Keeping Secrets

Weight of Memory

2012-01-26T06:55:00.001-05:00

Weight of Memory

On the shelf
of the thrift store,
amid detritus
of other lives,
a teacup,
cracked and lined,
and I am in
another time
when she was likely
as young as I
am now, and I was
hardly old enough
to climb
onto the chair alone.

We drank tea from
flowered cups.

She gave me little gloves
she kept in a drawer
of the hutch.

Lace and buttons.
Tea in flowered cups.
My knotty hand
can hardly lift it up,
it weighs that much.

Gravid

2012-01-25T18:50:00.001-05:00

The Mag photoprompt this week is this. I must admit that I've pulled the seaweed from Tess Kincaid's sushi. Visit other Magpies at http//:magpietales.blogspot.com

GRAVID

I lie
naked as I came,
fetal,
tied to earth
like seaweed.

Ecstacy

2012-01-25T05:32:00.001-05:00

ECSTACY

In the warm
breath
of night,
bare breast
invites
the distant light
of stars;
sharp,
cold lances
pierce
the heart
that stills
beneath the trance
of otherworldly
light
and splits
open
to the night.

Who Shot Jesus?

2012-01-19T06:14:00.002-05:00

This excerpted from local TV news:

There's outrage and sadness in one local community after an act of vandalism on a sacred symbol -- a Jesus statue that was shot.

They're asking, "Who shot Jesus?"

“My grandchild ran in and said, ’Someone shot Jesus in the head,' ” Pastor Bobby Adkins said.

Someone drove by the Lundale Freewill Baptist Church in Logan County and shot the church's Jesus statue nearly between the eyes."

Not much to do in the hollers (yes, hollers) of West Virginia, I guess. Me, well, I'm doing something much more productive. I've been attempting Grace's challenge at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads to write a Tanaga,

Here it is:

A tanaga is a short poem of four lines, each line seven syllables with a single rhyme. Today, other rhyme schemes are used, including freestyle rhyme, but for the purpose of this exercise, let's try to stick with couplets.

So, here's our form:

XXXXXXA
XXXXXXA
XXXXXXB
XXXXXXB

The tanaga is traditionally presented without a title, has an extreme reliance on metaphor, should be emotionally charged and ask a question that begs an answer.
You can see other tanagas here: http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2012/01/tuloy-po-kayo.html

Here's mine, inspired by Who Shot Jesus?

tanaga:

Who shot plastic Jesus' head?
Don't they know that plastic's dead?
If that's true, then why the start
Of extra bloodflow from his heart?

One Word, Two Word, Red Word, Blue Word or Don't Swallow a Rotten Fish

2012-01-17T06:09:00.002-05:00

My habit is to rise early to read and write. If I wake in the night, I cannot, no matter how I try, go back to sleep. What's the matter? Words, words, words! ;-)

I've been reading to my granddaughter, so I can thank Dr. Seuss and Nora for this!

ONE WORD, TWO WORD, RED WORD, BLUE WORD
Or DON'T SWALLOW A ROTTEN FISH

It's words that call me from my bed,
That fill my head with rushing roar!

I cannot make a single sound!
I chew words up and force them down.

Their poison tiny, tiny parts --
I spit them out in fits and starts

Into some other sweeter form,
as if this illness were the norm.

The words I've swallowed won't digest!
They rumble me and make a mess

Of all my peaceful sleep and more --
I puke them out onto the floor.

*I think of the all-time nastiest words is "puke." I won't list the rest.

Sometimes I Try Too Hard

2012-01-15T13:20:00.001-05:00

Thanks to Michael Rhyne for the title. Visit Magpie Tales for other takes on the photo prompt.

Sometimes I Try Too Hard

Solid prayers break
against the deep;

chances fall like manna
out of reach.

The salted sea settles
round my feet.

Sometimes, I try too hard,
as if this cold were not

seeping through the pillar
that is me,

as if some god were
there to span the breach.

Festivals

2012-01-09T06:02:00.001-05:00

FESTIVALS

Today, I saw on t.v.
a camel
tricked out in gold
entertain a crowd
of dark-eyed men.
The animal
danced and pranced
and nodded to the music
of his master.
Turbaned watchers,
stooping in the dust,
shook their heads,
amazed.
I could't help but think,
this day,
of other beasts,
footsore and worn,
nodding to the sound
of other choirs,
and of those
other watchers,
kneeling in the dust,
bowing their heads,
amazed.

Ozymandias

2012-01-08T13:51:00.002-05:00

This is in response to the prompt #99 from Tess at Magpie Tales.

Apologies to Shelley.

image: Friedlander

Ozymandias

You are

Ozymandias

Standing legs apart

Hands on your hips

Off with their heads

On your lips

If they but disobey

And yet you

Are moved

By the way

Her skirt

Twirls about her

And her voice

Drowns the

Desert noise

The ululations

Of a dying nation.

I tell you

King of kings

These things are

Like the dust –

Your legs

Will crumble

Beneath your lust

And kingdoms all

Will tremble

At your fall.

New Years Day

2012-01-01T06:52:00.003-05:00

New Year's Day

No one else astir
this dark, cold morn --
just the stars and me.
The thin drift of grey
flung across the blueblack sky
gives me a sense that
everything's in motion.
I'm almost dizzy,
looking up at these familiar friends.
They're the most eternal things I know,
keepers of all history.
And I, their small and silent witness,
breathe a prayer of thanks
before returning
to the warmth and light
inside my little home.

Friends

2011-12-30T08:26:00.004-05:00

Photo: Joan Jett

Friends

She would, she says,
if she could do it all again,
be a rock star.
I can see it in the heels
she swears feel fine,
even when she stands all day.
It's in the spiky hair she wears,
the way she can dance all night
and drink me under the table.
Last year, she took voice,
thinking that the local stage
might be her place to shine.
Then life interrupted,
and she left that dream behind.
But if she could, she'd be a star,
Hit the road in a bus,
Live life hard.
She's Joan Jett.
Me? I'd be a gentle poet.
I haven't told her yet.

Sister

2011-12-28T06:38:00.001-05:00

There goes with me

A fair-haired girl
Whose apple cheeks
And almond crescent eyes,
Whose outstretched hand
And flat-footed hope
Perpetually beckon,
Leading through
And through
And out.

Vessel

2011-12-19T05:51:00.001-05:00

Vessel

Empty yourself
So as to be filled
With Grace,
The undeserved gift
Of Christmas.

Old Wives Tales

2011-12-19T05:38:00.001-05:00

photo - Lee Frielander

Mag 96
This little verse is a response to the Magpie Tales photo prompt at left. Frielander often uses shadow in his photographs. Join Tess Kincaid's other magpies here.

Old Wives
Tales

Apple peels and Letters
Teaspoons in a cup
Sleep atop a wedding cake
Count the buttons up
Rich man poor man beggar
Time, he is a thief,
Shadows to remind me
How futile to believe

Still Life, Vanitas

2011-12-16T06:06:00.001-05:00

This photo is of a Vanitas still life by Abraham Mignon, a Dutch painter of the 17th Century. This style of painting often includes luscious fruits and flowers that, upon close inspection, aren't as inviting as they seem. In fact, they are teeming with insects and dripping with decay. It's the worm in the apple, so to speak, the grim reminder that we, too, will come to dust.

Not a very cheery start to the day. Sorry about that. They come when they will.

STILL LIFE, VANITAS

sickly sweet
and sticky
overblown and ripe
like bees buzz
the peaches
on this wall
like flies buzzed
when she died
like the skull
shines beneath
the waxy skin
like purple pools
beneath her eyes
like the days pool
in empty glasses
like the sand

Others

2011-12-14T20:49:00.002-05:00

Others

How is it that we live
outside of others?

How can we show so much
yet be unknown?

My children do not know
the me they see here,

the one who needs to soothe
herself with green,

just as I do not recognize my mother,
who was the prettiest girl he'd ever seen,

swishing her skirts down St. Paul's streets,
licking on a ten-cent cone of cream.

Truth is No Stranger

2011-12-12T06:08:00.001-05:00

Truth is No Stranger

Emma

Stranded on the shore
of a world she never knew,
longing like a lover for a sail.

Edna

The seduction of solitude
the final lover stretches calm
across the Gulf.

Virginia

The water, finally,
the water fills her
like no lover ever could.

Magpie Tale

Gaudete

2011-12-11T19:41:00.001-05:00

GAUDETE

In church
we touch,

hold hands,
sit shoulder to shoulder;

my foot
hooks your leg.

We touch.
In prayer,

we stand,
heads bowed.

I hold your arm
for balance.

Waiting Room

2011-11-28T00:01:00.001-05:00

Finally, I join Magpie Tales, one of my favorite sites, hosted by the fabulous poet Tess Kincaid. Go here to read more poems inspired by the photo or to join the fun.

WAITING ROOM

Like the skin I'm in,
You're for waiting,

Though weighty days
Sap your springs

And cause your back to sag.

It all comes back to waiting,
Though waiting seems eternal

And your living room now
Couches only this:

You never know the hour
Or the day

You'll slip your cover,
Eternally sprung away.

Dear Sir

2011-11-18T19:35:00.001-05:00

Dear Sir
may i call you sir
or do you prefer
let me start again
Dear Barry
Dear little boy
between cultures
did you even imagine
sitting at grandma's knee
that someday you would be
the leader of the free world
you whose deep black father
never knew the chains
that held your brothers
did you find it hard
to walk the walk barry
talk the talk barry
to become Barack barry
when you were
dreaming your dreams
some would say
scheming your schemes
but we won't go there
sir we won't dwell
in the dark barry
thank God it's not about color
and if it were you are
the perfect blend
cafe au lait us and them
them and us one blend
that gives us hope that we can
yes we can overcome
the chains that hold us still
but now sir
Mr. President
it's another sort of chain
a chain of copper
and of nickel and of paper
a paper chain burning our eyes
burning down our homes
burning up our streets
burning up the libraries of the poor
so sir i write to say please do
sir if you can
you can if anyone you can
yes you can will you
would you please walk the walk
yes you can
and fix the faults
and put out the flames
and take away
these burning paper chains
respectfully sir
dear sir
Mr. President
Sir

Crossing the First Bridge

2011-11-16T22:11:00.001-05:00

Crossing The First Bridge

Clutch tight to your belongings
On the first bridge;
The wind will snatch them from you,
No matter how you hold.
You'll watch them float below.

Be careful where your feet fall
On the first bridge;
The boards will give beneath you
In splintery ankle holds.
Below, the water flows.

Watch out for other traffic
On the first bridge;
It will drive you to the edges
Where there is no rail to hold,
And then you'll know:

You are no longer crossing
The first bridge.

Karen

Anthracite

2011-11-13T20:30:00.001-05:00

Deceptive beauty,
Nothing soft,
You move me
With your hard bite,
Stretch me on the rack
Of your long vein;
I dance with pick and axe
On heaps of gob and slag,
Run barefoot
The wooden track;
With open mouth,
We burn the night blue black.

Karen

deluge

2011-11-10T19:20:00.001-05:00

deluge

words fail
this cold
rushing deluge

fail
this drumming
rushing deluge

this streaming
streaking
sinking, sucking
rushing deluge

this
striking
sticking, stitching
rushing deluge

numbing
tumbling
running, ruining
this rushing
deluge

Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Early Morning, Domestic

2011-11-09T06:09:00.002-05:00

Windows. Look in. Look out. Reflect.
This is for the Jam. Better late than never.

Early Morning, Domestic

Reflected in the still dark glass,
Blue television light,
A bare bulb glowing yellow
Above a stove,
A man placing bacon in a pan.

Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Men Leave

2011-11-04T17:48:00.002-04:00

Men leave
by bits;
they scatter
everywhere --
rings and watches
coffee cups
keys and cards
on dresser tops
with old receipts
balm for dry lips
loose change
that piles and grows
on kitchen desks
unopened mail
empty packs of gum
and folded handkerchiefs
upstairs their socks and shoes
last night's book
yesterday's shirt --
they shed themselves
like skin.
Someday I expect to find
a finger by the sink
shinbones on the stairs
teeth and hair
on the bathroom floor
an indentation
in the empty bed.

Karen

Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Solitaire

2011-10-29T11:27:00.001-04:00

Solitaire

The power has been out here
Twice already.

I know I should be writing
While there's light.

I know I should be writing.
I never find the time to,

But still, I waste
A solitary night.

I turn the cards and shuffle,
Smack them down while thinking,

I know I should be writing
While there's time.

When Grandma lay here dying,
I used to hear her playing,

Shuffling through the night
Until she'd gone.

I know I should be writing.
I harbor no illusions;

I shuffle, and I play
This game alone.

And you, Dear Reader, shimmer,
Figment of my Fancy,

You shake your head
At each cliche I own.

I harbor no illusions,
That my words somehow matter,

Witness to things
I think or feel.

Solitary writer,
I sit here in the darkness.

I sit here in the darkness,
And I deal.

False Faces

2011-10-25T19:01:00.004-04:00

Happy Halloween, everyone.

False faces

False faces,
they called them
when I was a child --
the masks we wore
for trick-or-treat.

I picture still
the piggy face,
my silky hair
appropriately,
in pigtails.

That was it;
that was my disguise.

If that was me,
that anthropomorphic thing,
I don't recall the choice --
choosing for myself
to be a happy little pig.

Perhaps I did,
but that's the thing
about memory --
it makes false faces
of the past.

I don't recall a voice
back then,
but that is not to say
I wouldn't, if asked today,
disguise myself
exactly that same way.

Karen

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Sight

2011-10-18T19:44:00.005-04:00

SIGHT

I can't believe
How unobservant
You are,
He says.

The sky this morning
Rolls blue and grey
Except where the sun should rise,
Except where striations
Of purple, gold, and pink
Mute the light.

How could you
Not have noticed
That before,
He asks of something
So useful I cannot even see.

Meanwhile,
A tiny spider bounces
The tightrope of his web
And hangs a moment upside down
To shinny past
A shining drop of dew.

You never pay attention,
He says.

To see the world in a grain of sand,
I tell him.

Meanwhile, the earth ticks
And spins around us
And holds eternity
In a web of many hues.

Half-Remembered

2011-10-15T21:43:00.001-04:00

Chris of Enchanted Oak is setting the pot to boil for making jam with a few choice words. Here's my contribution to the kettle:

Half-Remembered

Round the edges of my mind,
These ghosts:

All those uncles in undershirts
Drinking and laughing,
Then Mama wringing
Laundry out by hand.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

No vamos a ceder frente a los terroristas

2011-10-14T14:25:00.001-04:00

I must have mice on the brain! In nearly 30 years of living in the country, I've had only one mouse in my house, and that was this week when a tiny fieldmouse ran in an open door. It was a standoff, but it was he, honestly, who left through the open door. Whew!

PS - if you don't believe me, I have a witness.

No vamos a ceder frente a los terroristas

It was a standoff
Of the rodent kind -
Raton de campo,
No bigger than my thumb,
Un bandido pequeno
With a tail like a sword,
And me, Señora de la Casa,
All giant legs and feet,
Like some towering statue,
More frightened, I am sure,
Than he.

What great cause
Has spurred this raid?
What urged this terrorista to scale
The steps and sneak inside?

I see his mousey compadres
Gathered round, toasting
And telling him heroic tales,
Tempting him with grain to be found
Inside the citadel.

So here he is,
Come in through an open door,
Looking at me like he's never
Seen a broom before,
And I, conceding defeat
To such a sight,
Open up the other door
And flee in fright.

Forgive my fractured Spanish. I studied French, but somehow, this little guy was a bandido!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Waiting for Billy Collins

2011-10-12T21:58:00.001-04:00

Billy nearly made us miss the famous Willow Manor Ball. Seems he's after those mice again!

Waiting for Billy Collins

Somewhere in the house
He is chasing a blind mouse
With a carving knife.

He'll mince it into words
And the pauses he has heard
In his head.

The caesuras, he would say
In his professeuric way,
Tell us how it should be read.

Still, he's flying round the room,
Chasing mice without a broom
Trading verses with the dead

Till he leaves this worthy cause,
Takes a breath and takes a pause,

Fills the silences we've heard
With a poet's every word.

Missing

2011-10-09T20:38:00.001-04:00

This is for this week's Poetry Jam prompt to write a love poem.

MISSING

You have slipped
between the creases

in my brain.
Most days,

if I even think at all,
there is no pain --

just you,
and the everyday things

you would do
everywhere,

the signs unseen
by anyone but me.

But today,
just the closing

of a door,
and you are

missing like you
never were before.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

On the Fence

2011-10-04T21:21:00.001-04:00

You can't be
on the fence
with Jesus;

you gotta stand
on either side.
It's either/or;
it's neither/nor.

It's cherubs
on the ceiling,
or it's fire
beneath your feet.

It's morning's
shining glories,
or it's nightshade's
deadly vines.

Stay put,
you forfeit
heaven;

don't stay,
you tumble
either way.

These Eyes

2011-10-01T21:35:00.001-04:00

The Poetry Jam asks that we write about something that we once thought was a flaw but have come to understand as an asset. When I was younger, I hated that I was cursed with the ability to see all sides of an issue. I felt wishy-washy and weak. Today, I recognize my ability as an asset in working with people and mediating problems.
I grew to trust my inner sight and understand that as long as I am true to myself, "I cannot then be false to any man."

These eyes

Argus had them,
Unblinking
Wakeful watch.

They curse me,
Stumbling,
Two faced Janus.

I pluck them,
Lull them,
Scratch them out,

For only two,
Can move
In straight Lines.

These many eyes,
Plot all
The ground around.

Phases

2011-09-29T06:01:00.001-04:00

Phases

Like that old moon,
We wax and wane;
Just now, we're at the full --
A quiet night,
A glass of wine,
A story shared,
A happy life--
We glow and shine
In one another's light.
We wax, and then we wane.
At times, we're total dark--
A silent house,
What if, what now,
A distant look,
We wonder how
Light disappears;
We orbit separate spheres.

2011-09-28T22:09:00.003-04:00

Last Supper

2011-09-18T08:28:00.003-04:00

Last Supper

I found Jesus
in a corner
on a crooked wall
beside a locked door.
That is not to say
I hadn't found him before;
you know,
He's everywhere:
in every room
on every floor
in gilded glory,

but finding Him
in watery benediction
for friends and betrayers
like me,
stopped my feet
and caught my breath
and turned me sideways
as the wall
on which he hangs.

using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location:National Gallery of Art, Washinton, DC

War, Remembrance

2011-09-11T16:46:00.000-04:00

War, Remembrance

So this is how it begins:
A rain of rubble
From the sky,

A field seeded
with grief,
A five sided fire.

Ten years and still
We strain to understand
A rain from high aeries,

Covering the country
In the silence of sadness
And grief.

How does it end, and when?
We turn again inward,
Searching our hearts

To discern how hatred
Rains like feathers
From the sky.

Blue Heron

2011-09-10T10:33:00.002-04:00

Blue Heron

Every year, he returns, the old man,
Solitary, silent.
Just when you've forgotten he exists,
He's in the corner of your eye,
Houdini in grey cape,
Somber, regal, and forbidding.
He appears and we hold our breath,
Whisper to the children,
"Come and see."
A day or two he lingers by the water,
Head down, arms behind his back,
Lost in thought or memory
Of glory in the sun.
Sometimes, his long neck leads
As if he's moving toward the finale
And wherever it is he goes
When he lifts his cape and disappears.

Buttercup Sun Day

2011-08-27T22:40:00.002-04:00

The prompt at the Poetry Jam is to write about things looking up. This instantly came to mind:

Buttercup Sun Day

When things look down,
Look up;

That's a yellow buttercup
Hanging in the sky,

A welcome to an eye
Attuned to looking down,

Where every smile's a frown,
And every lifted brow

Becomes a worried scowl.
Better up, my friend,

Than down, for in the end,
It's up where solace lies --

It's hanging in the skies.

- Posted by Karen

Rust

2011-08-20T16:09:00.003-04:00

Look at the rust,
How it spreads like lichens
Over overlapping tin,
Turning panels rich red
Brown and bluish gray
And dusty black,
Until it grits the metal surface
To coarse sand and turns edges
Toward the sun like petals.
See the rust
That trims the drying buds
Of roses silent curled,
Paper-veined and thin,
Self-contained and beaten
By the peeling brown.
Listen to the creaking rust
Of threaded cap and pipe,
Complicit as they hold to one another.
Look at your rusty hair
Gone thin and white, my skin
Blooming with the creeping rust of age.
See us turn toward the sun
And hold to one another, complicit
In the silence of our veins.

- Posted by Karen

Thirst

2011-08-15T21:14:00.000-04:00

THIRST

It's in the way the rain falls
     in sharp, inexorable drops

until the world is long lines,
     stitching sky to earth.

It's in the driving needles
     that push hungry fawns to group
          and bed beneath the drooping birch.

It's in the urge that makes them
     nuzzle sodden earth, returning,

little by little, through a new washed world
     in certainty and wonder

in search of tender shoots.

On Looking at a Photo of Robert Frost

2011-08-11T17:41:00.003-04:00

On Looking at a Photo of Robert Frost

Who would have thought

that Frost,

who looks

in all the books

like some grand father,

who cleaned the spring
in spring

and stopped in winter woods --

who, looking at this white-haired

gentle man

would ever think
that he,

who knew that walls

can't stand,

but built them anyway,

this white haired gentle man --

who would have thought
that even he,

would be acquainted

with the night

like me?

Pyre

2011-08-05T20:01:00.005-04:00

The Poetry Jam challenge is to write an elegy. This doesn't fit the bill, but it is about death, and I already had it in the works. Go to the Jam (click on the pic on my sidebar) and read more. For that matter, look below this poem for another about death. Cheerful, aren't I?

When I burn low--
Cooling off with age
So that the fires of life
Are full too strong to be,

When I am bent --
Drawn unto the earth
So that the narrow bed
Is all the world I see,

When I dissolve --
Sift away through time
So nothing else is left
Except what's best of me,

When I am loosed --
Clay begun to shed
So I am but a mark
In someone's memory,

Then let me sail alone,
Untethered by regret
Burning in the night,
Grateful to be free.

Glendalough

2011-07-20T21:43:00.001-04:00

Glendalough

All around, the dead, they lay
In hillocks green, ‘neath mossy stone,
Unmarked, untold, forgotten now;
The trial, the strife, unmourned, unknown.
Interred here, the babe, the wife,
Sarah, Peg and Maryanne,
These least, they dwell among the best,
The ancient lords, the highest man,
Whose weathered crests, now ivy mocked,
Defeated stones on hummocks fall.
The honored place of weeds and green,
By nature claimed, is shared by all

In Glendalough, where servants lay
Aside of saints and lords and stones,
As all shall come to rest one day
Amid the ancient hills of home.

MOONFLOWER

2011-07-03T23:23:00.000-04:00

The creative Kat, Poetikat, who blogs here, is in charge of the Poetry Jam this week, and she's in full bloom, asking us to write about a flower -- only darkly. This may not be what she had in mind, but the jammers are a forgiving lot. You can find other poems here. Why not join the bouquet?

MOONFLOWER

In the dark of the night,
In the glow of the moon,

When there's no one to care,
And there's no one to see,

She opens her heart
And releases perfume,

Turns her face to the sky,
Dances wild, dances free,

Sings a dark, secret song,
To the sweet, sultry air,

And makes love to herself
When there's nobody there.

Under the Boardwalk

2011-06-26T14:08:00.002-04:00

Slap my paw, and say, "Bad Blog!" I haven't had time to spend doing something I love to do -- read and write poetry. As I've said many times, life interferes with living, and making a living...well, read the poem, and maybe you'll understand.

This is my contribution to the Poetry Jam. The challenge is to incorporate the first line of a song into your poem. This one happens to be true. You can find others here.

UNDER THE BOARDWALK

All week long, the boss sang
Under the boardwalk
While we carried boxes and arranged chairs
He crooned
Down by the sea
As we covered tables
With productivity tools
He hummed
On a blanket with my baby
To the whirr of projection devices
Laptops and camera fans
His tune carried us
Through the end of the conference
To where he wants us to be.

Cherries

2011-06-10T20:38:00.000-04:00

Cherry Jam, anyone? This poem is my contribution to June 13 Poetry Jam.

Faithful chef NanU is stirring the pot again, and this week's challenge is to choose a picture and see where it takes us.This one takes me back, back to an innocent time before I knew where else I'd go.

To read other takes on the Poetry Jam prompts, go here. Why not join the Jam? It's sweet!

CHERRIES

I remember the longest branch
of the black cherry tree,

how we swung bare feet
to the music in our heads

and shot round stones
as far as we could blow.

I remember dreams we had
of the places we would go

and kisses in the leaves
as warm and sweet as summer,

as full of promise as the juices of the fruit
we plucked from that young tree.

Saturday Morning

2011-06-04T22:47:00.000-04:00

Saturday morning,

I close my eyes, and I almost hear
The sounds of children coming near;

I drink my coffee undisturbed,
Nowhere in this house, a word.

Out the window, a young bird

On the plum tree sings
Of feasts of grain and seed

Unaided by a mother's beak
Or hand or heart or need.

Cutting Into a Sweet Pepper

2011-06-01T22:17:00.001-04:00

Cutting into a sweet pepper
As red as blood,
I scrape the inner parts,

Spongy membranes

With little seeds attached.

Hidden away inside,
In the lower chamber,
Like a secret heart,
Is a growing twin,
A perfect copy of the larger fruit,

Clinging to the septum
So that it takes more effort than it should
For me to pry it loose.

I lay it on the cutting board
And tip it with my knife,
Almost sorry to have taken

Such delight in exposing
Something so safe, so private,
And so closely held inside.

One

2011-05-28T06:31:00.001-04:00

ONE

Cradled by earth’s soft arms
Against the common heart,
All parts are one --

Particle and part --

Stem and leaf and heavy head
Bending back, begin again

One beating breast
One spreading seed,
one spirit shared,

one universal flower

At Fourteen

2011-05-16T19:39:00.002-04:00

Here's my first attempt since hopping off the Poetry Bus (now permanently parked at the magazine stand) and jumping into the Poetry Jam. The prompt is "thunder and lightening," two of my favorite natural wonders! Thunder and lightening may not remind you of porch swings, but that's where memory takes me. You can read other Poetry Jammers here. Why not join us with some jam of your own?

At Fourteen

Nothing was better

Than a porch swing in summer
           With the rain pouring, pouring

And a blanket on my shoulders
            And me, pushing, pushing

And my voice singing,
           Ringing louder than the thunder

And my dreams dashing,
           Flashing brighter than the lightening

In the sky.

Stalking Eden

2011-05-10T20:07:00.000-04:00

The dark shape circles high above;
Even from here, he looks a frightful bird,
Patrolling boundaries, claiming ground.
Nothing stirs in the grass below;
Moles and rabbits hunker as the meadow stills.
Even the slippery snake slides along the bank
And dips into shadow.
How do they know that danger waits above,
That brooding patience wins?
And is it always so, that the rest of us,
Even those who give to others fright,
Eventually succumb, eventually become
Just part of last night's leavings?
And is there always, always overhead,
Some great and fearsome presence stalking Eden?

The sound in the night

2011-04-28T19:31:00.000-04:00

The sound in the night

that pulled you from your bed
that sent you creeping
stealthy, stealthy
that raced your heart
so that the quiet house
became a task you could not bear,
that sound, that jarring sound
that ominous sonorous thundrous sound,
that sound in the night
that set you weeping,
it was the other shoe that dropped.

Overflow

2011-04-23T16:42:00.000-04:00

You never know what a spring day will bring. You may begin the day in sunshine and end in pouring rain; the neighbor's tree may end up on your roof or you may feel the gentle breeze like a caress. Spring is a season of excess -- of color, of winds, of floods. NanU the Poetry Bus driver, has asked that we write about," Excess. Of Far Too Much. Of Going Over the Edge." Easy peasy. Think: spring!

This poem (and pictures) depict two consecutive days last week. Perhaps you can see a little more in it, as well:

OVERFLOW

One day you walk
along the soft sand bed,
climbing over fallen logs,
tossing rocks and bits of glass
where they were left some time ago.

The next, the rains pound down,
the bank won't hold, it overflows;
the field is sunk in swift and rushing brown
that wipes away all the sticks and stones
you've ever climbed or you have ever thrown.

After Gray Winter, Spring

2011-04-19T23:43:00.000-04:00

NanU is at the wheel of the Bus, and she wants us to talk about explosions. I've been assaulted with color, so this. You can read other poems here.

After gray winter, spring
erupts violet and green
explodes a golden flare
flashes blue as far as you can see
ruptures brown earth pink and purple
bursts hearts that drip magenta tears

I Am a Crooked Line

2011-04-10T17:05:00.000-04:00

Actually, I'm a bad blogger! I haven't been around to read anyone's poetry lately, and even though I have all sorts of excuses, mostly it comes down to allowing living to take precedence over reading and writing. Yet, I miss the community here. I can't promise that I'll do better,but I can assure you that I want to! Right now, I feel like a crooked line. (Thanks to Poetry Bus driver Dana Bug for that thought.) Read on to see to what dark depths it took me, and read here to see where the other bus riders are going.

Don't forget to check out the TFE's World's Greatest Blog! You'll find PB1 and soon PB2 ready for your reading pleasure!

I AM A CROOKED LINE

I am a crooked line
Between life and death,

Nothing straight or narrow,
Though the tomb is dark.

Weeping, call me from this night;
Unbind, unwind the cloth.

I am the crooked line,
That runs from love to loss.

What is Beauty More?

2011-03-30T19:15:00.002-04:00

WHAT IS BEAUTY MORE?

What is beauty more
Than a reflection of desire,
A pool of light under the lamp
On a dark and lonely street?
What is a lovelier thing
Than that which completes --
The thought finished by a friend
Before your lips can form?
And what is truer joy
Than that which makes you cry,
A song torn from the throat
Of a bird who throws his heart to the sky?

Because I Must

2011-03-20T22:30:00.003-04:00

It's nearly the end of March, and I haven't been on the Poetry Bus all month. The business and busyness of living have limited my writing and riding along with my poet friends. An email from the Bus Captain, the TFE, made me realize how I long to be among the great friends I've made here, and so I dashed off this little ditty (who uses that word?) because I must.

The bus is driven this week by Uiscebot, who gives us several orders for this week's poem. You can see them here or maybe just deduce them by reading the poem here...

BECAUSE I MUST

He said,
You can't go
to the moon,
and I said,
Fly me.

He said,
You can't go
home,
And I said,
Try me.

He said,
You mustn't
rhyme,
and I said,
Is it a crime?
Then give me
the time
to go home
and find
a poem or two
that shuns
the bright moon
or takes you away
to some other day
and to someplace new.

And he said,
That'll do.
Stop this right now
or I won't even link;
it's not worth the ink
or pixels or dots
it takes for Uiscebots
to put this drivel
on his blogspot.

So I sit idly by
and won't even try
to join this fun time
because I must rhyme.
Every time.

So there.

Now, go and read some real poems here. Enjoy the ride!

Chronic

2011-03-17T06:04:00.002-04:00

CHRONIC

Children in the water
laugh and splash.
They circle and circle
round and round
like sharks.
I am vigilant, on the edge.
Danger! Danger!
I hear in my head.
I scan the scene for trouble,
scout sorrows yet to come,
watch for the dreaded undertow;
I guard, ready to run.

Parody

2011-03-07T23:29:00.000-05:00

PARODY

My mother holds her cheeks for my inspection;
"Beautiful," I say, "just right,"
Glad that her old eyes cannot see
The lines that cross her face
Like a brand.
She is of an age with Marilyn and Liz
But without the surgeon's knife or early death
To freeze her in a frame.
I've heard that in her later years,
Elizabeth the queen froze herself with paste,
Turning a once fine face into a clown-like mask
Against whom none dare laugh.
I contemplate this now
As I paint my own beginning-to-fall face
And line my drooping lids with kohl.
I think it is no laughing matter;
Without the asp, would Cleopatra, too,
Have been this tragicomic parody of youth?

Red Fox

2011-03-05T08:14:00.000-05:00

RED FOX

A swishing in the grass.
A small sharp face,
frozen in -- a snarl or a laugh?
Limpid golden eyes
that recognize.
A bushy beard
brushing behind,

and a bubble of joy within me
to share my place in life
with such a thing.

Sundays, We Pose

2011-02-25T21:41:00.004-05:00

I'm early for the bus for a change. The conductor this week is none other than the Totalfeckineejit himself! TFE, as he is affectionately known by his acolytes, is the founder of the Poetry Bus line and editor of The Poetry Bus Magazine. As bus driver this week, he challenges us to write a fourteen line poem about one of four pictures or a song (here). Join us for a rollicking ride!

SUNDAYS, WE POSE

Sundays, we pose outside the gate,
facing the light in best dress,
three in knee pants, one in bows,
standing with our mother
and the dogs and cats du jour
or with the heavy aunts,
the card-playing sisters
who laugh throaty laughs
and smoke forbidden fags.
Dutifully, we squint
at the father husband brother
behind the black box
who waits for the light to be just right,
who will become for us a shadow on the ground.

*On the Birthday of John Keats

2011-02-23T06:07:00.001-05:00

Finally! I've been on something of a dry spell lately, but thinking about one of my favorite poets has inspired this little piece. This is also my ticket onto the Poetry Bus, where 120 Socks has given some excellent prompts, including the one I chose -- "amber." You can read other bus poets here.

ON THE BIRTHDAY OF JOHN KEATS

Some things deserve to be captured,
frozen for all of time,
made more precious by framing
in the lens of the mind.
Like fragments enclosed in amber
or beauty and truth in rhyme,
some things deserve to be captured,
frozen for all of time.

* Today is actually the anniversary of Keats' death, but I like the title, and so I'll keep it. Maybe I'll post this again next Halloween, the actual birthday of John Keats. (Thanks to my daughter with the Ph.D. in English Literature for setting me straight. I knew there was some reason I had Keats on my mind...now, I'm thinking that death is a birth of sorts, so maybe I wasn't far off!)

The Mule

2011-02-12T23:48:00.002-05:00

THE MULE

On the way to work today,
I passed the same old man
tugging at the same old shaggy mule,
only today, a small knot of watchers
puffed in the February air.
The crust of snow still hugged the pond
and the mud was frozen hard,
except for where the mule moved forth and back
like some clumsy dancer learning his steps.

The old man tugged and tugged,
then got behind to push.
The watchers swiveled hatted heads
like spectators at a game:
Front, then back, then front again,
but the creature held his place;
only the old man moved.
From my car, I watched the watchers
turn to one another in disgust
as if they had bet on the old man to win.

I wonder, what was the point of all this fuss?
Yesterday it was the same, and so the day before.
For days, the mule has stood his frozen ground,
the old man has tugged and pushed,
and I have gawked in my slowing car
as I pass on my way to school.
Today, a knot of men stamped the ground
and blew on frozen hands and watched.

What is it they had come to see --
the man, the mule, or the match?
Tomorrow, will the masses grow?
Will the mayor come along?
Will he bring a marching band?
Will reporters flood the field with artificial light?
On the news, will the old man spit and chew
and, toothless, talk about the "dangedest
stubborn mule he ever seen" ?
Will the watchers place their bets,
and will I pass on by --
or tomorrow, will I stop?
Will I join the frosty group
as we stamp our frozen feet
and stubbornly resist the ropes
that tug us daily in an inexorable attempt
to move us from the frozen mud?

Heaven, Earth, and Man

2011-02-05T17:38:00.001-05:00

Heaven, Earth, and Man.

Three tablets side by side.
Or do they form a ladder each to each?
And is the top too high for me to reach?
How shall I on these tablets write my name?

Man
With who and what I am?
With what I do for them?
With the loves that I will leave?
With the losses they will grieve,
Or with fellows I forsake?

Earth
With deeds that I have done?
With the battles I have won?
With the promises I keep?
With furrows long and deep,
Or with scratches left in dust?

Heaven
With bread that has been broken?
With the prayers that I have spoken?
With the blood that has been shed?
With the rising from the dead,
Or with disappearing ink?

Three tablets side by side
Or laddered each to each.

How will I there inscribe?
How will I span the breach?

Flame

2011-01-27T20:05:00.002-05:00

Poets United's "The Thursday Think Tank" prompt is "Fire."

Today is also my husband's and my wedding anniversary. This is my love letter to him.

FLAME

Fires don't always die; sometimes, they smolder.
Embers glow beneath a cloak of ash.

Sometimes they blaze to red-robed conflagration,
immolate, incinerate -- then sear us to the bone.

Our love, this long-lived flame, is like that.

We have smoldered, we have smoked,
have sparked --and we have burned.

We have carried the red heart of fire in our cupped hands
and fanned the coals to heat the endless night.

We surprise ourselves by burning still,
a steady glow -- eternal flame of testament to love.

Fallen

2011-01-23T14:04:00.000-05:00

I'm doing what I do when I'm suffering from a block...I play with form. This was originally very different, but when I decided to try writing an unrhymed pantoum, it took quite a turn.

Sorry to miss the Poetry Bus this week, but I'm fresh out of inspiration.

FALLEN

Those words slipped from your lips
like a serpent.
They curled themselves around me
in sinuous caress.

Like a serpent,
they rubbed against me
in sinuous caress.
I am the rough tree bark

they rubbed. Against me,
you shed the truth like skin.
I am the rough tree bark;
you are the fall from grace.

You shed the truth like skin
that holds no living.
You are the fall from grace,
and I never saw it coming.

Like skin that holds no living,
only cold and empty promise,
and I never saw it coming
though the night was ripe with apples.

Only cold and empty promise,
they curled themselves around me.
While the night was ripe with apples,
those words slipped from your lips.

woman writes, woman rhymes, woman loves

2011-01-16T19:02:00.002-05:00

What could be more unpopular than a poem that rhymes? Maybe a poem about happiness? After all, aren't we poetic types supposed to be full of woe? Well, sorry folks, but I just can't manufacture any angst lately. Oh, sure, there are things in my life that are difficult -- things I would change -- but in the end, I am a very happy person.

When I started thinking about the TFE's Poetry Bus challenge this week, to be still and feel what is inside us, I could only think of one line: I have loved and been loved. Have I had hardships? Yes. Loss? Absolutely, heartbreakingly. But through it all, I am blessed to be able to say that I have faith and I have loved and been loved.

For the full Poetry Bus challenge and to read the other (probably non-rhyming, maybe not-so-happy) Poetry Bus riders, go here. It's a talented crew and a rollicking ride!

deep within

a warm wind formed in rain skirts below the windowpane
stirs the curtains skips along the wall

travels gently down the hall skids across the cold stone floor blows in
through an open door to the heart-room of the home

where the woman sits alone works the pen that tells her art
thinks about the singing sound made by choirs of angels' wings

as they gather as they swing through the ether and of weaving at a loom
where the art reflects the heart of the weaver then a thought comes

fully formed from the wind where it was borne: "Contentment deep within,"
in the poem that she forms in the music that she hears in the blessings

of the years in the people she has known in the love
she has been shown contentment on the wind skirts the curtains

rushes in mixes with her softest sigh weaves itself
into the dye of the fabric of her very happy life

Fast

2011-01-08T08:49:00.002-05:00

FAST

Gravity pulls me
down, down;

I'm holding fast to the line.

My head is spinning
round, round;

I'm losing track of time.

The jester holds his mask
fast;

I'm looking like the fool.

My heart goes tumbling fast
past

the lord of this misrule.

Beyond All This

2010-12-30T17:56:00.005-05:00

Jeanne Iris is driving the Poetry Bus, and as I've missed the last two runs, I'm early at the stop this week.

This poem was inspired by the first line of a Philip Larkin poem. As a matter of fact, I've purloined that entire line to begin this poem. You might notice that Hamlet sneaked in there, too. Apologies to both gentlemen.

As for the Bus, I've chosen Option II, reaching a higher level of consciousness. You can read the other options and find links to some very talented writers here. The Bus officially runs on Monday.

BEYOND ALL THIS

Beyond all this, the wish to be alone:
To cast aside this bag of cells and bone,
To fly beyond this corporeal home;

To be alone, beyond all this to flee,
Unveiled, unmasked, exposed, in spirit free
To move among the stars and simply be.

It is a wish devoutly to be won:
Beyond all this, to flee, to sail, to run
With stars and moon and wind and sea and sun.

Winter Sonnet

2010-12-27T13:36:00.001-05:00

WINTER SONNET

Pushing through a snow as deep as weeds
Or sand that blows and swirls and falls in mounds,
I follow cloudy breath across the field
Then turn my gaze back to the lighted house
Where cheerful shine the windows on a night
So clear that crystals hang upon the air
And catching in my lashes make me tear,
Or is it from the welcome waiting there?
Beneath the clear black sky so far above,
Amid the weight of winter's icy hand,
My nighttime winter walk, this lonely stroll,
Reminds me of my need for fellow man,
Till then I turn from solitary roam
And seek the blazing heartfires of my home.

Mary's Part

2010-12-22T21:00:00.001-05:00

MARY'S PART

Imagine
a young girl,
a child,
free of care,
obedient,
hopeful
for a future
filled with love
and happiness.
Imagine,
if you can,
a spirit,
a swoon,
a quickening,
a god
come to earth.
Imagine then
a life
of love
and pride
and grief
and
all of history
forever altered
all because
a humble girl,
when chosen,
said yes
to God.

Shine

2010-12-18T14:12:00.005-05:00

I've been off the bus for a few weeks now, hijacked by life and writer's block, so I'm exercising my muscles, poetry and otherwise, to get back in the game.

The wonderful Weaver of Grass is driving from Yorkshire this week, and she wants to hear about stars. You can read other takes on the prompt and meet a great bunch of writers here.

Remember, I'm just practicing... (and I know that Venus and Mars are planets. Poetic license, remember?)

SHINE

Orion in his fashion
shows the bears his stuff;

the Pleiades go strutting;
Cassiopeia's in a huff.

Venus shines more brightly
than Mars, who's red with ire;

the Milky Way is peopled
by heroes' shining fire.

Pollux holds to Castor
as the centaur gallops by,

and I, a child of wonder,
reread the ancient sky.

Advent

2010-12-12T21:26:00.008-05:00

ADVENT

It's a season of waiting, as we do tonight
when the forecasters herald a coming storm.
All day long, a warning crawls across the screen,
"Prepare, prepare!"

This morning, we started putting things in order.

We've grocered and moved the cars
to the top of the hill.
We even replaced the old shovel
with a more ergonomic model.
Soup is bubbling on the stove,
and candles are on the counter,
ready in case the trees bow down
and break the lines that light the dark.

Of course, the power of this night, really,
is in the promise of things to come;
A perfect storm started far away
and is blanketing the world already.

Meanwhile we've wrapped ourselves
in purple robes while we wait
for the coming force in the snug little house
that we've tried to put in order.

No Words

2010-12-07T21:51:00.005-05:00

NO WORDS

Blank Page,
     white and bare
          as winter.

Scant Words,
     black birds
          on crusted snow.

Poor Hearts
     beat wings
          in bony cages.

No Song
   to measure
          what the heart can hold.

I owe much of this poem to Zelda Fitzgerald, who said, "No one, not even a poet, can measure how much the heart can hold." Pairing her quotation with the pictured quote from a Victorian poet might seem strange, but it makes perfect sense to me in light of the poem's subject. Thank you both, fair ladies.

Sing With Me

2010-12-03T18:36:00.001-05:00

Sing with me, sweet bird of summer,
warm winds for the icy grass;

call with me, canicule dreamer,
noses from their earthen homes;

sing with me, hope in feathers,
slitherers to the sun scorched rocks;

call with me, canorous spirit,
blooms aloft from seeds and pods;

sing with me the scent of summer,
sing with me the dreams of sun,

call with me, persistent warbler;
sing our song till winter's done.

still dark morning drive

2010-11-27T16:58:00.000-05:00

still dark morning drive

There's something about the feel
of a still dark morning drive
when the houses sleep
and the moon travels beside you
on the black and golden river.
There's something about the journey
when the yellow and sharp blue
circles and slashes of the dash
reflect like cockpit lights
in the window by your shoulder
and on your own dark face, co-pilot
in the windshield straight ahead.
There's something about the solitary lights
of some fellow morning traveler
for whom you feel a sudden warmth,
two explorers setting out before the rest.
It can be two hundred miles or twenty, no matter.
It is the feel of going somewhere,
humming through the still dark morning,
sailing on the ribbon of road,
fueled by anticipation, thinking about nothing
except your travels toward a brand new, bright new day.

UNSEEN

2010-11-21T18:06:00.002-05:00

The Poetry Bus rolls again, and this week it's an enchanted trip with Chris Alba of Enchanted Oak at the wheel. Chris gives us the challenge of writing something about our lives. I don't even know where this stuff comes from, but this is what came to me:

UNSEEN

The surface of the pond is calm;
     the deep green pool
          reflects the trees that overhang it.

Beneath the surface
     where sunlight barely reaches,
          staying still among the reeds,

sifting breath through slits
that flap in time with the small
          slick and pulsing heart,

a shiny thing among the weeds
     watchful, waiting
          unknown and unseen

by those who view
     their own reflections
          when they peer into the water.

MUSICA SACRA

2010-11-16T18:43:00.003-05:00

MUSICA SACRA

notice how they rise
   in concert
     from the bare branches

black frocked choirboys
   whose wings sing
     sacred songs to Heaven

On The Road Again

2010-11-12T17:51:00.032-05:00

And we're off! But before we hop aboard, you just have to join Willy while he wails about our trip! Take a look at this American icon if only to get a gander at Porter Wagonner's sparkly suit! Then ride with us on these bumpy roads less traveled.

Here we go...

The Bug

Poetikat

Muse Swings

Jeanne Iris

Dave King

altar ego

Jinksy

Helen

Rachel Fox

swiss

Stafford Ray

120 Socks

Liz

Carolina Linthead

Peter Goulding

Enchanted Oak

Totalfeckineejit (our fearless leader)

Weaver of Grass

Various

annell

Titus

Dick Jones

And here's my ticket. Don't even ask...

LAZARUS

Did you pull the cloths around you,
holding on for all you had?

Did you try to stop your ears
against the swarming in your head?

Did your bending knees creak
when they hit the cold stone slab?

Did your papery feet quell
when they stood upon that floor?

Did your eyes regret the light
that poured in through the vacant door?

Did you hide your irritation
at arising from your bed, or

Did your parched throat croak a plea
to simply let the dead be dead?

Which Way Do We Go? Here Comes the Bus!

2010-11-10T18:52:00.008-05:00

I'm driving the bus on November 15, and even using a trusty map, a GPS, and my innate sense of direction, I'm still idling here where two roads diverge. Which way do we go? Robert Frost says it makes all the difference.

The challenge for passengers this week will be to write about one of the following:
(1) a time you had to choose between two clearly divergent paths; (2) a time you were called to walk a path you didn't choose for yourself; or (3) a time you refused to travel the path you were called to follow. If these won't work for you, write anything about a choice you made. Drop me a note here when your poem is ready, and I'll link in the post above.

In the words of that great word person Yogi Berra, "When you come to a fork in the road, take it."

...or in the words of Robert Frost...

THE ROAD NOT TAKEN

by Robert Frost

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

this pearl

2010-11-07T19:39:00.004-05:00

This week marks the first birthday of my sweet granddaughter, and today was the day of her baptism. For Juliet:

this day

this pearl
of water
and word
our blessing and our hope
the closest we can come
on earth
to heaven's
treasure

Matt 13:45,46 says, "Again, the Kingdom of Heaven is like a man who is a merchant seeking fine pearls, who having found one pearl of great price, he went and sold all that he had, and bought it."

about a sunflower

2010-11-02T22:01:00.007-04:00

ABOUT A SUNFLOWER

I am sitting tonight in front of the window
staring at the blackness staring back. A cozy scene:
a woman, seated at a worn wooden table, a bowl
of oranges and lemons in front of her, an arrangement
of cheerful plates on the wall behind, pen in hand,
her arm lying across a paper angled just so, big dark eyes
like holes in her face looking back from the glass.
All summer, I watched from this same seat
a sunflower, a tall hairy stem, pointy sepal arms,
hundreds of bumpy brown seeds, bursting
little teeth, little rows hoed in circles, a plinking
stone in a still brown pond,
bonneted, beribboned, turning this way
and that, reaching up a round child's face,
angling for her father, a heavy earthen mother,
finally falling beneath her weighty thoughts, beaten
by the rain, become a blinded skull, her eyes pecked out.
Examined from the ground up, imagined
from the sky down -- the worm's view, the crow's view,
in memory, the poet's view -- a blind reflection
in the glass tonight while the words can't find
where the woman fits in the scheme
of all these things.

unspoken

2010-10-27T21:16:00.002-04:00

Ghosts are not always frightening, and sometimes we hold them hostage rather than the other way around.

The Poetry Bus runs on Monday, and Liz Gallagher asks that we write a triolet or some other poem about Halloween business. This poem began as a triolet and evolved into a villanelle. It's funny how words will have their way.

Or will they?

UNSPOKEN

all my ghosts are friends
things I should but did not say
I’m haunted by my sins

damnation never ends
redemption lies one breath away
all my ghosts are friends

familiars whom I did not send
but held until the tongue decay
I’m haunted by my sins

unspoken and unpenned
persistent shades with whom I lay
all my ghosts are friends

whose present tense attends
to bind and hold my soul in sway
to things I should but do not say

till time shall split and world transcend
till reticence shall fall away
all my ghosts are friends
things I should but do not say

In a Name

2010-10-22T06:25:00.008-04:00

Argent's driving the Bus this week, and our challenge is to write a poem about a meeting. Meet contemporary American poet and two term Poet Laureate of the United States Billy Collins.

See the challenge and read the entries of other passengers here.

IN A NAME

You'd think that by this time,
We'd be familiar--
Sweet William,
Wild Bill,
Maybe Billy Boy.
After all,
He's naked in the hallway,
Turning circles
Shuffling round the house.
Every night I sail with
Billy Collins.
And still it's Billy Collins, first and last.
I have known just Keats alone,
And Shelley. Shelley,
He's still three as in the past.
But as for my new lover
Billy Collins,
It's Billy first;
It's Billy Collins last.
Now I spend my nights with Billy Collins;
We're drinking tea and writing hard and fast.

In the Balance

2010-10-19T22:29:00.014-04:00

IN THE BALANCE

Notice how she waits in expectation,
contemplating maybe, just how justice works.
Does she sense it hangs on holding steady?
Does she sense unbalance in the end?

Doesn't she look like somehow she might not know
that the weight she holds so level will shift as on a whim?

One little thought falling like a feather or one wrong move heavy as a soul;
one of her decisions, shiny as a pearl or light as a pocketful of poesy--
just one small word and the world can lose its balance.
Just wash it from her hands and it all falls down.

Progress

2010-10-14T19:59:00.000-04:00

NanU's driving the Bus on Monday, and her challenge is to write in a time, place, or circumstance outside of our usual writing environments.

Many times, I am struck with inspiration while driving but lose my thoughts because I can't stop to write them down. This morning, two things happened that allowed me to fulfill the Poetry Bus challenge. First, I noticed that a barn I pass every day had been razed, and second, traffic stopped right in front of the scene. I grabbed my handy iphone and used my thumbs to type the following poem on the Notes page, then I emailed it to myself. Okay, NanU. How's that for Progress? Hmmm...

PROGRESS

In the field
where the barn
used to stand,
progress has left
only a scar --
a few black wires
hooping out
of the ground,
brown earth
scraped clean,
packed down,
devoid of any living thing.
In the pasture,
white cows turn their heads
and look the other way.

Shades of Falling

2010-10-06T21:29:00.002-04:00

The Poetry Bus is being driven this week by Niamh Bagnall, and her challenge for us is to find and write about an article in the news. I have a confession to make: I wrote this poem and then went looking for an article that would suit. Believe it or not, when I Googled "burnt orange fashions," I found three web articles published today and numerous articles published in the last several weeks. So...here's the poem I wrote this morning, inspired not by the news but by the color of my new soft fall jacket. You can read other poets who probably followed the rules here.

SHADES OF FALLING

The last time I wore
this particular shade,
it was also fall.
I was seventeen.
It was the Fireman's Ball,
held in the hall of the local Guard.

My burnt orange dress
fell from my firm young breasts
in the Empire style,
but you were the one who laid siege
until you conquered me.

It was fall, and we were
a young fireman
and his even younger sweetheart,
falling in love
in the spring of our lives.

They say if you hold on
to anything long enough,
it comes back into fashion,
just like all of this
comes back to me now
in shades of orange,
as burnt and sweet as autumn.

Spinning Wonder

2010-10-02T22:25:00.000-04:00

SPINNING WONDER

I'm showing you the poetry
In a silken strand that shoots
From tree to bush then waves
On the wind over the water and back
To land upon the branches of the trees,

And I'm thinking of this magic,"Let it be,"

While you try so hard, over and over
In that way you have of never letting go to sail
On strands of magic, to explain the science
Of spinning such a marvel to one who only wants

To live her life in astonishment and wonder.

Gently Does the Night

2010-09-28T20:16:00.004-04:00

Lately, I've allowed life to interfere with my writing, and as sometimes happens, living has chased away my muse and left me wanting. I've decided that I can't allow my living to define my life, so my new vow is to write every day, even if I write badly.
What follows is my first completed product of this vow.

This poem began with a few lines rolling through my mind, as my poems often do. The problem was that nothing further developed, so I decided to help it along by writing to form; hence, the sestina. By conforming to a particular pattern, I forced myself to extend my thinking. At least I am writing.

GENTLY DOES THE NIGHT

Gently does the night go into day
Like lovers parting lips and giving way

To old familiar, tender pleasures.
Then boldly rising, Sun thrusts the moon

Careless from his bed into a weary world
Where nightime treasures end,

As all soft loving dreams will end
When shown beneath the harsher light of day.

The risen sun looks down on this cold world
And calls us forth to go about our way

And busy our time with no thought of the moon
Or other of those softer natural pleasures.

Our days we fill with things that pass for pleasures --
Getting, spending, working with no end

Until the shly shining rising of the moon
Parts herself again to gentle out the day;

We live our lives of busyness this way,
Worn out and wearied in a wondrous world.

Our artificial, busy, concrete solid world
We fill with artificial, solid, concrete pleasures --

While harshened, hardened hearts along the way
Pull us only to a solid, hardened end,

Baking us with fire and heat like day
Solidifies his hold on earth and blurs the moon

Until the moon herself forgets she's Moon
And is subsumed into the brighter world

And blotted out by day.
Were there not times when natural pleasures

Triumphed in the end?
Were we not made to live another way?

The night herself can light a better way
If we would pause in wonder at a moon

That shines past concrete to the end
Of this harshened, heavy-hearted world

Devoid of pleaures.
The gentle light of night can blot the day

And put an end to life's unnatural way,
But only if each day we choose the moon's
Sweet sleepy treasure over a concrete world devoid of pleasure.

Oh, Martha!

2010-09-25T16:02:00.007-04:00

I feel compelled to put an asterisk beside this one and say that the "you" is not meant to be Jesus, although the story of Mary and Martha did spark the poem. While listening in church, I kept thinking that I know the better part, I just can't do it. I'm Martha through and through. (Working on the resentment thing, though. I promise.)

AND...I considered passing this off as an official Poetry Bus poem for the week, but I'm far too superstitious for that. The Puritans did a job on my head, apparently. You know, Sinners in the Hands, and all that. You might want to go to Rachel's place for this week's riders. Meanwhile, I'm counting on God's keeping his/her sense of humor! ;-)

OH, MARTHA!

They tell me it's the better part.
     We're not supposed to think,
           Just sit there at your feet,

But try as I might, I can't
     Make my hair ripple
          Waves of welcome.

No, look hard enough,
     And you'll find me
          Beside an open door;

I'm sneaking a smoke
     And thinking about the weather
          And what they'll want to eat.

I'm waiting for the microwave to beep.

the visitor

2010-09-17T06:17:00.003-04:00

a hulking thing
breathing fetid breath
sits on my shoulders

even in my heart
even in the dark,
it does not bear thinking

it is an unseen monster
under the bed
reaching for an ankle

it is the other,
the visitor
living in my house

Glow of God

2010-09-12T14:59:00.005-04:00

The Poetry Bus prompt this week from Dragonfly Princess Marion is to write about a color. My poem is about the color of light, a glow from God given to creatures here below. It was prompted by a story on the news.

Just when I thought I had nothing to say about color, this...

GLOW OF GOD

In the bay, neon blue trails
sway with the stir of tides,
signaling some secret
shared by those who know
its conscious cosmic flow.

In the fields, fireflies spark and fade,
flushing from the grass,
unaware that rushing children seek
to catch the magic as it passes
through their hands.

They call it bioluminescence,
this blooming internal glow,
light without heat, a pulse of God
beating in small creatures
here below.

And in a story on the news today,
a famous General holds his breath
while science strives to catch
this marvel, magic cosmic glow
and make of it a thing to use for death.

Transformations

2010-09-07T18:45:00.000-04:00

TRANSFORMATIONS

Last night while we raged
in blankets of sleep,

Scattering shreds of ourselves
through boardrooms and city streets,

The wind wrapped its coaxing cloak
around the branches of trees

And whispered, “Come with me.”

While we twisted
in our cotton shrouds

And dived beneath the day
like sailors on the way

To Davy Jones's locker,
the wind took planters by the hand

And led into the field,
leaving roots and stems strewn

Like dance cards dropped on chairs
by twirling girls.

This morning, the yard is transformed
into a labyrinth of scattered things --

Like the edges of our dreams,
like the blankets and cloaks

We've forgotten on the morning floor.

And we find our way through the day,
grasping the saving string of dreams

To dodge the scattered limbs
the world so often places

In our way.

Teenager, On the Way

2010-09-03T06:59:00.002-04:00

Teenager, On the Way

to school, at the light.
The bass beat rocks the car
and hums the street.
Behind me, two girls
in an old Mercedes,
in front, unabashed
by the taped taillight,
and hanging half out
the open window
in delight,
a jaunty salute
over the hood of my car.
A crinkling of eyes
the buzz cut hair
the muscled wave
of a tee-shirted arm
before the light changes
and he is off,
a blast into the ether
of the curve out of sight,
as quick as that.

Out of Gas

2010-08-31T18:32:00.001-04:00

amazed, appalled, amused,
befuddled, bewildered, confused
the ride that we took to the past--
so glad that we've run out of gas

I knew everyone would be able to write about schools or schooling; I just had no idea how many of you would have such vehement dislike of those days! As a teacher, I loved a good challenge -- a kid with a different kind of thinking, one whose previous teachers had warned me to watch out! These were the thinkers (yes, and often the stinkers) with whom I developed the closest relationships and respect.

I have to admit, though, that it saddens me to know how many of the smart, talented, creative, funny people here had such bad experiences with school. I feel a gigantic apology is in order...so, on behalf of those witless wonders of wisdom who lacked the vision to connect or protect or promote you...I am sorry.

The Bus stops here.

Catch the Big Yellow Poetry Bus

2010-08-25T20:20:00.006-04:00

THE BUS STOPS HERE!

After all these weeks of running to catch the Poetry Bus, I'm finally at the wheel, and what do I bring? It's the Big Yellow School Bus!

What else would I drive?

I'm what you might call a Schoolmarm. Counting this school year, which began for me this week, I've been in schools for fifty years as a student, teacher, school leader or district level administrator. It's as natural as breathing for me to plan a field trip!

So....sharpen your pencils, kiddies! Grab your papers and your lunch boxes, and come along! We'll start here in West Virginia, head north for Professor Semi-colon, then make our way across the country, picking up a Bug or two along the way. We'll make a brief detour to pick up some Canadian Kats before we reach the coast. After we fuel up on Enchantment, it's back to the Atlantic, by which time the TFE should have solved the Problem of the Day: How do we get a big yellow bus full of poets across the sea to London and Dumfries and Dublin and highways and byways between and beyond?

Well, that's the magic part of our art! I promise this bus will go as far as your words and imaginations can travel. Just meet the simple Poetry School Bus challenge for this week: write a poem about school or schooling. Leave your URL in my comment box, and I'll link it in the sidebar below my profile-->

The bus runs on Monday. Don't forget your permission slips, boys and girls!

* New Passenger : Judy Clem at http://www.judyclem.blogspot.com/
Welcome Aboard, Judy!

Just for a warm up, here are a couple of mine:

SCHOOLMARM (that's me)

At three o'clock
When school is out,
She gathers up her things.
If she had an old hat,
She'd jam it on her head;
If she had an old horse,
She'd plod down country lanes,
Stopping here and there to pick tall stems
To take with her on her calls.
She'd sing along the way.
There would be dinner with the families,
A different one each day.
They'd watch their grammar,
Put out their better plates,
Offer her the choicest cuts of meat, good bread.
Later, they'd stand on the porches and wave
Until she was gone from sight
Before the washing up.
If she had a hat, a horse,
A country lane
At three o'clock --
If she had a hat and a horse
In her life.

This next one is dedicated to a wonderful poet friend with whom I survived the messed up college years. Her K is Name Lawson. Or something like that. She'll recognize herself here, and you can find her outstanding poetry here:

WHO WE WERE

I still recall your stance
before the class,
so compact,
thick black curls
around your head,
eyes big as china saucers.
You're telling tales
of cars and barracudas
and mixed up names.
At night we pick black circles
from our eyes and rub them
on the smooth white page,
drawing lines round truth and beauty,
knowing it for what it (is) (is not).
At eighteen, we think we know
who we are.
And youth.
We drink our wine
from plastic cups
and sleep with youth
between us,
tangled in our separate dreams,
riding who we (are) (are not)
to places where we'll someday
know our names.

Milkweed

2010-08-18T20:41:00.001-04:00

Milkweed

Why did it take me
          so many years
                    to know

that it is the milkweed,
          before it bursts
                    with sticky fluid,

          before it pops
                    its silky pods
                    of fluff,

that fills the nights
          with heady,
                    heavy Heaven?

Georgia, Your Hands

2010-08-14T07:40:00.004-04:00

Chris at Enchanted Oak is taking the Poetry Bus on a tour of sunny California this week, and she has given us a pictorial challenge. Georgia O'Keeffe's hands are the subject of both the picture and my poem.

O'Keeffe was married to the famous photographer Alfred Stieglitz, and they both scandalized society by some of the photos of her that he took and displayed (not to mention their unusual lifestyle). Stieglitz photographed O'Keeffe off and on for years, so we have a wonderful chronicle of her changing landscape as we see the progression of her subjects and her art.

One of my favorite photos of O'Keeffe shows a young woman, her hair loose around her shoulders, clasping a white silk gown at her breast. This is the first time I've seen the picture of her hands.

Georgia, Your Hands

When you stand so solid in the light
your hands crossed over your heart,
hair around your shoulders, Georgia,
white silk robe clasped loose across your breasts,
coal black eyes held tight into the lens
like the eyes of the night,
it is your hands, your long lean fingers
that crush and mix and brush the pigments
against the smooth white canvas
caressing it like silk, your strong, bold fingers
opening yourself like an iris or a poppy
or a white trumpet flower
that feel deep into the yellow white of bones
that stroke the browns and lights of desert shadow sun;
it is your hands prying and pulling at their own skin
peeling away the layers of faraway city and desert,
your eyes, your hair, your white silk robe
until you too are nothing but bone,
bone and bone and stamen and sepal and sand.

In Late Summer

2010-08-08T20:37:00.003-04:00

After a few weeks of running behind the bus, I'm here on time with my ticket for scholar-poet-bus driver Jeanne Iris. Jeanne's given us three choices this week, and while this may bend the idea a bit, here's my attempt at meeting the challenge.

Visit Jeanne Iris at Revolutionary Revelry and hop on the bus. There's a great trip ahead!

Like everything else in late summer,
The strawberries have started to shrink on the stem,

Pulling back the skin so spiky little seeds
Stick out like flags announcing season's end.

The tomato vines have gone all spindly,
Sending leggy little chutes with fruit only the deer will eat.

Yesterday's abundance is today's remembrance.
And yet

The deep red berries resting in this bowl of cool cream
Taste sweet of summer sun,

And the coffee clinking in the icy glass
I lift this late summer morning

Moves me from these morose musings
As does the sight of that ragged butterfly there,

The one with the bottom of his wing half gone,
Lighting on those final purple flowers

Still sucking summer sweetness from the leavings
with his tongue.