My quest @ today's prompt...


Maybe Tomorrow

Maybe tomorrow
I'll never see...
will never be.

Time will stand still
maybe tomorrow...
life surreal.

Maybe tommorw
I'll see my sun set...
live with regret.

I am enjoying following along. I am really glad I got wind of this site thanks to my Writers Digest email :)

Maybe never

Last April
Awoke to numbness
My right hand
Right leg
Left mind...no good.

Recovery
Is slow.
Almost healed
at least physically.

I'm scared to have
not lived
enough of life at forty-three
To die satiated

So I live
moment to moment
day to day
Laughing as much as I can
Loving as much as I can

Hopefully
in this lifetime
it will
maybe never
happen again

YOUR MOTHER SHOULD KNOW
(Maybe I Should Have Listened To My Mother)

Yeah Mom.
I know Mom.
You're right Mom.
You're always right Mom.
I put too much faith in people
the perpetual trusting soul.
Giving more than I'll ever get,
and loosing some control.
But, I do the things you've taught me
and giving was the key. If I failed
in that regard, no one to blame but me.
So as I advance in my years and you're
a long time gone, the lessons taught
were lessons learned, your legacy lives on.
Maybe I should have listened closer, or
listened with both ears. Both in my heart
I know my part, and your message remains clear.
Maybe I should have listened to you more.

Many thanks to you, Robert, and Brian, and any others involved in this wonderful project. Had to chuckle: when I read the prompt, there were as yet no poems posted. Then, when I came to post mine, I saw the progression of titles . . . Maybe Tomorrow, Maybe Never, Maybe Today. Made me smile.


Day 4: Maybe ________


Maybe Today

is the day I find you,
the day I accept the possibility
of you, your goodness, your
I’m-right-hereness.

Maybe today is the day I
release my death grip on
timeworn aches and pains,
on memories that prison me in
ruts of it-has-always-been-this-way.

Maybe today is the day I
believe.

Flat Lined

Maybe if I had
loved her more,
she might not think
her life is a bore.

Maybe if I cut
back on my work,
she wouldn’t accuse me
of being a jerk.

Maybe if life
had not passed us by,
we wouldn’t be thinking
of saying goodbye.

Maybe this,
maybe that;
I’m sick of wondering
how our marriage went flat.

laurie k.

Maybe my poems are rubbish?

Why did this never occur to me before?
It suddenly hit me like a brick in the face.
Maybe my poems are rubbish?
What made me think the words excuse the paper
used to create the shiny covered books?
What if I've just laid waste lovely trees
for no good reason at all?

Maybe Another Time

Misty
Spirals dance across the water
to the rhythm of
autumn breezes

Daydreaming...
music in my head
Sunrise Seranade
A memory of another time.

Bodies
Swaying together
Rhythmically
Holding on to one another

another time
another place
another lover

“Tentative Observaton”

Maybe, you’ll hear mouse-like twittering squeaks,
see needle like bills, watch them drink the nectar
from the feeder, exposed to the April chill, moving
so swiftly, appearing still.

Their arrival sudden, maybe visit brief, the trip
from Canada, early spring flight, smallest
of birds fly day and night, with remarkable powers,
flying frontward, backward, hover in one spot.

Instantly perch, check out their surroundings
while sipping through straws, satisfied, I think naught.
Blessed are we, its graceful presence, maybe scarce our advantage
point, bound for the gulf, fluttering shadow, passing by.

ninacarole

Maybe wild grasses

will grow long-stemmed
hide the lark and quail
seeds full that will blow
in late summer breeze

maybe they will feed
the elk, the cottontail
shelter the mouse
hold fast the soil

maybe I’ll walk through them
celebrate their fullness
listen to their whispers
in fading twilight

Maybe Maybe-lene

M Maybe Maybe-lene liked to make believe:
A she often seemed to pretend she was another person.
Y Yet she was, quite fairly, naive
B but that may have only been a wee peeve
E even when her condition seemed to worsen.

M Maybe Maybe-lene believed every tale
A as she made it up in her head.
Y Yet she would, quite fairly, prevail
B but (here and there) miss a detail
E especially when friends and neighbors said,

*

L “Lucky or loony? Maybe Maybe-lene,
E everyone’s aware
N no good can come from your umpteen
E escapes to worlds out there.

Maybe Lennon Was Right ….


I’ve been imagining lately,
what the world could be like
if there were no Heaven,
except that gained by living
with wide open arms, and
a ravenous hunger to create
an earthly paradise for all
who inhabit this miraculous planet.
We are born into community,
surrounded by endless potential
for happiness and generosity,
and all who have come before,
have taught us many ways to love.
If this life were all there was,
no one could demand of others
that they sacrifice their lives
in order to destroy the enemies
of their elders and masters,
for the pursuit of some religious,
or political set of mad dreams
with the assurance of God’s
approval, since victims would
find some out-of-world reward.
What if such madness only robbed
martyrs, victims, enemies and collaterals
of the only chance at life they’d ever have.
Then none could ask their children,
or neighbor in any land upon the globe,
to give up their rights to a decent life,
or a decent share of all life’s offerings,
for some promised, invented kingdom,
while others wallow in excess and greed.
Maybe if we strived for love and justice,
we might find true happiness and peace.

Maybe She Will Breathe

There could be life
in the browning edges
of the dying ivy.

Watering can held
for just a second
to her chest
coaxing a prayer,
loving hums
pouring her breath,
scenting the water.

Leaving it in the window
to gather energy,
stripping herself
bare,
she steps into her morning shower.

Only silence for herself,
water flowing into her wrinkles,
her head back
absorbing it all.

There could be life
in the browning edges
of the dying Ivy.

Maybe Therapy

Playing with the Ouiji board
spelled trouble. Gave shape
gave voice to demons hitherto
unrealized. An incubus broke
across the threshold demanding
corporate benefits: vision plan
401k, stalking angrily out of
ether staining our imaginations.


“I’m not playing!” He threatened.
Ok, maybe therapy; could restore
common ground. We exchanged
our feelings. “Look,” he implored,
“Try to be reasonable. It starts
with an ‘f’ ends with a ‘k’ it’s
no guarantee for retirement, just
a new way to screw with people.”

Maybe Reason

Before, I knew of no reason;
To smile,
To laugh,
To protest,
To love or be loved…
Maybe reason!

Finding reason
I shall cling to,
The inner happiness
Must be fulfilled,
The fulfillment comes from you…
Can it be reason?

Seeing the little things
You do, making me care and feel
Our love to be real…
I believe it to be reason?

We do share that special something,
Or is it my imagination…
I feel not so?

Maybe reason…
I love you so?

YOU’VE GOT TO HIDE YOUR LOVE AWAY
(Maybe I Shouldn’t Wear My Heart on my Sleeve)

Just a hopeless romantic;
a fool with a heart,
going through life
with this need to be loved.
A minstrel of love songs,
a purveyor of mirth,
a reason to rhyme,
waxing poetic and often ,
hoping to soften the blows
of a misguided emotion,
lost in devotion to one so fair.
In my eyes, a vision,
a purposeful wanting,
desires unfolding,
in scope and breadth.
The vacancy sign
worn like a badge
high on my shoulder,
an advertisement.
A prurient “want” ad
reading as such:
“Hopeless romantic,
a fool with a heart,
looking for same.
No need to reply,
I’ll know by your sign.
Worn on your sleeve,
the same as mine”

"Maybe Tomorrow"

Maybe tomorrow
I will open my eyes
and greet the day
with a smile,
not a frown.

Maybe I will
bounce from bed
ready to stand
and carry on
on my own.

Maybe tomorrow
I won't think of you
miss you, ache for you.
Maybe I won't feel you
breathe you, love you so.

Maybe tomorrow
your memory
won't haunt my days
pierce my heart
or make me weep.

Maybe tomorrow
I'll forget you
and leave you
firmly rooted
in my past.

But then again,
maybe tomorrow
I won't,
for you memory
is all that I have left.

“Maybe Tonight”

Maybe tonight
my sweetheart said
as the sun began to set

The words were familiar
as I lay with him
completely undone

Two years back
when we met
and I felt the electricity

One year ago
by the lake
naked and exposed

Six months
in the kitchen
on the hardwood floor

Ninety-one days
beneath the stars
on the cool moist grass

Maybe tonight
he thought himself clever
and I forever innocent

I have caught on
that maybe tonight
means not ever

MAYBE I’LL GO TO SAN DIEGO

In January, when Minnesota sinks
deep into its white winter slumber, when snow
crunches beneath my boots and the tires
on our car feel square first thing in the morning.
Maybe that is the time to fly south, seek
warm Pacific sun, search for whales
as they glide beyond the waters where
surfers hoist themselves onto smooth
boards. I can feel Californian for a day
or two, shed my layers until my pale
skin is overwhelmingly exposed.
A beached Minnesotan.
I know it won’t take long before
the urge to cover up returns,
before I must replace my peeled
layers, head north to the safety
of January darkness, go home
with a heart full of enough
warmth to last till spring.

I'M LOOKING THROUGH YOU
(Maybe I Shouldn't Have Bought These X-Ray Glasses)

There it is.
In back of the
Superman comic book
I revered as a boy.

Next to the prize catalog.
Under the advice about
handling bullies on the beach.
Joe Wieder you steered me wrong.

Arriving in a manila envelope,
shrouded in secrecy, a sworn oath
to myself that neither my mother nor brothers
would ever know of my hidden "powers",

a fantastic ability to see through clothes.
I never wore them in the house
just in case my mother or sisters
might cross paths with my enhanced vision

and I end up in therapy for the rest of
my natural life. Countless hours standing
at the back fence staring down
the neighbor's daughter as we both

wrestled with pre-pubesence
(all the while, dreaming of wrestling with her).
An afternoon shot and not a stitch of fabric
had left her developing form.

I was no longer hot and bothered.
Damn, I wasn't even warm.
Out a couple buck plus postage.
I should have seen that coming,

but my x-ray eyes failed me.
Joe Wieder, what's your spiel again?

Maybe When I Remember

Maybe when I remember
the one who brings sun to my day
and stars to my night,
I’ll be able to smile at whatever I perceive as wrong.

Maybe when I remember
all the things you do in the course of a day
to bring comfort to my soul and laughter to my eyes,
I’ll be at peace with who I am and where I’m going.

Maybe when I remember
how you completely define who I am,
I will love you more, if such a thing is possible.

Maybe when I remember the all the things
that make you and I one entity,
the focus of my life won’t be so much on me,
but on the best part of what we are together.

Maybe Later...Finally Getting Up the Nerve to Call

“Hello...Darlene? This is - uh - Joe.
We met last week at the picture show.
I was wondering if you’d like to go
out with me for a bite, on a date or – “

“Uh...thanks a lot, Joe, but I can’t. Maybe later.”

A few months later...

“Hi, is this Joe? This is Darlene.
When you last called, I just played it routine.
Sorry I didn’t call back, but know what I mean?
So, would you like to meet – maybe this afternoon?”

“Uh...Darlene, not today, but I’ll call you soon.”

SHE CAME IN THROUGH THE BATHROOM WINDOW
(Maybe I Should Have Left Her The Key?)

All my toiletries strewn about,
my deodorant in the "soup",
Roll of tissues all unfurled.

My towel bar was ripped right out,
my shower curtain torn,
my hamper upturned with my undies asunder.

My nosy old neighbor not minding her own
was the reason authorities came to my home,
A frantic call for extradition and bail.

You didn't speak to me for weeks,
even though your passage is assured.
Next time check the welcome mat, avoiding time in jail.



***THANK YOU ROBERT! My "mojo" is secured! lol

Maybe I am a warrior
- Virabhadra

even though I practice Yoga with jelly arms because when I move into Warrior 1, I am strong. I plant my right foot and move my left heel back, checking my alignment like looking for chinks in armor. As I settle into a deep lunge with my right knee bent I bring my palms together and then push them up and over my head. It is time to giving thanks or to ask for protection or to be. I almost feel I could sleep until my legs start to shake. They are more viscous than jelly but yet not as strong as a solider wearing greaves. But, before that moment I was ready for battle, forgetting all but the feel of my body without thought of what I would next eat, of papers requiring pushing, of clothes that do not fold themselves. For a time, I was fighting by being just there.

May be gone
and June
maid be none
a belly laugh
this is the tin top
tune
won’t ever stop
long as April
comes
a teasin’
with her pink
pink moon.

DIG A PONY
(Maybe Bestiality Was a Bad Choice)

I dig a pony,
it's hind...

HOLD THE PHONE!
Upbringing,
good taste and
the fifth amendment
prevent me from
exposing this section
of the poem. My apologies
to Seabiscuit and
Old MacDonald for any
embarrassment this
may have caused.
No need to call the
ASPCA, I already did!

...that ends well!

Two maybe poems because I didn't post a two for tuesday prompt. Maybe I'll get inspired by the positive/negative prompt, maybe not. So here goes.

1.
Maybe We Ought To Start Paying Attention
Or, Every Tiny Life We Lose

The translucent silvery
Delta Smelt
is rapidly disappearing
from the Missouri.
Could be very soon the only shiny
thing we'll see in the water
will be a woman's lost earring
shimmering up from the river bottom.


2.
Maybe There Is An Alphabet

Maybe there is an alphabet
in the icicles and maybe
it captures a message
from the ordinary world.
Maybe to get old is to lose
everything, but the everyday
tells us we are strong
and beautiful as we will ever be.
Maybe fields are greener
for the saying of green
and the garden there
because of the path.
Maybe it's time to take
another risk. Maybe
it's time to light another candle.

Maybe We Still Can Be

Maybe if you had known
what you know today
you wouldn’t have cheated on me.
You would’ve come home
Instead of play and give in
to your sexual fantasy

Maybe we would be in a better
place for our old age,
to enjoy the fruits of our life
Instead we are opening old wounds
that we once lived through and
didn’t hemorrhage to death

Maybe now we have the time
to try and set this old stuff right
To rekindle the old love that once
we had that nothing not even
countless affairs could shake
Nothing could take that away

Maybe I could learn to love again
Like I did before I went behind the wall
To try not to get wounded or
have my soul laid bare as we made love
When you came so home late
smelling like someone else’s perfume

Maybe you can use the skills
That you’ve learned from life so far
And help me break this wall that’s
held me prisoner for so many years
To free the trapped love that I once
Felt, showed, shared and showered on you.

Maybe then we can be as one
As God intended us to be
We can be our we again
And start a new and carry on
to live and love in peace
For now and the rest of eternity

Again, these poems are fiction. They go along with the novel I'm writing for nanowrimo.


Maybe I Shouldn’t Be a Nurse

Maybe I should have never
gone to nursing school.
Maybe I should have never
taken and passed the boards.
Maybe I should have
stayed home instead of working
six years at a hospital.
Maybe I should have
tried to make it as a writer
or an artist. Maybe my paintings
should be hanging in a gallery.
Maybe I should have a shelf full
of novels with my name on them.
But maybe I wouldn’t have
been here today when Olyvia
choked. Maybe I wouldn’t have
known how to do an abdominal
thrust that saved her life.
Maybe I would have been
like all the other clowns
who just stood around
with their mouths open.
Maybe God has a plan.



Maybe I’ll Forget that Kiss

Maybe the memory
of his lips on mine
will fade and I’ll ask
what kiss? Maybe
I won’t think of it
every time I see him.
Maybe I’ll stop longing
for another one.
Maybe Olyvia will stop
being cute. Maybe Hayden
will stop being smart.
Maybe Caleb will not
want to wear his red nose.
Maybe Liz will stop
being creative. Maybe
Jonathan will want to
stay on Big Burt with his
parents rather than driving
around in his Mustang with
his friends. Maybe Emmy
will stop loving her hamster.
Maybe my feet will grow
to fit Cheeky’s shoes. Yes,
maybe, I’ll forget that kiss.

MAYBE NOT

I
love
him. You
are flawless.
We're right. They are best.
His performance was the strongest.
Her vision is clear. It has always been done this way.
The world will end in twenty-twelve.
This is the right road.
Perfection
rules. He
loves
me.

W

Maybe it Will Rain

Storm clouds hang heavy
Pendulous with rain unshed
Air tense and brooding.

Maybe Newton knew what he was talking about.

Inertia


She is object in motion, unmasked momentum, forward facing, past erasing, devouring each day at her own speed.

He
is force.
Resistance.
Friction.
Drag.

She longs for flight
but even willing wings are fragile.
And so
shocked
shamed
shackled,
she stays.

MAYBE PARIS, OR ALASKA
(Medea)

I've put the twins to bed, and I'm waiting for you,
even though you said you might be a while.

Tomorrow they'll knock on the motel room door,
warrants in hand, swift justice for a pair of
pit vipers, venomous survivors who left
destruction in their wake.
And already there will be nothing left of us
but our skins, pale and patterned, on the bedspread.

I've always wanted to see the Eiffel Tower.
Could we go to Paris, and stroll along the Rive Gauche,
sip kir by the churches and rock the babies to sleep
before moonrise? Could we make love bathed in
the thousand colors of the Sainte-Chappelle?
I say, damn the consequences, when the world
lays before you as rich as a Persian carpet.

Could we go to Alaska, and watch the caribou
treading thunder through the mud? Could we
hang aurora borealis in our windows and
smoke salmon for dinner, buy little parkas for the babies,
teach them how to make snow angels? Tell me
where will we go,
and I will follow. This viper has been charmed.

Such things I've done for you, matching my unpre-
dictability to yours, such murders and such betrayals.
We could burn forever together, maybe above, maybe below.
I've put the twins to bed, and I'm waiting for you,
though it's awful late,
and I'm beginning to wonder where you've gone.

Maybe Walking Is Sitting

As winter draws near,
perhaps we’ll tread consciously.
Peace is every step.

May Be
May be truth
should wear a label
hang a sign around its neck
and give us leave
to waste our time on more important puzzles
(Hamlet was a fool to care)
May be the night has fooled your eyes, you see gray recollections shades
(see fire curl in spectrum
as an autumn leaf
from stem through crackling veins
to erose edges purple)
You may be but mad as foxes and to one wind only
(lean on the wind and fall
it holds no more than smoke
and molecules of memory)
May be you’re trapped in solving amber questions where the only answer’s mad
(you have no boy’s excuse
to murder daisies making sport of madness)
May be ragged in your reason
six of one to half a dozen
(or sharp as fractured glass
a liar eight to maybe)

Maybe the World is Round; and Truth Prevails
© Rich Atwater Nov 4, 2009

The world is flat for thus we “know”-- it says so in Genesis,
The Bible can not lie, so truth is fixed in our interpretation,
The land and seas created had a firmament above- “makes sense to us”,
Thus clergy of the Middle Ages, by fiat made it so—an inward elation!

Along comes Copernicus, the man of wit and wisdom, scientifically drawn,
A heliocentric design put forth to test the metal of “the cloth”,
And Galileo places further emphasis on “truth” from telescopic observation; Pawn
Of Catholic Inquisition—a heretic he dies—by fiat, like one drawn to the flames as a moth!

And still today the masses yet proclaim “as truth”—“the world is flat and void of substance”,
God has no control of “time or circumstance”, has lost the power over even “revelation”!
A Bible, a Bible, there can be no more of such, for God has wrapped it up so long ago—happenstance,
That Jews alone can print “the truth of God” that ended with the apostles in their calling, station.

But then, behold, “the power of God” is once again REVEALED, no fiat of man can stop “the truth”,
“The Stick of Joseph” sold into Egypt becomes “The Stick of Ephraim” through his son,
And God in “time” becomes exonerated and makes “the circumstance” proclaimed in Ezekiel’s booth,
A proclamation that the world is round and truth prevails for Jesus Christ as God of Earth has won.

For Jews of old proclaimed “the truth of God” as He revealed in “Stick of Judah”—known as Bible,
‘Twas known among “the Old World” clientele as “revelation of the truth” for man to know.
Then in “the New World”—proving Earth was round—came “sealed book from dust of ground”, no fable.
As Isaiah stated: “a marvelous work and a wonder”, a familiar spirit whispers from the dust: “I know it’s so!”

That God is just, His Son is King, Messiah thus be-- JESUS CHRIST-- for everyone upon the earth to see,
For Jew and Gentile, heathen, Moslem, and the disbelieving lot of the sinful, woeful casts of all mankind,
Two “sticks”, “a book upon a scroll rolled up” to testify as witness to the truth—“the world is round”—“to be”,
Or “not to be”, that is the question you see-- whether truth is fixed in our interpretation, or stands alone—Divine.

And thus my friend of “muses thought” and “spirit revelation” from “the God of truth” who rules above,
Read Isaiah 29: 4, 10-24; and Ezekiel 37: 15-20, and tell me whence such prophecy be yet fulfilled, if you can,
We have the Bible as an “open book” revealed from God to man, but whence this “sealed book” to speak of love--
Of God with covenant of peace, that comes from dust of ground, of Tribe of Israel, through Ephraim as Joseph’s clan.

May I surmise, that ‘mongst His prophets called in Ariel to teach the people stood a man known simply as Lehi,
From out the “Holy City” he thus departed by command of God to seek across the seas “the Promised Land”.
Six hundred years before the coming of the Savior, to prove “the world is round” and “truth of God” yet prevails on high,
And so The Book of Mormon gives account as “a sealed book” in complete fulfillment of such prophecy of old so grand.

So truth is NOT fixed in our interpretation, but rather comes from He who knows the truth, exact accordance so to be,
Man may set by fiat all his forlorn wishes only to find that his “flat world” is really round, and truth prevails beyond his stance,
Even beyond the seven seas, God rules, His prophecies to all fulfill, through time and circumstance, and thus we see,
The Prophet Joseph Smith, visited by Moroni, Mormon’s ancient son of 421 A.D., brought truth of God, not by chance!

Poet’s Note:
The old religious world once proclaimed “the world is flat” based on Bible interpretation. Science proved otherwise. The modern religious world proclaims there can be no more Bible. Yet Bible prophecies are being fulfilled in modern times as truth is excavated from the archaeological ground. The Book of Mormon contains the history of a tribe of people who originated in Ariel (Jerusalem) and crossed the waters to “the New World”. One such group came in 2200 B.C. (the Jaredites), another in 600 B.C. (the Nephites and Lamanites of Lehi’s family) who were descendents of Joseph sold into Egypt of Bible fame. Throughout their writings they proclaimed the coming of a Messiah. After He came He appeared among them as “the Resurrected JESUS CHRIST” in 33 A.D., recorded in the Book of Mormon (Another Witness of Jesus Christ). Their descendents were improperly named “Indians” by Columbus who thought he arrived in India. The last Prophet among them as a writer of religious records was named Mormon (311-385 A.D.). His son was Moroni, the man who buried the records of old in the ground (in what is now western New York state). In 1823 as a resurrected being, Moroni (son of Mormon) appeared to the Prophet Joseph Smith (founder of The Church of JESUS CHRIST of Latter-day Saints), or Mormonism, and showed him where the book was buried on “golden plates engraved in ancient languages”.
The poem presents the thesis that “the world is not flat” even if people believe it to be so. And TRUTH is not fixed on false interpretations, but rather is set by Divine credence. The prophecies of Isaiah and of Ezekiel are both fulfilled in the coming forth of the Book of Mormon as “the Stick of Ephraim (or Joseph)” just as predicted in revelations from God. Two witnesses from two hemispheres NOW proclaim (in the latter days) that JESUS CHRIST is the Messiah, and Redeemer of the world, each book substantiating the other in truth. The Indians of Columbus’s time met the Conquistadors as “the returning Bearded white God” of their ancestors who promised one day to return again. They were mistaken in time ad circumstance. He is yet to make His Second Coming—likely in YOUR own lifetime—I predict about 2020 A.D., even though no man knows the “day nor the hour”, but we do know “the season” thereof. As the Boy Scouts say in their motto: “Be Prepared”! Happiness to YOU from “the Poet Laureate of “the Maine Woods” and Romantic Psalmist of Tampa Bay! (RMA)

The obvious is too easy...

MAYBE I'M AMAZED

it was our song,
love in the amazing platitudes
that were inherent in the process.
even through years of separation,
that one revelation was a reminder
of what once was a first love,
and would become an everlasting love.
in the reuniting of minds,
our hearts and souls did follow.
amazing was the perfect word
for the chasm we traversed
over the course of a thirty-four
year moment in time. And when
all things were made right,
our time together would offer
a glimpse of what a lifetime
we would have shared had we
both been stronger. You have
remained for an eternity
the love every man hopes for,
the dream every man longs for,
the woman to be loved.
until your last days, as your
ravaged beauty was blessed with
an induced rest, you offered my
heart comfort in this thought:
while you lie groggy from sedation,
a smile graced your eyes at the
sound of that melody and I knew
love would not die with your final breath.
That one thought breathed life back into me.
Maybe I'm amazed by you.

maybe tomorrow

i'll care, or my feet will be less
like lead shot, scattered and
voting everywhichway, maybe.

maybe the next day, i'll
remember your birthday, or
call you up just to tell you about
the trees, and the wind moving their
leaves in your direction.

maybe a year from now, you'll
forgive me, or i'll stop pretending
that you didn't see everything i
was doing, that you didn't see
right through me, a shattered glass, maybe.

I might have missed something...but, where can I find out about the April PAD challenges, winners, etc....?

Terri L.
http://lasherstudios.com/blog/


.

Robert, that's a wonderful poem - and your spouse is obviously a wonder to have inspired it. Hope you're continuing well -

Maybe He'll Come

Her apron is on tighter today.
Turning the diner sign to open,
She stops to peer out the sunrise lit door.
Same old thought returns,
Maybe today, he'll come.

Coffee is brewing in the back,
Danish is fresh,
Arranged with the thick white icing on top.

Familiar faces arrive,
Ready to order yesterday's breakfast.
No maybes about it.
It is always clear,
That sameness is they want.

Maybe if he comes it will be morning?
Maybe he'll come for lunch.
Maybe it will dinner at the diner.
Pie later . . . maybe.

Last swivel chair at the end,
Is where she has seen he would be.
Kind, gentle and loving he is,
A smile like she has never known.

Afternoon gets busy,
Her mind races fast.
As she turns quickly, hurrying to serve,
Her face is guided towards,
The seat.

Stopping mid-track,
He is there.
A twinkle lights his eyes.
Short pause is there.
While he drinks in her smile.

His hair is long,
His clothing is white,
She knows him somewhere deep inside.

Serving her last customer,
Calmly, she glides to the end,
Of the counter,
Almost breathless.

"Greetings", she whispers.
"I can take you to God," he says.
"I'll be off in twenty minutes,"
"Good, this will take a lifetime."

Peace flows within her whole being.
Her mind has no more doubt.
Glowing through the rest of her day,
Worries go, tension gone.

She unties her apron,
Tells the cook she is off for awhile.
She turns towards the man in the chair,
He rises and nods towards the door,
"Come, Grace, let's go."

Janet Carnahan

Maybe I love you,
maybe I don't.
Maybe we're friends,
maybe we aren't.
Maybe I'm sane,
maybe I'm not.
It all depends on
my mood.

EVERYBODY'S GOT SOMETHING TO HIDE EXCEPT FOR ME AND MY MONKEY
(Maybe if the monkey can keep its big mouth shut...)

You've been a bad monkey,
you must be punished,
I'll give you...

HEY, HEY, HEY!
I thought we settled this
with the pony thing?
If horse are out,
monkeys are right out.
I understand the
expression of art,
but come on now.
Enough is enough.
Curious George
and you with the yellow hat,
I apologize. It won't happen again!

...and I hope that teaches you a lesson monkey.

Maybe parenthood

Maybe having children is like
the Tao story of the farmer
whose horse ran away to the hills.

‘Such hard luck,’ the neighbors said,
and the farmer replied ‘Maybe’.
The womb contracts, the breath

sighs its rhythm, the body labors,
the waters gush, each push
such pain but then such joy.

The horse returned and brought
three more wild horses home.
‘Such blessings!’ said the neighbors,

‘Maybe,’ the farmer said
and held her peace. The seed
ripens again, the pod splits

and here we have a toddler
an infant and a babe in arms,
parenting joys and woes.

The farmer’s son fell off
an untamed horse and broke his leg.
‘Misfortune!’ said the neighbors,

‘Maybe,’ said the farmer
and waited. Children make
their way into the world

and the breath sighs its rhythm,
the heart labors, words gush
ignored advice, each pain returns

to the womb where it began.
When the army tried to draft
the farmer’s son, his broken leg

spared him from battle.
‘Such good luck!’ cried the neighbors.
‘Maybe,’ said the farmer

and kept on waiting. Maybe
having children means just
to love them, and to wait.


Jenny Doughty

"maybe you can"

working on my blindspot,
that part of me
I've trained to tune out
those whose life is
filled with "no."
no you can't.
no I won't.
no.
so I turn my blindspot
to you and have
the audacity
to say "yes."

DAY 4 – MAYBE – By Jane Eamon

Maybe my life would be different
If I was born a man
I could pee standing up
Or out the tent flap
In the middle of the night

I wouldn’t have to dress up
To catch ‘anybody’
I could smell bad, look like crap
And still have a great time

I would be taken seriously
In the world
By virtue of the appendage
Between my legs
I would have a place

I wouldn’t be afraid
When I walked down the street
Late at night
I could puff up and turn
And face my stalkers
With seeming confidence
And usually win

I wouldn’t have to cry
Or bear children
I could admire and love
From afar

Of course I could be
A sensitive guy
But that would be my choice
Not my calling

I could be smart
Or I could be good looking
And dumb
And still get ahead

Interesting how life
Might be different
If maybe I was a man
It’s good to think like this…

MAYBE IT WAS A WOOD-SPRITE

he was following – four years old,
never seen a mountain in his life, so green
and flowering, sun off granite
mica in his hand, laughter-song of rushing
water. And where was
his mother? Out of sight for just
a moment. And so it must have been
a wood-sprite showing him
the easy way, winking with larkspur
and lupine, calling in a magic language
and a bright world’s birdsong
from willow thicket and stream.
How did he get to where,
at last, the searchers found him,
a thousand feet above
his life and family? He says
he was looking for his mother.
She was lost, he says. Yes, she was
lost without him.

I hope I can be silly and whimsical and make it work

MAYBE NO ONE WILL NOTICE I AM BLUE

Maybe no one will notice I am blue
After all I blend in with the carpet on the floor
the sheets on my bed and my teddy, Boo
But I think it is a little hard to ignore

I woke this morning with a terrible pain
Right in the middle of my little round belly
When I pulled up my jammies, it was insane
My tummy was blue,the color of grape jelly

Then I noticed my hands and feet
I jumped out of bed and raced downstairs
Yelling, "Mom, isn't it neat?"
But all she did was gasp and stare

"Why, you're blue all over, she cried
What have you done to yourself?"
And it was at that moment that I spied
Way up high on the uppermost shelf

where I hoped it was out of sight
the empty cereal box , BOO BERRY
I had devoured every last bit last night
So now I am this hue, so berry, very
BLUE!


J. Kuykendall



I couldn't resist this little play on the words.

MAYBE vs. MAY BE

Maybe baby, he said
It may be I said
Maybe we could, he said
It may be possible, I said
Maybe we will, he said
I may be willing, I said
Maybe tomorrow, he said
It may be too soon, I said
Maybe I'll move on, he said
That may be best, I said

J. Kuykendall

"Maybe definitely"

So,
if
Maybe
were dethroned
by Absolutely,
where would Procrastination flee?

Perhaps, to Indecisive Hall?
Definitely, to flirt with Not!
Although... Yes
is one
hot
word.

Marcia McLees Bogaert

(Probably should have titled this, "Maybe, I've lost it." lol)

DAY 4

Maybe is a loaded word

Yes

No

Maybe

Sometimes
You
Just have to decide.

Better late to the party than never! I have no idea was spurred this poem! Oh well..... here goes....


Maybe Communism

A fine idea that works,
In theory -
All men created
Equal and free

From oppression,
From the imaginary,
But all too apparent lines of
Class and country.

A socio-economical,
Political-ideological
Revolution; a culmination
Of a perfect human society.

If only it could ignore
The natural imperfections
Of humanity and its
Inherent inequality...

<B>Maybe You Wouldn’t Mind</B>

Maybe if lettuce
Tasted like chocolate
And cucumber
Tasted like pizza
And sticky toffee pudding
Had no calories at all
Maybe if the scales
Fudged the truth a little
And elastic waistlines
Never became tight
And all the catwalk models
Were not stick insects
Maybe I wouldn’t
Be over weight
And maybe you
Wouldn’t mind

MAYBE I WILL RETURN TO CANTERBURY

I heard "I saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" last night
In the boutique as I was trying on boots-
And I wondered about the city in my heart,
Beyond the Holiday lights of LA LA Land,
Past the ski slopes of Colorado;
Past the glittering skylights of New York
Across the freezing Atlantic ocean,
To where stands the Cathedral, stony cold on the outside
And cozy warm on the inside.
I wonder now if it resounds with the glorious medieval songs
Of the choir preparing for Christmas-
And I remember for just a few hours,
I stood where, like my country's Martin Luther King,
Brave Archbishop Thomas a Becket was slain:
Defending valiantly his beliefs and his people.
My stiletto heels on well-worn cobblestones,
Kind faces, warm faces all about me
As I listened to the Word of God
In Canterbury.
My visit was all too short that afternoon-
And as I looked down at my boots,
The song being played was about a one-horse open sleigh,
And I wonder
If instead of sleighs, snowboards
Are the means of transportation
For the Canterbury choir!
I tell the lady I do not want the boots after all-
I am saving up money,
And maybe
I shall return to the city in my heart:

Canterbury

Maybe I'll Make The Right Decision

Knowledge of any subject is the way to go
Ask around for information
Spend hours online at various websites
Read books dedicated to the topic
Seek out medical care opinions
But it comes down to me
The surgery could be just the answer
But then again, what if it makes things worse?
Friends I know who have had it done
They say do it now
Stop wasting more time in pain
Now I wait for that doctor's visit
Still second guessing my decision

Maybe we should move up to the mountains?
My spiritual guides say there are no “shoulds.”
It would be cold, hell on our transmissions,
isolated…at least we think it would.
Mostly it would be hard to leave our friends.

So we stay in the flat lands. “Homesteading,”
we call it on good days; and on bad days,
“inertia” (glancing at the rising tide).
One night, a local rape makes worldwide news.
The next day, all the neighbors carve pumpkins.

Is or is not the world going crazy?
Either way, what can my family do
to aid the cause of peace and to stay safe?
Fear sticks to people like a kind of glue
no matter where the moving vans unload.

To go or not to go. The point is moot:
anywhere’s safe as our souls feel secure.


DA

Maybe Someday


I’ll walk away from
the 98 unopened emails
grinning and thinking
who cares?
Until then I’ve sentenced
myself to feel guilty
until I open
every last bloomin’ one!

Barbara - I love your line, "a liar eight to maybe." FANTASTIC!

Ouch - stilettos on cobbles! Katrelya, I can't even do kitten heels on cobbles :)

De, Patricia, Robert, Walt, Taylor and Joseph exceptional writing. Nice work ALL!
********************************************

MAYBE I'LL LISTEN TO WOODFLUTE

As I etch words smoothly,
leaning into thought deeply;
I'll attune my ears to mystic
sounds of ancient times. As
it cools outside I’m finding
recluse. I'll choose to create
my surrounding. Incense
smoke wisps crisply in the
stillness of the room. Pale
afternoon sunlight finds
patterns, sends them swirling
magically. Steam lifting from
my tea meets smoke, together
they mesh in a vortex of spiraling
dance. Dense heat reaches my skin
from the wood stove. I can hear it's
crackling chatter as it swiftly ignites
and burns, all consuming. Replica of
stained glass lie in water-colored
perfection, casting distinct images.
Soft sounds of breathing soothe me.
Dogs and child sleep sweetly, dreams
that set their legs twitching and has
me wishing; to live fully, this moment.

Maybe Two

Maybe two is better than one
she thought as she watched
the cute puppies crawling
over her daughters giggling
bodies, and as they turned
their pleading eyes toward her,
she gave in.

She discovered she was wrong.

There is always a choir of two singing
at inappropriate moments,
eight muddy feet to wipe,
two dogs to let in and out
with one always lagging
a few minutes behind,
and
then
again…
There are always two souls
happy to see you,
plenty of kisses (if you want them),
two warm bodies to snuggle with
while relaxing,
and absolute love.
So maybe …

Maybe A Happy Ending After All

ninety thousand words
and the killer is cornered
revealed
and asked the pertinent
'why?'
she has the choice
of lying or telling the truth
but chooses instead
to throw herself
on the mercy of the heroine
and claim love

Maybe is a word I avoid
Yes, I’ll do it
No, I won’t

No hanging threads
No bumps

Maybe can bite you in the butt
No teeth marks for me.

MAYBE MY EYES

Maybe my eyes will
forever find the
beauty abounding.

Perhaps my vision
is set on a mission
to see it all clearly.

Perchance that my thought
leans with the weight of
gravity, toward deep meaning.

Maybe my eyes will clearly
deny that they have any
responsibility in matters.

Is it possible that deep
preponderances, a sought after
goal; might reside in one's soul?

It's conceivable that maybe we've
been gifted the knowledge, at precisely
the times in our lives when we'll need it.

Maybe I’m Wrong

Maybe I’m wrong
and he’s talking on his phone
and not insanely chattering
to no one there.

Maybe I’m wrong
and it’s just heartburn
and not my indulged heart
punishing me.

Maybe I’m wrong
and my wife gets the joke
and doesn’t think that I
just called her fat.

Maybe I’m wrong
and my dog thinks I’m amazing
and not just a source of food and
personal assistant.

Then again.
maybe not.

Maybe Thirteen wasn't so Bad

1988, we are at that age—
thirteen. Some of us
lipstick'd, some of us bra-strap queens.
Find us in the supermarket, the feminine aisle—
& not for our mothers. Thirteen— we are
on our beds, on our stomachs,
on the telephone talking in the voices we save
for our boys— the boys we shoplift for,
the boys we linger in the hallways for. Thirteen—
some of us real mean & taller than our folks.
Too grown. Ready for going steady. Thirteen.
Tiptoeing in after dark, turtlenecks in summer
to hide love marks.

Maybe, We'll See.

Can I please, can I please?
Hear this book one more time
Build a fort out of clay,
Have a piece of candy,
Stay home with you today?

Mommy, Mommy, Mommy?
Maybe, we'll see.

Can I please, can I please?
Get a green two wheeler,
Go with Tom to the park,
Eat some more cherry pie,
Stay up late after dark?

Mommy, will you let me?
Maybe, we'll see.

Can I please, can I please?
Try out for the travel team,
Ride the mega coaster,
Get the latest video
Buy this rapper poster?

Come on, Mom, whadya think?
Maybe, we'll see.

Can I please, can I please?
Spend the week at the beach,
Borrow the car tonight,
Hang out with sweet Annie,
Repel down the boulder's height?

Hey Mom, you cool with that?
Maybe, we'll see.

Can I please, can I please?
Chat with you on Skype tonight,
Did you get my emails,
Everything all right at school,
Need help with any details?

Call your Mother once in a while!
Maybe, we'll see.

MAYBE THE YEARS...

...that slips by so quickly can be
recaptured in the purpose of our
children. Exposing all that is
good and hoping to protect them
from that which is detrimental.

Day presents itself, adventures
anew. Still learning myself skills
to live by and yet I beget to a
tender heart all that I can to help
through this journey; armoring him.

Maybe the years that slips swiftly from
my grip will be relived abundantly;
through a child soon a man. Maybe all
the love that he feels will reveal in
him all he'll ever need to live his life.

November 4th: Maybe (blank)
Maybe Worrywart
Maybe I’m a worrywart,
I worry all the time
I think of stuff that might become
Of boys before their prime,
Like:
Maybe my sons will grow up wild
And die an early death
Or
Maybe they’ll catch some foreign flu
And sniff their final breath
Perhaps they will live quite long enough
But with empty, longing hearts
Or think they’ve found true love
Before its base just falls apart.
There’s so much possibility
For failure or despair
It’s hard for moms to hope
For these sweet children in our care
But maybe there’s salvation
From my endless worrying
In the knowledge of eternity,
The sure return of Spring.
Maybe Winter worries
Can melt like stale snow
Assured of Summer sunshine
And the hope evergreens know.
Maybe I’m a worrywart,
But I know nothing’s final
So really I can’t be too sad
Because hope springs eternal.

"Maybe Love"

A second look
in the lightening night
the ocean laps
stars fade.

Waves curl your
hand so close
I feel the
edge
and miss a step.

Sand curls
my foot
it twists I
fall you
wrap my wrist
like stone.

I lighten and
the ocean burns with
pink promise
orange breath
your face revealed
is turned
away.

Maybe

It is time for some tea
Think I will have Darjeeling or Earl Grey
Or maybe the leaves in the red tin
English Breakfast I see
Still, there is more of the ginger specialty tea
Wouldn't it be tasty on a cool autumn day
The green tea is healthier but the Japanese black tea is beckoning
Too early for the seasonal tea of December
So many choices
I can't decide
Think I'll go back to the Red Rose tea
Still an available only in Canada tea...maybe?
What a pity!

Hannah--your woodflute poem set me in this direction for tea on a blustery wet November day--love the mellow tone of your poem!

Patricia

Continuing kudos to Robert and Brian for making the Challenges happen, and to my fellow poets for your craftiness with words and emotions.

Maybe I'll See Those Shining Strands Again

I didn't have a camera handy
in the days before we all pocketed cell phones
that could text a captured moment or post
it for the world to see.
Maybe if I had, the sanctified vision in my head
would hold no sacred meaning.

As habit would have it,
I traipsed across the bridge
caressed by thick scarves of fog
obscuring the river beneath me.
Maybe if I'd been preoccupied by troubling thoughts,
I wouldn't even have noticed.

But sunlight broke through the fabric of fog
and the blue-painted girders sported myriad
tiny crystal necklaces
spider webs coated in glistening translucent droplets.
Maybe I'll be blessed
to walk and see those shining strands again.

The Journey: Day Four: “Maybe (blank)” as title.


Maybe She’ll Be Found

Today: Three young ladies from a North Dakota college
went missing two days ago, found in their car at the bottom of a reservoir.
Vibrant, athletic girls who sent frantic phone messages full of water and fear.
Oily residue on the silent surface of a pond said what they could not: We are here.

Many years ago, a ten-year-old girl went missing. Fifty-seven years later—
after her mother died, after her father and brother mourn loss after loss—
she is still missing.

Many years ago, teeth and bones found in a national park
were compared to her records, an analysis hampered by time, distance,
expectations, a scientific conundrum.

A few years ago, the brother gave DNA, hoped for confirmation, prayed for closure,
wished the bones could speak what his sister cannot.
But the remains are missing, a brutal replay of her disappearance
and a family hoping, praying, wishing for something other than what is.

Today: The search continues, for those remains—and for a missing daughter and sister.
Maybe she’ll be found.

MAYBE THEY HAVE A JOB TO DO

The standing stones
have held their circle
on the Wiltshire plains
for centuries
of sunrises and solstices
and rain. Time and weather
have chewed them rough.
Grass has been churned to mud
by feet marching
around their double ring.
Seat of ancient worship,
maybe they still have a job to do.
Silhouetted against storm clouds,
maybe they hold up the sky.

Maybe Mystical

I wake in Ansel Adams’ bed, in Mabel Dodge Luhan House,
along the Eastern edge, from where the sun is rising,
of the Taos Pueblo.

The drumming in my head
matches my heartbeat
and I am sure they are preparing for a hunt.

What a joy! What elation, to hear such a spiritual
connection across the empty sage and dog-laced desert.
I jump out of bed to rise closer to the drumbeat.

I open the window, and hear it no more.
I open the door and realize it’s the washer
and the dryer making mystical laundry:

Tuesday morning magic.

This was a good prompt. Lots of room to run. This is the best thing I came up with so far. Glad we have time to edit these!

Maybe Your Red Coat Pocket Is Empty

Maybe your red coat pocket is empty
And maybe forgetfulness of keys
And maybe running late
And maybe my love of you
And maybe we kiss in the cold car
And maybe the party
And maybe it doesn’t matter
And maybe names escape unfound
And maybe the birch cast moonglow shadows
And maybe we return home smiling
To being normal people for a night.

MAYBE YOU NEED A MAP

[Elihu Burritt, walking from Bardfield to Saffron Walden]

Your friend the Quaker says
this footpath across fields will save you
miles by road, and spare you the dust and traffic
and small boys driving headstrong cattle.
How much pleasanter to walk along hawthorn hedge
with bird-song; skylarks rising on the Lord God’s
praises. You’ll skirt fields of wheat and clover;
barley, beans, and oats; then wheat again.
Walk with the sun at your right shoulder –
guide on that, to help you find the gate
on the other side. And pray some farmer hasn’t
ploughed his fields up, footpath and all –
or sure as sunrise strikes the steeple every morning,
you’ll come circling around to where you started,
an extra six-mile walk, and back in time for dinner.

Maybe...In Recollection

She pulled the loose, faded photograph
from the black paper page,
paper too old to be acid-free.
The album itself could have been a sort of revisionist history
or just a black grooved record playing an old, familiar, but rather scratchy tune.
She pulled the loose photo free,
and held the past in the palm of her hand.
In it, reminiscence posed two-dimensionally
waiting for high gloss memory retouching
and Photoshopped narration.
She stared at the photo.
A crowd of kids in Greek letter visors and t-shirts
were sitting in a field, holding a trophy for first place –
Spring Week? Chugging Contest? Homecoming? Dance Marathon?
They once believed they were the stuff of which legends are made
but legends usually ended up lost in the pages of an age-worn dust-jacketed book
or non-acid free photo album paper,
like pressed flowers which crumble when moved.
Maybe things would have been better
if she’d made different choices back then,
back when trophies were won for drinking a beer or painting a window
and kids in Greek letter clothing could spend an afternoon
in a field of their own imaginings...
but maybe they would have been worse.
There was always that possibility.

Maybe fish

cluster near the pond’s clear skin
to wonder about the world above:
a tall willow rooted alone near
the water’s edge, as if it waits for another
to stand with it. Maybe fish survey
surrounding hills browning beneath
October’s weight. Maybe they consider me –
a creature that tosses bread crumbs
to a goose and smiles. Each day, the bird
draws closer, closer. Soon, the divine
will snatch bread from my hand
and fish will sink into murk,
praying for lungs and air.

Some of the words in here are supposed to be italics, but

MAYBE MEAN-TOS AND MIGHT DOS

With the phone cord twirled around her finger,
she spoke into the receiver about love to the boy
she thought was the one. She was so sure. She circled and circled
yes on a note passed in class that asked Do you like me?
yes, no, maybe. She was young then, so how could she
know what was to follow —a what-felt-like-a-lifetime
of mean-tos and maybes and might dos. I didn't mean to
hurt you and Maybe we should see other people and I might
call you later on tonight. If she had known, she would've
underlined and circled maybe, been vague. That way it
wouldn't hurt so bad when he lied, but it'd feel so good
when he'd say, "I'll meet you at the library," and show up
because maybe is maybe friend, maybe lover, might
get called "Babe," might get called, "Honey," but don't
count on it.

Maybe I’ll just keep the money

Maybe
if you so consistently and insensitively insist
I give more than what I have
I’ll just let it all default

:Maybe tomorrow is a baby:

Maybe in rising from this digression
of the sea her memory will sing

Swing forth into her dawning, spread
water over the lavender falling

At the foot of the sycamore, fragile
as a sigh, to envelop the vision

Of an aching moon that ripples,
rooting its soul near the blanket

Light of sunrise, forgetful that it too must
sink upon the early star’s tender birth

Randi, loving "Maybe in Recollection," vivid images.

Patricia McGoldrick, thank you and I'm glad my piece could inspire. I love your descriptions of the different types of tea; looks just like my tea cupboard! :)

Beautiful, Khara.

Maybe--
I answer the children
lifting my voice at the end
a question or an answer
depends on how they take it
more than what I mean
because
what I mean is
I really don't know
I haven't made up my mind yet
an adult's mind moves slower
or more carefully
or something
I just need a minute to mull it over
and make a wise decision
I don't want to say no
or yes
really
So, short of not answering at all
I tell them
maybe
and hope that maybe will suffice

MAYBE IT'S MEANT TO BE

I've changed,
Much like the seasons do four times a year
I feel pretty I get cold I look hot and act cool
But still,
His love remains infinite like the neighbors pool

I really liked Patricia's Ivy poem, Kathleen's "Maybe I'll go to San Diego" and Jenny's Maybe parenthood.

Maybe miracles

wait to be seen
not just in holy of holies
but here, in slanted shivers
of liquid light,
drifting through
my dirty windowpane
and pooling
at these aching feet.

Maybe my lofty prayers
have already answered,
in the autumn audacity
of a single still-green tree
tucked in my back yard,
a wink of hope
among frost-nipped
neighbors.

Maybe grasping
at more, more,
neglects the simple truth:

all I need
is here.

Maybe, Baby!!

Maybe I'll rhyme,
No, another time.

Maybe I'll do a spoof,
There is no proof.

How about a novel?
Not from this hovel!

Could we do a cookbook?
May be a funny hook!

Let's try a screenplay?
Yes, let's . . . just not today!

Any chance for a short story?
Will it be playful or gory?

Would you consider a romantic angle?
Or just some participle that can dangle?

Maybe a mystery?
About spiritual mastery?

Maybe a book of childhood quips?
That make funny vibrations on their lips?

How about a collection based on animals?
Nothing scary like cannibals.

Maybe sports or the arts?
That is the kind everone starts.

Fine!
Maybe I will just write in a bubble,
Yes, you could . . . but that will be trouble.

Maybe then I will just stop!
OK, please do . . .

POP!!!

~Maybe Someday~

Baby someday I'll be who I want to be, go where I want to go, see what I want to see

When someday comes I'll be with you,
just us two, that's where I want to be

I dream someday that I'll be better than I am,
I'll deserve to take your hand, and share those dreams with you

Baby someday we'll be together, if I can just stay strong
I pray to heaven above that it won't be long

Cause I do love you, maybe someday you'll see, we'll let our hearts beat wild and free

When Someday comes...

Maybe...

I will not rhyme this time
maybe I won't care.

I will not rhyme this time
maybe I will be aware.

I will not rhyme this time
maybe it won't be fair.

I will not rhyme this time
I swear.

Push Send

I look away to
push “send,”
look back,
and there it is, over his
head, “This bag is not
a toy” across his nose.
I’ve pulled it off his
face and yelled so
fast I feel like I’ve left my index
finger sitting on the mouse.
Maybe it’s a good
reminder that even super-mom
can leave
a plastic bag in reach
or a sign that his reach is not
the baby reach of a month ago
or maybe it’s a warning
that I need to be a mom
and nothing more.

I put the maybe in the poem instead of the title.

Homecoming

Inspired by interviews with sex-trafficked Eastern European women

It was my neighbor, my mother,
the travel agent. My ticket and passport
were paid for. I was sold for $1,500,
$3000, I don’t know how much.
I thought I’d be a waitress, a maid.
There were bars on the windows,
blue walls, dirty blankets, four
to a room. They watched me go
to the bathroom so I wouldn’t escape.
I wanted to kill myself but had nothing
to use. I jumped out of a moving car.
The hotel was raided. One Ramadan,
they left the door open so I climbed
off the balcony and hurt my spine.
They forced me back to work.
Sometimes I shit myself with clients.
I can’t help it, I feel nothing down there.
This orange-pink sky through white lace
curtains is a lie. Beauty left this place
a long time ago. I haven’t seen
my sons in eight years.
It would have been better for me
not to be born. After my owners
made me take twelve clients a day
for fifteen years, in five countries,
everything I own fits in this red bag.
My body today? Chewed-down
nails, incontinent, scar-latticed
forearms, a permanent limp.
Russians say, Hope dies last.
Maybe. Maybe that’s so.

Maybe If You Were Born In June

Maybe if you were born in June, your eyes
would be cornflower blue, and you’d dither
your days picking daisies, crazy like the river
loon alone with its daydream in water
sucked near to the bone in dry heat. Your skin
an old Bible’s page, parchment-like and stained.
Those steady hearts would run hot too, sultry
and passionately askew. You’d be changeable
as a slow-paced summer day, morning coolness
waning toward the clipping cricket cadence,
which is not like you at all. The fall colors
are more in tune with you. What other month
can absorb so well the gold, amber, green,
brown, and tourmaline blue except hale October,
where your irises have been seeded to seem
like aspens, gracefully changing into their season.

Julia Holzer

AUNTIE CHRISTY FROM GHANA, WEST AFRICA

Auntie Christy from Ghana, West Africa
gave birth to daughters who lived
but every baby boy she had
died.

When she had her last son,
she named him, “Maybe,”
saying, “Maybe he will
stay.”

When the boy became a man,
he took a new name, “Samuel,”
which means, “The Lord
hears.”

Hear my cry, O Lord,
hear the voice of my weeping!—
into my emptiness bring new
Life.

Jane Beal
sanctuarypoet.net

Okay, I cheated a bit today. I split "maybe" into "may be" in the title, which is also, for the record, the name of a novel published by a friend who was also the head of my department when I was hired as a full-time instructor. He has a good sense of humor, so I don't think he'd mind this poem. At least I hope he wouldn't mind.


"Alligators May Be Present"

I swore that when I took this job I'd read
every book my colleagues published, no
matter how distant from my interests
or realms of expertise. I'd power through
tomes on Middleton, Zukofsky, DeFoe,
on Asian food, pop culture, disjunctive
poetry, Pound, Eliot and Thoreau.
I'd compliment their work at meetings, live
on every chapter, every word, arrange
their books eye-level on my shelves in case
they wandered past one afternoon. What changed?
I had to teach my classes, had to face
a life without spare time, a lack of free-
dom. I'll try again next year. I'll try. Maybe.

I know I don't _have_ to repost, but I just wanted to because I changed the title and ending:

Maybe, Honey, I'll be your Baby

With the phone cord twirled around her finger,
she spoke into the receiver about love to the boy
she thought was the one. She was so sure. She circled and circled
yes on a note passed in class that asked Do you like me?
yes, no, maybe. She was young then, so how could she
know what was to follow —a what-felt-like-a-lifetime
of mean-tos and maybes and might dos. I didn't mean to
hurt you and Maybe we should see other people and I might
call you later on tonight. If she had known, she would've
hurried and circled maybe, been a tease, been vague. That way
it wouldn't hurt so bad when he lied, but it'd feel so good
when he'd say, "I'll meet you at the library," and show up.

Maybe Writing These Lines Will Not Pay


our trio of college tuition loans
nor will it cover the car insurance premium,
it certainly won’t carry the groceries into the house
nor fill the empty gas tank
maybe writing won’t hide my newly sprouted gray hairs,
nor reduce the stiffness in my joints

maybe these words leaping after one another will not
become the catalyst for dinner to jump
into the pan and cook itself,
maybe shoelaces will still break, maybe buttons will pop,
dust will collect, laundry will pile up,
life will fall through the cracks

yet somehow writing cleanses
and creates a clearing in my own head
and I breathe through this moment fulfilled

until tomorrow when the new bills--
along with the new day’s headlines and heartaches--
slip through the mail slot
and lie scattered like land mines,
across the hardwood floor.

Excellent, Kim Klugh!

~~Maybe the fire shall~~

Maybe the fire shall
burn again,
down in the canes,
where the young
boys now beat
the green stalks
to scare the
birds high
into the eyes
and guns
of the
hunters.

Maybe the fire shall
sweep north,
taking again,
the marsh and the
shanties with it
until the entire
world seems to
blaze as orange
as a sunset.

Maybe the fire
shall remember
what it was like
to chew and feed
and swallow
our fear down,
as everything
turned cinder-ash,
and the air
choked our
throats,
half-closed.

The boys run
laughing and
the birds fling
themselves up to
obliterate
the sun—

Maybe It’s All Right

I cast a glance in your direction
as you drive the Jeep across the desert
kicking up a cloud of dust
that tastes of bitter earth.
My hair whips into my eyes
and I feebly push it aside
again and again.
You pay me no notice
as I grasp the bar at every turn
no doors to hold us in
just old seatbelts and one’s
innate sense of balance.
The horizon seems endless.
Your silence outweighs
all sounds of the engine and rocks
pelting the undercarriage.
How far to go to your home
in the desert? How far?
The day is growing long.

Maybe if they'd stop swinging at the first pitch...

we
would
get to
have one more
Philadelphia
celebration just like last year's
when we won the World Series and showed them what we've got
but then maybe I'm a dreamer
there's another out
more swinging
at the
first
pitch...

(Just a hint of Philadelphia "Phrustration" in this one -- but then, it ain't over till it's over.)

Maybe Something New

Dawn wakes me with the
Harsh prick of your emotional thorn
I’m under the weather of
Your storm

Cold steel,
Bullet,
Blurred ink,
Blaming me in blood
You took this day as your
Own
Ending

Who knew November 4th
Would be my personal 911,
The absolute worst day of my
Life
Forever

What did I do?
How did I cause your
Thorns to pierce my
Innocent flesh
How could I have caused such
Disgrace?
Did I make you
Pull the
Trigger?
Did I steal your last
Breath?


With what you know now . . .
Would you have me suffer the same?

There's no “maybe” about it
I’m
Changed

Your opinion
No longer counts

Maybe or Maybe Not

Maybe a day will come
when peace is all the rage,
war, no longer an option,
battlefields, an empty stage.

Seeds shall be sown and sprout
into blossoming meadows of life,
blanketing blood-spattered ground,
hiding remnants of hate and strife.

or

maybe not.

Maybe I Will Love Again

Maybe the time will come
when the raw beating thing
that is my heart
will have healed

Maybe the dawn will break
when the sore hurting place
no longer stings and burns
but catches its breath and waits

Maybe the dusk will fall
when the raw beating thing
and the sore hurting place
will be only vague memories

Maybe the night will tell
the tale of a new beginning
hope-filled as daybreak
soothing as twilight
gentle as the beckoning dark

Maybe after all I will love again

Maybe by February

As if the road between us
weren’t long enough--
six hours, if the traffic gods
are with us— the mountain side
crumbled, raining boulders
big as houses onto the highway
crossing the line into Tennessee.

Four months at least, they say,
before the road reopens.
Til then, we’ll pick our way
along back roads, trusting
the locals at truck stops
over navigation devices.

Maybe by February,
the rocks reduced to rubble,
we’ll be free once again
to travel the distance,
the straightest line,
the road we know by heart
between you and me.

Maybe I Will
Tomorrow I can
Today I tried
Time got in my way,
The thought for this moment is to see it through,
I can, I’ll live, I will.

Maybe my dad was right the first time….

A swarm of complaints escape my mouth
Like bees from a hive.
Angry bees.

“Count your blessings,” my dad says patiently.

The incessant buzzing becomes so loud
It is deafening.
Bystanders beware.

“Your blessings always outweigh your sorrow if only you would stop to count them,”
my dad patiently reiterates.

The next step of the angry bees is to sting which of course leads to the
Death of the bees.
Death of my spirit.

“Well honey,” my dad says in his quiet way,
“Actually I’ve seen it go like this for days and then it gets worse.”

Don’t you think he was right the first time?
Why did I let my spirit die?

Maybe swimming lessons

Maybe next summer
I'll take swimming lessons
because this summer
I almost drown
trying to dog paddle
to the floating platform
in the middle of the quarry
where you sat
black swimsuit and
long black hair
you waved and I jumped in
and swam and swam
and swam and swam
by the time I reached
the platform you were gone
though I barely noticed
since I was so intent
on just trying to breathe
so, maybe next summer
I'll take swimming lessons
or find a girl
who spends afternoons
at the bowling alley

Trying to get back into the groove, and playing catchup.

Standouts to me: Kim Kugh; Jane Beal; Amanda Fall; Khara E. House; Taylor Graham; Sweet Hannah (especially Woodflute); Katrelya Angus; Janet Carnahan; Shelly; Patricia Hawkenson; J. Hugh MacDonald; and can’t help myself: Everything Walt.

Maybe

Maybe eventually I will get over it. Maybe not.
Sometimes I wish I were more thick skinned
or able to just turn the other cheek, say slap me
one more time. I can take it. Then slap me again
with everyone as witness. Feel victorious, you
who sought to wound me, your words were daggers,
well planned blows. It is what you desired. I
am not a fighter, never have been, will just walk
away, unmissed as you babble on to your
appreciative audience. Who will be next?

Maybe There's A Better Way

The man-child, for he's only fourteen
and all of six feet four,
cannot contain himself.

He is too much to be confined
in a concrete classroom
crowded with desks and chairs.

He paces restlessly from desk
to door to window to pencil sharpener
disrupting the teacher's lesson.

The class ignores him, jaded
as they are to his activity,
until he acts out on impulse, forcing a reckoning.

He is a caged creature here,
a grizzly bear in captivity
in this urban institutional zoo.

He is included here because he must be,
but he is a danger to himself and others,
an unchecked predator among unsuspecting prey.

He will harm himself and those around him,
that is a sociological inevitability;
but is he just as much a victim of the system?

Maybe I Just Like It

Coloring outside the lines
Clapping to the off-beat
Seldom dressing to-the-nines
Adding salt to balance sweet
Drinking hot tea every night
Watching college football
Rhyming everything I write
Softly silent snowfall
Crunching leaves beneath my feet
Cutting grass in summer
Seeing fields of corn and wheat
Beat of different drummer.

Maybe Not

The water may
Be enough
Or not
The light may
Be just right
Or not
The soil may
Be nutritious
Or not
It’s a leap of faith
To plant a
Flower or seed
Through sweat
And care
Diligence
And love
And hope
It may thrive
. . .Or not

Marie Elena: thank you so much! You made my night.

MAYBE NEXT YEAR

November fourth won’t have the power of the past
I’ll sleep through the night, won’t wake up in the fetal position
head pounding in the rhythm of despair and dread.

What will save me from this acid torch in my gut every
November fourth? What will make the day just slip by without
grief or remembrance of a son that brought me pure joy.

How long does loss hang on and haunt those left behind?
How long before his precious face that comes to me in dreams
brings me joy in remembrance rather than the ache of absence.

This year was the life is good; this is a perfect day ruse.
The air is cool, the sun is shining and I planned an evening
with friends day. The I won’t think, won’t acknowledge any pain day.

This isn’t the year I hit on the right combination, the right ploy
to make this just another day of cool weather and blue skies.
Maybe next year will be the year I find my way.

Judy Roney
November 4, 2009

You're welcome, Amanda. It's a grand thought, and beautifully expressed.

Maybe Just Maybe

Maybe we could all have
Far less stressful lives
If people mind their business
Less cause for war and strife

Maybe we could get started
By staying off the phone
Although not the only culprit
It still starts in our home

Gossip starts in many ways
The means to, we expand
By computer, fax and telephone
Tele-something throughout the land

We must open our minds wisely
Before we close the door
The country we are blaming
Maybe pawns and nothing more

Slanderous what I call it
This hate and scorn filled news
Folks all have their favorite names
I leave for you to choose.

United Stimulus (Maybe the Only Answer)

If I had control I’d
create Congressional Committees
for the preservation of excess-
not the monetary kind, but
that of Hollywood.

I’d ensure that Paris,
Britney, Miley, and every
total train wreck would
persevere and thrive.

Kate with or without the 8
would be placed within
an 8’x8’ glass enclosure
protecting her like mylar.

Put them in a city-center,
all together; zoo-like fashion
predator and prey, side by side
Kanye and Taylor kept close enough-
teeth barred, feral and growling.

Celebrities dwindling, too many lost-
A National Conservation of
our most precious but dwindling kind.

Since our economy is crap,
our education minimal –
the U.S. has to have something
to one-up the rest of the world.

You've peeked in and brought the level of support up 100%. All seems right with the world now. Thanks for the continuing loyalty. I do what I do.

Maybe Autumn

Maybe the sun will shine,
The leaves will dry
And I will gather harvests in the dust
But you just tell me
To try harder.

Maybe the rain will fall,
The leaves will soak
Then slipperied and slimed they’ll slide and I
Will fall. You’re hoping
Nothing’s broken.

Maybe the wind will blow
And leaves will flow
Like ocean’s mighty roar to other yards
And theirs to mine. It’s
Hard believing

Maybe you’ll love me still
When you’re not tired
And I’m not wired to leaving work we’ll fill
The hearth with autumn
Fall in love again.

Maybe she can do it
On her own
With no one around
To hold her to it.

Maybe I can do it
On my own
With no one around
To drag me back in.

Maybe we can do it
On our own
With no one around
To hold us back now.

Maybe God can do it
On His own
With no one around
To tell him how to.

"...we'll fill the hearth with autumn and fall in love again." Love that line, Sheila.

You're welcome, Walt. ;)

Maybe They Know

Perched above, on weathered stone,
I drink in the autumn colors
Below and about.
My eyes see, but they cannot grasp
The full wonder.

And my heart turns toward You.

You paint the scene before me,
With a palette mixed by Your own Hand.
You fashion the vista,
Continually blending color …
The scene ever changing at Your whim.

Your sun travels across the canvas,
Altering hues as it gently falls
As a silk scarf in scarce breeze.
Gold catches my eye, where it was shadowed
Only moments ago.

Leaves as scarlet as turned rubies
Shimmer, then fade.
Clouds veil Your sun.
Emerald, pumpkin, alabaster, and onyx
Gleam against a silver sky.

Crickets sing, while hawk calls.
Trickling water chuckles in the distance.
Limbs moan with the breeze,
Crisp leaves crunch beneath the weight
Of Your forest creatures.

Nature’s song is broken by two who happen on this path.
They pause to survey the wonder below and about.
Their chatter halts,
As they are overtaken in awe
Of the magnificent display.

The moment of silence breaks, with a nearly whispered
“Oh my God – look at this.”
I smile.
Do they know they have just paid homage
To The Artist?

And my heart turns toward You.


(At Conkle's Hollow of The Hocking Hills)

Maybe magic
set the
silver thread
in motion,
stitching time
together slowly
gathering layers,
my antique lace
married
your weathered leather
finally,
a complete cape
covering every ounce
of exposed flesh
solid protection
after years of
over exposure.

Maybe He’s Changed


maybe the sun comes up in the west
and bears use Porta-Potties

maybe he’s had to work late
or there’s been an accident on the freeway

maybe a plane’s been hijacked and crashed
into the Indian Hills Industrial Park

maybe the pilot mistook the tastefully-landscaped grounds
for the Midwestern branch of the Pentagon

maybe the reason he’s not here
is he’s dead in a ditch somewhere

maybe that image has played in my brain so often
I’m almost disappointed when he arrives

November 4th, 2009

Dear Diary

I watched the hands
waltz ever so slowly
its ticking driving me mad
with each tock clouding
corners of my mind
with reluctant anticipation

in retrospect
I should have just
stayed home
knowing right well
I wouldn't fit in
with those spellbinding
beauties
being that I'm a plain Jane
who wears little make-up,
knee length skirts and slip on shoes

the smoke filled room
combined with stench of alcohol
burned my eyes
as there I stood
feeling
like a wallflower
with everyone staring...
smirking...
whispering...
as if...
as if I were
some kind of freak
in a sideshow

the gals wore painted lips
of phony smiles
each wearing mini skirt
and three inch heels
their legs crossed
in such a way
as if to invite
hungry malefactor
for all night dessert

it was quite a shindig
with music, dancing
and a menu to die for
yet,
the ladies seemed so
transparent...
fake if you will

I took a gamble joining
Sammy's party
hoping that
maybe, just maybe
someone would take notice
to the person
that is me...
'stead,
it seemed
I became invisible
to the crowd

it wasn't my cup of tea
so I flagged the carhop
and quietly slipped out
the side door
knowing all the while
I'd not be missed

doubtful I'll ever
do that again
realizing
it was the wrong approach
with wishful thinking
hoping to fill a void
how very stupid...

I refuse to be like them
with nothing more than
empty promises, forced
laughter, pretense,
meaningless passion

I want more
than a handful of kisses
on a one night stand
that by morning
would be just a smudge
mark of memory

so here I am once again
writing in the wee hours
of the morning
with only my cat
as company

loneliness hugs the night
as tears
ballet down my cheeks
feeling disappointed...
depressed...
longing to be held...
yet,

listening to my heart
deep down I know
that one day, some day,
true love will come knocking
proving to me
that good things come
to those who wait


(Prompt - Fill in the blank...Maybe ______________)

(c) Rose Marie Streeter

Dear Diary...November 4th, 2009....1:51AM

Dear Diary

I watched the hands
waltz ever so slowly
its ticking driving me mad
with each tock clouding
corners of my mind
with reluctant anticipation

in retrospect
I should have just
stayed home
knowing right well
I wouldn't fit in
with those spellbinding
beauties
being that I'm a plain Jane
who wears little make-up,
knee length skirts and slip on shoes

the smoke filled room
combined with stench of alcohol
burned my eyes
as there I stood
feeling
like a wallflower
with everyone staring...
smirking...
whispering...
as if...
as if I were
some kind of freak
in a sideshow

the gals wore painted lips
of phony smiles
each wearing mini skirt
and three inch heels
their legs crossed
in such a way
as if to invite
hungry malefactor
for all night dessert

it was quite a shindig
with music, dancing
and a menu to die for
yet,
the ladies seemed so
transparent...
fake if you will

I took a gamble joining
Sammy's party
hoping that
maybe, just maybe
someone would take notice
to the person
that is me...
'stead,
it seemed
I became invisible
to the crowd

it wasn't my cup of tea
so I flagged the carhop
and quietly slipped out
the side door
knowing all the while
I'd not be missed

doubtful I'll ever
do that again
realizing
it was the wrong approach
with wishful thinking
hoping to fill a void
how very stupid...

I refuse to be like them
with nothing more than
empty promises, forced
laughter, pretense,
meaningless passion

I want more
than a handful of kisses
on a one night stand
that by morning
would be just a smudge
mark of memory

so here I am once again
writing in the wee hours
of the morning
with only my cat
as company

loneliness hugs the night
as tears
ballet down my cheeks
feeling disappointed...
depressed...
longing to be held...
yet,

listening to my heart
deep down I know
that one day, some day,
true love will come knocking
proving to me
that good things come
to those who wait


(Prompt - Fill in the blank...Maybe ______________)

(c) Rose Marie Streeter

Maybe

Maybe you think I’m crazy.
But I feel the shivers up my spine
When I turn on the radiator.
I feel the heat
As I sit in front of the fan.
Sensations blur.
The windows mist up
And the radio plays static.
The scent of him
And the smell of coffee
And a light footfall on the stairs.
Maybe he’s not dead.

oops!!!..New Title...Sorry

Maybe Tomorrow

I watched the hands
waltz ever so slowly
its ticking driving me mad
with each tock clouding
corners of my mind
with reluctant anticipation

in retrospect
I should have just
stayed home
knowing right well
I wouldn't fit in
with those spellbinding
beauties
being that I'm a plain Jane
who wears little make-up,
knee length skirts and slip on shoes

the smoke filled room
combined with stench of alcohol
burned my eyes
as there I stood
feeling
like a wallflower
with everyone staring...
smirking...
whispering...
as if...
as if I were
some kind of freak
in a sideshow

the gals wore painted lips
of phony smiles
each wearing mini skirt
and three inch heels
their legs crossed
in such a way
as if to invite
hungry malefactor
for all night dessert

it was quite a shindig
with music, dancing
and a menu to die for
yet,
the ladies seemed so
transparent...
fake if you will

I took a gamble joining
Sammy's party
hoping that
maybe, just maybe
someone would take notice
to the person
that is me...
'stead,
it seemed
I became invisible
to the crowd

it wasn't my cup of tea
so I flagged the carhop
and quietly slipped out
the side door
knowing all the while
I'd not be missed

doubtful I'll ever
do that again
realizing
it was the wrong approach
with wishful thinking
hoping to fill a void
how very stupid...

I refuse to be like them
with nothing more than
empty promises, forced
laughter, pretense,
meaningless passion

I want more
than a handful of kisses
on a one night stand
that by morning
would be just a smudge
mark of memory

so here I am once again
writing in the wee hours
of the morning
with only my cat
as company

loneliness hugs the night
as tears
ballet down my cheeks
feeling disappointed...
depressed...
longing to be held...
yet,

listening to my heart
deep down I know
that one day, some day,
true love will come knocking
proving to me
that good things come
to those who wait


(Prompt - Fill in the blank..."Maybe ______________" then use as title)

(c) Rose Marie Streeter

Maybe All You Need

Maybe this time when you promise no more hitting
You will keep your promise and my bruises will fade
I won’t have to make excuses at a new Emergency
For the latest broken bone, or stitches needed

Maybe if I don’t press charges and joke with the police
The way you want me to – I can see it in your eyes
Everything will go back the way it used to be
But when was that anyhow – I really can’t recall

Maybe I will carry this child to term; you did say
No matter how bad things get, you will never kick
Me there again and I want so much to believe you
Maybe that’s all you need, for me to believe you

Maybe, Had I Stayed

Maybe, had I stayed at my desk,
had I worked and crafted within,
my best could have flowed straight
from my pen’s deep inky spring.
The grit, the gist, the germ
could’ve set fire to a page,
maybe, had I stayed.

But in a hole between storms
this day was born sunny
and cried out for my attention.
Leaf-lined lanes were waiting,
four-legged friend pacing at my side.

We passed orchards stripped mostly grey
but for stray crimson apples hanging
like Charlie Brown decorations,
rust-edged cedars shed overhead,
sunlight sliced through bushes and trees—
Oh sweet breeze of moving freedom!

Maybe, had I stayed at my desk,
had I worked and crafted within,
my best would’ve flowed straight
from my pen’s deep inky spring,
from thoughts caught inside my head,
if I had stayed, maybe,
but I like this one instead.

Maybe, Next Time
(el tereno se caliende)

you won't steal the nude picture of me
and publish it on the front of your
porn magazine, I could have made a lot
of money from that, you wore it out

you won't poison the rats in my attic
with a chunk of blue chalk poison,
climb up to pull them out, a mother
and babies, for the low price of $100

you will make green sauce enchiladas
with sliced, cheap, black olives on top
the way you always to, vegetarian style
with yellow cheese and thin tortillas

and we will stand on the balcony while
you smoke, and I'll put flammable ant
traps underneath your stove, maybe
next time you'll publish in Spanish.

Ruth Nolan

Maybe My Words

Are ruthless
Seem out of line
Out of touch
Or not to the point
Still, you listen

And maybe they sound
Like nails down a chalkboard
And it annoys you
That I speak my mind
Because I say
What you don’t want to hear
And it isn’t pleasant or pretty

But I wouldn’t be me
If I lied to make you feel better
Said only what you want to hear
So I hold up a mirror of your own reflection
One you can’t run or hide from

Unconditional, I’m ruthlessly gentle
As I show you the side of you
That you don’t want to see
Tell you you’re OK
And that’s why you love me so

Maybe today

I'll get it
right

Breakfast
on the table
without a milk spill

Loose things
put away

Long walk
for health

Work day
churning out
excellent copy

Dinner as planned,
remembering vegetables
this time

Maybe today
I'll discover
a few hours added
to the 24

Or maybe milk spills
and hasty dinners,
marred copy
and hurried walks
with the dog
are run through
with the essence
of life
with chances
to love

This dawns
while waiting for
the call
about the ultrasound
from the doctor

Maybe I'll pray for
more of these
imperfectly wrapped
gifts

Maybe I Should Follow My Dreams

Graduation was such surefire thing:
Afterwards, there’s sure no fire.
Plans to go on and get a degree
In what I find interesting, like a bug
Crawling on my shoe. Or find a
bug that can tap dance with me,
named ambition, so that I can walk
about with a bug singing on my leg.
Jeans filled with holes bigger than entire plots,
But that’s what I’d want to learn to mend.

Garret Yeats

maybe they'll enjoy it
(day trip to Lake Windermere)

To take a child anywhere
and have them enjoy it - is a gamble.

I dragged them across the world, for this,
"remember when the seagull poo-ed on C...?"
I remember a day of sun and cloud,
my aunt - who turned her back in every photo,
feeding the swans that stupidly
pecked our hands.
Taking the little hire boat on the lake
and letting the oldest steer.
The three of them being together
too much, boiling over
on the crazy golf course,
one cheating, one crying.

MAYBE THE END WILL COME


softly

the way my father
used to carry me
after the bridge parties

me s p r a w l e d in my footie pajamas
OUT COLD
the neighbors’ hushed so-longs sounding
like a secret tide receding

as he
carried me to the car

the cool night licking
my skin and stars rumors of gold
mingled with my mother’s perfume
sweet, exotic scent of

paradise and baby powder

and me

weightless in the harness of my father’s arms
perhaps
clasped in absolute certainty

then released to the seat
to feel again
the hum (I so hope)

of the smooth road
singing

homehomehomehomehomehome

Kate, Sweet piece. Dragging the kids anywhere was indeed a chore in itself. Thanks for the nice comment on "...Poet's Heart". Glad you found my page worth perusing. Checked your site as well. My, what a multi-faceted individual you are as well. I love your paintings. Becoming a fan.

Maybe a duck would be better

Bartholomew Foggerty, the brilliant weasel
And creator of paintings in ketchup and diesel
Felt that the world had forgotten his art
And that some considered him a dreary old fart
So he gave himself a new mission
To be present at the Grand Exhibition
It would take place on Rhode Island
Although he preferred to remain on dry land
He had no great love of water
Having been jilted by a mariner’s daughter
In honour of the location
He took it for his inspiration
Thus he set out to paint the red hen
Popular amongst Rhode Island men
The model was an elegant rooster
Who, being short, stood on a booster
His plumage was really quite fine
Though his breath smelt a little of wine
This caused him to shake and to quiver
No doubt due to a well pickled liver
Old Bart grew terribly cross
And the rooster he started to boss
Stand still I say can’t you please
Just as the rooster started to sneeze
Bart struggled to capture the pose
And very nearly came to blows
With the drunken sneezing hen
As he pleaded with him again
This time he heeded the pleas
And put the weasel at ease
The painting was nearing completion
When the hen made a verbal excretion
With vomit all over the floor
Bart cursed and worse he swore
Never to offer again
To paint a red chicken
And as he wiped the puke off his sweater
He thought perhaps a duck would be better.


Iain.

Maybe He Should Drive

She almost always got the keys.
The only time he couldn’t say this
was the night of her best friend’s wedding,
when she mixed margaritas
and peppermint schnapps
and he gallantly took charge of their steed.
But every other time,
she’s been in the driver’s seat.
He should offer to take over more often
but she just seems more comfortable there
than squirming in the passenger side,
watching someone else navigate the world
and thinking how much better she could do it.

Maybe Someone Else Should Cut His Hair

As the cat bats dirty-blonde tufts across the floor
soft tumbleweeds
My brother rubs his scalp
surveying the damage
Mom stands with her hands on her hips,
"That was not what I had in mind."

PAPERBACK WRITER
(Maybe, I'll Take A Break And NaNoWriMo A While)

A writer with a preference,
a poet with a cause,
whether short or full blown muse,
it gives my creations pause.
Poised above this keyboard,
pressing out my words,
this novel, that I've fought for years,
me thinks is for the birds.
I'm giving NaNoWriMo a shot,
but what I've written is not so hot.

See, I'm not sure of the style of writer I'll be,
A lyrical poet with this musical bent?
A exhibitionist of heart or commentator on life's
foibles? A novelist? Wondering where it went?
So, I venture to guess that a stint at "NaNo",
finding my attention span surely quite lacking,
will battle my muse and regulate my writing
and only frustrate me and send me packing,
Now, it is back to the confines of poetic security,
to my verses and rhymes with some literal purity.

Heart wrenching, S.E. Ingraham; Brian Slusher (Maybe The End Will Come … Love what you are doing with this … emotions, sensations, and images feel real); more Bartholomew Foggerty brilliance from Iain; Walt, Kate has it right.

TOMORROW NEVER KNOWS
(Maybe Today Holds Your Answers)

Alway searching,
for your place,
wherever that may be.

I know that look
upon your face,
a short while back, t'was me.

This vision shared,
ambition's foil,
is not the sight to see.

For looking to
the future isn't
where you want to be.

You learn this life
by living it,
the present holds the key.

Obtain the tools
and hone your skills,
A little time now is your fee.

The poets say
live for today,
that advice fits you to a tee.

And that's how it goes,
tomorrow never knows,
that's a fact, you can take it from me.

The past is history,
now is the time,
and the future is yet to be.

Or Maybe the Day After That

I’m tired of thinking about Tara,
trying to save her for God knows what.
I’m tired of plenty
after all those months
of making do.
Sometimes I miss boiled turnips
and dirt under my nails.
I’m tiredOr Maybe the Day After That

I’m tired of thinking about Tara,
trying to save her for God knows what.
I’m tired of plenty
after all those months
of making do.
Sometimes I miss boiled turnips
and dirt under my nails.
I’m tired of dresses
made to order, petticoats
and ball gowns,
so tired I could rip these curtains
from the windows too.
I’m too tired to bear anyone’s grief
but my own,
tired of apologizing
for misplaced jealousy.
I don’t care if I have to loosen
my corsets after a hearty meal,
one I cooked myself.
Right now I have no plans
to make plans. Instead,
I’m going to sit right here
at the foot of the stairs
and have a good cry,
and I don’t care if anyone
gives a damn or not.
Maybe tomorrow, my thoughts
will come clearer—or
maybe the day after that.

I had difficulty posting, and when it finally did, I got the first lines on here twice. I won't repost (as if I could). You'll just have to find the title the second time!

Maybe Tomorrow

Maybe tomorrow you will call
Or take me to lunch.
You might surprise me at work today
By stopping by to say hola.
I pray you will remember me
when you say your prayers.
Whenever you eat at my favorite restarurant
Surely it will prompt you to text me.
I waited all day to hear from you.
Maybe tomorrow.

MAYBE

O, I had such high ambitions
for this month, a new tradition
of NaNoWriMo, PiBoIdMo and PAD
My schedule has not been kind
Not yet a week and I'm behind
If I don't quit will I wish I had?

Maybe The World Runs Out of Money
By: Meena Rose

It may well be a good thing;
If the world ran out of money.
It would make my heart sing;
It would turn my disposition sunny.

If the world ran out of money;
Life would set me free.
It would turn my disposition sunny;
It would fill my heart with glee.

Life would set me free;
I would pursue that which I love.
It would fill my heart with glee.
I would listen to inspiration from above.

I would pursue that which I love.
I would practice massage therapy.
I would listen to inspiration from above.
I would write for an eternity.

I would practice massage therapy.
It would make my heart sing.
I would write for an eternity.
It may well be a good thing.

MAYBE TREASURES


if anyone calls
tell him I am napping
on the deck
or maybe reading
the latest Patterson
and wish
not to be disturbed
or maybe at the garage
where my Toyota
is up on stilts
getting an oil change

or an urgent call
has me driving
at this very moment
in a hard driving rain
but do not
I repeat
but do not
tell them I am in the yard
running my metal detector
over every inch of soil

hoping to find
maybe the lost treasure
of the Sierra Madres
or Pizarro's gold Lima beans
or maybe a time capsule
containing uncirculated
1853 half-dimes
or maybe the Golden Calf

tell him I'm sleeping
maybe dreaming snoring away
in Dreamsville
and cannot come
to hobnob on the phone

#

Maybe

the memory of yesterday
lies deep in the weathered oak

the grain of days remembered
etched
deep within the wood

I raise my hand to knock again,
to call the lengthened shadows

here, where the light pools
here, where the ordinary
keeps company with the absurd

where unfamiliar tracks lead
off the edge of the world

into tomorrow

to confront the uncertain
in an absence of constraint

where shards of whispered hope
form polymorphic crystals
where breath stirs the gossamer of butterflies




Carol A. Stephen
November 3, 2009
PAD Challenge

Four days in and...

~Pamela Gordon - your work is inspiring and very good.
~Laurie K - Read Flatlined. Hope all is well with you.
~Michelle - Far from rubbish, my dear. Besides, trees renew.
~RJ - Maybe Maybe*lene is interesting. I WAS Joe. Scary. "...in recollection" Good Work Lady!
~J.Hugh - "...Lennon Was Right" Even though he backtracked on that a bit, a good ideal none the less. Enjoyed the piece.
~Patrcia - "...She Will Breathe" is wonderful.
~Dawn Marie - Paul Simon sang "Preserve your me memories, they're all that's left you" Those memories can heal. Keep them close.
~Meena Rose - Good stuff.

The Masses:
alana, Shelley, Connie, Willy, Cara (...It Will Rain), De (poetic princess), Nikki, Joseph (loving your trek through mythology - Paris or Alaska!!!), DanPai, you know my stance, Barbara, Richard - loving the Atwater Flow, Janet, Monica, Jenny, Chev (always), Jane Eamon - you have flair, Janne, Sheila, LOX, Iain Douglas, DA, Kim Marie, Katrelya, the McEwen sisters - stellar, Cory Q, Taylor, Ginger, Amanda Fall, Ina, Heather

~Khara - Alway anticipated, never disappointed (Sorry about the Phillies)
~Theresa rebounds! (Sorry about the Phillies, Take 2)
~Marie-Elizabeth - great offerings
~Julia - becoming a must read.
~Jane Beal, Mike Barzacchini as well.
~Leslie - good to see your work again

Keeping an eye on Rose Marie.

~Patricia Mc. - glad you dropped the initials and are taking full credit for your excellent work. Thanks you for the props.

Usual band of Merry Men/Women - Slusher, Griffith, Sara Mc, always Nancy Posey, Brude Niedt

~Hannah - Woodflute has your charm, "My Eyes" oh to be able to see what you see. "...The Years" the tops.

~Marie, Marie, Marie - What, Ringo's not good enough for you? lol This Hocking Hills intrigues me. Your work lusters. (I know how you hate when I say it shines!)

MAYBE

There is a God.
He did send a love letter to us.
His love letter is true.
His prophets are right on the money.
Everything He said will come to pass.
He really did send His Son, Jesus, to save us.
Jesus really did die and rise from the dead.
He’s coming again.
I’m sinful like He says.
I need to ask His forgiveness.
I need to turn away from ways that displease Him.
I need to obey what His love letter says.
Maybe there is no maybe to it.

I have two for Day 4.

Sevenling: Maybe Today

Maybe today
he will bring me flowers, hold me close,
kiss me until I’ve no breath left

Maybe today
he will take my hand, call me sweetheart,
declare his love

Certainly tomorrow



Maybe Ice Cream

Maybe ice cream
Will ease the pain
Like a hole punched
Straight into the middle of my chest
When you showed me
Precisely
How little
You cared for me
After I’d opened my soul
Spread myself wide
Given all

MAYBE...
We could go hiking in the hills one day
Take a trip to the Canyon
Visit the seashore
or
Maybe
We could have a meal together
Listen to some good music
Go dancing
or Maybe
We could get married and have kids
Settle down in a nice house
Love one another
You said.
And maybe
I wouldn’t have shot you if
You hadn’t lied

Invasion

We’ve had enough of the English ivy,
The heartless intrusion on our time,
My husband and I continue to strive -- he
Hacks at the root; I tug at the vine.

It chokes the fuschia and the fresia,
It’s crawling up each post and tree.
We must have vigilance or – geesh! Ya
Know how hard it’ll get to be.

If daily efforts weren’t enough
To give our yard a fighting chance
Our crazy neighbors play it rough
And introduce some vinca plants

At first those tiny bluish flowers
Charm the eye and fill the space
But now it saps all else of power
And grows a most alarming pace.

Some honeysuckle’s moving thickly
From another yard -- a rover!
What is left is looking sickly.
Maybe we’ll just pave it over.

I am having a problem with the prompt for the picked theme so for now here is a maybe poem while I mnaybe finish the theme maybe:

Unable to express in person
hiding behind keyboard
letting my fingers talk under psuedo names
in distant chat rooms,
while my heart longs to reach out and touch you,
my poet partner and hidden muse,
you who inspire all that is deep inside me,
supportive but unaware,
maybe to day I will leave the keyboard and reach out
with open arms.
Maybe.

now of course it came so here is the "Matilda/parrot maybe:

Maybe always dies

Maybe dies a hard death in her vocabulary
Always upright correct never waivers from hercourse.
Yearly she and her parrot grow older, meaner.
Both yell in soft voices, their
Echoes haunt the family.

Maybe Him

I say, "familiar"
as he moves by in the dream
and notices me just long enough to pretend
to agree

It is a giant art walk.
It is Stephan Sagemeister.
He doesn't know I know he has 'a name'.
There is attraction but I lose him, or he me, quickly.

I break art.
I walk backwards.
Everywhere I go, I lose shoes.
One boot falls down a drain pipe
Its mate forever now without.
I go to fish it out with a high pump
that falls and one sandal after it.

All the pairs, one after another are separated.
Still, the 'familiar' man,
now a critic,
is coming towards me again.

Cinderella feigning performance art:
I climb down into the gutter
to fetch the mates.

Day 4 Maybe next time you will listen

If I done told you once I’ve told you a thousand time
God don’t like ugly
I told you beauty is only skin deep
I told you true beauty comes from the inside
I’ve told you to stop acting ugly
Maybe next time you will listen

I told you that a hard head make a soft behind
I told you that we reap what we sow
I told you God don’t like ugly
Don’t act like you don’t know

We are all given a conscious
To determine what is right and wrong
The ten commandments make it simple
Don’t act like you don’t know

I told you to treat others the way you want to be treated
And that family is all that you’ve got
I told you to make good decisions
You didn’t listens so in jail you now rot

I told you education is the key
To getting what you want
You had to be impatient
Robbing Peter to pay Paul
Your stupid friends let you take the fall
The tears down you cheeks now glisten
Darling child maybe next time you will listen.

Agnostic (Maybe/Maybe Not)

If the hibiscus underneath the eave
Combusted not of crimson orchids but
Spontaneously of flame
And spoke to me even in
A language I could not understood but
Could hear at least the way a dog
Can hear a sound that I cannot
And said so that I understood:

"I am your Saviour"

Or if a chasm opened up before me,
Abyss beneath eternally
And something that I do not know today
Compelled me, coaxed me into leaping
'cross the great divide
And leapt I did while hearing

"I am your Saviour"

Maybe.
Maybe not.

“Maybe”

Maybe Paul is really dead
but they’re keeping it a secret
as his imposter writes better songs

and maybe there’s a pill that
changes water to gasoline
but the big oil companies
won’t allow it

and maybe all the bailouts
are just diversion tactics
so we don’t notice
the plutocrats packing their bags
and flying off
this insolvent planet
to an uncharted
but incorporated netherworld

and maybe the world is flat
and we got it all wrong
and Shakespeare actually wrote
Marlowe’s plays

and maybe no one’s really
homeless
and they’re all on the take
just acting impoverished
to keep the rest of us
scared and showing up at our jobs
everyday

and maybe every keystroke
from every person
every hour is being logged
and dossiers of our online
activities are being created
virtually
for future sale
to marketing companies
or national security agencies,
whichever pays more.

Conspiracy theorists tell me:
“Even a stopped clock is right
twice a day.”

I say
“Maybe.”

Decisions

No forbids
Yes allows
Maybe waits to see

No denies
Yes affirms
Maybe considers the facts

No closes
Yes opens
Maybe asks, “who is there?”

Maybe precedes

no
the way a lingering
cough dances
ahead of death, twisting
its arrogant hips.
Maybe lulls
women into gently nurturing
fairy tales and taunts
men into dashing
full-frontal against whirlwinds.
Maybe is a tease.
Maybe is a devil.
Maybe is the whisper
that stirs in us the simmer of breath.

It's only a draft... only a draft.... I have to keep reminding myself, or I become bogged down in the edit process and fall behind! :-O
So . . . in order for me to start on today, here's yesterday's "Maybe" poem:


Maybe we weren’t
meant to be,
but, for a time,
you were mine
to cradle, nourish,
protect

Maybe I didn’t
believe enough,
your hold so ethereal,
heartbeat too fragile
to overcome my fears
master my misgivings

Maybe I was
feckless, or perhaps
the love I had was
just enough to make you,
but not enough
to make you stay

Maybe Less Isn’t Really More


Maybe we need to stop look at the poor
those who have nothing to live for
No incentive to open life’s door
Maybe less isn’t really more

We cut their benefits
take all we can
figure they can get by on little bits
it’s the economy, they’ll understand

We, take their pride
we take all we can
so they are so knotted up inside
But, hey, they’ll understand

What about the elderly,
they aren’t too old to see
that living on a fixed income
requires more than has come

But, hey, there’s a jobless rate
so, take from those who can’t give
no reason to hesitate
after all, they have little reason to live

So, why not give them a little less
take the burden off society
uncle Sam’s doing his best
At least he provides variety

A variety of soup lines
opportunities to commit crimes
unemployment lines
and shelters where the worst wouldn’t do time

Maybe less isn’t really more
certainly not when it comes to the elderly
clearly not when it comes to the poor
but, the poor don’t vote,
so they don’t matter to anyone politically
No, they have their own society
their own notoriety
forced to live like animals
giving up their humanity
to live a life others would label insanity. . .

Ralph J. Fitcher, November 5, 2009, maybe poem.

Almost caught up....

CHAP - HEAVEN

Maybe

So many say maybe
Maybe Heaven is real
Maybe it’s beautiful
Maybe it’s perfect
Maybe it’s eternal

Or
Maybe it’s a fairy tale
Created by the creative
To complete a fantasy
A dream
A hope
Of something more to come
When it’s all said and done
On earth
With this life

Maybe Heaven is real
Maybe it’s beautiful
Maybe it’s perfect
Maybe it’s eternal

So many say maybe
What say you?

CHAP - HELL

Maybe

Maybe it won’t be that bad
Lake of fire and all that
Separation from God
Just separation
Nothing drastic
After all
God is a maybe, too
Right?

Maybe I’ll make some new friends
Or meet some old ones
Lots of my friends will be there
I’m sure

Maybe there’ll be water fountains
Or recreation time
Just like in our prisons
Or concentration camps
Couldn’t be any worse
Than some things on this planet
Could it?

Should I take my chances?
Should I go against my gut?
Should I go with the flow?
After all
It’s just maybe
And maybe is just that

Maybe

Maybe I'll dance


Maybe I'll dance again,
pick up a pencil and draw
something, play in a lake
as I have not done since
the day my stroke cut me
down to the size and shape
of my wheelchair.

Maybe I'll dance without
mechanized feet. Maybe
I'll draw without a program
tracking my eyes. Maybe I'll
dangle my feet off a pier and
feel the minnows tickle my toes.

Maybe Next Time

Maybe next time she won't spill over like a shaker of salt,
maybe she'll shake the habit, shake it like
a single-serving salt packet

(red-lettered--

tear here),

maybe she'll slip into something a little more comfortable

(scratch the surface--

when it rains it pours),

maybe next time she'll buy the shamelessness on credit,
get wasted at the kitchen table, fingers clutching
the flushing white pillar of her neck,

(after the excavation--

a crystalline shower).

Maybe It’s a Dream
For the Gogos (Grandmothers)of Swaziland

African sun burns deep into your soul
As red clay dust envelops your dreams.
In the distance, the sound of a child
Crying, sobbing, wrenches your gut.

You kneel beside a Gogo,
Who exists for her grandchildren.
Eighteen bodies crowd around -
Their faces belie their ages.

Babies who have seen too much.
Old before their time, yet,
Once smiles rise from the depths
Of their hearts – they are young, again.

African moon pours silence over you
As night sings songs of sleep.
Gogo’s hut shines from within.
You stand outside wondering -

Maybe it’s a dream.

Maybe I'll Figure It Out

Mathematical equations and the slow turning
of molecules that fuel violent reactions
that have actually been taking place for milenia
and will continue on, dwarfing me and my
minuscule generations of progeny
or smaller problems of how an engine works
or doesn't, how to get whipping cream to
peak or even tying a bow would be a small triumph
I could forget about diminishing returns,
my failure to align my stars and the derivative market
if I could figure out how
to make you stay in love with me.

Where Will My Feet Land?

Where will my feet land as they step in new soil?
In irregular strides the form rhythm of the blues.
Will I sing of grief found in some narrow land?
Will I sing of the meadows I knew in my youth?

Where will my feet land in this new soil?

She is of the ages, the one I seek. Older than rivers
She is older than seas. As I find her resting sweetly
On other shores barely beyond my out stretched reach
Or in the face of a young girl chancing a smile at me.

Where will my feet land in this new soil?

I who walk in this new soil as my ancestors did,
Seeking virgin farming land in which to plant,
Look at the path that is behind and the clearing ahead,
And seek her youthful face in the place where I land.

Dennis Wright
November 2, 2009

LITTLE CHILD
(Full Grown Melissa)

You always were the apple of my eye,
and your very first smile melted my heart.
The world stands still whenever you're nearby.

The greatest gift that money could not buy
was truly you, who made my heart restart.
You always were the apple of my eye.

As you grew I really could not deny,
your beauty was completely off the chart.
The world stands still whenever you're nearby.

My darling daughter, you're my prayer's reply,
brightest star in heaven and oh, so smart,
You always were the apple of my eye.

And now you're all grown up, but still I try,
to keep that baby girl close to my heart.
The world stands still whenever you're nearby.

As you start this new phase, I'll be close by,
to give support and help you get your start,
you always were the apple of my eye,
the world stands still whenever you're nearby.

THINK FOR YOURSELF

Use your head and think for yourself
nobody else knows what you need.
Put insecurities up on a shelf,
use your head and think for yourself.
Others have trepidations themselves,
don't let them plant fallow seeds,
use your head and think for yourself,
nobody else knows what you need.

AMEN Sally. :)

Walt, Walt, Walt ... Dad's love lusters! ;) And thanks, thanks, thanks!

Maybe

I’ll write it down
and maybe,
just maybe,
my mind
will rest.

Maybe One Day

Maybe one day I'll get everything done.
Maybe I'll finish my knitting and crocheting
Maybe I'll paint pictures and scarves again.
Maybe I'll complete my third children's book.
Maybe I'll get rid of these piles of papers
on my desk.
Maybe I'll get that pedicure I need.
Maybe I'll unpack my suitcase
so I can pack it again.
Maybe I'll buy myself a Blackberry.
Maybe the easy stuff to do will
stop feeling like a project.
Maybe I'll even write a poem.

.
Maybe You

Maybe you should have
thought for a moment before
hitting the send button. Perhaps

you should have read your words
with clearer eyes, gone for a walk,
taken a deep breath

before going off full-cocked
because I unknowingly opened
some long-festering wound.

Now you think
a guarded apology can erase
your hostile words

as though they never raged
across my dark screen
on a sunny summer morning.

.

Maybe No One Taught Them

I don’t know how a human
can go through an entire day
without being touched.
How can they not have
that need,
that connection, that
soft electric wire to the heart?
The wire that brings
life affirming messages,
unspoken compliments,
unsung praises heard by hands,
hands that quell tears,
and disappointment.
Arms that envelope the
body protecting against
what the ears heard-
neutralizing negative
clouds of words,
kicked up by stormy mouths.
It’s inherent in our makeup.
Lip to lip conversations
numbing the mind,
and firing up the physical.
A cheek kiss goodbye,
the same for hello,
When prompted,
a hug given like
they missed that lesson,
I think if they knew how
precious it was to find
someone who loves them,
in this world-wholly loves them,
the touch would come easier,
They just don’t know how,
and it’s too late to teach them now.
Lauren Dixon

Maybe they made a mistake

It happens all the time. They don’t want
To talk about it, of course. But they’re
Human beings, just like the rest of us..
It doesn’t always go to court. They pay
A settlement, then keep it quiet. And
Everything goes on like nothing’s happened.

The CT scan, the MRI, they could have been
Read wrong. Mis-interpreted, you know. A
Busy day, wasn’t it on a Friday? Everyone
In a hurry getting ready for the week end,
It was summer, too, vacation time.

Don’t you want to check? Ask your children
Which one has your power of attorney? You
Haven’t done that yet? Well yes, I understand.
It could be some thing else, something not fatal
You’re looking too good to be as sick as they
Say. It is some kind of disease, isn’t it? Some
Thing they don’t know very much about?

You know, if I were you, I’d hire me a lawyer
You have – well of course ,everybody needs a
Will. It’s bestto be prepared in case you go
Suddenly, an accident, or something. Yes,
I’ve got to get my own prepared. It just
Occurred to me – we aren’t here very long
At all – Look at poor Barbara, yes, well, I
Hope you’re feeling better soon. Now don’t
Forget – check up on those doctors, It’s not
They’re lives they’re playing with, you know.

To Walt: I looked for another poet named Julia, and didn't find one. Your comment, above, is about me? Holy poetry, Walt! This is what I wrote on my FB page just now: "began November chapbook's challenge, writing poems for prompt days 1,2,3,4 and 5. Thank you Walt, for your comment: "Julia becoming a must read." With about 170 poets each day... great ones, too,... I'll hope it's with graciousness that I take your compliment and run with it! Twenty-five poems to go..."

By the way, Walt, these chapbook poems are all written for my two daughters, to be combined in a surprise book, the binding I am making myself with gemstones and gorgeous batik. Their Christmas gift. Your opinion that the poems are "becoming a must read" so far :-) means a lot! I sometimes imagine my daughters opening the packages on Christmas morning, reading a bit, then looking at me like I'm nuts. (Well, knowing them, they might do that anyway!) Again, thank you, Walt! (I tend to go on and on...) ~ Julia Holzer

Dead Woman Walking

She hates
growing old, watching
her breasts sag
and her neck turn
into an animal that represents
her favorite holiday, but has no place staring
back at her from a harsh mirror.

She hates
not having money to spend
on a nip, a tuck,
an overhaul that could help
her pretend
she hasn’t yet seen
an unspeakable age, help her remember
she once danced
all week and sauntered
past men who stared
at her smooth face and jaunty
hips with a hunger that she was willing to sate.

She hates
the killer who calls
himself Age and stalks her every breath, snapping
shut her future, mocking her while he renders
her invisible, forcing her into a disposable
society sneeringly called women of a certain age.

Maybe There Is Something to All This
Maybe
there in
the dewdrop
sparkling
on a proverbial
blade of grass
in blue skies
cloudless
and black
pre tsunamis
Maybe in the
first converged
cry of mother and
child and
the last breath
taken
in the peak of
snow crested mountains
and the crystalline
world of aquamarine
shimmering
Maybe in pathos,
pain, in boredom
and in joy
In children's whispered
wishes in the night
to keep all who are known
who were known and who will
come to be known
safe on whatever path they walk
Maybe in war, peace, hatred and love
there is
That longed for explanation, comfort
and limitless possibility for perfection
Maybe

Maybe You'll Live

"Chemical restraint," that's how the pain management doctor described the drug.
"When you want him to be quiet."
I couldn't do it after that, couldn't send that pill down his pink mouth into his coughing throat to send his moood into quiet.
Let him be agitated, yell, holler, scream, "it's not fair."
and it isn't fair.
I watched him fight the light, send himself there and return.
Maybe you'll live.

Sitting at this desk while little
Minds focus on the differences between
“Telling statements” and “Asking statements”
My own mind begins to wonder.

Maybe I am supposed to be here.
For the first time in my life,
Maybe I’m finally in the right spot.
Instead of asking myself over and over,
“What am I going to do?”
It’s time to say,
“This is what I’m doing.”

Replacing some of the
Question marks with periods
Is a lesson I should have learned
Years and years ago.

Maybe Not Baby


Family legacy held one
Singular pathway for those
Of us exiting womb
With matching chromosomes:
Motherhood.
But somehow that genetic
Edict got twisted up.
Wound to tightly in the double
Helix of my defining DNA,
I missed its pipsqueak
Call.

Maybe There's Hope for You Yet

A limbo spot on the map, unfortunately not only onetime, but enough times to reminisce and shake hands with curt and frank, politely dismiss oneself, one too many times but that is what cocktail parties are for, but opening the door to schmooze or booze, have you ever heard a good party line, or parting line? Step out in the winter night air, your heart freezes and coagulates like calf rennin, up and down your sleeve, but do take care, don’t sneeze, not here, not this cold air to freeze and break nose air, have the good sense to take cover, that is another matter, not undercover with that hobo upstairs who thought you looked as his mother, that is another matter, no you walk on further up the ladder of stars, tonight, look at them glisten and listen, you’ll need to polish up on that walk, and buttoning your winter jacket.

Maybe He is the same after Stroke, Maybe I am too


So much I will never know
but this I do:

he is happier in our smaller world
happier with being left alone
to what he can

he did not lose his love of puzzles,
or his spatial skills
when stroke stole his words
his fluid motion.

he did not lose his smile
or his way of watching,
listening close enough
to sustain memories

I didn’t lose his staying power
though I often let go my own
found patience wearing thin
filing sharp my too loud words

What I know is that we do not miss
so much what we imagine gone
as we delight in what we’ve come
to bear in silence wrapping round.

Maybe

placation and rejection
Maybe not...
uncertain future
indecisive
possibilities
yeah, sure, whatever...
doubt
anxious confusion
choices of unknowns
varieties of potential

November Poetry Challenge Day 4
Write a poem starting with Maybe (blank)

Possibly, Probably, Maybe late for dinner

The ties that bind are little things, like this line from
Home Alone Three, which was one of many movies
That aired in the DVD player in my car while I
Ferried kids to soccer practice, dance, tennis,
Guitar, trumpet, diving, sewing, whatever…
There are so many movies whose sound track
And dialog I know like my middle name,
And whose memorable lines remain inside jokes
Between my kids and me.

Maybe next time I'll listen to my head
Instead of my heart.
Then I won't have to pick up the pieces
When it lies ripped apart.

Maybe He

Maybe there was another way out,
but he didn’t know it.

Maybe he could have asked for help,
but he didn’t know how.

Maybe if he knew how to unbury the pain,
he would have discovered his voice.

Maybe he would have understood,
it’s ok for a man to be vulnerable.

Maybe if I told him
all of the wonderful things I saw in him,
he would have opened his eyes.

Maybe he would have opened his heart
to let me examine his brokenness.

Maybe.
Maybe not.

Maybe it’s just like his letter said-
he didn’t want to fight anymore.

Maybe if he reach out-
maybe if he fought one more time-
Maybe if he had the will to live
he would have heard me say,
I love him.

Then maybe he would have stayed.

Do I love you, do I know what love means?
Maybe it's about what we have in the bank.
In the bank, you reduce me to dollars?
I don't have enough dollars for our days
together, nor even for the years.

Do you love me, do you know what love means?
Maybe it's about our social rank
Social rank, you compare me with our callers?
I never met one set me so ablaze,
nor other gave me so much cheer.

So do we love, do we know what love means?
Maybe this old question is one to outflank
by changing focus to days that follow,
not by words or others to appraise,
but by making love with no frontier.

Maybe doubt

Maybe stupidity is real, maybe insight is false
Could perhaps our bittersweet ignorance be led by heartfeltness, and not
By the lowly doltishness of this day and life

Maybe companions are true, and enemies are all in our mind,
Our sleeptime hallucinations brought on by the everyday
And mundane tasks the products of inspiration.

Maybe redundancy is a release, certainly
the redundancy of emotions can bring us great relief
from the trash heaped so high in our sights.

Maybe consequence is a teacher, and possibility the enemy of all things.
Could perhaps our ridiculous estimates be led by the devil, the evil,
the potential within us all to run to ruin.

Maybe doubt could show us the bright side of our hearts
If the cain and disruption we've faced before
disprove the deleterious theories of others.

Maybe Just Maybe Tomorrow


Maybe just maybe tomorrow
the sun will shine.
Maybe just maybe tomorrow
the ogre will be gone.
Maybe just maybe tomorrow
our good luck will come our way.
Maybe just maybe tomorrow
it will be brighter.
I know one thing for sure
our true love for each other
is no maybe,
just a positive thing.


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

Maybe It Is

tal vez
c'est possible
vielleicht
può essere
kamoshirenai
labda
robbama
maybe
that propels us all
towards tomorrow.

Maybe I’ll do my nails

Maybe I’ll do my nails today
a shade of pale pink to show my girly side
or a cheery yellow, though not my color
but to make me feel bright because it’s in sight
of course I could do my usual earthy look
brownish/tan/gold, to match my skin tone
and it won’t stand out
but if I wanted to be noticed
there is the darker electric blue, that I love
but need to be in a certain crazy,
confident mood to wear
I never put on red, it just doesn’t seem right
but black can be worn on any Halloween Night.

"Maybe I'll Make It"

Maybe I'll make it without you
Your Cathedral holding my
Outer Belief
Inside sweltering with Doubt

I run to the store
Run to my House
To the Lake
Where I can sail away
to a brighter conclusion,
Away from Your Confusion
and at least into my own.

I built this Heart
To Be Respected
Protected
from Vultures on
The Verge of Prince
and since, been given opportunity
to see if it works--

I Stand away from You
and look into the
next Sea

And Travel Towards
a Stronger me.

Maybe I will make it
Without You...

Maybe


Curtain lowered
applause expired.
Make-up removed.
Tissues and playbills
litter the aisles.
Spot light out
house lights dimmed.
Maybe it's over.



Maybe it's Morning

New light filters in around the edges.
That's the moon the groggy sleeper muses.
Wolves will start howling at its neon
prowling growling globe of luminescence
any minute. I will know the night song.
But for right now, I will turn the pillow,
pull the covers, sew a patch over
this rip in the fabric of my dreaming,
holding the menace of morning at arm's length.


The Lounge Singer (maybe it's time)

I've been playing slow songs--
sad and lonely melodies--
echoes of different times
and less lively places.
But the drummer ups the beats,
the horns desert that minor key
and it has occurred to me,
I could create a new song.

Maybe Next Time
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder


When the Trial’s finally over,
and the Jury’s all gone home,
when the Good Year’s
have all stopped spinning
cuz the casket’s decked in chrome,
and St. Peter’s at the rectory
eager to read from his own poem
‘bout the time you’ve gained in spades
when you decided you’d outgrown
all your mama’s bad advice, and
all your daddy’s common sense drone.
Just remember all our choices
come with bodies just on loan,
and consequential are the loved ones
when your lips taste tap’s smooth foam.
So when our allotted time is up,
and your life’s everything but blown
maybe next time you’ll actually listen
‘stead of turning into a lawn gnome.


© 2009 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

Maybe Dreams Are Possible

For years they separately dreamed of changing things.
Like barnyard hens, they scratched around
here and there, doing what they could to
help those who needed more than most offered.
Then, after long, dark nights of dreams
impossible to believe in, they woke to the
clear, tangible knowledge that together
they could make dreams into possibilities

Maybe Someday

Maybe someday
I’ll travel to Australia.
Maybe someday
I’ll travel to far off lands.
Maybe someday
I’ll learn to play the piano.
Maybe someday
I’ll learn to crochet.
Maybe someday
I’ll find my lucky star.
Maybe someday
I’ll find the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
Maybe someday
I’ll realize my wildest dreams.
Maybe someday
I’ll realize I already have all I need.

Maybe the cure

for melancholy is in your arms.
I imagine no one has ever left
them without feeling rearranged
like customized furniture
in a great room.

MAYBE THERE'S SOMETHING TO IT

Maybe if you ponder the eighty-
one weighty syllables of this
poem you will experience
an epiphany and be
forever changed
or then again
maybe
not

(Nonet using one-syllable pronunciation of "poem."

MAYBE THERE'S SOMETHING TO IT

Maybe if you ponder the forty-
five precious syllables of this
poem you will experience
an epiphany and be
forever changed
or then again
maybe
not

(Nonet using one-syllable pronunciation of "poem."
Fixed the glaring problem in the first version, lol!!!

MAYBE THERE'S SOMETHING TO IT

Maybe if you ponder the forty-
five precious syllables of this
poem you will experience
profound revelation
resulting in change
and betterment;
then again,
maybe
not

(Nonet using one-syllable pronunciation of "poem.")
Third try is the charm, right? Having a moment here for sure.

Day 4

Maybe…

Maybe one day
I’ll not feel the anguish of getting old.
Maybe one day
My heart won’t break when my granddaughter leaves.
Maybe one day
I’ll not worry about gaining weight.
Maybe one day
I’ll recognize my specialness.
Maybe one day
My questions will all be answered.
Maybe one day
My perfect dreams will all come true.
Maybe they already have.

Maybe We'll Survive

Maybe we'll discover
A way to persevere
Our unchanging ways
And dull ourselves
To become narcissistic zombies
That don't need the breath
Of our earth spirit.