So basically, you're saying, "Walt, write what you ALWAYS write!" Not a challenge, but "Aye, Aye Captain!"

LAYING THE GROUND WORK

Many thoughts permeate,
perplexing and profound,
to choose just one to fuel my muse,
is certain to confound,
do I wax more on a long gone love,
do I give the Beatles play,
do I go comedic without repeating
what was already said?
Shall I give my parents another go,
more tributes long time coming?
Will I write a lyric, one song glory,
or attempt completing these shards of stories.
My mind is jumbled, wracked, confused,
in which direction should I turn?
But a moment’s thought to feel my muse
has set my grind to churn.
So many poems in my mind,
so little time to write ‘em,
a belligerent banter, not unkind,
go with the flow, don’t fight ‘em.
Since poetry has been my bag
from April last had called me,
some poems about poetry
are the ones that will befall me.
This guy will try to catch your eye,
and explore the forms abandoned,
I’ll write whatever suits my mood,
I’ll just pick and poke at random.

To those who are about to rhyme,
I salute you!

I think about time,
how it moves,
relentlessly forward,
at least from
my seat on the bench.
then I wonder
whether it moves
at all. instead
carrying us
down its stream
while it stays
in place, waiting
for us to be ready
to see.

TELEPATHY

Probably it comes from watching too much X-men
as a kid, but in daydreams, if they ever sat down
with superpowers in an unmarked bag, told us,
dip your hand in, two dollars a try, one per
customer, everyone's a winner, I'd curl my fingers
around this blue and shapeless
static electricity that hisses until you press it
against your skull, feel it sink into the occipital lobe,
Broca's area and cerebellum, echolocation of
the minds of others, how much easier it would be
to play the hero finding disaster victims by their
subconscious cries for help, easing anxieties
and fits of rage, or to play the villain,
convince everybody to vote the way you want,
but I think I'd want it for all of the selfish reasons,
always knowing what you'd want to hear me say,
peeling away correct answers from a professor's
unsuspecting head, and what a relief
if I could make myself forget all the stupid things
I've ever done, what's more, if I could
make you forget them too.

Where I lost it

Waking in the middle of the night
by the nagging in the back of my mind,
I slip out of bed and head for the closet,
looking once again through the pockets
of every jacket, every pair of pants
where I might have left it. Without luck
I return to bed but not to sleep.

Even as I drive, I slide my fingers between
the seat and the console, feeling for it,
finding instead a broken pencil and one
petrified French fry.

I look through my satchel, my pocketbook,
my suitcase in the corner of the attic.
I find so many things for which I have
given up the search, but it’s not there.

Wool-gathering, I retrace my steps—
first for hours, then days, then weeks,
hoping for some epiphany. It’s worked
like that before. But not this time.

I’ll find it—or I won’t. But chances are,
once I find it, I’ll forget to stop looking.

CXLIII

Lo, as a crazy housewife runs to do
all the things everyone expects of her
like shopping and laundry and cleaning. Who
would ever guess for her those lines might blur;
She helps with homework, an after-school case
of trying to get recalcitrant kids
to focus, while she must keep a straight face.
“Would you like my job? Yes, I’m taking bids,”
she says with a wink as she starts the car.
Playgroups and practice for softball await.
She sighs, since the field for the game is far:
for a change, dinner will be a bit late.
And even though no one might recognize,
she does it for love but that’s no surprise.

Inconsequential

Call me petty,
shallow, trifling, trivial.
Buy me jewelry;
I’ll be most convivial.

Gastronom-a-Ku

I think about chow...
whether common or gourmet,
it’s my food for thought

THE WORLD AS WE KNEW IT

They put a metal-motor gate across our road
to keep out burglars. It locked us in. They put up
fences. No more neighborly dogs running free.
No more shortcut path through berry brambles,
no ridge-line trail for a view to three horizons.
Then, a lawsuit over right-of-way, prescriptive
easement, adverse possession, laches, equity.
After it was done by book and court-decided,
we went back home and tried to find our natural
world leafing out again as every year for May.

I am tired of writing on memories and commuting so other than that what I want need most is sleep so here is the first dreaming sleep verse:

In the time of dreaming
In the harvest time
We will reap the waters
And watch our cities drown

In the harvest time
Only blue waters will grow
We watch our cities drown
Blue crushing down our lands the mountains

Only blue waters will grow
The sun drowns
Blue crushing down our lands the mountains
The setting sun the burning sky the only hues

The sun drowns
The deserts sigh and slip into dreams
The setting sun the burning sky the only hues
Other than rising blue

The deserts sigh and slip into dreams
We will reap the waters
rising blue
In the time of dreaming

An Attic

My mind in like an attic
cluttered about with
fifty-one years of stuff.
My emotions are lined up
around the perimeter
like hundreds of pairs of
old shoes: happiness/sadness,
peace/turmoil, joy/despair,
love/hate, passion/apathy.
In the center underneath
the bare light bulb is a box of
old computer paper, the kind
which runs in one continuous
feed on which is my to-do list.
Photo albums stacked about
are people in my life: friends,
family, acquaintances. Some
rattle around, haunting me
like ghosts. A trunk of all my
skinny clothes sits in a musty
corner. One day I’ll stand in
front of the dusty mirror
admiring the fit. All the while,
stories and poems I’ve written,
am writing or about to write
run through my head like
an old reel to reel recorder.
I tiptoe through stacks, boxes,
and trunks making my way
to the attic window,
letting in light and fresh air
as I welcome God’s Spirit in.

second verse on search for sleep

Evening fog
Ghost streetlights
Illuminate the road leading
To the nowhere destination

Ghosts streetlights
Glow in my waking dreams
The nowhere destination
Of unclaimed sleep calls but eludes my grip

Glowing in my waking dreams
My eyes close but still see the wake of day
Unclaimed sleep calls but eludes my grip
I toss turn grip empty sheets

My eyes close but still see the wake of day
I watch the road leading to sleep
I toss turn grip empty sheets
Caught in evening fog

Joseph, that's gorgeous. Megan I love your water imagery. Nancy, I know exactly that feeling - I lost my keys for five days and I still find myself looking for them even though they've been found - argh!

micro poetry (http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=116682614879)

Description: A place for lovers of poetry -10 lines or less - longer poetry can be more form than content, the vision here will be "brevity is the soul of expression", as well as wit. Hopefully we can breathe new life into micro poetry from that perspective.

I had been asked to assume the administration responsibilities for the group a few months ago and we have made strides in reviving the concept of short form poetry. Our membership has been growing gradually and we are nearing 250 on our list. We are always looking for fresh voices. Please consider adding yours to our group. A great number of our Poetic Asides family have given the site credibility with their abilities. I post a prompt weekly, but your are not confined to that topic. Our only stipulation is the ten line limit. This week's prompt:

PROMPT - A VERBAL TRIAGE

GUITAR, SERENITY, SUBWAY, HEADSTONE, GARDEN,
BOTTLE, UNFETTERED, PRESCRIPTION, RESTAURANT, DANCE

Out of these ten words, pick four that you consider more important than the rest, and write a ten (or less) line poem giving them the treatment they deserve. There are no D.O.A.’s here, so resuscitate your muse and all poems will have a life to them. Write On!

TIME-CONSUMING

Tomorrow arrives faster
every day. Most people
are not aware of the fast-
forward time warp we are in.

Age has no bearing on the
race. There is no need to wish
time away. Time goes on; by.

I am told to use time well;
take time; do something not done
often. Slow down. Deep-breathe. Let
things go. Be still. Focus. Move
forward one step at a time.
Stop overwhelming myself.

No one will mind if I think
out loud about ways to get
a grip on Life. Someone else
might need to think of it, too.


W

Art

Today it was the trees
decorated with white frosting,
which sent me home
for my camera.

Yesterday it was one word
which made me grab my pen and pad
and start composing
a new poem.

On Monday it was
a Blue Jay with
feathers fluffed outward,
which made me long for my sketch book.

I could go on and on
for every day
in which I have taken a breath,
but I cannot foresee
what the future holds,
but I do know
art will always walk with me.

REPEAT BAD NEWS BEARS WORRYING

The first time I heard the news
I was on the phone with my doctor
Sit down for this
he should have said but didn’t
instead he tossed it out to me,
a blurt sharp as a poisoned dart
You have colon cancer
Days before, I had won
a poetry contest
a five-hundred dollar prize
I thought my luck had changed
Let me recommend
a good oncologist
and so began the worst six months
of my so-far life as we closed 1999
hoping life would prove better
In 2009 the second time I heard the news
The urologist said to me
Have a seat
I want to review
your biopsy results
Is anything wrong, doctor?
Good and bad news
Give me the bad first, I said
You have prostate cancer
And the good?
It’s rather small
Now I wonder and worry
because things happen in threes
I’m just hoping if it doesn’t kill me
It’ll at least make me stronger

#

Refuge

Alarm sounds
jarring the soul
from its refuge
in his arms

Noon comes
respite from chaos
a phone call
has to suffice.
all the time
longing for refuge
in his arms

The clock strikes five
during drive time
thinking about
going home to
the refuge
in his arms.

Robert...refreshingly honest.

Michelle, I love your "walk," beautifully put!

Chev...the esscense of your's is measurable.

Joseph...well written as always, Walt...a piece of your heart as always, Nancy...I've been there, good one, Randi...I love the jewels too, Connie...exceptional...visually enchanting,Willy...a reminder taken in stride!, Megan...enjoyed immensely!

Walt...nice promt c-you soon @ there, hope to see more poetic asideians as well!

Creative Juices

Firefox tabs open
each with a writing competition
or a poetry one
except for Google reader
(192 posts unread – wait: 202... 212)
and live journal (just the actual people
and none of the communities)
and Outlook with a flashing 'new mail' icon.

I just have to see what each of those say
before I tackle the seven MS Word tabs
each of which awaits a story
or a novel
or, like this on, a poem.
I'll start writing
in a minute.

then I noticed
it was time to feed the dogs
and get another cup of tea
and while I waited for the kettle to boil
I washed the dishes
and came back to the computer
still wondering how to start.

AUSPICIOUSNESS

Red, silken material flowing on blue sky.
Filaments of hair whipping in the wind.
Dandelion seeds silently flying on a breeze.
Remnant of caterpillar pod hanging loosely.
Wings shimmer drying in sun, practiced motion.
Images, sounds, emotions, a sensory memory.
Whispers of warm words not yet spoken.
Minds carefully mending the fabric of life.

The Diet Gods

I think about The Diet gods
on each and every day,
who say what foods are good for me,
and what to throw away.

I read their books and plan my meals
the way a trainer does.
But more than once temptation asks
for one more sugar buzz.

A Christmas cookie in the tin,
with candy close at hand.
I know if cravings reel me in,
my waistline will expand.

I guess I’ll grab a carrot stick.
The Diet gods love that.
But how I miss those precious carbs
and wicked, wondrous fats!

This Too Shall Pass

All is quiet and still
like the calm before
a storm
that is within me
a tornado in my head
thoughts swirl between my ears
this neighborhood I wish to avoid
sin permeates the air
the devil in disguise
I know longer want to be a hypocrite
a mockery of what’s good and true
but I can’t let go of
the thoughts
the fear
the resentment
that burn a hole within me
like a thief in the night
so I will try to go on
and remember that
this too shall pass
the storm will end
someday
but will I survive?

laurie k.

What I Think About

Frogs who are really
Princes in disguise, and frogs
Who are really frogs

oops...no longer, not know longer... and sorry

laurie k.

So I'm definitely new to poetry, but I thought I'd give it a try a couple of months ago and then found these helpful prompts.

I THINK ABOUT
The small flex
of muscles near your
mouth, brief smirk
of warning.
Soon I will be pinned under,
you smiling at me.

Very nice piece, Brittany.

Connie--just great. Lots of good ones. Back later

Not from my personal experience...

IRAQ

She sees it in the glint of the sun at midday,
the gravely expanse of cat litter; the
backfire of a car, the ping of an aluminum
can on the asphalt, the dark Hummer
parked at Wal-mart.

The sound of children screaming forces her
to the floor, reaching for her belt
only to find a pocket of lip balm, car
keys, and a cough drop wrapper.

The new boss asks, “What’d you
do over there?” she looks into space.
“What I had to,” and shrugs. “But I’m
home now.”

Yet when the tang of dust strikes her
nostrils, when the man in a thick coat
reaches towards his chest, when the white
pills rest like eggs on the nest of her tongue

she wonders if she’ll ever be home.

Thanks to ina and Hannah!

RJ: amusing sonnet :)
Taylor: I dig this... today I cut through a "no trespassing" field surrounded by buildings. It had a beautiful sunset that no one would see unless they walked through it.
Hannah: beautiful, beautiful, beautiful collection of images!
Cara: hehe, I love it

Just reading through these, and wanted to say:

Megan- nice dreamlike feeling- the whole poem rocked me into a dream state
Michelle H - Beautiful, good imagery, uplifting
Cara- Yours made me laugh! So true!
Brittany - Nice images in yours, I got a feel for the attraction and pinning in just a few lines!

"Remembering"

She shuts the window
against the night
a fire in the room
keeps burning
she reads the letter
again.

His socks are warm
and too big for
her feet and the
robe that he left
wraps her twice,
She shivers by the
fire.

Unbroken night
turns to morning
without the pause
of sleep. At work
she closes her eyes
and sees his signature
the lack of love
and a lack of fire.

Her eyes open windows
that let in the cold.

Just popped in to grab the prompt. Will read and write later this evening, but paused to read yours, Giulietta, since it is directly above as I write this. So much emotion at play, wonderful imagery, and your final line is chilling. (I don't mean that to be funny, btw.)

Is reality a caterpillar
or an esophagus—or something else?
I’m sure, somehow, it’s an interior.
I have an indelible sense that space
warps and twists with sufficient curvature

to pour into itself, a Mobius
band or a Klein bottle. Or an inchworm
in infinite interplay of crossing
from crawling form to flying butter form
all in a roughly spheroid meander…

There’s a stereotypical mushroom
experience. Slapstick. Neanderthal.
My journeys were like studying Talmud
with eternal rabbis back to Hillel,
myself a flute blown by sacred rigors,

and it lingers, the view from that hilltop,
the audience with the caterpillar.


DA

PS: Hannah, I enjoy your ecstatic praise-poem --and how we both went with caterpillars :)

The Simple Truth

Always before me
is the main goal of my life --
to stay close to Him.

From a photo of the Haitian earthquake I saw today...

"Girl in the Green Dress"

Last night the earth cracked open;
walls, roofs, bones broke.
Cathedrals collapsed, the palace fell;
dust choked the air, mountains sank.

Amidst this disaster of major proportion
when the island seemed doomed again,
the girl in the green dress cried out on the street--
Concrete crumbles; her dreams still rise.

ann malaspina

Food for Thought
(Shadorma)

food food food
always on her mind
morning noon
and nighttime
where's their next meal coming from
you'd be worried too

OUTSIDE


The snowdrops will be up soon--
I'll check beneath the big oak.
The snow is melting quickly.
One year it revealed Hellebores
in full bloom along the fence.
Robins pecked today outside
a window where I waited.
There must be jonquils thrusting
their green sword tips through frozen
mulch in back of the herb bed.
I'll pick sage for the chicken
while I'm there. Then tomorrow
I can cut forsythia
to coax to early blooming-
an unneeded reminder
that growth will begin again.

Walt at #1 … quite fitting, and #1 in my book! Oh, and I'm glad you posted the Micropoetry info. Ya'll join us whenever you can. Writing 10 lines or fewer is a nice change and challenge.

Joseph: Always, always a good read.

Nancy: So true, isn’t it?

Taylor, Rachel, and Megan: Nice work.

Gastronom-a-Ku: Laugh. Out. Loud!

Connie: I love your take on the prompt, and all the imagery.

Chev and Willy: Entirely different styles, but both poems on time caught my eye.

Michelle H.: Love this. Continue that walk, and may it bring you lasting creativity.

Salvatore: The threat of cancer steals far too many thoughts from those who deal with it. Bless you, and God grant you health.

Hannah and Pamela: each one beautiful for different reasons.

Susan Schoeffield: Creatively stated, and so true!

Laurie K: Praying that truly “this too shall pass.”

Cara: This is just a total instant classic! LOVE THIS!

Brittany Alyse: Nice work! Keep it coming! (Beautiful name, btw.)

Beth Cato: Wow. Glad to hear this is not your own experience (thanks for stating that up front), but horrifying to think that this is what people deal with. Well done.

Daniel Ari: Your writing style always gives me pause. It’s more complex than many, at least for my simple mind. I often read and re-read, and always I am glad I took the time. Nice work.

Theresa: AMEN. SOOO good to have you back again, pointing us to Christ. Bless you!

Ann malaspina: Yours leaves me speechless.

Nice, Penny!

Now, why on earth is the code ARXXD? Arid Extra Extra Dry? Trying to tell me something, are ya?

All I can think of
Is how paltry are my pains
In light of Haiti

WRITE MIND

The daily find,
Has writing in mind,
Of the spiritual kind.
As a way to express,
What’s inspirational,
Not less.
In a world that paints darkness and crime,
Why not look for the light hearted rhyme.
A drive through the dessert,
New idea to assert,
A walk by the lake,
New perspective to take!
A silent moment at sunset,
Quiet vision to get.
A soak under the stars,
Looking for Mars,
Connecting the dots,
There’s lots.
Coffee contemplation provides more,
Revealing what the moment has in store.
Just being in the joyful now,
Reaches me . . .
Teaches me . . .

I don’t always know how.

Joseph...I'm pleased you enjoyed!

Daniel..."is reality a caterpillar," thoroughly enjoyed this take on reality! Thanks for mentioning me I really liked how you described my poem...:)!

Marie...thank you dearly! I agree with your statement about Haiti :( ...and I think you smell just fine!!

Must return tomorrow...smiles and good night!

Janet..."a soak under stars," love this and all!

The Trip

My husband refers to our trip
as one of business, not pleasure.
First leg of our journey, Del Ray
Beach, Florida–sun, fun, eighty-five
year old mom, whom I love
dearly, through the complaints,
the interruptions, and inattention
to anyone unless they mention
the only topic worthwhile–she.
No matter when we leave,
mom will not believe how short
a time we’ve spent, but next stop

is Cape Coral, where my sister-in-law
waits, who knows behind
which gate, as she changes
apartments every three months,
never her fault. A sad and lonely
woman who chose a life of SSI
and woes, promoted by alcohol.
I always want to shake her
and wake her up to the world.
She is sober many years,
but her fears are tangled
like threads. Beset with nerve
damage, she will always manage
to glean pity from anyone
who visits or calls. We leave Monday.

Constant Companion

Before you acknowledge another day
Before the chilly dawn light slips
In under your eyelids insisting
On the fact of wakefulness
You can feel it; you can always feel it

If you are perfectly honest, there
Is never a moment, not one
Not even in your deepest hours
Of sleep and darkness when you are
Not on some level aware of it still
There, right there, as close as a shadow

Draped over your soul, your psyche
Just waiting for you to come to
Open yourself up again to the pain
The possibility that today might be
The one, the day you don’t get through

You put off getting out of bed as long
As possible, trying to force unconsciousness
Back upon yourself like a too-tight cloche
Knowing even as you try that it’s futile
There is no denying this harsh mistress
She wants you to face her day after day

She thinks she will win this time, take
You down to that place from which there
Is no escaping; you are not sure she’s
Wrong this time, but you are not sure
She’s right either and you know you
Cannot afford to take any chances, not
Now today, and not tomorrow, not ever.

Joseph, Giulietta and Marie Elena-- Thanks for your encouragement! I had fun with the prompt today. :)

PSYCHIC OR PSYCHO?

Because my psychic mind constantly proves me right,
such as the impending pregnancy
of my cousin’s new grandbaby
that I was able to predict
before anyone else in the family
knew about it,
I am convinced
I have tremendous psychic abilities.

I told my own daughter when she would conceive,
and that the baby would be a girl,
and that prediction came true
exactly as my mind envisioned it.

When I saw a car coming towards me in a rainstorm,
a voice in my ear told me I was in danger,
and seconds later,
my car
and half my body
were broken into hundreds of pieces.

But my family has always considered me
a psycho,
a nut,
a weirdo.

When I give them ominous warnings,
they laugh at me,
but they also take alternate routes
because of my pleas.

So which one of us is correct?

the code actually showed itself,
and wasn't afraid of its shadow,

First i want to thank Maria Elena and PSC
for last weeks encouragement,
Walt very nice to read your sestina
and will have to check out your link,
Isuel "She Monster" was a beast lol...

I tried to be all serious with this one,
but there is nonetheless a lil humor,
i should have gotten more sleep....
............................................

Reasons Compelled

Its not the thoughts of things
I am burdened with,
it’s the reasons of their compelling.

It’s not the red ripe of apple skin
I am burdened with,
when peeling and cutting tasty slices.

It’s not the sheer beauty of the woman
I am burdened with,
that prevents my searching of love within.

And it’s not the penmanship of the poem
I am burdened with,
but their impact upon my reading them.

Prepositions of Time

Adverbs of frequency
And degree
Plague my mind
Along side
Phrasal verbs
And modals
The tenses in all senses
And aspects
Fill my dreams
Is it not enough
That I teach all day?
To Spanish children
Who smile so sweetly
Yet on the whole miss the point
Must my nights too be filled
With English grammar?
Am I never to have peace?
Though wait!
There is good in this too
Waking up with lesson plans
Etched in the stone of my mind
My subconscious doing my homework for me
Is an amazing feeling
Still, I’d almost rather dream of aliens again
Even though being shot if ray-guns
Was starting to become passé


Iain




I just wanted to mention that in addition to my poetry page at www.almerimartoday.com I am now posting regularly on www.almerimarlife.com >Forum>General>Culture. Two of each months poems on this site will also appear in hard print in the free English language newspaper for my area "The Reader" starting tomorow with the poem "Christmas 2029"

Cheers all

IDK

For anyone interested, I post my weekly poems at The Poem Factory:
http://sambpoet.webs.com/

I also have two issues a year, one in December and one in the summer, for poets to submit to. I'll post a reminder in May, in the event you'd like to submit your work.

Iain--yay! hard print is so satisfactory.
Beth--well done
Daniel A--"myself a flute blown by sacred rigors" !!
Sharon--such a heart wringingly clear showing of the circularness of depression.
Hannah--I agree with Daniel
Marie--thank you.

One who most needs me
Makes my thoughts her dwelling place;
My dreams, her abode.

Not so much what I'm always thinking about, but what obsesses me at the moment:


I Can’t Stop Thinking About Earthquakes


I can’t stop thinking about earthquakes,
the pictures from Port-au-Prince,
a leveled city littered with dead,
bleeding and broken humans.
Even tonight, at the school concert,
as dozens of kids prepare for the show,
scampering about in white band shirts
like a pubescent snowstorm
and rattling the rafters with chatter,
I can’t help but think of our fragility,
even in this sturdy auditorium,
how even a minute of shifting tectonics
would change everything,
and what would happen if every building
in my town was reduced to rubble.
Earth has shrugged her shoulders again,
this time in the Caribbean. It’s not like
she hasn’t warned us before, straining
under billions of tons of humanity
and infrastructure, speaking in a language
older than any of ours,
the groan and the rumble,
the shudder and the roar.

Bruce: Not only am I in agreement, but your words "speaking in a language older than any of ours" stuns the senses. Wow.

ALL IN GHAZAL

All that I am, lives within me,
the person I was meant to be, and the one that is me.

All that I seek, is clearly in view,
but my short sightedness is restricting me.

All that I want, is to find a happiness that is pure,
a sensation that I rest in His favor just being me.

All that I feel, fills me with a longing,
the life force that drives and sustains me.

All that I touch, brings a joy to others as well as myself,
a concept that at times escapes me.

All that I love, gladdens my heart and nourishes my soul,
and I bask is the return of its flow as it washes over me.

All that I aspire to, always seems just out of my reach,
but I strive to achieve the goal in front of me.

All that I believe, is what my faith allows me to feel,
and His loving hand lifts my spirit and carries me.

All that I trust, is borne of unconditional love,
no quarter expected or taken, just as is requires from me.

All that I’ve become, is according to “The Plan”,
the man that I was meant to be, and the man that is within me.

All that I have forgiven, have forgiven me in kind,
transgressions laid to rest and have given peace to me.

All that is missing, leaves a whole of tremendous proportion,
a oneness of heart and mind no longer afforded to me.

All that I’ve created has been because I have been gifted,
with an ability that He had reserved for use by me.

All that I’ve lost, cannot be replaced easily,
but memories and emotions can flourish and motivate me.

All that I pray, is that Walt Wojtanik can remain
all that I am and all which pleases me.

Michelle loved art
Susan Diet Gods rule

STATE OF THE WORLD

Taxi driver speeds down street;
transports person
to next important appointment.
An athlete strives to better his record,
improve his score.
TV blares news of new product
guaranteed to remove wrinkles.
Phone rings hot with fund-raising appeals,
to improve government or find cures.
All the while
Jesus sits by.
Waits to welcome us into His throne-room
to meet every need
with His sufficiency.

Watching the Clock

I measure out my life
in increments of energy and time;
it sounds so scientific and organized,
but really I’m just grasping
at straws,
and this clock-watching anxiety
is the one that broke my back.
I am tired of carrying worry
like a well-loved blankie,
tied to me by habit and a lack
of faith that the universe
will provide.

Hannah - Thank you and I agree with Joseph about your "image collection".
Cara - Your thoughts on frogs made me laugh. Good one!
Marie - Re: Haiti = well said.
Bruce - I'm with Marie about your phrase about "...language older than...ours".
Walt - I sensed some peace in "Ghazal". Hoping for you that is so.
Great job, everyone!

W

Bruce, your words are truly poignant as this nightmare continues to unfold. From these haunting images comes renewed gratitude for all I've been given.

I'm always amazed at the extent of the talent contained in these pages. The poetry word prompts here and in Walt's micro poetry are great sources of inspiration. Last night I was thinking about other ways to stimulate my writing thoughts, and today I created a weekly prompt blog based on a Quote of the Day. The blog is called The Magnified Muse (http://magnifiedmuse.blogspot.com/). If you can squeeze another thing on your overloaded poetic plates, I'd love to have you join in the process. As always, it's a pleasure to be in the same room with so many incredibly gifted poets! Thank you for letting me share your space.

PERSPECTIVE

The future is
Something that I think about
All the time
I worry about everything
Every day
Anxiety reigns
Wondering what will be
What will happen next
But then
Something happens,
A shrug of Earth's shoulder perhaps,
(thank you Bruce) and
I realize that
All the worrying about the future
is not going prevent things from happening

I am reminded that
We can only focus on the
Here and now
So I put on the kettle
Make a cup of calming tea
And sit down to write about
All that is happening and
I remember about the 2002 tremor
In southern Ontario
That shook the painting on our kitchen wall
And the dishes on the table
And I realize how fortunate we were
That it was only a tremor
And I give thanks for today.

Patricia

Him
He enters may mind, all times of the day.
Especially, when I think of something funny to say.
I want to tell him everything that is on my mind.
But he never seems to have the time.
To talk, to joke, to hear what's new, just to talk until we are both blue.
I want to stay in touch.
But, Sometimes I think I want to much.
To take up his whole day, and hear everything he has to say.

Penny and Willy, thank you guys...much appreciated!

Wow you ALL knock my socks off!! Excellent writing...

Marie...I love how you worded this last one "Makes my thoughts her dwelling place; My dreams, her abode." Outstanding.

Sally...Amen!

Walt..."His loving hand lifts my spirit and carries me." Such an encouragement!

Salvatore, Susan, Iain...thanks for your info. on poetry places!

NOURISHING LOVE...

Something in your sideways smile tugged at my heart that afternoon. Your bright blue eyes laughing as we sat catching each other's glances over high school notebooks. Nestling each other's legs under the cafeteria table in a familiar game of sweet footsies. During this study hall in our senior year we found something that lasted. We shared many similar classes that year, allowing us to get to know one another. Here we are thirteen years later sharing our lives...baring our very hearts to the same rhythmic beat...as one. Love driving our very purpose in all that we do in this life that we share. I often think about us...how we were and how we are now. I savor every moment. I’m blessed deeply by love notes scrawled on our toddler's chalk board, “You are love.” My heart beats for these moments, precious memories nourishing me.

When I was 3 I thought of a time
when I would no longer be here
or there or anywhere
Lying in the dark tucked legs
under I rocked and comforted
myself
3 year olds rarely die
When I was 10 I thought of that
time when I would no longer be
here or there or anywhere
Lying in the dark head under
the covers I comforted myself
10 year olds rarely die
unless they do dangerous things
and I didn't do much
At 22 I didn't think about dying
all the time I received a reprieve
for three years the time I expected
it would take for my new son to grow
old enough to remember me
Young mothers rarely die
At 30 thinking about not being here or there
or anywhere I acknowledged a neurosis
and decided to breathe deep yoga breaths
and shake it off
30 year olds rarely die
At 40 and 50 I continued
thinking about not being here or there
or anywhere
and although rare it was not unheard
of for people to die - I had actually
known some no longer here or there or anywhere
And now moving forward thinking about not being here there
or anywhere I grieve for the innocence
of never held
for the 3 year old with her legs tucked under
the 10 year old under the cover
yearn for the 22 year old mother
and snicker at the 40 and 50 year old
now as time moves forward - I still wake
in the early morning hours just before light
and know that someday I will not be here
or there or anywhere
This is not some random nightmarish thought
but the absolute truth and find myself hitting
an interior delete button and sleeping soundly
while I can wake

Falling snowflakes
warm hands reaching
beneath each others
puffy jackets
Breath hot
steaming the air
Chains on tires
fearless through
ice and snow
we rushed to
a warm bed
and tumbled
together in
an endless discovery
of delight

I think about waiting and
patience a virtue they said
I think about waiting from
third grade to this morning's
last
I think about waiting for
the grand inspiration
that will converge all
the flotsam of a life's
perspiration
I think of the scenes
of beaches and snow
I think of the people
as they come and they go
I think yet of patience
a virtue they said
And I think that before
all comes together I will
certainly be dead
I think that perhaps this is
the great coming maybe it's so
But I won't know this for sure
Until my time comes to go

Dr. Pearl, touching pieces all. I love the progression through the years tied together with the thought and how the survival pushed it further down the years. I went through a similar phase. Thanks for the pieces.

Hannah, you truly possess the heart of a poet. Releasing yourself to use the moment as inspiration is something I can relate to. Kindred spirits of a poetic vent. Loving it.

Patricia, your "Perspective" is one wonderful point of view. Nicely done.

“I am tired of carrying worry like a well-loved blankie, tied to me by habit…” I love the way you stated this, Kit.

Lynn, Sally, and Patricia: Good reads, all.

Willy and Hannah: Thank you so much for your kind compliments. :)

Hannah and Pearl: I can’t say it any better than Walt. I agree 100% with his assessment.

Walt: Each and every couplet of ALL IN GHAZAL could stand alone beautifully. Together, they cover life’s longings, rewards, significance, fulfillment, accomplishments, insight, purpose … in a single poem. Incredible.

H.A.H.
By: Meena Rose

When the day is long;
The Body weary;
I remind myself H.A.H.

When the night is Dark;
The Spirit afraid;
I remind myself H.A.H.

Happy, I am.
Alive, I am.
Healthy, I am.

Getting from Here to There

Down the road and up the hill
I push along my day is filled.
I am not so sure where it ends
On a straight away or on a bend.

Put this trip together with that
Find a way to get there and back
I worry not my path ever will last
Tomorrow gets to form its own task.

And I travel upon this ball of clay
Like routes I pick just to toss away.
And wilderness may be just next door
Filled with either welcome or scorn.

TWO-HUNDRED FIFTY

A chance to crow
to those who know
we're putting on a poetic show.

We've found another way to go,
by writing rhyme in micro.
Finally reaching a plateau.

Our membership is true, not shifty,
and the muse of all is truly nifty(?).
The mark is set, there's better yet the micronites number 250.


We've hit 250 members on micro poetry! It's a big day. I will be posting a way that we can celebrate this feat on Monday. Please check back and be a part of the next foray into poetic excellence! Nice work all! Onward and upward. Oh yeah... Write On!

Thanks to our POETIC ASIDES crew for putting us over the top. You really do make a difference in more ways than you know!

Walt: Congrats on reaching that milestone of membership! Thanks for the comment on Perspective--much appreciated.

Marie Elena: thanks too for your word on Perspective--it certainly makes one mindful as the news of Haiti keeps unfolding


Here, I think, is the Last PA call from me--before the WEEKEND! An article that I read today seemed so relevant, for many, to this week's prompt. Here, below, is the poem that I wrote.


Question to ponder: Do you think of the weekend--all the time?

Today
I read in the print paper (still surviving)
That, overall,
People are happiest
On the w e e k e n d
From about 5 p.m. on Friday
Until Sunday aft'.

For these select hours
People of all persuasions and professions
Trades and retail
Are happiest in their weekly lives.

Is the weekend
Something
YOU
Think about all the time?????

Have a great one!

Patricia (Peppermint Patty)

A SEARCH FOR TRUTH

In the rubble,
We often stumble,
To make our way through the woods.

When all is well,
We have much to tell,
We eagerly shout it through neighborhoods.

But when life hits us hard,
And we’ve played every card,
And despair is running in our veins.

We can only pray for a sign,
Before we resign,
And hope we have cover before the rains.

In Haiti we see their life’s not the same,
Many are struggling to make any gain,
So much was lost in a heart beat.

What does that say?
About the way,
We are often pushed by pressure and heat.

If we are to find the truth,
Where do we look, in the eyes of youth?
Or do we just hold tight inside?

Is the truth there?
Or simply despair?
Or are they two sides of a pair?

Is it about accessing faith in the unknown?
Let the way to truth be shown,
And living through it . . .

Is the only way it can truly be known.

THE ABSTRACT ARTIST

His work’s considered avant- garde,
another term for “out there”.
He shoots his paint balls across the room
with a broad, flamboyant flair.

Each splat and pop and colorful plop,
will render scenes confusing.
His explanations never stop,
they’re rather quite amusing.

The strange Bohemians of his ilk,
all think of him as genius,
the grind of his cerebral gears,
the grrrrs, the whirrrrs, the wheezes,

can be heard when he’s hard at work,
a painting in the making,
with no true set artistic form,
his wife thinks that he’s faking.

She’ll bitch and moan, and scratch and groan,
she’ll pitch a flippin’ fit,
but our “grand master” paints away,
he’s having none of it.

His reds explode on canvas pure,
the blues are coolly muted,
the browns, and puce, and sharp chartreuse
all “shout”, quite convoluted.

His portraits are a thing to see,
they often take a prize,
they’re good as abstract portraits go,
with one too many eyes.

The gallery observes his best,
they mumble, and hum, and roar,
they softly clap like mindless saps,
and beg him paint some more.

So he cleans his brushes in his solvent,
splashing, scrubbing, wiping,
a sturdy flap against his easel,
a slap, slap, slap, more wiping.

A new collection rendered here,
concoctions from his head,
and the collector buys with an evil eye,
they’ll be worth more when he’s dead.

A CAUSTIC ACROSTIC

Chemicals lye
Acidic, seeping
Under skin and nail,
Sewage, scented and smelly,
Tainted with the harshness
Inherent in this incendiary
Cesspool of murkiness.

ALPHABETIC ALLITERATION

An arbor alive and active,
Brings forth beautiful bouquets of Begonias,
Cut and carried carefully, cradled curtly,
Drawn down to a deserted downtown
Epicurean eatery, entering every night, and
Finding a forlorn Filipino farmer foraging for
Greens and garish gastric garnishes in the garbage, giving
Horatio, the homeless house husband a hand out,
In spite of inherent ignominy and insensitivity.
Just where June and July join, a journey in a jalopy
Kept the kibitzing kleptomaniac in the kitchen,
Looking largely for liquor, a lime and a level of lentils.
Men met on Monday mornings mostly to massage their megalomania,
Nodding nearly napping and nipping noses, never negotiating a network
Of overzealous overseers of onerous opulence, openly
Propositioning proper post-production people to parlay a profit.
Quite quietly, Quentin, a Quaker in quarantine,
Realized the realm of ravenous receptionists,
Stood scandalously supplanted in Suburbia,
Taking the tram to the tavern for tawdry trash talking,
Unceremoniously usurping unattractive underclassmen,
Violating village and vehicular victimization variances, and
Wondering why witnesses would whittle wood with
Xylographs,
Yet yearn yearly and yell yonder,
Zealously, zig zagging in the zone with zest.

Walt, that means a great deal to me! I enjoyed so much your poems today...especially the alliteration...but you knew I would!

Marie, thank you and Big smiles to you...happy to see you today!

Happy writing ALL! Thanks for all the creative endeavors here!!

Meena Rose, here’s to HAH!

Dennis, so good to see you out here posting. Keep them coming.

Peppermint Patty, TGIF!

Janet, I love the way you often end with a single sentence that makes a statement.

Walt, how DO you do it? Three in a row … all excellent quality … each different from the last … how DO you do it?! I have to say, I literally laughed out loud at “Xylographs” standing all by its little lonesome. Good stuff!

Sweet Hannah, smiles right back!

DAISES

I saw a glass vase painted with daisies tonight.
I loved it, and I wanted to possess it.

The daisies drew me. They reminded me of you
because I’ve seen a picture of you giving daisies to your sister.

Once, I saw you bring daisies into a room for me.
But I left before you could place them in my hands.

Jane Beal
sanctuarypoet.net

Lost is how I feel
I never thought life would be like this
I did what I thought would make me succeed
But nothing, nothing is how I expected
My parents lied
They made it look easy
Yet, here I stand alone
Now, lost is how I feel
When did I leave the path, who will find me
Afraid I'll die alone with nothing

It's been a while since I've written anything, but here goes! The prompt and happenings of the day got me going. Thanks, Robert!

Making Sweetness

He comes,
a dog with a bone,
an old Tom cat
with a mangled bird
to lay at my feet.
I am horrified.

He comes,
slicing open my chest
and scooping out my heart,
a bear stealing secret honey,
waking a dormant
hive.

So now I,
the lone queen
of my swarming
thoughts and emotions,
of my memories and desires,
am left to woo

them home,
to parse through
what remains, and then begin
the slow process of making
sweetness from my
sins again.

B.

Obsessed with so many other things, I’m way behind on my reading. I’m hoping to catch up this weekend after a shopping trip to the outlets. Yet even that gives me pause, realizing I how much I have in comparison to others. My heart will long ache for those people in Haiti.

Just a few words. More to follow.

Beth, how hauntingly you capture the torment of a returned soldier in your piece, Iraq.

Penny, Outside is a wonderful poem. Nature’s gentle reminder of promises to come.

Marie Elena and Meg, that you for your comments!

S.E., so touching and thought-provoking. “Back upon yourself like a too-tight cloche”. Great image. And thank you for posting to The Magnified Muse. It’s not so lonely in there now!

Janet...hope you don't mind I borrowed your style with the single sentence ending...does make for a dramatic ending. Enjoying your works immensely!

Jane...I love your daisies!

B...excellent, love the vision you conjured up.

So this needs work but I've already spent an hour plus here when I'm supposed to be finishing a story and going to the post office! So over look the rough patches please and seek the essence within.




LANDSCAPES

Willing words, an unending
wellspring of inspiration.
Untamed emotions, exhausted
on the page, silently spent.
Finally finding rest in this
space of written sanctuary.

Clouds of the sky, changing
with each turn of the breeze.
Swiftly shape shifting, taking
note of the distinct swirls
and lifts and dips amidst the
masses of cottony clusters.

Moon makes its home mightily
projecting moonlight splendor.
Light floods the spaces thought
to be untouchable...filling
even the darkest of places with
it’s all consuming white glow.

Words even whispered swirling
with presence, energy spilled.
As watercolor with an excess of
water, landscape becomes diluted.
I refill my brush with the vibrant
color of life's pure, vital energy.

Touching the canvas, I watch as
rich color bleeds rivers of emotion.
Pouring gently into spaces thought
impenetrable. Essence of being longs
for the Source; it’s called to in the midst
of sleep. I awaken daily anticipating

the experience of something more.

TANKA YOU BOYS

Tanka you boys,
dat was a bitchin' boss, so
Myron Floren
now will playa his squeezebox.
Playa dat funky music.

Bubblesa, bubbles.
Champagna musica makers
pumpa uppa thisa jam.
Tanka you, tanka you boys!
Welk inna the house!

Yes ... this is really what I think about ALL ... THE ... TIME.

It’s when I’m sleeping. That’s when they’ll come.

They come to bite me when I dream. Slumber
is no shelter against the vile, not the veil of the sun.
The victim of their slaughter hides on bathroom tiles,
their far from subtle nuances spilling red. Their bones
carry the infection—it aches in their marrow, yearning
to crawl forth, bathe the world in the nym of undead.
Against the rampage my will for survival claws at my bed,
races me to the hills. Safety does not wait, only blood,
scraping and snapping at the sanctuary of my sleep.

Music

I like this part. The way that it goes
up and then it twirls. Music does that
sometimes. The trumpets really tie the
chorus together. I feel like dancing.
A beat that matches your current
state of mind is key, of course.
This sounds like that one band
That one time at That one place where
I went with That one boy…
This harmony sounds purple.
More of a lilac now. The last line
of the first verse is just what I was
thinking only, I didn’t know.
I love this song, but we’ve only
just met. So bashful and beautiful.
A kiss on the face for my new love.
Please feel free to join the rest in
the room where I keep my songs.

Thanks for the comments everyone! :-)

Jane: Always perfectly poetic.
Dawn: Leaves one with a longing. Bless your heart.
B.: “…making sweetness from my sins…” Fascinating.
Hannah: Beautiful, as always, especially the last two stanzas.
Walt: Also as always, you put a smile on my face. This time it’s a huge grin.
Khara: Oh my!!
Iseul : Love it. You’ve inspired me to write something. I’ll be back.

Endless melody
Permeates my mind’s alcoves.
Music of my heart.

Thank you Marie!! Looking forward to yours...

I'm grinning too, Walt!

Khara, great descriptions,"Their bones carry the infection—it aches in their marrow, yearning to crawl forth, bathe the world in the nym of undead."

Iseul...I enjoy your way of looking at music,"This harmony sounds purple.More of a lilac now."

...and there it is! Love the idea of the music permeating...mind and heart. Beautiful, Marie.

Thanks Hannah! I'm one of those people who constantly have music playing in the background of my mind. I used to think everyone did, then found out that's not the case. But I'd be willing to bet MANY of us do.

Busy, busy, busy . . . just a few comments, for now:

Joseph Harker - love the ending -- what a relief, indeed!
Connie Peters - One of my favorites of yours! My cluttered mind resembles an attic too. :-)

Walt - Hoping to try my hand at micro poetry . . . soon?
Willy - Go ahead & think out loud. ;-)
Michelle H - I hope we are all so lucky.

Salvatore - If things happen in threes -- you’ve got two more poetry contests to win! I’m pulling for you.

Rachel Green - Yes - exactly!
Giulietta - poignant piece, well done.
Penny - I’m ready & waiting for those things too.
Bruce - Well done, and true for many of us.

Back later to post something -- I hope! :-O

AN "ENTERTAINING" ANAGRAMMATIC

Teri, an irate ingrate
Ate near a tent.
Nate rang a giant ring

Tanning in a giant green train engine.
Rene, eating grain in a rain,
Ran at an inane gait .

An anger rant in an age,
a rite in a tent.
Grain in a tin, a Teri grin,

Nate a gent; an agent at rent,
Rene, a nag, ate a treat,
Entering in an inert range,

Earning a grant,
Rin Tin Tin in a gin taint
It ain’t great. Neat.

hUH?

THE ANIMAL ZONE

Took only one day,
Some say,
In an odd twist of fate!
There was no typical A-Z verse,
Why, the whole thing turned in reverse.
Like someone opened the wrong gate.

Zebras zoned out eating zucchini zero showed up.
Young yaks yawned after yoga yelling “Y, are yellow yams yummy in my cup?
Xtra Xylophones x-rayed the x that marked the spot.
“Walt”-zing Walruses were restless waiting wallowing, wading in water or not.
Victory voice went to very vile vertebra verily veering off to valleys and the void.
Understanding was usurped by ugly, undercutting unlike beast best to avoid.
Turtles turned taking tablets trying to terrify terrible things.
Seahorses swam sooner silently, slowly until suddenly one sings.
Rattlesnakes rattled rapidly rendering Reno rarely rigid,
Quail quietly questioned questing heat as they were quite frigid.
Porcupines put pondered patience as a priority,
Octopi opened other options opting to operate as a sorority.
New newts nibbled noisily never noticing novices nearby.
Monkeys moved money maybe millions manipulating many mallards by being sly.
Lazy lizards laid long and low lifting lowering lids like laughing loudly.
Kangaroos killed and kept kelp kicking kayaks getting a kick quite proudly.
Jelly fish just juiced jiggled and juggled joy,
Iguanas ignored infamous insecure, inadequate inhabitants inquiring interesting icons to enjoy.
Hurried hares hung hairpins high happily hiding.
Giant giraffes gorged gallantly with their tongues out sliding.
Fantastic frogs found fireflies flying first in front flaunting their surprise.
Eagles easily ended up eluding everyone being ever so evasive through their eyes.
Dangerous dragons dragged on drearily with dead on dread.
Clever cats clung carefully, calculatingly, cautiously sometimes hanging by a thread.
Boisterous bobcats bounded by being busy batting bats barely big enough to fly.
Alligators ate all apricots, avocados, apples allowing ants ample room to run by.

All the animals had turned upside down,
Any that smiled now had a frown.
They couldn't wait until their zone was renewed.
Next time it happens, they'll head to a ranch,

Dude!

I'm going to beat Hannah to the punch, here: WICKED CUTE, Janet! Dude!

Janet,

"A SEARCH FOR TRUTH" is nicely done.

I had a sense of incompleteness reading the three line stanzas. I think that was effective in your poem. There was also a scattered sense as the reader went from one place to another, perhaps frantic in search of truth. Like any garden, not every plant is a flower, but there is a lot growing well here.

There are many things that stand tall in this world. They take the shape of truth and sometimes show a side of it. The same might be said of the smaller things. Sides of truth, reflections.

Could we see truth if it were to appear? Perhaps in these material events truth is an easy puzzle to solve. For the greater truth, well that does take a living through. We are rich for our pain and losses, yes, but also for our humanity.

"Reasons Compelled" another poem I like.

Here is another use of the three line stanza. The repeating second line gives an initial sense of completion, much different from the sense of incompleteness I found before. As the poem continues the second line serves as an anchor, a theme. Later it carries the sense of compulsion.

We can get a sense of completion by centering events around the familar. Here the poet shows us a familarity with burden. I find it true, burden can be familar. Everyday we go out and do what we need to do so we can then go out the next day to do much the same. Thoughts, nature, beauty, love, and finally reading fall to a sense of compulsion, a need that keeps us from being drawn in.

To reason is to order and we place words, sentences, and thoughts in an order expressing how they seem. Then order sticks out and points like an arrow at meaning. The meaning of events becomes their reason.

And so a burden can become a reason and a reason can be familar. If, for instance, we look for the love within --- would we find some unease or fear without? Extending in love might seem risky, but what if it were our second line?

Be Self-indulgent, Feel No Shame

You may have to think hard
to remember
boredom,
that lay on the couch,
curl up with a good book
lapse into nothingness
way of existing.

Ahhh...

Drink cocoa
slow.
Lick marshmallowy foam
off your lips.
Expect nothing
more than the turn
of another page.

Ahhh…

Let quietness seep
in with breaths
deep and warming,
hot mug to your cheek.

Linger.
Let only decadent words
pour from your mouth
when silent reading
can not be done.

Ahhh…

THE EPITOME OF AN EPITAPH

Here lies Walt, a poem writer,
now the world's one poet lighter.

A verbose lad, a wiz at rhyming,
a victim of atrocious timing.

Poet Walt, his voice was thunder,
now he's silent, six feet under.

A man of muse, and with direction,
a deadly detour through infection.

This reserved soul, whose verse was calming,
is now preserved thanks to embalming.

To Walt, raise your glass and cry,
we're here to kiss his ass goodbye.

And so he lies there in repose,
he really should have stuck to prose.

To Dennis Wright

Thank you for your critique and questions. Very valid commentary and interesting points to consider! I find truth a fascinating subject. I guess my current take on it is that there is relative truth and absolute truth. Relative truth has to do with a more factual perspective and absolute truth has to do with a philosophical or spiritual truth. Everything is as it is on one level of truth but certainly the topic begs to go deeper. There is also individual experiential truth, which is more subjective. This may be more information then you wanted. Thank again for the points to ponder, Dennis.

HERE STANDS WALT

A man of words,
Soaring and creating with his flock of birds.

He administers a poetic site,
Attends to his following day and night!

Encourages one and uplifts another,
Why he’d even help to publish his mother!

He says what he thinks,
He’ll be clear if it stinks!

Not everyone stands for another’s work.
That’s the thing about Walt some say it’s a quirk.

He doesn’t take much lying down.
If he did we wouldn’t hear a sound.

He is a stand up guy,
Don’t buy it at all that he’s shy.

He’ll stand for us all as long as it takes,
And he’s cool when we win or if there’re mistakes!

Always be sure that Walt’s standing for what he sees as right.
Until he falls down from the overkill of friends he works to unite . . .

Perhaps with this salute . . . he just might!

Patricia: Good stuff! (Your poem, and mindfulness)

Dennis: Enjoying your in-depth comments. Thanks for taking the time.

Janet: That’s it – stand up for Walt! LOL! You inspired me this morning. Took parts of the below from Mighty Mouse. Had a hard time deciding between Mighty Mouse, and Mighty Manfred, umpf, the Wonder Dog (remember?)


Here He Comes to Save The Day!

Mr. Boredom never hangs around
When he hears this mighty sound...
"Here I come to save the day!"
Walter Woj is on the way!
Yessir when there’s a poem to write
Walter Woj will do it right!
Anagrammatic on demand;
Verse and prose at his command
Uninspired? Just plain bored?
Sing with me in one accord:
"Here he comes to save the day!
Walter Woj is on the way!”
Cause we know that where there's danger,
We will find this poet ranger
He is there! He is there!
On the land! On the sea! In the aaaaaaaaair!
We're not worryin' at all
We're just listenin' for his call,
"Here I come to save the day!"
Walter Woj is on the way!


(Okay ... gotta get back to getting ready for church. Happy Sunday, all.)

Oh, I blush!

Is THAT what that eerie glow is, across the lake?

Blind

When I am blind, I won’t see
When I don’t have as much
Or of what I don’t have enough.

When I am blind, recognizing me
In the mirror will be impossible
And will have to feel my face
So I don’t lose or forget who I am.

I am going blind. It’s going to be
One day in the middle of the city
Among strangers who won’t bother
To take my hand and lead me to safety.
Instead, cover me with newspaper
Where I lay with the pigeons, dirty.

It’s okay. Since I am blind, I have nothing
To miss of the present, and the past
Is in my pocket to preserve like lint
All rolled up memories of when I belonged
In a world where it was easy to miss what I saw.

J. Martin, looks like your vision is in your heart and words. I'd say there are a choice few of us that would stop to assist. Hopefully, one of us will be there to lift you. For now, we will lift together in spirit. Memories are the visions that stay with you.

Thank you for your kind, insightful words, Walt. Your poetry is always an inspiration.

Is anyone here on Linkedin or Facebook? It would be nice to 'see' more of you! Please add me to your lists. TKS!

THE FIBONACHO

Chips.
Dips.
Salsa.
Con Queso.
Some Jalapenos.
Washed down with a cold cerveza.

Janet,

Yes, there is temporal truth and there is enduring truth. Factual, experiential, and spiritual truth present us with complex and sometimes confusing senses. If we can make the "word picture" clear, then we might show a path. Yet there is so much to say in so little room.

William Blake said the role of the poet is that of a prophet. He saw children work in sweat shops and passionately railed against this practise. His vision contained a future where children would be educated and protected from injury and disease. His passion held agony for the circumstances he saw. Of course he was generally considered mad for his passion and his vision.

Dennis,

Thank you for your additional perspective and contribution to the topic of truth. Yes, I agree the search for truth can be confusing. Clarity would definitely help show a path. I think truth can be quite complex and also so simple and clear when present. Be it factual, spiritual or experiential. I would add that we are all capable of True Feeling in a deep experience that speaks to inner truth. Maybe this is considered experiential. A couple of quotes have to come to share in this regard.

The I Ching states, “Clarity of mind brought about by dependence on what is right can transform the world and perfect it.” It also says, “Grace-this all pervasive elegance brings pleasure to the heart, clarity to the mind and tranquility to the soul.”

Ralph Waldo Emerson says,” What lies behind us and what lives before us are small matters compared to what lies within us.”

C. G. Jung in the Guide to the Advanced Soul, “Who looks outside dreams; who looks inside wakes.”

I think many visionaries/poets/writers/prophets that have written and thought with passion have been considered “mad”. I wonder if they were mad or genius . . . I always read there is a thin line between the two.

J. Martin: Your words touched me - deeply - for a variety of reasons. I can but echo what Walt has stated so well. W

Susan Schoeffield, love it! Bruce, appreciate that one. So many other good ones, that I'm forgetting to mention.

Thanks to those who commented on my poem. Your words encourage me.

Having your voice present is encouragement in itself. Good work Connie.

NA, NA, NA, NA. NA, NA, NA, NA. HAY(NA)KU, GOODBYE!

Games.
Teams opposed.
Field of battle.

The Home Team
has advantage.
Fans,

Rabid;
fanatic frenzy.
Sportsmanship run amok.

Taunting, prodding, teasing,
crowd pleasing.
Blowout.

Victory!
One sided.
Chant begins loudly.

...Na, Na, Na.
Hey, Hey.
Goodbye!

UM, I DON'T MEAN TO INSULT HER, BUT ABOUT YOUR MOTHER…

The progenitor who bore you,
a lovely woman, I’m sure,
but if beauty was a bad disease,
her face would be the cure.

A happy, jolly, jovial gal,
a woman full of mirth,
a sense of humor unsurpassed,
except by possibly her girth.

Your female parental unit,
who married dear old dad,
is akin to Rin-Tin-Tin,
but his breath is not that bad.

You call her mother, you call her mom,
she’s labeled “Mommy Dearest”.
when she shows her face, it’s a mad race,
“Paper or Plastic”, which one’s nearest?

Your mother’s not a stupid girl,
she surely has a brain,
but every time she uses it
she gets a nasty sprain.

I like your mother, really,
she’s never done me harm,
but when she cooks, it truly looks
like she sets off three alarms.

The love shows in your father’s eyes,
mom leaves him in a fog,
I’m not sure what he sees in her,
but she is good to his dog.

Your mother’s not the perfect one,
but none of us is it’s true,
I guess her most egregious flaw,
was giving birth to you.

hi!!! im ralph's daughter posting something random.... i made it up about my first stuffed animal hehehehehe

An ode to my first stuffed animal 
When I was born all alone
I had a friend to keep me sound 
She was cute down to the bone
She’d never leave my side or the playground
She was a stuffed animal but like a sister
I know because she’s made of stuffing she wont blister 
She’d stay by my side no matter what threat
Sometimes I’d wonder if she sweats (LOL)
She’s a lamb I call lamby
Hey!!! Just like that deer called bamby
This lamb o’ mine , shes a trip! 
She’s like a sis with a whip (lol)
She’s my best friend I’ve known her ALL my life
Thank god she’s stuffed, she can’t use a knife 
This lamb is my friend my sister if you would,
If only she could talk if only could!! 
Lamby has been there for me
I <3 love her so much hehehehe

AH peace out!!!! and happy new year alll!!!

To Dennis Wright also

I am glad you liked ‘Reasons Compelled’! Your review encouraged me to take a closer look also, and I was rather surprised at my finding it could become more deceptively complex, when contrasting and comparing the stanzas. I would like to share what I found.

Stanzas 2 & 3

Line 1 of stanza 2 begins by negating the physical attributes of an impersonal, inanimate object, which are perhaps passively pleasurably connotative, the Apple.

Line 3 of stanza 2 continues with imagery but, this time it is the imagery of literally destroying those physical attributes, and the negative acts are neutralized by the overshadowing of the result in attaining an even more pleasurable representation of the apple, which ironically loses its attributes of imagery , to become the tasty slices. Leaving the reader to assume the ultimate consuming and digestive destruction of its forms, for a nourishment benefiting the sole consumer.

Line 1 of stanza 3 again negates the focus on physical aesthetics, but now the object is highly personal, animate, not a possession, and this time strongly perceived as “Sheer” beauty, with sheer linking to the peeling and cutting of the previous stanza, and maybe alluding to a similar fate.

Line 3 of stanza 3 then affirms that this time, there is an actual prevention in acquiring a greater nourishment, Love, which benefits more than one individual. This implies the negative state of the woman’s interior, a core of non-beauty, perhaps rotten. Which greatly overshadows the physical, seeming to destroy that imagery unintentionally and figuratively this time in his perception.


Stanzas 1 & 4

Line 1 of stanza 1 begins by negating thought, which may be seen as an internal language communicating in highly personal, mental, ethereal forms/images, representing all external objects, people, experiences etc.

Line 3 of stanza 1 serves to further undermine the importance of the forms those thoughts take, by overshadowing them with the affirmation that the reasons compelled are more intimate and therefore closer to the truth, closer to the source which are the actual creations of those internal thoughts and their own independent self perceptions - Realizing how Affected through personal introspection.

Line 1 of stanza 4 negates penmanship, which is this time language in its fixed, mechanical, physical form. An external communicating in the same representations of things, people, experience, etc., this time in the static stylized form of any poem.

Line 3 of stanza 4 affirms that it is the experienced impact that is the overshadowing source over the fixed structure of language. This time the reasons that compel are from an indirect experience, the reading of the poem. Which can imply the potential for the writer to intentionally impact, by communicating externally those internal sources - Realizing how to Effect through personal projection.

Line 1 of each stanza also contains an anaphora “It’s not the”, which in each line is negating some type of form.
Line 2 of each stanza also repeats throughout linking all, reinforcing the theme of being burdened.
Line 3 of each stanza affirms that it is the underlying/interior forces that matter.

The poem itself seems to serve as an example, as initially it appears in form to be simplistic, non relating, shallow, straight to the point, and not very aesthetically beautiful. But upon closer inspection and digestion, it can be conceptually complex, and intricately interrelating, wrought with hidden structure and meaning. Proving the deception that is its own form as a burden, a limiting factor.

And I think this ties right in with Dennis’s and Janet’s ideas of temporal/relative truths, which could be the temporal physical forms, and the enduring/absolute truths which can be the sources of truth that are beyond physical form.

I liked it, lizzie. You'll know you have grown up a little too far if you start to have no fondness for lanbie.

Connie, thanks for your comment about The Diet Gods. The spirit has written, but the flesh is weak.

lizzie, nicely done. It brought me back to my own first stuffed animal. A treasured friend, indeed.

Meena, I loved H.A.H. Something to remember and repeat everyday!

Enjoying the conversation about truth...

J. Martin, I'm agreeing with Walt and Willy and saying too that your statement, "In a world where it was easy to miss what I saw." is a huge reminder to take heed in these lives we've been gifted.

Lizzie, I can identify with you I had a stuffed monkey named vanilla...she's a real monkey still today!

Maybe a thought or two....



INUNDATED

With thoughts of yesterday
seared in my memory, things
I wish I hadn't said or done.
Pleading for a second chance
to get it right to erase spite
acted out in undignified anger.
Times as these, living in flesh
rather than walking in the Spirit.
Thankful and forever indebted to
my Rock and my Redeemer. Turning,
I release it all to the One who will
set me free. Passionately I submit my
will to the One who has paid my fee.
In this life I know I will stumble
but the One who holds my hand will
always help me to regain my balance
and stand. So I'll fear not and my
anxieties will be few. Knowing that
upon each increasing day, my salvation
is fresh as morning dew; capturing
the first rays of the rising Son.

KYRIELLE: LIASON

Something about you has lasted,
it’s there in your eyes, this is true,
the passion in kisses tasted,
I knew your soul ‘fore I met you.

This meeting of minds predestined,
no lightning bolt out of the blue,
love of a kind like a whirlwind,
I knew your soul ‘fore I met you.

A link in this chain secured us,
a oneness created from two,
my heart believed and matured us,
I knew your soul ‘fore I met you.

Connections transcend separation,
the distance and time carry through,
love that defies all convention,
I knew your soul ‘fore I met you.

Join with this heart through your spirit,
Believe that we’ll both meet again,
Hearts share a song, I can hear it.
I knew your soul ‘fore I met you.

Hmmm . . . back later than I thought, but at least I made it. Trying to add my 2 cents worth into this week -- before next week's prompt gets posted, so . . .

Not Good Enough


Research was extensive
concept well conceived
theories, strong, supported
paper well received
consensus said the writing
was intuitive and tight, but
despite the grades and accolades
it never felt quite right

Performance was superior,
goals were all exceeded
under-staffed and -budget
but you garnered what was needed
Despite all odds, somehow, it seems
the deadlines all were met
The project flew, because of you
It all went well, and yet --

Achievements ever growing
still fear of failure gnaws
While others see accomplishments
you only see the flaws
Success seems so elusive,
perfection’s just too tough
Your biggest fear, it would appear
you’re never good enough

PANTOUM OF THE OPERA

I hide in the shadows concealed,
through cavernous matter of gray,
where these fragments of thought are revealed,
and fiery synapses play.

Through cavernous matter of gray,
a muse is amused and aroused,
as fiery synapses play
with words that those thoughts do espouse.

A muse so amused and aroused,
composition of poetry proposed,
through words that those thoughts do espouse,
and the feelings of heart so exposed.

Composition of poetry proposed,
set to music, a song so inspired,
with feelings of heart so exposed,
laced with love’s sweet burning fire.

Set to music, a song so inspired,
an aria driven and strong,
laced with love’s sweet burning fire,
for you to sing, Angel of Song.

An aria driven and strong,
you see through my flaws to my soul,
you sing to me, Angel of song,
and my vision of you takes control.

You see through my flaws to my soul,
exposing the me you have known,
as my vision of you takes control,
it shows you how much I have grown.

Expose me, the man you have known,
I hide in your shadows concealed.
I’ll show you how much love has grown,
when these fragments of thoughts are revealed.

got enough guilt to start my own religion
Crucify, Tori Amos

A southern Baptist and a humanist
end up raising Russian Orthodox
Catholics by mistake. Their mistake
can't be undone with Sunday school
and church exposure every other
summer. Punctured with grumbles of
discontent raised heavenward among
the childish masses, "You don't
make us go to Church in the villiage!"

I feel like a southern Catholic with a
knee-jerk guilt reflex. "What have I done
wrong now?" My first thought in many
situations. My goal, to shed my Catholic
skin and run naked, skinless, sinless into
the future, looking ahead wIth joy and
optimism instead of guilty pessimism
binding me into a smaller and fainter
version of who I can be.

Walt, PANTOUM is poetry defined.

A.C., you've reached into my own Catholic-bred guilt and helped to set it free.

Thanks, & glad I could help!

I wrote this as my anthem for week before last, but procrastination allowed me a second look so I posted it here instead. Now to write the first 2010 poem, grumble....

White Space


There’s a hole in the page, but she can’t fall in
A point on the pencil, yet she can’t begin
A place in her heart where the words still flow
But a space on the page where her soul won’t go.

What if?
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder


all these recent deaths
has me thinking
worrying
fixating
on the possibility of yours.
Would you think me selfish
if I were to pray that I went
before you?
It’s not like
I’ve been the one stuck
doing everything else
in this marriage.
You really oughta have
a turn behind the wheel too.
I mean
why should I be the one
left behind to deal with
all the crap?
doctor bills and
insurance claim forms,
funeral and floral arrangements,
wake or funeral pyre?
chapel service or graveside interment?
funeral home director or pastor?
Burial or cremation?
condolences and eulogies,
white socks or dark?
Goodwill or Salvation Army?
I’m having trouble
deciding.


© 2010 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

I think about everything
all the time- bills, work,
boyfriend, family. Am I
maximizing my potential?
Am I really doing everything
I can? Just once, I'd like
to be able to turn everything
off and just breathe.