Problems
***************

When one door closes; another opens,
Though you may feel frustrated; just relax,
This is only some of life's challenges,
Good fortune could be on its way; don't be perplexed.

Just move on with your life and keep smiling,
Don't let anything or anyone bring you down,
Be thankful that your lucky stars are still shining,
Do whatever it takes to motivate yourself and never frown.

Problems in life makes your life exciting,
Life without problems makes your life dull,
Go out, paint the town red and do your own thing,
Don't be arrogant but be humble.

Quick Breakfast

Instant Oatmeal or
Toaster strudel hot in hand
Warm in the stomach

Life Measured Out in Blueberries

Late in the summer
we went looking for blueberries
gram after gram we stowed them in bags
in our basement freezer
beside the beans and bread
the strawberries, the carrots
the peas and the cauliflower
the Brussels sprouts
and all the other frozen bits
lying in wait for the long winter.
Then day by day we measure
out our lives in blueberries
one third of a cup at a time
across the mixture of brans
and oats, the muslix and granola
the cold white milk.
Those mornings we light the fire
building upon the coals of the day before
clearing a path for air through the ashen grate
opening wide the draughts
piling on the dry kindling
old shingles from summer construction
bits of branches from trimming
hedge and deadfall, dying trees
then the precious beech, maple and birch.
We fill the kettle from the sink
from our own pure well
and place it on the stove
above the snapping flames
drop a teabag in the pot
ready the bowls and cups
the spoons and set the table
then sit and greet whatever
light the sun today bestows.


Hugh

Here it is short and not so sweet!

Oh how I regret
the day I met
The mean old cigarette!

Big Green Ball

Both wide brown eyes
set in an age-frosted face
narrow in desperate focus
not on me, the master
but on a big soft slimy
lime green ball

It's as if you cannot live
until you see the ball;
then you whine as if you'll die
you stay, sit, lie down,
anything just to get me
to throw it

Rob - Thank you for posting that poem. Memories... the first time I ever struck up conversation with Joel back in the day was because he was wearing a Brainiac t-shirt.

PS - if you happen to be in Cincinnati next weekend, the Deal sisters are doing an in-store performance at Shake It on Saturday night!

Ode to a Lawn Ornament
So, you wear a Santa hat, carry
a fishing pole and are believed,
in some circles, to ward off…
well, what exactly? Expensive
airline fares, if recent incarnations
are to be believed. The only thing
I've ever seen you frighten is Chester
as he roamed the high grasses of rain-
soaked spring, not expecting your
appearance until you'd appeared.

Hugh- I thoroughly enjoyed your piece. That is life worth living, off the land, accepting everything and all that comes your way. Nice work. -Hannah

Etude

Schumann who transcribed the song with his hands who composed and played it
A writer who touched those pages and transferred
not just melody
Or chord resolving but something of Schumann, of his fingertips
To each copy, in turn mimeographed over and over, still traces of Schumann
Repeated, a sort of trill across stave and time.
Then I get the piece, set it on the music stand of my piano, some of Schumann,
Small but important, like an eighth note rest, in my hands and then
When I play, once I’ve practiced, I take that to every piano I play
And others touch those keys and Schumann finds his immortality
Even now as I type, he is with me, attuned to what I say.

"Nutcracker"

While I sit here struggling
for some quirky way to
make my words stand out.
I am eating Sunflower Seeds.
I know, it's not a breakfast
type deal, but there
is gratification! And right
now the satisfaction of
being the nutcracker (seedcracker)
is excatly what I need. These little
perfect seeds are great for any time.
I take them everywhere. I even try to
keep an "emergency stash." But for
whatever reason, the stash doesn't last.
My little ode to the "Sunflower Seed" is
done, as I have met one of my goals today!

I goofed ...here's the full version



You made me look keen
when I was a teen
soon you became routine

Try as I may
I can't make you go away
still smoking this very day

with your smokey sprial
theres no denial
your really quite vial

Oh how I regret
the day we met
you mean old cigarette!

Robert, I love WCW's "Red Wheelbarrow" and other poems from the Imagist school! This is one of my favorites Richard Aldington called "Images":

"Images"

I

Like a gondola of green scented fruits
Drifting along the dark canals of Venice,
You, O exquisite one,
Have entered into my desolate city.

II

The blue smoke leaps
Like swirling clouds of birds vanishing.
So my love leaps forth toward you,
Vanishes and is renewed.

III

A rose-yellow moon in a pale sky
When the sunset is faint vermilion
In the mist among the tree-boughs
Art thou to me, my beloved.

IV

A young beech tree on the edge of the forest
Stands still in the evening,
Yet shudders through all its leaves in the light air
And seems to fear the stars -
So are you still and so tremble.

V

The red deer are high on the mountain,
They are beyond the last pine trees.
And my desires have run with them.

VI

The flower which the wind has shaken
Is soon filled again with rain;
So does my heart fill slowly with tears,
Until you return.

Richard Aldington
1892-1962

p.s. I have to think about this prompt, so I'll come back with my poem later. Happy hunting for poem ideas, fellow poets!!!

Jane Beal
sanctuarypoet.net

The Mouse
A mouse, a mouse , a mouse
they called It a mouse
Why . When nobody I know
Wants a mouse in the house
My cat won’t touch it
To her it’s not a mouse
And it really really irritates
My loving spouse
But it’s not alive you know
It's a computer mouse
It could be worse of course
They could have called it louse

But it's
A mouse, a mouse, a mouse!

Moon

Destined since time begun, my dear moon
We stayed hot, in times of sorrow or fun
You always knew, I have ambitions intense
True to my name, no lame excuses in defense...

For calmer times, you always wished a boon
Actions of mine, burnt you ever so often
Forever you knew, I had to my force sustain
My only wish, you do not my love disdain...

As you shifted gradually, I had no tribune
Born to serve mankind, spell of mighty bune
Like shifting grains of sand, as time went by
Towards earth you drifted, beautiful and shy...

Some greedy choice of yours, I’d never regret
Reigning queen of my memoirs, sweet vinaigrette
I’ll forever provide, rays for your soothing shine
Help you grow younger with time, like aging wine...

Object of human fascinations, and wildest dreams
Reason for earth’s rhythms, and scary screams
Remind them dear, true love will always respect
A true heart in love, will never hurt or forget....

Drum Set

When your son lived here
the two of you brought foam
into the room in the basement
tried to insulate it for sound.
I say tried, because it didn’t work,
but it was cool to hear the drums;
the snap of snare wires, deep
boom of the bass on the floor,
hi-hat chomping like cookie monster,
ride and crash symbols clanging,
tom-toms enthusiastically hit
with sticks, as best you could.
He lost interest quickly;
you kept playing a while.
You were good, remembered
years of practice, listening
to tapes with headphones
in another basement long ago.
Now the drum set lies fallow,
cobwebs grow between symbols,
thick dust covers the stool.
You like to tell people
you used to be a drummer.


Lori Desrosiers

The Box


I often forget it.
I don't take care of it.
There are nicks and scratches.
The latch still works.
Coney Island still printed on its face, although it's harder to read than it was the summer day I bought it at Steeplechase.
I was a girl.
I was innocent.
I was sweet.
I carry it with me
through cities and trains, and country houses.
I can see the knots in the wood
It once was something else.
Who made it where and when?
I'll never know.
I carry it with me through cities and trains and country houses.

Leash

Woven blue nylon, strong enough
to hang a man. The loop
around my wrist restrains the dog,
a fur-covered, sports coupe.

THE HOE

4/11/09

Hangs on a nail in the barn,
ready, waiting, expectant,
for someone, anyone,
to come,
grab its well-worn handle.
Take it for a spin
down a row of binder twine
stretched taught, to mark
a straight line
for planting peas, potatoes, and beans;
or hoe up a pile of dirt
to receive muskmelon,
watermelon, and pumpkin seeds.
Later, to annihilate weeds,
loosen earth, and hack stray snakes.

Little Stone Lizard

a simple, thoughtful little gift
i brought to you
my chameleon

henna red/brown in normal light
and in sunlight sparkles golden

not unlike you
my chameleon
looking one way...being another

Changing in the daylight and then again at night

"Spoons"

Great for stirring things, mixing them all up.
Great for tasting things, making them perfect.
Great for dishing things, giving each person their portion.
Great for eating things, so the liquid doesn’t fall to the floor.

Their long handle and curvy bottom,
spoons are one of the greatest utensils ever.

Hotel Room

They are always alike.
You enter, drop down
your baggage and sleep
if you are not lucky tonight
stare out the same window
onto another anonymous city
conduct your business of being
a punctual, participatory employee
return for room service or bar food,
sleep early and wake up even earlier
to exit.

None are ever alike.
You enter, and curiosity
deflates as this one is arranged
the same but different, the same bed
on the opposite wall, the same window
looks north this time, you drop the baggage
but it’s different baggage than the last guest
and you conduct the business but it’s never
the same as the last’s, though you press the same
white shirt and stare at the same flower painting
above the bed and we all wish it were same
painting hanging above our beds at home

because that would mean, at last, we were home.

Chocolate Cake


I stare at it from across the room
using every ounce of will power that I possess
my lips unconsciously puckering
going in for the kill
for one scrumptious mouthful
for one moment of bliss

Oh, chocolate cake, look what you've done
you made me insane
totally obsessed
dreaming of you
for just one minute to be with you
to taste your rich,
creamy
googey
velvety
yumminess

Oh,
I'm guilty
I turn away in shame

(I'm baking a cake for my company at dinner tomorrow, which inspired this sonnetina tre...)

Sweet Temptress

O, sweet icing I have to swirl on this cake:
you tempt me so, with sugar and cream.
I am full of desire which I cannot shake.
You are my confectionery dream.

Just one tiny taste, and no one should detect
it. I’ll still have plenty left to ice.
Then, just a few more spoonfuls. Oh! Have I wrecked
it? Now I can’t even frost a slice!

Well, I guess I’d better be off to the store
and hope that I can find a tub or two more!

White Sheet of Paper

like a blank canvas
waiting

words of the master's
musing

like dollops of paint
filling

lines of scribbled text
guiding

like an illumined tome
sparking

The discipline to write
A poem every day
Is not at all lost on me
But still I have to say

My computer works on weekdays
It's has the weekend free
So this poem will be short
My kids wanna play with me

Later

Dear Robert,

Thank you so much for PAD. I had long held the belief that, while I could write prose guided by prompts, poetry was solely the territory of the muse. How grateful I am that you have proven me to be in error! I am 11 for 11 and feeling stronger every day.

With a deep bow of gratitude, Linda

Day 11 Prompt: An Object


Trinket Box

You feel like marble
soapstone perhaps
oval shaped like a
mirror – a trinket box
to hold my special
things, reflecting a
little of who I am.
But you are empty,
nothing of me here.

Decorated with a mother-
of-pearl pattern
shaped like a
flower, with a gold
diamond in the centre.
Does this represent
my heart?

Or perhaps the flower
is a white Lily
and you are my coffin
waiting to be
filled, the lid not nailed
down yet -
just waiting …







Maureen Sexton

Weathered and fallen roofs
Stand vigil over abandoned picnic tables.
You are sentinels of simpler times.

Do you remember brighter days?
Days of laughter and frolic,
Of eating and loving.

Are you still standing vigil
Hoping once again to shade and
Hold food for those who used to come.

Do you wait for lovers
To sit and profess love for one another
As they shelter from the rain?

Is the silence weighing down on you
Now that only cows and horses
Visit your plot of land?

Or do you just stand lonely in the pasture
While traffic whizzes by and
Ignores the reminder of more leisurely times?

Times when people enjoyed the outdoors.
Times when the pace was much slower
And a picnic was a bona fide treat.

Before we became spoiled
With air conditioning, fast cars,
Television and video games.

I will hold you in my memory
So I will not forget what you stood for
When you were new and valued.

Morning Sweep

It is not the leaves fault
that die at summers edge
gentle wind breaks them away
they flutter snap twirl down
down, down away everywhere
they get in the gutters
they get in the drains
they do not know where to fall
maple leaves dogwood leaves
swept by the wind by doors
when opened lucky leaves
straggle and hide swiftly away
under shelves warm places
it is not the leaves fault
when autumn shows his graces.

“Converter Box”

Door to a new age
Once waves now ones and zeros
Bringer of small joys

Subject: Object/Objects (triolet)

"Crowing Diamonds"

Tiara glowing gems of light,
Earth’s crowning diamonds shine the way,
as winking speckles dazzle white,
Tiara glowing gems of light,
exposing nighttime’s purest sight
rays streaming brightness over gray,
Tiara glowing gems of light,
Earth’s crowning diamonds shine the way.

"My Camera"

Black,
Encased in cushy plastic
That caresses my hands with its soft roughness,
With a hard clear shell guarding the screen in back
And an oh so smooth glass covering information on top,
You whir and turn your lens
At the command of my finger,
You open wide and close down
When I pass my thumb over your ridged wheel,
You zoom in
As I point you at a bold crocus and press down on your shutter,
Bringing the flower into sharp focus,
Filling the screen
With its natural gold.

“Silver Pieces”

He was waiting
at the formica table,
gold flecks on white,
four stations marked
with hand made doilies.

His stained hand wrapped
around a Correl coffee cup,
the other concealed upon his lap.

I had heard the story from father,
how his father had gone into town
and traded his van for a new one.
My own father had often attempted
the same, but he would come home
with the long face and the same car.
It was on those nights that we celebrated
his ability to listen to the presses
run and return home safely.

But the chief of our yard
had successfully negotiated the trade.
The new van sat in the three-point turn
of the dirt driveway at the crest
of Greenwood Church Road. Not only
did he come back with the new van,
but the trader allowed him to put
his hands into a pot of silver.

Grandfather wove the tale,
his face telling more of the story
than his hands busy
with coffee and concealment.
He could take as much silver
as his scooping hands could hold.

Then, brining his hand slowly
from under the table, he opened it
to reveal one shiny piece
of the man’s silver.
“This is for you,” he said, “and I have
one for your brother. I have one for each
of my grandchildren.”

The silver dollar gleamed in his palm
like anything that shines in our great State.
For a moment, I was confused. He smiled
and patted my head and I shivered deep;
I knew I was being paid
by the trader of our property
in exchange for my innocence. I had not
known there were others close by
who, like me, awaited the payment
in exchange for the terrible visions
that came in the night and were
kept in packs in secret places.

I, myself, had kept mine in the knothole
of a great Maple, whispering stories
into the bark, trusting it
would withstand the great winds of winter.

My own father looked at my palm
that now held the coin
and put his own hand upon my head,
“That is a silver dollar, son.” I knew this
from my studies at Ottawa Elementary,
but I listened to father and he spoke
carefully about material things.
“You will want to save that,” he finished.

Weeks later, I would be tricked
by the storekeeper in town
who greeted me with a smile
an d convinced me to trade my dollar
for a pack of Star Wars trading cards
and fireballs that made my mouth burn
my palms have not been as bright
as the day I forfeited my silver.

Since, I have looked into the faces
of man’s coins, always looking
for my reflection or that of the others
who were tricked and paid by hands
that knew nothing more
than to scoop and grab.

The road


I woke in dream all over once more
So it was to be I found myself on a long road
Dusty and bleak under a maroon pallid sky
With weak clouds barely held together
And there was no wind
The air was stagnant it smelled of moss and rotted trees
Though all around this road yawned a desert

Turning around I found myself standing on lip of a fork in the road
Jutting up from the center of this junction was a sword
Gleaming with dulled brightness of the wanning sun's fragile light
And it was then that I frowned

For there hanging from its hilt was a small leather pouch
Marked with a Wolf claw, little beads
Whispering to me I could hear it sighing out its song
Making me wish to weep barely seen

And the sword screaming with runes scorched into its platinum blade
Screaming from beneath the body of the dragon hilt with its snarling maw
The katana seethed, shivered, in the ground somehow chained by the road, the desert
Its rage vibrated through this place like a subliminal heart beat
As if
As if the blade needed to be free
To slice, to cut, to make a bleeding

And this is what I heard in my soul
Singing to me,
Singing to me like nothing before or since

Twin stars whispering like the rush of thunder cracking next to my head
Is the song from the pouch
Screaming, screaming, screaming to me is the katana
As if the I were standing on the surface of the sun cindering in it rage

"I've been here before," I manage to say under this cacophony

"Yes," she says from somewhere behind me,

"And this is the choice I must need make," I whisper through tearful eyes

"Yes." I hear her breathe

Dragon blade Katana a weapon of the warrior
Medicine pouch a weapon of the spiritual warrior

The object of my desire, all that I am, ever was, will be
May never have been, will be all over again

And so it is that step forward
Under the pallid maroon sky
In the silence and still
To reach out

And it feels like life long lost and now found
Under the flesh of my hand

"I made this choice before," I say with growing strength

"Yes," she answers me

All over once more I take up my burden and face my life again

For the first,
The last

My object in my hand
To keep me safe
To keep me strong
Keep me true

Dog bowls

Dog bowls full of food bring such delight
The dogs themselves try to maintain with with all their might
They are excited beyond belief
To get another meal that brings relief

It is exciting everytime
Without a doubt, every last bite
Their enthusiasm overwhelms them
By the mere sight of the dog bowl coming towards them

Carousel


I watched her go around on the carousel

Her smile mixed with the music playing

She waved to me awaiting my attention

Memories of her laughing and caramel



Her straight flaxen hair tossed over her shoulder

The lights reflect her hair like diamonds

She searches for me each time it goes about

My daughter’s eyes never looked happier



In a flash I vanished into the masses

A frantic fear washed upon her face

Scrutinizing every person intensely

Her joyous expression quickly passes



I see the panic as the gears keep turning;

chasing her to catch her fleeting look

Her eyes convene with mine and I see her calm

She relaxed and her smile was returning



The carousel progressively measured down

The smile still impressed upon her cheeks

She waved and smiled as she dismounted the horse

She talked about the ride until sundown



The carousel eternally held special

Magically a wonder to observe

Listen carefully as the music plays on

The children laughing turning ethereal

Training the Wisteria

Your dropped leaves clog the neighbors’
gutters every fall, forcing us to go next door
and clean them out. A hateful task.
So we cut you back hard last year, hacking
at your cling, your overgrown need.
Beautiful in spring, your flowers purple
the terrace. And in summer, your leaves
shade us from neighbors’ peeping eyes.
But you’re too much, always wanting
tending. I never call enough. Never visit
enough. Don’t you see I need these
walls unbendable by choking vines?

Carousel


I watched her go around on the carousel

Her smile mixed with the music playing

She waved to me awaiting my attention

Memories of her laughing and caramel



Her straight flaxen hair tossed over her shoulder

The lights reflect her hair like diamonds

She searches for me each time it goes about

My daughter’s eyes never looked happier



In a flash I vanished into the masses

A frantic fear washed upon her face

Scrutinizing every person intensely

Her joyous expression quickly passes



I see the panic as the gears keep turning;

chasing her to catch her fleeting look

Her eyes convene with mine and I see her calm

She relaxed and her smile was returning



The carousel progressively measured down

The smile still impressed upon her cheeks

She waved and smiled as she dismounted the horse

She talked about the ride until sundown



The carousel eternally held special

Magically a wonder to observe

Listen carefully as the music plays on

The children laughing turning ethereal

Coffee Mug

There you sit:
coffee mug,
cracked where once
your form was whole.

Pins, clips, pennies
tossed randomly
into your empty belly
chipping here and there
at your china soul.

But a little dirt,
two small corms,
a fall, a spring,
Behold!

Crocuses bloom
to brighten this new day!


Carol A Stephen
April 11, 2009
PAD Challenge poem

Gift

He brought it to me
when I graduated from
high school.
My Uncle Dutch who
was not really my uncle, but
I was the only little girl
he ever had so
he gave me things that belonged
to his mother,
a pioneer gentlewoman
of our town.
I treasured them,
those long hat pins,
the china doll head,
the napkin ring
and velvet reticule,
and so much more.
So now, this day,
he brought me
a jam pot.
With his squat, rough
rancher’s hand,
he thrust it toward me
fragile and unpackaged,
and I caught my breath
in awe and delight.
So much joy in such a
small unprepossessing object,
with fluted porcelain edges and
birds and flowers in gilded gold.
I think it recalled
good times for him, and so
he shared it from his soul
with me.
I took it in my hands and
into my heart
forever.
Now it waits
for my first granddaughter
to graduate because
it will be hers, and
she must love it, too, or
my heart will break.
Hearts and antique jam pots are
such very fragile things.

why I don't have an ipod

it's too smooth
and white
too sterile

it hides too much
has no seams
it's more Jetsons
than the Jetsons
that's why
i can't afford an ipod

Just a Doll


Do you remember that summer?

Gramma and Grampa only had room for two
So we begged and pleaded and crossed our little girl fingers
Hoping we would spend the weekend in paradise

Paradise was a gravel road
A lake house with Ozark shores in the backyard
A little bit of heaven
Just like the carport Grampa parked his truck under declared

We lived to swim in that murky lake water
Inventing games and races to fill the hours
Till Grampa’s hotdogs and hamburgers were ready
Then we would lie out like laundry to dry on the back deck
Or go help Gramma with one of her million-piece puzzles

It was just the two of us
Until maybe Saturday night
When our brother and cousins would sometimes arrive
And aunts and uncles with more food and cakes
Like Christmas dinner, every other weekend and in the sun

And while many times it was just me and you
Spending the weekend with Gramma and Grampa down at the lake
Fishing and long walks, hunting for strange rocks

That summer there was an intruder

Her name was Jade, and she was mostly nekkid
But then, we were mostly too
With sun-kissed baby skin

I never minded Jade much
Tucked in the crook of your arm
In a loving choke hold that I’m sure she never complained of

Until maybe that fateful day
When Jade went for her first swim

She escaped your embrace long enough to dive off the deck ramp

I remember how scared you were
After all, Jade didn’t know how to swim
And you, just barely
And never without a life vest
But you jumped in after her anyway
And my heart screamed out at the little cloth wench
I think Gramma’s heart did too
Just before she jumped in after you

And when the rescue was over
When you pulled Jade in your arms
And Gramma pulled you into hers, tugging you up to shore

The make believe of little girls was frozen just long enough to hear,

“Good heavens, she’s just a doll.”

Mute

Laryngitis hit
Throat so raw
Mere air felt
Like Acid
My voice sealed
Off
My son reached
For something hot
I couldn’t shout
I had to run
My friend called
I couldn’t even squeak
Much less speak
“Good Day Sunshine”
On the radio
I couldn’t sing along
Helpless, shut out
Without My voice
But it makes you touch
And get creative
If you want to be
Communicative
Something lost
And something learned
But if I have the choice
I’d much prefer to have
My Voice

Talk about VIBES!!! Just yesterday I was trying to persuade my son that poetry month can be interesting, and I recited The Red Wheelbarrow for him (I remember that from one of my favorite English teachers) - and today you've got it mentioned!

A FLASH

Carrying it like the apocalypse
is any moment and then what?

This simple little plastic device
carries my life as recorded

in verse, a meager testimony
of the ordinary at best.

At worst, nothing gone,
if and when all is lost.

Book Love

More than lust,
surely love: this
particular book
at last has made
its way back
home. I could have
bought another
just like it-- same
cover, same text--
but this one bears
my maiden name
penciled in the front,
with the date
of my first reading,
my first encounter
with Daisy, Jay, and
Nick. The wisps of
notes in the margins,
in an unchanged hand,
record a first love,
when I opened this
book, and in the
faint glow of the
green light that shone
from across the way,
I longed for a life
just out of reach
but mine all the same.

Nancy Posey

It's a Classic

The 1960 Bel Air convertible
parked in my uncle’s driveway
more hearse than slick ride—

chrome wheels and trim.
I can take those Batman fins, tortoise shell
brake lights, and whitewalls, but

please don’t make me listen to Elvis
sing about them G.I. Blues. Just
let me drive the damned car.

REMOTE CONTROL

Hail to thee, remote control,
manipulator of my soul.
Easing all my viewing strife but,
I wish I had one for my life.
The batteries would never die,
they'd cease to be same time as I.
And all the buttons I could use
would function in the way I'd choose.
I'd POWER up with each new day
and not perform ‘til I press PLAY.
I wouldn’t use FAST FORWARD, see
I like my life with mystery.
A REWIND for each past transgression,
and a PAUSE to ease my daily tension.
A VOLUME nub’s not too absurd,
it guarantees that I’ll be heard.
If I want your INPUT I’ll ask, indeed,
And EJECT the thoughts that I won’t heed.
My favorite button would be RESET,
I’d start my day over, but the best one yet
would have to be a MUTE to use
to quell unwanted verbal abuse.
I’d RECORD all moments to recall,
and ON DEMAND would view them all.
I’d have a GUIDE to script my actions;
an EXIT for my self-extraction.
But the one that I’ll refuse to pop
is STOP

Stone

Boulder
on my shoulder
weight of the world
crushing

rock
in my sock
keeping me down
drowning

Rock
who was mocked
firm beneath my feet
leading

Stone
seal for the bones
rolled away...
I'm free

In My Insurance Agent’s Lobby

A mini Christmas tree with
one single oversized ball,
in April.
What’s that all about?
People there must be so
accustomed to its presence,
they don’t see it, not realizing
how much of an eyesore it is.

Maybe it's time to take
a fresh look at my life and
do a little spring cleaning.

Image

A teardrop-shaped mirror,
cheap brass frame from Turkey,
hangs on the bookcase
beside my computer.
Framed in a puddle of light
Smudge the cat washes
her calico face.
Yellow eyes glint in reflection.
I see her, she doesn’t see me.
Light shifts. The cat-image
slides away.

THIS IS THE PITCHER THAT USED TO SIT IN YOUR KITCHEN

Cobalt blue with a giant sunflower painted on one
Side that curves its petals around the
The vase so they meet and touch on
The other side. It’s really much too
Pretty to be used as a pitcher. I
Stuck some gold & orange everlasting blooms
In it and now it’s sitting on my kitchen table.
We shared an appreciation for the “country look”
That used to be in style but now it isn’t. Did you put
Anything in it? On those gray Seattle mornings when
You sat drinking your coffee did you study those

Golden sunflower petals and maybe remember
Our garden back in Ohio in the scorching hot
Summer and how tall the sunflowers grew and
The sticky sweet tomatoes spilling all over the
Ground and eating sweet corn every night. And
We are doing it now as it is August again, the moon
Of blooming sunflowers and the corn is ripe and
The tomatoes exploding all over the place and
Did you notice we had your remains shipped
Back to Ohio and they’re resting on the hill
And soon enough we will join you.

This is the blue pitcher that used to sit on your
Kitchen table and looked at you and now it is
Looking at me.

BLACK BRASSIERE
By: Hannah Bowles

As one comfort ends,
delight begins.
Bound tightly in lace,
desire encased.
Lingerie shadows,
fantasy sows,
seeds for corruption.
Mere wanton.

"Adam Writes an Ode to His Robotic Heart"

My heart has corners, like a fuse box.
Where all your nasty thoughts and worries can hide.

My heart is sparking, like a fuse box.
An echo where the blood should be inside.

My heart is rusting, like a fuse box.
Unused after a monumental storm.

And it’s broken, like a fucking fuse box.
My heart’s so damn cold, while your heart beats warm.

Doll


Woven
With wooden needles
And twisted floss
Knitted with love
Embroidered
Hugged
And blessed
I lay thee down
Next to my darling
My son’s cheek
I wish you well
As you carry him
Off to sleep
Full of
Sweetest dreams

THE CLIFFS OF MOHER

We dare to be considered
A Wonder of the World
Our edges have beckoned more than once
To frail human bodies
Who got too close

Our fog envelops you
Creeping around your feet seductively
As the wind blows you one way
Then the other
Just when you think
You have regained your balance

It will suck the warmth right from the
Marrow of your bones till they ache
While rain lashes at your skin
And the birds cry in sympathy
Floating effortlessly on invisible drafts
Alternately diving or soaring

You will never forget witnessing
Some of the most powerful forces
On earth
And
Just when you think
You can take no more,
The sun comes out and blinds you

The first Instant Message?

An object, a contraption if you will
It sat upon the desk, so very still
But when it spewed out its buzzes and blips
The words emerged from the man's pencil tip

Lis'ning, then writing as fast as he could
These skills he had honed, he was very good
Grabbing his papers, he dashed right past me
Something important, I surely could see

He fastened the papers inside a hoop
Pulling the string taut as he formed a loop
With firebox glowing, the train hurtled by
With extended arm, snagged words on the fly

The train now able to resume its course
Thanks to an invention by Samuel Morse
Electrons serving communication
Instantly linking an entire nation

Computer Camera

I’m being watched.
I feel it’s eye upon me
Scrutinizing, laughing,
Amused at what it sees.

Unable to concentrate,
I keep glancing at it’s face.
Why can’t it look away
and find some other place

To cast it’s view?

one moreOld Dog, New Tricks

Take one Old Kentucky mandolin
borrowed from a fiddle-playing friend,
a pocketful of picks that disappear
as fast as single socks.

Cut close your nails, and play
‘til the callouses on your left hand
bear testament to success,
finally forming the G chord,
easing back to D.

Practice with abandon, first
in your room behind closed doors,
then gather courage soon; chop
and sing along to old time tunes
with friends in folding chairs.

Hear the discordant sound of strings,
taking the instrument from her case,
gentle and tenderly, handle the mandolin
like Grandma’s fragile arms, then play
as partners, mandolin and you,
Soldier’s Joy, The Gal I Left Behind.

Nancy Posey

I will write about the Mug

The Empowering Mug

Fragrantly full
Scalding hot mug
on a gray and rainy day,
Brimming with coffee
black with some milk,
or no milk at all,
Kids talking around me
my husband cutting dead trees outside
sipping coffee too
it's the daily mug of power
drunk without thinking
while words fly on the screen
or power tools saw wood
and life goes on in and around the house


:) Celina

“The Mangled Tree”

So tangled,
Mangled,
And shriveled,
Yet so gorgeous and intricately made.

You hang out in my backyard,
Staring in,
Watching my every move intently,
Silently.

Your braches,
Not unlike hands,
Are twisted this way and that,
The leaves just barely coming in,
The flowers blooming around you,
Blowing in the magnificent wind,
How I enjoy staring out at you,
Night and day.

You might even call me your secret admirer…

It hangs now on my bedroom wall
but I remember the day I found it
hanging on the center window frame
of the double windows
in an otherwise empty livingroom.

We were cleaning out the house.
Mom didn't help;
although we hadn't yet heard
the horrible words
"Pick's Disease,"
we were already seeing its effects.

Everyone else was gone.
I was left alone in the barren rooms
to finish cleaning one last floor,
gather up supplies,
and lock the door.

As I walked from bedroom to living room,
my mother's life seemed to echo
from wall to wall.

I sat on the wood stove's hearth to rest
and listen to the echoes and to cry, by myself.

When I lifted my eyes, I saw it.
Unnoticed somehow when the windows
had been dusted and cleaned,
a tiny grapevine wreath-
no more than two inches across-
was hanging on a little nail between the windows.

I removed it with unnecessary care;
although tiny and fragile looking,
it was really very sturdy.
Dried herbs, flowers, and a miniature bird
carefully arranged
by my mother’s gifted hands
sometime before Pick’s Disease stole those gifts away.

The disease was unrelenting,
taking my mother’s thoughts, personality, speech,
and finally, her life-
but the echoes remain.

Braid


like

garlic

to keep

her

out,

dew-wetted

nail-hung

& hammered

into wooden

molding

above

a closed

door,

beside

a breezy

window

Dog Tags


When he was a boy, Mac wore cheap, tin dog tags
That he ordered from the back of a comic book.
Their fake authenticity matched the camouflage costume
That he donned every day until he was 18
And the Air Force bequeathed the real thing.

Now his dog tags are government-issue.
They are his Olympic gold medal, Purple Heart, and skin tattoo
Crimped into one.
His name is engraved with military precision
That reminds me of Braille.
The United States could glide their fingers over this small piece of metal
And separate Mac
From the sea of uniform haircuts, stances and salutes
As easily as I could blindly identify him
Just by listening to his voice, or hearing him laugh.

To me, these dog tags are the medium a psychic could use to find him;
The heirloom wedding ring a grandmother would pass down;
And the DNA that distinguishes Mac from anyone else in the world.
To him this scrap of metal and silver ball chain
are the culmination of a lifelong dream.

Token


Women's eyes, which must not stare,*
cover more space than the eyes of men...

It was a tiny "Crucifixion" by da Messina
a thin, high cross - a thin, humble, suffering Christ
lonely and actual in the clear darkened landscape...

She couldn't bear...*

Ten minutes to make the most of it*
To enjoy the look in his eyes, the sound
of his voice and laugh a bit..*

He stood stock-still beneath the collonade,
the sun streamed in under.*
The pidgeons preened their feathers..

No wonder*...

Too swift, too strong, too violent, sweet
and fearful
"What is there left to me? What have I
but a heart that is broken?"*
La commedia e finita!"

Your token!!*

People passed in the square,
black and tiny against the lions and
the great column...

He took in nothing of all that*
but the rare, the mute, the inexpressive matte...*

The Little Coin

It's just a little thing,
but it's as old as time.
It spins out of reach,
Lost like the sands of a beach.
Copper or silver, or maybe a hint of gold prime,
Roman Emperor or Head of State,
Bestow their greatness on the little coin.

Object Triolet: Path Back

circling around and around on an endless loop
I am on the path to nowhere and everywhere
walking while thinking and trying to regroup
circling around and around on an endless loop
doing all I can to avoid a support group
over and over an internal questionnaire
circling around and around on an endless loop
I am on the path to nowhere and everywhere

Power tools
Workshop bad boys I want to tame
Had I been born a boy
my father wouldn’t have made me ogle power tools from a distance
enough of girl-approved power tools
vacuum cleaner, washing machine and blender.
sick of the go-for and clean-up duty
I bought a circular saw, power screw driver, belt sander and nail gun
Safety first. I read the operating instructions
Protective goggles covering my eyes,
a hardhat and gloves made of cut-decreasing armor
Once I experienced power I can’t go back to hand tools
Power tools deserve a challenge
to have their powerful egos stroked
and they work better accompanied by curse words
The workshop bad boys can wear a girl out
My arms tingled and I was sore in places I’d never experienced
I’m not telling my Dad I managed to destroy two of his favorites

The Rock at the Bottom of My Purse

The way it sits in the palm of my hand
smooth-polished by some unknown
water source, tumbled by river or ocean
to become this talisman, this totem,
this reminder to be patient. The way
it falls accidently into my fingers
when I search for lipgloss or a pen
keeps me mindful of small miracles.

Nancy- Great job on "Book love." I remember the early signs of falling in love with reading. Nothing in the world feels like that specific kind of love. -Hannah

Robert- I enjoyed "The Red Wheelbarrow." I took it on as a challenge to try and immitate the patterns with syllables within the form of the piece. Also the idea of giving the object an inner meaning by the choice of word usage. Thanks for making me think! -Hannah Bowles

Photograph

There you sit
I see you every day
It is as though
You never went away!

Twinkling eyes,
Wavy hair
A controlled smile
You are there.

Looking back at me
No tear in your eye
While I let them flow
Why did you have to die?

Young
So much time ahead
A parent should never see
A beloved child dead.

Yet I have the picture
And years full of memory
Thank God for photographs
That bring you back to me!

"Red Cape"

Just a square or red nylon,
frayed at the edges where
the stitching is loose --
three safety pins at the top
and a black S (permanent magic marker)
in the very center --
is enough to lift him up,
past chair and gravity,
to the white ceiling
where he can do anything,
like save the world.

Sorry, need to correct typo...

"Red Cape"

Just a square of red nylon,
frayed at the edges where
the stitching is loose --
three safety pins at the top
and a black S (permanent magic marker)
in the very center --
is enough to lift him up,
past chair and gravity,
to the white ceiling
where he can do anything,
like save the world.

Marron
Three years later
Much lighter now
The brown surface is softly rippled
Similar to the French field
From which I retrieved it
In that lunar landscape soil
Scars of battle still remained
Carefully, I removed the prickly green shell
To reveal A shiny smooth coffee colored chestnut
Now, t sits on my shelf beside Paris 1919
Artifact of a weathered war zone
From a chestnut tree which lived to tell the tale.

"Piano"

Shhh nobody's looking

Where have you been so long
oh yes I remember
will you let me

Touch

High C
A bit off key

You still
Know me
haven't forgotten
how

I play my love songs
in E minor.

- m.u. 04/11/2009

What To Do?

what to do
with the leftovers of you?

a cardboard box
is all that remains

contents of our life
that were not mine

one straw hat
two old work boots
unopened mail with your name only
a deck of 51 cards
half a pair of gloves
two t-shirts
one with a picture of the Ramones
one with two holes and a company logo
the yellow durable jobsite radio – always good for garage projects

I’ll set it here at the curb
for the trash man

only I think I’ll
keep the radio

-----------------------------------------------------------

Eucalyptus Spearmint

the green bottle
with the black pump

creamy lotion
spilling from inside

vintage looking
label spilling contents

the soothing aroma
puts me to sleep

Graduation Ring

The rings they sell for graduation
Tend to be rather austere,
And that is why my parents
Had a special ring commissioned
In the shape of a tree -
The symbol of my school,
Limbs twisted,
Branches swaying,
Just like the trees in all the places
I hold dear,
The loving sheltering life-giving tree
In high relief upon my hand -
I put it on, give it a loving thought
And leave.

MADONNA'S UNDERWEAR

Concerning Madonna’s underwear:

That which most consider underwear
presents as Madonna’s outerwear.

Is there really underwear under where
the outerwear underwear is?

I wonder where there’s room for underwear
under there?

Here’s how it is , I swear:
There is no Madonna underwear.

There’s only Madonna, under where
the underwear outerwear is!

_

Marker

Silent stone.
The one you remember
was never silent.
Yet so now you stand.
Your deeply etched lines
and sharply carven edges
testifying to a life once lived
now stilled.
Dates, a name,
a passage brief
you share for all to see.
You’re all I have left.

the door to Picasso’s world

I used to live in Paris
in the 90ies
I liked going to different museums
to see new exhibitions
one exhibition
I will never forget
Picasso’s small drawings and objects
I didn’t feel Picasso until then
I sort of liked him
but not really
and did not understand what
people see in his art
and then
something surprising happened to me
when I was walking through the door
to the Petit Palais Museum
the door changed into a wall of light
and I walked into Picasso’s world
I had feelings inside
that I never had before
I saw small objects made by him
and they were alive
the drawings were alive
there were so many dimensions
and so much light
in that world
and I fell in love
with that light
and the movement
when I was walking out of the museum
the door was an ordinary door again
not a light wall
but I was a different person




Bozena Intrator

Blackhawk 24

Cutting through the big, strong waves
the bow guides her across the sea.
Sailing through the clean, crisp air
like a dolphin swimming free.
Blackhawk 24 is the name
written boldly on her keel;
a form of recognition
when racing at the wheel.
The mainsail and jib
stand proud,tall and bold
whipping through the wind evermore
steering this model sailboat
through flowing, splashing waters
as I control from the shore.

Laurie K.

Swing Set

A squeak with each movement
It mimicked the beat of our hearts.
Quiet as we talked
Loud in our moments of quiet.
It holds memories of generations,
Love and loss,
Hope and fear.
Standing strong in the middle of the countryside
The old schoolhouse swing set.

The small one I have at my throat
It is gold with a diamond at the juncture
A gift from my godmother

The one over the bed
Is covered in colored paper my daughter chose
Blue and orange swirls of joy and redemption

The one at the end of the rope of sandstone beads
Is burnished wood, smooth and cool,
Inviting the stroke of my thumb

But the real one
I’ll bet it had splinters
Was rough on your skin
Weighed more than a man
And no matter how dulled we are by sex to sell everything
Still the thought
To be stripped
naked and
nailed
to it
staggers me

---Stirring Dust---
(timed memoirs of Afghanistan and Iraq 2005-2008)

Monstrous Brown in Thin Air
An envelope of dirt spiraling
Like a moving wall beckoning to dare
A glaring invitation that scares

Tall Mountains of swirling air
Crushing might penetrating particles
Nature's walk for all to see
Rolling, quiet thunder---quite a startle!

Marvels indeed, this wind to and fro
Stirring dust apart from the land
Picked up, pricked, grabbed as if so
Blinding dust turned day into night---just sand

A brown tidal wave unleashed
Covering all like a carpet laid
None is spared, covered and wreaked
To whom we see now disappeared?

Fright not: a freak of nature
Just life in a dust bowl mirrored
I am but froth and covered
My eyes turned brown from this shower

Fine particles of dirt-boom lowered
Seizing the air, robbed of cowards
Nature's way of constant renewal
Reminders of power at work

We are so small, like insignificant mules
Dotting the landscape as we should
Signs of earth and wind exposed
Lo' gathered strength explosive...

_things taken from me by the spiteful one_


a cheap teapot, my favorite pair of panties,
the set of chipped sheep glasses from the

flea market I coveted, the lemon zester,
one set of damask sheets, my three holy

playing cards, the trickster, queen, a five of
spades, some bottles of good Paso Robles

that were holding out for a better times,
discs of music (from the trip you first told me

those words that were blown air, asshole.)
and worst, signed books in code from the poet

you were jealous of, the one whose mouth I
sucked all summer one summer I don’t regret.


.

Log

Solid and heavy, it came from a mighty oak
It's smooth grey surface cut short
It's dry tan solid center
Still has a musty scent

I place it on the fire, it burst into flames
For a moment I'm transported
To memories and dreams
To ashes and it's gone

play with your food

waffles are not so very
incomparable to breasts

flatter outside of flapper era
areas clearly less smooth

a head trick like a hand
in each of hot and cold

one frozen, frosts in room
taking humidity into lattice

one toasted is hot crisp,
shudder-shock to nipple

Tonya Root:
LOVED "What to do?"
Especially the line "what to do with the leftovers of you" and also "half a pair of gloves." Beautiful subtle symbolism. Nice!

Daddy’s Hoe



He grew up on a farm, milked cows, planted crops,
and raised chickens until the Great Depression sunk
over the cornfields, lay its fog in the country, seeping
among the rows, stealing the mahogany earth.

They moved to the city, he went off to the Great War,
drank powdered milk, turned eighteen on a BB-44,
watched men beside him writhe and die until he buried
both death and its scars in the azure Pacific waves.

He married, grew a family, built a ranch house, wore itchy
suits, and planted a garden with three blond pig-tailed girls
who poked the seeds into the trenches he dug in the lumpy,
fragrant soil, covering them with skilled slices of the hoe.

Paper

Alice wrote a poem
on its smooth white surface
Jimmy bought a beer
without thinking of its purpose
I wrote a “Dear John” letter
screaming in ballpoint ink
Paper can have such meaning
one would never think

that childhood memories once captured
are now faded black and white
A myriad of forms and colors
papyrus weakened by sunlight

Paper can have such meaning
White, embossed by city clerk
It documents my child’s birth
Love letters written
from around the earth

Paper can have such meaning
I love the rough texture,
watching it absorb puddles of water
and paint,
the seascape now hangs on my wall

Paper comes from life
and with creative hearts
can live again
Paper can have such meaning

(day 11) April 11, 2009


My Computer
------------
I turn to you dailey,
like an obessive courtship,
my connection to the outside,
The world at my finger tips.

In the morning, noon, or night,
I'm drawn like a lover,
You're my life line, my obsession,
You're my laptop computer.

Charles Frederic - Your Madonna's underwear made me laugh out loud! Thanks!

Fetish

I wrap you around, squeeze and hold you tight,
Press firmly against your coolness
With care and delight
You move easily as if you
Want me to have your tender skin beneath
My eager fingertips
I want to be rough, cut right through you,
Lay you on your back and marvel at what you have become,
But I’m slow, taking special care not to rip you
Apart
Now if you’ll excuse me, I must pop off to the store
I’ve forgotten a necessity
I hate to make you wait but
No sushi is complete without
Wasabi

Heather

Egghead

It's not hard to tell
I sprang from an egg
I'm usually scrambled
Occasionally fried
I like to get pickled
once in a while
But I always try
to keep things
sunny-side up

The Empty Tube

Down back and bottom
flat battered tube
used for whitening
rash prescription
or specific lube?

Violent redefinition
twisted forces of haste
wrenched open again
results indeterminate
produces no paste

Glossy labels gone
malleability's price, paid
yet retained as reminder
mysterious metallic memento
that only disuse can betray

Spray Nozzle

When I was a kid,
I bought my own.
A pistol gripped,
lemon yellow pot metal
flesh colored gasket
weapon for a ten year old boy.
knurled brass wheel
dialed in pinpoint control.
Transmogrified in the sandbox
a laser cannon melting the dam
above the quiet town
scattering plastic army men
like chaff in the wind.
Now I am older, wiser
more serious about tools.
I prefer the solid brass, inline version
because I find that they generate
a finer, dam melting stream.

Sally,
I didn't copy your "hoe" poem, really. I always read the prompt and write without looking at any of the others until after I've posted. I think it's cool that we both chose hoes as subjects:)

Run

His fingernails rip my nylons.
Your eyes get caught in fishnets.
Her face wondered if there was a gun in my garter.
Their mouths want to touch what is underneath.
The breath in the air is stained cheap.
So nude, that sheath.

by Kitchell Resimi, 2009

AW MA, JUST GIVE ME FIVE MORE MINUTES

Somnambulic sentinel,
annoying dream keeper,
release from your guard,
me, your humble deep sleeper.
You monitor REM cycles
down to the second,
your timing is accurate
and not to mention,
your bright LED glowing next to my bed
casts a dim pall all over, making everything red.
You're most inopportune for my nightly devotion,
Sleepus interruptus my nocturnal emotions,
I'm aware of your motive, I just think you're sleaze,
couldn't you give me just five minutes please?
Although I'm still groggy, your function is clear,
and armed with that knowledge, I've nothing to fear.
For my dear alarm clock, forever I'll choose
to steal NINE more minutes by slapping your "snooze".
But, no need to worry, be shocked or perplexed,
after you I'm warning my CPAP, it's next!

"Keychain Collection"

One giant connected mess,
other people’s memories
cluttered collectively together.

Many distances traveled,
some for serious business,
others for frivolous fun.

None of the journeys
were accompanied by me,
I vicariously visited.

The first one came from mom.
It was clear plastic, painted,
in the shape of a rainbow.

Dad saw my adoration,
and didn’t understand it was
because it was from Mommy.

The Army would send him
to cities across the country,
many weeks of the year.

He would bring me home
key chains from everywhere.
Not bought ones, but free.

I kept them all together,
as a tribute to my father.
He was hardly at home.

Friends would visit,
and be mesmerized by
them all hooked together.

Each time they’d go away,
they’d bring me back
a piece of who they are.

Almost thirty years later,
still growing, now a grouping
of years past, and modern.

Your Shoes

Time fulfilled its many speeches,
embraces, and you departed
for emblemic North. Whole
weeks of separation. Nightly,
your photo grinned carelessly (blasé)
at me, backlit by stark wall (is there
any other kind?). Phones, mail,
thought—nothing could reach
you as I struggled for con-
nection, wandering
my unstately rooms, burn-
ing candles, burning light
out.

Mostly, your image hummed
through my guitar strings,
your sole-weary shoes (ex-
hausted soldiers, medals
whittled from business long be-
fore I knew you)to the right
of our bed, as if you’d just left
the room.

Object – By Jane Eamon 2009

You are the object of my desire
An object d’art
You may object
But I digress
I cannot divest myself
Of your diversion
Though this version is the one I love
No aversion to you
You hold my attention
Though that attention span can be short
Short-listed as the best thing I known
Still I live with the demon I know
No objection

The Ring

It sits in corner
Of the jewelry box
not meaningful to anyone
But me
First set, cheap, yes
But more precious than ten thousand
diamonds
$50 bought off your sister
with a small gold leaf that poked my finger
until there was a dotted scar there
I see the scar and remember when you first
put it on my hand
And how rich I felt
And feel now
But you insisted once the money came
You bought me a new one
A bigger one, a silver one
One people could tell was an engagement
ring
So I put it away
But I always know where it is
And the wide band of this ring
hides the scar
But I know it's there
And I know how rich I am

Temptation

Light and smooth or rich and dark,
Sometimes eaten as a lark,
Yet deep cravings have been shown,
And my need is so well known.

Is it the sweetness I most need,
So doctor's warnings I don't heed?
How can something so good be so bad?
What if just a little is all you had?

It's not a monkey on my back,
And when my eating is right on track
Even on sale, I just don't buy it,
I can resist chocolate to save my diet..

Robert, I feel so dumb, I have been posting to the wrong page for the first ten days, wondering where all the poems were, so I have gone back and placed the poems where they belong, I hope this is okay. I guess I just didn't get how this was being done. You can check and see where I posted them originally,on the Poetic Asides page with the rules. Thanks.

My poem for today.

TURQUOISE BRACELET (PAD April 11, 2009 - Object)

Snaked around my wrist
cold silver
green stones

Slithering up and down
Tails biting
tender skin

Lines and patterns etched
black upon
clasping sides

Winding, wrapping, coiling
cold metal
Green eyes

Encircling and twining
Around, around
silver grip

“Software”

It occurred to me not long ago
That the Microsoft computer
Looks at me as “head of Professor Boule,”
Keeping silence but containing bits and
Bites of human mind. It doesn’t speak,
Though cunning as a fox, tests the mind:
How much it can tame and draw from it.
Two ends has already met. Live within
Hardware. Object contains the botany.
Even it can sing and music is played.
Hasn’t some kind of wish come true?
Why ask for more? Some or most don’t
Have that luck – enjoy the sound, match
Megabytes of “Professor Boule’s head”
With moving objects all around.

Attic Clutter


Their love can be counted in their attic discards,
the boxes and boxes, and cartons of mothy clothes,
receipts rolled and rubberbanded
old lamps that lay like sleeping birds against the chimney stone,
toys and puzzles in bags, the crates of Christmas pasts,
seasonal bags of orange, green, and pink decorations
that gang up on the attic landing, eager orphans
srowding the door. Oh their love is cluttered
as the attic, as the garage, the basement, the closets,
so full a collapse is imminent,
so many are the tokens of their affections.

The Manuscript


What do you think, stove?
What do you think, fire?
I see you turn the pages, one by one,
curl them back to look them black,
to dispense with the reading.
Please know: those are drafts.

Maybe you can send the gist, smoke,
to NYC. Take the molecules of my jokes
into some agent's lung
and make her gently laugh
(not just cough). Please just
tell her that it's a draft.

The final's even better--
though I've stopped sending letters.
Did you, flame, think the plot was thin?
I thought I saw you grin.
Maybe soon, you'll read the latest
and see the way it's changed.



(Off the top, 4/11, 10 a.m.)

DA

Novelty Bottle

As if something depends
on it, my mother
dusts the old decanter,
long after brandy
uncoiled down the drain.
Amber clings
to the rim inside,
and the two tiny dancers
within the glass dome
dance inside the empty bottle.
She polishes
her breath away,
out of the fog
come the man and woman
seen so clearly
beneath a glass umbrella,
the rain.

Object to Cheese, Never

There is no way
I could ever
object to any
piece of cheese
that crossed
my path
Cheese
is my heaven
my bliss
If I could
not eat taste
touch smell
cheese
I would have
to scream
please, just
kill me now
Note:
I am lactose
intolerant
My stomach's
distaste of cheese
gives me
something
to complain
about
in this long
happy
life of mine

April PAD Challenge
Linda Robertson
© April 11, 2009

THE OBJECT OF MY AFFECTION

My love is spread through many hearts,
and that affection is returned tenfold,
but it is you, my dear,
that completes me,
consumes me,
befuddles me.

I lay in my bed at night,
begging for sleep,
yet you call to me,
entrancing me,
rendering me a helpless fool
to your needs.

So,
limply I wander into your room,
yielding myself to you.

I sit next to you,
becoming your midnight toy,
ready to do your bidding;
to create,
achieve,
accomplish,
destroy.

What will you have me do,
here in this star-ridden silent night?

Shall we compose or annihilate?

Tell me,
computer. . .
you, who controls my soul –
what missive shall we write during tonight’s captive interlude?

Diane Rowland - "The Ring" Nice! Love the imagery of the scar.

Kim,
LOL! You know what the say about great minds! I don't look at the submissions before writing either. That's part of the fun of it, don't you think?

My Pen

My favorite object is my pen.
It is long, slender and blue.
I use it both day and night.
Much writing it can surely do.

I bought it just the other day,
when I went shopping in town.
My pen's ink flows smoothly,
as I write my thoughts down.

MERRIAM WEBSTER AND ROGET, WE THANK YOU,

Volume supreme, hard bound or soft paper,
we use you, Thesaurus, for every caper.
When verbage escapes us, when thinking's all blurred,
you're sitting right there to supply the right word.
Antonym, synonym, it's really the same,
for dealing with words is the name of your game.
We poets all thank you for supplying us knowledge
(unless you're the moron that left yours in college).
So valuable resource, step in when you're able,
I'm keeping you near, right here on my table.
Antonym. Synonym. We're taking a stand.
C'mon fellow poets, let's give them a hand!

Objects of Me

Some are light
Happy, airy
Some are dark
Sullen, heavy
Others cross
From sanity
They live in
Spiral notebooks
They are locked
On a flashdrive
They exist
But known only
To me, these
Glimpses offered
Now to you,
Stranger, of these
Objects of me.

Genevieve Fitzgerald, simply beautiful!

My "Object"

Cantankerous, annoying,
Bothersome too;
Difficult and obstinate,
And things are always askew!

I argue, I fight,
And we don't see eye to eye.
I hardly win an argument;
But I hope it doesn't die!

If I could just win once,
It would save me so much time.
I can't live with or without it,
This old computer of mine.

Superhero

When out of pain I strive to be,
When eye balls pop and teeth do throb,
I chance upon a pill to see…
Methinks that it will do the job.
Vicadin, O Vicadin, your brilliant talents do I seek!
My superhero you will be. I beg; defeat this migraine streak.

The Bottle

You always reached the bottle
Before you ever reached for me
You kept sipping from the bottle
And slipped away from me

The bottle raised more questions
You never answered me
You kept sipping from the bottle
I lost the better half of me

You say your life is different now
And you’re feeling better every day
You say your problem’s handled
You’ve found a better way

I wish I could believe you
And save you from yourself
But I know if I came over now
I’d find a bottle on your shelf

The bottle has a grip on you
Denial won’t let go
Your only hope is anonymous
It’s knocking at your door

Walt,

I loved your poem. How true...I use the dictionary and thesaurus so much. And these online versions are amazing.

Peace,
Penny

So help me, I decided to try to rhyme. I hope this isn't too awful!!

Iron Lady

Her smashed nose turned up,
Sphinx-like and haughty
Under a bonnet worn smooth by hands.

One fist on her hip
Elbow out and doughty,
Against the door-slam she stands.

Once, Dad painted her pink
Tiny brush in big hands
Lining her lips with care.

A year later, I think
He changed his plans
And washed her bare.

He loved her, we all did
For surviving, for her beauty,
For believing there were no others.

And like a bashful kid
Performing a father’s duty
“She was your grandmother’s..”

Baritone Ukulele

I have had a baritone ukulele
Propped against the filing cabinet
In my study for the past 15 years
I pick it up from time to time
To sweep the carpet where it stands
One day soon I am going to learn to play

My Spinning Wheel

1848 carved in its wood.
Acquired by a grandmother I never met,
Who sewed but did not spin.
It came to me from my mother
Who neither sewed not spun.
Once a tool,
Now an ornament,
A broken relic of women past.

I-Pod

You sit on my desk, an unloaded
birthday gift from my partner,
glinting as if to mock me. You
remind me of all the things
I mean to do but do not
because I have a headache, or because
I have to deal with inane customer service reps
on the phone, or simply because
I haven’t figured you out yet.
Silver, shiny, sleek symbol of consumer
necessity, an infinitely more technological and
ubiquitous pet rock, I guess you come in vibrant
colors as well, but I do not know which ones.
I only have you. At first, I resisted your oft-praised
charms, the testimonials of how life-altering you were.
Eventually, I succumbed to manufactured desires
and asked my partner for you. Now, you are here
without any shuffled songs to sing, you feel as useless
as any discarded electronic, but I assure you that
you are more than that. I see your contemporaries
everywhere. Lurking on the metro
drowning out the sounds of the everyday,
stalling or even forbidding conversations
with strangers or acquaintances, denying humans
of their intense, genetically-determined,
butt-clenching cravings for human contact.
Your makers keep on upgrading your kind,
forcing automatons to ask cash-strapped gift-givers for
more expensive and flashier versions of what
you already do. You have started your own portable,
micro-chipped war against mankind and are winning,
although I can’t know this for sure,
I haven’t used you yet.

Safe Haven

Majestic and filling the room is a bed
resembling a wooden scroll.
There are slight pen scratches made
from small hands.

It's big stubby feet support the thick
box of dreams framed in silk.
The covers are white and rose with huge
marshmallow pillows.

We call it the healing bed. It was a time
when death tried to enter. . .
a gift from those who love, wrapped in
warmth, comfort, and pleasure.

It sits in a field of poppies with trees
having lived many years. Flowers all
in bloom, blue-green grass with
glistening leaves.

The birds have taken flight. The moon's
reflection makes me feel like a star.
The gentle air brushes my hair as I
settle in for a night of dreams.

It's Nothing, Really

Little Buddha
on my nightstand,
shining piety,
so still.

Smallish statue
in my life space,
glowing happiness,
until

the noise of life
presents itself,
routine sounds, but loud
and shrill.

Can’t the world be
calm and quiet
like my tiny
figurine?

Won’t my life
approach Nirvanna
without mowing of
the green?

Take the blowers,
leave the icons,
surely heaven then
I’ll glean.

What’s the difference
in all objects,
some seem peaceful,
others not.

Can’t the siren
sounds of living
bring us insight, though
unsought?

Little Buddha
on my nightstand,
just an object, simply
bought.

The Old Lax Axe

Hardened mesh and lacquered wood
Are all that’s left to tell how good
He was all those years gone by
When he could deke and dodge and fly.
The shaft is branded with seventeen lines
Old school accounting that somehow defines
A moment of time, of shining glory
Whose story has now become quite hoary
With age and use and lack of ears
To hear how he beat men and lightning
In a game so pivotal, so frightening
It harkened back to when Baggatoway
Was played until one tribe held sway.
A moment so fleeting, his moment of fame,
His stick, our memento of the Creator’s Game.

Seven Ways of Looking at a Dandelion

Echoes of sunlight dot my lawn
with splayed green leaves
beneath, their frame.

Picked young,
those tannic leaves
lend zing to salads, soups and stews.

Cut fine and brewed
flowers, leaves and roots,
become strong medicine.

By day I use a special tool
to dig out by the root
each dandelion I can see.

By night each bloom I've missed
becomes a round gray fluff
just like my neighbor's hair.

The slightest touch or puff of air
sends small seeds soaring:
Lilliputian parachutes.

Then, new echoes of sunlight dot my lawn,
and on the cycle goes, as if the dandelions
were playing a game with me.

Hope you don't mind, Robert, but I borrowed your "object" idea of a CD:

CD on the Rear-view Mirror

They seem to have replaced fuzzy dice,
if only because some people believe
the urban myth that they reflect
speed radar beams. Mine hangs
by a thin cord from my mirror
only to announce my love of music –
an old Stones disc too scratched
to be of any other use than to turn lazily
with my turning, reflect and refract
off the sun in my windshield, and shimmer
with rainbows to remind me of all the colors
to be found in one journey.

A Cursor-y Glance

My little friend, or foe,
depending on the day's successes,
sits dependably at the top spot
of the sparse white page

blinking expectantly
(or is that sideways winking?)
at any rate waiting.

I haven't named this little friend
(or foe, depending on the day's successes)
although I probably should.

It seems there is a long road ahead
for us to travel together.
The least we can do
is get to know each other by name.

My CD Library

I look at my collection of
CDs and fondly recollect
all of the places I have gone
with these objects, which come alive
through merely inserting them into a
machine. I’ve been started up by The Stones,
gotten my kicks on Route 66 with Dylan,
been in the arms of an angel with McLachlan
smoked cigarettes and did housework with Rachel,
gone to factories with Martha and
went on an amazing journey with Tommy.
This library, dormant too often,
is very much the lifeblood of my world.

Spatula

Accidentally pulled from behind the whisk, tongs and masher,
She still fits perfectly in hand, ready for anything.
Reminiscent of the days so long ago.
No house, no bills, no kids, much less to worry over.
Times when people thought “Mike & Molly’s” was a cool new bar.
A pub where you could bring your dogs along.

A donation from a weary parent trying to make our porch kitchen workable,
She certainly fit the bill.
Lost amidst the new and improved gadgets collected with money over time,
This perfect little specimen always did a better job than most.
Whatever culinary delights we dreamed up,
She flipped them just fine.

How shocked I am to pull her out, to find she’s been there all along.
And after all this strolling down memory lane, my husband walks in.
“Where did that come from?” he asks.
“I love that spatula – do you know what it reminds me of?”

© 2009 Molly Logan Anderson

THE HOLE

Your void is apparent,
your vacancy gapes,
what used to be there
found a way to escape.
You're never half empty,
you are, what you are,
you're all we don't see,
when you're full, you're no more.
You're good to receive buttons,
a fashion statement in jeans,
You're really not there
(if you know what I mean)
Your presence is absence,
when you're more, you're less.

You can be an abyss, a breech, or a break,
an aperture, chasm, but make no mistake.
Whether ruptured or dug,
gapped, gashed or gorged,
a hole is a hole, a fissure, a pore.
You're still just a hole,
a sad indentation.
You're never quite whole,
you poor perforation.

My great companion

Together we dance
until I want no more
to hold you close
then not want you anymore.

You never complain
though you have nothing to gain.
I fathom your appeal
It’s why we boast a deal.

I keep you clean
You know, all the time.
But forget that you’re mine
when you’re resting as I dine.

You tire me out
But I don’t complain
I gladly take the pain.
So thank you again.
From the top
my wonderful house mop!

Das Ding An Zen

A lonely mountain in the distance.
No, wait, how can I know it’s lonely?
I feel lonely seeing it, yes, that’s it.

A mountain in the distance.
No, wait, how do in know it’s distant?
I see a mountain against sky,
Or something like a sky,
And it merely seems distant.

A mountain.
No, wait, it’s a shape, broader at the base,
Tapering at the top,
And blueness, or something like blueness,
Is behind it, no wait, frames it
On either side.

I am walking on the road toward
A broad, tapering shape framed in blue.

I reach it,
And it is a mountain.

© 2009 Chuck Puckett
11 April 2009

LOOK AT THAT!

See that thing over there?
What is it? Did you ever see
one of those before?
Does it seem to be moving?
Is it getting larger? Even if
you’ve seen one before,
was it that shade of green?
Look behind it. Is there
another in back there?
I’m going to take its picture
and send it to some magazine.
Do you want to get in the
picture to prove that you
were here? That’s it – stand
right beside it – don’t worry,
I don’t think it will bite. Look close,
does it have teeth? OK, that’s
good – now smile. You better
come back here with me
where you’ll be safe.

objects:
White Pines on a West-facing Slope
(hewn in March)


My pines, whose whorled limbs and fragrant needles—
a haven for chickadees and flickers—eccentric
triangles that blocked wind in winter, gave
shade in summer—are gone, all gone. Not
one of their murmuring stand was saved, not one
that swayed or made in August a rippled shadow
on sun-drenched meadow or lolling garden.

How little thought we give to things when we change
the growing green. Since countryside is so slight
that even when we mean to make her right we harm her.
Those who come next will not know the ruckle and twist
the breeze brings, fall of brightness, play of light against blue sky.
A few hours of noise, only a few hours
to alter a natural, fragile and dear country scene.

The Piano


I hadn't touched a key in years
when I sat down this Christmas,
tested pedals with my foot
and slowly, stumbling, tried to play.

I'm not so sure what made me do it,

if the melodies that hid themselves
in all the cracks and wrinkles of my mind
had been conspiring to burst forth
through my cold, rusty fingertips,
each one ablaze with noise, clamoring to be heard.

I felt my fingers flex,

working the cobwebs out; and even though
the notes meant nothing more to me
than empty dots upon a page, (I'd never been
too great at reading them,) I soon discovered that

the music hadn't left me yet,

and by the time I'd played "The First Noel,"
and "Silent Night," and just a few more simple tunes,
I was amazed at how this instrument, which I'd
thought so complex, so hard to master as a child,
was not complicated at all—

it simply came to me,
playing by ear in chords,

in melodies of black and white.

As Storms Approach

Tied to the dock,
a tin boat pulls
at its rope
like a restless horse.
Minnows gather
beneath its belly –
a black cloud: flies
seeking shelter
from the wind.

THE GREENHOUSE

It sits in the garden, alone,
A greenhouse, where nothing is grown.
On its benches sit pots
And various what-nots,
But its days of glory have flown.

There really is no longer room
For seedlings or flowers in bloom.
Its parallel to me
Is striking to see –
A source of depression and gloom.

Perhaps if I cleaned up the mess,
It would result in reduction of stress.
But that’s for tomorrow.
Let me wallow in sorrow,
Which cheers me, or didn’t you guess?

POSTCARDS

FROM THE SOUTH OF FRANCE
a field of sunflowers

FROM MOLDOVA
an icon of Mother and Child

FROM ITALY
the Roman Colleseum

FROM GHANA, WEST AFRICA
Kente cloth

FROM NAPA, CALIFORNIA
poppies growing in a vineyard

FROM ISRAEL
Chagall’s stained glass

FROM CHICAGO
the pink fountain

FROM THE SANCTUARY
the image of my love for you

Jane Beal
sanctuarypoet.net

Wake Up Call

It sings, it perks, and can help you to think
Easy to clean and change, it sits next to the sink
It’s small and black and can show me the time
And provides me with something that used to be only a dime
Creates a liquid with such a great smell
Best wake-up call around, far as I can tell
You should have guessed it by now
Makes you smile and say “oh wow”
It’s my coffee pot
I could never do without

Ode to My Hercules L-Square

Perhaps there’s a better
way to do this,
cutting things straight,
making them square,
but I like the weight
of its old, darkened
worn-stamped steel
that I found buried
in the woodshop,
now stowed under
my work table,
faithful,
slightly bent,
not quite perfect

"Learning to Love"

I throw myself upon the battered wood,
its rain beaten texture scratching
my knees and elbows.
I glance around at the glittering water,
searching for something just as sparkling
to sketch on my paper.

As I settle myself on the pier,
I lift the lid of that old wooden cigar box
where I keep my pencils.
The union of scents--
the graphite, charcoal, and tobacco--
makes my head spin.

The charcoal stick between my fingers
seems warm compared to the wind.
I press it to the page;
there appears its smell in physical form.
The dancing shades of grey change
as the smokey charcoal scent in the nearby air.

Desiring something lighter,
I reach for my graphite--
cooler to the touch.
Its icier color and harsher lines
are a brilliant contrast to the
softness of the charcoal.

The image soon forms before my eyes,
only slightly varied from what I see.
I close my book and return
my pencils back to their box,
thanking them silently
for teaching me to draw.

I have this rock
it's an egg-sized agate
from the Queen Charlotte Islands
It's translucent
and quite beautiful
It's actually a chunk of lava
from a bygone age
when the place it was found
must have been
violently beautiful
it's resting place
changing even then, to evolve to wondrously
dense forestsand wild shores
from whence I plucked
and claimed as mine
this rock, that never fails to
conjure up images
of it's beginnings and
journey through the ages

“Snow Globe”

The old rustic cabin
Nestled by the ravine

As wild horses roam
The inviting pasture below

The mountains so serene
A tranquil scene
As if, it’s real

When actually
It’s a snow globe
Imagination real

Peeking through the glass
At the imaginary scene
Takes you to a higher gleam

Eyes anticipating
The lovely scene
As the snow
Glistens down
On the ravine
So, is it real and serene?

By: Melinda Elmore

Second Hand Seats

I thought a pair that match
Would make conversations
between therapist and patient more equal

On Craig's List I found a pair
Stickly, classic, worn, burnished gold
A little too soft

We sit across from one another
Still the pain of connection collides
Despite the chairs that were chosen with care

Clutter

I just had to have that “thingamabob” when I saw it in the store
But now that I have it home I don’t want it anymore,
Surrounded by objects I don’t even see
At one time they must have meant something to me

When does an object turn into junk?
Cluttering up the counters or thrown in a trunk
We really think we need all this stuff
We never think that we have enough,

Shop, shop, shop until we drop
Spend, spend, spend, when will it end?
Always trying to keep up to date
I hate to tell you, you’re already too late,

As a clutter bug with too many things
I know the stress that clutter brings,
So why not ease off and make due with less?
Just think of how you’ll get rid of stress

Clear out the clutter and clear your head too
Unload all your junk and start anew!

Object - My Kindergarten Dog Tag

In kindergarten
we all got
dog tags
I liked
the way the
metal felt
when
teacher gave
me mine
on a long
smooth chain
my name
first and last
embossed
and a special
single letter
at the bottom
corner
O
that someone
said was good
I liked the way
the metal felt
cool
against my
soft skinned chest
resting under
all
my clothes
all day
against my flesh
while I practiced
numbers and letters
ordered days into week
months into year
I like the way the
metal felt
while we played
colors of the rainbow
bouncing big bright balloons
I liked the way the
metal felt against
my flesh while
teacher rang chimes
Stop, Look, Listen
and we did
good quiet children
moving
under our desks
as the siren rang
covering
five year old
heads with hands
facing away from
tall windows
away from tall trees
away from outside
I liked the way
the dog tag felt
as I freed it
from my shirt
and running fingers
against its gentle
bumps
eyes tightly shut
read my name
sparkling in
that gentle darkness
I liked the way the
metal felt as I
slipped my dog tag
my name, my special letter
back under my shirt
and stood up
when teacher said
it was time

11

Eleven keys on my key ring,
Most I even know what they open.
Bits of metal that open doors, engender trust.
I can't find 'em. Again.

BODIES

it's different when you see them in motion,
see them look in you in the eye,
beg for change and bless you anyway,
sing to themselves on steam vents,

you think, what a piece of biology,
a masterwork of nature, these pounds of flesh,
naked bodies clad in clothing, given
the subtle animation that makes them people

until they're curled up in front of you,
stuffed in cardboard boxes or caked in dirt
that hides the wonderful colors
those crippled bodies must be;

and on freezing nights, the
subtle animation that makes them people
expires in a cloud of unheard breath,
those pounds of flesh just taking up space;

when you trip over that grate
and see that motionless heap,
maybe we put our heads down
and keep walking,
because it reminds us too much
of how without our subtle animation
we ourselves are nothing more
than bodies.

Giant Redwood trees,
Grow high up into the sky.
Their death brings new life to the forest,
They make homes for many green things.
Swirling high,
Up into the misty air.
Lest we ever forget,
We breathe their breath.

The Cat's Bowl


i’m responsible
for the cat’s
bowl

it sits
empty

on the brown
tile floor

while I call her
name

she doesn’t come
to the sound of my
voice

i think the
dish
will remain empty

while she chases a
rat

Porcelain Figurines

Dog, cat, rabbit, bird, swan, watering can
These porcelain figurines left for me to find
All those years growing up and I never
Once remember seeing them
Hidden in old cookie tins
Wrapped in tissue
My mother's porcelain figurines
Kept since she was a teen
Said my uncle
50 years of treasure packed away
Now displayed for the world to see

Elephant Scales of Injustice

For my collection, he said, as I carefully hefted
Its weight, still wrapped in newspaper covered
With characters from the orient, another relic
From Thailand, another elephant for my herd

Finally, I sat it on the dining room table and just stared
Two pachyderms, trunk to trunk, mounted on a pedestal
With some sort of brass tray balanced on them
And a scale beneath, fashioned to move with the most
Basic of threads, as weight was added to the tray

How curious I thought – what could I possibly
Weigh on this odd little scale
But as soon as the question hit my brain pan
The answer slid home almost simultaneously
Especially as I noticed my friend grinning widely
Sure he’d caught me out, sure I would never guess

Oh my, I wondered, as, intrigued, I began to examine
The thing more carefully; had he had to smuggle this
Bit of paraphernalia into the country?
Then guessed, he could always have feigned innocence
Were he questioned at customs, say he thought it
A knick-knack, not a scale for weighing opium,
Or heroin or any of the other powdery drugs sold
By the gram, that westerners are so fond of buying
From their far eastern brethren

As it is, I buff the marble pedestal ‘til it gleams
And polish its brass tray and fittings until they shine
Then display my wee scales on our entry hall table

A conversation piece to be sure, but one for which
I rarely explain its use; preferring the viewer
To imagine all manner of things – the weight of dreams
Or good deeds, happiness, or peace
It seems to make most of them smile...
Certainly, at least to me, worth its weight in...
Almost anything

Chuckies


So soft and sweet
I loved them well.
They suited my tired feet.
In all colors I had ‘em;
Black, red, white, and plaid;
And best of all,
Stars and stripes of
Red. white and blue!
High topped and laced
with neon strings
they gave happy feet wings
Long days they spent walking
Many miles to go.
They held the memories
of a time when work was
always spent on feet
that were ever so quietly
growing a bunion.

Wonderful poem about homeless people, Joseph. Very touching.

Great poems everyone! I'm so inspired everytime I read them.

Pearl, I enjoyed your kindergarten memory and the repetition of "the way the metal felt." Mine is the smell of plastic painting bibs. 40ish years later, I catch a whiff of that type of plastic and I can see myself standing before the easel brush in hand. My poem would repeat "the way the plastic smelled." KUDOS.

Nancy Devine - here's to you and Schumann, whose music flows on even through your poem.

My Computer

I love
Connecting with people
around the corner
and across the water.
Finishing my work
in time for bedtime stories
and impromptu tea parties.
Creating masterpieces
with my edited words and
drawings and pictures.

I hate
Waiting for things
to load or install
or restart.
Learning again
things I already know
but new software has changed.
Straining my eyes
to see the screen
and my wrist to type my words.


I hate that
I love my computer.

Reflection


Newly married, first anniversary,
my husband gave to me a cross.
Barely an inch of gold, strung on serpentine chain,
it hangs about my neck, reflecting the sun.

My mother gave to me a string of pearls.
My children, from their school days,
gave to me all kinds of Mother necklaces,
fake stones hanging from flimsy chains.

One year, my husband took the coins
I’d brought home from France,
and had a jeweler set them in a necklace
that hung heavy and silver.

I wear them all once or twice,
to make the givers happy.
But what makes me happy is the golden cross,
hanging about my neck, reflecting the Son.

On the side of my file cabinet

MOM in black marker on a
foil heart with a blue tissue flower
held in place by a green and purple
RAVINIA Festival magnet

A pencil drawing of a caped
super hero in glasses - MY Super MOM -
blue yarn hand-tied through punched holes

An old metal clip, the kind with
the flat round magnet behind it, holding
The Kiss by Klimt with a note on the back
from my husband,
A cat a friend made by bending wire
A little red felt bird from the fair trade store with
iridescent glass beads and a brass bell strung below it

A hand-painted flat wood star,
orange, glued to a magnet,
a slightly yellowed half sheet – with three
rows of color pictures, nineteen
mostly happy kindergarteners plus
Mrs. Thoman and the principal, Mr. Focht
class of 1968-69

My daughter’s wallet size junior picture

A dicroic glass magnet from an art fair,
a tiny silver oak leaf inside

Two old postcards with kissing mice
one with cheese, the other with bread
‘When coming thro’ the rye ‘if a body kiss
a body need a body cry?’

“The Rail Thing” scenic magnet
from Algoma Central Railroad –
the one that used to be on Gram’s frig
from our trip to ride the rails and see fall colors

My big brother’s business card

Magnetic phone number listings for a
local appliance service and a clinic

A white plastic tote holding address labels
and HELLO my name is stickers

Linda Voit

Ode to Pen

You who call me in the night
upon your lines I hold you tight
sleek of form, bravely strong
quite forgiving when I'm wrong.

To you I raise my implements
although sometimes in discontent
I pinch your cheeks very tight
you still pen on for me despite
my brazen attempts to place blame
silken ink glides just the same.

Your faithful ink that flows soft on
helps me pen this silly song
so to you a banner high
so all can know you make me sigh
other times, you make cry
with love affairs that oft roll by.

Sweet pen, sweet friend, I love you.

Pretty Black's bowl

It sits outside
my apartment door
and gathers
dust and leaves
waiting
patiently.

Day and night
rain or shine
hot or cold
never moving
always looking
counting minutes.

Pretty Black
my feral cat's
feeding bowl.

And God created Eva.


There's something I've always wanted
God himself knows why.
I know I'll never have the nerve
to buy one I'm too shy.

They aren't designed for women
they're the sole province of men.
There is no rhyme nor reason
still I have this niggling yen.

I won't expire without one
nothing so majorly drastic.
But my nose is rubbed in it
when it scents brand new plastic.

Is this object an affront against the feminine?
The answer is debatable.
So I struggle with this strange need of mine
for a human size doll - inflatable.

On Reading Spenser’s Faerie Queene

The Faerie Queene is Spenser’s jewel they say
And we, “the forlorne reliques of his power,”
Are reading Norton, critically today.
For Ev’ry stanza, each nine lines to flower
We “have enduréd many a dreadfull” hour
To sift through glosses, notes and other frights
In hopes on us eternal light will shower
The gift of understanding through long nights
Ere half our days are spent and eyes have dimmed, frail lights.

Marks the Spot
-David Yockel Jr.

It used to sit on an end table
in the living room
of the house
that he built.

A small rectangular
white marble box.
Inlayed with a blue and brown
X on the lid.

Gold trimmed and empty
it sat there for years. Behind
it, a picture of him and my grandmother
smiling at some wedding reception. She in a spotless
white evening dress and he in a sharp tan suit
and a blue and brown tie.

The colors in the photo were
the colors in the stone.

I would open the lid and whisper to him.
I would tell him how my day at school went
or that my mother missed him.

It now sits on the bookshelf in my office
in front of a stack of Hermann Hesse novels.
It contains a Memoriam written on the day
he would have turned 80
and his tie tack.

I will never stop whispering Papa.

Eagle Standard

Ignorant, we smile
At the Eagle
Over stars
Over stripes
On the Presidential Seal.

It tells secret stories
Of legions tromping
Leather straps flapping;
Steel cleaving
Gallic meat.

Slaves building roads
Silos filling bellies
And rulers, mad or brilliant,
Setting to rights and
Paving our way.

Paperweight

My parents announced
shorty before
my sixteenth birthday
that we would
be moving
that June
from the
changing city
to a
stable suburb

a few friends
and my English teacher
threw a
quiet party
for me
to celebrate
my sweet sixteen
and to say
goodbye

I recall
the party
and the friends
but the one thing
that stands out most
in my memory
is the gift
the teacher
gave me

a glass paperweight
clear and round
holding patterns
that shoot from
the bottom
and look like
long branches
or leaves
laden with snowflakes
and with
emerald green
color
at their base

I often wonder
if he remembers
giving me
the paperweight
as much
as I
remember him
giving it
to me

I am now
fifty-one
years old

the paperweight
graces my desk
and reminds me
everyday
to not lose
the things of youth

After What You Said

I wrapped my heart back up in its gauze,
placed it in the far corner of the drawer
in the dresser purchased at the lawn sale
a few summers ago.
You thought it was a waste of money,
and we put it in the barn, behind the bicycles.
My heart will be comfortable there
with the cobwebs, old straw,
and the tools your grandfather left you when he died.
All the things you don’t see.
All the things you said you wouldn’t be sad
to leave behind.

An object

Cylindrical roundness containing air
and containing dreams,
big dreams of riches and fame,
small dreams of just participating.
Uniting all in effort, sweat and hours and hours spent
perfecting individual skills
in order fit in with the ballet of a team
moving as one.
An object of love that knows no gender, age or ability,
that knows no economic class.
An object that can be a stepping stone to knowledge acquired
that lasts a lifetime or riches that cannot be comprehended.
An object that can stop a million heartbeats, united in the drama of unknown outcomes.
I love this object, especially when I watch it being handled by skilled hands.
It mocks my clumsy attempts at mastery,
Yet I love it still, in all its’ sizes,
whether it’s bigger or smaller, worn smooth or
fresh out of the box.
One ball, one basketball,
an object so filled with so much.

Black Boots

I'm sad
Not depressed
Not crying like a baby sad
Not like the saddest person on earth
But extremely sad
Sad that the zipper broke
Sad that the heels were worn down
Sad that I threw them out

Day 11:

Wood you like to grill?

Cedar plank
From a tree
Now you’re here
To cook with me.

Drink in water
For an hour
Then to the grill
To show your power.

Heat you gently
For three minutes
Flip you once
I think I get it.

Now the salmon
Sits on top
Grilling’s fun
Please don’t stop.

Time to taste
The luscious treat
Cedar plank
You can’t be beat!

The Candle
I brought my brand new candle in and placed it on the coffee table two days ago.
It sat there staring at me as I lit the wick the flame flared up really slow.
Once it was lit, the flame leaned far to the left and then stood up straight as if standing at attention.
Then the flame begins to flicker as though it is dancing with the ceiling fan or
maybe trying to hold a conversation.
Watching it as the flame is swaying back and forth I think maybe it's trying to run away from the breeze of the fan just like we try to run when things are uncomfortable to us.
Sometimes we get so jittery that we don't know which way to go and we probably look
as if we are flickering when scared or confused.
The puddle of wax at the bottom of the flame may be tears of fear.
Or maybe it's just a candle and doing exactly what it is suppose to do.
It gives off a sweet fragrance of strawberries and cream,
Which makes us day dream of good things that are get to be.

***oops...typos..corrections made.

The Candle

I brought my brand new candle in and placed it on the coffee table two days ago.
It sat there staring at me as I lit the wick the flame flared up really slow.
Once it was lit, the flame leaned far to the left and then stood up straight as if standing at attention
Then the flame begins to flicker as though it is dancing with the ceiling fan or
maybe trying to hold a conversation.
Watching it as the flame is swaying back and forth I think maybe it's trying to run away from the breeze of the fan just like we try to run when things are uncomfortable to us.
Sometimes we get so jittery that we don't know which way to go and we probably look
as if we are flickering when scared or confused.
The puddle of wax at the bottom of the flame may be tears of fear.
Or maybe it's just a candle and doing exactly what it is suppose to do.
It gives off a sweet fragrance of strawberries and cream,
Which makes us daydream of good things that are yet to be.

“Welcome to the Cat Ranch”
By: Nikki Markle

SissyCakes & TigerLily,
Imported from WV,
Dutifully producing a
Steady stream of kittens,
Like their mother, Katie,
Found in a IGA parking lot and
Named for Chopin.

Pure black Bocephus, with a
Name that doesn’t fit, three
Halloween-shaded babies, and a
Sweet, gentle nature.

Sammy Davis Junior Junior,
Long, ginger fur and pink nose,
Pretending not to want petted.

CatBurglar twins,
MungoJerrie & RumpleTeazer,
Always underfoot and
Stowing away in cars.

Carroty-colored Jasper &
Exceptionally furry Shy-Shy,
Newcomers to the Cat Ranch.

A box full of kittens is a
Crazy Cat Lady starter kit.

The Real Aladdin's Lamp (C) Richard-Merlin Atwater April 11, 2009
poetry prompt word: "an object"

The Khan-el-Kalili Bazaar of Cairo,
What an active hive for exotic treasure-trove.
Founded in the 1300's by Emir Djaharks-el-Kalili:
He set up a 'caravanserai' oasis grove.

Middle Eastern market vendors renown, famous to hawk their many wares,
Often sit and tell their stories to the local gentry folk.
Years of compilations from these fabled myths of allegory,
Led to Scheherazade's 'One-Thousand and One' "Epic Saga" yoke.

Then in Paris' Occidental literary circle: Seventeen -Hundred and Four (1704)
Came translations and renaming of the legends through the years,
Thus, “The Arabian Nights”, removed from 'the Arabic' Oriental stance---
Became the heart felt stories that European youth held so dear.

With a British 'new translation' come the volumes of our time:
"The Thousand Nights and One Night" of Dr. J.C. Mardrus,
'Cross the ocean to our clime, New England's shores;
Great-grandfather's wooden sea-chest held the contents of the "stardust"---

Sprinkled “pixy dust” the attic, of the mariner’s homestead lookout tower,
In my childhood seek to find it, next to Drake’s old wooden leg.
Sit to read King Shahyar’s once told legacy of lore---
To save the head of his fair damsel ‘story-telling wife’, I beg.

“Happy is the man that findeth wisdom,
And the man that getteth understanding”, (Proverbs 3:13)
Tales of magic from those books entwined;
Sweet tales of careless youth surround our underpinning:

All those memories come to haunt me, in my age of passing time,
Since I lived the life of “stories” in my travels ‘round the world,
On assignment ‘spies’ surround me as I ride my camel past the Sphinx,
To the Bazaar along the Nile, long since Moses’ rod came unfurled.

In misty scenes of shadowed light with darkness,
Like Hitchcock’s stage for myst’ried wonderment,
Egyptian damsel, no Cleopatra, takes me by proverbial hand,
Leads me past the shopkeeper’s displayed brass and copper tent.

Up a rickety, dusty staircase, to a catwalk platform trail,
Past the artisan workmen’s multi-layered cubicle cells,
Deep into the bosom of Khan-el-Kalili my transfiguration looms.
From Sinbad the Sailor, to Ali Baba, and now Aladdin---the story tells.

How I sought “the genied lamp” to seal my fate for glory’s time,
Wealth and riches, fame and fortune; everything, “my heart’s desire”,
I, Aladdin, with ‘lamp’ and ‘mystic friend’ by Solomon bound.
To grant my every wish, and keep within my soul the very “fire”!

On a shelf in the far corner of a vast expansive room,
Covered with the treasures only lustful pirates think about,
Lay ‘the object’ sought by many, one would know it instantly,
“The real Aladdin’s Lamp”, old and dusty, worn with time and “Gold Coast gout”!

“Yes”, I said to Cleopatra, that’s the one, I knew it sure;
Thus she reached to take it down and place now within my keep,
Such a sweet, subservient ‘slave girl’ truly from “Arabian Nights”,
Just like faithful Ali Baba’s “Morgiana”, watchman of the robber’s sleep,

Seductive ‘slave girl’ “Morgiana” who danced with sword, exotic dance,
Then cut off the head of “the Chief Robber” as he set upon the floor;
Saved the household of her master from the woeful circumstance,
Then led her master, Ali Baba, safely ‘cross the threshold out the door!

But I so fortuitously, chanced upon “the chick-pea seller’s daughter”,
Epitome of intelligence and charm, called dear Zayna, her Egyptian given name,
Though of peripatetic class she knew the way to prince’s heart,
And thus led me on to fulfillment of my ‘cloak and dagger’ game.

Wrapped in paper, brown papyrus, like a peasant’s present wrap,
Stole I past the guarded gentry to my desert far retreat,
Secret stow, I took it with me to my fair retirement home,
Rub it gently when I need it, thus now you know of ‘my success’ from “secret’s feat”!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Poet’s Note: Based on a true story of the life and legend of Secret Agent “006”, Major Richard-Merlin Atwater, 17th grand-nephew of Sir Francis Drake, the British piratical mariner of the circumnavigating vessel the “Golden Hind” under Queen Elizabeth I; an ancestral recipient of the old sea-chest and wooden leg of Captain John Drake. In my youth of the 1950’s along the Maine seacoast I used to climb to the 3rd floor “attic” lookout tower of our old seamen’s home at Old Orchard Beach. There set the wooden leg and old sea-chest of Captain John Drake (my paternal great-grandfather). Inside the Nova Scotian mariner’s sea-chest was contained the volumed books of “The Arabian Nights” which I read by moonlight as ‘stardust’ filled my eyes with exotic tales of the 1,001 night’s stories of Scheherazade. As a Captain of intelligence in 1980 I was assigned to Wadi Quena, Egypt to help plan the release of American hostages held in Iran through a rescue mission. Riding camel back past the Sphinx and Pyramids I perused Top Secret ‘classified documents’ at the American Embassy in Cairo, then went 300 miles into the Arabian Desert to present intelligence briefings to the commander AND aircrew who flew the mission. On one excursion to the Khan-el-Kalili Bazaar I lived the experience told in this poem. Years later I compiled a 700 page book titled: The Best of the Arabian Nights ISBN 0-9661380-5-8 and also a follow-on book Far Away Places and Strange Sounding Names ISBN 0-9661380-4-x which tell the details of my adventures as a “Secret Agent Man 006” as revealed in the song by Johnny Rivers. I have “The Real Aladdin’s Lamp” in my possession to this very day, and photos of my ride on camel back at the Sphinx are in my books. Captain John Drake’s wooden leg and old sea-chest (in my living room) set along side the artifacts of my world expeditions to 75 foreign countries as an American Defense Intelligence Officer with vivid accounts recalled in my autobiography book: The Man Who Helped Bring Down the Iron Curtain ISBN 978-0-9661380-6-6; all three books available at www.3swanspublishers.com And as Paul Harvey would say: "And now you know the rest of the story".

Rusted Coke Machine



if not obsolete
forgotten

rusted red coke
machine

drops cold relief
sizzling

in one weary
bottle

Slipper

It’s name says it’s quiet
and melts like butter.
No need to force
a foot in tight
like the unrelenting
boot; it’s smooth
as Cinderella’s glass.
Oh, I am a stepsister
until I get home
and fit inside
this slice
of leisure life.

for today, two haiku:


split rail fence--
zig-zag stiches
up the mountainside


a bird's nest
two broken blue eggs
no song

Old Brass Bowl


There you sit unmoved
observer of humanity
twice removed,
remnant of antiquity
but new and improved.

What wisdom could you impart
if you had a mind do?
Is there a secret in your art,
a semi-precious jewel
that might redeem a heart?

Will this new use be your last
obscurity claim you?
Observing life from the trash
until all evidence of you is lost.

Simple lines and solid form
and meant for holding coffee,
bought perchance and kept through moves
and sometimes washed or dusted,

Pens and pencils, rulers, scissors
flowers maybe - it depends -
I have kept and moved and held
this cup because it is exactly

The most relaxing shade of
Butter, manilla folder, ripe wheat yellow.
Rich, not ostentatious, the color
of old living rooms where love is.

Someday, before I am too old to help,
I hope, my house will hold a room
in which I hold my things,
and all the walls will be this perfect color.

Love Letter.

Wheels squeak, sneak a peek
White truck pulls close to the curb.

Hinge scrapes, flag deflates
Mail slides, so not to disturb.

Shoes on, soon I’m gone
Stepping out over the lawn

Flipped lid, see what’s hid
Letters to me soon withdrawn.

Loves me, longs to see
My face again in the fall

‘Til then, once again
I’ll read your words and recall

Sweet lips, arms that slip
Around me ‘fore you depart

Words stay, while away
You’re always here in my heart.

Billboard Manifesto

Phantom Fireworks haunt the lot behind
the Wal-Mart, and further down the road,
James Joyce GM sells trucks at low, low
prices instead of writing long, long prose.

HELL IS REAL screams one, while not
coincidentally the lot at the adult
bookstore across the highway is full
to capacity at seven in the morning.

4.5 ACERS are for sale on a small,
hand-painted slab of wood, its broken
spaces zigzagged like blank Scrabble
tiles, struggling for words to speak.

"Outhouse: A Haiku"
By: Nikki Markle

Knickkack outhouse, pink
Blossoms and green vines,
Perched atop TV.

Free As Wind

I stare at the model horse on my desk. Its
plastic muscles seem so real I can almost
feel the desert wind blowing my hair back.
I can nearly feel the pounding of the
hooves of my horse as they hit the ground
in rhythm. I can imagine pulling myself onto
his firm, warm back and urging him to race faster,
free as the wind. The feeling of dust filling my nostrils
is so realistic, I nearly cough. Then my mother calls,
and the spell of imagination is broken.

GREAT POEM, DJ Vorreyer!
LOVE THE IMAGERY & THE LINE ABOUT JOYCE :)
KUDOS!!!

SHOUT OUTS to the following poets:

J Martin - Hotel Room - Home is always the best place, loved the comparison/contrast.

Darrell Teubner - wonderful!

Judy - Gift - Priceless how people give of themselves and you captured that so well.

Connie - In My Insurance Agent's Lobby - It is so interesting how decorations in life can become clutter. I could just see this lobby in my mind - and me handing the tree to the receptionist!

Renee Goularte - The Rock at the Bottom of my Purse - You really captured the essence of everyday miracles!

Lisa Mrazik - 11 - I can relate! I rotate between not being able to find my keys and not being able to find my phone! Great humor use.

Cigarettes short sweet powerful true
Dog Tags bittersweet
thanks

Number 1s

Click click
double-pointed
metal friends

Round round
yarn knots into
woolen socks

Click click
tiny sticks
hold my hands

Mother and Child Dancing

Serpentine figurine in the palm of my hand;
smoothly formed curves of mother and child.
I can picture the maker pouring out love
cradling the object of dancing duo.
The bulk of the bodies so light, unburdened,
the message of love so much to behold.
My mother, her child, became a mother to her children.
Generations to follow carved in stone.

My Spiderman Cup

Is with me right now.
Holding my water so gracefully
Helping me wash down my trial mix.
I am not on a trail, but yet always on an adventure with my Spiderman
My friendly neighborhood Spiderman…Cup

My cousin is three and he likes my cup
One time, he thought he was going to take it
Nope.
My Spiderman Cup.
He said I was strange and that boys could only like Spiderman.
Nope.
My Spiderman Cup.
He tried to insult me so I would be embarrassed and give him my cup
Nope.
My Spiderman Cup

He is shooting a web out of one hand
And the other is balled up into a powerful fist
It makes me feel strong.
Like somehow the water in this cup has turned into some sort of
Spiderman go-go juice.
Maybe
It has.

It has this twist lid with Spiderman jumping these buildings that Is supposed to go on top
and this cool straw that is all Spidermaned out.
But I usually don’t use the straw.
Or the lid.
It takes away most of the adventure.
What is water if you can’t spill it?
Spiderman doesn’t use bendy straws.

But, I mean, if he did then I might think thatit was cool
And I’d probably use my straw too
I wonder if he does…?
If I turn into a Spider Super Woman because of this go- go juice and get to hang out in the Super hero lounge,
That will be the first observation of Spider (we are on a first name basis now)
Straw or no straw.

FAMILY TREE

Oh, family tree, oh, family tree,
my map of genealogy,
You offer proof of why I am,
where I have been and where I'll land.
Listing my descendancy
throughout my proudest ancestry.
Lineage, anticipated,
to all the folk that I'm related.
Why do I look like Uncle Ed
and just how long has he been dead?
Did we always live up here,
or did we come from over there?
Was this nose someone else's surpirse?
And where'd I get these slate blue eyes?
Was my family prone to cancer?
Raising more questions than it's answered.
Who's your Daddy?

Clothes Pin Man

Soft wood scraped
with a knife
to shape
a rough hewn face
and legs...
he looks like a clothes pin.

Arms made of skinny twigs
bending up to embrace
and welcome,
all glued in
a square blocked
wooden frame covered
with flat black paint
denoting mystery.

A gift
from friends
returning from
Saõ Paulo, Brazil.
They bought a larger version
of the same thing
for themselves;
four clothes pin men
in a larger frame
representing the four members
of their family.

Mine ties me to them;
to the strong spiritual bonds
of who they are...
I'm with them,
but not under the same roof.

Derek, Cica, Camila and Nicole.

Then there is Brian
a myserious clothes pin man.

(DAy 11, form 11. A shadorma, for Robert who likes this form. I do too!)

PUSSY WILLOWS

Slip of boy,
you come bringing that
fistful of
sticks. Catkins,
just opening--blushed yellow.
You leave me, leaping.

Objects relieve bordom

A crochet hook laying on the shelf
ir really does not look like much
but there is so much
that it can create
a blanket, a bed spread
and so much more...

A paint brush is standing in a cup
it can turn a canvas
into anything
that my imagination desires.

A pen laying on the table
I pick it up and let my mind
run free.

Patchwork Quilt

From the hands of time in history, began with Betsy Ross's patriotic flag,
This traditional hobby takes a lot of patience to unfold and transform,
Knitting pearls or crochet with needles, building blocks of squares,
Different colored patterns to form corners from fabric and blend in.

Easier done in groups than alone for productivity and accomplishment,
For a finished product for your home, a gift to someone or for profit,
Extra layers of warmth for cold days and comfort on your own bed,
Right now, my cat Sweet Pea prefers to lay on top of it on the couch.

The "Madonna's underwear" was very original!

Emily, I also have a Spiderman Cup, well more of a mug actually for my coffee. It was a gift from my wife. I also have a Batman credit card. Funny how our childhood icons follow us into adulthood. Great poem by the way.

Ralph.

Stitches

The string pulls
taught
his flesh puckers
toward
the needle suturing
mistakes
back together painfully
reminding
him his own
fragility
doesn't go away
beneath
kevlar and training.

PRAYERS FROM THE DEAD

I had not planned to pull the Saint Joseph Missal
from my bookshelf. Caught off guard, I open
its black vinyl cover to the well-formed inscription,
“Bud from Mary, Jan. 9, 1961.”
Dad’s forty-seventh birthday.
Mom’s tight printing spills to the facing page,
spells out Dad’s full name, address, telephone
number. She must have been the one
who typed the same information on the little card
inside the back flap of the book cover that instructs
the reader to call a priest in case of emergency.
Mom said Dad was from the wrong side
of the tracks, she kept him from straying.
She would have been happy, maybe delighted
that Dad went to mass after she was gone, found
solace inside the Church of St. Louis on
Cedar Street. I notice the ribbon to mark
his place in the missal between the first
and second Sundays of Advent, right about the time
Mom died. He must have stopped using the missal
then, needed to mark Mom’s place in it more than
the subsequent Sundays, because he left us near
the thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost.
I wonder if he couldn’t bear to hold this gift
from the woman he loved for sixty-five years
in his hands once she was gone, just as I
can barely stand to hold it in mine, the absence
of both of them still a gasp of surprise.
I find the Daily Mass for the Dead on page 1228
before I close the missal, replace it on the bookshelf,
struggle to remember what I originally meant to find.

Egg

Brown,
speckled,
blue-green,
gray-blue,
pale yellow,
white--
birds lay perfect
objects in their nests
to keep them
safe until
they’re broken
from the inside and
what was hidden there
pops out, alive
and peeping.

Ovum, uovo, oeuf, eier--
elegant form,
symbol of
new life.
Revering it
I downplay
the thing
that birthed it--
thing of embryo
and clear albumen
in calcium’s
thin case.
Blow out the
insides through
a pinhole and
decorate the
empty shell.

Make something
permanent of
marble, agate,
jade or brass
to pile into
a basket
for the table,
stand upright
on a tiny pedestal.
Beauty endures
in something cold.
The mutability
of fertile stuff
generates heat.

How sweet
this mug.
Half a pint of tea
in bone china
"Nothing but the best!"
I can hear my mother’s voice
echoing though the years:
Tea should be taken
from china, dear.
And this mug
specially made
and illustrated
with the cover of my novel.

Stuffed Rabbit

It wasn’t much
Just an old stuffed rabbit.
For her it was more than a crutch
though less than a habit.

She proudly carried it, though torn
Never saw her without,
Probably had it since the day she was born
She’ll take it with her, I have no doubt

Oh, we are not allowed to touch
She will bark and growl
Bare her teeth, In as much
as she lets you know, It’s mine now

She will however, play tug of war
With the rabbit as the means
But, she already knows the score
as she always wins it seems

I remember the day
that Rabbit was placed in the laundry
It was as if she’d lost her way
She looked just about everywhere
All through the day
It just wasn’t there

When the rabbit was returned
It had a different scent
Then the one she’d learned
Turning up her nose, showed her intent
As she walked away
Her head just a little bent
As if to say
She was not content

After all,
Rabbit was taken without her consent
That night she whined, howling as if to call
Rabbit back, from wherever it was sent

Of course, by morning
There Rabbit was, right under her chin
as if, that’s where it had always been. . .

©Ralph J. Fitcher, April 11, 2009, Object Poem. This is a true story of a dog I used to have, and
a stuffed rabbit she bonded with.

TOMATO (Cinquain)
by Therese Haberman

~ Tomato ~
Ripe redness
Devour with delight
Juicy scrumptious bursting beckoning
Fruit

Golden circle.
A promise of forever.
But circles don’t just connect
They go around and around
And around.
Like the same arguments
We always have.
A circle has no end.
And neither does your stubbornness.
This golden circle
Reminds me of nothing but that now.
So what to do with it?
Keep it?
Throw it out?
It does nothing but bind me to the past.
But I’m scared of the future.
I’m scared of it all.
So for now,
The golden circle
Sits in a box
With the bracelet from my birthday
And the necklace from Christmas
I shall never wear again.

:baby, blue booties:

we pack up things from your little room,
a corner of our own. Store them in brown boxes
hauled to attic corner spaces on Saturday. Drape
your blankets in the hall to dry, while teddy sits
and watches you to grow. We pack you away
in sterile plastics, a crate for your clothes, manila
for your hair. Ignore the rattle shaking
in the bottom of the basin daddy hauls upstairs.
We all but hide you away, but for two
old things, blue, hiding under the bed. And oh,
how you’ve grown.

April 11, 20009 - Ode' to an Easter Egg

The Egg is Nature's perfect package,
historically filled with mystery and magic.
Having universal meaning throughout the world
painted, decorated, glittered and swirled.

Hailed by the Pagans as the sign of rebirth
foretold as a spiritual omen of Earth.
Adopted by Christians at the rising of Christ,
symbolizing death overcome by life!

Polish legend tells of Mary's toil
forging the tracks to Jesus' soil
at the tomb she arrived with a basket of eggs
and they all turned to rainbows as he'd risen again.

And goldsmith's picked up on this Easter trend
with the Faberge egg emerging when
the Russian Czar wanted an egg for his wife
giving this gift, the symbol of life.

The Easter Egg more than a child's hunting game,
it is rich with history, a sure sign of Spring.
From Ancient lands to our modern times,
it still holds a place in the celebration of life!

Enchanted Forest

Within this forest witches walk,
They cheat and steal and lie.
Cats are King and frogs can talk,
And boys and monkeys fly.

Within this green and leafy bower
by chance a prince and maid will meet.
He will be looking for a bride,
She’ll wear glass slippers on her feet.

Within this forest a maiden sighs
Locked in her ivory tower.
A handsome prince comes riding by
And saves her with love’s power.

Enchantments whisper on the breeze,
Escape the natural bonds of time;
They cling to roots and glisten on leaves,
Waking fairy tales and nursery rhyme.

CLA

A Ticket To Woodstock

I have one, you know.
An original
From when I really went there
Back in, oh you know,
Back in 1969.

There was such chaos
And confusion
That no one took my ticket
Or even cared I had one.

Roads were backed up for miles;
We abandoned the car and got out and walked.
I got muddy
And tired
And never heard any music at all.

I saw a ticket like mine
For $110 on eBay,
And another for $299.95
On some memorabilia site--
But I’m not selling.

I want to keep it
For a while longer anyway
To remind me that,
Often,
The way things really were
Is not the way
History remembers.

Technophobe

So much depends
upon my computer
starting up
when I push
the button
in the morning.

Ode to a toilet

A toilet is a great thing to own. It's a place where some
people go to moan.
Without one you'd have to make a lot of pit stops. If you
go outside you might run into cops.
So be glad you have a toilet and appreciate it.
I gotta go, I have to take a ...

Easter Egg Thoughts '09

Eggs in a nest-basket
from a bunny seems
funnily strange,
for the range of
Redemption.

Ostra in a Pagan Spring,
the stirring of life
behind the coming light.

Bunny-funny eggs,
ovoid canvas for kids
and those patient enough
with minutiae for its own sake.

The delight of bright Fabergé
sparks Revolution,
dark and mechanical.

My eyes pull to the window;
bald eagle sentry in crooked fir,
just looking for a bunny,
concerned only with her own
eggs in a nest-basket.

SPORK

I love its deliberate schizophrenia,
its mutant cuteness---

its proud disregard
of its own redundancy,

as if the other utensils
were somehow confined

to a single food geometry.

I love its spine and tines,
and its silly bravery,

how it seems convinced
in a human kind of way

that it is one
of those fine, rare things

that can choose its uses.

Tadpoles

In the creek’s eddy,
tadpoles hover,
helicopters in a
syrup of clear water,
flowing slowly
round a corner,
cup of stones.

Currents create a
transparent sheltered
swirl there, where
they gather
for the taking.

A jar of tadpoles,
translucent,
filled with organs
and plumbing,
pulse life and
change, flick
of the tail, quick

day by day to
bumps and legs
extend, evolving
until they must
break the tension
and surface for
the first time.

Object of my Desire

You are the
object of my desire.
I know you find it
objectionable
to be objectified,
to be the
direct object of
I love you,
or the
indirect object of
I will give my love
to you
but my objective
IS desire
and it is
oh so difficult
to be objective
about you.

My Family Heirloom

The pitcher stands tall on the
bookcase in our bedroom
like a poised and majestic flamingo
with hand-painted and hand-signed
art deco magenta and green geometrics
trimmed in gold leaf.
My mother thought it came from Europe
sometime in the 1930s.
After some investigation
I discovered the pitcher was from Europe,
and the painting done later on
in Chicago.
I remember seeing it
first at my grandmother’s
atop her armoire in her tiny
seventh floor apartment
on Chicago’s West Side.
When she died it came to my parent’s
where it always stood
on a mantel in Chicago, Phoenix,
Los Angeles, Culver City
or wherever else they lived
until my mother gave it to me.
I never told her how much I wanted it.
Somehow she just knew.

The Sidewalk

I walk the sidewalks
Chanting the prajna paramita mantra.
"Gone, gone, gone beyond.
Altogether gone beyond.
Altogether free at last."

One day I will walk into that freedom
And never take another step
On the sidewalks here.
Free at last.

Quick post, company just walked in. I'll be back to read later! From what I've seen so far, some really neat objects out there.

~~~~~~~


hard
sharp angles
sleek black coat

cold
deadly bite
learn its charms

invigorating
target practice
armed and accurate

power
at hand
Glock and me


Nita G Isenhour
April 11, 2009
PAD Challenge prompt # 11: object
Form: Hay (na) ku

THE KITCHEN TABLE

A humble essential, it sits in a central space,
Supports baked goods, sides, and holiday dishes,
No flashy finishes adorn its plain face,
It hears whispered hopes, dreams, unspoken wishes.

For meals it provides a solid resting place,
Made from strong wood and stored within
Its spindled, shaped legs and smooth surface,
Reside memories of what it had been.

Remembrances of cloud and sunshine bright,
The feel of the cool wind and wet rain,
The dome of the starry sky at night,
The taste of the soil, the blade’s sharp pain.

Down on the underside of the table,
Adheres a small paper that few eyes ever see,
“Made in Indonesia” it reads on the label,
A small hint of a former tree’s history.

Journey from forest to kitchen, such a fable,
Of what travails would it speak, were it able?

The Medium of Freedom

To each his own, and I’ll keep mine,
all the feelings that rage and boil inside.
Anger, sorrow, fear and love,
all without meaning or medium.
I find freedom in a short plank of wood
with six strings down its neck.

Horny Toad

It must be heavy
carrying the Colorado plateau
on your back.
Spires, pinnacles, and a hoodoo head,
ruffles along your sides like Coconino sandstone
compressed
by the weight of the Kaibab.

Magnified,
you're Godzilla.
Eyes that squirt blood -
you could make a fortune
in Hollywood.

I know you're not
amphibious,
but listen, just listen
to what they call you -
"Horned Lizard."
Where's the poetry?
To me
you'll always be
a Horny
Toad.

Organizer

Organize me,
keep me on task.
I in-put information
names, addresses,
phone numbers, too.
I list methodically
the dates and times of
appointments, birthdays,
celebrations, meet-ups,
and due dates; even rate
their importance with stars.

I do understand the drill,
that people my age need
to write things down.
I check out the days events
the first thing in mornings light
commit it all to mind, but then,
something always slips by me.

I do my part dilgently, so
can’t for the life of me see
how my organizer has failed
once more in it’s task
to manage and organize me.

View from a Bed



The canvas holds an entire wading pool without
spilling a drop, blue liquid bound by white matte,
gilt frame. The girl is in it up to her knees—part of
one leg shows through translucent water, a foot


lost to depths. The child grips a large, pink bucket,
both hands tight around its rim. Her play makes foam
which sprays the immersed part of the bucket, a vessel
so overgrown, it looks as though the child plays with


a giant’s cup, and perhaps she is considering this,
her focus solely on the object she is holding. Sun
shines from behind the girl, casts shadow from her face
onto the shoulder which is in the foreground, upper


arm. The viewer feels the warmth on skin not sheltered
by the girl’s body—painter’s brush strokes decisive,
boldly loosed to the concentration the bather
displays, this solitary playtime, hot summer’s day.

HARDWARE RECEIPT

Misc Nuts, Bolts and Hardware 14.58
Misc Nuts, Bolts and Hardware 11.39
$10 OFF HOLIDAY POEM -10.00

The rest I can’t read, the register
was running out of ink.

They sell poems at a hardware store?
What kind of poems? Tin jingles –
clamp couplets – screwy sonnets –
steel sestinas – vinyl villanelles?

You say it’s a typo, they meant
“Holiday Promo.” What hardware store
makes a Freudian slip like that?
And how much does a poem cost
without the $10 off?

it’s just a cigarette butt,
flung from the window of a passing car,
still burning, it rolls to a stop at the
edge of the road,
coming to rest next to another.
It’s been a wet spring, no chance of fire.
I count fifty-nine in one-tenth of a mile,
then do the math.
590 butts per mile.
more than four million miles
of road.
it’s just a cigarette butt.

Mother Resides in the Eleventh Heaven

She was a juggler/fire-eater, could toss
eleven flaming torches, searing her words,
igniting them with lighter fluid spit.

Flame was her quick fix for acid
indigestion, it ended the reign
of that tiresome condition. She burped

it to kingdom come while muggers
and gadabouts in the crowd clapped.
Jugglers have a sacred place in heaven.

the loom


Warped some years ago
The loom sits,
Waiting patiently
For the weaver to return,
Beckoning me from
My place of unreality,
Inviting me to enter again
Into the realm of my dreams.

Lawn Mower

Your beginning
Is with Springs.
Moved from the back
Of the shed
Readied with
April showers to bring
Summer's growing grass
And weeds.
For a few months
The work is yours,
The beautiful lawn
Mine.

"Sideswiped by God"


They rattle (perhaps) in the jumble
of her purse or (maybe) they're
lost under the bed or (if I'm lucky)
carefully placed by her sink where
she sees them every morning.

She feels broken/bad;
she tries hard to forget them.
For me, it's dread and hope;
I remember
she doesn't live here anymore.

My baby feels sideswiped by God, in whom
she can't believe - there's no reason
why she should. He did her wrong.
For me, the pills keep her alive;
She wants to live without them.

Mother Resides in the Eleventh Heaven

She was a juggler/fire-eater, could toss
eleven flaming torches, searing her words,
igniting them with lighter fluid spit.

Flame was her quick fix for acid
indigestion, it ended the reign
of that tiresome condition. She burped

it to kingdom come while muggers
and gadabouts in the crowd clapped.
Jugglers have a sacred place in heaven.

Achievement

He worked behind the scene
administered staff, wrote reports
kept things running smoothly
while other men designed, created
trained for great adventure
gained fortune and renown

Exulted when all went well
when not, mourned the loss of crew
cared as much as anyone

In white-haired old age
displayed a plate
protected under glass
with the historic date
three names
and "First Men on the Moon"

Sometimes announced proudly
to those who’d listen
"I shook their hands"

Here's a really silly one:

These Bees

Every time I go outside, to enjoy my beautiful deck,
The Yellow Jackets do decide to promptly give me heck.
Such a gorgeous mountain view, such a beautiful day!
Whoa, wait, no, not you! Get off me! Go away!
Ugh, these god forsaken wasps will be the death of me.
The moment spring forwards on the clocks, I’m surrounded by these bees!

My Guitar


My guitar,
wood and steel,
hides in its case

until I lift it up,
until I hold it in my arms
and in my lap

and then its soul
touches my fingers
and its song is born

for you, Tatiyana (my lonely matryoshka)

Still life,
lifeless within.
Flesh & flowers, you split
in half without a cry. Drops of
silver
on your glimmering dress won’t split
those crimson lips, pursed tight,
never flashing
a smile.

--starky morillo

History

Our stepladder sports multi-hued scars
of all the places we've lived and worked.
That pink splash is the not quite right room
which was meant to be soft mauvey rose.
The gash on the top almost killed me--
well, the thing that made it almost did.
Most white spots came from the chicken house.

I brought it from Daddy's--afterwards.
This shiny streak down the right front leg
happened when he varnished paneling.
In a photo, somewhere, a toddler
proudly holds up a brush, standing tall
on the first rung to "paint" the garage.
I suppose, someday, some great grandkid
will ponder these historic post cards.

How blithely our stuff outlives us.

The Object that was Thrown


Triangular
shape
mostly
smooth
little pock marks
throughout
perfect palm size
random
hard
grey
rock
thrown
by
twelve year old boy with braces
landed
car’s rear hatch
left
almost perfect indentation of itself

Big Truck

Some have four wheels
some have eighteen
some are nice and shiny
some have never, ever been clean

Dogs like to ride in them
little boys, too
some ladies drive them
Mine? It's baby blue

They can haul big loads
they can even haul beer
on the front you can strap
a fresh-killed deer

You need one in the country
to haul away your trash
we need one for that
but don't have the cash

They are featured in country songs
along with women, trailers, and dogs
my neighbor has one
with his he hauls logs

my son thinks they're great
he always points them out
as we're driving down the road
he points at them and shouts

"Look Mommy! Big Truck!"
He's a little man, my son
he loves the big trucks
and he's not the only one

Catcher
By R Chazz Chute

It was at the back of a basement closet
and shoved back of mind, too.
Two days after the funeral and
we rushed to get the house ready for sale.
“Clearing out what’s ahead to
put it behind,” Bob said.
My brothers were hard, throwing
their childhoods into the big blue
dumpster in Mom and Dad’s driveway.
(Well, nobody’s driveway now.)
They complained the old soldier comics
were too beaten up
(blaming me for being youngest and heir
to all broken toys and kneed-out pants.)
The only thing Joey wanted to save
was an old ringer washer, “for some kook
collector on eBay,” he said.
Mom and Dad kept broken toasters and Hummel
figurines they used to give out in Red Rose tea.
And they kept going,
kept each other going,
until they didn’t.
My sister claimed all the baby pictures,
saying she’s send us each a CD, but
she didn’t trust any of us with the original albums.
Tamara got all the fancy china
(which we’d never been allowed to use)
“because I’m the daughter,” she said.
“Oh, and any jewelry goes to me,”—she softened,
just a bit, when she saw his face—
“to share with Bob’s daughters, of course.”
“The will is going to be ugly,” I said.
“Fugly,” Joey said, and dumped the utility drawer
straight into a garbage can, no sorting out
newish batteries or useful keys amongst the
chaff of eyehooks and forgotten lists of things
to pick up at the pharmacy.
Bob had been crying
(you can always tell)
but wouldn’t talk, not to me.
You couldn’t pry him away from his Blackberry, though.
Tamara’s jaw was tight but it didn’t keep her
from biting out words at us.
Joey muttered to himself and,
impressively, had managed to pace his rage so
there was still plenty left
even after so much time away.
So there I was in the basement, keeping away from
my brothers and sister when I found
the forgotten antidote.
The long bamboo handle had collected thirty some
years of dust and the hoop was flat on one side
but the net was just as good as when Mom bought it
(for me, just for me!)
at that store that isn’t there anymore.
I forget the name.
I don’t remember how old I was,
little and still cute, I guess.
I called them “flutterbies” then
so Mom called them that, too.
She kept asking for me to say it again.
“What will you catch with this?”
“What are they called again? Say it again!”
“Say it again!”
“Tell Daddy!”
I pull it out from behind forgotten coats and
Dad’s old snowmobile suit,
“Bombardier” stitched across the chest.
I run my hand along the handle,
feeling for…what?
I know. I’m looking for The Time Before.
They kept this cheap old net
like a secret message for me
to remember long careless summer days.
And I do remember my haystack hair
bleached nearly white.
The girl next door teased me for my freckles
I was put out, but enjoyed it, too,
I didn’t know why.
I remember now.
There was a time
before the ambulance came to claim the queen,
before our king grieved
in a fever dream
(She kept him in check.)
Too vulnerable and weak without her
he succumbed to the remedy of Jamaican rum
and the alluring aroma of gun oil.
“Flutterby,” I said.
“Flutter by.”

The Birthday Gift

You gave me the necklace
a silver ball that chimes at my neck
whispering
harmony
copper continents
glistening
All the world
at my fingertips
"I give you this so you always know
where to find me"
you laughed as I cried

The morning after you left
tiny continents broke off in my hands
Your cruel joke
reminding me
all that seems tangible
is not
nonetheless real.
I looked skywards
cursing the heavens
your sense of humor
crossing time and space

Two decades
the necklace adorns me
I carry you with me
wherever I go
the world at my disposal
because of your gifts.

See Through

X-ray specs
Secret power they posses
Look through a door
Or see through a dress

I put them on
And fool my friends
They stare in awe
At my secret lens

Following the Terns (by Jeanetta Chrystie)

They skitter at the water’s edge,
A hundred tiny tracks,
Then feed in a receding wave
And as a group dash back.

As though some unseen signal came
All suddenly turn right,
Then left, then back, their little game –
A rather funny sight.

And yet again, the signal giv’n,
The terns at once take flight
And swerve in unison aloft
As though a single kite.

Hummingbird

You startle me with your swiftness
amaze me with your iridescence
and leave me bereft with your departure.

PAD- April 2009
Prompt- Object

Old Christmas Wreath

Three wet white daffodil
frame all that is left of
a radiant time,
a rusty wire ring
of gray tattered twig,
knotted to tree fork,
pecked but featherless,
once a rare necklace
of crimson hazelnut
and walnut beads,
fit for the Snow Queen,
then a scarce gift for
a pickpocket squirrel
in winter cold.

© Gretchen Gersh Whitman April 2009

ODE TO A LIGHT BULB

Stand up and bow
my incandescent brother,
Your job is important,
it is like no other.
When you carry a load
you provide illumination,
saving us all from
darkness infestation.
You did well in school
your reasons are right,
You needn't have studied
'cause you're always so bright.
You light up the kitchen
and my Christmas tree,
my landscape and cellar,
I'm glad I can see.
I need you around
for all that is viewed,
But, for you to work
you have to get screwed.

The Prize

It took a single throw of my father's arm
To win me my prize
A blue stuffed bear with white polkadots
Who gained entry into my imagination.

I played with him as I would a friend
Cared for him
Looked after him
Made him into the hero of my dreams.

He was forever present in my room
Until I cast him aside
In favor of others.

I found him in a crude box
Withered and torn
My mother sewed him up
And he never left my room again.

Through elementary school he was there
Through the heartache of high school
Into college and beyond
He was always a source of strength.

He sits in my room still
A link to carefree days
A face that I can always look upon with a smile
He is my friend still
My prize.

The Book

It calls to me

Condemnation and liberation
Laws that I've broken
Love of God spoken
Complete emancipation
Not just a mere token
But love really shown

I answer the call

“New Seedling”

A fallen racehorse
Mauve or brown – head

Tucked in between limbs
Still life metamorphosing from

A sight-deterred seed, pale
Unmoving in the damp silky soil

To a green-eyed canopy unfolded
Voodooed into living the

Life of an

Unraveled

Seedling.

IT Is Out There

I don’t quite understand what it is,
With arms all askew in the air.
Made of metal and paint,
I know just what it ain’t,
And that is something quite rare.

He once put it up in the garden,
Then moved it to stand in the yard;
Causing many to wonder
What he’d rent asunder.
So bad: it needed a guard!

At Christmas he put some lights on it
And lit it up for all to view.
From the highway you’d see
A magnificent “tree”.
Hah! Guess the joke is on you.

To be fair, his heart was quite in it.
To get great results, he’d planned long;
Spending time and hard cash
For the “ultimate splash”.
Enjoy his avant- art song.

THE OLD ONES

1969 Volkswagen Beetle.

Ivory, the color of old bone.

One antenna.
Asymmetrical.
Warrior that has lost something in battle.

Hubcaps, rusty due to piss from the old
cat Sam who repeatedly marked it as his own.

Sam's skull.
It now rests on the mantel.
We found it years ago under the pokeberry.

THE OLD ONES

1969 Volkswagen Beetle.

Ivory, the color of old bone.

One antenna.
Asymmetrical.
Warrior that has lost something in battle.

Hubcaps, rusty due to piss from the old
cat Sam who repeatedly marked it as his own.

Sam's skull.
Now rests on the mantel.
We found it years ago under the pokeberry.

BUCKLE SHOES ON MAIN STREET
Buckle shoes on Main Street, she thought with a smile
Beautiful and bashful
sitting in the window
watching the world, shiny and waiting
for her to return

He left in the morning
after a night of goodbyes
Explained she should move on
to a different place, to a hobby
or a dream
it takes the place
of what might come, emptiness
or a condition
So worried about her state of mind, anyway
he’s found another, one that’s gentle
and needs such sweet attention

On her lunch time break, she can’t even see
what’s in front of behind
She doesn’t remember his smile, smoky eyes
or the fiery beginning, she only dreams
of returning to Main Street
How wonderful she’ll feel, so proud and lifted
Solid, sufficient

Two more avenues of severe intent
out of breath, round the corner
So many faces, pushing her back
into sadness, she fights past the thickness
and touches the glass
Rests her head against
that special place
and smiles alas, at the buckle shoes!!
left in the morning
without coffee or rebuttal
a handsome grin and a crumpled collar
Reciting the reasons, watching the signs
he turns on the engine...

She never heard his ragged excuse, she only needed
to in love, at last
She closes her eyes, finally saved
by the buckle shoes on Main Street

Karin Contovasilis- chillyb1@hotmail.com

Tulip

The sunlight pours in
Casting shadows in its wake.
As the window opens
A cool breeze blows
Mobilizing dust particles to scatter.
Leaves rustle
Clouds become fixtures
In the otherwise clear, blue sky
As a young girl
Curious
And contemplative
Peers at the one tulip
She has planted
As it blossoms with the coming spring.

My mixer
Just the thought of it brings a little pitter patter to my heart
Whirling twirling goodness in a bowl
Years of memories sit on my counter
inviting me to make more
Potlucks, parties, baby showers
After school snacks, friendly get togethers
Once shiny and new
Now floury and beaten
barely hanging on after years of wear
I'd grab it in a fire
Plug in some love

A young girl wrote me today
While walking through campus
she found something to say
The vision she saw
a decayed fruit peel
Her awareness did draw
Someone would have seen, but most do not care
One girl felt the need to proclaim
that this abandoned object was lying there.
What does it mean when we see but do not act
We talk grand and do nothing
The unknown, forgotten, is now human fact.

BUCKLE SHOES ON MAIN STREET
Buckle shoes on Main Street, she thought with a smile
Beautiful and bashful
sitting in the window
watching the world, shiny and waiting
for her to return

He left in the morning
after a night of goodbyes
Explained she should move on
to a different place, to a hobby
or a dream
it takes the place
of what might come, emptiness
or a condition
So worried about her state of mind, anyway
he’s found another, one that’s gentle
and needs such sweet attention

On her lunch time break, she can’t even see
what’s in front of behind
She doesn’t remember his smile, smoky eyes
or the fiery beginning, she only dreams
of returning to Main Street
How wonderful she’ll feel, so proud and lifted
Solid, sufficient

Two more avenues of severe intent
out of breath, round the corner
So many faces, pushing her back
into sadness, she fights past the thickness
and touches the glass
Rests her head against
that special place
and smiles alas, at the buckle shoes!!
He left in the morning
without coffee or rebuttal
a handsome grin and a crumpled collar
Reciting the reasons, watching the signs
He turned on the engine

She never heard his ragged excuse, she only needed
to in love, at last
She closes her eyes, finally saved
by the buckle shoes on Main Street

Karin Contovasilis- chillyb1@hotmail.com

It hangs on my belt loop even as we speak
a symbol
a marker on the time line
of life

A myriad of meaning
dangles from the string
faith
hope
love
life
dedication
conviction
passion
and the demise of each one
one by one
over time

Rosary on my belt loop …
I bet that’s listed as a blasphemy
in a book
Somewhere
A book penned by someone
holier
than me

The heavens
remain silent
on this
and all matters of faith
Silent as always
As mute as the cross that dangles
from my belt loop

LOL! This poem was literally thrown together in under 3 minutes, just for the sake of not breaking the streak! The day before Easter ... ya get what ya get!!!


My Pairing Knife...

My pairing knife
is busy
peeling potatoes
chopping eggs
cutting off strawberries
little heads
hahahaha
dicing onions
slicing kiwi
and mango
asparagus tips
too
My pairing knife
needs a nap

“For Sale: Wooden Tabletop Artist Dummy with Missing Left Foot”

Someone took a Sharpie, black,
gave him an identity based on
hair. Horseshoe moustache, muttonchops,
thicket of chest and forearm growth. (Nothing
on his back.) Lift the poseable shoulder joints—
walrus armpit sprouts. Thin line
notched like picnic ants from
non-existent belly button
disappears beneath a modest thong
drawn like an eyepatch. (Also:
this dude wears a watch. Time is
frozen—9:05. Gold chain bling,
$ medallion.) Scattershot blast of
overgrown pubes. Stippled
nether region. Still works well for
life-like anatomical figure sketching, despite
the hobbled foot. Good
conversation piece. Hate
to let him go.

Viola
*********

Wrapping my calloused fingers
about your narrow neck
I straddle your hips
finger you teasingly
about the f holes
and elicit
your most ecstatic tones.

You are my Spruce and Maple lover.

No Source/No Object
---------------------
What good is an object,
Without its source,
A shell of a program,
Nothing of course.

Creating the logic,
And code takes a while,
Then there's more waiting,
While it compiles.

Abstract can check it,
For CLiPs that it calls,
Let's hope that no one,
Hacks the firewalls.

JOINT VENTURE

Jerked around one time too many, put
Off, fallen through the cracks and left to rot,
I was skeptical about parole, afraid to hope.
Never touched a speck of dope, not inside
The joint, where I could draw attention, get
In trouble, rock the boat. But when a buddy
Nagged and challenged me to smoke, should I be
Turned down by the Board, I said "What the
Hell", and acquiesced. Sure
Enough, you've guessed, they turned me down.
Jonesing to be free, disgusted, crushed, his
Offer of a joint to ease my anguish seemed the thing.
I inhaled, got high, and let myself forget.
Nothing else said "screw you all" like
That one little marijuana cigarette.

(April 11, 2009) Dianne Borsenik

I saw you first in a booth
at the bazaar
"biggest bazaar in Japan"
"Over 100 vendors"
tucked among the other antiques
like a common nick-nack

You were heavy in my hand
your nose was chipped
your skin was cold
and you were perfect

A tiny bronze replica of the
Great Buddha
seated in state at Kamakura
I paid the man five dollars
and took you home

Now you sit in state on a pile
of books on my desk
and wait for me to pick you up
and remember

Martin Guitar

Beneath his eloquent hands
in the spotlight glow,
the pure, rich notes
of his spruce-topped guitar
joins me down lonely streets
and takes me home.

The book called from across the room.
I turned back toward the computer ignoring it.
You left Anita in a vile predicament. It whispered quietly.
Anita is always getting in trouble. I thought as I tried to type the poem for the day.
Will it be the vampire or the wolf that gets her, maybe a zombie or a demon? The voice raised in excitement.
I stood and took the book to the next room to set it out of site but it wouldn’t let me put it down. The book fell open at the bookmark. The chair beckoned and I was lost.

“The Scarecrow’s Brains”

Go-to
idea guy
dependable
on the
Yellow Brick
journey
to Oz
but
STILL
he needs
that measure of
bran
mixed with
many
pins and
needles
in order
to
believe.

Novelty

He wore the x-ray glasses bought
through the comic book advertisement, and saw
the rip-off: a faint double-image
but no harvest of pink panties and lace bras.

So he threw the specs into the drawer
with the broken joy buzzer, and swore
he'd save for something useful or fun like
Chinese handcuffs or a BB gun.

Yet next day he noticed, materialized
like a lemon-juice message from a lit
kitchen match, the same frail halo
ringing people he met, as though

each were curtained in a caul of doubt
or a sheath of limit or a burkha
of regret or a veil of failure, but they
braved their way forward, hacking away

at the stifling border, halloing amid
the invisible tangle in hope of finding
another survivor, one like mind
to see them through.

Sunshine

Shining brightly down on me
Leaves me with a toasty glow
Just an object in the sky
Shining brightly

Your words are magical to me
make me beam from head to toe
They’re like sunshine for the mind
Shining brightly

Object

The ceramic doll with the long Colonial-style dress
A shiny black bun on top of her head
Penetrating black eyes
Keeping watch over your bedroom
You kept her in the corner cupboard
Along with other antiques
On display
When a special occasion arose
You took her from the cupboard
You turned her upside down
You reached your hand up her skirt
and removed a wad of cash.
"Who would look there?"
You said.
My Granny.
Yes, who indeed?

This gave me the most difficulty and again I am not that happy with it. But it took me three hours to write so this is going to have to do.:)

Barbara


My piano

Mom wanted to keep it
in her living room to hold
her picture frames
Our photos stared at me
each time I sat on her
gold couch always covered
by the green couch cover
I’d beg her to give the piano to me

She never placed her hands
on the ivory keys –kept the
cover closed and the objects
on the top of it
dusted. The legs of the piano
bench moved so there wouldn’t
be a mark in the gold carpet

I’d visit from across the street,
where we landed after Buffalo,
to play. My fingers moved
over the keys wanting to be better.
Amusing myself in an hour stolen
away from children’s prattle and
endless tasks.

I’d play my favorites, “Arragonnaise” and
“Fur Elise” improvising and dreaming
The music moving me beyond her small
Kew Gardens living room into a world
filled with peace and the crisp sound
of major and minor chords as my
right hand tapped notes harmonizing
with the dreamy pleasure found when
I opened the cover and music floated
over and through me obliterating
sirens and doors slamming. Again
I’d ask when will this be mine?
Never wanting to hear the answer
Knowing the sad day

That day came and we moved
the piano everywhere we lived
Though it is not played
once more mute, untuned
Again a display piece.

She didn’t want the piano
all those years ago
The tune she wanted was me.