Growing Pains - 55

There is treasure all around

but you blacken and turn inward.

You are an ink blot

on an illuminated manuscript

a burning nettle

in a field of wildflowers

a sliver

in the knuckle of a pink finger

Let me help you pack

your blanket and suitcase.

You no longer belong

or want to be here.


This is 55 words for Hedgewitch at Verse Escape.  It's regarding a dream I had two nights ago.

Travels

    Photo by Mary Bach

I journey with the sun

and rest in the moon;

rise, stretch, repeat.

Along the way

I spend the days

seeing

listening

breathing in

landscapes, seascapes, cityscapes

many-layered, dark and light.

Then pause

to taste, touch,

sift and filter

ten thousand revelations.

I journey with the sun

and rest in the moon,

stretch, sleep, repeat.

This is for Kerry in the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.  They are carrying on the fine 55 word tradition of Galen Hayes in asking for a fifty-five word response.  

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!

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.

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.

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.

The Art and Science of Desire

     Image: medanth.wikispaces.com

It seems my want

has a half-life.

No matter

how long you are gone

there is still

some longing left.

And with even

the smallest bit

I can reconstitute it,

whole,

like a geneticist

reconstructing

the now redundant

Dodo

from a tiny strand

of DNA;

despite the Law 

of Diminishing Returns.


This, of course, is for G-man and his final FF55.  Thank you for all the great Fridays that turned into kick-ass weekends.   We all love ya, and we miss ya already Galen!

Village Life

     Happy Tree by Sunita Khedekar

Underneath the Happy Tree

we build our village:

cozy houses

whose stout roofs never leak,

warm, copper kitchens

that smell of fresh-baked bread,

and bedrooms

with down-filled dreams

folded at the foot

of each and every bed.

We are so snug and smug

sometimes we forget

to look to the sky

and see the souls fly home.

This is for both G-man and his FF55  and Grace at dVerse.  Click on the links and check them out.  Ok, I missed the dVerse deadline to link up, but you should still go there and check out all the beautiful art work and the talented writers' responses.

After the Storm

Dear Dorothy,

It’s so lonely here in Kansas

without you. 

I’ve picked a bouquet

of flying monkeys;

I only hope they don’t wilt

before you get back.

The hour glass

seems to be stuck

and I can’t tell

the good witches

from the bad

anymore.

Hurry home.

Love,

Toto

P.S. You forgot your shoes

This is for G-man and his FF55.  Click on the link and check it out.

Broken Things

There used to be a repair shop

next to the bridge.

Out back lay piles of stuff,

rusted, bent, broken

but maybe useful - for parts.

It’s gone now.

In its place

is a lovely little café with

outdoor seating

and a view of the river.

And today we throw away

all our broken things.

For G-man's FF55. 

I grew up in a little town next to the little town of Cedarburg, Wisconsin where my grandparents lived. Several times a week we would go over the bridge and pass the little repair shop that was just behind the Texaco station (which is now a rather high-end jewelry shop).  Now, "Historic Cedarburg welcomes you!"  It has, "specialty stores, wineries, charming restaurants, gracious inns and a full calendar of festivals and events...."  But no repair shops. 

*Quotes from www.cedarburg.org

Second Sight

In the absence of color

my parched eyes drink darkness

through pupils

dilated and yearning.

It fills the vitreous chamber,

presses against optic nerve,

with the weight of the void

that is now inside me.

Upside down images of naught

reflected against my macula

dissipate and re-form

as I sit unaware

and stare

into nothing...

and everything.

For G-man's FF55.   

Choir Loft

Tuesday is funeral day.

I sit above

and watch the pews fill

with sober, black overcoats.

They recite dry words

with mouths

already half-full of dirt.

Too many grey heads

nod and bob below,

though one less

than last Sunday.

The old rites

are blowing away

in the February chill

as we sing this soul home.

This is for G-man's FF55.  Late, so to speak.  Sorry for the dreary topic on Valentin's day, but I sing in a little country church choir and a funeral on Tuesday for a man I don't know at all got me thinking.  I'm still thinking, but here's the first bit.

The Other

I am the mist

on a raw autumn night

obscuring your vision,

making the familiar strange.

I am the path

you didn’t choose

leading away from your home.

I am the breeze

murmuring in your ear

of adventures that never were.

I am the dream  

you almost remember

dissipating as you rise.

This is for G-man and his FF55.  Click on the link and check it out.

Waxing Gibbous

     Photo by Mary Bach

The moon murmurs

 to you alone

when need eclipses fear,

drawing you  out

over dark stony beaches

through back alleys

and under bridges,

where small flames,

barely aware of their heat,

flick shadows

across your face.

And here you stand

at the border,

between light and dark

pulled by both,

but belonging to neither.  

This is for G-man's FF-55.  Click on the link and check it out.  The prompt for a poem about the moon came from Brendan at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.  Check out that site for some excellent poetry and a link to a brilliant poem by Sylvia Plath (and interesting background information by Brendan).  I'm not listing there though, since I'd a bit late, and I didn't quite follow the rules and use the word list provided.  But you should still have a look!

Morning Chores

I feel a little unfinished with my posts today, but here goes.  I have two versions of a poem, one for dVerse I in the Looking back/forward I chose the previous 'hearth, home and common speech' prompt.  The other, shorter version is for my very favorite G-man and his FF55.  I think they need a little settling and tweaking, but here's what I have so far:
(I appreciate your feedback and/or suggestions, including which version you prefer.)

#1

I enter the barn.

Smells of hay and horse,

warm and sweet,

fill me.

Barn cats wind around my legs

in timeless figure-eights,

purring their thanks.

Horses whicker

low, intimate, impatient.

Water, grain, hay;

most are gracious,

a few greedy,

as I go down the aisle.

Then I pause and live

for a moment

in this contentment.

#2

Today is bone cold;

wind snatches my breath

as I walk to the barn.

Inside, smells of hay and horse,

warm and sweet,

like summer pressed

between the pages

of a book,

fill me.

Barn cats wind around my legs

in timeless figure-eights,

purring their thanks

for the breakfast

I will provide.

The horses whicker

a low, intimate greeting,

impatient for their breakfast.

Water first,

then the grain, then hay.

Most are gracious,

but a few are greedy,

as I go down the aisle

murmuring good mornings

 and doling out sweet feed,

along with a scratch or a pat.

There are more chores

to be done,

but I pause and think

that I could live forever

in this contentment

that fills this

space.

Abracadabra

     Image from magictobuy.com

I create what I speak.

The word made

flesh

and stone,

water and bone,

hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium

and so on…

the most elemental magic.

Before time began

it issued forth from the source

sent out over the abyss,

into the darkness

before there was darkness.

Then into the dark

a spark was spoke:

Abracadabra!

This week I learned Abracadabra, translated literally means, "I create what I speak."  I had a little fun playing around with this for G-man's FF55.  Click on the link and check it out.

RIP

     Image from latheofdreams.com

One year ago

tomorrow

26 souls fled the planet.

In Sandy Hook

Our innocents

paid for our policies

once again.

I asked google

to jog my memory

but it’s first response was:

Hoax

Oh America,

I weep for you, and

for Truth

held hostage

at the point of a gun.

What has become of us?

I just googled "Sandy Hook" thinking there might be something on Anniversary/ memorail stuff and the first thing to come up was "Sandy Hook Hoax".  Really???  This makes me so very sad and also frightened.  

This is for G-man and his FF55.  Click on the link and check it out.

On Why You May Want to Reconsider Growing Up

CAUTION!

 As you age you may lose:

-joy from licking the sugar-dust off a stick of gum

-soles that can walk on gravel

-wishes from dandelion seeds

-your invisible friends

-magic

-the effects of fairy dust

-the ability to taste your dreams

                …or to even remember them.

This is for G-man at FF55.  Click on the link and check it out.

Thanksgiving Thoughts

I’m not always thankful at appropriate times;

my rhythm is off and I’m not good with rhymes,

but somehow I can’t help think that Thanksgiving

might not look so lovely, viewed from reservation living.

I don’t mean to be difficult, rude or offensive

but it seems that our holiday is awfully expensive.

Please excuse my negative comments on Thanksgiving.  I do have a whole cartload of stuff I'm thankful for.  And I do think it's good to get together with family and friends and express this gratitude.  I just don't want to forget how I got here.  So I wish everyone all the best and  I'm really thankful for G-man, FF55 and this great online writing community.

On Committing to Write a Poem a Day for November and Starting Poem #13 on the 20th of the Month

    Image: Calvin by Bill Watterson

Open your heart –

that’s where the love is.

Open your liver –

that’s where the bile is.

Open your mind –

that’s where the thoughts are.

Open your mouth –

that’s where the words are.

Open your damn notebook (or word document) -

that’s where those words go -

and they sure as hell aren’t going to write themselves.

Well, I think the title says it all.  Other than this is 55 total crap words torturously pulled from my faded brain for G-man and his FF55.  Click on the link and check it out.