“Covered”


If problems arise, please don’t hesitate to say,
I seem to seek approval, need to make them go away.

Let me compensate for you, counterbalance, save you fret,
Not a thought, you need to give them, I can handle them, I bet.

Gray hairs would not become your natural beauty, I besought,
Just recline, enjoy your book, not another thought.

Escape this world for another, what are friends for?
“I’ve got your back” My dear, “I’ve got it covered.”

ninacarole

Desperate Uncovered

she sleeps
beneath gaily printed sheets;
dormant until interest
pulls them apart
with the caress of a lover
or the violence
of a serial killer

Of her thousand selves
only a precious few
will be asked to tell her tale
and be admired
or emulated
or plagiarised

While the rest
have their covers torn away
and she is pulped,
returned, recycled
or put on two-for-one sales
and internet bargains
in the forlorn hope
she will wake once more
from cover sheets
and slipcases.

What comes immediately to my mind is a quote that explains my "religious beliefs" in one sentence. I'll be back later with a poem, but wanted to share this.

"Why should I gain from His reward? I cannot give an answer. But this I know with all my heart - His wounds have paid my ransom."

(From How Deep the Father's Love for Us, by Stuart Townend)

Today's prompt: For today's prompt,write a poem with (or about) someone (or something) covered.

Here is mine for today about having my life covered.

Perspective Covered

My life in perspective covered...

Knowledge, wisdom
come with age.

Life is not always
a stage.

Future, past
are what they seem.

Life is not always
a dream.

Today, tomorrow
a memory.

Life is not always
symmetry.

TO OSIP MANDELSTAM
Murdered in Warsaw: 1938


you laid your life
on the bloody lines
of a scribbled notebook
covered the page
when you could have swaggered
like a poet concealing
truth behind the lapel
of metaphors and similes.

one day you blew
your cover and slipped
out of hiding.
far from Stalin's wrath
the safe poem inside
your head
champed at the bit
until you set it free.

What could your life
be worth once he read
about his thick sausage
fingers, his mustache
of insects tickling an
upper lip? Comrade,
is this how brave men
throw their lives away?

#

Under the Covers

Winter’s fire is banked,
air dancing above hard coals
At peace in my bed.

Ground Cover

The ground is covered
With dead brown leaves
That crunch when you walk
And blow around in flocks

They leave the trees bare
Change the scenery
Open the world up
To display the inner layers.

The leaves were glorious
When first covered the ground
In shades of red, yellow, and orange
But now they lay used up
Browned by the sun, then wasted.

Judy Roney
November 6, 2009

Early Morning Phone Call

We’re Packing our bags for Saint John.
We’d written a different screenplay than this
a few short weeks ago: another grandchild
laughter and joy, abundant celebration.
Instead, our son called and his love is covered
in warm blankets in the hospital, labor has begun
and it’s premature. He has little hope
and we are going there to console and to grieve.
Zahra, their first, has been anticipating the new
like all first children do with mixed emotions
and her parents are devastated at this latest news.
They’ve been warned to expect the worst
and we want to uncover all the love that’s underneath
the present burning in our guts and minds
and open up our eyes to all the joy to come.

Blanketed

Grief veils
Every Friday
weariness comes over him
He looks tired.

Wearing black
significantly states
the mood of the day

This may change someday
when it's not so fresh
31 years
is a long time to remember
and never forget.

A dream of holding her
makes it all better
by his left side, close to his heart
where she belongs.

Undercover Canine

When you first came into our lives,
your head seemed to be covered by ears.
They reached way below your short body
And got tangled up in your legs when you ran.

We watched you laying in your little bed,
perfectly content to be there.
Or so we thought.
While we slept, you were awake.
You had your own ideas about
where you wanted to be.

In the morning, we were surprised to find you
curled up in a tight little ball, under the blanket.
A warm and soft body mass,
softly snoring,
your chest rising and falling ever so slightly.

We could swear you were smiling.
And we were never sure how you got there.

You weren’t a real baby,
although you were always treated like one.
And you were always a baby to us.

The first night without you,
and for many nights that followed,
it was hard to fall asleep.
No one pawed at the blanket to crawl underneath.
No one took the time and energy you expended
to find that special place where comfort abounded.

You are missed, my little friend.
The memories of your drooping ears covering your face,
the blankets covering your body by your own design,
will be with us forever.

We take comfort in those memories,
smiling and crying at the same time.
There, of course, will be others that follow you,
but none will completely cover the empty space
you left behind.

COVERING

Darkness covers the waters
and the waters cover the earth –
in the deep places,
what is there?

Jane Beal
sanctuarypoet.net

Warm and radiant
Wrapped in a blood-soaked blanket
That covers my sin

.

Blue Tarps Over the Firewood

No one can ignore
those narcissist blue tarps
garish in the back yard
.

Life’s A Box of Chocolate-Covered Caramels

I absolutely love boxed chocolate-covered candy.
I especially adore fruits and soft-centers
but not caramels. The problem with the caramels:
You have to chew too long.

I really really really love fruits and soft-centers.
As a kid, too often I ended up choosing the caramels,
which took way too long to chew.
I wished all boxes of chocolate-covered candy had those little diagrams in the lids.

Too often I snagged a chewy gooey sticky caramel
and in order not to get caught sneaking candy, I had to stare out the window for practically forever until I could finish chewing!
I wished all boxes of chocolate covered candy had those little diagrams in the lids.
But even with the caramels, to this day, I still absolutely love boxed chocolate-covered candy.

November 6th: Covered

Blanket

He’s snuggling up now,
Cuddling, caressed
In that soft, green blanket
Warm, fabric nest
No naptime without it
No quick bedtime bliss
Until that sweet blanket
Is safe in his fist
Then slowly, miraculously
All muscles rest
His eyes drift and close
Blanket is best.

Under Cover

Under cover, I tuck his sleeping form
Allowing him to lay there safe and warm
Watching the blanket gently rise and fall
As he dreams of clowns and playing ball
Feelings flash like an electric storm

Like a long-lashed, soft art form
A little clown to perform
Waiting for the curtain call
Under cover



From nurse to mother I transform
I dream of tasks that I’d perform
Kiss owies, kick a soccer ball
To maternal feelings I’m in thrall
Keeping the Mommy’s application form
Undercover

Yoga for Beginners: Brochure

The brochure suggests that you wear comfortable clothes, but not baggy. But, for me, comfort is baggy. They also, however, suggest layers. I do like layers, more cloth to cover copious flesh. Perhaps, it says, you can wear long sleeves and then pare down to a tank top or bra as your body warms-up before, at the end, covering back up for the final relaxation poses as you naturally cool off. Will I? I get warm and then hot and then sweaty so quickly whenever I try to exercise. Until a shower, I don’t think I’ll ever feel comfortable again. Exercise is not comfort. This fat is not comfort. But, can I, strip down in front of others? Can I try to stretch while everyone is watching? What if I can’t do a move? What if I fall down? What if it doesn’t even work and I’m left still fat and now covered with the grime of exertion? I fold the brochure in half, put it in my back jeans pocket to take home.

Princess

“I know I’m a ‘princess’
but my varnish-covered nails look so nice!
I don’t drink, smoke or swear
so affectation’s my only real vice.”

Susan, you "Undercover Canine" touched my heart. Two years ago I lost my little dog after 15 years of love and companionship. I still miss her every day of my life. Thanks for sharing such a lovely poem.

Janne Kuykendall

ID’idn’t Do It

She went up the stairs for a moment
leaving (for a moment) her small kid.
It got suddenly quiet - too quiet -
so she ran back down - just to see what he did.
He was nowhere to be seen
since behind the couch he hid,
afraid, because he knew his mom
was bound to flip her lid.
The walls were all covered with marker
which no eraser could ever rid.
Ah, the mind of an unrestrained child
with little super ego, a tad of ego – and tons of id.

Obscure Passing of Echoing Time

As white rivers quietly
Rush in tandem,
Abandoned in a time forgotten
Captured in the sins of the mother
Forever disconnected
In the echoing time
Of then of now?

As I look into the blue gray sky
When the pinks and mauves
Of sunset has faded
And the darkness
Has yet arrived,
Staring up passed the blue spruce
Which have been here before I
And I shall leave before them.

The top most branches
Stilled defined before
Darkness swallows the
Last breath of daylight.

High above tiny white and red
Lights blink
A jet passes, with no sound,
Darkness breathes
Covering the world.

I am disconnected
As I witness the birthing
Of the first evening star.

Echoing to me
The obscure passing of time.

This Old Book

Between the covers
Waiting to be discovered
Lies a whole new world.

The coffin is covered with dirt now,
being lowered into the ground and
covered in flowers. But I will
receive no closure- this is not
the end. There is no bodyin that
coffin. My body is covered in sweat.

Blue Eyes of the Soul

Glancing towards the closed doors,
In someone else's lab.
A large moving mass,
Was slowly passing by,
Casting a big shadow between the cracks.

In an intuitive flash,
A sense came to look out,
Moving carefully peeking to see.
To witness what it was.

A mountain of a man,
Seen pacing down the hall.
Strong inner feeling came,
That something good was there.

While I stood quietly,
Pondering,
He turned and headed back.
A quick dash inside so he wouldn't see,
I had to know who he was.

I gathered all the data,
Every detail on the man.
A brilliant physicist, they said.
Yet something hidden all the same.

Courage came to know him,
And a drive to make him laugh.
Appearing in his lab,
To distract him from his path.

My deep curiosity,
Just had to be satified.
Why was he so covered up?
And how to uncover why?

Intelligence was exuding,
A great deep voice was clear,
I could feel the gentleness of his heart,
Holding onto something dear.

Others in the facility,
Could easily walk on by.
Yet, he had my attention,
Because of what I saw in his eyes.

Behind the layers of the heavy skin,
Hid a most beautiful soul.
All covered up so we would not know.
The truth of his own depth.

Despite his best attempt,
To conceal what I could see.
Even his serious demeanor,
Couoldn't deny the truth.

A scientific mind sees,
Things in black and white.
What I saw that day,
Was a sparkling hue of blue,

Those blue eyes told the story,
They revealed a pure good soul . . .

Who knew?

A PRIVATE CHAT
(Eros)

greekloverboy33: so what are u into
cupidbrokehisbow: I don't know. Anything, I guess?
greekloverboy33: i wanna meet u. r u free tonite
cupidbrokehisbow: Sure, what do you want to do?
greekloverboy33: everythin
cupidbrokehisbow: ...okay
cupidbrokehisbow: But I want to ask you one thing.
greekloverboy33: anythin baby
cupidbrokehisbow: When did we become such empty vessels?
We orbit around each other with plastic smiles and perfect teeth,
but we are dead planets. No atmosphere, no plate tectonics.
Love wasn't always blind, you know; his gaze used to be
bright as the heavens, peeling away imperfect mortal shell
to get at that spark of the gods underneath.
Whatever happened to him? Whatever happened to Love
that was breath pushing against breath, simultaneous
invasion of each other's dreams? Someone slipped a cloth
over his eyes, and now his arrows fly unchecked in the air.
We're always so wrong for each other, our skin's become
so hard and smooth that the most perceptive stare will
slide right off. Love. Too many words have been wasted on Love.
And I've just wasted a few more to wonder what would he think
if someone took off that blindfold, and he was able to see
what horrors we've spawned in his tarnished name?
The fear, the disease, the broken homes: tell him how to fix it,
because he is an old, old creature, and he's forgotten how.
greekloverboy33: ...
greekloverboy33: hey baby i g2g but ill hit u up later ok
cupidbrokehisbow: Um, okay.
greekloverboy33 signed off at 10:34:32 P.M.
cupidbrokehisbow signed off at 10:34:57 P.M.

The first
moon after fall
equinox, I kneel,
shoulders
aching, jeans
knee-dirty,
the weeds
have to be
pulled, laid
in the cart
for burial
later in the
compost pile.

Afterwards with
pitch and swing,
I fork two
bales of hay
over barren
earth, and then-
turn my attention
to other things.

Only when the tips
of the redbuds
swell, will I
remember again
the earth
covered by hay,
the raw scent
of spring mud,
and the sweet
taste of the
first runner
bean flower.

I have been trying to link each poem to the ideas from the previous days (except for my cat poem) Something Iain said about a theme...

This mirrored face

the mask of time
imprints the days

demarcation,
these lines

cover the child
still innocent within.

Time cannot,
nor tears, erase

the layers that seal away
this tender spirit

instead, the butterfly of youth
fades in a tatter of gossamer

no chrysalis, this
metamorphosed shell

becomes the shrivelled worm.


Carol A. Stephen
November 6, 2009
PAD Chapbook Challenge

YOU WON'T SEE ME

Down in the crawl space
A leaking hot water pipe
plumber then poet



***Got the prompt, Haiku for now, hoping to have more time later, hinging on my plumbing skills.

Blew Blues

He felt like
an undercover cop
following her
around in search
of clues.

Why couldn’t he trust
his wife like
he used to
before she
blew her fuse?

laurie k.

"Morning Surf"

Eyes close
tickled bubbles drift upward
feathery bottoms of waves brush along her
prickled nerves hum
her body's rhythm

her board
tightly embraced by fingers
strengthened by weathered work
pushes the ocean
slides inside it
concealing
her

clothed in liquid crystalline
silence
of rushing water
a lullaby

water divides, folds
exposing body and board
chest heaves open
eyelids flutter
irises contract
muscles command strokes
propelling
her
into another wave

freedom beckons her
to the other side
peaceful concert of
body
board
ocean

she dives

Brittany Toledo

Sunken Secrets

Driving past, you’d never know
the drowned town of Pactola,
its forgotten memories
rippling across the reservoir.
We swim, jet ski, play, high above
the rotting remains:
abandoned cabins, lost dreams,
the rubble of gold-seeking
over a century before.

Driving past, you’d never know
the secrets beneath
that bedroom window
just down the road,
whispered prayers echoing
on the wind.
We drive on, radio turned loud,
awareness floating just below
the rippling surface.

The Book Cover

It's curb appeal for your words
an invitation to open up
and see what's inside
it is supposed to give you just enough
without revealing too much
like the right v-neck sweater

You don't get to choose it
it is done by committee
two are presented
you always like the one
no one else does

why can't it be blue or yellow
or less -- I don't know
you say - not sure
and you guess it's true
you don't know
you only wrote the story

In Hiding

“Just imagine how forgetful I'll be when I'm eighty!”
(Anne Frank, May 11, 1944)

We spent twenty-five months
behind the hidden door, covered
by bookshelves, eight lives
confined, then captured.

Of the millions, my voice remains,
those pages freezing me forever,
time covering me like amber,
a young girl, never growing up
never growing old.

How strange to know my face
remains the one the world will know,
peering back from the cover of a book,
captured for a few seconds on film,
peeking out of my window,
before we tasted fear.

Envelop me in your arms,
Hide me in your strength
Bury me in your love
Expose me to your need.

Day 6 – Covered

I thought I had it covered
All my ducks in a row
I’d dotted every I
and crossed every t
I knew the escape route
And I carried the key
To the back door
next to my heart

I thought I had it covered
I’d been through the pain
And sorrow of loss
I’d cried buckets of tears
And knew the exquisite sense
Of melancholy

I thought I had it covered
I’d smiled till my cheeks hurt
Laughing from the belly
With wild abandon and glee
A fit of giggles so wonderful
I fell over

I thought I had it covered
There was black, there was white
I didn’t have to look to closely
At either to know what they were
It was clear and defined
In its form and space

But I was wrong
My ducks flew south
I lost the key
And the back door grew over with ivy
The pain was nothing
But a memory with amnesia
Like childbirth
Laughter became a chore
And lines turned down
Instead of up
Black and white
became muddy grey and melted
Like March snow…

I thought I had it covered…

The Covered Wagon
© Rich Atwater Nov 6, 2009

Conestoga, Pennsylvania is an interesting town near the Susquehanna River,
It lies nearly fifty miles west of Philadelphia, the city of brotherly love!
Its claim to fame comes from “the covered wagon” which bears its name, and quiver
From the arrow point of Indian raids as they crossed “the Great Plains”, stars above.

The broad-wheeled “covered wagon” was home and transport for those hardy American pioneers,
Crossing the prairies in a hostile land was no small feat for restless souls who sought a better life,
Far in “the Wild West”, beyond the Oklahoma land rush, Nebraska farms, and even Rocky Mountain cheers,
They pushed onward for California, Oregon, and Utah Great Basin, some with small children, man and wife.

I remember well, September 1957 how Ward Bond and Robert Horton brought them to my home,
TV show: “Wagon Train”, “Round ‘em up, and head ‘em out, Westward Ho!”-- was the call the leader gave,
Riding shot-gun guard, a scout ahead, with special wagon for the cook with food and gear as they roam,
“The Conestoga Wagon” covered with white canvas like the schooner ships a sail of long ago, thus brave--

“Prairie Schooners” was the imagery as they sailed across a dusty, wind swept land, past tornado alley,
Onward to destiny, some to fall prey to Cheyenne, Sioux, or Black Foot raiding party as they circled round about.
Times of peaceful circumstance allowed a fireplace in “the circled ring” with fiddle, dance, and chase your gal-eeh!
“Catch her if you can” to snuggle up beneath the stars on moonlit night under a wagon-wheel, Give a “Yippee shout”!

The Oregon Trail brought settlers to a new and mystic land of tall green grass, majestic mountains, and flowing streams,
And some bereft of hope fell pray to winter hazards like “the Donner Party”, lost amidst the snows of Sierra Nevada cold,
And Mormon Pioneers fled hearth and home, religious persecution drove them on to seek another Zion in their dreams,
Many buried infant sons and daughters in the graves that’s scattered all across the land, yet, press onward, they be bold!

I have upon the mantle of my fireplace here at home, a hand-carved mini-covered wagon replica, true to form,
With water barrel latched aside, a hatchet, plow, shovels, musket gun, leather pouch, and lasso rope, box of gear,
And bags of grain and seed, and yes, my ancestral ties-- as dolls, “the Pioneers”, “the Family of Life” who lived the norm,
Of Wild West days among the law abiding crew who rode “the Prairie Schooners” like my shipmate relatives beyond the Pier!

For first the Atwater family came from England on good ship “Hector”—1635-- to land and plant Connecticut soil,
Then with Tory stance in days of war they moved on to Nova Scotia to displace the French Acadian down to New Orleans,
Thus “Cajun Queen” took its name from once “Acadia”, written about in Longfellow’s “Evangeline” midst strife and toil.
Great-grand-father Captain John Drake, with ships asail and wooden leg, made me 17th grand nephew to Sir Francis Drake through genes!

Thus here in America, my thoughts and memories, and ties to those who went on before, as history claims,
Includes the great sweeping Conestoga “covered wagon” train, and all the marvel of “a pioneer style life” of yesteryear,
And yes, along side my little replica also sets a wooden mini-stagecoach music box that plays a tune of westward fames:
“Do you know the way to San Jose”, Burt Bacharach’s song that Dionne Warwick brought to radio waves, my dear!

And I remember my own once homestead: “The Stagecoach Inn” astride the golden arch as symbol leading to “the West”,
Facing Mark Twain’s mighty Mississippi River, on the Illinois side, near St Louis, as an Air Force “Major” I reside,
And there my daughter born, and once “my trek of Westward Ho!” include, along “the Platte” to Chimney Rock as crest,
“Covered wagon fresh tracks” from broad-wheeled base, still in the sands of time, reveal to me what doth abide!

Ancestral ties, family linkage, life among the living, and memories of the dead of long ago for us to circumstance as been,
For Malachi, of Bible lore, once said in revelation from his God above: “Behold, I will send you Elijah, the Prophet,
Before the coming of the great and dreadful day of the Lord: And he shall turn the heart of “the fathers” to “the children”,
And the heart of “the children” to “their fathers”, lest I come and smite the earth with a curse.” Thus genealogy is profit!

COVERED

Closed curtains curtailed
any morning sun that dared
sneak in to illuminate the bed
in front of the window. Life,
cut off at 7:30 a.m., left
this old man cold beneath
thin cotton blankets. I reach
to touch the wrinkled skin
on the back of his hand, wonder
if he thought of me as his breath
ceased.
These remains of my father
are not the memory
that I will keep in my heart.
I will put this scene
with his ashes, bury both
to keep the way clear for the old
stories, stories of my father as
sailor, truck driver, cribbage
player. As the dad who laughed.
Those are the stories that will
rise up later, flow from my lips
once the dirt covers
the rest.

Uncovering

On the first time I saw him
Discovered, discolored with goo
Streaks of red and white blue
Oh my patriot child.

In the night-time I saw him
In desperate disastered despair
Sleep had blessed us with trials
Oh sweet infant of mine.

In the morning I saw him
All tucked under covers asleep
But I can’t keep him there
I uncovered the day.

With his closed eyes I saw him
Those lids that slid over black coals
He was dreaming his goals
and I asked him to stay.

I uncovered him, saw him
Who grew as the body grew tall
Never knew him at all
Oh my stranger undone.

And the flag will support him
That covers him red white and blue
Dreams of things he will do
Oh my patriot son.

What’s it like when two Gods meet for dinner?
One arrives early; the Other One, late.
“How did You pick this place?” “The food’s divine.”
They sit, cover Each Other’s Hands and gaze
for two teardrop-and-sun-birthing eons.

They order newborn clouds from the waiter.
The taste twists The Lord’s Face in ecstasy
(briefly mistaken for angst by His Mate)—
and then the primordial sashimi!
As You know, Gods love words and expressions,

crossword puzzles, poetry and movies.
“One down: Great to find in bed” “A pillow?”
“‘So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.’”
“Horse Boy smote My Heart with joy and sorrow.”
The Gods exchange gifts: the pomegranate’s

congregation for the weeping willow.
Then: “Got to get some sleep. Work tomorrow.”


DA

under the cover of time,
I return to examine
the bits of my life,
hunting for
intrigue, certain it
is there or can be invented
so I can smile,
then face another
day as just me.

Joseph Harker, you grabbed me again. Fascinating poem.

It also interests me to note how far my final poem got away from the prompt that started it.

Who knew "covered" could evoke so many emotions and images? You've all touched me today, with poems of books, dogs mourned, a grandchild who may be lost before known. I thank you all for the journey...

Covered

On a brisk Octoberfest morning
the bridge is covered with
booth-tents
hawking hot chocolate
tempting with photos of the Scenic City
sparkling with jewelry hand-made.

My husband and I hustle and don't
walk the full half-mile length,
because he didn't think he needed
a jacket.

In the distance Signal Mountain and
Stringer's Ridge are covered
with their own festive wares,
calling, "Come walk among the colors.
The leaves are turning and will soon
cover the ground."

The festival that is October
will become
the confetti underfoot that is November.
We admire the patchwork of gold and scarlet,
and then we clean it up.

Empty Handed

Her mailbox,
number G – 3,
opened every day
in the proper sequence:

Right 15,
Left 24,
Right 7.

Her hand thrust
Right
inside
hoping for a love letter
Left
amongst the bills.

Electricity.
Water.
Credit cards.
Car insurance.
Student loan.
Mortgage payment.

That covered
just about everything.
Adding it up.
Would there be nothing
Left?

Right,
on all accounts.

Pamela Gordon your poems are so touching and give me pause from my crazy days. Walt, I always enjoy reading your work and I just wanted to take a moment to let you know.

"Under Cover"

In the shadows
Of the trees
Covered by
The fallen leaves,
I hear the
Rustling
Of my son,
A giggle
A whispered,
"Here she comes."

"Shh," his brother
I hear him tell
She'll find us
If you don't stay still.

I creep and sneak,
And laugh aloud,
"Wonder where
My boys have gone."

Giggles, squirms,
They burst out of
Their leafy covers
To spread their love.

Covered in Moss

Alone in the dark
Just behind all of the trees
Sits an old man named Mark
Blinded by all he see’s
He finds a way to just get by

His home is covered in weeds
His walkway covered in moss
Nothing left of his life’s deeds
certainly society’s loss

He has no phone
no computer to reach out
He likes being alone
So, company he can do without

He wasn’t always this way
His home was a place of beauty
But, he lost it all one day
while trying to live up to his duty

His life became a nightmare
The day he lost his wife
Next his job, as if he still would care
What would happen with his life

So, he became a man of no means
like so many others’
all at once, he’ lost all of his dreams
and did not wish to share another’s

Walking out on all of society
he learned to live off the land
No, leave it all to the rich and mighty
He no longer gave a damn

That was many years ago
Before his home began to decay
Now all he has left to show
is all he’s had to pay

There is a house deep in the forest
It’s covered in weeds and moss
The who live’s there a guest
who like so much rubbish
life has simply lost. . .

©Ralph J. Fitcher, November 6, 2009, Lost poem. As soon as I saw this prompt, this poem came
to me.

I have been back reading, Marie some really touching stuff. Speaking of, whoever did the poem about a person not wanted to be touched. I was really touched by that poem. No pun intended. You see, I suffer that affliction. The doctors have told me it's a form of claustrophobia. I don't like anyone being too physically close, nor touching me in anyway. When I am in a crowd, I actually start to feel panic, can't breath, start thinking really desperate and not so nice thoughts. Of course, there are times with my wife, otherwise I would not have a child. but for the most part, I don't like anyone touching me at all. The strange thing is, my animals don't bother me, just people, even close ones.

Ralph.

"Shame"

In shame, I am covered
I am covered in shame, for the time that's sped by
We have much to catch up on darn, how the days fly.

I think of how busy we both, have become
We can't let life's trivia, our mindfulness numb,

The affection we share, each for the other,
Our obligatory tasks tend to smother.
In shame, I am covered.

ninacarole

"Cover Me Cover You"

Deep in dreams
you rustle restless.
Are you running through snow?
You shiver.

I place my hand soft
on the hair across your
silent eyes
and stroke them away.

Still, you breathe so quickly.

Grandmother's quilt
patched with time
I lay across your sleeping form
and you quiet
sleeping smile.
A calm covers my heart.

I like what I have so far and feel that it is complete, but since I have time to edit, this might be just a single stanza of something larger.

Melissa Opined

Melissa opined
To the passenger window
“Joy is such an ugly word”
As if covering her eyes and mine from
Her marriage.

Uncovered


She huddles alone in the sterile room,
cowering in a paper gown.
Misgivings hovering about her head,
she wavers, considering her options.

Cold hands cupped to belly, she is
bewildered still, by how this came to be.

They were so sure they had it covered.

MY LORD JESUS

One day the knowledge of You
will cover the earth
as the waters cover the sea.

On that day,
strife and division will cease.
You will rest Your foot
on Your enemy’s neck,
to show the entire world
Your victory,
before You throw Him
into the bottomless pit.

May that day come swiftly,
for the earth groans
awaiting Your appearing.

Kathleen, beautiful!

Nancy, Beautiful!

Moonshine Tunes

covered all in creekslime
and smelling like the guts of worms, dead fish, honeysuckle
later we would find ourselves the hosts
to countless tiny ticks
too small to find until they’d gorged themselves
and swollen large as mustard seeds.
stay aways, not run aways
we were wild and fearless
singing moonshine tunes like nursery rhymes
and camels and fatimas out of world war one
we trailed anachronisms
in the wind behind our bikes
like disney girls without a problem
out of reach of common sense
in another summer I would know
why you played with such ferocity

Perpetuity

Covered in dew,
the 7am grass looks resplendent
in green, with golden heads
of dandelions popping
through the weed killer
you laid down on Tuesday.

I never thought you’d succeed.
The snow-on-the-mountain
spreads by the square foot despite
your careful application of Roundup
to the leaves along the border.
You killed the bluebells instead.

And now you are out there
with your new dandelion puller,
one-at-a-time determined
to eradicate the interruptions
to the beautiful green carpet
that covers our property.

They’ll be back.
The roots will never
give up.

Let us Go

We snap on our bathing suits, get
our bicycles out the shed. Daddy pumps air

into our tires and off we ride - twin sisters -
to the pool for the first time on our own. Daddy knows

we can't swim-- doesn't want to let us go, but we are
thirteen and should be, ma says, bleeding

any day now. We take the long way
there-- down Blue Hills, up Rockwell, a right

on School Street, a left on Park Ave.
where the pool is. We know we won't swim:

will just park our bikes and splash
around a bit-- just enough to come out

chlorine'd & cool.

Later, in our together-solitude, covered
in pool-smell, we race home-- taking the short way

up Wintonbury, hurrying before the scent
dies-- eager for daddy to fill his nose with it.

HAYSTACK

When she walked around the corner of the barn
she began writing a mystery
in every mind. In each imagination
her disappearance became a wilder story,
each more beautiful and terrible
in the telling: whispers of the drowning pond,
a crazed red stallion, blossoming blood.
She was haloed in the downing sun
of memory, the wings of winter birds flying north
to summer. And all the while, her horses
chewed her absence, hungering for hay.
In town, rumors scattered in each
direction of the wind but never came to rest
behind her barn. There, the haystack
settled back again, and cinched its tarp snug
over its secret, how it once amazed the sky
with cascading sunstruck motes
of shaken winnow.

Too Little, Too Late

Covered by a towel, this body—
socked-in gray sky, empty bowl—

sinks into the soft massage bed,
grateful for hands that provide

what I don’t. I’m the red-faced guy
cracking my gum, who shows up late

to the show, bouquet in hand, after
my girl is done. It wouldn’t surprise me

if someday this body slaps my cheek,
turns on her kitten heel and walks away,

leaving me slack-jawed, hands clenched,
forgotten roses tumbled on the floor.

The Pit

My legs were so heavy
I couldn’t move a bit,
all I could do
was lay in the pit.

I must have broken them
when I fell down the hole,
I was out hunting gazelles
with a wicked long pole.

I was wondering how to climb out of the pit
when I heard my name echo through the trees,
help is coming I thought I’m rescued for sure,
if only I could get to my knees.

I heard a rustle and looked up to the top
and there peering down was a tiger’s eye,
and he jumped down with grace and headed my way
I thought this is it, today is the day I die.

As he took a leap and I felt his warm breath,
I screamed and I jerked awake in my bed,
and there at the end was by Great Dane Fred,
laying across my legs making them feel like lead.

So thankful I am that I’m not dead,
just covered by my dog
and the dreams
which float through my head.

First thought that popped in my head, a loose interpretation of prompt, I suppose.

"Covered Dish"

Transported separately
by others,
who considered their obligations
fulfilled
for another month,

the two shuffled through
separate doors,
no expectations
just another afternoon
alone in a mass of humanity
herded into a florescent lit room.

She put her fruit filled jello
on the desert table,
he, his almost thawed
chocolate cake,
the one his daughter
had bought last week.

"Where's the whip cream?"
He asked.

"It's a covered dish lunch
not a restaurant," she replied,
with a shy smile.

They would hereafter consider it
their first date,
a long distance relationship
separated by 15 minutes drive time,
30 days by relative transportation
to the monthly covered dish for seniors.

Marcia McLees Bogaert

Grace

She knew an eternity would not be long enough to remove the layers of guilt
That were suffocating her.

Thankfully, one drop of His blood would.

(back for seconds today)


Who assassinated Abe Anchovy?
Was it the night that provided cover,
or the distraction of Jon Bon Jovi;
a freak break in Body Guard’s hovering
or the maze of shadows in the ivy?

Was it Abe’s own corrupted government
that bit his own hand like a handmade shiv?
Or was it his mistreated ex-lover
who seduced the bullet-maker to give
one special slug some cyanide gravy?

Folks all seem to agree he couldn’t live
even with the imbroglios over.
His private doc asserts, “Blame his liver—
or the sex malaise (dirty old Rover).”
And so by seagull and snowy plover,

outside the innocent town of Dover,
conspiracy fades beneath the clover.


DA

COULDN'T LIVE WITHOUT HER

Cough into your elbow
to cover up your mouth.
Left-handed do it north;
right-handed do it south.

Be sure to wash your hands;
put on this paper mask.
Yeah, I feel terrible!
You really had to ask?

I drove myself straight home
and crawled into my bed;
then pulled all the covers
right up over my head.

Certain that I would die,
angels/demons hovered,
when a sweet voice chimed out,
"Love, I've got you covered.

My hot soup's the answer;
enough to see you through."
Should've known: not alone -
my Grams to the rescue.

The moral, friends: simple.
So, follow what I say:
"See over" Life's hurdles,
Let Grandma save the day.

W

Dogged Disguise

I'm a fat little white poodle with a permanently dribbly chin
that's the true me if you could zoom much closer in;
Luckily no-one's managed it - least of all my lover,
my inner me's well hidden and it's staying under cover.

Cloud cover and fresh wind
Maple leaves swirl in red gowns
Rain ends the fall party

A three-year old I knew and loved
several decades ago
Sesame Street groupie
still struggling with pronunciation

recites for a loving audience
one of his favorite bits from the show
and it went something like this:

"Ol' Mudder Hovered
went to the covered
to get her poor gawd a bone
but when she got air
the covered was bare
so.....orderd a pizza!"

True story.

(This is the first place the prompt took me. Hopefully something more will surface later, but I make no apologies for such a sweet memory.)

Thank you to Walt, Connie, Marie Elena, and Ina for the mentions and especially for your understanding of yesterday's posting dedicated to our beloved dog. Susan and Janne, I know you can relate.

ELEANOR RIGBY

The placard merely said her name,
and the dates of her existence,
A testimony to a life
of spinsterly persistence.
The sad account of her demise,
a legend ne'er imagined,
her dowdy looks were compromised
as was that misplaced fashion.
The preacher gave the eulogy,
though he knew not of her passion,
and placed her in a wooden box,
all knotted pine and ashen.
The mourners were a meager few,
the flowers even fewer,
the frock she wore was fairly new,
no spoken words were truer.
The stone, a broken marble slab
that bore her poor inscription,
beneath here lies a an vacant soul,
a life's sad dereliction.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
God Bless her sorry soul,
buried in her earthen grave;
a secluded covered hole.

Theresa, We had a lot of dogs when I was growing up, and their position in the family were never in doubt. And that always made it as hard. I understand the anguish you're going through and sympathize.

Undercover Secret Agent Man
© Rich Atwater Nov. 6, 2009

“Under Cover Angel, midnight fantasy”-- lyrics from a pop-rock song of yesteryear,
Along with “Secret Agent Man, they’ve given you a number and taken away your name”.
Ah, the matters of life conjured up in the mind of Alan O’ Day and Johnny Rivers steer—
One’s thoughts to “Charlie’s Angels”, and “James Bond” of Ian Fleming’s “007” fame!

Who would have thought, me, as a child, would live the life of such a fantasy in truth?
Yet, somewhere in time the change did come that took me down “the road less traveled”,
From a Robert Frost poem of Oh, so long ago, as quoted on Inauguration Day for JFK chooseth,
The man who spoke of a “fork in the road of life”, to speak to youth for chance, not come unraveled.

“Ask not what your country can do for you, but what YOU can do for your country”, in service,
And therefore, my chosen path took me on to special training at intelligence school, equipoise,
To act in secret stance among the stout and brave “behind the scenes” with those who are not nervous-
About what must be done to sway the path of life towards a cause of justice far above the factional noise.

Undercover Secret Agent Man, a fantasy no more, for thus they gave me a number, and it was “006”,
But my name was never taken away, but given rank, that of an Air Force “Major”, Top Secret clearance.
The “Cold War” stance held sway in politic of mind and in the psyche of the masses East and West to fix-
Upon the outcome if it fail—Armageddon—Yet, goal: to stop the spread of communism in its adherence.

So onward, forward in our cause, we met the enemy “face to face” and put the pressure on against a foe,
It took a thousand men or more, of diplomats, and military stance, and Undercover Secret Agent Men,
Of economic might, a people girded by their “values”—decency of life, liberty, pursuit of happiness, GI Joe,
To bring about “the Fall of the Iron Curtain” – the downing of “the Berlin Wall”, way back when!

And thus upon completion of our due, I hung my hat, retired from the scene of -- “behind enemy lines”,
To lead a life in solitary reflection as a writer, even poet, and bring to others heart felt muses of the mind,
To challenge youth to higher realms and greater tasks that motivate towards lofty, utilitarian opines,
Which tend towards reflections on “the love of God”, and feelings for our fellowmen which be gentle, kind.
=====================================================================
Poet’s Note:
Reflections on a thirty year career “behind enemy lines” as an American Defense Intelligence Officer as recorded in the autobiography of Major Richard-Merlin Atwater, USAF in the book: “The Man Who Helped Bring Down “the Iron Curtain” available on-line at www.3swanspublishers.com Known on duty as Top Secret Agent “006” in real life. Currently founding member of “The Living Poets Society”, and dubbed “the Poet Laureate of “the Maine Woods”, and Romantic Psalmist of “Tampa Bay”.
======================================================================

Sorry for the promotion--"undercover" just sounded like a good place to bring the past to light--since it actually happened!

Behind Closed Doors

You’ve been placed in a simple pine box
covered with California soil
in the pauper’s section of the cemetery.

He doesn't tell me you have died
until three months after the beating,
ninety days after your last breath.

I rage, sorrow, feel as bereft
and helpless as I have always been,
in protecting you . . . and myself.

Forty two years and I could swear
yesterday I washed the blood
from your face and hands,

wrapped your bruises in a soft cotton towel
and begged you one more time
to leave him, stay with me in Colorado,

but you covered his sins
tried to protect what little dignity
might remain.

Now your grave is marked with love.
I must not wish you here beside me
because at last, you are free.

Its true
they found
a Norman Rockwell
stuffed behind a
dummy wall
in an old man's home

A masterpiece
was left for
the Salvation Army
behind the pile of
ragged sweaters,
next to
the rubber-banded
puzzles
shy a piece or two

Flea markets, too,
cloak strokes
from the finest palettes
if only you push
the right toasters
and lawnmowers aside

Sift through the detritus,
linger in the seedy corners,
peel back the blue tarp over
the leaning stack of books,

Tread the dewy morning tangles
of grass
while the booths
are just opening
on Sunday

Yearn for
the unmatched joy
of paint scraped
from old canvas
to reveal a new layer
of lost brilliance
below the plastered on
ordinary

X's and Oh's

It may come from the same
place of love and the familiar,

but there's nothing familial
about his "Baby." It's nothing

like her father's
or her great-uncle's.

And of course she knows
it's because of the "Oh's"

that come before it
when she is underneath

his sheets, beneath
his body, covered

in his X's.

Saturday, November 07, 2009 1:26:14 AM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)
X's and Oh's

It may come from the same
place of love and the familiar,

but there's nothing familial
about his "Baby." It's nothing

like her father's
or her great-uncle's.

And of course she knows
it's because of the "Oh's"

that come before it
when she is underneath

his sheets, beneath
his body, covered

in his X's.


Melissa "Missy" McEwen

Chuck

Chuck, on the train from Sacramento,
has no neck. He wears a baseball cap
perched high on his head, looks out the window,
says, “I’m from California, grew up near here.
Richest soil in the world. A farmer, now,
he’s got it covered: he knows
what he got to do today. He looks
at the land and sees he’s got to go
here or there, do this or that, and he does it.
Not like in an orfice – when that phone rings,
why it could be near anything.
My brother and me, we used to swing
acrost the creek on ropes hung from a tree
and drop right in the water.” His arms hang
away from his sides. His fingers
barely lace across his belly.

Jenny Doughty

BLACK TOP-HAT

[Elihu Burritt, 1846]

What’s a hat for,
but to cover the head and keep out weather;
to tip in greeting a stranger “good day”;
to wear a year in mourning for a mother dead?

Now, time to put it aside. You’ve scrimped
and bought yourself a new one.
The old grieving-hat sits on a shelf
in your small dark room.

Do you imagine it tips its brim
this early London evening, late November
as you let yourself in at the door?
Or is that a stranger shadow that flits

against the wall? Look, a man squats
hunched at your grate, trying to light a fire.
His fingers are too cold to do the job;
his tattered coat drips bilge-water on your floor.

A black man shivering as if still in chains
back home in the Land of the Free. Escaped
slave stowed away on a ship
from Baltimore – how did he find you here,

and know he’d be welcome? You dress him
in your better overcoat and your mourned-out
hat. May he walk under the top-hat
of a free man under a free English sky.

NORWEGIAN WOOD

Hail to thee, oh wainscot,
wall covering most foreshortened,
Spruced up with patina fair,
the role you serve is important.
You add a warmth to any room,
you keep the chair rail straight,
you give a depth of richness,
there's really no debate.
Whether oak or knotty pine
I'd say you've got my number,
"Isn't it good Norwegian Wood?"
Yes, it's my favorite lumber.

Uncovered

Peel back my
Thickened skin,
Take the blinds
Up
Let the light
Pour in

There’s a red wine stain
On the floor,
Next to my
Panties
Your cigarette is still smoldering by the
Door
There’s a trail of change left from the
Bathroom floor to the
Edge of the bed
Your cell phone is blinking
Red
28 missed calls


Don’t worry about me
Don’t look back
Take it for what it
Was
Take it for the
Christmas gift you
Never had
Take it
But she’s going to
Know
You don’t have this
One
Covered

Cover Me


With roses, with pearls
with chocolates and bliss
with silky pajamas
with one final kiss

you go to your sweetheart
I go to grief
full of what-could-be--
you, full of relief,

covered by stories
as true as they seem;
while I weave a cover
of raggedy dreams.

Uncovered Secrets

I documented the adventure behind your mirror.
Started with a crack, then a split, then shatter.
Poof, no image, no more. Glass on the floor.
Swept it up sadly. Seven years bad luck, due
to the sudden exchange of cold for heat, or
was it from years of straining to expand and
contract? At any rate, the brittle truth strewn
in hap hazardous pattern glittered more bright
than the luminous moon because each edge
had so many facets, whereas your original
reflections had been nothing but flat.

Covers

She was enthralled by his pure brawn.
His hair fell in raven locks around his broad shoulders.
His chiseled chest was bare of any hair or clothing.
Only a leather strap encircled his naked torso.
From this strap of hide hung his long stiff sword
His only nod to modesty was his flaming red kilt
that barely contained his eager bulging thighs-
these mighty cedar legs that ended in supple leather boots.

He saw in her an innocence of beauty.
Her golden tresses framed her face like a halo.
Her simple shepherdess garb only fueled his desire.
He longed to be one of her simple sheep,
gently led about by her delicate hand on the staff
that tapped on the downy rumps with loving care.
Oh to lie down in her dewy meadow under her gaze
and leave behind his lonesome warrior ways.

Alas, their love was fated to not be.
For although they were close neighbors
and longingly gazed at each other every day,
they were worlds apart-
fated never to touch hands.
Their lands so close yet so far.
He on the cover of a romance novel,
she on the cover of a picture book.

A Note of Gratitude

The amount of encouragement, positive commentary and inspiration that people are showing each other through this contest so far is amazing. Poets have to open up parts of themselves in order to express the finer qualities of the words; to emphasize the meaning of what they have to say. There is a risk in being that open and vulnerable. I applaud everyone's ability to express everyday, uplifting us all in a positive direction.

Well . . . I think that about covers it!! :)

YELLOW SUBMARINE

The accident was well documented.
The snows had fallen through the night,
and roads were slick and covered.
The journey of a yellow school bus
ended by sliding off of a narrow bridge,
nose first into ice crusted water.

The flow of the water
was broken by the jagged rocks that documented
the base of the weathered bridge.
After such a blustery night,
the young students on the school bus
stayed huddled close, their cold faces covered.

The driver had discovered
that the depth of the water
was seeping in through the bottom of the school bus.
Newspaper reports had documented
that over the course of the night,
the packed snow slickened the bridge.

At the base of the bridge,
the swell of the creek covered
the snow that had fallen the previous night
and the temperature of the water
was near freezing and duly documented
as the children were extricated from the school bus.

After the children were rescued, the school bus
became submerged under the bridge.
Accident reports documented
the depths of wetness completely covered
the vehicle underwater,
and it remained there throughout the night.

At the end of the night,
the crane that was sent to raise the school bus
blocked the entire bridge
as it tried to lift it from the water.
Photographs and video tape documented
the attempts, but the bus stayed covered.

The stories that documented that frigid night
were covered more than that submerged school bus,
the children stood on the bridge and gazed at the bus in the water.

Cop’s Cover Blown

“Hey, you’re covered
I’ve got your back,
so break down
the door, man, no

one is going to answer
our shouts. Police
don’t mean nothin’
to killers who got
nothin’ to lose. Go,

my gun’s drawn.
Wait! Shit, I can’t
do this. Listen. Listen.
Bang! Bang! Blood

on the floor, not theirs.
Hey, cop down, hurry,
he’s not lookin’ good.
Man, I’m blanked out;
thought I had him covered.”

Hi Everyone,

You are all doing a tremendous job here. Robert and Brian, of course,
thanks so much for making this all possible.

Way too many to pick and choose.

Covered

Born in a small sawmill town
Seventh son of a brood of ten
We lived in a shack with two rooms
The walls were tarpaper thin
Summertime mom cooked our bread
On a wood stove, was it hot
Spare hours were spent making quilts
For the winter was coming on
Money we never had any
Love we would spread around
We all worked together
Gather firewood and storing food
Winter nights were long, fires died
Was then dear mom would bring
Those warm old quilts, our covers.
Out of storage, bless her name.

Raymond Alberts

THE COVER

Anticipation
and I tear open the first box.
Cardboard scraps slip to the floor
as I burrow for a book
...MY book.

Oh my.
The cover.

Though I'd been warned,
I'm still surprised
by the well-endowed brunette,
her gaze smoldering as she
wields her whip.

-Was- she in my story?
Oh wait
now I remember
a secondary character who
dies in the first scene,
consuming food unsafe.

Her outfit, though, concerns me:
Wouldn't the leather chafe?

THE TUNIC

I swirl and shimmy amidst twinkling lights,
Elegant and subtle in my skirt and tunic.
The music stops.
I stop.
Slowly it starts up again,
And I resume my undulations,
Slowly sliding my hand toward the hem
Of my tunic - one long strip of shimmering cloth.
Up it goes, and I turn away, but it stays.
I wrap it back around, this time about my head
And my eyes-
Then I twirl about, and away it sails,
Higher and higher,
Finally revealing what it has concealed:
Glittering top,
Toned abdomen
Jeweled belly button,
And shimmering belt -
All more beautiful than the tunic,
Which itself is part of the dance,
Floating gracefully in the wind.

The Journey: Day Six: a poem with (or about) someone (or something) covered

I was very young and sitting in the living room
of our single-wide trailer
on a well-used couch,
the over-sized book 101 Dalmatians—
a birthday present—
standing tall on my lap, tall enough
to hide my mother, crying,
standing in the kitchen, a dish towel
pressed to her eyes.

First her mother—uterine cancer
buried behind symptoms of benign distress,
and her father a month later.
Everyone said he suffered a broken heart.

I read of Pongo and Perdita,
Colonel and Captain,
Cruella,
and the canine gossip
I wouldn’t understand until much later.

Day six
Inside the blue walls of the nursery
There is a battle raging
The rambunctious toddler is tucked into bed
Amid kisses and tickles
Bedtime stories and giggles

He laughs he kicks he spins around
Just for the joy of being tucked
Under the fluffy green blankey again


“Come on little man,” I sigh
“It’s beddie-bye time
I’m going to tuck, tuck, tuck you in
Just one more time”

Soon my son is fast asleep
The covers heaped in a pile again
at his chubby little feet.

Veil of Midnight

I close my eyes
bid day goodnight
allow full moon
to hug me tight
behind closed lids
where yearnings dance
within your arms
we taste romance
nakedness
with aim to please
cuddled close
'tween satin sheets
echoes tiptoe
reach the stars
whispers blend
with midnight sighs
passion stirs
in deepest core
as words of love
embraces soul
harmonic pleasures
intertwine
poetic verses
massage mind
body shivers
moist with you
shimmers
like fresh morning dew

~ ~ ~

ah, sweet fantasy
cradled in dreams
covered with veil
of make believe


November 6th, 2009
(prompt-covered)


(c) Rose Marie Streeter

FIXING A HOLE

Standing on the edge of reason,
wisdom and logic fought for dominance.
A random thought came to mind,
and in total fairness settled their differences.
No one was compromised, no concessions made.
When a chasm is filled, it is no more.
When a hole is filled, it is whole.

“Covered”

They tell me
salvation’s a gift
but it looks more like
a gift exchange:

“If you believe in Christ,
then He’ll give you Eternal Life.”

This is where most everyone
got it wrong:
grace
forgiveness
love
are all gifts.

Jesus hanging there
dying
from the weight of
all things human

is the ultimate expression
of grace
under fire.

Every depiction of this act
resonates
through the centuries
as He speaks to me

“I got you covered.”

Cover

little Johnny-Jump-Ups in between the grasses

tempered glass lid steamed. dropped.

bath water sea salt slipped under

book spine. its giving, forgotten.

water then skin

skin then sheet

sheet then blankets three and warming

cover me

the island where he swam to shore

Snow and Moon - the sisters

shadow on the road. fast.

water then skin

skin then sheet then blankets

dark

a brown velvet hand opens my

box of sleep or private silver sea

J.A. Jensen: oh my [blush, blush], stiff sword and bulging thighs . . .

Labyrinth Hidden

Leaves cover the lower lawn.
Sodden quilt of giant brown maples layer,
each three times the size of my hand,
yellow beech like stitching between.
This blanket of leaves covers beneath,
hand-laid stones now going to sleep.
Sacred path of walking meditation,
seven circles of moving contemplation
can lead me to the centre of all,
until Fall's wind and rain covers
labyrinth with leafy spread again.

:The latter shades of day:

Like fresh fallen snow, blanket the row
and dip the scene in raspberry hues
Let pillow flesh the flow of this nestled
beam, let it turn the leaves
Flush against the bosom, the rogue sheet
with the sheer scent of gold
Let it be subtle, let it come quilted
in a river of rest, smooth and soft
Against the tide of sleep, let it glow
in the rouged moon, rustled and rolled
in the faintest blush of night

Hidden Shame




Sea and Ocean cry
Clouds rain grief and death.
Sludge hides dark secrets
Mankind kills, then dies.

Undercover


One eye, half hidden by hair,
one blue eye, turquoise domes
in Bukhara, turquoise and
indigo, electric indigo, blue
larkspur and Miles Davis at
midnight blue. One eye
under one curved eyebrow,
a fermata, one blue eye,
unblinking luminous blue.
One eye, shuttered by two
fingers, one blue eye,
blueberry stain on blue jeans,
bluefire jellyfish blue.
One eye, screened by
black eyelashes, one blue eye,
turkish tiles blue, seashell
blue moon periwinkle blue.

My Heart Takes Cover

Sometimes I just want to feel
Like a warm blanket is wrapped around me
And I don’t feel like figuring it all out
I don’t want to talk about feelings
I don’t want to have all the answers
And I don’t want to do much of anything
But lay in the sunshine
Of my warm blanket

Sometimes I want to feel
Like a warm blanket is wrapped around me
I can feel its’ softness on my cheek
how it caresses my shoulders
I can pull it close to me
feel the security
And hide my head beneath it if I want to
Stay like that all day

Sometimes I want to feel
Like a warm blanket is wrapped around me
And I can sit on the couch
Read a book by the fire
Drink some wine
Think of nothing
But the crackling sound
And the smell of burning wood
Feel the warmth on my face

I look within

In this moment of NOW
My future, my past
My woulds, shoulds, and get to’s
Don’t exist
Only me
And I wrap myself in my heart
My warm blanket
And smile

At Grandma’s (fib)

The
twins
shared a
double bed,
she slept on top of
the blanket, he slept under it.

Protection
Swathe me in balmy moist air
Drape my eyes against evil
Wrap me in warm, shelter me.
I walk in silence, I breathe reflectively
Always there, always caring, sharing, and keeping watch.

I haven't written for today yet due to the time difference and work neither have I had much time to read but I plan to do so over the weekend.

Marie Elena - thank you for your support, I only used to write BFs sporadically and I'm already finding it hard to come up with new and interesting rhymes every day but I shall perservere

What I've read so far...great stuff and some unusual takes on the prompts.

Cheers all


Iain

#6 HIDDEN

What could it be
in this envelope?
Is it a bill?
A check?
Bad news from home?
Perhaps my dream job offer has come
A contract to sign
Forms to be filled

Oh! potential sealed with bad-tasting glue
Triangles on back
Flat-faced front
My address, but no return
Little paper mystery
Keeps me guessing
I will breach your secret
And slit open your little white neck
It’s just someone’s campaign
With a fake one-buck check
(Really they ought to have kept it. They need it more than me.)

In a darkened room


Bartholomew Foggerty, the brilliant weasel
Had been struck down with a case of the measles
He had buried himself under his quilt
Wracked with fever as well as with guilt
For he had received a brand new commission
And had been forced to beg permission
To put off the undertaking
Until his body stopped aching
He hoped that he wouldn’t lose out
As he could do with the cash without doubt
Had he been well you see
He’d be painting a family scene
A prominent Badger and his kin
Many of whom are not very thin
And as Bart’s charges are set by the inch
He’d make five hundred pounds at a pinch
But laid low as he was instead
He had taken himself off to bed
The doctor estimated over a week
Before he was well enough even to speak
And so he remained in his cot
Covered in terrible red spots
Whilst he’d rather be put to the lash
Than lose the Badgers hard cash
At first the Badger had doubts
And went to seek Old Bart out
He suspected he’d find him drunk
For he knew to which depths he had sunk
Being starved of clients who pay
And drinking his days away
But the Badger was filled with pity
And sang the poor weasel a ditty
And promised in fact he swore
That in a fortnight he’d return to his door
Accompanied by all his relations
To become Bart’s latest creation
This cheered the weasel up no end
And his spirits began to mend
Although he was still very spotty
And the itching was driving him dotty
The badger’s wife came every day
You couldn’t keep her away
To tend to his fevered brow
And whisper don’t worry now
For all will soon be well
And you won’t be able to tell
That ever you were even sick
Oh yes! This illness we’ll lick
And so Bart remained in his bed
Thinking he might soon be dead
And whilst the badgers wife mothered
Both weasel and easel stayed covered.


Iain.

Some really great poems written yesterday. Emotions ran all over the place; some sad, some funny, some bold, some serious. I loved them all!

Reading time has been hard to come by. I didn’t take the time to drink in the wonder. Red faced she adds: There WILL be time for football today. GO BUCKS! ;)

So many put smiles on my face, or touched my heart.
Mr. Atwater: What a legacy you leave for your future generations. Bless you!
RJ Clarken: Great job as usual, but especially Princess and Id. Adorable!
J. Hugh MacDonald: My heart goes out to you and yours.
Thank you, Ralph. And regarding your question/comment, I remember the poem, but can’t think of the poet.
Susan Schoeffield: How sad. They do become family, don’t they? We had to have our bull mastiff put down years ago. It was so hard on all of us. But what really struck me is how my “strong” husband cried all weekend long.
Katrina: So endearing!
Cara Holman: Lovely haiku.
More excellence from Janet Rice Carnahan. And I agree with your note. :)
Brittany Toledo: I was impressed with your description, and then saw “Toledo.” Is that a name, or do you happen to be from Ohio? I understand if you would rather not say.
Laura E: Excellent.
Jane Eamon: Touching and creatively expressed.
Sheila Deeth: Yours took my breath away. God bless you.
Daniel Ari: Ye Gods! Fun stuff!
Dawn Marie: So cute!
Giulietta Spudich, Willy, Lexi Flint, Kate, SusanB, and Marcia McLees Bogaert: Yours put a smile on my face.
AMEN to Sondie Williamson
Patricia Frolander: Yours made me gasp. Horrible reality … bless you.
LOL, J.A. Jensen!
Debi Ohi: I can’t relate in experience, but perhaps someday. ;)
Katrelya Angus: Beautifully descriptive.
Jeanne: Oh my. The memory is obviously burned into your heart. Bless you.
Buddah Moskowitz: True, indeed. Yet, He had the choice … and He chose love.
Patty Sherry: I can SO relate.
My “must reads” have yet to fail me: Joseph Harker, Chev, Patricia Hawkenson, Patricia PSC, Sally, Barbara, Banana, Taylor Graham (bravo!), Khara House, and the ever-amazing Walt-the-plumber!

Hannah and De, missing you both!
Iain, keep ‘em comin’!

Covered

I must tell you that
it is the anomaly of my faith
that leads to the understanding
that leads to grateful acceptance
even though the humanity of me
driving me
and giving me
misguided purpose
leads me to confusion and loss.
I must explain that
it is the heartbeat of the
divine design
that is the covering
by the blood
that gives me hope
and life.

Covered

There under
the damp leaves
fallen
There beneath
the humdrum weight
pressing
There submerged
the crisp step sodden
There below
the clear breath
buried
There damp, weighted,
sodden,
buried
The constriction
of cover's crackling
opens

WOW! Another day of so many good ideas, so much good writing! Just a “few” shout-outs to the ones that hit me hardest:

Salvatore Buttaci - excellent!
Daniel Paicopulos - sweet haiku.
Pamela Gordon - sad, poignant.
RJ Clarke - cute!
Walt - good luck with that plumbing problem! I think ‘fixing a hole was my favorite Walt-piece today. And keep writing - you’re on a roll!

Nancy Posey - sad, touching, beautiful.
Kathleen Cassen Mickelson - poignant.
Marcia McLees Bogart - sweet!
banana-the-poet - perceptively funny!
Patricia Wellingham-Jones - pretty visuals.
Theresa Cavicchio - LOL! Thanks for sharing.
Patricia Frolander - heart wrenching.

Katherine Chatsworth - interesting interpretation of the prompt -- wonderful!
Melissa "Missy" McEwen -(baby vs. oh baby)- different - I like it! :-)
Taylor Graham - lovely.
Heather - Yikes! :-O
Kumari de Silva - excellent!

J. A. Jensen - LOL! I can see them. They’re on my bookshelves.
Rose Marie Streeter - sweet!
Patty Sherry - That’s where I want to be today!
Marie Elena - thanks for the kind words. You made my day! :-)

So far, I’ve only managed to comment on days 1 and 6 -- but hope to get back to the others. For now, today’s prompt is posted, so it’s time to get to work.

Keep writing everyone! You’re all doing great!

Covered in Shame

You’re all covered up
On the hottest day of the year
You are hiding the scars
That plagued you for years

Life’s jury would hang you
The judges already have
Your boss would fire you
Your friends hide their kids

At first glance at the scars
That you hide from display
The needle marks on your arms
No wonder you hide them away

They tell of depravity
Of horror and shame
Of self indulgent torture
Of a life most would disdain

So why is a junkies life
Seen in such an unholy place
Worse than alcoholics, sex offenders
Pyromaniacs, child and spouse abusers

The scars of their lives aren’t for all to see
They are hidden in dark caves
Never put on display, not
Even on the hottest day of the year

To me your scars show strength
To overcome such a need
And to sort out the problems
That once made you concede

For you only hurt yourself
Never another life on the way
To try to deal with the pain inflicted
By the offenders that don’t hide away

So throw off your shirt
On the hottest day in the year
I’m not your judge and jury
With me you can be free

UNDER THE VEIL

My palms sweat, my hands shake
No one can see the terror
Under this camouflage
of white lace that covers my face
My bosom is heaving
Dad by my side
Clutching his arm
I feel faint
My heart rat-tat-a-tatting
a machine gun staccato
The music swells
My knees are knocking
Down the aisle
a hundred miles long
I see him waiting there
A smile on his face
This boy, this man
I will promise to love
to cherish
as husband and wife
for the rest of our lives

The Blanket

The picture of her frail body made me wince.
How could anyone so delicate stay alive
in such a harsh land filled with pain and disease?
Yet, live she did with more fortitude
than most of the privilege world knows.
Tiny, wizened, she had strength born of
pain so unbearable that it either breaks you
or you break it.
Wrapped in a bright, new blanket,
a gift from those capable of seeing past
pain and suffering into her heart and soul
both of which sing a song of survival,
a song of hope for her children’s children,
a song of possibilities that live like dreams,
she tenaciously lives in our reality.

The Smile of a Thousand Scars

You can see the hideous purple mess that stains
the top of my left foot, a painful
reminder of a hot sunny track-meet day that flowed
sweat into my six-year-old eyes, blinding
me to the rough spikes holding
up a concession tent – steel stakes that ripped
open my flesh, anointing
the East Texas dirt with my blood.

A few have sewn their words
inside my heart and sung
my clothes away, where they were greeted
with a small C-section scar smiling
below my navel, proud that it split
open like the Red Sea, offering
up my daughter into this rough-n-tumble world.

But my too-big smile fools
people into thinking these are my only scars.
My straight teeth dazzle
blind the jagged truth and I cover
the remnants of a rough life with laughter
that puts a feint over my story.

PSC - I can still hear that little voice chuckling as it rang out the punch line. Glad you enjoyed it.

Surface

Much like Earth
she is three-quarters liquid
shrouded in salt water
longing for her antediluvian age
yet burning at the core
and holding out for that elusive
one-fourth hope.

Cover me?

Think you
can cover me?
Hah!
It's a three-way
race, man:
The ball
vs. me
vs. you.
The end zone
is the finish line,
and I'm
already
there.
Look, here's
the ball.
So where
are you?

The Ego of Jesse James

Jesse wrapped his face, but wrapped it loose.
He figured himself pretty and wanted to give
the ladies a peak – even when he was pointin’

guns at their husbands. Now one time, we all
busted into a bank. Jesse liked to take a bank
at noon. Rich men paraded their women

folk around for lunch and lots of times they
walked’em through a bank. Made the men
in the fancy suits feel fancier. This one time

I mentioned, Jesse took a fancy to a Philly
in a frilly blue dress. The wrap that covered
his face dragged a bit, hung down,

showed his whiskered cheeks. He winked
at the blondy, called her love – even tucked
a flower in her hair he musta been hiding somewhere,

but she just kept sayin’ Don’t you touch me,
Don’t y you touch me. Jesse didn’t, but cracked
his Colt’s handle up against her man’s skull. Sent him

to nappy time for hours. He snatched the brooch
off the lady’s dress and walked on out of there
like he’d been insulted. Guess he was too, cause

after pissin’ on that brooch, he sent it back
to the Philly all boxed up with a ribbon
and colored paper. Wrote a note too.

Said he was sorry ‘bout the whole mess.
He’s killed a few men, but killers get
their feelins’ mussed up too.

“Patterns”

Tight
Frames,
Words
Controlled
Once
Daily.

Big
Picture,
Words
Multiplied
Each
Session.

Poetry
Produces
Chemistry,
Making
Novels
Possible.

Dreams
Plucking
Plots
From
Subconscious
Wanderings.

November
Brings
Cohesion,
Chapbook
Releases
Abandon.

Stretching
Vocabulary
Stimulates
Covering
Revealed
Bases.

Round
Corners,
Smooth
Edges,
Tying
Ends.

Crabsconder

Oh, that I were a horseshoe crab,
I’d burrow myself down
Deep in the waterlogged sand
And blanket my carapace
Beneath its gritty silt.
Thus tucked in I’d shed
My grief-gashed exoskeleton
And emerge someone else—
The me I’d been
Unmarred.

COVERED – OR SMOTHERED?

I always knew you loved me.

That was quite evident. . .
but you smothered me with it.

You wouldn’t let me be,
let me grow,
let me breathe.

Your style of loving wasn’t safe;
it was overbearing and hurtful.

You covered me with your love,
and I truly thank you for trying,
but you suffocated me
as if you had held a pillow over my face,
taking away my life,
my worth,
my being,
and in return,
the only thing I learned from you
was how to love
by smothering.

Linda Robertson

NIghty Night

Tuck me in
With Snuggles.
I can't sleep
Without its
Silky edge
On my face
Nubby spots
In my fists
Except for
My thumb, that's
In my mouth
Belonging
Comforting
Protecting
Me at night.

She was covered in
Memories, regrets,
Years lost.
Hateful words shouted at her
Were set on replay
In her head,
Reaffirming with each
Syllable just how little
She was really worth.

It took a long time for her
To finally push
“Stop” and back it up with
“No more.”
When it was finally quiet,
She drew in a deep breath
And with resolve
Whispered to the world,
“That’s not true.”

She was covered in
Memories, regrets,
Years lost, that is
Until she finally found
Her own voice,
And let the truth fill the air.

(Haiku version)

Her words flowing now,
Dancing around in free air,
Smiling at herself.

After You Left

The fire of fall
was at its height
that year.As I
walked, leaves rained down
on me, covered grass,
sidewalks, filled up
curbs with careening
beauty, covering
death with bright sparks
of life, once more
reminding me how
much I missed you.

Covered in Noise

It was quiet in the beginning,
She was first, we thought
she’d be first for awhile,
But no, being first became
a job with responsibilities,
she became responsible for
the second child one year apart,
a sister who will never talk,
noise getting louder,
they told her it will be she
who cares for her when they die,
She tries not to dwell on it,
but she worries,
She’s seven.
Another sister arrived when
she was five, and yet another
sister when she turned six.
Commotion incrementally,
drowning her out.
She became last and lost.
No esteem being first now.
No undivided attention,
parents always talking
out of both sides of their mouths,
one side to the younger ones,
cooing or cajoling even when
they needed reprimanding,
the other side to her,
demanding, insisting she
take care of them as part of
her birthright, acting out,
her motives questioned,
when they should question
their parenting.

She needs space, any space,
living in a ten by ten room
with the one year old,
sleeping with the two year old,
because she’s afraid of ghosts,
because she saw things on TV
her parents thought
wouldn’t be a problem.
It’s a problem.
She needs someone’s
unmitigated attention,
not fraught with constant
interruptions the others
have no idea are rude,
They will never know,
until they grow up,
when others show them
their behavior is socially
unacceptable. They will
resent the people who
told them, they will
resent the parents who
didn’t tell them.
And as for her,
she will wait until
she’s old enough,
or maybe not,
Will either go towards
the tumult because
she knows no other or,
Run screaming to
space and calm.

DAY 6--COVER POEM

SECURITY BLANKETS

Duck and cover now
Be sure to protect your heads

Make sure to pray the rosary
Cover every one of those beads

Words heard by cold war children
Before taking to their beds.

Patricia
Patricia A. McGoldrick

Ardi

The wind uncovered
a skeleton’s edge
the edge of your bones.
They tell us you
nestled in trees
and walked upright
on the land beneath
much as my son does.
Your teeth show
You ate fruit;
Perhaps you threw the pits
from the tree
like a small human boy.
I could reach out my hand
Across eight million years
To hold your palm
as if to help you
cross the street.
If it would help,
I would say
that death did not destroy you.
I see you every day.

Sorry about the weird capitalization...MSW keeps "correcting" the beginnings of my lines, despite my best efforts :)

Jumping Cholla

I saddle my big dog Max
with the two-sided blue
backpack, knit tight
beneath his gut, cinched
together around his chest.

He rubs against boulders,
trying to scrape it off,
the water is for us, he
shrugs the weight off
and locates the coyote

watering hole, too fast
jumps across a cholla
cactus and dozens of
maced fists of needles
attach themselves to him.

Three hours later, we've
extracted the pain from
his fur, his tongue,
from my friend's hand,
with needlenose pliers.

Indians traced this path
for centuries without dogs,
seamlessly navigating
the narrow uphill trail
we swallowed, forgetting.

The End

A starched white sheet
Covers your face
Of life and breath
There is no trace
A terminal battle
And final sigh
You rest in peace
I say goodbye

Under Pressure

Once a day I'm off the respirator.
I struggle to breathe, up my lung
capacity, increase my intercostal
strength. So if the power's out, I
won't starve myself of oxygen

through neglecting my body. It's
like I'm drowning on air. Lungs
fight to move gas in and out.
Battle up and down against a
diaphragm that ignores the signals

from my medulla oblongata. Nerves
don't fire. Endings seem wrapped
in insulation, messages faint echoes
my body doesn't want to hear. So
I breathe in and out, up and down

until sweat darkens my bluing
face and they plug me back into
my respirator for another day.

My Library

Calendars hung in your bedrooms,
the monthly photograph for each
as different as Crouch’s snowy pass
to our sweet valley peaches. At least

you knew what day it was, tracking
passing days with an emphatic “X”
in its proper spot, thus explaining
your future like simple geometry ~
each new square insisting its existence
because of the next blank, white hole
of your universe. So I opened

an astronomy book for the meaning
of glow-in-the-dark stars
stuck on the wall of one bedroom,
while in the other, a young girl studied
a loved, stuffed animal under her blanket
where she would always keep it warm,
and I learned about mending Bunnies

until the last page of the last calendar
got ripped off, holes on the wall
always apparent, aging rubber stars
came unglued, separated, fell off,
and another volume explained
the missing bunny and constellations
no longer reflected off your blue walls.

No more calendars in your old rooms
until you visit, when PDAs cover traces
of paper calendars pinned to walls,
and I look for a book on electronics.

got your six
by juanita lewison-snyder

you always said you had my back
if push came to shove
words came to blows,
love turn to rain.
“cuz that’s what friends do”
you preach from the back of
that large iberian-white horse,
swinging your guillotine,
keeping safe my personal
bill of rights.

ready to fall on a sword for me
at a moment’s notice,
the ultimate proof of
devotion and loyalty,
i had not realized i had slaves
to carry my suffering
fly my colours,
do my bidding.

i got your number
you’ve got my six,
a kinship that binds us together
plato to aristotle,
batman to robin,
roy to trigger.
a vein of allegiance,
families expect it
countries demand it,
there is magic in
tribal morality.


© 2009 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

Wonderful reading, today's poetry. Kumari, Patricia Wellingham-Jones come back to mind as very fine. Thank you all for the postings.

Doing Nothing

Now that I’m retired there is much time
and nothing I must do.
The nothing that I choose
I do with glee.

Should you spy me
doing what it is I claim as nothing
you would see
what you would say was something.

A blue crochet hook
held pencil thin in my right hand,
a length of fuzzy yarn
woven over, under,
atop the fingers of my left,
and splayed out
the half-done work hides my legs.

My hands relaxed,
The engine of my mind at idle,
yet hook and thread
in knotty dialogue
move on silently
against the tension of the stretch.

Were you were to speak,
form a question, make a sound,
your voice might draw me from
the still point where I reside
doing nothing.

My hands holding the thread,
across eons, joining
all the women who have gone before
doing nothing -

Connecting, silently
making something out of nothing –
texture that will cover, warm,
enfold.

Today I am doing nothing –
alone, pen in hand
marking on this screen
a finished poem.

Anglo-Saxon Gold
( A great treasure trove was found in England in September this year by a metal-detectorist)

Great hoard of Anglo-Saxon gold
Uncovered in an English field
13 centuries ‘neath the fold
Of country earth that now does yield
Treasure hid by unknown hands
Some of gold from foreign lands

What stories could these pieces tell
Of how they came to be interred,
Beautiful as the Book of Kells.
If they had voices to be heard,
We’d learn about their owner’s life,
His golden swords and jewelled wife

Are they both buried near to here,
Beneath the sod of Staffordshire?
Teams will work for many a year
To try and make their story clear.

An Elemental Ritual
By: Meena Rose

Today a girl
Became a woman.
As she arose from
Her slumber at
Dawn’s glory;
A rush of blood
Ran down her legs.
Her moon blood
Had finally arrived.

She rejoiced for she
Had been waiting for
This moment longer
Than most.

She knew what
Should happen
Next.

She hurried to
Her mother in
Her sick bed;
Only to find
Her shrouded
From Head
To toe.

“Your mother
Has passed
Away at
The same
Moment your
Moon blood
Began to flow.”
Said the
Elder Crone.

“Prepare for
Your maiden
Journey.

Quickly, go,
We need to
Set your
Mother’s Spirit
Free before sunset.

Go, now, Kaya.”
The Elder Crone
Continued.

Kaya reviewed
The elements
For the ritual;
Earth, Air, Fire,
Water, Wood
And Metal.

She lit a Fire
In the
Ritual Circle.
Then she
Sprinkled on
The Wood dust of
The Juniper Tree.

She stood in a trance;
Breathing in the
Early morning Air
Mixed in with the
Intoxicating smell
Of burned Wood.

All at once she
Began to dance
Obeying an
Internal rhythm.

She began to chant;
“I, Kaya, am becoming
A Woman!”

“I, Kaya, say good bye
To Childhood!”

“I, Kaya, am ready to
Offer my Spirit for
The greatest good of all”

With that, she picked up
An iron brand and set it
In the fire.

She danced around
Some more; completely,
Lost to her ritual.

She bent down and
Picked up the brand and
Applied it to her wrist.

The pain of the instant
Too much to endure;
The joy of the journey
Overwhelming.

She blinked away
Her tears and slowed
Down in her dance.

She walked over to
The stream and
Immersed herself,
Into the Water,
Whole.

She emerged, on
The other side,
All calm and content.

She knelt on the ground
And grabbed a handful
Of Earth.

She brought her
Hand to her mouth
And bestowed
Upon it a kiss.

She spoke
One more time
In voice so
Crystalline.

“I, Kaya, now
Stand before you,
With great humility,
I am now a
Daughter of the Earth.

I have covered my
Essence with Earth’s
Prime elements.

This I promise you;
I will proudly take my
Mother’s place and,
Just like her,
I will protect the
Earth.

Go now,
Have a fruitful
Day. Come back
Later, so we may
Bid my Mother
Farewell.”

November Poetry Challenge “Covered” poem day 6


What do you mean?

“I’ve got you covered,
I’m covering this one,
I’ve uncovered the real
Truth…”
The only covers I understand
Are made for Tupperware or
Are the ones we tug-of-war
At night on the bed.

I thought of her as an Iris

I thought of her as an Iris up in spring
A thin shoot of green peeking through
The melting snow and draining water
About to send this pretty, purple, bloom.

She walked to me so confidently.
She shook my hand and smiled.
Then I remembered those yesterdays,
Then I had the whole world on trial.

Now I think of myself as a visitor.
I came to sit, act, and watch awhile.
The world remains just as troubled,
I now bow, and hunger for her smile.

November 3, 2009

A conversation

Can you hear me?
Do you know I am standing
Here where the ground has
Covered you?

For three long years the
Grass has grown thick
Beyond this stone where

Both our names are carved
Your has the date of death
Mine is yet to be filled in

Soon we will be together.
Will our souls greet each
Other? Will all the ugly

Deeds and words we have
Hurt each other finally be
Forgiven? Will we be able

To watch over our children
As I have felt you watching
Over me?

Then you must know I have
An illness which cannot be
Cured, but takes its time.

Please keep watching, See
The sun is going down and
I have to tell the children

I will need your strength to carry
On. Remember I love you still.

Unable to Cover

Sometimes i wish i could cover my emotions
and not wear my heart on my sleeve but
I am not good with this at all. What I feel
people can see, and if I am angry or hurt
sometimes it is better for me to leave than
to sit there and cry or say things I will
regret. I know a lot of people are able
to cover their emotions, to smile no matter
what, but I an not one of them.

Choices: Day 6: Covered

Uncovered

I search my house, check fridge and cupboards,
food stocked in the utility room.
What to fix to feed a hunger of the heart?

Out in the garage I prop open the deep freeze,
lugged across country when our family of five moved.
For years its twenty-six cubic feet held sale meats and
cheeses, bulk-bought veggies, triple-wrapped day-old
bread, and meal-sized portions of megameals cooked and saved.

Now, its walls lie inchdeep in frost, while plastic grocery
bags, empty, not yet discarded, fool me into thinking
there’s more than there really is.

I push aside 2-liter soda bottles, ice-filled to cool
summertime picnic food, find the scotch-taped
note that slid off the ice cream bucket where I’d
saved the topper from my daughter’s wedding cake.

Another layer down rests the freezer burned bits and pieces
inherited when my aunt lost her independence and moved
into assisted living. Under that, bags of crockpot meals and
sticks of baking oleo, salvaged from my son’s home when he
and his wife split up. And a fuzzy footlong piece of fabric-covered
something, which puzzles until I remember my other son tucked
it around his neck whenever he dressed up as a bear, streetside
advertisement for a downtown business.

Below all this I uncover bread bags rock hard, a frozen mass
of kernels, cut from cobs in a year when garden yields
outstripped my family’s ability to eat the corn fresh.
More bread bags bulge with cherry tomatoes, again an
attempt to save an abundant crop, sown in a year when
I struggled to learn how to live here, alone.

From all these layers, each covering the other, I pull
tortillas and chicken breasts, tomato wedges and grated
cheese, all frozen, all waiting to thaw so that I can layer
them again, in a clear glass baking dish, in hopes that
soon, I can chew and swallow and somehow fill
the emptiness.

Report

I stand with pen in hand and hear
“CBG ac hs 347
I covered him with eight
Recheck in 30 if you don’t mind.”
I nod.
She continues “Foley 400, NG 350
TBA 100, there’s a new one to hang
Ready for you if that’s ok.”
I nod.
“He’s, crushed, pureed, T q 2
You’ll go to the window at nine, ok?”
I nod.
“Any questions?” She asks
And I review
“I need to recheck his blood sugar in 30 minutes,
Hang his new IV bag,
And turn him to face the window.”
She nods.
“Nope, no questions.
I got it covered.”

Coverup
Subterranean, gone underground, undercover,
all these glamorous sounding word for questionable activity.
We can justify some of it; for the good of the country
getting at the truth, maybe even good for the environment.
I suppose I pay attention to the wrong thing, not the root
but the suffixes sub, not only a sandwich but an indication
of being less than normal, inferior, almost and beneath.
This is where we are at with a life that has gone under
in separate tunnels, different trains, northbound and southbound
at a breakneck speed, you away and me just plain North
unaware of the other track, of there ever being a way back
as if I just keep flying around the world and just don’t
realize that I have been here before.
To me it always felt new, real and the best there ever was
but you were heading underground, undercover, sub
terranean a CIA agent who thought he was saving the world
by taking down the dictator, not normal perhaps,
but something even better, but in such a way that
your mission could never be known.

Martini Light

Not too dazed
To see through the shimmering light
You know – that special glow
Cast by cosmos and pineapple martinis

Not so confused
As to wander unprotected
Into un-chartered lands with
Soldier boys – no longer quite boys

But off-center enough
To drunk dial – against all advice –
One most desired, too far away to touch
Memories still covered in stardust

Better late than never!



Cover Story

He started out young doing cover songs,
but wrote his own music before very long,
got himself a band and a sweet record deal,
then started cashing in on his sex appeal.
Album covers always featured his face;
success started coming at a breakneck pace.
His second album shot to number one,
got his face on the cover of Rolling Stone.
Then the Time cover, more fortune and fame;
he dated that cover girl with the single name.
But then things started spinning out of control –
booze and drugs dug him into a hole.
He went to recovery, then undercover a while;
then punched some paparazzi and went to trial.
“Back in recovery”, tabloid covers drooled,
and one day his ex was found in a pool.
Out of the program, his comeback the buzz,
he was rediscovered for the genius he was.
But then one morning he was found in his bed,
paraphernalia in the covers next to his head.
Now he’s a legend, once again he is hot,
while ground cover grows all over his plot.

Snow - Covered Ground


No fallen leaves, grass,
flowers and weeds in sight.
The snow covered them all
keeping them warm
for the winter
like a thick blanket
covering me and my lover
to keep us warm
on a wintry night.


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

Covered

sunsplash this life, then, again and again
bring the sun always remembering
one million times your translation
one million times covered in
a shadow I will be
you had come to see
every last night
your dreaming
covered
me

Covered

I love the way
you insist on the left.

As you sleep, sometimes
I prop my head on my arm

until I feel pins and needles
and gaze at the curve of your long lashes

your heart shaped lips
and caress the rugged softness of your arms.

Most times I find it too cruel to poke you
so you'll quit that bearish snoring,

so I pull my comforter over you and hope
your heartbeat soon lulls me to sleep.

FOREVER

Tiny, she fits in his open hands.
Precious baby girl
makes his heart ache until, bursting, it expands.
Tiny, she fits in his open hands,
wrapped in his love; he finally understands
how a child allows forever to unfurl.
Tiny, she fits in his open hands,
precious baby girl.

(Note: Triolet)

Wouldn't you just like to take
all of your troubles
and cover them, hide them away?
Maybe take a broom and sweep them
under the rug.
Or cover them up with a blanket
and hope they just disappear?
Some days you think you have
it under control.
Other days you know you don't.
Those troubles rear their ugly heads
and you're looking for a place
to move them to.

Under the sheets, the cat slips
a fish made for the water of the mix
of my partner’s and my hairs and skin cells
and other perfumes we may think ill will of
but she finds within, love.

Big Blankie

I lay down beside you
for your afternoon nap.
It’s the only way you’ll stay
in your bed.
It’s a bad habit I want to keep
because soon you’ll grown up
and sleep on your own.
I tuck you in.
First, your little blankie,
with butterflies.
Then your big blankie.
You ask for you “M”
and giggle when I find it.
I lay down beside you.
I watch you drink your milk
and fight your tired eyes
that roll back behind
your extra long blinks.
I scratch your tummy
like I always have
and then your back.
It’s time to sleep now
so I roll away from you.
“You want some
of my big blankie?” you ask,
as you cover my shoulder
with a corner.
Your tiny body sniggles in my back
“Mom, can you cuddle?”
Each time I smile
and always say, “Yes.”
Soon I hear your long, deep,
sleeping breaths.

Ivy

The nimble-fingered ivy
Scurried up the sides and back
Of that old shed
Found roost upon the roof
And when they came again
They scampered past the ivy
That had gone before
And roosted yet again
Until the battered building
Red flakes holding to its
Native form
Began to sag
Began to join the ivy
Growing on the ground
And thick among the trees
Hanging over top the shed
Until they all were one
And all was lost.

A Portal of LOVE

We have found one - a portal of love.
It was well covered under quite a layer
of some effort and emotion, this love.

We had to first find it and touch it,
much like Harry Potter's portal stone
before we could then link up through it.

But as we have found a portal of love
we can always hold hands, touch our face
or embrace whenever we send our love.


© November 2009 by Martin Anthony Dorn

The Cover

Smile with your eyes to hide your true emotions
Be detached from people so as not to be fooled by them
Talk about what doesn’t matter, like it does
Never allow anyone to go beyond the surface
They can’t hurt you if they don’t really know you
Don’t blow your cover

Covered

A roof above my head
A blanket for my bed
The sweet earth when I’m dead.

Hidden...thoughts...

Thoughts are the tip of the iceberg
and, if the man with the bushy beard, was right,
they're not even the most interesting part
of the whole mysterious process.
But rest assured, or maybe not, as the case may be,
the tip of the iceberg cannot become totally detached
nor become totally irrepresentative
of the whole,
and the mass floats in a much bigger sea,
subject to all that was, is,
and ever more shall be.

Something Covered Poem

In The Zhuozi Mountains


Under the ground
in WuHai
miners listen to the dripping
water on the stone wall.
They are searching for diamonds
created by our golden refulgent star.
Instead, they uncover paintings: People
legs wide apart
arms raised toward
light radiating around
the sun god’s human face
which is a deep pit in the stone.
They discover in the circle above him
all the celestial affairs—seasons, eclipses, comets—
recorded on mundane things—
pottery, animal bones.
And, buried in the earth,
the constellations
carved on tortoise shells.

SOmeone or something covered


At sea


Roatan rests heavy on the horizon-
mountain ridges rising from a wrinkled sea.
It has covered itself with crumpled green fur,
wrapped cashmere shawls of cloud around its shoulders.
Beneath sparrow flocks of children run to beg.


hidden in plain sight

They walk together
on Caribbean sand,
strangers with a grief
in common, comforting
each other for a day.
The sea comes and
covers their tracks.


spoor


I covered my tracks carefully-
put the stool away,
re-arranged the cookies
so the gap became
nearly invisible.
How did she know?

It was another long day
Matilda shuffled papers and her life
In an unending chase of scent
She sipped tea with the chatter of a parrot

Matilda shuffled paper and her life
Gazing out alone at dusk
She sipped tea with the chatter of a parrot
As the stars appeared dim in city light

Gazing out at dusk
Matilda sighed covered the cage
As the stars appeared dim in city lights
She put her dreams on hold

Matilda sighed covered the cage
In an unending chase of scent
She put her dreams on hold
It was another long day

My eyes
Are covered
To prevent
Blindness
From your beauty.

My love
Soars and whirls
Enveloping
Us
Together as one.

My ears
Are covered
To shut out
The unholy
Shriek of your nag.

My ardor
Dies slowly
With each
Prickly harangue
From your tongue.

My eyes
Are covered
My ears
Are covered
To shut out your ugliness.

Should I

Should I put letter to letter,
Word to word, upon virtual paper
While sitting at my keyboard;
Send my letter through open window.

Then might some other and other
Weave to weave, onto fiber essence
Then writing parts of themselves;
Send their letter through my window.

November 9, 2009

Cover me gently,
with a soft touch.

Follow me,
within the ice and fire.

Love me throughout,
the pain and trouble.

For without you,
I would be nothing.

by Jonathan Jackson

Good job.

Day 6

A Grandmother’s Promise

I have your back,
sweet love of my life.
I’ll watch over you always;
wherever we may be.
My blanket of love
surrounds you at all times.
I can’t protect you from
life’s bumps, bruises, and pain.
But I can help you
better understand life’s lessons.

Cover to Cover

Here is where I left you
When I was out of my mind

I prayed you were spared
But I never really knew

Here on the steps where
God is supposed to dwell

And there behind the gate
Where the dead finally rest

That is where I hid when
The soldiers came and I wept

When I saw you scooped up
I swear you made no sound

But I was, as I said, insane
And being so, may not have heard

The loudest screams you
Understand, not for lack of want

I just could not raise my head
Nor look in your direction

Even long after the sound
Of their boots had faded

I still could not come out
From where I hid and look

And it took days really I’m sure
It was days, maybe even weeks

Before I thought about you
Awful as that sounds I was

That much out of my head
It was as if I had never even

Known you, and then, my
Grief was so profound


I was sure I would die of it
And if not, I must kill myself

Then, in the way of these
Things – the instinct to live

Grew stronger and overcame
All else and I became convinced

That one day I would find you
Would get you back would

Make everything up to you
Reasoned I would explain

The inexplicable to such
A one wronged in such a way

Maybe that is when I truly
Lost my mind, yes?

As if, in some way, under cover
Of insanity and war, and other

Mundane simplicities, I could
Ever help you to forgive me