UPDATE: As problems continue with the commenting, I’ve decided to open up a WD Forum thread for the first 7 days. Beginning with tomorrow’s prompt, there will be prompt-specific threads linked to each post. Click here to share your poems/comments for the first 7 days.
Sorry for the late prompt today–stayed up a little late last night.
Today’s prompt comes to us from Eleanore D. Trupkiewicz.
Here’s Eleanore’s prompt: Write a circular poem. It could be a poem about circles, or about a circular concept, or about something shaped like a circle. Or it could be a poem with a circular format, in which the end of the poem somehow connects directly back to the beginning of the poem.
Robert’s attempt at a circular poem:
“Been Here”
Feels like I’ve been here before
with my head hidden under the covers
and wanting another hour or two.
Feels like I’ve been here before
rushing around to get lunches packed
and telling people what to do.
Feels like I’ve been here before
saying “goodbye, have a great day”
but wanting more time with you.
*****
Thank you, Eleanore, for the terrific prompt! Click here to learn more about her.
*****
Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer
*****
Make a Name for Yourself!
Click here to learn how with the latest premium collection. Fewer than 60 kits still available!
Day 7
Prompt: Circle
Circle of Thanksgiving
This time last year, I planned my list,
my agenda of shopping, cleaning, cooking.
I listed in my mind my thanks.
This year, even more to be grateful for,
I start my list anew:
Groceries, tasks, blessings.
Women’s Circle
Women, each with a story
Claim their spaces in the circle
Under the twinkling stars,
Firelight dancing off their faces.
A circle of tents surrounds them
Canvas protectors of the tales within.
One reveals her heartache
And the others say, “Oh, no…”
The next one speaks of work
And money, saved and spent.
Two more nod with understanding,
While a third throws a log on the fire.
The shy one who just got here
Pulls her chair up close to me.
We heard she just lost her mother
And is finally starting to talk.
The jokestress cracks a good one
And the night air crackles with mirth,
And the woman wearing the jacket
Says she’s leaving early tomorrow.
The two that have been friends forever
Are discussing when to head home,
And the talking comes full circle
Once everyone goes to bed.
When You Arrived
When you arrived, looking so fresh,
so ripe, the new and improved version
of everything I never even knew
I needed walking right in the door,
with nowhere else to go but here,
I poured us both a glass of sweet tea,
we sat right down at the kitchen table,
and the rest of our lives began
it seemed. I knew I would mark
the beginning of my life of happily
ever after from this November day
when you arrived, looking so fresh.
The Trouble With Color
The problem with describing color is that color is not a word.—Robert Hass
I disagree.
Of course color is a concept
but it is also a exquisite word.
A word to build other words—
watercolor, colorblind.
How many colors to know
the pine tree? Its bark turns
from gray to silver in the sun.
Needles green, then gold as they
fall to cover the bare ground.
A finch hides her nest of brown
and black twigs intermingled with
colorful pieces of string. Shadows
turn blue when the sun goes down
and at night a black reflection dances
before the moon.
Of course
color is a word—it holds the world.
Here’s a rather late lune (woohoo Poetic Bloomings!):
The vultures circle,
Menacing
And mesmerizing.
Refugee
A lone refugee
my great grandmother was
borne across the roiling seas to
relatives on streets peopled by pushcarts
possessions spilling with no place
I fled to leased marbled grandeur
displaced guiltily into buffeted breakfasts
by a angry sea too lightly regarded
Home as visitor spectator assessor
amid displaced possessions
pushcarted onto an unpeopled street
I stand
A lone refugee
Spinning Thoughts
In dark, silent stillness they
launch from their perch,
tiny rockets circling, circling,
swooping, swerving in perfect unison
until, as one, they settle to preen,
flaunting their feathers, (ruffling mine)
then lifting off to take flight again
in a whirlwind spinning eddy of
autumn leaves, swirling flutter dance
divinely choreographed ballet, where they
pause, breathe for but a heartbeat,
shiver, quiver, rustle in place
before spinning off again in a flight of
fish swimming in flawless synchronization,
flashing light and color, moving as one:
up, down, left, right, around and around,
keeping me sleepless
within those spinning circles
Going in Circles
Have you ever wondered?
Why circles have no sides
Why dogs chase their tails
And how soap bubbles glide
Have you ever wondered?
Why ripples are concentric
Why water in a sink twirls
And bellies become a curve
Have you ever wondered?
Why baldness leaves a ring of hair
Why most spas are round
And curls are curls no squares
Have you ever wondered?
Why the earth is round
Why our eyes have circular pupils
And “Ohs” follow anything profound
The questions are endless
And go around in circles
Because in the end
Anything that goes around, comes around.
Three Times Expectant
I rubbed my planet
often when I was significant
with child; spoke my peace
of heart; my son and two
daughters pushed their universe
with fists or feet and formed
circles within my internal
loops as if to answer
by codes, pregnant
with inscrutabilities.
Broken Circles
Change,
river chimes from ice melt
young frisk roaring
eating earth rock land
etching forming veins
from ice to ocean
ending with a sigh.
Rivers are always in a state of flux.
Why control the floodgates of tomorrow,
drums beat with rain of tears
dance in the mountain swirl
of green land of youth roaring
strong
churning
over and over in
white rapid terror
risking daring fearing nothing
and only change is eternal
and the rain pounds on
feeding the mountain’s tears.
And the drums echo out
of the mountain
to flood the floor of agless
between time in the chant of rain
the river meanders killing feeding fueling
dispersing
But now in new cycles
oh to be tamed and burnt used
no longer churning but wrought thin as slivers are shared.
Water is sucked up by man faster
then the drums of rain can fuel the flow and the chimes falter.
The Circle of Life
How that song in ‘The Lion King’
made me choke up…
not with emotion
but with a surge of vomit
induced by the sight
of the cutesey-wutesey cub
being praised and adored
by other animals.
I wanted to stand up
in the cinema and shout
“That ickle-wickle cub
will grow up big and strong
and tear you all to pieces
you stupid creatures!”
Circle of life, my arse.
Only my 5-year-old’s hand
in mine stopped me,
made me sit quietly
through the whole thing.
Now, she makes me sit
through the DVD
over and over
and over…
I don’t have the heart to tell her
I like Scar the best.
Imperfection
The world is round
but not a perfect circle.
It’s slightly flattened
at the top and bottom,
it bulges around the middle.
I know how it feels.
Perhaps the Earth
has its own version
of middle-age spread.
Perhaps the Earth
is having a mid-life crisis.
I know how it feels.
WHEN I COME AROUND
Good days come.
Bad days linger
and I lose control
of most of my fingers.
Some days find me
incoherent, not so
apparent when it’s done,
not recognizing my voice
and none of the words
Translate great on the slate
of a blank page.
Can’t blame age,
I’m not that old,
but I’ve been told
I carry myself thus.
When the tremors can be seen
it is a mean trick to play
on a poet poeming
a poem-a-day. But today
seems a good day.
I seem to be coming around,
and when I do, I won’t slow down!
The Catch
Bewildered, you stand
the system beyond comprehension
language a barrier
fear a wall
culture a chasm -
no papers, no job
no job, no money,
no money, no home
no home, no address
no address, no papers
Disc
Eclectic
Music inside us
Plays the story of our lives
On this circular disc, holds secrets
Only shared by us, only known by us
As it spins around and ‘round, we kiss
Run your hands through my hair
I listen to your beating chest
In your arms I feel at rest
You are my muse
My sprite
The Process (for me)
Blank
white page,
waiting for the muse.
Suddenly, she quickly flies
in the window sometimes straight,
sometimes on an angle, and the ideas
race like wildfire across the plains
of my imagination as I pluck
the right words to tame
the moment, before it
goes, taking with it
the life, the zing,
before returning
once again to
blank.
Life is Simple
Life is simple
Whatever one sows
This he will also reap
Whatever goes around
Comes around
Sigh…Robert said ‘circle’; it is Joni Mitchell’s birthday, and that was it for me. No matter how hard I tried, the only thing I could hear in my head was Circle Game. I can’t beat it, so I am joining it with a found shadorma from those lyrics.
Fearful child
behind the circle.
Over ten
seasons we
turn and drag feet to slow him
before better years.
Life is Circular
Life is hardly a linear experience
on a single plane
a tediously boring
once and for all stretch
but very circular in nature
taking a turn for the better
or for the worse
oftentimes repeating itself
over and over again
in mundane ordinary ways
otherwise adventurous
continually guiding us unto
unimaginable destinations
and situations unfathomable
Santa’s lovely shape
Santa doesn’t like the gym.
(He gives kudos to the slim).
Santa is not a loser!
He despises Jenny Craig.
He avoids workouts like the plague.
Santa is not a loser!
Santa won’t go on a diet.
He thinks dieting is a riot.
Santa is not a loser!
Doesn’t weight watch, he just eats.
Santa likes all kinds of meat.
Santa is not a loser!
Of his shape, he’s not ashamed.
He wants you to feel the same.
Santa is not a loser!
I hope this will post here… it is the link to my answer for today’s prompt. http://hopefuljo.wordpress.com/2012/11/07/365-creativity-project-day-303/
Circular Reasoning
Some things don’t change:
the pulse of your blood as it
beats through your veins; the
quiet strength of an older
man who drives with one
wrist; the uncanny ability of
a young guy to handle a
pickup truck on corners with
one hand, with implacable
grace and poise; the crystal-
clear sapphirine blue of the
sky; the mosaic of colors in
autumn leaves; the feel of
a child who buries her head
beneath your chin in a silent
plea for comfort; the bitter
spicy taste of a salted caramel
mocha, extra hot; the majesty
of an eagle—an emblem—
soaring against that clear sky;
the crashing roar of ocean waves
on a black-sand beach; the
inexpressible wonder of a
waving American flag, in all
its glory; the inimitable
release of relief from a prison
(pick your poison); the crisp
sheen of satin in black or
Christmas green or red like
rubies or silvery grey; the
timeless look of ancient
wisdom in a newborn’s eyes;
the soundless fall of snow on
a static-white night; the
reliable sneer on a cat’s face
at your return home; the
gleaming beauty of a cello
from the 1700s with a mellow
alto voice; the inexplicably
predictable slide of sweat
in wet rivulets in the space
between your breasts as your
anxiety or your desire—six
to one, half dozen the other—
rises; the glistening fall of
misty rain on sparkling wet
asphalt; the haunting loveliness
of music with a Hebraic
tonality; the easy breathlessness
of a major triad with a minor
jazz seventh arpeggiated all
the way up the piano; the
shimmering pain in the arches
of your feet when you wear
your favorite stiletto-heeled
sandals; the classic simplicity
of a strand of matched pearls
(synthetic, but, really, who’s
counting?); the sour vinegary
dressing over German potato
salad; the just-right flavor of
hot homemade pizza, topped
with roasted green peppers with
blistered skins; the delicate
scent of a baby’s milky breath
as he sleeps and dreams
impossible dreams; the worn
comfort of fuzzy socks; the
safe cocoon on a brisk winter
morning that your inert body
forms under layers of quilts;
the smell of Old World soup,
a family recipe, simmering
gently on the stove; the view to
eternity from the precipice of
Storm Peak in Steamboat Springs
on a day when your breath
crackles cold in the air and the
sunshine sparkles off mounds of
snow and the horizon melts over
the mountains in the distance;
the brisk cut of a black business
suit with heels and the power of
the same ensemble in red; the
delicious sensation of
unconditional belonging in God’s
throne room (wherever it is); the
uncontainable surge of pride at
seeing a member of the United
States military—greatest on earth,
any branch—in impeccable dress
uniform; the almost-invisible
glimpse of a silver sliver of moon
at mid-morning; the selfless
attentiveness of a lover for his
beloved; the self-sacrifice behind
every rare and lovely act of
chivalry a man makes on a
woman’s behalf; the kind-hearted
affection between two people who
have spent decades growing
together and somehow know much
more than what the other person
is thinking; the blush of spring on
thorny roses; the incomprehensible
knowing that your life is worth
someone’s death; the slow fall of
shed blood and gushed water that
co-mingle and obliterate your
record of wrongs; the pulse of
precious blood in the veins of
someone who believes, even now,
that you are worth everything.
Cosimo’s Lament (triolet)
No dome, this church, to shield us from the sky
No plan to hold the weight of brick and plaster
Foolish Florentines to build so wide and high.
No dome, this church to shield us from the sky
come snow and rain the floor is seldom dry
Santa Maria del Fiore waits upon the Master
No dome, this church, to shield us from the sky
No plan to hold the weight of brick and plaster
Cosimo’s Lament (triolet)
This church has no dome to shield us from the sky
No plan to hold the weight of brick and plaster
Foolish Florentines to build so wide and high
This church has no dome to shield us from the sky
Come snow and rain the floor is seldom dry
Santa Maria del Fiore waits upon the Master
This church has no dome to shield us from the sky
No plan to hold the weight of brick and plaster
C ircuitous
I ntelligence
R arely
C ultivates
L ofty
E xperiences.
Not Like Him
I ate
the crust
around
the bread.
Saved the best
for last.
Just like Dad
who saved for
tomorrows
and died
yesterdays
ago.
Spun me
right around.
I fold the bread over
and bite the middle first
and throw away
the crust
when I don’t
want it.
Here’s mine, ok? (: I haven’t tried to share yet. It’s kind of silly. But I’m really enjoying this! And all of the sweet poets here. Nice community. Ok… here goes:
SPRING SONG [IN FALL]
your mouth is what’s stuck. small flower,
pink as reason & slow to wake. tell me:
what is it you won’t miss? in this flight
[the hum of my hover] you have me—
promise of a body, both
foreign & tragic to travel you:
the lengths between your
once-a-week reach for sun,
trenches pinched into the folds of
your fragile no-bones, sticky gaps
of indifference, where
pollen collects, i orbit—
waiting for touchdown, quick
gasp [like instinct] to catch that
single second we might intersect;
so long, i might smash myself
into you, hope nothing breaks.
thanks for the read!
mt
The Circle of Life and Death and Poetry
Before I began trying to write
Poetry with anything like real
Seriousness – that’s not to say
Every poem I write is of solemn
Nature, or even true – what I
Mean, I suppose is back when
I just fooled around with the words
My perception was that poetry
Was written by dead white guys
From centuries ago, then interspersed
With the odd – very odd – white broad
Or two, also usually dead, not surprisingly
Or maybe it was – I can’t remember
What I thought – actually yes, I can
It bothered me more than a little
That more than a few of the poetesses
I fancied had offed themselves
This I discovered just as I was beginning
To pen verse myself and it seemed
A bit of a cautionary tale coming as it did
At a time when suicidal ideology
Also figured prominently in my own life
And so it went – the more I wrote poems
The more poetry I read, the more I learned
Of poets I liked who had taken their lives
This was not a circle of life and death I cared
To spend time examining but examine it I did
However, it didn’t keep me from writing
In fact, in the way of it, my eccentric concentric
Circles spread themselves like ripples
Growing exponentially larger – the more poems
I write, it seems, the less suicidal I feel
It might be my imagination but I’m not
About to put it to the test …
Hamster Wheel
you get up again and
drink your coffee and
shower and shave and
sit in rush hour traffic and
spend the morning on drudgery and
go to the usual place for lunch and
spend the afternoon on drudgery and
sit in rush hour traffic and
heat up a quick dinner and
watch TV all evening and
crawl into bed and
a ripple
within a ripple
halo of the moon
Ouroboros
Heading west out of Phoenix
in a worn Chevy that matches
me scratch for scratch
Our soles rubbed free of traction
kick up clouds of dirt that stay
beneath my nails
It reminds me of the dust
left behind and the fire
by night that guides me home.
ROUND AND ROUND
(A Pantoum)
(c) G. Smith
——————————-
Round and round I go
Spinning like a top;
Where I’ll stop, who know,
How hard will I drop?
Spinning like a top
I teeter at the brink.
How hard will I drop?
I don’t have time to think.
I teeter on the brink,
Of seeing you again.
I don’t have time to think:
A beginning or the end
Of seeing you again?
Where I’ll stop, who knows:
The beginning or the end?
Round and round I go.
Round and round I go,
Spinning like a top;
Where I’ll stop, who knows…
Circle of Friends
I had forgotten
who I used to be
when we were
young and had
such naughty fun,
laughing too loud,
before we acquired
dignity.
I don’t use that nickname
now that I’m older,
a professional matron
away from home,
now that wine is
the worst habit
I’ve kept and memory
has circled back on me.
But oh, it is so fine
to see you all, my dear
old friends, so good to
remember who we were,
what we stood for,
what we suffered,
where we grew up
and caroused—seeing
the early signs of who
we might become,
all these new wrinkles
in time, these new selves,
just flimsy robes
covering our aging
but solid
friendship.
Poetic Asides November Challenge – Day 7
Write a circular poem
Bicycle of Life
We are born unblemished, curious,
needing caretakers, guiders, teachers
to provide food, shelter, education.
We are taught how to tell right
from wrong, goodness from evil,
and history’s place in shaping
marvels of the present,
promises of the future.
And so we grow, some following
rules, others breaking them, all
the time evolving into who
we are, and how to fend
for ourselves.
When we are old, most of us
are blemished. Some maintain
curiosity, continue learning,
and growing. Others know
they are no longer participants
in the future. Independence
reverses, tasks are troublesome,
if not impossible. With minds
intact, knowledge and marvels
still occur. If faculties fracture
as old bones, you become
helpless, and once again,
reliant on caretakers
to keep you alive.
“Carousel” (Rondeau poem)
Once again, up and down, round and round
mystical equines on common ground
prancing in eternal rotation
aristocrats in glam formation
masquerade, dignified and profound.
Gilded mirror, dancing light playground,
this elaborate merry-go-round
remains a carnival foundation
once again, up and down, round and round.
Cotton candy-stuck fingers surround
metallic poles as the organ sounds.
Beware the childhood fixation:
golden-token-only elation
ushers young greed (not awe) to abound
once again, up and down, round and round.
Covetous of Circles
She was jealous of circles,
such sheer perfection -
those miraculously ends-meeting
together rings, 360-degree’ing,
zealously looping and scooping
up and back on to itself again,
rounds of spheres and drops
of tears, rope wound and bound
round into balls. Circles to be found
everywhere she looked and they
all made her covetous heart spin.
A third:
http://whimsygizmo.wordpress.com/2012/11/07/circumference/
Fall Again
I’ve seen this weather before
the gray haze lingering all day
and weighing upon my thoughts
while falling leaves
leave trees bare
after the verdant incarnation summer
so alive after winter and spring,
after the last fall
when I’d seen this weather before.
Sun’s Circle
Dawn’s light breaks
With early warning
A new day
Is just beginning
It rises higher
Softly healing
Natures hearth
With gentle warming
By midday’s acme
Brightly shining
On fallow Earth
And cloud lining
By dinner time
Slowly waning
Setting soon
Sunlight’s fading
Touching horizon
Its last glow cast
It’s circle done
It sets at last
Sorry bout the apostrophes, went a little overboard there.
Three isn’t so bad! Nice writing.
‘Nother one:
http://whimsygizmo.wordpress.com/2012/11/07/concentric/
Full Circle (Palindrome)
“Love you, love”
whispered before leaving
never forgotten
before sleeping, whispered
again
whispered
sleeping before forgotten
never leaving
before whispered
“love you, love”.
From a broken circle
After dinner has been finished, a friendly group
,of patients gather. Some chairs are pushed
into a circle and while the staff is occupied
hustling off the remains of dinner, a chorus
of their friendly chatter blends into the
clank and clatter of busy hands and busy
lives, Meanwhile, those who have all
The left-over hours of their remembered
Lives to ponder will have jokes to tell and bits
Of gossip to pass on to one another, At times
They may grow quiet and somber, as an empty
Chair intrudes into their company . Often
The name is never mentioned for they are
Determined that their circle stay a scene of
Happy harmony. Soon enough more room is
Needed as another patient enters and is welcomed
To the group.. They will say their circle is not
Unbroken but has been broken and mended more
Times than they can remember The staff is
Relieved for they must hurry. hurry
turn down the beds and make them
Comfy. Naptime is next on their busy
Schedule and the circle of chairs waits
Empty and alone.
t
Red Rubber Ball
try as I might
to be hard
like a rock
life batters me
and tumbles me
and tumbles me
and batters me
until rounded off
with plenty of give
like a red rubber ball
I like this – guess its not bad to have some give in most situations – in those others maybe rock tumbler – lapidary style
Ghost Fawn
A white fawn
grazes the pasture,
leaping the fence
to the lawn among
brown does. their
spotted young
nearby.
Does he feel
his strangeness
in this herd where
only a white doe
hints at his parentage?
Do they wear
their difference,
mother and child,
with pride or peril–
white only visible
when their tails
lift skyward as they run
for the cover of woods
or high grass,
sniffing the air
for snow?
This time next year
will there be another
albino generation
of ghost nibblers
or none at all
reaching for fox grapes
and persimmons,
hanging among the trees
or gathering acorns
on the lawn?
point of tangency
with this ring
she he wed
caused tear shed
made their bed
and lied
in it.
.
The animal zodiac mysteries
She vaguely remembered happy
memories of riding her father’s
strong shoulders – the year of her being
his special little monkey
the subdued school
year of the rabbit
year of the sheep
year of the ox –
the long
year of the horse
her slow unleashing
into
womanhood
the year of the rooster
and the year of the tiger
quickly
spent eating up
the local
redneck
boys
then college
and back to being
the year of the dog
the year of the pig
consoling herself
a final succumbing
to
husband one
and
husband two
long years
of the rat
and the snake
respectively
enough is enough
she vowed this cycle
this vicious circle
would stop -
dragon lady they all whispered
and just
like that
dragon lady was what
she was known as
for the rest of her life
Circles
In the circle of the road,
the oldest circle, of home and away,
we roll on four circles to close
big circles of child and parent,
child and grandparent.
Though we know the circle
can never be unbroken
by distance, by who knows
what gaps in understanding,
differences in seeing,
(How is it that people can
love each other and yet want
such different worlds? Oh,
but they can. They can.)
yet we will try it, sometimes
fail, always try it again,
this trick of bringing our
loose ends together, being
whole, that being enough
for at least a few round days.
Prism
Just
be
cause we
can’t see the
concentricity
of the universe holding the
world together, does not mean it is not so. If all
you see is darkness, just reach out
and grab a handful
of the light
upon
your
face.
Ellen Knight
A circular haiku.
http://wordrustling.wordpress.com/2012/11/07/day-seven-circular-poem-a-haiku/
Fourth attempt at posting this today. Frustrating, no matter how much time I take it tells me I’m “psoting too quickly. Robert, Can you see if someone can fix this? It takes longer than my morning break IS to post.
Salem
It’s a peculiar kinda arrangement
carried over perhaps by the trail,
the streets are circles upon circles
and spreads us like a wagon wheel.
The thing that is most peculiar
and every day I find this true;
all roads in Salem go in circles
and they lead me back to you.
It’s bad enough my thoughts go that way
lighting on you when there’s a pause.
That any car I drive follows –
well, must I be blamed for the cause?
I apologize. To work, to friends’ house
or even driving to the store -
no matter how I vary my routes,
I still end up driving past your door.
As much as I try to escape it
I’m angry how the planners drew;
all roads in Salem go in circles
and they lead me back to you.
I’ve tried to set me wandering
following any likely direction or fork,
I’ve tried to break this cycle,
but even by foot or bike – it just won’t work!
It’s not that I follow my heart,
everyday I fight it through & through.
It’s just that every road in Salem goes in circles
and every time it leads me back to you.
Ariel
Hey Ariel.
I’ve updated this post with a link to the WD Forum. I think that’s where I’ll be directing traffic in the future. Sorry for the inconvenience.
Robert
I feel like crap today.
Just put me in a tumbler
and mix me into your drink.
Swirl me in tight circles
with your finger
and wash me down your throat.
Allow me to make your stomach ache,
your heart race,
your fever pitch and
sweat drip
from your perfectly
round face.
Allow me to be your
poison and
come full circle
under you.
My father
told me
when I
was small
I drew
pages and
pages of
circles
round and around
up and down
beginnings and endings
together. I told
him I was probably
trying to write
but he said no
he didn’t think so
not sharing what
he thought I
was really trying
to do, the artist
who had a recurring
dream of trying
to get back home
told me that
when I was little
I drew pages
and pages
of circles.
Circular
Orange distant sphere
dots background of never-end,
turning birth to death
A Love Letter (which should have gone into the circular file)
My love for you will never end
and like a circle, will transcend…
Ye gads! How trite! What have I penned?
So glad I did not yet hit send.
You are my love; you’re my best friend.
We’re what the Fates did so intend…
Such a (yuck!) pedestrian trend!
So glad I did not yet hit send.
Dearest, my heart you apprehend!
I cannot lie, cannot pretend.
What utter nonsense I dispend!
So glad I did not yet hit send.
In misery I should descend
if ‘ere this message would offend.
This message I should simply rend.
Oh no! Oh crap! I just hit send.
###
This took 24 tries to get posted. That’s enough for me! Grrrr….
I’m opening up a thread on the WD Forum to help with comments. This commenting problem is just way too ridiculous.
Excellent title!
For R.P.
Used to be, for all
Those years, during all
That time
The weave of our friendship
Ever-thickened with bonds of
Trust.
Used to be, I could always
Count on you to pay rapt attention to my list
Of ailments – before making carefully considered
Comment (when necessary),
But with patient silence often
Curative enough.
Used to be, we would spar and lunge –
Block and parry, with words
Our weapons.
Both of us so intuitive to the power
Of seemingly simple syllables;
Their ability to conquer worlds.
Used to be, we would square off, circling
‘Round each other ever seeking
The cracks in the other’s armor
Looking always to test them, to forge stronger
Links – create surer bonds, for that
Is the work of friends.
Was a time, when controlling these
Bouts of banter
(Or perhaps just the illusion
Of that control)
Gave me an anchor amidst the
Raging tides within my mind. And now…
Now, here you are, (and I’m not quite sure how you got here)
Like a comfortable old pair of
Moccasins, just kickin’ around inside my head,
Makin’ yourself right at home
With all that other good stuff
Like it’s alright.
And you know what?
Now, it is.
Ellen Knight
Isolation Circle
Through years of Bible, though this may sound odd,
I can see clearly how to tick off God.
When you think of sin, if you do at all,
You may think of pride, Adam and the fall.
Or lust, greed, laziness, wrath, gluttony,
Hate, disrespect, Sabbath breaking, envy,
Thievery, blasphemy, adultery,
Dishonesty, murder, idolatry.
Or you may think self-centeredness is chief.
You may get close with doubt and unbelief.
Or not doing all the things you should do,
Reaching out to less fortunate than you.
To grieve God’s heart, draw a circle about
you and all you love, and leave Jesus out.
Everyone is moving right along and with wondrous results. Congrats, all. We’ve manage the first week of prompts.
Today’s efforts for a circular poem.
Mystery
Such a tiny thing,
This sphere of life
Nestled with a cosmos
Filled with other spheres,
Other shapes, other purposes.
Such a tiny thing,
To hold a promise
Massive enough to create
Life made complex by
Sharing a single breath.
Such a tiny thing,
To combine with a
Tiny arrow of life from
Without, forging union
To bring forth a new being.
“Looking for a Thing”
Molly’s wedding band glinted as she reached
down to spin the Wheel of Fortune. “Come on,
big money!” In person the flat disk seemed
smaller than TV. “Tricky camera lens,”
she thought as the wheel’s rainbow sections bleeped
in a slowing rhythm that found an end
in wild applause. Before her eyes, glinting,
five thousand dollars. Pat gushed, “What a spin!
Let’s see what you can do.” She touched her ring,
thought of Bob, looked up at the squares, darkened
but for one L, one C. She was blanking.
What that money could do! She could get Paul
full-sized drums now that he was outgrowing
the youth set. She blinked: “I’ll buy a vowel.
Is there an I?” Vanna White revealed one.
“H?” Three of them—fifteen thousand total!
“Pat, I’ll solve the puzzle: HIGH-HAT CYMBAL.”
Full Circle
The houses are all changed since my return
to that old neighborhood where we’d begun.
The streets are patterned same, though houses stern;
their colors paled, so long they’ve faced the sun.
I heard our children’s laughter as they played
I watched a game of dodge-ball in the street.
I felt the warm winds of a summer day;
I glanced into those faces, oh, so sweet.
But sudden slaps the circle now in place:
suspicious eyes do stare as I drive slow.
My longing to go back and thus embrace;
forbidden is that street for me to know.
My darling love, our house; it is not there;
though by your sweat and tears you would thus swear.
2 Circles – 1 Ring
Separate circles unite inside a protective ring of love.
Passions and compassions shared as if from up above.
No more cold, there’s only heat or warmth as it may be.
2 circles inside the center of 1 ring for all to see.
Let the circles overlap a little,
or more or all the way if you do choose.
Don’t ever try to shrink another circle
or it’s pretty gosh darn likely you would loose.
Independent lives can merge into a unique world.
2 can be themselves yet become 1.
Empathize, Communicate, Respect, Uplift, Adore.
Then share and care and bare and have some fun.
by Michael Grove
Incarceration Carousel
Midnight luggage search confounds
International flight was so profound
Baggage carousel continues around
And around, suitcases abound
Errant suitcase never found
Now to office to get runaround
redefining revolution
a new light rose with the sun,
striking the world differently
than yesterday, or tomorrow,
illuminating change-
neither a singularity
of reorganization,
nor an epi-phenomenal
response to chaos-
but a new process,
a systemic approach
to understanding
and solving problems
that has led
to the creation of
and solution to
ubiquitous discontent
with the world that appears
when eyes are opened today;
a revolution of ideals
no longer circular
but a unidirectional journey
towards progress
circle of dreams
circle of dreams -
I run the laps
counting drops
in the ocean
A coffee cup, headphone ear cups, and the bottom of my glasses cleaner bottle
all have something in common
besides sitting on my desk.
The empty cream cheese tub
and that Mason jar with the purple seeds in it
surround my station.
I increase the volume
of my radio
by turning the big round knob.
My simple apple basket
holds an extra power cord
and a stack of round beer coasters.
My two light’s bases
bookends of my work
surround me with light.
I work in a circular world
a ring of random spheres
is it any wonder I can’t think straight?
How to Have Fun
With a loop, metal or plastic
or even made of pipecleaner,
dip in the soapy water
and blow through the
circular
hole
forming
bubbles.
Sometimes one
giantenormoushumongous
bubble
and sometimes just a few
little ones jumping out,
solitary and staid,
and sometimes
a long skein of bubbles
flying forth in a crazy-long
line, tangling
mixing together and joining/separating
randomly.
The dog will try to bite them,
more serious than playful:
they are his mortal enemy.
The cat will be curious,
of course,
and reach delicately with nose
or paw
and once splattered
will scatter
to a corner to (huffily)
clean the moisture
away.
The children will laugh and giggle
try to catch or pop
or herd
the bubbles,
always begging for more,
more,
or
let me try!!
Diana Terrill Clark
This Globe
Behold.
Heaven and earth,
Carved from Nothing,
A single, master carpenter,
All-knowing and meticulous,
Ever-mindful of our hearts,
He grants us all free-will,
We spin from His orbit,
This was the plan.
A house that can
Have more angles than
its omnipotent architect.
A single… master… carpenter.
Circular Thinking
Before I learned better,
my thoughts often took
detours
when I least expected it.
I would be grocery shopping
or gardening,
or getting dressed,
and my thoughts would wander
into some bizarre “what-if”
territory.
I would think, “what if
the reason my husband was
late last night was really because
he’s having an affair?”
From there, the train of
(un)reason would wander
the countryside,
making up
imagining
discovering
scenarios that became more
and more
likely
as the day passed.
By evening, I would be
so worked up, that when my husband
finally got home again,
I would demand an explanation
for his behavior.
And his answer would be
bafflement.
And I simply had to learn:
Just because it happened before
does not mean it will happen
again.
And I had to learn to break
that cycle,
that devious circle,
believing my own wayward
thoughts
as if they were true
and real
without any outside
confirmation.
And that is why I write
novels.
Diana Terrill Clark
CIRCLING BACK
Two ravens circle overhead. Trees
are silent, a breathing, speechless
chorus. That print I found in mud –
a mammoth foot with claws. Bear.
My old dog trots down the road,
focused on finding Linda,
who walked this way not long
ago. And the barefoot print?
We cross a brushy gully, my pup
goes wild – spring sprung
back to prehistoric; clock whirled
in reverse. I yank her back.
We continue on trail; far uphill
my dogs discover Linda hiding.
Ravens are gone. The forest
spins on a barefoot track.
LIfe’s Merry-go-round
First a smile, then ‘hello’ and ‘how are you’
Then before we know it we’ve made a friend or two
But just as we begin to know more than their names
Instead of ‘hello’ it is good-bye again
If I could then I would if a way could be found
I’d grab on and slow down this merry-go-round
But we all climb back up and ride for a while
Until it’s good-bye and a farewell smile
We share our triumphs and sometimes our sorrow
Tell them of dreams in a hopeful tomorrow
We laugh together and shed tears when they cry
Then suddenly, just like that…it’s good-bye
If I could I would stop this merry-go-round
But it seems to this merciless circle we’re bound
For almost before our tears are dried
We dare to climb on for another ride
Why do we fail to treasure today?
But wait ‘til we see someone walking away
And then, how our hearts over-flow with pain
To know we may never see them here again
If I could, then I would stop this merry-go-round
But I can’t seem to bring this moving circle aground
So I climb back up, forget that I cried
Smile, say ‘hello’ and go for a ride
SEEDS (loop)
Children scurry to collect bean seeds
Seeds from the garden for their mom,
Mom, who stores the beans for spring.
Spring time is time for planting
Planting in the big garden
Garden where the green bean grow
Grow up wires stretched on tall poles
Poles that march down long rows
Rows filled with vegetables
Vegetables that they love to eat
Eat fresh from the vine or leave to dry
Dry to become next years bean seeds
Seeds that children scurry to collect.
….* * *
Would love to comment individually, there are some really wonderful poems written already. Wonderful way to kick off the day by reading them
Viv, Jerry, Mariya, Andrew, Marile, Ben, Walt, Nimue, Dan, Glory, RJ ,Janet – GREAT POEMING.
eFILING
(a shadorma)
A rough draft
written and reworked,
revised and
finally
deleted. I miss using
the circular file.
Ah ! may the words appear again brighter
That’s funny…I guess my first attempt to post DID go into the circular file!
…of life-circles and choices
We serve, Creator or created
Before dust returns to dust
Whether prince, priest or pauper
We must choose whom we trust
The leaders of earth rise
Transient they fall
There is One, Supreme Being
Above us all
From our very first cry
As He grants us breath
We know, you and I
Will someday face death
And as we choose Whom to serve
In life’s brief circle we
Choose not for mere Time
But for eternity
Loops of her hair tumble in spirals
Falling in muted clouds
Floating beyond
Into the sphere
Of all unknown
Circular logic
is the best logic because
it is circular.
Both poems…brilliant RJ!
Love it, RJ!
HAHAHA! Perfection!!!
Circular Logic
“Contrariwise,” continued Tweedledee, “if it was so, it might be; and if it were so, it would be; but as it isn’t, it ain’t. That’ s logic.” ~Lewis Carroll
If it were so (to state my case)
it might well be (said with straight face.)
But logic is a pretzel twist
and since that’s so…you get the gist.
We can go round and round the course,
ride circles on a hobby horse,
but all this is just mills for grist,
and since that’s so…you get the gist.
You say this make no sense, but I
detect a sphere of s’fear. But why?
I’m kidding now (I can’t resist)
and since that’s so…you get the gist.
A circle is mythology,
contrariwise, per Tweedledee.
It’s what the ouroborus kissed.
And since that’s so…you get the gist.
<3 LOVE this! I love your work, RJ!
Memories (circular poem)
(Day 7)
Round and around memories within my head
of days long gone, days I spent with you.
Forgotten, the tears, your hash words
your coldness that broke my spirit,
the way you harried away, didn’t turn back,
never to return, only in my head
where round and around spin memories of you.
Train through Tuscany
Steel train wheels under
catechizing rhetoric
washed in Tuscan cloud
Day in, day out,
stuck on same thought,
sometimes let out,
liek a sigh,never aloud.
Numerous calls
and as many blinking pings
i ask it no more
you answer me still.
Muted conversations
between the sheets,
the decision hangs in middle
tossed away for time being.
Day in,day out,
stuck with the routine
meet,smile and part.
till next time maybe.
After Years and Years of Practice
Here I am, I’m primed and willing
Ready with my scrumptious filling
Now, for once, if I could just
Make a flakey, golden crust.
All the best
for the next ;
May the baking
be supreme,
else you can
write about it
CUTE! Thanks Nimue!
I will share my recipe, Marie. XOX Love this! And I love to bake pie!!
Awww, how sweet! I’ll give it a shot, but I’ve tried my mom’s (she makes the BEST pies!), my Aunt Peg’s, my mother-in-law’s, and my husband’s grandmother’s. How humiliating, lol!
Awesome response Robert !
I can always write about leaves,
fallow and fawn,
rust and umber,
their sound, amplified it seems,
crushing
under my feet,
reaching my ears
with percussive sounds
like cymbals crashing and hissing.
The wind winds through
adding a texture to the sounds
just as I pass a playground
in full orchestra,
children’s voices carried
and twirled about,
twined together
as one instrument
punctuated
by the occasional staccato shriek.
I tap out a beat on my thigh
as I let my ear buds dangle,
and my feet shuffle
through the next pile of leaves.
I can always write about leaves.
“a playground in full orchestra”
LOVE IT!!
I love the way this poem sounds.
I love this glimpse of someone’s life who actually has autumn! Gorgeously done, Jerry!
lovely…I heard it all & saw it all & felt it all
*****
Whenever I reach back
To remember you and me,
Hand in hand, strolling in the park
I have to turn my gaze and see
My little one
Remind me of myself,
Hand in hand with Daddy.
Her lovely chestnut curls,
Her shiny eyes like olives,
Her tiny hand in grip of mine,
Her slender body curled asleep
Just next to me,
Remind me of myself
and you, Dad.
The circle is complete.
***
Indeed. beautiful feeling and lovely images ..
This is so beautiful! <3
unseen
it takes great courage
to remove a wedding ring
each day before work
but perhaps twice as much to
put it on again at night
ah, what a predicament
(If I don’t post any more comments, it’s not because I don’t read or have nothing to say, but because of that ugly comments posting gremlin that accuses people of posting too quickly, which is just his/her stupid excuse to be ugly to us)
phew, 12th attempt
BACK TO THE BEGINNING
It’s a start.
A jumping off point
for all you have conceived.
If you believed you had the power
you could shower the world
with your point of view.
It’s up to you to see
what you could do.
It’s a start.
And a lovey one may it be ! always
Inner Circle
Oh my cirlce
its is so good
it protects me
it lets me live
nothing else is like it
it always wants to give
There for one another
through the good times
and the bad
knowing when the other
is feeling down and sad
Helping hands
there for the other to see
letting each other
be who they want to be
Stories exchanged
lives combined
friends for ever
even through the stormy weather
Circles can all come in different sizes
big and small
protecting us and loving us
loving arms around us
and all
So let your circle in
let them know who you are
they will be with you for life
never needing you to set the bar
The essential support of a circle of friends is beautifully described here.
I cheated – wrote it a while back. But I’ve been writing since 6am and it’s 2.17 now, my back and brain are aching.
Circling Back
The lives we’ve lived
and the loves we’ve loved
interconnect like a magician’s hoops
Seemingly linked
but just an illusion
we’ve pretended made sense
You used to be there for me
but when I needed you most
your heart was an empty black hole
Now, as i spiral into infinity
like a dead goldfish
You flushed me down and away
But like the mythical Phoenix
I will rise again
And ride the carousel of love again
Sad, but salted with hope. A good circle. This is for JWL – my response to Marie Elena was being written at the same time as you posted. For some unaccountable reason, PAD posting has gone into overdrive: a welcome change!
the last line should have read “And ride the carousel of love once more”
Great circular poem, Robert. Serves you right for stopping up?
IT DOESN’T MATTER
I really do not want
to treat as inevitable
the vulnerability of the tangible.
Concrete crumbles, an old oak tumbles,
morphs from glorious might
into a habitat for beetles.
I prefer to ignore the evanescence
of endangered species,
not excluding me.
Safer to consider ephemera,
fleetingly collectible -
bus tickets, opera programmes,
postcards and stamps, signatures
of the soon-forgotten famous,
nevermore regarded;
shards of glass and pot,
disinterred and then discarded;
the daily dross of newspapers.
Better far to observe with pleasure
the pop of a rainbowed bubble -
no struggle -
or the plop of a stone into a pool,
as widening circles coalesce
into a liquid frill and de-materialise.
How do you write such wonderful poetry so quickly? I’m jealous.
great visual poetry, viv; nicely done
Nice prompt, and great poem, Robert!
This one calls for a concrete from Walt, I’d say.