TKS for your help Brian! We breathe again! NEW LIFE! AHHHH!

Yes, thank you Brian and Robert both for all your efforts!

At the Breakwater Restaurant

There was a time
before I knew him
that I loved my father,
his boisterous laugh,
his gripping tickle,
the way he ran like a torpedo
into the water of Long Lake.

Now I see him
bony shoulders slumped
sitting in the back seat of the car
waiting to be driven home
unable to finish his breakfast.

I am still hungry.

The menu holds nothing
but the smell
of new coffee.

Thanks, Brian, for getting us up and writing again.
Patricia



Lemon Grass

You bring lemon grass for my garden,
three clumps, enough to share.
So tall it stands, looking like wild grass
that might grow along the creek.
I could get lost in its long blades.
I wonder if it’s wroth the space it will take,
clip a piece between fingernails.
Chew it slowly, feel the lemon
flood my mouth. I nod yes,
this is worth the large chunk of land.
I taste in my mind the teas,
soups and stir fries to come.

POCAHONTAS SINGS TO HER HUSBAND, JOHN

I can’t tell you my secret name. Only
my father names me by that name.
I can’t show you how I ran naked before
I was eight or the deerskin skirt I had
at twelve. My turkey-feather winter-cloak
is gone like the sands of time dripping down
in the hourglass you keep on your desk.

But I can show you the pot my mother made
with her own hands from the earth by the river
before my father, the Pohowtan, sent
her away to live with another man
in another village and I never saw
her again. Remember, after you English
came to our shores, women pressed your cloth
into the clay pots to make new designs.

I am my mother’s pot, my flesh is
her living clay, and you, John, have pressed your cloth
into my fabled skin and made me new,
laying dead fish into your corn-rows to
make them grow, growing big-bellied with child,
the boy I sing to when you call me
Rebecca, the noose who snared you, and I
call you Isaac when I hold you inside

my soul still turning cartwheels by tide
pools in Virginia, by rivers of water
frothing white over darkened waves where
the ocean meets Tenakomakah lands,
where the ocean from the east meets the river
from the west, north of Jamestown, where
your people first settled and I fed them
corn and pumpkin seeds when they were dying.

The dying lived, and you came, and brought me
back to the King of England who danced
with me at a masque as Ben Jonson’s players
revealed a vision of delight, harmony
and wonder, heralding a spring I will
never see with you, my John, my Isaac:
hold my hand in yours, my husband,
for it is enough that our child shall live.

Jane Beal
sanctuarypoet.net

She wobbled,
a teetering wreck,
then righted to take
choppy steps
to the rail

Stopped with her toe
as told
Shavings of ice
landed between
white leather and skin,
melted at the ankle

Toes numb,
legs sliding out
like a newborn foal,
she felt clumsy
and alive

Measured her new gait
in stumbles and saves,
watched the world spin by
on white
through the mist of her breath

Three Part Breath
- Dirga Pranayama

IN

The air into my nose is sharp. Cold though the room is hot. Hot Yoga. To keep the muscles warms. To generate sweat. Slick. Heat. My cold nose out of place. My thick body out of place and shape.

OUT

My eyes want to open as I exhale. When I think of pulling my navel towards my spine, as the instructor suggests, my back arches, my shoulders create a cave of too thick cotton shirt on my spine. I should wear something thinner. Dare to show my arms. I want to believe no one is looking at me. My exhale is short. Not shallow. Low valley covered with fog.

IN

Here I am supposed to have some different kind of breath. Deeper. Be a balloon she says. The woman next to me seems to rattle with each movement of her breath. I picture her nostrils like a dragon. I want to be a dragon. A quiet one. I am outside of this breath.

OUT

The instructor has her hand on my back. I worry about my sweat. I try to fill into the cup of her palm. I think of the doctor’s office. The stethoscope checking for untoward sounds. Can she hear through her hand? Are her fingers microphones. I’m new they read.

IN

She has moved on. Reminding her students of the deepest breath. The third level. Stay with your breath. With your pace. Your place. I am not there. I am in the cold early breath. My ears too full of pressure as if something was mounting. Of travel into altitude. New climates.

OUT

Too loud, the breath, it slips out of my mouth. Held too long. Tears wait. How can it be hard to just breathe?

Jessie Carty
http://jessiecarty.wordpress.com

Thanks Brian!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Enter Something New

A new universe
A new sound
A new smell
We enter something new

A new sight
A new feeling
A new world
We enter something new

The old is long
but forgotten
The old is nowhere
to be found

As we enter something new...

Mid Life Crisis

Her kids have flown
the coop, and so has
she. Fifty is knocking
at her door, but she
wants to be twenty again
and live the life she
never had. Married at
a young age and a mother
soon after, she went
from her parent’s loving
arms to her husband’s.

So she trades in her
mommy car for a sporty
convertible and rides
around town with the
top down. The wind blows
through her hair like
a fan on a hot day.
Even though she never
likes to get her hair
messed up, she tilts
her head back and
laughs just the same.

laurie k.

CHANGING VOICE

Wheat colored field grasses reach
upward, towering above summer’s growth.

Dense cat o' nine tails are dwarfed by
these stalks with feathery plumed hats.

Autumn wind sets fields to motion,
grasses a cascading water-fall.

Audibly trickling, sheaths, yellowed,
brittle; sounds a melodic, aquatic symphony.

Thick tufts all follow each other, closely;
a rhythmic swaying as a large mass of people.

Moving perpetually, some in sync; some set apart
with a solo purpose, all uniting in underlying passion.

Lollipop Guild, Step Aside

It had been such a long time
since she had gone anywhere grownup
on her own.

This thought ran through her head
as she navigated unfamiliar streets
with strange sounding names
trusting her new GPS
(never needed one till now)
with all her might.

What would she find
when she finally arrived?
Hours spent dressing
oh so carefully
can take a person only so far.
Of this she was quite sure.

There comes a time
when a woman must open her mouth
introduce herself or be introduced
make real-life conversation
with real-life adult people
to whom she is not related
by blood or marriage.

Marriage -- there was that word again
the one that haunted her
as she peered in the bedroom mirror
wondering if the brand new outfit
would end up being the wrong thing
as usual -- or so he'd always told her.

Too much thinking, she scolded herself
suddenly aware that the GPS had done its job.

What happens next, she wondered.

Then, like Dorothy reaching Oz,
she approached the door
that led to the rest of her life.

A New Year

I enter a new year of life
hard to believe I am this old;
I can remember turning ten.

The decades have made me
grandmother, uncharted ground,
someone considered old;

but I still feel young, wear
my blue jeans, flashy Nikes,
forget my age unless

I look in the mirror. Wrinkles
shock me sometime. Who
is that with greying hair?

I argue with the calendar
I still like a teen, almost
immortal, that I have decades

yet to enjoy rich days.
At least I can hope
calendar age is superficial.

I enter a new year optimistic
that this one will be even
better than the last.

Thanks all!

My poems will be from the pov of my 28 year old character in my nanowrimo novel or a child's pov. I'll try to have them make sense out of context, but they might not.



Once a Nurse

First day
On Bart the Bus
To flapper-type jazz music
Like one of their comic routines
One after the other
I met the clowns as children
Pip as Olyvia making her doll dance
Squeak as Caleb wishing they were always clowns
Tumbles as Hayden telling me how smart he is
Clara as Emmy letting me hold her hamster
Frizzy as Liz sharing my love for literature
Then I met their teacher
We accidently kissed
Now I’m the clown.

" Entering Life "


She leaves the life she once knew to begin again
She's unsure of what is ahead for her.
she sits and wonders how she can change her life.
She's unsure of where it will lead her in her choice.
She knows what she did is right, she just doesn't know
where its going to lead her.
She enters life again for the first time alone, on her own.

Many thanks, Robert and Brian. We're grateful to you for keeping us writing.

New
This is new
This body that doesn’t do as I say
Time stopped for an instant
When it started again nothing was the same

I know how it should work
I feel it in my head
My muscles remember
But the neurons refuse to fire

Like my truck missing piston strokes
I lurch roughly across the ground
Moving forward, to be sure
But there is nothing graceful to be seen

This is my brave new world
Where triumph is measured in inches
And motion is its own reward

"Wood Ducks"

On broken concrete left by the celery farmer
who fled this swampy land long ago
the bright-headed wood ducks
light up the shadows by the lake’s edge.
The clocks fell back today;
and the trees are almost all bare.
What can begin now? Our coats
are not warm enough; there is mud
on our shoes, and it’s already November.
Still the ducks turn, plunging into
black rippled water, nudging each other
forward, toward the green reeds.

Thank you, Brian!

Where Angels Fear to Tread

she stood on the ledge of the well
not so much balanced as fixed
as stable at the well-house rafters above her
feet set on the stones, sit tight without mortar

the breeze moved around her,
touched her hair as it passed
then left her still

She bent, curved her body
like a cormorant's wing
and dropped into the water

She had checked the water levels
daily, more than daily, over and over
for long enough to be forever
fretting if it wasn't full,
leaning in just long enough to make repairs
then right back to waiting and fussing and praying and crying
for the well to fill

eternal moment of panic, released in a
calm stream of bubbles
serene, she drew in a deep breath
let all that wasn't water go, to float and dissipate
as she sank to the bottom,
slotting in between the rocks and sand
that clogged the depths

She moved between, along, around
every sharp edge, every heavy mass,
grinding her heart against them,
smoothing edges, breaking down anything that didn't
support the well, or that blocked it's smooth flow

Thanks Brian & Robert:

Here is my poem for today:

Another Time Another Place

Another time
another place...

I would recognize your face.
This disease has forged
through my being...
I hear without seeing.

Another time
another place...
I would age with grace.

This disease has taken
hold...
I watch my life unfold.

Another time
another place...
I would not live in disgrace.

This disease has attacked
my past...
My present and future are
exiting fast.

Another time
another place...
my memories
would not fade...

©2009 Debra Ann Elliott

Thanks for helping

Debarkation

they left him and two other scarecrows on the dock
beside a canvas bag of mail its brass lock half ripped off
beside a bale of something smelling dead
and three bare sea bags flat as hunger
rowed themselves back to the ship to make clear water
rowed fast as hell back to beat the storm
It’s coming boys the oldest pile of rags said like a curse
They’re gonna wish they stayed before its done
the youngest whined a question used to orders now
from months of kicks and threats and nothing coming now
the oldest straightened like a man and looked to land
You find a place
above the surge
You call it home

Into Hades

I entered the tomb,
the very grave I feared,
the endless deep abyss;
like Orpheus, descended
into the heart of Hades.

There I found the center
of my lifelong fears,
the reasons and the causes
of my present demise
and plucked it from the Devil's hand.

It was small and smooth,
like a pearl, a pearl that I had grown
by surrounding the tiny grain
of a childhood irritation
with all my anger, fear and hatred.

The Devil looked me in the eye
and smiled an oily insincere smile.
"It's yours if you want it," he said,
but I knew there'd be a price
too high for me to pay.

I threw that pearl in the Devil's face
and while he was looking down
to search for it, I ascended,
leaving all my pain and sorrow
behind for him to choke on.

Renewal

Grey corners at the edge of a blue sky
fold back like a blanket
inviting me to rest.

A new creature arises with the dawn.

My first time being part of the challenge!

Eve


She rose from his side,
her eyes full of colors,
her hair moving softly: Why,
when her hands were still?
The air was warm. She looked up
at brightness spilling
gold across her body.
The man called out,
moved restlessly in sleep.
It is a man, she whispered,
wondering at the word.
She knelt and touched
the mark across his chest,
knew it was the door
she’d finally come through.

Thanks for getting us writing!

Entering the Dance

You lead me to the hall
Where the contra dance will begin.
Your steady hands and shameless gaze
Lead me through the unfamiliar moves.
“Flirty,” you call it, keeping eye contact
As the caller speaks the words of dance:
Side right – side left –
Arm right – arm left –
set left – set right – and turn....
Then hand in hand we stroll the lane
To dip under waiting arms raised high
So to reunite on the other side.
Then with our hands held high above
We raise the gates to welcome love.

Elizabeth K. Keggi

Gravity

It’s new
this wind
on skin
rush
the blush
of her cheeks
as she breathes
him in
the sensation of having
jumped
off
of
something
solid
and
wondering
when feet will once again find land.

Exhilaration
and terror
do the tango together
to the rhythm of her racing pulse
both studiously ignoring
the set of her jaw
the law
and logarithms of her heart
that have kept her safe all these years
the tears
she shed
last time she lived, loved
landed.

Vegetarian Virgin No More

She thought vegetarianism was complicated
Strange foods and scientific recipes
Measuring and weird combinations
Until a twenty-something
took blood tests
to prove it
not so
and
so
she began
to eat all
except animals
without recipes or
measuring cups and spoons
and nothing strange happened except
yearly stomach "viruses" never returned

Marcia McLees Bogaert
11/01/09

HERE COMES THE SUN

Here comes the sun above the veil of the night,
above the tree tops dark in silhouette's light,
Wisps of morning's fingers trace the skyline
drawing on the breath of dew swept grass and pine,
radiating from the shadows, to beacon bright.

Its gradual ascent offers warmth and delight
and brings this golden orb more into sight,
through a harbinger of day perfect in His sight and mine,
here comes the sun. Above the veil of the night

a morning new, expressive sword brought into this fight;
the wielding of this weapon of intellect's acerbic bite.
The sunrise of a million mornings good and fine,
much anticipated offering of a day most devine
to guide us to the next imperfect light,
here comes the sun above the veil of the night.

Dawn

The tremulous notes
Of first one bird, then many
Ushers in the day

Tribute To 911

1. Glistening
Oriental children close up
To the ebony plateau
Gaze at the thin layer
Of water gliding over
The lobbies sculpture
Hands out stretched, smiling
The must touch it
Giggling in glee of amazement
As they run upon
The ebony plateau
Glistening
As the water glides

2. Center Plaza
At the center is a ball
Of crimson and ebony
As water flows upon the sculpture
It is surrounded
Among the man made walls
Towering the highest in the land
Casting shadows, as the day proceeds
Many visitors pass
This man made wonder
Foreigners, locals, commuters
Everyday, at many different times
See such a sight in awe
Causing all who passes, to stop and stare
Embedding it’s self
Within their minds forever
Is a crimson and ebony sculpture ball
In the center plaza of New York City’s
World Trade Center

3. World Trade Center Wind
Creepy sounds the wind
Crawling through the World Trade Center
Sounding like space creatures
Hearing – Listening
Darkness falls upon the City
Black Out
Creepy sounds the wind
Whoever needs to hear
For they are only to listen
To find the
World Trade Center’s Creatures
Observing the wind
While one watches the Center’s sculpture
Shaped, like a darker world
Let one’s imagination form
What the World Trade Center’s Creatures are
Truly to be seen only in darkness
While listening
At the World Trade Center
In a city wide Black out
I hear these creatures
Or is it just the wind

4. Newscasters Announces:
“The World Trade Center has been hit
By an unidentified airplane.”
The world watches flames of disbelief,
Astonishment, grief, this is insane
A newscaster yells in the background
During a live broadcast
“What the hell is that?”
As the world watches the second plane
Intentionally crash into Tower Two
Engulfing flames spew from the Towers
Darkness swallows the New York Skyline
The newscaster announces:
“The Pentagon is hit”
The World holds it’s breath and watches
Within an hour Tower Two collapse
Then Tower One,
Lost are the Twins of the City
Thousands lay trapped dying or dead
As the world watches
The flames consume
Changing the Skyline
And the World forever

5. Vivid Images Left
A police car’s windshield blown out
A man jumping from the building
An amateur video depicting
Half of an American Flag
Hanging off a twisted lamp post
A mangled fire truck
A woman covered in soot
A fire fighter crying
The World Changed Forever

Looking forward to sharing this journey with everyone. Thanks for the help posting today, and congratulations to the happy couple!


Lift

Empty canvas waits.
Paintbrush wobbling midair,
I freeze:
a bird with injured wing.

The canvas hovers,
patient as cumulus,
white, unblinking.

Can broken birds fly?

Dab of yellow,
streak of blue:
I begin, flutter
across the expanse.

Thanks for doing this, Robert--coming up with prompts is tough when you're doing it once a week. My goal for this month is to make every one of my poems a sonnet or a variation on the form. I make no promises as to their quality.


Entre Nous

I fart when I sit up in bed each morning--
it's mostly noise, but if we're going to sleep
together, you should know that sort of thing
in advance. It's polite. How do you feel
about hairy backs and bald spots? I've got
both, but you knew about, well, one, of course.
I itch sometimes--it's not a rash or rot.
The doctor says I've just got nervous pores.
Please don't be weirded out. I act this way
because I've never dated. My ex-wife
picked me out; she thought I had potential.
I guess I never met it. She was partial
to women, it turned out, and her new life
seems better, for some reason, every day.

'Enter the New' Haiku

Enter New Jersey
from the Pennsylvania side
via the Turnpike

The Room

Long hath I sat in silence withering
A dark domain of walls and ceiling

Windows lit on morning rising
Fade to dark on evenings setting

No dream echoes
No laughter sings
No flower on mantel brights
The bareness of that which is.

A forlorn existence so one might think
Till one who enters quick of wit
Changes it all with just a click

Now dreams unfold with pen and brush
And what once was does not exist.

Dennis Paquin

Ens causa sui

All times the same time,
all the roads diverge
and in some multiverse
I walk down every one,

each moment a line
written or unwritten,
rewritten or erased,
a life lost or saved,

as if time were just
a figment, as if being
were coiled energy
unwound, reshaped, made new.

Jenny Doughty

RAIN

Cleansing water falls
from the sky to Mersey's flow
Liverpool's backbeat

Leaving

She came home from a day in Asheville
the sun still shining, the winds whipping

The bright leaves that adorned each tree
lay thick on the ground

She stared and she stuttered
until her senses adjusted

They will be back refreshed
buds will give birth to green in the spring

Thick rich green leaves provide shade
on a hot summers day

Fall will bring on the color
that will entertain and amaze

For now the trees can enjoy freedom
before that long winter’s nap.

Some awesome stuff so far... guess people are pulling out all the stops for this one. :) Thanks to Brian for getting the blog to work, and congratulations to your brother, Robert!

...

INVITATION TO A WEDDING
(Persephone)

Mother,
the truth is that I loved him, loved that peculiar way
he was afraid I might crumple like a magnolia
at his touch, the way he smelled like fresh dirt
and deerhide. His junebug eyes and the pool of his mouth
were all the sun and water a kudzu like me could need.
No one had ever wanted me like that before.

Mother,
you couldn't keep me a secret forever. I had to
uproot myself sometime, spread myself and lift up
into the air. You grew up too, you can't stop it anymore than
you can a fern from unfolding, or the boxwood in full bloom
no matter how sweet your summer lullabies or
how close you held me when we watched the storms.

Mother,
I'll miss the first robins of spring and your thumbnails
on my shoulder blades, our ice cream sundae afternoons,
our sandcastle nights. I've traded promises for wishes,
protection for hope. I dream of what's beyond Elysium.
I taste his pomegranate lips, touch that sculpted chest,
and I know that there are paths outside the hedges.

Mother,
it won't be a white wedding, or a house down the road,
five grandchildren and more on the way. I'll write and
I'll visit for holidays, but I'm a kudzu on your soul,
drinking in your love and giving you nothing but fear.
He's taken me because I was ready to be taken,
and there are so many stories waiting to be found.

Mother,
leave a spare key under the mat, and don't cocoon away.
It's the same earth on our feet, so we always touch, somehow.
Leave your shoes in the snow and feel me stand there too.

Novelist


I've written for many years-
poems, articles, stories-
words upon words upon words.

I've seen my name in newspapers-
in blogs and on book reviews-
words upon words upon words.

Now I've finished my first novel-
a real plot, characters and scenes-
words upon words upon words.

It will now belong to the readers-
including critics and their
words upon words upon words

wow. beautiful poem, Joseph.



“And it was still hot…”


What if friendships launched with full disclosures?
--“You and I share thousands of cultural
common points, but my laughter explosions
that set your teeth on age are typical.”
--“Don’t count on me for tasteful composure.”

--“Need someone to help? Just give me a call.
I’m available and my time is yours.
I’ll come over to move, garden or haul;
but know: whenever I come to your house,
I will break something--an accident, sure.”

--“We’re going to have amazing times for years:
we’ll shoot the rapids, break the banks, descend
into madness and ascend to such heights!
But one day marriage, home, age or children
will turn our rare thing rarer and maudlin.

The past passes, and I have seen the trend:
you get something else than you expect, friend.”


DA

PS: keeping in the newness theme, I'm experimenting with a new poetry form this "Newvember."

Thank you Robert and Brian!

UP-COUNTRY

Sun in our eyes, blinded
by dawn-glare through windshield,
we’re driving into the unknown,
swimming up a river of light.

By dawn-glare through windshield,
dark woods on either side,
we’re swimming up a river of light
on asphalt. Snowmelt summits,

dark woods on either side –
will we discover a man drowned
on asphalt? Or snowmelt summits,
someone climbing to find himself –

will we discover a man drowned
in light? Above us, the airless peaks,
someone climbing to find himself,
wishing to breathe like angels.

In light above us, the airless peaks.
We’re driving into the unknown –
wishing to breathe like angels,
sun in our eyes, blinded.

Running Away; Running Toward

I fear the hard pavement will shatter me,
but I shall meet the challenge just the same.
Charge I will,
running away from the past
that has held me bound to an old life
that I didn’t ask for anyway.
Or maybe I did. In the dark and the pain.

I dare to illuminate the shadows with sheer will and faith.
This is all I have. And it is enough.
With grit I strike out,
hushing the questions,
clawing at the doubt.

With each stride I gain and lose.
The sweat pours like tears,
bursting for all that I have lost,
everything I miss and have never achieved.

Reaching forward,
running toward the future that I claim as my own.
My masterpiece.
Glistening in the sunlight,
sweating still.
Shimmering on the shores of my new year.

Thanks for posting today's challenge, Brian!

JOURNEY

How elegant,
that first invitation of yours:
thermograph printed in silver
on ecruwhite.
I was flattered, but
despising smalltalk with strangers,
I declined.

The second arrived:
creamy vellum infused with lavender,
your sprawling script promising
intimate conversation, fine wine and Valrhona.
I was intrigued, but
alcohol gives me hives,
so I declined.

I admit the years you shunned me
and not my friends
made me curious and I waited.
Until today, when the doorbell rang
and there you were
with a bow and smile and the cold wind behind you.

All right, I say. I'll come with you.
Just let me get my coat.

"will the last person out of Michigan . . ."


the sign that welcomed
me to Ohio was not too
far back when the engine
started sputtering,
the rain making it gasp
for air. I remembered
my promise to myself
that wherever the old
car died was where I
would stay and I
silently prayed -
please not here.

Thanks Robert! Thanks Brian!


Cheerleaders

So you have reached a fork in the road
Take that turn
Follow that dream
It is time--don't look back
Try something new
You have been given a second chance
You always wanted to--you know you can
Go for it...
Mom!

Yea for Brian! And congrats to your brother, Robert.

Participation

I crossed the bridge in autumn,
huffing, out of shape,
watching the skeleton form.

I walked, wrapped to thwart winter,
the river breeze nipping
at my drafty vulnerable spots. The outside
filled in.

I nearly skipped, to feel spring
brighten the sky and warm the air.
The round roof beamed blue as if reflecting sky.

A worker planted a tiny American
flag at the peak.
I smiled with pride,
as if I'd had a part
in building the carousel house,
and I waited with longing,
still walking week after week through
across Walnut Street Bridge,
till at last the painted animals and
the music came to live in Coolidge Park.

New Home

As the autumn air begins to cool
they venture out one by one
seeking warmth
not found in walls of steel;
Slowly inch by inch
they find the walls of
heated wood and
a cozy bed in which to curl;
They find a door
just their size
to come and
go at will;
As winter descends
all is well in human minds,
knowing the kittens
will be warm in their new home.

A Chance In Dreaming.

I awake in a dream
in your bed on the west coast.
You aren’t beside me, so

I step lightly out of your room-
first one on the left in the hallway.
The animal house is empty,
but the front door is waiting open,
so I turn to face the view.

I am suddenly Dorothy,
seeing hyper-color greens on trees,
electric lemons falling from branches
and neon blue pinned back by blinding clouds.

In 5-miles distance is the ocean.
I squint and strain
until the swell materializes over the tree line.
It is too magnificent, with radiant white rays
reflecting off super sea sprays of giant salt grains.

I wake up too soon (as always),
forced to consciously write the conclusion
for this techni-color dream:
The open door invites a chance.

Though unlike Dorothy, I would not like
To return to the murky gray and white
where I’ve been existing.
Instead, I will clear this threshold
and hope you’ll be there,
perhaps perched in the branches of the lemon tree
holding a forbidden fruit.
Or standing where the salty foam recedes into the sea
making a sandy sunken imprint while holding
out your hand.

First Oyster

Tastes like the time
I slept on the beach
in North Carolina.
Surf sound,
salt in the air and
moon shine on waves.
Kiss of lemon,
Slap of hot sauce and
The ocean in my mouth.

When Snow Was New

All I knew was searing sun,
or monsoons that closed
like dark curtains
across the horizon.

All I knew were layered dawns,
light bleeding into
sky and rising
heat in waves from the lawns.

Never knew blankets of white
could put the world to
bed as I rose
from frosty English night.

Bright and new, this sparkling view
invited me to,
in my p.j.'s,
play without any shoes.

All I knew was Malay heat,
not English snow that
froze a monster
all around my wee feet.

All was new...and biting cold;
I ran upstairs to
bed, disappeared
down in warm chenille folds.

Swim

The water sculpts her, weaves her,
finds muscles that lace the ribs and traces them.
It tendrils her ankles, a bubble tracery,
and fingers her back with wings.
It wants to be her air, but her lungs are demanding.
It wants to hold her there. Her hair
is screaming behind and above
her closed eyes and pursed mouth.
She sculls the depth with cupped hands
until the thrum of her blood, the the keening need
for breath betrays her and she breaks
for the surface, all aqueous love left behind
in her wake.

Here's a haiku for today's challenge.

trees shout splendid hues
leaves tumble in a flurry
bare branches stand mute

The New and the Old

Halloween night, Aunt Aletha,
lungs riddled with cancer,
falls off the side of her bed
and cries out in pain.
Eighty-four years old,
recent new recipient
of a replacement hip,
she lies uncomplaining
while two paramedics
try time and again
to start an intravenous
in her fragile arms.
Emergency service
at the local hospital
is closed temporarily
so she rides thirty rough miles
in the speeding ambulance
and waits among masked
H1N1 patients in the city.
Xrays show no new damage,
other than obvious bruising
around her metal parts,
so they ship her back
to Perrin’s Marina Villa.
In the morning she jokes
with us, despite her pain.
Later my friend Pete and I
explore her huge old house
rich in family history.
We pore over dozens
of hand-written journals,
more than a lifetime of days,
pages cracked and yellow,
that speak of weather, and ships,
cargos and destinations long gone,
year upon year of ordinary living
reduced to flowing cursive lines.
We exchange poetry books
and I open a new single malt.
We toast the smooth and bitter
of our swiftly passing days
savour the glow, the aftertaste …

Dog In A Strange Land

Her ears stand up at attention,
pointed tents transmitting
signals, telling her
that she has entered
a new house, different
expanse for a dog to examine.

Black nose, wet and quivering,
sniffs the air; no common scents
except for her people. She jets
from one end of a room
to another, assessing
the setup. No familiar furniture

to rub against. Upstairs she trots
in search of her bed, her belongings.
Tipping her tongue to wood floors fails
to provide any clues, bones, or toys
to chew. Wait. What’s that screech?
Racing downstairs, nails clicking,

she barks at a truck and begs
to be told where she is. Men
are carrying cartons. There
is the green leather chair she likes
to lick. Oops, there’s that lopsided
lamp she once knocked over

when chasing a crazy sided ball;
not her fault at all, that it did not
hew to a straight path. Her feathery
tail wags in an arc as she suddenly
spots a soft round cotton bed,
redolent of drool and doggy dreams.

Summer’s final breath,
ravens scouting this year’s nests,
monks still pray for peace.

IF I NEEDED SOMEONE

The vacancy sign flashes neon bright
declaring an emptiness of heart
and a bankruptcy of my vacuous soul.
You've gone.
The sadness that has supplanted
everything we had come to need
in each other weighs heavily.
If I needed someone, you'd never leave.

The ad that bears the "wanted" banner
inquires about a position needing to be filled,
a companion for an empty life; a room
left untouched.
The desperation that has taken your place
in everything I have needed
from you, sits stagnant.
If I needed someone, you hold my heart.

The brochure pinned to the wall of these
abandoned emotions left foundering,
reads like a love story gone awry.
This blank page
is devoid of pictures and words,
and awaits the ink of an unconditional love
to register its new occupant.
If I needed someone, you would complete my story.

At first it is like gauze over my eyes
then a sheet, something, over my face
growing thicker, stickier

Heavy, heavy the white light comes through
more and more yellow
shapes rounded, made indistinct.

wrapped close my ears now
wrapped and my name
if that is what was said
comes to me muffled
impossible to respond to
surely

i cannot push forward.
i'm enveloped, bound close.
did i make this thing?

my patience twitches
and now, worse,
with me here
pressing against me like love
with an urgency like love
i have these small
and bent-back wings.

Swimming

Though the past generally precedes the future,
there are occasions when we float
the way a Peace dollar hovers
over a pool of mercury,
the buoyant force of a mind
unclinging itself from self, a time dilation,
an accelerated glide along vertumnal lines.

We calculate the paths of kinship,
execute contracts on love, dispense fine print
limiting our liability, we grow hard
like a grain of sand, a grain that grows
like a dream when we close our eyes,
the globular glow
of a second awakening.

The wooden sign
nailed to the side of the outhouse
says: The turbulent strokes
of the seascape have killed
5 x 5 + 3 visitors, 1 let go
and flew 20,000 leagues over the sea and
was reborn as a starry night.

She Flies With Eagles
By: Meena Rose

Bam!
Bam!
Bam!

I sat on the ground
Back straight;
Forming a Circle with others.

Bam!
Bam!
Bam!

I removed
The restraint;
Freeing her Soul with others.

Bam!
Bam!
Bam!

The Eagle
Came calling;
Come fly with me.

Bam!
Bam!
Bam!

The Eagle
Fast approaching;
Mejandra carried me.

Bam!
Bam!
Bam!

We soared
Through the sky;
Looking down benevolently.

Bam!
Bam!
Bam!

We soared
Through the universe;
Looking around wondrously.

Bam!
Bam!

Bam!

The beat
Is slowing;
Time to return.

Bam!

Bam!

Bam!

The beat
Is stopping;
Time to learn.

Bam!


Bam!


Bam!

My Soul
Glows;
Now it’s cleansed.

Bam!


Bam!


Bam!

My Soul
Shows;
Now it’s grounded.

Hurray for the other poets who also wrote in haiku: RJ, Walt, Sally and Daniel!

Great Job, Cara. Here's a shout out to my Cedar Mill buddy :)

Haiku is beyond me.

This Place

I come to this place
where knees and elbows
creak on frosty mornings

where sentences collapse
unfinished into dead space.
I can’t help but wonder

what is temporary and
what is how it will be
and how I will know.

.

Forgive Her Their Tresspasses

Searching for penance
habit replacing fashion
she came for escapism
a lifetime of solitude

Mom’s constant nagging
overshadowed slightly
by Invisible Dad
and mom’s boyfriend

Divine Intervention-
a different type of
nine step program
to help forget the past

“You can call me Fred”
“I’m not a replacement”
“Don’t scream, you slut”
“You wanted it you whore”

Piety and dignity only
no need for vanity or
short skirts or heels
or knives under pillows

At the clinic they said
the physical pain would
only last a few days
mentally – a lifetime

A new way, new life
rosary replacing rape
her new Mother and Father
bonded together in habit.

New Skin

I had a dermatologist.
She’d burn things off
I didn’t like,
Lumps and bumps that made
me feel inferior,
She did it without too much
damage,
I tried a new dermatologist.
She’s younger, all about
those wrinkles-be-gone
remedies botox, collegen,
cremes that erase a lifetime,
She burned a dot on my right hand,
It has now bubbled the size
of a quarter and half an inch high.
The bandage doesn’t feel like
it could stop the flood should it break,
Now I’ll be more careful
watchful, waiting until the day
the bubble subsides,
until the day my right hand
has it’s usefulness back.
Was that dot really so bad?
Not really.

Thanks Robert and Brian. Here we go again!!

Highlights

No Botox for me,
just a chemical red herring
gasping for one more breath of youth
showy blonde strands
hiding the drab cloudy gray of my curls
making me a stranger in my own mirror.

Selfless Love

The story is the same
It plays out every day
A man and woman meet
As they work in the some space

He looks deeper into her eyes
than anyone has looked before
She sees in him a humble grace
He sees her inner peace

She feels that peace when he is near
He tells her everything
They share a quiet hidden love
The kind that’s in her dreams

They both are new at this
Both married in their teens
But not to each other
A love like this is seldom seen

For they keep it on the level
As not to hurt the care
They feel for one another
By the greed they could easily dare

Too full of love to harm it
With thoughtless selfish need
This couple remains hidden
In each others heart for eternity

NEW GRAY

Just a silver glint in the mirror
a few threads among the dark
you would hardly notice them
winding their way through the forest
of strands piled one on the other
the same shiny tendrils
still fall like a waterfall
from the tick rubber band
that holds them prisoner
but if you look closely
the stubborn ones that defiantly
insist on creeping back
around her face, these few
are now more like dried corn silk


J. Kuykendall

Brian and Robert: Thank you so much!

First Moment

I don’t know how old you were when I first held you;
only hours, but one month early.
A tiny bundle, tiny face, big dark eyes,
amazingly clear and focussed -
so with one look began our journey as a family.

Thank you for this opportunity . . .!

No Match

The wick is ready,
Has been resting.
Laying low,
No sights far below.

Aroma is pure,
Not strong.
It has known its fate,
All along.

The box is close.
Yet closer still,
An unknown timing,
Of an inevitable flame.

A silent wonder,
If it won't occur,
Is there another?
Way to shine?

In the dark,
Long pause is deafening,
No breath allowed,
An inevitable flame will perish . . .

Wait! A new sound!
A brighter feel,
Anticipation grows,
With the first spark.

A warm glow begins,
Flaming passion now.
No match for the taste of fire.
Ending this long awaited desire.

BRIAN AND ROBERT...MANY MANY THANKS FOR THIS CHALLENGE. I LOVE IT!

Hey poets, off to a great start. Some that touched me today: Entre Nous...left me with a chuckle.
Patricia H. Nancy B, Debra E. Katherine H. Elizabeth K, Laurie K, De Jackson and Mary Kling ..great stuff.

REDUNDANCY

Well, she thought:
this isn’t new
It’s just redundant
Poured all her dreams into a bucket
Ready to fly up into the sky
And shine
Like the brightest of stars
But plummeted back to earth
Hurt and broken instead
Five o’clock always comes
At least somewhere
And then we can all have a drink

New World

And so I venture into this new world
Wide eyed and mystified at the strange faces
Shocked somewhat by new myriad meanings
Change! Everything, everyone expectant
All those faces, all those forces, focused -
focused on me? Why has the world just stopped?

Glancing down for a state of undress. No!
I move slowly to make sure I'm still real
Turn to check the door I came through. Public!
Check my space for likely attack. No foe!
Panicking, nothing has changed, what, what is it
Nothing physical, nothing possibly seen

like Martin Luther King, last night I had a dream
My whole troubesome lifetime seeked solution
Last night was a focal point in time
Rogue energy from past immemorial
Converging, rationalising, bang... truth
A single central register reset,

the world was never the problem it was me.

Losing the Plot

a blank page
a blank book
and a blank mind

how to write a new novel
without a single idea
the white screen seems to stare back
as if it were the novelist
and she the specimen under scrutiny
until slowly
after several possible plots
and much cerebral crossing out
she licks her metaphorical pen
and begins to write:

"He didn't notice the blade
until it was too late..."

Thanks Brian and Robert! Glad everything's a-ok now :)

~New Love~

I didn't know what to do
this emotion was too new
When I looked into your eyes
An impossible shade of blue

Your smile caught me unprepared
But my heart was so aware
Even if my mind was not
My inner soul was bared

Then you touched my hand
And I came to understand
This feeling called love
Between a woman and a man

HEADS


As I scoop the change from the dresser
I see how bright one coin beams in
the closet light—a copper penny, the
pauper among the rest, a small pool of
uselessness, .01, right next to nothing.
Lincoln looks away from me, yet in
this glow it seems not shame but a
dreamy pause: he’s looking back to his
first day as a lawyer, entering the office
before sunrise, wondering if he’ll make
a dime at this, yet how beautiful the
first light through the warped glass, how
wonderful the kick of black coffee and
his feet propped on his own desk.
The monuments are hidden beyond his
horizon, and he hears the jingle of the
traces, a team hauling something into
town. Maybe he’ll go see, maybe
not. He’s the president of his destiny.

New Home

Empty, unfamiliar walls
stretch on before my eyes.
Hollow echoes fill the halls,
drowning out my cries.
A stranger in an even stranger
undiscovered land.
A foreign place without a trace
of anything I understand.

Still, Her Place

blue sky, a passing cloud
overhead

red and yellow roses, blooming
in garden

cardinals call from tree to tree
songs well known

unfamiliar walkway to glass door entry
her home, now

Subtleties of Grace

Clouds return to their banks,
east and west – horizon sand.
Mountain Laurel snatch shadows,

stuff them beneath their limbs –
cotton pickers choking bags
with the soft plush of harvest.

This is where frogs go to think,
to consider the verve reeling
in a bead of rain, to interpret

a stone’s skin, and spare a lost fly
swirling beneath the smooth
palms of green leaves. For now,

I’m unable to appreciate
these subtleties of grace,
but will look for a dark place

where I’ll strap stillness
to my shoulders, and hope to glean
enlightenment from a mouse

that perches itself on the brim
of an open box of poison.
It eats not – but offers all to me.

--------

Beginning

In the airport terminal
she whispered
'I miss Dad already'
and on the first plane.

On the second,
video on demand
distracted them
as we crossed the hemisphere

A NEW LEASE ON A COWBOY’S LIFE


At a time in my life when a fella should pause
From his labors and plan what’s the best
To enjoy his retir’ment, my sister, a wider named Tess,
All a sudden she passed. Lookin’ back, I was blessed.
But the story ain’t over; it’s comin’ the morn
An’ my nephew I reckon will move in for good.
Now what t’make of this turn of events?
I was walkin’ around like a man made o’ wood.

Did I mention my nephew’s a handful to raise?
“You’re my uncle,” he tells me, “no way you’re my dad.”
“Well, then, par’n me! Z’actly what makes you so mad?”
But he keeps hisself quiet, not tellin’ he’s scared
An’ I tell ‘im t’ give an ear, listen t’ me.
“All I want is t’ make you, boy, happy again.
And your mama in heaven, what would she say
If I failed in my mission? What would I do then?

Been some years since my sister Tess’s gone an’ her boy
Well, he worked out jus’ fine. Him an’ me in this place
We been cowboys ever since: seems I never could face
Not be working an’ take an old man’s retirement place
On the porch on a summer day jus’ watchin’ grass grow.
Me an’ Tommy, ya know we both keep ar’selves busy a tad.
We been raisin’ the finest o’ horses in Oklahoma
And that feller, Tess’s boy? Can ya b’lieve it? he calls me Dad!

#

My Turn on Earth
© Rich Atwater Nov 2, 2009

Spiritual millennia have passed by, and I wonder,
So many others have gone on before to experience,
Something new, to enter mortality, like thunder
And lightning, and feelings of conflict: ambivalence.

My spirit form awaits in primal existent realms,
In awe, anticipation of what it’s like “to be”,
A mortal man on terrestrial earth, it overwhelms
My mind, my conscious thought: to see.

Yes, “to see” what God has done, to form a plan,
Create an earth for mortal man, to work out his salvation.
Establish “rule of law” with consequence, and ban
Lucifer from His domain, cast down to earth: temptation!

And now it’s my turn on earth, body, mind, and soul,
To seek to understand, and choose between the good and bad,
My hands upon the helm to steer the course, complete control,
Towards happiness and joy of life, “occasion trials”, and even sad.

Yet, He has not left me (or you) without a blueprint, true,
To follow as “the Book of Life” to show the proper way to go,
And Savior, as example for “the perfect life”, of what to do,
To spread our “eagles wings” in metamorphosis, to grow!

Until that “day of consequence” bequeathed to all, to start anew,
In death, “a newness of life” beyond the grave “in spirit form”,
In Paradise, or prison dark, depending on the life we embrace; eschew,
Yes, thus something new again unfolds beyond the mortal norm.

Await the resurrection day to stand before the Judge: ultimate decision!
Assignment to “degrees of glory”, one by one, or—perhaps as families
To govern in Celestial worlds on high, ruled by exact precision,
Avoid the “casting out” to darker realms for stark anomalies!

Perhaps you may, as I, surmise, the purpose of it all,
“The life we live”, “the why” of time, and circumstance,
Of how it all began—“as something new”, no crystal ball,
Just given LIFE to live, with meaning, purpose, not by chance!
========================================================================
Poetic expression from the prompt words: “entering something new”
From Poetic ASIDES, or “thoughts” by Richard-Merlin Atwater of The Living Poets Society
============================================================================

Honey Babe


In the dark
of the movie theater
he leans in to

whisper, "I love you"
and this is new
to Honey Babe.

The others —Alex, CB, and Chuck, and them—
only wanted to talk
dirty in the back row,
wanted only
one thing, like they were still fourteen. But this one

is something
else. He wants to take her
"back home" to where he was raised,
to where his mama still stays.

He wants her
to meet his family —immediate
and distant and he knows

how to spell her last name. He even gave her
a new name —Honey Babe.

And when he says it
in the movie theater dark,
she wants to

take his hand and lead
him to the back row and thank him
in her special back row way,
but she'll wait.

Golden sweet gum leaves
Like squatting stars on asphalt
Gray barren night sky.

SOMETHING NEW IN CORNWALL

[for Elihu Burritt, the Learned Blacksmith]

What marvels in this new industrial age,
the 19th century! Here’s a mine of precious metals –
precious, at least, to Mankind’s Progress –
as if hanging on the sea-cliff,
and under-tunneling for a quarter-mile the sea.

You stop here, Elihu, on your travels
to see how things are done: ore conveyed
to the surface, beaten to a powder,
washed almost as thoroughly as the sea herself
might do – a dozen different processes

“manifold and ingenious,” you write.
(What kind of ore? for what purpose?) “Pits,
pools, tubs, vats, and troughs.”
Through all this, the ore changes color,
pale as ash, then red as dried blood. Who knows

what changes Mankind works when he
plans Progress? You sink your hands into each
vat, a blacksmith feeling out the goodness
of metal in its strange new form.
And at the end, you’re ready to thrust

those filthy hands into an iron pan of pure, fresh
water; wash off the industrial dust. But
the foreman stops you. “That’s vitriol!” Who
knows what waits in the tubs of Progress?
Be careful what you touch.

New again.

Molasses sweet, preserved plum good,
Candied orange peel, lemon zesting
on the tongue,cinammon brandy
glace cherries, raisins, sultanas,
Muscovado sugar melted,
scents evolving as teeth bite the first
piece of this year's Christmas cake.

I am assuming that as per last year we each should have a theme. I’m not sure I can consistently do these everyday but I shall try….time will tell if I run out of rhymes and scenarios. My theme is my old friend B.F. Anyone with a dislike of comic verse should scroll down to real poetry now. Anyone with a dislike of art is wrong and anyone with a dislike of weasels should see their therapist for some aversion therapy sessions…or just scroll down…



Art for Art’s Sake

Bartholomew Foggerty the brilliant weasel
Had given up painting and forsaken his easel
He had abandoned the art his life had encompassed
And started a project albeit quite half-assed
His last painting had involved six shades of blue
And he thought it was time to start something new
He was turning his hand (well, paw) to sculpture
And had been commissioned to carve a vulture
He stood on a box, chisel in hand
Wielding a hammer, feeling quite grand
He chipped and chipped and chipped away
Looking forward to the result at the end of the day
It was really much easier than he’d thought
As he chipped away lightly, the way he’d been taught
He’d spent a fortnight with a private tutor
Who sculpted in brass and sometimes in pewter
Now he was finally earning his crust
(He’d practised by making a self-portrait bust)
He had the feathers down to a tee
And the eyes were clever and rather beady
He’d carved the wings at their full expanse
Now with the claws he was taking a chance
Nipping and chipping the stone away
The talons emerged from the stone, cold and grey
Finally he considered his work all but past
And he giggled with glee as he pondered the cash
He thought that the beak might need a touch more
But he chipped too much and it fell to the floor
He slammed down the hammer in patent disgust
And with an ear shattering crack the vulture was bust
It split down the middle and fell to the ground
Broken shards of grey stone laying all around
The befuddled weasel sank to his knees
And cried out Oh Lord! Oh why me, please?
Then old Bartholomew got terribly drunk
And under the covers of his bed he sunk
Emerging, hung-over at last after days
And realizing, of course, that he hadn’t been paid
He picked himself and dusted himself down
(He was covered in grey dust from tail to crown)
Hmmm…he pondered as his eyes became narrow
Perhaps I should have started off with a sparrow.


Iain

Knock and Enter

it is oak and weathered, this
door, this gate to somewhere

on the near side all yesterday
and memory
what waits
beyond the shielded wood?

I raise my hand
to the lion’s mouth
lower the brass ring,
knock and enter

shadow lengthens down the hall
memory’s light pools
at ankles

the pull of the ordinary
the comfortable known
a tug-of-war

Forward or retreat?

Light tongues the floor
another door gapes its wonder

titillates with promises of
unfamiliar tracks

stepping off the edge of the world
I base jump into tomorrow
freebase on the air of the uncertain.


Carol A. Stephen
November 2, 2009

Moving

Unsettling daunting overwhelming even frightening
so many details unexpected tasks
address changes to friends subscriptions memberships
credit cards insurance companies
changing doctors dentists banks brokers churches
leaving friends music teachers musical groups
closing utilities releasing gardener and cleaning lady
exiting life as I've known it for fifty years
departing the site of so many memories

New adventure lies ahead
unknown people to befriend
dog walks to explore
empty houses to cull through
musical contacts to investigate
never too old to unearth
treasures in unexplored places

"Easing in"

To start a new day
with but one word on the list
to do, is heaven.

A NEW DECADE

To turn 50 is a surprise.
Not that I can’t count.
Oh, I can.
The surprise is that the stories
about how time speeds up,
how it slips through fingers
as if it were something much slipperier
than sand
are true.
So many of the other stories
about this life phase are not.
Not true that is.
Not at all.
I haven’t yet turned into
my mother, for example.
I’m too tall for one thing.
And I’m still not in the mood
to consider my retirement funds
or those restaurants that offer
early bird specials.
I have not begun to dye
my hair, have not sworn
allegiance to Botox, will not
schedule an enhancement procedure.
I’m not done with my compilation
of the perfect rock and roll playlist
on iTunes, nor have I grown tired
of happy hour with my son’s twenty-something
artist friends.
I just bought my first pair of Converse.
That time seems to have sped up means
I cannot sit here with my tea
and wait for wisdom to settle
into my brittle bones. I must
get up and greet it
with a firm handshake.

A New Attitude

A New Attitude

Sometimes the frustration is palpable
It feels rough like sand paper
rubbing against my heart
It feels like broken glass
cutting into my every thought
Sometimes the frustration
is like hot liquid running
through my veins

I awoke one morning so tired
of this unwanted visitor
inside of me
I was exhausted from
accommodating her
from contorting my every move
and altering my inclinations
so that she could survive

But I had a choice
it was simple really
I asked her to leave
and reluctantly she did
That is not to say she never
came knocking at my door again
That is not to say I was never tempted
to give her another chance
but I didn't

And slowly the rawness
inside of me began to heal

Coming from
doubt and suspicion

my request
presently
is beyond my grasp.

You know
my heart,

now strip away
this tempered steel
brought on
by this world
of betrayal
and mistrust.

Lord Jesus,
teach me

to lose myself
in your glorification

to rise above
my instinct
to entertain You

to resist the temptation
to be glib
in Your divine presence.

Teach me to pray

without
irony.

soft suckling sounds--
her husband's tears
as he calls her "mom"

so hard to read all of these! Jesse loved the yoga poem. Laurie, Connie, De, Amanda, Judy, Mike B., Iain--much enjoyed. Good luck every one.

Rednecks wander the school
hallways flannel shirts, hats
with earflaps lined in fur.
Seems it is the newest
in Gangsta fashion. Guess
I can haul the box from
my basement, be warm, cool.

Thank you, Brian!!

TRY IT

It's not my way
to do such things.
You will get caught,
I assure you.

Try owning up
to wrong for once -
you might go right -
I implore you.

Responsible.
To take the blame.
You are my friend.
I admire you.

It shouldn't hurt
to tell the truth.
You could say more.
I'll believe you.

W

Hair-brained

His hands were gentle
His words fun
But his color and
Cut were all
Wrong
My old stylist
Sat me in the
Chair
Lifted a shank
Of my hair
And said
“Not even
If I was high
Would I do that.”
‘Nuff said
No more new

Straight-Up Martinis

When she turned 50
alone
She decided to go to a bar
by herself…

She hadn’t planned
to celebrate
this birthday, because it was nothing
but a reminder
of how life had cut
by, leaving
her with nothing
but a belly and sagging
breasts.

However, her green eyes still sparkled
and her plump body tricked
others into believing
she was still romping
wild in her 30s.
So she fixed
her sorrel-tinted hair,
softly brushed
her eyelids with muted gray shadow,
tinted her lips red-moist
and sashayed
her almost-too-tight black dress to her car,
where she turned on
the ignition, hoping
this night of foreign steps
would leave her wanting just a little
less.

After the last child left,
I forced a good hard look
At the woman that greeted me
In the mirror.

The face looked familiar
The body out of shape
Time to get back to you again,
My old lost friend.

A health club up the street
Might be just the ticket
Regain my outlook, my waistline
My spirit, too?

Who is this woman now
And where is she going?
Please Lord, grant her the courage to be,
To become.

Seventeen (Sun & Cigarettes)

Seventeen now— she has given up the shade & sun
tan lotion. It doesn't matter how much her mother
shouts: "even us light-skinned blacks suffer
in the sun." She wants to bathe, to bake in it
the way she caught a great-aunt doing on a beach
in an old photograph— 1970s, Florida.

She asked about that great-aunt; found out
that aunt had been a mama & married by seven-
teen. Found out that aunt smoked, too. The only one
of five sisters to take to cigarettes— & now her grandniece,
newly seventeen & exiting childhood, wants to take up
that habit, wants a loosey between her peace-fingers
& smoke-smell in her sun-browned skin.

November 1st

Borrowing from the words of Wordsworth,
“To Begin, begin.”
Here in the start of November,
the trees start their slumber
in the face of eastward winds

that cross over the blue of Lake Michigan
and marry it,
via the Fox, via the Milwaukee, via the Wisconsin,
to the rest of this state
of frozen over snow, ice.

And one from a child's prospective...

They say she's coming soon
This sister of mine
What does that mean?
Will there still be time
For Mommy and me
And walks to the park?
For silly faced pancakes,
Giggles after dark?
Grandma arrived
She'll stay a few weeks
There's hustling, bustling
pinching my cheeks.
I'll be a good helper
And a good big brother
I think that it means
That there's less of my mother.

Thank you Brian -- and Robert -- for providing us with this ambitious month of inspiration & encouragement! Here's hoping we ALL have a successful and productive PAD!

This prompt gave me a whole list of ideas -- that I hope to revisit & develop later. For now, here's my draft for "entering something new":


Who could foresee
how this place I’d never been
so new and strange, with its
unfamiliar landscape
could offer such warm welcome
to this solitary stranger?

Who could foretell
how its soft June whispers,
its warm summer light
might skim my February soul,
shimmer my winter skin,
offer me sweet sustenance?

The spicy taste of sea-salt tang
singing on my tongue, those
azure breezes wafting with
friendly birdsong and rosemary,
scent of remembrance?

Who could predict how I would be
summoned, beckoned, seduced
my wandering self transfigured
from foreigner, alien, refugee
my travels magically transformed
into a homecoming.

OH! And very best wishes for a long & happy marriage to the newly married couple! :-)

Yoga with Amy

I am the only one here
Except for Amy
We sit in the small room in the old
Masonic Temple where secrets, like my breath
Are held

I have been here before
In pain before we begin

Amy tells me to breath
And shows me how to make sound
In the back of my throat
To declare the arrival and departure
of every inhale and exhale

She says things like
Root yourself to the earth
Move with the breath
Focus on a fixed point

She coaxes me into position
Arms outstretched
Legs splayed in Warrior
She says, “hold it.”

Cool sweat traces my spine
My tongue is resting in my mouth
Feet planted firmly
Stomach expanding and contracting
My heart center is open
as I hold the universe in my hands.

A narrow crack
Widens spits open
An eye within looks out
Of the shell
At the awaiting cage

mkm

This
is new
to her,
she
nudges
at the
thing,
breath-cold.

This
was once
hers alone,
now
it lolls
against
her touch,
copper-scented.

My New 10 Years Younger Girlfriend

(Bare stage, no props needed. 2 Women standing center stage facing slightly away from each other. 32, has beat up Razr Flip Phone. 22 has iPhone with metallic pink snap-on case.)

**All dialogue is to be spoken as if the character is reading the text message they are typing aloud, unless otherwise noted.

32: Howdy
22: Hey babayyy
32: I like you
22: Ur Hawt
32: (to audience) My girlfriend is 10 years younger than me
22: (to audience) My girlfriend is, yeah, a bit older than me - she’s hella cool and smart and shit.
32: (to audience) 10 years. That’s a fucking decade.
22: lol babay ur a cougar
32: (rasies eyebrows and looks at audience) Rawr.
22: Wut do u wanna do 2nite?
32: Oh, I don’t know. Movies and pizza at my place?
22: Niiiiiiiiiice. But babay I was thinkin maybe we could go 2 the concert at Hawthorne.
32: (to audience, rapidly) Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.
22: I only like 1 band and they will b on at 10 but tix r only 6 bux babay it could be fun. We can hang out in the bar section cuz we’re old lol
32: (places palm on forehead) You do make me feel old sometimes. (to audience) She’s an idealist majoring in something ultimately pointless
22: (to audience) Liberal studies!
32: (to audience) but it makes her happy, and fuck, she’s young, plenty of time. (texting) Sound like a plan, my cute little hipster.
22: lol don’t call me that! (to audience) I ride my bike, I don’t drive. I took a Greyhound to DC for the inauguration. Save Darfur. Go vegan. Go green. Get a dog. Shop at thrift stores.
32: (to audience) She shops at American Apparel for clothes that look like they came from thrift stores.
22: I’m hella broke lol yay cheap date!
32: You’re cute. (to audience) She really is.
22: So r u
32: See you tonight
22: C u then
32: (closes phone; to audience) One day she’s going to grow up into a woman who doesn’t need someone to take care of her. Someday she won’t be so in love with the idea of love. She’s naive and we don’t have much in common, but there’s something about that hair that’s not quite damaged yet and that skin that is on the brink of showing signs of age, that tight little ass and that soft little voice that I just can’t stay away from.
22: heyy babay I just read this article on bbc that says younger women are good for ur health go us lol!
32: (to audience) I agree.

(End.)

couldn't post, lost the poem, so just forget it.

Reading Lesson

A student of one
She, as he went on
About his Blake and books
In his room
Talking, talking along
He spoke of the pleasure
Ecstasy
Little books, Look! Look!
At Tygers, Little Lambs!
Then took his hand
Sitting beside
Quietly, quietly
She moved inside
The Book of Verse
Trembling,
Trembling
Hush, hush
Read now a little poem of thine:
‘Tis from thy lips—

I think mine didn't post last night. If it's here and I missed it, I am sorry.

The Modern Art Wing at the Art Institute

Chicago locals, museum members, mingle
with tourists moving through the new wing.
The stone lions guard the front door
to Monet’s water lilies and haystacks,
American Gothic and Warhol’s Mao,
a brushstroke view more often seen
on coffee table books and calendars.
But beyond the ancient Asian pottery,
Stickley chairs and Wright’s stained glass,
the new wing waits. At each door,
stone-faced guards register no reaction
to the visitors looking askance at the art--
In one room, only framed white canvases,
stark white, no hint of color. Looking
around, one man asks his wife, “Where
are the cameras? Is it a joke?" The cards
mounted on the wall by each withhold
even the slightest clue. Art for art’s sake.
Above the front steps, the lions smile.

True meaning

I watch him intently.
I don't know if he notices me studying him.
I've decided I love his nose.
Broken many times; not unlike my heart
Not perfect, but strong & beautiful.

It's been five months but it feels like home
Like I've been his and he's been mine forever
Natural, comfortable.
Discovering more and more that amazes me.

Being one with one that loves me.
I've finally found the true meaning without being lost.

Little Eyes

Small Jack o' Lanterns:
Little eyes, carved fancy
Make real eyes big!

Before Breakfast

Sun beams down
as I rise up

stripped
again

of
yesterday

Dust Walk

Leaving one place is entering another
so leaving you
meant coming back into me
and it’s the only way it could be

I didn’t even know it at first
for all the debris
for all the dust of belief
choking in my lungs
for all the broken love at my feet

I moved
only so I wouldn’t stay
because I couldn’t stay
alive that way

I look back now
I see little blooms where there was
broken ground
from all that beating
all that throwing down

the dust has settled
and I see beautiful again
I see the hope of new
I see me on my own

and you
you are right where you were
I know now
that’s not my fault

Wrote this poem yesterday, though the connection to the prompt is a little oblique. Thanks for getting us started, Brian!

Halloween

She drives down the yellow-leafed road
by the river. Glancing over, she sees it flow
in the opposite direction than usual, white
water crawling over the rocks’ wrong side.
In town, imprinted in freshly-poured concrete
ringed by do-not-cross tape, she swears
there’s a pointy high-heeled shoe by a broomstick’s
bristle-swirl. When she was ten, she ice-skated
in a Halloween parade wearing a home-made
butterfly costume, her arms outstretched to flap
the stiff purple wings as she circled the rink,
wire antennae waving with each blade’s stroke.
How come store-bought costumes for women today
range from witches to slutty maids, nurses, or nuns?
Are they designed by men? She drives home
and laughs out loud when a black cat dashes
in front of her car. What’s next, a ghost knocking
on the wall? When the knocking starts, she sets
the alarm and locks herself in the bedroom,
but only after pouring a beer into a frozen pint glass
and leaving it on the counter with a bowl
of blackberry vodka sherbet—her dead
father’s favorite—in case he swings by for a visit.

My attempt to post last night didn't work, so I'll try again.

Thank you, Brian, for your help with this project--I enjoy your Questions and Quandaries blog. Thanks to Robert for the opportunity to particpate!


The Journey: Day One: Enter Something New

Does that mean “going where no man has gone before?”
Or not “looking before you leap” or “when one door closes another opens”
or “when life hands you lemons, make lemonade?”

Oh how I envy those who can, those for whom setbacks remain small,
whose stones never turn to stumbling blocks, who chart a path, forge
ahead, full steam and otherwise, just go, do, be.

I feel like a salmon fighting my way upstream after a calm of changeless days,
the familiar routine of sameness, of responsibilities met
and managed, of knowing where to place my foot on the path of least resistance.

This time—this now—looms large and frightening, a nameless
void of different. Prayer and thought bring no assurance; I turn from the mirror
reflecting the past; quick or slow, time has moved forward and change is impossible,

frozen in a caricature of light, an abyss of lacquered glass.
Shrouded confusion, or something else,
unmarked by the pitch of eternity?

New Ride

Nurses prop me up and
swing useless legs off
the hospital bed.

"One, two, three and
lift" and I'm shuffled
to my new ride. Dead

hands lay on the rests,
numb feet supported by
metal I can't feel.

No joy at being mobile
again when my tongue
chooses the chair's

direction. My breath
can stop at any moment.
Another blood clot can

kill my thoughts for
good. But somehow I
must find joy in living,

strapped to a wheelchair
my parents can't acknowledge.

Entering Hospital Heaven

A Patient’s Paean to Mayo Clinic


This is the place
the mecca of medicine
known for its meticulous
care, its careful approach.
We fortunate ones
wait in a short line, the
5:30 AM line, waiting
to enter a patient’s
paradise. Why? Here,
everyone treats patients
like saints. Everyone puts
the patient first. Really.
No kidding. From entrance
to discharge, from cradle
to grave as they say,
patients’ needs come first.
I can imagine
no greater heaven
except, of course,
not to have the condition
that causes my entrance
in the first place.

“Wii Driven”

Can’t spend time, need to write
Thoughts wring out on paper.
Excessive waste, dressing, lugging gear,
Traffic wait; who needs the added labor?

Fit for some, but I’ll remain
Focused, hovering, bent.
Rising rested, flip switch
Workout time, well spent.
Leaving thought to advent!

Ninacarole

Day 1's offering, written before the prompt was posted

Error Number 503

no prompt/no passion
no poem springing from
crawling out of
the depths

oh yes
she who will not be denied
insists on a word
a phrase
a spill of creativity

it will appear on the page
it will make its voice heard

DAY 1 Something New By Jane Eamon November 2009

I take my heart from my chest
Like a tiny chick
Newly hatched from the egg
All downy soft and tiny
Cradling it gently in my hand
I reach out

You raise your hand to me
Asking in a soft voice
If you can hold it
It looks so fragile and dear
May I please?

I offer my heart to you
In an open hand
I feel a tremor
Just here
Wondering if you will be as careful
As I have been

Your face is so open and sincere
You promise care
You will handle gently
You say

I offer my heart
And you take it…

Traces

Waking at his usual hour,
Performing his morning routine,
Riding to work,
On the early train,
Was all his life had been.

His job had brought him happiness,
By all he was admired,
But all of that
Was over now.
Now, he was retired.

He tried his hand a playing golf.
He bought expensive clubs.
He paid to learn,
But all he hit
Were clunkers, shanks, and flubs.

He tried to be an artist,
He tried to write a book,
He tried to grow
Some vegetables
He tried to be a cook.

But none of this provided him
With what he hungered for.
So now he stands
And greets the folks
At the local Wal-Mart store.

In The Gym

First day hurting, sweating, burning,
In the Gym.

Same day learning, bouncing, turning,
In the Gym.

Late day leaving, glistening, beaming,
In the Gym.

Next day sleeping, avoiding, being,
In the Gym.

First, a big thank you to Robert and Brian!!!

"New"

A new day,
A new challenge,
As though life itself
Isn't challenge enough.

But, I endeavor
to persevere.

I ponder,
I swim
in thoughts so many
for something new
to say.

A new outlook,
A new phrase,
A new word,
A new thought.

But alas,
I'm at a loss
As borrowed words
reverberate
inside my head.

'Something borrowed,
something blue,
something old,
something new'

A new day
A new challenge
to take something old
and somehow
make it new.

Thanks to Robert for organising this!

Black the day
is long and
sun shut
out.
Past the school
in dark glasses
was it yesterday?
The frames on
Mr. Krell's spectacles
were broken.
In the back row
the crossword.
Past the park
squeak of swings
one month of black
in one long night
hereditary blindness
still surprised her.
She smells flowers
she feels soft petals
she touches the world.

Found on a Beach in Uruguay

As out of place as the dead butterfly
Found still but perfect on the white sand
Beach of Punta del Este, its fragile wings
Spread as if in perpetual flight, each
Unflawed vein and dotted sector mirrored
By its twin; the fragility and ephemeral
Nature as undeniable as poetry is to the
Scribe who wakes to pen verse in winter

So glad this is back up; thanks to Robert and Brian!

:Cross the newest threshold:

Wander to this borough, the pitter
of pine tracing royal footsteps
This is borderland, desertland, faceland,
turning askew the mask of country

Enter the ledger of the road,
inscribe a name for the sprawling
district of the breeze
Bracing leaves against a new sky
to twist this foreign boundary into home

Graze this place, soak this region,
let it pitter, dancing
through a twittering heart

Gate 18
he's landed
although a part of him remains back home
he reaches for his belongings
in the overhead compartment
and carries his entire life in a suitcase on wheels
tired but optimistic
he walks down the corridor
through customs
and he waits for that stamp of approval
Welcome to America
Enjoy your stay in New York
he smiles
and heads toward
Gate 18
Where she waits
smiling.

Day 1—Enter something new


Post a Poem a Day

Don’t hold these poems close
to shelter them,
or give them time to grow
sturdy and strong.

No, fling these rawborn words into space,
into the place between hope
and dread.

Write and release,
set them free.

Let them be.

Twenty years I have been single
Half that since I have dated
You came along and brought joy
and laughter back into my heart.
Each morning as the dawn touches my cheek
I smile, stretch and speak your name.
Hope has come with your smile.
I look into your eyes and see tomorrow.

The Newness

Soft wave
Push me down
To the bottom
Crash me through your wall of
Sand
Take me to your
Core

Angelic sky
Open up the
Heavens
Pull me through your Universe
Show me your lights

Fire burn
Through
Singe the last bits of what
Used to be
Me
I need to feel the heat of
Newness

Invitation



Getting back within the groove

Treading where my heart belongs

Pen in hand, writing poetry

Now and then , I'll try a song



In the past, time I've wasted

Precious moments on silly games

Now's the hour to regenerate

Take a chance to gain a name



The hunger kind of dwindled

But the fire never died

Inside, I feel the surge arising

Like a wondrous swelling tide



Look out world, for ole Raydreamer

And his new release on life

Seeking strength and your encouragement

Fear of failure causes strife



If you're free, come and join us

As I read poems and sing my songs

Date is set November, twentieth

Entertainments free, so come along.

RAYMOND ALBERTS

Mourning


You never cared for flowers
'cept me your favorite rose
nurtured with sweet kindness
brown eyes set aglow

Ocean waves, our footprints
quiet times at park
ferris-wheels 'n bumpercars
teatime, friendly chats


We shared in our togetherness
every minute, everyday
on phone, in thought, in person
it was just that way

Seasons change so quickly
sun hides behind the clouds
winter tugs at heartstrings
with sobbing, the only sound

Deep in thought of yesteryear
warm mem'ries linger on
sandcastle dreams and carousels
mem'ries of favorite song

Winter's breath is chilling
snowflakes tremble in mid air
blankets of white, reflecting
tears of hurt, despair

Yes, seasons come then fade away
with life and death, between
always I'll rememeber
how much you meant to me

Although you've crossed to other side
a closeness I can feel
am sure I'll see you bye 'n bye
your arms outstretched for me

Reflecting back, recalling
everything we shared
off in the distance, peeks sunshine
no doubt, you're standing there

November 1st, 2009
(prompt- changes)

(c) Rose Marie Streeter

The Formatting on this is all screwed up, but after trying to post 5 times I give up. Line breaks are important, but I guess I'll consider it an experiment.

Combination Therapy
My father is almost giddy, choosing his new room with its view of the hillside up to the campus almost as if he and Mom are breaking up even though they’ve had separate beds for more than a decade this is different as she continues to age and he goes into a second childhood first learning to get dressed by himself and then forgetting it figuring out the buttons on the microwave and then forgetting to take the spoon out of the oatmeal he has already forgotten to tell gentle lies and not point and fat ladies he has already forgotten that it’s not ok to scream and cry in public he has already forgotten that you can’t hit someone just because you’re mad
Will his new room make him happy a birdfeeder just outside and guidebook just in meals whenever he walks downstairs and no Mom to say the wrong thing will he like the girl who reminds him to take his pills will he fight the weekly bath wear the same clothes in between will something come back to him or will he just want to go home want to stay in bed want me to tell him a story about when he was a boy

A New Birth

He loved me then; He loves me now!
A new reality flooded my being, poured through my mind;
freed my soul and drove me to my knees.
I gave Him my wounded heart and He gave me joy.
I gave Him my burden of sin and He forgave me.
I gave Him my past and He gave me eternity.
Jesus loves me.
This foundational truth of my life
will be all I need to know at my death.

A New Chapter of My Life

Being still listening to the words as they linger upon her lips
I’d love for you to work alongside me
Not believing my ears
The words came across so clear
I’m beginning a new chapter of my life
Turning the page on the past
Happy that I made it through at last
Putting all fears aside
Stepping out on faith with God as my guide

Tara Hooper

Orphan-Morphosis

With stalwart vitality she heeded
The call: Protect thy progeny,
And I, an embryo, sailed afloat
A waveless amniotic sea.

Like ailerons she wrapped safeguarding
Arms around burgeoning me,
And I, a molting larva, hid
My wormlike repulsity.

Her motherly duty nigh fulfilled,
She uneclipsed gingerly,
And I, a resistant pupa, clung
To her fading ensconsity.

My shellacked bulwark split and cracked,
I retracted my wings forcefully,
And I, an uncocooned moth, emerged
An appendageless entity.

Stepping out
Making noise
Fighting back fear

Believing deeply
Hearing the call
Yelling out ME

Knowing
Listening
Doing

Paroxysms

My knockout
astounded belly spasmed
at the moment your churning water world
cracked open
with a three-centimeter light

and your fearless feet kicked
its demands for instinctual freedom
from an inhibiting womb
in which nine month’s grooming
would soon end

but for the slight bend
where bruising moves between pushes
placed your well-earned crown
first in a slippery send-out
the breath-taking smack

toward new knowledge of air
wreaking a defiant fisted wailing
statement for each day of your new life
in a characteristically
strident decisiveness

© Julia Holzer. November 1, 2009

House Hunters

Deep in California Suburbia
combing through the pages of a well used street map
alert and adept at eyeing street signs at great distances.
A stack of floor plans and price lists stacked neatly on the seat
listings printed off the internet
and glossy cards announcing who works for whom.
Builders credentials and an uncanny ability to notice the
slightest defects in workmanship.
Wondering about rooftops and Spanish tiled floors.
From one door to the next
the scent of newness
Glue and carpet fibers, fresh paint.
Kitchenettes and Nooks beginning to melt together in the mind's eye
walls closing in and opening up
Great Rooms made stately examples of prominence and stature
Guest Rooms set aside for in-laws and boomerang children
Chasing prices through neighborhoods
as checks are written and mailed each month
The trek
only a practice run
through quiet, California Suburbia

Opening Day of Deer Season

The Hunter Moon makes way
for dawn.
No playful fawns at reservoir edge,
no does slaking night thirst.

I can almost hear the shells
being loaded into the rifle,
safety set,
the sling pulled over the shoulder,
soft footfalls in the damp grass.

I’m still shaken by the rifle report
when it comes.

by Patricia Frolander

Venturing into
A new adventure
Thrust upon us by
Lack of freedom
Inability to move about
At will
Necessity is
How do they say?
Ah, yes, the mother of invention
Movement limited by
Roads and will
Weather and desire
Necessities Clarify rapidly
Forced by lack of means
To move about freely
Instead we move into
This new place
Lacking
Needing
Asking
For help

Entering Something New

It’s not that I’m stuck in the past
but new is always problematical
Take, for example, a new dress.
You have to try it on.
The old body isn’t what it was:
new bumps in new places
and maybe you’re shorter now.
New shoes pinch my feet
The old dog has to be put down,
the new puppy
pees on the Persian. Yikes!
New friends—What they don’t know
about you, like aphids on roses.
The old history is new to them.
Hopefully it doesn’t make them bolt.
New ills—new pills
with all the side effects.
And they say there is nothing
new under the sun.
On the other hand, I woke
up this morning to a new day
and work on this new poem.

Alana Sherman

AUTUMN

One day summer turns
no longer burns but slows
to a crawl
as fall swiftly rides in
on a shifty wind
warm
becomes
crisp
becomes
chill and
no amount of wishing will
stop summer's
entry into fall

The sun rises slowly in the east.
I stretch and get out of my chair.
The streets are coated in deep fog-
I can barely make out the cars below.
A figure stirs in my bed,
tangled up in the sheets.
We enter into a new day.

Terror Incognito

An unimpressive waiting room, a pot of plastic
Plants, two framed generic landscapes on the walls
I sit where I can view the seascape, a terrifying wave
Foam-crested, ready to crash in fury at the shore. A
Gentle white-haired lady in a wheel chair whispers to
The younger woman, seated at her side. I have no
Desire to hear their conversation. Anyone who books
A consultation with these neurological specialists will
Have few good words to say.

When my name is called, I seize my walker, walk my
Ever-shrinking steps behind the nurse.
“Are you alone?” she reveals surprise. I think of clever
rejoinders, but nothing I think now is ever clever.
“Yes,” I answer and sit down on the chair.
She asks the familiar set of questions and as I answer
My voice grows softer and I clear my throat.
“Is there someone who can come with you?”
I tell her I have a daughter but she works.

“Do you know your daughter’s schedule?” and in that
moment, time propels me backward with its fist. I
am reaching for my daughter, wrapped in a blanket,
A pink knit cap covering her head. “This is her
Schedule” A nurse informs me. “But it’s O.K. to
Feed her early if she cries.”

Will my daughter cry when she hears my diagnosis?
The doctor explains as gently as he can. His offer
To meet with my next-of-kin, uh, family makes sense
And I marvel at how we were able
To re-arrange our schedules according to his plan.

The plan, it seems, is the long good-bye, the one
Where bit by bit the pieces
Tip-toe out the door. My drivers license is the first
Surrender. This shutting-down world I’ve stumbled
Into, can anyone help me find my way back home?
Can anyone just help me out the door?

Thanks to both of you for allowing this avenue of expression!!
Here's my somewhere new . . . .

My Light in the Night

Freedom awaits me just outside the day
as darkness falls around me, I’ll slip away.
Praying my beacon in the night shines its ray.

A familiar sight, but for me it’s so much more
my light in the night that beckons to restore.
Steering me clear from peril with a rocky shore.

Guiding me safely towards the sanity I crave
wanting to be wise, patient, strong, and brave.
While saving the only life I know I can save.

My journey continues, faith and hope combines
off in the distance my night light still shines.
Safety within its realm of intermittent outlines.

The closer I drift, a stronger light, a clearer sight
no longer fearing angry voices in the night.
Out of the bay, into open waters feels so right.

Promises of a brighter day ahead, if only I follow
my light releasing my past, reaching for tomorrow.
Giving substance to life which became so hollow.

Yes, the power of this towering image is so divine
God reaches out to me in this light that does shine.
In a state of clarity, serenity and courage will ensue
Leading me to the wisdom to simply follow through.
To start again and live anew.

darla jean

Grief

It’s time to fold away the sackcloth
Withdraw from sorrow’s sad embrace
Mourning ends as dawn approaches
I’ll scrub the ashes from my face

I will not be defined by sadness
The trace of tears I’ll wash away
I’ll smile, I’ll laugh and I’ll remember
And cry tomorrow, not today

enters the predator

in this eden this forest
this lush moss-ed place
enters the dragon-
breathing scorn and scortched flesh
creating jealousy and murder
in puffs of smoke-
wrapped around heads like halos
hands and feet crushing flowers
tail sweeping against trees
the woods scream and wail
but only prey reside there
no teeth no claws no jaws to fight
submission surrender-
the first taste of night

The Big Yellow

She stands there so stoically,
the autumn wind whipping at her skirt.
The others here feel the anticipation,
they are all looking forward to the arrival.
She, on the other hand, hopes, wishes
to return home, safe from all this newness.
Suddenly, the roar of the motor is heard.
In the distance, the big yellow bus
can be seen heading down the street.
Everyone is ready, except her.
As it pulls up, everyone filing in,
she hopes the cold wind will be blamed
for her tears, running noticeably down her cheeks.
She waves as the bus pulls away
chiding herself for being so sentimental.
The first day of school, and she should be
like the other Moms busily making plans
to enjoy the time without the kids underfoot.

Linda M. Rhinehart Neas 2009

Remembering
how he shakes his head
quizzically
tugs a corner of my mind
playfully
which tugs the corner of my mouth
amusingly
tugging a corner of my heart
reluctantly
as I tug at my soul
faithfully
to open.

(tug of war)

Sorry I'm late getting started, but in my line of work, I never know what's on my plate from time to time. Anyway, I'm going to try for two poems a day like I did last November. The themes will be obvious.

CHAP 1:

Perfection

I’d heard about this place
Seen human renditions
Read majestic descriptions
Tried my best to envision
With my limited imagination

But even with all of that
My best picture falls flat
Nothing close in my mind
To the perfection I now find

Yes, I’d heard about this place
And now it’s mine
Forever

CHAP 2:

Never Forever

My eyes will not adjust
To the dreary dimness
My ears will forever hear
The sounds of eternal suffering
My lips will forever thirst
Dry, cracked and bleeding
My body will never again cool
No sweat in unbearable heat

Never will I laugh again
Never will I feel at peace
Never will I feel love
Never will I ever escape

I wish I could tell others
Not to follow in my footsteps
This place is so real
And so forever

Birth

You looked old though you were surely new
Wrinkled and folded wrong like clothes
Too long left in the dryer.

You looked worn though you were scarcely born
Features and smile unformed and eyes
Unfocussed, toenails torn.

You looked sweet though surely not asleep
Your gaze was dark and deep and I
Was tired but you were wise.

You looked grown, heartbreaker, fair of face
Not like a child you smiled
And won the race.

Yesterday
your voice sounded a million miles away.
I imagined your hand, knuckled white,
gripping the phone, struggling to say this right.

“Next week I’d like for you to come with me to make arrangements.”
A long pause and then – “I don’t want Tom to have to do it.”

I swallowed hard.
“You know I’ll do anything for you, but surely not yet?”

I can tell you are crying now.
Looking out the window I see the neighbor’s girl on her bike.
I make a mental list of all the things we’ve done together:
shopping,
reading,
talking,
walking,
laughing,
crying,
praying.

“Ok.” I say, and something stiffens inside me, becoming brittle.
Something that could shatter in the months to come
if I’m not careful.

She’s circling round and round in the cul-de-sac now.
To the list I add dying.

Something New


(I was under the impression that my poem had posted, but it had not...)

Learning How To Catch Dreams

Catching Dreams Bare-Handed

Reach for the stars or cry for the moon?
To be it, or to beat it?
Sand between my toes as I race after memories
On the sodden sand.
Later is a lie.
It is not easy to catch a butterfly in a net,
But if I sit still, holding out my hand, palm up,
He will come to rest, folding his wings.
And that is the way I catch dreams bare-handed.
I grasp a handful of sand
And it will flow to flee the force of my pressure.
I cup my hand and it will slowly settle, as always,
In the cusp of my palm.
And that, too, is my way to catch dreams barehanded.
I beat the drums and clash the cymbals;
Making enough noise to thwart my thinking.
Then, I am silent; I take pleasure in the differentiation.
And I catch my dreams bare-handed.

Belinda's "Yesterday"...WOW.

Fannie

She’s had it with those skinny women
on morning TV, tables heavy laden
with products she can’t afford, enticed
by beauty, youth, and sexual promise.

Each day she weighs, the agony of truth.
When low she celebrates the loss, if up
she chews and cries. Form follows deed,
she waddles under considerable pressure.

Sometimes hunger is simply hunger,
more likely it’s a lack of stimulation,
a reaction to a friend who wants to please,
a full cup remedy for her empty heart.

Not like a bottle she can refuse to buy,
a cigarette crushed and tossed, she has to
eat to live, no substitute, no pill, no shake
magic- she’s tried and failed every one.

In restaurants she endures tight-lipped stares
no matter what she orders, it’s not the meal,
it’s the simple fact she boldly goes there,
dares to parade her lazy ways, her lack.

Faced with the television rattle of naked bones,
the later burger push, the midnight pizza drone,
to eat or not to eat is moot, at home in peace, she
forgives herself, repeatedly, for each leftover bite

SOMEONE NEW

Gone are the wicked days
Of youthful ways
Forgotten is the old
Along with the diamonds that were sold

Ellen Wanjiru

Never knew

It is not something that I do,
To read the dawn for something new
To search the grass blade in the dew
For a known I never knew,

To find rare beauty in sublime
Or phrases catching in the rhyme.
I do not seek when out I look
Or inward wonder how I took

My eyes up from the weathered pier
To see the goslings gathered near
The mother goose who led the vee
Across the lake, away from me.

J. Alvey

Thanks, Brian, you did a great job and thanks for posting this prompt. Thank you, Robert, for having this challenge and thanks for doing a great job. This is my first time in doing the November PAD Chapbook Challenge. I am having a great time in doing this.



A New Adventure


Today
somewhere
a couple
entered a new
adventure in life
said their wedding vows
glowing in love
rejoicing.

Today
somewhere
a newborn
entered into
this world
crying loudly to let
everyone know
Here I am!

Today
somewhere
a man
left this earth
to enter a better
world in Heaven
to be with God
and to rejoice with the angels.


Noreen Ann Jenkins, author of
You'll Learn to Love Me

Thought I'd give this a try this year. Thank you Brian and Robert.

Funny Once

The high speed electric synapses are exponential.
In a Heinlein maneuver
they wake up
and when I type
my query into Google
my imaginary childhood friend
answers back.

Marilyn Glazar

Aargh! I was just finishing my poem and my hubby unplugged my 'puter and it just shut off. Immediately, no shutdown, and I lost it. I think my battery will be dead before month's end. I tried to get it back, but my brain could only find pieces. And it spilled out so quickly and near perfectly that I didn't even have time to save it. Sigh. Back to the drawing board I go.

SE Ingraham loved your butterfly poem.

“Why try something new,”
Says the creature of habit,
“Today’s new enough.”

Day one

It has begun
The green summer leaves have fallen
Into decaying heaps of gold and brown
At the base of the old oak tree.

The shorts and tee shirts of summer are gone
Long replaced by the imprisonment of hats scarves and woolen mittens
Soon the skeletal arms of the tree will receive a new white coat

The snow falls softly at first its
Its intricate crystalline designs intrigue the watcher
“no two are ever the same” they say.
How do they know?
Did they count each and every snow flake?

Catch them and compare
On the tip of my tongue I catch the first flake of winter.
It melts instantly in my warm mouth.

It has begun the earth hibernates
The miracle of death and rebirth unfolds once again.

Windoe’s Seven

Some have claimed it’s new
Others, the very best that Microsoft could do
others yet, wonder if’s it’s true
When Window’s 7, is just a Vista Redo. . .

Ralph J. Fitcher, November 5, 2009, a new poem.

I will once again attempt posting day one's poem in case the world wide net has tired of catching my offerings for dinner.

Go easy on me, I'm new at this.

the Struggle.

the pushing and
the shouting and
their voices mingling
loudly

till with fingers
grabbing tightly
to his hand
she draws blood,

in little half-moons,
crescents,
startling memories
of past passions

exhausted anguish
turns to smiles
as they hear their
newborn cry.

HEY!!!! MAGIC!
(thanks to whoever figured out what needed fixing and fixed it!

Creeping and Diving


A toe to test,
a foot takes first step.
Two feet, now I’m in.
Down the stairs one by one.
Cold creeps up
above my knee,
up my thigh,
marks my belly button.
On tip toes to escape
until no longer can I stand
the upward creeping cold.
Whole body dives
Fingers first
to meet in the middle.

Getting a bit of a late start on some of these, but catching up:


Game of Life

I pick the red convertible
select my track, slide through college
to my career choice, stop at
the little white plastic chapel,
add a wife and hit the road again.
Along the way, some kids
(four pegs, all blue)
and I move through mountains and bridges,
valleys and plains, snaking over
the checkered road, all its ups and downs
toward the object of the game.
So much of this is a spin of the wheel,
but so much is strategy too.
When I finally park the car
and cash in the multicolored bills
tucked under my board,
I won’t end up at Millionaire Estates
or Bankrupt, but somewhere in between,
secure in the knowledge
that I still played a good game.

Rats! Wanted to offer feedback . . . and being “caught up” on my input, I thought now was a good time to do so. Been a while, though, and I had forgotten how much time & effort it takes -- with so many good writers here! I was thinking to only comment on a FEW and YIKES! So... here’s what I’ve got: (Just a “few“!)

Theresa Cavicchio - Dorothy in Oz - very nice!
Mary Kling - I like this - hits close to home!
Nancy Bell - well done!
De Jackson - beautiful (as always!) - so well described!
Amanda Fall - lovely - can see and feel the “Lift”!
Joseph Harker - perceptive, beautiful.
Mike Breaching - very sensual.

Walt (IF I NEEDED SOMEONE) - poignant.
Renee Goularte - touching & sad.
John Pupo - thought provoking.
J. Kuykendall - :-)
Trudi - sweet!
Brian Slusher - interesting take on this theme - nicely done!
Carol A. Stephen - I like this!

Kathleen Cassen Mickelson - cute! You’ll need those Converse to keep up with fleeting time -- but good luck on meeting up with wisdom! (I‘m still looking for it!) ;-)
Jane Penland Hoover - (Before Breakfast) - I still love it!
Marie-Elizabeth Mali - love your Halloween!

Dawn Marie Rocco - I feel your frustration (“to take something old and somehow make it new“)
S.E.Ingraham - Yes! (“as undeniable … who wakes to pen verse in winter“)
Maureen Blake - so true! Let them fly! : - )
Heather - I like “The Newness”.

Sandra Evans - your accurate descriptions - sad and close to home.
Alana Sherman - Perceptive! :-)
Stepahnie D. - ain’t THAT the truth?!
Marian Veverka - very poignant - I love the back & forth in time -- well written.
Belinda - so very sad.
Tanja Cilia - some wonderful images!

Marilyn Glazar - (“and when I type my query into Google my imaginary childhood friend answers back”) - I love this! :-)
Lexi flint - How do they know indeed? I’ve often wondered!
Bruce Neidt - Love this! Made me smile.


So much for being “caught up”! :-( Still several more days to read (& comment on?), and today’s prompt is getting older all the time! :-O

Keep writing everyone! (And I’ll try to keep reading!)

Day 1 November 1, 2009

Entering summer

She wears her hair up as she takes a dive in
Going to the bottom and the slowly back up
Gasping for air to catch her breath
She grabs on the side so she don’t fall back down
When she gets out she is warm by the sun
Dries herself off to lay and tan
She lays there comforted by the sun.

I would like feed back please. Send me an email or a message on Yahoo messenger. Thank you.

"Trail"

He got this message, the one he knew
he could always get.

Voice send to give it to him straight--
Flashing back to her ten years senior face--
this woman of maturity stands
on the rock of defence to his youth.

She wouldn't succumb to his
younger charm
And sent alarm to his smug weathered brow.
Her--she's free to be herself.

He sits alone
on his lonely throne--

until the next flower passes through...

Not being able to put two thoughts
Together since the day my
Ideas, plans, words all went away
Is something new.
Given a topic to write about
With no poem in formation
Is not the status quo.
But since the day my voice was
Silenced, only brief phrases
Have been whispered, voice fragmented,
Lines faded as soon as they are read.

Just a few lines on the paper
Searching for a new direction.
Hoping and praying for
Something bigger to present itself,
Just as soon as my
Thoughts finally come together again.

I once traveled across the ocean
to the land of my dreams.
I wondered what I would find
when I got there across the pond.
Would I find happiness or regret?
Would it be everything I had hoped?
Our cultures are similar, yet different
The people are the same,
only the accent has changed.
It was a different life
3,000 miles away from all I knew.
I loved the time I spent there
But I loved coming home.

I said I was going to be a grandma
But now I understand I am
I felt the tiny kick yesterday
My first greeting from the one who will steal my heart
The one who will bring joy and laughter
This child of my child
Hidden away from all eyes
My grandchild sheltered there within the womb
Wrapped in love
Cherished already
I am a grandma
Already

November Poetry Challenge day one, Entering

Beginning Ballet Class

Used to doing things well, for me,
Now on the far side of fifty, this class
Is a step back—more like a battement
Or ronde jambe back, a tendu or susu
Or all the other French words for
The steps I can neither do nor even
Understand. But, Mondays at 7:30 pm,
I’m five and sitting in the front row
In Mrs. Woods’ kindergarten once again,
A completely clean slate.

Lyn Sedwick

I wish I’d known earlier,
If you open the door,
And the side of the refrigerator
Bulks inches from your nose,
And the table traps
A chair in a dark corner,
And the couch encroaches on the window,
You can frogmarch that fridge
Into a nook, strongarm
That sofa to the long wall,
Shove that table aside, recapture that chair
And push them into submission by the window
To sit there watching
The shimmering moonpath
Across the bay.
I wish I’d known earlier
That I had the power
To arrange it.
Anne Baber

Sunday

He got up early.
He didn’t want to be late.
It had been weeks since he was fed
and he had a feeling the banquet table
would be full to overflowing today.
He wanted a seat
as close to the head of the table as possible.
As he drove, he felt a tinge of guild
as though he were cheating,
leading some kind of secret life.
But sometimes he like to get way
from those who knew him well.
Nothing wrong with that…
Besides, he was usually serving.
It wasn’t often he got to sit down
and partake of the feast.
No one offered him a plate,
he had to fix his own
and set it aside and eat alone
after everyone else left.
He entered the house
and was greeted by the host,
“Pastor, good to see you again!
You look different without your collar.
Are you ready for today’s Word?”
He smiled warmly and said,
“Yes Pastor, I’m ready!”

Enter

She said it
Lying there hair
splayed on rumpled
pillow case
You don't have to
stop
Interlaced fingers
clenched on cold metal
she waited for
the promised onslaught
of pain and passion
A moment and another passed
some rustling, an embrace
It's okay you can
she repeated encouragingly
And he new to this
all
sighed
I did

I am a bit late in posting this. Life has been keeping me very busy.

Something New
Surprise, what’s this?
Learning Curiosity
Exploring Horizons
Given and Received
Bright Warmth

SOMEONE NEVER DIED FOR ME.

Someone died for me,
But he was not that someone-
For there were many someones
Who shed their blood bravely on the battlefield.


That one brave soldier
Who, like his friends forsook his precious books,
Lovingly kissed his bride goodbye,
And marched off to France - the land of love,
Twisted into the land of hate in World War I,
The land of poetry
Where German bullets
Silenced the voices
Of his fellow poets.
Every second that could have been his last,
He wrote his stirring saga
That might never be finished.

His life was spared,
And the love of his England
Still burned fiercely in his heart
As he continued the labor that begun
Amidst the bloodshed.

Forty years later, he raised his hands
And set free the saga into the four winds
And into hearts transcending time and space:

The Lord of the Rings




THE PEN

If the pen is mightier than the sword,
Then perhaps those who can wield a pen
Must do so- often as well as the sword,
Or else be penned up
In the pig sties of their own apathy
To land and country.

Something New

I brought my laptop to the meeting
to see if my boss could link it to the
internet. No wireless card.

I heard snickers and a comment that I should buy
something new. My boss picked it up,
and joked about its heaviness,

not knowing it is full of memories
of my father's last days and my attempts
to revive him through my words.

Late to the party. Will try to catch up.

Admissions

She entered into the politics
of his flirtation. He entered
his name in the guestbook
of her small talk. She entered
his stare like a steam engine.
He entered upon her heart
as if her dearly departed husband
willed it to him. A red-tailed hawk
entered into the discussion
between sense and sensibility.
Gold and wine colored leaves
entered his and her landscape
with lyrical dances.
They entered medicine.

Here are the three I wrote to this prompt somewhere in the Caribbean last week.

Island

A town of pastel boxes
tucked into a hill of palms:
tranquility embodied.
Slipping off this massive ship,
could a girl sink in to its
fabric of life with tropic
ease? Or would she go blinking
in garish neon letters
"Alien! Stranger! Taboo!"
How might she ever return
if that turned out to be true?



Everything old....

Being old is new to me,
and such a strnage dichotomy:
brain issuing orders
the body declines to obey,
running farther awol
every passing day.
It now objects to doing stairs,
won't hit its knees to say its prayers.
Sit up quotas are in arears.
Quite possibly I've stripped the gears.


marriage


Once two, now one,
still whole but bigger.
What odder change
is possible?
Perhaps mitosis:
two from one,
half missing.

Water on the Moon
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

“Traces of water found on the moon!”
gushes NASA, weeks after
scientists analyze the mile-high
plume of debris kicked up by
one of their own, crashing inside
a crater that’s not seen sunlight
in about a billion years plus.

In large cities the world over,
people watch the newscasts on
giant teletrons, then cheer and
clap one another’s backs.
Even Google gets in the spirit,
giving the news it’s own special doodle.

But not everyone is happy.
Buzz Aldrin, who in ‘69
walked the moon with Armstrong
played down the discovery, afraid
Americans might shift focus from
Mars colonization back to a boring
old chunk of fossil rock once
idolized by Greeks, Romans,
and ancient Egyptians.
“Been there, done that,” he sighs,
“Time to move on.”

But the eureka moment plays on
in livingrooms, classrooms,
boardrooms and oval offices,
across the Internet, CB’s,
cell phones, TV & radio talk shows,
all begging the obvious --
will the recent discovery pave way
for manned lunar bases?
will buried water be suddenly
harnessed to generate hydrogen fuel?
will companies race to be the first
to bottle and market Lunar Water?
with Disney and Holiday Inn
close on their heels?


© 2009 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

A New Beginning


A second chance at love,
At life
Now that you are here

How strange, at my age
I think
To be in this situation

Thought I had my time
Though never drank wine
Till you show me

Believed I understood
Knew all I could, of love
Until you love me

My time is now
Here, with you
An old love story
That for us, is new

Day 1:

Entering Retirement

It all began at the tender, innocent age of five.
I wanted to be a teacher.
It ended at the toughened, wiser age of sixty.
I retired from teaching.
Who will I share my love for learning with now?

Lights beckon to moths
Even as flowers seduce butterflies.
They flutter round each illumination
While they court and woo in
Natures age-old mating dance.
When sunlight begins to crowd
The artificial glow, all dancing ceases
As the females settle to deposit
Eggs of yellow or creamy white
On any available surface.
Some will dry up
But some will survive and
Burst forth with caterpillars
Unaware they too will
One day be drawn
To a flicker of man-made glow.

Hope this one stays on the server. 2nd time I posted it.

A New Thought

It came creeping
Into my mind
As I sat in straight rows
Eyes roll upwards
And a new thought
A new
Villainous thought
Spiked my interest
Why did I feel so caged
And why did I feel
This wasn't right?
I pushed my mind beyond
The sermons words
And scrabbled as my resolve faded
All that I thought I knew
Disintegrated beneath my feet
In a pile of ash and rubble

It was enough to shake me.

I stood up
And exited the parish hurriedly.