Today’s prompt comes from Beth Cato.
Here’s Beth’s prompt: Take the phrase “The Truth About (blank),” replace the blank with a new word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write the poem.
Robert’s attempt at a The Truth About Blank Poem:
“The Truth About Poetry”
There ain’t no right way or wrong way. Self-taught
or MFA. Free verse or sonnet. Slamming an open mic
is just as good as writing about flowers in a leather-bound
journal that nothing and nobody will ever see, save your socks.
The truth is that it’s all a searching, a way to communicate, whether
with a wider audience or that voice that never turns off in our heads when
we wish it would. Whether it’s therapy or testimony, entertainment or expression,
poetry is whatever it needs to be whenever it needs to be for whoever happens to need it.
*****
Thank you, Beth, for the fine prompt. Click here to learn more about Beth Cato.
Click here to share your poems on the WD Forum.
*****
Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer
*****
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The truth about humans is that we are the wildest animals of them all and without weapons, we would surely be at the bottom of the food chain.
The Truth About the End
is never truly the truth
because the truth can so easily bend.
We can sit and talk
for hours at a time
but the truth will wind and wend.
For what is there,
truly,
that can truly begin
before the beginning,
truly,
of the end.
We worry so,
we fret about,
but what we cannot pretend
to know is
that what awaits us
we cannot defend
against. And, why
would we want to do
that anyway. The end
is almost always
just a fancy way
of saying hello.
Day 24
Prompt: Entitle poem “The Truth about Blank” and write about that title.
The Truth about the Moon Tonight
is that it means something new, just as precious,
as when I gazed at it last night
or last month.
The moon has changed in some ways,
and so have I.
In others, we’re the same as we were.
The moon keeps spinning round the earth,
the earth around the sun,
and I live the cycle of my days,
constant, yet constantly evolving.
One day, when I see the Maker of the Moon,
I’ll be transformed.
I’ll see Him as He is,
and I’ll be like Him in a way I’ve never been.
Full circle, complete,
the way the moon is tonight.
The Truth About Blank
The truth about
blank is that it
can be anything
you want, no risk
of rejection when
options are unlimited,
no risk for failure
when you set the limits.
Blank is fresh, ready
to fill with anything
you desire. Blank can be
clear or confused,
you choose.
The truth about lies
Truth is a lie
Holding a smile
Even when it hurts
Truth is a lie
Reclaiming a life fallacy.
Under clouds faking light.
Truth is a lie.
Hands more hands holding out
Another day
Building the lie of nothing wrong.
Only it no longer works.
Under memory loss,
Truth is a lie.
Lies, we are fine,
I say
Every evening walking again into
Shadow thought.
The Truth About the Truth
You can bend it, stretch it, wring it,
twist it, state it, swear it, shout it out
but, the truth is: the truth is (still & all)
a matter of perception. Sure as shootin’,
there’s a tiny lie in every sooth
(and vice versa).
Lines become idioms
become clichés (because there’s
more truth than un- inside ‘em). But
(no matter what) you may rest assured:
what you sow (& what you reap) is all
(in the end) nothing (more nor less)
than a twinkle in the eye
of the beholder.
The Truth About Cats
Cats are funny
but they have their serious side.
They don’t care
for the rain unless they are being
little furry philosophers
from their inside window seats.
Don’t worry
the house doesn’t belong to you.
You are only
allowed to pay for it and keep
it up to their superb kitty standards.
The truth about
cats is they have learned to tolerate
you and your
bizarre human ways. But don’t
expect their
gratitude because they are,
after all,
superior and in charge.
Oops – just realized I had two #1′s. Well, just imagine all the others as one number higher.
The Truth about Hair Dyes
The pretty red-head
on the glossy box,
got her hair done
by a pro.
LMAO! How true is that!!
THE TRUTH ABOUT TEXTING
I delete those conversations
that have clearly run amok
for when they are all over
I don’t give a flying f-
igs can give diarrhea
and I’ve had it of the mouth
but when those times are over
and my patience has flown south
I delete those conversations
those things that give me pain
when I’ve been hurt by things texted
that leave me feeling maimed
I find the little button
and I hold my finger high
so when I’m quite finished with you
I’m done. DElete. Bye bye!!
THE TRUTH ABOUT PIE.
If it’s there I will eat it.
If I make it, it will call.
If it’s in the fridge, I want it.
So I made less.
And it’s gone.
And I wish
I’d made more.
BUT
If it’s there I will eat it.
If I make it, it will call.
If it’s in the fridge, I want it.
So I make less.
Then it’s gone.
BUT
Christmas is coming.
The Truth About Writer’s Block
1. There is no way to stop it.
1. It is permanent.
2. It is incurable.
3. It will terminate your writing career.
4. It will crash your computer.
5. It will steal your wife/husband/significant other.
6. It is carnivorous.
7. It is from another planet.
8. It has been spotted with Bigfoot.
9. It has been spotted holding hands with Justin Bieber.
10. It lost 200 pounds in just three weeks.
11. It won the Nobel Peace Prize.
12. It causes cancer.
13. It found a cure for cancer.
14. It had George Clooney’s love child.
15. It is part of a nutritious breakfast.
16. Its mileage may vary.
17. It comes with a money-back guarantee.
18. Its operators are waiting to take your calls.
19. Its check is in the mail.
20. All of the above statements are false.
LOL! Super fun.
The Truth About Life
Sometimes life throws you a curve ball
and sometimes you hit a homerun;
Many times you will cross the home plate
and sometimes you will be benched;
And when the season is over,
you will have come full circle;
Better for your strikes,
wiser for bases reached,
and ready to go home.
“The truth about my novel”
Nobody’s going to read it, not even
my wife. It’s not something I’d put her through.
First, I wrote the whole thing this November,
so it’s hasty-rough and raw-bitter, too,
with zero chance of fetching revenue
without heavy revision and review.
Second, it’s autobiographical,
too real to life, and also, I feel, skewed
too close to my bias. It’s personal—
and sock-drawer bound ‘til the twelfth of never.
It’s been a healing to write the novel.
That’s really why I undertook the task.
Some adventures one should be fictional
to undertake—when there’s corporal risk
or something unpleasant you have to do.
Now I have a 50,000-word mask.
What’s the novel about? Please, don’t ask.
THE TRUTH ABOUT MY BLANKIE?
(a shadorma)
Queen-sized quilt
dragged by pint-sized child
for five years
too many.
Ripped and torn, it still held warmth
for sheep in the barn.
The Truth about Fences
They only hold in those who
are willing to be held. Horses
prove it all the time, unlatching
gates in their idle moments. I once
saw a cornered ewe leap a six foot
buck fence because she didn’t feel
like going where the border collie wanted
her to go. She wasn’t even afraid.
I remember taking my children to
the state animal farm. Every animal
had become too used to humans,
from the begging raven to the trained
bears. Best of all was the cow moose.
We all gaped as she browsed in a swale
behind the tissue paper of some hurricane
fencing. The game warden explained
it wasn’t so much that they kept her
as that she didn’t mind staying.
The Truth About Bubble Baths
steamy hot and scented
with bubbles to your chin
grab a good and smutty book
and slide yourself on in
watch candle light flickering
on the cold tile walls
lean your head way back
ignore those “Mommy!” calls
Let all the heat soak in
let all the troubles melt away
lose yourself in another world
escape the pressures of today
but, there’s knocking on the door
and running down the halls
someones’ telling on someone
now who’s climbing the walls?
As soon as mommy is busy
it’s true, it never fails
through book and bubble may beckon
they’ll not drown out childrens’ wails.
Truth.
THE TROUBLE WITH CHRISTMAS LIGHTS
Blinking, blinking, blinking,
these stinking bulblets have got me
flipping. I keep ripping them from the string
to find the one that is causing me duress.
I press it back and still no luminance,
if I had the change I’d toss them out
but I will not be defeated. Two more
sets and the task is completed.
But this little fact give me fits,
“If one goes out, the rest stay lit”.
Yet I can attest, without a doubt,
if one goes out, they ALL go out!
The truth of this prompt is that I have the wrong title. Should be “The Truth about Christmas Lights”
THE TRUTH ABOUT NAUGHTY OR NICE
I’ve made a list and checked it twice,
some were naughty and some were nice.
Naughty ones could get a reprieve
depends how strongly they believe.
I think one more glance should suffice.
Here in the land of snow and ice,
the tally kept should be precise,
I have no reason to deceive -
I’ve made a list!
The nice ones never pay the price;
and the naughty never think twice.
Excuse me if I sound naive -
I am Santa Claus; I believe!
so listen all to my advice:
“I’ve made a list”!
“The Truth ‘Bout Questions”
(Tanka)
The truth ’bout questions
is we never get enough
answers in the end–
just more questions. And then
again, maybe that’s the point!
Oops…missed a syllable in line 4…should read “just more questions and then yet”
This one called for more than a haiku today!! Thank you for the prompt!
’s
http://wordrustling.wordpress.com/2012/11/24/day-twenty-four-the-truth-about-numbers/
THE TRUTH ABOUT LITTLE CRITTERS
The wilder, the smaller, the where they came from, how
they reached you. Remember, before they were free
nobody told them where to go, or where to be
even at the pet shop, confined, albeit, they grow
as they might have been if nobody had grabbed them up
offering them for sale, homeless, bereft, fitting
for people that need something that’s small sitting
in a cage where they follow them, and interrupt
them, at times, talking pouring affection and love,
learning about their ways, how they never have changed
since they were created, yes . . . being a little fauna, arranged
in domesticated circumstances, shoved
in a corner, a place to play with food and drink.
If only they asked, if only they looked inside
each individual, how clever, full of pride.
I once knew two love birds that conspired to elope
picked at the wires that held them in and flew
as if the air space of the flat was theirs, to show
us who was boss. The windows closed, so we roped
them in, back from where they came out, made sure
they’d remain to sing their happy tunes, the clear
sultry tones of aviary beings, looking at us how we’re
concerned for their welfare, their habitat a poor
excuse for a someone that was born with a wing.
Why them, why us, why hamsters, gerbils that roam
in forests come to join us in our residences, a home . . .
and then again, you never know it is a curious thing
creatures created where we have never been
that live a life apart from us, speak, curl
and perch upon us, another dimension, a whirl
on a carousel revealing stuff that is yet unseen
Zev Davis
The Truth About Ice Skating
Once you lose your nerve, it’s over.
You might stay on your feet, thanks to
the laces you tightened until your fingers
could take no more. But you won’t enjoy it,
not when you’re thinking so much about every
wobble, whether your legs will slide out from
under you, like Bambi’s, and when every chunk
in the ice could be the one that brings you down,
and the only question is whether you will fall
forward or back, and if forward, which part
of your face will hit first, and whether
anything—glasses, teeth, skin—will
be broken, and also whether
anyone will skate over
your hands,
splayed in front of you as if in
supplication or defeat. It is a
shame, not to be in love
anymore, when the
moon is out, cold
and close as
the ice.
The second stanza really pulled this off. Nicely done.
THE TRUTH ABOUT AN OLD DOG
He knows every inch of this path
that cuts down from oak-hill to the verge
of creek. In his head, a lifetime of scent-trails
woven like spider silk, a web so complex
it maps his world as he unravels it. But today,
his quarry turned left and he goes straight
ahead, as if lost in reminiscence of trails past.
Forgetfulness? He pauses, sniffs, circles,
and squats, giving back to nature
what is nature’s; enriching next spring’s
tenacious, frenzied growth. Now he
tests the wind. Scent, an old dog’s elixir.
Echoes, dreams. He resumes his trail,
as I resume the tale I’ll tell in his training-log.
It’s true as it may be false, twisted
as words following in an old dog’s wake.
I absolutely love this poem.
Poetic Asides November Challenge – Day 24
The truth about _________
The Truth About Lies
White lies blanket
harmful truths, as snow
covers grimy grounds.
Pathological liars lie purely
by compulsion. Their masked
truths may harm, disarm,
or charm a recipient. Deliberate
falsities spoken to hide
bad behavior do not stem
tide of tears when uncovered.
They reveal hidden fears
or doubts that have been
knotting up in victim’s gut.
Now distraught and feeling
the fool, perhaps they have
been taught a golden rule,
trust your gut; it speaks truth.
The Truth about the Weather Today
The gray sky is gray,
and it isn’t waiting
for winter or snow,
or for any kind of weather, it doesn’t know.
The gray sky doesn’t hide Heaven,
just as the ground below me
doesn’t hide Hell,
although I stand somewhere in between.
The gray sky doesn’t know
tomorrow, or what tomorrow might bring,
and it doesn’t know time
while it lingers in front of my eyes.
I could say the cloudy sky
longs for another day,
but that’s just a metaphor
that I use to describe
the times when I am alone
on a cloudy day.
The Truth about Sunrise and Sunset
Each part of day has attributes,
its slant of light when sunbeams
play across a lawn or on a lake,
when nothing else can slake
our thirst for watching,
no substitute for dusk or noon
though, if you ask me,
sunrise comes too soon,
winking pink and purple
orange and gold-splintered
cheerful light lasting a minute
then it’s gone. No reasoning
left in it to waylay day.
I wait for sunset, for drama
and pluck, when my eyes blur,
day’s knuckles battering my mind,
then I want light with fight,
the sky a scene intense
with thunder gray streaks
shot through with blood
and wine, gold and flame,
the purple pomp of conflict,
a battle that darkness wins
in slow degrees, a rose
like heart-break tinged
with grace. Day stays
until the king retreats
and then it backs away,
naps, restores itself
to face another day.
Perhaps age draws me
to my own mythology,
to my own close, to see
the futile resistance
to failing light. Perhaps
I need another hour of sleep
at dawn, nocturnal as I am.
Perhaps desire to rise
for new-lit skies has been
replaced, as I embrace
the beauty of fading
from vividness into night
and sip my daily wine of grace.
The Truth About Santa
It doesn’t matter if you’re nice or naughty,
Santa is NOT discriminatory.
You’ll find your present underneath the tree
come Christmas morning, just wait and see.
Whether you’re poor or a CEO,
Santa will always go HO! HO! HO!
At sea, on land or in midair,
Santa will find you anywhere.
So don’t you fret, child, please get a grip.
Climb on to bed and just go to sleep.
The Truth About Seventy
I’ve decided seventy is the new forty;
that it’s just a number.
That at seventy I’m that much closer to heaven
than ten years ago.
That at seventy, a life well-lived
is a place to pause along the climb for a moment
to see how far I’ve come before continuing
the rest of the journey.
That seventy is an opportunity
to call to those behind and say,
“Come on up! The view is great from here.”
Can you guess? Today I’m 70!
Happy Birthday!
The Truth About Winter
Winter is harsh and unyielding
With its cold snaps and January thaw
Wind howling at the eaves
Snow flying, covering everything
Ice encasing freezes lasting for weeks
Yet in its own way
It brings a breath of fresh air to life
Resting and renewing the spirit within
Preparing for the spring growth
Storing up energy for the green rush
So that the cycle can persist
The Truth About Pain
Here’s the thing:
it’s all relative,
especially that
feeling, or that
tendency, what-
ever you want
to call it, toward
pain—it isn’t so
much an ability
to answer the
question, “Does
it hurt?” as it is
the realization
that whatever
might be painful
now is actually
less painful than,
more painful than,
or equally painful
as something else
that you’ve already
experienced at
some previous
point in your life.
Ack . . . I think the word “as” in line 20 should actually be the word “to.” Drat!
The Truth About Black Friday
I have a theory
that all of those folks
who participate (willingly)
in the Black Friday
festivities
are actually quite aware
of what may or may not happen
regardless of the wide-eyed
expressions of horror
and dismay.
I believe they know
exactly
what they are getting into,
much like those who choose
to run with the bulls
at Pamplona,
and those who dive off cliffs
and race fast cars,
they know they might be
trampled,
bloodied,
bruised,
or may even be
arrested.
It’s all part of the sport.
Diana Terrill Clark
The Truth About TV
Yes, if you have a cable
or Dish package
(or even basic cable, to be honest),
there is always something
for everyone
at any time of the day or night.
TV has a huge
variety
of network and cable shows
and one could spend
twenty-four hours a day,
seven days a week,
finding something
they enjoy at least a little.
But the truth is,
it all depends on
who holds the remote.
The Truth About Truth
No qualifiers needed:
Objective,
Subjective,
Absolute,
What’s the point?
If it’s true, it’s true
For me and you.
My truth,
Your truth,
Their truth,
What does it even mean?
If it’s true, it’s true
And there’s nothing
You can do about it.
It’s universal;
You can’t
Escape it,
Reshape it,
Avoid it . . .
Just accept it.
We all have to face it,
And that’s the truth.
The Truth About Art
It is a field
without a road
a forest
without a path
the vastness
of a rolling
sea. Though
many have gone
this way before,
none has passed
this particular
way. Though
many can help
with packing
and advice
none can come
along all
the way.
It is a journey
without an
end, a quest
for a cup
that can never
be held
in a hand.
The Truth About Poetry
Some may say that writing poetry
is but a stepping stone
A bit like a first grade primer that
Once mastered will lead us right
Along to greater, classic works.
Master the poetic line and then
It’s off to short stories, memoirs
Novels –all kinds of works that pay.
Those of us who believe that words
Written down and arranged to evoke
Wonder and all kinds of passion contain
Wisdom and beauty for their own sake.
Even a mere line or two might satisfy
some restless dream of what may lie
On the road ahead, or what has passed us by.
Day 24
The truth about us
Living in another country
trying to figure out the word for peach
he swung from the dorm stairwells
grunting like an ape
trying to change the tense
someone else let him in
looking over my shoulder
he always had the answer
ducking the crackling fireworks, afraid
I kissed someone else
the pinch in my gripped shoulder told me
it didn’t work
the truth about us
our panicked parakeet with freshly clipped wings
The Truth about Putting up a Christmas Tree
I often wonder why I drag out
boxes of decorations
from year to year,
knowing that in a few weeks
I’ll be dragging them back.
But the truth is, I enjoy it.
With two childlike adults
in the home, the excitement
and anticipation of Christmas
stays fresh from year to year.
And there’s the ornaments
from when our kids were small,
some monstrosities like the
yarn entangled pinecone
looking like a porcupine
trying to escape its bonds.
And then there’s our client’s
infamous black Santa,
a fence-like construction
made of tongue depressors.
And now, they hang among
ones from various places
from vacations we can take
since our own kids our grown.
Some day if our nest truly empties,
I may not put up the Christmas tree,
but I’ll make myself a cup of tea,
take out the boxes of ornaments,
gaze at each one and remember.
Lovely!
November 24, 2012 – 2
Strange funk today:
Today is my birthday, reminiscing childhood quite a bit.
Plus four days of cold medication does strange things to my brain.
Truth about Bear
He sits on the shelf
Totally stealth
Watching all without care
Stitches for an eye
The other gone shy
Shed of most his hair
A little boy’s fun
All over they’d run
Racing up/down each stair
(52) Years have past
We’re not quite as fast
And both wish for more hair
The truth be told
I was one year old
The day I got that bear
Happy Birthday, rustydude! I’m 70 today and don’t have a bear to show for it!
Thanks, and Happy Birthday to you!
The Truth About Love
(Day 24)
He was a kind man
thinking always of others,
loved his children
especially Janine,
his only daughter.
Sorry to say, Janine
did not give back
what she had in abundance,
no she did not give back
instead she took, and took,
until left with nothing,
she took that too,
and broke his heart.
I like this because it really evoked emotion in me.
The Truth about Love
Love clings to us
we cling to it
we can’t let go
we can keep hold
Treasure the moments
with the ones
who you love
Treasure your sand in
your hour glass
before its gone
Words that come
words that go
words that slip from lips
words that his the hearts arrow tips
Butterflies flutter
inside when you see
the one who is meant for you
your future maybe?
L-look
o-on
v-virtual
e-emotions
Live those feeling
learn from also
feel them within you
let them guide you
The Truth About Rock and Roll
He told me my music, all sounded the same,
“Guitars and four – four rhythm”, I said.
Unhappy to have all my music defamed,
I searched my collection from Wilco to Led,
It’s not like it’s rap, all that pounding and bass,
Degrading of women and cap busting tales.
It’s not like it’s country—about some hard case,
Who lost his best girl cuz his dogs got no tail.
So I searched his albums and here’s what I found,
Some Enya, some Outkast and classical too,
Some crooners, some criers some white and some brown,
Some ragtime and jazz, and some rhythm and blues,
It was all four – four rhythm, but not all guitars,
Pianos and flutes, but I think they’re all fools,
His songs were more varied, but fell short by far,
Cuz crap comes in flavors and rock n’ roll rules.
The Truth About Black Friday
Have to work on turkey day
what is this world coming to
when Walmart ruins my holiday
making me leave my family for a few hours
We sit together holding hands
giving thanks for this bounty
we lost two more yesterday
from a roadside bomb
I can’t believe this traffic
this is the worst way to spend Thanksgiving
we make so many sacrifices
to be with loved ones
A mortar hit on the way to chow
and they have to feed him through a tube
he’ll never walk again
at least he’ll be going home
I’m so stuffed
I ate too much pie
I don’t want to clean the kitchen
I’m trying to drink beer and watch football
Sirens blaring, bullets flying
giving thanks for my training
I just want to get home in one piece
enjoy a beer and watch some football.
Please take a moment this holiday season and really think about who is making the larger sacrifice.
Here here!
THE TRUTH ABOUT: THE AFTERMATH
She walked through all those citric years,
those chromed vestiges of vinegar tears -
tantalised and taunted by his pithy jeers.
And now she stands straight with trees,
greens that she’s never seen before, forests
hiding Styx from view. She begs to breathe,
a need for astringent scents to clean
her head, her soul, swimming thick
in pined woods a while. But too many times
she’s drowned in his clouds, so that now,
alone, perplexed; she is utterly lost in green,
now that those soured clouds are gone.
November 24, 2012
The Truth About Sadie
Once knew a lady
Her name was Sadie
She drove a pink Cadillac
A truth be told
She never grew old
Her years fully lost track
She cruised the streets
Handing out treats
Asking for nothing back
When she was done
Always great fun
Finding her purse all black
Who found the prize
Took to the skies
Winging her pink Cadillac
You traveled to Rome
Flew over Gnome
Then she would fly you back
Also:
http://whimsygizmo.wordpress.com/2012/11/24/whats-true-2/
Absolutely true, Robert. I love your piece.
The Truth About Thesauri
Thesauri (or thesauruses?)
can find a synonym. It is
compendium, collection, group.
It gets you words in one fell swoop.
Lexicon, a dictionary…
Wait – there’s more, so don’t you worry.
A glossary. Now got the scoop?
It gets you words in one fell swoop.
Reference or equivalent terms.
Just look it up. This book confirms
vocabulary. Language soup.
It gets you words in one fell swoop.
Articulation, eloquence,
phraseology – it does dispense
the words, yes, words. A liripoop!*
It gets you words in one fell swoop.
###
* Note: Liripoop means: Acuteness; smartness; a smart trick or stratagem. It can also mean a scarf worn by learned men – and it can also mean a stupid person.
You are really stylin’ today, RJ. Loving all three of yours today, and off to find myself a liripoop…
Mine’s here:
http://whimsygizmo.wordpress.com/2012/11/24/the-truth-about-time/
The truth about
…telling the truth is that we rarely do,
sitting with our hands entwined, pledging love
or, later, when we have stopped pretending
we are something we can’t be, swearing hate.
And if we are poets, we compose words
to justify ourselves, churning them out
like some diarrheic conveyor belt,
only to have them bashed over the head
by a baleful inner critic, who stands
at the warehouse door to protect the truth.
We’re hoping our internet provider is open today so we can get back on line officially. In the meantime, we’ve found a neighbor’s wireless connection. I just can’t write poetry on my cellphone. Robert, that I love yours today.
The Truth about Football
Something you need to know: In Alabama,
we are serious about our college football.
On the Saturday after the fourth Thursday,
even family ties diminish. The harmony
seated around the common table sharing
turkey and dressing and sweet potato pie
goes on hiatus when one side arrives
wearing crimson and hounds’ tooth
and the other donning orange and blue.
Though tigers, eagles and elephants
may not be common predators or prey,
they cannot coexist in any small corner
of this state. We know the coaches’
birthdays; when they pass, we mark
their graves as faithfully as Mama’s.
When they’re winning we love them.
When they’re losing, we love them but—
just like family. We reserve the right
to say what we want to about them,
but outsiders and sportscaster better
bite their tongues. Fans, meeting
far from home, sharing team colors,
are not strangers but kin, hugging
on game days, high-fiving victories.
Fight songs and chants—rammer
jammer yellow hammer—resonate
like prayers at Thanksgiving table.
Oh, Nancy. I love this. Truly a poem for the insider – if you have to ask, you will never understand! But to call it family, yes – maybe a non-believer can at least understand your analogy. And to end with the fight songs ascending like prayers at Thanksgiving…. Perfect. I’m writing this watching my own brand of Football (soccer), doing all my supporter’s rituals, but also already getting ready for Notre Dame to win tonight!
The Sad Truth About The Truth
everyone
claims to want to know
the whole truth
but really
they only want to be told
what they want to hear
Isn’t that the truth!
The Truth about Women
We were supposed to be watching
Shop around the Corner
But suddenly I saw her
In my peripheral view
As she watched the movie
Twixt chatter and knitting
Suddenly it hit me
She is growing up too
For one wink a girl
Then forever a woman
I study her profile
Her nose, her chin
Somewhere between breakfast
And warm hugs at bedtime
Suddenly I wonder
When did it begin?
She turns to look at me
The woman inside her
Is restless and eagerly
Waiting to bloom
She does not know
Of the urge rushing through me
To hold back the moments
The hours consume
Inside every girl
Is the bud of a woman
Time will unfold
Its intent willingly
Inside every woman
In spite of the ages
Is part of the girl
That she used to be
Oh, Janet! This is just spot on! As the mother of 4 daughters and 4 granddaughters, I have been the speaker of this poem often! I love the lines,”Somewhere between breakfast/And warm hugs at bedtime” The change does seem to be that quick!
Thanks for your comment…I am enjoying reading your poems, also.
JanetRuth, Oh, so true! I had breakfast with my daughters and grands from one to forty-eight this a.m. I have watched this over and over!
The Truth About Language
Words are nothing more than letters
strung together to create a certain sound
that represents something –
like clothes on the line, words strung together
form a sentence if the pattern is right -
knowing when to mix the solids with the prints,
the blacks with the whites,
the colors that accent, rather than detract –
can be tricky business, for sure!
Sentences when piled high on a sheet
become paragraphs that form the foundations
for things like stories, poems, songs, books!
But like foundations, make them weak with sandy words
that crumble when you speak and they will not hold -
but, build with sentences strong as Portland cement
or those amazing granite cubes that hold up most
of New England, then you’ll go places with your writing.
The truth is all language is a way to paint pictures
with words so that we can share the beauty, the pain
the questions, the discoveries, the lies, the truth, the simple
day-to-day experiences of our lives with another.
Language is the canvas – words the paint – its up to us
to create a masterpiece…
or a mess.
Linda, this is fantastic! I have tried to comment on some of your previous poems . Really enjoying your work. Thank-you
The Truth about Insomniacs
Sleep, some say is overrated.
I don’t know. I’m never sated:
I don’t sleep well, don’t get enough.
But lack of sleep sure makes me gruff.
To sleep, perchance to dream? Yeah, right.
No matter what I do each night
like snuggly blankets, comfy stuff…
this lack of sleep sure makes me gruff.
I know insomniacs create
some brilliant works while up too late.
But me? No diamonds in the rough.
This lack of sleep sure makes me gruff.
My evening alphabet lacks Z(zzzzzz.)
I am the princess with no pea.
Those forty winks just mean rebuff.
This lack of sleep sure makes me gruff.
###
Wow! Amazing poems for so early in the morning!
Robert and Steven…perfect way to begin!
Barbara…what a wild ride!
RJ…ain’t that the truth! Well said.
The Truth about Suspending Disbelief
In 1817, the term
was coined by Coleridge, ‘midst sturm
und drang, regarding what one reads.
Believe in something: it succeeds.
Even Shakespeare (it’s no myth)
used this ploy with Henry the Fifth.
The Prologue’s wording plants the seeds.
Believe in something: it succeeds.
In modern culture, TV shows
and other media impose
preposterous tales, thoughts and deeds.
Believe in something: it succeeds.
If you write with self-assurance,
even half-truths have endurance.
On this point, expectation feeds:
Believe in something: it succeeds.
###
Woke up with this mad idea.
The Truth About Starflight
We had a roof over our head
to be thankful of. And water, so the toilet flushed.
And mattresses for everybody, but no lights. You’re
thinking that’s a long way
from starflight, and that’s the truth. You can’t
get to the stars with a couple nights’ talk
over box wine boosted from the restaurant
and wild reefer picked green and dried on the vent
at the laundromat. (not, whatever the tabloids say,
Jimson Weed.) No. It was hard, breaking
Earth’s orbit with nothing but our hands.
Months of picking cigarette butts from the gutters
near intersections and at the borders
of no-smoking zones, teasing the papers off,
building long sheets out of them, glued
together with the tar soaked out of filter tips. And then
with spindles made from dried fried chicken bones
we turned the filters to core for the rope. From
picking to spinning it was a foul job. Our fingers
turned brown and we were all sores and sick
to vomiting. But we’d wash our hands and faces
under the cold tap and start back up. When
we had rolls of rope coiled to the ceiling of every
room, and everyone had built up strength enough
to feed rope to Cowboy spinning the lasso, we signed
for our You Haul, tied it to the end, and started
building the loop, long and slow and gradually bigger.
So many things could have happened: Rain. Helicopters,
heavy with victims from a pile-up. Crows. Low orbit
satellites might have sliced our filter tip rope down, but
no. We climbed out on the roof and took sight, latched
onto a star fleck, and put a dozen light years on that truck
without the axle spinning more than the first feet. The universe
we skimmed with the sway of a cigarette rope
is a heap of strange and wonderful, sweet and fell as
the scent of our hands. Such a load of things
we saw and held. Someday we’ll pick still more paper,
and fill a book with what’s between the stars.
This is your Kubla Khan! How very, very wonderful! I am going to keep fighting with the pisting gremlins until this gets through, because I really want to tell you how fantastic it is! (currently, gremlins 6, Sonja – 0, but I will persist…)
Of course they posted once I made a typo. Nasty little creatures…
That’s the way it works, isn’t it?
Morning all – didn’t intentionally copy Mr. Brewer’s title- and not in any way a response etc to his fine poem:-)
The truth about poetry
While watching a 1979 horror flick,
it occurred to me
it might be important
to actually write poetry
that means something
and not just pretty words
with a pleasing sound
clamoring
like a restless
zombie
horde
in a small town
square –
mundane truisms
massing
as absurd and as arrogant
as the inevitable
hands of a clock
making you uneasy
in an infinite
universe.
The trick is to make
the truth reveal itself
to the reader
as if they were inventing it
for themselves –
for example,
something something
zombie horde attacking,
something something,
you fill in the blank here
and by zombies, I mean words,
by horde, I mean a poem,
and by you, I mean
your heart, your brains
and the delicate shiver of pleasure
as my minions slurp up
and down
your
spinal cord