Since we’re working toward completing a chapbook during this challenge, I should mention that I still have around 15 or so copies of my limited edition chapbook ESCAPE available. ESCAPE collects 22 poems (many that found homes in publications) written around a loose form and theme. Readers have said the poems “are on fire” and that it’s even better than my earlier sold out ENTER collection. If you’re interested, you can reserve a copy of ESCAPE by sending an e-mail to robertleebrewer@gmail.com with the subject line: I Need an Escape. The book costs $10 (including shipping to anywhere in the world). Click here to read one of the poems from the collection.
*****
For today’s prompt, write a poem about finding something unexpected. Maybe it’s a note from a friend or a bag filled with money (or guns). Maybe it’s finding a lover with someone who’s not you. Or finding a secluded place to sit in the middle of the forest and think.
Here’s my attempt:
“Too Good to Be True”
When you find a great house that seems too good
to be true (for the price), odds are above
average that it’s haunted. Maybe love
drove the husband mad or the neighborhood
harbors a secret. Tragic accidents
are possible as well. Or a graveyard
was disturbed by a part of its backyard,
and you’ll need a priest to read sacraments.
But seriously, there is most likely
something wrong, especially if the schools
are wonderful and electricity
and pipes all work. Don’t let yourself be fooled
by a dream house that’s too good to be true,
because it could someday be haunting you.
*****
Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer
While you’re there, discuss the challenge and poetry with the #novpad hashtag.
*****
In Creating Poetry, by John Drury, poets will learn how to develop a poetic sensitivity, learn the fundamental tools of writing poetry, refine sight and insight, and so much more!
MUSE AND GUMPTION
I have felt for a while
that I had lost my poetic wile
and smile, but November
came to call and all that came back.
I claim my poet mantle
and give it another go.
I just hope my slips don’t show!
how do you come up w/so many so quickly? i picture you sitting in the middle of a field w/your laptop contemplating life all day…. must be nice!
Sorry Tara, But my laptop has abandoned me on the first day of the challenge. Although the field would probably not be a bad place to a-muse. I just do what I ca, when I can.
My goal for today was to beat you to first post:) I missed by a mile. Nice work this November.
Thanks Jer. I’ve been lucky so far. You’ll get there. It’s not a sprint, it’s a marathon.
Its definitely a Marathon.
This is so damn true ! Damn ! why did i not think of this !!
In response to a frequently asked question about your avatar (profile picture) I am re-posting a comment I had provided a little further down the page. The solution seems to work, as Marie Elena and Hannah had both successfully added their pic. Here it is:
There is a website called Gravatar.com ( http://www.gravatar.com ) that allows you to establish your photo as an avatar that they say “will follow you around the web”.
Go to that site. Click on “get your gravatar today”. It will ask a few questions to open the “account”. The icon attaches itself to the email you provide in the account. If there are multiple e-mail addresses you use, add them also to the account and attach the same photo to them as well. Then whichever one you use here or any other site will associate that photo and you should be good to go.
Thanks a bunch, Walt! Very easy to follow instructions, too!
I particularly liked the last line.
How we found out
My dad died in bed
while mom was asleep at home.
It was quite awkward.
Oh my. True, Andrew?
Not true, thankfully!
I didn’t think so, from the lighthearted feel of it.
Phew!
Andrew – how sad.
Zing! Quick and clever — nicely done!
PROMPT POSTING
No time frame can stop it,
it allows me to hop on it.
Getting the word to get
asburd or heart-wrenchingly
subtle seems to place me
right place; right time.
Ready to rhyme before
the world gets the word.
Walt, do you have a crystal ball? I really thought I had gotten here first, for once, since I have been up since 4 a.m. PT., and posted as soon as the prompt came through here. Drat!
I’ll let you in on a little secret… I try to sleep in on Saturdays! TRY the operative word.
BLESSINGS AND DISGUISES
Blessings reign down, offerings
meant to enhance and entrance,
the beauty of the world in a
moment to make life better.
Some times tha blessings
are hidden, meant to be found;
a revelation quite profound.
Some times blessing are left
in the open, tripping you up
to cause you to take a second look.
And some times, blessings
are just the people who you
have come to rely upon,
and who rely on you.
Don’t try to hide, because
you know inside, the blessings
we seek will find you on the first peek.
It’s unexpected wonder we’re under.
Love, love, love. That’s my pard.
I just love this!
Too true. Under wonder. ; ) Lovely, Walt.
Love that last line: It’s unexpected wonder we’re under.
Truth herein. Well put, walt.
Are you (not) a poem machine
Love all you wrote here …
Nimue, yes I am and thank you for noticing.
I jest. I’m just a poet struggling with his muse like everyone else. A machine? No. A robot? Maybe not. A guy with a lot of words in his head looking for order and having something to say? Probably close to the truth. Thank you for the kind words.
This is not a new poem. I wrote this February 26, 2010 … two days after the birth of my first grandchild. I’ll be back later with a new poem, but this one expresses the surprise of my life.
PRINTS (Sophie’s Sonnet)
A woman knows instinctively, it seems,
Which moments will leave prints upon her soul.
Her future life weaves fabric through her dreams
And writes upon her heart, as though a scroll.
A woman thinks she knows what to expect
From pioneering moments in her world -
Anticipation of events’ effects,
And how her heart will feel as they’re unfurled.
Yet, there was I, as wholly unprepared
As if I’d never given you a thought.
My heart and hub were all-at-once ensnared –
I would convey in words, yet I cannot.
Sophia Rose: a gift from God above –
New life. New breath. New gift. New print. New love.
Oops. Typo in my explanation. NOT 2010. 2011. *rolling eyes*
A lovely tribute to all Grands & a few Greats, too. Nice sonnet sequence, too.
I love your last line — new print, new love, indeed. I’m in no hurry for grands, but your poem makes me look forward to the day with a little less trepidation.
One of my favorite poems. Glad to read it again.
I LOVE this one!! The best gift in the world!
precious sentiments!
congrats too!
The last lines .. sweet ! and a wonderful poem
I remember when you first posted this Marie Elena and how I thought you nailed the feeling then – it has stood the test for me – I love the over-all loveliness of this and treasure my own “scroll” and the prints and writing thereon; thanks for re-posting it.
Thanks for all the kind comments, ladies. It feels so good to write something that was actually remembered. I’ve written hundreds upon hundreds of poems since April of 2009 (when I started writing), and this is one of a handful that I’m really happy with. Sophie’s arrival certainly was inspirational.The little pumpkin is spending the night tonight. Keith and I cherish these times.
Okay, enough smoochie-coochie grandma stuff.
For now …
When You Find It
(With thanks to Robbie Robertson’s “Golden Feather”)
This journey began on
A cold beach in San Francisco
My morning walk disturbed,
Two feathers flip along the sand,
Wind powered, to my feet,
In my hand, I wonder at the hue
A gold not matching ocean birds
Around here. Pocket safe, the feathers
And I continue, with longing looks
To that other shore. Someone waits there,
So I hope, and as that faint doubt
Crosses inner oceans, my eyes
Spy, kissed by the tide, a stone,
Heart-shaped and solid.
With golden feathers and heart of stone,
Strong steps across the sand
Carry me home.
Oops. Should be a comma after “hue”.
Beautiful.
What a lovely image! golden feathers and heart of stone.. evocative. I love the idea of nature answering those momentary doubts.
Hmm. And a comma after “San Francisco.” Grazie, all. True story–mailed a feather & the stone to my beloved across the water; we just celebrated our ninth anniversary on Wednesday. Good prompt to coax this one out, Robert.
well done. Very evocative
This flows so lovely!
Lovely. I especially love the idea of crossing inner oceans.
BEAUTIFUL, Kit!
Thank you, Marie Elena.
They always say it’ll be the last place you look
Kind of sensible I guess, as once you find
Something you never keep looking.
But we didn’t think we’d see this –
The missing goldfish
In the sink
And the cat knocking the tap on
So the fish wouldn’t drown.
A Fisherman’s Paradise (delayed)
A shift in the wind
west to north-west
Blue water topped with white caps
a choppy bay
and rougher lake.
Listen to the fishermen
grumbling over their breakfast coffee
their promised week-end of fishing
already one day short.
Very nicely done. I love brief snippets of time like this one.
“Carry On”
With one pull of the rake
the wasps nest bounces
to the top.
So light
as to belie its very substance.
Hexagonal walls
still intact,
offering resistance
to my hand
as pressure is applied.
Beauty in design
I could never
replicate.
Nor want to,
as the master
of this craft
lives here
today.
Beauty in desingn, indeed. I always marvel at this design. Well written, Jerry!
I don’t believe you will ever write anything that won’t completely enthrall me.
Pingback: November PAD Challenge 4 | Say hello to my little friend « You have my word.
Some people find that there really are monsters
Underneath the bed, just when they think the
Room is safe, right when they assume they’ve
Pulled everything out, turned on all the lights.
Imagination is a horrible thing when
Something feels like it’s underneath the covers,
Embracing you and telling you goodnight.
sms11-4-12
Looks like I need to stop posting early in the morning when I’m not fully awake because I’ve forgotten how to spell. LOL That should say “surprise” down the left hand column. Oops:-)
interesting – i like the whiff of the reality behind this, the dark shadows.
In the Shelter of Sycamores
Rain patters from the fading leaves
driving open chestnut palms to the ground
in flurries of yellow and brown.
We kick past beer cans at the corner of the cemetery
and forsake the grassy way for the path between the stones
and the shelter of sycamores.
An outpouring of mushrooms from the grave of Edna Davies;
an outline in bulbous heads of the figure beneath the earth.
What makes a figure sprout mushrooms like a god of compost;
the dissolution of the body into fungal blooms
(and are they edible?)
The dogs pause as we pass,
unsure of this anomaly
where yesterday there was clear turf
but a tug on their leads persuades them
and they dash ahead to investigate the falling leaves
while morning rain drips from the brim of my hat.
I like this one. Different take.
Me, too. Beautifully written. I especially love the second stanza–kind of creepy, yet interesting take–the sprouting of mushrooms. Different and a pleasure to read. (Along with everyone elses poems, of course.)
A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte
Art is a lie that makes us realize truth.
————Pablo Picasso
Standing back behind the gate of the yard,
I watched you float, or was it glide.
A glowing sprite, touching life into flowers.
You were silent, words
You had no use for them.
I moved closer
To see your magic, wanting
To discover the illusions like a child.
How did you know what touches,
So sure and quick,
Would show the light?
I emptied my glass,
Held it up to my unwise eye.
Each spark was a star in a vast constellation,
And standing closer ruined the surprise.
Distracted
Hustling to work, preparing for the bustle,
Driving too fast and surfing the stations,
Kids scattered to school, mental to do list started.
Peripherally, she caught my attention –
A freeze frame moment –
A small doe silhouetted against the lake,
Delicately choosing her steps, head low, ears twitching,
As she makes her way to the waters edge.
A random, haphazard distraction,
A perfectly placed subtle reminder.
Last nights clouds are giving up the fight,
Scattering before stabs of light,
Warm glows surrounding the horizon.
Leaves in harvest colors suddenly omnipresent –
As if they were not before –
Carefree, unmindful of their fate,
Choosing instead a last whirling waltz with the wind.
Hmm, our wedding dance song is playing.
I should give her a call….
Maybe there is time for coffee after all.
Oh-so-lovely. Mark, I don’t recall your work from previous challenges. I’m glad to be catching it now.
Paper trail
Its an old habit
me , my mom, my dad too -
we keep fir years,
those warranty letters
of most things we posess.
And each year the papers grow,
in one corner or other;
no, never at one place -
that makes it wasy to find,
we leave them free,
to seek their own sweet place
in memories, in files
or at times below the mattress.
And randomly they appear,
during some cleaning,
or while you search them not,
or when I pretend it so..
They are milestones of joys -
of good times and celebrations,
and of times when without them,
we could be happy. Proves, we still can be.
Pingback: Paper Trail #novpad 4 « Pages from my mind
This poem was a surprise that popped into my head out of nowhere this morning.
In a desire to re-write my life
should I
edit out the blips and bloomers
finish in frivolity
what started in solemnity
soothe the hurts
remodel the loves
recover the losses
atone the sins?
I should like to be reborn
not anew, but with hindsight.
Lovely — your last two lines have a timelessness that should make them an epigraph.
Well done, Viv. It’s very special indeed.
love “finish in frivolity what started in solemnity”
Beautiful and from the heart!
marvelous – the question of editing one’s life – made me smile and think the work has been to hard not to leave all in – love your poem
Well put Viv – I’m with you … esp regards the hindsight!
Winter Surprise
This morning I left my house to discover
sometime in the night all the neighborhood trees
had shed themselves bare, dropping
an autumn harvest in piles at the base of their trunks.
Green and yellowed leaves alike
Still wearing the mask of slight amusement.
Between the bare branches I saw the waning moon
hovering timidly over Three Mile, the red rock
cast in black silhouette, waiting for the sun to arrive,
waiting to turn the valley into a lake of fire.
I am less optimistic. The fallen leaves tell me
the story of winter’s certain approach.
Beautifully composed!
Thank you.
Nice one!
Having read Marie Elena’s poem about her first grandchild, I was reminded of this one written a couple of years ago. The surprise dates back nearly 50 years!
The Stowaway
I sense a foreign presence
deep inside the outer hull,
a figment that
I must protect and nourish,
despite misgivings; cherish
it awhile; daily
go the extra mile.
The voyage is long,
unmitigated tedium;
interregnum in my supremacy.
Speculation, extrapolation
from inkling
to overwhelming reality.
Our destination nears,
adding to my fears
for the outcome.
Powerless, I wait
for deliverance.
The long pause will soon be over.
I smile in secret. They cannot
understand my calm
when all around is bustle.
Abrupt silence:
then thin sweet sound.
My baby cries.
I reach for him, at peace.
Wow Viv! That’s 50 years ago? Good one.
I agree with Benjamin’s “wow.” This little piece is so full. So full.
Beneath my disappointment
Discouragement, regret
Beneath a selfish mountain
Of thoughtless words I’ve said
Beneath a shrine of failure
Excuses weak; slipshod
I found a thing of splendor
I found the grace of God
Thank you for your sweet poem. I needed that soft reminder that grace always there
right when we need it most.
I couldn’t express my sentiment any better than J.lynn just did.
Love this.
While Waiting for a Stating
“Isn’t it surprising how many things, if not said immediately, seem not worth saying ten minutes from now?” ~Anonymous
I thought some thoughts. I thought them great
(while someone else spoke.)
So as it was, I had to wait.
Come on…come on…Slowpoke!
No patience, but at any rate
I listened to the bloke
while all my thoughts seemed to abate…
then disappeared like smoke.
###
Note: The form is Hymnal Octave.
nice, and universal
don’t think I’ve ever heard of a hymnal octace before.
“c” next to “v”. Octave, I mean.
(All poems this month are from the point of view of my novel’s main character.)
Surprise in Mobile
I didn’t expect amidst
exploring art museums,
dining at seafood restaurants
and building sandcastles
to find romance
like a seashell lying there
but when I did
I picked it up
held it to my ear
and listened
for something
steady,
reassuring,
larger than myself.
Beautiful!
oooh–foreshadowing? Pre-jilt or post?
post
One of my favorite delights! Captured well, Connie!
Finding Something
My life is spent in the search
Looking for the composition
Marks made authentically
Color that expresses my soul
I listen for the music
I dream of the search
Solving the problem
I am never free
I seek to satisfy my heart
Recipe for Magic
Cornmeal
sprinkled on boiling water
thickens, becomes
substantial, transforms from
grainy sand to pudding, smooth
and rich and ready to absorb
any sauce or flavor
that you choose.
A tablespoon of flour
whisked into butter and eggs, expands
upon itself, creates an
airy inner treasure chamber
to fill with cream, sweet or savory,
the perfect start or ending
to a meal.
Flour, butter, sugar, eggs and salt —
so common and so everyday mundane –
yet your deft hands surprise me
with their magic at the table
every night.
Nice imagery – the smell of the kitchen . . . evokes memories.
This is so different. Nice take on the prompt, and your words are so pleasing. Nicely done!
“Found Gold”
In the careful stacks tied
with yellowed string,
there are my grandfather’s
love letters. My uncle’s
war reports from Germany.
A great aunt’s journal of a trip
to the Liberty Bell
in 1905. And a gold nugget
picked up from a Georgia stream
and slipped into an envelope
to save until now
when gold is at record heights
and the line outside
the coin store downtown
winds long on
Saturday mornings.
It’s not mine. I should let it lie,
but it’s only me
who knows of it.
I imagine the hike to a mountain stream,
rough boots on rock;
the clear blue day
and unexpected cry–
“Gold, I found gold!”
I hear it now
and feel triumphant.
Such treasures, all! Nice work, Ann.
TO ME
It just fell out of the encyclopedia!
Milky white and folded in quarters
This blue-lined piece of paper
Was covered in cursive writing.
Beneath the date of 1982
The first line read
To: Patricia
The second line read
From: Neal
A poem followed–
22 lines of tribute to those
Who had fought for freedom
In the World Wars
It is full of observations
Unexpected
From the pen of a 12 year old.
I scanned this paper and
Emailed it to my nephew
Who is healing from a bike accident
That left him with injuries severe.
He was so surprised to hear
When I phoned to say what I had found.
I think the news gave him some hope
As my godson’s voice lightened on hearing the words I had found.
That is one wonderful surprise
It was, for sure!
How wonderful, my friend!
It seemed especially so due to the timing!
Ba-Bump
It lay there in a heap
Blood oozing from the cracks
In the many layers of filth
That covered its greatness
The many layers of filth
Heaped on by its enemies
Layer after filthy layer
Smothering its glory
I put my ear to the pile
And listened intently for life
Any sign of life at all
Any sound that emanates
Any movement, warmth, or cry
I listened intently for signs
Plugged my other ear
And listened
And listened
And then…..
There it was
Faint and seemingly dying
Ba-bump……… Ba-bump……..
Ba-bump……… Ba-bump……..
It was still alive under that heap
Ba-bump……… Ba-bump……..
Ba-bump……… Ba-bump……..
Fighting for its own survival
Ba-bump……… Ba-bump……..
Ba-bump……… Ba-bump……..
Readied for a great revival
Ba-bump……… Ba-bump……..
Ba-bump……… Ba-bump……..
So I jumped to my feet
And went into action
Pulling layer after layer of filth
From the heap we all had built
The heap of lies and deceit
Thoughtlessness and selfish ambitions
The garbage of unrighteous endeavors
Bags of evil human inhumanness
All piled on through twisted laws
Bought and paid for by Satan himself
The heap grew smaller as I dug
I paused to listen once again
Once again I heard the beat
Louder this time, and a bit faster
Ba-bump… Ba-bump… Ba-bump…
Ba-bump… Ba-bump… Ba-bump…
I think it sensed my efforts
Ba-bump… Ba-bump… Ba-bump…
Ba-bump… Ba-bump… Ba-bump…
It knew my intent was honest
Ba-bump… Ba-bump… Ba-bump…
Ba-bump… Ba-bump… Ba-bump…
But the heap of filth was massive
My strength was waning under the strain
I began do doubt my resolve
Could I clean up this mess alone
Maybe
Maybe not
But I would rather die trying
Than live knowing I did nothing
So I dug, pulled, pushed, and threw
Layer after layer of filth from the heap
Sweat dripped from my brow
Blood oozed from my swollen hands
Then somewhere in my endeavor
I lost all sense of time and feelings
Fell into a state of euphoric madness
In a frenzied rage, I passed out
Awakened by the noise of
Frantic laborers all around me
Digging, pulling, pushing, and throwing
Layer after layer of filth from the heap
Sweat dripping from their brows
Blood oozing from their swollen hands
Joining me in my once hopeless endeavor
I jumped again to my feet
And joined them in their action
Once again hitting a rapid rhythm
No longer alone
No longer wondering
If what I had started would fail
It would not
We would succeed
The heap would be removed
And she would live again
She would be great again
Once again she would be
As she had for so many years
The example of liberty
The light of the world
The land of the free
And the home of the brave
BA-BUMP.. BA-BUMP..BA-BUMP..
BA-BUMP.. BA-BUMP..BA-BUMP..
BA-BUMP.. BA-BUMP..BA-BUMP..
BA-BUMP.. BA-BUMP..BA-BUMP..
The Heart of America beats on
I am the Heart of America
Footnote: Many would be surprised to find that the heart of America is still beating. But, it is.
Standing “O”! Thanks for this, Earl.
Unexpected
At least she wasn’t sixteen,
Single, scared, and broke.
But at thirty, balancing
Home, school, work,
two children already in school,
dressing and feeding themselves,
reading themselves to sleep,
when the surreptitious call
made from a payphone
in the basement of the Ad Building
confirmed her suspicions,
she felt tears hot on her cheeks,
her heart pounding, as her mind
played twenty questions:
Do I have more to give,
more time, love, sleeping space?
Will he laugh, sulk, blame?
Surely not. Would this
unexpected child enrich
her too-full life or impede
her progress down this new path?
At thirty-one, those questions
seemed some foolish fantasy,
as she balanced him on one hip,
her backpack slung over
the other shoulder, heading
off to meet her study group,
some still kids themselves,
handing him crackers, teaching
him lines from sonnets and odes.
At fifty-five, she misses hearing
him in the house, jumps at the phone,
hoping to catch up to this unexpected
blessing, once growing beneath her heart,
still tethered there, a miracle once,
conjuring time and love enough to spare.
That is so touching, Nancy. It’s rather reminiscent of my two boys.
However you love and are proud of the big guy, you always miss the little guy. Well done, Nancy.
Love “once growing beneath her heart, still tethered there”
Yes, this line grabbed me as well, Shannon. Nancy, I adore your stories. You have a knack, for certain, and this is such a lovely one.
Finding A Mouse’s Stash
Mine is a very small house
big enough for me and a mouse
but if you give me an object
you can pretty much expect
that mouse will never find
where it stashed it away.
nifty
Classroom Management
I rush to finish
my second cup
praying for energy
with each gulp
I straighten
my spine
and prepare
my lines.
And then, the class that is…
was not. There was calm.
Attentiveness. Peace.
And I stood displaced.
LOL! Gotta love teaching:)
There’s always room for surprises
Enjoyed this, Katie
Thanks! Kids will ALWAYS catch you by surprise! It’s the one non-surprising things about them.
Oh yes, I know that feeling – prepared for the worst and finding they’re not so bad after all.
FIRST SIGHT
I didn’t know you from Eve,
but I believe there was something
about you that attracted me.
Predictably, I reacted as I always had,
tongued-tied and bumbling, fumbling.
Mumbling something about your eyes,
or hair or the way you mangled the Queen’s English.
You appeared out of the blue and into view
of this hopefully, hopeless romantic;
a man of quiet confidence
and words up the wazoo. And you,
younger by nearly a decade
and a parade of failed relations
finding new elation in me.
I was looking to forget someone.
You were looking for a future
someone to forget. Our eyes met,
I had let my guard down;
you found that moment to confound me.
“What you looking at?” asked you.
“The hell if I know!” came in reply.
Smiles connected us. Who knew?
I wasn’t looking for you, and there you were.
The laws of attraction…most unexpected.
This is just so endearing, Walt! Makes me smile.
Unexpected Delight
by Richard-Merlin Atwater posted Nov. 4, 2011
It was a quiet night when that someone special came to me,
Our rendezvous a strange delight, unusual, but wonderful to see.
YOU where unexpected, when YOU came into my life,
My heart had been neglected, then YOU came to me that special night.
When YOU changed everyhting, and my heart began to sing,
I knew that LOVE had come at last, to build a future and take from me the past.
ANd when all my fondest dreams had been lost, to me it seems,
I knew that LOVE had come at last to build a future and take from me the past.
YOU were unexpected when YOU came into my life!
last line of previous post:
But YOU are truly my unexpected delight!
Mr. Atwater, check out Walt’s instructions (below) for adding a photo. It worked for me!
Anybody know how to get a picture on your post? Walt? Anybody? I can’t figure it out.
Penny, do you have a blog that has a profile picture? Let me know so I’ll know how to proceed. There are a few ways I’m finding to accomplish this. Same destination, different routes and degrees of difficulty.
There is a website called Gravatar.com ( http://www.gravatar.com ) that allows you to establish your photo as an avatar that they say “will follow you around the web”.
Got to that site. Click on “get your gravatar”. It will ask a few questions to open the “account”. The icon attaches itself to the email you provide in the account. If there are multiple e-mail addresses you use, add them also to the account and attach the same photo to them as well. Then whichever one you use here or any other site will associate that photo and you should be good to go.
WOWEE!! It worked! Lookie there .. I got my eye back! Thanks a bunch, Walt!
Love that “Good,” eye!!!
There is another eye there folks! I’ve seen it (in a photograph of course, as we still remain “best friend we’ve never met!”
Wheye, thank you!
Thanks Elena and Walt–I’ll check it out later this afternoon to post my SHREK like photo (or was it the donkey I look like?) I’m off to pick up my college student daughter for a fun weekend together.–check out my poem below on a TRUE STORY) Regards Obi-wan Merlin-the Musician Atwater)
Yay!! I have a purty picture now, too!
I got my Mickey back. Thanks.
Well, yesterday’s poem still says awaiting moderation… since yesterday afternoon. I may have to break out the twitter account and post there too! But I shall try for today’s poem:
My Home is My Heart
I am not prone to hearing voices
Not before and never since
But my first and only home,
Open house, when we walked in
I heard Her say “Welcome home”
Though the room was empty
My life imprinted on its walls
A betrayal to think of selling it
My veins travel on, out of my body
Embed themselves in the walls
Through the body of my home
And back again
Home is not only where the heart is
My home is my heart
genesis
She curses her keys
and caps her pen
shreds the blank page
into teeny tiny
unrecognizable pieces,
swears she’ll never
write again.
Cracks
her heart
open
finds a poem.
<3 this, De! Encapsulates my feeling today.
Angel, you’re looking devilishly red in that photo. You look hot. Temperature hot (although I do think you are ethereally cute!)
Oh sure, make a liar out of me now!
Oh! Ha! I switched the picture of me back for the apple picture…hehe! Thanks!!
Oh, DE’ar … you’ve done it again. Perfection.
SLEIGHT OF HAND
Conjuring up rich images
tangible feelings
just beyond finger-tips.
Harried and lilting
in hollow of mouth
words waiting, forming.
Reaching for the magic
grasping, hoping for a moment
to put pen to paper
bring to life the unexpected.
Sweet Hannah, this is one of your best ever. You and De, back-to-back greatness. WOW.
You melt my heart with your comments!! Thank you so much, Marie. I was sweetly suprised to find my poem neighbor to be De today!!
Oh, get a chat-room, you two!
Hug, hug, kiss, kiss! (Giving Walt something to write about. Not that he needs it.
)
Nice!!
SOME CALL IT SYNCHRONICITY
When you allow and encourage
that which you least expect, chances
increase one hundred-fold it will
occur or appear or somehow
make itself known to you. Do not
be dismayed or afraid. Instead,
welcome it; be comfortable
with it.. Never, ever, take the
unexpected for granted, or
it may disappear forever.
Hello poetic neighbor!! This is so true, Willy!
After
After the shock,
After the visit to the crematory,
After the funeral,
After family dispersed,
After sentiments of sympathy sank in,
it was time to pack his room.
He was a messy man
nothing really had its very right place.
Tissues full of phlegm littered the bed,
the floor,
the trash can.
Cigarette ashes scattered on windowsills,
on the bathroom’s linoleum floor,
on his mattress.
Bills and letters and cards and paper
layered between clothes and trash.
Cleaning up years of mess left by one man.
Sorting and filing or tossing away.
What to hang on to?
What would we need?
How to judge the importance of things?
But buried beneath all the clutter we discovered
cards
photos
awards we had won,
yellow-tinged keepsakes
of his undying love.
The Auditorium
Students file in
For morning chapel
Chit chat thunders
With gossip idle
Blather and dross
Laughter and joking
Finding seats
Squeals from poking
Late bell rings
Ears are numb
As keynote speaker
Takes podium
He waits to see
If talking stops
When it does not
A book he drops
It echoes through
The microphone
All are silent
On him they hone
“Awkward!”
Dirty Floss
Walking in the door from a long day at work
All the lights in the house are off
Cloths in places they shouldnt be
Underware on the floor that looks like floss
I know something is wrong so i head to my room
Slowly I creep up to the door
I hear soft whimpers coming from inside
Busting in the door
I see a nasty sight
There is another woman in my bed
No she is not sleeping
She is grinding on top of my husband
Not really the sight i wanted to see
When i come home from work.
.
Classic unexpected find
Snooping
Not inherently suspicious,
I learned, nevertheless,
to snoop.
My own offspring
gave me cause for looking
through pants pockets,
glove compartments,
for checking mileage.
My students
conditioned my suspicions
with their careless cheating,
flagrant plagiarism,
cell phones hidden in laps,
the modern-day cheat sheet.
I drew the line, though,
refusing to search your bags,
to rifle through your car,
your cell phone for anything
so unexpected
that finding it there
would break my heart,
my trust.
Suddenly So Long
There’s never been a moment in my life
when life wasn’t enough reason on its own.
There’s never been a moment in my thoughts
when reason wasn’t enough to keep me going on.
But suddenly it came to be,
the day you died it came to me.
That life and reason might be moving me
but without direction, where will it be?
The place that I am slowly headed to
the place I’ll be when this life is through
is not the place I know that welcomed you
when life left the only thing I thought was true.
There’s never been a moment in my heart
when I didn’t think we’d always be together
There had never been a single moment until now
when I came to say goodbye and you were already gone.
So very sad. Bless your heart.
Unexpected Blessing?
Brown paper bag
Filled with cash
Heart racing fast
Blessed at last
TV
Laptop
Diamond
Pearls
Sirens
Cops
Handcuffs
And a brand new world
90 days in county jail
Not every discovered treasure
Equates a blessing
Liked it, but maybe it could do without the last couplet, ’90 days in jail’ says it all.
And now that you said that, it makes perfect sense. Less can equate more. Thanks I really needed that
Yes. Excellent advice!
Would I Doubt You? Sort of Never.
Walt gave us directions on photo selections,
Precisely the needed how-to.
So why the surprise when I see my right eye
Showing up in the Gravatar view?
I had the right place, but the wrong e-mail address listed at first. I found the solution when I added my other two addresses. It’s all, Good!
Buttons
I don’t necessarily collect them
but I don’t un-necessarily toss
them away. An old tin, rusted
nearly shut, once held teabags,
Earl Grey I think. Now it holds
a rainbow of buttons, colours, shapes
and sizes assorted, and all different
from the other. Buttons belonging
to garments long gone, long past,
filled with a history and occasion.
Buttons from birthday dresses,
buttons from coats, shirts buttons,
shawl buttons, hat buttons, a button
nose from your old stuffed teddy.
To part with them would be to part
with all my yesterdays. To find them
an impossibility once gone.
Timeless Fashion Sense
I just found out this morning
that my striped, green scarf goes well with
my black and red old flower dress
of three years and still counting.
With striped, long socks and calf high boots
for the colder air—I’m good to go!
Black cardigan, green handmade bag
and drops of sparkly earrings—these ones I made.
Red Fendi glasses—they’re so well made!
Cell phone, car keys—I’m out the door.
Please crank up, my Hershey brown,
my sweet, ol’ friend, my Sidekick pal.
We chug along every single day—
smooth or rough—doesn’t matter much
when we go through it
with a wondrous spirit.
So to Oscar Wilde who said, or says instead,
for his spirit lives on indeed,
that “fashion is an ugliness so intolerable” in need
of endless alteration,
I say, “Humbug!—you good, ol’ bag.
You failed to scratch the surface.
If you only looked beyond the trend
and its tiresome, fleeting artifice,
you would have found much wonder there,
stunning, classic beauties.
And your everyday would cease to be
a life of gray mundanity
and transform instead into a life
of timeless quality.
Though a plain white Tee, a good, ol’ Tee—
a classic Tee—occasionally,
with jeans and sneaks,
do work, you know, in a creative life, you see.
Another winner! I can picture it all, and it is fun doing so. Nice!
Unexpected
The normal overturned
As memories fade ever more
You kissed my hand
Megan
Megan – so little saying so much – a simple but poignant poem – nicely done.
beautiful.
The Note in the Bottle
by Richard-Merlin Atwater Nov. 4, 2011
Summer day, sunshine, beckon call to beach,
Get the boys with pails and shovels, towels too,
Grab the suntan lotion, bathing suits on, let’s reach
For those “hazy, lazy days of summer” that flew
By so quickly before we even knew that they had gone,
“Under the boardwalk”, with “My Girl”, to sing a song.
Barefoot wonder in the sea and sand at the break of dawn,
Here on Bermuda’s shores, a Paradise, happiness all day long.
Oh, to my surprise, unexpected wonders from the sea!
‘A Note in a Bottle’, laying by the driftwood, in the sand.
Pop the cork, take it out, read it to me: “What’s to be?”
With unexpected delight, wrinkled paper in my hand:
Says: “If you find this note please write back in return,
Don’t “Return To Sender” by another bottled note,
Just use the postal service wonder so that we will learn
Our glass enshrined tubular missive arrived afloat!
Such the story long ago of my youthful wonders to recall
From February 1957, Oh so long ago, at Old Orchard Beach.
Native “Down East” Maine, the Yankee abode, crystal ball
Brings to memory of that fateful day: my Dad and sibling’s reach
To find a whiskey bottle with a cork to seal it tight within:
‘A Note in a Bottle’ that includes our solemn names: David, senior,
David younger, Peter, Dickie, Bobby, Brucie too: smile upon our chin,
To hope that tossed beyond the waves ‘twill find its destination tenure.
Three years to cross the mighty ocean in Gulf Stream currents flow,
North– towards Maritime Provinces, then eastward towards continental shelf,
Perhaps down the coast of Africa to make a final bend into the Caribbean to go
Upward in that famed ‘river of the sea’—warm waters of that noted Gulf,
‘The Note in a Bottle’ settled on Bermuda’s shores, arriving with the flow!
Two boys to find it on that fateful summer day, with pails and shovels too,
Looking for unexpected wonders from the sea, like shells and “Cockles-of-
One’s-Heart”, an epiphany of wonder: ‘Note in a Bottle’ from the true blue!
On the radio, Nat King Cole: “Bring out those hazy, lazy, crazy days of summer,
Those days of soda, and pretzel, and “Note in a Bottle” of beer?”—almost!
Whilst Perry Como sang: “Hot diggety, dog diggety, boom what YOU do to me”; bummer-
That was Oh so long ago, recollections of “Que Sera, Sera,” what will be will be”, ‘a toast’
To those fond hazy memories that Doris Day made true in song and dance as time goes by,
For Baby Boomers who thought they would NEVER grow old, yet social security has arrived,
But still “The Note in a Bottle” story captures the imagination of both ‘young and old’, a sigh
Of relief to know that ‘little miracles’ and ‘victories of life’ are still, in our minds, “High Fived”.
Poet’s Note (not in a bottle): This poem in commemoration of the prompt phrase “finding something unexpected” is based on a TRUE STORY that happened to The ATWATER Family of Old Orchard Beach, Maine (my nativity as a Down East Yankee). In 1957, when I was eleven years old, my father took his five oldest boys (later to become a family of 14) on a long marathon walk on the beach. We found a whiskey bottle with a cork lying nearby. Dad suggested we should write a note and place it in the bottle and throw it out to sea in hopes for UNEXPECTED results. Three years later (1960) ‘The Note in a Bottle’ was found by two boys playing with their pails and shovels on the beach in Bermuda. They were sons of a senior Air Force sergeant stationed at Kindley Air Base. The base news reporter heard of their story and began an investigative search to find the senders of ‘The Note in a Bottle’. My mother, Eva Viola Atwater of Maine, was reading the evening paper and saw an article to the local town officials seeking the Atwater family. We had since moved five miles away. She contacted the newspaper officials. My oldest brother had since joined the Army. The ‘Note in the Bottle’ story news reporters tracked him down to Ft Lewis Washington and ‘Human Interest news articles’ were published from Maine to Bermuda to Kansas and to Washington state to commemorate the event. I still have the news clippings of the famous story of “The Note in the Bottle” that brought UNEXPECTED fame to the players on the stage of life (as Shakespeare would say)— (Dad) David Henry Atwater (who lived to be over 100 years old and sired 8 sons and 4 daughters), and his sons (ages in Feb. 1957): David Arnold Nelson Atwater (14), Peter Eugene Atwater (12), Richard-Merlin(Dickie) Atwater (10), Robert Jonathan Atwater (8), ‘Mervin’ Brucie Atwater (4). The songs of the day on the radio came to my mind as I composed this poem.
A great yarn, “Dickie”! Carry on, Obi-wan!
Hear, hear, here, here!
Great fun, and all the more so knowing the true background.
If anyone ever knows me, they would know that this poem is true.
Inspiration
I take pen and paper
And sit
And wait
For the next big lyrical break
Patience
Wait
Look
Listen
Nothing
Struggling
Starving
Search for food
Cheese!
Yes, cheese
My next poem
Inspiration at work
Weird
Unexpected Surprise
A merry-go-round
Spins my mind
As I contemplate the cause of this ailment
Like iron nails caught in a blender
My stomach churn and turn
Rendering intense pain
I won’t last
Refuge has to be sought out
Going 75 miles in a 65 lane
I reach the ER
And as oppose to going to Intensive care
They send me to Prenatal Care?
WHAT I FOUND
Today at the meadow’s edge
something is different.
The mossy rocks and hummocks
are unruly
the well-worn path unable
to take shape this morning.
Why is a marmalade jar
half buried in the leaves?
Creamy and cracked, black letters
almost worn away, it rejects
my pocket, so I set it
in the wishbone of a tree.
Something else unforeseen—
a rusty key. Unless squirrels
have doors to their nests
it just doesn’t belong
here. The key comes with me.
Where the path turns,
little ponds left over
from the last rain.
Deep or shallow, lined
with orange and brown leaves,
some have insects skidding across
their tops. I toss a pine cone
into one and watch ripples
crumple a reflected sky.
Further on a black bear cub
in the shadow of thorny brambles
stuffs plump blackberries
into its mouth.
I know its mother must be nearby
and I make a hasty detour,
then stand at the rock wall
built long ago to demarcate
woods from pasture. Tall ferns
fill the gaps. From forest glade
I cross into sunlight on the other side.
Here’s my fourth day attempt
Found a treasure
Tangled Web
I spotted one small spider
on my bathroom wall today.
I reached right out to smush him
until I heard him say,
“I want to live!
What right have you
To take my life today?”
I must admit,
I was surprised.
I stuttered in dismay.
“This is my house.
I pay the bills.
It’s always been this way.
A mortgage makes this house my home.
You want a house, you pay.
Then maybe you can come kill me.
What sheer naivete!”
I saw him grab his briefcase.
I heard him make a call.
I saw him smile his wry, cool smile
as if he’d won it all.
He said he called the bank up.
They said THEY own the house.
They say it’s in foreclosure,
that the resident’s a louse.
He said he had some money saved,
A slip and fall suit payoff.
The maker of the spout at fault,
he got hurt in the runoff.
And so I backed up slowly
since I can’t afford the bill.
I surely hope he won’t choose me
if he decides to kill.
By Pam B.
My Secret Place
Walking out, I did find,
a secret place now solely mine,
a spot for me to call my own,
a covert place so far from home,
where birds sing at break of day,
and squirrels hunt, dance and play,
and there behind a gnarled old tree,
guess what – a fairy waits for me.
METAMORPHOSIS
He woke up from bad dreams to worse. As a mouse – without tail, eyes or ears; without a whiskered snout; plastic, anatomically tethered to a long rubberized umbilical cord. A red light shone from his belly. Father sat down beside him, wrapping a huge hand around him causing him to slide around in spite of himself, making nervous clicks. Each click caused the blue-sky window to flash YES or REMIND ME LATER. Gripping tighter, Father made him add and multiply numbers till his mouse-head ached. He hated math. Why couldn’t he just draw pictures as he squiggled across his mouse-pad yard? or write a vermin-verse? He flicked a thought – what in a son would count as disobedience – electronic glitch or inspiration that arc’d orange across the screen. Father swore and threw down his flashing-red plastic device against the desk. The sum of numbers scattered, the screen went black. Except for crazy red and yellow zigs and zags of light,
a heartbeat, pulse, or maybe bats, those wild bald mice that fly.
The modern metamorphosis! Much less icky than Kafka’s. ^_^ And funny to think of what the mouse might want to do today. LOL
Look There!
Look there!
Along the shore there floats
a lump amidst the hull of boats,
a flash of gray beneath the sky.
Look there!
A substance is passing by.
It is not a rock, goiter or stump,
but calcified treasure that makes them jump.
Look there!
The solidified lump catches their eye,
But more than a substance is passing by.
Tis “floating gold” the Australians do see,
a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
The folks from Down Under turn ghastly pale
at the sight of the treasure coughed up by a whale.
Look there!
From the bowels of the whale comes valuable stuff;
for perfumes and medicines, there is never enough.
Tis what Ishmael saw from his perch on high,
It is ambergris that is passing by.
Can’t believe I also posted an ambergris poem for today’s challenge! Didn’t see this one when I was scrolling down to post my own. How funny is that?
Great minds, Larry
My unexpected find may be found here:
http://soulsmusic.wordpress.com/2011/11/04/unexpected-trigger/
Elizabeth
What Could be More Unexpected?
Digging up treasure in my own back yard.
Getting paid to carry a library card.
Jumping from a plane and sprouting wings.
A Cracker Jack box filled with diamond rings.
Winning the lottery two or three times.
An old fashioned phone booth that still takes dimes.
Flying direct to the stars above me.
Finally realizing you really do love me.
###
How Could I Not Know This?
I learned
to my dismay
that being home alone,
especially
right after Halloween,
a Halloween in which
three
trick-or-treaters
graced our home,
and though I gave
handfuls
of candy away,
a huge bowl of
candy
remains,
testament to my
eternal optimism
in the face of
decreased
Halloween attendance,
the gist of which is:
Being home alone
with Halloween candy
calling my name,
and making rude suggestions
about bringing the bowl
to the couch,
well,
it’s just not safe.
I gave the leftover candy to the husband and kiddies and filled the bowl with popcorn
instead in hopes I wouldn’t hear the candy calling. So far, so good.
I took it to work the next day. Everyone really appreciated it. Especially me. ^_^
[In which I unexpectedly find myself -- well, you'll see.]
Walking to Jeff’s
Black corduroy coat, grey scarf
a gift from my aunt, two months
till it’s chewed to bits by the dog.
The knit hat Nicole brought me
from Ecuador, six years till it’s lost
moving home. The long arc of
37th Street becoming 12th Ave.,
becoming 48th.
Silence
in the phthalo sky. Like a daydream.
Or a fever. Then: headlights, wet
asphalt turned molten, violent
amber. A passenger-side window receding,
a blond brush-cut, a shout:
Hey. You sexy fag.
This sounds like the start of something
that ends with me coughing out teeth, but
to the grin in his voice I blow a kiss, turn
a pirouette, and pass lightly the soccer field,
the elementary school, electrical
transformers, the gurdwara, the 7-Eleven.
Discovered!
In the book you thought was about cooking,
there’s the secret to unlocking your practice
of painting, of patience, of parenting twins,
right there, disguised as the recipe for coddled eggs—
and there again, under the heading “Welsh Rarebit,”
That’s all there is to it: the simple additions,
the gentle stir, the watching and waiting to see,
the quick reaction, the quick shift of weight:
it’s there where you weren’t looking for it,
just trying to cook dinner for four before
the PTA meeting and the bedtime story, and
the space you finally set aside and keep aside
for catching up, first one of you and then the other,
relating the peaks and trials of the day
by the dim bedside lamplight, heads on pillows
like two eggs resting on just-right sourdough toast.
love your eggs at rest
Almost
Floating in your ocean
tiny being that you were
you were here for an instance
and now you are gone
WISDOM FROM BEYOND
Our old house,
empty then after Dad’s passing.
We were on a quest to get the place
ship-shape before its much put off disposal.
A brother still in residence,
an upper apartment meant to hold him over
between divorce and reconciliation (both came),
with everything including faulty kitchen drain
(which in illness Dad never got around to mending).
I became the pretending plumber; my brother,
an apprentice, snaking the pipe every which way but clear,
when I hear “under the stairs!”. My brother fully unaware
as I stare incredulously at his claim of silence.
“I heard you say ‘under the stairs’” I insisted,
but he resisted the notion with negative nods.
Mere moments brought a familiar sound,
“Under the stairs” it would resound, catching me
off guard and slightly perturbed. It disturbed me more
when my brother was sure he hadn’t uttered a word.
My faculties were not on Spring Break, my wits
were full about me. I was left thinking “Had I been drinking?”
But I would swear on a stack of pancakes
that what had me quaking in my shoes was more
of “Boo’s” than booze. “Under the stairs” once again.
I shout, “WHAT! WHAT”S UNDER THE STAIRS?”
Surely, a younger sibling witnessing the dismantling
of his older brother’s rocker would be more concerned.
But he yearned for the ‘project’ to be over.
I descend the ladder and end up under the stairs
amidst the cobwebs and dust balls there.
All these years since, I no longer wince
at the sound of my Father’s voice directing me,
his heavy metal plumbers snake wedged under the riser.
A wiser man would have snikcered at my flicker
of insanity. But all of humanity would crave for
that sound one last time to etch firmly in mind.
My Father continues to keep watch;
me still listening for the wisdom in his whisper.
Wow! Is this true? With a few experiences I’ve had myself, and others in my family, I wouldn’t doubt it at all. Very cool, and well told.
Very true. The “Boss” was always in control.
Something Unexpected
that I should have expected;
she had a bad feeling going in
for the hysterectomy, delayed
until she turned 65. Medicare
is a blessing, though it can’t
erase an entire fall, most of
a winter — a long time for
something to grow, perhaps
a fibroid, but then again,
perhaps not. Disquiet was
her natural state, and so
I focused on the surgery
itself, busied myself with
sending her loose pants,
a pillow to cough against.
Busy work chases away
deeper suspicions sometimes,
and so I paid no attention
(or at least, not enough)
when the all-clear signal
from the biopsy changed to
“They think maybe they
didn’t biopsy in the right place.”
How can something simple
go so wrong? My father calling,
telling me of the unexpected,
the huge tumor on the outside
of my mother’s womb, not
inside, where it would have been
detected before the surgeon
opened her, saw what he told me
(because I asked him)
looked like a bowl of spaghetti,
rotten, strands reaching up
as if to strangle her, slowly,
which it eventually did:
Even after it was cut out, it left
its shadow self, tiny pieces
circulating freely. But I chose
to forget the lesson; I had to,
the idea of my mother’s death
akin to the death of air or water
from the world, nothing you can
learn to expect, no matter
how hard you try.
How horrid and sad. Bless your heart.
Thank you! Yes, it was horrific, this mass “hiding” on the outside so she got a clear biopsy. And then when it was clear she was terminal and she wondered why I wasn’t more outwardly broken up, I actually did tell her it was like if someone tells you that in a few months, there will be no more air — you can’t be appropriately sad because you just can’t fathom the loss of something so important.
How wonderful that you did tell her how much she meant to you …
Speechless… Heartwrenching.
The Lunchtime News: Finding Ones Strengths
Six men returned home from Mars today.
No lunar crafts or Mars cars were used.
No loss of gravity, no spinning for cameras,
no space radiation or sunburn exposure.
Eighteen months they spent in a sealed container
stuck in a room in a building in Russia.
And what did they find and what did they discover?
They proved that a man could sit doing nothing
for one year and a half, plus a few day. Amazing,
not really, as only a man could sit idle playing cards
for that long, and not start climbing the walls.
This is a terrific reaction to a bizarre experiment. I read that story yesterday and was just amazed they got people to do it. Love it!
Nice take on the event. There are many women (my wife NOT among them, I hope) that I’m sure would agree with you whole-heartedly.
What to Expect
Somewhere in there,
the shell begins to buckle
under her nails.
Tiny fractures become
wrecked, chalk white
fragments, littering
the table. Even so,
you expect all the comfort
of a hard-boiled egg.
But it’s not like that.
This egg is fertile,
with a secret to hide,
the thing inside
just forming its first
sticky feathers.
You imagine that she
is only preoccupied
with the overtones,
bothersome, yet inconsequential.
You think the bite of her humor
is just a slight difference in contrast
with your own, refusing to focus
on the image that is forming
from the tiny pieces tiling
together in your mind,
a mosaic of corrosive comments,
half-feigned, but deliberate
gestures, and the lilting
sneer in her laugh.
It is in the small gesture
or routine question
that the corners of her penciled-in
smile become apparent.
Yet it all boils down
to a quick shuffle
of papers, and the acid
sting of the 11 inch edge
as they are leaving your hand.
When you ask her
for a band-aide,
she hands you the stapler.
b>Ambergris
I miss ambergris.
The boy I was, was once mad for ambergris.
Melville and scholastic treasures often spoke of magic
and mysterious ambergris. Dear, valuable ambergris
foul, precious ambergris. Sweet as death and full
of the gray sea that spawned it.
I miss ambergris.
I miss the childhood moments spent on the beach
my heart caught up in the wonder of an imminent find.
Rats, no way to edit your post for typos, once you’ve hit submit, it appears.
friends, please replace the >bAmbergris above with this:
Ambergris
Hah! I typo’d my citation of the previous typo.
I’m pretty taken with this ‘ambergris’ thing. It’s a love thing….a poem for My Big Guy on Valentine’s Day….
Like the beachcombers
who found calcified remnants sweet smelling, waxy and gray,
coughed up by sperm whales, no less;
treasures of “floating gold”
prized by ancient Egyptians,
on the coast of Australia,
I look at you and see ambergris.
The Closet
It’s not even spring when we do this cleaning,
but Mama awoke with zeal for an order
that can be exacted on closets in ways
it never can be in life.
We cast out old sheets frayed from years
of service, the softest knapless towels,
laying new shelving paper, stacking
what is kept by its kind and color.
Finally we settle on Mama’s coat closet,
stuffed with hats and purses, umbrellas,
belts, and boxes of ancient correspondence,
an archeological dig through fashion and folly,
passing items down from the highest shelf
to the sister or parent below, where decisions
are made, fittings are performed in underpants
and slips, and boxes of hand-me-downs swell.
And there behind a Russian bearskin cap
stand two dolls in antebellum gear,
one fair and one dark-haired,
alike except in coloring and frill of dress,
gifts our father had hidden away for Christmas
some ten years before, no longer on little girls’
wish lists but now glass-eyed plastic monuments
to safe places and good intentions.
Passing them down, another sad surprise awaits:
two goldfish in a plastic bag sitting inside a fish bowl,
preserved perpetually in stunned disbelief and milky water,
a great google-eyed gift idea, long forgotten.
‘glass-eyed monuments to safe places and good intentions’
I like the whole thing, but that is a good bit of phrasing there!
I agree, in total.
Hmmm – didn’t really like my turnout for this one, but maybe I will rewrite the whole thing at some point. Bleh.
http://poems.truckpoetry.net/2011/11/wasnt-expecting-today.html
I like it! And “truck poetry” is just plain fun.
Maybe it is older night between evening lights…
Bookish hell could solemnly define image outside vs. pencil sketch inside
Tickle arrow tacking time around glass of wine…
Suddenly diluted by awaking sun and fridgeclipednote line
“milk to buy”
In Stone
I walked rows of weathered stones
to parents’ graves, coming across
your name and rank in new granite,
dead at twenty-six,
a soldier come home at last.
I’m sorry.
Here among families and loves
tucked in for eternity,
I had not known
how diminished I was.
Excellent. The last line is a subtle, yet powerful reminder how such deaths diminish us all.
Silliness (promise something serious later…)
Shopping my closet
When did I buy this? How do you wear it?
Is that a scarf or a sleeve?
That color’s atrocious; the cut’s not ferocious
and it couldn’t be worn day or eve.
Did I really pay money for a garment so funny
that it could be bequeathed to a clown?
But if I admit
that it just looks like s-it –
well, you know, that unmentionable noun.
So this nonsense of shopping
my closet’s not stopping
my impulse to run to the mall.
But I’ll manage my credit
by letting friends edit -
wait, that gown would be great for a ball !
Day 4 of Writers Digest Poem A Day~
I will call it: LIFE HIKE
Hiking a broken trail
beneath green branches
fanned out over me
blocking the sky
how close to life it feels
Hard walk atop embedded rocks
soles rub exposed roots
soil no longer covers
sunlight filters through
spotlights on ancient ferns
Head turns right
an opening sits plumb
Door to a perspective
not yet known
Curiosity rules here
Veer towards new
step over a fallen tree
through ferns rib high
unexpected vista fills the frame
Another world
trails smooth and gentle
a river glides along
wide high blue open
…the easy way
Why have I stayed in the forest
stomping atop rocks that twist my ankles
when open fields were just off the path?
Coming late to the party, but I’m here. Still hosting some “storm refugees” (a sister, niece & grand-niece — who remain without power in their respective towns after last weekend’s snowstorm), but I’m here. An excellent prompt to kick us off — under the circumstances.
Anyway… here’s my offering:
“Never put off ‘til tomorrow…”
That ambitious admonition
(juxtaposing her brief, uncelebrated life)
clinches his philosophy.
Her oft repeated creed,
(evaluated, translated, transposed),
he transforms into:
postponing joy
is ever a risky endeavor
(Wholly Inadvisable).
and joy is so hard to find sometimes.
En . . . joyed it!
Thank you, J.lynn! My pleasure!
Unexpected Surprises
The handsome bachelor, in a romantic whirl
Fell completely in love with the homely girl.
Nobody could believe when he made her his wife
And she made him so happy for the rest of his life.
A man gave a lottery ticket to a bum
And lo and behold, he actually won.
She couldn’t have children and swore she’d not try again.
Six months later she was pregnant with twins.
What a delight, an unexpected surprise.
You’d never thought it’s right in front of your eyes.
You never know what’s next – maybe up maybe down,
but just ‘round the corner lurks Fate the Clown.
It’s incurable the doctors all said.
You’ll learn to live with the fear and the dread,
But two years passed, his hair grew longer,
With his appetite back he gained weight, felt stronger.
Stronger than hope, more determined than prayer,
He laughed when they told him, “It’s no longer there.”
Who would have thought it? Who would have dreamed?
It just goes to show things are seldom as they seem.
Then there are surprises that are not so nice
They clamp your middle like a too tight vice.
You stand by the grave of a loved one who passed
And you can feel nothing but incredibly sad.
Losing your job, your home, your things,
But you never know what another day brings.
If you think it can’t get worse, it probably will,
But if you focus on what gets you over that hill,
And don’t look back on what you can’t change,
You’re already getting ahead in the game.
The wheel turns ‘round as it goes down the road
Sometimes too quickly, and often too slow,
With burdens aplenty – a mighty load
You’ve got to get up, get out, let go!
The wheel that turns over the ground, will run over you
It’s your choice now, so chose something new.
Something unexpected
Unexpected in the mist, fate draws near –
Lest to be known as a breeze in my ear;
I feel its presence surround me in shadow,
Something unavoided, unseen, as cold
As your voice seems – alone,
Forsaken in the abandoned room,
Foot in my door and hand on the desk –
Your print on my heart is shaped, not meaningless;
I brave the darkness, feeling the door on my palm,
I crack open to the mist, and a hope takes form –
Finding Something Unexpected…
It arrived in the mail out of the blue
Addressed to a certain, someone who
Didn’t realize it was coming
A gift, a surprise you see
Why would anyone send something to me?
I opened it up, quite in a rush
Had to see just what it was
Off came the paper
Thrown in a heap
Real anticipation to get a peek
Inside the box
There lay the gift
Addressed to me
A gift, a surprise just for me
And no one else!
The Greatest Trick
Who woulda thought it?
So many shots fired,
lotsa folks bought it.
The crook who’d retired
musta done it. I got it.
Waitasec, hold on.
On that mug — “Kobayashi”?
Was Keaton a pawn?
The cripple brainwashed me!
And like that, poof! He’s gone.
***
missing
***
sister
she wore
one white sock-
a night light
in that hotel’s
dark.
A short story within a pithy poem.
Well done.
simple images telling a serious story – really neat.
“The Beautiful Ugly”
I welcome
the slick earthworm
striated in coiled bracelets,
the fire-scarred hillsides,
felted in ash,
the oily geriatric,
floodlights dim,
gaunt and dull.
Welcome to you—
Master gardener
Burrowed in the soil
Beneath jeweled oak roots
draped in razed holocaust cloaks
where young rustic hands once
sowed seeds of legacy.
Here
the ugly becomes beautiful.
Wow, this is amazing. What a wonderful view of the world’s healing.
This poem called me back a number of times.
You both touched my heart.
It really is a beautiful poem. Thank you for sharing it.
Oh, I love this. It is striking and haunting. It reminds me so much of a book I am reading “The Bloodlands”. It is about Eastern Europe from the thirties through the fourties and the succesive horrors inflicted on the populations there first by Stalin and then by Hitler.
A beautiful piece — well done, J.lynn! You did this prompt proud.
Rachel (November 4, 2011)
When we first met
I thought I’d play
the wise old sage
and you’d
be my eager pupil.
Even in those early days
you were always teaching me
about kindness
about self- sacrifice
about faithfulness.
Your laughter is among
my favorite sounds in this
whole wide world
and I will always remember
that you were
the first of the kids
to make me consider
that there might be
something valuable
in (step)fatherhood
waiting for me.
So,
I thank you
for prying open a door
I thought
was sealed forever.
Happy Birthday, Rachel
Love,
Pop-o
Sweet!
there’s nothing in the world like a poem written for someone who’s loved, and, yet, this is out of this world
Nothing but smiles.
“Winter Coat”
Shiny black buttons
March down the front,
Topped by a Christmas
Red scarf, at long last
Braving the crisp air and
Churning leaves. Sleeping
Away the summer, a
Secret tucked deep in a
Soft wool pocket. A
Forgotten note with three
Little words, nestled among
Gum wrappers and loose
Change; a little piece of
Happy to warm the
Winter months
delightful. – mosk
I love this.
Love it. An absolute delight!!
It Wasn’t In A Cupboard
She had turned her world inside out,
had unlocked all the locks.
It wasn’t in a cupboard.
It wasn’t in a box.
No one knew what she was looking for.
No, not another soul.
She knew that when she found it,
her half would become whole.
Everyone watched with concern
for all the time she took.
Although they kept their distance,
they couldn’t help but look.
She never, ever panicked.
Her mission always clear.
It wasn’t in a closet.
It always seemed so near.
It wasn’t underneath her bed,
nor in a random drawer.
Endlessly she searched until
she couldn’t any more.
She finally found it anyway,
should have known it from the start.
Everything she needed,
was there inside her heart.
By Michael Grove
Such a sweet sentiment!
I guess I am feeling silly today. Here goes…
As Expected
They just tore down the shopping mall.
They’re putting in a farm.
Now plants will grow where asphalt was.
Imagine my alarm!
Wherever will I park my car
to buy my next new… thing?
by Pam B.
Well, I Wasn’t Expecting THAT!
I drove over to the grocery store.
It was no longer there. In its place was a farm
stand with all sorts of colorful, local fruits for sale.
I bought some heirloom tomatoes, reddish-orange, purple, green, yellow, stripes even!
I didn’t know they came like that.
I thought they only came in the red and tasteless variety.
(Well, they do ship nicely, I’ll say that. I imagine one sailing the high seas at the helm of his vessel,
determined look on his face, hoping to set the record for world’s youngest tomato to sail around the entire globe.)
I also bought wild honey produced right on the farm by the farmer’s cherished bees.
(It says it right on the jar if you don’t believe me)
I made a delicious dressing, honey-mustard balsamic vinaigrette,
and drizzled it right over those lovely tomatoes.
Oh the flavor? The joy? I’m pretty sure I heard an angel sing.
There is only one problem.
They didn’t have any plastic bags.
Now how the hell will I pick up the dog’s poop?
by Pam B.
Ok. Typo.
That should be:
Oh the flavor! The joy! I’m pretty sure I heard an angel sing.
Gosh darn these fingers.
Fun stuff!!
… to be expected, from someone who calls herself Nambe-Pambe.
Behold
Even in my deepest despair
a gift will be sent to me –
A chickadee singing to me,
a rainbow,
or a glorious sunrise –
While my smile might be a touch sad,
it’s still a smile
and you will know
a small spark
of joy
has been lit inside of me.
Very nice!
Does it get more encouraging and hopeful than this? LOVE IT!
Wintry Dawn (a bell curve Fibonacci)
the
sky
as it
lightened from
the edges until
it slowly became the color
of marble or alabaster
or the thick cream in
the coffee
that I
don’t
drink
Complete Stop
I wasn’t expecting
the car on my right
to run the stop sign,
blazing through the
intersection at 40 mph.
I wasn’t expecting
to get hit and
flip sideways
spinning in circles,
sliding down the road.
I wasn’t expecting
we’d remain so calm,
asking each other
how we were doing
as we twirled around.
I wasn’t expecting
to walk from the scene
with my son and dog,
though my wife
needed some help.
Two months later,
I wasn’t expecting
to still feel the impact
and flinch at
a flash of bright light.
Promised a serious one….
What winter hides
Acorn hollowed,
filled with winter.
The artisan, wrapped in tail,
warms the hollow of the tree
with his quiescent life.
Finding Something Unexpected
Sometimes when you are painter,
You paint for a while and have to leave -
For the drying time or an errand
Later, you come back and see something
You do not recognize.
This is a wonderful moment:
You see part of who you are -
You can change it or keep it.
HIS GENUINE SMILE
In the heart of a mother,
Her children bring,
A light all their own.
She cannot help but love them,
Through thick or thin,
Yet no harder challenge comes,
Then when they must individuate,
And become their unique self,
And in the healthy process,
Of maturity, they might push,
Their mother aside!
The emotional pain of that,
Can be overwhelming!
With both of mine,
I found many ways to hold on,
Yet ultimately,
They both moved on,
To establish who they were,
As distinct individuals,
To develop their strengths,
And understand their weaknesses.
To learn to play well with others!
I have been pleased to see them,
Have such confidence and yet,
With my son, in particular,
It is as if even smiling at me sometimes,
Might loosen his newly found freedom,
So, with his efforts to be his own man,
He isn’t always as tender or sweet,
Or kind as I remember him to be!
I have understood this to be his,
Necessary boundaries to take on,
The world,
And yet I miss seeing his heart.
During a recent winter storm,
In the family lake house,
I took more time to view,
All the pictures on the wall,
Where there are many family members,
In various stages of life,
Participating in everything from,
Weddings to water skiing,
Swimming to graduations,
Birthdays to traveling,
All smiling and happy or looking surprised!
And as I carefully peruse every face,
I see on one year’s collection,
Just a few years back,
Displayed in full view,
A colored photograph that stands out,
In distinct clarity,
My son and I,
Standing boldly together, happy and close,
Dressed in fancy new clothes,
Grinning ear to ear,
Deep love and connection is most evident,
Broad smiles are side by side,
There is no doubt,
What we are about,
It is clear, loving and genuine!
And that is what is real and what will remain . . .
Always true . . . in this mother’s heart!
Marie Elena
You are so sweet and thank you for your kind welcome back! It is great to be here again for another PAD! Time may be too tight to read or respond much this November but I love seeing and reading the familiar names and faces. I wish everyone the best and how wonderful we are all here! Perfect poetic plan and as always . . . onward and Up Word to all!
Janet, you are such a treasure. Your poetry is always, always uplifting and hopeful, appealing and fun. Loved the one above, and I feel the heartstring tugs you describe so well.
Don’t worry about not having the time to read and respond as you’d like. That time is coming quickly for me as well.
Hugs …
Me and the Fruitarian
It was the other sides of the Inventor
I did not expect to find in his biography,
the side which never wore shoes
and the side which took LSD
and the side which once proclaimed he would only eat fruit picked in the moonlight by virgins
and the side which cried to his friend’s father,
and I thought
how did such a seemingly well-rounded
person have so many sides I didn’t know about?
But what I found the most surprising
was how much of me had found its way onto the pages
without me noticing,
the feeling of being heavy and empty at the same time,
the love of King Lear
the desire to change the world
and the belief you could do it.
There are Marxists and Surrealists and
those searching for enlightenment
before he gets the big C
and starts to fade away again
but we want the same thing:
to sneak away with a swan
and get to the other side in one piece.
Unpacking the Past
From a book of Dylan Thomas
A faded photograph fell,
1992 on the back in my hand.
Two lovers’ smiles,
His wide and cocky,
Mine thinner and a bit forced.
My make-up is heavier:
Concealer carefully layered and blended
Around my right eye,
Eyeliner slightly darker around the left,
A deliberate strike
To counter the effects of
His deliberate strike;
Lipstick the color of dried blood,
Unflattering but sufficient camouflage.
Familiar emotions resurface
As I stare at the woman
Who only exists
In that picture and my memory:
Shock.
Betrayal.
Anger.
Shame.
I rip the photo in half,
Permanently unpacking that bit of pain,
And find one more emotion
I’m finally prepared to add to my list:
Forgiveness.
Wow.
Elder Spirit
Roaming
the world, paying
their dues
final lap approaching,
waking each morn
praying newness,
a spark
for this mundane routine,
slave hours
Masters,
my indemnity
content, thankful souls,
Gift of the hour
taken me thirty years,
discovered in God’s House
self-version of an elder spirit,
warm wisdom eyes
compassion yet candid, passions
doting husband, children, idiosyncrasies
I had understanding for,
She took me in,
humanitarian
mentor Gardener of analogous
arbor
myth revealed
truth in experience,
sanctioned heart
my life, new path,
Elder spirit
tree of knowledge,
fruit delectable, soul enlightened
unexplained lesson.
Bat
hanging from the curtain rod
in the bedroom, eight a.m.
got in somehow overnight
hanging from the curtain rod
like a small gray umbrella
got in somehow overnight
wings folded in on themselves
like a small gray umbrella
waiting not for rain but dark
wings folded in on themselves
in the bedroom, eight a.m.
waiting not for rain but dark
[I think I just created a new form here - sort a more compact version of a pantoum. Anyone have a suggestion what to call it?]
Please visit my Facebook page for my daily poetry video!
UNEXPECTED LIFE (a shadorma)
I had been
a caterpillar
until the
day I died.
Which was really the birth of
me: a butterfly.
2011-11-04
P. Wanken
Into the Woods
Pine scent tickles my nose
pressed into the straw..
Heart and soul crying’
all along the hill top I searched
for a place to hide and heal
Slipping and sliding I landed here
No flattened boxes littered this little bowl
I hear the sliders squeal
I hear his angry shouts
Face lowered to the earth
I give thanks for the treasure
I had overlooked so many times
in my haste to be king of the hill
As freight trains shake
our make believe mountain
I fall asleep in my safe haven..
so many unexpected things have happened
these past several months–like spinning
360 several times in loops across 3 lanes,
then facing against traffic because a truck
jolted in front my lane on the highway
with very little room for me to hit my brakes
and declare that my life is more important
than him because he was an idiot,
legally blind, or just damn inconsiderate
during rush hour. i think i’d vote on the latter
because they say that houston has the worst
aggressive drivers, and i wholeheartedly agree
without a doubt because this was the second
time i had to hit the brakes and find myself
spinning in panic and pray that i
don’t hit the concrete wall or someone, or worse,
run off a bridge and into the sky and hope
that someone saves me or that death is painless.
In The Grass
soft jade chrysalis
the most perfect gift of all
just dangling, right there
Pingback: November PAD Challenge 4 « Yay Words!
Not sure about the title but here it is.
Faith Lost
Your perfect love, a limitless valley.
You submit and give unknowingly.
Bearing unfairly weighted burdens,
in each moment without pretense.
You live with exhilaration, and
though the days have aged our
sensibilities, somehow our
spirituality, you draw us into Him.
In spite of ourselves, we find ourselves-
grateful.
Intense warmth. Recognition.
Knowing He sees us. Proving His truth,
the reality of His stake in us.
Desperate attempts to ignore Him
in disapproval of this chosen task.
Our souls scream at the incompatibility.
Yet you complain not.
Only asking with an outreached hand
that we stand with you.
You open yourself willingly;
unconcerned with that which is to come.
We watch. We think we can feel.
Desperate prayers pour from our mouths
over you, consume you. With our eyes,
we ask too much. Your hand on my face.
Your love reciprocated again.
You give; and we will continue to take;
to delight in you; bathe in your
laughter. Our delicate bridge.
A bid to Him, we have thus far
been unable to deny.
Second to last line should say
A bond to Him, we have thus far
Stupid phone! My Internet has been down all day so posting from my phone. Ugh!
(a haiku surprise today!)
in my schoolbag
the flattened wings of a roach…
gibbous moon
In the Beat of the Drum Lives the Beat of the Heart
Drumming for poetry is both invigorating and healing
Feeling the reverberation …
The heartbeat beneath your hands travels up your arms
Into your soul
Everywhere …
And is even more intense
Than anything I could have anticipated
But the real “aha” moment about drumming
Came for me one day
When a circle of us tried to drum through
To one woman’s son
To help her heal from his death
As she sobbed helplessly, unable to stop.
I still feel gooseflesh when I remember
how frenzied and intense the drumming became
How almost otherworldly the experience turned
As we drummed fiercely in the darkened room
Lifted out of ourselves
At once I was barely aware of how fast my sticks were moving
Only that suddenly in the deepest part of my mind
My brother, dead less than a year, appeared
Smiling broadly saying something like,
“You’re kidding, right?”
And I knew, of course right then -
The other woman might be able
To reach her son, and so might the others – but any drumming
And sobbing I was going to do …
Or healing for that matter
Was going to end with me having to deal with my baby brother
There was no way around it.
Finding Something Unexpected
Artless (a monotetra)
Stick figures were all I could draw
An artist painting put me in awe
Take a class? I hemmed and I hawed,
With my two paws? With my two paws?
Art class for me seemed quite a stretch
I carried all I was told to fetch.
From vases and teapots ‘til I thought I’d retch,
I learned to sketch! I learned to sketch.
ENGINE TROUBLE
Flying along,
skies clear with a few
clouds, but nothing to write
home about. Out of no where, the
turbulence kicked up her heels send
ing the airship into a raucous rock. Tossed
like a worn rag doll and
cont rol all but lost
the obj ect as of now
is to sa ve as
ma ny liv es at
any cost. But, look ing
out of the win dow
the pil ot’s ch ute
ope ns, leav ing the
pan icky Pa ss en
ge rs
S. O. L.
O
H
W
E
L L
*Fingers crossed that my concrete floats.
Walt, I loved it. You gave me the giggle I needed. Thanks.
This is impressive, Walt, and a fun poem too.
Floating, indeed!
*Giggle*…so good!
The Wooden Box
We found a wooden box
after my father’s death.
Postcards piled and banded
in bunches according
to the person who authored
them. There was my Aunt,
Sylvia, telling her brother
how much she missed him, hoped
he was safe overseas, and at least,
no one was stealing her pudding
now. Friends sent cards
with pictures, Greetings
from Coney Island, Hello
from Sunny Florida. A picture
of my mother posing
in her version of a movie star.
We had uncovered a treasure,
still alive, heart beating.
My Past came by to Visit.
I had to stare awhile,
It had been so long since I’d seen It
I barely recognized It’s smile
It seemed real glad to see me and hoped I was doing fine.
I invited It to come in and have a cup of tea.
We sat and talked for hours.
We debated several things.
We had a few good chuckles.
We shared a few soft tears.
Then the sunset came through the window, my Past sighed at me and said, “It’s been great to talk things over, and thank you for the tea.”
“Please stay a little longer,” I said and caught it by the sleeve.
“My time here is over; I’m afraid I have have to leave.”
“I only came here to remind you of what you used to be.”
“Your life is not behind you, it’s everything after me.”
Feral
Always I’m
surprised at how one
kindness has
repaid me
so, with you here on my lap
trusting, purring.
Here’s my attempt:
A ragged envelope
surfaced on the writing desk.
Once used as a coaster
evidenced by the pale brown
coffee stain.
Inside the letter
written by my mother
faded words stated,
“you deserved to be happy.”
I held it close
and whispered
“Yes, I do, yes I am.”
Epiphany in the Mountains
Black rock walls rain shine
Silence except for Shouting
Hues that bleed from trees.
Pingback: Left Field | TrollPants 2.0
Left Field
Poeming quickly
And following strictly
A rhythm and rhyme scheme
That makes tide and time seem
Impulsive and random
Though I haven’t scanned ‘em
The words just keep flowing
Who knows where they’re going
Or whither they’ve come
I just hope they’re not dumb
And the verse, when complete,
Sounds sublime and, well, nice.
http://trollpants.wordpress.com
Copper Dreams
on
a fixed
income, she
roamed the streets
looking for spare change from
Third avenue to Seventh. Imagine
her surprise when she glanced up at the
sky and was showered with Pennies from Heaven.
Riddled
When one cradles their firstborn,
Feels dainty-sweet breath,
Sees eyes and smile bright as day -
One does not (should not) anticipate a future
Riddled with schizophrenia.
This definitely has an element of suprise.
This is heartbreaking and so real and true. No, no one would expect how our babies will grow up.
Walt
Now do I really have to mention that it looks like you are full of hot air? Or that your concrete poem was truly uplifting? How about the sky is the limit with your obvious talents? Ok . . . here it is, the joy of your writing always lets me fly . . . yes . . . up, up and away! Love it! <3 <3 <3
Marie Elena
You are a treasure, too, and your words always touch the heart! Yes, time is tight but the opportunity to read and write is oh, so wonderful too. Glad you can relate! Let's just see what we can do and really, isn't it just great to be here? Thanks for your special touch <3 <3 <3
Running late, as I lollygagged through my next-to-last day at the beach…
Day 4 11-4-2011
Write about finding something unexpected.
Unexpected
I’d given up.
Resigned myself
to life as a single,
though my heart’s desire was to marry,
to raise a family with a man I loved and who loved me.
A chance photo in the paper,
my mom recognizing the young pharmacist
from the neighborhood drugstore,
my taking it to show him–at her prompting–
led to our first date.
I’d never met someone so easy to be with.
Our conversations never lagged.
We survived my craziness over a previous
broken engagement,
and his kind, good-humored, intelligent ways
convinced me he was a gift from God.
One evening eight months past our first date,
we chatted on the phone into the wee hours.
He’d given me a standing invitation, so I said,
“Let’s do what you suggested.”
Unexpectedly, we became engaged over the phone.
Thirty-two years later,
life is as stable and predictable as is safe,
yet every day we find greater joy and more surprises
than we ever expected.
Kaitlin’s Mother
There on the frosted lawn
of chill October filming
the mother of the child
gone missing
There on the frosted lawn
hands numbed
in her eye
a twinkle
smiling
just for a flicker
before the curtain
of devastation drops
again
there on that
lawn frost crunching
under unsure footing
Now
Nice work Pearl
I’ve been up all night, so I’m still considering this day 4.
Shelter In Place
At the office, under the scanner in the reference room
wait the big plastic boxes, their sides transparent
to show their contents:
cans of light tuna, boxes of saltines.
Across one boxtop, an expiration date
four years, six months, twenty days ago.
When I open the medicine cabinet at home,
an amber tube rattles out, its label faded.
Ciprofloxacin. It, too, is past its prime.
I think a friend’s office, in an agency we can’t
talk about, has stronger stuff, potions
for the ultimate personal decision.
Ten years on, I barely notice the Pentagon
on Virginia license plates. I still remember a day
when I stood in the yard, two houses ago,
and watched the sky. The planes kept us up at night.
I moved to the country, something I thought
I’d never do. Now I’m back in the city,
with horns and hollering and a diesel bus
at the curb, and I’m still not sure where to go,
who to call, what home is, or was.
Pamela Murray Winters
Love
I wasn’t looking
for it and didn’t really
want it, but that’s just
when you’re apt to find it.
Unexpected Interval
Alright, where’s my bed
Not poem in my head
A fluffy pillow works instead
Wow, now wait, that just feels great
Time to Chill-ax, on a mission to relax
Dishes, clothes, in piles and stacks
Well, I’ll post a poem then rest awhile
Then make my way to those stacks and piles
One eye, two eyes shut
SSSSSSSSSSSNNNNNNNNNNNZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ…
7AM rise
Only to my suprise
That I snoozed through day 4!!!!!
Great save, Benjamin! I can relate! My late contribution is several poems down. Better late than never!
Thanks!
SURPRISED BY LIFE
Life without the element of surprise
Might as well be death
The future known, predicted
No hope
No change
Plans that always work out
Limit us to our own imaginings
Could I predict just when the sunset bird swoops low to meet the rising fish
Would I create a romance with pimples, wrinkles, quarrels
And that moment when
The wilted roses appear
And I feel loved
The photograph
If you discovered it,
As I did today
While clearing my desk ,
You’d wonder why
I would hold on to nothing
You could decipher
Of its fading shorthand:
It’s dark:
Morning or evening anywhere
There is dim stone:
The Maitreya Bodhisattva,
Stretching above the frame.
A tangle of shadows:
The grotto floor below us.
I have told others
It was just an accident
An unconscious snap
Of the shutter.
If you have to know
It was the first time we met.
It was late Spring at Huangshan.
She was wearing a flower print skirt.
Outside there was a delirious heat
Waiting to surround us.
And there were birds,
Not far from us
Nested high in the welcoming tree
That gestured toward us
With a long tangle of limbs,
Crying: making the small sounds
You hear at dawn or dusk anywhere
Am leaving this link for Mary K.
http://inthecornerofmyeye.blogspot.com/2011/11/unexpected-i-found-you-when-i-wasnt.html
Unexpected, now accepted
we are moving again.
Back to the town we came
from, back to a country home.
We’ll live in a white shingled
house, black shutters,
a wrap-around porch. Home
will be open, inviting,
a full yard leads into
the woods. There’s a fire-pit
for roasting marshmallows,
a patio with two seating groups.
Lush oaks tower over the grounds.
There’s a magnolia, palm trees,
lush plants, that give it a scenic
view. I didn’t expect to move again.
We’ve moved so many times.
But this one should be the last.
At least, it seems like that now.
unexpected rainbows
unexpected rainbows come to me
as i lift my head from my stupor
and look over at the spider
in the corner of my room
spinning a web of gossamer threads
my heart soars as i see him toil
i imagine how time slips by for him
but it matters not, caught as he is
in the moment for its own sake
blithely, he stops, as if to look at me
and continues without as much as a
“by your leave sir”
or at least, that is what i imagine
i resume my reading, transported once more
i am immersed within the pages
a willing participant, yet so much more
i feel, i see, i experience as words fly
from the parchment beneath my fingers
i am trapped by the beauty from the author
i see the colours in my mind’s eye
as i try to capture them in my hands
but they leak out and i must share them
with the next one
i see it now
as i dream of my own words on the paper
before me
perfectly white
glistening like winter’s first snow
on a grey morning early in december
unlike me
it is unblemished
unspoiled by time and experience
as i watch the paper
i can see the words forming
cascading from my mind
caught on the page forever
yet jubilant
imagination captured in mere words
i think not
filling my head with God’s wonder
unexpected rainbows
Wrote poems on the previous days, but only used the prompt on Day 2. ‘Thought I would catch up by writing some on days 3-5 today.
Cosmic Scorecard
by Rachel Hyde
I was born.
I lost points for:
presenting the wrong parts.
rendering planned names useless.
requiring a new wardrobe.
exceeding the standard size.
damaging my mother,
also, bruising myself all over.
forgetting to grow hair,
and then growing the wrong color.
undervaluing breastmilk.
getting left with my father,
and then my grandmother.
precluding future siblings.
shitting my pants.
crying.
I won points for:
making sure my hair,
while not punctual,
was at least curly
(exactly as predicted).
Walt, I empathize slips and all …Fall can bring color to more than leaves
Sunstroke
Drowsing in the So CA sun
All beachy breezed into
Sandcoated bliss
A shadow passed and
Chilled me
A parental message that
I missed
Only eight and feeling
Strong when I woke
And saw two heads
Bobbing in the waves
Not too far, it seemed
Plunged in and with my
Best YMCA swim lessons stroke
Swam mightily, but
The ocean pulled too
A whistle, a shout
A red buoy held out
To me
Didn’t understand the
Fuss I was almost there
Parents rushing cross
The sand, stumbling
Double embrace
Relief on their face
They’d told me to
Stay and wait
back to my weird little form. of syllable counts. 3,4,4,5,5,6,6,5,5,4,4,3,2
Something leaked.
All the boxes
were damp and limp.
They’ve been on that shelf
at least a decade.
We found the inside dry
(an unexpected gift),
and discovered what
we’d put inside them.
Cards and clippings,
letters, photos,
memories
of youth.
Between bright
cottonwood boughs
and their reflection
in quiet waters
of the early
November lake,
under the bare branches
of a Gambel oak
with only a few crimson
leaves for cover,
a terrified cottontail
trembles.
Panic
I found out the way
Most people do these days
On Facebook
I just happened to be checking
My “Like” pages and groups
Oh, it was finally updated!
I began to eagerly read
The Austin International Poetry Festival page
I was excited until I read the date
Then I did a double take
Surely I read that wrong
Something unexpected ruined my day
My heart sank, I became angry, and panic filled me
I already booked my flight
The Festival is not the last part of April 2012
It is the end of September 2012!
Something unexpected can be a very, very bad thing
Dirty Secret
I found it on a low shelf, shoved in
the s’s, but not correctly, and I pulled
on the perfect spine because I knew
the writer’s pseudonym. I didn’t know
he’d had a book, just scattered poems in
san francisco tenderloin collections.
Little cousin, coal-miner’s son, run
away from birth family, birth name, birth
life of poverty and sorrow, now flash
and spark in the big city. Splashy
cover art with dirty words and dark deeds.
Inside I tried to read whole poems, but
my mind, my eyes, and my poetic soul
rejected his choices, as he rejected
us. ‘What a relief,’ I told myself as
I slid the book back where it had come from,
‘it’s terrible.’
“Finding Myself”
Spiraling
down into darkness
like Dante
and Virgil.
I’ve traveled the depths of hell
to find heaven’s light.
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A Semi-Hoarder’s Justification
See, the thing is when I can’t
clean out the clutter,
when I am instead
a pack rat,
when I save
anything and everything
because I
might be able to use it one day
in my teaching
like a placemat from a McDonald’s in Beijing
or a zloty from Poland
and an Israeli olive wood nativity set,
well, then everyday holds possible
unexpected discoveries.
by Valerie A. Person
Unexpected Sweets
So in the process of learning, she found a lover
who pushed her beyond herself and pulled her
into himself. She yearned for his muscled brain
and his soft touch, but he had made mistakes
before and retreated, like a stag frightened
by a snap of a twig in the woods, sure that a gun
was attached to the outstretched hand, but it
was a lump of sugar––that he would never taste.
Finally got a chance to come back to this one… wish I had more time this week for commenting on other people’s work! Will have a bit more in a few days, I hope.
…
What the Bagman Saw Today
archangels
descend on midtown:
with brown wings,
red plumed crests,
moving through the empty space
of cement atoms
hollering
blessings for the tribes
in starched suits
or stained rags:
everyone’s too deaf to hear
that swooping music
think the sound’s
a train or a breeze,
anything
but: these birds,
brief, holy, diving to the
center of the earth
This little piggy went to market
Sitting on top of the big toe
on the right foot,
a wide, round brown spot.
Benign, not raised –
slightly above it, a smaller spot
not seen before today
when after a hot shower on a
Saturday morning, you began to
worry about this harmless addition
to your slowly aging body.
You file it under hypochondria
and focus on the ache in your
stomach that won’t seem to subside.
There are bigger battles ahead.
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LOSING SEASON
Walking the track, I find a cheap silver
earring and wonder how it fits into
the narrative of some girl’s life, which
reminds me how I once asked a coach
“Which stays with you longer, the wins
or losses?” And his head bowed into
a slow earthquake of shakes No No
No No, and I understood. As a child
I owned a Chicago Cubs cap that
stayed as fixed to my head as the
dome of my skull. It vanished on a
camping trip, and I wore the feeling
of that hat for weeks after, and still
wonder where it ended up. To my left
broods the football field the local team
uses to rehearse their defeats, 0-5 so far
and how do they stand it? The ball
smacking off the receiver’s hand and
spinning like a roulette wheel into the
opposing lineman’s surprised clutch.
Perhaps it’s time to admit our position
is untenable, we’re completely
surrounded with the lines of supply
cut. Yet there’s the lady with her
greyhound, a creature designed by
Death, only bones and a spear-point snout
sharp as the canines that pierce the
throat of the kill. She unleashes and
says Phoebe, go! and faster than
thought that dog is gone, lost in the
freedom of speed, infinity whistling in
her ears, probably like the sound of
a cheering crowd, the confetti of
Autumn leaves settling gently in
her wake, as I walk on, pocket my
white flag for another day.
.
Before Canada
I’m surprised how quickly it happens:
There is a black bear now
big in his world but small in mine
alone, of course working his way
over my down comforter
that is white like a too-early snowfall
and is cold between his relaxed
black claws, the cold
telling him to hurry
He stops for a moment to test time
the end time of seasons
and the tilting wind
where the blankets fold down
slope
into the valley of broad, open sheets
It will take him an hour or so to reach the pillows,
piled high – fantastic mountains
but there, somewhere in there,
he will enter the dark crevasse
find the cave
that is near where I will lay my head
where my head
(through tunnels of darkness) later,
past him there curled, will widen
just enough
on the other side into a glow
we share
dreams
animal dreams
Already there is a bear afoot in my world
I will stay up for a bit
and give him time
to find a place that is right
for his long slumbering winter.
Finding Something Unexpected
11/4/11
A one-line-a day diary
uncovered in an antique cabinet
drew me into great-grandfather’s life
lived in 1889.
Through his sparse entries,
his simple life emerged.
My surprise find became
a historical novel,
The Late Sooner.
Secret Offerings
The past weeks had been filled
with bills, bills and more bills.
No work to be found for an academic
without a terminal degree.
Terminal degree – sounds funny
like a disease that ends life.
Would a PhD make life better?
Would joblessness die?
Then, just as hope seems
to be taking a fast cab west,
An envelope arrives – bank address.
Not another bill!
Halfheartedly opening it,
the check sits in my hand
in an amount that blows me away.
Anonymous to the rescue!
Finding the Unexpected in Housing for the Mentally Ill
Place I:
middle-aged
pot-bellied
mentally ill men
lie
abed mid-morning . . .
sullied mop-head stuck
in bucket
dingy
tangled strands submerged;
handle angles
(like propped fishing pole),
intrudes on
back hall’s center
like baby chicks
tucked
beneath hen-wings
cigarette butts
huddle
under broom-straws
nesting on detritus –
deserted, sweeper gone
cross this
Nursing Home off the list
Place II:
dayroom crush
old women hunched in
wheelchairs
bosom-balanced heads
nod
not in sync
with
ear-blazing radio-blare
while a staff woman works her tongue
around gum-stuffed cheek
calling out muffled bingo numbers echoed by one man’s shout;
in counterpoint, a frantic female shriek,
high-pitched: Too FAST, TOO fast
SLOWer
Go SLOWer!
the indignant resident male responds: YOU have already won
YOU are not eligible
in one room-corner
a face unrelated to this discourse twists,
grimaces in disparate grief
arm outthrust to ward off
disguised anti-christ, unseen
Place III
abrupt
the move to hospital
psychiatric ward;
desperate
for reduced agitation
medication stabilization
and then, imminent discharge precipitates
revision
necessitates reconsideration
for rejection of the first home visited
Place I: revisited
note:
residents halved
dayroom doublesized
stretched-like-light are windows
bordering two sides
allowing red-gold-autumn-world
entrance –
a caress
for eyes
for ears, the sweet-oil balm of leaf-rustle seeps
through an open window pane as
one resident approaches
extending his hand: I know you’ll like it here. We’re glad
you’ve come.
a juice-filled cup
appears mid-afternoon;
the staff person asks: Would you like
a cookie, too?
an old woman with thin-white hair
turns: My hair tie’s lost.
My braid’s undone.
Would you braid my hair?
Now comes
the unexpected response of my mentally ill son: Maybe I can. Let me try.
So I say: Sit with me, watch with me
as
my balding
pot-bellied
mentally ill son
with gentle hands
divides
the frayed white wisps
into uneven strands
a weaver intent on his art
never mind how inept
See
the softening
of the old one’s papery cheeks
her muted mouth relaxing into quiet smile,
unimportant how clumsy
how short-lived the plait
more vital than lackadaisicalness in mentally ill men
more vital than abandoned broom-sweepings
or buckets full of sullied water; mops unkempt:
the unexpected spirit nourishing this place.
The formatting isn’t exactly as I wanted, nor are the stanza breaks always correct in this long poem, but the words are what I wanted to say.
I am caught up for now, lol. I started this poem about two weeks ago after this, hum… nightmare?
Pamela
Certain Nightmares
The Unexpected Gift
A breeze in a place with a dance with the wind
Flowers, massive trees, beauty, sunshine, the bees
Serenity, peace, forever, the end meets.
Delightful things
My first Mother’s Day – my son wearing
An “I Love You Mommy” button on his nightgown
when I go to lift him from his crib
A surprise party on our 25th anniversary
filled with family members, each a special joy
Meeting a cousin I never knew who is a writer and
now influences my writing self
A friend request on facebook
from someone I haven’t seen in over twenty years
Beach glass – a secret treasure from across the ocean
A student who reconnects me with her grandma’s cousin
who was my best friend in eight grade
The bone in the grass that my lab discovers
with pure joy all over again
a pleasant conversation with a stranger
Shining Star
Ten little girls sitting in a room
all so clever and confident
all except one
all passed there exam last summer
a year early and moved up
all except the new girl
Ten preteen brains whirring and steaming
as they do the years first test
it’s a new course
it’s a big step up and it’s hard going
sighs of relief as the test ends
are mixed with groans of anguish from all
including the new girl
Then comes the marking
the standard is high
only one misses the pass grade
and only just at that (the lazy one!)
finally the pile is reduced to one paper
and the outstanding mark
the crowning glory
the cleverest girl in the clever girls’ class
the new girl
Iain
Momentary Courage
Chickadee lands on the feeder
while I’m putting out old bread
I freeze, a foot away, and this time
he doesn’t flee
I can see the frizz of feathers
the light in his eyes
We stare at each other for five heartbeats
Ten
Fifteen
Then, with a cheep
he leaves
“frizz of feathers” — nice!
A Winner
Wouldn’t it be fun?
Don’t you think?
(I think it would be fun!)
to be the one: that
benefactor, philanthropist,
bestower of gifts;
having come (quite unexpectedly)
into a windfall (money, cash, moolah,
cabbage, dough, bread, bucks).
And not just a little bit. Oh no.
But, so Terrible, Awful, Much
as to be positively Obscene.
So much Green,
that the Only thing
you can Think to do
is to give it mostly away;
to be that angel hovering,
unnoticed, unseen, ob-
serving every unsuspecting
passerby (struggling with
his, and her, own lack of legal tender)
and donate a bit of yours to the cause.
It isn’t the getting,
but the Giving,
that makes one
a Winner.
hmmm I’m not so sure I agree — or at least completely, but I love anyway the way you evoked the imagery of what folks imagine coming into ‘obscene green’. I love that!
“to be that angel hovering”, the relentless list that ends in “bestower of gifts” —
where I fell off was in the thought that we have to come into great abundance to start giving it away. I imagine that’s not what you meant, but that’s what I got…
thank you very much for the ride!
Dear Cat
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
Dear Cat,
This is most unexpected.
What the hell?!
You’re a feline
and feral as they come.
you eat mice balls as foreplay,
what’s wrong with you?!
Really? You don’t “do” mice?
Newsflash moron,
you’re a mouser!
Act like one.
Signed,
the Dog
© 2011 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
it must be love
making no comment, drinking my truly bad coffee along the trail,
then washing the stained old camp cup in some nameless creek.
What am I doing here?
I said never, so, of course,
the universe shifted its weight,
bumping her heart into mine.
It was almost a hit and run,
with an apology left on a post-it,
but love has a way of surviving
self-destruction.
For a year I felt like I discovered
a new species of moth, one
that instead of aimlessly fluttering
around any source of light,
brought new light wherever it went,
warming the surface of anything
it touched, like a tiny star
made from the scattered reflections
of street lamps.
This new life landed in my palm,
and filled me with a sensation
I can only describe as joy,
a tingling warmth of supernova
that threatened to escape my ribcage.
To keep this feeling, I couldn’t let
my discovery fly away, but no jar
with holes in the lid, could contain
such beauty and not kill it.
So, I tied a band of gold
to one of her spindly legs,
just enough weight, to keep her around,
and now here I stand,
in these uncomfortable shoes,
folding my tears into a diamond
and a promise, hoping she never asks me
to give her back her wings.
love the last stanza!
‘folding my tears into a diamond’
‘tied a band of gold to one of her spindly legs’
the image of marriage and loss of freedom — both loving her, and moving toward this form of captivity…
rich!
FLEDGING A SWALLOW NEST
(a rondine)
From my open hand, old dry stubble fell.
A nesting-season’s cleanup. Meanwhile, “Spring!”
sang grass with lupine in a dancing ring
as I stood elbow-deep in muck, a well
of muddy deadfall leaves, a rotten smell
between my fingers; so much trash to fling
from my open hand.
And here, a filthy nest. Broken eggshell,
the fledglings flown like all young life on wing.
But peek again – one nestling’s loitering.
I pick her up, she learns to fly. Farewell
from my open hand.
i love it.
i couldn’t help smiling at the appearance of the baby bird.
All in a day’s work
padding into the bathroom,
full and somewhat urgent
propelled by automatic movements
3 steps, splashing ankle deep in water before
i knew.
for two hours, water brimmed out of the bowl and onto the floor
filling the room and the one downstairs with tainted water.
no thought but cleaning
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