Category Archives: The Pen

Gratitude

The robins are back.
I thankfully pick my way, careful
to not disturb;
as though I mean anything to them;
as though they were there to welcome me.
A blackbird admonishes from his branch
as I pass below.
He knows how self-centered I am
and he laughs.
He would steal bright things from me
if I stopped paying attention.
We revel in the coolness.
The blackbird, the robins,
and I.

 

I somehow let a milestone pass.  This is my 1002nd post on this little internet island. I wish I had something deep and profound to say but I am simply grateful to have this place to set my thoughts, a crooked path that seems to circle back on itself and then wander to the edges, moving from shiny thing to shiny thing, folding and scribbling and peeking behind in case I miss a prize.  I am forever grateful to the wizard (Tony) for allowing me to perch here, making sure that the nest stays high in the branches away from predators. The magic that was cast at the beginning still holds though it is mercurial.  The world was there all along, but you left the door open, and I thank you.

A Moment

there is a palpable moment
when the dark holds on by fingertips
then lets go with a sigh
velvet gives way
to cotton on the line
and every living thing
uncurls and shakes off sleep
birds sing the dawn devotion
and I hold my breath
waiting for the finale
of sunlight

She

nature is a fickle woman
you love her and then
she messes with
your circadian rhythms
and your appetites
Storms you awake
when you should sleep
lulls you in midday heat
when you would work
withholds favor when
your flowers need rain
breaths on leaves
that need raking
laughing as she runs away
leaving you small
and helpless
clinging to the rake

A Simple Life

day after day
babushka tied round
cropped white hair
stretchy pants and rubber boots
she swept the dirt of her yard
humming memories
in the autumn air then
leaning the broom by the door
sat down on an old wooden chair
and pulled off her boots
set them on the
saggy scaly porch
under crumpled shingles
soon to be a ghost
that last fall
her children would pick
through the scarves and cards
finding nothing of worth
they would lock the door
leaving behind
a yard covered with leaves
and a worn out broom

What Is Poetry?

I will try to understand
what is poetry

some arch brows and
chant
meter and rhyme
and rules
and they would strip my words
to bone and bleach
pinned on the line
to flap in cold wind
until frozen it no longer folds

some say anchor your feet
with punctuation
so we know where to breath
back me up to the wall
pull my heart
out from under me
I hide the sack of exclamation points
behind my back
and hold out a handful of question marks

I would learn the ropes
and rise like steam
metaphoric clouds
blind me to the moment
I get distracted
by distant music
forgetting to sift the grains of
life as they pass
through my fingers
landing on the page

my head hurts
from all the thinking
and I will float in the sea of wisdom
bobbing and weaving
with algae and angel fish
resting between waves
ponder the knowledge
of palm trees
how they know to sway
let yellow sun warm blue water
hold my hand up to the light
marvel at bones and veins

I will try to understand
what poetry is

Cyclical Experiment

no braking on the slippery slope
of sweetest dreams we hold to cope
cast the dice for hope and love
prayers for blessing from above
capricious luck chameleon
lives in finest gossamer skin

silver mirror tells a tale
the hazardous signs to no avail
fried eggs cause cholesterol
acid rain our own downfall
committed to this saddened road
sore weighed down by heavy load

follow through the deadline looms
inexorable lowering fateful boom
as mundane as a dog with fleas
remain in shallow water please
claimed by dirt the box awaits
there is no running from this fate

but still the soul is steel and stone
no chisel carves a scar upon
no soapsuds need to wash it clean
no jaded imitation sheen
throw your theory to the sky
Do not pretend that you know why

though battered, shattered, worn
the minds eye sees beyond the storm
pulls threads of crimson, gold and blue
a tapestry of purest hue
love sings past the aging flesh
life cycle soon begins afresh

 

this was from a contest on AllPoetry that allowed you to choose from five word banks of five – I decided to be perverse and see if I could work them ALL in.

Words: 1. steel, theory, soapsuds, imitation, chisel 2. mirror, hazardous, dandelion, fried eggs, committed  3. tapestry, sings, eye, shattered, collide  4. slippery, fantasy, casting, chameleon, lives  5. deadline, boom, fleas, shallow, dirt

rats – I missed dandelion!

 

Is There Life After The Sock Drawer?

Overflowing, tied in knots.
Some neatly paired.
Finely wrought for finer days.
Fancy saved
For special occasions.
Black lace toe sliders.
Silky thigh climber, sassy,
But clingy,
Hoping the elastic holds.
Uppity tweed thinks itself
Smarter than it is,
Neatly folded as a page.
Woolen warmth
For colder days,
Snuggles the corner
In the back,
Behind pilled and darned
(does anyone even
Do that anymore?
So outdated!)
Old comfort sits with holes,
Wistful and forgotten
Halfway to the trash.
Lonely single hoping for a mate,
Hanging on
That just in case dream.
Faded, jaded, spilling over,
Sorting needed, old and new;
A jumble, dryer tumbled,
Multicolor metaphor
Life in a sock drawer.

 

Just playing, may need some work…

The Cup

I sat at your table
sipping my coffee
staring out the window
as you prattled on
about your day
less than half
in the room with you

thinking I was better
traveling the edges
I glanced down
to find the cup drained
vague memory of taste
of a life spilled
down to the dregs

Tired Days

I have been too long away!  The spammers stuck by me though and as I cleaned out the spam folder I found that I am now very popular with the Russians and I can purchase false ID for Albania.

would you not burst upon my sky
pushing me down with gravity
intense as a desk lamp
laser focused

no, fall like soft rain
seep into dry skin
firefly flickers
seen at the edge of vision

these are tired days
and startle easily
darting for cover
when change comes

rather sing quietly
as the night bird
gentle the wild things
curled in their burrows

I will tuck my head under my wing
while the moon watches over
the clock winding down
to the rhythm of cricket chirps

Dry Season

Credit image to: Angie Cramer

Where are my questions
in this dry season?
I should summon
righteous anger,
scathing social commentary,
but my mind is covered
by a coating of fine ash.
Sunburned thoughts,
scorched soles of feet
that have walked sere earth
as dead things crunch.
I can’t even summon sorrow
Do dead leaves weep in winter?
Oh let this season pass
Where is my rain?
Lethargy takes my hand
and lays me down,
whispering
“it will pass…”

Sky Artistry

Summer dawn,
clouds plowed to furrows,
matching the ripple of freshening breeze
on lake surface.
I could rake my fingers through their moisture,
stirring designs circling round
the space left by my hand.
is that the pattern of the clouds?
Trails of God’s fingers
stirring the air after painting
the lavender and apricot sky?
Touches of glory condensed
to a view we can handle
No vision of Him,
Just a remnant of creation
clothed in majesty.

Day After

Sparkles dissipate
leaving stars forever.
Bright red cascades
disappear on black velvet
faster than crepe myrtle
blossoms covering grass.
Patriotic songs fade
into distance until
nothing is heard but crickets,
not even a weeping mother.
Burnt grass patches,
fifth of July roadside,
left over night antics
in a burn ban town.
One day of rain
coaxing tiny green shoots,
the earth shames us
and reclaims her own.

Let Them Go

listen you naysayers
muckrakers, joy takers, bill payers
all of you listen
the sun it will glisten on
ponds lily fronds magic wands
hopeful dreams clever schemes
are the way of the young hold your tongue
leave them be you can’t see
anymore past the past your life cast
now you just want to take them to task
They are sun dancers, free lancers,
fly by the seat of their pantsers
it’s their time not your time and this time
is high time for light and right
and loving with all their might
leave for later the haters, the baiters
the now is too laters
no waiters just jumpers with both feet
back thumpers just love them and leave them
they are bursting with sweet freedom
the hope of our future to suture
our brokenness tiredness hopeful
banked firedness
we the prayers, old players
the worlds yesterdayers
they slip through our fingers
not linger the singers will write
all new words and new tunes
and they’re gone all too soon

riffing off Gwendolyn Brooks “Speech to the Young”

Empty Dreams

bony shoulders
holding up the brown sky
in hand me down pants
clipped to cut down suspenders
suspending hope
from a million mile stare
at a train going nowhere
just making a lot of noise
and blowing holy smoke
holes in soles leaking dirt
and stones that bruise the heels
that walk the tracks
in an iron ore town
hard edges and empty dreams

Image credit: http://photographersweddingss.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/05/Old- Photographs.jpg

Sing The Light

Sunday Scribbling Prompt: Sweet

Morning is a softened time.
Trouble for the day
has not yet been to visit,
and in the grayness of the edge
birds are singing fiercely.
For the first time, I wonder why.

Science says that lengthening days
bring longer exposure to light,
triggering a hormone,
but I remember a song
“How Can I Keep From Singing”
and just smile.

We are all lifted up
with exposure to the light,
and in the rising
sing all the sweeter.

SuperNova

Courtesy of a night at the planetarium and Paschal’s word “Plangent”

how am I going to put
this all back together
I slap pieces on and they don’t stick
pick them up lick them up
stick them back doesn’t matter

yes it does it’s all matter

some bunch of gases went all
super nova and here we are
the star is blown all out
of proportion the tortion causing shearing
it’s appearing to be damaged
cells have clamored for assistance
but resistance is more than I can handle
lit a candle still the darkness
is a massive black hole
sucking all the light out
of the world is sky covered
cloud hovered galaxy smothered
in diamond starshot fabric bending
never lending an ear or a hand
I just stand and look up waiting
skating through the night
a ball of fright so tiny underneath
the heavens I would sing
the plangent tune of space time

subtle rhyme escapes

it winds around my throat
to silence questions with
no answers like the planets
in their orbit
through my veins corpuscles travel
routes unraveled slowly
predetermined til a single
singularity (not as much a rarity
as you might think)

takes everything to the brink
and then collapses into itself
like me I’m sinking under weight
of my own thoughts
I fought too hard I think

or not enough

this skin like space is bending
folding holding in the soul

but there are limits

I am in it but not staying
like the stars I am imploding
light exploding soon outshining
stellar pining for return to
source of course we argue
what that is but in the end we all
go back and fall into the core

becoming matter once again

the star stuff fading with the dawn
but what a journey to become
a softened color coated morning
where another will be looking to the sky
and wonder where am I and
do I fit here what’s my bit here

are my cells a part of yours

and did I come from up above
will I return and burn as brightly
daily nightly ever slightly
changing to become
the sun