Night Tones

    Nocturne in Grey and Silver by Jame McNeill Whistler

Dark walls of water

and sea-foam lace

reach up for a moon

pinned impossibly high,

while the woods settle in

to the bed of the earth

with a shrug and a yawn and a sigh.

Then you lean into me

as I reach out for you

and we bid all the specters good bye,

 at the edge of a world

where the nightmares are curled

and the stars fall away from the sky.

Over in the Imaginary Garden Hedgewitch asked us to write a piece in keeping with the Tonalist painting movement, "with 'no under drawing,' by tkaing an idea, a place, a persn, an event or a mood and quickly fleshing out a portrait of it in a blur of words.  Use language to mass light and dark verbal'tones' and build up our poem in dashes of description and image. The end result should be something immediate but 'misty.'  Or we could use a painting from this school to inspire our writing.  I'm not sure I achieved that first bit, so the painting is one from the Tonalist School. 

On Receiving Orphaned Kittens (or How Not Being Able to Say NO Can Lead to Becoming a Crazy Cat Lady)

    Photo by Mary Bach

Meditation time

is confined to the bathroom

and my Zen sand garden

is a litter box

tended between loads

of laundry.

My life is filled with

dry, crusty milk replacer

and grace.

When Karin asked us to write about grace in the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads I thought I could tell about recent events at my house.  My husband is a vet and we own a rural, veterinary practice that mainly serves farmers. And in our small community I'm known to be a push over for orphans and waifs, so every once-in-a-while when a farmer runs over a mother cat the babies somehow find thier way to my house.  My son insists we are one litter away from being featured on the show "Animal Hoarders," but in spite of everything... I still feel this (sort of) falls under the category of grace. 

Look at this adorableness!

I'll close with a quote: "Don't forget to spay and neuter your pets."  -Bob Barker (and me!)

Apology

In my dreams

I am brave and patient

waiting there for you, always,

to leave me.

I am a pillar

at the shoreline

not moving

not wavering
not receding.

Time does not exist

and we are caught

in the amber moment 
when shadows draw long     

and day becomes night

not inhabiting either,

but balanced between

the two 
together.


Over in the Imaginary Garden we are challenged to write 55 words, PLUS, if we choose, to use this image of Beta Beatrix by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, which I did.  We could also use the words of Canto 17 by Dante Alirghieri.  

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.

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.

On Love and Storms

We can’t always choose

spring rains quench, revive or drown,

but drought is lifeless.

Take your chances with the sky -
leave your umbrella behind.

This is for Day#7 of PAD and linked to the open write in the Imaginary Garden.

A Litle Schmaltz

    Image from Wikipedia.com

Under the stars

and over the moon
is where you take me, Love.

This is for Day #6 of Poem a Day for April, National Poetry Month.

First Home

I dwelt

under a cage of ribs,

and was fed from

blood pushed through

veins,

oxygenated by lungs

that sang and argued and

laughed and whispered

I was woven

from the dreams carded and

thoughts spun and

stories that knit together

generations

in a tapestry of

sun and wind and plains

and paths into forests

and over oceans

leading ever

home

Mama Zen over in the Imaginary Garden asked us to write about the house they built us for day #2 of National Poetry Month, Poem a Day.

Butter Me Up

Way back, when I was only three

and Aunt Loretta sat for me,

Uncle Erwin put me on his knee.

He taught me a crucial skill for life:

how to eat butter off a knife.

When I was little my parents hired Loretta Kleinschmidt to clean house and 'sit' for me on Tuesdays and Thursdays when my mom was at work.  She was strict, exacting, and loved me like a grandchild, and became my "Aunt Loretta."  She didn't drive, so sometimes my mom would get her, but frequently her husband, Erwin (pronounced Ervin) would come to our house to get her when he was finished with his work for the day, as a carpenter.  And that's when I learned about the wonders of butter.  Sadly, but maybe not surprisingly Uncle Erwin died of a heart attack December 26, 1985.  Aunt Loretta is dead now too, but I still remember them both with love. 
And this is for IGRT Sunday Mini-Challenge.  You should go there and check it out!

With Relish

I am not your sweetheart,
my love is savory,
there is a bite to it.

But oooh baby,

this is the spice of life. 

With this poem I am really playing it again.  I have taken an old poem and heavily edited it to fit into Mama Zen’s request to have us write a Twitter Poem in one of her “Words Count” prompts.  And a Twitter Poem, despite the techy name, is just a poem brief enough to fall at or below Twitter's tweet limit of 140 characters.
Sorry, I forgot to link IGRT, where Margaret asked us to "Play it Again" by using a previous writing prompt.

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.  

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!

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.

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.  

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.

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. 

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.

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

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.

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!