The rabbit and the Crow

Shape of shades
shading sharply
light and shade
shading distant foregrounds,
backgrounds in close range.
concave, convex, curvatures
crows balancing
on the perch
caw-caw calling
on the wire,
orange, blue shapes
beyond the horizon.
red radishes blossom
on the brown earth
eroded by the rabbit,
pulled by the crow’s beak.
sharp shape of shades
shifting sides
black crow on the perch
white rabbit on the ground
mirror images
moving shades.

Poetry prompt day 18 prompt word: "interaction"

BUTTERFLIES (C) Richard-Merlin Atwater April 18, 2009

Two by two they flutter by
On the whiff of the wind in the pale blue sky;
A dance of romance in the summer air
As they lightly touch down, this colorful pair.

"Be fruitful and multiply. Replenish the earth."
The command went out to all creatures at birth:
The grass and the flowers, and beasts of the fields,
As well as to man in likeness to yield.

The garden I visit in colorful form,
In storybook fashion teaches the norm:
It is not good but to be alone,
Creation was set in a dual tone.

The insects, the birds, and the flowers I see,
As I walk through the garden in the shade of a tree,
Reveal a new world that is often forgot,
But the lesson I learned is the one that I sought:

The meaning of life and a happiness plan
Requires two people, a woman, a man,
And children to come in their time as they're sent,
A family forever --- is the way it was meant!

I talk to myself
voicing hollowing echoes
answered by no one.

KNOCKING AT YOUR DOOR (C) Richard-Merlin Atwater April 18, 2009

Knocking at your door
Like I did before
You're the one I idolize
You took me by surprise
At the door.

Tell me what you see
Can it really be
On a still and quiet night
You came into my life
Like a dream.

I was a loner that night
I came and walked into your life.
You were a lovely girl
With sparkling eyes and a smile
That took my heart.

When I saw you there
Nothing could compare
To the way you touched my heart
You took me from the start I declare.

Knocking at your door
Like I did before
You're the one I idolize
You took me by surprise
At the door.

MacBoingboings
April 18, 2009
—For Joseph Sherman, brilliant Canadian poet and intellectual
who died January 9, 2006 age 60 years.


Joe nicknamed them
the macboingboings
those nervous well-wishers
who positively bounced
around the outside edges
of his final discomforts
spouting pious denial
dispensing their treacle
sticky and unpleasant
and him already nauseous.
What he wanted to do
was talk symptoms
living, fears and pain
talk all those passions
for life and for his writing
concern for family and friends
he still carried everywhere
like a precious briefcase
be as alive and well
as humanly possible
while he was able.

OK, I AM NOT CRAZY! Here is what I found for today at 8-ish this morning:

April PAD Challenge: Day 18
Posted by Robert

I'll pick back up on the highlights on Monday. Spent last night working on my Writer's Market book, which goes to production next Friday. By the way, isn't it cool? We've made it 60% of the way through April--once you write today's poem. I'm sure anyone who's made it this far will be able to cross the finish line on the 30th.
Today's prompt is to take a line of my choosing and incorporate it into your poem in some way. You can use the line as the title of your poem, as the last line, as the first line, or even drop it somewhere in the middle--but you must use the line somewhere. And a special note to you "rule benders": No, you cannot break up the line into individual words or phrases. The whole line must be used, though you can definitely insert a linebreak or two if you wish.
So, what's the line anyway? It is: There is no connection.
No connection to what? And who is speaking? And in what context? These are questions you should ponder before tackling this prompt.



Here's my poem for the day:

"Convergence"
We arrive late in Atlanta to learn,
"There is no connection available
from Hartsfield-Jackson to LaGuardia
tonight." Some of us head to hotels
as others loiter, stranded south
of the Mason-Dixon line. A man
holding his cell says, "I can't talk
in here. There's no connection."
One woman tells another, "It tears
me up to hurt him like I do, but
whenever we're together there is
no connection. It's like, 'Okay.
Let's get this over with already.'"
Those of us who stay and don't
talk listen to those of us who do.
This is what happens when things
don't go according to plan. One
person unloads all his frustrations;
another acts as if she might be
somewhat interested; and there is
no connection between the two.
 

Now the prompt is s"interaction" and the poem I posted for the above is GONE. What is the deal with this? This is the 3rd time this has happened.

WENT TO A DANCE (C) Richard-Merlin Atwater April 18, 2009

Went to a dance the other night,
Saw this "Chick", she was out-of-sight,
Oh, well I got caught dancing in the middle of the floor,
The girl I was with I didn't want no more,
Saw this "Chick", watched her with my eye,
I said let's dance, she said "I'm with this guy!"

She went around, and around, and around and around
She went around, and around, and around and around
She went around, and around, and around, and around
She was a dancing to the music, and a groovin' to the sound.

Looked at the girls all around,
There's only one girl that could really turn me on,
Oh well, I followed that girl all about,
Prettiest girl, without a doubt,
Saw this "Chick" she really turned my head,
I said, "Let's dance!" , then she shot me dead!.

She went around, and around, and around, and around,
She went around, and around, and around, and around,
She went around, and around, and around, and around,
She was a dancing to the music and a goovin' to the sound.

Next song played, I really "dug" the sound,
I knew this was my chance, I began to turn around,
Oh well, I got caught dancing in the middle of the night,
The girl I saw, she was out-of-sight,
Now my chance, I couldn't pass it by,
I said, "Let's dance!" , she only said: "Goodbye!"

She went around, and around, and around, and around,
She went around, and around, and around, and around,
She went around, and around, and around, and around,
She was a dancing to the music and a groovin' to the sound.

Just kept waitin' for the time to lag,
The guy she was with, well, he made my life a drag,
Oh well, I watched that clock, it was nearing twelve,
I knew my chance was a sittin' on the shelf,
Asked that girl, I knew this was my chance,
Before I got to speak it was the last dance!

She went around, and around, and around, and around,
She went around, and around, and around, and around,
She went around, and around, and around, and around,
She was a dancing to the music and a groovin' to the sound.

Trust me, be my friend
I walk with a prong collar around my neck
Message says, "Beast, do not touch."
Don't forget I have to be trained, don't
judge my looks,
I am lean and powerful
My eyes are soft, my heart is innocent.
Approach me gently and let me nestle your hand.
A smooth bronzed hand, gently strokes my nose
I do not jump, I do not rush
Though young and vigorous, we both savor this moment
Trust you, trust me.

The nice Lady

She patted me on the head
“So that’s Ella” to me said
“Good for you old man
Get help where you can
Keep that mind in flight
Talk to the doll it’s alright.”
I told her where Ella’s been
She almost smiled and then
“Remembered all that did you
See it will help you through”
I wanted at her to scream
“I’m not as old as I might seem”
But then she walked away
Me her good deed of the day.
And I didn’t smash her head
Run her over, leave her dead
Condescending old broad
Who died and made her God.

I am boldly adding a second interaction poem today. I hope no one minds too much.

Butterfly House
April 18


In the butterfly house
all the butterflies
have damaged wings.
They are born here
pupas suspended
on parallel bars
like the arms of a rotisserie
inside a closed box
with one glass side
curtained so visitors
can peep inside
view the intimacy
of their moist entry
into this the first
of their prisons
the initial unfurling
of their magnificent wings.
Once dry
they are released
into a deceptively
wider world
the netted confines
of this glass house
with its illusion of sky
its blurred impressions
of enfolding wilderness.
Butterflies never eat.
But they drink here
become intoxicated
on nectar and rotting fruit
stand like tattooed
cardboard cutouts
on the heads and shoulders
of paying tourists
beat their fragile wings
against wood and glass
in their yearning
for some distant
indescribable
destination.

Well, no matter the disappearing prompt, I am re-posting the original one I did for today. Just so happens it fits with "interaction" too:

Ejucation

She cannot spell or pronounce
words like “tylenol,” “education,” common
words everyone uses. Her spelling is off
by a few letters, or sometimes so alien
I have to guess by context. Her grammar
by all accounts is only a distant cousin to accurate.
Same age as I, educated in the same state,
she missed something. Was it her teachers?
What about the difference in our towns? Parents
pushing me and not her? Ever hurrying to the next task,
the next idea, maybe she never stopped to suss
out the rules, the process of proper English.
She sees herself as inferior, somehow flawed
in comparison, calls me the educated one.
Counting her bad grammar, poor spelling, odd diction
would be a mistake. There is no connection
between eloquence and friendship, no link
between spelling and neighborliness.
At every bizarre turn of phrase, I cringe,
keep reminding myself there is no connection.
No connection, not connected. Not.

DEAR MIKE

She has a
wonder filled heart
and it finds hope
in the oddest places.

You are like her.
So Am I.
No wonder
we like her.

I wish I’d said that,
he said.
You did,
I said.

I see,
he said.
I’m sure I haven’t,
but it’s nice of you
to say.

He said,
I wonder what
you'll say
I said,
tomorrow.

Something in Common

Two strangers arbitrarily
Roomed together in a strange city
Genial hallos and chit-chat
Where are you from?
How was your trip?
A common goal quickly decided
Seek out the school where both shall train
Look at maps
Discuss the route
The Metro hurtles them under the strange bustling city streets
Slowly they come to know each other
Not intimately but on the surface
The way people do when they first meet
Take the right turn but get confused
Turn back
Turn again, start from scratch
Finally figuring it out
Amongst the things they have in common:
Their situation
Their accommodation
Their lack of knowledge of the city
The idea that they will share much over the coming month;
Amongst all these things it becomes clear that there is one thing
A tiny thing, a detail that they do not have in common
In fact quite the opposite
For the each have a different set of directions
Which explains why the school is not where they thought it was
But somewhere in between
Like them
Neither at home yet nor out of their depth
But somewhere in between
Somewhere in Barcelona


Iain

Carol _ I'm not surprised you are confused, some how you have looked up the prompt from day 18 from LAST YEAR!!!

Iain

For the frustrated Carol Bachofner you are not completely crazy you just appear to be a year behind! Somehow you are looking at the prompts for the April 2008 challenge you must be clicking that link instead of the 2009 because I just looke dup April 18th 2008 and the prompt you have is the one for that day..so you may want to try 2009!! That should end your frustration!

I will post my poem later on..just wanted Carol to stop ripping her haor out.
:)

I cannot meet you

I would love to meet you
But I am afraid
Of your rejection
Or your stares
Or your surprises
You might discover
When you see me
That
I do not qualify the
Image in your mind

It is not my fault
If you drew the picture of me
In your soul
Reading my thoughts
My opinions
My words
From your virtual sight

I never said
I am pretty
Rich
Influential
Nor did I ever
Discuss my age
You adored my rambling
My wit
My style
Imagining a God
With feminine delight

Damn you
And your desires
To see the skeleton of me
I truly cannot match
The fabric
Nor colours
Nor nirvana
Of your wayward mind

I want to be away from
Your binary wildest dreams
You sit at your own desk
And I will, at mine
We can still drink coffee
And chat online
We can carve out poetry
From my lines

But let me be me
My true me and me
I truly cannot meet you,
This evening
Offline

Haiku: Guidance from the Spirits

Spirits came to me.
They showed me the way to go
to find fulfillment.

blend into my morning coffee, cream. swallow you down with the warm earth
so easily disposed of in single-serving capsules. balance this restless tincture.
smooth over the aggression of the Americas. I want to be your friend.

Elevator up


it seemed so insignificant at first
a quick glance only but a moment in time
yet
it lingers on my mind
all day
the color of his eyes
like penetrating rays
of my favorite african violet
a purplish-blue


the attraction undeniable

I wonder if he believes in love at first sight

Interaction: A Whale of a Time



Whoosh of water
Wonderful whale
Whizzing along with
The wake of my boat...
Wet waves weave a whacky tale

Wiggle and waggle of
Wriggly tail
Walloping the water
Whacking the waves

Wee eyes winking at me
Watching the
Winning ways
Weaving wonderful worlds
Welcome,
Wonderful wanderer,
Wow!
Whale!

IN THE FIFTIES (1950's)
(C)Richard-Merlin Atwater April 18,2009

In 'the Fifties' upperclassmen had a lifestyle of their own,
On a Saturday night it wouldn't be right to leave your "Baby" home all alone.
In a Chevy Coupe, a two-door, with a paint job in two tone
On a Saturday night, to your "Baby's" delight you'd cruise with the radio on.

Tuesday, or a Wednesday, you would meet her in the hall,
By the lockers, after classes, Graffetti on the wall!

Well, if you should be like "Fonzie", with a fine tooth plastic comb,
On a Saturday night you would be the highlight of the dance at the High School "Hop".
As you dance to Elvis Presley; Bill Haley's Rock 'n Roll,
On a Saturday night to your "Baby's' delight you'd 'Jitterbug' all night long.

La Verne and Shirley wouldn't feel just right to sit home by the phone,
On a Saturday night while the lights are bright They'd be down at 'the Drive-in show',

When the clock struck after midnight, and it's time to take her home,
On a Saturday night when the moon is bright, the two of you all alone,
As you walk her to the doorstep, but you're moovin' kind of slow ,
On a Saturday night to your "Baby's" delight you whisper soft and low:

Tuesday, or a Wednesday, you will meet her in the hall,
By the lockers, after classes, Graffetti on the wall!

'In the Fifties', that's the lifestyle for the teenage High School zone,
On a Saturday night, well, it wouldn't be right to leave your "Baby" home all alone,
'In the Fifties', that's the lifestyle for the teenage High School zone,
On a Saturday night, well, it wouldn't be right to leave your "Baby" home all alone!

User Manual For Interacting With Humans

If you want to be interesting,
be interested.
Share the credit.
Bring something to the table
besides your elbows.
Don’t mistake caffeine
for enthusiasm.
Choose being wrong
over being ridiculous.
Try not to confuse vested interests
with moral truisms.
Be prepared to lose
once in awhile.
You don’t ask,
you don’t get.
If everyone agrees with you,
it’s likely that you’re wrong.
Never pass on an opportunity
to keep your mouth closed.
If you can’t spot the sucker at a poker table,
you’re probably it.
Never watch
the eleven o’clock news.
Kindness is everything.
Say thank-you.

The Corpsman & The Jap

You see those movies about the Pacific
and it’s always big time stars at the front.
A hundred yards back is the surgical tent,
no stars are there. We even stopped sending
white guys to gather the wounded. The
Nips would shoot a guy in the leg, not bad
enough to kill him, but kill whoever came
to get him. They were worse than Germans.

The Army sent us all their Mexicans and
Indians and we made them stretcher-bearers.
They were much better at dodging bullets.
After our guys got patched up, we did Japs.
Once, when I was doing triage on prisoners,
they brought a Jap with a bullet in his side
and I cut his shirt open to see his wound,

A snapshot fell out of a woman and child,
like everyone’s pictures it was a little dirty,
yellow and wrinkled from handling, but you
could see right away it was his family.
He was hurt pretty bad but he reached
for it as I picked it up and whimpered
like an animal. I handed it back to him.
You know, he took my hand, and kissed it.

Interaction

It is what is unsaid
I interact with the most
Why wasn't I chosen to serve?
Why was I one of the ones chosen for the layoff?
What isn't being said.
It keeps me up at night
in bed
Non=interaction
is where
most things happen

Meeting Baby Hunter

Stressful hours, pacing, checking, watching inane shows on the waiting room TV.
Finally a teary, new Dad with a subtle, half-smile appears unobtrusively to signal
That his son has finally arrived.
So many eager faces and hearts wish to see the chosen one and his weary Mom.
Two at a time the hushed pilgrimage begins
A proud Dad has been turned into a prouder Grandpa
A shoulder rub for his baby girl before scooping up
Her baby boy eager to begin whispered introductions.
“Hi Hunter, I’m your Grandpa”
The oblivious infant cradled carefully in the crook of a bicep twice his size
Stirs then resumes the slumber he’s earned after a long day.
A bigger smile Grandpa has never had, a scratchy kiss to the forehead
And he’s reluctantly relinquished to his next new relative.

THE CHICKADEE

Not so fast as the blue jay,
Nor swift as the swallow or loon.
Not so bright as the cardinal
With his colorful coat of red.

Not so tuneful as the nightingale,
Nor as melodic as the whip-or-will.
Not so great as the eagle
Who soars with the stars above.

Not so persistent as the woodpecker,
Nor chaotic as the ubiquitous crow.
Not so common as the pigeon
Who messes on everyone's row.

Not so annoying as the seagull,
Nor the sandpiper down by the beach.
Not so funny as the puffin bird
With his long and flamboyant beak.

Chosen by man as symbol of state---
State Bird of my native Maine.
The Chickadee, bird of my youth as it were;
Indelibly pressed in the chamber of my mind's grain.

Sweet, lovely bird, of heavenly song,
And fuzzy, and soft like a chick!
The dee-dee-dee-dee of his chirping sound,
And her merry return ever so quick.

Not like a Dickie-bird who bops up and down,
And swirls as it were on a stick.
Whose beak touches water, but never does drink,
Because all he does is pick!

Lively, black-capped bird---The Chickadee,
Gray-brown wings, and light belly beneath;
He swings upside down on the branches tip
In search of insects to feed.

A titmouse bird of family Paridae
Who flocks with other birds too!
A friendly bird with small pointed bill,
The Parus Atricapillus Latinized view!

In the secret chambers of my soul
The Chickadee lives in my heart.
For once in my youth I took the life
Of two Chickadee's playing loves part.

There on a branch all covered with snow,
Next to the river's edge;
Hundreds of chickadees perched there and sang,
'Til the hunter came with his wedge!

I as a youth, foolish and brash,
On the sixteenth year of my birth;
With a cherrywood Remington, new as a gift,
I went shooting and stalking agirth.

First tin cans, and bottles to shoot,
And then a twig or a branch.
But finally aloft the perfect shot:
Two Chickadees, in love, with one bullet perchance!

Male and female, love birds entwined,
Side by side on the tree.
Chickadee birds created by God,
But they were felled by me!

Blood on the snow, two Chickadees lie---
Then I began to cry.
All the way home I wept that day,
And I almost wished that I die!

I the hunter----never again,
Never to ever take life.
The cherrywood Remington my mother sold,
And I to learn from my grief.

Chickadee birds----the state bird of Maine,
In resurrections great day
I will seek you out to seek forgiveness
For youth's foolish, errant ways!

His Dog

She was his buddy from day one
when he took her from the shelter
where she was delivered by the police
after raiding yet another abusive situation.
Her loyalty was unconditional.
When he was sick, she never left
staying at his side, even lying outside
the bathroom as he showered
the day’s pain and strain from his
tired and weary body parts.
Thirteen years she was there for him -
day or night, hot or cold, sick or well.
How could he imagine the day would come
when suddenly she would not rise
to his call and come running to where he sat,
or that she would refuse the treats offered?
But, his loyalty was equally as unconditional,
as he laid on the floor beside her
comforting her with words of praise
until, wrapped in the comfort of his arms,
she slipped quietly into the next existence.

This is old, but when Robert mentioned a cop, I couldn't resist it. I'm just bad, I guess.
Yield Sign

There on the corner, the sign said, "Yield."
So I looked left and right, and what did I see?
An officer. An officer of the law, looking at me.
I slowed way way down, as my hot blood congealed,
'Cause I knew he was waiting for me to make
One little mistake, I knew he was waiting
To see me go wrong, the thought began grating
On my nerves, 'cause I knew he wouldn't give me a break.
Nothing was coming, and I looked and paused
And went around the corner and rode
Away on down the road,
But I heard the siren and wondered what caused
The cop to chase me down. He asks for my license and looks and clucks
And I asked him what happened. "You didn't stop."
"But that was a yield sign," I told the cop,
"Is there no difference?" "Yep," the policeman smiled. "About twenty bucks."
Dang. I can't get it to form right. There are only 16 lines!

Swans

Swans are known for being
a graceful, proud bird.
I see them every day
eyeing passerbys' carefully.
Swans do not interact with
other swans very well.
The male swan can we a
ruthless bird indeed.
Loyal to his wife and
children, but the dominate male
swan doesn't interact well with
other swans.

How to communicate with a worm

No matter how much I tell them not to,
They still do it.
Each evening, as the sun sets and the dew falls,
They creep inside,
Under the front door, over the welcome mat
With its smiling porcupine motif,
Tiny wire-thin red worms from the compost bin.
Why do they ignore me?
It isn’t as if I don’t feed them.
I do. Strips of apple peel,
Long enough to spell my name; carrot tops;
Printed paper cartons; a feast
For any self-respecting worm.
Each evening I gather them up
In the palm of my hand and return them
To their home.
I am not sure that I will ever discover
How to communicate with a worm.

Two Body Problem

A planet wriggles
indecisive
Between its parent stars;

Julia worries
her teeth
and two possible jobs.

Sam reassures her
thinks
"I could do something else."

But she can't stop analyzing
geometry
Of a physicist and a doctor

Pulling one home
between
Manhattan and Sirius.

--
Marie

ROBERT OR ANYONE ELSE THAT KNOWS: Is the prompt interaction or no connection. They are both great propmpts but quite different, just wondering do we have two prompts today?

Merlin the magician of words, good work this morning!

J. Hugh I loved butterfly house, it made me think of people who have never come to know the love of christ. It gave me chills, very poignant.

Happy writing to all the wonderful poets today!

Goodbye

Little toehead sliding fingers
Into granny's crippled hand...
Smiles of great great grandma
Fill the parlor one last time.

Freddy

"His cucumbers grew to massive proportions.
Historic, I'd say, which brings to mind
the shed midst the veggies -- the place to enjoy
the unforgettable fire of his loins."

"The what?" I said, "You surely don't mean...?"
"I do indeed. Seriously biblical."
"Hefty, you mean, and weighing a ton?"
"Something like that," Sue replied.

She snorted and wriggled in fond remembrance
till Alice turned round and gave us a look.
I blushed. The topic was far from ideal
for the back pew at poor Freddy's funeral.

"But did you ever...?" I asked, still curious.
"Of course," said Sue. She pulled out the photos.
"Good grief," I cried, "Historic indeed!"
And on that note we had to leave.

Modern Psycho

Candy has a diamond necklace,
And I want one too.
Betty has a red ferrari,
Only one of a few.
Leila has a figure
That leaves nothing to be desired,
But let me tell you girls
She has cellulite on her thighs!

Carla has a new lover,
You'll never guess who it is.
Donna came round crying
Cos her man can't pay the bills.
Wish I could tell you about Susan
But the she asked me not to say
Really Jenny,
the things she said about you yesterday!

We are the modern Psycho high society crowd
Are you in or are you out?
Depends what you're all about

Lola wants a baby,
Says she’s been trying real bad
While little sister Brenda,
She doesn’t even know her dad!!
But thats nothing Jenny
Guess you haven't heard the word?
They say that Mona’s bustline,
Isn't really hers!

There are two wonderful consequences to participating in the April challenge. One is the exposure to the heartfelt, honest writing of people we'll never meet, strangers we now know so well. The other is the frequent surprise to one's self, when something surfaces that has been wayyyyy down deep for so very long. Here's one that made its way to my fingertips this morning.
----------------------------------------------------------------

Shared Quarters

I awoke
to see
an NVA
or was it
really a VC?

He was
only
seven feet away
or was it
only three?

He was
badly hurt,
wrapped and tied,
or was he
actually free?

He was
obviously
a prisoner,
or was it
truly me?

He was
suddenly
convulsing,
dying now,
or trying to get free?

I awoke
to see
my enemy,
and he
was simply me.

"False Morinings"

As you lie alseep beside me,
I try to nudge you awake.
As I think to myself "this just can't be",
Another wasted day I can't take.
You grunt and groan and push me back,
Are you really that tired,
Or is it motivation you lack?
Then you turn and flash me a smile,
pull me to you with a hug.
I realize you were faking all the while.
Oh, your attitude is smug.

Talking to Myself

Do I have time for a run?
No, the kids want breakfast now.
Let’s see... eggs, bacon maybe a muffin-
Did I make it balanced? Enough nutrients?
Roddy has a game today and needs lots of energy-
They both like orange juice- that probably covers it-
I need to get Roddy’s haircut- I need to finish Nicole’s laundry-
I need to clean up the clutter in the kitchen that’s been sitting there for days-
What about my garden? What about my poem? I want to tick something off of a my list today-
Where shall I start? I need my coffee first.
I really wanted to run at least 2 miles. Forget about it- Do it tomorrow- It’s a beautiful day-
Plant some flowers- I can’t wait to see what they look like- I want to inhale the moonflowers-
I need to do the bookkeeping- I hate the bookkeeping- There is never enough $$$ to get the numbers to balance.
Gawd! My nails look awful! When was the last time I did them? Two days ago Julie… you remember- the polish never lasts- got my hands in too many things- Oh yes, I painted mom’s room yesterday- that’s why my nails are speckled and cracked. Actually, the design is kinda’ cool.
Did I call that guy to fix my air conditioning? I know I did. I think he was supposed to be here two days ago. Why didn’t he call? You can’t rely on these guys. Doesn’t anybody want to make any money?
Shane’s been awfully quiet lately- I wonder what’s up? Is something bothering him? I need to find a quiet moment with him.
I hope mom likes it here. She spent her whole life in a quiet town in upstate New York. Virginia is beautiful though and she has company and we are easy to get along with. She might miss her friends and her privacy. I hope it’s less stressful. She needs to start enjoying herself.
Damn! It’s 10:00am already! Did I do that load of laundry yet? Who put these fingerprints on my freshly cleaned window? Didn’t I just clean that?
I made my bed didn’t I this morning? I hate it when I go to bed at night and my sheets aren’t cool.
I need to get my lesson plans started for my class. I wonder what these new folks will be like? I wonder if they enjoyed my show the other day? I wonder what I can do to make their experience wonderful for them. Dare I think,…even transforming?
Oh my gosh! I need to buy those Styrofoam balls for the party next week! Maybe I can run there after the game today. Did I fill the car with gas?
Oh yeah, I did that while I was waiting for the kids to get to the bus stop.
I need to send that thank you note out before I forget to. Gosh, I had a nice time at the theatre the other night. I felt fabulous on stage. I wonder what the audience thought? Can’t wait to do that again…
Who left this mess in the middle of the living room floor?
Is anybody listening?

Apology...."Goodbye" correction:

Toehead should have been spelled "towhead".....aaargh!

Thoughts While Watching another Viewing of That Movie
(for Julie)

A woman in round sunglasses:
Obsidian orbs
She sips iced tea
Wears white
Her hair is pulled back

A man with short hair
American
but much-travelled
well-liked
a demi-god to the masses

He, teasing, in a voice
Reckless with practiced nonchalance:
“Do you know how much power you have?”

She, in a voice faraway
With youth and immaculate inscrutability:
“Power?”

She looks at him
Turning her head only slightly
He can not see her eyes

She turns her head away
Looking beyond him
Past him. Exquisite.
Watching the seagulls along the cliffs

In fright his voice leaves
For safer shores
He whispers:
“Perhaps you do?”

THE BLOOMINGS OF MY SOUL

My soul blooms with these words of love.
Budding brilliance planted deep within my heart and mind.
Nurtured and tended with the awakenings of life.
A good life made more perfect by you, my gentle gardener,
who encourages the growth of my love.
The growth of this man.
Your eternal sunshine beams forth by the glowing of your gardener's heart.
This sunshine brightens my days
and illuminates my thoughts,
making my growth fertile,
and fruitful and productive.

My soul blooms with thoughts of love.
Thoughts brought to light
like the first flowers of Spring
as they break the earth
and show their potential.
You my gardener, cares for me
and loosens the soil around me,
freeing my roots to branch out
and allowing me to grow full of life.
Full of love.
For I will give back to you
my "caregiver" with a very bountiful harvest
of the bloomings of my soul.
You are my gardener.
I bloom brilliantly for you.

Hannah - the prompt is interaction. The no connection prompt is from last years PAD

Iain

The Garden (by Jeanetta Chrystie)

I step into the garden,
weighed down with care.
I smell the flowers and damp greens,
God meets me there.

“Oh Lord, I feel so weary.
What shall I do?
My days just seem so busy.”
“Spend time with You?”

“I’ve so much to accomplish,
Where shall I start?”
“Read My Word and pray, to have
peace in your heart.”

With one hand I push you away
and with the other I take my hand to draw you in
you come close
and I move away
with one hand I'm pushing you away
with the other I'm calling you in.
all through my life it happens
always wanting what didn't happen
the choices I didn't make
the places I didn't go
the roads not taken
I don't know when it happened
I remember sitting in a workshop with someone named Jason and the seven somethings...
something he said, I can't recall what it was
I saw myself, the hands moving in opposite directions
it's a dance between wanting and not wanting
what could have been
what might have been
possibilities.
that's why I don't commit
what else may come
I remain
alone
with my two hands one pushing you away
the other drawing you in.

Go ahead.
I can’t.
Yes you can.
No I can’t.
You must.
Why?
Because you will regret it.

I can’t.
Yes you can.
Oh, God.
It’s OK
She picked up the
chili fried grasshopper.
Tasted.
Its good.
Told you.

The Potter and the Clay

Slick and light grey,
Cool to touch the musty smell.
The Master throws the clay
On the platform it fell.

Around and round as in turmoil
The clay slowly responded.
Unformed and clutched from soil,
The Master and clay bonded.

Supernatural the beauty birthed
Between His agile fingers.
What mystery was there unearthed?
His soul in clay so lingers.

The spinning stops and now to see
A beauty built of purpose.
A vessel there to bear the tea,
His vision on the surface.

Just Do It

"I wish I could be more like you,"
she told her sister, which was me.
"Driving fearlessly in hail or big thunderstorms
is something I have always wanted to do."
Coming in from the rain, socks wet inside my shoes,
I looked at my big sis and said,
"Then just do it."

"How can you drive contently by yourself
during bumper to bumper rush hour traffic?"
asked my mother, with fear in her eyes.
"I guess years of experience,
living on my own and independent
gave me strength through my cries.
You just have to do it."

Laurie K.

"Silence Speaking"

My father wasn't one
for words
He left that to my mother

Saturday mornings
I followed him
from blade to blade
while he mowed
clipped
trimmed

Rode shotgun while he drove
Truck smelling of dirt and
gasoline

We would feed the grass clippings
to horses
Their huge teeth always made me
a little afraid

Stopping at the A&W afterward
drinking cold rootbeer from a mug
almost too heavy to lift

A roughened work worn hand
placed on my shoulder

I knew I was loved.

- m.u. 04/18/2009

The following poem was intense to write, and for some, it will be intense to read because each of its stanzas tells the story of a sexual assault survivor. These stories are about some of the most brutal interactions young girls can experience, but they are also about how light can come into even the darkest places. I have found that when it seems like evil has all the power, and we are completely powerless, that light still shines with the hope of redemption.

INTERACTIONS

In Thailand, her parents were so poor
that they sold her, and she became a child prostitute.
Above the bed where they forced her, she nailed the words
from Psalm 27: “The LORD is my light and my salvation:
Whom shall I fear? The LORD is the stronghold of my life;
of whom shall I be afraid?”

In Ghana, West Africa, her parents believed they were cursed,
so they gave her to the village priest to be a slave to the gods.
She had her first child by him when she was twelve.
He called her “Gold,” named after the stolen thing her body paid for.
But when she was set free, she chose the name “Mercy,”
and that is her name today.

In Moldova, Eastern Europe, she had no parents
because she was an orphan. She watched the mafia-men come
to the orphanage-door and take other girls away. When she was raped,
she became pregnant, but kept it secret. She knew they had forced other girls
to abort. So she hid in her room, praying, praying. When she ran away,
she found a home, and her son came into the world alive.

In California, her father left her, and her mother ignored her.
Something happened when she was nine. In high school,
she was raped by two drunk boys, one after the other.
All she wanted all her life was for someone to listen to her
and love her for who she was, body and soul. At seventeen,
expecting the unexpected, she asked God to save her.

In Martinez, her parents said she could go stay at her best friend’s house.
Uncle Johnnie was there from West Virginia. In the middle
of the night, he held her head down and forced her on the hard floor.
She couldn’t scream, but her terrified soul cried out, and Jesus
appeared in the corner of the bathroom. Her soul flew out of her body,
and she hid her face against his heart until it was over.

All of these things happened.
All of them are true.

Jane Beal
sanctuarypoet.net

Rocking


Rocking in the waves
Tucked into my dreams
It never dawns on me
Til your knee is in my spleen
We so need a bigger bed

The Editor and the Writer


The email read:
I don’t play golf.
So maybe you could explain
your column better,
signed Mike.

A retired guy
who doesn’t play golf?
Rewrite piece again and again.
You’re very welcome,
signed Cathy.

Oh, he said,
Now I get it.
Look for column in April issue,
send the invoice,
signed Mike.


Having trouble
finding April magazine.
Maybe you could send it along,
with payment.
signed Cathy.


Ran out of room.
Sorry! Mike.

Use it for May.
Thanks! Cathy

MILLIE SAYS


Millie, don’t tell me
Tony’s been that way
for as long as you can
remember. I find that
hard to believe
you knew him
rough as sandpaper
a heart of granite
a mouth that spewed
disparaging words
to make your life
small and insignificant
and still you said “I do”
as if you had no choice
had to marry the brute
or face a bloody end

Johnny, let me tell you
Tony’s always been that way
but he was the master of
disguises. He knew how
to hide behind the blue eyes
of a solicitous lover
his hands were smooth
and in their palms were gifts
that swore they’d glitter forever
you had to see him then
that raucous laugh of his
the honeysuckle words
that dripped from lips
that held black wasps
between teeth grinding
for the right time to gnash
out at me and sting the hell
into me. You just don’t know.

#

Undemanding Empathy by Lynn Potter

I sit knees to chin pondering
then
change my mind.

No, the fetal position is more
fitting.

From the depths
of where I have never been before
come
sobs, gut wrenching sobs…

He looks up,
cocks his head,
moving
gently toward me.

I lean over,
rub his ears.
Tears drip on his coat
as he sits by my side.

We bond at the touch,

Me in my misery,
He in his mercy

He demands no explanation.

He’s my friend,
the quiet comforter,
a canine called “Buddy’’.

IF I HAD A BANANA LAUNCHER

Andrea fished a slice of banana out of her cereal bowl
and balanced it ever so carefully on her spoon.
With the box of “Crispy Flakes” to hide her every move,
she pulled back the end of the spoon
and with a flick of her wrist,
launched the mushy piece of fruit
toward her older sister.
Melissa saw the flying object
and moved her head out of the way at the last moment…
just as I walked into the room
from behind the teenage girl.
Something very soft and very wet
splattered against my forehead.
Milk rolled down the end of my nose,
as the banana fell off my head
and into my shirt pocket.

"What’s the big idea here ladies?” I demanded?
“I can’t even walk into the room
without there being a problem?”
A slight grin slowly spreading across my face.
My sense of mirth was interrupted by
the shrill sound of my oldest daughter’s
familiar words.
“STOP DOING THAT!” Melissa yelled.

I stopped and without turning to look,
reached back at Andrea
and grasped the end of her tongue
between my thumb and index finger.
“What have you been told about
sticking your tongue out at people, little Miss?”
I said sharply.
“I’m getting a little tired of always
having to remind you Andrea.” I finished.
“Now, I’ve got to change my shirt for work.”
came my complaint.
As I turned back to the door,
Andrea made this correction.
“Rebecca” she said, rather matter of factly.
For some reason she despised her name.
"I want to be Rebecca!"
I looked over my right shoulder,
with that look that ALL father’s possessed.
Andrea knew she had crossed the line.

Turtle And Music

Turtle asleep on rock
Classical music plays
She dances with front feet

Day 18 Prompt: An interaction


An interaction

She walked into the kitchen
and looked at me, hopefully.
“I know what you want and the
answer’s no.” She didn’t move
but kept up ‘the look’. “It won’t
work. I said no and I mean
it.” I continued preparing
tea, trying to ignore her
but she edged closer, looking
even more hopeful. “Alright
then, here you go”, and I held
out a piece of cheese for her.
“Good grief, you wouldn’t even
have tasted that. One more piece
and out you go.” She swallowed
that piece too and left the room
knowing instinctively that
I wouldn’t give her anymore.
I think she knows me better
than I know myself.

And they say animals are dumb!

Maureen Sexton

Taking my Husband to the Poetry Festival

Invited to read at the poetry festival
beach town, ocean beckoning,
you come along, fishing poles
balanced in back seat, spinners
float in their little cases.
“Why don’t you come,
just to my reading, please?”
I crack a smile, knowing the answer.
“I can’t sit through two hours of poetry.”
“I know.” I shrug, give up as usual.
Last week we went to Barnes & Noble
to find a good book on fishing.
I lingered in the poetry aisle,
choosing Mark Doty’s prizewinner,
a book of essays I needed.
The checkout is always interesting.
I flash my teachers’ union card,
she looks at the fishing book,
the poetry, then at me.
Another bookstore visit
accomplished, card slides,
discount attained.
Last time it was
“Finances for Dummies”
and Elizabeth Bishop’s letters.
Today I will read my poems
to an appreciative audience,
and you will fish for stripers.
Tomorrow, we are going whale-watching,
an adventure we both enjoy.

Lori Desrosiers

Sorry, need to change poem a little bit

Turtle And Music

Turtle sleeping in water
Classical begins to play
Turtle dances with front feet

Lost touch

“Only connect. . . .” E. M. Forster

Lost is the urge, when passing through an unfamiliar town,
to flip through the phone book in the hotel nightstand,
searching for our own names and then for names we know.
Now with the world a mouse click or cell phone call away,
Now that we can find anyone, we don’t.

We lose touch in random fashion, just as
The brain synapses fail, losing first the name
that goes with a face, then finally the face.
No more movie script surprises: I was just passing through
and thought of you.

Nancy Posey

More changes

Turtle And Music

Turtle sleeps in water
Classical music begins
Turtle dances with front feet

The sun goes down
The lights go on
Fat, juicy bugs gather round.

All night they flitter and flap
Around the bulbs so hot
Dropping on frame and ground.

Now sun comes up
And lights go out
As dead bugs the light surround.

To attract the birds
Soaring in at morn
To feast on these bugs they found.

The mockingbird struts
Across the littered sand
Pecking for once without a sound.

Now the Painted Bunting flits
Then briefly settles on the fence
Before he darts for morsels that abound.

At last the Green Jay proudly comes
Landing softly on the frame
And assesses this treasure crowned.

Capped with such a profusion
Of bugs so tasty and grand
His ji-ji-ji-shk-shk resound.

He is professing for all to hear,
“This buffet for birds is mine
But further I shall not expound.”

Dragonface Pipefish

In early morning, two find each other
and begin their dance, twining
and swirling snake-like, red snouts
pointed at the sky. They twirl vertically
for hours, a slide-and-curl two-step.
As they hover and spin, the female pats
eggs onto the male’s spotted belly,
where they mature until they hatch
and the tiny pipes are on their own.
Tell me any creature is too small
to matter, too small to dance out
its wild love in the anonymous sea.

Unchained Conversation

“Hey, where’s the,” I ask.
“Oh,” she smiles, “I think I left it on the table.”
“On the patio, you mean?”
“Yup,” she nods, sipping ice water, “Right there.”
Later, she calls from the veggie beds,
“Hey, can you,”
“Sure,” I nod, “Which one, the compost?”
“Uh huh,” she smiles, “Just one bag.”
Behind us, the neighbors are home.
We know because their Beagle and Hound
take up a caterwauling of welcome.
I stand and she’s looking at me, smiling.
“Me neither,” I nod, “Because they’re sweet dogs.”
She nods back, still smiling.
When we’re done, we straighten up and hug.
As we part, she looks at me,
one eyebrow raised and adds,
“Cool, so you’re cooking!”

TOILET PAPER WASTED
By: Hannah Bowles

"Oh no!" I exclaim as I open the door
to the bathroom. There on the floor
lies the remnant of most of a roll
"Help me, please?" asks my precious
son. He doesn't realize what he has
done is naughty. So I take a deep
breathe and let him know his actions
were faulty. "Will you please not
waste the toilet paper?" I ask while
thinking he doesn't know the meaning
of wasteful, this caper of paper. He
wants to flush it down the toilet now
pushing it together into one big ball
"No honey we are going to save this,"
I say scooping it up and putting it
away. That sent him into howling and
he was ready for a fit, empty cardboard
toilet paper tube gripped in his little
mitt. "Come out of the bathroom now would
you please," I try and seize the moment
of calm before the storm, before big salty
drops began to form. Inaudible speech is
all that he could beseech with, “ okay let's
go 1, 2, 3 ." He liked the sound of this,
numbers he couldn't miss, he perked up and
picked himself up and the storm was averted.
"Wow" I thought to myself,” that works?" I
think with surprise. I always hear those moms
who do that and I never really thought it would
have such a calming affect. Moments later we're
sitting in the computer chair together, peering
through this tube of cardboard paper. Laughter
abundant, who would've known his naughty moment
could've sown such a simple pleasure after all.


This poem is for the interaction post. True story as you probably guessed,this really did happen this morning!

Me And The Eighteenth Rotten Raisin

It’s the last one in the box, my tongue
is gooey sweet, then a disgusting taste,
what a waste my snack time pleasure,
raison d’etre, a shocking spoiler core.

Nest Builders

The birds on the balcony
resent my intrusion
since they were there first.

They reprimand me,
plead with me, twitter
at me, all in perfect pitch
when I step outside to water
the geraniums.

"Go build your nest
somewhere else," they chirp.

I've seen them since March,
twigs and straw in their beaks,
resting on the rail
before the last leg of the flight
to the roof where the nursery
is being renovated.

Guilty and feeling like an interloper
I hurry out and do my chores
begging their forgiveness
and cringing in the presence
of their displeasure.

THANK YOU IAN, I appreciate the explanation I see what happened now after reading the interaction. Ha! funny coincidence.

Take It Outside

Screeching laughter
Piercing giggles
My ears hurt
My heart sings
Deafening voices
go from play to fight
"Give it to me!"
"They are mine"
Booming footsteps
clomp on the hardwood floors.
Chasing, chasing
CRASH!
Silence. Crying.
I wait. I listen.
"Wanna play outside?" the big one asks.
(little one is crying)
"Do you? (stroking his little brother's hair.)
Wanna play outside?"
(crying subsides)
And out to the playhouse they go...
Screeching laughter
Piercing giggles
Faraway footsteps on a sun-burnt lawn
Neighborly noises mesh with their voices
Ahhhh My heart sings!!

JANE- your piece really moved me thank you for posting this.

A Visit to Relatives Nearby

I stared at the ceiling beams
and studied the altar.
I watched the flickering candle light
make shadows move and falter.
My mind absorbed the sacred silence when
suddenly a voiced interrupted my solitude.
"Is everything okay, my dear child? May I help you?"
Quickly wiping away the tears,
I looked up at her from the pew.
A matronly woman with kind eyes,
studied me, her manner mild.
I should have said that
I don't come to church since my mother died,
but all that came out was, "No, I'm fine, thank you."
She continued, nodding at my reply,
she did not say it, but I knew she was
wondering silently at why I had cried.
She said, "Our service is not for another hour yet.
Are you new? In all my time here
I do not remember ever seeing you?"
"I don't live her any more.-
I'm visiting relatives nearby," I replied.
"Oh, that is lovely," she, like a dove, cooed.
"Just in case you don't know the booths are open
for confession for another hour or so,
before the evening service begins."
"Thank you," I said while my mind
dwelled on my human frailty and sin.
Her eyes had an inner calm that glowed,
radiated and somehow soothed.
She softly whispered, "I leave you in peace then."
"Peace be with you," tumbled
out of my mouth as if by cue.
Echoes of sacred rituals still resided in my head.
I had not been to church in almost ten years, the
amount of time that mom has been dead.
She rests in the cemetery nearby,
on a grassy knoll,
looking up at the sun, clouds, stars and blue sky,
while the traffic and people
in the frenzied pace of life
hurriedly zoom by.

YOU ARE WHAT ALL ARTISTS SEE

We come to sit together
to view the last faint traces
of a summer sunset in a silent sky.

The glow of yellow-orange light
is refracted by the silhouetted trees,
Shining, peeking through quietly,
catching your eye as you look my way.

You glide your hand through your soft auburn hair
Perching the gentle tresses behind your ear,
And in that solitary moment,
I am home.

Your beauty reveals itself,
the hidden treasure of the truest heart.
Beneath your loving exterior
you have become where I want to be;
my humble abode; my sanctuary safe...

I have become mesmerized by your presence
which is soothing and warm and passionate;
Calming and reassuring.

In the distance,
the gulls disguise their lilting melody
and you saunter toward me
to engage me in a tantric slow dance.

And you make my heart sing
a beautiful song in which the only lyric
is your name.

Second by second,
I begin to recognize that
this enchanting glow to which we give witness
is the reflection of your sensuous brown eyes,
hidden as in an abstract painting.

You are what all artists see,
the shadow and texture; the tint and hue.
The palette of penetrating colors
spread across the canvas of our love.

You are who my poet’s heart sees,
you are fanciful alliteration,
the turn of a well worded phrase.
The rhyme and the meter that drives my soul.

You have become my poetry.

You are truly my life’s art…

Cats, Poetry & Death #37

The Trilogy

or

How it all fits together

Now be prepared for a scare
Perfectionists please take care
Some of this poem rhymes
And some doesn’t

A simple ruse when lacking muse
A trick, a sleight of hand (or pen!)
To write about three good old standbys
That seldom fail to jolt the mind
From slumber and sluggish mood

First of all of course, the art itself
For that is closest to the heart itself
To scribe a rhyme or verse or prose
About which best the Poet knows
Well, poetry of course

Second most comes the Cat
All poets have one, it’s a fact
The familiar sparks familiar themes
And words are conjured from cat dreams

The third is dealt with by all
For all some day will hear his call
The Spectre that away will take your breath
The third of course, our old friend Death

But, now wait! It’s much more complex
There are times when all three join the text
But One or two might just suffice
A simple Cat poem can be quite nice

The poet is inspired by the cat, the cat
Annoys the poet while writing
In a fit of pique the poet kills the cat
Who just deleted
One hundred words
In verse which caused the Poet
To more than curse
So now here is the dilemma
To write about all three is clever
(oh Come on! Nothing rhymes with dilemma!!!)
Oh except for Emma, ahhh! Dear sweet Emma!
But I digress as is my wont
I shouldn’t do it so I won’t
But if you pick just one
Any one, just for fun
Is it still within the breadth
Of the remit
Cats Poetry and Death?

And sometimes you choose to rhyme
Then choose not to for a line
Or two or three who’s to say that ain’t right
It’s my poem so I’ll do what I like
So now number thirty-seven is up
Its time that I had a cup
Of coffee
See! No rhyme there!
Its time to sign it
To say farewell
To Cats, poetry and a muse-less hell
Whoops! Did it again!


Iain

MARIE- I simply loved your "Dragonface Pipefish." There is no creature too small! Thank God!

early evening in mid-summer
in a dusky yard fiddling with hoses
and sprinklers a huge winged bug
darts about through water
droplets wait not a bug
a hummingbird diving about
careening from point to point
just for a manic tinnitus instant.
i watch intently turning and swerving
in my own seemingly manic dance
but then this: it pulls up hovers
inches from my face staring
staring some more at my motion
less wonder wondering about me
maybe my slowness wingless motion
no hum in the damp air
quite a brief pair
there
then gone

I just wish I could read you guys' poetry and blog works all day but I'm expected at a baby shower. Here is the poem I wrote for her card which actually is an interaction of sorts in itself. Just felt like sharing!

Baby dreams,
midnight screams
and everything there after.
Love and hugs and lots and
lots of laughter. If you’d have
your druthers you’d have a sister
or a brother to share your love.
Time will show that above all else
your patience grows and a mother
Is the precious heart of this family.

(Really enjoyed your poem today, Robert.)

Conversations with God

"But when I die,"
I began, nervous,
undecided about going on.
"When I die, will it..."
"Hurt?" she asked,
a faint glint
of grin, at first,
that later stretches
to a face cracking smile.
"Yes. I suppose
that's what I'm asking."
God looks at me,
flutters her skirts
about her porcelain skin,
does a slight pirouette
about my trembling body.
"Will it hurt?" she says,
laughing this time.
"Just a hint will do,"
I say, not sure
I really want to know.
She looks to the blue
sky above, raises
a long thin hand,
points to a puff of cloud.
"I think you'll do just fine,"
she says as a finger freezes
to the cloud and points
it off to the left
just a little.
"There," she says,
turning back to offer
a supercilious smile.
"That cloud was gnawing
on my sense of symmetry."
I am left with nothing
but a notion, less
than what I started with.
"But. But. But I want to know..."
She begins to walk away,
"It is mine to know,
young man. Yours
to unravel
when the time comes."
I consider a sort of plea,
but decide there is no
begging God.
"Just live. Just
do what you do."
She waves as she prepares
to disappear.
"Oh!" she says.
"Yes? What? What is it?"
"Please. Keep your pretty eyes
on the buses
as they pass you by.
You know. Just in case."

Quiet Transformation

It is quiet
so quiet
deep in the darkest
recesses of the closet
where
on a white
plastic hanger
tucked deep
in the back
behind loudly
patterned jackets
blouses
vests and shirts
screaming their
polka-dots
paisleys
and stripes
the black dress
is silent
quiet
calm
so self controlled
with quiet optimism
just waiting
waiting
waiting
for her
to need
the power
it holds
in its simplicity
dark fibers
flowing softly
as her hands
smooth the
fabric of her skirt
she twirls
the mirror
catching
the magic
of transformation
with the flip
of her hem
from soccer mom
to goddess
the little black dress
shouts

To Ush or Not to Ush

“I love my job,”
he’ll happily gush,
“because the theatre
is where I ush.

I’ve seen ‘em all:
comedic actors
and drama queens
and benefactors

and sets and props
and lights and sound
and divas who are
Broadway bound.

I know they sleep
and dream perchance
to make it big
in song and dance.

But as for me,
I keep the beat
with ‘Sir - your Playbill;
here’s your seat.’

I tell ‘em all
‘Enjoy the show
from Overture
to Standing O.’

At curtain time,
a thrilling hush...
but ‘til that point
just watch me ush.”

(Note: According to the Worthless Word for the Day, 'Ush' [a verb] means the act of being am usher.)

Daniel, Great to hear from you. Looks like you are off to a great start this morning. Give it hell, Cowboy! This is a most excellent adventure!

"Obi-Wan" Atwater, what can I say? You the man! You're both teacher and mentor. I'll try my best to keep up without passing out.

Hannah, loving your efforts as well. Tremendous contribution to this "Book of Life-Poetry" we have going here. Added plus, your support of the rest of us is a great motivator. I'm glad you're out there reading all we do.

Outstanding Work all!

I Took a Trip with God
by Diana R. Wilson

I took God Fishing. Straight out of a cliche ’70 mobster movie.
Muddy water lapping against my weathered boat with God piloting.
I figured it was the least I could do, let him navigate this last time.
He’d never managed to steer my course straight.

So we’re out on the lake. The morning threaded with distant woodpecker
cries with a ghostly dance of mist and campfire smoke just above water.
This beautiful place, where those little girls were found
raped and butchered.

We’re bating our hooks, God wearing his corporate smile.
Telling me, with a politician’s hungry-eyed leer, of his wonders.
We don’t talk about the things he already taught me. Like not to touch myself.

He’ll give an all access pass for those who smear their
oily hands over you, but for His sake,
‘keep your hands off your body.’

Then, between his cheesy litany, he says,
‘Sorry about all that shame you’re carrying around.
Oh. Um. Why did I let it happen?
Free will. Blah blah,
The Devil. Blah blah.
Sin! ‘

‘Pretty sure
it’s your fault
somehow anyway. ‘

‘Do you want an all access pass?
All you have to do is pay the fire insurance and we’ll cut
you ahead in the line.’

Just like a Wall Street hustler who never takes responsibility.

When I returned home, my heart felt
quiet for the first time in my life.
I washed the stink of fish and guilt from my hands.

No one asked me what happened
to God.
I wonder if anyone does.

‘i am full of it’
he says
and she nods, because she knows it is true.
but suddenly she wonders if he means
bullshit
beer
love for her
the sushi they just ate
…or some combination therein?

she knows
she really should ask him
to be more specific
but she is afraid the answer might be a bit dyspeptic.

Tigger and the Big Black Snake

Tigger was a gift at Christmas
A mixed breed, skinny, girl dog
Very quietly introduced into a pack gathering
Of friends rescued by my daughter
The four dogs crowding around the new dog
Some welcoming her some grumbling,
A low rumbled growl, probably a warning
“Don’t try to take my bones and toys.”
But Tigger is curious and tries to grab
The nearest bone, which gets snapped back
More rumbles and growls, and she’s off
Exploring the back yard
She finds a long black snake and follows
The entire path from in the fern covered tree
To under the protective shed
But once the snake disappears,
Tigger turns her head in both directions
Trying to squeeze under the shed
She thinks she’s made a new friend.
The snake bites her on the top of her head
“Yowie” she seems to bark and
Walks away abused and confused
She thought she was making a friend.

Maureen Sexton--- I really enjoyed that! As soon as you said 'cheese' I knew who the other 'person' in the interaction was! My Golden Retriever is the very same. Thanks for sharing!

I'm enjoying spending time here reading poetry. Good work is being created by all.

Disclaimer Needed

Today
she emailed,

an exciting discovery
need to have
(for family communication)

Last year
I emailed

an exciting discovery
great to have
(for family communication)

a dumb idea last year,
a brilliant idea now

the source remembers
each and every time

but clings to disclaimer,
self-generated,
"subject to new information"

Dear Moosehead,
Goddamn it man!
sometimes I think you are
even more half-witted than
your no-good sister. Don’t
talk about interaction like
you know what you’re saying!
It’s all interaction, all of it, all
of the time. The way those
crazy broads drive me crazy –
interaction. Your cousin sleeping
with the Knicks is definitely
interaction, the snippy notes
I get from Greek Jimmy are
not just annoying but interactive.
Hell even this is interaction
twixt you and I old friend.
The most important interaction
after that between the players
is that between the players and
the fans. Do ya geddit?
Any way interact with this later
and pick me up at seven.
Bring money I want to interact
with some beer and chilli-dogs.


Yours fed up with explaining it all

Ringo the Howler

Acorns in the Sand

by Therese Haberman

Elegant oak acorns
rest rigidly
on soft sandy surfaces

Down deep dribbles
of seedy saplings
send fingerlike feelers
into dry beds of succulent soil.

Deep down
under dregs of sandy dunes
dry tree eggs
wait their turn to erupt.

Dreaming of lofty loads
of lusty leaves

her papers fall

she is an important woman
about to speak
about hunger, about suffering
about the things that matter.

i sit next to her, i watch her eat.
she eats hardly anything.
people ask questions.
she answers -- strong tough.
she has all the answers.

but she drops her papers, she needs
something to drink.
the others talk on oblivious.
i bend down, draw the scattered
pages from the floor.

i get her water, wine, i make
sure she eats more.

and she raises her eyes to me
clever eyes -- she ran for mayor
of new york city once --

and she says, simply
thanks.

How it was

She sat in her chair,
my mother,
bored
because of ever-worsening symptoms
of old age.
She came in,
her little great-granddaughter of five
bringing her favourite book
which she handed with a questioning look
to my mother
she took the book and smiled
The girl climbed into her lap
and when they were both comfortable
my mother smiled
and read the story
and named the objects
and answered questions,
discontent banished
while she felt
needed.

HILLSBOROUGH


We were in the crowd in the away stands.
It was my first football match. I was as much a tourist
as a fan, an observer more than a participant.
Sometimes it seemed I was watching a film,
the extras chanting and shouting and shoving,
but I was there and I thought back to the pictures
I saw of the disaster and I know I'm a girl
and I know I'm American but for a moment
I felt very afraid. You go to matches to watch
football and there was too much noise to hear
my voice even if I spoke so I didn't. I didn't
even look at you, I looked at the pitch and hoped
my mind would stop blending then and now.
I felt your hand slide into my gloved hand.
We both kept looking forward but I knew I was safe.

Untitled woods and forest logs


Stilled out and hollowed is this moss shrouded log
Where I sit cross legged just outside a lone ray of light
Filtered down through the myriad leaves above
Of these sighing trees too old to count
And though I know them all by name
I listen to them talk and I remain silent this day

My heart is heavy in my chest,
Like my mind is wearily drudging through the week hardly past
Sometimes stumbling over what was said, and when and how
To who, always to who and I wonder all over once more of she
The one trusting in me with hope flickering and fading I think to fear
And I fear and wallow here in this great wood of emptied people

Will I find all that which once lived to breathe inside of me in past moments this way before
Or will I fall all over once more and again
Forever losing that which births a smile inside this light
Will I be cast adrift forlorn of my own hands and mind...again
Like never before, was, will be anew

"Those are heavy thoughts Oshkabay'wis," Salamander says softly from inside this log
All I can do is nod my head, yes, but always worth it
"What is it Oshkabay'wis that chokes your voice from her?"

"I do not know my friend," and this I mutter in quiet. "I don't know."

Herein lies the bitter joke and truth of me in this now
I know and I don't know,
Two things unspoken that may just be and all the same may not be
True
And if they are illusions cast across my mind
I will die a death unlike any I have known since or fear, Dread to believe
I will ever again..

"So you run from that which you wish to be and hold dear?"
My salamander friend says from his log
Once more I look to the sky
Barely glimpsed through those million more leaves
The sun is setting, or rising I have forgotten which
Mayhap never knew
"That makes perfect sense Oshkabay'wis."

"Oh it does, does it?"

"Or not, I was just sayin," and I hear him, no feel him shrug and smile
Not an unkind smile, but one filled with a sadness for a friend
He's a kind soul, always was and will ever be

"So what do I do Kyrill?" I asked already knowing the answer

Still it is a long moment before the salamander speaks
I watch the motes of dust seemingly hanging in the air of light filtered
So slowly do they fall in this drawn out moment
Between beatings of my heart,
Where my soul gasps with held breath
And then

He speaks to shatter the stilled out peace that was once a moment

"You're just going to have to speak to her about it dewd
There's nothing else to be done about it
You can't hide it,
You can't bury it,
You can't replace it,
You can't lie about it either
She will see through all those things,"
Kyrill the salamander falls silent then

Our moss covered log creaks under my shifting weight
As I stand with a shrug of my shoulders
And shake of my head
He's right though I think and sigh with a setting of my shoulders
He's right

"What are you going to say?" salamander asked before he steps into the light
Thus signaling his having nothing more to say
For salamanders do not speak when they can be seen

He smiles half sadly when our eyes meet
And I nod
He nods
I smile a sad kind of smile

"I'm gonna tell her that I love her,
That for me the sun rises and sets on her
That I cannot find the air to breathe without her
That when I am in her eyes I can be whole again
I can do anything all over once more for never having known this before..."

I end with a sigh and heavily so

"Then I'll mutter something about the computer and my coffee,"
Even as these last words fall from my lips
I know full and well

"She's gonna kill me isn't she?"

Kyrill, the salamander, only nods

Once, twice

I swallow

"Thought so."

“The Attack of Inner-Beauty”

You claim that you “weren’t
talking to me,” yet you addressed
yourself to the general public
when you were spouting your
anger and disdain at the poor cashier.

“I should just leave my stuff here,
and walk out the store,” you
spouted hastily, after a slur of
insults directed here, there and
everywhere, pointed for all ears.

Just because I stood up for a
seventy year old woman, who
probably doesn’t want to be working
let alone take hackneyed ribbing
from some woman all pissy
and grouchy she can’t be home
wasting her time flippantly watching
television or chatting on her cell.

“She’s new, give her a break,” is
all I tried to expunge. Your pride
and bitterness (which is not attractive,
by the way) exuded itself in its
true form, arms folded, crossed
in disdain. You forced me to resort
to tactics on VH1 reality shows
when after your babbling, all I could
mutter was a “Do you want to
start something?”

You have the ability to reduce
people to something so ugly
and banal as provocation. I hope
when you retire, due to
circumstances built up by
the squandering US public,
you find yourself geriatric, but
needing to find a job to just get by.

On your first week, you’ll be
somewhere, trapped – deer in the
headlights look plastered across
your wrinkled face, a slight small
drawn upon your lips, trying not
to manifest your true fear building
up slowing inside.

Too scared to make a mistake
and cause unwanted anger towards
you, you ask frequent questions
of your co-workers. They are
patient, but the people you serve
grow agitated, frustration crossing
their brow.

They have no clue (nor do most
of them care) that your husband
of thirty-seven years just passed
three weeks ago. Bills piled high,
from two years he spent in the hospital,
and the grand-daughter you’ve
been elected to raise, since your
daughter went missing five years ago.

This wasn’t what you thought
retirement would be. Montego Bay
is nothing but an ad tucked away
back in a magazine you shuffle
into its rightful place because
someone impatient riffled through
its pages, waiting on your speed
of service.

While all of this is going on for you,
I want you to remember this
day, now many years ago, that you
were impatient and self-important.
I want you to remember the
woman here, that you will become,
trying to do her job to survive.
And I hope you cry, showing
the first real emotion you’ll
probably ever have.

Iain D. Kemp -- Cats, Poetry & Death #37
You suckered me in! :) So much fun.

THE SWELL AND YOU

You stand on the shore with your bare feet in the water
and it is warm and comforting.
And the strength of each wave is very powerful.
But your footing is sure, your step is confident.

The current flows the same as it has for all of your forty years,
your memory struggles for old familiarity
and the strength of our past is very powerful,
but your heart is sure, its beat is confident.

You look out across the water to a place directly opposite
from where you stand on the shore.
But, the strength of the expanse before you is getting clearer,
and your mind is sure, with a certainty of confidence.

The waves at your feet swell larger and wash over you
the same as it has for forty years.
The strength of these feelings is potent
but your instinct is sure, your emotions are confident.

You wade into the water, suddenly mesmerized by these waves.
You swim against the current, but it draws your out even further
and the strength of your will consumes you
but your soul is sure, it heads home with confidence.

The wave pulls you close and the image fills your eyes
the same as it has filled your life for longer than always.
The strength of this wave grows sure
and your own current gathers a gentle turbulence.

Finally you stop and you look up at me where I stand.
The same place that I've been all this time,
dropping pieces of my heart into the water
very sure that the concurrent circles that flow outwardly find you with confidence.

Like ripples in water, my love flows forward from my heart
radiating in all directions, gaining strength to reach your shore.
The strength of my love grows every day with you
and my heart is sure that you're safe in my arms.

I stand here on the shore with my bare feet in the water
and it is warm and comforting.
And the strength of your love is very powerful.
Much like ripples in water, your love flows to fill my heart.

The Tree and the Leaf

"Welcome, my new friend,"
said the tree to the sprouting leaf.
"It's good to see your budding face."
"I'm happy to be here,"
replied the little green leaf.
"It's an honor to be a part of Spring's renewal."

Grubby little hands hug my legs from behind.
Busy with dishes, laundry, some to-do of the day,
I reach down and absentmindedly pat the blond head as it exits.

“I give you dat to make you life better,” sweet two-year-old warble calls,
already on her way back to the busy-ness of books and blocks and babies.

My heart stops briefly, records the moment
and files it away for a rainy day.

At Sunset & Vine


the gumwad, pink and oozy, wears a furred grey
sweater, pricks up when it notices the incoming shoe,

doesn’t try to avoid it, though it knows that there’s only
a thirty percent chance that it will get picked up, and,

if it does, everything will change. It knows that in order
to move on it must leave a piece of itself behind, and that

the moving on will require a stretching, a breaking off.
It has seen this done. It knows how painful it can be

but ultimately it is just a matter of time. There will come
a day when the gumwad ceases to exist. It is already

happening, a slow integration into the surrounding
concrete, a drying out at the edges, a chip blown off

or a bird-pecked stringy pit. Whatever touches
the gumwad changes. The bird-beak with its glop of pink

gradually acquiring a coat of muck. And the shoe. If
the shoe should fall in the exact right spot the gumwad

will release, will peel from the walk and then, with each
step, gather grass, or paper wings, leaving pieces

of itself wherever it hits ground. It has seen this happen,
watched longingly as its sister trailed off on a Sunset-

bound heel. But already the shoe has come and gone.
The gumwad has been passed over again.

:hands:
You embrace me now and then,
and i’ll touch Your hand. ever under watchful
eyes of unblinking faces. love is never digital.
we rendezvous on the quarter hours,
time passing like a slow march toward
its own end. life hanging by the length of
a stranger’s wrist. we pardon the interruption
of seconds passing by, as they carelessly
intrude upon Your long embraces, knowing
in a minute’s time ours will end. the strangers
ask the time, and if only they knew how late,
how long, the hours, oh!, the hours!

Thanks Diana

Iain

Midwifery



I type, and my
words appear on
the page. Birth
of a poem, albeit
small and insig-
nificant. Still, my
words, this paper,
new life. The page
has birthed me
through my
fingers.

So many words, so little time. You all are doing some amazing writing. We're on the downward slide now, maybe I can catch up when we hit home.

~~~~~

A Comfort
(*Super Tanka)

interactions ‘tween, synergy exists
a pair of needles and yarn, a pattern and yes some skill
helps me to create, building stitch by stitch
a gift of comfort for one, warmth and care rolled into each
living within cancer’s grip, with hope ever in their grasp


Nita G Isenhour
April 18, 2009
PAD Challenge prompt # 18: interaction


(*A tanka is a traditional Japanese poem. The Americanized version consists of 5 lines, unrhymed, with a syllable count of 5,7,5,7,7 for the lines. A Super Tanka takes two tankas and makes them work together. They can be done as separate stanzas or connected by commas, where they finish the thought yet are separate thoughts. I got this form from a friend who said he wasn't sure if it is a real form or not. I liked it, I use it.)

Caught Again

I sit at the computer,
read today’s prompt,
wonder what interaction
I will see, what I’ll write.

Then, below the window,
comes a growl followed by hiss
and I jump up, ready
to fend off bloodshed.

Poke fingers, pull slats apart,
apply eye to Venetian blind.
Through the closed pane
I say to the new cat on the turf,

‘Patch, don’t you hassle Java.’
Say to the black cat hunched
and defending her own, ‘Java,
leave him alone, he belongs here now.’

Java twitches one ear,
doesn’t change her focus.
Patch swivels and stares
at the all-seeing face above.

I can almost hear his dismay,
the thought running through his brain.
‘Does that blasted woman have eyes
in the back of her head?’

The Bird Does Not Spread Its Wings to Fly

The bird does not spread its wings to fly,
or soar within the bounds of earth’s sweet gravity,
nor take advantage of the wind, and glide from tree to tree.
The bird instead, hangs from a tree branch, curiously, precariously,
up-side-down, head toward the ground, one leg trapped the other free.
It flaps its wings, furiously battling, in hopes of flying free.
But trapped it is, as trapped it shall stay, fulfilling its destiny.
Silently now, it hangs from the bough, as if placed there gently,
carefully, lovingly, purposefully,
By the hand of God.

Voice Purge

“You ain't nothin' but a punk ass boy!”
was only a portion of the venom I heard spewed
into the cell phone of a large teenage girl
wearing lime green sweat pants;
I shook my head in disgust and dismay as I
loaded my groceries into my car's trunk;
What an abuse of the English language
(not to mention the “punk ass boy's ears);
I sometimes wish I could mute the world.

The next day I went on a nature trail walk
all by my lonesome,
I wore no ipod, I didn't even hum to myself;
Purging myself from the human voice.

I heard many voices in many languages
but, fortunately, none of them human;
The baritone croak of bull frogs,
various chirps, twitters and trills
of jays, finches, wood thrush and the like,
The rush and surge of water cascading
over river rocks,
the plop of lazy snapping turtles
rolling off their nap-time logs.

My ears were soothed by the foreign whispers
from wind to oak leaf;
Purged from even my own thoughts.

I returned to my car and started the engine,
catching myself before I reached to turn on the radio;
I needed to stop by Kroger for a half gallon of milk
but I wasn't yet ready to hear even a kind
“Thank you. Have a nice day!”
The milk could wait 'til tomorrow.

18

I'm fairly sure I've lived at least 18 turns of the wheel,
And been utterly baffled every time at this love thing.
But this love, unconditional, passionate, soaring...
Where have you been all my lives?

She awaits
almost
pensively
For a touch she will never feel
From a man she does not know
or
necessarily
care for
In a mood not of her feeling
from a place she does not know
hasn’t
ever seen before
Smile demurely, melancholy feeings.
It will be wonderful you know.

The Model
By Gregory Gusse

CAN I WARM THAT UP FOR YOU?

Clanking silverware echoed an
oblivion in the cavernous diner,
as chatter about the events of the day
provided an appropriate counterpoint.
There was something about the waitress
who scurried from table to table.
Beth was fair of skin and slight of figure;
she was more beautiful than
the likes of this joint should be allowed to envision.
Her blonde hair flowed in a cascade to her shoulders
hindered only by the silver barrette that clipped it
neatly around her sculpted face. Her skin
gave the appearance of porcelain,
clean and fragile, contributing
to her doll-like demeanor.
She had her flaw, though.
Everyone has a flaw.
Her pulchritude somehow
overcompensated for all that she lacked in grace.
The load on her crowded tray
awkwardly shifted in her hand.
She could not stop its descent.
A cacophonous crash brought all activity
in Magadan's to an abrupt halt.
The patrons glanced up briefly
from their meaningless mire of self importance,
only to return to their political dissections
and baseball box scores. This old girl had seen her day.

As the corner stop for the steelworkers
who found sanctuary and a cheap beer
waiting for them after a long day at the plant,
she was a haven. When the factory closed,
this favored gin mill met a similar fate.
Graffiti laden plywood became her window.
Decay became her disease.
The wrecking ball pleaded for a chance
to put her out of her misery.
Good fortune came in the guise
of an investment developer’s eye
providing a heroic rescue. Magadan's
made her return as a family restaurant,
catering to a more technologically advanced work force.
Her memory held the charm
of your run of the mill greasy spoon,
and therein lied her appeal. The breakfasts
would raise your cholesterol level
merely by reading the items off of the menu.
The lunch clientele fared a little better.
Dinners were the choice
of the long haul truck drivers
that passed through Buffalo
on the way to more important
and vibrant locales.

This is an old one, not written this month, but I thought it fit the prompt.





The Heat of a Kiss Never Had


They stand in the parking lot for over 2 hours,
Saying goodbye.

He on the other side of her car door
She with one leg in, as if to leave at any moment.
And yet, they linger
Heat rising and falling between them with every breath
Despite the night’s October chill
Laughter full of sparks
His blue eyes piercing her green
In the dark.

And she wants desperately to kiss him.

No, that isn’t it, exactly.
She longs for him to kiss her.
Old fashioned, maybe, but true.
And yet, somewhere deep,
Alarms are going off
And with every fiber of her being,
She dreads the moment, too.

Their first kiss.
Perhaps the beginning of something
Amazing.
But surely the end of something magical.
This place they are now.
This
Best friends
Endless all-night phone conversations
So much in common
So much still unsaid
Can he really be for real
Is she only dreaming
Place.

For surely from here
Things will escalate
At her usual pace.
Always quick.
Never painless.

She will fall fall fall
(from grace)
From her soft cocoon
And land hard, bruised.
Screw it up somehow, confused.
Wondering why her heart is such a temporary place.
And by the light of day,
He will be just another…man.
(Shoulda been a four-letter word, really.)

And still, she lingers.
Her heartbeat is a stranger in her own chest.
And she wants this conversation to go on forever,
Not even sure what they’ve been talking about.
So busy is she memorizing
The curve of his fingers on her car door
The set of his shoulders
The weight of his smile.


Just after 3am.
I’ve really got to go
She says it for the eighth time.
He laughs, a sound she commits carefully to memory
In case it is the last time it sounds
This musical
This sexy
This
Perfect.

They hug,
Linger.
Pull back,
Glance.
Her heart gasps.
At last, whew.
No kiss.

Later, at home, the phone rings.
Bliss.









(And yes, it really happened, just like this. Ridiculously happily married 10 years now.)

“Between you and yourself”

He pounds the hammer day after day,
driving the hurt and the demons away.
She clutches her arms so close to her skin,
trying to rid his dirt and his sin.
Anger does fly, claws are unsheathed,
beaten for greed, they're never reprieved.

While we sit in our homes, with our ears firmly plugged,
they're raped and they're tortured, by murderous thugs.
Slavery's past, we repeat to ourselves,
while children are sold on proverbial shelves.
Anger does fly, claws are unsheathed,
beaten for greed, they're never reprieved.

I'm only one person, there's naught I can do,
How easily the lies have replaced what is true.
You can stand up and fight, be the voice for the lost,
And work to end slavery regardless of cost,
to your time, to your pocket, to your own peace of mind.
It's His call and His voice crying out to the blind.
Anger does fly, claws are unsheathed,
beaten for greed, they're never reprieved.

Open your eyes and see what is real.
The wounds and the pain, just reach out and feel.
Brothers and sisters, take up the charge.
We're small individuals but together we're large.
Slavery can be stopped cold in its tracks,
if only their burden we'll place on our backs.
Anger does fly, claws are unsheathed,
justice and mercy can offer reprieve.

He pounds the hammer day after day,
driving the hurt and the demons away.

My Guitar – By Jane Eamon 2009

You always know
When I need you
Offering solace in the
Darkest moments
With a promise of release
And unconditional love

You rest there
Waiting patiently
For that moment when
I pick you up
And strum that first glorious note

You challenge me
With untold mysteries
Of chords and shapes
I’ve yet to discover
You know I won’t
Turn you away

You beckon with all
The power you have
In your silver strings
Chastising me
When I neglect you

I let you go for
28 years
A long time to be without you
But I won’t forget you now
You’re a part of me
As I’m a part of you

You sing when I cannot
You cry when my tears are dry
You uplift me
When the weight of the world
Presses in

You are my solace
And my confidant
My guitar

Walt..."dropping pieces of my heart into the water..."
Oh, my.

The Man Next Door

The man next door mows the lawn
Not for him
The winding flex
Of an electric mower
Moaning and whining
Complaining in two octaves
Ripping and slashing at grass
No time to ponder
Urgent matters wait in the wings

The man next door is a purist
A hand mower
Rattling gently
Up and down
A gentle conversation
With blades of grass
Nipping and snipping
Inhaling grass cuttings
Exhaling contentment

Terri, I can relate! I had a day of silence recently - no TV, email, music, etc. It was wonderful. Already looking forward to the next one. It's amazing what birds - and God - can say to you when all the background noise is shut off.

The Moment

Who does he think he is -
President Obama?
Instead of sitting here,
I could be in my pajamas-
But just outside the doorway,
I see his handsome face,
As he slowly strides into the room
With elegance and grace
And helps himself to all the food
That I did so provide,
And then he sidles up to me
With merry eyes so wide,
And playfully about my hands
He rubs his flaxen head
Forsaking velvet cushions,
He takes my knee instead,
And settles down so happily
With a purr that has no end,
I spend a peaceful moment
With Babboo, my feline friend!

Chill

Son is home from university
His window is open for that fresh air
Sparrows and grackels and robins are
Scavenging the lawn and budding trees
In the back yard.
Time to get the morning paper.
Out front, in our soon to-be-red maple,
I hear a steady beat
tap-tap-tap
tap-tap-tap
There in the middle of the tree is a
Red-headed woodpecker attacking the trunk
I quickly run to get the camera
Hoping for a quick digital moment of this first-time
Bird in our front yard
I press the on/off switch--no response
No sound No photo
Time to recharge the batteries
Sit back
Finish the coffee and the crossword
Enjoy the sounds of a spring morning.

RESERVATIONS



You call me musically fickle – you have never been so grieved
that you could not listen to the same genre
but had to change the dial to something new and distracting
without memories that choke up suffocating sobs.

My bookshelf surprises you – you have never been so
hair pulling distraught that you could not look at
another self-help book and had to flee to a murder mystery
that would not, in fact, help.

You say I clean too much – you have never been so powerless
it dropped you to your knees where the close proximity to the
cracks between the tiles saved your life by injecting it with
purpose.

You think I am too reserved – you don’t know what it’s like
to hyperventilate from sobs that want to stop
your drowning heart.
Would you like to reserve a place at that table?

When Will the Estranged Wife Smile?

The bets at the office range
from never to within-the-hour
because now it's Sammy B's turn
to try. No dick jokes, no
staged falls, he knows better
than to hand her a rose. All week
the possibilities have scrawled
across his notebook in cartoon
bubbles. He's watched her
chew the eraser from her pencil
in a meeting with the coatless
men from accounts. He's timed
the slow blink of her black
mascaraed lashes and studied her
muscled calves as they leave
her cubicle for the bathroom.
He begins to see her perched
on the edge of his own bed
one leg crossed over
the other and finally sliding
in between his own thin
sheets. And then the hour comes
and he finds himself
on the elevator alone with her
and she turns toward him
with an expression he has learned
means hope which casts
his eyes down to the dirt
creeping up the leather of his shoes
and he is too ashamed.

move
slow
griping
very tight
little by little
a walker is so frustrating
but can't walk without
Damn aging
tired
feel
old

Raindrops from treetops
Soak the ever fertile ground
And new life begins

Lucky in Cleveland

The lights are so low
I pass for late forties—
no glasses, hair tinted
the right shade of caramel.
This younger guy
who grows younger the nearer he gets
comes over and asks me to dance.

I have a fifteen-year limit
and I think he’s under it
so I keep to generalities
until he asks: So, where are you from?
and I say: Kansas
and he thinks for second
then grins and says: Kansas!
The Jayhawks, right!

So there’s a connection,
and since he still lives with his folks
we go back to my place.

Alley fight

Big black cat circles
little orange tom back steps.
tails fluff
hisses spit.
Black one snakes a paw
full of claws out,
catches the little one behind the ear.
Orange one pounces
all out on bigger ones back.
Colors blur as back legs kick
and tails lash.
Splish splash,
as a bucket of water
goes across their backs.
One last hiss and a spit
and sodden warriors
go their separate ways.

Signing the Poems


I’m in love with the woman signing my poems.
She is young and not unbeautiful.
She molds my words into shapes of air with her hands,
exotic birds, conveying color, motion,
what it takes to ascend. Word after word
I watch her and wonder how what I say
could seem so full of grace, hope, gentleness.
I grow jealous of those she faces, fearful
she gives too much away. I want to keep
these soundless syllables for myself. I want to hold
her hands in mine, cup them to my ears.
I want her to smear vowels across my face.
Her fingers are smooth and seductive.
I want her to put them in my mouth
until I suck the poems away.

Land of My Fathers.


Where have you gone to land of my past,
where are your days so bright?

Where are the hours of warm content
spent safe asleep at night?

Where are the strong authorities
kindly and concerned?

Where are the staid academies
where earnest children learned?

Where are the sparkling hospitals
with nurses crisp and clean?

Where have you gone to land of my past,
as if you had never been?


This is the poem that insisted on being written before I could get my prompt poem done today. I hope no one minds me putting it in here as well.

Merger of the Queens


Says the White Queen to the Red, “There is much which I suffer from, the premonitions that haunt me so that I live in the future and neglect the present and past.”

The Red Queen responds, “I have grown so afraid of hearts and chess, of magic and mirrors, of black cats and white cats, of kings who sleep when I need them most. There is no future for me. I am surrounded by everything which has already happened.”

They do not see Little Alice standing behind the curio cabinet, repeatedly stabbing a sampler with three long needles while the White Queen bleeds from her nose and ears and reaches down to rub the ache from her soles.

When Little Alice turns her attention to a deck of gold backed card and proceeds to rip down the center, the White Queen screams, “Oh, oh, something is stabbing me.”

Little Alice comes behind the Red Queen and steals her crown, adorns herself and stares at the mirror's reflection. “All hail me,” she says. “I am Queen Alice. I make the world as I see fit, beginning with roots that extend from the sky and flowers that hunt the mice.”

Then Queen Alice reddens in the face, opens her mouth wide and wraps her tongue around the Red Queen and the White. The Red Queen stares at the ground, the White Queen stares into the air. Queen Alice's face becomes a beating, bleeding heart. “Off with their heads,” she screams and bites down between the chin and shoulder.

Lost Cause

The day that you told me
we were drinking early
a bottle of Stoli
encased in ice.

The day was gray for Hawaii
and my little efficiency
overlooking the freeway
witnessed demise.

As I remember, it was New Year’s Eve Day
Gen was a baby. I was breastfeeding—
Unwed women on welfare
behave in such ways.

We had angst for breakfast
We ate tears for lunch—
life death love lust
enough was too much.

I went on to grad school I got married
twice. You took took those cocktails—
you’ve probably died. We lost touch
In 90. I was not a good friend.

It was two other people drank Stoli
back when.

Here's my prompt poem. Inspired by the recent interactions between the police and the G20 protesters in London.


The Thinning Blue Line.


When you got up you didn't know
what you would be getting up to.
You brushed your white teeth unaware
how soon you'd be brushing with death.
Got in to work, followed commands,
swapped numbers with your colleagues,
You had their back and they had yours.
That's what teamwork is all about.
If you can't trust a mate what's left
but you against the screaming world?
The enemy is everywhere
and you are the thinning blue line.

So how do you explain away
exactly what you did today?
You knew it could not be erased
when you saw his eyes go dim, then glazed.

Torture

The source you don’t trust

I’m kept alive just barely
Awake, disoriented, stressed
To the extent you expect I’ll spill my guts
On the hope you won’t spill mine
Hovering over the abyss I’d like to choose death
Even a long slow one
Staked out under the sun
Carrion-recyclers pick at my
Pulpy red mass for hors d’oeuvres
With too much blood left

As a signal of human life
I hear the voice of daughter
She pleads for me to give up
the demanded information to spare her innocence
For whom am I willing to sacrifice
My potential for a long life
I choose to give my life for you
What I don’t give up you’ll just invent

And I become a disposable asset
To a regime nobody trusts

GOOD DEEDS, MORE OR LESS

Sundays at the clinic,
I come down to your room
with a pitcher of water
and some pure white towels,

but I'll never get used to it,
those matchstick limbs all
twisted around themselves
covered in sores,
quivering with each ragged
penultimate breath.

It's all in the eyes, you see:

all the helpless panic,
the hateful humiliation while
that wet towel of mine
peels up scabs and skin alike;

but deep down in that gaze
I can see the years you spent at the beach,
the little ones you let go,
simple pleasures, like the last time
you ate a steak and could
still remember how it tasted.

Not much longer, says the doctor:

and silently, my work complete,
I drift out of your room again,
on to the next one,
the barbs of your gaze in my back;
I know you hate to need me,
but at least when you go,

you'll be comfortable.

Conversation at 7:00 PM

I'm hungry.
I'm writing.
When can we eat?
When I finish this poem.
I might starve by them.
What rhymes with satyr?
Just finish it later.
Thanks. Later will work.
Work? Will you get paid.
Only in satisfaction.

BLACK AND WHITE CAT
A black and white flash jumped behind some bushes.
When I came out to trim the roses,
she ran across the driveway and
through a missing wooden slat in the fence.
Later that day, I saw her lying down
under the neighbors rusty 1974 van.
I tried to coax her out
by cooing, “come kitty, come”
gesturing, beckoning with my hand.

She immediately ran to safetyland for refuge.
For weeks, just the sound of my voice,
regardless of the tone, frequency, tempo or words,
would send her into hiding.
Then one day when I spoke, she just sat
and watched me. I was silent for 90 seconds
while we stared at each other.

I began putting out small bowls of kibble.
When she began eating,
I stood at the French-windows to watch her.
Next, I dropped the kibble in the bowl outside
so it made a tapping sound.
Soon she would come into sight
when she heard the tapping.

She needed a name.
White except for a black-ink mask covering her eyes
hinted at Snowball, Snow, Mask, Bandit,
but I chose Inky.

Gradually, she came when she heard her name,
keeping her distance at first.
She laid under my car,
then moved to the steps,
Now Inky eats with me on the porch.
I inch my way toward her.
I look forward to when I can touch her
stroke her, and have her come to me
on her own and even come into my house.

Muses have I wooed, enticed, pleaded, cajoled, sweet-talked.
Now I invite them to eat at my feet, to purr into my ear,
to help me release the cat in me, the lion, the frog,
the princess, the wench, the nun, the witch
and all that inhabit my world that have a story to tell
and for ink to record.

Continuing with my series of poems about color.



Silence Is Golden

The Glow
from the computer screen
highlights Yellow’s
flushed face.
The volume is off,
he tries hard
to stifle his own volume;
of shudders, stutters.

He doesn’t know
Starburst
other than through Mysapce
and some chat rooms
but soon after
they met
Starburst started flirting,
slipping in very suggestive
statements.

Yellow liked it.
It felt dangerous.
It felt rebellious.
It felt right
sharing these things
with another boy his age.

This evening
Yellow suggests
they talk on Skype.
Starburst agrees.

Soon he is watching
Starburst,
their fingers in sync,
a gradual swelling
coming to his pelvis.
Reaching the edge
Yellow speaks to the screen
“I Love you so much…”
before his head spasms back.

Reaching for a dirty sock,
he cleans up
and comes back
to the conversation
his new flame
looking frightened,
fumbling with his mouse.

A figure grabs his hair
and shoulder with hands
bigger than boulders
jerking him out the chair.
Starburst cowers
as he is beaten,
mouthing screams
Yellow cannot hear.

Yellow panics,
sinking in his seat.
Any help he offers
will only get him
similar fists.

The figure finishes
his session
and turns his attention
to the screen.
The enormous hands
reach at Yellow.
He backs up unwilling to chance
that this being could
travel through wires
and watches the fingers pick up
the keyboard.
The Skype window goes blank.

Yellow logs off
and creeps to bed
where he hides himself tight
under the sheets
weeping loud enough
that he wakes up
his half sister
Chartreuse
who comes in
and curls secret comfort around him
like the fence of colors
that protect the center
of a rainbow.

4/18 Interaction

Times are tough
Money there is not enough
As my mood turned unhappy
I decided it was time to talk to me

So I said
“hold up your head
Things are not as bad as can be
With friends like Vicky and Lee”

What could I say
But absoulutely
Hard to be sad
When friends make you glad!

So with the talking done
I decided to have fun
By seeing what type of reaction
I’d have to a prompt of Interaction!!!

Rose Anna Hines...loveloveLOVE your last paragraph!

Pilot Season

Beside me, you dig your fingers
into the top of my hand
the skin edging white
a spreading pressure stain

"What's wrong?" the start of
chained events unsaid
as our eyes stay fixed
on flickering screens

overrated BBC programmes
elongating the night.
"Um. Uh. Um." You sputter,
an engine on it's last legs,

and I watch as your eyes
swell to tears, another ending
I wanted, the perfect finish
of our year long sitcom.

Heather Taylor - NICE! Love it!

city frog

in my barrel pond
one pacific tree frog croaks
I hear no answer

Morning Volley in the Car

She tosses it into the air
You chuckle, hit it hard outside
She whines and picks it up
then hits a volley with a spin
Me the net between you two
stuck in the front seat, looking out
You drive, she serves one fast
I referee the conversation
try to keep the fouls fair
when all you each really want
is to spike it hard just out of reach
and WIN

somehow, we struck a spark
in the dark

and..

the spark grew and i passed it you
and you did something new and you passed it back.
i blew on it, let it go, gave it to who took it,
then it was gone, with life of its own..

and next time i looked it was a raging blaze!
it burned for days and it only got brighter
and we gazed amazed on the fiery haze
and we knew through and through that it was right,

and now the flame's burning everywhere!
it's grown so far i can't see anything else!
it fills all the earth and the seas and the air
but no-one remembers - we did it ourselves..

Unattended

If I had attended the rosary
for the seguridad who tried to stop
the kidnappers from taking
the sixteen-year-old boy,
the guard whose name I have been told
since his murder and beheading
was Juan, the guard with a sister
who looked so much like him except
perhaps older than his middle years
but the same white hair, brown eyes,
lined face from incessant smiling,
the guard with a wife
who could not wail
or speak
or see
because what beat for a heart was gone
from her chest and there, inside
that coffin, flown forever from her chest
to lay with him in his –

if I had attended
I would’ve searched out a brown cricket running
along the foot of the wall, looking for a way out.

Voter Registration, 1963

It was East Texas summer hot.
He was old, I was young.
He was a judge, I was a student.
He had a shotgun, I had a card table,
a handful of registration forms,
a few hopeful people lining up
to claim their right.

The officers who took away the gun
and led him back inside
were no more pleased than he
with what I was doing
only more aware of what could
not be safely accomplished under
the East Texas summer sun.

Interaction

Dodge:
What in the hell were you thinking,
You crazy ass pile of stupid?
I guess your turn signal must be broken, huh?
You must not be thinking straight, cuz
What kind of foolio
Would cut in front of a broken, faded old
Piece of shit Ram like this one
With a pretty little Beamer like that?
You are Out of Your Head!!

BMW:
Oh my God –
Oh my God –
Oh my God –
I can hear him wheezing from here,
And he’s already had five
Neb treatments, and
I’ve just got to get him to the hospital –
Jesus –
Am I going the right way now?
Thank God that truck let me in –
O God –
O God –
He’s breathing so hard
Back there in his car seat –
I just have to get there.
 

The child harries the mother in so many ways
I want milk, says the child
no, says the mother, it's too close to dinner
but the child doesn't understand and throws a fit
I want my toy, says the child
no, says the mother, it is too close to bedtime
but the child wants the toy and will have it no matter what
mother will you wrap your arms around me? asks the child
The mother scoops up the child in her arms
and takes her off to bed
of course I will hold you, says the mother
and she does until the little one dozes off to sleep

Don't Play With Your Food


"I'm going to eat you", said the bird
"No, really Bird, that's quite absurd
I'm just a slimy little wormie
all wiggly and squirmy
and really, kinda germy!

Bird, you should probly eat a fly!"
The fly heard that as he flew by...
"That's just nonsense, then said he
I'm no bigger than a flea
Not enough for tea!

Bird, you should probly eat a bee!"
"Eat a BEE? I slap my knee!"
Said the bee with eyes ashine
"See this stinger in my behind?
Change your mind!"

Then they heard a tummy growl
The bird said "I am hungry NOW!
Flies and Bees are snacks for fun
But I eat wormies by the ton!"
gulp gulp gulp, "I'm done!"

Ol' Nell

She lay down one last time,
lowered her head,
submitted to cruel fate.

In no time the fly had arrived,
deposited eggs,
moved on.

Rain washed over her brown coat;
moving air toweled her off.
Larvae tunneled.

She lay there, passive.
The black birds circle.
She does not move.

They come closer.
The bravest lands
and begins his feast.

All her life she has given,
unselfish, gentle.
In death she gives yet again.

Ich Sprechen Sie


"You know, you have to do this"
I looked down
So cold
"I don't know anything
You're just an object
No feeling
No emotion
No pain
I wish I was you instead"
I couldn't even cry
"At least I have a purpose"
My laugh sounded like a bark
Harsh and abrupt
"No, you are meaningless without me
I own you
I decide how you'll be used"
I sat there
Silent
Breathing in and out
Listening to my breath
The meditation of sorrow
The prayers of regrets
All I could hear
Was the rush of air
In and out of my lungs
And my heartbeat
Strong and fast
In my ears
And that little voice
Coming from the gun
Coming from inside my head
"It would all be over"
I lifted it to my head
Unlatched the safety
Closed my eyes
I could feel my pulse
In the finger
On the trigger
Pounding
"Shouldn't this be easy?"
I didn't expect to hear anything
"No"
So quiet
So still
It hadn't come from inside my head
It hadn't come from the gun
I spun around
And jumped to my feet
Gun still to my head
And there you were
Suddenly
I felt shame and guilt
You were so small
Crying
Silently
I lowered the gun
Dropped it on the chair
"Don't leave me"
I couldn't tell which one of you said it
I didn't care
I knew which one I wanted
I ran to you
"I am meaningless without you
You give me purpose
You decide how I will be used"
I couldn't tell
Which one of us said it
It didn't matter any more

Mowers

Saturdays are days of rest, Sundays too, and evenings have their hours,
then a recliner makes a quiet throne for enjoying peace and power.

Or would but for the mowers working over suburban spring
constantly sheering the grass of dreams, on which his sheep should fling.

They roar down the television in which his rest is wrapped,
they worry him about chores undone, and criticize his nap.

What can he do but gnash his teeth, and curse their persistent roar,
as they take down his castle: every window, wall, and snore.

Go Lay Down

You’re bugging me, big brown eyes with a spark
of excitement, ridiculous pointy ears tipping left
then right, yes I said ‘go’, no, I didn’t mean now

really, go away, I’m busy, I have a dozen chores
to complete without you under my feet at every
turn, faithfully following just in case this is now

good dog, lay down, front paws crossed, long chin
resting on top, big brown eyes disappointed under
stubby dog lashes, he sighs, I sigh, arms crossed,

what about the dishes, the shopping, what about
the laundry, the banking, I haven’t even made the bed,
pointy ears pop up, irresistible, I sigh, he smiles

Prickly

“You're prickly,” my husband says.
“You're hard to get along with
“and you're snappish.”
I just stand there.
“I'm sorry for being prickly,”
is all I say.

I am never so blunt
and critical of him,
I can’t find fault so blatantly
because he’d retort,
“I guess I'm just not good enough.
You should just find someone else.”
And, with that
I’d quickly shut up.

I wonder what prickly means.
Do I hurt to the touch
like little pin pricks?
Do cacti envy my prowess?
Do the cats that roam the streets
and sleep under cars hiss
and scatter when they see me coming?
Do the few stars that burn through the haze
look down at me in wonder?
Does my steel rankle our nation’s enemies?

Out of love I sleep far from him
to protect him just in case.
I don't want my prickles
to hurt him anymore.

I also wonder why he offers me
a hug when e wake,
as if he had never said those
words to me at all.
Doesn’t he know how his words sting,
how his prickles bore into me?
No, I don't want to hug him back this time.
We both have some smoothing over to do.

Other Answers
By R. Chazz Chute

I remember them pulling me up,
standing me straight, as if
vertical was the go-to cure when
you find your kid passed out
on the neighbor’s lawn.
I had disappeared on them,
Mom and the neighbor-lady.
(That’s what I called
Mrs. Thompson then.)
It is a mystery, where I went
and how I ended up, face up,
staring blank at a empty blue sky,
long before I knew the word azure.
I saw something only for me,
but I didn’t have any words yet
to calm Mom, “worried sick” she said
over and over. “Worried sick.”
I don’t remember the secrets whispered
from the sky that day but I have a feeling
they are waiting for the right time.
The doctor listened to my heart
and took my temperature
and told Mom I fell asleep.
“Epilepsy if it happens again,”
but it didn’t so I must have been dreaming.
“But his eyes were wide open—“
“Must have been dreaming,” the doctor said
since he had no other answers he could trust.
Later, years and only a moment later,
Mom slumped and looked at me with
empty eyes for twenty minutes,
rheumy eyes staring and twice rolling
(scary that)
and seeing things that weren’t there
as far as I knew
since I had no other answers I could trust.
I was still holding her hand,
taking her pulse
(and deep calming breaths for me)
when she came to, smiling a little.
“Where’d you go Mom?”
She hesitated and squeezed my hand
with a new grip, stronger than
arthritis and too many birthdays.
“I was dreaming, Robert.
I was running home!
I saw Mary Thompson. We ran together
like we used to. We didn’t speak. We just
laughed and ran again…in step.”
She looked down at her twisted feet
beneath the heavy wool blanket.
Mary Thompson went home last spring.
Pneumonia. (The Elderly’s Friend, they say.)
Mom faded a little then, smaller still,
the memory of what she’d lost
killing her in a way that the cancer couldn’t,
making the ugly job complete.
“It wasn’t a dream, Mom,” I rushed to say.
And you’ll be going home.”
I could tell she wanted to believe me
almost as much as I wanted to believe.
“Soon…soon.”
It was that moment that the thing waiting inside
broke open and I knew the secrets
hidden in an empty forty year old sky.
Ready?
It was this: believe in other answers you can’t trust.
All else is unthinkable.

MY BEST FRIEND

My best friend
is a dog named "ACE".
He's my pet,
and he lives at my place.
We go running
each day of the year,
And the things we do
bring happiness and cheer.
He wags his tail
when I call his name.
He makes me smile,
For friendship is better than money or fame.

"The Gone to Hell Debate"

I flunked the debate
The this-generation-is-going-to-hell
Teenagers-today-are-worse-than-ever one.
I should have know better than to debate
An 84 year old woman on the phone.

Ancient Greek parents
Ancient Roman parents
Victorian parents
Hippie parents
Yuppie parents
Rock parents
Disco parents
Heavy metal parents
They alllllllllllll said that.

How can you argue with over 2000 years of evidence?

I shouldn’t have thrown in the
Every-teenager-in-the-1970’s
Tried-pot-once-and-they-turned-out-alright clincher.

My aunt won the debate
With stony silence.

Frank Napoleon Brown

What I remember about
Pittsburgh is my address— Apt. 306
in the three story walkup on Melwood Avenue
and you, Frank.

You could've phoned,
but instead you'd holler
from the alley below, "Melissaaaaaaaaaaa"—
the accent on the "suh"
and not the "liss."

I'd say, "Hey, Frank Napoleon Brown"
'cause I liked the sound; a name
fit for a jazz musician living
in the Steel City, but you worked
for the University of Pittsburgh.

You'd say, "Come outside." I'd
always have an excuse: "My hair isn't done"
or "I'm getting ready for class."
But you'd wait for me on the curb
or the fire escape, maybe wanting
to be invited up and sometimes
I'd let you in.

You'd ask, looking through the fridge,
"Need anything from the store? Eggs? Juice?"
"No, but I'm in the mood for…"
And you'd know and say, "Pizza."
Not from Papa John's, but from
a mom and pop. You'd get it. And we'd
share it in the kitchen/living room like roomies.

And I'd forget that I hardly
knew you, only knew you
through my sis who met you
in the William Pitt Union, when you,
putting out chairs for an assembly, said to her,
"You look like you lost? Where you from?"
She said, "Connecticut,"
and you said, "What part? I'm from
Bridgeport. I'm Frank Napoleon Brown.
What's your name?"

Finally found an angel
to play a game of tag
or even hide'n'seek
without Mom 'n' Dad.

We walked into the woods
between every tree,
sleep overtook us
Then, the angel set me free.

DESERT LOST

Issued a rifle, canteens of water
and left on the Mojave –
no street signs, yard signs, signs of any
sort. No arrow pointing you a path,
no boundary-markers or direction.
Miles of sand and creosote,

lava-shine, heat-shimmer.
Prisoner to your sun-block shadow –
what optical trickery rolls the color blue
into a puddle just beyond your reach,
your will to keep on walking?
How beautiful the sky’s mirage.

for J.

“Daddy and Son”

“I want to be just like you, Daddy, when I grow up.”
“Well, son you can be whatever you want,” he said as he lifted his cup.
“A fireman, a doctor, a lawyer, the possibilities are endless my son,”
“Read me a story, Daddy until it’s all done.”

As he rocked his son and read the book of how much I love you
His son’s eyes grew tired and he closed them tight as he was through.
“I love you Daddy more than the stars in the sky way up far”
“I love too, Son, more than the miles I can possibly drive in the car.”

Daddy rocked on holding his son as he did sleep
Looking and remembering never uttering a peep.
So peaceful his son lay there in his arm
A silent pray, “Please Lord let there be no harm.”

Then reluntantly Daddy arose from his chair
And tucked his son in with his favorite teddy bear.
He kissed his forehead and wished for nothing less
So his son would grow up safe and far from stress.

As Daddy turned and looked once more
“I love you, Daddy, don’t close the door.”
His Daddy left it opened a crack with the nightlight on
“God bless you, son, sleep safe until it is dawn.

Daddy went back to rocking in the chair
He reminisced and ran his hand through his hair.
Oh the sweet age of innocence if only he’d stay young forever
Or just a while longer so his childhood would endeavor.

Daddy crept up the stairs to sleep
Checking once more his heart did leap.
For his favorite time of day was night
Reading and tucking his son in tight.

“Good night my son, my precious one
I wish the world for you my son.”

The Evil In the Garden Was No Snake, Advice to Gardeners

for those foolish enough to keep roses
let them die in on themselves in a wet garden,
feet in rotting mulch

and you tending your herbs
how much basil can one cook use?
the aphids will destroy your yield

you on your knees, clipping and pulling
offending grass blades,
what are you measuring?

lop limbs from oaks—they fall on power lines
hack at maple roots—they buckle the drive
and that old skinny pine is eying your roof

blackberry briars fight seven sisters
to smother the pond fence
to trip up the little ones at play

suburbia is no place for tomatoes and corn
flowers weep and fold—
malevolence in a half acre

Check Out

She keeps a steady rhythm
the chorus of barcodes piping
the same song every day.

Sometimes the tune falters
so she taps out each number,
a quick dance across the keys.

Her head is bent over the scanner
then she looks up and she smiles,
everything is not just black or white

Victor

In the supermarket, my mother ran into an old
co-worker from Travelers. “Here comes Victor,”
she said, straightening up because Victor
used to always get on her for slouching. “Hey Sarah!”
he roared and banged his shopping cart
up against hers— his full of the things
he would need to make tonight’s dinner. His man
he said was in the next aisle over reading
magazines. “I do all the work while lover
just sits on his bee-hind,” Victor said & Ma did
her don’t-I-know-it nod. “Sarah, let me tell
you…” he said and he went on and on
about the old 4th floor bunch— brought up
the ones who teased him, called him the F word
even when he was dating women. “Ol’ what’s-his-face,”
he said, “is nothing but a bum now— teeth so rotten
you know he isn’t getting any from woman or man!”

You came home last night and would not look at me
I left you a note to give me back my keys

You came home last night and avoided any conversation
I left you a note to go stay at a friends house from now on

You came home last night and waited till I left the house
to get on the computer - then texted me to get the password

I left you a note to get a storage unit for your stuff

You said good morning - and nothing else
I went to work - with all the notes on the table

When I got home my keys were there - and you were not

KA and me
****************

KA is weird,
He always appeared,
When it is unexpected,
Sometimes makes me doubted.

When he does not contact me,
I always worried,
Coz he's my baby,
Tell me what's wrong I can't mind-read.

Turns out to be he was sickly,
And slept in at home after going to the doctor,
I don't want to be clingy,
Just want to care about my lover.

Maybe he does not want me to worry,
But when he does not answer my call I am,
Makes me like a bear that is cranky,
That is true; it is no sham.

PB & J
---------

"Hello Peanut Butter,"
Said the Jelly.
"Hello Jelly,"
Said the Peanut Buter.

"Goodbye Peanut Butter and Jelly,"
Said the hungry little boy.

Michelle, your poem is great and well-written and I am cracking up. I love the ending!! See what prompts get you!! This poem is great!

Donald R. Anderson
The Book and The Reader

The book stated emphatically,
but the reader she wasn't yet convinced.
The book said "this is the world
as it should be,"
but she said, "this is the world
that can't be."
In another few pages the book told her
that the main character was someone
who she knew the main character wasn't,
and she told the book that it ought to know better.
Somewhere in-between coffee and tea,
she sat down and glanced at a verb,
but the verb said emphatically,
"ain't" though she knew that could not be.
Never in her life had she seen
such an atrocity.
It was as if the hands of fate
were trying to make the character's words
a mockery.
But she wrote it off
to the character's upbringing.
In the deepest recesses
all these notes seemed to build
until she found she must write
what foul independent notions filled her head.
So she wrote herself silly,
a little each day,
in a journal dictated
to the book she read before that day.
And little by little,
the words they took form,
until she was surrounded
by the characters.
"Finally," she said,
looking at the protagonist,
"I want to ask you... why?"

Ooh, some good ones here. I love reading the poems on this site.

I really enjoyed reading "FRANK NAPOLEON BROWN" by Missy M. You captured Frank well!

Also, I enjoyed: "Taking my Husband to the Poetry Festival" by Lori D. and "Lucky in Cleveland" By Susan P.

Dating in Heaven

I had a dream that you were dating in heaven.
That’s what they do here, you said,
although I can’t imagine what that means
how the dating service would go and

who picks genders: “the boys” you used
to call them, but not for lovers.
It must be easier than here,
no waiting for phone calls or playing coy games.

The sex must be marvelous and noisy.
You can enter a body at will; no worry
the distraction of love will keep you from
your angel duties; harping and singing.

I tell you I could swing high to be there,
fly from the trapeze with no net, but
they won’t let me in, even read my profile yet
and besides, you were always the one in the circus.

MAINE and “School Days” (C) Richard-Merlin Atwater
April 18, 2009

I often think about the place,
My native landscape scenes,
The wooded backdrop there to grace,
The rivers, lakes, and streams.
The State of Maine still echoes, calls,
Of days of yesteryear,
A schoolboy walking in the halls,
Of red-bricked "Burns" and "Thornton" dear.

Maine Civics class, a favorite,
Brings memories of that land,
And lighthouses which now are lit
To send a gleam across the sand.

The Songo locks, Sebago Lake,
And the favorite swimming hole,
Lie dimly in the conscious wake,
And touch the heartstrings of the soul.

"Deering Oaks" on weekends spent
With my mother in the park,
To watch the swans in glide, descent,
With Portland's skyline in the back.

Old Orchard Beach, and summer sand,
With French girls on the beach,
From Montreal, on East Avenue Grande,
At Pine Point, and on to Ocean Park's reach.

And Kennebunkport's Arundel Inn,
Was Seacrest-Inn-on-the-Sea back then,
And I a dishwasher, bellboy with a grin,
Viewing Walker point to St. Ann's at the rivers bend.

And Sunday School at the G.A.R. hall,
A rented room for a small select group of Saints,
With Lincoln's photo on the wall,
And harmonica hymns played to a small boy’s taints.

But most of all was 'home sweet home'--
Though only an apartment on the poor side of the street;
But Mom and Dad and twelve siblings roam
From school to play to the family meet.

For what is Maine but 'family and friends'--
Relationships in the environment of time,
The things we did, the happy and sad blends
To crystallize into memories sublime.
==========================================================

Poet's note: My middle school years of 1956-60 were at Jamison School--Old Orchard Beach, Maine; and C.K. Burns School, Saco,Maine; and high school was Thornton Academy of Saco, Maine established in 1811. "Deering Oaks" was the main park in Portland, Maine where Longfellow (and I) used to roam and both of us wrote about in our poetry (150 years apart). The Inn where I worked as a high school sophomore (dishwasher) overlooked "Walker Point"---the now $4 million summer home of George H. W. Bush--named after his family name of "Walker" which he bought from his Aunt Walker to become his summer "White House".

Disaster Relief Training

She tips her yellow hat, and says, “I’m so pleased
to see you all here.” And she smiled with ease.
“You’ve come, ‘cause you’re tired of sitting in the pews,
not hearers only, but someone God can use.
Here’s an opportunity you can seize.”

“I’m here to talk about disasters and disease,
quakes, floods,tornadoes, even an arctic freeze.
Here are some pictures which were in the news.”
She tips her yellow hat.

“Sounds worthwhile,” the crowd agrees.
“Lots of fun,” said one, liking to tease.
“Come to the next meeting and pay your dues.
We need your help. Please don’t refuse.
Have your training and get one of these.”
She tips her yellow hat.

POETRY

I was once told by a professor and poet:
All poetry is just about death.
As the writer of poetry seeks to keep alive
His immortality through what he bequeath, or saith.

But as for me, I would counsel, and likely surmise:
All poetry is really about life!
As the writer of poetry reveals his view,
Since death is a part of life, and strife.

We came from whence, and go between,
Through the phase of mortality's plan.
Then on to the goal of life hereafter,
By the touch of "the Master's" hand.

So when you write, either poetry, or prose,
Peruse your words with distilled wisdom,
And seek to balance truth with beauty,
With the knowledge of both life's and death's total sum.

The baton was raised
we waited

First a high note
broke through the silence
joined by others
not a cacophony but
a symphony.
a beautiful rendition
of the composer’s
vision.

one, two, three, four
arms waving around
instruments relate and interact
one with another
they dance, they play
together now
in unity

we watch,
we listen
our spirits soar
from overture to coda
we are enthralled

They play
we listen
they sing to us
in the language of music
and we listen with the language of soul

Fatal Interaction

We thought it was funny
when one hen, bolder than the rest
came to visit on the back porch
where (incidentally)
we feed the dogs.

They hadn’t finished their breakfast that day
and there were really lots of kibbles
left in the bowl.
The hen, apparently delighted,
began to partake.

Our largest dog, sweet
male golden
Labrador retriever,
arrived on the porch
and watched with wary eye
as the hen ate with gusto.

Next day
Once again, the dogs
left kibbles in their dish.

Bold hen arrives again
and begins to eat.
How cute they were, dog and hen,
eating, sharing contentedly from a common dish!
They had apparently become friends.

Next day.
Kibbles left.
No one saw what happened next-
we could only examine the evidence to draw our conclusions.

Little spot on dog’s nose, where he’d obviously
been pecked.
Headless hen, lifeless now- so sad an ending for the story.

Dogs now leave no kibbles in their dish.

FATHER SAYS

Father says
I was once knee-high
to a grasshopper

This causes
me to have nightmares
of being eaten

by bugs
I've crushed while running
around in the yard

a jungle
of hungry insects
who want me for lunch

Untitled

Quickening heartbeats threaten
To choke the air from panicked lungs
As the tug of war begins
Between my head and my breasts.

Pride’s surefooted hold
Is reinforced by my flexing heart
As the life sustaining flow
Of air within my head
Loosens wisdom’s rocky ground.

And I
With might to spare
Unable to decide
Which team to lend a hand?

But wisdom seeks an ally
In my body’s central hub
Brain quickly responds
With its powerful righting force.

A message soon is sent to palms
Quick! Rid yourselves of sweat.
To calm my lungs the message is
Slowly fill with air.
And heart, pride’s best ally,
Is told to take a rest.

Ah! None too soon
For there she stands
Right in front of me

With wisdom’s help I open my arms
To receive the hug she offers
For though still hurt
In my head I know
She is my family

Daunette

I Love You But...

Where do I go from here
She says - with me
not caring that we've
been trying to get away
for awhile now

I don't think that's a good idea
She says - but i love you
a great thing to hear
when things are working
but not when they're not

I love you too
but we need space right now
She says - but we have something good
only thinking of the comfort of our union
and not the passion that's missing

We do but we need this time
to live our lives, figure out what we want
She says - right, but...
i ask for silence
so my heart doesn't fold.

“A Shooting Star” By: Melinda Elmore


Watching the sky
Late at night

All of a sudden
The eyes catch
A beautiful sight

A shooting star
Cascades across the sky

Hearts pump
On the wish
For tonight

As it descends
Upon Mother Earth
A sacred sight
From Heaven to Earth

Another wish
Another promise
Made tonight
Upon a shooting star
Means so much

By: Melinda Elmore

interaction between a foreign visitor and a native philosopher

ON THE GREAT WALL OF CHINA (C) Richard-Merlin Atwater
April 18, 2009

On the Great Wall of China I was walking one day,
And up popped a China-man who said, "Hey! Hey!,
Glad to see you, Good to know, And I'm glad that you're here,
On the Great Wall of China give a happy cheer!"

On the Great Wall of China in the month of May,
We both walked along and he began to say,
"Glad to see you, Good to know, and I'm glad that you're here,
On the Great Wall of China give a happy cheer!"

Beijing, it makes me sing,
Quong Chow, and Xian- Ling!
Shanghai, a happy tune!
On the Great Wall of China in the month of June!

On the Great Wall of China as we walked along,
He whistled at a tune and sang a song,
"Glad to see you, Good to know you, and I'm glad that you're here
On the Great Wall of China give a happy cheer!"

On the Great Wall of China, north of old 'Peking',
We both joined together and began to sing:
"Glad to see you, Good to know you, and I'm glad that you are here,
On the Great Wall of China give a happy cheer!"

Beijing, it makes me sing,
Quong Chow, and 'Xian'-Ling!
Shanghai, a happy tune,
On the Great Wall of China sing a happy tune!

On the Great Wall of China as he went away,
I'll always remember that happy day.
"Glad to see you, Good to know you, and I'm glad that you're here,
On the Great Wall of China give a happy cheer!

On the Great Wall of China there is harmony,
Brotherly LOVE, and charity,
As we all sing together, "I'm so glad that you're here",
On the Great Wall of China give a happy cheer!

Beijing, it makes me sing,
Quong Chow, and 'Xian'-Ling,
Shanghai a happy tune,
On the Great Wall of China sing a happy tune!
===========================================================
Based on a true story that happened to the poet-writer

Broken Baby Bird

You pulled me in close with your sweet fragility,
your soft-spoken sadness well-earned, well-practiced.
A baby bird stuck in broken-wing pose,
you led me past your nest, pitiful and broken,
to the best fantasy I knew I could not re-place you in.
Then you called me cruel when I pointed to the truth;
you dragged your wing in the dust around us
and turned away.
I love you.
I cannot save you.

Past time

The Pitcher tries to make
a good pitch.

The Hitter tries to make
solid contact.

After that
it's just Baseball.

Morning

Woke up and saw the light
paling through the blinds,
snugged myself to your warm back,
pulled up the covers again
and dozed and felt you stir,
turn over and reach a sleepy arm
out for me, ran my hand
up over your chest to hold
your shoulder, nestled my nose
against your neck, felt your beard
tickle my face, your lips warm
on my cheek, your legs
tangling mine like tree roots
anchoring us to this place,
this sweet moment.

Haiku (5-7-5)

Sparrow eyes cricket
hiding in the tree, sits close
sizing up for lunch

Akwardness at the Muffler Store
Glued to the chair
sweat collecting on her upper lip
ignoring the heat
and the second hand on the clock
crookedly hanging
on the wall of the muffler store
feeling the eyes scanning her right side
making her every movement amplified
concentrating on a book
concentration is broken by
a voice and a throat clearing
Realization that the voice belongs to the eyes
inward groan
Then shuffling while answering the
various personal questions about
her relationship status and accepting
compliments she doesn't trust
bracing herself
against the chair
waiting
well, he says he's a lucky man
thank you
and he walks out the door hesitatingly
looking over his shoulder while
her eyes burn holes in her magazine

A Brief Exchange

The evil bug growls in frustration,
I tell my daughter I growl the same,
but the bug, I'm nothing like him.
I don't know if she gives me any blame.

She doesn't respond,
only laughs at the evil and benevolent
battle going on before her. Does she belong?
I'm not sure if she knew what I meant,

When I told her about the bug.
She barely glances my way.
I only see her when I get a hug,
Not from only me, but from all others she's stray

Speaking and interaction aren't natural to her
So I keep from the tears and the scowl
And my mind a blur,
With my daughter I laugh at the growl.

by: Natasha Gruss

Cleopatra

and Marc Antony
used to dress down
like us common folks and
go into town to have fun
like us common folks and
buy fruit and wine and get a little drunk
like us common folks and
forget about the Caesars in our lives.

But we knew, we knew it was them.
Yet we didn’t bow, throw ourselves on the floor,
shakes their hands, didn’t try to get their autographs,
like us common folks do
when we run across the eminent.
We left them alone, played their game, and tried not
to let them know they were obvious. I mean, hey,
once a queen, always a queen, you know?

And they took such delight in each other and their game
that spoiling it would have been treason of love if not of state.
I caught her eye one time, naked, unlined,
shiny with happiness that dimmed just a bit
when she saw that I recognized her.
But we seemed to agree: I would not remind her
that she was a queen and
she would not remind me
that I wasn’t.

STARMAN

We no longer have the old gods
to birth us to wonder.
Movie characters change us in small ways.
We cry in the dark where no one sees us.

Give us the being of pure light
who will visit us from a star unknown
become like us, suffer the needs this body has
for sex and Dutch apple pie.

We seem to have the galaxy to ourselves.
When the beloved dies there are no second chances.

The Seed

it started small
that tiny seed
a speck
in the palm of my hand
dropped to the ground
like dirt
onto a magnetic field
sparked with life
that plugs into the earth
and sunsets marked
the time that passed
with rain like tears
that wept
then wispy emergence
of a slim tendril twisting
climbing hair-like thread
coiling
around and around
attaching to the support
curling
and winding
like something warped
turning, bending
twirling
deeply entwined now
interwoven
like a spiral twisting
two ribbons of smoke
curved into their tendency
to grow together
ringlets and wood shavings
crests of breaking waves
maneuvering through the helix
looping through the vortex
a sinuous whirlpool
of lust
even with
your ring on mine
that succubus
has you tightly wrapped
around her little finger

Little Buck
Head down and bounding
along the path,
you stood in my way,
pawing the earth.
Your little antlers
the first thing
I saw.

You pawed the earth,
and I copied you.
But, you stood
there looking at me,
ready to fight.
I hid behind a bench,
and you slowly walked
into the canary grass.

Free Loader

He is hopping
along
looking and
waiting for
the
right ride.

Here
it comes
jumps on
digs in
No tip
he leaves.

Moment
the check
is due
he runs
out the
back door.

His friend
the dog
is busy
scratching
and biting
and cussing.

The flea
no
remose
Onto the
next
meal!

My Reason for Bleeding

I'm sure it started
Inside the womb
This relationship that
Will last forever
The first sound touched
Something deep inside
Within my heart
Within my soul
It was the sweetest caress
Gentlest embrace
Lightest touch
I was changed forever
Each time I hear the
Sound of my love
I cannot breathe
We thrive off one another
It runs under my skin
Those notes pound through
Every beat of my heart
Music is my endless love
My reason for bleeding Audioblood

Free Loader

He is hopping
along
looking and
waiting for
the
right ride.

Here
it comes
jumps on
digs in
No tip
he leaves.

Moment
the check
is due
he runs
out the
back door.

His friend
the dog
is busy
scratching
and biting
and cussing.

The flea
no
remorse
Onto the
next
meal!

(Redid poem - typing error made!
Thanks!)

Reflections in My Rear-View Mirror: An Interaction of Some Sort

Above all, remember what your mother said:
Never, Never, Never pick up hitch-hikers!

Lately, on my journey down the road of life,
I've been stealing glances in my rear-view mirror.
Check the lipstick, pat the hair,
make sure the smile's still there.
It happens now with greater frequency since
I’ve noticed that my smile has faded a bit.
In its place are little wrinkles of regret,
dark circles, a bit of puffiness around the eyes.
My mind, the part of me that lives
in sunshine hope, wanders back to you
and endless promises, possibilities...
I swerve to miss a concrete divider
Someone stuck in the road when I wasn't looking.
Rule number one:
Keep your mind on your driving.

Perhaps the circles have disappeared
Now that I'm not crying anymore.
I shoot another glance in the mirror
And see behind me women,
all ages, sizes, temperaments
heading in the same direction, some slowly,
some more quickly, but all are coming.
Every one of them is weeping.
And then I see the men,
all ages, sizes, temperaments
traveling in the opposite direction, all going,
some slowly, some more quickly, and eventually
they all look the same in the rear-view mirror.
No wonder the women are weeping.
I want to shout and warn them, encourage them:
Keep your mind on your driving.
Keep your eyes on the road ahead!

If you do not, you will be
distracted by those people going.
It doesn't matter who they are.
They can be good and godly,
Sweet and sexy, sensitive and shy,
proud and profane, raunchy and rebellious,
straight and square, or wise and wonderful;
it doesn't matter. They are always
going.

Of course, they go in different ways.
Sometimes one of them seems to turn
and head in your direction. As you slow down,
he jogs to your window and speaks.
You listen for something: a certain word,
a sigh, a special softness in reply
and you hear it, whether or not it's there.
He jumps into the front seat; the talk
begins as you go on and on. At first
he seems to listen, but remember,
he was headed in the opposite direction;
how can he concentrate when there are
so many coming toward him?
Eventually he grabs the handle and jumps out.
He's going.

Or sometimes he goes on and on
about himself. How wonderful he is,
how many women he's met coming,
how many more will come.
Once in a while he may ask a question,
but before you take another breath,
he's talking again.
If you are smart, you open the door.
He's going.

And sometimes--often--he sits in the back seat
And does your driving for you.
"Watch out! Don't hit that! Be careful!
Turn around. Go that way. Quit swerving.
Think! You are an accident waiting to happen."
Then the door is jammed; no one can get out,
but little by little,
he's going.
Keep your mind on your driving,
Keep your eyes on the road ahead,
Keep your hands on the wheel!

Once in a while,
something sleek and soft and furtive
darts into the middle of your road.
He looks at you with dark and soulful eyes;
you know if you don't do something,
he'll die and so will you. You are tempted
to stop or swerve to miss him, and
then run back to see if he's still there.
He's not. He knows how to avoid being hit.
If he were female, she'd be coming, and
the approaching lights would blind her.
He's going.
So you'd better keep going, no slowing,
Keep your mind on your driving,
Keep your eyes on the road ahead,
Keep your hands on the wheel,
And--don't brake for animals!

Observed Pleasure

Early morning on the path
they walk hand in hand
with matching strides
talking without heat or hurry
enjoying the cool fresh air
and quiet surroundings
Middle-aged slim and healthy
both greying slightly both
unwrinkled and unharried.
Does this demeanor spring
from love or is their obvious
well-being an enhancement?
I think they've been together
long and happily without
too many trials to mar life's
beauty. I think uncommon
is the word I'd use for such
a content couple, unclouded
on a cloudless day.

TWO IN THE WOMB

"Move over."

"I was here first."

"Prove it."

"Hey, that's my thumb you are sucking."

"Get your foot out of my face."

"We are suppose to interact, you know."

"After nine months of you, I am tired of 'inter'."

"What's that noise?"

"Sounds like water running."

"I feel like I am falling."

"Me, too."

"I'm scared."

"Me, too."

"Hold my hand."

WAAAAAAAH

*
*
*
*
*
WAAAAAAAH

Golden Comets: A Poem for Amanda’s Hens

They want my eggs.
Why else are they
trying to butter me up?
If I could fly,
I would leap
out of this coop
right now.
But wait.
They are gentle
to me, give me
plenty of food.
Ok, maybe
this could work.
I’ve got eggs
to spare.
As long as no one
grabs my neck,
I won’t peck them.
I’ll keep my beak
sharp, just in case.

QUENCHED THIRST


On a hot, humid day
Perspiration accumulates on the forehead;
Seems as if it shot out of nowhere
Coming face-to-face with a red
Coca Cola machine, accepting coins,
Dispersing red aluminum cans
After the sound of ka-thunk
Extinguishing thirst.

Day 18, Interaction

Well really, it was too cold
to do yoga at the River,
seeking for some peace of mind,
trying to quell the quiver
in my uncooperative thigh.

Calming down to meditate
finding solace by the River,
focussed on sounds of Ruby Creek,
trying not to shiver
while I posed upon the rocks.

So close to blessed quietude
that I sought at the River
when my neighbour's dog,
escaped from his caregiver,
jumped and offered me his stick.

Then my dear old Toby
who loves playing at the River
decided to protect me-
from the intruder to deliver-
and climbed into my lap.

Laughing, I picked up the stick
and threw it in the River,
opted for a cup of tea
and promised myself to never
try yoga on the rocks.

Sorry for the re-post...formatting issue.




The Heat of a Kiss Never Had


They stand in the parking lot for over 2 hours,
Saying goodbye.

He on the other side of her car door
She with one leg in, as if to leave at any moment.
And yet, they linger
Heat rising and falling between them with every breath
Despite the night’s October chill
Laughter full of sparks
His blue eyes piercing her green
In the dark.

And she wants desperately to kiss him.

No, that isn’t it, exactly.
She longs for him to kiss her.
Old fashioned, maybe, but true.
And yet, somewhere deep,
Alarms are going off
And with every fiber of her being,
She dreads the moment, too.

Their first kiss.
Perhaps the beginning of something
Amazing.
But surely the end of something magical.
This place they are now.
This
Best friends
Endless all-night phone conversations
So much in common
So much still unsaid
Can he really be for real
Is she only dreaming
Place.

For surely from here
Things will escalate
At her usual pace.
Always quick.
Never painless.

She will
fall
fall
fall
(from grace)
From her soft cocoon
And land hard, bruised.
Screw it up somehow, confused.
Wondering why her heart is such a temporary place.
And by the light of day,
He will be just another…man.
(Shoulda been a four-letter word, really.)

And still, she lingers.
Her heartbeat is a stranger in her own chest.
And she wants this conversation to go on forever,
Not even sure what they’ve been talking about.
So busy is she memorizing
The curve of his fingers on her car door
The set of his shoulders
The weight of his smile.


Just after 3am.
I’ve really got to go
She says it for the eighth time.
He laughs, a sound she commits carefully to memory
In case it is the last time it sounds
This musical
This sexy
This
Perfect.

They hug,
Linger.
Pull back,
Glance.
Her heart gasps.
At last, whew.
No kiss.

Later, at home, the phone rings.
Bliss.

Fly Fishing Dance

From down below the surface
laying nestled in the stone
sunlight drenching my gills
as the cool river rolls over me

Watching you dance upon the surface
coy, floating, anxiously waiting.
Yes, I see you, tantalizing me
with your subtle dance.

Thinking how tasty you would be
should it be my fortune to
finally catch you

The time is right
for me to strike
with swift precision
I do bite

I caught you, silly fly!
Your dance is finally over.
No longer will you tease me
as I open wide my mouth.

But now I realize the truth
behind your cleaver dance

Tonight I’m someone’s dinner,
I never stood a chance.

Carried

littered street, windy day
limp, white/black plastic bag
stuck to damp pavement
blown dry and up
and out, open wide
hovering atop
antennaed building
stuck
loosed by dust devil
flapping as a free-faller’s windsuit
smack into dogwalker,
visor launched like a Frisbee,
then straightforward
through back/side streets
winding to main street
to the grill of a mack truck
that pays no mind to wind

She tries to
be patient

She crouches
crumpled pillow edge
stares
purrs

finally
the blankets move
a face emerges
unwilling
to surrender sleep
to the light of
Saturday

She moves forward
they are
nose to nose
then reaches
the extra half inch
a kitty kiss

She purrs
but makes
a token protest
when she is
suddenly hugged

Good morning,
little four feet

Just This

The miles ahead are not infinite.
Under the dimming summer night
I strain to read the stars as this fire
throws embers into the air. As each
dances, my heart leaps for you. I am left
trying to find my compass points
knowing when morning arrives I must
navigate by way of land marks
I may not be able to interpret.


And This

A moment lost in the rain. Five
seconds of wind where I cannot see.
This disorientation, this spinning
inside my head will always be mine.

A flock of fifteen goldfinches
on a wire above my yard,
arrayed like Christmas lights,
they chirped and trilled,
and fluffed themselves
high up in the air,
except for three of the braver ones
who swooped down toward the ground.

One settled on a chair arm,
but then flew back to the wire.
The other two pecked
at seeds and mites,
hopping here and there,
both of them oblivious
to my long haired calico cat.
Low to the ground,
she inched toward them,
her yellow eyes fixed and sure.

Then she pounced and caught one
in her teeth. I didn't think she would.
I started to intervene,
but my efforts came too late.
In a trice she'd killed it,
then batted it, tossed it,
and toyed with it,
like her favorite catnip mouse.

My big black tomcat sauntered over
to sit and watch her show.
She growled at him,
snatched up the bird,
and slinked off toward the shade.
And there she gnawed
and pulled and chomped
through every bone and sinew.

When I went out later
to look at the site,
the only things I saw were
four yellow feathers,
part of its head,
and one small
curled brown claw.

The neon sign flickered
On
Off
On
Off
As the lightpole sent out
A morse code
Signaling one to the other
That the night had begun.

“Dear Lord in Heaven, may I say that I have won the race
the souls of mortal men now live and die without your Grace.”
“You are the adversary,” said God to Lucifer
“Why should I believe a word you say, you vile cur?”
“Dear Lord,” the fallen angel cried “Did you not make me thus?
I live by what you asked of me and hesitate to fuss.”
“I made of you the morning star to be a guiding light
and tempt the wicked men to Hell with creatures of the night.”
“Yet you complain of empty space, when Heaven has been left
to angels and the pure of heart, if any are bereft.
In every way your equal, I have one final grace
to guide the souls of mortal men to leave this cursed place.”

April Interaction

Friday 10 am began the roar
I was dreaming deep andsweet, I’d been up til four
It grew louder, came near my door
then a fear took hold I could no longer ignore
the unexpected motor and what was in store


I rush as best I can to rise, to dress,
rock and roll immobile legs
by twisting hips, bang my shin in my hurry
to cover the most personal bits, grab a blanket
slide fast, to the door to address my worry

He doesn’t hear me scream
He pretends not too
Though I know I have lungs,
I’ve sung, I have volume

I imagine blinds flutter at other windows
as I bellow his name ------!
Then I rush from the front door to the back
trying to catch him, before all is lost
As he blithely mows and mows and mows

Stop, STop STOP!
Finally he senses something, pauses, feels my energy
“Don’t mow there, where my flowers grew
Don’t you remember what you did last year?”
“O yeah” he grins, “the rose bush I razed, the bulbs I sheared
but that spot is my only way into your yard.
Your new ramps bar easy access.”

That does not explain the fence
where the daisies and echinacea once bloomed
“You had things there too?” he smiles
“And please, please, leave the back alone,
I’ll figure out another way to get it groomed”
I hate my state, that I pay for this rape
how it aches to not tend my yard

“They’re having a garage sale over there” he said
where the now dead fat man neighbor lived
who flirted with the bar brawling whore
thankfully, no longer renting next door
whose tethered tortured dog would
slip the leash and pile against my veggie fence
and in my yard, his rank and sad odure

Why doesn’t this lawnmower know
what anything is until it’s full grown?
killing the flowers just as they start
any wayward green, cut, contained
like so many other small men
drunk on the power of their tools.

The Secret of Life

I lean closer to catch her words
Keep fighting,
is all she says.

"Surface Tension"

You guide me to
your plane of
tranquillity.
Flat, black,
reflecting the
sunlit sky,
you entice me
down.

I land on your
invisible top
and slip along
your suddenly
gooey surface.

By what trick have
you caught me
here? My wings are
no match;
my legs agitate,
against your
grip. I stall, sink
down.

"Surface tension,"
you ripple in reply,
the last thing I hear.

Newborn

I held out my arms to the
Blanket-wrapped bundle I
Whispered so softly “Is it
Really you?” Her eyes squinted
Together her nose a brief button
Her lips drawn and puckered like
She was ready to cry. I had to be
Careful, mustn’t upset her, her daddy
Leaned over to say “hello” too.

He’d seen other babies, his nieces and
Nephews, but she was so tiny and his
Very own. “Hi there,” he whispered
Like in a cathedral, I, too, felt suddenly
Holy – part of a miracle, this perfect
Small human we brought into this world.

The nurse bent to help me slip up the
Nightgown, I moved so her head would
Be close to my breast. Her mouth didn’t
Open, a moment of panic, “oh, please
Let me feed her” An invisible prayer. The
Nurse stroked her cheek, her
little mouth opened and I pressed
My nipple between her small lips..

“She likes it”, said hubby and I felt the
pressure as she sucked like she’d done
it for all of her life. She knows what to
do and no-one has told her, I cuddled
and kissed her, our sweet little daughter
our family complete.

Where are you calling from?



Even as I punch the numbers I will never
forget icewater begins to seep and slosh
about my heels tingling. I wait for the
signal and begin to speaking knowing you
will screen and wait for the lapse before
grabbing up the phone. You say you have
missed me and the words are like salve
and a bandage of linen, sweet, aromatic
unguent sealing the leakage, quelling
the insistent scrape. I don’t want to think
about the rising ocean bath, cuttle and
jellyfish making a loop around my ankles,
nerve endings starting to shut down.
You ask about my impending departure,
offer advice about the last poem I sent,
I thank you for your efforts to find another
place where we can meet, another table
where we can cluster and nurture
one another, the green cradle a perfect
fit in a villanelle, the line breaking before
the preposition to tease another layer
of meaning. I remember the monastery where
I brought us for retreats (sacred to me in my
youth) and where I can now never return.
The friend I brought to our meetings now
estranged and evasive. The kelp and anemones
sway beneath my throat and my temperature
continues to drop. I listen intently, smiling
while prayers suffuse my brain like a million
thwarted tears and frustrated acidic howls,
that will catch before they ever reach
the surface. Bubbles blip and dissolve as I try
to respond, wreathing my temple in light-
headed confusion. Where are you calling
from? You ask. Ann, I do not know. I do not
know. I do not know.

I wish
they could all get along
my three adult children

I wish
they could get over
whatever it was
that happened
when they were younger

that wielded the sledge
and drove the wedge
creating some pledge
that exists between
the one in the front
and the one behind
of the one
in the middle
who wishes she had
a brother and a sister
that she could
talk to

and they could undo
whatever it was

that wielded the sledge
and drove the wedge
that created some pledge
that exists between
big brother
and little sister

and keeps the one
in the middle
the one on the edge

Some Sort of Interaction

“I love when you come like this,
round, twisting, deep...”

“Yeah, I like your kiss,
and how you make me weep...”

“I can't avoid it! It's just the way I spin
and when I see I'm up to your skin.”

“I enjoy it, though. And I can't stop the flow! We go round and round until I'm dried out!”

“Oh, and your juice is so delightful... It's a real treat!”

“They all say so... And look, there's more coming for you to fleet! They have a full bag!”

“O-oh! My motor will overheat! I'll need a time lag!”

The oranges had a short and agitated life,
and lots of fun.
Whereas, the orange squeezer had quite a strife,
it was done!
It worked so hard
and ended up in a junk yard.

© Rosangela C. Taylor / 04-18-09

Brothers

It is the give and take
of punches and wounds
that makes us brothers.

Mother never understood,
crying in her room over the stress
of her fractured family: the times
I peed in your shoes, broke a glass table
over your back, and over all the years
you pummeled me with heavy objects
from those hiding places, held me
down so you’d be victorious.

If mother could have lived
to see us now, she would be calmed
by the sight of us, parents of our own
boys and girls, who bully each other
until they cry, and the next moment
laugh together until it hurts, and marvel
at their father and uncle, wondering how
we survived those times as brothers.

It is still the love and hate
of older and younger brothers
that makes us brothers.

Hang Ten

Rays of sunshine on a warm summer day,
little ripples ebb and crest,
Perfect to go surfing on my surfboard anyway,
hang ten to my very best.

Paddling with my hands and feet to carve a wave,
no competitors or obstacles here,
As I look up to the sky, a moment to go save,
no plans to wipeout to have fear.

A ripple rose higher by a few inches to a few feet,
clouds no longer a shade of white,
A unpredicted storm forecasted and now incomplete,
dread follows a sliver of cold fright.

Before the rain, thunder and lightning to bring doom,
I enter the wave inside,
As others take this opportunity before me in gloom,
carve a niche to ride.

During the storm, it becomes bigger and even more force,
my wrist restraints by a strap,
Bobbing up and down in motion, thunder loud to pierce,
sighting a much deadly trap.

I hanged on tight, until the storm faded and ended now,
all in one pierce by God too,
Invigorated by the water and an adrenalin rush somehow,
heading home, black and blue.

The Dolly Partons

You said the lobular cancer likes me
the cancer has returned
I said I remember when you asked me
if the body knows a thing
before the doctors can detect it and
I said I think it does, remember
Yes, you said, you did
I guess my body did
I guess it did, I said
You said I guess I get a brand new pair
I laughed and said you take this well
and can I pick them out
Of course you said but not the Dolly Partons

Do you have a catalog I asked
and I was laughing
and you said I will on Thursday
and I didn't say a word
but dreamed of all the breasts I knew
and wondered whose I'd choose

Interaction: a mutual or reciprocal reaction

Reading my stuff aloud always gives me a rush
But the night I debuted in an organized fashion
That is to say, it was advertised, and I had ten minutes
Just me, my poetry, the audience to hold or not
No flighty one poem, open-mike risk, this, oh no
This was suddenly the real deal, at least that’s how
It felt – and to make matters worse – my love
Was in the audience, he of the non-poetic soul
Or so he likes to describe himself, although I disagree
He thought it a given that I would want him there
And of course I did, didn’t I? Well, didn’t I?

So, as is my wont, I rehearsed some pieces
And took some out and put others in and was careful
To time them exactly, knowing well how resentful
Other poets can become of the ones who tend
To think their work so fine, they can outstay their
Allotted time – it is tempting if things are going
Particularly well, to just keep going and going
But of course, that just begs disaster, as any
Stand-up performer will tell you and I wasn’t
About to tempt that God – oh no, not this newly
Minted poet, just newly reading aloud
And only recently published as well

At any rate, I worked diligently to put together
A good sampling of poems of varying lengths
A few on the melancholic side, one profoundly sad
And several, including the last, with a definite comedic tone
After reading them, and timing them too, over and over
Into a tape-recorder, I was finally satisfied that they
Were just over nine minutes – giving me enough time
For speeding up with nerves, and some patter between
Then, I bit the bullet, dressed to the nines, not every poet’s
Mien, but one I decided suited me and gave me confidence

Well, let me tell you – that night was my ultimate experience
With interaction; never, before or since, have I enjoyed such
An intimacy with anyone, individually, or in a group
It was as if, every line I read reached into the audience
And spoke to each person alone, and while I couldn’t see
Every set of eyes, of course, I could see many, and they
Were indeed, looking right back at mine, reflecting pain
Sometimes, tears, or crinkling with laughter, at other times
I didn’t risk looking at the love of my life until the end
Which was probably a good thing, as I might have come undone
As he sat there obviously stunned and in love, with admiration
Plain on his face; when I sat down amidst much
cheering and applause
He bent to whisper and hug me at once, saying,
“I knew you were good...
But my God, you are amazing...I spent part
of the time just watching
The crowd. You touch people...they were laughing, then crying...wow –”
It was gratifying to hear my work validated by this one who had
Always been supportive but had never really known,
until right then
I don’t think – well I know, for he told me, he had come to the reading expecting
To listen politely, but now felt he should stand on his chair, shout to the world,
“Hey! This amazing poet, this woman right here, she’s my wife!”

Happiness

I asked her
“What would you trade
happiness for?”
She crawled into bed
as I closed the door

She didn’t really answer
She mumbled a line
about “most people ain’t
happy most of the time”

Is it safety in crowds
that merely go with the flow?
Or house in a neighbourhood
that sits row by row?

She didn’t really answer
She mumbled a line
about “some people ain’t
happy even if they ain’t cryin’”

Is it having a ring
that don’t mean a thing?
Getting married ‘cause
the clock says it’s time?

Is it working a job
that just pays the bills?
Is it staying with something
that long lost it’s thrill?

I aksed her to tell me
as I turned out the light
She didn’t really answer, and
just whispered “Good night”

She scoops the coffee, holds the pot
under the tap. Her hand
clutches the counter, firm. I long
to touch that foreign land.

typo.."asked"

A conversation at Superstore

“you can’t take it with you”
handing over the bills for change

a quick shocked glance
as the cashier counts out coins
“you don’t believe in reincarnation?”

stunned for a moment
he searches for a response
“nope, maybe next time!”

Neglected Interactions

Since the beginning of time
Opposing views have existed
One view is nearly always right
While the other is logically wrong
At least in hind site

Such is the forbidden fruit
Willfully eaten by both
Knowing all the while that
Their actions were dead wrong
Ironically
Death was the punishment
For their willful disobedience

Then mankind as a whole
Decided to push God away
Except for a chosen few
Closed inside the ark
While all others perished

On and on the examples go
Missed opportunities by many
Neglected interactions with God
Our backs turned away
Not His

In light of the past actions of mankind
Why do we continue to neglect our Lord
Why do so many refuse to interact
Why are our backs still turned away

We know the rules
We know the consequences
We know right from wrong
Because He made sure we know

It’s in His Word
Injected in our DNA
The truth that He exists
All we need to do is interact

Yet we neglect His callings
We turn away from His truth
We trust in ourselves for direction
We neglect interactions with Him
And we remain lost
On the wrong road
Just as it has been from the beginning

The question remains
Will we continue to neglect Him
Will our backs be turned away
When all that we know
Comes to an end
And we stand before Jesus
On Judgment Day

Morphine

Your lips are like morphine
And your eyes pull me down
Between the sheets of the bed;
Pulling lightly on my hair
You call out my name
As we intertwine our legs.

Your hands touch my legs
And it feels like morphine.
On my lips lies your name –
All you need do is bend down.
Your scent is in my hair
From our time in my bed.

You’re not the first in my bed,
Nor the first between my legs;
You’re not the first to stroke hair
And inject me with morphine
So that I’m sinking down
Somewhere that has no name.

I want to scream your name
Even when we’re out of bed.
No one can pull me down,
Not even by my legs;
I’ve got too much morphine,
I’m “floating on air”.

Sweat soaks my hair
And I cry out your name
As your shot of morphine
Lifts me from the bed.
I can’t move my legs
So I remain lying down.

You sigh, fall down
On top of me, smell my hair,
Lift up, and shift your legs.
While whispering my name
You recline on the bed
Like you’ve just had morphine.

Soon I will need some new morphine to bring me down;
Another bed where I’ll play with someone else’s hair
And moan another man’s name as he moves between my legs.

Listening Game

In yestertimes
we’d play a game.
Go outside. Sit
down. Be quiet.
Eyes wide. Say “start”.
Listen. Say “stop”.
Tell the sounds heard.
Close eyes. Say “start”.
Make mental notes
of all sounds heard.
Listen hard; close.
Listen near; far.
Take a deep breath;
another one.
Really listen.
Deep breath. Say “stop”.
Eyes open. We
compare mental
notes of all sounds.
Did you hear this?
Did you hear that?
You heard a what?
Are you certain?
Let’s do it one
more time. Eyes closed.
Deep breath. Say “start”.
Listen hard; close;
near; far. Say “stop”.
Eyes open. We
share, smile, talk, laugh.
Close times. Much love.
In yestertimes.

The Courage of Cleo-Belle

The timid ginger cat
creeps up carefully on the balloon
as it rests on the living room floor.
She pauses, as a stray breeze
fools her into thinking
the mylar casing is alive.
When all returns to stillness,
she moves warily forward.
She stops one long stretch away
and cautiously raises her paw.
She holds her breath and bats.
The balloon skitters across the tile
and she bolts behind the chair.

“No it’s much better to face these kinds of things
With a sense of poise and rationality”
Panic at the Disco


An interaction,
Words exchanged,
Lives officially merged
By the simple act of
The repeating of vows,
Sealing the fate of
Two mismatched souls –
The alliance a disaster
From the moment of
Uttered conception.

“Do you promise?”
“I do.”
“Yes, I do too.”

Chaos, mayhem,
Disastrous disorder.
The sloppy kiss of death
Blessed by both the
Church and state,
Sending forth
Into the world
The union of two
Who now cry out,
Who today
Beg for relief
From the irrational
Interaction they so
Foolishly began
An entire
Lifetime ago.

09-0418

You won’t make me cry
not this time
I’m keeping my distance.

I know how you are
I’ve worked with you many
times before.

But this time, I won’t let you
hurt me.

No, I won’t stop using you.
I won’t. I like what you add.
It’s important to me
to add just the right
flavor
to the situation.

So, don’t look at me like that,
I’m taking this knife to you
and you will submit
you
onion
you.

"Alone"

Who can help but whisper
when the air is full of warmth
and light flows like vintage into the empty rooms?

And the forgotten blossoms are cold in the window
and the books often opened are stacked by the walls?

A hand in the darkness is never warm.
And an eye in the daylight is shrouded always.

Because I am ever hiding.
I am ever knowing
that something still more miraculous
is waiting for me.

“Herbal Romance”

Rosemary:
I’ve always said we go
well together.

Thyme:
With poultry, certainly.

Rosemary:
What other herbs
have a song?

Thyme:
We don’t have a
song. We’re in a song.

Rosemary:
Song, sing, sing a
song. We’re legends.

Thyme:
In our own thyme.

Rosemary:
Very funny! So like
you not to toot your horn.

Thyme:
Parsley and sage made
the chorus with us.

Rosemary:
Don’t bring those two
into this. No rhymes there.

Thyme:
Perhaps so, but you will always
be a true love of mine.

Rosemary:
Ohh…you! True love
never smelled as sweet.

Bully Surprise

I saw the large boy
bullying a small lad,
treating him like a toy,
making his life sad.

About to intervene
I couldn’t believe my eyes,
the smaller lad became redeemed
flipping the bully overhead.

Bewilderment had taken over,
then the bully upped and fled,
The little lad acting sober,
Nothing more need be said.