Overflow

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

 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

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?

 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

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!

Sundays, We Pose

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.

Beyond All This

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.

Which Way Do We Go? Here Comes the Bus!

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

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."
 

Progress

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.