Tradition (BTP prompt)

Here is a more literal example of my prompt idea about possessions.  This crock (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 the magical formula
for feeding my family.

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

It's waiting and wishing
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.

At Home (BTP prompt)

 ( 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...)

Day After Day (BTP)

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.

"HERO" (BTP #13)

(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.
 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Strong, Silent Type (BTP #4)

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...)

Where Did He Come From? (BTP # 2)

(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!)

Homage to Edgar (RWP # 120)

(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)

"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.

The Throne (RWP#111)

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.)

Tick Tock (RWP #108)

(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)

(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.

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

ho - ho - ho

(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)

(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!

Politics as Usual

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?

Vignette (RWP #99)

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...)

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

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”

This Can't Be Healthy!

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

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.

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

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.

Not Alone

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.