big
to settle comfortably on my feeder.
This did not stop him from pushing others
away and trying. Today he was lying
beneath it. Still. I lifted him and began digging.
His beak was long and strong, it would have
hurt my skin had he tried to kiss me.
On his body he had every shade of blue,
I had never before been close enough to see.
I touched the feathers, the blues moved
and changed as my fingers disturbed their pattern.
The black and white though were solid,
unyielding. This jay had been fierce,
beautiful, maybe even wise.But a bird
without flight or at least its potential
is no bird at all so I laid him in the ground.

...Until It's Gone

After we'd dug down deep beneath the surface
of Alaskan untamed wilderness
or the heartbreaking cerulean of the Gulf
and harmattan-swept sands of Arabia,
sucking up our fill of light, sweet crude,

when the gas fields of Persia and Siberia
ran dry, and the plants fell quiet,
and the coal mines were empty shafts of granite
full of dust and the smell of men,
and the rivers whose water we stole
for the Kazakh steppe and the Sonoran sprawl
dried up behind the dams,

one day, when the fluorescent bulbs flickered out,
and the engines refused to fire,
when our computers switched off,
and the sprinklers slowed to a trickle,

we stood up as one

and we walked outside into the humid air,
blinking against the sudden sunlight,
saw the struggling trees and intrepid squirrels,
heard the interrogatives of sparrows
(instead of the whirr of central air
or the roar of SUVs in the street),

and as one, unsure what to do next,
for the first time in a long while,
we looked up into that sapphire sky
and saw just how big it really is.

Three-Egg Nest


The nest still holds your indentation.
We three remaining eggs didn’t tumble
And roll to fill your spot.
We haven’t re-configured ourselves from
Square to triangle
Just because you’re off flying on your own now.
We think of ourselves as a four-egg family
Minus one hatched chick.

Love given
love forgiven
love taken
love forsaken

Accidental Death


Since death has entered
the conversation, I decide to
be in mourning today,
dress in black,
hang my grandmother’s rosary
from my wrist,
look at the photographs
my sister carried in a shoe box
for over thirty years, saving them
for just this moment.

In one, you are leaning
against the car
tousled and confident,
as though the sun would
rise every morning
for the children we would have.

I want it to be then, to step
into the photograph.
I want to stand in my kitchen,
unbraiding my hair like Aphrodite
to keep you from going to work.

MISSING

Everything stood still
The moment that our eyes met
What took you so long?

After

Death lies in the casket
Soul already gone
Mourners filing by tonight
Burial at dawn

Blurry people disappear
Loneliness creeps in
wandering through all the rooms
circling again

Questions without answers
Tears with no warning
Heavy darkness crushes night
lingering in the morning

Anger and denial
Mysteries of grief
Hopelessness gives in to gradual
glimpses of relief

Burden slowly starts to lift
Tears begin to dry
But things are never quite the same
after loved ones die

Sunshine

I hadn't seen the sun for so long
It was too bright when it first appeared
Too warm for my skin
But perfect

I've missed the sun these winter months
I feel giddy as I sit and enjoy your warmth
Thank you for coming out
Please stay out until next Fall

Missing

We had the whole evening, so after dismissing
drinks, we cuddled down and watched LC,
overlooking what may come tomorrow.

The sobs grieving a lost childhood;
the loneliness we all must know;
red apples going bad, still resting
good side out in the bowl: we should
forget what was, be kinder to ourselves
and those we love. It will pass too soon.

6

Six arms around me, in the picture
Some stranger took on a mountainside,
Of the three I now call family, and me.
The missing part, my heart, is home.

Waking to Living

I awake to sleep, and inside my sleep
I walk, where I dream what I cannot see
when I am asleep in this waking world.

What is missing from this chaotic life,
this living that you and I share, is a void
of realization, to suspend our disbelief.

You would not be entombed in this time,
if you could walk in the sleep I’ve slept:
My child, never to be born, I held close

for a moment, to kiss her forehead, to lift
her to His hands, and continued my walk
toward a life of living outside my sleep,

with a love more realized than before
to believe what once I could not see
and to love a new life I hold close today.

Something missing 4/6/09

The something missing today
is the urge to put pen to paper.
All weekend ideas burst forth
and I scribbled like a child
with new crayons.
Today the air fizzed out
of the word balloons,
leaving nothing to say.

Modern-day Lament

What's missing today is decorum.
I wanted to form up a quorum
to discuss being rude
but I had to conclude
they'd quite rudely tell me I bore 'em!

Filling in the Blanks

Rain
not rainbow
Seed, not sprout
Pebble not mountain
In with no…

Song
not singer
word, not poem
paint not palette
House but not…

Mouth
without whisper
Sky without stars
Heart without muscle
War without…

Missing Memories

First there was that actor's name
that fled me when I tried to recall it...

Then I walked all the way across the house
and forgot what it was I was looking for...

I left the house. Locked the door.
Got into my car and drove half-way
down the street and didn't remember
if I had locked the front door or not...

Every now and then I'll call a friend,
and all of a sudden - I can't remember
who I'm calling!

This morning was the worst.

I got up with full intent
of looking up today's poetry prompt,
got busy looking at other things
and almost didn't remember to write this poem!!

Good thing I remember my name.

Wanton

You wander into
And out of
My life.
I wonder why I let you.
You leave on a wild whim,
And roam where you will
And do what you wish
With whomever you please.
I search for you, witless,
Scouring back alleys
And city streets
To no avail.
Then you weave your way home,
Weak and wretched,
And crawl into my bed.
Debauchery wafts from you.
You gaze at me with golden eyes
Knowing your wiles
Will win me over.
You nudge my hand,
Butt your head against my chin
And purr.
I welcome you home.

CLA

Roll Call

"Present!" sang time & light in their ethereally tingling doppelganger-voices.
"Present!" crackled the Big & Little Ice Ages to whose status all things niveous continually aspire.
"Present!" chorused seemingly innumerable safety matches, flasks of absinthe, dollhouse dictionaries, etc.--also, "Present!" assented The Death of Ivan Ilyich, The Peloponnesian Wars, & cream of mushroom soup.
"Present!" boomed the Chinese elm just outside my kitchen window in its indelibly silent tree voice, & "Present!" murmured my father’s ashes destined to rest among its roots, & "Present!" chorused my parents & your parents & their parents all the way back in their child & adult & aged & posthumously incandescent voices, & "Present!" chimed all the various versions of you & of me in all the various versions of our various voices.
But what was missing?
Nothing itself was missing!
That’s why Everything was jammed up together in such a collapsedly claustrophobic state—
how very astonishing that any of the above entities were even able to respond at all, let alone with the complete word "Present" rather than a "Yo!" or a mere grunt.
Since time had not yet unfurled its potentialities,
we can’t precisely assert that Nothing was “late,”
but we can perhaps posit instead that it found itself pre-existent version of “elsewhere,”
a statement which, while not ontologically satisfying, must nevertheless suffice.
Perhaps this absence of Nothing was its--and therefore *the*--first trauma, which it vowed
must never occur again,
& this is why so many people complain about an actual excess of Nothing—
after all, why should Nothing be exempt from what developmental psychologists describe as “the compensatory compulsion”?
At any rate, where Nothing was not, Nothing “suddenly” appeared,
& Everything flourished outward into fullness, swimming in negative space, flying apart,
& breathing the sigh of relief
that had not been held in.

The Pursuit by Lynn Potter 4/6/09

Frantically she moves through the trees
rushing forward,
ducking, swerving through the massive branches.

Her pace increases as she imagines
him following. The leaves snap below her feet.

Her heart begins to race. With no idea of her destination
moves on.

“Who is he in pursuit? What does he want?”

I must find a place of safety.
A place where I can rest.

It is the hustle and bustle of everyday life.
That is who relentlessly pursues me.

Where can I go to get away from him?”

Up ahead she spots a balloon falling from the sky.
Intrigued, she picks up a sharp twig.

The note inside reads, “Thou hast made us for Thyself and the heart of man is restless until it finds it’s rest in Thee.
St. Augustine”

She sighs, sits.
At once she knows the pursuit is over.

AWOL

It must be some kind of a conspiracy,
for how else to you explain the sudden
disappearance?

Like Sherlock, I have studied the case,
critically watching as the twins slip
from their respective places.
I have peered into the dark corridor
where they are taken by a seemingly
oblivious host who unceremoniously
dumps the bedraggled couple into what
can only be described as a wasteland.
Never losing sight of these two, I see them
whisked away by a good-hearted soul,
bent on cleaning up the neighborhood.
Together, they slide into the chamber
where others have gone to be redeemed.
Yet, as the cell empties of its cleanly,
converted members, only one returns.
In a quandary, I search for the missing mate.

Where or where do the socks go as they journey
from foot to washer and back?

Balance

We chose to leave the city life
the sirens and concrete
the traffic jams and construction
the smog, the noise, the heat

We sold our home; we quit our jobs
We left it all behind
We headed to a mountain home
remote as we could find

We found what we were looking for
In fact we found much more
atop a mountain in the trees
far from our lives before

As time went by we thought perhaps
we’d gone to some extreme
While we thought we had all we sought
we felt something missing

The weeks, the months and years went by
so remote we hadn’t shared
this little piece of heaven with
all those for whom we cared

We realized while we’d left behind
our lives in the city
We’d never meant to abandon
our friends and family

So we are headed back again
to fill that missing link
that balance between peace and love
is possible, we think.

One Missing

She found she could no longer
answer the simplest question—
You have how many children?—
at least not without stumbling
over her words. I’ve had three
children, she thought. Three
tiny gold baby rings dangle from
the chain around her neck.

But now one chair sits empty
at the dinner table. No one
fights for the window seat.
Christmas gifts remain, still
wrapped, beneath her bed
for her missing child; the hole
in her heart hurts worse
than the pain in their eyes
when she answers: Three.
I had three.

Nancy Posey

Spaces of Spring

I.
Perfect, pink blossoms
A single petal falls -
Plum preserves next month.

II.
Field of orange pop-
Interrupted! Dogged spike
of purple lupin.

III.
Jackets unfurl -
Drop unheeded on the soil
Spring has found preschool.

Golgotha

People begin to leave
The show is over
The significance
Of this moment
Washes over those
Few that remain

Questions plague the mind
Life will never be the same
Missing is assurance
Hope is gone
Waiting to be reborn
Early Easter morning

(Sorry -- quick revision; better verb choice!)

Modern-day Lament

What's missing today is decorum.
I thought we should gather a quorum
to discuss being rude
but I had to conclude
they'd quite rudely tell me I bore 'em!

NADINE IS MISSING


Tracking dogs released in dark woods
supposedly hot on the trail
of your body scent are panting
in late-night futility.

Nadine, you will not be found.
The scent against the muzzles
Is a diversion tactic
to lead those dogs astray.

Not where, but who are you anyway?
Nadine, what lies skipped so smoothly
off your love-glib tongue?
The woman whose warmth

thawed an icy heart,
converted me to love’s dogma,
swore love would laugh at time
and endure forever?

Those dogs will tire of the charade;
They will bark soon enough for cool water.
Night will fall upon my shoulders
Shrugging now for lack of words.

Nadine, who were you all those years?
Will I find somewhere hidden deeply
in our dark closets the shell of you,
the flesh costume you paraded in?

#

a matter of distance

once, there were two
i found them on a dusty shelf
elegant, waiting for me
who else would want them?
two brass herons, for a pound

i took them home
they stood on the corner
of the walnut bookcase
shiny, yellow brass
against the dark wood

now there is one
tall, polished, brass heron
alone on the shelf
of the dark wood bookcase
in the shadowy hall

the other, the missing...
at home in another place
with a different time
how many years did they share
side by side

Copyright © 2009 by Eryll Oellermann

Missing
*******

I no longer possess
even a modicum of trust.
It was here just a few years ago
but I can’t recall where I put it.

There is no longer room
for any jubilant optimism
or for that matter
any un-jubilant optimism either.

Lately I lack any degree of caring.
It doesn’t seem worthwhile
to be the last one standing
in the caring line.

And my charity for strangers
has run pretty thin.
There being so many more strangers
than there used to be.

I can no longer draw a check
on the Bank of Faith in Tomorrow.

My account is closed.

The customer has moved on
without a forwarding address.

"Jason"
Someone's missing from my world,
He was real,
He was really here.
Now I don't see him anymore,
He took his life forevermore.
After that something in me changed,
gone was the happiness,
That made life worth living.
There was no more giving,
The lights didn't shine as brightly,
I found no delight.
Maybe I will see him again,
As a mother needs her child,
To hold and care for,
Not to put in the ground.

Lost Faith

The charities disband
Pension plans run dry
Retirements have been rudely interrupted

The golden years
have lost their glow,
along with life-long dreams

A penny earned
through sweat and tears,
saved for a rainy day

has vanished
from their pockets.
Not supposed to end this way

No one saw it coming
Robbed of their basic human trust,
Madoff took the rest

Rotary Park

We walk now in Rotary Park
beside the tea-brown
and temperamental Nikomekl.
“Isn’t it great," he says
"we don’t have to drive to walk?”

I try to see the glass half full
the crows, robins, herons
and mallards – many mallards.
A stand of yellow iris will soon
brighten the pond
lady slipper season will come
there will be a patch of mauve dame’s rocket
by the footbridge
and a little golden tansy
beside the path …

But no bluebells, bleeding hearts, asters
poppies, wild roses, lupines, foxgloves or ferns.
No green-winged teals, sandpipers, dunlins
killdeers, yellowlegs, cormorants or loons.

Mostly beside this low and serious
flood-plane path
gray-yellow grass, like matted hair
and graffiti, lots of graffiti
blossoming on the benches
and under the bridge.

The Self


the answers can't come if I skirt around the truth
some believe and know it
most walk away, too afraid of losing their identity

shadows cover the walls,
but there isn't anyone here
I need answers
because they won't leave
if I don't get them


a feeling deep inside
tugs at me
making me think
of days goneby
days that I don't remember
yet I know that they happened

images slip through,
and I wonder what they mean
they move quickly
like pieces on the movie screen
and I grasp what I can
in understanding who I am
and through this haze I continue to search

my only obstacle is the fog
or is it God
who I have to know

the piece is hidden
underneath many lifetimes
and something will always be missing
until I find it

when I realize that I am
and that I will always be
then I can relax and continue my work
on the other side

"The Last of the Linemen"

She
doesn't want him
to get up on the roof anymore
afraid he'll fall

He
remembers the days
when he ascended 45 foot
of tree carcass
held in space by the hooks
on his boots
and the safety belt around his waist

She
gives him that look
one eybrow raised
a word unspoken

He
picks up the telehone
with gnarled hands
calls the local handyman
puts his ladder
back in the shed with a sigh

And waits.


(c) m.u. 04/06/2009

Robert, that is an excellent poem! Your use of the word 'clinical' along with the calculated beauty of the photographer give a picture of a moving mannequin. Then the smile only after the wedding is over says it all. You did what the first chapter in The Poet's Companion tells us to do. This one is a keeper.

I'll try my hand at this during the day, but I wanted to give YOU a shout out today.

"Joe Schmo"

There once were a feller, Joe,
who had fewer brains than dough.
He opened his yap,
foot into the trap:
he lost way more than his toe.

Removable Parts

First to go was tonsils
when I was four

At twenty-five a dentist
dug out my wisdom teeth

At forty
they took my uterus

plus a large tumor
and my appendix

At sixty-three a surgeon
cut off my breast

If you can’t fix it
chop it off

I hope I never get
an incurable headache

WHAT I MISS MOST AT CHRISTMAS

What I miss most at Christmas?
That isn't so hard; it's not shiny wrapping,
no ribbons or cards.
It's something more lasting, it just stand apart.
It's a feeling that's grow right here, deep in my heart.

1986

I remember the call, it came without warning.
It roused me from sleep, 3 o'clock in the morning.
Just three days from Christmas, the timing appalling,
I couldn't imagine who it could be calling.

Gave both eyes a rub; a cough for throat clearing,
I listened, disturbed at the words I was hearing.
A tragic occurrence had befallen my mother,
this turn of events was eclipsed by no other.

My sister proclaimed, not so matter-of-factly,
that she wasn't quite sure what had happened exactly.
It seems that our Mom just collapsed back at home, a
hard pill to swallow, she lapse into coma.

Christmas that year was a true non-event
brought all about by this most sad advent.
The brain aneurysm that happened that way,
assured that our mother would miss Christmas Day.

Irene Wojtanik died December 24, 1986.

*

2006

August '06, a different voice on the phone,
my kid sister now, with the sad news from home.
I had been away then for nearly four years,
but, what she had to say was no easier to hear.

She told me of Dad, the family care-giver,
was waging a battle with a cancerous liver.
I headed for home that very same day,
packed a small bag and was well on my way.

I stayed with my father right up to the end,
he started out Dad; ended up my best friend.
With him well in decline as we neared "Tis the season",
he willed to hold on for some very odd reason.

Now hospital ridden as we approached Christmas Day,
Delirium entered as he wasted away.
In a moment so lucid; in a pause like no other,
he said, "I see Irene", then he left with my mother.

Walter E. Wojtanik died December 20, 2006.

*

The thing that I miss most at Christmas, you see,
is the loving communion with lost family.
But, these feelings inside that sustain me all year,
are the memories of love that I'll always hold dear.

Every day must be Christmas, because I miss them each day.

Something is Missing

I have this life
a man who is there
and children whom I give all my love
we have some money
he goes to work
and I go to college
he likes his things
and I like mine
nothing do we share
he says he loves me
but I am not so sure
he has lied to me
this I know but can never prove
I say I love him
at one time that was true
but now I just try to go on each day
and keep our lives going on
with or without love
he kisses me, and I kiss him
but there is no spark,
no emotion
he likes things his way
and I like things mine
there is nothing we can agree
our hearts just cant abide
there is something missing
and thats the love
that used to beat between out hearts.


I tried to post a poem a few minents ago, it acted like it did but the poem I can not find so I revised the poem and posted again.

Missing

The phone rang
it was
my stepmother saying


dad said to draw a name
to give his ring
to 1 of 5 siblings

it was me!
oh how happy
i was

The phone rang
it was
my stepmother saying

I lost it
she cried
from a small pocket

shopping and
trying on
unneeded things

it fell out
I didn’t see
where

it is gone
I don’t know where
it is MISSING!

that is what happens
when you win
something treasured



Carole

Friendship

What happened to the joy?
What happened to the excitement?
Of seeing one another
Disappear in familiarity?
In the guise of comfortableness
Less urgency now to talk
To share in the day’s blessings
No need to savor one another’s presence
Of just being together
Anticipating our next adventure
Seemed all was needed
To ignite the spark
To scheme & plan when next we meet

What happened to the joy?
What happened to the excitement?
Lost and long forgotten

Seven Years Later

Sitting in an office right now,
perhaps overlooking a river
that looks more like thick strip
of foggy glass lined with green
fuzzy banks, a girl, who had been
clicking the keys of a computer,
stops, sighs, and looks out
her window, past two small plants,
and one small, framed picture,
and there, for a second, she's breathless,
missing me and all the scenery
we never painted.

Day 6: Something missing

She puts up the Christmas tree
alone.
She shops for Santa Claus
alone.
On Christmas Eve, she watches
her little boys put out cookies
and milk and a note,
and when they are in bed,
she drinks the milk and eats
the cookies
alone
Last year she was not
alone.
Last year he was there,
and he ate the cookies
and drank the milk
and wrote a reply to the note.
Last year he stayed up late
putting toys together, but
this year there are none of those
because she can’t put them together
alone.
She unplugs the tree lights and
walks into the bedroom
alone.
In the morning she will still be
alone.
She feels angry at him sometimes
because he died and left her
alone.
Thirty years later she is still
alone,
but she isns’t still angry because
it didn’t change things,
so she just keeps on living
alone,
and the piece of her heart that is
missing
will never be found.

Missing


I miss what I don't have
I have what I don't miss

I am on the outside looking in
But I am on the inside looking out

Limburger

I sit in the living room
reading a book.
Was that you
walking just out of view in the hall?

I work in the office
finishing some paperwork.
Was that you
playing with the rolling pencil on the floor?

I cook in the kitchen
getting dinner ready.
Was that you
asking for a piece of cheese?

I lay in bed
trying to fall asleep.
Was that you
warming the bottom of the bed with your fur as you purr?

I know you’re gone
but you’ll always be here.

I love you.

(note: It may not seem like much on paper, but this was actually hard for me to write. A surpirse even to me. You can see a picture of him with the reposted poem on my blog if your interested http://cabadov.wordpress.com/2009/04/06/missing-a-friend/ Thank you)

Chispa (1991-2004)

Home from the vet with her empty carrier,
after thirteen years of her company.
There was no friendly greeting as I got out of the car.
No calico streak dashing after a toy.
No sleek fur to pet, no push-pawing on my lap.
No scratching at the door, or meowing to be fed.
No drooling over catnip then rolling on the floor.
No purring by my side when I woke up at night,
the reassuring sound that lulled me back to sleep.
Yet for the next week, just outside of range,
it seemed I saw her ghost, heard the echo of her meow,
felt the tickle of her whiskers on my ankle or my cheek.
Then she really left, and all that remained
was a cat-shaped hole in my life and my home.

Donald R. Anderson
It Only Happened Once

It only happened once,
that feeling, at least
if it happened again, it was merely
a deja vu of the original.
The time late at night,
fishing on gaia on the intense repetition
of the competition for fishing trophies,
and you there by my side,
in the glow of the laptop,
asleep, as I did the duties.
Then the sudden pull on the line
that was somehow different than before,
it was all I could do just to keep from
losing it off the line,
the timing, the beautiful colors of
the artificial sky, the labor all had built
up to that point, the A bait, A bait, D bait D bait D bait,
cycling, or perhaps it was different, I don't recall,
but it was that wonder of something magical,
as we were listening to the Blind CD by the Sundays
it was playing, if I recall it by mind and not by heart,
Wild Horses, and the rarest of all Bassken Lake fish on
the game of gaia, yes gaia the site with millions of
member accounts and thousands that log in daily,
back in 2006, the fish that came up on the line,
every gaia fisher-person's dream, the Candy Striper,
was the little miracle that gave me faith that anything,
yes anything in this strange world, after hundreds maybe
thousands of buckets, anything can happen.

Theresa Cavicchio - your limerick made me smile. :-)

A Christmas Family Photo

its a series really
take one:
the family stands stunned
but the two chairs in front are empty
take two:
we try to figure out what just happened
while Oma drags Opa toward the chairs
take three:
success! the chairs are filled
we have a record of the family together
(only the top half of Uncle Greg’s head is missing)

Pocket Sprung a Leak

Pocket sprung a leak
Feel the cold coins chase car keys
Down my leg on to the hard floor
Where they make noises
Liberated noises
Like money and keys are supposed to
Be on the ground and not in my pockets

Pocket sprung a leak
Now I got to remember
Next you wear your favorite pants
Don’t trust them pockets
Sure as one goes the other one goes
Next thing you know you’ll be
Walking down the road or crossing the street
Chasing silly willful coins and keys

Pocket sprung a leak
What do I got to lose that can be kept in leaky pockets

What do I Got to lose

Bat and Cat

When did his lust rust, he moans
and clings hard to her sordid shadow
sex - not in fervor but elaborate
want that rises up to consume him
from the vast pit of his soul - this ugly
ache emanates from a place so heavily
oxidized that it hadn't stirred any
emotion in years. It is so painful
a reminder of loss he asks god
for showers of fire and brimstone
so he can stop crying drunkenly
with emotion to her fleeting effigy
on his lips when she, too, inevitably
abandons him.

That Thing

What it was wasn’t there.
I looked and looked some more
and searched for it everywhere.
It had to be somewhere I was sure.

I was certain I saw it just the other day,
resting on the table or on the floor,
unneeded and just where it lay.
Now it’s gone—flown out the door,

Or so it seems, as with many things
In full view, when you don’t need to use
them, disappear—books, and pots and rings
without leaving any helpful clues.

It will turn up one day, no doubt
When I look for some other thing
There, right where I put it—inside or out—
Will be that book or pot or ring

Morgan

She ran from her mother’s classroom
into my office,
smiled broadly to boast
the gum-pink gap
where a front tooth used to be.
Stayed for hours,
built stairs out of my books –
down which she let loose a slinky –
scribbled happy suggestions of
boats?
fish?
a snail?
on the chalkboard.
Forgot to be sick
on her sick-day off from school.

Walt, if there are typos in this it's becuase I can't see the keyboard for the tears. Absolutely amazing and so true in the emotions.

09-0406


Writing this today
the words are hard to find.
What’s missing?

It’s not as obvious as
I thought it.

Do you know?

Can you spot it?

What a silly ploy
but it’s fun.

Almost run

Now I’m, uh
finish – comp–
ov – aw darn it.

fini!

Thanks Nita. Obviously, Christmas was never the same for a long time. I never had a chance to say goodbye to Mom, but I held Dad's hand as he passed. Your comment means a lot!

Vacant Recollections

I visit the paintings I once purged;
they've befriended the dust in the basement creases.
I peer a quasi-glance in fear of an emotional overload
but there is nothing.

Behind the cellar film I know you slaved over that canvas,
your estranged love-eaten bones positioned over it
to create a tangible product out of our emotional messes

You'd think after 7 years
I could muster up some tears in front of these paintings,
make my reunion with them at least poetic

But after years of unnatural force to find our happiness
I realize I never healed, because I never broke.
What was missing, the wholeness of my heart to begin with.

It's Gone.

Clean water to drink,
A world connecting link,
Transportation so fast,
Hubble scenes are so vast,
Food from the world
Flat leafed or curled,
Strawberries from LA
To New York in a day,
Aspirin and penicillin,
X-ray and E-billin',
Stuff that two hundred years ago
Would have been witchcraft you know,
Anything we can do,
Me and you and you too.
So what did we ban?
The cave-man's eighteen year life span.

My job is missing

Actually I know exactly where it is
But it's not mine anymore
All my coworkers gone separate ways as well
Now we meet on facebook and email
Every machine, chair, desk, cabinet, computer
Moved to a foreign country with my job
Though I send in applications and resumes
There is silence from the phone and email
Only spits out those phony job offers
Back to school I trudge
To earn another degree
In hopes that I won't have
To go on missing my job
Because a new one will take its place

09-0406 - with a little edit!! Ooops!!


Writing this today
the words so hard to find.
What’s missing?

It’s not as obvious as
I thought it.

Do you know?

Can you spot it?

What a silly ploy
but it’s fun.

Almost run

Now I’m, uh
Finish – comp–
ov – aw darn it.

fini!

6//30
[Apodosis / Protasis]

Whether or not the grey fabric of winter frays (grey bark becomes brown, grey limbs lever green leaf buds against each day’s cold rain) two blue bird eggs lie cracked. Mostly discarded. Whether or not the preacher holds them down (blue water unbreathed, unswallowed; blue-painted pool, blue robes billowing: a sacrifice, a show) the two daughters play a part. Mostly dripping wet. Mostly sputtering. One goes back to the conference room and returns in her mother’s blouse. Whether or not the other wears a white taffeta dress (white pearls nesting in their button holes, white half-unburied bone, white sugar pitched into the cracked white bowl). Upstairs, the women are laughing. The men stand mostly apart. Whether or not a rusted train rumbles farther and farther away.

Just Shy of Eighty-Three

You were just one day shy
Of eighty-three years old
The day you went missing
Really, just one hour shy

The night closed in
And you drifted away from us
You left the face we knew on your pillow
Taking the part that was You
Where we couldn’t follow

You chose to leave in solitude
Sending your lover to catch a bus
Alone your great bear heart settled into rest
Your great bear spirit free from its cage

Where I sat in the dark car outside a Tim Horton’s
Stopping briefly in my mad rush to reach you
I knew I was too late
Even before my cell phone split the silence
As we passed the Barrie Racetrack

You are still here in the blood of your children
And your children’s children
In your daughter’s eyes you are a hero
The hero has just gone on a new quest
There is an empty place at our banquet table

Nancy Bell Balzac, Alberta

There are a thousand pieces in front of me.
A beautiful box and a picture of sailboats.
It makes it look all so simple.
Fitting it all together should be a breeze.

There is a funny irony to all of this.
Oh, how parallel to my life in the form of this puzzle!
One piece after another does not fit.
My actions are pretty much hit and miss.

Oh, alas, all but one piece!
Oh, no, it is not here nor on the floor!
I thought I had it all together.
With my frustration, I must make peace.

Oh, again, how like my life!
There is a fantasy on the box.
Paradise visited by a photograph.
Turns into a pillar of salt like Lot's wife.

My dreams and aspirations are somewhere in the wind.
The same breeze that propels the sailboat.
They evade my grasp amongst the currents.
Is this how greatly I've sinned?

Oh, how I long to be a voice!
Oh, how I long to write great stories!
Oh, how I long to be loved!
Oh, how I wish I had a choice!

I know the missing piece is lying here or there.
Just out of my vision and out of my reach.
I must search the crevices of my home.
It could not have vanished with the air.

My greatest dream is to be loved.
By a man who cherishes who I am.
My greatest vision is to write.
My words must come from within and above.

I am dissatisfied with the results of this jigsaw.
The missing piece is noticeably bare.
I am dissatisfied with my life.
My emotions are left open and raw.

But wait, I was cleaning house the other day.
There is the piece, under the pile of papers I was working on.
I was cleaning my soul out the other night.
The missing pieces only hidden out of the way.

Crackle

Stone steps that crackle in the sunlight with an almost mirthy attitude
Beckon me to climb, to adventure into the darkened tree line beyond.
I smell cherries and feel a slight nudging all over my skin from a tree-breeze.
One particular knot in a tree seems interesting.
I breathe in deeply, trying to keep all the beauty at bay
So it doesn't all come in at once and overwhelm my sense of awe.
Letting the mud get to know my leather black soles and iron-cuffed pants
I loosen my tie and I reach the knot and touch it gently with my fingers.
Warm, tan, and crackly just like the steps.
Glancing back, I decide to forget my day.
To go missing and plunge into the forest
Where branches and tight spaces are numerous
And it feels like no one can reach me but them.
I imagine my co-workers saying "Where is he?"
"Oh, that fellow? He went missing in the crackle."