Category Archives: Poems

Universal Biography

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In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Six of One, Half a Dozen of the Other.”Write a six-word story about what you think the future holds for you, and then expand on it in a post. My six-word story is: In the end, all the same.  Here is its expansion:

Universal Biography

In the end, all the same.
Although remembering your name,
eventually no one knows
the you that lived beneath your clothes.

They may see your charming smile,
your tender looks or cunning guile,
but they won’t have the faintest clue
of the authentic, inner you.

Perhaps we start out all the same;
so who’s the one that we should blame
when some turn into Phyllis Dillers
and others into serial killers?

Ghandi, Hitler, Bundy, and
the rest of us, by nature’s hand
instilled with sin or piety
in infinite variety.

But still, at end of life, we fall,
not so different after all.
At the very end of day,
returned to dust, we blow away.

How’s It Going?

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DSC00264How’s It Going?

Whether I’m going near or far,
my choice of travel is always car.
I like to go at my own pace,
to break away from life’s mad race,

to take that road that leads to “where?”
and see what they are keeping there.
At roadside diners to share a yarn.
To investigate that leaning barn.

A tour or cruise or packaged deal
does not account for how I feel.
They’re too much like  our daily life––
alarm clocks, deadlines, schedules, strife.

Serendipity is what sates
while schedule just regulates.
In short, when going over yonder,
I prefer to merely wander.

n response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Trains, Planes, and Automobiles.”You’re going on a cross-country trip. Airplane, train, bus, or car? (Or something else entirely — bike? Hot air balloon?)

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Companionable.” Head to one of your favorite blogs. Write a companion piece to their penultimate post.

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As I lie

Once, in that long dream of childhood, I
assumed that I would be a child forever,
slipping between the lives of adults, somewhat

off. The wrong hairdo, clothes
in my closet hanging in
that off-kilter way

like teeth missing in a child’s mouth, others grown half-way
in to not quite meet their lower neighbor.
It was a mystery

where I’d fit in adult life––
The job I’d do,
the children I’d tell what to do;

and I never quite found the answer, although
my teeth grew in, to meet
each other in the middle.

Blooming, after their
crimson exit––
two by two, they nourished a life,

burying childhood
like
a lie.

I chose S. Thomas Summers’ poem, “As a Child” as a springboard for my poem. Rather than use his poem as a theme, instead I used the first word of each of his lines as the first word in each of my lines. Go here to read his excellent poem: https://inkhammer.wordpress.com/2015/11/01/once-i/

Breath

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In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Fright Night.” What’s the thing you’re most scared to do? What would it take to get you to do it?

Breath

Although it feels to me that my main fear is fear of death,
I think what I really fear is the loss of breath.
For when I have night panics that drive me bolt upright,
it isn’t so much fear of darkness brought on by the night,
as it is my fear of something  cutting off my air.
It  is thoughts of smothering that I cannot bear.

The very thing that makes me fight the snorkel mask and rise
above alluring water worlds for a view of skies
(and all the breaths they bring with them–breaths more easily won
when not underwater, but out here in the sun)
is what causes fear of death––that last futile grasp
to hold on to all of life with one final gasp.

Life is so incredible, I don’t want it to end;
for I have no idea at all what’s waiting round the bend.
At times a flash of memory reveals a bygone life
filled with superstition, violence and strife.
If that is what’s in front of me in a new incarnation,
I’d like to miss out on that life and take a small vacation

from all the karma has in store if my next life is worse,
with no time for leisure––no time for blogs or verse––
then oblivion may not be the worst thing that could be.
Perhaps then I could just accept that there will be no me.
Give in to fate and realize I’m just a part of all.
that recycles and recycles–guided by death’s call.

No News is Bad News

As I eat my morning toast,
I like to read the Morning Post.
But often, once my toast is browned,
The Morning Post’s not to be found.
I brew the coffee and have a cup,
willing the newsboy to show up.

As I eat my morning eggs,
my husband sputters, nags and begs
until I fantasize a muzzle.
He wants his morning crossword puzzle!
Yet that newsboy still delays
as breakfast passes without a phrase.

We leave for work sad and bereft,
looking to the right and left.
My husband prods and pokes and pushes
in case the news lies in the bushes,
but only finds an errant bee
and a missing front door key.

All day that sense of loss still lingers
as I crave newsprint on my fingers.
Somehow the day just isn’t nice
when it passes without advice.
No comics page? No horoscope?
All day I sit alone and mope.

Others ‘round me may be seen
watching news upon a screen.
But it isn’t quite the same,
so please excuse me while I blame
my bad mood once more on the kid
who brings the news––but never did!

By evening when I arrive home,
that rolled up, backless, coverless tome
has finally shown up by our door;
but day-old news is just a bore,
and comics read to a setting sun
somehow do not seem so fun.

As our puppy greets me, paws and muzzle,
I extract the crossword puzzle,
then smooth the rest and scoop it up
to place it under our wiggly pup
who lifts his leg and pees upon it.
News is not made to sup on it!

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Connect the Dots.” ––Scour the news for an entirely uninteresting story. Consider how it connects to your life. Write about that.

In Spite of Our Wishes for All Good

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The real world is complex and sometimes none of the choices we have are good ones. If Attila the Hun is coming through, it’s not a matter of being moral. It’s kill or be killed.
                                                                                                                –Theodore Postol

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In Spite of Our Wishes for All Good

It seems for every good in life, there exists an evil.
Tomatoes suffer mildew and cotton has its weevil.
As north has south and light has dark, it seems the world is run
by drought balanced with rainfall and dark replacing sun.

It isn’t how we’d have it if the choice were up to us.
Who wouldn’t rather have the joys of life without the fuss?
But anima and animus and yin and yang are what
seem to keep our lives out of the same old rut.

As much as we might put off death if we had our druthers,
without it there would be no room for more sisters and brothers.
Would that the inevitable could just be delayed,
the game would turn out more like we wish it could be played,

but somehow the world’s demons like Isis and Attila
are the bitter flavors that balance the vanilla.
The words I write are hard to take when evil in this world
is visited on those we love and sadness is unfurled.

We all agree it isn’t fair that one should have good luck
while others suffer pain and sadness, buried in the muck.
Many try to change it but the changes never stay.
Night often cancels out what we’ve achieved by light of day.

The religious live on faith, but others curse the day
that they were born into a world that’s so suffused by gray.
For light and dark are always mixed in varying combinations.
Each day we choose our focus: good or abominations.

Those who focus on the bad confront it for us while
those others of us plant the crops and fix the broken stile.
Some preserve the joys of life while others fight the ills.
Some swallow the honey and the others bitter pills.

In this as well we find that nature provides opposites.
Some farm in the highlands while the others mine the pits.
But all are necessary for the progress of the whole,
for as the world keeps spinning, it functions as a bowl

filled with all the opposites the universe provides––
that force that makes it necessary that we all choose sides
and pull or push to keep the carousel securely spinning.
It would seem that in the good life, there must also be some sinning.


About the Picture:  I just wrote this as a comment to a friend on Facebook who said she liked the picture above.  After I’d posted it I decided others might be interested in the story, so here it is:

  • Since I have a bad reaction to the sun, I get up at 6 and walk on the beach in the dark, then return by the time the sun comes up over the buildings and trees, so there are very few people on the beach when I walk. This stranger I’d passed on the beach a few times came up one of my last days there and pressed a starfish into my hand…small, orange, beautiful and yes, dead. He said he’d had three for me the day before but hadn’t seen me and asked where I was. This from an utter stranger who I guess had noticed me picking things up each day and stowing them in my bag. I still have the starfish. Yes good things happen.

    Actually, I had been frightened when I saw him from far away carrying a machete because a madwoman had attacked my neighbor the day before and I couldn’t see who it was and was afraid it was she…I was getting ready to jump in the ocean and swim out from the shore when I realized it was not a woman but a man with the machete! And felt relief. What a funny juxtaposition of normal fears. And then after all that, he gave me that wonderful and thoughtful gift. This is why I chose this photo to illustrate my poem.

Wicked witch. Today’s Prompt: Wicked Witch–Write about evil: how you understand it (or don’t), what you think it means, or a way it’s manifested, either in the world at large or in your life.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Life’s a Candy Store.” You are a 6 year old again How would you plan a perfect day?

Version 2My dad and I at the Deer Huts when I was about 3.

Black Hills Reverie

My dad is coming with us–he doesn’t have to work.
Corn muffins in the oven, and coffee on the perk.
It’s orange juice for sis and me.  I take a little sip.
We woke up really early to start out on a trip.
We’re going to the Black Hills where we will spend the night.
We’ll start out just as soon as we have had a little bite.
We’ll stop to pick up my best friend who will go along
They’ve let me plan the whole long day, so nothing will go wrong.
En route we’ll stop at Wall Drug and have an ice cream cone,
then drive on through the Badlands, as dry as any bone.
My dad will sing a song for us–“Lonesome Mountain Bill”–
and let up on the gas petal as we crest the hill
to give our stomachs all a lurch and a little flutter.
My mom will say “Oh Ben!” and then my older sis will mutter.
But Rita and I love  this trick and we will urge another–
an action nixed first by my sis and then by my mother.

We’ll stop at Petrified Gardens and see the fossils there,
buy rose quartz and mica and other rock chips rare.
Then on to Reptile Gardens where they wrestle crocodiles,
to ride on giant turtles and view other reptiles.
We stop next at the Cosmos where gravity’s gone amuck.
We’re doing everything I wish. I can’t believe my luck!
On to old Rockerville Ghost town where we have our dinner.
If I resisted cherry pie I know I would be thinner,
but with a scoop of ice cream it really is delicious.
Just try to keep it from me–I’m likely to turn vicious!
Next we drive the pigtails, where the road just curls and curls
passing over and over and thrilling three small girls.
We’re going to see Mt. Rushmore–those giant perfect faces.
Perhaps we’ll buy a souvenir if we’re in Dad’s good graces.
Then on to drive Custer State park with the begging burros.
We’ve saved some treats from Rushmore–some peanuts and some churros.

Back to Rockerville we go for supper and a show.
The “Mellerdrammer” (sic) is the place where we’re going to go
to hiss the villain from the crowd, throw peanuts at his back
as he ties the heroine to the railroad track.
Then drive the seven miles to my favorite sleeping place,
though mother doesn’t like it, and she makes a funny face.
“The Deer Huts” are just cabins right up in the trees
and we have to use the outhouse to take our bedtime pees.
We get to walk with flashlights and pick our way with care,
through the ponderosas, where perchance we’ll meet a bear!
I love the moonlit shadows and the night bird calls,
being extra careful to avoid stumbles and falls.
Sometimes we fake the need to pee to take another walk,
and on the way my friend and I walk slowly as we talk
of all the things my parents have let us do today.
We both agree that this has been a perfect sort of day.

 daily life color076 (4)My sister Patti and I in the Black Hills, age 7 and 11.

 In South Dakota, lunch was dinner and dinner was supper.  For the sake of authenticity, I’ve maintained the custom in this description of a child’s perfect day.

Dawn–by Jan Arnold (Guest Blogger)

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Jan Arnold wrote this wonderful response to my poem, “Sacrificial Offering.”  Because she doesn’t have a blog, she sent it as a comment; but since some don’t read comments or perhaps read my poem before she sent this, I wanted, with her permission, to make a special post for it.

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photos by Jan Arnold

                            Dawn

I read your words and wonder why
You chose to miss each morning sky
And in exhaustion there you lie
Upon your rumbled bed.

You laud the quiet of the night;
Distractions gone and you are right.
Each day brings brain fog that you fight.
I think you are misled.

Your body needs its nightly sleep,
Circadian rhythms, REM that’s deep
To heal, refresh and health to keep.
That is what I’ve read.

So toss that nagging clock alarm;
Sleep deprivation causes harm.
Think of your South Dakota farm
And rise to see dawn’s red.

Those predawn early morning hours
Are quiet with creative powers.
A muse denied, oh how she glowers.
Give dawn a try.

Predawn and sunrise feed the soul
With inspiration new and whole.
She awaits you and your hyperbole.
Say yes, you will not die.

You’ll blog in dark but let it be
After sleep has welcomed thee;
And you have awoken naturally:
Alert! Just wait and see.

I guarantee you’ll not be dry.
The words will come and thoughts will fly.
You will adjust come by and by.
Can you agree?

I’ll wait and see.

–Jan Arnold

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Sacrificial Offering

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Sacrificial Offering

When the light of morning begins its sweep,
my alarm begins its ceaseless beep
and I leave my bed in a stumbling creep.
With only four scant hours of sleep,
the wall of morning seems rough and steep.

There’s an appointment I must keep.
The dogs who have not made a peep
now howl and bark and moan and weep
as they hear me digging deep
into the harvest they hope to reap.

Their kibble now I scoop and heap
into their bowls. They twist and leap.
As the light of morning ends its creep,
Its rays fall long and harsh and steep,
and they cease to howl and weep.

As they graze their bowls like starving sheep,
it’s now their jaws that twist and leap.
But the price of feeding is not cheap,
as our appointment once more we keep;
for I’ve had merely four hours sleep.

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Time is a Wastrel

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Time is a Wastrel

Vagabond lover
packs his valise
and is off at a gallop–
leaving me in his wake.

Profligate seducer,
Tied to no one
except
inevitability.

Foolish, I
should have known
even I could not keep up
with fickle time.

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