A week ago, I had you write a poem focused on a tiny detail. Today, I want you to write a poem that shows the big picture. You can still get very specific, but I want you to try incorporating a big picture concept related to your theme. For instance, if you’re writing war poems, you could write a poem focused on the leader of one of the armies and through his specific concerns cover the full scope of what’s happening.
So, for today, back up and soak in the big picture.
Here’s my attempt for the day:
“house”
He runs outside–barefoot–to grab the morning paper,
cursing the cold weather. When he gets inside, he grabs
his coffee and reads the headline: Godzilla Attacks Tokyo!
Again, he thinks before flipping to the East Europe section,
filled with stories on zombie uprisings, witch hunts, and
werewolf sightings. A vampire is suspected in Romania,
though there are no confirmed biting deaths on record.
He puts the paper down and eats his bacon-egg breakfast,
thinks about trying to leave the house, knowing he can’t.
So much going on in the world, he thinks, and I’m part
of it, but still… It’s the waiting that kills him, waiting
for someone to venture into his neck of the woods,
stumble upon his deserted house, have curiosity tempt
that person inside, when he can finally have his fun, too.
XIX. Assuming the Title “Weightlifting Champion of the World”
It wasn’t the bawling
From 3,000 miles away,
A whole country armoring him
From the firing squad I watched
At point-blank range.
It wasn’t the self-pity,
The “I lost my mom”—
Yeah, I know, I lost mine too—
Or the “My girlfriend left me
So I’m all alone.”
I wasn’t any of that, really.
What really made me want
To rip through the fiber optic cables
And slap his self-medicated face
Was the “Yeah, but, you’re stronger than me,”
As if somehow his trauma
Exceeded mine.
Either I did what needed to be done,
Or it simply went left undone.
“Strength” had nothing to do with it.
I could break down now
Or I could break down later.
He chose the former;
I opted for the later.
That should of course be Rachel Maddow (in my Obama poem), not Rachel Maddock…
(I don’t know how much bigger a picture one can get than this scenario, as we Oregonians already know. Plays well with my "Tales from the Pacific NorthWest" theme I think. –spidey)
Default
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
When the “Big One” finally comes,
they say the new coastline
will be in Montana,
that the entire Northwest
will secede from the Union
and slide into the Pacific,
high-fiving those tectonic
plates from the Barrios
on the way down.
The left-wing sector will
look with raised brow
then begin posturing over
future fossil fuel ops
(don’t want all those millions
of lives going to waste).
The right-wing sector will
simply point pious fingers
and say we had it coming,
that God finally tired of
this Sodom & Gomorrah sector
and simply clicked the
“Return to Default” menu option
to rid himself of
the undesirables.
© 2008 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
Embedded Heat
My heart longs once more to endure desire,
trembling sensuous sensation, sweet
mounting rhythms roar, burning wild, like fire.
Delicious sense the taste of maple, we conspire,
eat loaded stack at IHOP, in our seat.
My heart longs once more to endure. Desire
drives us around the base, Stone Mountain’s spire,
where he asked and I nodded yes. Then sleet
mounting, white rhythms beat and roar, wild like fire.
Cold mess of frozen limbs and tongues grows dire
with stroke. We stumble on — amazing feat.
My heart longs once more to endure desire.
With steel promises we shield our empire,
from ills marauding to undo complete.
Mounting rhythms roar, burning wild like fire.
Now, latent embers, we excite to inspire
each other’s mischief. Wistful smiles replete,
my heart longs once more to endure desire,
mount the rhythms roar; burn bright, like wild fire.
Obama
Interesting, how
his name on everyone’s lips
has a different flavor
when Charlie Gibson speaks it
than whem Rachel Maddock does
Sounds better from
Chris Matthews than from
anyone on Fox News
Reads better in Time Magazine
than in The Dallas Morning News
Yet, when I say it
It just tastes like Freedom
day #19 Big Picture
I have the map folded
to the ten inch square
I traverse.
I paused,
leaving a classroom,
by the pull down
plat of America.
My square was barely
a pinhead.
I have to apologize for being so far behind. I want you all to know, I have read some of the best poetry here in the last month that I think I have ever read. A few poems I really feel should be published, or made into songs. I have been taking time to read, but I just have so much work, I have a hard time keeping up my writing. This year is a tough one, but a good one so far. The kids for the most part (in two of three classes are getting the stuff I am teaching, behavior has been better overall) the thing is, when you are succeeding with children for only the second time in your 18 year career, you want to go that much further to make things continue to work for you, hence the demands on my time. I will continue to read and write what I can, Robert, I promiss to finish this challenge, just maybe a couple days late, my brother. I hope that is ok. Guys, my fellow poets, I honestly believe at some point we all, including you Robert (you have done some amazing stuff with the monster theme) should take our work and find a way to get it out there, I believe we have the makings of success in this field called poetry writing. I will of course opt out on that, because I do not desire to be recognized, but to be unseen. But, I will support all of you proudly.
Rod.
No Cyrano
We could not have a Cyrano de Bergerac
Restless hearts would lack
thoughts of condolence
would go unsaid
major history would lack reference
there would be one less way to remember the dead
if words that can be said no other way
then through poetry, one could never say
There might never be that first date
were there’s love
there might be words of hate
and that loved one your thinking of
may never know
hearts may break
where love might grow
if words don’t take
where the seed’s of poetry
one does not sow
What kind of world would there be
if there were no Cyrano
no romance, displayed through the imagery
created through the simple words of poetry
How would loved one’s know
how one truly might feel
without a poem to make those feelings real?. . .
© Rodney C. Walmer November 22, 2008; big picture poem
Astronomy for Beginners
So much of our night skies are polluted with light, sprawling
urban centers lit by thousands of artificial suns, obscuring the
heavens, devouring darkness. Millions of children in Beijing
and Tokyo, Moscow and Los Angeles, have never seen the stars.
After dark we lie down on the white dock, above us meteors streak
across the bowl of sky. The lake, mirror still, reflects each star in its
ebony depths. I am dazzled by the sheer number of them spinning
overhead, a multitude more than the meager few I see from town.
What makes the pattern of constellations, Orion and Cassiopeia and
the Pleiades? Is it the stars themselves: each pinprick planet shining
steady, each star consumed by cold fire, every dying sun, each singular
hole of light eaten into the night’s fabric, or is it absence of stars, the
vast black distance stretching between them, light years apart?
Another busy day ahead — and already running late, so just a few quick comments:
Paul – what a beautiful, poignant tribute.
SEI – Becoming Invisible brought tears to my eyes. Well done.
Patti – nice job!
Cheryl – some wonderful images & descriptions of melancholy.
Keep up the good work everyone!
Linda, (because you asked . . .)
I have also been working (really mostly thinking!) on putting together a book of children’s poetry. I haven’t gotten very on it so far, but it is definitely something I plan to do in the future.
Lack
The aprons are gone
and the mothers who wore them
well equipped with tissues
needle and thread, a few pence
kisses for a grazed knee
a firm, kind, certainty
we are the mothers now
hobbled without apron pockets
muddling through.
I tried to have fun with this prompt. In case you all are not basketball fans, the announcers seem to have the habit of calling the taller players these days the Bigs.
Father and son: 2910
What’s basketball, Dad?
An ancient game, played
by people called the Bigs
where they threw a ball through
a metal hoop. Millions
of people were fans all
over the world.
How big were they, Dad?
They had to be over 6-10 just
to get on the team, son,
and they were all superstars
wealthy beyond what we
can even imagine. Was
everyone that big then, Dad?
Of course not, that’s what
made them so special.
So the Bigs were kind of
Like the Longlegs are now
and regular people like us
wouldn’t have a chance
and only really rich people
can sit up close at their games.
That’s right, son, but we
can still watch the Longlegs
on our holoscreens, and
see even better than if
we were there.
Earl, a children’s book–cool. I am also writing a book of children’s poems (not that stuff posted here though–actually i think a lot of my children’s poems aere better than the dribble i post here). I wonder how many others in our group are doing the same thing. Hey, everybody, if you are writing poems for children on the side, speak out. I am curious what the numbers are.
Linda
Grief is a Job
Grief is a job
its not a job anyone welcomes, wants,
or knows how to deal with ahead of time.
Its labor intensive and exhausting.
We have to take care of ourselves
physically as well as emotionally
so that we are up to the task.
Grief is a project that we will get through.
We will learn to encorporate our loss into
our life so that we can go on eventually.
We can forget the life we led before our
loved one dies, our lives will never be
the same. It will be our responsibility
to rebuild ourselves, reinvent us so
that we are compatible with living fully
again. We can’t rush grief and time is
the one sure thing that works for this
malady that strikes us all eventually.
Another tool that always works is to get
outside ourselves and helping others
in some way.
We owe it to ourselves and those who
love us to get through grief, get to
the other side of grief and live again.
We can’t expect things to ever be
the same, but joy will return as well
as love. Accepting those things
into our lives honors our loved one
who has passed away.
It takes as long as it takes, we can’t
rush it and neither can any one else.
Our loved one has left us gifts and we
have to look for them. My son left me
a fearlessness and openess about life
that I would never have though possible.
I thought of myself as an injured bird
when I began this process but now I see
myself as an eagle, better able to fly.
Judy Roney
Linda,
No it’s not televised here. I get it off the internet. They do occassionaly show it on TV months after the fact. I saw it once a few years ago. Up until then I didn’t know such a thing existed.
Linda – Thanks for your kind words. I hope you daughter likes it. If she does, I have a book of children’s poems I’m working on and would gladly share some with you. By the way, it should have been "snow white sands" not "show white sands". I live on the Emerald coast and our sand is as white as snow with green waters to boot.
Rats! Gotta run. Busy day ahead. This idea only just came to me this morning, and I haven’t had the time to polish it yet, but here is my first (or maybe second or third) draft — for now. Will work more on it when time allows. Be back later to read and comment! And pick up today’s assignment!)
We Are One
We are all
The same
We are
Infant, child, teen, lover, mother
Father, son, daughter, sister, brother,
Single, married, divorced, widowed,
Addict, abuser, enabler, leader
Artist, student, healer, helper, teacher
We are
Black, white, red, yellow, gray,
European, African, Asian, American,
Rich, poor, fat, thin, tall, short
Innocent, experienced, seasoned
We are
Alone, apart, fearless, afraid, glad,
Love, hate, envy, desire, betrayed, sad
Passion, apathy, empathy, faith, disbelief
Regret, remorse, gratitude, pity, relief
We are
Amaze, astound, appall, impress, intend,
Energize, enervate, buy, sell, spend,
Smile, sing, laugh, cry, dance, shout,
Question, answer, know, believe, doubt,
Want, need, take, have, give, share,
Surrender, fight, hurt, heal, care,
Wish, dream, do,
He, she, them, us, me, I, you
We are
Together
We are
The same
We are
One
Change
There must be a place
where old men wait
for wives to be ready
to couple and uncouple,
give foot rubs after
shopping for couches,
remember to buy bulbs
for living room lamps.
Bearded men who regret
their haste having noticed
the wisdom of a light touch,
a dark room, a cool breeze.
Mountains understand,
endure what nature brings.
In the House of Moon-Madness
“The greatest of our blessings comes to us through mania…madness coming from the deity is superior to the sanity of human origin.” Socrates
In the time before uncivilized life became
The norm and the muses ruled not only
The mind but the heart and soul and great
Thinkers worshiped in the house of moon-madness
My sovereign self was sure and confident and as
Poetess I walked in hues of purple royalty
With all attendant to my moods and
Whims, for great knowledge was born only of
Chaotic thought and troubled introspection
Truth was a revelation of the divine to
The manic alone and was to be received
With gratitude; I held to my original titles
Those of maternal power, moon-spirit and
Goddess – in the time before life became
Uncivilized and great thinkers still
Worshiped in the house of moon-madness.
Sorry. Don’t know why that posted twice!
Terri, I love your poem for today.
Earl, So My Child is so nice. I think I will read it to my daughter.
Lots of good poems today. As for me, I am a little stumped on this one. Got a few ideas but not getting anything good on paper. Also in the middle of a big project with a deadline on Saturday.
Connie, I smiled when I read your dominoes poem. Over here Domino Day is always televised and it is amazing the things they can do. Do they even show it in America?
Linda
Terri, I love your poem for today.
Earl, So My Child is so nice. I think I will read it to my daughter.
Lots of good poems today. As for me, I am a little stumped on this one. Got a few ideas but not getting anything good on paper. Also in the middle of a big project with a deadline on Saturday.
Connie, I smiled when I read your dominoes poem. Over here Domino Day is always televised and it is amazing the things they can do. Do they even show it in America?
Linda
If you could see
If you could see
What I see
You wouldn’t execute
Your final death-wish
Borrow my wings
And come fly with me
I think I heard Mother Nature decry…
Over the ruins.
Over the rotted corpse
Of her defiled curvacious
Mountains that once brought
Home the freshest rain
I think I heard Mother Nature deny…
Hover above the desolate
Creeks, rivers, and streams
That were filled with
Bountiful species
That now reside away
From the slick surface
And taunting keels
I think I heard Mother Nature defy…
Flutter around the barren
Lands of death, murder and
Destruction
Offer no hope to those
Bearded Sapiens that wander
Around in dumbfounded
Terror
I think I heard Mother Nature sigh…
Lift yourself higher
And choke on your breath
As the air is no longer
Cleaner up here
The grass is no longer
Greener there
And home is no longer
Where your heart is
I think I heard Mother Nature cry…
But lastly I dare
You to linger around
And observe from space
The devastation, obliteration
And total annihilation
Of your home
You will ask;
Where will we go now?
What will we do?
I think I heard Mother Nature die…
DAY 19 THE BIG PICTURE
It’s great to get good marks in school
To be leader of the band
Show off all the medals you win
Speak up and take a stand
That’s a wonderful job you’ve gotten
Being clever in interviews
And the deal with the used car salesmen
Bought the efficient car you use
The house you own is lovely
And having your own family
Voting for good men to lead us
Is good for the whole country
With all these great achievements
When you wonder what else is there
Then you step outside the picture
And you find a way to share
Wow, Nancy. I’m sorry for your loss, but this is brilliant.
I’ve had a very sad day.
The Big Picture
Lecturing today, I asked my students
to define tragedy, and then I laughed
when someone said that some girls find
a broken nail quite tragic.. Patiently,
I explained that while the loss of a
child, a school bus wreck, a deadly
fire all seem tragic, that Aristotle set
it down in black and white: the death
of a high-born man, basically good,
but cursed by a fatal flaw—ambition,
hubris, untempered haste—who falls,
taking down his nation or his tribe.
Could Aristotle be wrong? But when
I finally arrived at home, saw the
flashing light signaling voice mail,
picked it up, I learned of the death
of a man, simply a man, his fatal
flaw, untempered sadness, loss
of hope, tucked all this time behind
a false and frozen smile. No nations
crumbled, but when I saw his daughter,
disconsolate, melt into her mother’s
arms, I knew I looked on tragedy.
Nancy Posey
Here in his tiny prison cell,
he’s just another number – another
life deployed to fill the gap
in society, a tally for those
without a strong sense of morality
a mark against the machine
lost in the overwhelming rising
costs of a human life.
As a former activity director in a long term care facility, I really enjoyed Scott’s poem today, "The Illusionist." I had to post later than usual today and it is with a sense of great accomplishment to post right at 10PM before doing a writing workshop for another school in the morning. I get to go to the home of Larry Bird. I am more than excited but exhausted. Thank you for letting me share outside the poem.
There is a lot of great work on here. . .I want to celebrate all of you. . .line by line, rhyme by rhyme, but this will have to do for tonight. . .
Best,
H.
Again, not my best…will have to revise.
Spaces
Comfort zone: Eighteen inches unless you’re special,
then either I need nothing or three feet to feel comfortable.
Elemental: That measurement between electrons, neutrons
and protons, which need an electron microscope to be measured.
Pocket: The fit needed to successfully throw you over my hip
without utilizing brute strength instead of proper mechanics.
Gravitational: The pull of a black hole, gravely sucks matter
into it’s bottomless maw, visible light bends as it enters the well.
Tension: The frisson between your lips and mine before we
touch, the promise of desire a breath away from fulfillment.
Margaret–Great BIG picture and great ending. Nicely done
The sun rises
And sets
Yet what spans the time
Between?
What have you seen
Lately?
Shadows play skipping
From water to land
and back again,
Different activities every day
Some routine and
Comforting in the same way
The rocking rhythm
Of waterfowl walking
Droplets spark and flash
In the sun
A fin, a nose, a tail appears
Then just as quickly it is gone
Gesticulation
The picture on the mantle:
you are holding our son,
he is two – going on three-
and he loves to hear your stories –
he is recoiling, not in fear,
but, in awe of your ability to spin a yarn.
Your hand is seemingly waving
in the air as you make some dramatic element
come to life in the story you are telling
I look at the picture and my grieving eyes
see you waving away the flash,
waving away the recognition,
waving away the role.
I cannot remember the story you are telling;
the photo does not capture this,
but your mouth is open wide
and your eyes are alive;
you are telling me not to take the picture,
that you are without your makeup
and necessary necklaces;
there is a slight haze around your hands
where the flash could not stop your hand.
It’s the way I like to remember your hands:
telling me the stories of Pikeville,
of your father wearing a suit to the store,
of the senior in your room who called you mother,
of the way you rocked the mentally retarded patients
to sleep even if your job was to only clean their teeth,
these things you did with your hands:
love
care
nurture
point
guide
cannot be expressed ,fingers interlaced together
like you were crafting a cat’s cradle
in the casket.
They are story telling hands:
hands that clapped to Wilson Pickett
when we danced at the reception,
wild, conducting hands, playing out
the cacophony of the life that cannot be told
with hands in one’s lap
or across one’s chest.
So here is only part of the story,
told in five by seven,
the larger story sweeping past the edges
of the frame as you touch the world
of our son who was two – going on three –
he loves to hear stories about you,
and in this picture we tell him,
you were talking about dinosaurs.
Irrelevant
Corridor of shut doors,
red, green, maple, blue.
kicked, dented, pristine
Polished, painted, arched.
Individual characteristics
don’t matter as long as
all doors remaing shut.
The sensitive artist graced
This world with beauty
And things worthwhile.
He inspired, that others
Would aspire.
His touch was greater than
Midas – for where he went
Colors danced and words
Of wisdom built castles
In the sky.
But he never agreed upon
Conformity or authority.
So in the name of God,
Of government and of law
They tortured and then killed
This artist, and labeled his work
Outlawed.
And the world went cold.
And the future was grim.
For the riches of his vision and
The wealth of his inspiration
were gone.
For in killing their wonderful
Artist, they had destroyed
The magic of their culture’s
Golden Gift.
Vanessa O’Dwyer
The Illusionist
At sixty his best trick is making you believe.
His hands are too shaky for cards
And there are no rabbits at the old folk’s home,
And his assistant is more in charge than ever,
But the old coot tugs you into believing
In his old exploits. And you believe,
Even after watching the cards tremble at his fingertips,
As he pulls out his old bag,
Hard leather cracked and creased,
His barky grin,
“Look inside.
You can change forever if you look inside.”
The Big Picture
I am Life Itself.
Birth, Death, and all days in between.
I am Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow
Alpha and Omega on one page.
No past, no future, only present.
All lives that ever were, ever will be
exist now on this day, in this time.
I am Life, I am God, I am Love.
This is my plan, Follow Me.
One last catch-up poem (I hope!)and then today’s and voila…
Anyhow – Day 17 – prompt – "love-poem"
Becoming Invisible
Will I ever forget the moment I heard the news of his death?
It’s unlikely, in fact, quite impossible I’m thinking…
I was spinning round and round in Spence’s Diamonds
Holding my hand up to the light, letting the stone glimmer
Like the love it represented,
prismatic bits of rainbow bouncing
Every which way, all the colours – scarlet,
green, indigo, cerulean –
Anything I might have daubed on my paint
pallet reflected in my ring
I remember how happy I was feeling as
I’d just picked up our bands
Our wedding bands – we’d had them designed
and I’d and had my engagement
Ring cleaned while I was there;
my heart was fairly bursting with joy
I remember it all so clearly;
then my cell-phone rang – I recognized
My mother-in-law- to- be’s ringtone;
Beethoven’s “Song of Joy”, she loves
Classical music, I picked up quickly,
trilled hello, I was that happy
She wasn’t there, oddly; a man identified
himself as a doctor, asking me if I was me
And where I was, and to speak to the store manager
A foreboding that felt like an icy shawl
descended about my shoulders
While I sat in the manager’s office waiting
for my parents to arrive and the
Nightmare to begin in earnest.
No words adequately describe how it feels
to go from planning a wedding
to planning a funeral in one fell swoop
To go from imagining the rest of your life
with the love of your life to trying to imagine
The rest of your life without ever seeing,
hearing, smelling, touching him ever again
- the pain of it…
The pain of it, so far outside the normal scheme of things,
I found it beyond my ability
To take it in – while it was happening – and after
- and even now sometimes, yes, even now
When I was a teen, I recall hearing a family friend
talk about being widowed,bewildered, as she
No longer having a husband, found herself
increasingly becoming less included,
less noticed, until
Eventually, she thought she might one day get up,
look in the mirror and discover,
she wasn’t there
I thought, at the time, how pathetic she sounded, how melodramatic, how very dependent
On the day of the funeral, as I sat between my parents
in the front pew, next to my love’s parents
And watched the mourners stream by us, most
- if not all – bending to speak and hug his parents –
But few, very few, even acknowledging me, and fewer still, saying anything at all to my parents
I, while still so in shock, felt myself wailing aloud inside, screaming over and over -
Didn’t they know? How could they not know? I loved him! I still loved him! And my parents?
They loved him too! They were going to have been
his parents also!
They were grieving like parents!
It was as if we had all suddenly become – if not invisible – certainly some sort of non-entities
This, almost as much as the loss itself, was unbearable –
to lose all sense of place at the same time
as losing the most important part of my life,
I thought I might not be able to walk out of there
Then – towards the end of the line of mourners,
a woman I didn’t recognize
but will not forget, bent
Low, almost knelt, so she was at eye-level,
and held my hands in hers;
spoke softly to the three of us
Saying in a voice choked with emotion,
“How hard this must be for all of you –
you must have loved him too – this loss must be just
as awful for you, if not more for you my dear.”
And with that, she pulled me into her arms
and hugged me,held me in that awkward stance
for at least a full minute.
I will never forget that moment –
it saved the day for me and my parents
- kept us from becoming
Crazed with bitterness and resentment,
and helped us put our grief
into some sort of perspective
Oh – we still have our moments –
of course we do – there is no getting away from those,
But that one gesture made a difference,
and is one I try to keep piled on top
of other gestures that help me get
through the dark nights and darker days
- there are times I can’t tell the difference
My ring still sparkles so
but I don’t get it cleaned anymore
and I know I’ll probably stop wearing it
One day, some day, but not just yet
- it doesn’t feel right
to put it in the dark just yet, you know?
I is ‘umble, very very ‘umble indeed (unlike Ringo whos isn’t!)
Iain
k weber – I loved your poem yesterday and today, so pared back, cool but full of emotion. great.
I thought my first post sounded a bit "greeting cardish" so I’m taking another stab …
In the Big Picture
When life flashes
Before you in a
Blazing sequence of
Mistakes, fear, hope
Laughter, wins, losses,
Finality,
Know you did it all,
The best way you knew how
Despite the rain blinding your way
At every direction and every turn.
In the grand scheme of things
You Survived because you
Never let go of your Dream.
(haiku)
Dreaming always got
You through the madness of Life’s
Storms. You survived them.
oh, you
your cool photography
eye, your furnace
hug
you’ve wrapped
me up
in a crush
and now i’m
in love
with the dead
musicians
you wear
on preshrunk shirts
we used to play
innuendo
over loudspeakers
once or twice
you eyed
the valley
of my chest,
oh yes, and i could
care less
Iain, you make me blush and that is no meean feat. Trust me.
Iain – Sending Ringo my love – and that was one of your best "Cat’s … " poems. It was very smooth.
Heather – your ‘lessons’ are going to make a great book!
Before You
The turmoil entered before you began,
before you spanked out your first breath
in a fit and screams amidst a canopy
of smiles. Nothing new to melancholy; it is
infinite. You see it in the rings of old coffee cups,
in the lipstick left on Styrofoam, on one sneaker
left out in the road, in the rain. You’ve seen
it in a smashed pumpkin, in moldy pie, in one
half of a friendship necklace. You’ve seen
it in stairwells, the way your voice echoed
against the walls, through uncovered and bare
piping. You’ve seen it in the start of a letter,
laying crumpled with ink-bled stains and rips
in the garbage can. You’ve seen it in the way
your fingers clack at the keys–the sound
is only deafening when it’s just you. And so
it goes. And goes on. In the start, in the end,
it’s just you and the only solace you have
is to stretch your fingertips just an inch
farther the next day, hoping to make contact.
Satia – your stature is in your poetry.
Iain
Nancy – I liked your poem. Its cool. Just grateful you referenced Chicago and not them Red Sox nor dem Mets… That would never happen!
Pickya up at seven…
Ringo
Poetic license I understand. You’d be surprised at how many people don’t know the difference and say hurtful things as a result.
I wish it were just a fear of heights. I’m only 5’4" and that’s not very high at all.
The Divide
I’m sure it’s nothing new.
There must be cave drawings
depicting rifts when a native
son chooses a girl outside
the village tribe. Every family
knows the kind of story—the
good Catholic girl, ventures from
the convent before she takes her
vows and falls for a nice Baptist boy
she meets at the roller rink.
Sometimes even the Yankees fan
produces young that love
the White Sox; the man they
thought would have gone pro—
except for that thing with his knee—
who coaches high school football—
has a soccer-playing son.
Separation’s painful, but
the rituals we know so well.
While Mom still buys sheet
music at the piano store—
Roger Williams, Van Cliburn,
we had Paul, John, George,
and Ringo to ourselves. Late
at night we’d tune the dial
just right, picking up Chicago,
where they played the music
local AM deejays couldn’t play:
Edwin Star’s “War! What is it good for? “
and “The Ballad of John and Yoko.”
Just harmless girls with shag haircuts
and shag carpet, we danced past
midnight, acting like we didn’t hear
them yell, “Would you turn that
music down?”
Nancy Posey
Thanks guys! Satia- You were but with poetic licence if you’ll forgive me… I do actually know the difference but once I start to write I just go with what happens. sorry.
Iain
The big picture
Is that I’ve grown
Through my Survival of
All Life has heaped upon me.
My spirit brighter,
Wiser,
Stronger
After fighting through
The Storms I’ve been
Trapped in
Whipped by
Blown over from.
In the end,
After my run is over,
I will know more
About the human spirit,
The kindness of friends,
The power of believing
In myself.
In the big picture
I will have survived
All life gave me
And will peacefully pass,
Eager to try again.
Thank you, Rachel. I loved yours, too (well I always do).
Laurie K.
America, The Big Picture
They see us waddling
down the stairs, wearing
polyester pants suits
in size 16 or 18.
We offer a whining grandchild
a large chocolate bar,
Hershey’s, which he gulps
down in three large bites.
Our husbands wear
plaid Bermuda shorts.
Their large guts hang below
their bright green shirts.
We are hungry, so we
all eat Big Macs,
fries, and thick shakes
at the nearest MacDonalds.
Tonight we will order in,
several large pepperoni pizzas,
which we will enjoy with
several beers each.
Then we will settle down
to an evening spent
watching "The Biggest Loser"
on television.
SS Day 19:
Nerves
I hear you tell others
“You’ve got some nerve!”
You just don’t realize
Who really has the nerves
Or should I say
Nerve endings
That would be me
That’s right
I’ve got some nerve!
Day 19 for LL&L:
So, My Child
So, My child
When you look at a baby
Or in the eyes of your love
That spirit you see
Shining back at you
Is a little part of Me
So, My child
That beautiful snow-covered mountaintop
With forests in its foothills
Meadows spreading in its shadows
Wildlife and birds of the air
Living all around
I put that there for your amazement
So, My child
The moon and the stars
Didn’t just happen by themselves
I hung them all
In perfect harmony
For you to observe
And try to figure out
So, My child
That salt-scented surf
That laps the show white sands
Of the emerald coast
Could only have come about
By My hand
So, My child
The wonders of the seas
The beauties of the land
The amazement of living beings
The heavens and all in them
Are thanks to My love for you
And My desire
To make you a place
That would forever amaze you
Puzzle you
And make you wonder
Just how I did it
My child
I did it for you
Shannon, I think we did at first but after a while that dropped to the wayside. But I promise to include my theme tomorrow.
Just a thought, but it would be cool if included what our theme is that we are working with!! SR
Oh Laurie K.
powerful.
Thank you Connie. I think it’s cool how your domino poems have such messages in them!
Iain, I hope I’m not the fear of heights because there’s a big difference between the fear of heights and vertigo. There are all sorts of other terms for fear of heights too:
Acrophobia
Altophobia
Hypsophobia
Vertigo is something else entirely and there’s vestibular vertigo and cervical vertigo and I’ve done so much research on the differences one would think I could come up with some advice for others who live with the condition.
But hey! I still enjoyed your poem and if you ever want to read too much about the subject, I’m obviously more than happy to go into tedious details about it. LOL!
Too Many Hauntings
The house is gloomy: dark and sooty
dripping ash on her bacon butty.
Lucy scowls and goes outside
wishing Mom had never died.
For if her mom was still around
the creatures here would go to ground
and wouldn’t bother her with pleas
to free them from eternal tease
and rattle chains and bang on doors
and sink right through the Manor floors
and leave their teeth on dinner plates
bemoaning of their cruel fates
and wave their severed heads above
her pillows filling up with blood.
Heh, I really liked your tribute to fellow PADers, Iain – thanks!
A Missing Domino
In 1976, Robert Speca from the Philadelphia area
set the world record for domino toppling for Guinness
with 11,111. Before it could even be recorded, a group
from Seattle saw him on Johnny Carson and beat his record,
and their number of 13, 832 took Speca’s place. The next
year Robert Speca made it into the book with 22,222.
One of his goals with dominoes, Speca said, was to
“make the universe a more harmonious place.” And somehow
it caught on in Europe and Asia with UK, New Zealand, Japan,
Germany, China and the Netherlands setting world records. Now,
in The Netherlands, it takes all year to plan Domino Day when
builders from all over Europe and Asia topple over 4 million stones.
But here in the USA, most people ask why anyone would spend
so much time, money and energy setting up little pieces of plastic
just to knock them down again. But they do see why artists splash
paint on a canvas, or why a person would spend all day following
around a little ball, just to knock it into a hole in the ground, or
why nations spend billions to go to the empty, lifeless moon.
Yet somehow, even with the Domino Wizard residing within, the
USA fails to see dominoes as a sport, an art, a science, and a way
to bring nations together in harmony. In Domino Toppling, builders
from many nations line up thousands and even millions of stones
to create a big picture, centered on a theme. In the big picture of
domino toppling, the USA is the domino that has gone missing.
Rachel, love your poem.
LOL Iain, love "Pictures in the Mind"
Growing Up
Growing up she remembers having fun,
playing outside with neighborhood friends,
while her mother taught piano lessons
and her big sister stayed in her room.
Then the family moved
to a next door state
and everything
was different
for her.
No more friends
to play with
after school
left her
stuck inside
more than
she ever
had been.
So now she
could see
what was
really
happening-
the drinking,
the yelling,
throwing things,
back and forth,
push and shove,
breaking dishes,
up a stair,
down a stair;
this could not be
her parent’s love.
Every night she never knew
whether or not they would fight,
so she sat still and never moved,
hoping everything would be alright.
Laurie K.
Arachnids in Spaace!
They think I’m hiding because I’m shy,
They think I’m still in my box.
But shyness isn’t why
I left, and hid in this astronaut’s socks.
They think I’ve gone missing
Because my mind is off of it’s gimbals,
But I’m really not into kissing
Charlotte, who’s into such radical symbols.
That’s the real reason I’m gone,
I can’t stand it, they way she’s been weaving,
Her and the strange thing that’s she’s on
Is the reason I’m leaving.
It’s asymmetrical in it’s flow and it’s ebb,
In space or out, Charlotte can’t spin a good web!
Lori. Keep it up. My daughter’s following the same path, and someday…she’ll be an RN.
Thank you Heather, liked yours too…
Going out now will the rest later.
Iain
Clinical Pathway
LPN school- work as a CNA
Learn how the hospital works
LPN graduation- work as a LPN
realize how little
Stress you had as a CNA.
RN school- work as a LPN
Learn how to be a nurse
When graduation comes
I must anticipate the next logical step
And appreciate the RN’s
Who have come so far.
The Marble
I had a marble once
That looked just like the earth
I could hold it in my hand
And pretend I could see the people in a marching band
I loved this little marble
And carried it in my pocket
I once took it out
And saw whales jumping all about
Then one day I lost my marble
For it had rolled away
I looked high and low and all around
But that marble was never found
Now I am older
And have no need for marbles
But the earth is in my grasp
For I embrace it every day, this land that is so vast
So whether you prefer the ocean deep
Or the shade of the mountain side
It matters not at all to me
Just enjoy it, the treasures that we see
American Dancing in a Czech Bar
You speak to me in a language I can not understand.
I read the meaning in your face your eyes blaze with
anger your lips taught with tension. Turning away
from you I step into the music no words, no glances
we dance on separate sides of the room until our limbs
give in to the lulling rhythm. The tempo dissolving
the lines on our brow into beading sweat as we grow
weary forgetting what we were fighting for.
Iain!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! WELL DONE: Excellent!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Heather
Dear Moosehead,
Geez! Where does that Greek SOB
get off telling me what he thinks? Like I give
a damn anyways. He thinks he’s so smart and
cultured, he should try living in the Big Apple
the year through and not just a couple of weeks.
What he doesn’t get is that you and me have an
understanding. You dumped all the women-folk
from your family on my poor sorry ass and I get
to take it out on yours. Anyway, he’s got it all wrong.
It’s not about friendship or spitefulness at all, oh no!
It’s all about Baseball, specifically the Yanks and
our devotion to the cause. What would that no-good
loser of a Braves fan know about it anyway? Oh yeah!
While I’m in the mood for a good open-hearted bitch,
where does he get off writing me notes on my own
goddamn stationary? And the only reason he wants us
to go bowling all the time is ‘cos he’s got a 265 average.
Anyway I told him, he can stay ‘til the end of the month
and then I’ll gift him a Taxi ride to the station. Adios!
So, guess I’ll pickya up at seven, we’ll leave that joker
with the crazy women…
Yours setting the record straight
Ringo the Howler
Cats, Poetry & Death #22
Pictures in the mind
It might be the Love of God
or the pain of a mal-treated woman;
it may be war or poverty or love
pure and beautiful of another soul.
There may be Jokers in the pack
waiting to topple a maze of dominoes,
or perhaps a fear of heights and spiders
or demons in the dark cold night.
There could be a storm brewing
that sends the senses reeling;
there might be works of art or songs
that light the fires of Inspiration.
But when all is said and done
when nothing else remains;
when the fickle muse has run away
my trilogy is faithful as ever was.
Time to re-set the heart to default
and re-boot your inspiration;
accept now the core of all the muses
a simple matter of Cats, Poetry and Death
Iain
Warning
Man views me as limitless
Eternal and never changing
Due to your lack of care
I am evolving and disappearing
According to the latest Green report
Clean water will become scarce
As soon as the year 2080
Wake up, my purity depends upon it
BTW Robert, that was an excellent poem, with a chilling and sobering (and all too real) ending.
Music of the Spheres
They say radio signals don’t dissipate in space.
That’s why we have those dishes in Puerto Rico,
big ears that transmit, listen and wait
like some cosmic Miss Lonelyhearts.
We’ve sent all kinds of messages, even music –
classical, rock and roll, jazz –
but still no one seems to answer,
at least not in any way we understand.
But what if a distant civilization has received
our signals but never bothered to reply,
yet they recorded our strange noises, and at
regular intervals, however they measure time,
they play it back and dance?
BTW, is anyone else excited with anticipation to find out what Robert has in plan for the 20th? After all it was way back on the 3rd we were told somethng was coming . . . and it’s almost here!!!
PAD Challenge Day 19 – The Big Picture
Can you see them? The flowing fields
of color that dance under the sun.
Rolling hills a perfect dance floor.
Tall earthen grasses playing partner
to the flowering herbs.
They sing, you know? As they waltz
their way through a summer breeze.
Picking up the wind’s beat; a jubilee.
Entwined in the dip their voices rise
to the mother.
MORNING BRIEFING
Just look at the topo map. We’re here
on this ridgetop. Cabin’s in the swale
above the pond. That’s where
Josh was last seen, day and a half ago.
Creek runs southwest to the Middle Fork,
way down there. Miles of roadless country
in that direction. Treacherous terrain.
To the north, the high point’s Red Top –
can’t see it now, it’s in the clouds.
Not many people live out here, a few
scattered homesites. Town is 18 miles
back that way, east off the map.
Why haven’t we found him yet? One
little boy in a brown T-shirt, faded jeans –
we’ve got every volunteer in the field,
searching their hearts out.
These canyons aren’t as easy to read
as your weekly paper.
The housing market
keeps tumbling and tumbling, with
no end we can see.
Untitled
I am the eye of my own hurricane
The calm within the tornado’s roar
And while my head soars my feet are planted
For within the shifting sands of perception
The conception of my being remains unmoved.
With no end in sight, I have become as eternal
As my endless condition, tapping into terrible
Strength and tsunamis of tears washing away
The frustration as I scream defiance,
Raise a fist of resistance to the endlessness of this.
No prognosticated cause, I am living the effect
Of negative resulting tests that cannot define me
Confine me with a reason why or try to find
A cure and doctors unsure fall like rubble
Beneath the weight of my demand for answers.
See me, the still small point inside infinite motion,
An ocean and universe of adverse feelings
Living in ignorance as I, ever vigilant, ignore
Synapses snapped and misfiring nerve endings
Sending the random wrong messages and me
Two years nearly walking on the water of solid ground
No longer impressed by a messiah who mastered the waves
For a few moments for I have walked miles in my shoes
And the Sea of Galilee is merely a walk in the park.
Back Away and Let in the Light
Up close,
tiny dots & daubs
mass together,
as if a jigsaw’s pieces
or a Waldo book
lie under a microscope.
Back away,
let in the light,
allow the light to
radiate
from the scene.
Dots become
sun on water,
daubs transform to
shadows of trees.
The gallery evolves into
a landscape of landscapes.
I am lost in the land.
The magic is complete.
Rachel – That’s a perfect start to today’s prompt. I can envision that one being performed as a solo skit under one spotlight in an evening worship service….just before the invitation. Outstanding.
Lesson #19: Secrets
She doesn’t know why
It happened
Or how it started
She just knows that
It was wrong
She doesn’t know how she learned
To disconnect herself
From the conversation,
Setting,
Circumstance
But, she’s gotten good
At checking out
She’s holding it all in,
For now
But when the time comes,
She’s letting it all out
In a blaze of
Damning glory
Her secrets
Will unfold
Lesson #19: Nobody Can Keep a Secret Forever
Tug of War
You come and go, destroy me so
Each small embrace, I crave your face
You tease and taunt, and make me want
your sweet embrace, my vice disgrace
And then I hear, a voice so dear
The one who waits, despite my traits
I know His love, is from above
so torn am I, with sorry eye
You pull me down, until I drown
My heart, I’m weak, Relief I seek
Can’t stand the pain, give in again
Then fall in shame, no rights to claim
He lifts me up, and fills my cup
No face have I, and so I cry
He gently rights, my reds to whites
Deserving none, my feet they run
In illness fall, and then you call
my vice, deception, skewed perception
glittery, you’re death to me
My dying hope, and so I grope
With arms to Him, weak and thin
I see the light, He clears my sight
And weighing me, upon my feet
You tear me down, and break my crown
I ache for Him, not you but Him
You idol toy, not safe, destroy
Tug of war, inside my core
It’s Him I want, but you that taunts
I’m not dead, but Him instead
The war is won. Praise God the Son.