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!  

Pending

I ask you if your love is true

but your response is pending.

I use my phone and email too

in asking if your love is true.

Unlikely reasons saunter through

my mind - excuses never ending.

I ask you if your love is true,

but your response is pending.

The triolet is a short poem of eight lines with only two rhymes used throughout. The requirements are straightforward: the first line is repeated in the fourth and seventh lines; the second line is repeated in the final line; and only the first two end-words are used to complete the tight rhyme scheme. Thus, the poet writes only five original lines, giving the triolet a deceptively simple appearance: ABaAabAB, where capital letters indicate repeated lines.  Also, ideally the lines should be iambic tetrameter, but  I am rather rusty at this form,  and played a bit loose with this. :o)

Regina

    Mitzi by Mary Bach

I am cat.

I am queen.

That silly dog is just a bitch.

You may approach and pet me now.

NO! Not there!

Yes, that’s better.

Purrrrrrhaps now

I will allow you to scratch my ears.

You’re welcome.

We were asked talk to the animals by Helen over at IGRT.  Instead I have listened, and this is what my son Mike's cat, Mitz,i had to say.  By the way, you might not be able to tell from this picture, but Mitzi got her name because she has 6 toes on each foot, and it made her little paws look like mittens.  And of course, female cats are called queens, while female dogs are known as bitches - which is why, if I come back, in my next life I would like to be a cat rather than a dog. :o)

Tomorrow

     Public Domain Image

Tomorrow

I

will write something

so

achingly lovely

it will make you weep, scorch your socks off,

this piece

I will write tomorrow.

Big thank you to Karen, who writes the blog 21 Wits, for introducing me to a new form.  It's called Piku, and this is how it works:

Piku is a form of poetry much like haiku,  with a prescribed number of syllables per line.  But instead of 5-7-5 like Haiku, Piku uses pi as its base.  The number of syllables in each line corresponds to the numbers of pi.  So the first line of Piku contains three syllables, one syllable for the second line and four syllables for the third line, and so on, just like pi: 3.14159265358979323846…  

In my piece the syllables in the lines are 3-1-4-1-5-9-2-6.

This is linked to IGRT for their Open Link Monday, and is also for April 

Southern Still Life

    Image: Public Domain, yesteryearsnews.wordpress.com

Hey Mrs. Sippy

how ‘bout a lil’ sip

a’ that

shinin’ moon?

This is a quickie for PAD and NaPoWriMo.  Just a little fun with words.  I'm catching up!

Random Sighting

Outside the window

a ginger girl stands

in two different socks,

grey and neon,

with her floaty blue dress

dissolving into the sky.

Her phone

is the focus  

of her attention.

And across the street

a long, crane arm   

arcs a wrecking ball

toward the inevitable

block wall.

This is just what the title says, though I feel a bit like I am taking part in a public bird count or something.  For PAD and NaPoWriMo, and you.

Coffee Clutch

     Public Domain Image

The business man at 

the table behind me

tries, through his phone,

to logic someone 

into not to cutting her hair.

At first I cannot tell 

if it is a daughter or a lover,

but it becomes evident

as he pleads for her 

to forget boys,

go back to school.

He offers advice, favors, sugary bribes.

Then, in a worried-father voice

he says he loves her.

But I cannot hear 

if she loves him back.

This is based loosely on a converstaion I shamelessly eavesdropped on today at the coffee shop, and it's for PAD and NaPoWriMo.

See No Evil, and So On

     Image provided by Lolamouse

We are the plastic people

who live in a store-window world.

Our blind eyes

look past the bruised women,

over the frightened children,

and through the drunks

who bless us

as they ask for bus fare.               

Our stopped up ears

tune out gun shots, whimpers

and cries of injustice

from filthy alleys,

school yards

and our own kitchen tables.

Our calm smiles

cover over mouths

wailing with hunger or

gaping in horror.

This is “normal”

this is “fine”

this is the status quo

we do not disturb.

Keep consuming, spending

and pretending

everything is

alright.

For we are the plastic people

who live in a store-window world.

This is for IGRT where Lola has given us a variety of pictures to write about.  It's also for PAD and NaPoWriMo.

Sunday Morning

    Public domain image

Ideal:

I sleep late.

Then, sunlight streaming in,

I am served coffee in bed

with the Sunday paper.

My sweet dog cuddles next to me.

You reach over and squeeze my hand.

Life is good.

Reality:

5:45 get up to pee;

can’t fall back asleep.

I toss, turn and finally 

get up for coffee

and the paper,

then stumble back to bed

knowing somehow this won’t end well.

I spill coffee

as the dog jumps onto the papers.

You reach over and squeeze my hand.

Life is good.

Awhile ago over at IGRT Grace asked us to write about our Sunday morning routines.  This isn't exactly biographical, and it isn't very polished (or finished) but it's here it is.  It's too late for me to link there, but you can, and should, stll click on the link and check it out. 

Java Vino

I coffee my way

through another grey morning

jittering into an afternoon slump

until it’s time to wine down

with the sunset.

This is for PAD and NaPoWriMo, day 20. 

Flora Christo

    Image by Mary Bach
    
    Leaf, stem, branch -
    everyday resurrection.

Reflected in the Water

     From lifewithelise.blogspot.com

I have always loved water;

grew up on the border

where land and river meet.

I delighted  

in water sounds,

in its feel, cool and smooth,

in things living

in the shallows and depths,

and the off-chance

of spotting a water sprite.

I’m not a strong swimmer

 anymore,

living inland

and growing old.

But I still love the river

and I am not afraid of drowning,

so why do I just keep treading water?

 This is for dVerse where we were asked for some kind of self-portrait.  Check it out, the examples given really helped shaped what I came up with.  Also for PAD and NaPoWriMo Day 18.

Nesting

     I feather my nest

     with odds and ends and whimsy;

     A layer of down to cushion

     the sharp, jagged edges

     of every day.

      Birds Nest  by anastridende

This is for Day 17 of PAD / NaPoWriMo and linked to IGRT.  

Escape Clause

When we converse

all I can think is

escape.

Does the panic show

in a white-rimmed eye,

if you bothered

 to look?

I can feel your words,

smooth, sweet, dangerous

sliding down my back.

I am wary, ungrateful,

as I silently begin

chewing off my foot.

Domestication

does not suit me.

For PAD and NaPoWriMo, Day 16

My Irrational Fear

It’s been a long, bleak day.

Winter stays to long,

with its cold and snow.

Tonight, we pack up the babies,

their stroller, their stuff

(so much baby stuff)

into the car,

even though we know

it’s too late already.

We go to the mall

that is warm and full of distractions.

But the babies are too tired,

too fussy,

and the screaming begins.

We ‘stroll’ once around

then give up.

Daddy goes for the car

as I stand at the doors,

with the babies, their stroller, and their stuff

(so much baby stuff)

pushing little fists and feet

into snow suits.

Utterly defeated,

I wait.

The car doesn’t appear.

As I rifle through all the baby stuff

I realize

I never brought MY stuff:

cell phone, money, cards, keys.

Looking out into the dark

I wonder,

what if

he

   just

      kept

         driving….

My babies are grown now, and my dear husband never drove off and left us.  He never would.  But I can remember many times being in that situation and having that wild, irrational thought pop into my head.  What if he just kept driving...
For PAD and NaPoWriMo day 15.

Happy Birthday Kate!

My girl is 24 today.

Yesterday she was 7

Last week she was brand new.

8 pounds, 13 ounces,

round and red

with a perfect 

rosebud mouth.

What happened

to all those years?

My best advice -

don’t blink!

Don’t even blink…

My amazing daughter Kathryn is 24 today.  The poem really says it all!  I have no idea where all those years went, but I am so proud of the young woman she has become.  PAD and NaPoWriMo day 14.

Water Music

    I want music

    like water

    fluid, smooth

    and deep enough

    to drown in.

     Image from Wiki free images: Bach Violin Sonata No. 1 in G minor

For April, National Poetry Month, Day 13.  

You Never Know

Despise not small things, either for evil or good, for a look may work thy ruin, or a word create thy wealth. - A spark is a little thing, yet it may kindle the world.  – Martin Farquhar Tupper

when Kate comes home

she falls asleep on the couch

every night

with the TV on.

In the morning,

I turn off the set, pick up her

plate, Kleenex, water;

Otis wakes her up.

Fifteen pounds of

of super-charged, tail wagging,

face licking, fur

planted on her chest

is surprisingly a way

she (mostly) likes to wake up.

I bring her coffee and tell her

“budge up, ya great lump”

and we giggle, because

we read all the Harry Potter’s together,

loved them.

Then we talk.

Last year, for a little while,

I got it in my head that

I resented picking up

bringing coffee,

every morning,

Then one day, from the next, room

I overheard her tell her friend,

“I love going home –

my mom brings me coffee,

every morning

it’s great.

You just never know

what will make a memory.

PAD, NaPoWriMo Day 12

The Cliche Garden of Day 11

I water my cliché garden

with the tears of dead poets

I keep in my secret cupboard,

next to the Hallmark cards.

And on a fine night it’s quite a sight,

standing under the full, spring moon,

to behold the organic metaphors

pushing their way up through the earth.

I have a row of hearts and souls and love

and another of candle light and moonbeams,

and finally the row of vile vials

full of all manner of nastiness

all sprouting from dirt as black as sin,

or tar,

or coal.

This is for day 11 of April, Poem a Day.  But I'm linking it nowhere, because it's kind of stinky. 

Noir

    Head On A Stem, 'noir' by Odilon Redon  

Under the Milkweed Moon

frost bites at empty husks,  

strewn like runes

in a circle

under cold, beautiful  stars.

I turn from the window

and pull the blanket

up, around my shoulders

as I nestle into you.

And then we send our spooning dreams

out to the Milkweed Moon.

This is for all the toads in the IGRT.  Joy has asked us to write something in resonse to one of the beautiful images by Odilon Redon.  Click on the link to read more about this artist and more responses to his work.

Day 9

There is

emptiness

nothing can fill,

except love of self.

Day #9 of the Poem a Day for April...excruciating!  Linked to NaPoWriMo and PAD.

55

When I go to leave a comment

google tells me,

“choose an identity”

I don’t know if I can fit

such a big idea

inside my head.

Who would I be?

A circus clown? Nope, afraid of clowns

Astronaut?  Nope, afraid of heights

Secret agent?  Nope, hate guns

Novelist?  Nope – I only write 55 

This 55 is for Shay in her lovely Word Garden.

Eye Site

Sometimes if we look

 too long at the trees

we forget the stars,

forget the seas.

When our eyes are filled

with the  everyday,

of  solid pigment

and heavy clay

we forget there is more

than the scene before

our face.

That’s why we read,

that’s why we dream,

it’s our salvation,

our grace,

our imagination.

This is for PAD and NaPoWriMo on Day 8 of the April Poem a Day challenge.

U$ and Them

How ironic

in this land of the free

where,

‘All men are created equal,

that they endowed by their Creator

with certain unalienable Rights’

we now

have the best government

that money can buy

(not unlike like our health care system).

Free speech is purchased

with campaign contributions,

and corporations are people too.

We are One Nation under

Adelson, Simmons, Perry, Rowling, Koch, Katzenberg, Jacobs, Eychaner, Stryker and Mostyn     

with liberty and justice for

sale to the highest bidder.

Note: The following were the five largest doners to the 2008 US Presidential election, the first five donated to the Republicans and the next five donated to the Democrats:  Adelson, Simmons, Perry, Rowling, Koch, Katzenberg, Jacobs, Eychaner, Stryker, Mostyn         

Sources: Declaration of Independence, www.theblaze.com/stories/2012/10/19/meet-the-5-biggest-donors-to-the-obama-romney-campaigns/, Pledge of Allegience

Another Note:  This is why I don't normally do political commentary here.  I get so angry that I tend to be heavy handed and clumsy with my writing.  But, meh, one day out of 30.

And last but not least, this is linked to IGRT, NaPoWriMo and PAD.

Sunday

    Image: Dante and Chevy by Mary Bach

Clear Sunday light

filtered through grimy, weekday windows

wants for nothing.

Set down your cleaning rag;

see the cat,

be the cat

who sleeps in the sun.

This is for IGRT about Sundays.  It is also linked to PAD and NaPoWriMo.  

Mirror, Mirror

     Image from wiki free images by twistedsifter.com

When faced with a mirror

Do you like what it reflects?

What is your first reflex?

Do you act on it?

Do you stare

critically,

appreciatively,

Do you duck away?

Or do you jump right through,

à la Alice?

Upon reflection

does your reflection

reveal more than you like,

or less?

This is for Margaret at IGRT who asked us to write about mirrors.  It's also my #5 for PAD.

Note Worthy

I am selling my past

on ebay

to the highest bidder.

My son insists on calling it

de-cluttering.

He reminds me:

they’re only things.

Packed neatly in yesterday’s box

I find an old Hummel,

“für Mutter” for mother

along with a card

from my dad,

his penmanship was still perfect

when he wrote:

To Mary, for your first

Mother’s Day.

Love, Dad xoxo

I hand over the statue

and put the note in my desk.

This is for IGRT, where Shay has asked us to write, "a poem that includes a letter, or stamps, or a mailbox, or a mail person."  It's also posted at dVerse, where Claudia asks us to write about emotion without mentioning the emotion directly.   And finally, this is my #4 poem for PAD.  Click on the links and check them out! 

April

Lightning breaks the night

I hear the pieces crumble,

the first storm of spring

    Image: en.wikipedia.org

Just a quickie today.  I was helping my daughter move today, all day, in the rain.  Then tonight after a bath a ibuprophen, while racking my brains for something to write about inspiration strikes, in the form of lightening.

Too Tired to Punctuate

This morning

as usual

I stumbled

down the stairs

for coffee

like a heat-seeking missile

if heat-seeking missiles

were slow and wobbly

so not really

like a heat-seeking missile

at all

more like

a caffeine-seeking zombie

if zombies

sought caffeine

rather than brains

not yet fully conscious

not yet able to form

sensible metaphors or similes

it took until the seventh stair

the squeaky one

the one that should get the grease

but no that’s wheels

to register

that it didn’t matter

the squeak wouldn’t wake you

sleeping across town

in someone else’s bed


This is for day #2 of PAD (Poem a Day) or NaPoWriMo (National Poetry Writing Month).  

April - Poetry Month!

With Shakespeare's birthday in April (round about the 22nd) what better month to celebrate poetry?  As a part of that I am joining the brave (crazy) souls attempting to write a poem a day.  There are two sites in particular that are a great help.  The first is the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads: IGRT and the other is Writer's Digest, Poem a Day: PAD.  Each site will have daily writing prompts and a place to link back to.  IGRT has a great group who are wonderful at reading and giving supportive comments too!  I'll be linking to one or both of these sites every day for the rest of the month.  So, with apologies to the Toads, here is my first poem about frogs and secrets for Mama Zen's request to write a poem in 37 words.


Would you know all my secrets?

Like a frog dissected;

pinned, slit, opened.

You probe

lungs, liver, spleen

leaving nothing unknown

nothing unseen.

And when you finish,

I am ruined

and you are repulsed

at the mess.

    Imge: www.reddit.com