A Piece Of Mind

Listening (BTP prompt)

2010-12-16T18:00:00.002-07:00

(freaky photo courtesy of Photobucket)

This piece is from an extremely interesting prompt over at Big Tent Poetry, which led me to the fascinating "Dead Man" poetry of Marvin Bell. There is no way I could ever do justice to his idea, but here is my lame attempt...

The dead girl waits and watches.
No hurry now, nowhere to be.
And in her final, numbing rest,
she listens to the screams of others.

The cries of pain, injustice, fear.
Sadness thick with held-back tears.
The panicked heart, the strangled throat,
it’s all but curiosity to the dead girl.

The dead girl hears each lament.
Even in silence the dark seeps through,
and in her repose, she only knows,
the futility of emotion.

Shattered (BTP prompt)

2010-12-10T06:45:00.000-07:00

I really didn't follow prompt this week, but instead took some snippets from a few unfinished pieces on the same topic and wove them together into one.
Knowing someone with mental/emotional illness is a difficult thing to watch and attempt to deal with. I know someone with these issues; this poem attempts in it’s feeble way to describe her pain.

She holds herself through too long days
enforcing stillness with granite jaws,
Her nails tattooing crescent moons
While gripping demons
with sweat slicked palms.

Afraid of breathing much too deep,
best to keep each intake shallow,
or she might loosen up a scream,
expelling monsters
she cannot tame.

To see her face, at first you’d think
her mind was just preoccupied.
But then look deeper at her trance,
bright eyes unfocused,
blind to light.

Then some slight switch is somehow flipped
and nerves, emotions come unwound,
like prickly knotted sisal rope
of tangled threads
that won’t be bound.

With thoughts careening wildly
through eternities of mindless pain,
no one can ever talk her down
And backwards to
a life of sanity.

Pearl Harbor (December 7th, 1941)

2010-12-06T05:42:00.000-07:00

(photo courtesy of historylink101.com)

I wrote this piece in honor of Pearl Harbor Day; in thanks to my Father, Father-in-law and four of my uncles who were all decorated soldiers during this time; and also in honor of every person affected by the terrible tragedy of WWII.

The news brought them out of the woodwork.
Boys with patriotic attitudes,
dreamers with fabulous imaginations,
or ones with simple bloodlust in their hearts.
Those with delusions of grandeur
or the desire for adventure,
to swash-buckle through the Pacific.

Instead they found near annihilation-
of dreams-of innocence- of their very lives.
Battling something utterly alien,
completely incomprehensible.
Violence unheard of, unbelievable.
A vast Pacific of bloodshed,
primitive atolls of mindless atrocity.

Bataan, Saipan,
Iwo Jima, Guadalcanal.
Okinawa, Corregidor.
Funereal jungles, floating crematoriums.
Wild -eyed bonzai brandishing swords-
kamikaze clinging to samurai code.
Mere pawns in this game of death.

They mustered through, those boys.
Growing up rapidly, finding their way.
Gaining strength in numbers,
courage through necessity.
We can never repay their gift.
There are no words to give thanks
to that "Greatest Generation".

Gimmee, Gimmee (BTP Prompt)

2010-12-02T19:30:00.015-07:00

The Prompt this week over at Big Tent Poetry was "ENOUGH". Very thought-provoking, I wish I had the time to turn all my ideas for this into poetry...

Those screaming needs
and hard demands,
swarm around like angry bees,
and buzz within my addled brain,
as sharp, relentless stings enforce

their painful, bloody victories.

Meanwhile, my gentle wants,

desires,
my small attempts
to carve a piece,
a sliver of that precious self,

must fall away like dying leaves.

Crushed beneath commitment's boot,
as slowly I forget to dream,
and accede to others appetites,
while I grow smaller every day,
from losing self to selflessness.

Of strength, I'll never have enough.

Run Away (BTP Prompt)

2010-11-18T19:30:00.023-07:00

First of all, thanks to Barbara for this devil of a poetry prompt over at Big Tent Poetry . I have never written a “cascade” poem before, and boy did it give me trouble! I was so busy figuring out how to do it, I think the content and flow suffered a bit…but, here goes... my take on Woman as victim, as symbolized by Dorothy.

Brushing straw from your tangled hair,
throwing your apron to the ground,
just put your best red high heels on,
be brave and make it on your own.

The scarecrow called you ignorant
to feed his fatuous conceit.
Set him ablaze and run away,
brushing straw from your tangled hair.

The tin man was one hard bastard,
with an inhuman, empty soul.
Just let him rust, to save yourself,
throwing your apron to the ground.

That scaredy cat you tangled with,
would browbeat, just to feel so brave.
Screw up your courage once again,
and put your best red high heels on.

The “Great One” gave you bad advice,
to keep you slave to his desires.
No wizard, he's a charlatan,
be brave and make it on your own.

At Home (BTP prompt)

2010-11-11T19:00:00.001-07:00

( I just love the negative, yearning emotions pictured in the old advertisement above)

I used the non-fiction best-seller “At Home” by Bill Bryson. Just finished reading it and BOY do I recommend it to anyone who is interested in the history of how we came to live the way we do. (I could not put it down…)

Relaxing at home
in your mortgaged "McMansion"
with a big screen TV,
espresso machine,
and monumental refrigerator,
under forced air conditioning
that keeps you quite comfortable
no matter the weather.
Nearby the dishwasher sloshes,
although it’s half empty.

You sprawl so contented
on your leather recliner,
while drinking yet one more cocktail
as you hear the ice drop in the
constantly cycling
stainless icemaker.
The pantry stands bulging
full of tasty but plastic
non-foods so convenient
to just pop in the microwave.

The computer screen’s glowing,
The cell phone’s recharging,
as you snuggle down deeper
in your adjustable mattress,
thousand count sheets,
and fluffy down comforter.
While you lay there contented
do you ever much wonder
the cost so profound of
this gluttonous plenty?

Meanwhile the rest of the world,
(no matter what country),
confused by our excess,
shake their heads sadly,

(or beat their fists madly)
as they claw for their dinner.
Try as they might, they can’t
begin the consumption
that we take blindly for granted
as our right and our privilege.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(I'm just as guilty as anyone...)

Freedom (BTP prompt)

2010-09-30T17:32:00.003-07:00

After a two week hiatus from writing (everyone deserves a vacation now and then!) I am back with the wonderful prompt from Big Tent Poetry on childhood memories that really got my juices flowing. I decided to write on a wonderful experience, the spring I was 10. My father bought me a “mini-bike”, the smallest motorcycle there was. I spent every free minute on it in glorious, wild freedom with my "gang" and away from an oppressively difficult home situation.

Each day became a fresh parole

of baking heat and brilliant sun,

escaping dark, oppressive rooms,

away from grasping, clawing arms.

Careening through the dusty streets,

my two speeds being fast and stop,

in rubber thongs and outgrown shorts,

not knowing what a helmet was.

Feeling like some fresh Columbus,

each exploration newly born,

outrunning my captivity,

until the evening's dimming light.

Returning burnt and gravel-rashed,

with long black hair a tangled mop,

so hungry for some nourishment,

but food and need was all I got.

That freedom was a soaring cloud,

through painful, childhood summer days,

in every year that’s hurried past,

I’ve never, ever, felt the same.

(My poor, confused mother, in an attempt to keep me as her “captive entertainment”, sold the bike the winter I was 11.)
Maybe I should buy a Vespa...?

Are You Listening? (BTP)

2010-09-09T13:42:00.000-07:00

(Photo courtesy of Photobucket)

At Big Tent Poetry this week the prompt was to "Think of something you've said, now write what you wish you had said." This long ago scene immediately flashed through my mind...

Staring into your

empty, glistening, reptilian eyes

for some sign of shame,

(or perhaps contrition),
I see your self-absorption,

your thoughts containing only
basic, clawing want.
Your insectile ears just hear

(blah- blah, white noise).

Human conversation is

incomprehensible blather

you refuse to understand.
Then a slapping realization dawns

that all I’ve said
(and dreamed of saying all these years)

has wasted too much energy
and can’t matter to a soulless thing...
I should have only said

goodbye.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A long time ago, in an act of self-preservation. I had to cut myself away from someone who had spent years hurting me. When I tried to finally let them know what they had done, I realized I might as well have been speaking to a snail….

Day After Day (BTP)

2010-09-03T06:05:00.001-07:00

This week's prompt idea at Big Tent Poetry, was to listen for interesting words or phrases to use in a poem.

Instead, I thought of those same words, sounds, and questions I hear every day, and find myself wishing for a respite from the endless clamor.

G' mornin'…

Have you seen my phone?

...in today’s headline news…

Are you pouring more coffee?

...and now for sports…

I’m out of shaving cream.

Have any cash on you?

Despite the blaring television,

I hope for silence.

The truck broke down, order's late.

Why are you out of the ONE thing I need!?!

Would you be interested in donating….?

Do you carry...?

I'll take the deposit.

What do you have for energy?

I need tomorrow off.

Between each endless numbing decision,

I listen for silence.

Ready to order?
You've got to see the new shoes I bought!
More tea?
This is NOT on my diet...
I just don't know why she acts that way.
There's this new exercise class...
Save room for dessert?

Amid the clatter of dishware and conversation,
I long for silence.

Welcome to...

Want a sales flyer?

Did you find everything you needed?

Would you like to donate your change to...?

Is that debit or credit?

Paper or plastic?

Can we take this out to the car for you?

Through the endless looping Musak,

I beg for silence.

...today, the stock market lost…

What’s for dinner?

I don’t see my shaving cream.

Your mom left a message, you better call her.

Where have you been, I've been calling...

...we’ll return in a minute, after this important message…

Did you make the coffee?

In midnight's final cocoon of silence,

I pray for strength.

The Seamstress (BTP prompt)

2010-08-26T16:29:00.003-07:00

Over at Big Tent Poetry this week, Carolee gave us a very thought-provoking prompt (to pay attention to something you do with your hands, then using that as a jumping off point, write about one of several topics she chose). I had a bit of trouble with it, but then I happened to replace a missing button...

With needle once again
in hand,

by early morning’s

feeble light,

she begins to

tenderly repair

her garments - old,

worn thin as

laddered gossamer.

Rejoining seams,

replacing

broken fastenings,
repairing every
rip and tear,

and covering up each

threadbare hole with

mismatched patches

just as raw.

She sees her work as

smart and fine,

while others see but

tattered rags.

Yet still she sews.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My poetry is usually as subtle as a grenade...this week I tried to do something different.
I used Carolee's suggestion to write about "physical pain", and this is what I came up with.

KINGMAN GIRLS (BTP prompt)

2010-08-18T09:02:00.004-07:00

This week's prompt over at Big Tent Poetry was a "Wordle". I only used a few words from it, but those few had me remembering a wonderful time of life...my teenage years with my best friend.

In a blue Chevy Malibu
hand-me-down car,
along a cracked blacktop
roller-coaster ride,
two girls race towards womanhood,
wild and fast.
Through the dry desert valley,
covered in sand and baby oil,
soaked in the smell of steaming wet dog
rising from the black backseat.

Tethered together
since first day, second grade,
and bonded tightly by
countless sleepovers
and Saturday double-features.
They compare sunburns
while laughing over how drunk they
got last week from screw top wine,
and the day they (not so bravely)
pierced each other's ears.

Stoked on caffeine, sun,
and Jolly Ranchers,
they rush back to stifling houses.
Their only future
a long cold shower before
the date tonight
with those rough-edged boys
they're crazy for,
and the pointless classes
of next semester.

Any other future
is in a smoky distance,
far removed from this perfect,
blistering, summer day.
A day of piss-warm lake water,
flirting with Bullhead boys,
and the dry, hot wind streaming
through the windows.
On every dip, they bottom out,
on every hill they fly…

This is dedicated to my dearest lifelong friend, Cathy. Childhood would have been empty without her.

POSSESSIONS (BTP Prompt)

2010-08-12T09:52:00.002-07:00

This week's prompt over at http://bigtentpoetry.org is about possessions. (My prompt idea-sorry if you found it tricky.) I wrote one piece about something we all possess, our hands, and the love/hate relationship I used to have with them.

(Below this piece is another one that takes the prompt more literally.)

HANDS

I used to envy ladies hands.
Those long, lithe fingers
fluttering as butterflies.
The creamy smoothness of
narrow, elegant palms.
Their perfect french nails
encircling crystal wine stems,
and time for weekly manicures.

My thick, peasant hands could never compare.
Callused palms and barked raw knuckles,
rough, short nails, devoid of lacquer.
My hands had too much work to do.
They yanked out weeds,
and kneaded dough,
chopped firewood,
and intricately braided hair.
They earned a paycheck,
and paid the bills,
yet still made time for poetry
while scrubbing floors.

Not perfect, though.
At times I lost control of them as
they spanked my children,
flung crockery in anger,
beat a table in frustration,
and grasped too tightly
the things I loved.
Yet they could delicately
remove a splinter,
gently bathe small peachy bottoms,
And hold my husband
through countless whispering nights.

From the wealth of years
I now look at those with ladylike hands.
Those of the the glossy talons,
and thick gold rings.
I see them now quite fetus-like,
brand new, unformed, no knowledge there.
But mine…

My hands have lived.
.
.
(As I look on the hands of my young granddaughters, I hope they grow to have ones like mine...)

TRADITION

Here is a more literal example of my prompt idea about possessions.
The crock I wrote about (already well used) was given to my grandmother sometime around 1910, by someone who I like to think taught her the recipe.

The old stoneware bowl
is not very pretty,
but it’s lasted well over a century,
and served heavy duty.

It once belonged to my grandma
of the flowered bib apron,
covering her housedress,
rosary firm in her pocket.

It’s held countless batches
of dough left for rising,
made without any recipe,
just by feel they were perfect.

My mom gave it to me
when she taught me the secret
of that magic concoction
for feeding my family.

Now that chipped piece of crockery
sits low in the cupboard,
gathering years full of dust and
holding in memories.

It's waiting and hoping
for some new generation,
to honor the history,
and learn this tradition.

Then I will show them,
and pass on the knowledge,
along with the old heavy bowl,
to treasure as I have.

Arachnophobia

2010-08-05T16:21:00.002-07:00

Lately, I have been experiencing some dulling of my thought processes and memories, (ah, the joys of menopause!) and it started me thinking on the horrors of dementia.

(Not written to Prompt this week. What was it?...I can't remember.....)

I know there’s a spider
that's living inside me.
He's buried in my cerebrum,
contented and busy.

He must have got in there
on some nocturnal mission,
climbed in through an orifice,
while I was dreaming.

I can feel him digesting
my most precious memories,
while his long, bristly legs
dig in ever deeper.

As his abdomen swells
with my past and my passions,
I can sense satisfaction,
his work is successful.

Why won’t you believe me?
Can’t you hear the faint scrabbling?
Or the moist, whispered chewing
of my lost imagination?

Please, just give me a poison,
some pesticide tincture,
or with a small screwing bit,
drill down, piercing his thorax.

Still you let him reside there.
You think I’m just crazy.
But I know there’s a spider
that's living inside me.

"HERO" (BTP #13)

2010-07-29T16:00:00.012-07:00

(courtesy of Photobucket)

Over at :http://bigtentpoetry.org this week's prompt was to write on the subject of "Heroes". Mine are few and far between, but there is one hidden hero that means the most to me...

IT'S A BIRD, IT'S A PLANE....IT'S EVERYMAN!

While turning the pages
of this four-color comic,
(that’s not really funny),
all you see are the villains,
with their long, grasping tentacles,
petting their myriad minions
and filling their maws
with what they have plundered.

But where are the heroes
of this often-told story?
They have no bright costume,
or magical powers.
They’re painted in gray-scale,
with a bone-weary stance
and resolve on their faces
as they raise up their armaments.

A shovel, an apron, a chalkboard eraser,
stethoscope, helmet, or tin badge of courage.
They head back to the trenches,
where the struggle is endless,
where the fight’s never finished.
But they refuse to give up,
to lay down their weapons,
to admit that they’re beaten.

Those villains make certain
to steal all they’re able.
To stuff full their coffers,
and placate their minions,
who increase exponentially
far louder and larger,
like fat, lazy maggots,
eyes stupid, yet cunning.

And our hero keeps going,
his jaw set for the long haul.
With a spine of titanium
to shoulder the burden,
the knowledge of right,
and the strength to still do it.
Appeasing those villains
and the multiple minions.

Yet our hero's still able
to keep the plates spinning,
food on the table,
and live by his code.
While teaching his children
a mantra spoke through the ages,
Of never give up-
Of never give in.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

From the Persian (BTP #12)

2010-07-22T19:40:00.001-07:00

Over at http://bigtentpoetry.org this week's prompt was to take a favorite poem and use it to help write one of our own. The one I chose is just 4 simple lines, but when I first read them at about age 17, I felt something shift inside me. For my piece, I took the basic message of my favorite and expanded upon it.

If some great hollow emptiness resides
Within a chasm filled with crass desires,
It’s not a hunger for the shallow most,
But in leaving go of gentle, simple gifts.

**********************************
Here is the link to the original...if you haven't already guessed by my words, the title, or the photo...
http://thespirittrail.blogspot.com/2008/02/if-of-thy-mortal-goods-thou-art-bereft.html

Evensong (BTP#11)

2010-07-15T20:09:00.006-07:00

Over at http://bigtentpoetry.org this week's prompt was a "hidden message". Although this piece's message isn't hidden, the italicized words I used are a sort of road map to a place.

Under a starlit prairie sky,
cradled by ebony spires,
The ghost of a buckboard goes creaking past,
While the cactus wren whispers his cry.

Skirting the crackled and fissured plain,
lies a red lake long since dry.
As the buck and doe stand silent watch
for thunderheads of a monsoon rain.

Silvery shadowed moonlight beams
En-robe each corner of this land,
and cast a magical glow on the valley below,
left shimmering as a dream.

At the end of some blistering summer day,
as I wander the canyon trails,
in this desolate vista I love to call home,
the night can take my breath away.

The relentless heat and sunshine makes me appreciate the lovely cool nights where I live. Although this is no amazing work of poetry, (I was not able to spend much time on it), I hope it conveys how I feel while out on an evening journey.
(All the italicized words in this piece are roads and streets in my little corner of the world- the magical and varied land of the Northern Arizona desert.)

Robert Frost (Writer's Island Prompt)

2010-07-05T07:18:00.001-07:00

One of my favorite poems has always been "The Road Less Traveled" by Robert Frost.
If you are not familiar with this piece, I hope you will find it and enjoy it as much as I always have.

"The Road Less Traveled" spoke to me.
How I ached to choose the life
of carefree girls in cut-off jeans
hiking through exotic lands.
Or long-haired co-eds in argyle sweaters
roaming Ivy League halls.
I was offered a different road
by an inherited progeria of the spirit.
Barely escaping a train wreck by running
headlong into a burning building.
Spending years fighting that fire,
protecting all others,
my bare hands beating back flames.

Incarcerated by responsibilities,
no chance to run, no place to hide.
Trying not to be what I was taught, but
what is right - what is right
my mantra.
Reading that same poem over and over;
still not finding an answer, an escape.
then over time a subtle loosening,
a dawning realization.
A consciousness of deeper truth.
Frost's words had changed, made sense to me.
My unexceptional life, my life of rules
had turned me slowly into rarity.

For Vincent (BTP #9)

2010-07-01T14:09:00.000-07:00

(Wheat Field and Cypresses - Vincent Van Gogh)

Over at http://www.bigtentpoetry.org , the prompt this week was to have a "conversation" with or about something important to you. I have always wished that I could just sit with Vincent Van Gogh and watch him work, letting him know that what he was accomplishing was more powerful and revolutionary than he realized. I would never presume that a genius of his caliber would answer my questions, so I did the piece in a slightly different way.

As I look upon your world

of twirling, swirling, dancing skies

created by such magic sight,

a land that only you could see.

I want to come inside that place

of saintly faces plowing earth,

as cypresses reach heavenward

with beseeching limbs unfurled.

Where did you find a palette pure,

That no one else had ever seen,

of greens and blues to make us weep

and golds to take our breath away?

Where sunflowers within a vase

scream of their captivity,

and crows escape to fairer lands,

outrunning their mortality.

How did it feel to be so trapped,

within this solitary life?

Dismissed by lesser, duller men,

convinced the world was only gray.

You had a voice they could not hear,

a language foreign to their ears.

A prophet no one hearkened to,

their hooded eyes could never see.

How I wish you could be born again

into this time of instant praise,

where here we celebrate the new,

And worship to your painted face.

.
.
(Van Gogh's work has always seemed like like the most beautiful melodic poetry to me, but where the lines are moved around and the rhymes disjointed and haphazard - I tried to convey a bit of that while writing this piece.)

Please Don't Be Angry (BTP#8)

2010-06-24T15:33:00.000-07:00

Instead of using the exact idea of the prompt at http://bigtentpoetry.org , (not knowing how to write about a topic) I took it to a slightly different place...how to find the right words to TELL someone something negative when it's absolutely necessary without causing a bigger problem...(Isn't this something we all struggle with from time to time?)

How do I tell you
without invoking a stoning-
or acrimonious torrent
of off topic vitriol?

I don't think you're stupid
(maybe slap-dash or lazy)
but that's something I'm used to
like traffic or television.

If it wasn't so blinding,
like a huge neon billboard
forcing my focus
and ruining the view.

Or if this had happened
on your own desert island
and not thrust hard upon me
like some prison tattoo.

I would not have to tell you
that the chaos you created
while refusing assistance
must now be demolished....

along with our relationship.
.
.

Broken (BTP#7)

2010-06-17T16:47:00.000-07:00

This week's prompt over at http://bigtentpoetry.org was a "Wordle" or list of words to incorporate into a work of poetry. I managed to use most, but not quite all...

Starving for praise,
for empathy,
for tenderness,
craved as mother's milk,
yet unfulfilled.
Resentment grows

thick tendrils,

cocooning,
strangling,

until blotted dull

through time

and hopelessness,
these frozen stars-
once beacons of belief,
now unforgiving,
dark and

dangerous,

can receive no comfort,

and impart

no warmth.
.
.
Sorry to be so very dark, but that is where the "wordle" words took me; I thought of a child not having their emotional needs met, and what the result so often is. (ps: the above photo reminded me of a cocoon being unwound)

Eminent Domain (BTP#6)

2010-06-10T16:43:00.000-07:00

(Desert Destruction by Cynthia Short)

Great prompt over at Big Tent Poetry! http://bigtentpoetry.org/ Writing a Pantoum on something that angers you. I had a hard time choosing a topic, I am pissed off about so many things...but here is something that hit very close to home with me. (It could be a metaphor on all environmental issues, or surival of the strongest and least compassionate.)
It's my very first attempt at a Pantoum...so bear with me!

The American Dream is alive and well,
deep in the desert, where no one will care.
To carve out a piece, to make it your own,
no matter what else will get lost on the way.

Deep in the desert, where no one will care,
mule deer stand watch for the dozers to cease.
No matter what else will get lost on the way,
only Man's great dominion is important here.

Mule deer stand watch for the dozers to cease,
coyotes flee, quail exiled once more.
Only Man's great dominion is important here,
nature ground down by Humanity's boot.

Coyotes flee, quail exiled once more,
to fight for survival, sanctuary destroyed.
Nature ground down by Humanity's boot,
The American Dream is alive and well.
.
.
Directly behind our home (which my husband and I have turned into a wild animal sanctuary with many places to build dens and nests, plenty of plantlife to graze on and a constant fresh water supply) some new "neighbors" bought 12 acres of native mountainside and then proceeded to completely rip off every bit of vegetation in a failed attempt to cut the mountain completely down. They hit solid rock, so eventually gave up once every bit of soil was taken off the hillsides. Now, nothing will ever grow there but the most determined tumbleweeds, and all the animals who called that mountain their home will have to attempt to live somewhere else. Our hummingbird "nursery" has been totally destroyed...this breaks my heart.

Calgon (BTP#5)

2010-06-03T20:19:00.001-07:00

(Photo courtesy Photo8.com)

The title refers to an old commercial for a woman's bath product who's catch phrase was, "Calgon, take me away!" The rigid 8 syllable lines and rhymes within the piece are there to give it a traditional, forced, and dated feeling; a subliminal way of showing how trapped we can be by expectations in our lives, and how hard it is to break out of a rut into something new...

One day I’m going to run away,
and shed my skin of must and should,
throw off layers of who I am,
and stop this circumscribed cliche.

There’s no importance where I land,
it doesn't matter what I find.
To just exist in some new way,
where nothing's ever been pre-planned.

Where I can be some other me,
and only dream of my desires,
while re-inventing future days,
into some unique way to be.

I won't do anything the same,
but break each habit that's ingrained,
to just revise myself into,
an empty slate without a name.
.
.
As someone who has spent her entire life in the same small town, under the watchful gaze of those around me, this has always been a fantasy...
http://bigtentpoetry.org/

.

The Strong, Silent Type (BTP #4)

2010-05-27T19:00:00.001-07:00

The week's prompt was to write about an aphrodisiac...YIKES!
This piece is quite personal...but luckily, the only aphrodisiac I need (as of yet) is written about below.

It starts with just a simple glance,
a sideways tilt; his cheshire grin.
One eyebrow raised in beckoning,
his rumbling laugh
from deep within.

Then I may glimpse within his stare,
a magic mirror where I can
now see myself as he still does,
young, taut, un-scarred
by all the years.

That starts this old and tired heart,
to fire once again like new,
and feel a warm, soft moistening,
like custard melts
in summer’s sun.

His quietude in which I’ve lived,
through decades past and still to come,
now broken by one simple line,
a finger crooked,

and rasped, “come on”.
.
.
.(We've been together since 1972...)

War Within (BTP #3)

2010-05-21T05:41:00.000-07:00

(fish scales courtesy of Photobucket)

There were some really interesting words in the prompt this week. At first I used a majority of them, but they didn't make it through my "slash and burn" editing! They did remind me of a theme, one which is a recurrent one with me...

Resistance is futile.

I doff my scales with my convictions-

all lay crumpled,

shed like armor,

-my caparison-

that once guarded me from

every hurtful word,

or fondled loving touch.

As finally I capitulate,

remove each barrier to closeness,

I still retain

one small and tender bit,

-my protection-

folded gently,

and hid within some sacred purse

at rest within my silent heart.

This theme of protecting oneself from hurt and suffering by not letting go and being full open to others is something I struggle with daily. It is a learned response. (Writing poetry has really helped me with this...)

Where Did He Come From? (BTP # 2)

2010-05-13T14:59:00.024-07:00

(photo of volvox algae courtesy of Martin B. Short PhD)

Although I found the words below almost immediately, I gave up trying to use them in a poem after about ten tries. Instead, began to remember who I got them from. It is by no means a great work of poetry...but it's written with love.

aqueous flagella amorphous polynomials
advection velocimetry quadratically
peclet volvox

When contemplating this word spaghetti
I find myself in awed amazement
on some small snip of boy I birthed.
Who’s nose I wiped,
and forced to bathe,
and eat broccoli without Cheez Whiz.
Who hated sports,
was scared to death of aliens,
and the theme from "Unsolved Mysteries".
Who collected leaves and rocks and
shells and bits of interesting nothing,
and shot out all our windows
with his b.b. gun
while pretending to kill aliens.
To think this stubborn, odd, and funny child,
with all his quirks and wild imagination,
could grow into a man that would

use these words quite casually

in daily conversation.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I found these words in one small section of my son's doctoral dissertation, entitled "Fluids, Form and Function: The Role of Fluid Dynamics in the Evolution of Stalactities, Icicles, and Aquatic Microorganisms." His dad and I continue to marvel at how a boy from a very small town, born to very average parents, could end up with the mind he has. (We believe he was abducted by aliens!)

The Show Must Go On (BTP Prompt #1)

2010-05-06T18:38:00.003-07:00

This poem is for anyone who ever felt they didn't "fit in", hated pretending that they do, - or thought themselves trapped by others expectations.

While preparing my entrance-

(a nightly performance)

with stones in my gut-

(and dispair in my soul)

in a ridiculous costume-

(so no one can see "me")

and a greasepainted smile-

(to pretend false emotion)

then under the klieglights-

(for blinding interrogation)

and cacophonous music-

(that mocks me so cruelly)

I scamper, cavorting-

(though I'd rather run screaming)

while invisible strings-

(like some marionette)

tug me this way and that-

(in a fool Punch & Judy)

to wild applause-

(from the rubes who surround me)

who I've fooled once again-

(into believing I'm human.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This first prompt from "Big Tent Poetry" asks us to write in the persona of someone in the circus. To me, this was quite easy, as I feel my life can be quite circus-like at times! Mostly I enjoy it, but underneath is always some very conflicted emotions. I tried to touch on that here.

The Hell of Spring

2010-04-22T17:10:00.004-07:00

They’re at it again. As the first light warms over the mountains, (about 5 am), the cacophony begins. No one sleeps through this, as it commences right outside out bedroom windows. Our own personal marching band we like to call the “Peeps”. This is the name we have given the small, nondescript brown birds that have claimed our back porch for their own. We named them “Peeps” for several reasons. First being, we cannot find a picture of their species in our “Great Big Bird Watching Book for Old People”. John says they are “house martins”, although as far as I know, that species only exist in his mind. I personally think they are some type of noisy flying rat. But the main reason for the name is that this is the constant noise they make, louder and more mournful by the second. It really isn’t “peep”, but more like a “peeeeeeeeep”, the saddest (and most irritating at 5am) sound you will ever hear.
They found a perfect spot to raise their offspring; a corner porch pillar with a nice, large top (aka/design flaw) that will accommodate a big, roomy nest for a passel of babies. We know it’s coming early in the spring, when Mom and Dad Peep start bringing in twigs, dried grass, and various other pieces of nature that they hold together with mud. Yes, it is interesting and the wonders of nature and all that stuff, BUT, they really don’t like for anyone to be around while they complete their task. John and I, being the tenderhearted fools we are, leave them to it.

This is difficult, as it is by far the nicest place to sit and enjoy our Arizona weather. Shielded from the sun and wind at all times, (something I am sure the peeps took into account when shown the property by their real estate agent), it’s also right beside our pond, so it is a perfect fish watching spot.
Once their home is complete to their satisfaction, usually after some tear down and re-model, comes the laying of the eggs. Mom and Dad take turns sitting on them and this is a relatively nice but short respite between the angry building phase (I sympathize, as I have had many angry building phases myself) and the “screaming mee mee” phase. Once the eggs hatch the nightmare truly begins. Those chicks are insatiable eaters! Mom and Dad are on the go nearly around the clock, hunting, gathering, and bringing back copious quantities of food, for those gaping little yellow mouths. If we humans DARE to actually sit on the porch, or even walk by casually, the parents sit, with food in beak, and begin their wail. “PEEEEEEP, PEEEEEP, PEEEEEP,” they cry, over and over, never giving up until you go far away, promising never to return, and leave them to their important task. Sometimes they become so angry with us, you can almost hear them gritting their little birdie teeth. If you can manage to hide and watch, when they alight at the nest, the new little screamers begin their high pitched chirping, which makes you hold your ears and run to safety.
We then delude ourselves into thinking that it’s almost over. But that is not the case. It just goes from bad to worse. After all, the darling little babies have to learn to fly, don’t they? Here is where the Peep parents first demonstrate the concept of flight to their moronic children and then coax (with many peeps) or basically toss their babies from the nest. Down they come, onto anything in the vicinity, perching like a drowning man clinging to a broken board. THEN the peeping begins in earnest. The parents peep at the babies, to try to cajole them into leaving the safety of their perch.
The babies, now teenagers I guess, do what all teenagers do, which is argue by massive quantities of peeps that “I do NOT want to fly away and YOU can’t make me!” Unfortunately, this goes on for several days. The teenage peeps flit from one piece of porch furniture to the next, all the while wailing pitifully, and leaving copious deposits of peep droppings.
Suddenly, due to the magic of nature and the juvenile delinquent peeps empty stomachs, (as the parents have finally had their fill and quit supporting their lazy good for nothing offspring), they finally take off. HURRAY! We have our porch back! Much dancing around and popping of champagne corks. But we celebrate too early, because just as soon as this little batch of hell on wings fly away for good, Mom and Dad Peep (who must be Mormon) get empty next syndrome, and the whole nightmare begins again!
(I wrote this short essay last spring after our yearly miserable "peep" episode. Since then, a dear old friend was able to tell me the species of our precious little parasites - Bewick's Wrens. If only she could tell me how to introduce birth control into their systems!)

Sea Breeze

2010-04-05T07:36:00.005-07:00

(photo courtesy of Photobucket)

On a VERY few days a year, in this land-locked desert where I live, suddenly the winds change and bring up the wonderful feel and smell of the Gulf of California, over 300 miles away. On those occasions I am transported…

Within this arid desert home,
of sagebrush, dust
and creosote,
on days so rare they might be dreams,
the wind delivers some wild gift.

Upon each waft, each drift of breeze,
floats thoughts of waves
and tropic spray.
Faint taste of salt to kiss your tongue,
and kelp’s long arms caress your face.

Breathe deep and you can smell the sea,
with sun drenched sand
and rustling palms.
As dolphins call to beg you “come”
Then in your mind you fly away.

Homage to Edgar (RWP # 120)

2010-03-31T20:46:00.002-07:00

(Gathering by Alice Popkorn)

Upon first glance, this prompt photo brought to mind all things Poe (and strangely enough, "The Addams Family"). So I took the dark theme developing in my mind and ran with it. It needs more work, but I am very tired of all the gloom. (I think I'm ready for some butterfly, flower, and sunshine prompts!)

The ravens watch,
the ravens wait,
in inked repose,
with shrugging wings
and beckoning beaks,
patiently, patiently.
Through wailing winds
and bagpipe's dirge,
as violets paper
frost rimed ground
with cloying melt.

The ravens watch,
the ravens wait,
guarding against
the carrion birds,
throughout a battle
hard fought, yet lost.
The soul finally
relinquishing
it’s morbid home,
to be escorted
to parts unknown.

The Big Bang (RWP #119)

2010-03-24T17:08:00.002-07:00

"Consider the fact that, before people can meet people, other people need to meet people just to create the people who will one day meet, fall down and sometimes make other people who will one day meet people. Follow the trail into the future and the line never ends. Head in reverse, you eventually arrive at the first meeting of seed and soil." Dave Jarecki - (Read Write Poem prompt #119)

This part of the prompt struck a cord with me, as I just had a recent conversation about existence, procreation, and all things in between. This piece may not follow the prompt idea to the letter, but it sure got my mind working...(below the poem you will find a more detailed description of the conversation I had.)

From those brimstone prophets,
concrete in their message,
entrusted to them and
their fathers before,
to smug-lipped scientists,
with reams of equations,
pumped full of their knowledge,
and insistence to share.
While banging their fists,
they duel over theories,
but each is just worthy
of a bare, passing glance.
For no one that sure
should be quite believed in.
Have only they been anointed
with miraculous answers?
We each possess our own gift,
to be sure as those sages,
or happily spend our lives
-searching-
and exist for the questions.
For beneath each small slice
of a star-shot night,
lies every wondrous,
magical,
astonishing truth.
Just empty your mind of
your crammed in convictions,
embracing amazement
within your heart.
Be free to fly, to imagine,
and open childlike eyes,
Then quite simply,
joyfully-

Look
Up.

Last week my 8 year old granddaughter started asking me the "BIG" questions...what came first, the chicken or the egg? The seed or the flower? Were there other people on other planets out there somewhere? Did I think God made the world or was it just some lucky accident? I told her no one really knows or ever truly can and the best thing she could do is think these things out for herself, (which is what her grandma is STILL doing), and that sometimes the quest for knowledge is the greatest gift.

Siren Song (RWP #117)

2010-03-10T10:04:00.002-07:00

(photo courtesy of Photobucket)

I had a devil of a time trying to figure out this prompt idea with it's "hinge" (having a sharp, divisive change within a poem). Here is my feeble attempt ...ps I left out most punctuation on purpose, hopefully giving it a seductive, whispering quality. Tell me if you think it works.

On a soft, warm evening
with dew-slicked grasses
and heat lightning flashes
adventure’s afoot
for anyone willing
to see with night eyes
and hear crickets fiddling
buzzing and teasing
“come on, come on.”

Through dark passageways
of tall tasseled cornstalks
their leathery leaves
slap small tanned legs
while toads trill tales
to speed the way
and fireflies wink
their magical code of
"follow us, follow us.”

To a stream-side black
with a thick sludgy mudbank
and tangled-web willows
full of night owls cajoling
while the moon slyly beckons
upon irresistible waters
so quietly lapping
as the bullfrogs beg
"join us, join us.”

On a fog-shrouded morning
through torn, trampled cropland
with barking hounds leading
the morbid parade
of stoic-faced searchers
near a dank, filthy ditch
with it’s unwanted knowledge
and a mother that whispers,
“please no, please no.”

When very small, I was told the precautionary tale of another child who wandered away from her family one summer evening to be found drowned in the small ditch behind the cornrows. That story did it's job, as I never strayed from where my mother could see me. I've often wondered what the "Siren Song" was that lured that other unfortunate child. That is the inspiration for this piece.

The Movie in Your Head (RWP #116)

2010-03-03T18:03:00.005-07:00

(Charon by H. Koppdelaney)

I was quite taken by this painting. It had such a dreamlike (nightmarish) quality to it. As I have been plagued throughout my life by extremely vivid dreams, I went with that scenario.

In dreamtime

muddling thoughts

carouse and dance

through

drowsy minds

as childlike

chimera of

gentle, swirling magic

float upon softly

lapping waters.

soon to melt and

metamorphosis

into a manic carnival of

tumbling,

wild-eyed

throat-choked panic,

blood-drained fear

as demons guide

your empty screams

In dreamtime.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Branches (RWP #115)

2010-02-23T15:09:00.002-07:00

(photo courtesy of Photobucket)

This prompt suggestion to compile lists of what we do believe or not believe was quite interesting and soul searching. Upon examining both my lists it gave me an idea to take one of the things I believe in (commitment in a relationship) and turn it into a negative. Here is what I came up with.

Like young green willow
you’ve woven in-

twining amongst and
piercing through,

each organ, breath
and thought, until

enmeshed-
resigned-

I’ve mastered ways
to navigate

within these bonds
and carve

small freedoms
within my cage.

circa 1972 (RWP #113)

2010-02-10T18:21:00.002-07:00

(Interior of 1968 Ford Bronco courtesy of Photobucket)

This prompt took me WAY out of my comfort zone! Not only is it written in a style I don't usually attempt, this is my first real sexual poetry (as to me that topic seems beaten to death). So...I decided to throw off my shackles and be glaringly honest in the spirit of this "cleansing" prompt.
PS this is dedicated to the one I STILL love...

Ready for anything
in a dust plastered Bronco,
two of the "uncool"
play grown-up
on a star-soaked
desert night.
Steamed up windows from
sweat-slick fumbling
as "Tupelo Honey" plays
for a brown-eyed girl.
Apple wine tongues
teasing - searching,
as blue jeans
twist and bind.
Damn gear shift
and concrete armrest.
Awkward giggles as
Toes curl
into cold naugahyde.
It’s all too perfect-
shame can wait.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Tupelo Honey & Brown-Eyed Girl were our two favorite "make-out" songs...thanks, Van Morrison...)

Traveling (RWP #112)

2010-02-03T17:24:00.002-07:00

This week's poetry prompt was to use a "narrative wallpaper". The thought of walls took me to lights from cars shining on them and it was a good jumping off point...

Headlights scan dark bedroom walls,
as tires roll
and engines growl.
Those wheels will take them far away
and leave me trapped- I cannot flee.

To make escape, to run away,
I fantasize, and float above
into each cold and blinding beam.
I am absorbed and trail along
to better worlds with kinder things.

There is no fighting in these dreams,
just calm, soft smiles
and gentle arms.
A caring place of quiet warmth,
all "Happy Families" in those cars.

Returning from my reverie,
to the never-ending nightly brawl
of ignorance and selfishness,
I build a tent of my resolve,
and grow a shell around my heart.

The Throne (RWP#111)

2010-01-28T05:16:00.001-07:00

December 21st, 2007 #25 by Sepulture (Mood Disorder)

Upon first seeing this picture, I had the immediate thought that it's central figure saw something much more than a broken chair. There seemed to be something darkly reverent about the entire composition… this is where it took me. (thanks to singer/songwriter Mark Chestnut for the words, "broken promise land"...they have haunted me for years.)

A far expanse of nothingness,
baked bare earth, no comfort here.
Miles ahead toward dreams of sustenance,
in this, a broken promise land.

As weary travelers wander past,
each lost within their troubled minds.
Few notice else but their own road,
blinders focus each ahead.

A few may turn with questioned thoughts,
upon one straggler kneeling there,
long throughout the heat of day,
and into dusk and still of night.

They cannot see his focused gaze,
or understand his rapturous face.
His knowledge and blinding clarity,
to commune in silence and in prayer.

With deep resolve and steely spine,
locked in a struggle none can win.
To argue help and reasoning,
with One impervious to pleas.

This warrior with unbending soul,
determined never to concede,
but bestow his life to beg release,
for all the cattle who cannot see.

(Yes, it's a bit melodramatic...I think the news of Haiti was in my subconscious.)

The Gift (RWP #110)

2010-01-20T18:45:00.003-07:00

(photo courtesy of Photobucket)

This week’s prompt left me with lumps on my forehead (from banging it on my desk!)
Here is what I came up with...

She wore her heart as a new spring blossom
Held gently in an open palm, ready,
Childlike, with all the best intentions.
Her gift, some small thing, yet significant.

Like all blooms, ultimately withering.
Colors fade, pollens dry and blow away.
Still she waited, now tentative; her eyes
Wavering, showing fewer tomorrows.

At last a taker. Not as first prayed for,
But a callused grasp; rougher, unequal.
No handsome prince; an honest offer still.

The contract sealed, a future now entwined.
Made to forget her dreams so innocent,
To live a life she truly never chose.

I had my “fluent in French” daughter-in-law choose a poem, (A Une Femme by Paul Verlaine), which I could not make heads or tails of! None of the words sounded even remotely like English (except one line I transliterated into, "My pendant contains egg salad"). So instead I chose to use the poem's structure, and as the French (to me at least) seem to be all about “amour” and yet seem so jaded about it, that thought gave me the idea for this piece.

Lost (RWP #109)

2010-01-14T12:46:00.002-07:00

Something BAD happened with my blog and my original post of this poem was lost...here it is again in all it's bleak and morose glory.

To wait deep in silence
toward such things unseen-
pining for some minute
manna of hope and praise.

To pray for salvation
through sorrowful depths-
slope shouldered, now broken
flesh sundered from spirit.

To surrender, finished
to that slithering beast-
with syrupy poison
your soul now becomes stone.

Tick Tock (RWP #108)

2010-01-06T19:20:00.000-07:00

(photo courtesy Photobucket)

No longer owning an actual dictionary, I instead used a few novels to randomly pick out words that interested me in a reverse alphabetical order. Then, since I am not one to follow directions very well, I scrambled them to MY liking!

Fickle Time.

ruthless, relentless.
electing when
to raise its
omnipotent head
and demand true
servitude.

All but forgotten,
its sluggish trudge
becomes a
speeding train,
-wild and brakeless-
whistles blaring,
stopping for no one.

Anxious wait;
beloved loss;
unrealized dreams.
The ticking tyrant
chuckles, smile affixed,
quietly whispering,
“Pay attention”.

(the words I used were: whistle, trudge, servitude, ruthless, quiet, omnipotent, fickle, beloved)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Prayer for the New Year (RWP #107)

2009-12-30T20:11:00.000-07:00

(Shotgun Blast by Shane Gorski)

This Photo Prompt had such a spiritual quality to it, I thought it apropos to do a prayerful poem in hopes for the New Year. As a very lapsed Catholic, I still could not help but add part of the prayers of mass. "God bless us, everyone."

within the cathedral of hopelessness
each light of heaven valiantly strives
to wash away the sins of the world...

have mercy on us.

amongst broken spirits and battered souls
sanctity consecrates humankind
to wash away the sins of the world...

bring us peace.

through the futility of existence
divine grace comforts the simple heart
to wash away the sins of the world...

hear our prayer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

LIKE WATER (RWP #106)

2009-12-23T20:40:00.000-07:00

(photo courtesy of Photobucket)

For this prompt idea, we were supposed to use repetition - of theme, idea, sound -(well, you get the idea). I have had snippets of this poem rattling around for a while but this finally gave me the impetus to finish it. (PS, it's really NOT about water...)

drip drip drip
so inconsequential - no rhyme, reason
tiny gentle droplets here, there
brushed away mindlessly and forgotten.

drip drip drip
building momentum - a steady tempo
a bit sharper now, much colder
constant aimed focus, hitting each sure spot.

drip drip drip
each splat hits cruelly - jabbing, stabbing
relentless ping, hard, sharp, icy
leaving jangling nerves and raw, bruised flesh.

drip drip drip
inevitable deep craters appear
large dark hollows leaving nothing
but echos of spirit, extinguished by

drip drip drip

ho - ho - ho

2009-12-11T06:54:00.011-07:00

(photo courtesy of Photobucket)

I’m dreaming of a tropical vacation,
A trip to some exotic sunny shore.
To relax upon warm sand
would be so very grand.
No, I don’t believe in Christmas anymore.

It’s nothing but a crass commercial frenzy,
Of buy and wrap and cook and entertain.
That garish Christmas tree
doesn't mean a thing to me,
And those carols are just driving me insane!

Jingle Bells and Rudolf and Old Frosty,
Plus Santa with his bloody silly sleigh.
Piles of trashy plastic toys
made to brainwash girls and boys,
Oh how I wish that I could run away.

But I am stuck within this tinsel prison,
as I complete each stupid endless chore.
Instead I want a holiday
where the palm trees gently sway.
No, I don’t believe in Christmas anymore.

Scenes from a Marriage (RWP#104)

2009-12-09T18:04:00.002-07:00

(Photo above of Eve just trying to put food on the table and Adam just trying to cop a feel...)

Over at Read, Write, Poem this week, we were given a prompt to write a poem about SEX! As I have been married to the same man for 34 years, and have NEVER been a dewy-eyed romantic, I just had to go with what I know....

SCENE I

Come gimme a kiss...
I’m washing dishes.
Just sit down, they’ll keep...
But it’s so late!
But you're so sexy...
I haven't even combed my hair today!
That's good cuz I'm gonna mess it up...
You ARE relentless.
Just look what you do to me...
I’ve seen that thing a million times.
You know you want it...
Honey, I’m tired.
You won’t have to do a thing...
Huh?
Just lay back and enjoy it...
That’s gross.
Don’t be such a party pooper...
Oh... all right.
Mmmm, You taste good...
Your whiskers are scratchy.
God, I love your tits...
Honey, wait!
Wait for what?
Not yet...
Come on, you know you want to...
Ohhhh, No....
Does this feel good?...
Ohhhh, Yes!
How ‘bout this?...
Let’s go in the bedroom.
Nah, it's better on the couch...
But the kids might wake up.
I’ll be quiet...
But I won’t!

SCENE II

What's for dinner?
Wouldn't you like a drink first?...
Silly question.
There now, isn't this nice...
What are you all made-up for?
Can't a girl try to look pretty once in a while?...
You don't have to do that for me.
I know.(This might be harder than I thought...)
Damn, I'm exhausted.
Poor baby...
Where are the kids?
At my mom's...
What for?
Thought we could use some alone time...
You're kidding, right?
I wouldn't kid about that...
I wanted to watch the game!
Wouldn't you rather look at this instead...
Turn that back on!
Oh, I'll turn something on...

Well, aren't you just a nasty little thing?

I thought that's why you married me...
You're right about that, get over here!

Granada (RWP #103)

2009-12-02T19:28:00.001-07:00

(pomegranate by Nasos3)
This week for the poetry prompt from RWP we were to write something on pomegranates! After much head scratching, this is what I came up with.

Beneath gnarled branches
lies Eden’s temptation,
heavy sanguine globes, dusty
crowned, leathery wombs
encasing balaustine ovaries.

Wresting apart, rending wetly,
tangy bright nectar
stains greedy mouths
and drips sticky syrup
onto the earth.

Thanksgiving (RWP #102)

2009-11-25T18:03:00.002-07:00

(photo courtesy of Photobucket)
This poem only loosely follows the prompt idea, but is part of my "Native American" series. Thursday November 26th is "Thanksgiving"- the American holiday where we celebrate hoodwinking the Indians, so this poem seems somehow appropriate.

From Buffalo Soldiers to
the Trail of Tears,
we came to conquer-
to steal away everything.
Trading their noble lives for
sugar, whiskey and our one God.
Forcing it down through clenched teeth,
a poisonous drug -making them crave it.
Instead of maize, pinon and venison,
they eat potato chips, twinkies and bologna.
Their reverence of nature replaced with
the arrogance of church spires.
Killing them with our ways, our insidious gifts,
in a centuries long “Final Solution“.

Angry

2009-11-22T16:06:00.005-07:00

(photo courtesy of Photobucket)

My brain’s become a spinning disc.
Cracked old vinyl, black and broken,
continuous stupid song repeating,
skipping, screeching chaos.

Nerves vibrate to this broken record.
Shards of tangled wild emotions,
shattering, splintering,
cut deeply into flesh and heart.

I must escape the manic screeching.
Hit and jar the stylus back to
smooth, melodious grooves-
Back to calm and normalcy.

Ragged breath- thick dark clots.
No music there, no soothing melody,
just frustrating, alienating,
trapped, choking words.

Suddenly the switch is flipped.
Anger dissipates to soft white buzz
as the needle reaches it’s quiet end,
leaving only helpless inevitability.

Silly Sonnet (RWP #101)

2009-11-19T05:50:00.001-07:00

The "P" words for this prompt made me feel a bit more stupid than usual and I had a terrible time coming up with anything. then I thought, "Use your stupidity!" So, this is what I came up with...
(After reading this , if you are interested, I have posted another in my series about Native Americans directly under this post. It is a "scene" poem of the same type we did a few weeks ago for prompt.)

T'would be much better to procrastinate,
believes this poet of pernicious prose.
As I’ve tendencies to prevaricate,
while much loftier bards turn up their nose.

My pea-sized brain is but a porous mess
laced thickly with a plethora of cheese.
And the talent inside is so much less
than fortunates who have advanced degrees.

Whilst kneeling here in my confessional
I will admit to hopes of accolades.
But my posthumous processional
will only stop the critic's sharpened blades.

So thanks to You for each kind platitude,
as I extend my heartfelt gratitude.

(told you it was silly!)

4 Corners

2009-11-17T08:09:00.003-07:00

(photo courtesy of Photobucket)

This is another piece in the series I am writing about Native Americans. The title refers to the area of the US where 4 states come together and where resides the largest reservation in America.

Under a convex roof
of azurite blue,
drifts of lace cirrus
race through mazes of currents
blown by mirages.

Vultures wheel slowly,
spiraling downward,
raptor eyes keen on the
rust covered earth, flecked with
sorry sad sheep, deflated and dusty.

The rough crackle ground
of impossible colors like
spilled paint box shades
splotched and meandering.
Cadmium, ochre, alizarin crimson.

Chaparral, sagebrush and
damned Russian thistle,
their stubborn roots grabbing-
an attempt to gain purchase of
the dry, dusty valley.

A rusted old single-wide
squats dumbly on cinderblocks
replacing the tumbledown hogan,
beside a Satellite dish
and new Chevy pickup.

Politics as Usual

2009-11-15T08:28:00.006-07:00

I know I should NEVER watch the news or read the paper. When I do, this is what happens!

They think I believe
their outrageous bullshit.
They think I’m naïve, or
some silly optimist.
What choice did we have?
Professional geezer
with “rogue” idiot in tow
Or TV preacher, hawking snake oil
to the gullible masses.
A chorus of yammering,
what they think can be sold,
“Just keep the rube’s pacified.”
as they play three card monte,
odds stacked toward their house.
Am I the only wanting
to scrap the whole damn shebang
and start over completely?

Dreamworld (RWP #100)

2009-11-11T18:11:00.002-07:00

For this prompt, we were supposed to use our dreams to help create poetry. I must admit that the instructions went a bit over my head, so I simply thought that since I have always been plagued with strange and vivid dreams, I would just write one down in poetry form. This is a pretty common dream for me...

Lost within hallways,
a maze of strange corridors
Careening off aimlessly.
Cold industrial grays with
Inky black corners.
Door after door,
too many to number,
I must open them all,
must find what I’m searching for.
I must, I must…

Each door that is opened,
a blank wall behind it.
More appear magically,
all life depending
on finding the right one.
Ears thrumming loudly,
buzzing white noise,
engorged with pure panic,
I must save - must rescue.
I must, I must…

Completely exhausted,
each movement impossible.
Maneuvering heavily through
thick gelatinous ooze.
Terror rising in shuddering
layers, horrible waves.
Breath shallow and strangled,
I must find the opening,
or Everything’s over.
I must, I must…

Attempting to speak,
To scream out for guidance.
Dry gluey lips and
Thick useless tongue only
allows unintelligible garbling.
As the hallway dissolves to
kaleidoscope prisms
Doors are now hidden,
But I still must continue.
I must, I must…

I now feel THEM behind me,
long fingers scrabbling.
Reaching out, plucking
my hair, arms, ankles,
Holding me fast.
Unseen enemies
halting my quest,
pulling me backwards
Into the abyss.
Too late, Too late…

Vignette (RWP #99)

2009-11-05T05:30:00.001-07:00

For this week's poetry prompt we were to describe a scene without actually telling what has happened, just allowing the "props" to tell the story. This is what I came up with. (I'll warn you, it's kind of dark...)

Thick candle stubs smolder, dripping
waxy tears onto a scarred dresser top.

Two glasses wait forlornly, gathering dust
alongside an uncorked bottle of cheap merlot.

An inane treacle of music oozes it's
mocking reminder of unrealized dreams.

Satin and lace tossed haphazardly in anticipation
of a wanting ache for attachment.

Damp tangled sheets and smeared pillowslips
cannot explain the lack of connection.

The odor of sweat and disappointment infuse
dim corners with cloying sadness.

Beating down like cleansing rain, the shower
cannot drown the choking heave of bitter tears.

(If you are interested, please leave a comment below telling me what YOU think has happened...)

Ted the Bear

2009-11-03T16:44:00.007-07:00

I've spent lots of time making up stories on the spot for my kids and grand kids. Here is one I turned into a poem...

Young Ted was a boy who always was mad,
Mumblin', grumblin', and so often sad.

He thought that the world was a terrible place,
And went everywhere with a frown on his face.

He fought every rule, and hated each chore,
Thought school was a dud, and homework a bore.

He longed to be out with the wind in his hair,
With his home the great forest, and live as a bear!

Why if he was a bear, then he’d be the boss,
Nobody could tell him to brush and to floss,

To scrub behind ears or wipe off his feet,
And no one could tell him what he had to eat!

Each day he would wish and each night he would pray,
To wake up the next morning in the bright light of day

And be covered with fur, have feet with sharp claws,
And long pointy teeth in big bear-like jaws.

He’d break out of this place to live off the land,
Be on his own and just wild, oh life would be grand!

Well one morning Ted woke, and scratching his head,
Found that he wasn’t asleep in his very own bed!

But out in the woods, ‘neath a tall redwood tree.
He now was a bear and why, NOW HE WAS FREE!

But he was only a cub, with Momma Bear by his side,
Who was rough and was tough and would not be defied!

She made him stay close, would not let him stray,
Always searching for food, there was no time for play.

And if he was lazy or gave her some flack,
She’d take her big paw and give him a smack!

They went to the river; he thought just to swim,
But she caught a salmon and gave it to him.

She told him to eat it, but that just wasn’t right,
He didn’t like sushi, but was not gonna fight.

He pretended to nibble, then tossed it down in the dirt,
And what happened next, GOSH it really did hurt!

Momma Bear wasn’t kidding or messing around,
But got very angry and knocked him flat on the ground!

She told him “ NOW EAT IT”, so that’s what he did,
But right then started remembering his life as a kid.

He thought back on his Mother, so gentle and sweet,
Who never would whack him or force him to eat.

He thought of his Dad who never got mad,
Even when Ted acted all bratty and bad.

Ted the bear just sat down and rubbed at his eye
he sure wouldn’t let Momma Bear see him cry.

No, this life as a bear was not easy or fun,
And he longed to wake up, the dream over and done.

But each day went on just the same as the last,
With poor ol’ Ted thinking of his happier past.

Soon it was winter, and it started to snow,
So Mama Bear said it was now time to go

Down into the cave, to sleep until spring.
Why Ted never had heard of any such thing!

He hated to sleep, he thought it was wrong,
One night was a lot, but months, THAT WAS LONG!

But Mama Bear grabbed him and settled him down,
With a smack and a growl and a big toothy frown.

So they huddled together in one furry heap,
And slowly poor Ted drifted off into sleep.

Well, he slept like forever, which wasn’t much fun,
Except for dreams of his family and days in the sun.

Then winter was over, it was time to awake,
To brush off the cobwebs, to stretch and to shake.

But when Ted looked around, he was happy to see
He was back in his bedroom - now he was free!

So the first thing he did was to say a quick prayer,
Happy to be just a boy, and not some stinkin’ old bear!

A Halloween Tale

2009-10-29T02:16:00.003-07:00

This is a spooky little story poem I wrote in honor of Halloween. I hope you enjoy it!

I wandered lost upon some road,
A weary traveler far from home.
To come upon at daylights end,
A welcome sight to tired eyes.
A country inn, with windows bright.

“A fine place here to spend the night.”

I entered through the rough oak door,
But no one seemed to be about.
Just fire well laid, and on a plank
Fresh bread and cheese, with wine uncorked.
A note left in a spidery hand,

“Will return soon, please help yourself.”

“How strange?” I thought, but knowing not
The customs of this different place,
Sat down to rest, and to partake,
Near starved by my long trek abroad.
Yet, such quiet seemed an eerie thing.

"So odd to be here all alone."

No other travelers rested here,
But I soon was lost within my glass,
And nodded off with no more thought.
Then suddenly waking, oh so cold!
Rising up, I gazed about.

"What! Who's there? Be known to me!"

The fire out, the lantern dimmed,
And something not as it had been.
The table that had once been laid
With fine libations now lay bare,
And covered with a thin fine dust.

“I must be deep within my cups!”

Stumbling through the unlit rooms,
I found a bed to rest upon.
To lay my head, and gather thoughts,
And wait for morning’s saner light.
I barely closed my eyes when - there,

“That sound must mean the keeper’s back.”

The smallest footsteps, lightest rap,
A rustling movement overhead.
Slight scrabbling of small fingernails,
And then, much quieter came this plea,
A sigh so soft as whispering,

“Oh, please sir, won’t you let me in…”

My eyes flew open, and trembling,
Felt icy waves upon my back.
“Who’s there!” I begged, but no reply.
My heart beat wildly, then again,
That voice that brought on shivering.

“Come closer now and let me in…"

The rusted latch upon the door
Began to rattle, the wood to creak.
The curtain, caught by some faint wind,
Blew gossamer drifts in pale moonbeams.
And then much louder than before,

“You truly should have let me in!”

I felt quite faint, and stuck as stone,
Then patting pockets in wild array,
I scrambled for a match, to light
My mind, to reason on this night,
And bring some sense to what I felt.

“Where was this voice arising from?”

Finding but a candle stub,
A life vest to a drowning man,
I lit the wick and staring thus,
The bed that I had slept upon.
This room much different than before.

"This could only be a waking dream..."

In such disuse for many a year,
Cobwebs littered every spot.
With broken panes that now allowed
Dry brittle leaves upon the floor,
And droppings from some furry thing.

"This can't be true, I've gone insane!"

Shaking off my disbelief,
I knew I need make my escape
From something that was far from good.
An evil presence beguiling me, and
darkest happenings on this night.

“I must reach safety or surely die!”

I rushed headlong to reach the door,
Where once the latch had rattled so,
To find it gone, and in it’s stead
Rough nails to lock the door in place,
And every window boarded up!

"Lord, save me from this demon's grasp!"

I now reside within these walls.
No visitor here, but left to stay.
The “keeper” of sorts of some sad thing.
So, should you stumble by at night
Be sure to listen for my cry,

“Won’t someone please to LET ME OUT!”

Waterworld (RWP #97)

2009-10-20T19:54:00.004-07:00

This experiment in "cut up technique" found poetry was interesting, but gave me a VERY rough draft. I do feel it was worthwhile as it allowed me to write something I may never have put on paper. Here is the finished product. At the end of the piece you will find a link that will show you where I "found" my muse. PS, I know it is a bit strange...

Dive overboard, this ship is not your friend,
the lighthouse but a dim reminder of the past.
Just relax, learn the waves.
Become one with the ocean,
as rain on shore falls gently, softly,
becoming one within the foam.
Float away, let down your guard.
Don’t envy solid ground,
with broken thoughts like jetsam,
reach out quickly -
away from all desire but the now.
Sink downward, let go,
towards the protection of the bottom.
-Yes, you’ll fight -
-hold your breath -
-break the surface-
Scream to flotsam and to space,
to midnight’s spinning stars.
Fight the absurd desire for life.
Give in to loss, then finally you can be free.
Dive, swim downward from all needs,
To the cold call of whales
and the squid's tentacled caress.
Allow your arms and legs
to take you to the end. Stop.

Click here to hear the song that inspired my piece.

Transformation

2009-10-19T12:56:00.003-07:00

This is a recent autobiographical work...a lot of my poetry dwells on the past and being able to overcome...

Held captive as a
trapped small mouse
Shivering, panicked,
Heart beating wildly,
searching vainly for escape.
Toyed with, tortured
by a hungry tiger,
Forced to give
emotional nourishment
While starved for sustenance.
learning to feed on detritus and bile
To absorb the ugliness,
swallowing in thick sharp clots,
a dry, chalky barium that spreads inside
illuminating each hollow,
every unfilled corner,
Hardening to a brittle chrysalis,
Where transformation can occur.
Now healed and breaking free,
clawing outward, to
spread fluttering wings,
not those of a fragile butterfly,
But an armored warrior,
Tough, leathery pinions,
Steely scales and razor claws.
strong and invincible.
I will never be broken.

Terminal Illness 1 & 2 (RWP #96)

2009-10-13T14:57:00.010-07:00

For this week’s “Wordle” prompt I decided to cheat a bit and not even attempt to use all those offered words. Instead, picking just one word that spoke to me, (Chelation) and using it as a jumping off point. I wrote this piece first, then thought, “Why not take this same idea and write it as a sonnet?” The sonnet version is directly under this first bit.

In violent spasms the poison enters,
consuming completely each innocent cell,
settling deeply, darkly within the heart.
First euphoria trickling slowly, methodically
down familiar pathways, ending in
gut-wrenching pain, praying for death.
The only cure - complete chelation.
Searching out and destroying
each minute pathogen,
Cleansing the marrow, the soul, to return
life’s blood to a pure, whole self.
But the healing never lasts,
this illness too addictive, a drug
that feels so good, but dooms so quickly.
There is always
one more germ, one more virus,
To ruin the health and addle the mind.
Ah, love…..
___________________________________________________

SONNET #2

In violent spasms that overtake,
A poisonous ailment we know so well.
It’s desire the mind and heart to break,
to thrust each victim into darkest hell.

Seeping within to our deepest marrow,
This deadliest germ of gut-wrenching pain
Leaving only tears, damp tracks of sorrow,
and craving addiction, left quite insane.

Thus the only hope for a healing cure,
Is cleansing the blood through strong chelation,
To leave each sufferer in his weakness, pure
finally free, in euphoric elation.

And yet to feel cast from heaven above,
Without this beast, the affliction called love.

A Double Dip of "Mash-Up" (RWP prompt #95)

2009-10-08T06:15:00.000-07:00

I actually made two separate tries on this prompt, and am afraid neither one is a good example of what we were supposed to accomplish... In this first piece the un-italicized poem was written months ago, just added the other point of view to create a type of “mash-up”.

The Gift / I Thought

Long ago I gave you myself,
I thought it wasn’t serious.
Right off the showroom floor,
I thought I was ready.
The latest model with new car smell,
I thought I knew what I was getting into.
Shining and untouched.
I thought I was grown up.
Something you coveted, had to possess.
I thought I could handle responsibility.
Now, through rough and careless handling,
I thought everything would work out fine.
I’m worn out, scratched and dented,
I thought I wouldn’t have to be a man.
You began looking to trade me in.
I thought I could still be free.
To you I meant nothing,
I thought I could do what I wanted.
A cheap, used domestic model,
I thought you would forgive me.
A dead battery that just won’t turn over.
I thought you’d love me no matter what…

________________________________________________________
In this next piece (won’t really call it a poem) I took the prompt suggestion to a whole new level… The poem part is the beginning of every other line & the lines in BOLD are actual headlines.

I’ll Have Fries With That
Childhood Obesity at Highest level in US History
-Poisoned and bloated- kool aid, skittles /high fructose corn syrup/ Ritalin Use Doubles in Last 10 Years coca-cola, yoohoo -Force-fed garbage and- “YOU DESERVE A BREAK TODAY” twinkies /sodium benzoate/ pop tarts, cup-a-noodles, twizzlers
-Mind-numbing lethargy- Dietary Guidelines Allow Ketchup as Vegetable in School Lunches.”LEGO MY EGGO!“ cheetos
-An embarrassment of riches- /partially hydrogenated vegetable oil/ popsicles "THE CHEESE THAT GOES GRUNCH"
-Hidden behind stupid choices-/lucky charms, happy meals/artificial colors &flavorings/ "FINGER-LICKIN’ GOOD!“
-A nation of gluttons- Type II Diabetes Epidemic Among Americans big mac /monosodium glutamate/ whopper, pringles
-With little intelligence- “MELT’S IN YOUR MOUTH, NOT IN YOUR HAND!“ spaghettios, deep fried gordita /sodium nitrite/
-Are killing the future- Schools Cutting PE Across the Board stuffed crust, big gulp “CUCKOO FOR COCOA PUFFS”

Sonnet #1

2009-10-06T14:27:00.007-07:00

(For the "New Formalism" group on RWP)

Last night in dreams I once again was free,
Afloat in heaven’s realm above man’s grasp.
The earth was naught but meaningless to me,
Unto my soul, abandon did I clasp.

To soar amongst the stars in darkest space,
To glide within cool oceans as a fish,
To run with stallions wild and give them chase,
To fly aloft on clouds would be my wish.

In sleep I break the bonds that hold me fast,
From everything belonging to the day.
The cloying rules and duties of the past,
I shrug off mighty chains and bound away.

At morning’s servitude and blazing light,
I lie and wait for magic in the night.

Escape

2009-10-05T16:01:00.004-07:00

This is part of my "Regression Series" that I have been writing about my experience with regression therapy. Even if you think past-life experience is all hogwash, I hope you enjoy the poem just on it's own merit. This piece describes a woman from the 19th century in Ireland.

There is no peat, the stove is cold
and so the water will be like ice.
A sliver of soap is all that’s left, to scrub
the dirt from each small face.
Cold potatoes for some bare meal,
and each child fights for his own piece.
I’ve tried to teach them how to share,
and oh so many other things,
like God, their letters and ciphering.
But when I look into their eyes,
I see my husband’s dull, dark gaze.
He, who through his cloying ways
drew me into this ugly life of
Hopeless, endless, deprivation.

He’s now been gone three days, I’m sure
enthroned at the tavern, drunk on his pay.
The Great Man standing all his friends
another pint, while his family waits.
The priests council what they do not know,
to love, forgive, to acquiesce.
To wait for Heaven’s happiness, while
here is Hell on Earth, I know.
Hungry, cold, tired of the fight,
the children sleep in our lousy bed.
So blowing out the one small light,
I change my apron to one that’s clean
and shut the door upon my past.
I can’t save them but I can save myself.

Manifest Destiny (RWP # 94)

2009-09-30T18:22:00.001-07:00

(My Angel & My Demon by Thomas Hawk)

The above photograph is the "prompt" for this week's poem. Clearly a close up of a foosball machine with the little red and white men. After studying it a bit, I had a “Eureka” moment. Having just traveled throughout the 4 Corners area of the US, land of the Zuni, Hopi, Navajo and Ute, I have been attempting some poetry on what I saw and felt in that region. This photo became a stepping off point for some of my ideas...

Across the horizon
in mist wrapped malignancy
something insidious
slowly comes closer.

"All things before me
are mine for the taking.
It's my God Given right
to conquer the savage."

With intractable whiteness
he travels relentlessly
absorbing all in his wake
and vomiting pestilence.

"Who is this pale demon
that believes he can purchase
a God Given country
with blankets and bloodshed?"

Fixed still as a statue
uncomprehending of danger
the red man continues
to watch his destruction.

I Am Someone

2009-09-27T13:19:00.005-07:00

This is another of the autobiographical poems I was asked to write by my English teacher friend as an example for her class...

I’m a small scared rabbit,
hiding it’s head,
heart beating wildly,
hoping for salvation.

I’m a bright summer sun,
brightly illuminating
all I shine upon
and healing by my light.

I am a cold north wind,
bitter and unforgiving,
and an innocent smile
on a babies face.

I am gentle laughter,
and joyful banter.
Soft caresses,
and long wet kisses.

I am fresh baked bread,
rising soft and tender,
a warm fire and shelter
from the storm of life.

I am an armored warrior ,
striving to right
every wrong for all
who cannot fight.

I am a lowly ant,
gathering grain for the winter.
A destructive grasshopper,
living just for today.

I am torrential rain,
weeping down from heaven
covering the earth
with my sadness.

There are all these things
and more in me,
in a face well worn,
by a life well lived.

Fairytale (RWP Prompt #93)

2009-09-23T17:39:00.005-07:00

For the prompt for this weeks poem, we were supposed to make up a story, fib, lie, bamboozle..(you get the drift). Writing this was so much fun! It only took seconds to decide what my poem should be…an old fashioned child’s fairy tale. This is for my three darling grandchildren - Emily, Tristan, and Clementine.

When I was but a child and left much on my own,
I’d roam far and wide, quite far from my home.
Into a cool quiet forest I’d travel to play,
Where I soon became lost there one soft summer day.

Frightened and tired in these woods oh so deep,
I lay down on thick moss near a burbling creek.
To calm panicked thoughts - to stop and to think,
but my poor weary eyes, they closed for a wink.

Too soon I was woken from a light fitful sleep,
By butterfly kisses on my tear -dampened cheek.
Then looking around, so amazing to see,
a large band of Fairies, just staring at me!

Tiny as hummingbirds, just hovering there,
Like a wreath they entwined themselves in my hair.
I stood very still, to show them pure trust,
Whereby they sprinkled me lightly with a shimmering dust.

Upon this anointing I became very small,
and looked to myself like a wee tiny doll!
Then those sprites gathered round and drawing me in,
Told me such secrets with their fey pixie grin.

They taught me their magic, they showed me the way,
Befriending this child on that warm summer day.
Together we flew with red robins and hopped on fat frogs,
Hid among toadstools and long hollow logs.

On squirrel backs we galloped up tall trees and down,
all the while giggling- a pixie can’t frown!
We feasted on berries, sipped nectar from flowers,
flew chase through gold sunbeams for hours and hours.

Sadly, soon it was twilight - I knew I must leave,
But one tiny fairy held fast to my sleeve.
“Come back to see us,” she trilled, as she gave me a gift.
“Use this dust to return here, it will give you a lift.”

Next she pointed me homeward, where I went on my way,
with a hope to return there another fine day.
Any time I was lonely, I’d think of those friends,
Then sprinkle some magic to be with them again!

In time I grew older, as all children will do,
and those magical visits became very few.
Only whenever my world turned to turmoil or strife,
I would escape to the fairies from the sadness of life.

Just a touch of their glitter and I’d be taken away,
to the land of those elfins, where again I could play.
Alas, I am old now, life’s race nearly run,
my days as a pixie are over and done.

But my playmate’s are waiting to make a new friend,
It would be a sin for this enchantment to end.
So if you believe that this story is true…
One day I may pass on this magic to you!

Waterfall Hike

2009-09-17T14:53:00.006-07:00

(photo by John Short)
John and I rose very early this morning to drive 45 miles to Telluride for our final Colorado hike. It had rained very hard the night before with more in the forecast, so we didn’t want to miss our window of opportunity.
We were told of the 4 mile “Bear Creek” hike by our good friend Colleen, who had been here in July.
When we reached the trail head, the end of Pine Street in Telluride, it was a brisk 41 degrees and the air was wet from the night before. Not giving in to Mother Nature or our own weakness of wanting to stay warm and dry we departed straight up into the mountains.
The trail starts at 8745 feet above sea level and in 2 miles you travel 1055 feet higher, to 9800 ft. My legs were full of lead most of the way up and I made John stop with me several times to catch my breath and consider my sanity. Poor John, he is so patient and he carries the backpack! We plodded on doggedly, wondering like small children, “Are we there yet?” Until-finally 90 minutes later we were, and it was so worth it! A beautiful waterfall marks the end of the trail. We sat, enjoyed apples and cheese, and felt thankful that from there on in it was all downhill!

Starlet (RWP prompt #92)

2009-09-16T16:19:00.006-07:00

(I felt this nasty little piece fit the prompt's offered words perfectly and I used all but two of them.)

Kohl rimmed eyes and plummy lips,
bottled blond mane and lacquered talons,
a counterfeit confection of delight.
Gossamer wrappings, flimsy nothings,
yet pushing, squeezing, torturing,
barely covering her only assets.

To own the stage, bask in limelight.
Hip-shot stance with arms extended
toss airy kisses and deep dropped bows.
Pretend humility and beg applause.
“Encore, Encore“ - a shower of roses-
Tearful admirers envious and awe-struck.

It’s but a slight remedy, a balm to soothe
the sleepless nights - keep out the banshees.
Small pittance of what she really craves,
compete and utter adoration.
To be the worshiped Venus,
the axis on which existence turns.

She is but an empty shell, a brittle husk,
art and artifice alone, no substance, no soul.
Dependent on conforming to
whims of fickle multitudes.
To quench an insatiable thirst, a junky’s fix,
the fleeting approval for
her meaningless existence.

The View From the Top

2009-09-15T16:29:00.006-07:00

(photo by John Short)
After being given directions to a “nice little 3 mile hike with great views” from fellow vacationers we decided this morning would be the perfect time.
Well, it had great views, (breathtaking, actually) 360 degrees in every direction at the top of a mountain.
The trail we took is part of the “Colorado Trail” that loops for more miles than I know or could ever live to hike throughout the mountain ranges of the state. John and I started at the Grindstone trail head at 11,800 feet above sea level and then basically climbed straight up for nearly 1 ½ miles ending at 12, 300 ft. It wouldn't have been too bad, except for two things, the weather ( we were fighting sleety rain nearly the whole way up and the mud that went with it) and as we are not the sharpest knives in the drawer, we got off on the wrong trail which took us over 1 ½ miles out of our way!
At the summit, we were treated to a break in the weather and wonderful sunshine where we took pictures of the magnificent vistas surrounding us.
The photos of John look great, I look like 9 miles of bad road!
We didn’t see another soul during the entire hike, and in fact on the way back were discussing that in all that lonely wilderness we hadn’t come across any creature other than wild turkeys and grouse -- when we walked around a bend and standing right in front of us was a sleek and fat young deer. A two point buck with his antlers still in velvet. He didn’t seem afraid, and looked us over quite carefully before just sauntering away. That alone made the trip worthwhile…

Westward

2009-09-14T14:33:00.003-07:00

As I am on vacation right now and have little time to finish any of the thoughts I have been pursuing, I thought I would re-run a piece I wrote a while back about the wagon trains and quest for westward expansion.

They rolled along relentlessly
All brave, some foolish,
optimists following dreams
across the far horizon.
In waves of grass and seas of sand,
piloting their prairie schooners
With gunpowder, hardtack
And barrels of whiskey.
Onward and westward
Canvas sails tying their hopes inside.

They came from the cities
And far distant lands
Dragging unwitting families,
And mountains of baggage.
Looking for prosperity,
And a cure for their wanderlust.
Little could stop them,
Not cholera, hailstorms or Indian wars.
Dropping their dead along the way in
Unmarked graves to litter the trail.

But if their livestock died,
that was catastrophe.
The dream stopped there.
Some gave up, sold off, turned back
To the life they knew before.
Broken and battered, but wiser by far.
Stubborn ones stayed, making the
Best of the broken wagon,
building cities from vanquished dreams.
Abilene, Chimney Rock, Laramie.

Colorado Hiking

2009-09-13T15:43:00.006-07:00

Beginning of Priest Gulch Trailhead - Photo by Tom Harris

I know until now I have only been posting poetry on my blog, but thought some of you may be interested to read of our little adventure...

Our first full day in beautiful Colorado John and I woke before dawn after a giant thunderstorm with much rain. We wanted to get an early start to our hike. We took an over 5 mile loop trail called “Priest’s Gulch” in the San Juan National Forest. Starting at over 8000 ft. above sea level, in the first half of the hike, we climbed over 3000 feet in elevation through a series of switchbacks, ending up at a beautiful alpine meadow - the midpoint. We walked through a forest of Ponderosa Pine, Blue Spruce, and Quaking Aspen, whose leaves were just beginning their autumn turning. Lovely and delicate fall flowers were everywhere, from Queen Anne’s Lace and Rocky Mountain Daisy, to the delicate little lupine we call “Fairycaps” in a deep purple and red with pink spots. Woodpeckers, Blue Jay and Magpies kept us company, and until we were within the last mile we had the trail to ourselves.
Heading out, John let me lead, saying that he wanted me to not feel rushed and to go at my own pace. As we climbed higher and higher into the forest I came to realize that he wanted me in the lead so if we happened upon a bear, I would be closer and it could eat me first!
On the second leg of the hike we crossed two creeks, balancing precariously on rocks above the rushing water, and steep downhill legs that were quite muddy. Here I let John take the lead as I figured if I fell, I would roll into him and he could catch me!
Three hours later we made it back to our campground, nestled against the lovely Dolores River, (Spanish for “Mother of Sorrows“) safe and sound and very tired, where our pups waited patiently in our camp trailer. We congratulated each other on still being able (in our 50’s) to complete this trail without medical intervention. All in all a very satisfying first day. For dinner, grass fed beef rib-eyes and local Olathe sweet corn…..

2 for 1 Special - (RWP Prompt #91)

2009-09-09T15:17:00.004-07:00

This week's Read Write Poem prompt was a tricky one for me... quite complex and involved some soul searching. I composed two separate pieces, the first was to describe something I never wanted to forget and was to encompass smell...!

Birthday

Disinfectant cannot contain
the slaughterhouse odor of blood,
sweat and amniotic fluid.
How can this death scent translate
into fresh beginnings?

I’m grabbing at hands,
my tearful husband to hold me,
awaken me from this nightmare
of never ending pain, that
rends me trembling and nauseous.

Bay rum assaults my nose
as the doctor hovers over
cajoling me, "One more push".
How can he smile, breath so fresh,
when all hell is breaking loose?

Somehow I muster from deep inside
a last bit of strength,
a last bit of desire
to finish this, and finally see what
this world of trouble is about.

Rapidly materializing, a gush of
sudden slippery releasing.
Exhaustion finds me full of
achievement and extreme relief
as I hear crying not my own.

My child, my daughter
thrust into this hard, cold life.
Dumped rudely on my breast,
to smell her newness, her
warm, fresh, beautiful existence.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

This next piece is from the second part of the prompt - incorporating the photo below to write a "dream" piece about a memory I would like to forget.

(photo by Greg Fraser)

The Dream

Curled round the roots of
an ancient forest, under years of soil
and dry, crisp leaves,
lies the child, silently weeping.
Escaped to hide in this hushed grove,
this peaceful God place.
Damaged and alone,
Safer still than what was left behind.
But there is no cocoon here,
No true haven of security,
as the wildness comes closer,
screaming cruel insanity.

Why must destruction follow me,
nourished and dependent on my
bearing witness to it’s hateful dance?
I must run farther, I must soar free
from all unhappiness.
Through motes of light, the phoenix emerges,
coalescing gold and scarlet beauty,
with knowing eyes and
claws meant only to protect me.
I climb upon his armored back
holding tightly to his massive neck.
We are aloft, born away to safety.

New Mother

2009-09-08T06:18:00.004-07:00

This poem is a recovered memory from a past-life regression therapy session I had a few years ago. It is about an indigenous woman from North America at a time long before Europeans explorers came here. I still dream about this frequently.

The baby lasted but an hour.
So small, so cold; no comfort here.
Too young I was, my womb unripe,
and Winter’s not the time for birth.
I’ll have another when it’s Spring.

The rain beats down, my hide is soaked,
and chafes upon my thin, sore frame.
So great a distance we have come,
Much more to tread before we rest.

Babies need a warm, soft sun,
with fragrant grasses to lie upon.
And mothers who have much to eat
for strength- and thick sweet milk to drink.
I’ll have another when it’s Spring.

The food is scarce; small leaves and seeds,
my mother, worried, shares with me.
I see far mountains up ahead,
these we must reach to find a home.

A cave, a fire, small game to eat,
a place without the beating wet.
With thick fur hides to rest upon,
to gather strength and mourn my loss.
I’ll have another when it’s Spring.

I stumble, shaking, and fall into
a small mud hollow beneath a rock.
The rain secludes me from our group.
For me there will not be a Spring.

http://cynthiashort.blogspot.com/2009/09/new-mother.html

This Can't Be Healthy!

2009-09-06T10:10:00.002-07:00

I’m melting…melting…
The Wicked Witch of the West
has nothing on me.
Sweat pours off every inch,
stinging my eyes, rivulets
pooling into every nook and cranny,
soaking my clothes.
What was I thinking?
A desert rat hiking today,
slogging through half-set gelatin,
warm, thick and slimy.
Humidity rising up
in steamy vents from the
damp desert sand.
I plug along grumbling, while
quail, the only other creature
stupid enough to be out in this mess
laughs, calling me “Koo koo”.
The last push uphill to home,
dreaming of a long cool shower
and a tall iced tea.
(I’d rather have stoli straight
from the freezer…)

Self- Centered

2009-09-04T15:53:00.005-07:00

While coming out of my business yesterday, I noticed this scene being played out in front of Starbucks. It hit a nerve and I had to write it down.

Fake fingernails,
impossible breasts.
A non fat half caff latte
in one hand,
Blackberry in another,
conceitedly tweeting.
Designer jeans,
diamond rings,
expensive weave
lacquered to perfection.
She hurries quickly
to the Beemer.
In a constant rush,
new friends to meet,
new things to buy.
Oblivious to the child-
a pesky fly -
a barnacle-
struggling to keep up
in cheap rubber thongs
Matted hair flying.
Just another accessory
Like her last cell phone,
Out of style,
bored with it.

Street Performer (RWP Prompt #90)

2009-09-03T05:32:00.006-07:00

My offering for "Read Write Poem's" weekly prompt #90

Glazed eyes streaming- trembling
through plumes of smoke
his offering drifts heavenward.
Burnt flesh a written
declaration of sacrifice.
Praying it will be great enough
to bring forgiveness.

Mesmerized and mystified
onlookers toss offerings of
grimy coins and crumpled notes.
A smattering of applause-
Murmured voices of encouragement,
“Such talent, balance and resolve,
a true performer.”

He doesn’t even notice them.

Thoughts on a Pond

2009-09-01T08:03:00.004-07:00

We are fortunate to have a koi pond in our backyard. Makes living in this dry place more bearable...These are some recent thoughts that came to me while spending some peaceful time pond-side.

Day

Koi glide through a liquid universe
each a satellite unto themselves.

Sparkling diamonds of sunlight
broadcast secret codes to infinity.

Wasps float upon an invisible skim
splayed legs stuck to the honeylike fluid.

Dragonflies flit and dip downward
dragging heavy tails along a golden surface.

Mourning doves bathe within green shallows
preening dusty feathers, a daily ritual.

Night

Sunset hued tropical blossoms
spew forth a heady, ancient fragrance.

Small desert toads poised on lily pads
trill their harmonious mating call.

Bats aerial maneuvers swoop and dive
vacuuming the air of mosquitoes.

Koi sleep silently among the rocks
submarines resting and recharging.

Swathes of moonlight paint each corner
With a silvery, fluorescent glow.

Where I'm From

2009-08-30T07:04:00.008-07:00

I wrote this piece as a favor to a friend, a high school English teacher. She gave her students an assignment to write a poem describing themselves and their history, and wanted me to write one as an example of what they could do. I hope it helped her class, it helped me to write it!

I come from humble, accidental beginnings.
A twinkle in my father’s eye and
A mother too tired to save herself.
I come from a place where I was one last thought.
One more mouth around an already
stretched tight table.
But I come from far before that, too.
I come from Native Americans
Assimilated into foreign culture.
From European immigrants, coal-miners, union men.
From southern plantation owners
and keepers of slaves.

I decided early on to choose where I was going.
Not to the life prescribed to me.
The life of -“No girl needs an education”.
To reading and curiosity and educating myself.
The belief of- “You can never get ahead”.
To succeeding admirably from nothing.
The motto of -“Don’t ask for anything and expect less”.
To fighting and striving and getting what my heart desires.
From feeling unsafe and unwanted and in the way,
To being a parent who loved and was always responsible.
When I think of where I come from,
It doesn’t really matter.
What matters is what have I done so far,
And what else I can accomplish.

He's a Farmer 'Til the End (RWP Prompt #89)

2009-08-26T20:56:00.011-07:00

We were supposed to find a news headline and write a poem about it. I happened upon the headline "He's a Farmer 'Til the End" from page 1 of the Los Angeles Times 08/21/09. I have always admired the hard work ethic and deep abiding love of the land that typifies a farmer so I decided to write from his point of view. I hope you enjoy it.

I'll be a farmer 'til the end
and the end is near upon me.
Too old and stooped from heavy years
of bending to my livelihood.
Can't count what's left in seasons now
Just hope to get this last crop in.
The wife passed on some winters back,
"to her reward" I heard it called.
But what reward could be so sweet
you wouldn't miss that rich, black loam?

This ground has been our family place
since old grandpa was just a lad.
The first bit from the free land grab
and more scraped up through long, hard years.
From countries far across the sea
we all came down from farmer stock.
To till and sow and gather up,
and love the dirt and rain and seed.
But something happened on the way,
now no one's left to carry on.

Our son took off for city life
to keep his wife who hates the farm.
One day he'll realize his mistake,
of picking something pale and small
in place of something green and great.
The girl married out, lives in town,
She brings her kids by now and then.
They sit around and play their games,
when all the fun they'd ever need
is in the barn or by the creek.

Once I'm finished they'll sell this plot,
divvy up and spend it away,
Never remembering where they're from.
I will be gone but the land goes on.
Then some other man, more like kin,
with grit in his nails
and steel in his spine
will take over and work these fields,
understanding the blessing
and the Godlike greatness underfoot.

ALL WRONG (RWP Prompt #88)

2009-08-20T05:21:00.004-07:00

I had a brain freeze while trying to use any of the 14 words of the prompt. Then, after watching yet another press conference and nightly news broadcast, this little ditty came to me. I managed to squeeze in 11 of the words…

ALL WRONG

Hitched- up behind their podiums,
With perfect elocution.
Politicians fling out frothy platitudes
Spoon-feeding them to the gullible masses.

If you peek behind the curtain
You shall see the Puppet Masters.
Hustling and bustling and pulling the strings.
Ranting and raving and plotting new moves.

Next the Talking Heads regurgitate
With salacious grins affixed,
The now coagulated, rancid nonsense,
Co-conspirators to each coarse joke.

I for one am not amused.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Johnson Canyon

2009-08-18T07:04:00.002-07:00

This has always been a favorite place. Only about a mile from home, part of my late father-in-law's ranch.

The deep canyon opens to a small seeping pool
ringed by cottonwood, filaree,
and wild desert willows.
Their spent purple flowers
Cover the ground like confetti.

It’s considered to be a seasonal spring
and some of those seasons
are years in between. But the
toads come here, hide in the sand, waiting
for water to rise, and places to breed.

Settlers came here when the Indians fled
and built their life
among pottery shards,
They hand dug wells, built rough wood shacks
and stone corrals to hold in or keep out.

Wandering here by those long ago walls,
we treasure found horseshoes
and bits of lavender glass. An old iron shovel
still leans on a ledge, waiting for
a past rancher with fences to mend.

Today people drive in and
dump piles of their garbage.
Old mattresses, couches and washing machines.
In next generations, will those visitors marvel
on treasures now left here to litter the ground?

Two more Haiku

2009-08-14T16:03:00.001-07:00

I wrote these while sitting up with my sick dog!

7.

japanese beetles
buzz loudly against windows
drunk on warm peaches

8.

thrasher beaks flick rocks
searching for buried treasure
a feast of earthworms

Backyard Summer

2009-08-11T21:54:00.000-07:00

The buffalo gourd
crawls along the desert floor
offering small blossoms;
deep saffron cups,
unto the noontime sun.
A clutch of bees buzz languidly
among the flowers,
drunk on syrupy nectar.
Meanwhile, the small horned toad
rests patiently in nearby shade,
watching for evening.

6.

2009-08-11T18:49:00.000-07:00

hibiscus blossoms
long yellow tongues unfurling
vulgarly taunt bees

5.

2009-08-11T18:48:00.001-07:00

arial combat
metallic colors glinting
hummingbird warfare

4.

2009-08-11T18:47:00.000-07:00

vegetable stir-fry
a cheeseburger fantasy
accosting my brain

3.

2009-08-11T18:46:00.000-07:00

horseradish assaults
smacking my face, nose running
head explodes- more please

2.

2009-08-11T18:45:00.000-07:00

cotton underwear
white, full coverage feels safe
no silk thong for me

1.

2009-08-11T18:44:00.001-07:00

dung beetle rolls up
mistakes from a former life
too late for regrets

Not Alone

2009-08-11T18:31:00.000-07:00

The ants hurry on, oblivious
to what has come before.
Their single-minded attitude
belies their seemed intelligence.

I watch them from the sidelines
looking for a knowing spark.
A glance, a wink, to let me
know that they're with me, I'm not alone.

Rarely when that glint appears,
At Last! a kindred soul that knows.
Someone else, their past revealed.
A soul not blind, but fully whole.

Vulnerable

2009-08-11T18:12:00.000-07:00

The bravest thing I’ve ever done
Was show my words to someone else.
From long hard birth upon the page,
Would they understand and know my heart?
Then when praise was not forthcoming,
Grave doubts of who I am crept in.
Are my thoughts just dull and boring tracts,
And show the world my ignorance?
But I should know, there is no need
For confirmation of my work,
The greatest gift to give myself
Is just enjoyment of my craft.

Vampires (RWP Prompt #87)

2009-08-11T13:37:00.004-07:00

This poem was written by me (under duress) for the Read Write Poem Prompt #87.
I chose the vowel sound of oo, and used as many of those dang words as I could fit!

Moonlight pools upon an empty tomb
as midnight’s Groom collects his brood.
To choose, to hunt -
wooing from the light some innocent,
a beating heart, alive, and new.
With soothing sounds and shrewd maneuvers,
they seclude into their reclusive gloom,
a tender beauty, with fullness of youth.
Proving cruel dominance
over earthly fools,
who are but food to the ghoulish troupe.

A long sharp tooth harpooning flesh -
a brutal wound. Blood let loose
as spooling ribbons of ruby fluid.
Swooping into their gruesome cocoon,
they feast upon her mortal ruin.
This luminous beauty, left bruised and blue,
drooped and swooning,
until the vampire Groom intrudes.
Looming down upon the doomed, mewling life
and removing her to his marble womb.
The next recruit - a bride - through which to live anew.