Forest Sunset
In the forest, wild and lush,
hear the music of the thrush
break the stillness of the brush.
If else disturbs it, make it hush,
for we have fled the world’s mad crush
with all its craziness and rush
that grinds sensation into mush,
distilling it as mindless slush.
The world flares up, the clouds are plush
as we see all its bloodshed flush
into the sunset’s subtle blush.
The Friday SOCS prompt is “blush.”
Yesterday, I phoned Forgottenman from my bed in the frigid prep room of the hospital I’d gone to in Phoenix for a bone marrow biopsy and told him that although I’d be conscious during this operation that two years ago I’d had done fully-sedated and unconscious, that this time I’d just be administered a weak dose of Versed and Fentanyl to relieve anxiety. He of course did his usual “thing” and researched both of the drugs thoroughly, and when I got back to my sister’s house after this 5-hour process–most of it spent in registration, waiting and preparation–I found the blog you will read below drafted in my blog, along with a challenge that I answer it. The following section in italics is his. My response to him in bold print is below it:
Not sure you’ll recall my mention of this with all the twilight drugs you are/were on, but somehow, “Versed Versus VerSED” sounds like some first-year Latin student was trying to convert “Veni Vidi Vici” to a past participle (or some such grammar thingie) like “I will have come, I will have seen, I will have conquered.” I had to look it up, and in case you don’t know what it is either, here’s a definition from Wikipedia of the drug VerSED.
And although I had texted him after the operation, describing it, I hadn’t seen his above draft in my blog, which he suggested I answer. Here is my response to Forgottenman’s above posting:
Versed in VerSED
Now that you’ve read
my text A to Zed,
of that place I’ve been led
by the reins of this med
that I have been fed
through a tubular thread
meant to remove a dread
that had long gone unsaid,
have you “got” what I said?
Fears have been put to bed
in my well-VerSED head!
In short, it was not at all as bad as I suspected. After the initial insertion of the needle, the only way I can describe it was a sensation for a minute or two of someone sipping something with sharp edges up out of my bone through a soda straw.
Sorry for this rather contrived poem. I simply cannot turn down a challenge and it was the best I could do, given my own nature. Too late to blame it on the drugs!
(And yes, if you were wondering, the skull is actually part of the helmet of a man driving by on his motorcycle!)
Canción de México
(Song of Mexico)
This small café sits on the square,
or rather the rectangle.
The gas trucks pass by, blaring “Gaaaaas,”
their grounding chains a-jangle.
Trucks and cycles lacking mufflers roar by every minute,
accompanied by the beat of bass drums
pouring out the windows of the passing cars,
drowning out the music they were meant to accent.
The guinea fowl make such a ruckus that they sound insane,
but to complain about the noise in Mexico’s inane.
The daily garbage trucks, the water truck and all the rest
all live by the assurance that what’s loudest is the best.
I drink my coffee, eat my muffin, try to grin and bear it;
but when she sets a napkin down, I grab at it and tear it.
And even though one part of me says that I shouldn’t dare it,
I use a bit to wipe my lips. The other part? I wear it!
I stuff a wad in either ear, and though I still hear all,
I go by the illusion that I hear it from afar.
Sometimes I feel the threat of age, so quickly it is nearing;
but if I lose one faculty, dear God, please make it hearing!
This song is in jest, for in truth, I love Mexico, even her sounds, for in spite of this poem, not all of them are loud. Go HERE to read another piece about the music of Mexico.
The prompt for dVerse Poets was to write a poem about music that is meaningful to me. Go HERE to read poems others wrote to this prompt.
Deep Voice
I am being visited by words.
Some come from the world
immediately around me.
Travel, experience.
Some come from my grandmother.
I listen to their shadows.
The voice of my mother
echoes from the center of our house.
Poems of the body,
where do you come from?
Books,
Sunday School
and Saturday night movies,
all equally determining
my voice.
Some fade away
but remain backseat drivers
as one after another takes control.
Nothing ever lost.
The Writing Prompts prompt this week is “Voice.”
Catching the Ball
The edge of truth floats shimmering preparing to unveil
behavior we need warnings of that lie beyond the pale.
Strange doings that we should avoid. Actions we should fear.
Dark magic that sparks whispers of dangers far and near.
Beware those creatures of the dark that woo us with their wiles—
shedding their true natures by obscuring them with smiles.
Fortune can be a swift-paced ball. Best catch it in your mitt
lest you forget to reach for it and, instead, get hit.
For the Sunday Whirl, the words are: ball whispers shimmering unveil hits strange shedding edge creature sparks fear magic Image by Benjamin Hershey on Unsplash.
Plethora
It began with one that attracted another.
Whenever I bought one of them, it called out for a brother.
Now they stand in clusters around my living room,
my bedroom and my studio––everywhere they loom
observing and judging me, perhaps, for my excesses,
crowded upon table tops, ledges and recesses.
I admit I own a plethora of objets d’art––
irresistible objects with which I’ll never part
For Weekend Writing Prompts (a poem or prose in 67 words on the word “plethora.”)
Moonlight Magic
Entranced by the magic
of the harvest moon,
We met a carpetbagger
upon a seaside dune.
From his fancy satchel
he extracted a balloon.
Then to piping music
of a loud bassoon,
appeared the strangest monkey—
in truth? A big baboon.
For Esther’s Challenge, “Can You Tell A Story in 41 Words.” the prompt words were:
Capricious Defiance
Lately I prefer my capers
to be read about in papers.
“Been there, done that,” is my motto.
I’ll get my thrills from Bridge and Lotto.
Amorous adventures in the past,
I’ll choose thrills that tend to last
Scrabble played with friends online
is a pleasure most divine.
Checking out my blog statistics,
talking on the phone to mystics.
And I challenge you to tell me what’s
more sensuous than chocolates!
For MVB: Defiant
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For RDP: Defiant
When It Comes To Meeting Dragons
Inside the skins of dragons churn secrets I know well,
but things I glimpse inside of them are stories I can’t tell.
They cradle dark illusions that when exposed to light
stir emotions that give birth to horror and to fright.
These feelings stage a battle, drawing into the game
flashes of trepidation–and feelings I won’t name.
So when it comes to meeting dragons,please remain on the fringe,
for in close proximity, you’re sure to get a singe!!!
Word prompts for Wordle 715 are: churn secret battle names glimpse cradle skins dragons stir flash fringe illusion. Photo by Ravit Sages on Unsplash.
I know.. weird photo…I just like it. I took it to accompany a poem I was planning to put on Youtube along with an oral reading of the below poem from my soon-to-be published book, If I Were Water and You Were Air. I am reconsidering even doing the audio posting of poems on youtube, so will make use of it here and include the poem as an explanation of the photo.
Long Weekend
Her shoes on the floor next to the pot-bellied stove
do not have holes in them, as her father said,
but rather triangles and rectangles
and everyone is wearing them
laced up to below the ankle.
Her friend Marjorie, who has lots of shoes,
has pink ones
and Sheryl has a white pair
and even my new stepdaughter’s real mother
has shoes like this.
Her used Band-Aid lies in fetal position
on the new white sofa cushion,
her hair twister on the kitchen counter
along with a handful of pens she grabbed from my desk
and then abandoned.
Her clothes, like crumbs of her,
lie scattered down the hall.
She is asleep in the loft of my study,
in the nest she has chosen
for a place to stash herself, along
with those collected objects of my past
that have captured her fancy as she helped
with our unpacking of boxes.
With them, she has created a little world within our world:
a painted blown egg from the Tucson street fair,
assorted brushes and antique hair rollers,
hair combs I bought in Peking, African baskets to put them in,
a beach chair, a sheepskin rug, and her stuffed dog.
Stealing into my study to find paper and my one remaining pen,
I hear her gentle snores from the high space
at the top of the ladder on the wall behind my desk.
My new daughter––with us for our first weekend
as we open boxes in our new house.
The bouquet of wildflowers on the bookcase––
California poppies, creeping Jenny, sprays of honeysuckle––
she has learned all their names, along with moss roses, aloe vera and lobelia,
collecting them in her sorties out to the deck
to scare away the jays, feed peanuts to the squirrels.
She loves this house and wanted to unpack one more box
before bedtime––my bathroom box that held handy hair rubbers
and the tiny Chinese combs––both of them speedily added to her purloined collection.
She calls me Mom, her knee sticking through her Christmas tights.
She is a girl I can’t keep together––
already a hole in the turquoise top we bought together yesterday––
four tops, four pairs of tights
and a pink jacket.
Socks, next visit.
When she leaves to go back home, I plant dahlias and purple salvia.
I find the hidden box of toothbrush, toothpaste, and acne medicine
she has secreted in her loft above as though staking her claim.
I find cups to put them in,
put them on the counter in the bathroom next to ours.
For Cellpic Sunday
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 
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