Sunday, July 26, 2015

Dylanw

    Photo by Tess Kincaid: Merchant Seafarers' War Memorial, Cardiff

Where
are we?
blinded and
betrayed by time,
endless skies press down
with the weight of water.
Sanded and salted, preserved,
we thought, like a pearl of great price
lamented but unfound and scattered
so my ribs no longer know each other.



Over at the Imaginary Garden Margaret asked us to "play it again" with a previous prompt. I chose a form called an Etheree, an unrhymed syllable counting form, beginning with a first line of one syllable, and continue for ten lines increasing the syllable count by one each line, as follows: 1/2/3/4/5/6/7/8/9/10.  The image is from Tess Kincaid at Magpie Tales and is also posted there.  Please follow the links to both of these outstanding writing sites.

Monday, July 20, 2015

On Receiving Orphaned Kittens (or How Not Being Able to Say NO Can Lead to Becoming a Crazy Cat Lady)

    Photo by Mary Bach

Meditation time
is confined to the bathroom
and my Zen sand garden
is a litter box
tended between loads
of laundry.
My life is filled with
dry, crusty milk replacer
and grace.


When Karin asked us to write about grace in the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads I thought I could tell about recent events at my house.  My husband is a vet and we own a rural, veterinary practice that mainly serves farmers. And in our small community I'm known to be a push over for orphans and waifs, so every once-in-a-while when a farmer runs over a mother cat the babies somehow find thier way to my house.  My son insists we are one litter away from being featured on the show "Animal Hoarders," but in spite of everything... I still feel this (sort of) falls under the category of grace. 

Look at this adorableness!

I'll close with a quote: "Don't forget to spay and neuter your pets."  -Bob Barker (and me!)




Sunday, July 5, 2015

Apology


















In my dreams
I am brave and patient
waiting there for you, always,
to leave me.
I am a pillar
at the shoreline
not moving
not wavering
not receding.

Time does not exist
and we are caught
in the amber moment 
when shadows draw long     
and day becomes night
not inhabiting either,
but balanced between
the two 
together.


Over in the Imaginary Garden we are challenged to write 55 words, PLUS, if we choose, to use this image of Beta Beatrix by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, which I did.  We could also use the words of Canto 17 by Dante Alirghieri.  

Monday, June 15, 2015

Call Waiting

    Image by Sarlota Ban

There is no one on the line
no one to talk to
no one to listen

when I call your name

There are no more wires
no strings
attaching source to end point
sender to receiver
me to you

What can I do  
with these antiquated emotions?

Box them up,
in a plain brown wrapper
sealed with packing tape
to be placed safely in the back
of a rented, storage unit?

Or do I save them
to an external sorage device
forever safe
able to be accessed
at some future date?

Or do I write them out, longhand…
in cursive
on heavy, scented parchment
then roll it up
and slip into a bottle
to be stoppered
and thrown to the sea?

When I call your name
there is no one to talk to
no one to listen


After a VERY long dry spell I am glad to be back and linking this to Magpie Tales, the weekly, creative writing prompt.




Thursday, April 30, 2015

Final Words

Over in the Imaginary Garden Izy presented us with the following writing prompt:
A few minutes from now, you will lose all means of communication with humanity.  You will not die, but will no longer be able to interact with the world.  What’s the last thing you say?  

Quite a bit, as it turns out!  I've been having trouble finishing up the 30 poems in 30 days, but it turns out with this prompt I came up with a couple of very different responses.  (And yes, I'm counting this as three poems for NaPoWriMo.)

The first thing that pops into my mind is the song from the Carol Burnette Show, “I’m so glad we had this time together, just to have a laugh or sing a song.  Seems we just get started then before you know it, comes the time we have to say so long.” 

Then I wrote the following:


If I couldn’t
communicate
with the world
anymore
how
would that
be any different?

   ~~~~~~~

If I couldn’t communicate
with the world
anymore
would I want to scatter
all my pearls of wisdom,
my humor
my clever, profound ruminations
that the world simply cannot live without?
Look out for the military-industrial complex
tell the people you love that you love them
but keep the people you hate guessing
be kind, be fair, be generous
use your parking brake on hills
remember the stories your parents tell you
time rules your life
be kind to animals
Earth is the only home we have
(so far)
show her some respect
Remember to water the plants
tell you gods to stop fighting
hang up your wet towels             
and the answer is
42

   ~~~~~~~

When I can no longer talk 
to you
perhaps it is time to listen

Friday, April 24, 2015

My Wish for You


Wistful and wishful
what more can I give:
a ladder to reach
and a screen to sieve
Then twine your fingers
through a meteor tail
and whatever lingers
collect in your pale
palms and drop through
your colander,
gather what’s true.
That's my advice 
for as long as you live.
Wistful and wishful
what more can I give?


Over in the Imaginary Garden we have been asked to write about fairy tales or with a "wishful" quality these stories often have.  The first poem is one I wrote today, and the second is several years old, but fits the prompt so well I couldn't resist adding it here.  The image is from what I believe is an open source, article.wn.com.  If you know this to be incorrect please contact me via email and I will remove it.

Bedtime Stories

Somewhere out in Nowhere Land a songbird waits for me,
and sings of things that never were, and that will never be.
I’m smitten with the music that he warbles sweet and clear.
He’s in the treetops high above, and yet he sounds so near;
and if I close my eyes and rest
I feel wings flutter in my chest
and magic places far away in space and time seem near,
like they’re more real than my home, and what’s around me here.

Princes bright and dragons bold fight battles round my bed,
and giant ogres want to grind my bones to make their bread.
Witches cackle, donkeys bray and cats wear leather boots,
Children run through forests, and play tunes on magic flutes.
Then knights and trolls and goats come out to skip across the floor,
and Irish women selling clams clap hands and call for more.
So bears and pigs and wolves join paws and dance ‘round in a ring,
and mermaids swim up to the shore to hear the sirens sing.
Old men grow young, and strong and straight,
whilst black birds argue and debate.

And it does not seem strange to me; I do not feel perplexed.
I shake my head and laugh and wait, to see what happens next.
Then the moon smiles down at me and asks me to come swim.
The stars agree. ”The air is fine,” they say, “so come on in.”
I dip my toe into the sky, and it does feel just right
and so I close my eyes and dive head-long in to the night.

Perspective

people of ash
despair in the wind
rituals broken

    ```````

people of ash
dance with the wind
ritual opened


For PAD Day #24