Sunday Scribblings #243 - Antidote

Sometimes the antidote for all the complex concerns of modern of modern life is a little foolishness. With that in mind:

How can I find
An Antidote
When I don't even know
The Dote?

Poetry Potluck - Nature: Plants, Creatures, the Cosmos

Phases of the Moon

I have been out with the full moon,
Out among the revelers:
We dance and sing-
Cavorting beasties
On a microscope slide,
Bright and shining;

The sounds of clinking glasses,
And Laughter –
Silly, flirtatious and hearty-
Fill my head with ‘other’
It is great fun.

But now, as the moon wanes
And empties itself of light,
I too, shed the lights of society.
Donned to impress, attract,
The glittering mask,
Of my social self,
Is left at the door
To the party.

I run into new-moon dark,
No longer held by the
Bright silver circle of society
But free to explore the vast heavens,
I delve deep
Into the spaces between
The stars

The moon does not diminish,
When no longer circumscribed
By sun’s reflected light.
Matter mingles with spirit,
Flows out
Into the night-
And so do I.

Mag #42 - The Victor

Empty loving cup
Bitter reminder of a
Hollow victory

Then Winter - Poetry Potluck

This is one I wrote some time ago. It's a cold, misty day today, which feels just right for this. I also think it fits, sort of, into the poetry potluck category.


Then Winter

Trees stand cold as iron;
Mist, like tattered souls
Wraps ‘round limbs,
Blows through branches,
Gathers and swirls
Thick in one spot
Above the pond.

From the center rises
A ghost-pale woman,
Hair and eyes grey like smoke.
She whisks off
In a great hurry;
Translucent robes
Stream out behind.
She is bone-cold
And world weary
There is anguish in her eyes -
No ‘rest in peace’ for her.

She is wind,
Blue-grey and icy,
Chasing autumn south,
Making way for winter,
Frost at her heels.
She must rush
Or it will encase her
In a brittle, crystalline statue of herself -
Then winter…winter.

A Lunch Alone

This one just sort of came to me what I was trying to write something else.

A Lunch Alone

I sit at the Formica counter
Battered, and somewhat worse for wear
The sticky menu
Holds evidence of meals past,
Grease from the #3 special
(3 eggs, 3 sausages, and hash browns)
And syrup from a short stack

What do I want?
I stare into my cup of coffee
Old and bitter,
Its surface sheen glistening
Like an oil slick
Under the fluorescent lights
I lean my elbows on the counter
Waiting
For someone to take my order

The voices all around me
Cannot pierce
The invisible barrier
I have erected around myself
To keep out the messy world
Of human interactions
So I am able to sit
Amongst all the people
In this crowded diner
And have
A lunch
Alone

Mag #41

The patina of age
Cannot hide the fact that
The eleventh hour
Has come
Waiting
Has not served us well
Poised
Here on the edge
Of too late
We melt
We burn

While
Bleak old men scurry through dark
Musty corridors
Trailing papers in their
Wake
As the clock
Strikes

Poetry Potluck - Moods, Feelings and Emotions

Here is my offering for Poetry Potluck. Just fyi, the HD I quote in the poem is Hilda Doolittle, a wonderful American poet. She was an ex-pat, and I believe the line of hers below refers to England at the time of WWII.


Empty

Some days
The words don’t come
And the rain does
As HD said
Inspiration stalks us
Through gloom
But she is not always a good tracker
And the page remains
As empty as
My heart

Sunday Scribblings #241 - Bright Idea

My bright idea is actually dark. The dark of the night sky to be precise. I love the stars and the night sky. This is a piece I actually wrote awhile ago, but I think it can fit into the bright idea category. I live out in the country and got tired of not being able to see the stars from my yard because of the bright yard light that is standard issue from the power company. Then finally I called and made them take it down. Here is my offering:

Starry Night

When I lie awake,
And sleep won’t come
I walk out the door
Into the inky, blue-black sky
Of 3:00 AM
And look up
To find the stars
In their places.

Not far off
I hear the roar and swish
Of Highway 8.
Who is behind
The head lights that
Slice the night?
The baker
Speeds to work;
Soon her sweet rolls will
Will be taken
All over town.
A semi carries
Crates of round, red apples
In from Washington.
I hear them in the dark,
And look up to the sky
Where Orion greets me.

I’m told
Those in
Tokyo,
London,
New York
Can not see the stars
For the garish, sodium lights
We set between
Ourselves and the heavens.
And so the insomniac in Tokyo
Can take no comfort
From Perseus;
Ursa does not wink
At the nocturnal Londoner;
And Polaris
Cannot guide
The wanderer through New York

Darkness and light
Must be together
To be seen,
Felt,
Known.
To have
The jewel-bright lights
We must also admit
The dark
And when we shut out the dark,
Or medicate it away,
We are trading
The beautiful
Heaven-full of stars
For a puny night-light
Of our own
Design.

And so I call
The utility company-
And tell them
To take their light
From my yard,
So When I lie awake
And sleep won’t come,
For thinking of you,
I walk out the door
Into the inky, blue-black sky
Of 3:00 AM
And look up
To find the stars
In their places.

Mag # 40

After the party

She carelessly set aside

The trappings of her

Disguise

Potluck Poetry #9 - Buildings, Landmarks, Monuments

This is one of those poems that isn't finished yet. If it wasn't for the Potluck I would probably just let this one sit on the desk for awhile. I can't decide if I want to go with the strong meter at the start, or go blank, ditto with the rhyme. I haven't even settled on a title yet! So, if anyone has (gentle) suggestions please let me know. Thanks!

The Fortress

We are builders,
All
Who struggle every day
Stacking stones around ourselves
The fortress must hold strong
Whether to protect our overflowing treasure
Or hide the barren rooms, once full
We must guard against those
Who dare come too near
The risk is so great
The cost so dear
So you will understand
Why I can not
Let you
In

Sunday Scribblings #240 - Friction

Here is a quick little post for the writing prompt 'friction'

He left her wondering:
Is this true love
Or merely friction?

Six Word Saturdays

I have just stumbled across another cute little weekly writing prompt called Six Word Saturday. One writes six words, with or without a picture to tell about one's life at the moment, or in general. So, even though it's Sunday, here are my six words:

Fuzzy with details...how many words?

Mag # 39

The chicken looked at me
Imperiously
And said
Don’t try to distract me
With that
‘Sky is falling’ shit -
Those are my babies
Scrambled on your plate
Barbarian!

Potluck Poetry #8 - Halloween

Here is a charming little Haiku for Potluck Poetry just past the nick of time! Darn. Oh well...here it is anyway:

Halloween

Zombies roam the night
I have my heart in my mouth-
Oh no, must be yours!

Juxtaprocrastination

Today's word is juxtaposition.

The living and the dead
Together
Compose our world
Naturally

Actually today's word is procrastinate, which is what I'm doing now. Bad, bad me! Back to work.