Mid-Winter Light

A yellow bird                                                                                                      

flutters

inside a shrinking cage

and darkness

hugs us

this mid-winter night.

I don't mean to sound dark or despairing, and I wish you all a

Happy New Year

Setting Off

I journey

with the sun

and rest

in the moon.

My voyage begins

without fanfare;

no one

to see me off or

wish me well,

no one to blow kisses

or wish me,

“Godspeed!”

No one knows

of my plans.

I journey

with the sun

and rest

in the moon.

November Thanks

     Words and image by Mary Bach

There is a clear, cold light

this November morning,

and last night’s powdering of snow

transforms the ridge.

The trees weave an intricate

design of branches 

studded here and there

with chickadees, jays, cardinals.

Walking through the garden

I am warmed by

your hand

in mine.

Over at dVerse Poets' Pub Brian asked us to write about something we are thankful for.  

Sky Light

    image from theguardian.com

You and I, we build

a scaffolding of sighs

reaching to the closer clouds.

Our fears

are not of flying,

but falling

back to earth

with those

who go about their lives

as if the sky was only empty,

as if it did not contain wonders,

as if it was not the threshold

to heaven.

This is a late 55 for all the Toads and other garden dewllers over at the Imaginary Garden.  

Click on the link and check it out!

Election Angle

What convenient conviction

will you wear today?

Which way will you tell

the facts?

Which way will you sell

your acts?

What convenient conviction

will you swear today?

Mary, over at dVerse Poets' Pub asked us to write about some aspect of news.  It seems that all I'm hearing is campaign rhetoric.  Click on the link and see what news everyone else is sharing.

Mother

    Image by Tess Kincaid

She was womb

I was tomb

where her identity

lay down to die

Check out Magpie Tales where Tess Kincaid provies a weekly writing prompt. This one was in color, but I felt B&W was more appropriate for my bleak lines.

Wondering

Where are you going and

what will you do on a

windy Wednesday evening,

without your slippers or

wand or beans?  Can you still

whisper the stars to sing?

Will you order the waves?

Over at dVerse Poets' Pub Vandana Sharma has introduced us to a for called Pleiades.  It is a seven line poem with each line beginning with the same letter as the title and having six syllables in each line. The title must be of one word only.  Follow the link for more.

Reflections

    Self portrait,Vivlan Maier

Generally when one tries to tinker

with eternity

it does not end well.

The stoutest knots

come undone,

and ends once again

flap loose.

But still there is this

hope

for a sense of

grand purpose,

or at least

a reason to get up each morning,

to brush one’s teeth,

to wash,

to put on one’s  shoes,

one’s shirt,

one’s mask.

And in the meantime

one goes on,

for there are children to be fed

and dishes to be washed

and bills to be paid,

despite the

receding hallway filled

with an overflow of string and boxes

and failed attempts.

And sometimes,

amid the clutter and minutia,

without realizing it,

we get the lighting

and the composition right,

and just sometimes in our wake

we leave something

beautiful.

Photo prompt provided by Tess Kincaid at Magpie Tales.  Join us!

October

She whispers

in my ear

with

bright breath

sweet

as death

telling me

the end is near

Is it any wonder

I fall under

her spell?

Over in the Imaginary Garden  Mama Zen remind us that words count, as she had us write 53 or fewer words personifying October.

Perspective

I stub my toe and curse

at the pebble in my path

She looks up but can’t see

the top of the mountain

before her

Same track,

different journeys

Written in response to a prompt/ challenge from a fellow poet.

No, Really

I don’t mind.

No, I’m fine

…and with so much to do.

So I got up and left, as if I believed you.

Izzy asked us to write something about a lie we could have told better.  So here are is a poem about a couple of liars for Real Toads. 

Weird

    Photo by Mary Bach

When we meet I am always amazed -

Each time you and

I seem to mesh, to complete one another,

resplendent in the sun and the fun of our uniqueness, yet together a

dynamo of strangeness and largess, suddenly no longer repressed, able to express our

weirdness!

Mama Zen over at the Imaginary Garden asked us toads to write about being weird.  So, this is my weird offering, dediated to my weird friend Lori, who visited recently from her home in Macau.  

Voyage

 
     Yell Sound, Shetland by R. A. D. Stainforth

Climb aboard!

We sail away today,

over oceans deep and wild and wide,

out, and out, league after league toward the horizon

under endless slate grey skies, rain-kissed,                                  

cloud-tumbled, sun-pierced or

star-riddled.

And all we know recedes,

all the firm, green predictable things

recede as we traverse over oceans toward

the strange terrain of dream and fable.

Unknown wonders await;

climb aboard!

The picture is complements of Magpie Tales.  The form is from Imaginary Garden w/ Real Toads. In its simplest form, the Triquain consists of seven lines, with syllables counted in multiples of 3.

3 - 6 - 9 - 12 - 9 - 6 - 3

The trick thereafter is in deciding how many of these stanzas you want to use.  There are several described, and I chose one called   Triquain Swirl.  This is created by joining the stanzas together on the seventh line, eliminating the second 3 syllable line and the space between stanzas. The finished stanza will stand at 13 lines and may be repeated thereafter.

3 - 6 - 9 - 12 - 9 - 6 - 3 - 6 - 9 - 12 - 9 - 6 - 3 

Also, one can include an element of repetition in the Swirl by taking a 3 syllable word or phrase from one of the longer lines and using it as the final 3 syllable line of the stanza or at the bridge of the swirl. 

When Cowgirls Git Over Their Blues

    Elizabeth Taylor, set of "Giant" by Frank Worth

Life’s a rodeo

life’s a desert

life’s a sand burr

under yer saddle

life’s a hot stinkin’ sun

burnin’ the back a yer stiff, red neck

life’s a hot, sweaty sonofabitch

full’a bullshit n’ Copenhagen.

Imma rope you up

real good 

cowboy.

And I ain’t talkin’ no

eight seconds.

55 for all the Toads in the Imaginary Garden and all the Magpies at The Mag.

Queen of the Stone Age

     Museum by Tess Kincaid

Let us not concoct
healing potions for the dead,
nor invent
new colours
for blind eyes.
     -Hilda Doolittle

I dream

that I am on display

I have no privacy

except inside my own mind.

So I go about building an

inner life of vast spaces

empty of people

with wind and sun and

nightjars

singing me into bed.

Meanwhile

I stare blindly past

the gawking people

past the marble floors

glass doors

past the

streetfuls of cars and crowds,

buildings, bridges

mountain ridges

past the curve of the earth

past Moon, Mars,  Pluto

Milky Way,

out and out,

past a thousand galaxies

through time itself.

Written for Magpie Tales where Tess Kincaid reigns as Queen of the Manor.  Click on the link and join us.

Memory

     Image by Mama Zen

Small beauty

etched in bone,

folded in upon itself,

pressed into place

at the back of your mind.

For Mama Zen and all the toads in the Imaginary Garden.

Pub Pals

        Photo by a random man

Two beautiful women from Wales,

both writers and tellers of tales,

welcomed me to their land

with a hug and a hand,

lots of laughter and love and cocktails!

This is about the "publife and community" for dVerse.  I am much too late to link up there, but you should still go there and check out some great writing.  I had the good fortune to meet up with two writing, cyber-freinds when I travelled to the UK last year.  The amazing Shan Ellis and Julie Watkins are pictured here with me and the non-writing, but still delightful Lori McLaughlin.  And yes, a good time was had by all!

Ripe

     Photo Grocery from Tess Kincaid

At the corner store                          

are piled apples, oranges, potatoes 

and onions enough

to make you cry 

with the cutting of them,

 but that just takes one.

And shoppers touch the fruits

and the vegetables -

I won’t even mention

 the ogling of melons,

or the squeezing of tomatoes;

that is too much

firm fruit for this page.

But there is this concentration

of life, of juices, of vegetable matter,

some of it is still ripening;

and though we cling to life like a peach,

out back, the dumpster

is full of molding pears and cabbages.

My dead grandmother used to say

when you are old

your skin gets rotten like a banana.

We are all

ripening and rotting,

every fruit and vegetable and shopper

reaching for a peach,

every person walking past,

too busy to stop

but not able

to rush, or race-walk, or outrun

their own mortality.

And in the end, we all end.

And it is sad, if the life, or the fruit, or the vegetable

was good at all.

But, despite the dumpster full 

of endings,

the store front 

still draws us in.

We want the fresh fruit,

the sweet bite,

the juices running down our chins.

So savor it,

beginning, middle, end.

This is for Magpie Tales writing group hosted by the talented Tess Kincaid.  Come join us!

Everyday Love

   Steps by Tess Kincaid

I reach for you like a dish.

You read to me over breakfast

while I pour coffee.

There is a coming

and going sort of rhythm

to us.

We are everyday

spoons and forks

not good silver people.

The stairs leading to our room

are well worn.

This is for the writing group Magpie Tales.  Come join us!

In Reverse

    Image from wikipedia.org

The fern frond opens, 

unfurls

to sunlight;

new growth new

life. At the end

of the day it

closes in upon

itself.

Waiting

Waiting

on the threshold,

promises unbroken,

you and the fresh morning beckon.

I wonder if I can jump the chasm

dark and gaping? A huge first step -

I doubt my legs, my will,

so here I stand,

waiting.

HiStory

“Johnny was smart, you know,”

Grandma said

a thousand times

as she looked into me

with her worn, knowing blue eyes.

“I know Grandma,” I always answered,

but I couldn’t really remember him anymore.

I was only three-and-a-half

when he died.

He wasn’t yet two.

Enough for a memory,

but not enough.

I remember bright, orange hair,

blue eyes, big smile with drool,

and, “Oof black!”

his declaration

as he pounded his thumbs

on the high chair tray.

I remember

watching him while Mommy

hangs wash on the line,

and running to her calling,

“Mommy, Mommy,

Johnny’s turning blue again!”

Then Mommy drops the clean, wet clothes

on the grass and runs to call the hospital.

We rush to the car, and drive fast.

They have the oxygen tent ready

when we get there.

We run past the ladies with the forms.

It is a small hospital.

They know us.

I don’t think this memory is mine,

but the memory I created

to go with the story

told to me so often.

I remember

sitting and drawing

while Mommy goes with Johnny

as they try to fill his blood

with oxygen.

After the first time

I don’t cry anymore

when she leaves me alone.

This must be my memory, because

no one else is there to tell it to me.

And I remember

going to school,

when kids ask if I have

any brothers or sisters,

or if I am an only child.

And I remember

never knowing how to answer.

Over at dVerse Grace asked us to share a part of our family history.  I ended up writing about my brother, Johnny, who was born with Down Syndrome, and died 22 months later from several congenital heart defects that often accompany it.  I thought my mom said he had three separate ones, but I can only remember Atrioventricular Septal Defect (AVSD) and Tetralogy of Fallot.  Both my parents have died, so I really have no one left to ask.

Real to Reel

     Image from Magpie Tales

The first time

I heard a recording

of my voice,

without the deeper,

lower frequency vibrations

enhanced by traveling

through bone,

I was so upset I didn’t talk

for two days.

Imagine the shock

when I first heard myself sing.

So much for the,

“become a rock star”

career path.

Click on the link for more Magpie Tales.

On Being "It"

    Public Domain Image, Old Teddy Bear by George Hodan

While I loved to play

Hide and Seek

when we were kids

I always hated being “it.”

I worried I would wander forever

and never find a single soul.

But then again, I worried when

I hid, no one would find me.

and there I would sit,

in the dirty clothes hamper

’till wash day.

This 55 is for all the Toads in the Imaginary Garden at IGRT, and especially for Hedgewitch who is taking over, this week, for the G-man.  Click on the link and check it out.

Questions of Identity

1. Who are you and whom do you love?  That's what MarinaSofia asked us at dVerse.  

I love my family and friends, of course,

and I love things unseen, spirits and souls, Creator

I love trees and flowers, oceans,

skies, rocks and autumn,

new snow – but not in March,

fresh spring mornings

sunsets and sunrises all year long.

I love horses, dogs, cats,

and my particular dogs and cats,

Otis, Rusty, Emma, Maggie, Chevy, Lars, Dante, Frank

and all the others.

(Yes, I know I didn't list the people.  Don't read too much into that)

I love elephants,

just about all mammals,

lovely snakes and reptiles,

and flying and travel,

drawing and painting,

music – but not all music,

the smell of fresh bread, cinnamon, lilacs,

solid things,

and also liquid

and ethereal things.

I love the smell of new, clean babies.

I love stars

and I love the blue-black night

that surrounds them,

and I love the moon especially.

And I love tiny frogs and fireflies,

and laying on a big, flat rock after dark

on a cool summer night

and feeling the warmth radiating from it,

warming me though.

I love the smell of wood smoke,

the feel of flannel against my skin,

 and cashmere and silk for that matter.

I love the way little children draw,

before they have been taught

that drawing is hard.

And I love riding very fast

on a strong, dark horse,

the feel of the reins in my hands,

saddle leather against my legs,

 and the motion beneath me.

And I love baths,

very warm steamy baths.

I love Sunday mornings

in bed with strong coffee

and the crossword,

newspaper pages scattered

across the bed,

sun streaming in.

I love the blues and greens of the ocean,

and color…vivid, soft, psychedelic, muted,

and black and white,

and form and line and shadows…

I love shadows.

And I love very cold beer,

and dry red wine

and silver earrings

and “I am not really a waitress” nail polish,

and men,

I do love men.

And women,

and men in kilts,

and men in bowties,

because bowties are cool.

I love umbrellas – red umbrellas,

and rain and thunder and lightning…

I love starting.

I love books and reading and writing

and words.  I am in love with words.

And trains… I love trains,

and toast, and dragons and…

Well, I've sort of gone off the rails here, haven't I? I can’t seem to get past who and what I love in the questions of identity.  There is just so very much cool and lovable stuff in this amazing universe!  And I love that you've read this, even though it's not exactly a poem but more of a list.  

Writing Process: Blog Hop

Thank you to Beth Winter who invited me to participate in this blog hop about the writing process. Her blog hop post is available on  Eclipsing Winter.  She published this on April 28th and I was supposed to follow suit the Monday after. However, the dog ate my homework, etc. and here I am, fashionably late, as I tend to be.

Beth Winter writes poetry, prose and anything else her itchy pen decides to scratch.  A self-taught poet, she has written nearly 800 poems, nearly as many hournals and has possibilities piled around her.  She lives and works in the beautiful Kansas Flint Hills.  She maintains a website called Eclipsing Winter where you can read more of her work.

My Writing Process

Question 1) What am I working on?

I just finished doing the April poem a day challenge.  This is the second year I have attempted it and the first year I succeeded in 30 poems in 30 days (though exactly not one each day).  That means now I’m editing poetry!  I am also putting together a book of poetry, the contents of which change each time I take a fresh look at it.  I am also (at least in theory) working on a novel I started two NaPoWriMo’s ago, which somehow morphed into 2/3’s of two completely unrelated books.  I am also editing a sci-fi / fantasy book for a friend.  And I collect quotes.  It’s an ongoing thing that I do for myself.

Question 2) How does my work differ from others of its genre?

Hmmm…I really don’t know how to answer this.  I write in both free and formal verse.  In general, my poetry tends to be short, like my attention span. (laugh now) I think it’s generally quite accessible.  I like to have a punch or a twist, something poignant, unexpected or funny…sometimes darkly funny. I frequently like to use science metaphors and similes, but actually I never met-a-phor I didn’t like.  And did I mention I love bad puns and wordplay in general?

Question 3) Why do I write what I do?

I have several reasons for writing. Sometimes I write to help order my thoughts, sometimes to express my thoughts and feelings.  Sometimes, though not often I write in response to current events.  Other times a word or phrase strikes me, and it becomes the kernel of a poem.  In fact I have a word document called “snippets” where I keep those words and phrases, and I revisit this when from time to time for writing ideas.  And, I take poetic license with everything I write, which is why I don’t do non-fiction.

4) How does my writing process work?

I am not normally able to produce a poem a day – April was pretty stressful for me.  Some days writing goes quickly and easily, but most days it doesn’t.  And I have some problems both getting into a writing mindset, and also functioning in everyday life.  This means some days I put my muse on hold - but not as often as she ditches me! But the more I write, the more often I get those moments when I need to drop everything and write down a line, idea or poem.  Generally I try to spend time early in the morning with my coffee and my little dog, Otis, and my laptop.  I have a spot in the enclosed porch full of windows looking out at some beautiful countryside.  My other best time of day is in the evenings…real life tends to go in between.  As for each piece, I can spend anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours on it a first draft.  After that I fiddle with it for a bit, publish it on my blog too soon.  And after awhile I reread, perhaps a month's worth, and revisit the ones I still like.  I think writing both drives me crazy and keeps me sane.  There are so many great quotes about writing, so in closing I'll share one of my favorites with you"

"Writing saved me from the sin and inconvenience of violence."  -Alice Walker

...................................................................................................................................................................

Please take time to visit Ginny Karpinski Brannan at her blog Inside Out Poetry, a talented poet and good friend.

A New England country girl at heart, Ginny Brannan resides in Massachusetts with her husband, son and two cats. Encouraged by her best friend, she started writing poetry in 2009. She enjoys writing both form and free verse. She has been published in The River Muse —Art and Literary Journal Edition 1 Vol. 31; The dVerst Poet's Anthology; and is currently awaiting publication of one of her poems in Journey of the Heart: An Anthology of Women's Spiritual Poetry due for release Summer 2014.

Fear of Flying

When I was a child

I never slept at naptime.

I would slowly rise up

to the ceiling and

look down

at my  silent self,

then fly around the room

and out the window.

I’d check on the nest

in the tree outside my window

then go up, through the branches

up through clouds

into the sunshine,

far enough to see the curve of the Earth

pale, in the distance.

As I grew older

my flight time diminished;

still, I excelled in science class

when we learned about meteorology

and cloud formations.

I remembered my time

among them, and counted them

as friends

As an adult,

I have a fear of heights.

I left behind the foolishness,

and the magic,

of flying away from my body

until this morning…

Something is different

and familiar -

a feeling in the back of my throat,

perhaps a change in

barometric pressure

(or grown-up life pressures).

I feel a lightness I haven’t felt in ages…

and the rushing up.

I look down at myself,

zoom once around the room ,

then sail out the window

and across the open field

down the road and out over the ocean.

And now I know,

I was never afraid of heights,

I was afraid

that once I left

I would

never come back.

Check out Magpie Tales by Tess Kincaid for more responses to the image, or add your own.  Image by Martin Stranka.  This is also linked to IGRT open link night.  Go there to read a variety of wonderful poems by some fabulous toads.

Another Mother's Day

Ghost of my mother

whispers to me still

when I close my eyes

and dream.

The Oldest Human Need

How far removed are you from loneliness?       

Would it be two relationships or three,

or is it one that holds your homeliness;

just one, thin soul to form the boundary?

Like spinning yarn our family and friends

become entwined, their lives enriching ours,

but when a strand unravels from, or rends

the whole we find ourselves with empty hours.

What insulates you from the vast alone

that tears through thoughts like clawing arctic wind,

its piercing cold, its heartless, raking  moan

that shakes and isolates the thickest skinned?

We don’t all need a child or a mate,

just someone who will wonder if we’re late.

One of the oldest human needs is having someone to wonder where you are when you don't come home at night.  -Margaret Mead  

Here is a sonnet, of sorts, for the final day of 30 days of poetry for the month of April. Woo Hoo!