Today is 11/11. What a mathematical day! (As some of you know, Tammy and I were married on 08/08/08 at 8:08–so I don’t take numbers for granted.)
I also don’t take these prompts for granted. For instance, today’s prompt is to write a deep thought or observational poem related to your theme. The poem can be long and persuasive–or short and profound. Think about your theme. And then, think about your theme some more. And some more–until you find some deep thought or make an observation that others may or may not have considered.
“Where did all the monsters go?”
In the movies, the monsters, whether King Kong or
the Phantom, always chase after the pretty girls,
which makes me wonder if loneliness is really
so strong as to turn both man and beast against the
happiness and beauty of this world forever.
If the Shoe Fits
Shoppers trample a worker
to death on Black Friday,
terrorists wreak another
horrific massacre, this time
in India, people shout out
"drill baby drill," polar bears
drown, children starve
while billionaire ceo’s steal
government money, our money,
buy private jets, mansions, and
luxuries nearly incomprehensible.
Meanwhile, honeybee populations
decrease, big corporations pour
poisons and filth into our rivers
and oceans, rain forests are in
grave danger, wildlife populations
diminish, some to the point of
extinction, our air is foul.
We poison our earth just as
we annihilate dandelions,
yet the real weeds walk among us.
XI. Divine Imposter
Doctors can pretend
To play God, but in the end,
They can’t always mend.
When fate strikes one ill,
If it be the Maker’s will,
Death will seize him still.
WHERE HAS LUCKY GONE?
The tabby without claws has disappeared.
Doesn’t he like your new house
with a cozy basket on the Woodsman hearth?
Is he making his way by instinct,
by stars he never learned to know, back
to the place he first called home?
Indoor cats don’t give their nine lives up
to the hazard to dogs and traffic,
to owl talon and coyote jaw. To hunger.
Is home the four safe walls
you woke up to, this morning, or your hope
of a lucky promise for tomorrow?
Day 11:
I remember falling from my mother’s
drying body
to the ground. The earth was warmed by
summer’s light.
Laying on the soil nature had its
way with me
and covered my shell with earthly
debris
The world around me became dark I
felt winter’s breath
gliding its ice above me as I
hid swaddled in the dirt
Warmth began to permeate
my inner being
I wanted to live and to grow and I
unfurled the life within me
A tender sprout of green rose
up and into day’s light
I grew tall and strong – a beautiful flower –
in my prime
As days grew shorter I felt myself
weaken
Knowing my days were approaching end I
released my seed and mothered my own
life.
I Have Waited So Long
I have waited so long
for this change
that in my heart hides
a primal scream
Like a bow wound too tightly
I want to snap
We now have one season
one term
One opportunity
to prove we can do it right
What if we fail?
I am like a swimmer who
with rescue near
throws her arms up in gratitude
whereupon she promptly drowns
Sunning herself on stone
Elegent and sleek
Stretching her wings
Ever so slightly
To flaunt the glitter
Of the sun and her colours
Mixing for breathtaking
Vanity.
Two beauties,
Adderbolt and Gaia
Vain and bragging
Shamelessly about their
Bodies.
Where is the beauty now?
(and now, deep thoughts…)
As we move in together,
we are conscious of
the struggles we face,
yet we are confident enough
to believe we can make it work.
Thank you Michelle. I feel so bad, I have been sooo busy, I can’t keep up. I honestly thought I was so far behind that no one was even reading my work.
Here is my poem for today. Sorry it’s so late.
Same Day, Different Tune
She sits at the window
day after day
watching the same cars pass
Does she know
If, so, what could she say
what could she ask
To her,
is one day different then the next
does the blur
of the days passing
leave her perplexed
Does she somehow hope
of surpassing
what’s been before
or does she cope
by simply dreaming of
what’s on the other side of that door. . .
©Rodney C. Walmer 11/13/08 Observational poem about my dog.
" After all this time "
I never would of thought this 26 years ago,
that I would just leave without really
knowing why. Yes, I don’t love you anymore, an
I haven’t for a very long time. You just let
me leave. Without trying to make me stay.
I thought you would of least cared one more time.
I know I hurt you in so many, many ways. I don’t
really know why. I just had no more love to give. It
just left me along with all my emotions and feelings.
I never would of expected this, the way I use to care,
I loved you without even thinking, with every breath
I took you were there. How does something like this
happen and where does it go. I have so many questions
that can not be answered. You are gone now, we are apart.
But there will always be a place for you in my heart.
goodbye now, and have a great life, I hope you find the
love you want and have a new wife.
Absent
Only when your gone do we think of you
You are ignored til needed
Then panic sets in and everyone begins
Running here and there
Searching for you in any available spot
Til his last breath man obsesses
And if he can’t find you he dies
Crying your name as he finally cherishes you
Water, Water, water…
Joker Prose Poem (I am lacking titles this month.. oops)
He can cry too, you know. He can do more than just hate and laugh and kill. Haunted green eyes fall still from their roving, their information collecting and collect saline tears instead. A pathetic mockery of sea water pools into little microcosms that slide down his angular face, his misery a star fish washed into an enclosure and left to feed only on itself. He cries for lost time, for lost memories that he doesn’t know he had, washed in and up to his consciousness from that black pit behind his childhood aspirations leaving him gasping for breath like he’s been socked in the gut by Billy Borstine again – the class bully in fourth grade he forgot existed until he had the time to collect the pieces of himself over a deflated rubber chicken. Toxic emotions ooze from his face and drip off his chin, expression distraught and taut in a schooled way that he taught himself never to look… He can do more than exist to be the foil to a broken man dressed like a bat. He can, he can. Just like Tinkerbell can exist just by the belief that she does.
Aloud
You with
your Michigan:
you left
cars unrented
and slept in
stereo; woke
to find
your voice
recorded
Met you
in the middle
of a night, unseen
but imagined
forgiving
and the harbinger
of anxiety
Long distance
you find yourself
lost in swells
of people,
the mail
piles taller
but you
with your fore-
sight put all
these things
in a song
I should have attributed my title:
“Memory is insubstantial. Things keep
replacing it. Your batch of snapshots will
both fix and ruin your memory. . . . You can’t
remember anything from your trip except
the wretched collection of snapshots.”
Annie Dillard, “To Fashion a Text,” 1988
PROFOUND
People
Really
Only
Free
Others
Upon
Nice
Deeds
Vanessa O’Dwyer
When My Parents Argued
I ran out
into the cold
night, hid
behind the house,
listened to
the dark under
muted stars.
Thoughts cleared
in sobs
of visible breath.
Unfortunately Ringo doesn’t really do "Deep", so this is as good as it gets….
Dear Moosehead,
I do not resign, I do not lay
down my sword. Instead I
renew my vigour. I may well
call a truce on those women folk
of yours, if they will but do the
same. I am perplexed. Another
man in the home might, you’d think
add courage to my cause but how
am I to feel when Greek Jimmy,
my cousin from Atlanta, appears
on my doorstep, dressed in red and
white shouting: GO BRAVES!
SOB! I shoulda kicked his ass down
the stairs and into the street. Sure,
he’s family (sorta) but we must all
rally together at this time of crisis
and make his Brave lovin’ ass as
miserable as is humanly possible.
I know I can count on you… better
tell your cousin to stay away for a
while. That Greek is a real Fox for the
ladies. Pick us up at seven will ya?
Yours in profound shock
Ringo the Howler
Sorry I’m late with this, I had migraine yesterday. Still at least it’ll be posted on the correct date…
At the elenth hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month….lest we forget…
Cats, Poetry & Death #14
Armistice Day
In Flanders fields there were no Cats
Upon the Somme they stalked no rats
Only blood and poppies bloomed
Only men and boys were doomed
McCrae and Owens words so proud
Lay covered with Death’s dark shroud
Millions of corpses lie beneath them
For reasons known to better men
A war to end all wars they said
And ever more to honour the dead
At this Eleventh hour on this Eleventh day
At memorials across the land we pray
Never again echo the prayers of men
But wars are fought time and again
Against our nature, against our will
For Heavens sake, we fight one still!
No, no felines came to offer muse
In a war that surely all would lose
As Wilfred Owens gave his last breath
No Cats, just Poetry and Death
Iain
Wow! I am SO close to being caught up that I have finally taken some time to read (this day’s entries anyway)! I only just completed my first draft for the 11th — but Robert hasn’t put out the prompt for the 12th yet, either — so it’s all good.
There are so many good ones, I can’t hit them all, but wanted to comment on a few:
Bruce – Loved the thought behind the Savage Breast poem — especially the last stanza.
)
Judy R — Your poems capture so very well the myriad of emotions — and physical impacts — of such a tragedy. I am so sorry for your loss. Keep writing — it really does help.
Nancy P. — I really liked your memory poem — it describes SO WELL my own feelings & experiences on the topic. I also enjoyed Phenomenon (I think there IS a name for it — but my memory is insubstantial!
Shann P — The contrast between desire and duty (piano and meatloaf — very nice!
Juanita/Spidey — Your reinterpreted fairy tales were very well done!
Heather — your lesson #11 — so true! (My mother always said, "Be careful what you wish for.")
Rachel G — Your ghosts and tea — I like it! — reminded me of a friend who swears she’s had similar experiences.
Kate B — Your sphinx’s riddles — very interesting!
Thanks everyone for some enjoyable & thought provoking reads. It was nice to actually get to do this and I hope (if I can avoid falling behind!) to get back to do the same for days 1 – 10 — maybe?!) Thanks again!
Veteran’s day today. Low fog and then it’s sunny.
Much will be said today, but only a mote
Said by politicians, dripping with honey
Will mean anything but, "I want your vote".
The memories of times apart
When we wanted to be together.
The memories of my bursting heart
When you were there, a feather
Flying about in abandon and joy.
Now, the dreary time without you
Grows long. I try every ploy
To keep my mind away, but the only way that I can cope
Is waiting out the time and holding on to hope.
fairy tales
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
in my world
Rapunzel is a cold calculating beauty,
a Lilith with mesmerizing eyes capable
of causing young virile men to scale
sheer castle walls like a pack of dogs,
driven by a secret hidden scent,
her vampire teeth at the ready.
in my world
Cinderella is not so forgiving
in her slippers of polished glass,
while behind her a bewildered Prince
slicks back his hair with
womanizing hands that
beg to be taken back.
in my world
Snow White is a jezebel
with motives as transparent as
a spider trapped in amber,
locked inside a battle of wills
‘gainst a stepmother raising daughters
in a harsh, patriarchal world.
in my world
Sleeping Beauty is a fading beauty
queen, afraid of growing old alone
ready to settle, feigning sleep,
awaiting rescue by Prince or Pauper,
white horse or abandoned car,
open or closed fist.
in my world
Ariel is a bedsore street junkie
on a dirty mattress five flights up,
her once stunning mermaid tail now
covered in roaches and vomit,
trying to forget why she ran
away from home in the first place.
in my world
Mulan and Jasmine met a conference and
fell madly in love, leaning heavily on vows
they took seriously together years ago,
in the face of jaded family & jilted friends,
convinced that fairytale endings never
happen once upon anyone’s dream.
Nothing momentous
Moment to moment
her rage at having to shower first,
the cicada that flew in
while I listened to him read
how the kids squealed ran to the couch
while it bumped out of control
about the room, I told him
to grab a towel and throw it
over the bug, the calm
and the magical buzzing hum
when his hand hovered over it.
He threw the bug and towel outside
and slammed the door.
The little notes she writes now she can
to mume I love you, you love me
to mume I love you but not when you get angry.
When My Parents Argued
I ran out into the night,
hid behind the house
and listened to the dark
under mute stars. It was
crisp. Thoughts cleared
in my visible breath.
Hello all! I know I’ve been behind on my prompts, but I’ve just come back from my year 6 students camp and I am exhausted!!! I’ll ccatch up tomorrow once I’ve some sleep, but the prompts look great!
annoying repost
Change (to Tony Hoagland)
On a toy piano or tiny trumpet,
I will play any song you request
each note fraught with dancing
angels, arms linked, who high kick
the story of creation in fifty-three steps
to steal the light, gladden your heart.
No, I must weave a bitter meatloaf,
fingers akimbo, frantic with the small
truth of breadcrumbs that bind us
pen to paper under green desk lamps
full with quicksilver where we wrestle
our dark laughter and turn sad.
The tin drum is fat and round, it plays
the same steady rhythm even if we don’t.
Change (to Tony Hoagland)
On a toy piano or tiny trumpet,
I will play any song you request,
each note fraught with dancing
angels, arms linked, who high kick
the story of creation in fifty-three steps
to steal the light, gladden your heart.
No, I must weave a bitter meatloaf,
fingers akimbo, frantic with the small
truth of breadcrumbs that bind us
pen to paper under green desk lamps
full with quicksilver, where we wrestle
in our dark laughter and turn sad.
The tin drum is round and sound, it plays
the same steady rhythm even without us.
Phenomenon
Has anyone come up with a name for
the phenomenon that occurs when you
learn something new, then—voila—
it’s everywhere? In high school, we’d
learn new vocabulary words, some
we thought the teacher must have
invented herself to stump us, until
suddenly they were everywhere we
looked. Today I finished one book and
then started another, in both, chaos
theory mentioned at length. I study
battered wife syndrome, then behind
me on the train, I overhear two
colleagues talking about—you
guessed it—battered wife syndrome.
Even “The Girl from Ipanema” never
plays just once in awhile; instead,
the busker on saxophone below
my hotel window, the torch singer
in the piano bar down the street, the
elevator music all partake in this
strange phenomenon.yet unnamed .
Nancy Posey
Thanks, Jane. I liked yours a lot too – spare but with strong imagery and understated emotion.
I’m really impressed with the quality of poetry that’s coming out of this month’s prompts, but Robert had a stroke of genius in asking us to "go deep" in our themes. Some really strong stuff has emerged.
Judy R., that is a harrowing and emotionally raw poem – you take us through the stages of grief right along with you – heartbreaking and effective.
Bruce, this is delicious – I want to read again – feel the ancient call to ungnarl -
– somehow the poem keeps turning back and drawing forth at the same time. very strong and exciting piece to me
Must say this was dashed off in a hurry. Not the best day for writing. The offering really needs more work, but my brain’s already turned off for the day. Will have to wait until the next draft to say what I wanted it to…
Irimi – to enter without thought of retreat
A triangle lasts eight seconds
Tonight we learned to enter each other’s space,
chest to chest, breast to ribs, one arm wrapped
tight around the other’s neck. The first
hand placed on the biceps of the other arm,
whose hand ends up on the opponent’s forehead.
Push and pull with equality as your exhalation
causes him to sink, tap out and yield.
An observer would cringe at the overtly
sexual nature of the next exercise. A man
entering a woman’s open guard, his hips
between her legs. When wrapped around
his waist, those legs form a closed guard,
which pulls him into the triangle lock, just
practiced while standing. When executed
properly, it cuts off the blood supply to the
head in eight seconds. After years of training,
no one thinks in terms of sexes on the mat. We
are kyu, students of the martial science our
Sensei teaches in erudite terms. We cease to
have definitive boundaries, except to think
what to do to his space when he invades mine.
Savage Breast
Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast,
To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak. –William Congreve (1670-1729)
But how? What empirical data
did Congreve possess? (He knew nothing
of molecular structure.) Did he actually
witness the melting of a boulder
while playing a Bach violin sonata?
Did an oak’s limbs ungnarl and reach
down to him as he sang an air by Byrd?
And what about that “savage breast” –
(so often misquoted as beast”)
did he mean the breast of a savage
(he knew about American Indians,
I’m sure) or the breast of any of us,
on days when it needs intensive soothing?
It’s ironic that this form of art
with its ancient roots in nature
(think of heartbeat or birdsong)
would be seen to return to the source
and transmogrify it somehow.
It’s odd that the very thing we create –
a symphony, a ballad, a jazz riff,
a rock song – would turn back on itself,
cleave to our hearts, call out the savage
in all of us, that beast in our breast,
and ask it to dance.
November 11, 2008
Memory Is Insubstantial
How can I trust anything as flimsy
as memory, that fickle muse? She
torments me with songs looping over
and over unbidden, never lyrics that
inspire or intrigue, instead ubiquitous
as “The Girl from Ipanema”or inane
as the little known latter verses of
“What DoYou Do With a Drunken Sailor?”
Yet she dangles just out of my grasp
those things I need: the address of
Luigino’s, where we planned to meet ,
the answer to Sunday’s crossword,
where I put those damned keys.
She makes my childhood recollections
suspect. The same moments that still
sting with humiliation left other witnesses
without a trace. Were those perfect days
I held for years like fragile bird eggs
just fractured figments distorted too by time?
Even when I try to write them down, the
words escape me, floating just out of reach,
beyond my grasp. I’d probably just forget
what they meant or where I laid them down.
Nancy Posey
Finally back home where I can get my prompts early!
Today’s prompt, to think about the theme and think again in order to make and observation that others might not have come up with, is a tough one. This is a tough one! But here is what I came up with.
Knocking on the Floor Boards
My children seem to be
racking up years much faster
than I am, no longer considered
young adults, knocking on the
floorboards of middle age, while
here I am still in middle age, well
perhaps I’ve crossed over, perhaps
but senior citizen doesn’t seem to
fit. At this rate my children will
get their senior citizen movie
rates before I’ve really settled
in here. And I wonder
what comes after senior
citizen. I certainly hope it’s
not decrepitude.
Nov. 11, 2008
Joy
We wait
We hope
We wonder
When will it come?
This great fulfilling
Wondrous emotion
Then one day,
When our mind is floating
Like a feather on the sea
No ties, no expectations
You look out the window
And nature hits you in
That sweet spot
You light up
Inside
All that you have
Been waiting for, comes alive
Nerve endings, pleasure centers
Sparking and dancing
And it’s just the sunlight skittering
Across the pond
Or the snakey shake of a great egret
Hunting bluegill
But you are touched, moved
And the smile comes
The inner warmth
The light bursts forth
And you realize that
The joy has been there all along
You just had to let it in
(i’m not entirely set on the title I’ve given this one yet… but I’ll use it for now)
reflexive thought
i score
the winning goal
with ease, i solve
baffling mysteries
as if they never were,
teleport from anything
that fails
to appease me,
stomp out danger
with a clear,
reflexive
thought.
i dream
in technicolour–
where life
is sheer adventure;
self-endorsed
empowerment
in worlds all
my own
then, when i arise,
i strap on the chains,
wrestle into the weight
yesterday’s bindings,
the ones that re-present
my same unsolved problems…
waiting…
because I know what comes
with little effort
fades easily and
is too soon
forgotten.
Ronda Eller 2008
Climacteric
October was draped over a wrinkled forearm
knowing November, still folded, sits inside the dresser
ready to wear, while December’s thick wallet
is hidden in a back pocket like a secret list.
Today, a wide river fell from the sky.
Field boots made heavy, a bucket of mud,
every step through the forest slowed down
the path followed as each day before.
Into the clearing, silver spider webs cling
to head hair around both ears, a spider,
legs on the lobe, whispers “it is time”.
Avoiding all the surrounding sinuosity,
a vein is purged, the curving needle has hit
the switch; in the distance, a light begins to glow.
Judy – so sorry for your lost, your poem was powerful.
Earl – enjoyed all your offerings today.
Patti – enjoyed all yours as well but your 1st was my favorite.
Sara – I loved hue-less!! I believe it is my favorite today!
Thanks everyone for sharing, as always it’s been a pleasure!
High School Highway, Fall
There are more transformations in the course of seven minutes
than Orpheus or Hermes
could have possibly fit into a lifetime of stories.
Hue-less
If color were not alive,
cream soda and pink
lemonade would
look the same;
fruit not ripened
would be picked
before its time, and
how would you
know if a pickle
was pickled? There
would be no phenomenon
called blue skies,
nor lemon pies,
nor brown eyes,
nor hair dyes.
You would be blank
with envy; colorless
with rage, every
season–an empty page.
But the saddest fact
of all would be the
absence of what
we call a rainbow.
acceptance
why me?
why not me?
why ask why?
Today
I sit on my zafu
Yesterday
I lay in savasana
Tomorrow, today, yesterday
I breathe
where there are no answers
Short – not sweet:
Man-
demon
riding a
crotch-rocket to
Hell
oh right…Robert I hope your monsters are enjoying the full mooon…they have a right to that much
Well, guys, finally after sucking the marrow out of my own bones to form the words, I have come up with my theme poem. Next to the ones already posted…it feels shallow and childish…but it really is my theme..been on the edge enough times to finally know how to appreciate LIFE.
Robert, congratulations on being married for four months. My best wishes for many happy months for you and your bride, to come.
My husband is a mathy and I wasl always a math-phobe…but he fixed me. I still can’t do the math very well, but I understand why it’s there. And, more importantly, I know where all you mathys are coming from…what I don’t know is WHY
Here’s my burnt offering:
L’CHAIM (TO LIFE)
A gift to be cherished
Blessed Be
All of life
Even those microbes
On Poetic Asides PAD Challenge
Who can argue for their own survival
Justify their existence
Even call to question, ours
To life
New babies
Grannies and Grandads
Animals
Birds and fish
Middle-Aged boomers
Teeners and ‘tweeners
To life
The messiness of it
The grandeur of it
The smell of it
The ALL of it
Even the mosquitos
Have a place
at the table of life
As much as we would like them
Not to
Again I raise my glass
TO LIFE!
November
our November
is the eleventh month
and time has one foot in the grave
and numb to its own chill
as silver rain falls from gray
and leaves its beads
about the cars
leaving in lines,
it passengers reading
the side mirrors,
looking for yesterday,
born prematurely into
what will be December.
For the roaming –
Gregorian –
novem meant nine
and this would have been good:
we could have been born –
Cesarean –
from the hourglass,
its hips too narrow to bear children,
its delivers its children into
cradles of chaos,
gilded with grief,
suckling sadness
from a mother indifferent.
Seeking Despair
Anger would alert
Every cell every sinew
To attention
Tightening churning sending
Adrenaline to overrun
To harm
Me
But the mind turns it’s back
To know
I would have to act
Action is unwanted
But comes as a gift
With the rage unleashed
Depression my friend
Allows my soul to rest
Familiar friend
Curls me up
Lets me subsist in my loss.
Day 11 for LL&L:
How Can It Be
How can it be
That You have been around
Since the beginning of time
And so many don’t know You
How can it be
That You created everything
From the smallest microbe
To the immenseness of space
How can it be
That we know so little about You
Even though You’ve written so much
Through the hands of Your servants
How can it be
That You had so much love
That You sacrificed Your Son
To save even the most vile of men
How can it be
That You are willing to forgive us
No matter what we’ve done
All we need to do is ask
How can it be
That You would give us eternity
Just for believing in Jesus Christ
For believing with a child’s mind
How can it be
That Heaven cannot be described
Because it is so beautiful
That no language has the words
How can it be
After all the evil man has done
After we turned our backs on You
That You have not turned away from us
How can it be
I don’t know
Judy- very moving poem- I could feel your pain as I read your words.
Laurie K.
Day 11 for SS:
A Mysterious Miracle
I beginning to believe
Although I cannot prove
Nor can the most knowledgeable scientist
That this mysterious miracle
Encased by my skull
Will never be explained
Nor understood
In the least
By man
Even in the hereafter
So why bother to try
I’ll just admit
And concede
That it’s all in my head
Neal Sits Cross Legged
Neal woke at 4:30 precisely like a surgeon wondering
whose operation questioned his judgment. Without
omnipotent feelings Neal would hole up, resigned
to a life of ingratitude. He knew this to be
a mixed bag of blessings he slung over his shoulder
and left out at the curb every Sunday night.
Thank God for his pedestrian counterparts,
the anti-Neals, the oppositional Henryes,
making the world spin, little ant-like deities
but Neal is spinning his web and withering away
from lack of human contact, praying he doesn’t mirror
his Father despite the absence of stargazing.
Is it any wonder Neal broods over snippets
and phrases like "did you mean" and "would you
rather" and "je ne sais quoi, Isabella." It is
simply state of being, not of action, overused
and pleading with a higher Power to make some
thing occur without the use of force whipping
the wooden door open. It is simply Neal sitting cross
legged, a form of to be, simple and sincere.
Before I work on today’s challenge, I would like to honor our veterans with something I wrote shortly after I retired from the Air Force. I hope you like it and I hope all of you will thank a veteran today. It’s because of their sacrifice that we have the freedom we enjoy every day. May God bless them all.
Thank God
Thank God for the brave
The willing of heart
Who face any foe
And pay any price
Thank God for the brave
Standing strong in defense
Forward on to the battle
Freedom’s victory in sight
Thank God for the willing
Freely choosing to serve
Proudly wearing the colors
Of America’s best
Thank God for the willing
Walking into harm’s way
Putting country over self
Standing up to the test
Thank God for the courage
Given women and men
Knowing death may transpire
They fight nonetheless
Thank God for the courage
Reserved for so few
Those willing to give
Their lives for the rest
Thank God for the promise
Of victory’s day
If He leads our battle
Our war has been won
Thank God for the promise
Blood shed not in vain
A sacrifice for freedom
As was for God’s Son
Sorry I have not posted the past two prompts, haven’t had internet the past couple of days, so I will try to get caught up today.
Did you ever think?
Did you ever think about the
Way that we all need food, shelter,
And water, and how we all
Have the same color blood flowing
Through our bodies, and that we
All just want to be happy, or that we
Have all looked at the sky and wondered
Why here, why now, and that we also all
Hurt ourselves one way or another?
We are all living and dying, we all have
The same big homeland, and we all love something
Be it trouble, power, money, sex, movies, television,
Freedom, food, travel, or companionship.
And all of you, or at least most of you,
Are glad this overly sappy poem is over.
How bad is the storm
She asked as the lightning
Lit up the room,
The thunder so loud
Her voice could barely be heard.
All I know is that it’s
Rolling in pretty fast and
Judging by the size of this thing
It might be here to stay
For a while.
The best thing to do
Is stay inside awhile
At least until the worst
Of it has blown through.
Then we’ll fix everything
Back up and again,
Make it like it was before.
But for now my advice is to hide.
This one could be bigger than us.
I’m just saying, I’ve never seen
Anything like it.
I know. But could we stop
Talking about it?
I’d rather pretend we
Don’t know the truth.
I sleep so much better
That way.
(another)
Sometimes it rains, pours,
It just does.
I think it’s nature’s way
Of washing
The dust off of everything
So we can begin again.
(another)
Outside Looking In
I feel a sense of
Closeness
Kindness
Love
With our little family
The likes of which
I’ve never felt before.
Outsiders looking in
Saw it through our window
But living inside
I always thought it
Was more of a show
Than a reality.
My soul is at peace now,
My love steady,
My arms,
Starving for their embrace.
I Didn’t Know
I didn’t know
that grief feels a lot like terror
that I would always be on alert
waiting for the next blow
which always comes
but never announces it’s imminence.
I didn’t know
that loss feels a lot like fear
that though unafraid, the sensations
of fear are constant
that adrenaline rushes would
come even in the dead of night.
I didn’t know
that there would be physical symptoms
accompanying my anguish
chest constricted forcing air out,
that I would work to get my next breath…
hyperventilation, headaches, digestive disorders
weight gain, ringing in the ears, mind racing
stone rigid muscles, heart palpations
forgetfulness, stuttering, slurring of words
tingling in arms and feet, dry eyes, sinus problems
horse, sore throat, weakened voice, yawning
gulping, involuntary sounds of grief
loss of memory, long term and short
insomnia or sleeping for days
deep dark depressions, suicidal thoughts.
I didn’t know
that sensations from loosing a loved one
is very similar to being drunk, or
having Alzheimer’s, or other dementias
that sometimes I would have to
remember how to walk or take a bath
sometimes I would forget my husband’s name
or what I like to eat
that I would search for my cigarettes
even though I haven’t smoked for 25 years
I didn’t know
that I would begin to question
what before was dogma
unquestionable things like
my very existence on earth
question my faith and search for answers
anywhere I could find them.
I didn’t know
that loosing a child is like helplessness
and hopelessness rolled into one
hitting walls, locked doors, iron curtains,
firewalls and the final entrance would simply
be a vacuum instead of answers
I didn’t know
that the death of my son would be
the death of me, my life, my hopes
that I would become a robot
to get through my days
that I would suffer, feel shame
guilt, anger, the fringes of insanity;
that I wouldn’t know what to do
with this all encompassing sadness.
I didn’t know
that when my son died I would
have daydreams and nightmares and every
single waking moment would be a moment
when my son was dead or when he died
..all over again.
I didn’t know
that grief feels like being in a painting
bright colors, strange elements, unknown symbols
that nothing would look real or seem important
surreal would be a word I would try to explain
because it is my life
I didn’t know
that death means an endless march
of the mind around one subject
that my whole world, every item
would revolve around one issue
that if it doesn’t relate to that subject
it will eventually.
I didn’t know
that loosing Brian would mean
that I would spend each day trying
to understand and recreate his existence
and then unbidden… his death.
I have become a writer, a painter
I want to sculpt his face, his hair, and his life
I want to create
him again.
I didn’t know
creativity would help me bridge the gap
would help me organize my shattered life
help me recover from life altering pain
that catharsis for me is pen in hand
notebook open and writing…anything
all of the words that exist for that day.
that I would write down one thought in a
thousand and want to get down the whole,
that words would be what I would seek
to explain me to them and to myself and
to look for the hope of unearthing an answer.
I didn’t know
until now.
So much good writing! I keep wanting to comment on individual poems and then get lost in the volume. I am enjoying reading here daily, and even more than daily. Today’s prompt is a challenging one. I thought all my poems were deep and profound! LOL
In the Shadow of Illness
You are there
behind your blue focus
eyes staring
face immobile
mind paused
paralysis
swollen vessels
aspirating to flow free.
I am here
holding at the door
fearful in this place
unsure of silence
eyes blinking…
yours or mine I wonder
then close the gap between.
Beneath taunt wrap of skin
our smiles
wanting to break forth
enfold the other
move to stroke and grasp
entirety beyond
this day’s shadows.
Oak Leaf
Golden and dry
Falling down to the earth
Pleasing to follow with the eye
Foliage
Rod – I liked your poem from yesterday! Hey, I was a math major in a former life (my husband got his degree in math, how we met – a couple of geeks) although I changed my major over time. I think we have that book. I love fractals! – Michelle
Actually, Rodney, I’ve read that book. Good stuff.
Wow, Robert, I did not know that about you. I also am very interested in math, and how it relates to life and the world. I have a suggestion, that you may enjoy. A book called Chaos, I believe the author was James Glick. It shows math in everything, leaf’s, trees, etc. Using a lot of fractal theory, but within the chaos, there is an order, that only math can create.
Rod.
My Perspective
It is a fact that past
led to present which
will lead to future,
inevitable that people
disagree about politics.
What good to discuss either?
Cultural Stereotypes
To be an American is to
travel to Europe
with one small carry-on bag
of drip dry clothing.
To be an American is to
wonder why everyone in Paris
doesn’t speak English.
To be an American is to
complain loudly in English
about the small portions in
that cafe on the Left Bank.
To be an American is to
wonder how far a kilometer is,
how much a kilogram weighs,
and what the temperature is
in "real units."
To be an American is to
have your ancestors come
from someplace else, then
not be able to speak
the language when you
go back to visit.
To be an American is to
have your belly hang
over your pants because
you’ve gained 10 pounds
since Labor Day.
To be an American is to
be the new kid in town,
the one whose grandparents
you don’t know,
whose great grandparents
aren’t buried in the churchyard,
the one the teacher can’t
compare to his mother.
To be an American is to
be able to go to school,
and to have them come
after you if you don’t
show up.
To be an American is to
be able to buy anything you want,
provided you have the money.
To be an American is to
believe that everyone is
equal before the law,
even if it doesn’t quite
work out in practice.
To be an American is to
elect your president, then to
complain loudly when a dispute
goes to the Supreme Court
instead of having a riot
and shooting your opponents.
To be an American is to
be anything you can imagine,
even President, provided
you have the talent.
Difficult Position
Avoid talking to me when
I am tired
Or angry
Or sick
If you don’t want your head bit off
Stay away
When people I love are in trouble
Or scared
Or frustrated.
You don’t want to talk to me now.
Unless you are a nurse.
Then it is your job.
nice Connie, and beautiful Laurie K
Love As A Tree
Love, you are as enduring
as a tree,
so tall
and stout.
I feel
your
strength
revive me
when I’m
feeling
down and out.
Where will
you lead me,
love, after this drought?
Laurie K.
The Domino Effect
When we think of the domino effect,
we think of a succession of usually unpleasant events
resulting from the previous ones,
amounting to one big disaster.
But when Domino Topplers topple dominoes,
each stone is the desired size and color
in its precise place, falling at the right time
producing an extraordinary
work of art, science and beauty—
a blaze of color, movement and sound
in which the resulting pictures, symbols and expression
declare a beautiful message or important thought.
When dominoes topple
happiness, joy and excitement abound.
The Master Builder promises His people that
all things work together for their good.
When He pieces the people and events of our lives together,
it may feel like the result will be one big disastrous mess
but God has something else in mind—
science, art and beauty
joy, excitement, fulfillment
a meaningful message—
For God so loved the world…
Sphinx
What ghosts linger between here and gone
who moves in the dark between dusk and dawn
what walks the road between youth and old age
how far is the distance between familiar and strange
who lives in the borderlands, neither wild nor tame
what ferries me each night from sleep to dream
what holds us apart when we’re skin to skin
how thin the veil between life and death?
Kate Berne Miller
Revelations
She listened to the noises
she sheltered from the smell
she watched the ghosts parading past
but never went to Hell.
She touched the bones of people
who climbed from coffins damp
conversed with ghouls and ogres
who asked to share her lamp
And though they tried to scare her,
dripped blood upon her bed,
they never tried to hurt her
but made her tea, instead.
dang, should be malleable…even looked it up and forgot to fix both usages
please forgive me for I know not what I do
there’s a monkey at my keyboard!
ODE TO THE (Big, Ever-Loving,
Always-Present,
Never-Goes-Away)
THEME
Themes have always tripped me up
Never really heard the word,
Except, in song titles
(think Lara’s Theme, Theme from Moon River)
before my first year in high school,
And even then, as a youngster,
Forever asking:
“What does that song mean?”
Pestering mom and dad and aunts and teachers
“What does that mean?”
Never realizing I was looking for the THEME
Dr. Ross introduced us to “themes”
We thought, not a good introducer, he
With his PhD, frustrated; teaching high school
So high in the ethers with his lofty
(probably Ivy League)
thoughts
that he flunked forty-four kids in English
without so much as a blink!
Welcome to 9th grade
In answer to my question:
“I have NEVER flunked English before, so
WHY DID YOU FLUNK ME?”
his reply was terse, not without wit
errrhmmm…ahh ah err…he said with his characteristic stutter,
“You flunked yourself, Miss.”
Today, I cherish him still
as my very best English teacher
For not a word went by, that he did not question
The purpose, meaning, context;
Even using “the” too much, too close together
Pesky article,
Lost points
NEXT TRAUMA WITH THEME
New to town
Writer’s group
aptly named RED HERRING
entered excited and ready
Reading my new story about the miscarriage
Barely disguised truth and passion
was met with
Jeers, harshness and a clarion call
"Where’s the theme?!!!"
Admittedly, I had a lot to learn about
character development
plotting
scene changing
and overly-zealous experienced writers
who may or may not have suffered
DEstructive criticism for their own work
Oh, of course,
I realize now, in my old age
Yep, only six years from sixty!
(How’d that happen!)
What a bloody theme is!
Dysfunction may not be curable,
but it is maleable and
by gum, I will malle-ate it into
some damn fine writing
Having got that out of my system, now on to the prompt!
Laugh
The depressed,
they
L Laugh
A at
U unfelt
G glee,
H hiding their desire to flee,
for who wants to see
them
C Cry,
R Retched tears stored up from
Y years of wanting to die?
And Christians are the
W worst -
O owning everything
R rightfully God’s,
S showing straight-faced strength
T they think they ought to have,
but don’t,
for the victory is
H His.
I Incredibly given, but
S solely His.
Thank you, Rachel. Thanks so much.
oh Heather.. high impact. not something i should be reading right now. great work
Lesson# 11: Hope
She did her best to end it all
Started smoking,
Stopped eating,
Refused to sleep
Lit another
Capri menthol,
Inhaled as deeply as possible
Hoping
This breath
Would stop
Her heart
She drank
Rivers,
Not the good stuff,
Banana Banshees,
White Russians,
Beer,
Shitty wine
She lived on fortune cookies by the
Ten pound load
(Do you know how many fortune cookies that is??)
She ate bread
With lots of butter
Danced with old men
Got rides home,
No strings attached
Her shoes were worn out
She glued the soles
Back on
And patched up
Her favorite sweater
That kept getting snagged
On her fake
Diamond ring
The roots
Of her hair didn’t match
Her locks anymore
But her nails
Still looked good
From her last manicure
Except for the one that caught fire
In the port-a-potty
While she was squatting,
Drunk,
Cigarette poised,
Dropping to rest
On her ring finger
Acrylic burning through to
her nail bed
She had a hearty
Laugh
One more thing to hide
What the hell?
She didn’t care
She did her best to end it all
Started smoking,
Stopped eating,
Refused to sleep
Lit another
Capri menthol,
Inhaled as deeply as possible
Hoping
This breath
Would stop
Her heart
Lesson#11: We Don’t Always Hope For the Right Things