Good morning, all! Before I get to the prompt today, I just wanted to send a note about my recent limited edition chapbook ESCAPE (click here for more details). I’m down to the final five copies, so if you’d like one for yourself (or a friend), then now is the time to order. To claim your copy, send an e-mail to robertleebrewer@gmail.com with the subject line: I Need an Escape. Once I confirm that I have a copy to send you, I’ll send along payment information–the collection is $10 (and includes shipping to anywhere in the world–so you international types really get a bargain).
*****
For today’s prompt, write a poem that reveals something. Maybe it’s something physical (like light revealing an intruder or pulling back a sheet to reveal a new car). Or maybe it’s something psychological, emotional, or spiritual. Today’s the day to reveal.
Here’s my attempt:
“By the time you read this, I’ll have written another poem”
Sometimes, I just can’t control myself: line
begets line, and I find my wheels spinning
through the same exhausted vocabulary
searching for a better combination, or,
at the very least, something slightly new.
I do it without thinking most times,
because it’s better that way: no sense
in forcing a square peg where the triangle
belongs. These songs, these blasted songs, make
me long for the good old days when rhymes
were the structure and the meaning and the way.
*****
Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer
And read my other My Name Is Not Bob blog to learn more about writing, publishing, and living in general.
*****
You’re not alone. In fact, Al Katkowsky’s Question of the Day: Where the Truth Is the Dare is filled with questions. With questions ranging for light to heavy, this book is filled with great queries that could prompt a poem or start a meaningful conversation among friends.
The Secret’s Out
Stern, strict and severe,
She’d show them a thing of two,
Timidity was wimpy wasn’t it?
Interestingly, in an instant, change -
Cheerfully championing the class, she
slipped, showing her soft side.
Hahahaha, great way to launch us, Linda!
I’m a Little Fragile…
Sometimes things look a little bleak,
And even if I get close to you I somehow feel inexplicably timid and
surprisingly weak,
I’m a little fragile,
Not so linguistically agile,
So instead can I just hold you tight,
All the way through today and if you like all the way through tonight,
I know it’s hard to believe,
That an old soldier doesn’t know how to spin or deceive,
But I spent my life fighting or drunk dragging my friends back to camp
and collapsing into bed,
And now in the desert my friends lay rotting and dead,
I know I look like steel,
But that’s just on the outside inside it’s not real,
I was programmed to never surrender,
But as I look at your eyes and your hair and your skin I feel shit and
raw and broken and tender,
I was made to die or to kill,
And I expect it’s too much to ask someone to love me still,
And I don’t know why I chose to retreat to France,
Perhaps it was just by chance,
Or maybe underneath I’m soft and romantic,
Or more likely pitifully frantic,
But here as I gaze at you by the banks of the Seine,
With strawberries and glasses and a bottle of your favorite champagne,
Though I have nothing and I am nothing but a statue of scars,
I swear to you a love everlasting… here under the Parisian stars…
Oooh la la
haha! you’re in the mood Madam Mouselle
I love this poem! The stern soldier in conjunction with the tender heart just melts mine. (Swooning!)
Riveting poem!
I agree with Sara, riveting.
On Writing.
sometimes it comes
enraptured in love, I
bear it—a child
so rich and free flowing
too often it pains
all efforts attempted
a monster to bore
ideas so meager
I guess we all can relate to this .. i am more troubled with ideas that refuse to be written !
Exactly ! Have to wrangle with them !
I agree with Nimue, that ideas that just doesn’t come out are the ones I struggle with.
Somehow this reminds me of ballet and dancers. They make it look so gorgeously easy, but under that grace is pain and blisters and years of toil.
Thanks for taking the time to share what you all feel and think,
greatly appreciate all the heartfelt comments,
Sincerely,
Amica
The Inner Self in Truth Revealed
By Richard-Merlin Atwater Nov. 17, 2011
Facade of life, veneer, to put a face on, everywhere is seen,
As people show the outer shell in how they wish to be seen.
Man looks on the outer appearance to think they understand,
God looks upon the heart and soul to the inner self truth of man.
Heart this.
Happy heart leads to joy
Happy smile brings wondrous days
RADIANCE REVEALED
twas not morning sun
nor the light of moonbeams
shining from above…
it was love shared,
revealing the kind of happiness
that lights up the sky
2011-11-17
P. Wanken
so lovely , so true !
Lovely
What a descriptive representation. And an early start for you today, isn’t it? Good to see you ambitious today. If your sky is that bright, he must be a lucky guy.
Thank you, Nimue, Pearl and Walt. I’m blessed by your feedback. And yes, Walt, it was an early start for me. Normally I am preoccupied in the a.m. and do not see the prompt. Then once at work, I do not have access to posting. It’s not until evenings that I finally get to feast on all the wonderful words waiting for me!
~Paula
This is beautiful, Paula.
The wait
there been friends
and others too,
feelings expressed
or some times not,
i had words for them
forming lines bit long,
and then you came
like you were meant to,
little did i realize
how much i wanted you
not like the ones in past
a void I did not know,
a need i never recognized,
you my friend, are not a gift
but more like knowing
myself all over again,
throught the journey together,
and finally I can say for sure,
the wait was worth it all …
Clearly ! Sweet revelation sure is worth the time, often in hindsight, unfortunately.
A Perfect Revelation
You
The butterfly in November’s purple air
The envelope in which I send
My deeply uttered prayer
You
The tangent proof of this life’s hope and grace
The sparkle in my teardrop,
The laugh-line on my face
You,
A perfect storm dismantling my living-room
The bud that holds the flower
The rose about to bloom
You,
The golden sunbeam on an autumn-dappled field
The God of love and mercy
In a child revealed
Janet~
Reverential majesty
Such a beautiful reminder of grace in a child.
Nice poem Janet.
very nice.
J.lynn …. no blog… or did you just not list your http ?
I’m in midair with that leap.
What a wonderful rhythm this poem has. Is it a particular form?
“Forced Focus”
Dense fog
forces me to focus
on the world
in front of my eyes.
The horizon is a myth.
Turning the corner
reveals
November chrysanthemums,
burnt orange and butter
against
the gray-white fog,
brilliant color
planted
as though knowing
this day would arrive.
Revealed
only in the shroud.
Wow a startling rush of feeling through the fog – life enshrouded…brilliant
Such vivid images !
“The horizon is a myth.”
Made me stop in my tracks.
Me too. Gorgeous!
Under the Hat
Under the party hat
Bright smiles and all that
Stitches on bald head
No one can gasp at
Giggles
hope the reason is not too bad …
wow. okay, my first thought was serious neurosurgery. am i just being morbid?
That was my intention something grim.. but first reply was interesting…
That’s what I thought. So much pain and suffering related to health is hidden under “party hats” – this is sharp and insightful picture of it.
Nope, you’re not, Ina. Sorry guys, I only glossed the “surface”, rushing to switch among windows of apps… and took a literal angle, picturing a bald man comforted by his hat…still a sick humor… My apologies
APaige, when I saw your “giggle” I thought – Oh, like a dancing Frankenstein’s monster at a party? And that made ME giggle
Why apologies?,….. Terrific when different interpretations….if not then a straight declarative statement
Let’s hear it for party hats! Great twist Pearl
Layer by layer
Peels drop to the bedroom floor
Sweet juicy orange
fun !
You know, Pearl, there is something about your poetry that “appeals” to me . . . HMMMM! “Orange” you glad I let you know!
I’m just glad you didn’t say banana…. LOL…
YUM
Thsnks Sara
I like it … Could be a woman undressing, or it could just be an orange — you know, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.
On my wavelength posmic…but. A peeling is in the eye of the beholder
Leaning
In a box
There on top
A small hinge
Do not winge
As monkeys play
And weasels pop
LOL! nicely done Pearl
Great interpretation of the prompt. I really enjoyed this one a lot
Behind the Veil
My closet is a cemetery of clothes.
There is the flower girl dress,
long buried in frayed tissue,
now just a skeleton
of lace and tulle,
the shade of an old bruise.
I hold it close and remember
the day I rode with the bride
behind the veil
waiting to be noticed.
I feel the longing. Nicely written.
What images – “cemetery of clothes” and “the shade of an old bruise.” It makes one wonder what else lies hidden behind the chosen turn of phrase… Lovely.
Agree with above… Fabulous
Wonderful imagery!
Unbuttoned
Slowly each fabric covered button
Slid between pale buffed crescent nails
Perfectly manicured trembling
Open as a curtain
On opening night before an expectant audience
Of one
Reveal the healed girlish chest
Smooth as cool marble
To his reaching hands
Perhaps should read…
Reveal the healed gashed chest
Oooh… what a priceless moment! Wow.
Under the furrowed brow
Giggles bursting now
We elected him
Then he showed his true colors
Can we send him back?
wish it was possible easily and soon !
Sorry, “On clearance means “Final Sale”,
no returns and no exchange.
Revealed…
One President
former Community Organizer
who mistook the entire US
for one community
revealed
misplace faith
in intellect and the
desire of diverse
minds to reach
solutions for the
common good
Round about the waist
Food has lost its taste
The stick says no, no, no
The face contradicts with knowing glow
But then I stick my tongue out to it,
just for another bite of this—
why waste this lovely, scrumptious cake?
and worry about the expanding waist.
–You are having way too much fun, thought I’d make a measly attempt to join in !
Those sticks can lie … I “knew” about my daughter for about a month before I got the two pink lines.
the glow knows
Slip
Anywhere
On a ship in the middle of the sea
At a fancy black tied swirled dress party
Over a back fence
In a shop counting out some pence
Happen here or there
Always without care
The tongue slides and then a blip
An irretrievable, sudden slip
And those words can never be unsaid…LOL (as I know to my detriment). I think the best that can be hoped for is that the words went unheard as well!
Yep
“Some of my best friends are just like you”
Say they
Exposing what is really true
Revealed
I’ve always known
Of a presence invisible
A separate part of my being
Untouchable
Inexplicably peaceful
Calming
Inviting
And approachable
I’ve always known
That no matter who was around
Or who wasn’t
I was never alone
That the presence invisible
Was right there with me
Watching over me
Protecting
Encouraging
And caring
I’ve always felt
That one day this presence
Would be revealed
At a time when I
Would understand
Accept
And believe
Then the day came
When He walked into my life
Invisible no more
Untouchable no more
Still peaceful and calming
Still protecting and caring
But now understood
Now believable
Now my Saviour
I know this feeling .. well narrated !
Sign Language
Show me if you love me
What goes on behind those eyes
It hard sometimes to find the words
Yes, I realize…
But I would not dissuade you
If you showed me with your lips
There is a silent language
In a sigh; in finger-tips
Tell me that you love me
Longing is a lonesome mile
I have felt the earth beneath me
Melt with nothing but your smile
Show me, if you love me
Thoughts that words cannot convey
I’ll be a patient listener
I’ve got all night; all day…
Oooh so sweetly patient….
Yes, so patiently loving. Love it!
Any Flag
under fingernails brushed clean
home again after whatever arena scene
clapped upon the back for serving one’s country well
horror of blooded stain; the soldier’s private hellish tell
Oh!
Sad one, Pearl, yet I do fee proud. One of my sons is in the Army.
For Domino ….
hard on the soliders and the mothers and all
revealed in soft kisses and brave smiles
<3
Great one, Dr. P.
Oh my thank you Sara
Spring
Under the blanket of
Impending death riding
The coming frigid air
Burrowed deep
In patient poise
The rose sleeps
perfect ! loved the image you create …
Awwww!
Short and crisp!
WOW! Didn’t see that ending coming. Loved the imagery!
Awww thank you all
Now I have the boost to return to NaNo 
….. or not 
Silly question always wondered about the folks who have the great initial in the box how do you do that? Will you reveal?
Oooh a WOW….much appreciated
Another beauty.
Oh Sara…thank you
Showers in the Morning
Joyous baby boy
Kicking feet up in the air
Golden shower arcs
Pearl- You’re on a roll today… sis-boom-bah! (private joke)
Yes, as a mother of three sons, I get it. (And how!)
Only one son but two grandsons, so yes, I got it, right in the eye!
It was always a part of their delight . . . as long as you were out of sight!
Revealed
In a shaking withered hand
Tightly crumpled the month’s last
Five dollar bill pressed into the
Hand of the empty-eyed boy
Huddled on the cold corner
oh, this is so sad and beautiful. it’s an amazing picture of compassion.
Oh thank you Ina…melancholy morning…
Oh, Pearl, you are yanking on my heart today.
Spread the misery right?
LOL Thank you J.lynn….
A sorrow shared is half the sorrow; a joy shared is twice the joy. XOXOX
sweet
What a picture–very sad, still nicely done
Thank you …. So much appreciated
Well captured, Robert! Oddly, I was thinking along the same lines recently — how much simpler writing poetry can be when restricted by rhyme and meter. Fewer choices & distractions, but… so limiting. Without those tethers, though, the options can become overwhelming – leading to paralysis… or the spinning of those wheels you mentioned. Rock and a hard place… no?
Thanks for putting it into words!
To Robert and PSC in CT:
“These songs, these blasted songs…
when rhymes were the structure and the meaning and the way.”
——-
“rhyme and meter…so limiting…though options can become overwhelming”
“Thanks for putting it into words !”
——-
Well, I plan on writing another reveal poem today, but immediately following your prompt Robert, this piece came onto my paper….
Duplicity
You don’t know I’m coming
but, I’ve heard what words
trickled through the pipeline,
drained them in my sewer
and seal-coated my path,
You don’t know I’m coming
I took notes on your imbecile
shenanigans, did you presume
me to be a doormat?
philosophy mistaken,
You don’t know I’m coming
bought a plane ticket
but, will not step foot
on your grass, rather meet
the neighbors, enjoy the city,
You don’t know I’m coming
but when you see me walk
on by, that will be the last
time you see my face, your
life landscaped before all.
And all I could think was “Ooooh, burn!” LOL (Been there, thought about doing the same thing!)
PKP,
You leave me speechless!! WOW! Thank-you.
she is blessed
with infinite ideas
and more ways
to reveal them
to likes of us !
Loving your words PKP !!
Oooh I would blush
If not in a rush
Ideas fly in a rage
Spilling onto the screeny page
Hit submit
Or admit
That most of the time
Apparently I think in rhyme
LOL!!!
The Dawning
He breathes a subtle softening
In shades of chartreuse-gray
It stirs pink thoughts of morning
On sky-lines far away
The clouds like billowed mountains
Cannot hold back the day
The dark is but a season
Beyond its somber shield
Lies heaven’s perfect reason
Like the dawn; its light concealed
Until He parts the curtain
And His glory is revealed
Terrific double imagery of dawning.
totally liked your poem Robert ! Each to his own way of expression at the end
COCOON
Chrysalis, wound and sheltered
concealing all that has languished
in deliberate development.
The passing of time provides
all that is required, a desired
ability to strengthen and be nurtured.
Loving care that brings new light.
On the day of awakening,
amazing changes transpire.
From hiding asleep to the world,
the metamorphosis is complete.
Arising to greet its brand new life;
butterfly kisses to the emerging day.
Re-birth in morning.
Oh, what a beautiful take on this prompt!
Mhmm my comment disappeared… some wonderful images…and completely illustrative of the prompt
Perfect for this prompt!
’s
Unfeeling heart. Unpeeling it.
There is a thick, invisible rind,
more scaly than a Sunday demon.
It’s harder than a piece of steel,
way colder than the Arctic ice,
much smaller than a mustard seed,
and darker than the blackest hole
ever known to man.
You’d have to skin it first alive,
in the blinding light of grace
with the sharpest blade of love
that it could…it might…start to bleed again
its grief and fears…the loss…the pain…the pride,
to melt away the cage
that have long imprisoned it.
You do this in hopes…
with the faith of a mustard seed.
Somewhere buried inside his chest
is a living thing that sees and feels
like a child, until they pile—
the choices made for him…by him
and life happens in such a way…
And the day, it comes, the heart gets numb
without him realizing it in time.
love this, allusion to the mustard seed esp. nice.
a.paige…this is beautiful and heart-wrenching in every way!
Thank you, Janet !
Appreciate it much
Mirror Image
“Poetry is the revelation of a feeling that the poet believes to be interior and personal, but which the reader recognizes as his own.” ~Salvatore Quasimodo
Look at me. Compelling.
Dwelling
inside of you is…me.
You see?
I reveal bits of you
to view
through my words, since it’s true
that reciprocity
and curiosity
makes who we are come through.
###
RJ- This is so true, expressed so well.
What a wonderful quote to choose. You captured it.
An adorable poem, RJ
Cause and Effect
Drop a stone into the wave
And you will have a sea
Drop a seed into its grave
And you will have a tree
Speak a word; how brief its stage
A breath and it is gone
Write a word upon a page
And it lives on and on
Shout your anger to the air
And beat the silent sod
Or fold your sorrow in a prayer
And give it up to God
Oh, Janet- this is definitely a favorite! I love it.
Wonderful!
I’ll “give up” right now for JanetRuth … applause!
That’s what I get for being “cute” a mistake… meant to say
“I’ll give it up” right now for JanetRuth…applause still stands!
beautiful! The kind of poem that makes you wish you’d written it . Well done!
Hidden treasure!
It was a hot August day.
Time to declutter
I told myself
Started with
Red orange and blue
Rainbow of bags within bags
Standing in the corner
A perfect way to store
These reusable containers
Between shopping
I picked up the pile of bags to fold and stack better
When lo and behold
I heard a big clatter
Inside the biggest holding bag
Lay my long lost string of white pearls
Found
Just in time
For daughter to wear
At her wedding!
On that sunny day
I had a revelation.
It pays to declutter
You might find a
Pot of gold or
A lost necklace of pearls!
YAY!
That’s just what I said!
(smiles) I can definitely relate… it’s like Christmas around here when we do that.
It sure is a happy moment!
A gift from the Universe
Awesome timing and find, Patricia!! If I decluttered all I would find is dust bunnies and toy cars!! Lol!!
This piece doesn’t feel quite right yet, but I love the idea of an Ovillejo for today, as the form itself is revealing. Hoping to have time to come back to this one.
Full Disclosure
(an Ovillejo)
It isn’t that I can’t trust
you, just
that even heaven up above
never loved
these dreams, so truth will fight
me, right?
Here in my arms wrapped tight,
your heart concealed
all is revealed:
You just never loved me right.
Good one, De. I really like that form.
Neat form De – thanks for sharing!
What a neat piece! Love that last line!
You’re right, the form does work well for this topic. And you’re a champ at writing them already… this one has a great balance, casual voice, serious topic, delicate rhythm. Right on.
What Joseph and all above him said
Agreed!! All of the above!
’s
Thank you ALL for your comments. It’s a tongue-tying form, but addicting. I’ve been thinking in rhymes all day now, though.
Thanks for this intro to another poetic form, your poem makes me want to know more. I’m on the hunt. Suggestions?
pomodoro, you might try reading more here, for more info on the Ovillejo and other repeating forms:
http://www.katebenedict.com/Tilt-a-Whirl/Whirl-About/CheatSheetofRepeatingForm.html
Robert Lee Brewer used to have a great list of poetic forms, pretty comprehensive. Of course I don’t know where it is in the new blog format. Anyone?
PS: The name means “little ball of yarn” or “tight little bundle.” Even the name makes me happy.
THX, I’m there!
Silence in the Breeze
capricious chimes clap through chilling wind
sporadic as a child on the kitchen floor
banging pots and pans as clashing cymbals shrill
composing symphonies unparalleled, until
like a gasp for breath, a silence fills the air
which from this window seat arouses me
through the back screen door to take a look
curious and confused I muddle through
the sighing wind blows hair across my face
as a bow stroking strings of violin
a taste of honey coconut crosses my lips
once antelope prancing through the trees
now sentinels on guard, the wind chimes still
and as my eyes rest upon the source
a brilliant halo light shines through the fog
emitting golden rays that circle me
which fill my heart with inner peace
and drop me to my knees in gratitude
because I know God is with me here
in that silent-filled moment in the breeze
and every time thereafter when I sit
bridged at my desk beside that windowsill
and hear wind chimes gasp for quiet breath
I bow my head and lift my life in prayer
Truly filled with a grace all your own
Last two lines perfect ending, some very distinct imagery in this, Laurie! <3
Entering Cleveland from the Sky
Descending through the early morning clouds,
The air washed clean with dew-light
Greenhouse roofs gleam like tiny mirrors.
Toy cars sparkle as a sudden ray of sun
Probes the clouds and touches
The highways like a magic wand.
We are the discoverers,
The first explorers
Poised to enter this dreaming city
That waits only for the kiss
Of our footsteps
To waken it into life.
Beautifully evocative!
Had a lot of opportunity to some plane-city-watching in the last couple weeks, and never realized before how absolutely gorgeous it can be. Nice job of capturing this one.
Love your take on the prompt.
Beautifully done
Runaway
If a lineset gains so much momentum
that the operator cannot stop it,
that heavy load becomes a runaway.
Your instinct will be to grab the rope. Don’t.
If you are lucky, you will only burn
your hands as the rope races between them.
Much more likely, though, you will be carried
upwards by the rope – to be smashed into
the loading bridge, or struck by counterweights.
Should you survive this awful collision,
you will likely lose your grip on the rope
and scream back to the deck. This hurts like hell.
Learn this discipline, however unnatural:
When a line gets out of control, let go!
Don’t be a hero. Warn others. And run.
O_O Very good advice, Andrew.
LOL Andrew…terrific image of the treachery of out of control lines…
Unveiled
Walking through life
with a mask over her soul,
she’s been hidden –
Having found the right person
she is ready to be herself,
letting her soul fly unfettered –
Enjoying the freedom
of being loved exactly as she is,
she feels liberated -
Life becomes all she dreamed it could be
as she peels back the layers,
revealing she is you.
Michelle- I love this one!
Me too!
That’s surely when you know you’ve found true love! Written beautifully, Michelle!
Awww sweet!
Here’s mine
Attempted a limerick today.
Mistaken identity.
Ah a father’s scorn…
Truth be told
Under degree after degree
Lies not Tennyson, Thomas or Dante
But simplistically essentially rhyming me
“Full-House Funeral”
I want to end it all
As the kind of person that
Fills the funeral home to
Standing room only with
Maybe a line stretching
Out into the street and
Snaking around the corner.
No one reading my death
Notice will say “Oh, that’s too
bad.” like it could have been
Anyone else’s heart that had
Stopped beating and they just
Heard the News. I want tears, break-
Downs, empty boxes of tissues.
From my coffin, I don’t want to
Hear the time filled up by
Rehashed sermons and
People reassuring one another
That I’m in a better place, I
Want people lining up to tell
Stories of my kindness and
Then to realize that they also
Want a funeral with a full
Parking lot and front page
Spread in the hometown
Newspaper and go out and
Live their lives to make it happen.
I like this, Nikki, title to end.
Sounds reasonable to me.
Count me in LOL…. Truly agree with Barbara_y beginning to end
A stop and think poem for sure. Nice one Nikki!
Well done Nikki. A tough subject but you nailed it.
Love this, Nikki.
Under the Songs. ….. (this ditty carries a pacifism alert)
Under the songs
Sung so bold
Of soldiers gone
The truth lies cold
In bodies blood chilled clotted powdered into the ground
As the wheels of war – murder – in other circumstances found
SOrry guys–catching up again. Been writing no time for the keyboard. Blame nanowrimo.
Day 11 math or numbers
TICK, TICK, CLOCK TOCK
Hands that once barely moved
now circle the numbers
with numbing speed.
Smash your list into the cracks,
hang suspended,
holding back the minutes,
wounded hands clutching hands
that won’t stop turning
day 12–excess
A LITTLE BIT OVER THE TOP
As aunts go, she was perfect–
larger than life and chock full
of enthusiasms–art, gems,
sewing costumes, not school clothes,
gourmet food on a shoestring.
The only thing she couldn’t do
was sing La Traviata.
But she tried–oh, Lord–she tried.
day13–a kind poem
PROTECTION SERVICE
“I did it!” cried the five year old,
charging between his sister
and the waiting wooden spoon.
“It was me.” The mother softened
at his brave self sacrifice.
“I was playing and I bumped it.
I meant to tell you right away,
but you were on the phone with Dad,
and I forgot, I just forgot.”
“Honesty goes a long way, pal.
But no games tonight, just bed.”
So he retreated happily
to bounce a dinosaur around
amongst the pillows and the quilts.
Before prayers, the big sister came.
“You needn’t have lied for me, bro.”
” I know, but she’d have spanked you hard.
You can’t negotiate, like me.”
Day 14 deadly and dangerous
DEADLY
Living, it turns out, is deadly and dangerous.
Flying over Lockerbie, you can exit
life with its numerous charms and challenges
cause someone thinks your death will end injustice.
Or, driving legally along the highway
you may be broadsided by some drunken fool,
who will undoubtedly manage to survive
while you are wheeled away to a dark morgue drawer.
Cancer can creep into poorly defended
cells and membranes, stalking you for its noontime meal.
Having escaped all these, you’ll find old age,
while not as vicious, is more surely deadly,
inexorably taking your senses, strength,
balance, eye sight, sharp memory and money.
They’re all lurking back there to purloin our joy,
but every time I laugh or am generous,
each time I write a poem or smell a flower,
I defeat the forces of darkness, as peace
bubbles from and artesian well in my soul.
“Be still,” it murmurs, “and know that He is God.”
day 15 love
MANNERS
Da, oui, merci.
Love is the great
yes and thank you.
Penny… great catch-up and reminder to return to NaNo… I am now official in love with the aunt of excess and the kindness of the getting in between the spoon negotiating brother
Wonderful! Post them on your blog….!
Thanks.
MRI
You frightened me
all of Halloween.
This will be simple, you said;
a small sting, an IV for contrast.
We were hoping
that you would show us
something,
that you would explain
with your thumping
voice and circular logic.
You said nothing,
and the image of my spine
was only a skeleton.
So I’m back to ask,
once again.
Let me tell you first
that I am happy, and have
just started to unfold
into the bounty. I will give
thanks this November
for my good fortune.
But I want to know
why you come now
with this dark grey matter.
WhooooHeeee…. A stunner… terrific…wonderful use of prompt…profoundly human..fabulous use of imagery and the vehicle of language by which you carry this ….”dark grey matter” revealed to us all. BRAVO!!!! Must visit your blog after the dodo and now this… Just what poetry is all about sir
Basically, what PKP said.
SO powerful. Wonderful take on the prompt, and amazing visuals here. LOVE “thumping/voice and circular logic.”
A revelation:
Bewitched by Poetry.
Just can’t ditch
this itch, this twitch
and switch,
or hitch
a ride
to another niche…
What a bitch,
this word a pitch-ing,
this word a-stitch-ing witch,
bewitch-ing
such a leech,
as me…
I should really be paint-ing,
paint is dry-ing, visions blur(r)-ing
and the coffee’s cry-ing,
wait-ing to be drunk.
I thought I knew my addictions well,
still another addiction revealed—oh, swell !
Fun, a.paige!! I’m with you 100%!
When?
For some revealed in each tumbled dancing sun dust mote
For others in a book where it has been wrote
For another on the magic fingernails of the newly born
Or atop a craggy mountaintop at purple crimsoned dawn
Hints heard about in a bush that did brightly burn
Others acknowledge all above
See also a human deficit in grace, compassion, love
Scattered ashes still gathering in time’s slow
Far too much left to coalesce, feel and learn
whoops … correction..
Others acknowledge all above
See also a universal deficit in grace, compassion and love
Scattered ashes still gathering in time’s slow turn
Far too much left to coalesce, to feel, to learn
Rich, Pearl!! Smiles! So many great words!
Sweet Hannah thank you:). So very much enjoyed your palette today
You’re welcome!! A BIG thanks to you too, Pearl, my friend!
In the Morning
I hear the weight of it,
Building minuscule crystal
By crystal, almost silent,
It silences all, go to sleep,
Stay asleep, be still.
The grey dawn raises
One tired eyelid,
Then another, to reveal
Banks of snow, drifts
Of snow. Winter is here.
I love the feel of this, revealing Winter, Kit!
Thanks, Hannah! I’m feeling as tired as the dawn after shoveling today.
Oh yes, I’m kinda looking forward to it! Its a good tired. Hope your driveway is not to long though.
You’re welcome. Oh yes, I’m kinda looking forward to it! Its a good tired. Hope your driveway is not too long though.
ENJOYED THIS
(This is from my nanowrimo character’s pov.)
Betrayal
Where I cradle my memories
like the tree covered hills
hug the valley,
I learned you lied to me.
My fond nostalgia
of climbing trees
playing in the creek
chasing lightning bugs
is now permeated
with this deep ache
this searing pain
as solid and tangible
as the big oak tree
which served as home base
for games of hide-and-seek.
Aw….I feel her pain… Go help her Connie
Thanks, I think she’ll be fine by the end of November.
Don’t know if this reveals anything other than my weakness at form and my history of dirty feet.
Dickson County Old Route #1: The Front Porch
(after a poem by Donald Justice)
There used to be a way the summer heat
stopped at the smooth concrete front porch. The low-
backed rocking chairs that smelled of dust, and cow,
and snapped green beans were easy in that deep
gray shade by Mamaw’s sawhorse quilt frame, sleeping
out August days. And the chained green swing, pillows–
too worn for the house, smooth from Sunday hair oils
and darker at the center–propped against the creaking
chain. I rocked that swing from side to side
pressing dusty toes splotched by well water
into the cool iron links, push and glide
treadle work making a breeze with my short, briar-
scratched legs. Old pillow cushions under my head
the warmest thing on the island of porch shade.
Beautiful details in every single line; and don’t put yourself down about form, it works fine. Still waiting to see some of your stuff come in to Curio…
My comment was disappeared… so again.. NO reason for backing into this one… unadulterated beauty
Super meaty! As Joseph said, details….enjoyed this, Barbara!
You never fail me wow me, Barbara. You’re my favorite PA poet & that’s saying something
Between the time I started this and this post, it seems some other people were in a similar headspace with the prompt as I was… must be one of those same-wavelength days.
…
Red Onion Woman
You can peel another layer away,
she says; here, start with these overused hands.
Take this skin, tear it up: let it decay.
I have husks to spare, she says, skins to flay,
knotted with ribbons and old rubberbands.
You can peel another layer away:
memory starts to leak from flesh like clay,
drops purple on the ground. Still she demands,
take this skin. Tear it up, let it decay
bit by bit, she says. Then, let me display
my scarlet heart to see who understands.
You can? Peel another layer away,
with love, she says, until I’m withered, grey,
leave no limbs behind. She contracts, expands,
takes her skin, tears it up, lets it decay.
And while eyes burn and scraps fall, she will say:
lift me up, My Self, My Body. She plans
to peel just one more last layer away.
Take her skin, tear it up: let her decay.
just wow.
Second that!
Perfection, Joseph.
Exquisite !
Mr. Harker, if I were announcing my relationship with your work on Facebook, it would fall under the category of “it’s complicated.” Your immense talent makes me never, ever want to write again, because I will never, ever create anything that balanced and beautiful, or hone that ability to brush words together like hues in a painting (of your prose…I am still hoping, praying you will someday write a novel, which I will immediately buy and inhale)…and you make me want to literally write my @$$ off, because if words can be that achingly beautiful, I want them. ALL of them, and more, at my disposal. Always.
In awe,
de
This is absolutely wonderful….perfect words in perfect order. Bravo Mr. Harker…
The Reveal
Music pounds through and past
Pulsing just post- pubescent wetted unshaved lip
As satin thong lowers impossibly lower still on a gyrating hip
Such a-peeling poetry today! (Sorry, the punster in me could not resist.) Lovely work, all.
Like a woman who strips things down to the essential core:) Now that is a-peeling.
Mother and Child
A fancy gown from the dress-up box;
I help with the zipper and then there are
tights to pull on over muscular legs,
a bit of a paunch. It’s a snug fit,
like the casing on a sausage. Then
there’s a request for a ponytail,
my department as a mother, so I
pull taut the blond hair, not easy
when it’s so short. And then we stand
together in a full-length mirror,
my child and I, mutually admiring.
Later, perhaps, when we’re out
somewhere in everyday clothes,
I’ll smile and say nothing when
a stranger projects a life plan
for this child, who apparently looks
“like a future linebacker.” I can’t
forecast that far, but I know
a happy boy when I see one.
Incredible poem – written with love in an absolutely uniquely “posmic” manner KUDOS!
Thank you! I have a beefy little 3-year-old who likes to dress up pretty at times. Whether it’s just a phase or something deeper, my husband and I support him in whatever makes him happy and comfortable in his own skin. I feel fortunate that his dad and I are united in this.
Would that all children helped to grow into the fullest self they can become
Morning is Revealed
A soft cry erupts in the early morning
Dawn throws light through the tree branches
Like an invading army
It advances upon the slumbering forest
As the rhythmic tune continues; shrill and bright
Awake, awake, awake!
Suddenly the announcement is complete
The morning bursts into a sun washed
Blaze of gold and yellow
A new day has begun
Passers-By
Through the iron palings a collie shouts
and barks at my three mutts.
I gather them to me, slip their leads
over frost-gleam chokers and go upon my way,
past brambles still tempting birds with berries
though I pass them by, suspecting sour beads
of bauble juice.
A woman with a pushchair smiles as we pass by,
the child cocooned within pointing at my three companions
‘Yes,’ she says, ‘Doggies. One big one and two little.”
Do two little dogs equal one big one?
Bear reveals his teeth but without a growl.
He seems to smile, happy for November sunshine
and the contrails of aeroplanes in the crisp, cold blue.
“sour beads of bauble juice” – love it. You do a great job capturing these seasonal nature snapshots, I really enjoy them.
“The poet’s job”
If
the poet
cannot unveil the
meaning of the shattered glass,
then
it is nothing
more than a pile of trash.
OH. I like this. A lot.
amen!
REVELATIONS
Re-reading your letter – how
that great-uncle who eloped to music
wasn’t at all what we thought,
he didn’t float his melodies
down the Seine, into Notre-Dame herself,
never found the highest note, the lost chord,
but ended up in Poughkeepsie or
was it Schenectady?
teaching piano,
boiling up cabbage for supper,
looking out smudged windows
at sunset through a coal-smoke sky;
never wrote
back home – I wonder at his life
wherever he was, what colors
he saw that we haven’t.
That “eloped to music” is a wonderful phrase. And such great contrast between the man and his image; true story?
Well done!
Day 17 11-17-2011
Write a poem that reveals something.
The Big Reveal
Not on HGTV or in a strip club.
Not in a new version of “What’s My Line?”
Not a serviceman or woman suddenly appearing
to a stunned and grateful family.
Not an electronic billboard that shifts its ad
while you wait at the traffic light.
Not anything the world could expect or prepare
for, unless they read or hear
and then believe:
“He is coming in the clouds,
and every eye will see Him.”
well there you have it… that would be the ‘big reveal’
Beautifully written Karen.
Pingback: The Peeling of Layers « It's Real To Me
Random Thoughts About Exposure
When writing poems it’s always hard
to transfer from a heart that’s scarred
the very depths and lonely deeps.
My shattered heart so quietly creeps
and thus admits that I am scarred
to all.
When writing letters to my friends
and kin, I find that poetry lends
a kind of rhythm to my words.
I sometimes think I sound absurd,
so often I don’t even send
at all.
When writing every day, it’s true,
I oft attempt to just slash through
the wordy phrases way too long
that must be cut, they’re not as strong
as shorter prose. I start anew
without all.
When writing prose I try to soar
as others do and so ignore
the darkness lurking just behind
the other thoughts inside my mind.
Am I more than I was before
at all?
When writing anything at all
I try within my silly scrawl
to share the bits that I can bear,
my heart upon my sleeve to wear,
to hold my muse within my thrall
sharing all.
Diana Terrill Clark
sharing all ….. (I hear that second sharing all echoing in my mind)… Beautiful Diana just beautiful
Thank you, Pearl. <3 That is the difficulty of writing, after all, but also, what makes it good when it is good. ^_^
Pingback: Lost in the Fog | Prose Posies
Lost in the Fog (a sevenling)
Driving at night in thick fog,
within the beam of my headlights,
I lose my bearings.
With no familiar landmarks
sometimes I forget— where I am,
where I’ve been, where I’m heading
and just how far I’ve come.
– Cara Holman
A seed, a maggot, and the thing inside a shell…
He always felt invisible,
like seeds in pods that never grew,
an oyster sans his priceless pearl,
shut tight within his clamped up shell.
Tiny shoots spring forth through dirt
from beans, they sprout the finest greens,
as maggots crawl about on earth,
some earn their share of lively wings.
His strangled heart can, too, be freed,
choked up by weeds of shade and shame.
The light of truth must strike within
this person in his handsome frame.
Revelation
A good shake
crumbly earth falls all around
brown papery skin rustles
as I peel and discard it
layer upon layer
of succulent flesh revealed
pungent aroma sets me sneezing
eyes a-streaming
big knife flashing
reduces the globe to
tiny morsels to adorn a
dish – a taste revelation.
Viv, what a wonderful picture you create–I can feel it
A cinquain
“Neige”
New snow,
even-shadowed,
radiates pure whiteness,
until the sun peeks through, revealing
cold truth
Love the ending! Nice.
Pingback: PAD 17 – Revelation | Vivinfrance's Blog
OKIE DOKIE, ARTI-CHOKIE
So many layers.
Leaf after thorny leaf;
green, and a perception
of it being undesireable,
more trouble that it is worth.
As you peel, you feel the flesh under
your fingertips soften. How often
have others passed by, offering
not a second glance for the
chance to taste its delectability?
Some have tried but had abandoned
their quest, lest they be calloused
and turned off. They never ventured
past the inedible thistle, as they
whistle through the produce isle.
But I smile. For just past that protective
shield, it yields its delectable heart.
A savory morsel on which to feast.
Getting to the heart of the matter,
is the least to do for such beauty.
Ah yes, you leaf me hungry…mayo, lemon butter anyone?
A delicious poem! Wonderful work as always.
I’m running behind–I still owe once-upon-a-whatzis. But here’s today’s.
Between
My friend’s ex-girlfriend opened her legs
in a letter in a damp envelope
I handled carefully
in opening I thought,
she showed him, too, his face
unfolded his heart unbound his sex
even as he slept alone in a Canberra bedroom
he dreamed his secrets and I fancied
I could play them on the radio
but every intersection changes the road
every bookmark edits and
whatever I thought
could be found
in her in him in me was
nowhere except in that blurred vellum
Pamela Murray Winters
Very mysterious, and keeps its dreamy quality even on the third read. Love that radio line.
EARLY THIS MORNING
She sat in front of her boss trying to
discern what was out of place, off-kilter
in the air at work when suddenly he
stuttered and started again, then stopped. He
bowed his head, briefly, then slowly lifted
it until he was looking through teary
eyes, directly into hers. In a low
voice he gave her the answer, “It’s returned.
How much, how bad and where is not yet known.
Her surgeon won’t know until tomorrow.”
Holding his gaze, she rose gradually,
removed her request for leave of absence
from his desk. She blinked, turned and walked away.
***
a deep bluntness abides
***
as a katydid
once flicked
into the darkness
of a well.
the passing of my grandmother’s forehead.
the junkyard oven.
the palm of my hand suggestively
on the back of yours.
the silent treatment
I’d give you
in my sleep.
beaten like any man’s mattress
I could be me and you
me.
THE THRILL OF NOT KNOWING
It was a normal day at the preschool,
When a friend just happened to call!
“Do come by”, she said,
“I am working at a jewelry store today,
And they just received a new shipment,
From London and the pieces are very old!
There are some interesting histories with some of them.
The owner would like me to explain,
Each piece and describe the energy I feel,
In this new collection that is for sale!
I’ll be speaking over your lunch hour!
Please come. I think you should be here”!
Glancing at my schedule,
I saw it could happen,
Seemed a sign I should go!
Arriving as she started her talk,
Fifteen or twenty people were sitting in a circle,
Around my friend who stood by a mystery box!
She greeted me warmly and began her talk,
She highlighted each piece before she’d reveal it,
To the quiet but interested group!
I was politely listening and watching, taking it all in,
While she passed each individual piece around!
Out of nowhere, as she started to tell us about the last piece,
I got a sudden sense to “sit up and pay attention”,
A feeling that something she was about to say was important,
For me or to me in some way!
She carefully shared the history,
She revealed the mystery,
And as she pulled the piece out of the box,
I knew in a flash,
I was there for that particular necklace,
At that specific time! I almost couldn’t stand,
Waiting until it came into my hand.
It felt like everyone was holding my necklace!
As it slowly passed among the other guests!
After the talk ended, I went to speak with the jeweler,
To see what else she knew about the piece.
It turns out a woman or two,
Had tried to buy the necklace but when they tried it on,
It made them ill, which the history and mystery,
Had revealed was a sign the necklace was not theirs.
My friend and the jeweler,
Asked me to put it on,
To determine if it was mine!
Not only did it feel right to wear it,
All of me knew I had to have it,
Because it strongly felt,
As if I had worn it before!
We now had to discuss the price. I knew,
My husband would not be pleased with the amount,
Yet, everything in me was clear I was to purchase it.
Biting the proverbial bullet, I bought the unique necklace,
And wearing it home,
Two unexpected things happened.
First, as my daughter walked in the door,
She came right up to me and said,
“Oh, good, I see you are wearing my necklace.”
And my husband was as easily convinced as was I,
That if it was meant to be mine,
The money would come soon,
To pay off the purchase!
In five days,
A check arrived,
With no real explanation,
Or logical reasoning,
For the exact amount,
And all we could muster,
All we could do,
The only thought we had was,
Thank you!
We learned something important,
During those amazing days!
When magic and mystery reveal themselves,
In those sacred moments,
A silent and grateful heart . . .
Says it all!
“Passing Time”
Grandfather stands sentry at the foot of the stairs,
his comforting Westminster chiming the quarter hours
Anniversary clock in the hallway, running, always, a bit behind,
her sweet, clear Canterbury quartering off time
Clock on the mantle rings a ding-dong doorbell tone he finds in-
trusive, sometimes; mostly during quiet, meditative moments
Soft tripping Whittington, lazy, meandering Oxford,
Beethoven’s majestic 9th, all music to his ears; but unearthly tunes of
Trinity and Winchester, though dreamy in the light of day,
turn haunting in the somber, sleepless minutes after midnight
He sets them all to alternate; the goal: to allow each its own
short solo; but their diverse tempos, and his forgetfulness,
will sometimes override such careful plans
In those madly clashing moments, he concedes: symphony or cacophony
is mainly a matter of peace of mind (or lack thereof)
edit
***
as a katydid once flicked into the darkness of a well
***
a deep bluntness abides.
the passing of my grandmother’s forehead.
the junkyard oven.
the palm of my hand suggestively
on the back of yours.
the silent treatment
I’d give you
in my sleep.
beaten like any man’s mattress
I could be me and you
me.
Whodunnit!
The blood on the rug
The broken mirror
The door left ajar
Evidence comes clearer
Gather the suspects
There’s a killer among us
What’s your alibi?
You sure look suspicious
Where were you last night
Between 2 and 4?
I know you weren’t sleeping
We didn’t hear your snore
You wanted him dead
Go ahead and confess
Mrs. White in the lounge
With the wrench is my guess
Am looking for opinions from all the great poem-ers here – on whether the last two lines should actually be the first two?
Tie, Loosened
and that button unbuttoned,
the hint of collar bone,
a peek of hair there
and at the wrist, emerging,
strong, from its cuff,
with a hint of weekend tan –
like the fortuitous corner
of a gift escaping its packaging.
Methinks the last lines are best last, giving a direction to the descriptions that come before. The descriptions lead to the metaphor of the gift, and that leads the imagination past the end of the poem in an enticing, engaging, delightful way. (My 2c.)
Thank you Daniel – that was just what I was hoping for but didn’t know if it worked. Those are some valuable pennies
I agree with Daniel! The ending is enticing, engaging and delightful as it is, Ina, I would also add inviting! Very nice!
Thank you Janet!
Personal opinion: they’re best at the end. Further opinion: lose “fortuitous” and change the hyphen to a line break. Ultimate opinion: don’t let the opinions of others change how you write unless you agree with them.
Love your last line here, Joseph! Simply stated, best remembered!
Thanks, Joseph! I’ll try it without and see how it feels.
The meaning of yesterday’s poem—revealed!
“And one with death rising to bloom again, I cannot go.
Being of these hills I cannot pass beyond.”
—James Still
My wife and I are permeated points in the curve of California’s coast.
Water-land-air in endlessly detailed currents and drifts run through us
with the hush of waves, whisper of grass, Chevron’s silent sulfuric efflux.
Brackish rivulets emerge from the sea cliffs, land warmed and flowing
pristine into the ocean, or trampled by free-grazing elk or meat cows.
The sand never leaves our skin. The marine layer always lifts our chests,
and during oral surgery, we will ourselves to those wild vistas for peace.
The influence of shoreline is a bellybutton through which we are fed
in our moment-by-moment birth, so it does not matter where we go,
I tell myself, staring out the window at a sudden fog, risen on the bay flat
so thick that hunting egrets pass white into whiteness, vanishing from view.
I know under the shirt of cotton, the mud-ribbed flats and red shocks
of blooming pickleweed remain to add their incense to everything we make:
art, feelings, family. All belongs to this intersection of see, sand and sky.
Just for fun
How he finds us
Spheres of lamplight
glowing in the fog-dark road
reveal majestic antlers.
Nice!
Thank you!
Who knew?
Plastic wrapper discarded,
Cardboard disguised as cookie consumed,
Leaving the small slip with black words.
Discovering what was really already known –
Fortune cookies lie – What a buzz-kill.
Inner thoughts
Revealed
Can cause
Calamity
So true.
Poem Revealing Something
Postponing Relevations
From a bedroom window,
blue blinds block perception
of what lies beyond. How
can you know day has broken,
night has not lingered-dark
mocking light–daring rays
to pierce swarthy sheets
of sky. Is is not secretly
thrilling to stay in bed, pondering
and postponing the revelation
of reality a little longer, imagining
your own?
Sara, you have been on a roll this November–beautiful images and senses! (in all your poems)
great ending
Thanks for your lovely sentiments. I just got back on line again, and read yours, as you will see.
Sara
Oops! The title should read “Revelations.”
~CREATING REALITY~
Burnt umber, crimson and fuchsia
Fueling fitful passion, paint and
Sharp smell of pungent turpentine;
Sleeping senses rise to the occasion.
Crisp sound of bristle, brush applied to canvas,
Weight of palette knife, pitch and dragging of hue;
Knowing where water and land meet, trees springing forth.
Blue print for magic painted in ultra marine, burnt sienna,
Mystery of life suspended in the width of fan brush.
Understood in liquid language of magenta and yellow ochre.
Inner reality translated, heart-welling communicated.
Yes! Yes! I love that. Dragging of hue, Mystery of life suspended in the width of a fan brush (love those fan brushes!) Nice!
Sara!!! Thank you for such an encouraging comment! I’m so glad you enjoyed! Smiles!
Commented on your blog, too, Hannah…NOBODY does nature like you do. Amazing.
I SO appreciate your comments, De!! You poets have a way of making me feel special! Thank you!!
Its a …
Breath held in
Dimly lit room,
Anticipation palpable.
All focus on flickering screen,
Waiting for the words,
‘See that? It’s a ….
Or
Voiceless in dim room
Breathless anticipation,
Waiting for ‘Its a ….’
I love the haiku! Very nice way to capture that moment.
FLEMISH BLUE*
The Founders dressed to the nines for the afternoon. Today
was special. Breughel came to town for a Wedding Dance.
This time the picture they loved
was going to rest here,
how crude, how quaint, peasants in the courtyard in rust browns
and yellows in the late afternoon sun. The curator told them
about the dust. It was
necessary to clean the work, to refresh
the surface. There was no way that
the public could accept this masterpiece
the way it was. Indeed, and
the restorers set to work, meticulously, removing
the excess pigments. No easy task, this
lusty canvas, how subdued, scraping what
pious generations hid from view . . . letting the sunshine
in. This was, after all, a wedding, no. Finally
ready for the Founders, the ladies smiled
at each other, at the curator, at the painting
clean, unseen, covered waiting
to be launched into the museum. First
the speeches, then the curator pulled
pulled the string, slowly the peasant
nuptials appeared . . . alas, zippers
were of the twentieth century. In Flanders
so many years ago, passionate men
did not hold their passions back, neither did Breughel, and
it all hung out, covered over by cod pieces, modest Flemish fashion,
yet the respectable ladies turned red. How could the be, they shuddered.
Why not, the curator nodded, this is, after all The Wedding Dance.
Zev Davis
God had always been secretive
his timing offset by a more lovely
rubato, a gentle tug at my heart
but it sought no revelation
Sunday hymns wet my eyes
but music already claimed my soul
it overflowed, leaving no place
for any other kind of love
patiently I cultivated my pagan self
delighted to belong to life’s offerings
but still, a cathedral’s stain glass
or the reverence of its lofty construction
always tore at my chaste sense of elation
I have never believed with devotion
one day destiny’s chase led me
to a faraway city that beckoned to me
differently
content at this partnership
I gladly wandered the streets
until one afternoon
my promenade led me
to an ancient monastery, it’s brick walls
whispering a welcome so intense
my feet would not allow me further discovery
instantly, a deep forgotten part of me
spun alive, remembering
that I had once belonged
within the wonder of this place
and I wept freely as never before
knowing that when my need becomes greatest
I now knew where to come home
the distant path
[2011.17.11…a]
Busy day! Hope to be back to read tonight! Happy poetic Smiles!
I’ve been here, soaking it all up!!! Wonderful, poets!
Stunning work, Diana.
Nuclear Medicine
When my daughter and I, dressed
In our usual everyday clothes
Showed up for tests at nuclear medicine
We were greeted by medicos in haz-mat suits
Then there I was cradling my six weeks old babe
As they shot radioactive iodine into one of her teeny-tiny veins
Then, pinching her nose shut, had her swallow another bit
Admonishing me, “don’t let her spit up – it will burn her skin”
And told me to bring her back in an hour
As they shooed us out of the office
Luckily, she slept, exhausted no doubt
From non-stop crying during and after that ordeal
And most likely a sense of betrayal
As her Mommy held her down while she
Was stabbed and force-fed radioactive junk
It was a necessary test — I trusted her paediatrician implicitly—
A routine post-partum test had shown
Her thyroid underperforming alarmingly
The earlier they discovered why, the better for her
Finally, back to the lab and a painless X-ray
And at last, the great reveal – the doctor
Drew us closer to the screen – pointed
Said to me, “see the butterfly there?”
I did – clear as anything – a butterfly-shape
Centred – it looked like – in her mouth
And there-in lay the problem …
Thyroids are butterfly-shaped and attract
Radioactive iodine – hence easily identifiable
However, what the test revealed?
Our perfect baby girl’s thyroid resided
In her tongue – right where it started
In utero but not where it needed to be
Now that she was outside the womb
Sometime during her embryonic
Development, the message
To descend into her tongue didn’t
Reach the thyroid; now it was too late
Is this unusual? Very – when her abnormality
Was diagnosed it was believed to be
The only case in the world
Treatable? Very – a synthetic hormone
Every day for the rest of her life
Undiscovered? She would not have
Developed normally, either physically
Or mentally even if eventually
She was diagnosed and treated
There would be no undoing the lapse
In development that had already
Taken place – having her sublingual
Thyroid revealed before she
Was two months old? Priceless
THIS IS AMAZING… Did not read until now copying my poems that I forgot to record!!
Different Now
Things are different now.
It’s not like it used to be.
It’s not like it’s going to be.
Change is constant
and very visible.
This is not like watching
a blade of grass grow.
It is more like
the turning of the leaves.
They are green one day
and rust the next,
followed by barren branches
then a blanket of white.
Memorable dreams weaken
while new visions of the future
grow ever stronger.
Words don’t come as easy
but the melodies do.
Energy is hard to find
so that rest is blissful.
There is still much hope.
Things are different now.
By Michael Grove
Sea Magic
Above azure
Flecks of silver
Hiding treasure
Below
Brain coral as big as
A Bug
Knotted fingers of yellow limestone
Lace fans of purple
Schools of underwater honeybees
Yellow, black stripes
Swarmed below
Then rose
A school, embracing me
While sunlight flickered
And danced,
So did we
Absolutely stunning, Sara! So tropical, underwater paradise!
this is beautiful – I love the lace fans and underwater honeybees
What Hannah says – makes me miss the ocean.
Wow!
Michael Grove
M eticulous and caring.
I mpatient yet willing to wait.
C alm, cool and collected.
H eart of gold.
A huge sports fan.
E nchanted spirit.
L oves everyone unconditionally.
G ood friend.
R everent and spiritual.
O ften seen fishing or boating.
V ery competitive.
E ndearing
By Michael Grove
Shadow
Sun
absorbs
reflection.
Ringed colors look
to eyed disguise to
secure fluttering flight
between purple, red and orange.
Beyond the place she sits watching
beyond his place of remembering
the open throat of nectar scent thick air.
Jane Penland Hoover
November 17, 2011
Stunningly beautiful, Jane, looks just like your photographs. Vivid!
thank you – computer down all day – just trying to catch-up – I’ve got to put photos and poems together – yours are so fine
Sometimes when you tell it
It seems that I have known
The thing exactly as you tell it
To the letter, to the bone
It seems that I have known
Forever what you say
Though if I use my words alone
They don’t work the same way
Moreover, what you say
Ringing truer every telling
Reveals your word’s not stock retold
But tailored to my bone
Okay… first entry just didn’t seem to fit the bill. Not “revealing” enough, so… here’s my second pass at this prompt. I think it really hits the mark.
“Not Revealing”
He claims he really couldn’t say
(truth is: he doesn’t care)
just WHY he fancies lingerie
and ladies underwear
But look beneath his business suit,
and guess what you will find –
the undergarments of his wife!
(She swears she doesn’t mind!)
He isn’t hurting anyone
It’s all in fun, you see
It gives him such a pleasant lift
to dress licentiously
When he’s all “dolled up” in her clothes
or dressed as “maid in waiting” –
there’s just no thrill that can compare
He finds it titillating!
He won’t say why – there’s no because…
but one thing’s sure: he surely does!
Big Reveal
It’s a favorite device on those TV reality shows:
the ugly gal who goes away for weeks
of weight loss and cosmetic surgery,
new wardrobe and hair, and knocks ‘em dead
back in her hometown, in a short skirt and spike heels
when she struts through the door.
Or the down-on-their-luck family returning home
to a throng yelling, “Move that bus!
Move that bus!”- and on cue, the bus drives away,
unveiling their brand new over-the-top house.
Or another family who come home
to their same old house and are told to take off
their blindfolds and open their eyes,
to find all their rooms redone,
all their pathological clutter gone.
My life might be more exciting if it were full
of big reveals. Or maybe it wouldn’t.
After awhile, I’d take them too much in stride:
“Ho-hum, another blockbuster surprise.”
I’ll be content with those everyday little reveals:
unwrapping a birthday present I love
but never expected; you, modeling a new dress
you look lovely in; or the pear tree
outside our window, which overnight has turned
from green to bright, bright yellow.
My Invisibility Switch
I possess the ability
to make myself invisible
at will.
I can disappear
if there are chores to be done,
or when solitude is preferred,
and I can re-materialize
when I need help with heavy lifting
or when I’m feeling especially lonesome.
Unlike the magician,
I’ll reveal my secret:
the default value for
my invisibility switch
is always “ON”
it’s only when
I do something
designed with an
audience in mind,
any audience,
that I’m actually switching it
“OFF”.
So,
I can make myself
invisible at will
as long as I
do not will
myself
to perform
for anyone.
Ta-da.
This Attempt at Stamping
Pay no attention to the man behind the missed Thanksgivings.
He may not be what you think
because he is not quite sure what he thinks he is
and really who can be labeled by something as windy as thoughts?
Pay no attention to this confession
which is this is not done for you
or for me (whoever that is),
it is done to stamp some permanence
on time as it refuses to pull over in its carriage
drawn by retired members of Baseball’s steroid era.
The woman with messy grey hair and something under a blanket
on the corner of South and something
asks me where and when the 57 bus comes
and I say right here
and I don’t know.
Oh, man, Mike. There is so much going on here, so wonderfully. Especially love:
“and really who can be labeled by something as windy as thoughts?”
Thanks very much, De. I’ve been so late to the party with most of these prompts. Thank you for the feedback!
“Exposed”
I got nothing.
Here where I am dangling softly
on the fringes of poem
and passion with wise
nothings hiding in my pockets
of pain/joy/doubts/fears.
I got nothing
to give today.
No shattering insight to enlighten
the vague, the sinister, the sad,
no vision
no voice
no intimate words
So, here I stand
Exposed/ Revealed
as the fraud I am.
I got nothing.
Well, my sentiments exactly and yet we both pushed through and posted anyway. Plus, your poem about having nothing is really sometihng great. I’m sure many people feel that way. I know I did today.
Been there. And the days I am, no way could I have said it as eloquently. Perfect.
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Underneath
Some can’t see the forest for looking at the trees,
But not me, I see less but also more.
I don’t see the trees for looking under the rotting leaf on the forest floor.
Or peeling back the bark to reveal a micro habitat.
That’s just me, I’m strange like that.
Revealing
Children of the sixties and seventies,
we learned to leave home looking
prim and proper, then
out of Mother’s protective sight,
we hitched up our hemlines,
rolling up our skirts, revealing
that naughty glimpse of leg
as we waited at the bus stop
until the yellow school bus
full of public school kids passed,
then rolled them back down,
hems to our knees, ready
for the sisters’ ruler test.
If God sees all, we theorized,
what’s the big deal about showing
a little leg to the neighborhood boys?
Revealing Ourselves
The courtship rituals must be observed,
preening in our finest feathers,
paint not quite an inch thick,
but at least a fine layer,
smoothing over imperfections,
clever delivery of practiced lines.
What a miracle, then, that we managed
to see beneath the surface, revealing
enough of ourselves for love to grow–
but grow it did, as we burrowed in,
uncovering, layer by layer, stripping away
each hint of pretense, as I dared you
and you dared me not to look away.
Revelations
Men suspect but are not sure of our operations:
Women going in pairs to the powder room,
taking long weekend trips to the beach
or the mountains, heavy on estrogen,
no testosterone for days. Surely, they imagine,
between sips of appletinis and lemon drops,
our talk must turn to them.
Their worst fear, that we speak
of their shortcomings; Their fantasy,
that we boast about their prowess.
Their disappointment, if they knew?
That we hardly speak of them at all.
* excuse me for triple posting, but I am at the Palmer house in Chicago, and I have learned that the more expensive the hotel, the more difficulty it is to acquire WiFi.
Oh yes, did the skirt rolling thing with all the wrinkles around the waistband that gave it all away when we returned home.
Excuse me too. I’m with her.
Yes
I almost had it on that first glass of wine
The smoothness of its grapeness
ironing away the day’s wrinkles,
A dear friend beside me making meaning,
A simple revelation, something
About joy, something about friendship.
I almost had it with that first taste of yes.
Revelation
“Don’t twirl so wide, precious; keep
your skirt down. You don’t want to be
That girl.” Then, “Try keeping
your arms down,” she suggests.
What’s a twirl without arms stretched wide?
She pulls me to her and whispers, our little secret,
“You don’t want people to see your panties,
Now, do you?” Is this a serious question?
My stretchy white panties have tiny rows
of ruffles, each edged with pink embroidery.
“And you can remember this for later,”
she confides, fluffing my skirt and pulling up my socks,
“for when you’re a big girl.” She looks around
To see if others listen in. “You need not show
everything you’ve got. Mystery is delightful.”
I don’t know who Miss Tree is, but she can’t
Be better than the swish of skirt on crinoline,
the tap of Mary Janes, and the envy
in everyone’s eyes when they notice
that my socks and panties match.
Revelation
Love went wrong.
Bloodied, desolate,
Heart open,
Split by force.
A secret surprise revealed:
Not pain…emptiness.
Sad revelation nicely conveyed.
three more from me:
When
we
reveal
all there is
about ourselves, then
what is left for future fodder?
—————————————
Re-veal
I cannot re-veal
because I do not eat veal.
You can’t redo none.
—————————————-
The Revealing Twenties
In the years of pro-
hibition
women wore
swimsuits no more than seven
inches above knee.
As the twenties roared,
alcohol
flowed, flappers
danced, crime rose, and it was clear
that repeal was near.
SILENT REVELATION
The language of ten thousand words
of the eyes, countenance, gesture
demeanor, intonation, furrowed brow
are all too revealing
manifesting the unspoken realm of one’s
own body language that say it all
silence still speaks
yet spoken words are but the tip of the iceberg
a fragment of the whole
of what really lies beneath the surface
of a dense decorated mask
a genuine feeling
for the mouth speaks out of
the abundance of the heart
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Inspirational Overdraft
I keep an interest-bearing fund
Of inspiration in my mind
On which I draw when I’ve been dunned
By Muses, or I fall behind
On payments of attention to
Absurdities on which to write.
Today, it holds an I.O.U.
For seven hours’ sleep. Good night.
http://trollpants.wordpress.com
Ethan
He’s my bundle of joy
a smile that stretches
from the edge of one
eye to the other.
He speaks in sharp
sounds of consonants
and round bubbly vowels,
a few words in a mutually
shared language, but most
are in his own special tongue.
Very soon I suspect he’ll reveal
all he wishes us to know.
REVELATIONS
The morning fog hides nothing,
yet we search through it
to find our way.
It clouds everything
and we wait for it to lift,
but yet it is there for us to see.
The thick gray tones of a morning,
reveals the silence,
the eerie, the same world
in its subdued, cottony way.
Revelation
The nurses wheeled him out of my reach, my sight
and then out of my hearing. Wrenching. He’s alone
on this journey, I can’t even share a whisper.
Can’t touch his hand as they cut and laser, decide
his future, mine.
I meant it when I told him, “I’ll never leave you”.
I face the facts I will, or you will leave me when
we are most frightened, most alone. I walk by his
side in joy, in love, but what has been revealed
is he’s alone and so am I.
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Revelation.
I have always known who I was
the problem being
I had to hide in plain sight
behind the masks
constructed for me
by those who held the strings
that bound me fast.
How I envied Pinocchio his
puppeteer;
in captivity he was freed
in music, song, dance.
My strings kept me still,
quiet, tied, invisible.
Even though they long fell away
I am twisted into shapes
and lie deformed.
It hurts to stretch beyond.
I am not sure it can be done.
I know who I am
who I always was.
But will I ever be
seen as me?
Michele Brenton
Revealing and Concealing
Sitting quietly upon the shelf
Golden letters stamped
Browns in sixty different words
Color of blood
Red as rich as time
Silently waiting
Secrets written between every word
Printed neatly on the page
Bound by hand
Tell the story
Of a man
Birth to death
Catch me if you can
http://annellannell.wordpress.com
Reveal
When a painting grows
Out of the surface by
Layers of paint and thought,
It reveals more than
Its physicality and
Stands between the
Artist and the viewer,
As a statement of belief
In the fact of beauty.
Life in One Nursing Home
Apple red
the cardigan he wore
buttoned up to its V-shaped neck
The skin bare above the V said no shirt hid beneath
The buttons said this was not a sweater for man.
Whose sweater is that? Why aren’t you wearing yours?
I asked, disturbed. It was my money that
bought his clothes. It was I who shopped.
My eyes traveled downward
analyzing the rest of what he wore.
Whose slacks are those and where are your socks?
Oh, I don’t know,
came his unperturbed reply.
Nothing’s in my closet or my drawers.
A nursing assistant told me everything
is in the basement, stored. She’s no
time to look so she gave me
these things to wear.
So it was each time I came. One cold day
his ample bottom was squashed like a sausage
into a pair of Bermuda shorts, his legs
and feet wearing no more than
goose bumps.
Lost in the laundry, was all
the staff would say
until over-angry at last I demanded
they find his clothes.
Next time I came, I was told,
We’ve found the suitcases, but
there was nothing inside.
This revelation jerked my eyebrows
high above my staring eyes and nearly
stopped my heart. Where could I find
enough money to buy him more? I
didn’t know.
Were they stolen? I gasped.
No, we think they were lost. Did you
mark them with his name? they asked,
and with the number of this floor?
Of course, they had his name, I cried,
but he’d not yet moved to this place, so
how would I have known the floor?
At last they agreed they must
replace the clothes they’d lost.
I decided he must not
live there anymore.
Still writing, I suppose that is an accomplishment in itself…
Pamela
“Floating on the Ripples of Music”
your chance at the truth
in this conversation, here’s a word that shines
light on what is really felt meant heard – the
inside made outside. how will you hear it? each
thunderous as-if gasp tells me something – it
may not be what you mean; I may not be heard
the light shines then on what to do next – to
stay, to go, to try again, to experience despair
the light does not yet show which, or whether
yet here’s another trembling word anyway. it’s
your play, how will you judge it, what will you say?
Galahad, revealed
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
Shades of ivory and oyster,
yellow ochre, burnt sienna and payne’s gray
adornments to shade his thinning canvas,
this once fine chestnut turning mulberry hues.
In the capable hands of this gypsy artisan
from fan to flat brush to round double ott,
muscles quiver and tangled manes take flight
as art becomes life on the hoof.
Though he still bears the mold mark of Breyer
there on the tender side of his hind leg,
he continues to garner strength from the many
layers of gesso and sealer and paint.
I still have say so which shelf he winds up on,
Breyers or Hartlands, Stone Horse or Shleichs.
An Andalusian, Lusitano, or Carthusian bloodline,
another collector will determine his fate.
© 2011 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
THE THINGS WE STEAL
When I went
to get my forgotten
sweater, I took
quarters from the teacher’s desk
I wanted them, needed them
to buy ice cream for some girls
I had to have
be my friends
The coins’ silvery jingle
felt right in my pocket. And oh,
how those five quarters
were more than enough
for about an hour. Then, feeling
sick and remorseful, I wanted
to be rid of them,
couldn’t wait
for them to be gone.
I made a neat row on the ground
where we lined up after lunch
and made a big show
of finding them.
Here’s a confession—
that urge to pilfer steals over me
even today—yearning, hunger,
wish and want never cease.
“The Mime”
The mime in her invisible box
pressing smushed faces
to false walls.
Loose limbs lean
against the phantom fireplace.
Pretending to be trapped
with her own emotional whips
Her silent mouth
promises that this IS funny.
Her white grease paint
melts in the make believe
air conditioned box
showing torn skin
beneath her left eye.
That red moment
that drops from her cheek
to reach him
in a crazy rendition of the truth
is where the mime ends
and she begins.
Revelations of Self
She kissed my neck and my heart skipped a beat, I knew at that moment I could love her forever
I ran from the thought, but couldn’t hide from the feeling, I saw her face every where I turned, her eyes like tear drops in the storm
She made love to me in a dream and the heat made me screamed
She kissed my lips and I fell all over again
I just want to be with her; day and night; night and day, I want to bath in her love and swim in her sin
I guess this in my revelation for all to here; she is in love with me and I and in love with her.
Funny, this really wasn’t as hard as it seemed