You are on a roll, Robert! I love all your poems this month.

laurie k.

Today's Prompt: Lines

I wrote about age:

Erase the Lines of Time

I look in the mirror...
laugh lines and crows feet
stare back at me.

Beauty cannot be defined by age...
deep creases and folds
envelope my beauty.

I cannot go back in time...
I cannot erase the lines...
I am who I am...
a woman of forty-nine!

The Couple

He is sleek,
and she is full of curves.
He is the hunter,
and she is his prey,
but not today.
Today they are friends,
the tiger and the pig.

No apologies needed for spending time with your family. We appreciate all you're doing for us. Thank you!

I'm about to head out the door for a day trip, but of course had to check the prompt first so I could write in my head all day. I look forward to the wide range of poems we're sure to get.

THESE LINES IN THIS LAST NOTE

these lines like blue veins
once coursing our hands
now race across pages
white as love’s ghost

and the boats are all words
down a river of tears
lines that speak love
in a wind-carried whisper

words sailing for sorrow
on waters’ deep blueness
these lines in this last note
Waving goodbye

#

Living in Balance

There is a fine line
between truth and illusion.
Peace lies on the edge. (14)

Empty Lines for empty times

They are just lines on a page
never designed to enrage
but, designed to guarantee
Freedom to everyone in society

The freedom to be
Whomever, they want to be
The freedom to a life of liberty
in this the land of the free

But, they are just that, lines
Empty words of empty designs
though, their creators did agree
that this was how life was to be

They did not know
when they signed
how this country would grow
nor, politically redesigned

Oh, excuses would be made
amendments that forbade
what was originally intended
funny, how easily laws can be amended

So, easily freedoms taken away
with new lines written for a new day
while American’s die in the streets
some politician comfortably eats

They were lines
written well within the constitution
Now, the new regime redefines
what was once a concrete resolution. . .

©Ralph J. Fitcher, November 14, 2009, lines poem. I am sorry, about the theme of human condition, but I write what I feel at the time.

I second Amanda's comment and I thank you Robert and the rest of the gang for making this such a poetic adventure!

***********************************************

THE NOTEBOOK

The absence of words
is magnified by the
presence of barren,
white, lined, tablet
paper. Inspiration
is invisibly drawn
across its length.
Unseen script rests
on her lips, lingers
as she imagines the
swirling ideas taking
tangible form with ease.
Effortlessly the palpable
words claim a flavor on her
tongue. Thoughts move smoothly,
swirling their intricate patterns upon
paper; flowing in wide arching swoops.
Curly-Q tender ends and paisley, printed
comas, planted. Silent space of linear leaf;
not so silent, not really ever empty. Flashing
florescent vacancy sign, never really blinking.

Perspective

The shortest distance
Between two points, is rarely
If ever, a line.

Wonderful start today already you guys! Can't wait to see what this day brings, smiles to everyone!

Burger King

Hey man, you hear
they are hiring at Burger King
Yo’ dude, only one job there
Minimum wage ain’t nothing

And that Line bro’
it’s off the hook
Around the block I know
only one job, for a fry cook

Yo’ Jack,
don’t waste your’ time
they don’t hire black
brother of mine

I got no choice
Girl can’t buy no more diapers
fo’ the boys’
got a ticket for broken wipers

Unemployment ran out
Just about a month ago
What’s this all about
they be talkin’ recession, YO’

I need this work
got’s bills to pay
they gonna give it to some white jerk
I just can’t do that line today

I don’t want to go back inside
at least in the joint’ I got’s my pride
out, here’ I’ll starve to death
no care’s about us or the rest

There was only one job
The owner had been robbed
the assailants were black
he had been personally attacked

Now, there were those he would never hire
he vowed to close, before fulfilling that desire
the community was African American
hit by the recession again and again. . .

©Ralph J. Fitcher, November 14, 2009, A different kind of Line poem. I am not a racist, so
please read the whole poem before you take on that view. Then judge if you must. But,
understand there is a reality out there that most of us overlook, never see, or choose to blame on
others, maybe my poetry can help bring that to life, if so, I present you with “Burger King” as a
means of bringing this pain and sorrow to light.

Lines at Amusement Parks;
The Ticket to Thrills and Chills

Anticipation mounting,
Two hours is nothing,
When it comes to,
Big thrills,
A really big thrill.
First hill,
A set up,
For the ultimate rush.

If lines of people are there,
It must be good,
Right?
Something we must have.
Waiting is nothing,
For that upcoming moment.
That we can only imagine,
Will make our day.

How much time,
In life,
Is spent waiting,
For what we think,
Will bring us,
That long awaited moment?

And if we wait for it,
Experience it,
Then we must wait again,
And again,
And again,
Until the next ultimate hit,
Is our turn,
To return to it.

This begs the question . . .
Is waiting in line,
The same as going in circles?

In a round about way,
That is the straight,
And narrow truth.

Yet in our youth,
It is the big hill,
That brings the thrill . . .

It's when we can color outside the lines,
Creating verbiage with Dr. Seuss rhymes,
That life really makes sense from here to there,
Knowing the true ultimate rush is just to care!

It doesn't just take us round and round,
Compassion in the heart,
Is easily found.

There is no waiting in line,
Our hearts can just open,
And in that moment all is just fine,
More wonderful then we were hopin'!

R J,

I love your poem. I like the fact that you kept it real... and yes, it's a fact and a sad truth.

Lines

When a person says,
“I can’t even draw a straight line,”
what they’re really saying is
I don’t know how to draw,
I don’t think I can learn, and
don’t even try to teach me.

If most people couldn’t learn to draw
elementary teachers wouldn’t
spend their time teaching six to twelve-
year-olds how to draw the alphabet.

The alphabet is made up of lines.
Straight and curved. The world and
everything in and out of it is made
up of lines. Straight and curved.

Depth in a painting is an illusion
formed by shade and lighting and
where the lines are with respect to
one another. Anyone can learn to draw.

And if you want to draw a straight line:
Use a ruler.

Filling up the Clotheslines © Rich Atwater Nov. 14, 2009

Mother of twelve children, busy as a bee,
Every day there’s washing clothes, to do;
Sorting out two-hundred socks, you see,
Separating colors from the whites too!

Filling up the washing machine everyday,
But a dryer is too much a luxury to have,
Besides the freshness of the open air way,
Is far preferable, and cuts the time in half.

Set the timing cycle; push the button “to wash”,
Load the hamper basket full of clean material,
Carry out to the “great outdoors”, heavy load by gosh!
Time to develop a new art-form: call it surreal.

Filling up the clothesline, in a pattern of colors,
A patchwork of motherly love, in graceful style,
David’s pants will need to be pressed with rollers,
Dawnie’s skirt straightened out from the pile.

Peter’s shirt will need a button after drying,
Dickie’s jeans will need some mending at the knee,
Bobby’s socks will have to be replaced to prevent crying,
Brucie’s underwear, pearly white, look just fine to me,

Joey’s sweater took some cool refinement so not to shrink,
Jeannie’s panties, aren’t they cute, with kitten on the side,
Dorothy’s mini-bra, Oops! I think I left it in the sink!
Johnny’s T-shirt with a funny logo was washed with TIDE.

Barbara’s dress with fluffy shoulders, hangs with care,
Wow! That’s eleven kids for busy washing, drying, chores,
Danny’s just a baby; guess what? I washed his Teddy bear!
Hanging by his ears upon the clothesline, flying in and out the doors!

That’s my life, my ever loving legacy of truth, to be a mother—
Of twelve children, for whom I gave my energy, and all my time,
All was done with happy heart, and joyful singing, all kinds of weather,
In the northern atmosphere of Maine’s New England clime.

Can you think upon the doing, bidding of one’s life, upon each day?
How in selfless service, sacrifice, in purity of love-- for “the Twelve”,
Who like Jesus, washed their feet, tended to their every need without pay,
Called them to “a higher calling” in which to spend their life, and time to delve--
Into the mysteries of “giving all for the sake of others” that they might win,
Such it is to be “a mother of twelve children” in a time and circumstance,
The legacy of Eva Viola (Dyer) Atwater, my mother, who bore a smile upon her chin,
While “filling up the clotheslines”, as she gaily laughed, always singing, in a dance.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++=

Poet’s Note:
In remembrance of my dear mother, born in Portland, Maine and raised an orphan, married to a blind man, (my father-- David Henry Atwater), who together raised twelve biological children in the love of God and Jesus Christ as our Savior; and in the love of patriotic duty to our country. Her life was spent in the service of her children. Born February 21, 1921—died of breast cancer at age 73-- November 23, 1994 on Thanksgiving morning in Biddeford, Maine. My father lived to be 100 years and 45 days of age, born April 9, 1904 in Antigonish, Nova Scotia, Canada, died May 23, 2004 in Magna, Utah. They are buried side by side in Laurel Hill Cemetery (Deering subdivision) in Saco, (York County) Maine—where they raised their twelve children. “Lest we forget”

Richard-Merlin Atwater, 4th of 12 children, alias "Uncle Dickie"

THE END
(TAKE 2)

"...and in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make."
~ Paul McCartney

You give as good as you get,
there is no better rule than that,
expecting to get more is
very selfish at that.
In life, as in love,
the balance is stricken,
to give it your best,
life is yours for the pickin'
Toil while the sun shines,
rest when you should,
and don't demand anything
that will lead to no good.
Keep faith in the Lord,
hold your family with love,
give your best to others,
and the returns will be of
equal proportion,
no more and no less.
And your life will fulfill you,
That'd be my guess.

And in the end the love you take,
is equal to the love you get.

(My favorite line!)

Feet Have No Eyes

I step over the line
he drew in the sand.
He just draws another.

I step on the crack;
brake my mother's back.
She doesn't seem to know.

I step into a hall of mirrors
on into infinity,
not knowing
where I go.

If I look far enough
I can see you there.
Your feet right next to mine.

I don't always watch
where I'm going
when I trip into places
I am glad
I fell.

Into your arms today.

My error: last line should say ...love you make. Fat fingers this A.M. Or fat head, not sure!

Lines, Rhymes for these Times

For the November PAD Clan,
For all the talent, I am a fan!
I see each day,
How you share away,
Expressing from deep inside,
Where day to day,
Most of us hide.
Crafting each word,
Creatively heard,
All the unique phrases,
Through the imagery mazes.
Dedication,
Courage,
The flair,
It takes alot,
To have taken this dare!
Its pushing us daily,
To begin anew,
Pushing us mainly,
Seeing what we can do.
Capturing each moment,
Rare that it is,
Following Robert's pooetic talent,
That unique style of his.
And despite the frustrating codes,
We persevere our writtern downloads.
I applaud us all,
For the focus in November,
Whether I always have time to type it,
Please remember,
It is sometimes just the joy!
Of writing to employ,
Not a need to impress,
Just the fun we express,
A simple pleasure . . .
No less!
I agree with Walt W.
What he said yesterday to you.
I, too, salute the rhyme,
And each and every line . . .
Even if I don't write it,
I think it all the time!

Thank you all . . . it has been a ball!

P.S. Yes, Marie Elena . . . you can just call me Janet . . . plan it! :)
Thanks again for your positivity . . . as always it touched me.

Introduction


You know that strange strange stranger in the line
at Kroger
DMV
concessions
water fountains
Will-Call
information
why are there no more rest rooms for women
customer relations
windows open in "5" minutes
with her compliments and comments
unsolicited remarks
the weather
what's your due date
walking's better exercise and free
people really pay for that?
such a pretty necklace
my your child is well-behaved
I walked out of his last movie
you do know the store brand's just as good
well hi!
such a surprise running into you again!

The Re-emergence of the Romantic interest

You read the novel
with an ease bought of indolence
reclining with one leg drawn up,
the book held in one hand at the top
the lines like a drop-down menu
on a computer screen.

In the other hand is an apple
one bite taken
and I can see the line of your mouth,
your teeth,
etched on the russet flesh

the curve of your lip quivers,
moistened by a quick tongue
and the line of your trousers shifts
and I know you've reached the point
where the heroine remembers you

and you are lost.

Deluge

Never mind
the torrential rains,
he would be with her.

His surge of love
would be his downfall,
his overwhelming
need.

He soaked his pain
in gin and tonic
before he drove to her.

The inundation
of caring souls
warned her
the bridge was out.

She fell to the floor
amid cascading tears,
flooded with emotion.
No one could stop
her cries.

The water has left her line,
a ring of red
on faded lips,
kissed
but not forgotten.

Lines of words scroll down the screen
I feel the tension as I near the end
There has to be a new thought
A thread that will arise
I need to know what happens next in your life
I understand as the writer
I’m already supposed to know
But I don’t write that way
And I’m dying of curiosity to know
Just where you are going.

******

Lines

Words
Life
Desire
Need
Compulsion
Obsession


I just wanted to mention how much I've been enjoying the poems! The prompts have been wonderful. Thanks everyone for posting
Laura

Richard-Merlin Atwater,

A beautiful poem and a beautiful love story to be told...

Words Not Said

“It’d be cheaper
to keep ya,” he said
as I stood at the
door, bags packed,
ready to leave
this life behind.
“If I hired a lawyer
and we divided
everything, I’d
be spending more
money than if
I just turned
the other cheek
and put up with
your shit.”

A tear slid down
my flushed cheeks
as I continued
out the door,
knowing what
he had really
meant was he
did not love
me anymore.

laurie k.

DON’T TOUCH THAT

They queued up all the way from the gallery
door to the front door, art patrons certain
of their entitlement. They murmured with a low
rumble of controlled excitement. The Louvre show
was clearly their domain, what they had waited for,
what their endowment dollars supported.
The security guard who watched from his post
near the first painting on the right scanned
the crowd, overheard a hipster tell his girlfriend
he did not like sculpture from a certain period,
heard him attribute work to the wrong movement.
The hipster’s girlfriend knew no such distinctions,
looked at her date with naïve admiration.
The guard wanted to correct the mistake,
shook his head to himself, wondered where
these people had gone to college.
But that was not his job, so he stayed
quiet, kept the line on its course.
No one thought to ask him what he knew.
His invisibility held until that same hipster
broke from his place, reached toward a glorious
painted landscape inside a gilt frame
as if he might pluck it like a star from the sky.
Then the guard was forced to utter the one
line that brought his presence into focus:
please step away from the art.

All-Night Gospel Singing

Before we raised money for the hymnals
and learned to sing shape notes,
we still made melody—and not just
in our hearts. Brother Putnam, who
read music and knew all the hymns
by heart, led us as we sang the first,
third, and last verse of every song,
lining out each one, a musical call
and response. The good strong altos
in the front rows found their notes.
The men in the amen corner divvied
up between tenor and bass, all but two
or three singing melody, not yet
knowing to call themselves baritones.
Around tent meeting time each August,
the visiting preacher brought his man
to lead the songs, new ones sometimes,
but mostly those we knew so well
we sang both lines, his and ours:
What a friend we have in Jesus,
What a friend we have in Jesus,
all our sins and griefs to bear,
all our sins and griefs to bear.

My Line

When I can’t see the floor through the clothes,
That’s my line.
When I can’t smell the fresh air behind your breath,
That’s my line.
When I can’t step forward without you pulling me back,
That’s my line,
When I wake up and curse my senses for revealing you to me,
That’s my line,

I could go on
and on, and on,
around the world
counting the lines
you’ve crossed with me,
yet coming home to you,
you crossing the threshold
to embrace me, to kiss me,
is still my favorite line you cross.

‘Tis better to keep
A safe distance from the line
You don’t wish to cross.


Daniel, you've got me hooked on Haiku!

From That Guy in Yoga Class

I try not to tell too many people I take yoga, well other guys. I don’t want them trying to cash in on my perfect pick up location. See, I’m almost always the only guy in class, and almost certainly the only straight one. How do I know that? Come on pink crocs? Well, not even that, whenever a guy shows up and his eyes go “down” on me and not the beautiful ladies in class, ya just know. That’s never bothered me though. So what if they think I look good. All I have to do is turn them down if they try to pick me up. They never do. I don’t think I put off a gay vibe and, besides, yoga pants don’t have any pockets. No hankies to hang. Learned all about that from a guy at work. Guess he could pick up on the fact that I was the only non-homophobe in our whole office. Get with the times people? But, I don’t want to debate and argue about any of that. I just come to yoga to meet women. Although, if I am being completely honest, it is a good workout especially for my abs and shoulders. Holding your own weight up is why so many gymnasts have good bodies. Yeah, I can admit it, male gymnasts look great. I’d kill for those kinds of shoulders and biceps. They look natural, not like body builders who just look freakish. Why would you want your junk to look so much smaller than the rest of you? Overcompensation, maybe? Sometimes, I get so relaxed in class I forget all about picking out one of the girls to hit on. I just soak up the heat, let myself sweat and go home to have a beer and maybe even a salad. Why ruin a good workout by eating a bunch of steak? Besides, if you can just play the vegetarian once in a while, that is like getting bonus points.

Telephone Lines

I often see birds perched
on telephone wires
stretched along the roads
and wonder if they chat
online to one another.
Do they buzz about the news
or twitter random thoughts
much like their human
counterparts? Or are they
mum, huddled together
for warmth, companionship?
I don’t know if they’re crows
or pigeons or drab wrens,
They all look dressed in black
uniforms, with no place to go.

THE LINE’S BEEN DRAWN

The line’s been drawn,
and it is up to you
whether or not
you choose to cross it.

If this is your choice,
you have to realize
there are consequences
that you are responsible for.

We’ve been over this many times before.

You know the pros and cons of what we’re discussing,
and I know you remember
what has happened in the past.

Are you sure you understand this situation fully?

Are you sure the reward
is greater than the risk?

This decision
is entirely up to you.

Okay…
if it’s absolutely positively clear in your mind
that you want that doggie biscuit, Spot,
then you go right ahead and take it!

A WALK WITH HIS DOG

He took off from the cabin, red dog leading
the way. Time to get to know the country.
Sun golden in the leaves of oaks, this falling
time of year. Red Dog picked his way
from bush to bush, where a frosty night
had left scents of passage, onto a game trail
between rocks and roots. The natural way down
got steeper; dead leaves slippery underfoot.
Someone had been here before him –
a bit of vibram print pressed into mud.
Time to turn around? But such a hard climb
back up, maybe easier to keep going
down, it must come out somewhere – don’t
they always say to go downhill? Red Dog
somewhere below him, scouting out the way.
For a human, it’s seat-of-the-pants time,
hanging on to bushes, keep from falling.
Here’s a dropoff – and a rope, just a piece
of clothesline hitched to a root. Down
the rope – no going back up. They’ll
find him, if they just start looking – if
they can get there – on the river.

Laugh Lines

His face was still the same
Kind of, sort of
Harder-edged than I remembered
Formerly smooth
Now with deep creases
At the sides of the mouth
Except when he laughed
Really laughed

Then the boy, no – young man, I knew
Shined through
Glinting brown eyes
Tiny laugh crinkles at the corners
Harsh lines transformed
Almost their former selves
For just a moment of
Unrestrained joy

That's Show Biz!

The actor stood upon the set.
He suddenly began to sweat
because he worried he’d forget
the lines he learned. He was upset.

The scene began. He took the stage
and tried to focus on a cue.
He wasn’t sure just how to gauge
if his next line was overdue.

He yearned to yell to stage hands, “Line!
I need to say what words are mine.”
But he could not request instruction.
The play’s the thing once in production.

So then he thought he’d improvise.
to cover up his mental lapse.
Could he have done but else? Perhaps.
His co-star blinked, then crossed her eyes.

She spoke, though baffled by dispersal
of lines they’d memorized. Rehearsal
should have helped his anamadversal.
But the show must go on. That’s universal.


***

Author's note: I tried to use several different kinds of quatrains for this poem, and I used the word 'anamadversal' because of the rhyme and also, because it actually fits - kinda sorta.

(* Anamadversal - perceptions of one who perceives)

Maybe by the end of the month I will actually be typing the poem onto the current day's page. Right now, I'm trying catch up between laundry and other "catching up" stuff.

I posted my poems for days one and two, in case anybody has time to go read them. I hope you do. Thanks for the tip, Walt--that worked.

I managed to read today's since there weren't too many,yet. Not a bad one in the bunch, but was particularly taken with R.J.'s 'that's show biz", Taylor, Barbara Mayer, Nancy Posey and Danial's 'living in balance'

Day three is up too.

This one was tough; there are so many kinds of lines to include! Poetic, dramatic, artistic, spatial, facial, visual; tried to put them all in, and there's still so many more...!

...

TABLE FOR TWO
(Calliope)

Found her in the back chain-smoking Djarums,
fiercely beautiful as a cheetah in her black knit turtleneck
sweater, chipped nails lacquered aquamarine
clicking on a demitasse overflowing with pale espuma

when she looks up and sees me and that lopsided smile
creases her face for the first time in what could be
months, dimples folding up into her olive cheeks as
she says, Been a long time, and I say, Yes,
well, you know, been busy, you, she nods, shrugs,
rubs the side of her nose with feline grace

points her pen to the legal pad populated by scribbles,
but I'm noticing the way her shoulders quake,
dark eyepits, glassy expression roaming from direction
to direction, I'm not as blind as not to notice that,
don't want to be rude though, so I say, How was that
piece, the performance art thing, did it go well,

she scowls, It did, but now I'm in a contract,
have to do three more by the end of the year and it's
already the autumn, I just can't make it work, kind of
ironic, isn't it, something about the words, the lines,

concept isn't coming together, and she sighs an
espresso-flecked sigh of clove smoke, like a zephyr
on my dirty face, so I say, μοι ἔννεπε, μοῦσα,
brainstorm with me, and she gives me a Look and a
smirk, she says, It's about life and loss and how
what paths we take are never straight as we'd like

how they twist and turn and end up where you least ex-
pect: New York, for example, and she laughs,
tapped out, the laugh of a drying riverbed, undergoing
desertification, and I offer to buy her another, it's no
less than Very Old Friends can do, and I'm standing
waiting by the register, looking over my shoulder

watching her light up another and scratching letters
on the paper, romancing the comma, staring into her
empty cup, like maybe the grounds inside inscribe
some shape of undiscovered and beautiful dreams

Playbook Excerpts

"All the lookers are already taken. Wanna dance?"
Offensive Line.

"I was nowhere near the scene of the crime, and I can prove it."
Defensive Line.

"I didn't mean anything by it when I said you have bad breath."
Offensive/Defensive Line.

Ha! Just realized I signed in as Marie Good earlier. Don't want anyone thinking I've got a big head ... Good is my last name. My husband says I've only been Good as long as I've been married to him, and he's been Good all his life. :)


LOL, THERESA!!!!

(GO BUCKS!!)

Your welcome, Penny.

Oh for a second I thought we we getting full of ourselves there in OH.

Shoreline.

So many years and tears.
So many ways to fool ourselves that
somehow there will be a miracle;
we'll wake one morning and things will change.

We gaze at grey and tell ourselves
that we see pink.
Convince ourselves that today
a sign of improvement exists.

Shoring up against despair;
salt water seeping between cracks.
Hope and sand eroding
until there is nowhere left to stand.

No more shore - just a line
that cuts
and lets the saline drip
into the wounds
we feel
as our world ends.

A Bit of Nostalgia
(Shadorma)

I wonder
if anyone else
besides me
remembers
that early TV game show
they called "What's My Line?"

Mutiny

I can read between the lines,
feet planted a foot apart,
your folded arms
close-held to your chest,
clipped words,
continuous frown.

I cannot imagine why,
as a well-matured woman,
I ever thought for a moment
I could make a decision
without you.

"Times Square"

The African man in an orange dashiki
and necklaces of shell and bead walked
by the girl carrying chocolate bars to sell
at Starbucks. A woman with a fold up table
stopped me, offering to read my palm.
The Lion King flashed its marquee,
and the sidewalk glittered with diamond dust.
In his pack, the artist carried his sketches
of Abraham and Martin, pencil lines and smudges,
full of promise. He led me into a costume shop,
where he bought a white shirt with ruffles,
and later I thought no one is like they seem.

Some Things Never Change

fact of family life:
adult children still at home
parents walk fine line

(I figured I may as well join the haiku party.)

A Poet's Dilemma

I never am sure
just where
to end the line--
do I keep it short
to build suspense or irony,
do I stop at the of a phrase
or sentence,
do I break it off to create punctuation,
impress my reader with an image,
or create a poem's shape,
because after all there are no set rules
and while boundaries often comfort
the mystery of it all
is what keeps me intrigued.

Penny, nice catch-up collection! I really enjoyed falcon, especially the way you wrote the closing line. Smiles!

p.s. on the sly...like how I left em' guessing?

Excellent piece Joseph, felt like I was there!

Nice Haiku ladies!

Oh...and Daniel's haiku too!

CELEBRATING 1776

[[Trees] tall and green, lining the streets, and overtopping
the houses of our largest cities; filtering with their wholesome
leafage the air breathed by the people.
- Elihu Burritt, A Walk from London to John O’Groats]

What better way to declare independence
than by planting rows of trees?
That’s what the good folk did, here in this
rural parish, to celebrate the signing.
So far from the City of Brotherly Love,
here young and old took up spade and shovel
to set out seedlings in double rows.
They lined the walk from The Green
to the church door; then, along the public
highway for in mile in each direction.

By the time you passed through, Elihu,
most of those folks were dead.
But the trees they planted flourished.
As you walked the public highway
and paused before the church,
what delightful shade for your travels;
solid trunks of faith, green standing armies
with purifying leaves. The blessing
of independence, the blessing of trees.

The Journey: Day Fourteen: a poem involving lines


In sky pastures fenced by stars,
moon meadows hold shadow,
the surreal radiance of a full lunar night
changing the snow-covered prairie
to a softly rolling sea.
Wind-carved breakers ebb and flow
to the creek bottom,
to cottonwoods where turkeys roost,
darken lines of limbs and bark.
Angus bulls bed down against the cold,
their white breath turning to gossamer frost.
A frozen windmill sways little,
its rigid orbit turning to rust,
oblivious to the plow on the county road
piling snow into the long lines of winter.

LINES...

Stood in long ones.
That's what I did
most of this day.

Crossed over them -
the not-wise chef,
after judging.

Colored outside
of, then got yelled
at when I did.

Don't remember
very well, so
became "prompter".

Introduced one
for next season.
(Hope it sells well.)

Found a few new
running over
this youthful face.

Historical:
the Maginot;
Mason-Dixon.

Handed some out.
My favorite:
will you be mine?

W

Nancy Posey: Amen! love the feel, the lilt of your poem

*Profanity Warning*



“What? You want pinstriped skin?
People will point and scream,
‘Shit! There goes “Pinstripe Man!”’”
He takes out his needles
and jet-black powdered ink.

“Going to take a few weeks,
you understand.” He slakes
the pigment gradually
while you take off your slacks.
“What that fuck? You angry

at your mom?” But he asks
softly, as to himself,
so you don’t answer. “Fuck,”
he barks suddenly. “She’ll
fucking flip when she sees.”

The needles always feel
like achieving real goals.


DA

Lining Up For Michael Jackson

I lined up for tickets
at the cinema last night,
after reluctantly agreeing
to drive to the city,
to sit though a movie
I didn’t particularly
care to see.
This Is It, I read,
as I paid for two seniors,
and Sandra bought popcorn,
and a tubular vat of Coke,
at inflated Empire prices,
and we made our way
into the almost empty hall.
We sing in a church choir
and are Symphony subscribers;
I sit on the Symphony board.
What has brought us here
to watch a crouch grabbing,
media-hungry Peter Pan
perform music I didn’t know,
and didn’t really want to know?
Then the lights were dimmed
and note by note, beat by beat,
this odd, captivating wizard
began to sing and to dance
to work his magic on musicians,
and dancers, directors and designers,
film-makers and technicians,
all of whom respect and adore him,
dispensing his gentle genius,
his personification of music,
his total command of his medium,
his absolute mastery of stagecraft.
We were glimpsing creative greatness,
captured by both music and motion,
uplifted by his outpouring of love
for his people and his planet,
his yearning for a world in peace.
Here in this almost empty cinema,
I finally began to understand
what the world of music and dreams
had lost with his senseless passing.

Stay Within the Lines

Stay within the lines,
my babysitter said,
the green goes here, the blue goes there,
and what comes next is red.
You can’t go out beyond the lines
or you’ll be sent to bed.

Stay within the lines,
my driving teacher said,
You always stay in your own lane
and keep your eyes ahead.
If you should lose your focus here,
you just might wind up dead.

Stay within the lines,
my parents always said.
A time for school, a time for work,
to date, and then to wed.
A very normal life to them
that filled my soul with dread.

Stay within the lines,
the whole, wide world has said.
But that’s not where I chose to go.
I walked my road instead.
I followed where my heart has gone
And seldom was misled.

“Character Lines”


Dad and I never kissed much,
We hugged, in his arms , I felt safe.

Pat his cheek, habitual goodbye
Never notice timid lines, barely traced.

I grew up, the expression deepened in his face,
Sudden crow’s feet, slight hidden beneath his specks.

Palanoia laugh lines thin and white
On his tanned skin, so out of place.

Character describes, gazing at his photo
Similar reflection stares back, at glance,

The telling plate glass window.

Ninacarole
11/14/09

Waiting to Finish

It’s everything needing to be said, begging to be put out there, off the cuff, pre-meditated, shouted vigorously at the top of my lungs
It’s everything that has not been acknowledged, fluffed over, disregarded, hushed, swept under the rug; it’s eating its way out
It’s everything silenced, muffled, held deep, not taken seriously, quieted, hushed (chuckle), hand-over-mouth
It’s the disrespect, disregard, apathy, disillusionment of fine
It’s the truth with how many blind eyes?
It’s waiting for
Judgment Day

Chasm

Words spoken
were not lies

she spoke her truth
he hurled his reality

no need to draw a line
neither must cross

for neither desired
to chance a forward step

for fear of being swallowed
by the ice filled chasms
once called love.

Marcia McLees Bogaert

Choices: Day 14: Lines

white paper, wide-ruled,
blue lines waiting for words that
will transform the world.

The poet

she scribbles each thought
trying to convey message
on and 'tween each line

her once blank parchment
dances with word imagery
heart revealed to world


November 14, 2009
(prompt- lines)
(c) Rose Marie Streeter

Debra, I relate to the age-lines! Salvatore, beautiful imagery--sweet and sad.

Leave no lines of regret

No line at Bluegrass Grill this morning.
Nor time for tracing truss lines on a bridge-walk.
It was a lovely day for outlining the mountains
and ridges against the sky
but we could only catch them as we drove by.
Other places to be and people to see
but the same shapes will be there
another Saturday.

Tonight I did follow the purple-gray barracudas
and fish-skeletons the clouds made
in a fiery pinkening sky.
I was glad I was the one who drove to get the pizza,
stood outside my car and watched cloud-lines,
sharp and fuzzy, against blue fading to pink,
then gold. My ending line?
Today I took time to watch the sunset.

Ralp Fitcher, I find your words incredibly thought provoking and sad but true. I, too have been overwhelmed with the fate of our world of late. Burger King and Empty Lines for Empty Times say so much and I enjoyed them immensely.

Salvatore Buttaci, I truly enjoyed "These lines..." Great work.

Banana, love "Shoreline" and so many of your others throughout this challenge.

FAMILY LINES

Weave a tale
from generations past
to present.
We braid our lives
into the woof and warp;
then hand the shuttle
on to children,
who plait their patterns
in the lines of life.

"Lines in the Sand"

Stumbled upon a photograph
taken years ago
when love was new
between me and you
Of lines drawn in the sand.

We walked along the shore
strolling hand in hand
stealing kisses
and lovestruck glances
as waves lept at the sand.

We happened upon
a vacant spot
Earth's pencil on the ground
you picked it up
and drew our names
in a heart made out of sand.

The Map

The lines on the map
show where rivers divide states and nations
where arbitrary borders were drawn
on this parallel or that.
Lines on my face show where you are drawn
on this life of mine,
frown lines and laugh lines alike.
Even your lips form lines
that lock with mine.
When I look in the mirror
I see the contours of this relationship
and wonder what will happen
when the lines grow deeper
and my hair gets squiggly grey.
This nation, defined by arbitrary
definitions of nature and nurture,
recognizes the validity of yours
and seeks thereby to honor
our borders, join rivers,
hold hands,
make love.
This nation, to be defined by an age,
seeks your affirmation,
your co-celebration of shared history
hard times, hard lines drawn,
inflexibility molded by love
into peace treaties.
The lines on our map
show where we stand now, stood then,
and maybe, just maybe
will stand side by side
in the future.

"Tattered Pages"

I've read the words
you've written
over one hundred times
words of sweet devotion
whose meaning has changed
over time.

When first those words
were written
Oh, so long ago
my heart it soared
my body burned
with promise and passion
and love never ending
that I should be
your chosen one.

Now as time has dimmed
the lines
and tattered pages' ends
I find those words
of sweet devotion
are shards of pain instead.

No longer are you here with me
neither the love we shared
just faded lines
of misery
on tattered pages' ends.

Etchings of Time

Times of laughter
Times of tears
Left many little footprints
Over the years.

Times of searching
Times of finding
No chance that the clock
Would be rewinding.

Times of life
Times of death
Full of God’s peace
With her final breath

An ever present smile
Created a masterpiece
That only the etchings
Of time could release.

Witness

I wonder if some of us are
designed to see: the watchers,
the wonderers, to help the ones
whose eyes are clouded
with dust of life.

Why else would I be tugged
by invisible lead rope,
lines pulling me close
to see what no one else
would see?

Why else would I lose an hour
watching this bend of creek,
where troubled water meets calm?
See, hear, the champagne-fizz
pop along the surface?
You have to listen close.
First, all you hear are
rough-‘n’-tumble rapids;
all you see is foam.
But there, singing along,
you find the delicate fizz.
Pure sun sparks the surface,
all those glitters begging to be seen,
little sprites jumping above
swirling water. Do you see?

There is a town name Julianne up in a snowy nest
High up in the mountains were country keeps it’s charm
We sometimes make the drive their on cold December days
Walk quaint little country streets and marvel at the snow
Then we catch the smell of pie their oh such decadent delight

The people come from near and far to get a taste of heaven
Soft warm fruit in sweet glaze between a flaky crust
For some it tastes like apple, cherry or blueberry to
It beckons us to stand their like pied paper beckoned rats
So we stand out in the bitter cold that seemed so magical
Until we had to stand their while the hour came and went

20 minutes go by fast as fingers, toes turn numb
And jack frost takes his first bite of our uncovered ears
35 have come and gone when that car goes by so fast
It hits us like a tidal wave of mud filled winter slush
45 The door looms near and warmth seems dearer than the pie
At last we see with our own eyes the magic that we smelled

It has nearly been an hour when we stand to claim our prize
I draw the bills out from my pocket and reach out to put them down
And in that moment I began to ask myself just what this really cost
The hour in that long cold line will never be returned
Perhaps it’s best I just stop thinking and enjoy my piece of pie

Excellent poem, Robert.


Lines

Each
line
on my
face mocks me
distorts the image
I hold as truth, internally.

I haven't had a chance to read everyones poems tonight. But of those I did read, here are a few that really touched me.

Susan Schoefield-Entranced by your beautiful declaration of indepence.
Michele H - Made me Laugh and took me back to childhood.
Debra Elliot - Such graceful acceptance in your words.
Salvatore - The emotional impact of tear jerker in a few short lines.
Janet Rice Carnahan - Loved the philosophical nature of your poem and your tribute to. Now would somebody explain the mystery of the codes?
Richard-Merlin Atwater - Your mother sounds like quite a woman.
Walt - I love how you played off that McCartney line
Patricia A. Hawkenson = Deluge left me with a deluge of emotion.
Laura - I know that feeling about my own life
LKHarris-Kolp - Sometimes the hardest thing is to lover ourself first.

The Line for The Ladies’ Room

The line outside
the ladies’ room
snakes down the hall
halfway to the lobby.

Moving at a glacial pace
the women
make polite small talk
trying to gauge
the wait time.

Men saunter by
almost defiantly
traipsing into their
corresponding facility.

The men
they zip in
and they zip out
some don’t even
wash their hands,
it’s a study in rational efficiency.

The line for
the ladies’ room
moves with the
moribund speed
of a Soviet breadline.

Ten men processed
for every single woman
who gets a seat,

but don’t envy even us
our speed,
ladies.

Just pray they never invent
a
ladies’
urinal.

Lines

What lines converge on this particular point?
All of them
Exiting from various points of origin
Arriving at the same spot
Drawing lines along the way
Making patterns that can be misunderstood
Construed erroneously
Or taken beyond the initial intention
Lines come and go
Everywhere and nowhere it matters
What matters
After all is the result
Which I am not at all convinced it's true

I tell my beginning drawing students there is no such thing as line.
(though i love line and the week before told them to draw
every kind of line they could possibly make).
This week, there is no line
A line is just a concept.
There is no such thing as a physical line
just value next to value.

the birds i love again are back
aligning on the straight length of wire that is not a line,
as it was not last year,
the starlings, their wire, their pause and direction, just deeper blues
in a field of blues
in a field, deep field, of black, expanding

This is how painters see things.
the space between the nucleus and the path (not a line) of the electron
probably a color of some kind
probably very hard to get right

the direction of gaze
not a line with beginning or end
but a field in which one can suddenly lift in a startled
movement of living.

The flash of an eye
blue, clear sky
I smell sweet mint
on your breath.
Close but not
closer
blue and brown
connect
as our eyes meet
and kiss
but we do not.
My hand brushes
your little finger
you step back
across your line.
I let go
I look for a different blue.
Your hand brushes
my finger and
I cross the line
again.

Red Line



Bridges of my dreams –
The other side lost in mist
Perilous journeys.

I gave you my heart;
You used it and returned it...
Bruised, stained and shop-soiled.


Steep mountains to climb;
Gales of unrelenting force...
Throw me a life-line!

Line for the Spring

It blossoms
from a rock

So they built
a glass booth
around
the miracle
of cold water

Self serve,
it’s a quarter
a gallon

Sometimes
there’s a line
populated with
eager faces
craving spring

Lines

Simian crease, sugar-stirring
spoon, Bob's suspenders, electric

circuit loop. Cocaine, a cat's
tail, steel rails running on

wooden ties. The point
spread, kohl powder

penciled around bloodshot
eyes, getting from point A to

point B. Kenneth's untied
shoelaces, the 50-yard

line on a football field,
grocery lists, the end of

a marathon, walls, a picture
frame painted gold. Song and

dance, the pink satin ribbons in
Kate's hair. Postcards from a

childhood pen pal, a filmstrip, the
string attached to a tea bag, the tone arm of

a phonograph, The stem of a late summer
sunflower, veins returning impure blood back to

the heart, a fading face drawn in the after-
shower fog on a bathroom mirror.

Laylines.

There has to be love.

There has to be like.

I owe you returns for that ride on your bike.

Oh well why not?

It's too late to go home.

I don't like going to bed on my own.


What is yours may not be mine
but we all have a place where we draw the line.

Waiting in the Wings

They gave me just a walk on part
I have no lines to learn
While waiting for my showbiz break
Some money I must earn
Behind the counter of the shop
The only lines I’ll say
“How may I be of help to you?”
Throughout the busy day

Almost

You think, bloody amazing, we’ve made it
and step onto English soil
groggy and stiff limbed from the flight.

But then there’s customs,
a maze of barriers, a human train
winding in and out, moving forward an inch,
my son lies on the floor and howls
if the twins come near him
my patience is frayed to the last thread.

But then, a guardian angel,
an official in a turban, directs us to the fast lane
‘families with children this way’
we almost run, embarrassed, leaving the rest behind

Vague Minds

What were we thinking when
they laid down the rules,
That we were not part of humanity to obey?
For years, decades and eons our minds have
been unclear, distant and ambiguous.
“Clarity of mind, when the mind is unclear, the doctrine becomes warped.”

LOL. I teach Geometry for a living. I couldn't write a poem involving lines that didn't take it literally. And I'm surprised the prompt didn't mention the simple fact that lines are shapes as well as all of the other lines that he listed. And in case you didn't know, points, lines and planes are considered undefined terms in Geometry. The form is another 5/4 poem.

UNDEFINED TERM

A straight path
through two points, infinite
length but no thickness
or width. You are
the other

point through which life line
travels. We travel to
infinity
together.
Although, we are more like

a ray which has one
endpoint, and one
other point
to define it. It travels
forever in the same

direction. No
looking back
we extend forever
toward infinity.
I do not want

us to be
a segment, two endpoints
designated by
infinite points
between them.

"Undefined Term" is brilliant. I too teach math. I have to confess that I never considered that direction with this prompt.

Ralph

So I decided to try to keep current WHILE I caught up.

Because You're Mine, I Walk the Line


Not mine alone, but all mine,
laying lines in pleasant places,
bounding ways and days
with guardian hedges




Bad Year

The line won't hold.
Protection fails.
The leader is down
again and again.
They're marching backward
battle after battle.
Man in the street mics
show the public discouraged,
and even on the field
maorale is low.
All know the Skins are doomed.




Lines

Phoenicians crossed the prime meridian.
Viking sailed over the international
date line, and counted consecutive days
with no more notion of interruption
than a bird flying from Dakota to
Canada has of sovereign boundaries.
Still we draw our lines on heavy paper
as if they could control tigers and trees.


Sally--family lines--well done
Tim--I liked you Pie piece.

hmmmm...sure wish you could correct typos. There should be several Vikings above not just one.

Day four is posted.

Such wonderful words written again for day 14!
Thanks Tim and Karen!

ALL TOGETHER NOW
(Time line)

Score and fifteen etched the faces,
some coming from most distant places,
just to bring the circle closed.

Youthful memories to the fore
for men and women who before
were classmates on the brink of aging.

Over time we've gotten older,
mellow now, where once were bolder,
with wisdom lacing our decisions.

Parents now, some grandkids too,
and pride in everything they do,
at this stage of life we share.

And share we did, through the ages,
faces posed on all the pages,
come to life to touch our histories.

Recognition brings a smile,
sadly thinking all the while,
"What the heck is that guy's name?"

Grouped together with familiarity,
cliques of old held high hilarity,
now accepting, all were welcomed.

And me, a bookish nebish then,
stood abreast with these old friends,
who remembered me with some affection.

Why do situations pose,
a change of manner, do you suppose
I could have been a different man?

For back in High School where life bloomed,
blossoms of beauty in every room,
the directions chosen were our own.

Some, the choices were not theirs,
and death had sadly nested there
to take old comrades from this earth.

Surely in spirit they raised a glass,
to celebrate this reunited mass,
the storied Class of Seventy-Four.

I regret to say, through faults of mine,
I met old classmates for the first time,
thirty-five years past the bar.

The smiles and hugs will surely linger,
and I can count on just one finger
the seconds I'll hesitate when forty calls.

Long live Lackawanna High School Class of 1974!

It’s the lines that define


Bartholomew Foggerty, the brilliant weasel
Had set a new canvas upon the easel
The fair-haired girl lay on the sofa
And all was going well so far
After her formal portrait was done
She thought that she’d have some fun
She realized that as he was much older
Than she he was also much bolder
She had forgiven the weasel for being rude
And had returned to pose in the nude
Bart had set up a heater to keep her warm
And stood back and marvelled at her form
Then at a gallop he started to paint
In such a frenzy she thought he might faint
Assorted brushes danced through the air
As he depicted the lass young and fair
Splashes of colour splattered his fur
As he did his best to depict her
In line with the vision he had in his mind
One of a slightly different kind
To that which his model expected
But it wasn’t til’ later that she detected
That his style was not quite Rubenesque
But more like Dalí after hitting the flask
As he stepped down and gave a sigh
He had a twinkle in his eye
She was quite certain that all would be fine
And so stood up to pour some wine
Imagine her face and her shortness of breath
When she saw that she had a clock for a breast
Her torso seemed to have been through a mangle
And her head for some reason was a triangle
She let fly a scream fainted quite dead
Tipping the wine over Bart’s head
He quickly revived her and as she came to
She punched the weasel in the kazoo
He reeled and rocked and rolled over the floor
As the girl grabbed her clothes and made for the door
And dressed in the hall all of a flurry
But the error she made to leave in a hurry
Was leaving Bart with the work of art
Which he later titled “The Surrey Tart”
He sold it for over five hundred guineas
Then got drunk on cider and Guinness
The girl’s family had been outraged
Not least by how herself she displayed
And were now thankful at least in part
That their daughter bore no likeness to the art
That hung in a window in Regent Street
In a gallery that was hardly discreet
Which drove the girl to distraction
Knowing people would see the abstraction
But old Bart was happy with his deed
He’d been paid in cash of which he had need
The painting was the start of a new phase
The abstract weasel had come of age.


Iain

Thanks, Marie Elena and Hannah.
This was a great prompt. I've really enjoyed the diversity posted here. The creative minds in this group are awesome.

LINES

These few lines
masquerade as such a small thing
yet they help me keep my place
amongst the loyal poets here
spilling their souls
day to day.

Thrill of Cheers through Years

Voices from the house flow easily to me
sitting on the porch, swinging back and forth
first hers, and hers, and his, and sometimes theirs
the ballgame’s past the half and they’re all high

Sitting on the porch, swinging back and forth
my hand pushes pen to tell of times back when
the ballgame’s past the half and they’re all high
sound links to Saturdays, Dad and his two girls

My hand pushes pen to tell of times back when
soccer fields, our folding chairs, us following the line
sounds link to Saturdays, Dad and his two girls
each marking butcher paper, players will demolish

Soccer fields, our folding chairs, us following the line
girls rise, dripping water, jump the wakes, later
each marking butcher paper, players demolish
now two girls carry folding chairs, guide ski boats

Girls and boys rise, dripping water, jump to signals,
first hers, then hers, and his, and sometimes mine
two women unfold chairs and drive the boats
voices from their houses flow easily to me

Dusk

A line of fir,
cedar and pine
fringes the lake shore,
darkens
under a crimson-gold sky.
Jewel tones
dance on the water,
fracture into ripples.
The mountains loom.

the lines on her face
seem deeper today,
like she's drawing
attention to how long
it has been since
your last visit.
her hands sit
on the table, not moving,
and you know the
arthritis is bad today.
the notebook
you remember always
being open is closed,
sitting in the middle
of the table.
"all of the beautiful
thoughts I have in
my head," she says,
"my hands won't let
me turn them into
lines of poetry
anymore."

The Vineyard at Harvest Time

Standing at the crest of a hill,
you could see rows of vines
dancing across the land,
marching in slightly curving lines
grapes dipping and nodding
to each other as if listening
to a slow waltz
instead of a Sousa tune.

a bop is a poem of complaint invented by Afaa Michael Weaver that goes somewhere else by the end and uses a refrain from a song and a 6-line stanza, an 8-line stanza and a 6-line stanza.

I can't indent the refrains or use italics for the spoken and foreign phrases here, so you'll just have to imagine it with the proper formatting.

Ain’t Nobody’s Business
a bop

Always the surprise when I step
on the dance floor, salsa playing,
side eyes thrown my way, tightened
hold on their men, the "why that white girl
dance so good?", my dance partner’s slow
nod, his "come on, girl, show me what you got."

Ain’t nobody’s business if I do.

They don’t see Venezuela, the clave
keeping time behind my Swedish face,
the mix not seen in skin but groove:
tight, swift steps, hips rocked side to side,
the shimmy and roll of shoulders, damp
hair fanned out on spins, our clasped hands
high, his other hand palming the small
of my back to lead me around the slot.

Ain’t nobody’s business if I do.

There’s a kind of power in the invisible
when it doesn’t matter if the wrapper
fits the sweet, when the ice cream’s swirls
melt into one light caramel treat, azúcar mamá,
the honeyed sizzle beyond all language,
when the uh uh—uh uh uh is enough.

Ain’t nobody’s business if I do.

TWO OF US
(Lines of Communication)

Diametrically opposed
the two of us
caught between hello and goodbye
the two of us
we offer no quarter and none is taken
the two of us
lost in the vacancy of our hearts
the two of us
where words become the weapons of choice
the two of us
refuse to relinquish ground
the two of us
facing the inevitability of distance
the two of us
never talk, we expound loudly
the two of us
lost in the search for self
the two of us. Alone.

14 LINES

God gives great gifts to everyone
Installs them inside of the cells
Some are wrapped up in adversity
Some are found buried in shells

Many don’t realize potential
They think it’s out there somewhere
Instead of a part of their package
Just waiting for them to share

The lines that I write you this morning
Was a gift that I opened with glee
One facet makes people all happy
But sometimes they say “SHUT UP” to me

"Chasing Thoughts in Cars"
Peering in and around I find nothing of interest
To only my surprise my reflection spots me,
I look away in fear of embarrassment
In the car, with my girl and another moment.
The white strip runs along the car never ending
Swerving back and forth, reminds me of the days,
The good times, not like these now a comparison undefined
These silent conversations that seem to never end.
She looks at me, no smile to be had, just quiet thinking
I wish for something better, my hands rubbing together for warmth,
That white line is still there, it's always there
Why does it remind me so of the good days, the simple days.
Sunday morning drives should not be like this and I know that
My heart racing to keep up with my mind, but there are no words,
If this is love than I give up, I'd rather be that line out there
So constant and even, no more silence for my life is better than this.

The Fine Line

We can’t cross the line
This non-couple agrees
We can’t go to the other side
The side where temptations lay

We can’t be tempted for want of more
And chance loosing it all for good
We need to be careful and play only right
To keep this friendship from igniting
Into something unstoppable
A fire that can’t be extinguished
A fire destructive enough to consume all

When I look into your eyes you know I want more
When I hold you, I love how you feel
If only I never had to let go
When our lips meet so tender I know
We are treading so close to that line
I know my toes are over the edge
You would only ever need to just
Breath a sigh or hint a thought
And we would cross over
So over the line we choose not to cross
Yet our love for us keeps us in place

I
wish
I had the
skills of a
cartographer.
And I could
chart the
nerves
running
like hidden
rivers under the
ridges lines
of my
skin.

Decades of lines
By: Meena Rose

The first decade…

A delicate line across the side of her head;
Gift of the forceps birth.


The second decade…

A father who crossed the line;
Gift of her broken home.

A grandmother who tossed her a safety line;
Gift of true love.


The third decade…

An incision line going across her belly;
Gift of her motherhood.

Erasing the lines around her, fully sharing with her child;
Gift of forgiveness.

Her child’s first timeout, a lesson not to cross the line;
Gift of parenthood.


The fourth decade…

A small incision line in her left breast;
Gift of her daily stress.

A line of worry across her head as she waits for her son to come home;
Gift of burgeoning adulthood.

A line dissolved, she is now connected with God;
Gift of acceptance.

Part of the goodbye line, time for her son to leave home;
Gift of acknowledgement.


With more decades of life ahead of her,
She is certain they too will be highlighted
By the lines that define her.

A Life Less Ordinary

Live a life less ordinary with me
Maybe I’m not your average girl
Maybe I’m not quite normal
I might not fit neatly in a box
Or be defined by common labels
Maybe I play outside the lines
I never liked to color neatly
I might not be who you want me to be
I never enjoyed the compromise
I might take too many chances
And stand at the edge of the cliff
I can only be myself
Come life a life less ordinary
With me

Hiding in Vermillion

She envies those who can draw.
She wants to mimic
this talent and produce
masterpieces that depict
people in repose, flowers adorning
tables, but she can barely
make a straight line. So she slaps
paint on canvas, creating
a world of orange and pink swirls, showing
her heart in red and black slashes, pretending
she’s following the strokes of Pollock.

Lines of Power

A web of lines stretches all the way
From here to eternity. It’s the mighty
And the powerful that have the say -
They dig and chop wherever they please
Take away the shade, destroy our trees.
Ruin a beautiful suburban drive
Ugliness blooms so power may thrive

One summer in Ohio, a tree struck back
A branch fell on a power line, the whole
East coast went black.

All my other writing has been put on hold while I write a new poem every day.
PARALLEL LINES

Parallel lines meet at the horizon,
but the lines we create go on forever.

On a hike with my ten year old son
I cast a line forth when I saw a bobcat
on the snow-covered path
standing majestic, graceful,
poised for flight at slightest move.
Tufted ears and tawny fur
ruffled lightly in the breeze,
like waves of undulating water.

An old man, his edges all worn and rounded,
remembers friends long gone,
but their lines endure
and bring him comfort and consolation.

The lines cast forth by Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton,
even by me, stretch infinitely into the future,
lifelines for others to grasp and hold.

Like words spoken that can never be unsaid,
they cannot disappear.

(Shakespeare wrote in Sonnet 18:

Death shall not brag thou wanderst in his shade
While in eternal lines to time thou growest.
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.)


A reply from the subject

My summer’s day was ended long ago;
my shade remains still locked within your lines.
My grave lies where no one will ever know
or care about, but yours became a shrine
for tourists hot upon the culture trail
of England that you so immortalized.
Oh you who thought your sonnets could not fail
to live beyond your time, were you surprised
that I alone did not bend to your will? I am
the one forgotten here, the mystery -
I tell you that I do not give a damn
for words that wipe me out of history.
Canst tell me, those who look across the span
of time, am I a woman or a man?

Jenny Doughty

Hangings’

There is a man,
with a diploma hanging upon his wall
It makes him feel superior
to one and all

True he has some right
to show it in the morning light
But, to by day
he needs to find a humbler way

There is another man
with medals hanging upon his chest
you understand
he too, feels superior to the rest

True he fought in some war
long forgotten, remembered no more
But, he too must put it all aside
while learning what to feel inside

There is yet another man
With bills hanging upon his wall
He you understand
show’s compassion for one and all. . .

©Ralph J. Fitcher, November 15, 2009, hanging poem.

Hi Robert--glad you got some family time. Breakfast is the best!



Whine Line

The phone lines
Are full of
Complaints
Too much
Too little
Broken promises
Mostly bored
People
Talking at me
To pass the
Time
Would you
Like some
Cheese
With that
Whine?

Lines In Black & Red

Lines in black and red,
lines of nacre buttons moving
and the world was in them.
Tlingit Elders lined in dress across
hall of stone and straight timber
to their children's children's children.
Ravens are the thinkers, he says,
while Eagle Clan knows power,
and in line from the Ancients
coupled in balance of both
lines shape-shifting in dance.
Knowledge of land, spirit,
and All Our Relations
let's them hand it down the lines,
now a soaring eagle,
now the awkward head-bobbing
of a shoreline bird;
my hands felt the lines of beading
in the Medicine pouch I wear,
gift from a dying old grey wolf.
Grandmother grey and frail
straightened to the line,
cupped hands for the stars
to rain upon my head a blessing,
those hands in black and red
that felt like papered leaves
veined with the journey itself.
Lines almost broken,
languages left unspoken and yet,
still they come to give and dance
the lines in black and red.

.
They line up by gender
girls on the left
boys on the right,
even in this day and age.
.

Penny Henderson,
Thanks for the comment. I liked your Lines. Oh, and by the way, I read it as Vikings and didn't notice until you said something. =)

I was racking my brain over this prompt for the last two days, and then this evening I saw this:

Lines in the Sky

Driving west this evening, sunset imminent,
I see several vapor trails cutting across the clouds.
I’m used to the paths of jets running parallel
to the horizon, but these are perpendicular
to the earth, drawing ragged lines from sky
to ground, or ground to sky. Maybe I’ve seen
too many disaster films, because to me
they resemble the trails of huge meteors
that hit the ground, or suggest a horrible plane crash,
or maybe missiles launched from secret silos.
But nothing cataclysmic looms ahead of me,
just the road and a brilliant evening sky,
clouds lit bright red against deep blue background,
and the strange lines become part of the canvas.
I never solve their mystery, but the world
is still intact, and we can all live to watch
another breathtaking November sunset.

Read Between the Lines

Officially single, I miss trust.
I enjoyed the smooth tether
assumptions tied to our
monogamous relationship.

Naming Your Self, Husband
taking my Self as your Wife
puffed comfort into the
familiar patterns we wove.

New fashions get designed
out of air, ideas, abstractions
Vogue marches on creating
classics, traditions, essentials.

Living together has become
youth’s model for success:
no divorce, sans child support.
no silly piece of paper defining

who loves whom or what for.
knocking hearts for a while
then moving on without hard
feelings, sans softness as well.

Matrimony may be an
antiquated metaphor.
But damn, I liked awe.

SARAH NELL OF THE PHOTOGRAPHS

Sarah Nell of the photographs
is all lines and no curves. This is her
before _us_ in a pile of black-and-whites
and in-color in a box on the shelf in the pantry.

Here she is: with her twin sisters
who are younger, in front of the twins'
father's Chevrolet, but she looks
like their daughter because she is shorter
and has no hips.

Here she is: leaning
against the side of her house
in River Falls, AL., looking
like one of us —her
daughters. We can see
now the resemblance
that everyone sees when they see
us in the street and ask if we are kin
to Sarah Nell.

Here she is: on the floor
in front of the Christmas tree
in her first apartment in the Capitol city
in Connecticut in her yellow turtleneck
and green plaid skirt. Her legs tucked beneath her.
The boots we can't see in the photograph
she tells us are knee high and leather.
She says, "I used to have style
back then and no stomach."

Lines in the sand

One day we drew a line across the sand
And wrote our names behind
Then watched the waves.
The tide came in, encroached upon the land
We were erased.

One day I drew a line about my heart
And set aside a space
Defined my plan
That I and no one else should hold this place
Should hold my hand.

They tell me lines cannot define our lives
Nor circles hold our souls
Nor shapes our eyes
But I have learned that children draw their own
Lines in the sand.

Day 14

The people wait in cars
They wait in lines
All in the hopes
of preventing the swine

The W.H.O and the C.D.C
Have created a world wide emergency
You must get vaccinated or you will positively die
I might pass away standing in this long line

Hunger weakens my immune system by the second
While across the street burgers and fries beckon
Healthy I know it is not
But I might just die
Waiting in line for my flu shot

GRAN CAVALLO

When I was a little girl, I learned
to draw horses like ones in the barn
down the hill. I loved to add wings and horns,
so my horses could fly and do magic.
Only once did I go down to the fields,
hop the wooden fences, and dare to ride
the horses that weren’t mine, bare-back, no reins,
wishing together we could gallop away.

In 1492, da Vinci cast
a clay model of the Gran Cavallo,
got hold of seventy tons of dark bronze
and got ready to make the largest bronze
sculpture the bright-blue world had ever seen.
But when war came, his patron took the bronze
back and made it into cannons to fire
on the French. When the invaders conquered,
they found da Vinci’s clay horse and used it
for target practice until it shattered.

Now I lay the Italian’s horse-sketchings
beside my memory of horses—not
clay, not bronze, but enfleshed by the living
God—and the drawings I made in pencil,
before I had ever heard of da Vinci
or dreamed a man could spend seventeen years
trying to find a way to balance the weight
of bronze so his sculpture would stand, not collapse.

The idea of a horse came down to him
from heaven. Centuries later, it came
down to me. To mine, I added bright wings.

Jane Beal
sanctuarypoet;net

It must be magic line
(for Jonathan)

It must be
magic line
how else do
you explain it?
he stands
where they stand,
casts where
they cast using
the same bait
and yet he catches
fish after fish:
black crappie,
white crappie,
largemouth,
blue gill,
yellow belly,
bream and perch
while they
stand watching
and wanting

Peter is a good solid name
After all it means rock
My grandpa’s name was Peter
He came from good Scottish stock

His father’s name was Peter too
They came from Scotland to America
Young Peter was the only surviving son
They joined his mother Jean’s single brother
Who had blazed the trail for them

Was not long before young Peter
Found his match with Lydia
In Minnesota where this young lass
Could hay and ride and cook and sass
Just like her modern counterparts

They made up for Peter’s family lack
Of siblings, the number of offspring
Counting up to twelve thriving in the
Minnesota sun. In those days, Peter drove
The Stagecoach on its weekly run down there
In Elmo county.

Eldest of the dozen was a Peter too.
He was my grandpapa. As time progressed
He drove that stagecoach too. We have the
Pictures of each driver in their time,
Lined up in front of the same mercantile
Passengers peeking out the windows, one’s on top.
Peter sits reins in hand behind the team of four.

One of Peter’s younger sons, Joe,
Was an adventurous one, and seems the time came
When he too wanted to spy out a new land
Across the border, Canada drew his interest
We are not sure why just now, but spy it out
He did, and soon he had the whole clan headed north
To stake their claims by Lake Lenore,
Saskatchewan.

My grandpa Peter and his Norwegian teacher wife Gyda
Already had the first four of their nine
Children by the time, they joined his younger
Siblings in the north. His father Peter and Lydia
Were not left behind either, they filed for land,
Maintained their presence with the rest.
This Salmond clan made their mark with ax and saw,
Horses hauling logs, building homes
And to this day the school bears their name.

My grandpa Peter named his eldest son Peter too
But uncle Peter had only a daughter. She named
Her only son, Peter though not Salmond for she married.
A younger brother of the other named his son Peter
And though not direct in line it serves the purpose.
It’s not that important as the years go by,
But there will be some continuity lacking
If some young lass married to a Salmond
Will not take a little sass and name her son Peter.
It would be nice for their generation to have a rock.
A reminder of their good stock.

Converstate

We talk
in bed
at all hours

We whisper
loving thoughts
throughout the day

We shout
in anger
without malice

We mumble
sleepy instructions
in our sleep

On your mark

toes touch the line

demarcation,
the uncertain, the possible.

You hear the gun,
adrenaline fuels your flight,

fear of failure the negative constraint

in the half-life between
that first step and the finish line.

The negative prevails

until

you take the positive act:

You hit the ground, running.

Carol A. Stephen
November 14th, 2009

Days behind and trying to catch up, so... here is my entry about "lines", so I can move on to yesterday (which is tomorrow) and then, maybe, get caught up to today. (phew!)


Lineage


Each carries inside
offerings of forefathers,
chromosomal components
connecting progenitor to progeny;
legacies of a genesis unremembered,
particles from a distant past,
solitary tools to be used
to blaze a trail
into untried
tomorrow

Day 14 – Lines

I stand in this place
arms out
reaching
radiating the energy
of these old lines

Blue stone surrounds me
and echoes back my
heartbeat

I stand in this place
and feel the feet of
ancients
who walked these lines
looking for power

Blue stone surrounds me
and whispers to me

I stand in this place
and watch the sun rise
Through the hanging stone

Blue stone surrounds me
and bears witness to the fallen

I am here
I am centre
I am all things

Lines

It was there on
the page given to
task lines upon lines
what about them to ask
There are lines in sweet
faces and lines born of frowns
There are lines drawing ups
and lines just as well
drawing downs
There are lines that aren't real
and are drawn in stone and in sands
There are lines of white substances
that take some to faraway dangerous lands
There are lines upon lines of words
that are wrought
and are written
There are lines that are biting
and lines sweetly smitten
There are lines that are proper and
nicely parallel
There are lines that intersect
and those courteously do quite well
There are lines that are shouted
whispered and sung
There are lines that
drift and float in the air hung
There are lines
of full voices melodious
There are rough lines spat
in commissions felonious
The task of all lines
would have each taker
on que
for multiple life-times
of which I cannot
and shall not do

With a bow to Mr. Murphy and his law the first submission to go through on the first try slipped away with a spelling error....here after (at last count) 14 attempts is corrected queue (instead a que!)


Lines

It was there on
the page given to
task lines upon lines
what about them to ask
There are lines in sweet
faces and lines born of frowns
There are lines drawing ups
and lines just as well
drawing downs
There are lines that aren't real
and are drawn in stone and in sands
There are lines of white substances
that take some to faraway dangerous lands
There are lines upon lines of words
that are wrought
and are written
There are lines that are biting
and lines sweetly smitten
There are lines that are proper and
nicely parallel
There are lines that intersect
and those courteously do quite well
There are lines that are shouted
whispered and sung
There are lines that
drift and float in the air hung
There are lines
of full voices melodious
There are rough lines spat
in commissions felonious
The task of all lines
would have each taker
on queue
for multiple life-times
of which I cannot
and shall not do

On the lines for the
traffic lights, starlings huddle thick,
while a gulf front blows.

On a gulf beach we kissed once
Before the storm, before the sand.

(tanka)

Some lines just shouldn't be crossed,
and he crossed it. He fell in love.
With me. That wasn't part of the
plan. That wasn't supposed to
happen. Now we stand face to face
in confrontation, acting out a scene
from a bad romance movie. It seems
I must choose my candidates
more carefully in the future.
But for now, punishment
is in store for this one. Maybe
in the future he'll stay
on the right side of the line.

Line Conversation

Sometimes it seems like every other thing my brother says
is a line from a movie, book, video game, comic book or radio show
Some people would call this a lack of originality
Depending on others for his words
But it takes a lot of creativity to combine Portal’s deceptive cake
With Steven Fry’s theories of the English language
And Logan Whitehurst’s song about Zombies and
Make it applicable to your sister’s study notes
On Cirrhosis of the liver.

It was a line that
Should have never
Been crossed

But he did

And now he wishes
He could take it
All back

But he can’t

He wants to fix
What happened
Change what’s inside

But he won’t

Because that would
Mean he really
Understands his wrong

And he never will.

Directions


red line interstates
blue line highways
maps fall open
edges fray

we follow lines
careful watchful
yielding merging
still lost

guidelines blurred
pieces missing
no one admits
we missed the turn

Blood Line

Some say good genes
is one way to explain
your beauty. Maybe
forefather Eli would know
how to decode your ferocious hold
on all you are worth,
how you claw a marauding skirt
nearing your protected turf.
Certainly Grandma could show
if those green eyes unfolding
from the coils of gold
reflected in them
were inherited from her living trust
with no legal dissolution.
There is no way to say
what is mine
of your genetic deposits,
which ore from which mine,
like mixing two fine wines,
both exquisite,
both to savor.

The lines were twisted
Years of word fractures
Caught in red crossfire
Reaching for a finish line
Praying for a hug, not a slap.
The line defined by the sand
Taunting me to run the tide
Foolishly I ran into its trap
A tortured body entwined tight
Pinned under a tangled web of
Twisted lines of now dead lies
I waited for a tow line with hopes
To untangle my years of fears.

Intersection

Alone
she is slowly
dissected by degrees
daunted by the lines she has drawn in the sand and
haunted by the ones
she refuses to cross
out.

Blood Line

There is line
That runs through time
That links us all
to an unknown origin.

The link is visceral
And as real as life.
We are connected
Through flesh and blood.

From primordial swamp,
Or by God’s grace,
Our common source
Makes us closer than family.

Falling In and Out of Line

Henny Penny is always in charge
Her sister Prudence, the Buff Orp was next,
But somewhere along the line, barged
Brunhilda the Auracauna, seemingly vexed!

She’s with dog-like ways,
Doesn’t bark, though one should watch out,
She’s got a mean peck, and it’s not play
Her own form of racket, there be no doubt.

Next is Boo-Boo Chicken,
Breed just like Bruny, (for short),
A cast-away from a flock that gave her a lickin’
Now gives humans and Daisy, similar to the sort—

Boo-Boo keeps, Daisy, the last on the rung,
All black mix-minus-turkey-lineage,
And younger chick on the run,
Now, news to-date they’re akin, to dinosaur heritage:

Sixty-eight million years ago, their direct line,
Tissue and cells elastic, within rock and sand
The paleontologist’s discovery and find,
A dinochicken hatched, may just get its comeuppance!

:Your letters say very little, or too much:

Trace your finger through these words
like lines in the sand. Shape this bend of truth—
curve the straight edge to your jaded twist. This is the shade
you have woven. Watch it slither forth as you send the lie
in fragments, forgetting the melody of that first
ring of truth, the notes you will remember in turn.
Band these letters together and see the desecrated sonata
take form in each distorted, wayward verse.

Distance Between

You are about a mile - two right turns
and two left turns -
away from me.

It wouldn’t be that hard to drive
or bike, or even walk, to you.
I can see the line as if on a map:
right on the highway turned into street,
up around the capital.
From there, left over the land
between the bay where the beggars
fish for food,
and the broad blue where the rich boat.
Right onto to the street covered in trees along the lake,
then the last left turn would be onto your drive.

But I have avoided you now for almost 5 years
and the path of habit is easier
than simple directions,

which is maybe what made it possible
for you to molest me
even after I said no.

Let's All Make a Line

Let's all make a line,
Hold on to the rope
We'll walk to the park
and roll down the slope.

Let's all make a line,
It's gym time at school,
Hands stay at your sides
No pushing, no pull.

Let's all make a line,
Instruments in hand,
We'll take to the field
In front of the stands.

Let's all make a line,
And dance our hearts out
Two steps and sashays
Make me wanna shout.

Let's all make a line
At drive thrus and banks
Single filed, partnered
We rise through the ranks.

Let's all make a line,
When will it end? When
We get to the front
We start over again.

Time Lines

Time is etched in fine lines,
smiles leave them near eyes,
frowns leave them near mouths,
lines named after birds, and puppets,
Some are straight, some curved,
deep or shallow, not always
candidates for erasure,
The pretty ones,
have the toughest time
throwing in the towel,
They do their make-up
under 10x magnification,
thicker foundation, extra eye-shadow,
more lip gloss, plucking,
exfoliating, moisturizing,
like more means younger,
Every wrinkle looks like
the Grand Canyon,
Every zit Mount Everest,
Hair grows on upper lips like grass,
The crows have moved in
to roost indefinitely,
I need a mower
and a shotgun.

Lines Here and There

Lines cover a large scene
When one takes time to write
The lines on a paper sheet
To guide our pencils, Right?
Some are curvy some are squiggly
Some are long and flat
Some point upwards some downward
Some go round, to come back

But then there are so many kinds
Too many for to name
Like the line upon the battlefield
The foot ball, hockey games
Each one has a battle ground
To get across some line
Again one thinks of the fisherman
Who needs a fishing line?

Then there is the health scene
That have so own short tale
Life line for the ones at home
For when not feeling well
I also think of the trappers
Who run their own trap lines?
I am sure there are many others
Try to name some, take your time.

A Love Poem

I did not know what I was doing.
Youth seems never well spent.
I did what I thought was right.
I lived free when life had no rent.

Then we built a castle to defend.
The street beneath our feet was cold.
We traded familiar places and then
We found that silver was still gold.

What could be me? What could be you?
Did we fuss to flatter, tease to fool?
Is love a turbulent sea with no open harbor?
Woman looks away, man looks right at her.

Here is a key that fits in no ones’ door.
Difference is the same the same is no more.
Now I am no longer so very young.
Still love calls me to sing one more song.

An Anti Love Poem

I picked up my wood guitar, played a note or two.
There was but one song sang from my strings to you.
Even though I wanted everyone to get up and dance
It just played haunting tunes all of broken romance.

Haunting tunes, broken romance, and a cut there just
Beneath the skin within the tilting of your lingering glance.
It is sure there is a center that sustains all things.
Today I see your look and leave it all for a trance.

Lines

I’m never stuck in a line
never have to tap my foot
in impatience or stew in anger

I’m never bored while I wait
in a line at the Krogers
or at Doctor Korte’s office

I always have choices,
a small book tucked
inside my purse awaits

just such a moment
and since these times
in lines lend themselves

to thinking and figuring out
I always have my tiny
orange “Thoughts” book

where I can write down
a good idea, a word I hear
or the lines in my next poem.

A Line for Everything Under Heaven

A line to connect and
A line to separate.

A line to encompass and
A line to extricate.

A line that draws in prey and
A line that talks to the hand.

A line to cross and
A line to draw in the sand.

The key is knowing
What kind of line
Belongs where,
And when,
And why.

Green stalks of tasseled corn
March row after row
Across the verdant field
Awaiting farmers touch
To relieve them of their bounty
So their destiny of banishing hunger
And nourishing man and beast
Will be fulfilled as it has been
Since first harvested by Aztecs.

This morning, I woke up
with the last two lines
of the perfect poem
in my head. Well, it was at least
a good poem. And this time
I didn’t forget those lines.
I made it to my office to write
them down. Then I got nervous.
They were so good, so perfect
I thought those lines must
be somebody else’s poem
I must have read. I looked
but couldn’t find it.
Now I am trying
to remember those lines
They were about the clouds
or the sky or the stars. Like
that poem about gardening
that starts, “My mother said
to garden, and I do.”
See a great opening line.
Poem lost.
Or, “At water’s edge the pipers run.”
Poem lost.
Here’s to the best lines ever written—
Here’s to the lost poems we dream.

Latimeria (line)

Coelocanth took the express train,
A straight shot to this century,
While wearing heavy armour.

No mean feat, hanging by a fin
While the rest of your family
Gets flung off at every curve.

PHONE LINES: CALLING 1858

I pass a lady with a phone in her ear, talking
so earnestly she can’t attend to her feet.
She could be in touch with Honolulu, Paris –
she speaks so low into her plastic palm,
she might be conversing in almost any tongue,
so softly, you’d think a distant voice
was just a kiss away from her lips. She almost
trips on a crack in sidewalk.

Back in your day, Elihu, news took weeks
to steam across the Atlantic. Now
we have realtime speech half a world
away. But how about time-warp? Could
that be? Imagine what I’d tell you,
if I touch-toned the number
for 1858. Would the lines reach back
that far? Would I catch you home?

Don't Cross That Line

The brothers shared a room
and the brothers were having a fight.
One brother drew a line
right down the center.
"That's your side and this is mine",
he declared, "don't cross it".
For days this continued
with no end in sight.
Their parents were wondering
when there'd be an end to this fight.
Dad said, "Just let them be",
Mom said, "I want to help them see",
Dad said, "No, they'll work it out"
Mom relented and stayed away.
Soon, the brothers got tired
of not having it all.
One brother was not allowed
to make a call
since the phone was not on his side.
The other brother was not allowed
to get his clothes
since the closet was across the line.
They called a truce
and erased the line
and the fight that they had
faded into memory.

Crossed Lines

What have you done? Right, write out two hundred times
I mustn't do this or I mustn't do that
I've told you a hundred times about the importance of
No, several thousand times, Miss, perhaps more
paying attention to the teacher, me
Paying attention to the teacher, you, you, you
What is the matter with you, trouble at home
What is the matter with you, trouble at home?
Of course it's trouble at home.
Stop mumbling
Miss
Stop looking at me like that
Miss
Sit up straight
Miss
Cat got your tongue?
Yes Miss, Yes Miss, Yes Miss, Yes.

My Lines

As a mother of one I did everything.
That’s how I wanted it to be.
I didn’t want to miss one second.
I wanted to do everything and so I did.
I never felt overwhelmed or overworked.

My second child came
My expectations remained the same.
I wanted to be a mom that did everything.
I didn’t want to miss one second.
I wanted to be a mom full of love and patience.
I wanted to do it all.
I wanted to handle it all.
I wanted to be the rock that kept everything together.

As a mother of two I discovered there were lines.
I thought my tolerance level was higher
And that my breaking point was farther away.
I learned where my lines were –
When to let things go,
When to share responsibilities.
I learned how to be a mom
Is learning to find balance
In my life
And on my lines.

Queue

Engulfed in heat, they stand or squat
holding crying babies, softly talking,
occasionally shifting, sometimes forward,
in small, hardly noticed increments
while a handful of saviors, medical
personnel really, listen to histories that are
etched into the earth they are standing
upon, gently touching bodies of young
and old, skillfully assessing whom they
can help, whom they can offer only a bit
of comfort as the day moves slowly forward,
almost as slowly as those waiting for
whatever salvation might come at the end
of the line

Unsent Letter to a Line I Crossed Long Ago

You, boundary, came from nowhere.

I was his friend. There was talk,
charity, split sandwiches, chuckles
and disagreements that painted glowy fork lines.

We were who we were to the other.
We used the friendly term
in introductions or svelte stories.

We didn’t look at each other as if characters
in a movie we’ve seen hundreds of times
suddenly spoke a foreign language,
and words appeared in flashing thoughts
like sub-titles on a tv screen.

When his lips moved I did not wonder
if he was on to my words,
words that had forgotten
who they were reeling with.

And I certainly didn’t
think about his hands
and the churches in them.

But you had to move in our
neighborhood.You had to buy me out.

Cutting Line

There’s nothing like it, he said
Finding the pins, some have been
There since the country was founded
Locating the monuments also
Then, clearing away the woods
Cutting line

It’s important, then?
She was clearly impressed
It’s land, it’s always about land
He cannot emphasize more strongly
Why it’s important,
You know how people feel
About land and property lines

She had to admit, she did
More than once she'd witnessed
Lawsuits or neighbours coming to blows
Over perceived slights when it came
To lot lines, where the fence
Should go; who owned what

It puzzled her, she had to admit
Possessions, even land, were just things
But, he said, if folks got all het up
About the lines dividing their property
Imagine how heated things could get
When you consider the lines dividing
Countries? Borderlines, that is

Oh my, she hadn’t ever looked at it
Like that – those invisible lines on maps
Was that what he was talking about
Did surveyors also cut those lines
She wondered; then realized of course,
They did and now, with GPS and GIS
The lines were drawn more quickly
More accurately, more often maybe

Just the opposite, he laughed
It was a conundrum – with engines
Like Google and Wikipedia –
The so-called borderlines were in a constant
State of flux, the information on the web
Only as good as the last person
Willing to post it and it was proving hard
To nail down provenance, the legalities
Were starting to bog down and wars
Were looking more and more inevitable

Was there nothing to be done, she wondered
Therein lies the problem, he mused
What’s to be done? Where and how to
Draw the new lines? And who’s to have
The final say? Dawn of a new age
And time to start cutting line anew also

Life Lines

There are lines on my face
That weren’t there before
Between my eyes
I sometimes look scorn

Telling a funny antidote
Is this line on my back
Walking under an 18 wheeler
Is where my common sense lacked

The one on my knee
Happened on prom night
I slipped in the hail storm
Ever since it hasn’t been right

In my life I have acquired lots of lines
That shaped who I am, must have been divine

Lines

Only now I dare to reach
Up to your face,
To trace the ragged lines,
Expose my fingertips to this,
This rough terrain,
Cartography, topography,
The making of the mountains
And the rivers
That make up what your face
Has turned to
Over seeming centuries
Of motion and emotion,
Volcanoes, geysers,
Sizeable eruptions,
Shifting of the continents
Reflected in your eyes.

Your planet on the wane
You seek forgiveness,
Maybe understanding,
From those of us who felt your fury
But survived to tell the tale,
And now, my fingers running 'cross
The ragged lines of what you've been
And what you have become
I understand that nature has a way.

crossing lines
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

we cross lines everyday,
and think nothing of it
some intentional,
others unaware:
time zones & GPS
calendars & Google earth
as well as the international date line -
a great circle dividing the earth’s hemispheres
which we fry like slabs of bacon
to be surveyed and parceled out
as if we had the rights to.

we bathe in it
shave in it
sip champagne thousands of feet above it
declare war over them
and sometimes even birth superstitions
based on whatever color happens
to be flaming at the moment.
seasons hang their hats on it
stars and planets drift across
the galaxy in relation to it
hell, even sailors lose
their tatt virginity to it
somewhere along the equator.

these latitudes & longitudes
meridians & parallels,
both real and imaginary
continually define & defy
this universe in which we nest in,
north to south
east to west
sunrise to sunset
atom to molecule,
all lines on a clipboard
awaiting the chance to be crossed off.


© 2009 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

Day 14

LINES
Cinquain

The lines in her face
Reminders of time passing
Many memories