Super Powers
In our wider world of pomp and dollar,
somehow power makes us smaller.
Distracts us from the metaphor
of what a super power’s for.
Those powers we seek In the vast world
wait within us to be unfurled.
In that world we’re given to create,
we hold the key to every gate.
We’re given vision, strength and power
to make a minute of an hour,
to leap ahead or lag behind
in our universe of mind.
I soar the heights. I swim the sea,
and delve the depths to try to free
those powers that I’ve found to be
in that vast space inside of me.
For Sylvia’s Prompt to write a poem about Power. Image by Junior Ferriera on Unsplash.
for the W3 Prompt 64
Go HERE to see other posts to this prompt.
And HERE is the correct link to see the prompt.
For Cee’s CMMC challenge
For the Moonwashed Weekly Prompt: Slumber
Short Vacation
Just for today, repress advice
that the world is not so nice.
For just one day, forget the slime.
Pretend the world’s once more sublime.
Let’s hop aboard our little dingy,
grab that picnic hamper thingy
and simply sail our fears away.
Escape the news, just for today.
The dVerse prompt today is “Vacation Reminiscences”
To see other poems written to this prompt, go HERE.
(This is a poem I wrote in 2018. I had forgotten it, so perhaps you will have forgotten it, too. A shortie, just like the vacation described.)
For Cee’s FOTD
Unmasked
I’d like a mirror so I can see
if I display felicity
when someone whispers in my ear
the name of one I once held dear.
I know not what my heart may feel,
what passions I might dare repeal
now that my head is ruling me
instead of love for somebody
long departed––no longer here
for so many a long-lost year.
If I could paint a picture of
the countenance of long-lost love
in monotone or multi-tones,
in stereo or monophones,
I hesitate to admit that
I fear the portrait might fall flat.
How often it has been my ploy
to act withdrawn or bored or coy,
as though the long-lapsed love I bore
is what steers my grieving core.
But, in truth, duplicity
is what in all simplicity
guides my actions and my thought
and turns me into love’s robot.
With paint cans colored various hues,
why do I always choose the blues,
rebuffing each potential woo
and dropping out of courtship’s queue?
And so, if love is not a ruse––
a mere excuse for whom to choose,
I stand here gawking, open wide,
with no place left in which to hide.
Respectability’s passe,
and pride too dear a price to pay;
for staying safe in grief’s tight room
is burial before the tomb.
And so my dear, this poem you view?
Pretend that it’s addressed to you
and join me in complicity.
Perhaps shared words can set us free.
I’m not a girl. You are no boy.
This poem is not a word-stuffed toy.
Should you respond with words that match,
it’s possible that we will catch
another chance to reach and choose
and maybe this time we won’t lose
the golden ring that does not bind.
This time we may find love is kind!
For Fandango’s Flash Fiction Challenge #228
This is actually a poem I wrote seven years ago but for some reason, your photo reminds me of it so I changed the name and I’m reprinting it here. Is that cheating???
Allium or Ornamental Onion From Duffy’s Garden, For Cee’s FOTD
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 