What perfect timing! Just finished commenting on yesterday, and voila, today's prompt arrives! Thanks Robert. Good luck everyone!

HOLD ME TIGHT

Hold me tight
so I can feel you breathing.
The sweet in and out of life's rhythm
clutching onto the thought of my being.
In return, your presence is welcomed
and most needed in the clasp of
your arms around my shoulders.
You hold me up, keep me secure,
you offer your self as an anchor
to keep me from drifting too far out
from your safe shore. Keep me right.
Hold me tight.

Wild Horses

The Year of the Horse
she came into
this world
Independent and free
running wild
unbridled child

No one could
rein her
She loved all
and no one
Especially herself

One day
a Dragon came
and lit her
heart with fire
desire
Tamed her
With warmth

Winter Morning

Filled with emptiness
I lack for nothing. The Dream
is not over Joy.

I WANT TO HOLD YOUR HAND

A human tether
linking two souls
with their very touch.

Tactile embrace
in an intermingling of fingers
holding our hearts in each others hands.

The warm moistness
transfers the heat between
and becomes self sustaining.

Always at your fingertips
I await to manipulate life's difficulties
in the wave of my fidgety digits.

Never lost in the crowd
saying out loud what a whisper
could just as well convey easily.

For in the reach for your love
I have found something to hold to keep you.
Give me your hand, and you have my heart.

OH, Robert, "hiding in the shadow of one's heart" is a good place to be...nice.



Looking for Enlightenment

One need not suffer.
Pain is forever a choice.
Searchers opt for peace.

Funny you should mention attachments,
As I attempt to incorporate a pdf into a Word file.
I’ve done it before. It’s easy as pie.
Until today.
Today I’m attached to my computer, as I try
And try. And try. And try.
I export the pdf to Word, so I can incorporate it into
… Word.
One would think Word would accept Word.
No. It changes my 9-page pdf into a 16-page, 6 MB doc,
then freezes the computer.
My word …
A word of advice? Anyone?


P.S. Walt, I love "I want to hold your hand."

Comfort

You drive
your hand upon my thigh
feels normal
Like it's always been there
It's natural.

We sit
In restaurants
Side by side
and talk
and your hand on my thigh
linking us together
it's comfort.

We sleep
sometimes entwined
Never losing touch
your warmth next to mine
and your hand is there
it's love.

ATTACHED AT THE HIP

it was in a Ripley’s Believe It or Not
I saw two brothers from China
born co-joined at the hip

for months I had nightmares
my brother and I would suddenly
wake up like Ching and Chang

our bodies, our lives, our dreams
attached at the hip, stumbling
in our walkings, unable to toss

myself into one good night’s sleep
Without wrenching him out of sleep
And the nightmares came fast and furious

Little brother Ching to big brother Chang
So close we could hear each other’s breath
Each other’s heartbeat pounding in harmony

in one of those nightmares
We fell in love with two sisters
But the one I loved hated company

She complained about three’s a crowd
And four’s a circus so we all broke up
Except for me and Chang

At last those nightmares ended
Now in old age I wish I could have kept
My late brother safe at my hip forever

#

Namaste

After I fooled around with Yoga for a while, I felt guilty. Short, fat, white American who was roughly raised Christian embracing such an Eastern thing. Many just call it exercise, don’t look past the Reverse Twisting Triangle or Crocodile. They don’t even both to learn the Indian names for the moves. Not really believing it is ancient. I mean, what if it predated the 6 to 10 thousand years that some very conservative mono-theists believe is the life span of the Earth? I’ve met people, in the South where I live, who haven’t tried it but denounce it because of where it is from. In defiance, I went further. I read books like “Are you a Hindu?” and I learned different definitions for Namaste. I even thought I could shape up further by reading “The Yoga of Eating.” But, I’m not a Hindu. I don’t believe in gods with thousands of arms or mouths or heads of elephants. I can bow to the God inside you with my hands in prayer position but I can never be lithe, limber and hennaed because I am short, fat, white and American. I have so many adjectives for myself that I concentrate too hard on each of them individually instead of joining them, yoking them, to something more to the flow of an asana or to acceptance.

Another great work, Salvatore.


Forget my plea for help, above. Pasting in one ..... page ..... at ..... a ....... time. Should be in the "slow" prompt? ;)

Attached at the Hip

People said we were
attached at the hip,
two friends who found
each other amidst a
sea of dark deception;
you and I so opposite,
yet alike in many ways.

When you told me you
had come out of the
closet years ago, I had
been confused at first;
did you feel attracted to
me in some mysterious way?

Then I swept my doubt
under the rug until
the day we kissed,
and since then thoughts
of you have clouded
my head as I step away
from him towards you.

People say we were
attached at the hip;
but the truth was
we were attached
at the lip.

laurie k.

Borrowed Treasure

I never thought the land would own me.
I paid good money, have the deed,
but only borrow the hills, valleys
trees and shrubs.

Little did I understand the belemnites,
sandstone rocks, buffalo wallows, would capture
my vision of yesterday;
my ashes will rest among them.

Another will hold the deed.
Will he come to know the fox den,
rattlesnake rocks, the cave where Grandfather
chopped ice for summertime lemonade?

Will they watch coyotes hunt voles,
fauns chase one another across the fields,
wild turkeys nest, a bobcat on the prowl?
Will they embrace Wyoming wind?

Please leave it as you found it,
rich in history and mystery
waiting to be discovered by another
who dreams of bald eagles at sunset.

Planning the Future

"I cannot love you," the heroine said
running a hand across his cheek
and tucking the cow-lick of hair
back into the golden mass.
"I have seen the synopsis
and you would break my heart."

"I wouldn't," he replied,
catching her hand and pressing the
palm to his perfect lips
"For I will love the until the end of time."

"Which is in a hundred and sixty pages,"
she said, "but you die three chapters
from the end of the book.
I couldn't love a character
who leaves me so bereft
and hasn't a hope
of appearing in the sequel.

Attachment Disorder

It is hard to run a three-legged race
but not so much due to the adherence.
It’s rather because one has to embrace
(even with a bit of perseverance)
the other person’s game interference.
I really don’t mean to sound so sarcastic and flip
but it’s hard to run attached to someone else’s hip

(Poetic form: Rime Royal)

Baby Tooth

She wiggles her tooth.
It’s ready to come out.
It’s attached by just a thread
where a new tooth will sprout.

:This is goodbye:

Take this key as a snapshot. Watch
carefully for the winter that is hard to bear.

The ice that will hold the finishing date
tight in a knot of string, the final keepsake.

Take these days of delight, latch firmly to the cold
of night. The night that bore the bind

of all your wishes, the silver lock
that consumes your dreams.

Watch them fall from you, sail on
the waves and sink back into your nautical heart.

Attachment Disorder II

He sent me an email:
“Look at my pix!
They’re from last night’s party.
I’m sending you six.”

I sent him an email:
“I think you just sent
this message to me
with no attachment.”

Rachele: SO FUNNY! and RJ (Baby Tooth): SO CUTE!

Connecting

When we returned from Saint John,
we noticed that the white cat
had spent some time sleeping
in strictly forbidden territory.
Our bed has been out-of bounds
for many years, a concession
to my irritating persistent allergies.
I swore to never have a cat again,
after discovering how well I’d felt
those months after the last one died.
But I went walking one winter evening,
and a thin, white cat climbed out
of a deep snowy roadside ditch.
It followed me up the long road,
and all the way back home again.
This happened several more times,
as the temperature continued to drop.
I warned the kids to never feed him,
and perhaps he’d give up, and go away.
Finally, I could stand his mews no longer
took him in, fed him the food I’d bought,
much to the amusement of my wife Sandra,
and all six of our active blend of now gone kids.
And here on our private bed, we find a nest
of fluffy cat fur where he chose to sleep,
as close to me as he could get in our absence.
He never sleeps there when we’re home,
though he always picks a couch, or chair,
where we have recently been, or if we sit,
or settle down to watch the local news,
he’ll stretch out on our tummies or our laps,
and rattle, knead, and hum his love and warmth.

Clinging Vines


take no thought of
anything beyond today
soaking up sun
sending roots to find water

sooner or later
we'll learn how to taste
the wine and drink
only the present

Just a last few comments on yesterday

Victoria Rivas--well done
Carla-lovely
Iain--that sloe gin and ginger beer will get you every time!( Poor Bart) So glad to hear you are talking to an illustrator

re: Jeanne's note to Marie Elena--y'all come--Me Jenny, Jeanne, Ann M and Teresa will cook. Ooh...I seem to remember that maybe Walt should cook too.

Today
Patricia F--powerful!

two tiny faces
unspoken, without a doubt
time shall go too fast

Click, click
SSPostit stuck on my shoe
The baby
Smiling in my arms
Knees aging
I don’t want to have to deep
Knee bend
Maybe I could lift my foot
Wobbly leaning
It’s just not working
Click, Click

Detachment

No longer tethered
Leaves cavort with abandon
Cares flung to the winds

Detach to Attach 11-19-09

Husband and I had given up on seeing the condos,
when the much younger couple who’d been ringing the bell
with us called out, “Someone came, we can get in.”
We turned on our heels and retraced steps
gingerly but quick on the glass-bottom bridge.
A bevy of us curious lookers gathered in the
demo unit—part office, part spotless showplace.

The realtor gave us brochures
then led the group through the crazy unit with three
levels and an upstairs kitchen but downstairs laundry.
We traipsed through one with a courtyard view and a guest
bedroom with walls that didn’t go to the ceiling.
Far fewer square feet than what we have now—which
isn’t roomy by American standards—but the sparseness
and simplicity inspired him and me.

Some had Downtown or Hunter Museum views—
but we didn’t see those.
Before we parted, she led us to the roof
where owners partake of the panorama while partaking
of refreshments. They entertain guests,
watch fireworks. He and I imagined doing all that.

Now I recall that day, it strengthens my resolve
to shed debt and too many household goods
and attach ourselves to river-living.

Do you know, my friend, how much I want you
with me looking at Pickleweed Inlet?
Pelicans dive. Herons hunt like statues.
All day the brown water sucks in and out.
There are seaplanes and people in canoes,

jellyfish, sandpipers, skiers, stray cats,
and flora in every color of plant.
Telephone repair people in hip boots
wade out to the towers. From somewhere ants
scouted out and invaded our fruit bowl.

One day at low tide, a pink pair of pants
sat brightly in the blackberry bramble.
I saw a tourist in up to his calves
think better and leave, his skin mud-dappled.
At all these quiet wonders I dream that

you and I would sit and share a chuckle,
tickled at the inlet’s curious ripples.


DA

MY ATTACHMENTS

Are many.
Air, water,
earth that stands still;
food, home,
family, friends.

But my greatest attachment
is Jesus,
Lord, Savior, and friend.

The Lilac Tree

I always loved the lilac tree
because it was
my mother’s favorite.

When the house was sold
the new owners
cut down the tree.

I don’t know why.

It felt like a part of me was
cut down too -
just relegated
to a footnote on a page
from a book
on the shelf of my past life.

Nam myoho renge kyo…

Buddhists and Taoists teach
that to find enlightenment, we must detach.
Seems valid that alleviating
desire would lead to a path more peaceful
than the chaos offered by the tease
of modern life, which tells us we’re nothing
unless we buy that bigger home, try
out that sexy convertible, flash
the latest in digital bling. I can live
without an iPod or a mansion. I am fine driving
a modest car. I can do all of this and more, but how do I tell
my heart to stop yearning? How do I stop
the craving that creeps into my mouth with each breath?
In the quiet of being alone, I wonder if I’ve attained
some kind of new middle way – one that brings
tidiness, but no joy. I would rather grasp
the fire and be burned by my connection with you.

(Still writing about my fictional characters.)


Attachment

Priya, an Indian woman
(I mean Indian
not Native American)
lovely in character
as well as in form,
charming, intelligent,
kind, a great mom, and
a devoted Christian
would be the last person
I’d suspect to plot
Angel’s demise.

But just hours before
Priya planned to hurl Angel
off a high cliff at Colorado
National Monument,
she stretched out on
a couch and I sat across
from her, like patient and
psychiatrist, and she told
me all about Angel,
confessing her dastardly plan.

The day Angel came to live
with Olyvia, featuring
shiny blue eyes, pink cheeks,
sweet smile, curly blond hair,
fresh pink dress with lacy panties,
and a bow on top of her head,
she was so beautiful they
named Olyvia’s first doll, Angel.

Over the last three years
Olyvia treasured Angel
taking her wherever she went;
playing with her, bathing her,
giving her haircuts. Now Angel
with stubs for hair, ashen cheeks
and lips, a blank stare where her
blue eyes wore off, and dressed
in raggedy clothes, looked more like
a demon from hell than an angel.

Priya tried to replace the doll.
Olvyia’s room resembled a toy store.
She picture her daughter enduring taunts
in kindergarten and elementary school,
being the punch line of jokes in junior
and senior high, being an embarrassment
as Olyvia carried Angel across the stage
to graduate, and, horror of horrors,
Olyvia so beautiful in white, marching
down the aisle with Angel protruding
from long, lacy sleeves. Angel had to go.

That night I worried Priya carrying out
her plan might slip to her death herself.
But in the morning Priya was preparing
breakfast and Olvia lie sleeping with
Angel nestled under her arm.
“I had a dream,” Priya said. “Olyvia
was blind and homely and someone
tried to throw her off a cliff. Guess
we’re stuck with Angel forever.”

When Olyvia woke up she left Angel
in bed. When we went out, the doll
stayed behind. Over the next few days
Angel seemed to be under the weather.
“Angel still sick?” I asked. “No, she’s fine.
Angel said now that I’m growing up
she’d prefer to stay home.”
Perhaps Olyvia overheard her mom.
Attachments are funny things.

My attachment to you grows stronger
every day that I'm with you. Words
and acts of love and kindness, your
compassion and understanding
bind me to you tighter and tighter
with my every breath. I fear
the day when this bond, this
tie breaks and shatters my
heart-and world-right
along with it. Yet this
attachment steadily increases
every season, and I am powerless
to stop it.

Thanks for yesterday's mentions: Marie Elena, Walt, Tim, and PSC. Penny, I would love to cook for this particular group -- sign me up.
Posting for today's prompt will come later. Have a great day, all.

So close to you
The memories and years
The hopes and fears
The laughter and the tears
So close to you
But now my world goes slow
And yours is fast
It’s time to let you go

This one is for children. I actually started it a while back, and this prompt reminded me of it. I need to dust it off and polish it up. Illustrations would be key for this piece.

Oh ... I'll write a new, fresh poem later.


My Chimp and Mr. Feeney

I have a chimp named Amsterdam. I’ve had him all my life.
He’s usually quite well behaved, and means to cause no strife.

Now Amsterdam’s my favorite friend. We seldom are apart.
It may seem strange, but we are linked together at the heart.

My neighbor, Mr. Feeney, doesn’t like my chimp at all.
So often he’s avoided us when we have come to call.

My Amsterdam gives Mr. Feeney kisses on his cheek.
You’d think that he would like it, but instead it makes him shriek.

The first time my chimp kissed him, (this I never will forget)
That Mr. Feeney nearly died, for he was so upset.

He told me I would have to leave, and take “that creature” with me.
But Amsterdam will win his heart. This I guarantee.

I put a lot of thought in this, then I began to see
The solution is so simple: more exposure is the key!

My chimp and Mr. Feeney simply need to get acquainted.
Then his unearned reputation will not be so tainted.

So now my chimp and I stop by to see him every day.
We schedule it ahead of time, so nothing’s in our way.

But even though we try so hard, my Amsterdam and me,
That busy Mr. Feeney just has somewhere else to be.

It worries me that he is so uncomfortable with chimps:
He hasn’t met my Hilde yet ... and she is not for wimps!

_______________________

Note: I envision Hilde as a huge, ugly orangutan with large, puckered lips and arms opened to embrace the reader.

I fear my wording is too old for the picture-book crowd. (?)

Each Day Is a Gift

Basking in front of the woodstove
we watch the flames leap and crackle,
glance out at the draft horses in the field,
wind riffling their feathered fetlocks.

The camellias I brought
glow pink in their vase,
we speak gently of many things.

You in your new life, slow now,
after illness collapsed the old.
I in the cycle from three years ago
when my love died.

We agree our connections have loosened,
our kite strings are rubbed threadbare
and how it’s all right, any day, any time,
if we float on air currents, drift away.

Daniel Ari: So inviting.

Penny, et al.: Speaking of inviting, count me in! I’ll bring the Italian Love Cake. Maybe we can talk Theresa into her cookie tray?

RJ: I can relate to your Lilac Tree. Funny how attached we can get, sometimes without realizing it.

Sally: Again I say amen. :)

SOMETHING

You have that certain savoir-faire
that draws me right straight to your heart,
I can’t help thinking something’s there

that makes my heart leap, really care,
whenever we are both are apart.
You have that certain savoir-faire,

there’s no mistaking we’re a pair,
a put together work of art,
I can’t help thinking something’s there.

I’ve nothing like it to compare
that gives my soul control; my heart a start.
You have that certain savoir-faire

that makes the people stop and stare,
but I’m the one that’s captured Cupid’s dart;
I can’t help thinking something’s there

a connection that we both share,
a close together heart-to-heart,
you have that certain savoir-faire,
I can’t help thinking something’s there.

What a gift it is
To enjoy such connection,
Though we’ve yet to meet.

"Attachment"

A still space
when you're near
warms and rocks
and soothes
and calms.
I have seen you
when you're frightened
when you're tired
when you're laughing.
Yesterday I walked
away, found myself
in darker alleys shadowed
walls free
and I couldn't hear you.
My heart beat a mutiny.
It quickened my breath
until I tripped my way
back to you.

Robert, I LOVED your poem. It is a dreamy thing that evokes lots of feeling and sensation, with great imagery. It's one of the best you have written in my very humble opinion.

I hope it's not too autobiographical for Tammy's sake :)

Back later with my even humbler addition to today's prompt, which is also very cool.

Message Sent


My finger pauses
over the send button
hesitating its light speed
leap that seems too easy
for words that will not carry
across continents of absence
after long weeks of separation

too formal like the rushed
phone calls made with cards
evaporating faster than “I love you”
how could I be sending mere sentences
like writing to a distant family member
knowing all the while you are waiting
for endless pages expressing much more

I delete those attachments
momentary pictures taken with
random people in foreign hemispheres
exchanging them for fresh tonight taken
showing me alone and far away removed
with more than the bright blinding of flash
camera exposed emotion reflecting in eyes

ALL I'VE GOT TO DO

Connections.
Over miles of smiles.
Never wanting for more.
Not expecting anything less.
Even though our paths don't cross.
Certainty is assured
Through heart and mind,
I know what you offer is given
Only out of a true sense of communion, a
Never ending respect.
Same goes for me, if you've ever wondered.

19 ATTACHMENT

I
hate goodbye
Even to delivery men
Kids who bag my groceries
or bus drivers

Porous soul of mine
forever tangled up
with all the other souls on the planet
Feel their pain, their fear, their sickness
Can’t leave broken glass in the street,
Been chided for asking
“Are you all right?”
to folks just stopping to rest
or answer a cell phone
Narcissism is a pain-in-the-neck
And in other places too.

“Heart Strings”

Red, pink, orange, blue, green
Presence of balloons, multi-color

Elevate in the air, strings limp, waving,
Attached, fragments of my heart

Clinging, suction cups against a wintry window
Comforts me in my fast-forward flight,

A gentle tug, vivid sight
Still a knot, too tight to fray

Revisited, as they waft, propelled together, solo,
Disappear into space, healing wounds, a new start.

Ninnacarole
11/19/09

ATTACHMENTS

[for Elihu Burritt]

It’s just you and your younger sister, widowed
now, and her two unmarried daughters.
You have no wife or children, not even a dog.
How is it, when you finally put down your pen
and turn the lamp out, your room is full
of spirits? Old Friends in Britain, your comrades
in the great campaigns for peace. That young man
from England, who sought you out in Pittsburgh –
you were lecturing on the Brotherhood of Man;
he still had the letter you sent him years before,
advice on coming to America. And here’s
the Black Country nailer-boy who owes you
his education. So many other spirits, people
alive and dead you know only through their
alphabets and grammars. People not yet born,
whose thoughts you’ll touch with your vision.
So many dreams that haven’t come to pass.
You drift to sleep, believing in time they might.

"Umbilical"

So this is the cord
spanning the ocean between birth
and the first breath
glistening like a secret bone
on my stomach
as they caught you
a smooth motion practiced
over
and over
this twisting free fall
into life
this cord
as much a piece of me as
you are as
much a piece of you
as I am
and they hold out the shears
and mouth a question
I will never understand.

Erosion

Creek water tumbles by,
dizzying
when I follow one wave
with my gaze.
I lose it around the bend,
begin again.

Hard to believe my fear
when we moved here,
trading one family
for another,
to this luscious place
I never want to leave.
Was it really the move
I dreaded,
or letting go?

Water rushes on,
undeterred by time
or reason or wandering
daydreamers.
Bubbles form and pop
over rocks.
Waves lap at my feet,
carve away stubborn bank.
Beached leaves loosen,
shiver,
and give way.

THROWN OVERBOARD

Boxes of books I would never read again,
dishes my mother purchased place setting
by place setting at the gas station near
Mille Lacs, clothes that took me to clubs
when I thought I could dance
were stacked in front of the window.
This tower of jetsam was destined
to wash up at the local Goodwill
where someone could add it to their own
wreckage. My load would lighten as I lost
the things I carried from childhood,
things that were part of the tattered cord
from the old house on Polk Street to my
heart. I strained to break the attachment.

I took my receipt from the drive-
through donation center, thanked
the Goodwill worker who unloaded
my discards. I returned to the home
I had just cleared, to its pristine
walls and floors and cupboards
ready for me to fill with items
that had no history. Just things
that would do the tasks I needed
done. But I could not shake the image
of Mother when she announced her
gas station dishes were now a complete
set and weren’t they beautiful?

Mother and Child Communion

Just
nursed
tummy
happy, filled
sitting on the bed
warm on my lap, then our eyes locked
you smiled up at me
the real thing
our bond
was
sealed

Attached Beyond Their Lifetimes

I walked around the house,
still in a daze from all that happened.
It was hard to imagine they could
both be gone in two, short weeks.
Everywhere I looked, everything I touched,
reminded me of who they were
and what they meant to each other.

Closets were full of mom’s clothes that
hadn’t been worn since that horrid disease
began ravaging her mind,
They’d been replaced first by house dresses,
then by pajamas, then hospital gowns.
Photos of her family, her dogs and her friends
were left in drawers for others to find.
She could no longer remember who they were.

My dad’s model trains in the basement
longed to be run around the track again.
His wordworking tools were scattered everywhere
waiting for his patient hands to build again.
Unfinished letters begged to be written.
Empty canvases begged to be painted.
All were things he never planned to abandon.

He’d been taking care of her for sixty-six years.
He was her primary caregiver
from the beginning of her journey into darkness.
He knew she’d be leaving him soon.
It weighed heavy on his heart, too heavy.
There was nothing more he could do for her here.
He needed to get things ready for
when she arrived at her new home.

I guess that’s what happens when two
lives are bound together over so many years.
Cherishing the good times, overcoming disappointments,
sharing joys and sorrows, living life.
That sort of love for another human being
cannot be broken by the mere act of dying.

Day 19

The doctor cut the cord
The day you were born
That held you and me together
They allowed you to be nourished
From every cell and vital organ,
in my distended and bloated body.
Yet you remain permanently
attached to my heart

ATTACHED BY THE MOON

After weeks of barely speaking,
I tell you I am looking for a picture
of the moon illuminating the clouds.

I ask if you have one like that.
You say you would like to have
a picture like that, but you don’t.

I thank you, saying I wish I could take
such a picture, but lately, we have had
more cloud-cover than moonlight.

Jane Beal
sanctuarypoet.net

~Endless Love~

I looked into your eyes, blue as the deepest lake beneath a vibrant summer sky, so warm, caring...

Your face was so familiar to me, cherished, adored-- your smile lighting up my soul like a thousand sunbeams, your lips making me want to taste your sweet kisses over and over as they press softly to mine...

Your hair, how I love to run it through my fingers, sweeping it back to cup your face in my hands, the stubble of your whiskers electrifying my fingertips as I smile and caress your skin slowly.

Then there was the feel of you taking me in your arms-- strong, yet gentle and loving as you gather me to you, our bodies melting together, our hearts beating as one as we gaze deeply into each other's eyes, filled with a love so true it could never be denied.

I was yours and you were mine-- kindred spirits, friends, lovers and soul mates. Together our love would always go on... forever and a day, for the rest of our lives... for eternity.

---

AWAKENED

Caterpillar is gasping
with the first morning
frost, unable to move.
I place it on a cement
pillar in the sun and
examine the still, soft
body. Breathing upon the
creature, it begins to
move slowly, then it
awakens and sets off on
all of its little legs.
On a mission. I realize
I have prolonged its
inevitable death but
feel glad knowing he
has one more day, if
only one mere hour,
minute. I think that
is how I was found,
a hidden, still heart.
But not hidden from
the One that will
breathe life unto my
body. Despite my
attachment to this
mortal body, I will
be quickened by the
Spirit to awaken and
live yet another year,
a mere hour, minute.
Living in a conscience
state without a diluted
connection to things
that shall pass. Love
will remain, purpose to
live will exist in all. I’ll
proceed with happiness
in my heart, knowing I,
we as a collective body
have a Divine purpose.

EXTRAORDINARY poetry today...I can't even begin to name names just know that as a collective group you ALL have moved and touched my heart on so many levels. Thank you everyone for your beautiful writing. :)

To Not Attach

I don't want to attach anymore.
Everything is impermanent,
will eventually leave. Sometimes
I wish now I had fewer things and
would like to give them away
to someone of the next generation
who would treasure them, caretake
them. Incomplete stamp collection,
coins, electric train, dolls, German
things, postcards. I remember when
my aunt gaveaway her treasures,
one cup at a time. I own some cups,
but where are they now? Treasures
once, now somewhere to be
rediscovered sometime when I
am giving things away to someone
who might care, but what to
do with the treasures. Sad to
contemplate this, but realistic. It is
an honor to be a caretaker, burden
too. Better, I think, to be unencumbered,
to collect nothing but photographs,
memories, and photographs. Beauty,
love, friendship, health possessions,
nothing lasts. Life itself is temporary.
Even I will eventually leave.

Marie, I'm a huge fan of monkeys, your piece was a giant hit with me! Smiles!

Grip

She holds on
way too long, and so
her hands burn
rope held fast
even as he slowly grows
smaller in the sky.


Release

She lets go
just in time, although
the scars yearn
dark and deep
she knows she must embrace them
so that she can fly.

UP THE HILL AND OVER

Eighty-seven years old, all his friends
are dead. Just lost his arthritic old hound.
Lately he’s been doing ancestry, tracing
family lines, connecting himself
to somebody who came over from Cork
generations ago. He likes to walk up the hill
to the pioneer cemetery, read the names
and dates. He says those folks finally
figured out their lives. But he isn’t there
now. Maybe this time he went farther.
Says no one has anything interesting
to say anymore except the dead.

Tethered to a Dream

I suppose
it can be accomplished
by others
with their eyes open,
but my eyes have to close.

Her image
sleeps behind my lids
as close to me
as her lipsticked kiss
pressed onto the back
of a random
business card
that lays
upon her pillow.

It is necessary
to hold her pillow
close to my face
breathing deeply,
inhaling the last
glimpse
of her smile.

Letting our memories
smother me,
my eyes have to close.

she grew too attached
in his heart, winter drifted
two shall live alone


W

Hi all: A cookie tray's a big commitment, but you guys are definitely worth the time and effort. Happy to do it.

Finally - a chance to read taken.
I think today's are the best yet! Great work, everyone!!
Heartfelt thank yous from me for all the pleasure you've provided.

W

Sheila, enjoyed your poem-- I can relate!

Long gone ghazal

I’m like a wax apple in a bowl of fruit - wrong
although I look as if I should belong: gone.

I’m lost like the King of Elfland’s daughter
pining for home in an old folk song: gone.

I’m like a conjuror run out of tricks
too soon: the ways I try to get along gone.

Often I sing aloud those homesick blues
but sometimes even that old torch song’s gone.

My heart remembers you although you’re long gone.
Your memory stays green although you’re long gone.

Jenny Doughty

Some great responses today - Walt, I really admire your energy, and I think the Beatles theme works really well and will make a terrific chapbook ms. Khara House, Kathleen Mickelson and Jane Beal - another fabulous trio of poems.

This captcha thing is damned irritating - often takes me three or four tries to actually post something.

Can't seem to find something in this prompt to attach myself to.

R.J. that's why I haven't gone back by my Mama'a house. The lilac tree is still there as long as I haven't seen it gone.

Marie--I say, read aloud picture books SHOULD be over their head to grow their vocabulary, and expand their imaginations. Go for it.

Susan S.--beautifully said

Taylor-- if you don't know by now what a fan I am you haven't been paying attention. The Elihu Buritt series is wonderful. By the way Amazon has his "walk" book for 2.99 if you have a Kindle--which I don't, but the non Kindle ones are quite pricey. I'll have to start saving my pennies. I enjoyed your poem in Bellowing Ark.

Choices: Day 19: Attachment

Enough

No! Not one more tear,
not one more gasping sob,
not one more rip and shred
of heart already strained
beyond bearing.

So be it, father: you left.
So be it, husband: you left, too.

I didn’t. I stayed.
I will forever stay.

And someday, some day,
I will find the pieces of my self
and knit me back together.

Favorite Attachment

There are subjects on attachments, easy for to write
But leave it up to this old fool, my ones way out of sight.
I’m a man of moral so respect most all folk’s right
When it comes to making love, I prefer the night.

Used to be when making love, my mate and I
Would hurry often getting it on, time just seemed to fly
Now I’m getting older or could be getting wise
Give me slow time loving, it’s better for us old guys

Ladies, I can only guess, hoping to gain insight
They want a man with a slow hand. Or was ol’ Conway right.

Taylor Graham: Superb. Both.
Amanda Fall: I especially am drawn to your last verse. Lovely.
Kathleen Cassen Mickelson: A dichotomy of feelings. Nicely done.
Theresa: Mother and Child Communion … So tender.
Susan Schoeffield: Your last line says it all, and gives hope. Beautiful and poignant.
Lexi Flint: Absolutely!
LM T.Richardson: How romantic!
“Living in a conscience state without a diluted connection to things that shall pass. Love will remain, purpose to live will exist in all.” Penned, of course, by sweet Hannah. Absolutely beautiful.
Mary Kling: Your last line packs a punch, but is somehow beautiful all the same.
De: Always, always impressed.
Patricia: Again, always impressed.
Willy: Wow. Now THAT’s Haiku.
Walt: Beautiful, impressive … always.

Penny: Thanks much for the feedback.
Hannah: Glad you enjoyed it!

To all: So incredibly much talent out here. I enjoy every single offering. I do feel a connection to you all. Wouldn't it be fun to see where we all come from? How many dots could we connect across the globe? Robert, you are to be commended for starting this site, and allowing so many of us from different areas, different backgrounds, with varying personalities and beliefs ... you've connected us all. Thank you!!

BTW: I'm from Northwest Ohio. Go Buckeyes!

Viable. Fetus. Embryo.
So much she doesn’t know,
but, sadly, her vocabulary grows.

Suicide, abortion, adoptions --
a lot of scary options,
yet, through it all,
the one thing that she knows:

No matter what she chooses,
everybody loses.

DNA and heartstrings
are connections
that can never be un-done.

There’s no severing the ties
between a mother
and her daughter or her son.

It’s as if
she’s beyond
a screen door,
audible but untouchable,
close but obscured by
fine hatched veil

Looking in
from a brighter day
I can hardly
make out her shape

Sustenance comes
from the unspoken now

The small spotted cat
that sleeps by her neck
Restores her to young
and patient motherhood
not yet tainted
by the warp and wake
of time

Still needed,
still touched
with tenderness,
two heads
bent together in
breathy conversation

I remember the
bob and the sweep of
the wings of the float
planes, the turn and
twist each pilot did
as they ducked around
struts, making their frail
craft fast to crumbling
docks.

I was so much younger
then, I thought a knot
once tied, would hold

forever.

What We Fear

A week at camp with some flippant girls and along comes a counselor. One a bit
of herself, afraid of being exposed and most of all,
one with reasons for younger girls to mock.
Time for some real revelation as the girls wind up, away from the
parents, and become mischievous. A question comes to this group
“What do we fear?” We all respond one by one. After much laughter and
banter, our leader said quietly, “I am afraid of being alone when I am older.”
Young girls stop, agape, stuck in the mire of life and realize that
not everyone can take their frivolity. Not every has to. This was a person
with feelings. Time for a change in your life.

Day 19:
Written about attachment to youth:

The Winters of My Youth

The winters of my youth
have quietly escaped
from within...
like dancing snowflakes in
the wind.

The winters of my youth
have wrinkled and worn
my hands...
like jagged pebbles in
the sands.

The winters of my youth
have long since
gone...
like twinkling stars in
the dawn.

Spring Twilight

All manner of fine
scents overwhelm my nose
promising changes.

Summer Night

Starry starry swirls:
sapphire ruby pearl quartz
dust the Heart’s dark sky

Fall Morning

Brittle leaves crunch
Autumn’s floor is ready for
echoing footsteps.

Winter Afternoon

Filled with emptiness
I lack for nothing. The Dream
is not over Joy.

Spring Twilight

All manner of fine
scents overwhelm my nose
promising changes.

Summer Night

Starry starry swirls:
sapphire ruby pearl quartz
dust the Heart’s dark sky

Fall Morning

Brittle leaves crunch
Autumn’s floor is ready for
echoing footsteps.

Winter Afternoon

Filled with emptiness
I lack for nothing. The Dream
is not over Joy.

Marie Elena - you are so right - there is a connection (or - ahem - an attachment!) to the poets here. Robert gives it necessary direction and you (especially) give it needed and welcome encouragement.

I thoroughly enjoy reading all the work posted here, because each day, I learn something new.

Cheers - and keep writing!
RJ

And btw, I'm in NJ (via Philly and NYC)

Just a quick salute to all my poetic friends, until I can get my main poem for the day written.

Attached to my computer
With hopes to see it soon
Another thrilling prompt
Upon this chapbook quest

I'll think about it all day
But seldom have the time
To write my poems soon enough
To catch the light of day

Old friends newly met I'll see
In beauty written on the page
And join them for lifetimes
In but a few short days

Marie Elena mother dear
Of our sweet poetry
Walt poetic master
True beatle at the heart

Susan Schoeffield takes us
On a majestic tour
While Salvatore creates for us
Actors who play upon our minds

Pamela Gordon queen of Romance
Daniel Pai poetic prince of peace
And oh so many more
But last of all to Robert
We all do give our thanks

The Journey: Day Nineteen: attachment poem


At three months of age,
his parents left him
in his car seat
in the car
on a street
while they partied inside.

At five months,
his parents left him
in his car seat
in a room
in an empty house
while they ran errands.

At six months,
his parents left him
with us,
in a soiled diaper
in dirty pajamas
with empty bottles
while they went to jail.

At four years old
his parents left him
with us,
a new last name
adopted
and confirmed,
while they fled sobriety.

At six years,
when left alone
in a room
in a house
full of people,
he became anxious, afraid.

At thirteen,
he never leaves
without a hug,
without a kiss,
without saying I love you,
while we watch his fledgling flight.

Used to be, When Will I be Me?

How can I have an attachment to what was created out of
Anger?
How can I attach myself to something so
Evil?
How can I excuse the everyday
Atrocities?
How can I give you kisses with this
Tainted mouth?
How do I explain yesterday when I’m already into the thick of
Tomorrow?
I’m so far down the
Road and truthfully,
If you need to leave,
I wouldn’t blame you
I don’t know
When I’m finally going to be
Me

Thank you again, Robert, this challenge was just what I needed to jump start my writing after a summer too busy for words. I have enjoyed reading the different styles of poetry we each bring to this page.

To connect a dot: I live in northeast Wyoming.

Here's to connections and attachments!

Marie Elena - Thank you. It was one of those parental moments seared into my memory. That little one is now a married woman. Where did those years go? So we rely on sweet memories like the one I tried to capture today. I'm grateful for your encouragement.

I haven't had time for many individual comments, but I want you all to know how much I am enjoying every single day's work this month. The talent here is amazing. Thank you to Robert for making it possible.

attachment


Score along line A.
Tab B goes in slot C.
Secure all corners
with heavy tape.
Measure carefully,
cut away excess.
Apply decals as indicated.
If they fail to adhere,
you probably got
skin oil all over it.
Not much to be done
at that point. Maybe
I should have mentioned
it.... earlier.



Joy of giving


The tag says eleven ninety-five.
Ten minutes and a broken nail later
it reads eleven nine. Is it really
vital the giftee not know
what the gifter gave for this thing?



Marie Elena--I'm just south of Annapolis, Md

she turns around and asks,
"do you know what your
daughter did today?"
so I try on my best
sheepish grin, since
I know, one of my
less than desirable
traits must have
shown itself, again.
but, secretly I smile
and hope this
connection grows.
a little irritation
is a small price
to pay.

PSC in CT: Powerful piece.

"I thought a knot, once tied, would hold forever." Great line, Mary R.

Mother, eh? Too funny! Thanks, Tim!

Theresa, I'm with you. I don't know when I ceased being 31, and my daughter picked it up from there.

Jeanne: Wow. Another powerful piece.

I can attest to John Drury's book that Robert mentions in this post. Drury was my poetry professor in college, so I suppose I'm biased, but his Poetry Dictionary is a spectacular reference for forms.

Love

I tell you turn it tight
Tight yet still I hear drip
Drip and though the water
Is cold it boils in my brain
How each drop smacks
The metal stopper – drip drip -
And sometimes I think
I hear them in my dreams
Because those drips pervade
Invade me.
And you?
Sometimes I think you
Are attached to those drips
Like an old friend you love
To hate but can’t help but
Want more of and I realize
That you need those drips
Find comfort in those drips
As much as I hate those drips
So I have to love those drips
Because you love those drips
Because I love you.

Letting Go

I’ve let go my dreams;
Dissolved into dew.
Things I had wished for
That didn’t come true.

I’ve let go my hopes;
Crushed into dust.
The world is still ruled
By greed and distrust.

I‘ve let go my faith;
Starved to extinction.
There are too many gods
With too little distinction.

But I cling to my life;
Lived at its best.
Content to be me
‘Til I go to my rest

Marie Elena,nice haiku. Thanks for your cheerleading.
I'm from the Kansas City area.

Attachment

I attach importance
to my attachment
for you.
Brown eyes rimmed
in black kohl,
fur the color
of fine champagne,
feathery tail twitches
in the air with joy
for me.

Detachable Heart


She wishes
she could just leave
the damn thing at home. Noisy sucker, always
getting in the way. Tick-tocking blood rush
pumping in her ears, beat-skipping
with inappropriate attraction and penchant for
falling
(and breaking)
for terrible men.
Scarred. Scared. Weathered. Worn.
Used and abused and exhausted. Unfit
for sleeve, or chest cavity, or even pocket.

She wonders
remembers the bright illustrations in her grade school science book, and ponders
which she will have to sever,
the
atrium or
ventricle?

Surely either one will do?

Attachment Folly

I’m attached
to the idea
that I must write
to the prompt

and it is making me
miserable

so the Buddha
is right

again.

boyfriend by proxy

congratulations on the book.

Independent Poets won't be coming out for awhile.
Sandy and Andrew bought a house
so they're not getting the layout done.
The magazine is in limbo.

The last time I saw the box of author permissions
I helped you with was next to your printer.

I did not give your phone number out to anyone
named Josh.
I don't know what you are talking about.

I do not have your naked pictures.
I gave them back to you
a long time ago
after I scanned them
on my stick drive.

Life's Spider Web

With hopes and dreams before me
I walk this rugged trail called life
And painful though the way my seem
I’ll walk this trail of strife

At times the way seems oh so dry
This sand parched mouth for so much longs
And hunger drives the mind to crave
That which only pain prolongs

For here the spiders spin there webs
In hopes my mind to trap
And beauty spun in tapestry
My soul might well entrap

It’s not the things that I consume
That binds me to this place
Nor pleasures freely granted
That threaten to encase

Every little object I embrace
Desired essence longing to possess
And others sought for happiness
Mind races to obsess

I’ve felt the bite of binding cords
Pulled tight upon my wrists
So many things I wanted
Did my weak arms entwist

And even love most noble
My ankles did entwine
When in it I sought happiness
Upon your lips of wine

But wisdoms light did free me
From that great spiders bite
Since then I’ve come to understand
I fear not this mortal plight

So many things there are to see
When eyes have opened wide
Nothing on this trail will last
In borrowed plenty I’ll abide

Sorry for the delay... the storms here knocked out the Internet! But somewhere, it's technically still the 19th, so here it is, before bed.

TOMORROW, THE MAINLAND
(Calypso)

She said,
each night we discover new stars in the sky, diamonds
strung for us from pole to pole. Southern Cross
reflected in a sapphire sea, glittering on the breakers.
Tangle kelp in our hair,
dolphins our dutiful monks, calling us to aquatic prayer.
How could you trade this beauty and this warmth
for your old life? What do you miss: the politics
of masculinity, the entrapment
of matrimony, the constant sufferings that all men must
endure? Look at the horizon spread out before us,
ocean view for our backyard. Come into the bungalow
where I will pour you palm wine and sweeten your lips
with Turkish delight. We can make love in
hammocks webbing the trees, for no cloud dares rain
and no earth dares quake,
disturbing my love for you. Bind yourself to me, you
hold me together, without you I'll unwrap, lonesome
gift for the next lover to seize.
Rip up your return tickets and toss your wedding band
to sharks in the lagoon. Why cling to your struggles,
when you could step away from that rock-strewn path,
swim with me in my waters? Why is it that,
no matter how hard I pull,
I cannot snap those strings that lead out of this fair
dream back to the place you came from, where you
so often wept and changed?

I said,
but after all, that is how we know we're still human.

Attachment


Limpet mine.
You stick to me like the add-ons
In an e-mail.
Like the stud earrings I wore
When I’d just had piercings.
Like fingers super-glued together
Like nail-polish freshly applied
Like a tattoo on skin.
Limpet mine.
One wrong move...
And you explode.

Presently Attached to the Past;
The Art of Letting Go

For a lifetime,
She has come
To the wooded lake house.
First as a three year old,
Oldest daughter of,
A young mother who,
Had always pushed,
For a cabin in the woods,
With a beach for her growing family.

First husband said no,
It would tie them down too much.
He would rather explore the world!
He didn't want to always stay here by the lake.
After 30 years, the second husband,
Said yes, let's find the perfect place.

Fifty years now, they have all come,
Starting with the first four siblings,
Summer after summer, with water wings,
Inner tubes, rafts, kayaks, waterskis, bikinis and
Every unique personality's humor, insights,
Reasons for being here.
Arriving with their own excitement,
Thinking this could be the year,
Of true contentment!

The eldest sibling took it upon himself,
To be the family photographer and,
Lined on the walls,
Of this three generational lake house,
Are the last nine years,
Captured images of all,
Twenty two family members,
Standing, sitting, smilling, laughing,
Showing off, frowning, about to cry, scared,
And intensely, creatively, openly themselves.

Each year portrays the weddings, graduations,
Trips, meals, wine tasting, birthdays and celebrations,
Of growth, expansion, doubt, groupings, styles,
And importance of this clan, this family, this group,
That has accepted each member,
In varying degrees, whether they stuck,
To the family values, roles, standards or expectations,
Or not.

Yet, she remembers.
Summers when her mother was furious,
Drank too much, cursed any and all imperfections,
And spread fear through all the levels and layers,
Of this same collection of family members,
Despite the smiling faces,
On the annual family story board,
Convincing all who see it,
That indeed . . . here is the presentation,
Of a very warm and loving
Arrangment of related people . . .
All nicely dressed in a row.

Sitting in the present time,
After over 50 years here,
She realizes she can finally let go.
The deep blue lake has the strength,
To take all the past worries,
Attachments, memories that might not,
Still be pleasant or warm or lovingly genuine.
And cleanse them,
Recycle them,
Release them,
To be renewed, renamed, reconnected,
In a new way, with more meaning,
More purpose.

She allows all the past to well up,
Inside her,
Along with any sorrow, sadness,
Discontent or anger.

"Here lake, take this and this,
And this and that," she says as she hurls,
All energetic remains of what has been and is no longer.
Happy to see it go along with her attachments,
To those old locked and blocked aspects of herself.

Now quietly, as she passes on the stairs,
The pictures of each year,
Each face expressing itself,
Wildly, mildly, softly, with insecurity,
Proudly, embarrassingly, she only thinks,
And feels one thing.

Love.
Simple and clear.
Knowing deeply that love is letting go.
Love is knowing all was as it needed to be.
Love is the beginning, the middle and the end.
Love is what has bonded this family,
Over time.
Love is what is and will remain,
These three generations,
And all who come . . . after!

As gratitude enters her heart,
She glances out again at the still,
And lovely lake,
Of her childhood,
Realizing what a beautiful teacher,
Nature really is.

She knows she can always,
Reflect that same calm water,
Go softly like the trees,
In the afternoon breeze.
And be loving and free.
By letting go of any and all,
Attachments to the past,
To be here now,
To be present in love . . .
To have compassion and care,
Each time,
On each stair.

Be in the present,
And oh, what a gift

In A Lamp-Lit Corner

November's early darkness
chars my window black;
that and the rain draw me in.
There in a lamp-lit corner sits
my chair, my tea, and a book
to look at the day from different pages.
I settle between cushions, knowing
it won't be long before he slinks into
the room, jumps and lays himself
from arm to arm, attached across
my lap, warm and purring,
a living part of my vibrational Chi.
Book attached to hand,
hand attached to cat,
cat attached to Chi,
Chi attached to tea...
and all are one, purring.

Attachment

For years I've been looking for somewhere to go.
New York. New Mexico. Old El Paso. I have even
planned things out once or twice. Called the
numbers and received the brochures. Checked on
apartments and duplexes. Looked up crime rates.
And then, in my dreams, there I am searching for
a pine tree to sit under, a warm cup of coffee, the
bellow of the sea.

Attachment

At first I sifted the mass of papers in box after box--
unopened bills with "Final Notice" stamped in red ink,
credit card receipts for bottle after bottle of
cancer-fighting vitamins,
a letter from the insurance company announcing the end of
his insurance for having a pre-existing condition,
faded photographs of my sister and I,
first grade, third grade, fifth.

At the bottom, was a journal.
His commitments to exercise.
The morning he stood on the Oregon coast facing the Pacific,
the rest of us at his back.
Page after page of his crooked loopy script.
That teacher never should have made him right-handed.

Yes, I have a shredder, but my dilemma remains-
how does one summarize a life?
So the boxes are in my storage closet,
contents intact.

I gave my son the journal.
It is on his desk.
Out of curiosity, I peeked inside.
Daddy's pages are untouched.
I closed it and put it back,
knowing I have taught him well.

The Attaché’s Attachment
© Richard-Merlin Atwater Nov 19, 2009

It’s true, Moral Obligation attaches to high rank,
The higher the rank, the greater the responsibility.
And thus it is for a member of the diplomatic staff,
The military attaché has an attachment to trustworthy.

Accountable, duty-bound, in a decision-making frame,
A focal point of intelligence gathering for the common good,
The Charge de Fairs, Ambassador, and administrative staff,
All must stand on moral ground, just as the Attaché stood.

Representative of the ethics of a country, under basic law,
The Attaché’s attachment goes far beyond what’s in his attaché case,
His true attachment to executive rendition of a state’s own cause,
Is amenable, even answerable, by all accounts, to the human race.

A country is presided over by a President who is bound by law,
His attachment is to the Constitution which gives him his authority,
The Secretary of State is appointed to position as chief diplomat,
Representative of the people of a nation with attachment to truth,

And righteousness of cause under Judaeo-Christian principles,
The standard of American democracy under government Republic,
With moral duty, bound to that which is right, to honor justice,
Thus the attaché’s attachment is both realistic and symbolic.

FROM ME TO YOU

I thought about you last night.
I think about you every night.
It is something I do, because I can.

But last night you were in my dreams.
One of those, "so really you can touch"
dreams that awaken you in cold sweats and

make you clench your eyes, hoping to see
one more glimpse, or share one more moment
before what little sleep you get evades them.

You were there, by my side with smile wide,
and eyes that stayed trained only on me.
When we walked, I became your vision, steering you

around obstacle and hazard in our way.
My arm around your shoulder, feeling the tremor
in your every breath that landed upon my nape

keeping my pilot light well lit, and reminding
of the vibrancy you have given my purpose.
And we walked, because that's what we did.

Sunshine or rain, our footsteps never faltered.
Snow and sand, our trek was not deterred.
In sickness and in health, as you always said

not promises we had exchanged before God,
but a life commitment we shared in what
our love espoused. You were my sun and moon,

you walk our heaven amongst the stars
we counted in futility, but as endless
as this love remains. A lifeline

that joins our hearts still; a tether
that keeps your being alive within me,
an attachment that illness could not dampen,

and the darkness of death cannot shadow.
So we meet often in my dreams knowing that
your influences and direction serve me still.

In our last moments in life, your beauty,
hidden within the emaciated form you had taken,
your brilliant auburn fire had become

sparsely patched and faded, your eyes were
dim flickers of the enlightening flame
that warmed my heart and soul, but still glowed

for the sight of me. Your voice lay silent,
words of love only played on the periphery
of your vacant stare. Your lips, dried and cracked,

pursed and puckered from your disease still
desired to feel the touch of my own bringing you
the sensation you always awaited. It brought it out.

Your smile. Faint, but apparent, you knew.
Beauty. Lived in you even when death struggled
to wrestle it from my firm grip. I held on.

And I continue to hold onto the meaning
of what we shared. The love. The attachment.
The part of you that never died. The last lasting gift.

From me to you.

...and what a gift your piece is Janet, thank you so much for sharing. :)

Thank you abundantly Marie, I'm happy you liked it. :)

...and I'm in wicked gowd with a typical ol'...ayuh...you guessed it I'm a Mainer!

...and Walt, a beautiful offering of love's meaning...a gift. Thank you.

UNATTACHED

But at my back I always hear
Time’s winged chariot hurrying near.
Andrew Marvel: To His Coy Mistress

When first we met,
you said age did not matter,
but you wanted to unwind me
like a clock running backward.
People stared when we ate at the restaurant.
You were twenty-five, olive-skinned and exotic.
I was a wrinkled grey-beard.
I saw the waiter eying you.
He was so young and handsome,
I must admit I wanted to go back,
before my beard was streaked with grey.
My yesterday, obscured by green maples
had started to turn red and gold.
When we walked the cobble-stone streets in sunlight,
and kissed in the shadows of the moon,
I almost forgot. In the morning you looked at your watch
and declared, “It’s early. We have all the time we want.”
A voice in my head whispered, “It’s late.”
I half expected to see a white rabbit
rushing toward his hole.

For Day 18
SLEEPS

The are many sleeps -
The sleep of an idea in a language
I do not understand.
The sleep of trees waiting for spring
The sleep of lightning waiting for clouds to gather.
The sleep of ashes after the fire has gone out.
The sleep of the moon on moonless nights.
the sleep of words in the mouth of one just dead,

And there is the sleep that slides over me in the dark
to comfort me, and from which
I shall never wake.

‘Tached
By: Meena Rose

Owen was running late;
For a very special date.

He was meeting his estranged wife;
Who gave him cause for much strife.

She wanted him to sign the divorce papers;
She did not want to put up with any of his capers.

He saw she was already there;
The Frost Princess in all her gear.

“Never marry a lawyer” he told himself;
“I hope I won’t be swindled” he worried to himself.

Crossing the street;
With flight of feet;
Hurrying to meet
The Frost Princess.

Out of nowhere came a car,
Which hit him and threw him very far.

He had a happy thought;
The Frost Princess has just lost.

He saw a white light shimmer ahead;
Heavenly music coming through;
Along with an usher, no less!

He turned around at a gut wrenching screech;
Frost Princess on the street;
Bent down over his body;
Pounding his chest;
Tears cascading without control;
Crowd forming a spectator ring.

“Damn you, Owen;
How could you do this to me?

Damn it!

What happened to our vows?

How did we grow hostile and cold?

How did we become detached?

Owen, what am I going to tell the kids,
Your faithful champions?

Owen…”

Owen looked back and forth
Between the tragedy
And the doorway to Heaven above.

Owen juggled his love of self
With his love of others;
With his love of her.

Turning his back on the white light,
He attached himself to his body.

His limp form
Came sputtering
Back to Life.

With a whisper meant only for her,
He said “I love you.”

While the cat’s away…or when the badger’s
not looking the weasel gets cooking!


Bartholomew Foggerty, the brilliant weasel
Was using watercolours as he had no diesel
But never the less it turned out well
As many a Lake District artist will tell
The style suits the landscape to a tee
And all in all Bart was happy
Not least because he’d met a new friend
Who’d been rather ill and was now on the mend
She’d gone to the north on doctor’s advice
And had to admit that the place was quite nice
The fresh air and walks did her no end of good
Although she drank rather more wine than she should
Which is how the couple came to meet
In the bar one night on a red velvet seat
They were both partaking of a good wine
And she remarked how the day had been quite fine
Even though quite tipsy Bart liked her face
And their relationship blossomed at a fair pace
But then one day as she stroked his fleece
Bart remembered the badger’s niece
And how her parents had made the match
And the lass and the weasel had become attached
And although the engagement was due to be long
Bart wondered if he shouldn’t be strong
And resist the charms of the sweet widow
Or say hang it all and give it a go
He missed the caresses of his belle
But in the end he thought what the hell
He’d heard the old adage about cats and mice
Although he had to repeat it twice
Before he could come up with a version
That suited his apparent conversion
To cad and bounder without moral fibre
Who if not careful could be up the Khyber
But he thought well when the badger’s not looking
That’s the time weasels get cooking
And so he started to turn up the heat
And woo the widow, gentle and sweet
For what young girls don’t know surely can’t hurt
And he’d always been partial to a nice bit o’ skirt
And besides this was his holiday
And he deserved to get away
From the humdrum and commitments
And so played up to the lady’s sentiments
It wasn’t until after a week
That the lady said she wanted to speak
Of matters more serious and sincere
(Bart took a swig of his pint of beer)
When she mentioned her little apartment
Bart knew exactly just what that meant
Her pension was large but he wouldn’t be pushed
And gave her a friendly slap on the tush
He said why my dear this all just a laugh
Now if you excuse me I must take a bath
The very next day the widow was gone
And he whistled a tune and just carried on
Counting his blessings that he was free
And not locked up for bigamy!


Iain

This city's not always lovable
it has its days of hatefulness
and is often out of sorts
It's grown self-satisfied, and
in fact, over-grown its bounds
gotten sloppy and careless.
Still, we've been together
over sixty years now, and
I guess that's attachment.

Popped in to see if the new prompt is up. Gotta run, but will return later.

Many more wonderful, touching, enlightening, or humorous pieces up this morning. That mischievous little weasel strikes again. More excellence from Meena Rose and Mr. Atwater. :) And Walt's "From Me to You" radiates love in its purest form.

Penny, Marie Elena and Tim: Thanks for your kind words. The depth of your poems are always so big to me and mine seem so small by comparison. I appreciate your mentions more than I can adequately express.

Mel Goldberg, Unattached is an lovely piece of writing.
Janet Rice Carnahan and Carla Cherry, your words are moving and thought provoking.

Walt, I guess because I've been a Beatles fan since I first saw them on Ed Sullivan in 1964, it's so easy to be mesmerized by your writing. Your tie-in to the titles always amazes me. From Me To You is simply beautiful.

I applaud each of you here for your spectacular work. You are such a gifted group.

Robert, this November Challenge has brought me on an incredible journey. Thanks for providing the transportation!

Susan: I know exactly what you mean. It feels strange to me to hear you speaking the sentiment I've felt since April 1. That is when I first began writing poetry and posting to this site. I feel the strength in the writing of others, and my own seems so small in comparison. For months, I considered these PA friends to be poets, but myself to simply be playing with the big dogs. A while back, I wrote the following poem (including the comments below it) to explain what I felt when I stepped in to this arena back in April. I think you'll be able to relate. And Susan, don't doubt your work. It is truly excellent, and there is nothing "small" about it.

REPOST...

This Grand Ballroom

The foyer is small. Manageable.
The décor -- lovely.
I linger a bit;
As I assemble courage.
Hesitantly, I enter the Great Hall --
Grand and immense;
Accommodating a multitude.
I am wholly overwhelmed.
Surrounded by the beautiful;
The finely adorned.
My modest cotton sheath is
Clearly inappropriate.
Heart pounding, I want to flee.
Yet spellbound, I linger.
I watch. I eavesdrop.
I cannot tear myself away.
Then, one notices my glances.
Again, my heart pounds,
As he offers a warm smile and nod.
Is it genuine?

A tender seed is planted.

Then another catches my eye.
She is altogether lovely, as she waltzes
With ease and grace.
I cannot take my eyes off her.
She notices my stares, and responds with …
A grateful smile? Can this be?

The tender seed is watered.

All at once, I feel myself
Being guided onto the dance floor.
It’s him.
He takes my left hand,
And rests it in on his shoulder.
He clasps my right, and
Places his hand gently
On the small of my back.
He guides effortlessly,
Teaching steps along the way.

The tender seed takes root.

Another whom I’d admired from afar
Takes my hand, and leads me
To a moonlit window.
Clearly spotlighting me momentarily.
The unexpected attention it brings
Makes me simultaneously ill at ease,
And awkwardly grateful.
The blush in my cheeks lingers, yet

The tender seed begins to sprout.

Others offer approving glances,
Genuine smiles.
A young woman compliments
My faux pearls.
Herself, adorned with genuine pearls
Of the highest quality
That she has been gleaning and stringing herself
For many years.
Yet her compliment is sincere.

And

The tender seed begins to bud.


To Walt: The truth of my confidence lies in this poem.
To All: Feeling abundantly grateful for the warm glances of approval and encouragement you have offered in this grand ballroom. The steps, the guidance, the genuine pearls – all have taught me and watered my seed of confidence. Here, everything from the waltz to salsa is danced with elegance and passion. Some dance hesitantly; some boldly. We are an eclectic ensemble, are we not? Let’s dance.

So many wonderful poems on this prompt. I will come back when I have more time to read them all.

I only started writing poetry in August. Robert, thank you for this site where I can begin to learn this craft of Soul baring communion.

To all: thank you for your support as I share in your space.

Marie Elena: Thank you for being my number one cheerleader.

Visiting the PA site is personal treat I look forward to each and every day.

Meena

Thank you for sharing that, Marie Elena. Your poem perfectly describes how I feel. I enter that Ballroom everyday! Thanks for your encouragement.

Attachment.

Trailing like a messy string with tin cans rattling
drawing attention of all who pass
there is something in the word attachment
that says to me pain in the ass.

Love is a concept I can get my head round
something good and deep
but attachment suggests a halfway house
between throw-away and keep.

I expect it's just my pernickety way
but attachment doesn't gel.
I hate the word with a vengeance
and will never treat it well.

PA

PA
power attachment
to our poetic
souls.

We're plugged in
charged
and ready
to write.

Prompt Anticipation

Attachments

I am too attached to stuff,
trinkets strewn all over my
house. Why do I need all
these things? They do not
make me happy, yet I love
collecting music boxes,
scarves, jewelry, purses,
sconces, cards, doodads
galore. What will I do
with all this paraphernalia?
It just gathers dust, yet I
cling to bits of frivolity
like an addict to his drugs,
unable to free myself
from these fleeting pleasures.

Well, when I stopped by today’s prompt wasn’t here yet, so I thought “a few minutes to read and comment”. Now, here it is -- a couple hours later! How does that always happen?? Anyway, here are the “few” comments I’ve pulled together:

Robert - “she hides in the shadow of his heart” touched me too. A wonderful line!

Thank you Marie Elena! I always appreciate your comments. I had to laugh (and commiserate) over your attachments issues, (computers can be SO frustrating!) and am wishing you luck with Mr. Feeney - there’s potential there, I think. LOL!

Walt - I love the concept of holding hands as the tether -- a fine “attachment“.
Salvatore Buttaci - Excellent ending! So poignant.
Jessie Carty - Your ending is also thought provoking. “… yoking them, to something more to the flow of an asana or to acceptance.”

Patricia Frolander - “Borrowed Treasure” - Well done!
Khara E. House - A touching piece.
Rachel Green and J. Hugh MacDonald - ;-)

Cara Holman - An interesting angle on the theme.
RJ Clarke - You’ve been busy! Are you trying to give Walt some competition? Several made me smile, but I liked “The Lilac Tree” the best.

Ellen Black & Mary R - I Like your endings too!
Patricia Wellingham-Jones - A sad, touching piece.
Giulietta Spudich - sweet.
B.C. Strickland - Well done!

Maria-Elena & Walt - Your connections come through loud & clear -- very nice.
Tish - Powerful.
Kathleen Cassen Mickelson - Honest and real.
Theresa Cavicchio - Sweet.
Susan Sheffield & Lexi flint - Love your conclusions.
Mary Kling - So true, isn’t it?

De Jackson - “Grip” and “Release” - a compelling combination. “Detachable Heart” - Excellent!
Taylor Graham - “UP THE HILL AND OVER” - Lonely, honest & sad.
Willy - Short & poignant.
Maureen Blake - Strong.
Katherine Hauswirth- You captured this very well.
Sammy - A bit of wisdom and enlightenment.
Debra Elliott - Sweet memories.

Tim Snodgrass - A nice salute!
Jeanne - A sad, powerful tale -- too often true.
Penny Henderson - A touch of real life -- LOL!
Chev Shire - So sweet! Made me smile.
J. Martin - (drips) Annoyingly well done! :-O
Joseph Harker - Very visual, sensual.
Janet Rice Carnahan - Another bit of sweet wisdom and enlightenment.
Lorraine Hart, Christina Hile & Carla Cherry - :-)
Mel Goldberg - “UNATTACHED” - Well done!

And, just to continue connecting up the dots... (PSC in) CT... yup, it‘s Connecticut! :-)

Unconditional Love – A Song
(Sung to the Hymn – I Was There To Hear Your Borning Cry)

(Verse 1)
You were there
to lick my tears of pain,
you were there when I was blue.

I rejoiced
the day that we got you
to add to our family.

You saved our
marriage from crumbling
and renewed the bonds of love.

You were smart
and easy to be loved
such personality.

(Verse 2)
You were there
through all the lonely nights,
you were there to keep me warm.

You were there
the day that she was born,
to watch and to protect.

I was there
when you made her giggle
with a pink balloon in mouth.

I was there
when your licks made her laugh
and formed that special bond.

(Verse 3)
I was there
when you became very ill,
I was there to hold you still.

I shed tears
when you became too old,
to run or play at all.

I was there
when you were buried deep
and the tears still run today.

You are up
in heaven chasing squirrels,
ears flapping in the wind.

(Verse 4)
You were there
to lick my tears of pain,
you were there when I was blue.

I rejoiced
the day that we got you
to add to our family.

Airway abridged with respirator port
to allow for proper respiration.
Take it away,
and I flounder.
Can't live without breath.
Held hostage to a
machine which
enables me to rest my lungs.
No way to leave it behind.
The damn thing's attached to me by a tube.

Mary

God fluttered inside of you
when the attachment was wet and organic.
You brought Him to the light
and keys began to shine.

Did you hold back just a bit?
Or did you dive into the deep waters of rearing
and let your purpose paddle towards survival?

Did you let Him sleep late every now and then
just to trace his hairline while His breath
arched on a dream?

You raised a good boy.
He nurtured your soul.
You were His influence.
He was your King.

When His cup
had not been passed,
it was also the contrast
of your blood circling
the definitive bond.

.
On the outside
we appear
headed for the same horizon
our arms our legs in cadence.
You head for mountains
I look for the river.
In letting go
we find breathable air
a clearness of vision
that always brings us
back together.
.

“Reaching for the sky”

I can now pick apples
From the topmost branches
The picking basket
Has been elevated
By a new telescopic handle
I never realised
That the fruits on high
Were so delicious to eat
Too often we settle for
Low hanging bunches
When we should be
Reaching for the sky

Attachment

It took longer to make the incision
than to cut the stem between
the fibroid and the uterus

Drive

You behind the wheel
and i roll down the window
i like feeling the wind in my hair
the trees pass by so quickly
and I become a little nervous
as you say to buckle my seatbelt
riding with me might be bumpy
maybe we move too fast
i start to think
and i dont want to lose myself
with you, i have a fear of falling
i dont want to crash through any windows
detach my head from my shoulders
or die
but i do like riding with you
there is an excitment in not knowing
where we are going.
that is a scary thought

Day 19 – The Dream

I have a dream
It is a house
In need of a rescue
Long forgotten
By the people
Who loved her
Crying for repair

I have a dream
It’s a Nancy Drew house
With nooks and crannies
And secret doors
With lightless windows
Love and intention
In every piece of carving
And wood

I have a dream
Friends think I’m crazy
For wanting to do this
But it’s a house
That is asking for salvage
To bring back its glory
When it was first erected

I know it will take
Every inch of my will
I know it will
Require my utmost
Love and attention

But it’s the least I can do
To bring back the soul
Of that house

Sensibly Genuine

She looked like someone
Who bought candles
From a grocery store.

Air freshening
Long burning
Affordable.

Sensibility was attached
To her as surely
As her own right arm.

Truths anchoring
Boundaries freeing
Genuine.

written very late last night so am posting it here now.

Heart connection

May you be Blessed with rainbow's
'n Angel's by your side
always feel real happiness
peace inside your heart
~*~*~
I wish for you loads of love
joy beyond compare
comfort in dark hours
knowing others care
~*~*~
May you age with grace 'n beauty
have home to keep you warm
love of friends 'n family
protection from all harm
~*~*~
May you believe in miracles
with brightest ray of hope
find your strength through Jesus
when difficult to cope
~*~*~
My wish for you is harmony
all your dreams come true
riches of life's pleasures
specially made for you
~*~*~
May sun shine bright upon you
moonbeams light your soul
believe that all is impossible
feel it deep, take hold
~*~*~
May you always be contented
a spring within each step
'n 'morrows find you smiling
free from past regrets
~*~*~
As you travel long life's journey
may you never lose your way
I wish for you all things good
each and ev'ry day

November 19th, 2009
(prompt-attachment)

(c) Rose Marie Streeter

It’s silly how much she loves her.
Not silly to her of course, but
To “non pet people” her
Attachment to the dog is well,
Weird at best.

She’s careful at night to not
Toss and turn so she doesn’t
Wake up her sleeping friend.
Favorite kibble is always
Overflowing from the puppy’s dish.
She talks to her as if the dog
Understand and contemplates
Each and every word she has shared.
(And don’t argue with her on this.)

Raining outside?
She gets the leash.
Tired from the day?
She walks anyway.
No time for the usual route?
She reschedules appointments.

To say there’s an attachment
Doesn’t even come close.
To say they have a bond
Would be more accurate.
And with all the craziness in the world,
Is that really a bad thing?

I’m Stuck on You

like lichen on bark
like a flag craves the wind
like a butterfly’s wings on a cold morning
like laminate
like stripes on sheets
like a remora
like a tongue, peanut butter, and a mouth’s roof
like brown on rice
like paint
like dandelions
like a book’s binding
as if I were Europa and you Jupiter

MILES TO GO

I don’t attach myself
to things, to
people or places
like others do.
If I settle too long

in one place
my feet get itchy,
looking for new
roads to travel, for new

horizons.
Priscilla asks how
can I leave all
that I have accomplished
and move on.

I don’t understand
how people stay
in one place for decades.
I want to
live in Tennessee

like I lived in
Pennsylvania, Texas
Germany,
Georgia and now
Connecticut.

I wish I could live in
every state,
try a dozen jobs,
learn, live. There is
much to do before death.

... I'm a day behind again. Going to post this and move on to the next. My "boys" (husband, adult son, teenage stepson, preteen neighbor) are all downstairs playing xBox, so I can peaceably write. I think this one's going to be a keeper but needs some editing. Some of the ones I've written this month are obvious throw-a-ways, to get something out, and some came out almost fully blown. This is an in-between one. It's a subject I've meant to write about for a long time, but I know that this is exactly what I want to say.

The Gap

Once she
Welcomed love
Believed in
Tooth fairies
And
Happy ever after
Now she’s not
Sure if she
Even
Believes in
Herself

2009 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 19 Attachment


Vows

On the blue horizon,
shadows pass

to the other side
they anchor here and wait.

Tomorrow we will clasp hands,
tomorrow we will promise

with words that bind our lives
by silken whispered threads.

Two spirits at a crossroads, two
paths converge to carry on as one.

Within gold circles fingers touch.
We will light the fire, then

run toward it
eyes shut tight and laughing.


Carol A. Stephen
November 19, 2009
PAD Chapbook Challenge

He holds out his hand to her
And she eagerly reaches for it.
Gently he places her hand
On his arm with a little pat.
She gazes fondly up at his face
As they stroll down the street.
His gray hair peaks out from under
His brand new black Stetson
While her young lithe figure
Is the perfect accessory at his side.
Father and daughter are out
For their Sunday walk to church.

The Tick

The tick, a small tenacious mite
It has a nasty kind of bite
It hides among the un-mown grass
And waits for you and I to pass
The warm, moist parts of you and me
Is where the tick prefers to be
It sticks a probe beneath the skin
Am then consumes the blood within
When replete it falls away
While you go on your merry way
Sometimes the tick leaves things behind
Bacterium that’s hard to find
Then concealed with practiced ease
You might develop Lyme disease
You should remove the tiny tick
In case its munching makes you sick
A pair of tweezers by its head
Or use a cotton thread instead
With careful actions sure and slow
Pull until the tick lets go
And if the head and body part
To A & E you should depart

Nintendo DS

Spend five weeks without
playstation or computer
TV is inescapable,
his DS glued to his hand.

This could work for either this prompt of the "invention" prompt, but since I'm a few days behind, I'll use it here:


Krazy Glue

When I was eight, I loved that commercial
for Krazy Glue – the guy who stuck his hard hat
to an overhead girder and held on for dear life
flailing his legs in midair. If he ever let go
of his hat, I figured, it would be a tragedy.
Imagine my delight, though, when one day
I found a small tube of it in the kitchen drawer.
Curious to see what it felt like, I smeared a bit
between my thumb and forefinger.
They wouldn’t come apart.
I panicked, imagined going through life
with my right hand in a permanent OK sign,
till my mom came in a few minutes later.
She was mad, but got her nail polish remover,
the universal solvent, and freed my captive digits.
I felt pretty dumb, but not as dumb, I thought,
as that guy who glued his head to the girder.
I wondered if he was still hanging on.

Redundant Luck

A ladybug drops down upon my wool sweater
resting spritely magic, bestowing me with luck,
perhaps, like night’s white owl, calling, calling, calling.
Why am I chosen for this fateful attachment,
with bounty in a simple life so apparent:
Children make my new fortune a redundancy.
They stun me with their beauty, even inspiring
the ladybug’s flying away, free, freeing luck.

Garage sale

A stack of old
Jazz LPs
Scratched and dusty

A night light
with a dim glow
A cracked fish bowl

And a radio
that only plays
on the AM band

These things
to which I was
once attached

Now all available
for a dollar
or a dime

Dreams, Memories, Desires

If I told them that you had visited me
Everyone would say “It was just a dream.”
And in the harsh light of day, when every
Thing is empty, I might have agreed.

But this was in those moments when night
Begins to fade, the blackness dulls and shapes
Shift back and forth in the uncertain light.
So when I saw you lying on your side of the bed=
I was not really surprised. I felt the bedsprings
Slightly tilting in your direction, and what I felt
Was you, your presence as it had been a thousand
Times in all the years we spent together.

What I felt was contentment, things were back the way
They belonged, and I fell into a blessed dreamless sleep.
When I awoke the sun had risen, everything in our
Room was as it was the night before. I leaned over
And it did not surprise me that you had gone, I felt
The blankets, and yes, there was a slight depression.

I pulled the blinds and let the sunshine enter. Birds
Were singing from the branches where all the new
Leaves were uncurling after the long sleep of winter.

I will not tell anyone about this. They will just smile
And say “What a lovely dream.”

Little Hearts


Some children grow easily attached
These children are very needy
and, will become just as easily detached
if their needs are not met just as speedy

It’s not the teacher so much they crave
as the affection they do not get at home
So many out there to save
so many often left alone

So, the school becomes their safety net
The classroom teacher their parent
it’s when that teacher does forget
that the depth of their needs become apparent

They will call you names
draw pictures of you that are out of proportion
to them, your playing games
as they view you through eyes of distortion

So, it’s often best to pay attention
when that little boy or girl starts to cling
never forget to mention
any praise you can for any little thing

Unless you want hurt feelings
that often never mend
your words can send a child reeling
against a future they can’t defend

On the other hand
just a little praise goes a long ways
Show, them you understand
give them, what they don’t get these days
and to them, your the man. . .

Ralph J. Fitcher, November 22, 2009, attachment poem.

November Poetry Challenge Day l9 Attachment

The Ties That Bind
Three cats let me adore them
And return their love in subtle ways,
One makes a half meow, giving me the chance
To fill up his bowl with his favorite food,
Another scritches the litter box, so I can scurry out
To freshen that situation, and the third,
The long-haired, blue-eyed beauty Lucy,
Who of the three is most fond of me,
Likes to be petted, and purrs, but then sinks
Her teeth into my flesh—as I apply peroxide
To my wound, I mention to her, not unkindly,
That these are not the ties that bind.

A Taste For A Lustful Bite.


Oh my sweetness, oh my delight.
It's you I caress, it's you I keep tight.
When I'll carefully open your dress at night
there you'll lay with your delicate white.

Your delicate ribs I gently want to touch.
They look so sweet and they promise so much!

Too much! ... I can no longer resist the touch.
You around my hips! I can feel that as much.

I rip open your dress out of sheer delight
with my tongue I caress you and lustfully bite.
When it comes to the crunch you're eaten tonight.
My sweet and delicious white chocolate delight.


© November 2009 by Martin Anthony Dorn

Escape

She waits in the corner,
wrapped in black velvet,
the silk from her body alive in the breeze;
he’s blinded by crystalline
raindrops’ reflection,
imagining diamonds, not knowing she’s
arrowing towards him,
lovely and terrible,
hunger insatiable, eyes on her prey—
but words are his weapons,
slicing through sweetness,
rapier and razor to cut him away
from the silk and the velvet,
the shimmering crystal,
from fatal attachments that last but a day.

The Umbilical Cord

It starts with a simple snip of a cord
this moving away from mothers. For years
you are tricked into believing their needs,
their desires, hell, their sole existence
depends on you. Not true, it's so not true.
Sure, they need you for a while, but those needs
are mostly about teaching them to live
on their own, by themselves, in this big world.
To navigate, negotiate, engage
with their environment. You are home base.
And that is important, too. So for now,
if this is all the attachment I get,
So be it. Amen.

EDITING

Oh, the tears I shed,
the sweat, the angst
over words well wed
to fill the blanks
of you, dear paragraph
I loved you sweet
but you were a gaffe
so I must hit DELETE.

Attached

Shoes and laces
Bride and Groom
Earth to Moon.

Flowers and stems
Mom and Dad
PC and Mac ad.

Ice cream and cones
Foreclosure to homes
Rivers and stones.

Wheels to cars
drinks and bars
Hollywood and stars.

APRON STRINGS

My children were my greatest blessings,
and I loved having them near.

As my son approached his teen years,
I knew the day would come
when I had to loosen my ties to him,
but my heart just couldn’t
let my baby go.

One day,
he reminded me
that he was fully capable
of taking care of himself,
while I reminded him
of my undying love.

I told my beautiful boy
that I WAS cutting the apron strings.

His reply?

“Yeah,
but you’re using dull scissors!”

Attach*me*nt

“This word, love, we are here, needless to say, restoring to its strict and threatening sense of total attachment to another human being…” —Andre Breton

We could sleep like the Surrealists’ in continuous dream of séance and speak. If to sleep, for no other reason than to speak, we could follow Desnos or Eluard into the sea, automatically. You see with your eyes closed; leave the door open, to a body’s necessity. For liberty or love, oh, why won’t you then, attach me—

Better late than never.
Attachment

“It was books that taught me that the things that tormented me were the very things that connected me with all the people who were alive, or who had ever been alive.” –James Baldwin

I was no good at being a child,
she said:
No tree-climbing or bike-riding
captured my attention.
I lived for books.

I formed my first attachments
to the people I met
between the pages
of books. Jo March
breathed air to me more
tangible than that of students
I met in my fourth grade
classroom. I knew her;
I wanted to be her.

Never having seen a farm,
I knew nonetheless the
feel of Black Beauty
beneath my saddle.

Like Pippi Longstocking,
I slept for weeks
with my feet on the pillow,
my head at the foot of the bed,
despite warnings
of the danger to my eyes,
encountering by flashlight
the lives of my other friends:
Charlotte, Wilbur,
Nancy, Bess, and George,
Freddy and Flossie,
the Count of Monte Cristo.
I too plotted my escape.

Pensamientos de un Pescador

Attached by a small hook
Hangs the brightly colored painting
By the artist whose name is no longer recalled
That inspired such joy each day
Upon opening the eyes that it was carried
From home to home, city to city,
Even though the joy was no longer there
When gazed upon with the eyes
The soul pondered the losses – so many losses
Attached to the times, the places, the people, the spaces
Where the bright colors brought joy
Now… nothing

HE IS MY WORLD

It's a small world out there,
You can find friends everywhere;
With the Internet, miles are erased;
A world where friendships are based.
He asks, why him...because he has nothing;
He doesn't realize he has a big something;
Something no one else can offer me,
Something guided by the forces that be;
He holds my heart, my whole life in his hands.
Maybe someday he will understand;
Then the ocean between us will disappear;
And I'll find myself in those arms so dear;
There will be joy and no more sorrow;
And there will be hope for tomorrow.
My heart is reserved just for him;
And I do not say this on a whim;
Without him, life has no meaning;
It's on him my hopes are leaning.
He is my love, he is my life;
I'll be happiest as his wife.
The past is past, the future is what we say;
I loved him yesterday less than I do today.

Attached as Never Before

A dreamer, I am in the middle of a spider web with you
We are bouncy-castling with relief and some joy,
but there is a thin red circle around you.
It is your event horizon,
within it a gravity I will not bear, searing.
I have resolved and destroyed my self.
I have laid out my best story
for your reassurance and mindrest.

Our history is thus balanced, fruitful and laid down.
We dance for our humanity and our shared gifts,
I have to presume.
Bounceleaping, I get to the perimeter and ckeck
the security of all the radiations, sound, but
they are all inwards. There is no future over
this edge, no bridge but my faith and imagination.
I trampoline, forward roll, and arrive, hey presto.

Magic again to be by your side, pray
I will never ley you or anyone down again.
But all life is an assessment of probabilities,
and in this assessment and this calculation we
cannot share. In this with tears I must regain my I.
I steal responsibility for fear of leaving you
with it. I heal bigger scars for lesser wheals.
This is love discovered, painful, true love.

Where the Heart Is

How is it that simply by
looking at pictures taken
by others who will, most
likely, never be met, pictures
of rolling hills; lush, grassy plains;
shining eyes that look
into your soul from the
faces of children you could
hold all day in spite of the
heat of the African sun -
how is it that your heart
finds a connection that
you never knew existed
until you looked at the
pictures, falling unquestioningly
in love?

Belligerent Attachment

My son would have an attachment disorder
if he’d grown up in my great grandmother’s home.
My antagonist is trying to prove that attachment
is about a nurturing bond, not biological,
yet all the while is covering his tracks to be sure
no one knows where biology begins and ends.
My protagonist cannot understand how she can
love a boy she didn’t name, that triggers rage.
Their children are lovely, obedient things
ever since mommy went crazy and daddy
fixed everything with a baby named Village.
I wonder how my son would have developed
in a home where lies and manipulation are
the stuff that dreams are made of?

Yours, with Detachment

If you are reading this I am long gone
You may be sitting at your table
The light just starting to creep into
The day; at least that is how I will
Choose to think of you, your face
Flushed from sleep, your eyes still
Soft, not yet puzzled and then sad

If you are reading this, you may have
Started the coffee – the first thing you
Do every morning when you enter
The kitchen, as if by rote – and the aroma
Of the fair-trade beans from a tiny
Village in Africa will be wafting through
The house by the time you spy my note

If you are reading this, let me say right
Away how much I love you and how
Grateful I am to you for loving me back
How my leaving has nothing to do with you,
With us – I can picture your forehead
Furrowing just now – you don’t understand
Nor do you believe these words and I’m
Not sure if I have the ones you need to hear

If you are reading this, and haven’t balled
The note and thrown it out by now, let me
Try to explain to you why I had to go...
Do you remember the times you would
ask me in the twilight hours
When the moon was hanging like one half
Of a pair of perfect ivory tusks – where
I was right then, I seemed so far away

If you are reading this, perhaps you’ll try
To think back to those times, and others,
Lazy mornings when we would make love
And stay in bed for hours but you would
Suddenly feel I was no longer present and
Ask, even as the day was falling in languorous
Folds around us, where I was right then...
Or dinners as we laughed and talked and
Animation ruled the day, or so it seemed
Until I drifted with the candle-smoke off somewhere
And you would usually pretend not to notice.

If you are reading this, I know those memories
Are wrapping around you like the unwelcome
Tendrils of a poisonous plant but they won’t
Let loose their grasp until you face the truth
On some level you always knew I’d have to go
I know you knew – I just could never say it
Could not bring myself to thank you properly
For saving me from all that went before when
Life and death seemed so inextricably joined
And I, so lost, drowning as only the truly
Desperate do, was rescued by your belief
That I was worth saving, and loving, and healing.

If you are reading this, please forgive me
For hurting you – I never meant for that
You have given me more than I deserve
And there is no way I can ever repay your
Kindness, your belief in me, your love...
I will not forget you ever, but I beg of you
Do not think of me, don’t dwell on what you
Thought we had – it was illusionary at best
As attached as you imagined that we were,
You had to know I’m sure that I would
Always be adrift – it is my nature and can
Never be denied, if you are reading this:
Good bye.

I’m Not Ready to Be Done

I sit here and feed you
and time stands still.
Time is irrelevant.
Only you are relevant.
Your warm squishy body
rosy cheek pulsing with each swallow
twinkle eyes staring blinkless
deep into mine
like you’ve always known me
and don’t want to miss a moment.
Neither do I.
Please stay here like this,
my baby,
forever.

FRIENDSHIP

Invisible bond of friendship so true
that threads from your heart to mine
a filament spun between us two
if you need me ~ just tug the line

I’ll never go to school

You had to be in my arms
From the earliest of time
Later, securely fastened to my leg
When I refused your cry of “Up.”
Not too long ago, you made a solemn vow
“I’m never going to school, because,
I’m never leaving you.”
And I feared that your attachment
Would impair you
But off to school you went
And to parties and sleepovers
Then it was I that had to let go
Our bond is not broken
Just changed as we grew
Besides, sometimes
You still can’t sleep
Till I get home

Traditions
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

My father still hunts in these woods
though it’s been 30 years or better.

I can still hear the creak of leather boots
through the needle blankets of forest floor

see maidenhair and bracken fern go
electric against the maple stock of his 30-30

taste the calendar of October as it flutters
across his chest of flannel & thermal

smell the stain of cheek tobacco
upon his breath in mid-air

sense his presence high atop canopies
of cedar, spruce, and fir

feel the cammo of his eyes as they
peer down upon me,

content in knowing some
traditions continue to live on.


© 2009 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder