Wow- I REALLY like your poem, Robert.

I'm going to work on mine between cleaning up after my son, who has the tummy bug right now- yuck.

Laurie K.

Hi, this isn't really about leaving (unless you count saying goodbye to the Muse) but I wrote it yesterday whilst wasiting for the prompt so I thought I'd share... I'll be back later with another more appropriate poem.


Keats, Cohen & Wes Magee


Like a solitary poppy lying crushed
on Flanders fields, I am exhausted.
The weight upon my shoulders compresses,
condenses and all the literary greatness
that has gone before me and driven my passion
to achieve the same is set to confound
and confuse me. I feel as though having once
had so much to say I am now empty,
a used and discarded toothpaste tube caught
up in the rat-race, constrained and fettered by modern
life and now useless. I cannot compete with the past.
The burden of poetry once written that inspired so much
in a young man has weighed down upon the yearning soul
of middle age. I strive to find my inner Betjeman, my bitter
incisive Cohen, the love of Keats eludes me and barely can
I rise to imitate the wit and charm of Wes Magee. I am resigned
to echo only one of my inspirations: I am not waving but drowning
in a muse-less sea hoping Stevie Smith will save me.


Iain

WAVE Goodbye to Marriage

In and out,
back and forth,
she watches the waves
lap at her feet.

The salty air,
wind in her hair;
she says goodbye
and admits defeat.

The lies, the hurt,
are like the waves,
and she throws it
all away.
And hopes,
just like the tide,
her life will be
cleansed one day.

Laurie K.

Goodbye Glorieta Conferees

Goodbye lady who ate a dessert,
with such a heaven-struck expression,
you convinced our whole table to eat
a slice of peanutbutter chocolate pie

Goodbye Rose and Ruby who I laughed
with till we cried about designing a
line of confidence-inducing underwear
for writers too shy to pitch proposals

Goodbye lady who’s writing the book
about moving and gave me your card
to get my insights and words of wisdom
since I’ve moved twenty times in my life.

Goodbye little old lady who’s “me
twenty years from now,” who patiently
read and commented on each of my poems,
and who I wanted to take home with me.

Goodbye Kent Whitaker who I had
just seen on Oprah because of writing
about the terrible tragedy in Death by
Family. You signed, “See you next year.”

Will I see you or any of the fascinating
people who I met this week? I’ll mark my
calendar. What fun to interact with people
who understand why you do what you do.

Robert--how could you? Don't you know that November is National Novel Writing Month? And many of us will be pounding out 50,000 word novels in November? There is no way I can add 30 poems to the top of that. But I'm sure I'l be around to snag your wonderful prompts!

I still haven't really found what I want to write today(ironic after yesterdays poem) so in the meantime here's this...


Adiós Jorge


So goodbye George W. Bush.
The time has come to bid you
farewell. ‘Tis harsh I know but
not many will miss you. Sadly
you leave a legacy of war and
chaos. Economic crisis looms
large as you step off the stage
and slink (one hopes) with your
head drooping and your shoulders
hunched. Eight long years come
to a close and now we wait to see
who will claim the mantle. It must
surely be for better as it could hardly
be for worse. Adiós Jorge (and good
luck with the book!)


Iain

Hello fat
I like you not
I ponder what to do
Exercise is the key!
But you know me
That is hard to do
But I WANT Thin!
So Good-bye fat
Exercise is in!

LOL - just for fun, I think I have a more serious one brewing in my brain - I'll be back again later!

Oh, my, you are so 17 and beyond these days,
So discarding of your girlhood and its perceived chains
You have bid it a huffed goodbye,
Left it tattered and forlorn in a corner:
Free at last, in your own estimation.

I am still drawn to that huddled heap, I want
To gather it up and sink my nose into its essence,
Sweet soft bum and giggles,
Painted faces and trick-or-treat
Not orphan, but anchor, root and wellspring of all dreams and visions.

I will treasure it secretly, sustain its rich textures
And offer it back to you in the years ahead
The pleasure ripening in the saving, and the telling.

Farewell to the Base of Operations

My psychology teacher says we USAians
Have no official elaborate rites of passage
From child to adulthood.
Sad to think we have all these adults running around
Not knowing that somewhere along the
Line they were supposed to say Goodbye to
Childhood. Should we have a day when
All the little kiddies clap their hands and say hooray I
Am all grown up now? Or should we continue to listen to
The silent screams of freedom-seeking adolescents
Or the triumphal celebrations of the few lucky ones
who figured out that freedom comes from security.
That having a base from which to travel makes for
A wider radius of operations.

corinne- your poem came up as I was trying to load mine. I think we have both illustrated two sides of the same coin. Yeah team! :)

escape

i long for peace
escape
a mountain hideaway
like Elijah
when his spirit was grey
when life was a broken treasure
in shaking hands
ready to fall and
buried in the sands
of time
eroding, blowing away...
plodding on to the peak
finding a cave
so quiet
to hear
the voice of God speak

wow.. great poems everyone. usually i'm a rhymer, so the non-rhyme stuff fascinates me. how do you choose a rhythm if any? I just write what overflows my heart and soul. good stuff.. and Laurie K. that breaks my heart.

Hey Lori, that's COOL!

This is the other one I was considering - there's an echo to your theme as well.

Learning how to hear “goodbye”
Without an internal grip of terror
Has been the ongoing lesson of my life
Born as I was, into a place where no-one was really there

At some point, the joke hit me:
All it took was me deciding to stay, actually touch down,
That if I could do that well, then anyone could leave
Any time, and the ground I stand on remains.

Rachel, I don't really choose a rhythm, it kinda chooses me, if that makes any sense. Or is it about sense?

I can't rhyme worth beans without it sounding so contrived, so I bow in reverence to those of you who pull it off in what seems so effortless.

Glad you made it back online Robert.

For those that venture over, I have posted my poem at the forum of Writer’s Digest Critique Poetry the title is

Goodbye Time

Thank you all and now to read your lovely works

Leaving You

I find that I must leave you.
I've been here much too long.
You know that you can't stop me,
I must be moving on.
It's not that I don't love you
My love will never die.
Something deep is pushing me
I really can't say why.
I won't cry in front of you,
I never have before.
And I hope you won't shed a tear
When I pass through that door.
I'm leaving in the morning.
I feel the time is right.
But I have one request of you.
Love me, tonight.
You know that once I leave you
I can't come back, you see.
But I can keep an eye out 'till
God brings you back to me.

November Takes Another

The penultimate month November,
Not much of significance here
The streets, slick with wet rotting leaves
Tease us backward with glimpses of fall
Then frost on the windshield
Pulls us inexorably forward
To winter’s unrelenting deep-freeze vault
Where late afternoon darkness
And delayed morning dawns
Bracket grimly determined funereal days
Before December even thinks of arriving
November has wrapped up the year
Delivered it dying, very near death
Passed on to the twelfth one
Leaving her free for seasonal pursuits;
Carols, gifts, holly and such
While well-spent November,
Slinks out the back door
Gone on a blast of Arctic blue air,
She retreats to her lair,
another one over and done.

Thanks, Rachel- just for reassurance- the poem is fictional. My marriage is alive and kickin'!

Laurie K.

She’s growing up
She is, she is.
I remember when she
Was just a little baby girl,
Demanding and temperamental
But exclusively Mommy’s, all mine.
As a toddler, boo boos needed me,
No one else could help, she was sure of that.
On her first camp out with Dad,
She cried and cried
Until he turned the car around,
Headed her back for home.
All of 30 minutes had passed but
At five years, it was more than my little
Love could stand.
She played with baby dolls,
Painted her dress up world with
Inspiring kaleidoscopic imagination,
Believed and loved everything
Her Mommy said.
Goodbye to the days of
Being her one and only.
Now we have friends, gossip, fashion, sports,
The popular crowd, drama, People Magazine,
‘Things’ to prove, projects, eye rolling,
Ipods, cell phones,
Hair.
Goodbye to the little girl in her
Princess nightgown, dancing around
In her room wearing her beautiful tiara,
Eyes sparkling, heart carefree, agenda-free
Except for talking me into a late night snack of
Oreo cookies and milk.
She’s growing up,
She is, she is.
Now she loves camping with Dad, rock climbing,
Water skiing, she won’t admit when she’s hurt,
And apparently has decided
I’m not as smart as she had once deemed.
We’re embarking on a new
Stage, territory, universe
And with luck we’ll come
Through it all okay.
But I miss that little
Dancing Snowflake,
I do, I do.
Because she’s growing up,
She is, she is.
I just didn't realize the goodbye
To that little girl would come so soon.

Patti, I totally feel your pain. My poem is about my niece and I don't have any kids of my own, but the ache is there nonetheless.

Good-Bye

Say good-bye to lower taxes
Say good-bye to your 401K
Say good-bye to stock investments
Say good-bye to talk radio
Say good-bye to small business profits
Say good-bye to smaller government
Say good-bye to religious freedom
Say good-bye to low unemployment
Say good-bye to off shore drilling
Say good-bye to freedom of speech
Say good-bye to a strong military
Say good-bye to victory in Iraq
Say good-bye to entrepreneurism
Say good-bye to a balanced Supreme Court
Say good-bye to bipartisanship
Say good-bye to the Constitution
Say good-bye to American sovereignty
Say good-bye to individual freedoms
Say good-bye to Christianity
Say good-bye to the American dream
And just maybe
If they have their way
Say good-bye to America
On Election Day

To all - I wanted to comment on my own poem. My daughter is 12 and there's no scandal at our house - she's just moody as hell and a bit bitter about everything! I didn't think this happened until 14 years!?!? Maybe she's just advanced for her age ... by two solid years ...

Anyway, she still hates boys, doesn't cuss, drink, smoke or chew tobacco - she's just sassy and moody - quite a bit of the time. And that gets on my nerves. Yes I cried while I wrote the poem.

Connie - excellent writing.

Iain - you're shining again! I think you're Muse is just messin' with ya'! She's really standing right behind you! Both poems showed your talent and diversity.

Pray for better economic news everyone! Especially for custom home builders!

See y'all everyday in November ...

See, Earl, you are a perfect example of that rhyming thing! It's a total mystery to me. Well done. Lovely stuff on here today, looking forward to November!

Every Goodbye a Hello

As she backs out of the driveway,
her trunk loaded with clothes
to last ‘til Thanksgiving at least,
her dad presses some money
into her hand as her mother
looks away, knowing full well
her savings from the summer job
will carry her through a year
at least. Working has made their
girl quite frugal with her spending.

And they laugh a sad-sounding
laugh, as they tell her to be good,
to remember who she is and
whose she is, for what must be
the millionth time, knowing
the kind of girl she is, one who
never would forget. They tell
her to be sure to call, thankful
for the link that cell phones
forge, remembering when
long distance sounded so
forbidding, too expensive.

Finally they wave goodbye until
she disappears from sight,
taking no chances that she’ll
look back in her rearview mirror
and find they’ve already turned
to go back into the house, back
to their new life, the empty nest
they’ve read about in old copies
of AARP magazines in waiting rooms.

A block from the house, she phones
a friend, laughing wildly. “I’m on
my way! I’m leaving home! Can
you believe it? I’m free! Free!”
She means it and she doesn’t.
Now she can live for herself, make
her own decisions, choose her
own changes. When she returns
for holidays, she knows, nothing will
ever feel quite the way it did, not quite
like home. But she won’t be homeless.

Meanwhile, her mom and dad climb
the porch steps, looking back over
their shoulders at the empty drive,
the deserted street, the September
sun shining on maple leaves not
yet turned to gold. Closing the door,
they look around, as if to be sure
she’s really gone. “We’re all alone,”
her mother says, trying out the words,
testing for tone. Looking into those
eyes he’s known so well for so long,
her father makes sure that he can
say what he thinks just now. “She’s
gone—but she’ll be back.” He’s testing
her, she knows. “But for now, young
lady, he says to sweetheart, the wife
of his youth, the one he loves most,
“for now, it’s just you and me kid!”
And they dissolve into laughter, not
even embarrassed to be hurrying
upstairs in the middle of the day.

Nancy Posey

Final Goodbyes- Part One - The Mother

There is no pain conceived of which,
Nor sorrow contemplated as fiercely untenable
As that of the death of one’s child.

An anguish so all-consuming, it fills the soul
Of grieving parents and leaves them broken,
Shattered, almost unrecognizable in their grief.

The heart - fractured - that organ bleeds itself dry
Then tries in vain to leech some something, anything
From the wounded spirit

Is there any sound
So wretched
So despairing
As that of the parents sobbing
As they try
To dispose of their child’s remains?

Eyes turned inward and at once sightless
Brim with tears and memories -
The face, the face
Never to be looked upon again
The imprint of its features will stay forever
In the mind
Will it not?

Or will time, that purported healer of all wounds
Fade the image
Like drawings in the sand come high tide,
Until just the barest membrane of his visage
Can be discerned

No - she rails against the fates - no
Don’t shut his countenance
Away from us forever
Leave us with him longer
Leave us with him always
Lest he should awake

And she rubs his icy hand;
If she strokes it long enough
She knows he will be warm
And warm, shall surely breathe.

Will she never waken
From this nightmare
Masquerading as her life?

With aching tenderness
She moves her palms
Up the sides of his face
As if, as mothers often do,
She might feel him
Flushed or feverish
And gently, oh so gently
Her finger trails the line
Of lips forever closed

All too soon, with practised care
And needed distancing, the death dealer
Moves to close the coffin,
“It’s time,” he murmurs.
“We’re a half hour late starting -
Everyone is here.”

Everyone? She screams inside,
Everyone? Heis not here
Only this sad remnant
Of my son is here
Oh please, please, please
I need to...I want...I need
I cannot bear this final parting

Unknowingly, she cries aloud
A voice unrecognizable as hers
Issues a keening
Inhuman in its anguish
Inadequate, she knows at last, to change anything.

Stillness to breath
Death to life -
Why wail at all?
How can she not?

Final Goodbyes - Part Two - The Father

As one body
We rise silently
To witness
The sleek progression
Of a handsome
Shiny
Coffin

As if spirited down
The chapel’s
Centre aisle
It appears to
Float past.

How is it possible
That within
This furniture-like box
A man, still partly boy
Lies cold and stiff,
And quiet now and always
Corporeally finished

The reality simply cannot be grasped
Perhaps a cruel hoax
Is being perpetrated
Upon us all?
But wait, who shuffles
So sadly and diminished
Behind the box

Behind his son
He struggles his way
To the front pew
A never-ending journey
Over all too soon.

This larger- than- life man
His stature bowed
His booming cowed
The picture of defeat
As if a piece of him
Is also gone...
Of course.

S.E. Ingraham - you took my breath away.

Goodbye

Silence on a gloomy day
The world muffled in prayer
I watch the last leaf drift to earth
And shiver in the cold
The naked trees my only company
My breath the only sound
I stand still and absorb the healing silence
And let my cares fall by
As one by one like drifting leaves
I shed my lonesome burdens
Then I turn and leave my pile behind
To be blown away with the next wind

Oh my goodness, where to start...
Robert - loved you poem!
Iain - both of yours were great!
Connie - glad you enjoyed your conference, thanks for sharing the people you met with us!
Laurie K. - loved your poem too!
Sharon - loved your November poem but your Final Goodbyes - Wow! It was like you wrote that for my neighbors who lost their adult son a year and half ago. My eyes were tearing...
Nancy - Loved your poem too ~ as I was reading it I was hoping the ending had a nice little happy twist and it did!!
See you all in November!!

Thanks, Michelle- I like yours, too. In fact EVERYONE did an awesome job this week, I think. This Challenge will be great- I just know it!
Happy Halloween

Laurie K.

A FAREWELL

Crowded with those standing there
already two hours,
the train station seems
a fog-laden dream,
a place for last-minute things.
Moments pass, heavy like steel,
like stones, like the ceiling of
the last darkness.

A father says “Goodbye” to Vincent
while the relatives join him
in a tangle of voices, a roar of weeping
that awakens the first sunlight.
Soon the train will snatch
the love words that escape them;
its ferocious scream will devour last wishes.

A father says “Goodbye” to his son.
“Dress properly, dear young Vincent.
America is a cold country.
And write once in awhile.
Go to mass,
Think of us and this village.
Don’t ever forget those who love you.”
But Vincent–What does he hear?

His head is filled with the world
Of America. He is a boy anxious
To leave childhood behind.
Around him gather his relatives
who want to touch him
as if he were a saint,
as if this would be the last time
to look at him forever.

With trembling lips their kisses
bathe his face like rain,
and these relatives pray,
“God bless you!
Good luck! Be careful!”
Yet, Vincent pushes them away
because now the train is approaching,
a black dot growing, growing.
Buttaci / “A Farewell” / 2


His father says “Goodbye.
Goodbye,” says the father.
“My handsome son! Blood of my blood!”
Then he embraces his youngest son,
stares at this boy of his
without batting an eye.
“My son! Vincent,
never forget me, your Papá!”

At last comes the train
to carry him to the ship
waiting in Palermo.
“Vincent, don’t make me worry
with you so far away. Come here.
Then he embraces him, covers him with kisses,
each one a morsel of grace,
and tries to memorize

the look of him. His handsomeness.
Later, Vincent sits at the train window
and waves at his father,
at his relatives, at all of his village of Acquaviva.
Now, many years after that departure,
his only comfort
is the memory of that station,
of that last morning,

of those gifts of kisses
His good father gave him.
He plays the scene over and over
inside the train station of his mind.
He has kept the promise
not to forget the words of his father:

“Take my heart with you, Vincent.
Goodbye! Goodbye! Goodbye!”

#

Saint of Long Journeys

He gives me a Saint Christopher
keychain and I hold his hands,
cold and dry as
rice paper,
knowing this will
be the last time.
I go down the stairs
backwards, looking up,
and in the open doorway
he waves his hand
like a captain
blessing a ship.

Wow - lots of good stuff happening here this week! Thanks to Patti and Michelle for your comments; for my part, that second poem was just something I needed to put down and this seemed the appropriate prompt. Salvatore - I love this - I don't think I've ever told you how honoured I feel to be 'sharing'that first edition of "Melisma" with you - I always knew you were good but had no real idea of your prowess until I read your bio there. For others interested in this venture and how it all played out, check http:theverbfori.co.uk and click on the "Melisma" link. FYI - this is a site Robert referred us to back in the summer and at least three of us from this site benefitted (Salvatore, Amy Barlow and I). So - thank you Robert, so much. S.E.Ingraham. (Sharon)P.S.Happy Halloween all!

The Rain

The rain pounded down,
Refusing to clear
And she was sure she’d drown
Especially since she was in such pain

Her body
Weakened by decades of self-imposed abuse
Certainly couldn’t weather this storm
Without changes being made

Her Mind
Clearly understanding the stakes
Of surrendering to her fears
Her insecurities
Her failings
Struggles to pull it all together
Before it’s too late

Getting hold of herself
She takes a deep breath
And goes under
Away from the surface
Where the pounding is relentless

She goes deep
Knowing her air might not hold
Taking a chance
Surrendering herself to every thought,
Every fear,
Every bad memory
Allowing them to wash over and through her

Acknowledgement forces her
To become transparent
Makes it impossible to hide
Secrets that have taken her to this storm,
Secrets that have left her drowning
For as long as she can remember

The same storm that has threatened her for all these years
Is allowing her to heal
She now knows
It is safe
To say goodbye
To the rain

Heather - I have to say that is greatness ...

Patti- Wow! Thanks so much. I tried. And, I'm sending special thoughts your way, today, my favorite day of the year. I know it has been a rough one for you and I'm in your corner. Tell me which way to go and I'll tear them up for you! Got your back, Sis.

I've been doing a lot of things I had to do
I did the dishes and mopped a floor
I saved some time to think of you.

Stopped to have a tea-time brew.
Read a book. It was a crashing bore,
I've been doing a lot of things I had to do.

The bank sent a statement addressed to you,
And I got a bill from the clothing store.
I saved some time to think of you.

Went fishing. The sky was blue.
Caught nothing, fishing from the shore,
I've been doing a lot of things I had to do.

Flower bill came. Cleaned out the flue
Where a bird had nested the spring before.
I saved some time to think of you.

The stone looks clean and bright and new.
I fixed the curtain where it tore.
I've been doing a lot of things I had to do.
I saved some time to think of you.
Don Swearingen

Heather - excellent stuff!

Really good work everyone

Iain

Don, Hooray for the villanelle!
Nancy

In front of a Crowd – A grateful Song


In our home
back there
before time burned low

we sat sunggled close
filled with delight,
with abandon, without care
inhibitions gone,
before a fire crackeling
so nice and warm.

Now latent embers
languish.
Ash and dust
the remnants
lives once blazing bright
we nod and touch a hand
grate full for such heat.

Thanks, Iain. Hope everyone had a safe and awesome Halloween. I had a blast.
Cheers-

S.E. Ingraham - Fabulous poem. Iain, Heather, so many great ones.
Here's mine. I'm having trouble getting it through.

Moving

The heart of this city beat
in my own all the years from
childhood to this new stage
of life. New York–the thrill
of Broadway marquees lit
on dark evenings, the sun
sliding across the buildings
like an autumn fire, the magic
of art in museums and
galleries, where people
whispered in awe–it is time.

Oregon–the greenery of
wetlands, unspoiled rivers,
beaches, a calmer life, free
thinkers, Portland’s hub of
books and roses–it is time.

Farewell to Youth

Farwell the days
Of simplicity
Where we splashed
In the blow up pool
Of our Ignorance
Where we lived our summers
Of dreams and imagination
And where we sat and gazed
As we donned Mum's red heels
And kissed the mirror
And the reflection
Of our future
We bid goodbye to chasing
Our inspirations
And saving the world
From the nightmares that
Beseech us to return
We no longer wear the
Fluro band-aids that
Make the pain go away
And no longer do we
Snuggle into our teddys
Lightly snoring and
Peacefully waiting
for what the morrow will
Bring with child-like
Anticipation.

The End


I guess,
it would be best
that I should say a word or two
Truth to tell,
It’s time we were through
I can’t remember when we fell
though, I honestly thought you knew

So, it should come as no surprise
that’s it’s time we said our goodbyes. . .

Rodney C. Walmer, Goodbye Poem prompt 11/2/08

Goodbye writer's block.
I hope not to see you
ever again, if I can help it.
With my poetry prompts,
new writing schedule, and
resolve to write no matter
what, I banish you to
the lowest level of hell.
Goodbye.

HIS LAST WILL

They ask what I’m leaving
to the family. I have
no family. Such a pack
of musicians I married into.
My wife, dead these 15 years,
in love with a crooner
on the radio. Step-daughter
married to some slider
of a brass trombone.

Or was it a saxophone?
All those woe-tones.
What good is music? movie-
scores for Hollywood, nothing
but make-believe. Or
playing nights in a smoky
club. I’d be ashamed.

At the end of an honest day
on the docks, I could account
for every penny. Then
I’d watch a ball game on TV,
Sox or the Patriots.
No country-western wail,
no big-band swing or symphony,
no jazzy scat. They ask
to see my will? I leave
the family music.