First off, I’ve had a person or two ask about the April PAD Challenge results. Just want to let everyone know those are still coming, and I want to apologize for taking so long on them. They will be done before the next challenge begins, which is only a little more than a month away (believe it or not).
For today’s prompt, write a trespassing poem. Your poem can be written from either side of the fence or take an impartial view from the sidelines.
Here’s my attempt:
“At dusk”
Here we are. After we’ve turned our shoulders
to the sun, the world gets more fun. Someone
should write this down, the way we clown around
when we can’t be found. This park closed at dark
to all who hold fear, but that’s why we’re here.
*****
Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer
*****
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To the White Shepard
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
To the white Shepard chained 24/7 to a
dilapidated doghouse alongside a busy road,
that’s no way to live.
Most days when I drive past your house,
I worry you won’t have enough great stories
in which to mesmerize all the other dogs with
when you finally cross the rainbow bridge.
Stories like how chocolate tastes
and hot dogs and ice cream,
what it feels like to lay your head across
the padded arm of a large comfy sofa.
Dogs are social beings, meant to hang out
alongside man, break bread together
partake in singalongs and rideathons,
chase frisbees down fog-lined beaches,
hike rain-soaked trails, feel the
tug of a leash on a wintry day.
In truth, my heart aches each time
I see you at the end of the chain,
your eyes dull and downcast, as if
daring me to come some dark moonlit
night, skulk across the browning lawn,
and liberate your matted white coat into
the backseat of my Corolla.
But knowing the deep loyalty of dogs
no matter how bad the circumstance,
I fret over misinterpretations and the risk
of getting attacked, caught, or even arrested.
It’s a struggle deciding the greater sin,
coveting your neighbor, stealing, or
simply turning a cheek to man’s injustice.
Gripping the wheel, I hesitate, then drive on.
© 2012 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
THE WAY BACK
It’s been a long time, years of seasons, snow
that melts downcountry. What unlocks the door?
We’ll find a back way to Somerset Cross-
roads – canyons, rivers waiting to explore
new cuts through granite. Memory. How the wind
can sing through incense cedar. Songs of loss:
roads, canyons. Rivers waiting to explore
we’ll find. A back way to Somerset: cross
the Cosumnes, trespass scrub and ghost-pine.
So many fences that weren’t here before.
We’ll find a back way to Somerset. Cross-
roads. Canyons. Rivers waiting to explore
the map for names. Old miners’ diggins gone
to bear-clover. Flakes of gold the waters toss.
Roads, canyons, rivers. Waiting to explore,
we’ll find a back way to Somerset Cross-
roads. Old dogs we lost, and call in our sleep.
Unfenced views they showed us, a free land’s lore
we’ll find. A way back to Somerset Cross-
roads. Canyons, rivers waiting to explore.
MY TRESPASSES
I read the works of a poet
the words so cold
I”ll shiver and so know it
Sometimes I ignore it
It’s certain
I deplore it
And yet….
I explore it.
Bruised, Defeated but Not Down
My trampled heart
could bear no more
so I hung
a sign upon her door;
Broken, currently mending
needs time –
don’t come back,
will call if you are needed –
NO TRESPASSING
GET GONE – LONG GONE
G. Smith (BMI)
—————————————-
I thought the ring would say it all,
And I still can’t believe you called.
You stepped across the line,
This time.
Now I’m not saying she’s property,
But you know that she married me,
Don’t care how far back you go,
You know?
And I’m not usually a jealous man,
I give the benefit of the doubt when I can,
Still I can’t help but think you’ve planned
A little something all along.
Now, I don’t see conspiracy,
Hiding out behind each tree,
But somethings are what they seem to be,
So you better get gone – long gone.
The answer to your tired pick-up line:
“Hey there, Baby, what’s your sign?”
Is, “No trespassing,”
“Keep off the grass” ‘n’
Get on outta here;
Do I make myself clear?
And don’t look back.
Don’t wanna hafta use a little double-aught,
American made, fine buckshot,
To make my point;
Best leave this joint.
‘Cause when everything is said and done,
She’ll make it plain that I’m the one
And only in her life;
She is my wife.
And I’m not usually a jealous man,
I give the benefit of the doubt when I can,
Still I can’t help but think you’ve planned
A little something all along.
Now, I don’t see conspiracy,
Hiding out behind each tree,
But somethings are what they seem to be,
So you better get gone – long gone.
Just get gone – long gone.
Just get gone – long gone.
AVALANCHE ON LOOKOUT MOUNTAIN
Fresh snow beckons – covers any tracks
leading out, or back. We left the lodge before dawn,
its lights casting dark shapes
on a blank winter landscape that turned,
imperceptibly, dim to bright. Sun-glare off snow.
My dog sniffs blue shadow in tree-wells
and the lee-side of drifts.
No tracks of ski or snowshoe. No human scent.
The lost man had a camera – did his viewfinder
draw him past boundary lines into white
trespass? On Lookout’s southern flank, snow-rubble –
a cornice avalanched. Sun-glare,
brief daylight; sunset takes us always by
surprise. Dim to suddenly dark. Did lodge-lights
beckon him to take a shortcut,
to seek the whiteout, quick-way home?
TRESPASS
The world’s off-limits
to a child who reaches for the tree’s
knowledge, the nameless
kingdom’s key, dreams. You might
catch a glimpse of him at dusk,
outside the heavy oaken doors of rule
and grace, kneeling at gravestones,
making charcoal rubbings
of angels. Sometimes he’ll lean
against a spotless railing, watching
man-horses whirl in polo-mallet
whites. Hoofbeats
like his pulse. And then he’ll turn,
and seek out the forest’s leaf-
ballet under spills of light and shadow;
at last, he passes wordless
to his room, to sit snug, alone,
till suppertime. What role for such
a child in this fenced world?
NOT DARE TRESPASS (Roundabout)
I long to be a part of you.
My memories from the past
from years ago
you cannot know
my memories from the past.
Now a simple thing to do, but
through the door I can’t go.
I will not lie
I really try,
through the door I can’t go.
Walls seem to be cascading in
I feel I will be crushed.
What is to fear,
your friends stand here?
I feel I will be crushed.
I cannot stay, I turn away
I do not dare trespass.
You’re in plain sight,,
try as I might,
I do not dare trespass.
Between a rock and a hard place.
I went along to the open mic
with my poetry books in my hand.
I had a couple of things to read
at least that’s what I’d planned
but nobody spoke to me
nobody smiled
nobody met my eye,
so I changed the poems I’d planned to read,
went on stage and proceeded to die.
‘Cos they were not my people
and I certainly wasn’t theirs.
Something about me got right up their noses
down which they quite pointedly stared.
And I’m really rather proud that I didn’t turn tail and run
but most of me wishes I had, because sticking it out wasn’t fun.
So I won’t be going back to that place where I felt all wrong;
I’ll be trying to find where I feel right and where maybe I might belong.
And the funniest thing of all is, if I’d had this poem to tell
and recited it in a rock and roll way – it might have gone down rather well.
banana_the_poet 27th September 2012
I think here is a great place for you to feel a part of.
Only In That Time
It’s the twinkle of a moment
when life is fully visible
before dimming to darkness
as a spark from its source.
In that time
I own all imagined:
beyond perception,
beneath sound,
between touches,
before star fires perfume
discernment of taste.
Even in the afterglow
I am but a trespasser in life.
Roots
I trespass
In the neighbor’s yard
To cut the roots of the tree
Of which its branches trespassed in mine
Our problems
May originate
In distant places or time
And we busy ourselves plucking leaves
…Or trim the branches on your side?
Sacred Privacy
“Unasked advice is a trespass on sacred privacy.” –Unknown
Don’t tell
me what to think
because I won’t mind your words.
Instead, please try to understand
my thoughts are mine alone.
###
Hi Poet-Folk!
Sorry I haven’t been around much, but I am going back to school for another degree and don’t have a lot of time on my hands lately. I”ll try to read your poems later, ‘though…
Wonderful!
So true what yoou poem – and good going on that degree.
Childhood
Up on the hill above the White River Bridge –
On one of my daily, rambling adventures,
I would occasionally go to this cemetery.
I was welcomed by the thin, wrought iron gate,
Hanging loosely on one hinge,
The trees shot up fifty feet on the perimeter,
The dried grasses were yellow, tall and thick,
And fell over themselves like waterfalls.
The ground was deeply pocketed.
I always felt respectful and scared going in.
The markers were curved, worn limestone and
Stood askew, a few had fallen flat.
Some of the letters were blurry and hard to read.
Carefully, I would walk past the graves
Of the Indiana Brigade and
The smaller graves with brief stays,
I thought about those going South -
To fight on foot for the Union,
And what that would be like.
Children who died of diphtheria or cholera
Or other childhood diseases,
And,
How easy it is to die unknown and alone.
In the world.
This is a beautiful poem.
I swallowed hard on
“The dried grasses were yellow, tall and thick,
And fell over themselves like waterfalls.”
Good/sad memories of ‘growing-up’ – a small part of who you are today.
Trespassing (with Gooses)
Summers in the country
were filled with enough chores
most of the time
and enough lazy days
in the tire swing
or rambling in the little piece of woods
but sometimes
wanderlust would strike
childish heels
and we would wander the
roads and lanes
(unpaved until 1978)
on quests of discovery.
Once we found a wide-open field
with sunflowers,
(so many it was like the field
of poppies in
the Wizard of Oz)
and we were simultaneously
possessed of a notion
to bring some home
to grandma.
And so, over the whitewashed
split-rail fence we avidly climbed,
ready for plunder,
and right back over we
scurried as we discovered
a full gaggle with accompanying
gander
all fully loaded with
vicious beaks,
hissing,
tails wagging
furiously;
and they chased us
home.
Diana Terrill Clark
Oh, memories – our chaser was a unhappy sow with a litter of pigs. Mom have to come rescure us from the barn recieving dock!… Thanks for the memory.
I Am Between Walls
William Williams
is trespassing
in my left
ear, his film noire
voice an itch
in my right –
his speech
stilted
as cobbles,
and I am trapped,
and trespassing
between walls.
Time for a hearing aid ‘off-button’
I was listening (through headphones) to Williams reading one of his poems, “Between Walls” for a class that I’m taking.
Trespassers
We cut across the grass when we were late
Fences didn’t get in our way, our legs were long
And we were in a hurry, heard the gong
Of the tower clock, our professor would not wait
Sneaking in un-noticed was beyond our skills
We strode in boldly, why should we hesitate?
An important group like us – the class should wait
He paused to watch us with a look that could have killed.
It didn’t matter where we went or what got in our way
If we could push it all aside, we marched right through
“It’s broken, Oh! So sorry, but there’s nothing we can do…”
“Oops, we knocked it over?” “Too bad, just let it lay…”
Our attitude, we were informed, was nothing to admire.
But we were late, was our excuse, when someone would complain
Once we discovered a short cut was to enter in the exit lane
We also found that in our haste, we had flattened every tire.
.
Hummmm Did you learn anything from that last stunt?
Assuming that time tapered your swagger.
Borders
And that sign said, “No Trespassing”,
But on the other side, it didn’t say nothin’….
– Woody Guthrie
They meant nothing to us at ten or twelve,
except some barriers thrown up here and there
as a challenge to climb or push through:
a picket fence, a stone wall, a hedge.
Like little land barons, we took ownership
of those lots and yards, just because they were
part of our neighborhood, our territory,
our literal stomping ground.
We sought bare spaces for sandlot ball,
a grassy hill to roll down, a microcosmic plain
for Cowboys and Indians. If the owner yelled,
“Hey you kids!” and came after us, we’d scatter,
hoist one another over the chain-link fence,
then look for the next land to invade.
We meant no harm crossing these borders –
our only weapons were imagination and enthusiasm
for the vastness of our little world, though sometimes
we’d play war with sticks for guns.
I can still feel these moments. btw I have tickets to see Arlo’s tribute to Woody this Sunday night
I find such ‘children’]s play’ a womderful part of growing up.
…and you have brought to mind a bit of trespassing I took part in.
Ohooo, they hold some great times
IMPARTIAL
still straddling the fence
with remarkable balance
astounding agility
making little ground
would hate to embark on one’s
territory or the other
would hate to intrude
or fall upon
an unexplored region
then labeled a trespasser
heaven forbid
would hate to offend anyone
of course
by choosing a side
will try to remain impartial to end
but would hate for some strong wind
to blow me to one side
or other
Benjamin Thomas
so true. Sometimes we offend by taking no side.
Not sure how much tonge in cheek you speek here….
How does that go? ….. If someone chooses to be offended by you – they are also choosing to allow you to have that power over you.
TREPASS?
My space, your space
My heart, your heart
Two in one, one in two
Decide each day what to do
Come here, stay there
Stay this side, stay this way, today.
Who Has The Right? (shadorma)
She sits in her home
memories
of husband
surround her. Why can’t she stay?
She will try harder
not black out. We fear
her safety
has no net.
So we trespass on her life
of independence.
i love the line, “we fear her safety has no net”…..well, really, love the whole thing!
Names spoken in darkened, forlorn hallways,
Mystery hidden in literature,
Between volumes of words remain always,
From unsettled heart, there is found no cure
Tunnels of fallen leaves blow in low swirls,
Footsteps crackle and crush peace defiance,
Fire smolders in shadowed, dark smoky curls,
A hand from secret, voice brought to silence.
Haunted grave enrapturing entombed heart,
Dead grass, witness to desecration lone,
Within ancient earth a dwelling revealed,
Truth brought to light, in shadow’s casting own.
In moonlight glow amidst devilish tune,
One has come to claim that which is now strewn.
THE CHOICE OF MOMENTS.
As a child I saw them,
bright moments unconcealed
light through leaves,
flying on swings,
marshmallows in hot cocoa.
And as a child I danced
in patent leather shoes,
singing, twirling,
heart open
to the imaginary crowd.
But she saw:
a child to mind
leaves to rake
another cup of cocoa
interrupting her thoughts,
as she sat
with her cigarette,
hugging
disappointment
to her chest.
When she died she sent
via lawyer and the postal service,
boxes of memorabilia,
annotated, dated and initialed
with anger and discontent.
And when her bitter narrative
trespasses in my head,
I choose to turn
my back and run
outside
seeking moments unconcealed,
of light through leaves
to dance and sing,
always holding my joys
tighter than my hurts.
i feel like this is still pretty rough, but i wanted to get it on here today….
Private Property
She taped the crayoned sign
to her bedroom door
and slipped beneath
thick covers
falling into
swift slumber
believing in the inviolate
safety of her solution
A child’s aegis of innocence.
So sweet. Made me smile.
I remember this behavior.
Ah yes before the days of sharpies
Ah… thank you all — always devour your delicious comments.
Actually I love your interpretation of what I saw as a darker poem!
I enjoy the sweetness that you saw far more than the threat that was imagined
THANK YOU ALL!
Posted for Michele…
Michele Poet
Tried to comment on Pearl’s trespass poem on PA but it won’t let me
So here’s my comment instead:
“Oops – I am made of more cynical stuff. Or maybe I’ve been following your train of thought more closely over the last few weeks. I enjoyed this as a bittersweet, uh oh, type poem. But it is lovely how a poem can be many things to many people and develop a will of its own once it has been released into the ‘wild.’ xx”
NOT YOUR PROPERTY
Where once you were
invited and welcomed,
the memory of you is
trespassing on my dreams.
I like this very much.
Thanks, Misky…it’s the Naani Form. Another “short form” that I like besides the shadorma.
When the night falls hard like
The last wheelbarrow of stones dumped behind the barn
Picked from the field
Rocks our oxen stumble over and plough blade chips on
Or catches and halts us in the wet dirt
When that last light at Yoder’s fades and
The whippoorwill sings
When the mosquitos tresspass into your room
And you chase them with your only book
Your Huckleberry Finn swatter
And your head sinks into that feather pillow
Unable to lift itself from the fall
You know it was a good day
Wow, love the imagery in this piece, well done, bravo!
In a Cemetary
Leaning softly arm around arm
Shoulder against shoulder
Backs against granite
Hands gently squeezing
Warm cans of beer
Thank you for the prompt Robert. My poem is here… http://hopefuljo.wordpress.com/2012/09/26/365-creativity-project-day-261/
Transcendental Trespasses
In my dreams I
sift through time,
an autumn leaf
waltzing on air.
You lift me
through fields of wheat,
each moment a stolen memory
until we drift to sleep as one.
Nice touch Laurie…
Thanks, Benjamin!
This is lovely, Laurie.
Watching for the Fall
Wondering imagination
laughter filled our souls
up to no good
lets explore the nearest wood
On our way to the open
the trees waving at us
with wind swept air
reining in
eyes wide open
smiles and a grin
Unable to walk past the trill
before we knew it
we were in our fill
as apples of nourishment
filled our pockets
the farmer flew out with his gun
like a rocket
Bang went the thunder
it took over the tighten air
flashes of lightening
everywhere
As the farmer threw back his head
to this day
run away home
now children
do not delay
Scared and helpless
frightened to the bone
was it the weather
or the man
we had torn
Ripping his earning
from the trees of fruit so full
as darkness washed away
our lives that day
that was dull
For Baby Girl M
soft turned earth
the colour
of my morning
latte lays
the length of you
is all there is to say
you ever breathed
my being here
feels invasive
Oh. This is beautifully said, and i’m really sad now…
Thank you Julie – it’s based on an actual situation that’s on my mind a lot lately and it is, incredibly sad.
The Thief in the Night
Whether he or she,
Old or young,
One who can slip
In unnoticed moves
As a thief in the night.
Whether real or imagined,
From yesterday or tomorrow,
That which controls my focus
To exclude all else around
Works as a thief in the night.
To come within my space,
To insinuate without grace
To form a bond within,
Removes me for its sake
As can only a thief in the night.
© Claudette J. Young
Trespassed on–footsteps laid
across a sleeping back
and covers lifted so wind–
wintry and dry–gets underneath
and inside, twisting
as in a street’s cavern,
throwing scraps and hats
into the sky,
so that what’s left
is unrecognizable,
trampled on
and left to rise or not.
Deer? We can relate over here.
Nice work!
Yep, deer, the nibbling little wretches! They enjoy everything I plant, right down to the ground. Thanks, Marie!
Wait ’til the circus rolls into a nearby town, or your local zoo, and then buy some lion dung to sling around the garden. Your deer will run for the hills, Jane.
Early Visitors
You come at dawn to nibble
acorns beneath the trees,
your diet broadened
to hydrangeas and lilies,
my hostas snipped
even with the ground
your eye on the woods
and the yard as you taste
my garden and approve.
Deal
I have a sturdy box jammed
with my journals, chronicles
of drama,turmoil, wisdom
come too late,self-love
and self-loathing, recipes
for the good life, grocery lists
of stupidity,writings that should
have been destroyed
years ago, whose existence
yet keeps me honest.
In the event of my sudden
or untimely death,
my best friend has instructions
to burn them without reading them.
Naturally, we have afforded
one another this mercy.
Perhaps all we will discover
is what manner of friends we were
and are, whether our curiosity
will hole us up with the other’s
words flaming before our vision,
remembering, feeling
the burn of trespass,
the smolder of missing.
Another wow checked off in Jane’s column. You amaze me!
OOOOH! i like this– though i know i would never dare promise to not read….
Thanks, Friends!
Good one, Jane. Takes things to a whole new place.
Dying
Alone
Reflecting
On a life
Wasted
Pushing away
They finally got the message.
Deep and well penned, JWL
(Zymurgy form by Walt Wojtanik)
Like Adventurous Children
Children like adventure, to roam and wander.
W hen we were little we’d venture through hills
A nd woods and come upon no-trespassing signs
N ailed to trees or hanging on fences. We weren’t
D isturbed because many acres were free to
E xplore. To country kids, creeks, vines, trees and
R ocks were like playgrounds were to town kids.
Kids like to go here and there and where
W onders await. For endless hours, we
H ad fun climbing, swinging, sliding until
E xhausted. We’d soar in pretend jets and
R ockets and fight villains, monsters and
E vil men to protect our part of the woods—
Woods where we were allowed—always.
A t times we’d be enticed by the forbidden,
L ike a decrepit house surrounded by
W eeds, a hidden monastery or other
A ssorted private properties. But we knew
Y ou got in enough trouble even where we were
S upposed to be. We knew, firsthand, it was so.
So we stuck to where we were welcome. I
W ish, in this life, we’d remember to
E ngage in the opportunities our
L oving God has for us. At times we stay too
C lose to the fences, not venturing out.
O beying His no-trespassing signs, we
M ight have more fun and adventure
E xploring all of the wonders He offers.
Oh, AMEN. WONDERFUL poem and use of of Walt’s amazing form!
Thanks for the props, Connie. I appreciate it. And Pard, you help bring out the amazing. My “Don’t Tread on Me” above is also in Zymurgy.
Wow. So very, very clever!
Trespasser
The gates are closed , the day is done
The heart is heavy and the coats are hung
When suddenly , unexpected, out of the blue!
Uninvited,– he sails right through!
Like moonlight seeping thro the dry cracked walls
He stealthily decorates the dark damp hall
Who knows what, when and who will show
You may not want to lock the door
PriyA Jane
Love the cadence of this, PriyA Jane.
Between the Tangerine Lipstick
Because the mouth speaks out of the abundance
of the heart, her words were prickly and set
like a barb-wire fence. But he was able to climb
above it and gaze at fear through her transitional
eyewear that gradually became clear as evening
sipped the daylight. He sang extraordinarily
out of tune as far as she was concerned,
and yet he managed to make her crushed
quixotic opera twist and shout.
Yolee, what I would give to get into your mind for just a short time, and see the workings thereof. Your way with words completely intrigues me!
i kinda don’t know what to say, but this really makes me smile and giggle!!
Love this. So true!
Wow!
Thank you, Marie E. I appreciate of your encouraging spirit. You are too kind.
Hi Julie, what a cool thing that this made you smile and giggle. Thank you for letting me know.
Sharon, glad you love it. Thank you muchly.
Sara, wow for your wow.
can I forgive him
his trespasses against me
with other women?
A question for the ages.
my neighbour’s apples
trespass into our garden…
finders are keepers
Indeed!
The Good Neighbours
The fence stands up tall, iron brittle and cold
A veil made of man-worked metal and charms
Reaching down into the ground,
as much in the earth as above.
A sharp swing could sent it crashing,
All noise and shattered edges
As the barrier falls down in snowflake-shards.
The fence makes us good neighbours.
You test this again and again,
Creeping over the fence one by one.
On our side of the divide you will become our game
Due to a pact that is written in blood.
We’ll smile, we’ll cosset, we’ll feed you, and more
But return home, there you’ll wither away.
We’re sorry but that price is levied
When you, unwanted, made your way up and over the wall.
We are your good neighbours
But you rarely come over
That fence standing tall in the way
If you opened the gate, we’d hold open our arms.
But still the iron stands as your guardian edge
And our rules were made very clear
Trespassers will be prosecuted to the fullest extent
And we have different ways of making laws.
Forgive Us Our Social Trespasses
Creeping shrinkingly into the crowd,
Eyes flitting nervously back and forth,
You wish either for open affection
Or absolute invisibility.
You receive neither.
Too late, when there can be no escape,
You feel their disgusted glares
Condemning your audacity.
I feel like I am over-using the term “brilliant,” but it is suitable! GREAT write, Miss R!
Thanks, Marie!
WHOSE WORLD IS THIS?
In a drawer, from an unexpected nest
of insulation and shredded papers
that I meant to keep forever whole,
skittered a mouse – the one who keeps
her store of stolen cat-kibble in a mug
that hangs from the cupboard? White-
brown spotted mouse. So close, I
could see, down the length of her belly,
two neat seed-rows dark as wild-rice –
and five mouselets clamped to those
teats as she softly rose up out of my
drawer to merge back into secret
spaces behind cabinetry, the innards
of my house. For an instant, she
looked me in the eye, then she was
gone. Back to her mouse under-
ground. This is all I know. Whose
house, whose world is this, anyway?
Good point.
Your way of capturing image, feeling, story, and moral in so very few words astounds.
TAKER
A mere two years ago,
A cold slab bore her son’s bullet-ridden body
In a faraway continent no longer her own.
This morning,
A cold slab bears her son’s bullet-ridden body
In a faraway continent no longer her own.
Begging you please,
leave this mother-heart be.
~~~~~~~~~
Unbelievably, my Venezuelan brother-in-law this morning lost his second (and last) brother … one gunned down two years ago, and the other shot in the neck this morning. My heart literally hurts for their mother, here in the states with her 3rd son (my brother-in-law) and only daughter. Jimmy (the one killed this morning) leaves a wife and 7-month-old son. God be with the family, and grant unfathomable peace and comfort … please…
I can’t even formulate a reply to this except to say I’ve read it and my own heart grieves as well.
Thank you, “creative.” My words can’t express how horrid this situation, and I understand exactly what you mean by “I can’t even formulate a reply.” That is how I have felt all day. I can’t even verbalize a prayer.
Aw, Marie Elena, but the prayer of your heart is received in heaven even when words cannot contain it. I pray that peace and comfort be the umbrella over this storm. Bless you and your own.
Thank you so very, very much Yolee. You are such a sweetheart.
Blessings right back to you.
Marie, I always find comfort in the assurance ( in Romans) that sometimes I don’t need to form the words myself.
Duh … feeling very dull right now. I don’t know why I’m doing this: TEN years ago is what is in my head, yet “two” keeps exiting through my fingers. I’ve done this several times now. Sheeesh…
Oh Marie Elena – the magnitude of this trespassing defies imagining or articulation; your prayers are really the only things that make any kind of sense, at least in my view.
Oh, I am so sorry, Maria Elena.I can’t imagine the sadness here. I’m sending up prayers.
I can’t conceive of this. How awful.
(((Hugs))) I have no words. xx
OH MARIE – words … There are no words and yet the pain spills from heart to pen to us to share…what can be offered – only love as an antidote …OH MARIE – a gorgeous plea that should never have to be written… All I can keep repeating is OH MARIE ….
Payback is a B*tch
Her great times ten-to-the-eighth-power grandmother
Probably settled here when all that could be seen
For fifty miles in any direction was forest and mountain
And streams, the occasional dear, and lots of flies.
She didn’t ask to have a house built on hers.
So I am the trespasser, though I still scream and run
When she walks across her ancestral lands
Hunting for food which, in truth, I’m glad to have gone.
I feel the guilt of my trespass and murder charges
As I turn on the vacuum and suck her up, web and all,
And hope her great times ten-to-the-eighth power grandchildren
Don’t cawl out of the drain
While I’m taking a shower
And exact vengance on me.
Wow, I should *not* be allowed to post when I’m feeling sick, the spelling errors are just screaming at me now.
Errors or not, this is a fun read! Your pen name suits you, “creative.”
Favorite lines: “her great times ten-to-the-eighth-power grandmother” and “…grandchildren” Those tickle me.
What a great way to put it.
I confess to actually thinking about it one day, that if my house was built in 1932, how many spider generations did that amount to…
LOL!!!
Love that “great times ten-to-the eighth power.”
LOL thank you! Seems this is one of those rare lines that managed to tumble out just right!
I really like this.
I’m so glad, thank you!
So sad…
Rummaging
Even though I know you’re gone,
I feel like a prowler in your house,
rummaging through your clothes,
reaching far into the back of the closet,
daring to climb the wobbly ladder
into the attic, dark and dusty,
the perfect scene for Wile E. Coyote’s
Acme roadrunner trap, insulation
like old cotton candy, camouflaging
insubstantial footholds, naked
light bulb dangling, conjuring shadows.
I keep glancing over my shoulder,
expecting you to enter the room,
to catch me invading your privacy,
if not your home now left to me.
I slide your rings on my fingers,
clip the ear bobs on my lobes,
like a grown-up game of dress-up.
My hesitation baffles me;
I hold old night gowns, bed jackets
hovering mid-air before assigning them
to the black trash bag, heavy
and lifeless as a body bag.
I check pockets, wondering if you
too like the surprise of a folder bill,
and I flip the pages of your Bible,
the novel, still bookmarked by the bed,
reading the cryptic penciled notes,
a letter still unopened, a mystery
I’ll never solve, and yet I know
you lived your life like an open book,
no secrets, no delicate dancing
around meaning. Forthright, you spoke
your mind, never withholding truth
or your affection. Anything I find here
serves only as confirmation, detritus
of a live you finished long ago,
no more to you than cobwebs
or candy wrappers, your last prank,
leaving it all for me to muse on,
your spirit peeking around the corners,
tickling my neck, whispering my name.
Oh, Nancy … so brilliantly penned as always. My goodness!
i love this….
I can’t quite tell what I feel reading this. Sad, nostalgic, peaceful (oddly?), and the kind of poem I want to tuck away and read again in 5 years and see how different I feel then than I do now.
Absolutely brilliant and moving…I can’t quite put into words…brilliant doesn’t seem to be a strong enough word
I can’t quite capture what I feel either. And perhaps that is the point at such a time. So well done.
Exquisite!
Grave Walking
Cloaked in darkness,
we walk through the cemetery
after the closing hour.
We look for security,
but only see statues
keeping watch
while graves hide in shadows
with secrets buried deep.
Kept secret
are the pranks,
and I’m sure someone here
when they were young
once did the same.
We walk through my passing life
reverent and silent
in darkness
while waiting to hear
a timeless story of spirit
a story to share.
Bravo, Mike. This begs a second and third read.
Wow. I had to “log in” to post. Apparently it’s been awhile. Finally back among the living, and the writing.
Trespasses
These words
were never meant
to spill here,
to fill this side of
these tired tracks,
to intrude on your
thought process,
invade your privacy
or invoke your
righteous indignation.
Ignore them
if you choose;
loose your own,
and forgive us
ours.
.
BRILLIANT. SO, SO, SO good to see your incredible, creative words here again, De. Keep on the mend!
ditto that sojourner … so good to see you back
Wonderful.
Good one, De. Also, I rarely miss Poetics Aside, and I constantly have to log in.
Grave Walking
Cloaked in darkness,
a friend and I
walk through the cemetery
after the closing hour.
We look for security,
but only see statues
keeping watch
while graves hide in shadows,
with secrets buried deep.
Kept secret
are the pranks,
and I’m sure someone here
when they were young
once did the same as I.
I walk through my passing life,
reverent and silent
in darkness
while waiting to hear
a timeless story of spirit,
a story to share.
Mike, this is wonderful writing.
Strength for Today (a shadorma)
Forgive us
our trespasses, as
we forgive
(God help me)
those who trespass against us -
again and again.
Wonderful use of a great prayer, Marie Elena
Thank you so much, Ina.
Wonderful. Yes, that’s just how it is.
Election Time
Daily,
the calls come in.
Political machines
grinding away, trespassing on
my time.
3 as I sat here a few minutes penning my Shadorma. And we have a non-published number. Oy …
Dog Days
Beware of dog
The sign says
And they obey
Once or twice
They got in
How we played
I miss those times
Now I sit alone
Chained and forgotten
Look into my eyes
And see my hurt
My loneliness
Nothing to beware of
Just an old dog
Needing a friend.
Very moving. I know such a dog. I don’t understand why his owners have him. There’s no fence, so they have to chain him. So unfair.
I totally agree with this.
…AS WE FORGIVEN THOSE WHO TRESPASS
Offering the other cheek
is a meek way to succeed.
But we proceed in the knowledge
that forgiveness expected
should be given in kind.
We are of a mind that the rule
is golden, and we are emboldened
by the need to treat another
as we would want to be.
Forgiveness is key.
It unlocks the heart to love.
All visitors are welcomed.
nothing short of brilliance once again, Walt
Thank you, JW. I’ve been contemplating my mortality and mistakes I’ve made lately. This prompt seems tailor-made to address such things.
Oh wow … we were on the same wavelength, Walt. (Go figure)
What EXCELLENCE you pen!
Yes, again!
FORGIVE US OUR TRESPASSES…
Forgive us, Lord.
We have walked in paths
that strayed from the way
we were raised. We have grazed
in green pastures that were meant
for others to consume.
We are a curious people,
full of life and desires,
stirred by the fires within.
But our sin is in the coveting
of things we do not possess.
Forgive us our trespasses. Forgive us.
Amen and amen.
Yes.
Neighbors
When we moved to this new subdivision
I did not reckon on the lack of trees
The chemical perfection of the lawns
The driveways with their breakaway backboards
The plastic mail boxes a hundred strong.
Nor did I imagine coming home late
To discover my furniture had changed
And that my wife and three children were gone.
I showered with strange soap, found a towel
And lay on the couch, feeling uneasy.
ouch…painful
or did you walk into the wrong house since it was all cooking cutter?
“cookie-cutter”
*in best “Mr. Bill” voice* Oh noooooooooooo!!!!
Funny and eerie all at once. Very nice.
Yikes! Well done.
Ooh, good one, Andrew.
“My Trespasser”
I let you in once.
Never again. Never
Should you cross my mind.
Yet your memory
Persists, creeping in like mold
So strong that it hurts
I’ve built my fences
My armada, my stronghold
But your shadow hangs
Over me, like some
Smothering smoke or headcold
My dreams ache for you.
I let you in once.
I invited you inside.
But never again.
love it
Powerful.
Nice…kind of on the same wavelength…
Wonderful images. You’ve really captured these feelings so well.
Crowded Cloud
The angel quotes an
immortal,
“Get off of my cloud!”
Love it – trying to imagine Keith and Mick turning up at the pearly gates…
Great poem – terrific comment
Very cool!
DON’T TREAD ON ME
Me? I am a man who keeps to himself.
Hardly the social butterfly,
I have my connections, but I’m selective.
Maybe I’m a bit too private,
seeming aloof and distant. But,
everyone has their own space to
live within which keeps them removed
from the prying eyes of others.
Others can choose to allow
aspects of their
lives to hang like dirty
laundry in the public eye,
only to find they’ve made themselves vulnerable; too
willing to give up that which makes them secure.
Secure in the knowledge that
those who chose to intrude upon another
have no reason to think that they
are accepted to have carte-blanche. It is
the dumbing down of social mores,
moreso than anyone’s need to know.
Keep to yourself that which is meant for
no one else’s eyes, and
open up to others what you feel comfortable to give.
Walk upon the paths allowed, but don’t tread on me.
“The dumbing down of social mores” – your whole last stanza – wow …
OFF OF MY CLOUD
Silence plays on the mind
as a cacophonous noise.
A stirring intrusion on
thoughts and ideas left
to fester and ferment.
Time is spent
lamenting the loss
of privacy and secrets
exposed. But a solitary man
know the damage of such
thrusts to his quiet place.
It might be what he needs,
but not always what he wants.
He’ll emerge when ready.
Leave him alone and
he’ll come around.
Deep and well penned. As always.
`lamenting the loss of privacy and secrets exposed’- For me this made the poem reach deep inside. Good one, Walt.
NIGHT POACHERS
Full moon
bold as a cry,
clean as new ice.
Two men running
noiseless across
frozen fields.
Gin traps in
canvas bags
rattle like teeth.
They fall laughing
in clouds into
the lee of a wall.
A dog barks;
a man calls.
The sounds curl away.
The men sleep
wrapped around
their prey
like lovers.
This is great, Walt. Love the imagery of the rattling teeth and the men wrapped around their prey like lovers. Strong start to the day for the rest of us to follow!
Credit where it is due, Andrew! Mine is the next one. Patteran nailed this one! Agree with your assessment!
Oops! Patteran, my apologies for the wrong name! Still – my appreciation remains. Love it.
Hear, hear. Patteran, you are new to me. Strong voice … hoping to hear more from you.
i love how visual this is!
Many thanks, all. Much appreciated. Happy to open the batting, as we Brits say. First time I’ve been first pretty much anywhere, I think! The poem comes from my book ‘Ancient Lights’, published by Phoenicia Publishing -http://www.phoeniciapublishing.com – and available from them or via Amazon. (Commercial ended).
This blew me away, Patteran. Wonderful way to go with the prompt.
Thank you, Sara. Much appreciated.
I enjoyed this very much. Deceptively simple.