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
with the world
would that
be any different?


If I couldn’t communicate
with the world
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


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,  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.


people of ash
despair in the wind
rituals broken


people of ash
dance with the wind
ritual opened

For PAD Day #24

Thursday, April 23, 2015

Food for Thought: Are You Pulling My Leg? or Does this Bug You?

Why my darling,
your legs are
said the spider to the fly.


always been
a leg man
said the caterpillar
to the


The average chocolate bar contains eight insect legs. –Yahoo Answers(and you KNOW it must be true if it was on the internet)

Over in the Imaginary Garden Karin has asked us to write about some aspect of  "last" and/or "legs". I really couldn't think of anything, so I did what I usually do in such situations - I went for absurd, gross, adolescent humor.  Really, that's all I could come up with, so apologies to Karen and the rest of the toads. 

Wednesday, April 22, 2015

The (Im)perfect Love Poem

Over in the Imaginary Garden we were given the formula to write "The Perfect Love Poem."  It is as follows: x (p + b + c + o), where P = Pattern (meter and rhyme,) B = Brevity, C = Comparison (describe the love or lover with a comparison), O = Obstacle (the difficulties inherent in a love affair), X = Mystery

But I was told there would be no math, so I didn't quite follow the formula. Instead I give you two imperfect love poems: 

My first love  poem is more like y(p+b+c+o), where y = humor.

Love Poem #1

Your love is like the bite of a tick
unnoticed at first, then making me sick
with fever and chills, aches and pains.
I hate that my heart doesn’t have any brains
when it sees this disease
that brings me to my knees.
If there was an injection
to stop this infection
I could save my heart from your rejection.
but I seem to be a philosophic waxer,
and a crazy, wild-eyed anti-vaxxer.

And my second love poem is sort of x(b+o)

Love Poem #2

You are 
the feel of wind
on my face,
the moon’s reflection
in my eyes,
the lens through which
I see the world.
You live
in the hollows of my bones,
in the lining of my skin,
in my dark center,
patient, waiting.

Poetics of the Road

     Image: Northern Ireland by Mary Bach

Step out my dear and don’t look back
adventures gather ’round the bend,
and they’ll make up for what we lack.
Step out my dear and don’t look back
with sturdy shoes and rain-proof pack,
a map, a compass and a friend.
Step out my dear and don’t look back
adventures gather ‘round the bend.

 Over at dVerse Poets' Pub we have been asked to write "poetics; of the road" in eight lines.  I've chosen the eight line form called Triolet, which is defined as a stanza poem of eight lines where the rhyme scheme is ABaAabAB, and often in iambic tetrameter: the first, fourth and seventh lines are identical, as are the second and final lines.