Tea for Two

They’re out in force
All over the nation
Frustrated, angry, fearful
Armed with tea bags

Afraid for their future
And that of their kids
They need to be heard
Be a part of a solution

Unthinkable debt
Too much to fathom
Won’t someone listen
Before it’s too late

I knew my way around London
as if I have always lived there

I walked around Galway
as if I knew my way

I strolled around in Manhattan
as if had walked the streets before

am I reborn
or only street-smart?

Silent Whispers
echo
through limbless trees
touching everything
only once
Penetrating all
yet encompassing nothing
Gone as quickly
as its arrival
touching all
only once
then leaving
with the wind

Haiku: Love Reborn

You gave me your love
when my heart was destitute.
I am born anew.

What A Wonderful Day It Has been

It’s been a long
winter season, yet
what a wonderful day it has been.
the Palm Desert snowbirds
came for dinner.
and some desert rats, too.
Ellie, the perfect hostess
makes an even better guest.
Barbara brought her John.
He’s nice - charming, really.
She says she’s an old broad,
but a young widow.
We ate a lot of Greek
and drank a lot of everything.
Doug asked Bonnie
if she could still feel her nose.
She said yes.
Well, then, have another drink.
Jim said good-night.
Three times.
The ladies weren’t ready,
so he sat and didn’t watch TV.
Spring is here.
What a wonderful day it has been.

Born Again
I was born once ain’t that enough
So I’m not saved that’s just tough
Thus I sent the man away
Who wanted to save me that day
But often I think of him
As I plow deeper into sin
Could born again help me
Could it begin to set me free
I wonder if this Jesus stuff
Isn’t just so much guff
But really could change the way
My life goes day by day
He left this pamphlet here with me
Is there something I should see
Should I give his Christ a try
Find some hope before I die?
Or is lost my ineluctable destiny
Never , never to bend a knee
To a God who picks you out
And gives you a brand new route.

I think I’ll try my frien
Born Again! Born Again!

Return to the City

Birdsong under glass,
the cats stretch lazily in shop windows
and the world feels empty.
Couples and families wander,
here and there,
each alone.
It's a sauntering day.
Pink petals dance in hot dog cart steam.
The scaffolds are coming down.
Woolworth's face wet and new
On the oldest avenue of my youth.
Euclid! Precious Geometry!
That draws silver buses to
Cleveland's well-tended heart.

--

Once again...

I take myself to new water,
this lake clotted by ice,
a river who runs like a thief.
Every step forward can be
me becoming me all over again,
snake sloughing skin,
trees shunning leaves

Yes, I've done this before:
unraveling myself,
undoing what I thought I was.
Left the bath someone else
whose smile was faint
in the fogged mirror.

Rising

You broke my heart
A million pieces
Lay scattered
Across the floor
I gathered them
Mending as I
Cautiously moved on
I burned memories of you
I rose from those ashes
Changed, Smarter
Ready to love and be loved

Another haiku: The Butterfly

She emerges from
her cocoon. She's breathtaking
in her renaissance.

Midlife Crisis

what he said he
would be
would do
would get
has never transpired
so today he starts anew
but this time
the plan is different
he’ll go back and
rearrange
redefine
recreate
until he feels
like the man
he meant to be

"Fall Outta Sleep"

Time is but clay
and I am but a plagiarist,
but life is but a dream--
I wrote that, right?

“Wake up. You under a lucky star now!”
I roll over in bed
silence the screeching beast
and search for hyacinths on the backs of my eyelids.

Am I In The Midst of A Rebirth

I dreamed of new growth on the plant
That Mom had cast aside before her death
It's lush green shoots so young and new
Hidden beneath dead foliage
Waking I realize it was just a dream
Was my mother trying to say something
Tell me things will get better
My ankle and knee will heal
I'll earn that Master's Degree
That job will materialize in June
Just like I was told
Is my mother telling me to be patient
That things will work out
Has my rebirth begun

4/20/2009


Rebirth of a Nation
-------------------

The people voted, change is here,
They got what they,ve been wanting.
Captialism out, socialism in,
The national debt is mounting.

It's a country I don't reconize,
A rebirth has taken place.
People are expecting everything free,
It is a total disgrace.

A new place is being formed,
from taxes down to rights.
The country's exploded into darkness,
We can no longer see the light.

Am I losing my mind or was there a villanelle prompt (unofficial) last night? I posted one, but I don't see it anywhere now. Was I lost in last April?

Day 20 – rebirth

In Memoriam

So many poet friends have passed
Have I become so old?
Has the world become so cruel?
Their words live forever
Born each time discovered
The legacy of my friends
The dead poets of New York

PERSPECTIVES

I was looking out
from the top of the bell-tower
at the rooftops and treetops.

Wind in my hair.
Sunlight on my face.
My eyes on the horizon.

I was alone
thinking, “Everyone has
a different life.”

My friend died
in a car accident
on Christmas Day.

The one I love
works so hard
he never sees me.

Five years of my life
are about to vanish
like snow.

I remembered
standing at the tower’s foot
looking up.

Then, how looking out
from the top,
I saw things in a new way.

And I wondered how God
looking down from heaven
saw everything.

Jane Beal
sanctuarypoet.net

“Really a Mom”

Sitting in the high school parking lot
Waiting for the coach bus that’s five hours late
Every conflict comes to mind
Joined in full by brow-furrowing worry
The angry words back and forth
I try to tell him that I truly love him
Despite all the concrete, razor-edged words
And that I know I’m not the coolest mom
Or the greatest mom – not even close
But he gets teary-eyed and hugs me anyway
Maybe that really makes me a “mom"

Yo-Yo

Every opening of my palm
is another time, another falling
down, plummeting through
empty space, then a rising up
or a flailing away, dying down.

When we rise up, we feel the energy
that takes us back to our homes
that makes us whole, warm again.

When we flail away, we feel nothing
but the urge to wind back up and try
again for a path more fulfilling.

I had to learn how to fall
before I could learn how to rise.

Good morning!

Just for the fun of it,
and if it's appropriate,
could we all add a line
and tell the world
where in the world we all live?

They say
Cat has nine lives
What karma is that?

To be re-born
As a cat
nine times in a row
again and again
before you can reach
Salvation?

Aha!

I didn’t like it
What was the big deal?
Sweat, grunt, funny faces
Moaning, yelling
And?
Then I met you
Aha?
No, Ahhhhhhhh
My insides melted
Warm, honey
My heart glowed
ET style, joy overflowing
My brain cleared
Of everything but
Overwhelming pleasure
And I was swept away
Beyond earthly bounds
When I came back
And found my self
Nestled in your arms
Words pressed against my lips
That I dared not speak
We were too new
To new to say
“I Love You”
So instead I whispered
“Thank you”

Dark forgetfulness
And vague memories
She wishes forgotten.
Jangling nerves cry out
For another drink.
And another
And another

Dim smoke filled room
With a stranger describing
How she feels.
Relating things they
- no, she- had done.
Drink another cup of coffee
With your AA sister and brother.

Not knowing
Not really caring
When the cravings stopped.
Just so glad they did.
Each moment of each day
A new beginning
Without alcohol to smother

Beautiful poem today, Jane!

Nancy Posey - I did see the example of villanelle this morning, but it wasn't a prompt, just info. I don't know where it disappearred to though. Seems some folks are posting their submissions to the wrong prompts, so maybe Robert just deleted it to clear up confusion.

WHERE LOVE ABIDES

When shadows hover...sagging clouds
Gray, black, bulged by rain
Breath of mist amongst these hills
Eases fear within

Tilting slender strands of grass
Sway o're boulders gray
Pink and yellow petals stir
Hearts of all who stumble here

Clouds nest upon the valley
Black evolves below. Azure waves
Emerge 'neath cloaks of darkness
Grief lifts like a bird

Descending warmth washes him
In God's garden in the hills
Prayers for strength bear the touch
Of grace. Peace becomes his shield

Time here is life renewed
God whispers She is near
Sadness yields to love
Sounds of life arise

This wilderness, the
Door to all that's good
Within the hearts of those
Who dare to touch the face of God.

Faith is not a dream.

SPRING

The smell of an early spring day, the sound of it, the feel of it
the blustery breeze of it
on my face
sends me reeling back
through the years.
Straight past recent springs
more slowly through those April days
when the children were young
with two of them born in April
dawdling some through my own youth
full of flower power and herbs
and heartache
and crashing to a halt at the feet of childhood.

Walking to school
the damp sidewalk so close I can taste it
longing to turn off the route
not go to school.
Walk the familiar blocks of the neighborhood,
the alleys smelling of cinder and lilacs
and moldy garages.
Pet the budding pussy willows
admire the daffodils,
see what the snow plow left
under mountains of blackened snow
now all but gone,
and hear the birds welcoming spring with their song.

Rebirth Poem

Yep, it’s dead
My husband said
A sigh escaped his throat.

We must re-sod
Before we trod
Upon what used to be a yard.

Another freeze
Oh, stop it please
We just want grass that’s green.

But is there hope
For as we cope
We see a mystery.

I shake my head
I thought it dead
A miracle I see.

A gift of green
For him and me
Our savings still in tact.

See section

One week after the miscarriage
her pelvis is slit with precision,
her warm uterus and ovaries lifted out
along with the baby cancer cells,
leaving just enough space
for her own rebirth.

Linda Voit

Peters Valley

In northwest Jersey woods
out near the Delaware hides
a hive of innovation
where accomplished artists
create in concert with students
a few weeks each summer
where one discovers ecstasy
that lasts for days on end
without sex or other agents of
orgasm. A wise man called
it flow, when time and food and
fellows are forgotten and acts
of creation build in waves to
change a life forever

A Tiny Miracle

On our midmorning ride
up to Grandfather Mountain
beneath a sky of Carolina blue,
against the evergreens
the hardwoods looked so bare,
we both remarked,
so grey for so late in April.

So later, as we coasted down,
back into our foothills,
ears popping as we hugged the curves,
before the sun began its slow descent,
we almost gasped in sweet surprise
to see that, only hours past,
the grey limbs had burst forth
so green and new they glowed.

Nancy Posey

Diatelle on Writing Fiction

I
design
and combine
each integral
facet. I make them mine:
personalities that are whole,
brand new characters ‘born’ to play each role,
recreating myself in the process. But why?
Ultimately, it’s under my control
To edit; to refine
a life, its soul
to assign.
Divine.
I.

(Note: Generally, due its syllabic structure, a diatelle poem is written to take the shape of a diamond.)

I Still Have Hope

After the bridge broke
and so many thousands lay dying
After the sweep of tides
(the moon, off course, for how long?
They can’t tell us)
After the inside flowed out and over
left figures frozen: a city of gray statues;
even the ground squirrels included in the tableau.
After entire mountain ranges burned,
and then were washed bare by muddy rains
(although the lakes and rivers clogged with stumps,
ash, grisly goo of what’s left of fish and frog)
After cracks appeared, widened, swallowed entire countries,
split continents into new shapes
(how trivial our argument over borders seems then).
After ice began its creep forward (or was it backwards?),
covering deserts in blue glass peaks.
For some reason it still seemed important
that I had paid you the money I owed
for repairing my Ford, back when it was the only
thing I owned.
I guess I thought it would still be important some day
when all this “after” ends,
when we emerge again, in some form of chemistry
(though not human, that I concede, and maybe we won’t
even know each other).
Perhaps our molecules or cells (or strings?) will form anew
to create some new element
not yet known in this ‘verse.

Constant Rebirth
April 20

Every moment we’re reborn
and offered fresh horizons
in every glance we take.
Nothing sits as it once was
and our beauty grows
in endless profusion
as we share the infinite
playing out of our universe.
Happiness comes in the knowledge
that true joy is born in awareness
of the complexity and potential
of the cycle of what we truly are
and of all that whirls around us.
I remember how we were
our youth and timeless beauty
and celebrate it still, as I know
and feast on what we are just now
and wonder as I end each day
where our light will play tomorrow.

Hugh

Trudy and Marie V - I grew up mainly in Cleveland, so I remember Euclid Ave! Mom worked at Woolworth before I was born. I have vivid memories (are they true?) and some of my own favorite poems and prose come from them. It is where my memoir under construction takes place. My Landmark poem was about the West Side Market. I've lived all over the country, but have Georgia in common with Robert. Loved it there in Alpharetta. I apologize because I usually do not engage in cross-chatter, but your post, Marie, was too special to me. Not much sauntering in NYC.

NEIGHBORS ARE IMPRESSED


neighbors were more impressed
Lazarus would die twice
than they were about his resurrection
they envied him that second life
wishing they had died that first time
and Jesus had been their friend
calling them from the dark tomb
while the whole neighborhood assembled
for the miracle, applauded at last
when Lazarus wrapped in linen
tottered like an old man, a corpse
come to life, an opportunity
to live again in this material world
but they missed the whole point
Jesus was making, about how
because of His incarnation,
His suffering, dying, then finally
His own Resurrection,
all would live again In His Kingdom

#

THEORY OF RELATIVITY

I dreamt i died and
awakened
singing about life.
Alone,
fearless,
i was centered.

Sunflowers turned
their faces toward me,
demonstrating
how to be glad to
wait for God.

LOVE ABIDES


My heart belonged to you all those years ago,
Just as your heart belonged to me.
We were to suffer a cruel fate that would tear us apart,
But how were we to know that all those years ago?

The path's we chose took us in separate directions.
But we found each other again.
We found the love we once shared.
Our souls would always be on the same path.
For our lives and eternal love for each other were moving in the same direction.

My heart beat out your name,
Just as your heart beat out mine.
And the soothing sound of your voice when it said my name
was like a magic word.
An ‘Abracadabra’ that had changed my feelings for you back into an enduring love.

This discovery has remained as amazing as anything ever found.
And we both became explorers on the same mission.
We found each other again and had proclaimed “Eureka”
as we rediscovered more every day.

My heart belongs to you,
Just as your heart had belonged to me.
I just wanted to tell you that I continue to love you
and that deep down
we both knew this was truly meant to be.

A beautiful love story shared by two.

Eternity, love’s humble adode.

Reinventing Myself

I realized one day I can be anybody I want-
Anybody
So I decided each season of my life
Would have something brilliant to
Remember
My teens
insecure, sweet, budding, discovering love
My college years
Daring, bold, adventurous, experimenting with love
My twenties
Working, creating, becoming, falling in love
My thirties
Birthing, chasing, giggling, madly in love
My forties
Growing, finding, knowing, peacefully in love
My fifties
Can’t wait to find out who I will become.

Reticence and Rebirth

Each opens
at its own pace—
our hearts, the first
spring daisies, church-bound
women in white hats.

I should have taken pictures
of the water, the murk,
the scroll-top tip
of the primitive rocker
above the surface
of the agitated water,
the beads of moisture
clinging to the fiberglass
insulation like fish eggs.

Instead, unused
to being there
at the end or
at the beginning
I panicked, and called
the guys from A-1,
who brought in monstrous
planet-making dehumidifiers,
astronomically large fans
and, like something
out of a Steven King novel
cut away the soggy carpet
and the submerged drywall
and hauled it all
on to the lawn leaving
nothing but the precursors
of stars: dense clouds
of dust and gas,
and the mold from which
humanity spawns.

The world - or at least
the basement, re-created
in six weeks, and nothing
to show for it, save
the burst copper pipe
that I was told
the adjuster needed to see.

Salvatore,
I have played with that idea in my head too. Did you ever read the poem by Miller Williams--the title is something like "Embracing the Light"--in his sisters' voice, explaining that they hadn't expected him to be brought back to lie and admitting some of the things they'd done in the interim. It's very clever.I enjoyed yours.

Day 20 Rebirth

One of the greatest rivers in Canada,
the mighty muddy Fraser,
she has bordered my life
on the north, so that my summer tan
is always darker
on the left.

She's rising now, gaining power,
gathering volume and weight
to purge the banks of detritus:
dead fish, birds, bits of
everything will be washed
to the sea.

Seeds, bark, branches, roots, trees
will be torn from the riverside to be
tossed and tumbled and transported
with unstoppable, uncontrollable force
to the sea.

There will be new treasures-
driftwood, shards, uncovered rocks,
long hidden artifacts of the ancient Sto:Lo-
in the summer, left when she falls,
for those of us with hearts attuned
to the long slow annual rhythms
of the Fraser.

(from Hope BC Canada)

Demise

An old white beneath the skin,
of bleached shells, ancient marble—
crept to your heart. Mother-tucked,
drowsy, you are lucky (as only
a hospital can proclaim) too mi-
nute to know. The people who adore
you hover blearily in, clear as tears,
approving gifts dangled by em-
barrassing strangers. Coaxed down
discolored corridor: the room
where they cut, poke to find truly
you, parting the tiny mist of oblivion
obscuring your heart like tearing
lace, extracted, bottled hastily, on
the only positive shelf in this blank
place; reverse rabbit’s foot glanced
at in future dreams, when this current
demise is memory, hung like a worse
coat on a familiar hook, survived,
as a nightmare, her weird song galloped
into sun.

"That Cool October Night"

There I stood on the side
of that desert road, shivering
on that cool October night after
the adrenaline wore off, not
even warmed by the red and
blue lights continuously
bathing me in their glow
We swerved at the last
minute, which I'm thankful
for, to God, to her, to them
both, but it didn't save us
from that fate that did befall
us, which was minor compared to
what could have happened
We paid a price, but not the
price, not the ultimate price
A civil penalty much more
welcome than the corporeal
penalty that awaited us
that cool October night

First Dinner on the Deck

We bundle up to eat outside,
the sun setting between two
buildings, as it does in April
but not any other time of year.
You point this out, going on
about the science of it, as I call
out and point to the budding
wisteria, the japanese maple’s red
feathered return, the hostas’ slow
climb, the tulips and forsythia
already in bloom. Chilly,
but worth it, to dine outside
again as if for the first time,
to crawl out from winter’s cave
and witness the burgeoning—
how differently it feeds us.
To hear the cheeps of a tucked-away
chick as the cats look on
from inside the window, noses
high, quivering, their eyes wide.

Waiting for Reincarnation

I wonder if Lawerence Ferlinghetti
is still waiting
for a rebirth of wonder,
he is still writing
I have his newest book of pungent songs
of wine and city lights and birds.
For forty years I have wanted
the radiance that fills him
to burn my poems from the inside,
I have a longing to live inside his zany Coney Island,
a desire to make love in his sooty sunlight,
Sometimes I even say a prayer to be reborn
as an aging beat bookseller whose painterly words
keep spilling into San Francisco streets.

Sun sparkles on water
the light bounces
dances off the tips of the waves
like diamonds falling from God's hand
in brilliant celebration of spring

wind whips up the waves
flotsam and jetsam ride
across the surface of the lake
like the people that we meet
afloat on a tide of hope
angst clutters their path

listen to the birds that sing
the chimes that ring
leaves gently massaged by wind's fingers
God's breath as it warms the wanderer
smell the pine amongst the crocus
in this season
all around the world
many choirs sing the song
hold fast to that love

gather the diamonds in your lap
hold fast to your faith
that courage will spur you towards the light
avoid the anchors that take you down
gather the people
those whose spirits reflect the light
hold their hands
honour their spirits
speak truth to their wisdom

BORN AGAIN


Broke rules I didn't know existed, when I first got
Out. Babies are like that, you know, innocent. I
Really didn't have a clue how to start over. So many
New things to think about, become accustomed to.
And I had been away so long, it was like dying. There's no
God of Parole to tell you the Commandments for being born
Again into a new life, with a different future than you had
Imagined. There's no promise of heaven to encourage you,
Nor threat of hell (I've already been there). You just live.


(April 20, 2009) Dianne Borsenik

(the word "live" in the last line should be italicized)

A Tentative Emergent

She started to emerge, one toe into the cold air.
Maybe she realized she was wrong-ways around,
Or maybe the air was too cold, like the Pacific,
When you put a toe in, then run back on the sand.

Whatever the reason, the toe curled back inside,
Where it was always warm and wet and breathing
Was not a chore, was not even an option,
But still some undreamt future waking shock.

After a while, I guess she accepted the inevitable,
And her head sneaked out with a bloody business.
Born once and reborn twice, does that give insight
Or second sight or does it incite the babe with shining eyes?

Now the air is frigid in a sterile, hostile room,
The wordless dream has gone all nightmarish,
And all that waits are the long years before she can
Crawl back down into the womb of moist earth.

© 2009 Chuck Puckett
20 April 2009

Rebirth

Your words deliver me
into a creation
beyond your world or mine
from which I am reborn
with new eyes.

Julia - enjoyed your poem. I've myself wondered how it is that I feel so much more at home in old cities than the places where I grew up -- some of it's just personal preference, but there's also a depth of visceral pleasure/homesickness that seems beyond easy explanation. (Can't call myself "street-smart," though -- I'm woefully navigationally impaired in every language I know. *rueful grin*)

Rebirth


All that screaming, shouting and pain
why would I want to do that again?

Rebirth: More Questions Than Answers


Are still waters deep?
Is philosophy shallow?
Who cares, anyway?

Can you hear my tears?
Can you feel my broken heart?
Or taste my sorrow?

Question in your eyes
But why do you find it hard
To ask it outright?

Why do flowers grow?
Don’t they know they have to die?
Life awaits its death!

Will love bring sunshine?
Will it bring rain and thunder?
Only time will tell.

Horizons that stretch
As away as forever
How can I reach you?

Hard hearts, endless tears.
Rocks eroded by water?
Love is not a game.

Blanket of distrust
See my eyes and hear my soul
Would I ever lie?

Conversation palls
You look at me with closed eyes
Am I boring you?

Here I am standing
between a rock and the sea;
Will I climb or swim?

Do you speak the truth?
Your body language says you lie;
You have touched your nose!

The Twentieth Rebirth of Something

may be a ring or the bling
of a million happy coins
falling from the sky, why

is it that the ding of a count
bawdy ka-ging makes everything
rosier than the ping of spring

proving we have the clout
to bring it home and sing
out on a wing and a prayer.

The Value of a Day

The sun rises
announcing another day.
The higher it rises in the sky;
the higher my hopes rise it.

Early in the morning
a blank page waits
for the life I will scrawl upon it;
grand designs and bold intent
begin my human treatise.
Noon time transition
and the reality creeps in;
the ideal gives way to the limits
of my body and my mind,
still the soul soars
until my limitations
disparage my spirit’s enthusiasm.

The sun begins to set
and a chapter is closed.
Disappointment dilutes joy
until the sun returns with hope.

Rebirth

Slime grows cold
around the strangling
form of placentic
discharge wrapping
around my core being,
blood pulsing
through purple veins
sticky drying muck
cleared mucus
clogged breath
heart pumping
its own blood
splashing helplessly
into new space
unfamiliar, alone,
screaming at the
top of my lungs
mother of misplaced
dreams shoved me
deeply back into the
vagina of life and
gave me one more
chance at postnatal
reverberant thunder

Skinny

In the mirror I look and see
A face staring back at me
One I haven’t seen in many years
One that cried many tears
Not looking all that round anymore
Now a smile in place of the frown I wore
The pounds are melting off of me
Rebirthing the skinny I used to be

“Starting the Day Over”

The warm shower washes over me,
Starting the day over is not easy to do,
But this exercise helps me to wash away all of the madness,
Sadness,
And distress of the day.

When I’m feeling down,
Need more sleep,
Or just need to re-group and get my stuff together,
I jump in,
Sing to the music on the radio,
And let go,
Let loose,
Go on impulse.
Turn the phone off,
Get some quiet from the storm,
And start the day off right…

A mate for yesterday's poem.

Birth pains

Born into a new body at twelve,
this time I remember the pain.

Writhing on the back seat
while my mother and brother

panic as I scream until my voice
disappears, taken by the same

blood clot which stole my legs,
my lungs; my fingers forever

slack on the armrests of my
wheelchair. A machine breathes

for me. A tube pees for me.
All alone in my mind, I await

the dark to slip that away from me, too.

Burden of Beauty


Look at her, so sassy and prettily
sashaying down the street,
with her breast implants, and her
tattooed eyeliner and her sparkly
white veneers, just to name a few.

I know exactly what she’s thinking:
Hey, look at me! I’m a born again,
gen-u-ine, beautiful woman!
She smiles at the men who smile
as she walks by, appreciating the view.

Now she glances in the stroller
at the 3 month-old-girl, sleeping.
I know exactly what she’s thinking:
She’s the spitting image of her mother.
Ten years, more or less, so much work to do.

"Nothing To Do But Stay"

Poem by poem,
tooth by truth,
my voice jingling like a handful of counterfeit coins,
inching closer to a stygian, sepulchral, bottomless doom;
life becomes a strategic retreat from yet another ruse.
Anything to release the stinging-singing of the loins.
Anything not to face another dry day.

A small band of poems watch, mocking me from the windowsill.
They stand side by side, motionless; like conspirators blindfolded,
gagged, and hands tied behind their backs, awaiting deliverance at
the tip of a bullet. Some of them have cigarettes dangling from
the corners of their mouths, burning but forgotten. The others
wear grimaces, with slitted eyes, as if tasting rotting flesh.
They must hate themselves for what they have become; moreso,
they must loathe themselves for what they have not.

Outside, ambulances and police cars sing shrill songs to each other.

We’ve Come a Long Way, Baby... Maybe
for Jan Clausen

To understand Her, begin by comparing
apples and oranges with this Northwest nuclear family girl
cum laude New York lesbian poet
and later--shocking!--wife to a man
who built a life of her own
design. "It isn't always like this,"
she wrote, "the poems in the cracks.”

Still, poems grow well in the juncture between split limbs
and broken moments
where no one holds your gaze
not even your mother,
especially when you first bleed, just Hush,
this is your blessing, your curse
to hide. Twenty years (or more)
later, maybe
Tom Waits got it right,
"There's a crack
in everything, that's how the light
gets in."

Stop living in the dark
shame of enjoyment. You’ve come
a long way, baby.
You know the roots
of the tree are deep
and fruit divides well
three ways: apples, oranges and poetry
promising a healthy constitution.
If you find your tree bare, curl in the fork
of your own branches,
carve a luscious poem
in the crack.

Ten Years, Times Two



Despair: accept it. Took to as
life, for same is now number become.
Will she know who? It takes to years unformed,
exposed, cold—to being a raw world. Senses a
monstrous baby, immature, alert, can hurt A.
Anyone giving over the damage of even how to
explain loss of herself, swallows, cannot, the
grief. Grow accustomed to this new person.
She does not know how she has been to
medication. Changes the antidepressant who.


The antidepressant medication changes who
she has been; she does not know how to
grow accustomed to this new person. Grief:
swallows the loss of herself—cannot explain
to anyone how even the giving over of damage
can hurt. A baby, immature, alert, monstrous
senses. Cold. Exposed to a raw world, a being
unformed. It takes years to know who she will
become, is now. Same number for life
as it took to accept despair.

Day 20 Prompt: Rebirth


Rebirth

1. My children have left home
adults now
and here I am alone
wondering what happens next.
The house is empty
every room I walk into
is full of echoes of the past –
Christmas mornings and the
excitement of opening presents,
birthday parties, laughter
and of course, fights.
I expect to hear their voices
sometimes imagine
I hear them calling me.

2. Twenty years later and
I live for every moment.
Now I meditate on each
natural wonder around me.
I write haiku, poetry, stories;
take photos; paint; draw;
garden; build websites; work.
I went back to school
got my uni degree.
I’m still a mother
always will be
but now I am reborn
into life and nature
a different way.
Now I breathe on my own.

3. I am connected to nature
full of love for the Earth
respecting all she has to offer.
But for a split second
I wonder what will happen next.
To be reborn, to be
given a new life
you must go through a
kind of death
where you say goodbye
to the old life.
But for now I am
content to savour
every second of this one.

Maureen Sexton
http://www.maureensexton.com.au
http://www.wapoets.net.au
http://www.creativeconnectionsaape.net.au
sajwriter06@yahoo.com.au

IN THE LIGHT OF PERSERVERANCE
By: Hannah Bowles

The pungent smell of earth
released by medal prongs,
unrelenting to all that is dead
and smothering that of worth.
Florescent green, the shoots
emerge from a place unseen,
often imagined. A dark space
where only the moist, pink flesh
of worms and hard shelled beetles
slip past these seeds of our new
tomorrow. Reminding me that
everything immense had a minute
beginning. The opportunity that we
have to push through our boundaries,
look in the face of all quandaries to
exceed and excel in our obscure and
sometimes dark spaces to transcend
with peace and a sought after vigilance.

Autumn Vespers (After "Girl in White in the Woods")*


This is where the Fallen are—

browning corpses scattered far,
spread like blood across a scar—

this is where the Fallen are.



This is where the Fallen lay—

hiding from the light of day;
snowy dress, now stained and gray—

this is where the Fallen lay.



This is where the bent and worn

all escape from others' scorn;
hearts are broken, souls are torn—


Fall... and fall...


...and be reborn.


*This is an ekphrastic poem based on the painting "Girl in White in the Woods by Vincent Van Gogh, which you can view by Googling the image or here: http://www.vggallery.com/painting/f_0008.jpg*

Salvatore,
I have played with that idea in my head too. Did you ever read the poem by Miller Williams--the title is something like "Embracing the Light"--in his sisters' voice, explaining that they hadn't expected him to be brought back to lie and admitting some of the things they'd done in the interim. It's very clever.I enjoyed yours.

tree

for months it waits lying dormant
the last regal leaves clinging to majestic arms
enduring winter’s vicious winds
merciless temperatures
unyielding snow
as the first golden warmth graces
it wakes
tiny buds appear from nowhere
growing visibly each day until they are ready to burst
and it happens
pods explode in crimsons and emeralds never before witnessed
a release of nature’s enchantment in a gray world
scents and visions to be treasured only by those who notice
and hear the whispers of Spring

© 2009 Molly Logan Anderson

If strife weighs you down
Like a boulder today,
Consider...
My Jesus
Still rolls stones away.

Beautiful, Hannah.

Go Tell that Story

How often we’ve sung
Amazing Grace
Or
Blessed Assurance
How many times did you hear
That Preacher
Say
He died for us
He died for us
And why
Oh why did he do that?
What pain he felt
What anguish?
What do I do with it?
I'm not worth a grain of mustard seed
My faith is no where near
I have nothing to even give him
I don't want to be a christian
Not me No not me
He loved me so
He let me go
My own way for so very long
Until there was even less of me
And though I tried to run away
His call was too strong
So that moment you've heard about
The re-birth of me
The born again experience
Even if
You may not believe
You may not believe
The truth is that the truth will set you free
It feels as if a weight has been lifted
And
That love has wrapped you in his arms
And when you look upon his face
And feel the grace
Then you know
Why he did it

rebirth

throw out the cozy steps I take each morning
bring in something new
where my feet can be led to fresh tracks
on old pavements.
a new cafe
wooden benches in a sunny room
me fresh and bold
don't do that while you're with me, I say
I am reborn
into someone I was underneath the nice girl
who really wasn't very nice
bring in the new girl
watch her spin around
see the gray hair that peeks around the corner of her ear
she's reborn in colors
no more black and white

"Sightless"

A crack torn open in the mind
forth pours, lets like hospital blood:
Conviction, unrest, healing waves
begun to heal,
negatively viewed
and outwardly misunderstood.
There on top of the Sorrowstrike Mound
was Mayor Gregory
aligned to the torchlight procession.
“Gathered today
suckling the dregs of humanity,
we’re blackout drunk
through detestable change!”
A man in the crowd
arose with a scowl,
“Sell me a lemon, man,
but quit talking fate!”

For inside every man
during the onset of change
lays a beast that turns foul
when making the exchange.

The nostalgic beast stares down the elected,
threatening juxtaposed
between what he knows
and to the end which shows
complete necessity.

Sorrowstrike Mound gathers the fundamentalist lights,
whereas torches held by liberals illuminate the night.

The mayor stands on
during the internal struggle
caring only for the end
that the brain is less fuddled.

Split in the sky lay a cloud, hovered violet,
covering healing waves
struggling with blighted ground.
Each unhappy face within the mighty crowd
heralds a new age
for what this person has allowed.

Marie. Thank you for finding the target. I know that was meant for me. Extraordinary perception. Janet LOVED the Rolling Stones. I have a story to tell on this rebirth prompt. Working on it now. Just wanted you to know I heard you loud and clear.

One Body

She is tougher than anyone I know
For at least ten years, the cancer has tried to kill her
but she fought it off
I knew that night in the studio that things were bad
because of what she left unsaid
Her tone was apologetic,
as if to say, I’m sorry
I’m not going to win this time
It was the last time we saw her in a chair
now, she will not rise from bed again
In church yesterday that thought overtook me
I stepped outside during the Prayers of the People
Leaning on an iron rail I looked up into an Oak
bright spring green spread across its branches
origami leaves unfolding.
Some branches died over winter
but the body is sound
and it will renew itself year after year
long after she and I are gone.

"Beginning with the End"

Curving
Running straight
Skipping
Taking a stand

A question mark
Begins
To form

What
What if
What if not
What if not all
What if not all the things I was told were true are?

Suddenly my life is not
About searching for the answers.
But about forming the questions.

Beautiful, Eben. Thank you.

Walt, so glad you found it. Be sure to read Eben's as well, if you haven't already. Thinking of you.

The Reverse Vampire Mystery
By R. Chazz Chute

It bothers me that she looks so familiar.
She’s seated opposite me, looking prim.
Page boy cut, shoulder pads
under her pinstriped power suit,
all buttons wrenched tight.
Is that look back?
I don’t follow fashion so why should she?
She’s listening to an MP3 player
so loud I catch all the poppy buzz
of something unidentifiable with a beat.
No bounce to her head, though,
no toe tapping.
She’s all business.
We are her background, the obstacles,
the dim faceless crowd.
Careful not to stare
I watch her out of the corner of my eye.
Did we see each other in high school hallways?
Summer camp best friends forever long forgotten?
She seems to be looking elsewhere,
head half turned, so maybe she’s studying me, too,
in the peripheral way of wary strangers.
Is she waiting for someone?
Is her husband late to join her on the train?
Or is it a coworker who has forgotten to join her?
A lover? No. Not happy enough.
Adulterer? Ditto.
Did her son or daughter miss their transfer
on the way here? Maybe.
She gives few clues beyond
the formidable-looking briefcase at her feet
(maybe for legal briefs?)
She wears sneakers instead of pumps--
incongruous and supremely practical--
she must keep the fancy shoes at the office.
It looks a little silly, perhaps,
but comfortable for commuting so I approve.
I wonder what she’s like on weekends?
What does she talk about and to whom?
Religion or politics?
Cats or dogs?
Red or white?
Action or romance?
Married or divorced?
Books or the gym?
What’s her inner world?
Is she good at Jeopardy?
Does she care about scrapbooking?
No one knows anyone else’s true thoughts,
never for sure,
no matter how close you get.
It’s coming to me slowly, though,
like molasses from a cold jar,
where I might have known her.
She still doesn’t quite seem real but her identity
will come, like the common word you know but
it’s eluding you under the weight of urgency—
the word that finally emerges in a euphoric little burst
if you don’t think directly at it too hard.
There’s a word for this sort of thing.
It won’t come if I try to force it.
I’ve heard it a thousand times.
Déjà vu? No, not quite.
Um…
People in white coats dance around the edge of something
I can almost almost touch.
It’s then I realize we are staring at each other, eyes locked.
I grasp it and it burns through me like the nervy lightning
of a sizzling smoking panhandle (smoke detector shrieking) when,
in your rush, you’ve dropped the potholder.
When it comes to me something breaks inside and all
the questions I’ve been daydreaming through
wake me too fast
leaving me confused.
It’s too much at once and I look at her in horror.
I take in the sweat on her curled upper lip
and the way she pulls her head back, eyes wide,
desperate to escape the truth of our mutual recognition.
I try to give her a reassuring smile
but she looks terribly afraid of me.
I say the words aloud, hoping that will break the evil spell.
“Dissociative Episode.”
“Right,” she says in a high tinny voice.
She starts digging in her purse frantically.
When she drops the pill bottle
it rolls away
to her right
and
to my left.
We both reach for it at the same time and
for a moment I recoil, thinking we will
knock foreheads.
Shit. That’s a mirror.
How long have we been sitting here?

Greetings from mamayut! Have been out of the country for the past week so missed posting, but still met the challenge of writing a poem each day. This may not count for the contest, but wanted to submit my week's worth anyway. Couldn't follow the prompts without i-access, so here is a glimpse of London.

Monday, April 13

First Impressions of the Old World

Easy customs and luggage retrieval
Overcast
Steering wheel where?
Roundabout—
Wait until you see the calming area—
I could use one of those at home—
Give way—
And do try to keep out of the gully
Stone churches
Green fields
Calm horses—
They must go through the calming areas—
Sheep
More sheep
Rabbits
More rabbits
Cobblestones
Churches
Cathedrals dating to 960
Can anything be that old?

Tuesday, April 14

(I was able to get the prompt for this one for two of them, but on the wrong days)

Hidden Hobby

Pleasingly plump,
her beauty shines from inside,
euphemisms all for
a waist much too wide,

It’s my life, I live it,
from day to day
stuck in the skin
I’ve stretched out all the way,

Each day of work,
responsibilities, duties,
but at the start of each day
I lift sleek, shiny beauties,

Of silver, five pounders,
identical grips,
they glide through the air
as sound comes from his lips,

Total Body Sculpt with Gilad
“Get up off your buns,
Get rid of that flab!”

One glance at my body
won’t give it away,
hidden hope, hidden hobby
exercising each day.

Wednesday, April 15

Twenty—five Years

Twenty-five years
four children, one dog
meals cooked and eaten
clothes washed and dried
floors swept and mopped
diapers changed and exchanged
for mini skirts and diplomas
long hours of work
nights much too fast
full of worry--
Twenty-five years
gone in a hurry.
And what about love,
yours and mine?
July 14th, Bastille
Day of freedom
you asked for my hand
to hold
season to season,
Twenty-five years
of purposeful chains
binding together two hearts
just one flame.
Bastille Day approaches,
now all kids have flown
twenty-five years
like flowers its grown.
Now off to Paris
to share in the glory—
together
alone
we’ll celebrate
our love story.

Thursday, April 16

Stones

Stones.
Flint, limestone, pervis marble,
bluestone and imports from across the sea

Stones.
Large, small, polished, rough,
monumental boulders, chalk dust and mortar

Stones.
Bedrock, foundation, walls, floors,
roof, door, basement, spire

Stones.
Walls to protect,
Ammunition to defend

Stones.
Empire builders, national treasury,
Crown jewels, grave markers.

Friday, April 17

London Bridges

London Bridge stands firm and tall,
firm and tall,
firm and tall,
rain comes down to drench us all,
my fair ladies.

Saturday, April 18

Country Sister, City Sister

Country Sister:
gym shoes and hoodie
knapsack on her back
hopped a plane to visit

City Sister:
eel skin stilettos and silk pashmina
matching handbag
waves down a cab

Country and City Sister embrace
“How I’ve missed your lovely face.”

Then on to lights, crowds, parties, shows,
locks, sirens, (you know everyone knows),
noise, pollution, protestors,
save the squirrels, modern art,
bums in doorways, blue hair,
green hair, his/hers/your flair.

Country Sister’s eyes stretch wide,
Not from make-up reapplied,
“How can you stand this—
I’d want to die?”

City Sister’s finger’s drum
Thinks of country life—ho hum,
“How can you stand that—
death by boredom.”

Sunday, April 19

Modern Mammals

Whales
floating over the countryside
taking turns
washing up on shore
full of the day’s catch
in case of emergency
aisle running lights
lead the way to
Jonah’s exit.





Monday, April 20, 2009

SAFE

It was after the show,
after a long day of tourist sites
we were heading deeper
into Oxford Circus Station—

There’s an emergency situation
everyone must exit the station.

Surely not us, not after
the show, this must be a test
of the emergency broadcast—


There’s an emergency situation
everyone must exit the station.

Follow Way Out signs
Where are the girls? My husband?
people everywhere
Way Out

There’s an emergency situation
everyone must exit the station.

Crowds all head in
one direction—Way Out—
white knuckles holding each other

There’s an emergency situation
everyone must exit the station.

Don’t run, you’ll start a panic
bodies pressing closer
moving faster
running up long stairs

There’s an emergency situation
everyone must exit the station.

A sea of people rises
as a wave to crush us
high heels running the escalator
two stories up
night out high heels
slowing me down

There’s an emergency situation
everyone must exit the station.

Hurry, Mom, Hurry!
Blasts of cold air rain
greet heaving lungs
Sirens
Flashing lights

There’s an emergency situation
everyone must exit the station.

Come on, we’ve got to
keep moving
breath still comes in
waves, heaving
like a man rescued from drowning
who doesn’t know he’s been saved

There’s an emergency situation
everyone must exit the station.

The voice recedes as we put
space between us and the
station
How far must we go
to be safe
and how will we ever
get home?

After the Flow of Lava
Black mass with a glowing orange center
Oozed downward,
Objects in the path are going to get burnt
Sucked under
Obliterated
Fast moving, sometimes sluggish slow-seeming destroyer
Cares not who or what stands in the way
How deep their roots are
Or how high they’ve climbed the social yardstick
What makes us take the chance?
Creep closer to watch and feel the rush of chemicals to receptors
Flee, fight, FLEE
Sparks become flame
And in an instant reduce to ash

Pale green shoots, peek though blackened ground
Aerating and opening the soil to water
Rebuilding old ideas destroyed
The paradigm shifted so far it disappeared
The gift of new growth
Building again in the path of the lava

"My awakening”

I swore I swore off men
But there you were and now
I’m not so sure
I can swear you away
Just the sight of you
Makes me want to see more of you
When you touch me
Even in the slightest way
I feel things I thought were long lost
You have awakened
The longing and the need in me
Never have I wanted in such a way
With you I have no control
The aching is in my very soul
Awake is the women in me
And I have never felt so good

Eben,
I thank you for your post. I have lost THE one over this past weekend due to a twenty five year battle we both knew she wouldn't win. The beauty of your words have found me and touched my deeply. And I thank Marie for pointing me to your poem.

The Dawn Awakens Suddenly, Disturbing the Vines of Night


The girl is left for dead on her tripled mattress, tucked in from the chin to feet. Her parents, dressed in black mourning, place a bouquet of wilted roses over her chest and spend three nights watched the stems to see if they rise up suddenly and then fall. But they do not and so her parents leave her alone

to be honored by time pieces and fairy tales, wrapping vines of thorned night and dragons with a sorceress' beautifully angry face. Oh, the girl is dead but does not rot. Each who approaches her covered home ask, “to wake the dead or to not wake the dead?” Those with a debilitating fear of zombies turn around while those confident in their own immortality knock on the door before entering.

Each suffers from necrophilia and covets the dead girl. They touch the dry roses, her equally dry shoulder. They whisper in her ear. Their hands dip down so that they can touch her breasts. She does not stir.

Not until she is kissed. Or in some variations, raped, because in her unconsciousness, she cannot give her consent and so, is raped no matter the method. She awakes, confused by the crime.

This is in the land where all girls fell in love with those who stole their chastity, regardless of the means. She looks at the men, raises her arms, and offers herself. The majority only came to touch the dead girl; only one claims her devirginized self. He takes her for his wife but cannot consummate the marriage because each time he looks at her, he imagines all the heroes who came before him, wielding their swords and touching her thighs with the edge of the blade.

It is not until she innocently touches the spindle in the attic that she drops dead again and he remembers his lust and takes her to be his own. And then, she lifts herself up and delicately places a long, hard bite on the back of his head, revealing the gray matter concealed within.

Ghosts of Summer


the leaves had withered
brown and yellow parchment now swirling around my feet
the sun setting early
the chill in the air consuming
I stand on summer's creation
a dune
which is never complete

wind chimes blowing
leaving lonely ghosts behind
I diminish with the tide
always changing my position

my footing is never the same
when I walk in the sand

Up, Then Down Again

Oh my, the mysteries of modern medicine!
One remedy mellowed my limping one marvelous morning,
Made me murmur mellifluous rhymes to magnificent karma:
"I'm healed! In remission, remedial mode!"

One week was my window to grasp what I could;
Then that blighted and blasted old limp had returned.
Curses and crying -- a hex on that doc!
New hope came to thing. My rebirth turned back.

Why I Can Never Marry Doctor Who

I have watched you grow younger,
reborn each time to a different face;
new clothes, new voice, new man.
Only the re-run pixels of memory remain
of a history that we once shared.

I have aged, I have stumbled through
first bra, first French kiss, first love,
the messiness that first things bring
whilst all the time you shed pounds
and jowls and that pure white hair.
I have borne children, lost three jobs,
my waistline and a Datsun Cherry
as you slid way past middle age
never touching base at a mortgage
or the need to secure a pension.

I have buried parents, aunts and uncles
as you defied death in a blaze of light
and emerged with different smiles
but always a been around knowing smile.
I have arthritis in my left knee now,
I let out involuntary small groans
when I stand up from any low sofa.
You had that feeling once maybe
and left it all behind for Myspace.

It must be odd seeing your own old age
as an out of date catalogue of aches and pains.
You are the same age as my child now;
I could be, but would not be, your mother.
We moved past each other a while ago,
I tried to wave but you were gone so fast
and that joker time was always on your side.

Up, Then Down Again

Oh my, the mysteries of modern medicine!
One remedy mellowed my limping one marvelous morning,
Made me murmur mellifluous rhymes to magnificent karma:
"I'm healed! In remission, remedial mode!"

One week was my window to grasp what I could;
Then that blighted and blasted old limp had returned.
Curses and crying -- a hex on that doc!
New hope came to nothing. My rebirth turned back.

(repost, embarrassing typo)

A Returning

Clay from the ground.
Sieve inclusions.
Extrude water.
Compress and rest.
Cut off a chunk.
Knead and soften.
Roll out two legs.
Attach the feet;
Torso; both arms.
Next, do the hands;
Neck; head; some hair.
Detail the face –
Eyes, ears; nose; mouth;
Muscles; contours.
Cover all well,
But not too tight.
It's time to dry.
Then a light wrap.
More drying time.
Remove the drape.
Into oven.
Mud figure bakes.
Cool it slowly.
Paint all over;
Natural shades.
Darken angles.
Brush on some dust;
More earth-like tones.
Glazes holding.
Bake one more time.
Fire gets higher.
Let it cool down.
Resting, again.
Pull up the lid.
Lift carefully.
Behold… a man!

No one would know the cracks
we carted out with the tile floor,
it’s all broken up now, pieces still
slimed with concrete and thinset
now hardened to the back of black
and white squares turned on end
to make them look like diamonds,
rougher now, yanked from plywood
and backer board to be replaced
by shadings of brown and yellow,
cream swimming across a new floor
butted up to walls that need painting
and a white tub waiting for a new
curtain to match the wet footsteps
unafraid to step into a new space.

Our Anniversary Magnolia

Outside our window
As I write
Soft yellow buds
Begin to bloom
In celebration
Of our love
Just as they have
This very day,
Annually.
Happy Anniversary
To my husband,
My friend,
My hero,
My love.

"Rebirth"

I was young once, very young.
I used to watch the wind blow
the leaves
in the trees, the patches of weeds
sway in the breeze,
wonder if they were whispering
to one another or to me.
God is within Nature,
I would say, or I wouldn't
feel this way.
I was young.
I found a bird once, stiff
from death, I felt sad
that his spirit was
broken, that he would never
soar again
on wings of freedom. I wrote a poem
about that bird,
and I lost it. Somewhere
along the way,
I lost it all - the youthful
imagination, the dreams. I looked
at the trees around me, the flowers, the sky,
but I could not see them. I was dead,
in a sense. Then you, being there
made me see. Now,
I want to drink
the wind. Not just to know
it's there, but to feel it's icy sting
upon my face. I can now feel the sky
embracing the mountains
around me. I am experiencing
a renewed existence,
a great awakening.
I owe it all to you.

Mr. R.M. Atwater, I'm looking forward to what you have in store for us today with this rebirth prompt!

Second Chances

Things rarely come out right
the first time. We screw, unscrew, rescrew
to get it straight. We miss turns,
bend the nail, plant the bulbs
upside down. We burn the bread,
change clothes, regret the faux pas
or Freudian slip. Who among us
has never needed to apologize
for the poorly timed comment, the unknowing
offensive joke? We hope we learn
from each attempt what we need
to do it better the next time.
My father has been married
six times, my mother seven.
At sixty-eight, she’s dating again.

Rebirth?

Piano plays deep and dark
but there’s some settling
with the trilling of the keys.

I travel back to white Sundays
classical quiet and warm light,
small comforts in a scratchy nest.

Today, we nestle, not at home,
instead I spot you on the street,
or reading alone in a café and

worry about the scowl on your
face, the distance in your voice;
look for signs that you’re not

a lost robin’s egg, a discarded child
a brave boy, keeping secrets.

To John Donne

The Renaissance is when our Lord did give
You nine and fifty years upon this earth
But when they stopped in heaven you still do live,
Yet in those years you spoke of our rebirth
In verse and sermon for the ears of all,
For you do have a spirit of great love
As shown within your words preached at St. Paul's
I read those words and prayed to God above
And welcomed His great Son to take control
Upon my life, fragmented once but whole -
He used your art to heal my troubled soul.

John 3: 1-12 in Iambic Pentameter

In darkness of the night, a Pharisee,
a member of the Jewish ruling class,
named Nicodemus came to Jesus and
said, “Rabbi, you’re a teacher sent from God.
None could perform the miracles you do
‘less God was there with him.” Then Jesus said,
"None see God’s kingdom till he’s born again.”
"How can a man be born when he is old?
He can’t go back into his mother’s womb!”
Then Jesus said, “I tell the truth, not one
can enter in God’s realm unless he’s born
of water and the Spirit. Flesh births flesh,
but Spirit does give birth to Spirit. You
should not be so surprised when I say this,
‘You must be born again.' The wind blows where
it pleases. You can hear it, but can’t tell
from where it comes or where it goes. It’s so
with all who’s Spirit birthed.” "How can this be?"
“You’re Israel’s teacher,” Jesus said. “And don’t
you understand these things? I tell you truth,
we speak of what we know, and testify
to what we’ve seen, but still you people don’t
accept our testimony. I tell you
of earthly things and you do not believe;
how then will you believe eternal things?”

This Monday of new beginnings,

I think of a sad time,10 years ago, when
A beautiful spring day turned into a spectacle of horror

The next day, nature stepped in with a fresh coat of paint

I wrote a poem called APRIL 20, 1999--The morning after

Snow is white on Columbine
Covering red
Covering green
Blanketing lives
Still loved but not seen.

"New Leaves"

One plant has many leaves,
every new leaf is a new life
the bigger the plant
many little lives
come into play
little leaves, firm
soft new life' on a
new journey.
Rebirth on a mature life.

“Rebirth of Spring” By: Melinda Elmore


Trees budding
Spring is near

Close your eyes
Rebirth is here

Opening of the tulip
Proves my words

For constant renewal
Is a must

Brisk new morning
New life emerged

The rebirth of spring
On Mother Earth

By: Melinda Elmore

as the sun awakes

She stretches, peers around her,
and lazily creeps out of the cradle
of her lover’s embrace.

She reaches out and
everything she caresses,
awakes to greet her.

With a gentle nudge
she sends a call to act.
Get up and be about
your life!

Spring

Spring is a refreshing season,
a renewal of our Earth.
Trees are sprouting new leaves.
Flowers are blooming in the fields.
Butterflies are fluttering all around.
The birds are chirping merrily.
Bees are buzzing in the yard,
happy to finally be set free.

My Brother
By Diana R. Wilson

A dog kennel stink, grey stone halls full
of pit-bulls wetting themselves in submission.
The masters strut by, swiveling their heads to
watch. Their slick boots grind against the filthy
linoleum.

Caught in the steely gaze, I stand still,
my heart thumping in a rusty snare.
I’m waiting for my brother.

He comes around the corner. Past the watching men,
the grey uniformed women. The boy I knew is
gone. His slanted smile full, stride so light. Not scuffing
the grimy floor. We shove the doors open and his eyes
fill with sky.

Looking at him
is seeing a man
reborn.

Circling Thoughts on Rebirth


Insected

Chrysalis uncoccoons:
soon wings sing to sunlight
and breath's first flight.


Life cycle

Atoms change.
Each day cells create, mutate, recreate.
We are reborn.


Having My Third

The first was really his,
my second our sons'.
Now this life's for me.


Reincarnation

I'd come again as a lizard: sunned, svelte, slim; fashionably shedding ageing skin.

Revamp

She'd wanted a glam make-over,
not just nip and tuck, tweak and pluck
– but never thought they'd turn her hubby camp.


reborn haiku form

inspiration flows
fast, edits slow. sounds and words
love constant rebirth.


Sarah James, UK.

NOTE: I had so many thoughts for this theme, so this poem is really a series of short three-line poems. Because of formatting problems, I'm just listing them here. Really, as the title suggests, they should be laid out in a circle, so that you have Insected first (centred), then Life cycle (left aligned) with title, first line, second line, third line aligned with title and corresponding number lines from Having My Third (but this poem is right aligned), followed in the same way by Reincarnation (left aligned) on same lines as Revamp (right aligned). Then reborn haiku form is bottom centre.)

Even birds stopped mid-flight on the day

for my friend, C.S.

My friend wore a red-silk gown,
belly danced and shimmied down the aisle.
The day she made her marriage vows

dowagers and blue hairs wondered how
she had landed Such-A-Nice-Guy.
My friend wore a red-silk gown

because she’s not the type to kowtow
to the murmuring vox populi.
The day she made her marriage vows

every man thought she was the cat’s meow.
She was the scarlet apple of her groom’s eye.
When he saw her in that red-silk gown

the whole chapel heard his throaty growl.
He pulled her close and loosened his tie
the day they said their marriage vows.

Some brides wear white, like Brahman cows
to please the elders of their tribes.
My friend wore a red-silk gown
the day she said her marriage vows.

She sighed as she touched a tender spot,
then felt her cheeks burn very hot.
Beside the mirror were the roses, red,
and he lay sleeping alone in the bed.

He begged her, swearing it wouldn't happen again,
But she knew it would, just not quite when.
His triggers changed, and she lived in fear,
She winced in pain as she wiped away a tear.

She jumped as the room filled with a loud snore.
She felt real resolve and she turned to the door.
If she stayed here he'd kill her one of these days,
there was no way he could change his ways.

She closed the door softly, then headed for the car,
She's not sure where she's going, she wants to go far,
She put her rings in the mailbox, no longer his wife,
It's her time to feel safe, so she'll start a new life.

A Poem of Rebirth

If you plant a seed it grows
Life flows

But is it a rebirth or something new
That grew

Renewal is constant – but it’s not rebirth
Even so it proves its worth

A change but not the same thing new
It is different – that’s true

But a rebirth must change me
to sluff off the old and set me free

So now I sit and contemplate
Rebirth – Renewal, which is my fate

I want to be better, I want to do good
To try for the best is what I should

But if I can’t accomplish that
Karma will return me as a cat.

Apologies for the many formatting problems I'm having the Reincarnation part of Circling Thoughts on Rebirth (three or so poems above/earlier) should be a three line poem reading:


Reincarnation

I'd come again as a lizard:
sunned, svelte, slim;
fashionably shedding ageing skin.


Sarah James

some days I can't remember
the trek into work,
yet there I am.

and I wonder
what happened
to that time.
is the passage there
so safe,
so boring
that it never
engages my mind.

or maybe, on the way,
I leave this world,
to cavort in the next.
have coffee with Mom
before returning
to my desk.

but maybe not.

Rebirth

With each pulse
beat of my heart
I am reborn, new
with each pulsing
beat of the music,
I wait for the pulse
of your neck under
my lips, every pulse
of our bodies creates
me all over again.

Day 20: Rebirth

Sometimes I am too tired to think the birth of each day is a good thing
What’s new seems too hard; what’s old bores into the bone
Like the puppy I cannot train to stay out of the garbage
Or the perennial why am I always and finally alone

Today's topic spoke to me of one birth making possible many, hence "rebirth." So I wrote a poem and set it to music. I can't insert the tune here, but here's the lyrics. ~Jeanetta

Love Incarnate (by Jeanetta Chrystie)

In a world of abject darkness where men’s souls were weighted by despair,
And hearts reeked of evil’s dark decay trapped in sin’s deadly snare;
There remained a flicker of light that shown as a candle lighting the night,
In the prophecy of our Savior’s birth as an infant Israelite.

Chorus:
Now see the babe’s feet cradled in his Father’s hands,
Now see the youth standing tall,
Now see the man stretch his love across Calvary,
Now see God’s love for us all.

Until one clear night a babe was born in a Bethlehem manger stall,
To complete this first step in God’s divine plan to redeem those who heed His call.
Our Heavenly Father cast His pearl, His Son into the world
With angel’s songs and a virgin birth, the Christ Child brought hope to our world.

Chorus:
Now see the babe’s feet cradled in his Father’s hands,
Now see the youth standing tall,
Now see the man stretch his love across Calvary,
Now see God’s love for us all.

What a wondrous birth! What a glorious gift the Father offers to all
Who through faith accept Jesus as Lord of their life, to ransom them from the fall.
As promise and prophecy now see fulfillment begin in a baby’s smile.
Now hope can sing in the hearts of all whom the Christ Child reconciles.
(repeat chorus)

sometimes
re-birth is
as simple
as
looking around
and noticing,
"hey, I'm doing
this wrong."

Hello, My name is Darrell
I'm an alcoholic you see
Today I'm with my friends
The people who accept me

You never have been judging
Or told me I've been wrong
It's that damn evil liquor
That sings it's evil song

I've lost my steady job
And beaten my pretty wife
But it's that Colt 45
That's screwed up my life

Now, instead of screaming while on a drunk
I just rage while straight
I guess the booze is still in my system
I'm a victim, I tell you, this is my fate

No booze, no hooch
No beer of any kind
I'm still a jerk, sure
But I'm sober so one seems to mind

Hello, My name is Darrell
And I've been sober for almost a year
It's pretty cool what I've done
And to celebrate, I'd like a beer

Life by Intention

Cancer, he said.
Metastatic, he added.
Stepping out into the dappled
October sunlight, she suddenly
remembered— even Pandora
was left with hope, and
mentally began counting up
instead of down.

THREE HAIKU FOR SPRING

On thawing quince trees,
robins begin to recall
what they are here for.

For a long moment,
the sleet and clouds slip apart
and the air feels hot.

Under pale shadows
by the white house, still daylit,
snowdrops lift their heads.


...
(I figured everyone would be writing spring poems, haiku or otherwise, so I wrote two. Mea culpa, I know it's not Tuesday. :)
...


SWEET SAN PEDRO

until he tasted that strange and
six-pointed sacrament
when his mind filled up like
a blue balloon the length and
breadth of the sky

he who used to call himself
i never knew all those secrets
in the wings of the world
never knew how he looked from
the vantage point of the stars

and he could see through
time a great river moving back
and forth across the desert
landscape his life this piece
of derelict flotsam

all those lives beggar to prophet
painter to poet thief to whore
thinker to thoughtless
and he wondered how much
of this he would remember

when he woke up, and remembered
I was myself, and language ceased
to be formless. I clutched those
shrunken shards of cactus and said,
Next time on that dhamma-wheel,

I'm gonna get this right,

Rebirth
I baptized into a faith
not of my choosing,
confirmed in a faith
not really sure of,
but ignorant of all
these facts.

My faith since challenged,
and found in her answers.

My eyes were opened,
and my heart pumped its
first real beat.
Posted by AdellBeek at 10:17

Mentioning


Shall we mention
A new lease on life
Maybe
A phoenix
Screaming up
From the flames
Why go to
All those
Lengths
I fall asleep
Smiling and content
I awaken
Happy and smiling
Surrounded
By your scent
Your touch
Lingering
Upon my skin
I am
Suffused
With your breath
I am renewed
I am reblessed
I am Home
You have given
Me
New life
New love
New joys
Thank you

Nature’s Design

Maybe it's the ¾ moon,
unfinished business,
though experience tells me soon.
Maybe it's the way the wasp stung the bumble bee,
to parasitize its abdomen,
and lay her future young inside.
The bee ran around like it was on fire,
running over the same ground, circling,
stopping every inch to clean its underside,
enough that it couldn't fly—
I cupped it to put it in the tall grass,
so that I didn't have to witness its demise,
but it made its way back to me.
I wanted to stomp on it and end its plight.
How could I interrupt Nature's design?

I picked up and left instead.

Maybe it's the onslaught of fall,
the cooler night; the end of the harvest,
the long winter ahead.
Maybe it's the coyote pack
yipping to announce their latest kill;
late summer and their increasing calls—
One more season and I'm stung,
scurrying around for the hole in the ground,
to stick my restlessness.
One more season to unearth myself—go beyond—

Spring

Spring sprang from the earth,
pushing past winter’s cool chill,
unfurling green.

C.L.A

A Blank Canvas


Day one of the training course
Exhausted and still 29 days to go
A new beginning
Today is the first day of the rest of my life
My new life as a teacher
My new life in a new city
This is the first step on an unknown path
Leading to unknown rewards and perils
This leap of faith
This leap into the uncertain future
A new career at forty-eight
Desperate? Crazy?
Needs must and so on I go
Day one of the new Page
Day one of the blank canvas
And yet if this is a rebirth
Why do I feel half dead?
The strength must be found
Will be found
To carry on
To succeed
To paint the canvas full of colour
Just one more time

Iain

So far this morning, I have enjoyed Eben Atwater's "One Body" (thinking of you and Walt both), Lynn McClure's "Waiting for Reincarnation" (love Ferlinghetti and SF), Christie Swint's "Even the Birds Stopped on that Day" (this reminds me of a dream and my best friend, who was outrageous and beautiful and wonderful like C.S.), and Marie-Elizabeth Mali's "Dinner on the Deck" (because of the marvelous way the words lead us to feel spring and then how "nature is red in tooth and claw"!!!).

Extraordinary all.

Jane Beal
sanctuarypoet.net

Solo

The nineteen year old pilot-in-training
climbed into the Cessna 150,
completed her pre-flight checks,
and ascended into the air.

Using visual flight rules,
and courage mustered from a mysterious reservoir,
she flew 100 miles south to another airport
on her first solo cross-country flight.

Alone in a sky full of possibilities,
she forgot about her stormy childhood
and the houses with tears spilling out of them.
She forgot that she shouldn’t have any confidence.

Smiling into the sunshine,
she hummed along with the engine,
adjusting flaps, ailerons, and rudder,
finally in control of all her takeoffs and landings.

p.s. ... and Joseph Harker, "Sweet San Pedro" - a poem dreamscape!! jb

Standing Strong

Standing at the exit door
with one foot on sod anew,
the other trailing behind
fearful of what to do;
she walked outside
and said "Hello."

Nervously, she smiled and waved
to friends and family,
who had come to greet her
on the day she left this facility.
No longer beaten down by
the oppression of the drink,
she knew this was one last chance
to start life over, one last chance to think.
Hoping she would stick to this new life,
one she had earnestly turned over to God,
to help her through any strife;
she reached out and took his hand
and said, "Together, we can make this stand."

Laurie K.

Laurie K.

The sky

The sky was busy
pulling up
the shades.

They sky was busy
helping the sun
get out of bed.

The night was busy
trying to go
to sleep.

It had been
a busy night
no one wanted
to get up
no one wanted
to get moving.

Called to Service

time honored tradition
from father to son
a ritual repeated

the old lawnmower
red war paint faded
chipped and worn
was hunkered down
hiding in foxhole obscurity
unseen behind the ladder
and the wheel barrel
and the paint cans

where for the extended furlough
of the lonely winter
it rested from its battle wounds
finally freed from
its earthly toil
some thought it dead

but it was languishing
reliving as in a scrapbook page
with flakes of crusted grass
now black with time
clinging to its underside
a testament to its last
glory days of summer

where without exertion
it cut grass and roots
threw sticks and rocks
in sunshine skirmishes
causing parental warnings
sending little children screaming
from the mighty power
of its blades

old rusted then
the blades still spun
ready to cut off
any innocent child’s toe
so foolish as to be exposed
in a flip-flop thong
on a summer day

now kicked and tinkered
gas filled
oil checked
the mower
is spitting popping
a revolution of sputterings
leaking everywhere
exploding with anger or excitement
with every shoulder-popping pull
it desperately tries
to restart the fight
eager to battle
another day

“My Final Day”

I dreamt of my final day
a day I should be rejoicing
but I look at me and doubt fills my mind.
I stand ready to enter the gates of heaven, the glory of this place
brings me to my knees.
I look down at my weary body broken by the trials of life,
ragged clothes hanging limp on me.
My tired face looks almost unrecognizable from when I first started out.
What could Jesus want with me? I wonder, fear and sorrow creeping into my heart.
He’s the essence of beauty and purity and I’m a mess, a shattered sinner,
too often repeating my sins.
Tears flood my eyes, realizing my ugliness could not ever enter this place
when the gates open and He runs toward me, as if He’d been waiting for just me.
He speaks loudly to the angels standing at the gates.
This one is mine. Isn’t she beautiful? He holds out His hand.
Come daughter. Come join me.
And He helps me up and the hideous scales of this life fall from my body.
And the hours spent wondering if I’m good enough are answered in one sweet sentence that He speaks to my heart.
I made you good enough.

rebirth

takes discipline
each silk strand
perfectly placed
figure eights
round and round

takes patience
wait
molt
wait
wait

takes persistence
to loosen
wriggle
stretch
escape

make the leap
from that form
that crawls
to this form
that flies

now fly

work in progress

i'm afraid to admit the truth. afraid to write it
to say it to think it .
afraid to face it in the mirror. the truth.

i reached middle age but, still haven't arrived.

i never married or had babies. i live with six cats.
a stereotype. a cliche.
i am that woman. i'm her.
the one men fear and girls pity.

middle age.
when do we stop saying "if" and start saying "when"?

The Baby Issue.
spider monkey on my back.
one day i will be too old to conceive.
could already be.
truth.
hard enough for a woman to accept even if she doesn't want children.
for me?
la petit morte. a little death.

but, the phoenix, you know. she rises from ash
in the shape of a dream with the scent of a baby
and takes a new form
is reborn gives birth to a new idea
becomes pregnant with possibility.
she, too, is me.
i am that woman. i'm her.

PAD- April 2009
Prompt: Rebirth

Renaissance

At first we were
afraid to look
until we knew what
guts it took.

It was not pretty
but angry, raw,
the most exquisite
bloom we ever saw.

She posted a self portrait
for all eyes to see
of a rose tattoo where
a breast should be.

© Gretchen Gersh Whitman April 2009

Students

When the first bell rings
Charge in like wild animals
Fidget in their seats
Leave in forty-five minutes
The next group piles in louder

Rebirth

Life on hold

I'll take up a hobby
when I have time
when I retire
when not being a caregiver
when the move is over
when I'm settled
when the party's over
when everybody goes home
when I'm not depressed
when the spirit moves me
when my friend decides to join me
when I'm finished whatever
And then
a eureka moment
suddenly its clear
time's a'wastin'
so I look through my stuff
find an Elvis CD
get jivin' and rockin' and movin'
and
just do it!

I woke to the world
it was mourning
no it was morning the evening

I remembered something
it was a secret I tucked away
a tiny pebble with a hole like an eye

I knew what it means to be reborn
it is a fact of every day
isn't a dream a womb
we sprout from once we incubated long enough

I held love in my hand
it was a secret and a thing
a creature that breathed
a riddle still evanescent

I looked out saw a city
it spread ink spilt on a table
clearly defined the loves secrets
all dreams all phonixs rising
lives that might be new

The innocent phrase
How are you
Means something different when you’re scared
And you don’t know if he’s hurting inside where
You’re not allowed to go
But you ask anyway.

One day he says
He enjoyed staying up too late but he’s tired
And you realize he’s okay now with being alive
So you are too.

“Reborn”

I wish I could be reborn.
To be new again.
Un-sullied by the world.
A blank page.
A Fresh start.

To make the right choices.
To get into good habits.
Wasting less time.
Enjoying life more.

Why, oh why, is it so hard,
So hard to be reborn?
I know what needs to be done.
But why can’t I?
Why can’t I get out of this rut,
To do it and be reborn?

I still believe in love
****************************

No matter how hurt I had been,
I still believe in love,
I will find it again and believe in it so keen,
Just believe in love by God above.

One day I will find the love of my life,
He will propose to me and I will be his wife,
We will get married and live happily ever after,
It will happen one day; sooner or later.

Just believe in the fairy tales that I read,
And believe that good things will happen in the end,
If I just believe that I will get married,
It will happen just like in the Mills and Boon and the novels of romance.

Oh love of my life where art thou?
I had been waiting for you for so long,
Just woo me and make me think wow,
Let's get together and to each other we belong.

The Return of the Poet

A Haiku is formed from the ashes.
The sun forms familiar shadows. Words are jettisoned
from deep beneath the earth to the surface. We
are attempting to define the shadows from the sun. Rhyme has been pushed out like the birth of a newborn. The iambic pentameter, meter, stanza and turn have reappeared from the darkness. I can smell the metaphors and my mouth receives the familiar taste of a simile. I am starting to define the shadows from the sun. I can see Hughes, Frost, Browning, Tolson, Johnson, Dunbar, Wheatley and Shakespeare. I can see the dawn of a new day. No more darkness and gloom. The children no longer have that empty feeling. This is the beginning of a new era thanks to the past. This is the rebirth of the world’s greatest treasure. This is the rebirth of the poet.

Joy

To see life’s reflections in the convex gift of your eyes
So easy is your touch to the fallen bird of a desolate field
To smell a white velvet rose is to inhale your scent
So lovely is your engaging taste upon my parched lips
To hear your laughter as soft as a ring of a triangle
So too is the rebirth of my joy in each thought of you

They can’t die
They can’t live
Lips cracked open
The dried blood
The closest thing to moisture
To quench their thirst
They hurt
Bodies to weak to move
Besides
A doorway out of hell
Doesn’t even exist
Bugs swarm like already dead
Eyes open wide
Watching, waiting
Knowing every second brings another pain
Even their bones are begging to get out their skin
But this is how they must live
Forsaken
And we, forget them
Children starving
Just last night you argued
About where to go out to eat
Every night they go to bed hungry
We cry about how our lives are so hard
They haven’t had water so there are no tears to fall
We pray for our big chance
They don’t know what chance tastes like
So maybe the next time you open your mouth
To complain about life
Think about the children, millions starving everyday
Think about what you can do
To make their life worth living
All it takes is change
Change
How much can you spare

It doesn’t take much to see things anew

She curled naked on the red swathe of cotton.
Her head turned away toward the window,
Gentle curve of spine,
Strong sunlight on her right hip.
The only sound that of charcoal sticks
And best sable brushes
Rushing to capture her form.
The final result of my colourful sketching
Was quite pleasing to the eye.
Accurate skin tones,
Plenty of volume,
The red, a bed of startling hue.
At home I taped the sketch to a wall.
Its landscape format exactly
Like she had posed,
At my friend Jenny’s house.
Today I took the picture down
To file with all the others.
But then I noticed that if rotated
Ninety degrees to the left,
The model is kneeling
Right on the edge of a precipice
Plunging down to the sea.
It doesn’t take much to see things anew.

They can’t die
They can’t live
Lips cracked open
The dried blood
The closest thing to moisture
To quench their thirst
They hurt
Bodies to weak to move
Besides
A doorway out of hell
Doesn’t even exist
Bugs swarm like already dead
Eyes open wide
Watching, waiting
Knowing every second brings another pain
Even their bones are begging to get out their skin
But this is how they must live
Forsaken
And we, forget them
Children starving
Just last night you argued
About where to go out to eat
Every night they go to bed hungry
We cry about how our lives are so hard
They haven’t had water so there are no tears to fall
We pray for our big chance
They don’t know what chance tastes like
So maybe the next time you open your mouth
To complain about life
Think about the children, millions starving everyday
Think about what you can do
To make their life worth living
All it takes is change
Change
How much can you spare

FOR THEM, THE FISHES NOT THE LOAVES

The sprinkler continued its circuit
with a rhythmic put-put-put
as the children laughed and
howled and screamed

But dashed through again and again
dropping their furry offerings
into the spray, as grass-speckled feet
and paws sprinted for dry ground

Feline baptism was a delicate art
one requiring a firm grip, quick feet
and long sleeves
but it needed doing

Immortal souls mattered
much more than jagged scratches
and scuffed knees – after all, heaven
wouldn’t be heaven without cats

(okay, so sunrise is probably a cliche)

Blood red stains
the east horizon
the difficulties of
Sunday seem destined
to stretch into
Monday
She rises and
strips the bed
tossing sweat damp
white sheets
lightly chlorine
scented water

when she arrives
home tonight
she will flip
the washer dial

smell of sweat
spectre of trouble
all will vanish
in the laundering

tonight her
dreams will be
clean and when
she rises, she
will feel
reborn

Re-incarnation again.

Once I was a teacher
but I couldn't be a teacher
unless I wore my teacher disguise.

Because me unprotected
was me unprotected
looking out of unprotected eyes.

Then I became a mother
just like that I was a mother
I became my baby's mother with joy.

But me as a parent
isn't *me* though as a parent
I am happy to be parent to my boy.

Now I'm not entirely sure
who *I* am anymore
but a poet gets me out of bed each day.

And with curiosity
I wait each day to see
what the poet in my head has to say.

rebirth..

dead.
finally, i'm dead.

it seems like ages ago. i was very surprised what happened next -
there was no white halo, nor fiery skies and eternal torment.
instead, it all went dark and for a time i felt nothing,
no dread, its absence stark; a mind merely floating
in no space, with no sensation, no time and no direction.

and then something unexpected and really strange started:
a sense of forming, things connected, arranged. a heartbeat.
time begins to pass and i feel a body growing around me,
warm feeling as sound reveals the odd thing i've found here -
i am not alone. i am inside something and i'm scared again.

now what? it's pushing me out! i try to hold on but .. to what?
a spot of light ahead, rushing, growing and i'm feeling hot,
now wet .. now cold! oh it's so cold and hard and bright!
how did i get here? where's my peaceful unscarred eternal night?
this is wrong .. i'm born again .. no! no! no! i scream in frustration..

09-0420 – Rebirth

He told me during our 12 year marriage
that he had been faithful.

Well, until that last year.
Then he told (almost) all.
Or I read between the lines,
I knew him so well, after all,
or not as well as I’d hoped.

I was a little surprised when
he remarried the most
recent one.
Younger, blonder,
cuter
than me.

I got over him.
I wondered, for her sake
if he had changed.
Did she really think he was through
cheating,
lying,
sneaking?

This year, I learned of their divorce.
She’d caught him cheating.
Imagine.

He’s dating again,
reborn again,
in some other woman’s hopes
and dreams.
And again for her sake, I wonder.

Does she really think that
this is
the new
him?

[resubmission to add one word, please ignore the first one!]

"rebirth"

dead.
finally, i'm dead.

it seems like ages ago. i was very surprised what happened next -
there was no white halo, nor fiery skies and eternal torment.
instead, it all went dark and for a time i felt nothing,
no dread, its absence stark; a mind merely floating
in no space, with no sensation, no time and no direction.

and then something unexpected and really strange started:
a sense of forming, things connected, arranged. a heartbeat.
time begins to pass and i feel a body growing around me,
warm feeling as sound reveals the odd thing i've found here -
i am not alone. i am inside something and i'm scared again.

now what? it's pushing me out! i try to hold on but .. to what?
a spot of light ahead, rushing, growing and i'm feeling hot,
now wet .. now cold! oh it's so cold and hard and burning bright!
how did i get here? where's my peaceful unscarred eternal night?
this is wrong! i'm born again .. no! no! no! i scream in frustration..

Marie- Your piece was very uplifting thank you.

bannana- I know just how you feel. Good work.

New Moon

Not baptism by fire or water
but by earth, sand, mud, and
clay all hourglass poured until
burial creation, breathing slowing
to the ineffable heartbeat of the
land, a proper grave to rest eyes,
body, and soul in, and then the
catalyst, pale as early moonlight,
the spark of intent earned slowly
through contemplation, and the
emergence from the earth like the
crowning of the moon in the dark
legs of the sky, a body naked,
barren, breathing frantically, hungry
for the round ocean, the sky, and
fire, for all those things to come
from the throat like the scream of
a dragon now that birth is earned
and not wildly thrust upon like a babe,
or a sword or dirty stone tablet, no,
rebirth has its element in the ground,
in view of sky, birthplace of the moon

Rebirth

I did it once
Never want to again
Oh, the pain
Of birth.
But rebirth revives a tired path
Though the change of worth
Is endless
Burn my old clothes; my old state of mind
Transform into a wild new woman
Grow my hair to my behind
Get strappy new sandals with five inch heels
Hit the road to a new place
Become something I never imagined before
And the pain of birth fades away
As I plunge headlong into a new day
Where all is possible

Unveiled by Lynn Potter

Memories…
Lost and buried
no more.

Personality, character
Intimate knowledge
of myself.

Tapestry of soul
stolen years ago…

Resurrected,

Unveiled

The moment the old
home movies were found.

The white sweet violets
raise their faces to the sun
beneath the lovely cedar tree,
both perfuming the spring air,
joining scents with crocuses
striped yellow and lavender,
or solid purple.
Snow lies yet in shade
and valleys;
even so, the green bursts up,
through the brown and white,
lifting hearts and tempting
hungry hens, tired of their dry-grain
winter fare to nibble grass and scratch
for plump worms coming up
from winter caves.
In the deep, silent white,
the all-consuming cold,
Numb brains forget the blessings
hidden by our Mother,
like eggs for Easter hunts,
joyful nectar, seeds of life.

a sprout curves it's way towards the sun
twisting and turning with each striving for light
it could turn into anything
a tomato plant, a cucumber, even a lowly weed
still it urges itself ever upward, ever onward
all it needs is a little dirt and some water
along with the life-giving sun

Re-Birth of Rhyme

“Every day, one more breath begins
Every fall is one more layer of skin.”

Every rhyme I write sounds so darn trite
so I’ve become versed in writing slight:

“The pimp jumped off the ramp
to race off course from the police.”

Rhyming is more soothing to the ears
when it’s out of the blue, shooting stars.

Coincidentally I wrote this earlier this month for my church blog and named it 'Rebirth'.

I knew it to be Darkness
When it knocked.
Still I opened the door
and was surprised when
I
could
no
longer
see.
Bombarded,I close my eyes and am haunted;
drowning in the images of the day.
Father, take them from me!
I beg you.
Replace them with lovely things;
Clean,
Joyful,
Uplifting and full of light.
Forgive my stupidity.
Cleanse my mind.
Renew me with images of Spring.

wind dreamer

wind dreamer plays
pretends to be a rock
solid
grainy
flies away giggling
forms a sprite in the sky
splits her head in two
drops daggers, trefoils, a glint of silver
swirls round to the other side
black and angry now
disappears behind a cloud
emerges as a pillar
barnacle-covered and stern
drops behind sand dunes
laughs again
can't stay serious
wind dreamer

Alphas, Omegas and Circular Arguments

They argued about the beginning--
Big Bang evolutionist and
God-fearing creationist,
Both of them extremists--
Left wing, right wing,
Atheist scientist and
Baptist believer,
Each chasing their own tails.

For once I was happy
just sitting on the fence,
in that gray area that neither of them
wanted to dip their toes into;
I was intrigued but not ensnared,
not about to be drug into
the thick of it.

Then the topic turned to life after death;
One speculated perhaps we turned to energy,
but most likely just dust in the wind,
The other believed in that sweet by and by,
forever in heaven with Jesus.

Finally, they looked to me--
"What do you think? Where do we go,
what do we become when we die?"
I sighed, shrugged, smiled--
"Somewhere, something. . .
but, then I could be wrong,
and I'm ok with that."

Spirit Reborn

In this Easter season
as in every other
we begin anew.

Chastened by Lenten fasts
we approached the cross
with breaking heart
and trembling soul.

Mourning at the tomb
we grieved
for the Savior's death
but more for our misguided steps
that caused Him to suffer so.

Startled at Magdalen's news
we rejoiced at the yearly reminder
of the Father's magnanimous love
revealed in His offer of everlasting life.

Washed clean
in the blood of the Lamb
and the water
which gushed from His side
we renew the journey --
strengthened
refreshed
renewed.

Rebirth and new life
as only He can give them.

Alleluia! Alleluia!


Like newborn children you should thirst for milk, on which your spirit can grow to strength. (I Peter 2:2)

Rebirth

That was the moment
he woke with a bloody nose
no money in a strange unknown
place a realization that what he chose
now must end the the torment
he had made for himself the life he had blown

call it rebirth, reinvention
in truth it was a personal intervention
the moment of truth.

Somehow, Still Here.

It's been a long time.
In my heart I still remember you.
But you sometimes fade in my mind.
Yes, I know your eyes were blue,
But I remember honey blonde hair,
Instead of the gray,
That began to show there,
When you went away.
When we were young the way you walked
Is what I remember, I think.
But sometimes, the way you talked
Slips away from me, in just a blink.
Jumbled bits and pieces tumble in my memory's files,
Until I see three generations of your daughter's smiles.

Once in love with a very mean man
Courage to walk away

His voice calling behind me
“You have nerve to leave!”

As I quickly drive away,
alone, and free
overcome with emotion
as if being born again

I am no longer the trapped soul –
once in love with a very mean man

Donald R. Anderson
Recycler

A can put into a can,
yes we can, turn the can
into a new can,
toucans are our mascot,
though three cans even better.
Rush to the green movement!

Eben- Love your "origami leaves unfolding."

butterfly,egg,
caterpillar,chrysalis,
butterfly reborn

Spring is…

Spring has finally sprung,
Though caps still on the mount.
Larks singing in the meadow;
New life too many to count.

New growth sprouting in the garden,
Small babes in pastures nearby.
Rebirth is what springtime is--
Beauty to refresh the eye.

One More Day

Darkness;
Warm, cozy, comfortable.
White Noise;
Fan blades spinning.
Interruption;
Tip taps of doggy toe nails on hardwood floor.
Time to get up.
Gray hazy light sneaks in.
Groans,
Yawns,
Stretches.
Do I have to get up?
One more day is all I ever need.

You fight the change like fish oppose
the air. You can breathe this air.
Rebirth without the death before
is true without the dare.

You fight the change like fish oppose
the air. You can breathe this air.
Rebirth without the death before
is truth without the dare.

Longest Night

The world is held in darkness
In the cold hard grasp of this December night
There is no light save the cold gleam of starlight
Even the moon has turned her face from this night

The small company huddles in the shelter
Of the bulk of Brugh Na Boinne
Her white quartz flickering in the starlight
Stone fire ignited by star fire

This night of longest darkness is cold and damp
The wind comes sweeping from the west
For some, it seems the darkness has won
That the dawn will never come

Others turn their faces towards the Red Hill
Confident in their hope that the sun will appear
The night thickens and then pale pearl and saffron
Herald the approaching dawn

Triumphantly the sun breaks over the hill
Long golden rays spread across the green land
Brugh Na Boinne opens her heart to the sun
Taking the long golden rays into her body

The sun pierces the narrow low passage
Illuminating spirals and chevrons
Chiseled into the walls by the ancients
Coming finally to rest in the sacred inner chamber

Greeted by chants and incense is the returning sun
The back of winter is broken, the sun is strengthening
Little by little taking back the light from the dark
Allowing the rebirth of Spring and of Hope

Nancy Bell, Balzac, Alberta

Potato

Too squishy to eat
I cut out the eyes
and plant them
in the yard

Rebirth I

Fluffy green
piles of leaves
rise up
and flower white
happy then
die away

Rebirth II

A spade and
bare hands
bring up
tubers small
like dirty
golf balls

Rebirth III

Cleaned and
baked and
buttered
and served up
for Sunday's
special feast

"Release"

The dead shall rise again
And the captive set free.
These Bible verses
Kept him hungry
With an appetite
The mess hall scraps
Could never sate.
Manacles and bars
Reminded him everyday
Of his mistakes.
The outside world
Doesn't laugh at him,
Nor does it scorn him;
He is simply forgotten.
Ever since he vanished
From public life,
From their rose-tinted eyes,
He's been less than
A Nobody,
Becoming a Never Was.
But when he reemerges
Back onto the perfume field
He'll transform one more time,
And embrace his new life
As an Ex-Con.

Reborn Caterpillar

Life reborn in sheerness
From a crawling form,
Sprouting wings of beauty
That flies before the storm
Silken wings aflutter
Nothing heavier than air,
Colors mixed and sorted
Into a perfect pair
Dance the music, butterfly,
You’re the one who hears
Universal melody
With your hidden ears
Fly to heights so glorious
Only you can see
Sun and rain among us,
Cloud to earth agree
Fly way up to Heaven
Where the One-who-Is can see
Beauty in His creation
Butterfly, air, and me.

After the Tour

When she comes home she shakes off
the rain and begins again. Like a dog,
like a crocus, like the chorus of a song.
She is naked and new.

Whatever collects on her glittery dress
will be shed with it.
Whatever catches in her pewter-brown hair
will be washed away.

The sorrows and joys within these walls
cut to the bone, but their scars are
a bas-relief, a story told creation by creation,
a pain salved by beauty.

Apologies for posting an old one (will try my hand at something new later), but this was the poem I wrote during the 'rebirth' phase of my own heart...thanks for your indulgence in sharing...




Poetic Justice


Alone, afterwards.
She knows she cannot turn the other cheek
for both are badly battered, bruised.
And so she turns the page
turns pain to prose
writes each wrong
and wraps her words around her like a down comforter.

Alone, after words.
Every line is a lover’s warm embrace
stirring the dying embers of her shattered soul.
And so her aching heart turns to familiar phrase
turns another corner
braves reality’s twisted corridors
and finds its way through solace in songs of solitude.

Rebirth

Pointed green leaves poke
up through the rich loamy soil.
Red tulip, rising.

I want to write something personal that touched me in each of your poems, but there is just not enough time in the workday to do that and write my own today. So, let me just say that I like the way the following people framed an idea of rebirth.

PB Rippey - Demise
Christopher Granholm - Born Again
Deb Stone - We've Come A Long Way (Love poems in the cracks--that is quite the intriguing image/thought).
AME Porter
Christine Swint
Sandy Senay-Ellefson
Patrician Hawkenson
Dana Stone - Fabuloso! I feel your poem in my bones!
banana_the_poet - Reincarnation again

The Lie of Rebirth

Should we stop believing in rebirth?
It's true each spring the dry brown turf
turns green and crocuses burst forth.
But that's false promise, blessed curse,
implied guarantee of death's reverse,
as if renewal always recurs
sooner or later, for better or worse.
By believing in rebirth,
we allow ourselves to do our worst,
assuming that our damaged Earth
will regain its health and worth.

Rebirth Revisited

Plunging
through darkness into light
or from glare into the velvet void.
The journey takes less than a moment
or thousands of lifetimes.
The road is straight and narrow
or winding or crooked.
Yea, though we walk
Through the valley of consumption,
even our castoffs – plastic
and paper, TV’s and computers –
receive a new life.
Our landfill trash gives us
methane, fuel to make more.
Given enough time, goodness
and mercy, we’ll all
have a second chance.

I'm posting this without having read any of the other poems for today, and anticipating the content of many of them. Here is my response:


Born Once

Please pardon me
for not being born again;
once was enough.

That doesn’t mean
I don’t appreciate
fresh starts.

Every spring
is a revelation –
daffodils
and dandelions alike.

And as for second chances,
I’ve had enough
for a couple of lifetimes.

If you feel the need
to be reborn,
then more power to you.

But let me appreciate
the glories of this world
in my own way,

and let me figure out
for myself
what may come after.

A Break in the Storm

I’ve been adrift the tumultuous sea
Blinded by darkness
As I’m swept away
No anchor to hold me
It was torn asunder
No stars, no moon
No hope of refuge
In my sight
To guide me through
The evening long.

I gasp for air
I hold on tight
Screaming to be heard
Waiting for a lifeline
In the storm swept world
Where violence reigns
And humanity rots.

But, alas, though ravaged and beaten
Beyond all despair
I chance to peer
O’er the tumultuous sea
The horizon far
A glimmer of light
A pinprick of hope
Breaking through the clouds

That one ray of sunshine
The smallest affirmation
That soon ‘twould be over
Stormy seas were subsiding
Guiding my way clear once more
To the promise of sunny shores
And the hope of days reborn.

"Life after Divorce"

I remember the day you said it was done.
The look in your eye,
told me you had all ready gone.
With my heart ripped out, I thought I would die.
I was hurt, that's for sure,
lost my mate,
As you walked out that door.
It's now been two years,
and to my surprise,
I've pushed aside some ridiculous fears,
And have watched myself start to rise.
Today I am I,
And I thank you for that.
Not only did I not die,
I actually started to live.

Bruce Niedt,
I appreciated your piece, and boy have I been there. Beautifully written. Thank you for sharing it.

Making Room for Me

After six years I stacked Paul’s books and records,
once in alphabetical order on his closet shelves,
in boxes out in the garage,
and finally cleared away all the dust.

I recreated his room and closet,
with a new hardwood floor,
a bay picture window, deep taupe walls,
a white ceiling and crown molding,
and file drawers and book shelves
for storing my poems.

I refurnished his room
in shades of black and orange.
The sofa is like a futon
because he once slept on a futon in this room.
I bought an orange lava lamp for my desk
like the one Paul wanted me to buy for him
back in December 1995.
I didn’t buy him a lamp that day
I wasn’t feeling generous enough.
Now, I know a lava lamp gyrates in time to music.
Then, I didn’t know Paul didn’t just want a lava lamp.
He needed one.
He needed it to keep time with his music
whether it was the music he played on his keyboard
or in his head.
So, I needed one, too.

I put my style and tastes into this room,
but, I didn’t erase him.
Paul has been my muse for so many years.
He still is.

After six years I recreated his room into a place
where I could finish telling his story and mine
about his bipolar illness
and how the medicines didn’t work for him,
about how hard he fought against taking his meds
because he couldn’t live with them
and he couldn’t live without them,
about his suicide
and how I survive through it all.

I am writing this story in his room.
I write sitting at a draftsman table opposite the bay window.
When I sit there
I sometimes gaze out to the garden,
at the three palm trees,
the small cement pond
where birds take a dip,
the ginger and azalea plants and my smiling Buddha.
I can hear the gurgle of the fountain
when it’s warm enough
to leave the window open.

I feel a calm in his room
that helps my writing.
Maybe my reminders of Paul also help,
his candlesticks on the top shelf
of the bookcase,
his photo and a charcoal and white chalk drawing
of me when I was pregnant with him,
and a photo of a sunset taken on September 22, 1999,
his last night alive,
showing an orange sun
floating into the sea.
I also have an assemblage
of felt-covered wooden mallets
once used to strike the strings of a piano –
the instrument that kicked off his music career
when he was 10 years old.

No, I haven’t erased him.
He is in there with me.
He is inside me.
Always.

REBIRTH

Born to abuse, isolation, pain
Beneath stigmas scarlet shroud of shame
From the womb of abundant security
To the living tomb of brutality.

Be angry! Yell! Scream! Fight!
Why?
Just give me my pen so I can write
Safe in the womb of my words
From the tomb of life.

God are You there?
Are You real? Do You Care?
Please save me from this doom.
Can you hear me from the tomb?

Wrapped in love like liquid fire
Secure in Heavens womb
Gone the past, forever
Gone too the abuse

Reborn and now completely free
To live, to laugh, to dance, to sing
To live a life of destiny
The life He always meant for me

Death where is your victory
Death where is your sting
I’ve been born into the Kingdom
of Light
No more tombs for me.

Diagnosis

I woke each morning
Near surprised
My eyes
Were opening
Upon the world they closed upon
The night before,
The door
Exactly where I'd left it.
I had not died
I sighed
With great relief,

"Here I am again!"

RESUSCITATED

The sensation of free-falling into the abyss has ceased.
I have opened my eyes to this “new day”.
And it is thanks to you.

“Don’t forget to breathe. That’s how you know you’re alive”
You said that…
…at the end of every telephone conversation we had.
…at the bottom of every e-mail we ever exchanged.
Your letters always bore your signature
with your equation gracing the last line of each page.
BREATHE=ALIVE.
…to close every texting session.
The very last time we spoke, you amended your quote.
“Don’t forget to breathe. That’s how you’ll keep me alive”
It was your admonition to me.
To survive. To be successful. To “write my ass off”.
You had re-introduced me to my love affair with words.
You had kept me breathing.

As this day unfolded,
I arose from a restless night.
There was something I was forgetting.
My usual total recall was an unfunny joke.
In the shower, I could not feel the water.
No matter how hot I tried to make it,
I couldn’t feel it. I was numb.

As I dressed, my ability to tie a Windsor knot
Had escaped me most of the morning.
My dark suit cleaned and pressed.
A high shine on my shoes.
And still, the elusive thought
Haunted me.

Arriving at the chapel I was greeted by your father,
a man who was greatly responsible for our separation.
I had not seen him once in al those years.
He looked gaunt and worn out.
We embraced like lost brothers
reunited by tragedy.

And you had the last laugh though.
He whispered softly, almost inaudibly.
“She wanted you to speak at the service. “
“I didn’t prepare anything”, I said.
“She anticipated that. She said, Improvise”
“Improvise?”
“Yeah, improvise your ass off””

And he smiled broadly.
It was the first time I realized
that you had his smile.
There was much I wanted to say.
Needed to say.
But there was only one thing I could do.
Improvise my ass off.

It’s funny how this aspiring writer
who could make verbiage dance on a page,
was at a sudden loss for words.
I hemmed and hawed.
I stammered and stuttered.
And then I heard your voice.
Loudly and clearly,
I wondered if anyone else had heard it.

One word.

And then I remembered what had puzzled me
all through the sleepless night
and into this morning.
You summed it all up in a single word.

Breathe.

You had resuscitated me and gave me my voice back.
I stopped in mid-sentence.
I inhaled deeply.
I improvised my ass off!
And I started “keeping you alive”.

Rest Well, Love!

Rebirth aka Rejuvination

Every November she left for Florida
Then in late April,
with Spring, she returned.
For the past 30 years this
had been on her agenda,
but this past Winter
a change was discerned.

Early in Fall, when
the evenings grew colder;
no mention was made
of the on-coming trip.
Comments she made were of
feeling much older;
sciatica, sore feet
and pains in her hip.

When later we met her
she was all of a flutter
no mention of pain
and no longer forelorn.
Much more surprising
she had packed all her bags
and had already purchased
her seat on the train.

She'd had a letter
from a former admirer
hoping to see her in
Tampa this year.
She made it quite clear
that he didn't desire her;
Nor she, even if he
was the last man on earth.

She did not feel younger
But hated cold weather;
and that was the reason
she'd decided to go.
They would get together
his company was pleasing
and she had a hunger
for his youth: her rebirth.

Fresh and New

Like the spring after a winters pain,
The calm after a storming rain,
The harmony of a loud refrain,
The world is fresh and new.

Like waking after a night of sin,
And upon seeing straight, you begin,
To realize you will never win,
Unless you’re fresh and new.

Like breathing deeply, slowly first,
Stepping straight, not in reverse,
And being blessed instead of cursed,
You’ll be fresh and new.

It was about 6 AM when I began this poem on “Rebirth” as a prompt word—even before the prompt was posted I began the task, and fortunately it fit perfectly into the prompt word for today with a change of title. Original title was to be: What’s in the Color of a Name?; or “The Color of People” . Subsequently the new title has become “The Rebirth of Colors”. It is written as an honorary tribute to all those poets who posted a poem for the prompt word “color”. I returned to PAD April 16, 2009 and went (one by one) down the Poetic ASIDES postings, (name by name); and (color by color), to come up with this poetic legacy of all the new members of “The Living Poet’s Society”. In order to accomplish the task it was necessary to keep on the computer screen the postings for that prompt day, while I wrote with pen and ink on a yellow legal pad of paper. After eight hours of writing (and conjuring up a POETIC ASIDES) I looked at the clock and realized at 2PM it had been 8 hours in the making, and I was not anywhere near half done. Thus I decided to take a break and go to keyboards to type up the handwritten “ditty”—which was another long tedious task. I will continue late into the night to ensure (plus) that all poets on the “color” prompts get recognized in this soon to be famous “Epic Poem” of conquest of time and colorful name-like circumstance.
Salute to all Fellow Poets from: Sir Richard-Merlin Atwater, Esquire of Pentameter Versification.
===============================================================
The Rebirth of Colors © Richard-Merlin Atwater April 20, 2009

The day began quick, just as any other
For poet’s and minstrel’s of tune,
A Robert Lee Brewer ‘prompt’ about colors,
“Blue eyes in the morning” began his tune.

Then we saw that Brenna Erlich hides the dirt with “black”,
While our Finnish friend “Dr. John” Linna paints in “Polish green”,
Jacqueline Tomaschko would have us all know our “blood is red”, Jack!
And Matthew Abel’s “Taupe” house, of “Baby poo brown” is the best that I’ve ever seen.

R.J. Clarken dropped an “Atomic Tangerine” bomb on my crayon box,
That destroyed “halfmoon_mollie Tamsin’s “red streaked cuffs”,
Which brought out the crescendo of Steve Morrison’s “red” in Chopin’s D Minor Prelude vox,
Thereby causing Ann Privateer to experience her 16th “Blackness” roughs.

L.K. Harris-Kolp’s “Yellow” is a friendly color my fellow,
And, too, I would surmise, Hannah Bowles “emerging white” lifts your eyes to the skies.
While Marcia Neu (knew) that “Fuscia” would attract our attention, mellow,
As ‘Tommy James and the Shondells' sang of Chev Shire’s “Crimson and clover, over and over”, surprise!

Marie Vibbert (ribbett, ribbett) choice of “Carnation pink” was my Dad’s favorite color,
Then Dawn M. Rocco smeared us with “butter yellow and honeysuckle love”,
While my favorite “Blue Moon”, Yvonne Wills brought in tune, so stellar;
As J. Hugh MacDonald’s trio of colors: “red, green, blue” shine from above.

And “Dad”: Darrell Teubner understands “green-eyed loveliness”,
While solemn Maril shows us “pink’s peril” from memories,
As “that Tyger writes fiction” in “black” overtones for friends earnestness,
When Wanda Gray, I say, whose last name’s a color, turns to “purple nobilities”.

“Ubiquity of blue”, Scott Owens heavenly hue, draws us to—
Michelle Maiers scary-like “dripping red”,
So now it’s “Burnt Orange” for Theresa Cavicchio’s Ozieri, Sardinia home clue!
While Jill V. Woodward shows us various “hues of brown” in our head.

Now Nancy Posey doesn’t say “Rosie” in “Burnt Sienna’s” rhymes,
But Charmion Burns reminds us too, that Mao’s Little Red Book must compete,
For likewise, other colors of “KnittingJourneymansilken thread” is “Cerise”—cherry red times!
While “clear and true” to the heart is Marie Elena’s Keithgood personality feat!

Daniel Paicopulos, would have us not write in “white” for fright
Our words would not be seen, like the bruises of “Barbbloggochicago”—“purple”,
Or the taste of Walt Wojtanik’s “maple syrple” to bite!
While Marian Veverka “Queenie” walks through “the grassy green circle”.
=============================================================
Poet’s Note: This is only page one of the first five pages that I have finished. I’m still typing on the computer my manuscript draft. When I finish these five pages I will begin to write the next 15 pages to include the rest of you poets who have not been left off my list from the prompt day of “colors”. So raise your “colors” high and let the flag be unfurled for a Patriotic shout to POETRY! For as Ralph Waldo Emerson said: “Our holiday has been simply a friendly sign of the survival of letters amongst people who are “too busy” to give to letters anymore. …. Events, actions arise that must be sung that will sing themselves. Who can doubt that POETRY will revive and lead in a new age… for a thousand years.”
An oration delivered to the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Cambridge, August 31, 1837.
Imagine how he might roll over in his grave if he saw today’s standard of posting letters by “e-mail”, whereby we are “too busy” to give to letters. Keep the POETIC ASIDES homefires burning my brethren and sisters of “The Living Poet’s Society”. Respectfully, Sir Richard-Merlin (Obi-wan) Atwater

WINGS NEVER USED
-----------------

A caterpillar,
Felt nature's tug,
Wiggled up to a corner,
And made itself snug.

High in the doorway,
It spun a cacoon,
It went to sleep dreaming,
It would have wings soon.

But the bug's rebirth,
would be short lived,
The world is a taker,
It doesn't just give.

A butterfly spider,
Crawled with an ebb,
Looking for a place,
To swirl his web.

It found a doorway,
And up it went,
Over the cocoon,
It pitched its tent.

Several weeks later,
When chrysalis bloomed,
The new butterfly,
Was already entombed.

Another Chance

I don’t think I’ve been here before
(No cosmic déjà vu)
Is there a chance I might come back
After this life’s through?

Will the dusky ending of my days
Be the ending of all light,
Or will I once again emerge
From that fatal night?

Can there be another dawn
On some future day;
Another hopeful sunlit morn
When again I’ll pass this way?

I’d like another chance at life
A chance to try once more
But in a world that’s free at last
From hate and fear and war.

A future world where people know
How to get along
And treat each other with respect,
Not do each other wrong.

They say that’s just the way folks are
They’ll always be that way
But if that truly is the case
I‘d rather stay away.

Rebirth

The first time was when I realized that I
was no longer the class clown, but was
actually quite bright. That led to graduation
as number three in my college class.

The next time, the shy, lonely, boy died
and the confident lover of the girl who became
my wife was born almost daily.

The latest version of me appeared after
the Catholic Church handed out the last straw.
A former pillar of the Church was now
a card-carrying agnostic.

And somewhere in there, a father of three
was transformed into a grandfather of five.

Jane, Rebirth starts internally and quickly touches many lives. My rebirth started this morning and your message was very inspirational. I thank you for your concern and condolence. With us keeping poetry alive daily, we're keeping each other alive. It was Erich Fromm who said, "Man's main task in life is to give birth to himself." I'll choose to give re-birth to myself and live richly in the connection we all share.

Therapy

White plaster, blood, and bits of tissue covered the table top,
where my heart lay, exposed before us. “This will help.
I’ve done it hundreds times before,” the doctor said, her heart
noticeably safely inside her chest. I shivered, the room felt cold,
and the stainless steel table sent chills through each nerve,
even though my heart lay there, detached from my body.
The doctor moved my heart around like it were unbreakable,
as if hearts could be remade if she made a mistake. She pulled
at the right ventricle, pushed closed an aurical,
fiddled with the tricuspid value, and yanked at the superior vena cava.

I knew it should hurt. I knew it should ache, having my heart
manipulated by her latex gloved hands. But all I felt was cold,
and empty, and I wondered how long before she’d be finished.
Four-hundred and eighty 50-minute hours passed, finally she declared
my heart repaired, “Better than ever.” And with a smile, she picked up my heart,
and stuffed it hard into the opening of my soul.

As I walked out of that office, with its deceptively comforting couches,
piles of National Geographic magazines from the 1980s, and pamphlets
on “PTSD” and “Apathy”, I noticed, she was right. My new heart did
feel different -- but not good different. And as I returned home,
a thousand needles of sadness stabbed my chest, and I hated
my new heart. I knew then that the emptiness and the chill
I felt during surgery – only illusions. Only now, with this new heart,
I knew pain. Only now, I knew pain.

My Winter Has Washed Away

April has come
with warning of change
refreshing my gutters
from the winter of doubt

I have to step out
from hybernation
and experience me
in all of my strengths
and weaknesses

Now looking forward
I'm born again to live
as I would
and no one else
as I would carry myself
in the world
and as I would
like to be remembered

It is time
to breathe again,
time for a rebirth.

Rebirth

When you were born
so was I
I lifted you into my arms
and felt life beginning
in a flood of sea water
in a trance
in a scream
life as blood, pain
indescribable beauty
peace
I lifted you into my arms
Sunday morning light
the sound of bells
and birds
not the woman I was before
we began

for Sani

Allusions


When I think of rebirth
I am caught in a poet-woven web:
Ferlinghetti, Yeats, and Millay entwine me
With their words.
I wait, with Ferlinghetti,
For the world to be reborn in wonder;
I cannot turn from Yeats’ beast
And what it portends,
Yet like Millay I push the grass apart
And lay my finger on God’s heart.

I wouldn't want to be a judge for today. There are so many good ones today! Thank you all for sharing your incredible talent.

The Reincarnation of Marigold

Marigold was born on a gray winter day.
The sun was not accepted in the sky,
But it did not rain.

She was delivered by a tall Black man
In a long blue smock.
His teeth gleamed in his dark face
As he announced “this is a little Girl”
In his deep coal voice.

A face swollen from a rough journey
Through a dark canal
Rendered Marigold’s eyes small slots.

Fists clenched,
Knees seized and uncoiled.
She looked about her
Realizing she had returned
To the arms of fortune.

She did not cry.

Phoenix

I stand within my nest
Of broken dreams
And disappointments

Ignite the fire
And let me burn

Then I will be
Reborn and
Made anew

And the ashes
Gathered by the wind
Will drift away

I don't think this one is finished expressing itself yet, but this is as far as will allow me to go at the moment.

“Bag Lady”

Where?
Not in graves
In plastic biomed waste bins.

Where do?
Sweatpools of anger drip
Beneath squealing ceiling fans.

Where do you?
On the second floor of
Stretched shadows.

Where do your?
Smoke ring whispers enter
Lowlight parking garages.

Where do your child?
Rest between the pregnant
Breath of silence

Where do your children?
Cry booming hunger pangs
Plunged in the wishing well.

Where do your children lie?
When notebooks are full
With truth untold

Villanelle to the Villanelle : Lines Rebirthed

Villanelle’s Line (1) is (4x) reborn
in (5) tercets and a single qua(4)train
to tidy the end in (8-10) syllabic beats (at times overdone) to adorn

the rhyme-scheme or flow or what’s flown
before and crashed or rewinged to fly again:
villanelle’s Line (1) is (4x) reborn.

and the second time is boring and worn
but the second appearance of Line (2) (more shame!) –
tidies the end in (12-21] syllabic beats (at times overdone) to adorn

what then comes along in the (4th) of (5) tercets, surely shorn
of whatever initial interest may have been.
Villanelle’s Line (1) is (4x) reborn

for the penultimate time in tercet (4) and a horn
is blown on high, celebrating an end to lame
tidy ends in [30-49] syllabic beats (overdone from the get-go) to adorn

a form corrupted by a lazy mind full of corn
and plastic pink barrettes.
Villanelle’s Line (1) is (4x) reborn
to tidy the end in (8-10) syllabic beats. I’m done.

The Coming

Christianity has marked the beginning of
the ending of
and the starting over
A welling up inside of all that was
that overflows and spills over onto rosy cheeks
All the while Christianity fills the space
from beneath
There is peace and excitement in the knowing
a great clash of emotion
The losing and gaining
A contradiction of life
Christianity moves from here to there
up to down
and in to out
It is the coming and the going
The simple difference between being and growing
Christianity is the forever change
by the forever friend
who keeps and protects
as long as you want Him to
who fights the everlasting battle
between yourself and you
Christianity is believing in and on
acceptance and living through
Christianity is the marker of new

Past Life Regression

A mere reflection in the mirror showing myself,
Only broadcasting someone that's not really me,
Everything's changed from looks to background,
A throwback to the past life of who I really was.

My skin, pale in color, like in shock or even in illness,
For my persona was someone who've been wronged,
Confused on what I saw, I peeked in the window's glass,
It forecasted how I could be in the future of my own life.

This was a past life regression, without any hypnosis,
In order to have a future, things change in the present.

"Reincarnation"

I started my lives as a crowned king
but did not learn a blasted thing
so I went down in my rank
yet as a baron, I stank
next a gold merchant
not near to perfect
not even a proper
lowly old pauper
so soon I shrank
to the clever ant
working my way back
through the life of a yak
if I work hard and don’t fail
when living as a huge blue whale
there maybe a very very slim chance
that I could once again being wearing pants.

Poem by Vanessa V. Kilmer © April 20, 2009

Retirement

Oh, glorious day
I traveled down the rebirth canal
All the way to Florida.
Goodbye papers to grade.
Goodbye reports to write.
Hello Spanish, quilting, painting, writing.
So much to do.
So little time.

Start Again

We take with us to the grave the scars
of our unfulfilled desires.
The older we get the less we have
to call our own. The element of first
draws us forward as chickadees sing us back
to spring. I meditate, meditate on meaning
while a bird selects grasses from a spot near
the base of a sandcherry. It knows what it wants,
or at least does what it’s doing, worrying the exact
length it needs out of the ground. This ordinary,
this everyday, makes my heart pound.
Lives are so easily changed away from this
long dream to a rude awakening or a glorious one.
Are any of April's greens unlovely?

Mother Earth

Within the hands of Mother Earth lies the birth of a rainbow generation
Enveloped and adorned by natural beauty she cries as she watches God's creation.

She feels the need for spiritual uprising an emotional cleansing,
As the tears fall from her eyes,
She visualizes the future seeing only...a worldly demise.

The environment, nature and mankind at risk, gone due to neglect and waste.
The tears drop to cleanse man's soul,
Her sculptured beauty destroyed in his selfish haste.

Within the hands of Mother Earth, a new world unfolds
The impurities are cleansed as the tears rip her inner soul.

New horizons, new beginnings, her masterpiece an exquisite site.
Her tears are for mankind, and the generations willing to fight.

Tears of emotional cleansing are needed from each of us here on earth

Tears for better tomorrow's and a nation's rebirth.

Lynn Doiron
Loved your villanelle Very clever

day 10052

That first burst of light that cracks
through the top of my bedroom window -
the brightest shine in my home.
It wakes me - reminds me,
that there is some purpose for me to fulfill.
So I rise to the birth of another day
that I am lucky enough to live through,
linger in the body length mirror
in amazement of how this whole thing works -
try to remember not to loathe today
this breathing reflection.

"you said be"

I have spent four years dying
in order to find life

with Rilke I let my branches
rest in deep silence

with Rumi I have listened
to the new stories that begin every day

with Narihira I’m starting down the road
I have always known I would take

Grand Poo-Bah Atwater

Sir Richard, we're privileged
to perform in your glow,
honored to be here,
more than you know.
It took me an hour to
salute Marie Elena dear,
a bit longer for Hannah,
while still left in fear
that I'd not mention
someone equally deserving,
the whole business being
somewhat unnerving.
And here comes a hero,
misgivings at zero,
to honor all poets,
some notable,
all quotable,
not stopping at ten,
nor twenty-five,
he'll soar past one hundred,
for three he might strive,
planning kudos for all,
at least those alive.

(thank you, kind sir, from Daniel, Living Poet)

Rebirth

Here I stand at the foot of the waves
To stay or to go is my ordeal for the day
To stand in the light brings burning pain
To the comfort of the dark I do sway
The blissful strains of a person singing
Amazing grace brings me joy
And towards the light I do turn
At my back the darkness beckons,
Wrapping me in its silken comfort
It is home, one I most enjoy
Though the light is blooming and beckoning away
The darkness whispers of the comforts of home
It will wait for another day
Wait for when I return
The day may be tomorrow or later today
But for now I go with the light

Eternal
I am not afraid to die,
For I know in my heart
That when this physical existence ends,
I will be ascending into the Kingdom of God.
Into Heaven, where there is no suffering,
No anger, hatred or tears.
Only pure love.
My knowledge about what it will feel like,
Is limited.
Have I died before?
Has anyone who has died whispered to me,
The secrets of death and judgement?
We will all be judged,
But I know that when I perish,
I will be reborn
And have eternal life.

REBIRTH

You know you must begin
again, remake yourself
into someone who’s good
on your own. This is not
what you had planned.
Time slips and twists
differently now, the wind
speaks its breathy tale
the same as before but
now you understand its
tongue. No one is ever
truly alone.
Voices of those gone
ahead are there on
that other plane, their sound
in the slipstream behind
your heart’s oddly heavy
emptiness. You feel them
at night, when the pillow next
to you is empty, when no
body leaves its warmth
as evidence that once
you loved, once
you were loved.

The Rebirth of Jim in June

It is always the month of June that gets James
thinking about that summer in '62 when he was
17 and far from home, working in the fields
picking tobacco and picking up girls. He remembers
Betty especially— "She had an easy way about her.
I didn't have to be funny or try to be cool with
Betty." He talks about her easy like Sarah's
not in the room, like he's still young, unmarried
and in North Carolina laboring under the
hot sun thinking about how later Betty would
come; and how she'd sneak out to meet him. "I couldn't wait
to be done with work," he recalls, says again, "Betty
had an easy way about her." He puts emphasis
on "easy" and Sarah always knows what he means; his
daughters learn later what he means and it's more
than retelling, it's re-living. Sarah said, "Betty probably
ain't even thinking about you," when one June, James said,
"One of these days, I'mma go and look her up." And with
every year that passes, it seems the more he wants
it back— the life he had when he was known as
Jim and talking's the thing that brings Jim back,
so James goes on and on.



Hi Trudi Jarvis in Hope BC Cananda. I'm in central Connecticut.

( rebirth )


***
I will want to hold the baby
***

on the weekend, we will go to a play.
some will bring their children.
the play will change the lives of many.
at intermission, I will want to leave.
you will lead the hand of the man
sitting next to you
to my ankle. he will use
the weight of his chin, the lullaby
of his baby lolled head.
I will not be able to hold
the brief kiss of my knees.

to see his hand
you will lift my skirt
from behind. I will want you
furious.

FIDDLEHEADS
By: Hannah Bowles

The unfurling of tender fiddleheads
has begun, while in the distance
the renderings of summer symphonies
are sung by frogs, crickets and the
astounding voices of birds calling.
The sight is like no other, bright
and basking in morning splendor. I
attempt to absorb the very essence
of my surroundings, I feel the weight
of responsibility resounding, some-
where deep within. The breeze carries
a woodsy scent and I deeply breathe it
in. I rest my eyes while my ears relish
and my imagination embellishes upon
what is already there. In my world the
boys and the girls all dance hand in
hand. There is no difference in race
and we all stand together. People don’t
pass judgment and everyone looks upon
one another equally. There is life and
people love abundantly. I abruptly open
my eyes and realize the responsibility
is mine and it's yours. How the rebirth
of every generation requires the conscious
participation of people all striving to
do better. This ambition of the divine
above is shown prominently through love.
And the fiddleheads unfurl one segment
at a time, generations to be His remnant.

“re-birth”

It came about so unexpectedly—
Or did it?
That constant, pulsing, nagging.
Was it from the back of the closet?
Or my mind?
Oh, never mind, it’s another busy day.

In a flash, a miracle! You came.
And you changed life.
In your eyes, the world, and beyond.
Here it comes again, pulsing, singing.
It pushed me, and threw me into the ether.
I can ignore it no longer.

Cleansed through the water,
Forever changed.
Revived to continue
Stumbling and falling
Learning and failing.
This is the master plan?

Rebirth

Phenomenon:
- realization of death
Revival:
- power of transformation
Enlightenment
- making it happen
NEW CICLE!
- Active again!

Rosangela C. Taylor / 04-20-09

Bohemian Rebirth Rhapsody

I wonder what they'd do
if Christ appeared without a beard,
without robes and sandals too.
What if he came in a satin flame
and high-heeled shiny shoes?
What if he kissed men, dressed as a femme,
I wonder what they'd do.

I wonder what they'd do
if Christ showed up filling a C-cup
and had a uterus too!
Could Christ have sex or would that vex
the misogynistic crew?
What if she was a whore, sold at four,
I wonder what they'd do.

I wonder what they'd do
if Christ came back all coloured black,
had tea with Muslims too;
walked with Buddha, talked to Khuda,
Pagans, B'Hai and Jew.
If every kind came walking behind
I wonder what they'd do.

I wonder what they'd do
if Christ ripped pages from Bible rages
and told them that wasn't true,
that those words were said by old men who fed
on the fear of anything new.
Would they stick to The Book, or give Christ a look,
I wonder what they'd do.

What would they do
if Christ was reborn far from the norm,
perhaps a god painted blue.
Christ might lift the pipe like eighteen million wiped
for the red, the white and the blue.
If Christ's rebirth needed a worthy earth,
what would the pious do,

stuck here with me and you,
Ghostdancing to
Bohemian Rebirth Rhapsody in blue.

On the Seventh Day


Hard to say whether it was the dream
I was having about the ocean,
watching the breakers come in
& sweep back out, the salt in my nose,
or the waking up to heavy sunlight,
but there was something different today.
I cleaned the stick & film off
every surface, made every inch of glass
to shine & show through clean as if
it didn’t exist. Amazing what happens
when hands are put to work, to cleaning
up the old messes, the way every touched
thing catches light & reflects. Some plants
have died, food spoiled in the fridge
but I take them out with the garbage
& imagine spores multiplying in the ground,
the rot of leaves feeding the soil to bring
forth new greenery. Something greener yes—
something to say goodbye to, all the while
knowing that it remains whether I return or not.
Some shiny thing to sink a tooth into,
tasting salty like the sea dried on my hands
as I collect shells along the shore, listening
to the ocean within the ocean. No conch
will carry the song across time zones
but someone will hear me when I sing,
grow a lemon tree, balance my accounts
& tomorrow I will wake up from an entirely
different dream & still the smell of the sea
will fill my room & make sure there is work
to be done, by hand, what my mother
would call the Lord’s work, keeping a hard promise.

SOWING AND REAPING
By: Hannah Bowles

Are the seeds that you
sow in your today of
sorrow and lacking in
forgiveness? Than the
harvest that you reap
will be of the same
sadness and bitter
resentment. We must
break the cycles of
unwanted yesterdays
and sow that which
we wish to reap in
our better tomorrows.
Do away with living
for the past and live
in the present, keeping
in mind that which we
wish to pursue in the
future. In this manner
we may accomplish that
which we wish to achieve,
we will be able to
consciously take part
in our very precious now.

Awakened with a gasp
how long asleep?
A thousand years perhaps
in pleasant dreams.

“Love comes out of nowhere Baby
Just like a hurricane
And it feels like the rain
And it feels like the rain”
Buddy Guy


She felt refreshed
By her new thoughts
Letting hope wash up and
Over the walls she had
Diligently built,
Stone by solid stone.

The project had been
A big one but now with
Change glowing on
The horizon
She felt like stepping
Out of the box
She had called home
For so very long.

Now the weather seemed
To be clearing, changing.
It was a new day for sure
And the sunshine filled
Her heart with love.

One step at a time,
Baby ones at first
Followed by leaps and bounds,
She was determined
To walk away from the
Whole damn mess
A stronger woman,
A new person inside
And weak never more.

Weak and afraid
Never more again.

EXCEPTIONAL WRITING TODAY EVERYONE!

Rebirth

For years we didn't communicate
I really didn't expect it to change
too much hurt, too much pain.
I was resigned, didn't hope.
It was what it was. There was
nothing to do but let go and
let God. Then it changed, not
sure why, but maybe because
she had a child of her own
and now knew what it was like

Mary Kling
to be a mother. Sometimes it's
best to accept, not question. Our
elationship was reborn. I am
Mother again and loved.


Mary Kling

WALKING ALONE


This sunshine warm against my face
Will not touch yours. Nor will I see
Your cheeks flush rosy in the wind,
Your head bowed against the rough
Tumbling of advancing Spring.
How you welcomed the lengthening
Daylight, the twilight star poised above
The neighbor’s barn, the willow tree
Veiled in palest green and the wild forsythia
Carelessly spilling gold across the neighborhood.
These things I see.

Alone on the empty afternoon
Sidewalk, looking down, avoiding what
I cannot share—how long the road, how sad
The solitary journey. Haunted by memory
That comforts as it wounds. Still let it be
My shadowy companion. Ten hundred
Thousand days and nights are not infinity
Listen to the Redwing’s song, the Sparrow’s patter,
The hum and bustle of the days, a smile for me.
Awaken, all my senses, I pass this way but once.
Let every step I follow lead me home to you..

Our Dear Hannah

As she unfurls
and renders
with a loving voice
so tender
It's in her charm
we bask,
and so little
does she ask;
only that we keep
with thoughts and mercy deep,
the treasure of today,
tomorrow come what may.

(Hannah, we are lucky to have you...Daniel, Living Poet)

*take it to the road*

what is this dark
ness in my head
why can’t I spend
days out of side
pound my quick foot
steps on this ground
let my mind wond
er to the earth
see the great sky
count each new col
or blue brown grey
it chang es ev
ry day see some
times rain the next
day sun I feel
the day and time
is mine to touch
the earth my feet
take life from beat
ing it and mov
ing through the air
this fast this sweat
my heart beats my
lungs gasp eyes find
light in this bod
y mine is runn
ing.

Dan, Dan he's our man
if he can't uplift us
no one can!

Daniel I'm touched. Thank you for ALL of your efforts. It is us that are lucky...Hannah, your fellow, Living Poet

EILEEN

She had been searching
So long that she couldn’t stop
Wouldn’t know what to do if she did
Give up the search for her birth mother
She wasted so many years
Crying tears
Of frustration
Each dead end
Only spurned her on
To continue her journey
Born years ago to a stranger
Who gave her up for adoption
Raised by other strangers who
Abused her and used her
Her mission was to find her birth mother
Before she was dead
She had posted her message
The delicate details
On hundreds of websites
Searching for the woman
Who carried her inside her womb
She didn’t care so much about
Finding her father
Because so many men had abused her
And she figured he’d be another one
Who would make her run
But today
Her destiny was about to change
She could feel it in her bones
The way one feels impending storms
She watched the passengers as
They exited the Greyhound bus
Finally no one was left on board
She looked around frantically
And saw a woman with her eyes
And bone structure
Smiling
As she quickly walked
Towards her
With arms outstretched
And a million tears
She inhaled the woman’s
Shalimar fragrance as they embraced
She felt like she had died long ago
And was given life anew
REBIRTH

Eileen searches no more…

LOVE REKINDLED

A life extinguished,
an ember still smolders,
touching your heart,
like a hand on your shoulder.
A reassurance that
after a while, a kind word,
a tender smile, a kiss
blown from across the room,
can heal your gloom.
A spark stays glowing,
but your head's not
knowing whether you'll ever
enter the race again.
Your heart is unsure,
your intention is pure
in respect to the past.
But you hesitate,
in a wait-and-see fashion,
you doubt that your passion
could ever reach crescendo,
amidst mementos of the love
you had carried for a lifetime.
So you bask on your island,
and after a while
you see a flash of
a grin you recall,
or the sound in a voice
that indeed says it all,
the shake in the walk,
or the way that she talks
could one day bring you
from the shadowy thicket
back into the brightness
of day and in a thought,
in the gasp of a single breath
your glow of an ember,
will catch again
to flail in an unbridled
conflagration of love's fire.

A life in extinguished,
but a heart will live
in you for eternity.

And we will live to love another day.

Those Eyed


My pen once bled across these pages
in the city of desolation
where i died, again and once more all over
I learned to breathe
even as I died
Felled, ripped asunder and rent
like so many scattered memories of when
last and first I did cry
in the morning, in the night,
all through the day

I once wrote about the City of Desolation
and how fear was all that which killed us inside
of how loneliness was the truth behind the lie
and of holding on, holding always on and on
I said nothing of the eyes that sliced through my soul
like the knife that killed me eviscerated me

when I died and died

Those eyes, looking at me always,
always whenever I did pass that way through life lived again
for the first, for never having been lived before

Those eyes, staring into my heart's mind and eye of this soul,
like they always did, when crawl past that way did I as I died and died again
For never having lived at all before and since

Those eyes, empty and screaming all at once of never ending
Abyssal lakes of sorrows and wailing hopes full and plenty folded
As they always do, will did, and never have when...
when lived, living, live to breathe will, have I

Those eyes in the City of Desolation
seeing me for the first time
for never having been able to see before
blink back a wake of tears
for only now seeing anything at all

It was true and through that I died in the City of Desolation
When I first opened my eyes to breathe
And gasp out one stolen breath of life
Having never known such before
Will never know such again and still

I was born all over once more in the City of Desolation

[Today's contribution is my first attempt at haibun, a Japanese form comprising one or more prose paragraphs in combination with one or more haiku.]


A World Made New

In an airplane high over the Midwest, I established an agenda, set myself some rules. I would offer to run errands, cook supper and wash the plates and pots. I would carry out instructions on changing the diaper and running the bath. I’d be eager to push the carriage or play with Baby on my lap. In short, I would be of service—do everything I could to make a gift of my first visit as Grandma to the new family of daughter, son-in-law, and grandson. This was the abstract of my program.

What really happened when I took my place inside the confines of that Brooklyn brownstone household was a new breathing and imagining. I was drawn into Baby’s space, wanting to know his world. Accepting his gift of making everything new.


riding in my arms
window light invites a look
sky, clouds, tree swaying


nakedness his right
but the bath water prickles
cool, then close, clinging


a face looms below
when grandma’s arms hold him high
his first time flying


his furled pristine brow
the thoughts and feelings forming
old world renewing.

Beautiful Walt

Dream Therapy

In the early dawn
I dream of wilderness,
of the wild root of that word.
There is a lake and
I can hear the sound of it,
feel the pull of the water.

A raft drifts, useless, so
I strip and swim to claim it.
I pull myself up and lift anchor
float to the other side, where
you are waiting in that wildness,
seeking the wild root.

Later, I will tell the dream in
therapy, the doctor scribing it
in tiny columns in his notebook,
as if it could be relived,
redeemed in this room of secrets.
Who is the raft? What are your clothes?

Standing naked in the forest
are you afraid?
Who is on the other side?
Water, that fertile symbol.
How is your sex life?
Do you wish to return to the womb?

The Forresters

I wilted in my original soil,
Nearly died
But for you.
You exposed me to
Sunlight,
Quenched a thirst
Long neglected
And spoke foreign words
Of love and encouragement.
Because of you
I sprouted with confidence
Blossomed into adulthood
And shed much of the poison
Rooted deep within my soil.
Thank you for cultivating my soul.

Wow, I've gotta say, it's really nice to see so many of the group being supportive to one another. Really enjoying reading the back'n forth stuff from all of you.

The boat


came after the chopper, the car,
the scooter, the bicycle and the
crawl under the barbed wire. Her
parents escaped in 1975 with only
her embryo. How could she not
repay them? She learned English,
translated their documents, read
them news, sorted shirts, hangers,
cared for her siblings, and studied.
There were no sports, sleepovers,
boyfriends or proms, only books.
She loved to draw, but it wasn’t
practical, so she doodled in the
margins of her lab notes, on check
receipts and napkins. She graduated
summa cum laude three more times,
but traditions kept her vessel moored,
tethered by duty, respect and family.
One day her five-year-old daughter
came home from kindergarten with
a detailed colored sketch of a boat.
She framed it, hung it in the living
room and promised that she could
study to be an artist, if she wanted.

Not ready to post yet, however, I have just had some time to look at the Anger poems from yesterday and must salute Bruce N. for Legacy and Hannah B. for Hope's Graveyard - both incredibly powerful poems.

Chicken Tale

My children’s lives are neatly cut in two:
Japanese at school, English at home.
It’s been this way as long as they can
remember, and they never comment on it
in either language. I, on the other hand,
feel ripped in half and raggedly.
One day they are telling me
a story their teacher told in school.
It is about a chicken on fire. I am
horrified. “No, no,” they reassure me,
“the chicken is supposed to be on fire.”
“A barbecue?” I guess, and they giggle
wildly. “No, Mama, the chicken set itself
on fire alive,” they say, and I ask if the story
came from India. The oldest sighs.
“Mama, the chicken comes from the fire
with new feathers and bright colors, tail longer
than a peacock’s and better than before.”
“A phoenix!” I cry, and everyone is grinning,
nodding, our family whole again. And then
I make my mistake. “Phoenix is a city
in my home country,” I add, and the children
exchange skeptical glances but do not
challenge their crazy foreign mama.

Sorry

I’ve packed up all my troubled times,
sent them on their way
I’m moving from this
sorry state I’m in

I’ve sealed every window shut,
and pulled down all the blinds
Hung a “Closed” sign
on my sorry frame of mind

I’ve put a lid on my self-pity
and unwrapped a brand new day
Sorry’s just a game
I no longer play

After reading (and singing) my poetry
at Provincetown Poetry Festival
then going whale-watching

I am back from poetry, singing, whales
Whales are singing poetry back to me
I am poetry singing to whales
poetry sing whales sing back
whales I am singing poetry to you
Sing whales poetry to whales
Sing singing poetry wail whales
back back whales singing to you
I am I am singing singing whale
whales wail sing singing me
poetry singing whales yes yes

Lori Desrosiers

Thank you Hannah. Glad to see Daniel honored you in his inimitable fashion. All kind words are helping me through this most difficult (and very liquid) day. I keep all my poetic friends close and you all are of great comfort.

To all my fellow "Living Poets": I value all your distant and anonymous support. Poetry is passion, and that makes of all of you, bearers of a great gift. Thanks one and all.

My first attempt at a found poem. Harder to write than it seems!
~~~~~~~~~~
REBIRTH OF COOL
(found poem, after "Rebirth of Slick (Cool Like Dat)" by Digable Planets)

Mary Jane frequents the fatter undergrounds,
hair worn in plaits beneath her hoodie, rocks
her light blue suede Pumas.

She’s cool like dat.

She zooms to the funk club down the block
where she slows, flows into the rebirth of her
gangsta stroll, not like them crazy spastic babes.

She’s chill like dat.

The DJ’s boomin’ classics with styles like sixties
funky rhymes, sendin’ chunky rhythms to her heart,
beats to unthought-of dimensions.

She grooves like dat.

Flocks to booms so fly, she lets her borders loose,
meets her man with the strangest smile, says hi,
“Wassup,” and the nickel bags are dealt.

She’s in like dat.

Catches a buzz, fresh and fat, lyrics shoot through
her veins, come in stacks and rolls, she jams
and boogies, she kinks and sinks into the sounds.

She swings like dat.

When dawn blinks an eye, she strolls home
to lie, head full of raps to take a sweeta cat nap.
She out…she out…she out…

Sara Mcnulty- Thank you so much. I'll look foward to reading your work also.

What Burns, What is Born


Lock & key-holed, shut
up and kerosened,
the house struggles to
keep up even as
it is tricked down, licked,
the house not house but
body, not body
but womb, not womb but
blank-faced cavern that
houses the smallest
sentence engraved in
its floor. In red. Red
on red. And even
as the red bed swells
and the pearl swills from
its bath and the house
rums and stumbles, wakes
and hiccups and sweats,
the room grows round, hutched
rabbit, womb body house
slipped into & not
with a key, not with
a kick. A sudden
flood of light, and what
was in now is out,
the house the body
the womb the walls the
imperfect sentence
broke as a wheel turned
a heavy burden &
floundered aground.

Journey

Once the hem of a petticoat,
now the wrapper of a waffle cone.
Tomorrow a postage stamp.

Spring is a time for rebirth
when flowers and trees
come back to life

Any time of year
is right
for a rebirth
of the human spirit

When you look inside yourself
you may see a soul
in need of cleansing

Take a long hot bath
think of only the positives
Go for a stroll and look at
the world around you
Help another in time of need

Do what it takes
to smile from within

Barb --
(I'm sort of stalking the posts today it seems) I enjoyed your found poem a lot :) fun stuff! Nicely done.

Peg Duthie...verbally, I am a man of many words; poetically, I appreciate the beauty of brevity...thanks for pleasing me

Satori (for now)

Suddenly it all makes sense.
Now all the pieces fit.
I've been getting it all wrong
and now it's time to quit.
No more will I be who I was,
that all stays in the past,
but old habits don't go quietly.
I just hope this time it lasts.

Parochial Farewells and a Brief Run-Down of the Top 40

Free from the perpetual
rosary beads, the playground
taunts, and the classmates
I saw daily for nine years.
Hearing Tori Amos for the first
time and arguing with my parents
over the blasphemy of crucifying
oneself. Dreams of self-reinvention
in an over-crowded public school
where no one would know
about the embarrassingly fake
fainting spell in kindergarten, or
my tears when I failed
the math quiz in sixth grade.
Watching “Express Yourself” on MTV
where I also learned Janet Jackson’s
dance moves. The last spring days
singing along to “Under the Bridge,” not
fully grasping the heroin angle,
laughing my way through
Salt-n-Pepa’s naughty raps,
almost understanding all the
sexuality that would begin after
I escaped the admonishing priests and nuns
who held me captive to a Middle Ages
paradigm of a world before blow jobs.
Finally becoming popular with the
cool kids, thanks to the one nice girl
who saw the funny man in me
before anyone else did, ironically teaching
me all about the Cure and Nine Inch
Nails. Discovering Nirvana
who articulated the angst I didn’t even know
I had, smelling like teen spirit,
picking out the deodorant that would
define my scent for the years to come.
Rubbing my over-exaggerated
stubble of which my grandfather fruitlessly
warned me that I would grow
tired of shaving. Learning all the words to
“Ice Ice Baby” only to regret it later. Rehearsing
“That’s What Friends Are For,”
all the while thinking how no one there
really cared about their friends,
they too were excited about
forging identities unmindful
of the ones they left behind.

 Deja Vue, Redo

Time to make up for last year’s mistakes
It’s once again the first day
They’ll be tough, but I’ve got what it takes
I’ve heard every excuse they might say
In the end, it will be my way or the highway

What am I talking about
there’s of course no doubt
It’s the first day of school
The only day of the year,
every child still thinks your cool
that is, while they still have the fear

Last year, I made too many errors
Allowed way too many terrors
to get away with to much
This year, no free lunch
It’s time for the Fitcher Crunch

I’ll set the rules from day one
Take nothing from anyone
Stop the nonsense before it’s begun
Become that perfect teacher, at least to some

I’ve told of how easily they scam passes
Certainly mentioned how they cut classes
The running joke we all call homework
Time to take a poke at the first one who acts like a jerk

There’s only so much I can tolerate
No way I’m up for any form of debate
It’s my class, it will be what I dictate
I will make the rules
later to be used as tools
Tools for classroom management
no matter, what they child’s intent

Ahh, September, the month we teachers are reborn
Bring on the children,
I’ll soon have them worn
Time for them to begin
To learn to live with education
Time they learned some dedication

This is the year, they learn to show some appreciation. . .

©Ralph J. Fitcher, April 20, 2009, Rebirth poem. I have others, that are along the same line as
this one I just wrote. Usually written just before I go back in September. I am referring to one of
these prior poems in the line about scammed passes.

regeneration

into the sacred stream
of Father, Son, and Holy Ghost
we descend
baptismal waters lap
at ankles, knees,
buttocks, breasts
buried with Him in blue
waters close over my head
like new sky against my chest
old things pass away
lungs become gills
everafter I will gasp
in mortal air awaiting
angel atmosphere

go to bed
clear head
forget sorrow
reborn tomorrow

Oh what a day
At work not play
Renewing stock
Watching the clock
Saying thanks
To old cranky cranks
Tending the till
As time stands still
Tick Tock Tick Tock
Mean old Clock
Suddenly the next shift
In the door does drift
And home I do speed
Gonna kick back and read
Worn and sore
Before long I snore
What is that ringing?
The alarm singing
The start of a new day
I’m off to earn my pay

From the graves

From the cemetery bin
a discarded pot
with a few twigs
and brown leaves.
She takes it home,
teases apart the roots,
snips away the dead
and pots each piece.
A month goes by
she has four tiny rose bushes.
some lily-of-the-valley
and a primrose,
white as death.

Just This

I am the resurrection & the light.

When I was a child I would step crack by crack
on the sidewalks, defying logic and physics
bringing my mother back time and time again
while watching my sister play hopscotch
the hard way chalk lines and a smooth stone
which would bounce more often than hold it's place
playing all day long in the shade of walnut trees.


And This

The song of wind whispering through autumn leaves
is all I have left. Some day Winter will pass into Spring,
rivers will again swell, and I will be there to see it all.
I will tell the river it is a river
then wait for it to tell me what I am.

REBIRTH of THE SEASONS © Richard-Merlin Atwater

Spring

The earth unfolds with a newness of life
As SPRING emerges on the scene,
And patterns of change unfold designs
Revealed in shades of green.

Meadows and fields, forests and plains,
The landscape blends mosaic tiles,
With shades of lights and mellows and darks.
The patchwork stretches o'er countless miles.

Flowers explode in colorful array
As the sparkle of morning dew subsides.
And the wild and blowing wind removes
The misty clouds above the tides.

The song of bird enlightens all
With raptured tune of harmony.
While the sound of the rushing stream is heard
To blend with nature's symphony.

The lover woos his damsel fair
In great melodic song of joy;
Prepared in haste to reach designs
Beyond the thought of dread annoy.

And children dancing in the breeze
Display the whimsical cares of youth.
While carefree steps and lightened hearts
Blend with happiness, joy, and truth.


Summer

The radiant power of the noonday sun
In SUMMER takes command of time.
And the warmth and the light and brightness thereof
Reveals a majesty sublime.

Beaches and lakes, islands and sea
Reflect the glamour of the ball.
A firey singe of the landscapes fringe,
And a blessing to us all.

A stalwart tree stands in majesty,
Reaching upwards towards the sky.
And the summer breeze through the branches seize
As the poets and philosophers ask us "Why?"

The deer and elk on the open range
Roam with a freedom in their time.
While the majesty of the mountain's height
Commands attention towards the Divine.

The working man seeks the leisure hour
At the close of a days employ.
While adventures of a distant land
Presents the traveler with another joy.

And off in the twilight of the summer night
The student dreams of romance and stars.
While the lights of the heavens sparkle bright,
And time moves on for both love and mars.


Autumn

The air is crisp and clean and sharp
When AUTUMN fills the landscapes view.
And in the meadow sings the lark
Where frosted fields meet azure blue.

And in those fields of orange and amber
The stalks of grain and pumpkin grow.
And 'the horn of plenty' finds its' fulfillment
From the bounteous crop of the farmers hoe.

The Indian corn and the turkey shoot
Tell tales of days gone by from sight.
But all those moments are relived once again
When family groups play through the days delight.

The squirrel and the chipmunk, the rabbit and the crow,
They each play a part on the landscapes view;
They've gathered and hidden, and padded and etched
A pattern familiar to the natural few.

The farmers' "hands", at the end of toil
Make way for the barnyard dance and fun;
To sip hot cider, brush away the spider,
While the girls they court may not be the one's they won.

The hayride, the fiddler, and the Halloween night
Bring memories to the children now grown old.
But reminiscing at the fireside's light, though even in the dark,
They relive the story of their lives anew, that was told so long ago.


Winter

The shadows fall on the shortened days
As WINTER takes its' hold on life.
While the temperature drops to a new found low,
And bitter cold cuts the air like the blade of a butcher's knife.

Ice and wind and drifting snow control the setting of the day.
But each new scene reveals delights of rays, of sparkles, and gleams
With reflections of light that dance about on drifts of snowbound fields,
While whispering pines that gently sway speak of lost hopes and dreams.

The landscapes view is white and gray,
And time and change will leave their mark.
On tree, on fence, on field, on town
As the nights grow long and deep and dark.

Another bird now makes his perch high up above
On telephone lines against the sky;
And the song he sings is a song of love,
But the echo seems like a sullen cry.

The old man bundles up extra warm tonight,
Within tattered walls he moves, a shadowy figure of the past.
He reviews in his mind by the candlelight
The meaning of life and all of the players cast.

Merry voices try to cheer the air with sweet and tender sounds;
While jingle bells from sleigh rides sound across the winter scene.
The singing of carols, and the ringing of laughter, here and there abounds,
While the world prepares for another chapter with new hopes, and thoughts, and dreams.