Category Archives: Poetry

Poems in many categories: Loss, NaPoWriMo

Accident

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The Prompt: Tell us about a time you should have stopped and helped someone but didn’t.

DSC07911Accident

When I rise at seven to let her out,
she’s in a hurry, without a doubt,
for I see only a streaking blur––
a tip of tail and whirr of fur.
As she rushes out to pee,
the shame is not on her, but me.
I heard her bark an hour ago,
but it was only seven and so
I thought I’d just go back to sleep
and she made no further peep.

Now I see the pile upon the floor
just inside the open door
held as long as she was able,
then hidden underneath the table.
Not the first time in twelve years
that she’s caught me in arrears
in opening doors to let her out,
yet it is true without a doubt
that she has never erred before
and made a mess upon the floor.

I know that she is feeling shame,
even though she’s not to blame.
For once she is not under feet
as I prepare something to eat;
and when I call, she does not come.
She’s in the garden, feeling glum.
She feels she’s done a shameful act
devoid of training, breeding, tact.
She does not know that I’m the one
standing here with smoking gun.

Every bit of blame is mine,
for Frida’s former record is fine.
For twelve long years, she never peed
upon the roof in time of need
even when we didn’t know
she was locked up there and so
there is no need to hang her head
in shame of what she’s done, and dread
of being scolded or being blamed.
I am the one who should be shamed!

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/sorry-im-busy/

We Cannot Surrender Her

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We Cannot Surrender Her

 Try as I might, she will not go.
She sends me on to test the water
but remains on the shore.
Ankle deep and then no more.
Fingers trailing and then no more.
Having once found a false bottom,
she trusts no foothold.

The falling is the thing, I tell her,
yet she holds back from the fall.
Let me always be the one going down, I tell her.
I will always be the one bringing you up, she answers.
This is the role we alternate being the stand-in for.
What I want she keeps me from.
What she fears I pull her toward.

 Relax, I tell her,
but she fears what relaxation brings.
She cannot surrender herself.
I cannot be content until she does.
Twin sisters, we rail against each other, then hold hands.
Comforting. This is enough, she tells me.
Nothing is ever enough, I tell her.

This poem, written in yesterday’s session, loosely meets the prompt. It is about going places––that part of one’s self that wants to let go and that part that fears risk and needs to maintain safe control.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/the-wanderer/

Internet Infraction: Bogged Down in Blog

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Internet Infraction: Bogged Down in Blog

The only way I’d ever stop
is flagged down by a cyber cop
who says my blogging cannot last
if I continue to go so fast.
He’d give a lecture and a ticket
and then he’d actually stick it
across my screen with strict instruction
to cease this method of destruction.

If life had meant us to go on line
hour after hour––eight or nine
hours or more day after day,
with always one more thing to say,
why would it give us legs to go
and feet to walk on, heel to toe?

Day after day, it’s grown obscene––
my eyes plastered upon my screen,
my fingers stiff with my attention
over what I might next mention––
fingers drumming, tapping, bending
all the while sending sending––
typing out, first fast then slow
my life as a reality show.

Until I wonder if I log
its details daily on my blog
because I want to recall life––
its joys and sorrows, pleasures, strife––
or do I only move about
to give me something to write about???

My friends all say this can’t go on.
I’m growing flaccid, weak and wan.
I need some exercise and sun––
some movies, dancing or other fun
aside from snapping pictures of
each bougainvillea or mourning dove.

Life’s meant to live, not to record.
It should be shouted, screamed or roared––
not typed out softly on the keys
of a laptop spread out on my knees!
The truth of this I’ve clearly seen
now that this sticker obscures my screen.
“Do not remove” it clearly reads,
“Go live your life! Go do some deeds!”

I’ll put on sneakers and do some laps.
I’ll exercise ‘til I collapse,
then do more laps around the pool
‘til I’m an exercising fool.
I’ll call twelve friends up on the phone.
I’ll never ever be alone.
I’ll live my life until its end
without a single blogging friend!

My dedication will never lapse;
and yet, how temptingly it gaps–
that sticker, unstuck at its edge
so easy now to pick and wedge
my fingernail beneath and tug,
to drop its shreds upon the rug
and free my screen of its obstruction––
this taboo not of my construction.

To push the button, light up the screen––
to see its colors from red to green.
Black words on white, Cee’s daily flower––
no longer do I pine and cower.
I peck the keys, upload some pics––
once more getting my daily fix.
The truth of modern life leaks in.
To blog is not a major sin!
I’ll give up blogging, become a rover
precisely when Hell freezes over!!!

 

The Prompt––Bloggers, Unplugged: Sometimes, we all need a break from these little glowing boxes. How do you know when it’s time to unplug? What do you do to make it happen?

Humble is Sweeter Served Between Two Crusts!

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Humble is Sweeter Served Between Two Crusts!
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The Indigestibles

No room for mushrooms, can’t live with liver.
The thought of brains just makes me shiver.
Though I like pizza, my other law
is I don’t eat tomatoes raw!

Drinking milk’s against my wishes.
Fish is simply for the fishes.
I eat no veal or other baby,
and steak for me is simply “maybe.”

So if it’s your plan to invest
in things that I like to ingest,
I won’t make it any harder
for you to come and stock my larder.

All else you want to bring to feed me—
what edibles you wish to cede me:
Injera, curries, Thai, Chinese—
all are sure to tempt and please.

Except for one thing I just thought of
that in the past I’ve had a lot of.
There’s one more mouthful I won’t try.
I have no taste for humble pie!

(Yes, ’tis true.  You’ve seen this before.  Not enough hours in the day lately, and if the prompt fits, reblog it, I say!!!!)

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/humble-pie/

Lucky???

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Lucky Duck riding the wild turkey off to a new adventure!

Lucky???

The first person I talked to today was myself, awakening from a dream and answering aloud whatever question the person in the dream had asked.  So, I’m going to reblog a poem of my own that I wrote three months ago.  When I look back at even something I wrote last week, I barely remember it; so perhaps this will feel fresh to you as well, even if you read it before:

“You’re So Lucky!”

 Too often those described as lucky
are actually only plucky.
It’s the decisions that they make
that make their lives a piece of cake.

If they have a cushy job,
far above the teeming mob,
it is because they chose to go
to college, so they made it so.

Or if they traveled after school,
when others said they were a fool,
and tell of their adventures young,
some people tend to come unstrung

and say they wish they’d had the chance
to participate in life’s wild dance
when they had the energy,
but, you know, traveling’s not free.

The truth is that most anybody
can go to college if they study
or travel anywhere they wish.
Life’s feast is a communal dish.

There is work that you can do
from Broken Hill to Timbuktu
if you are willing to do the tasks–
whatever the situation asks.

It’s true that there are places where
life is not equitable or fair–
places where a woman’s lot
keeps her chained to stove and cot,

or places where sheer poverty
limits all that you can be.
Yet  many who bemoan their fate
simply needed to leave their gate

and take the chance to see the world–
allow their lives to be unfurled.
But, lacking courage, they remained
in the place that fate ordained

was their lot in life and so
just maintained the status quo.
Many are happy where they are
and have no wish to roam afar,

but for those who moan and fuss,
saying all the luck’s with us
who have chosen to live in paradise
(and say it more than once or twice,)

I just want to say once more,
“Here is your suitcase, there’s the door.”
Luck is more often made than won,
and is, I fear, too quickly done.

So even if you’re old and gray,
do what you want to do today.
If you feel caught in the muck,
break free from it and make your luck!

 

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/the-luckiest-people/

Dakota Diction

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Dakota Diction

In the little town where I grew up,
instead of “yes,” we all said, “Yup!”
When we removed a soda top,
what we drank was called a “pop.”

When we drove off the road a bit,
we went into the “barrow pit.”
The mud was “gumbo”–rich and thick––
and every creek was called a “crick.”

Breakfast was never labeled brunch,
and “dinner” was what we called lunch.
Therefore, at night, our picker-upper
was never dinner.  It was “supper.”

Highway patrolmen were all “cops,”
and their cars were  “cherry tops.”
On movie nights, we saw the “show”
for just ten cents–which we called “dough.”

We told stray dogs that they should “git,”
and when they scampered off a bit,
the place where they commenced to wander
was what we labeled “over yonder.”

I fear it’s not spectacular,
this prairie states vernacular;
and because our listeners never balked,
we thought it was how all folks talked!

Non-Regional Diction:Write using regional slang, your dialect, or in your accent.https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/non-regional-diction/

Washing Up

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https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/it-builds-character/

Washing Up

The churning water brings them up.
The grounds of coffee in the cup
rise like saints to water’s top
while water runs, they do not stop.

I read their shapes like tea leaves now.
I see the future but know not how.
They swirl and change, revealing lives––
swarm like hornets from their hives.

The one I wait for comes unstuck,
careening towards his future luck.
The one that’s me caught in an eddy,
stuck for now, but holding steady.

Other remnants of finished meals––
carrot shards, potato peels––
rise up and circle, forming dreams.
Reality, or so it seems.

I see a heart and charm and lies,
a future lover in disguise,
a plane, a knoll, a tree-lined path,
a woman bound in senseless wrath.

She sends out waves that push you here––
the very thing that she most fears.
I know not who or where you are.
Are you near or are you far?

As all goes rushing down the drain,
I feel a sense of loss and pain.
And so I fill the sink again.
Will I see you one time more,
or was my vision only lore?

This poem was inspired by a comment chain on  Jane Basil’s blog. In reply to my last comment, she wrote:”You have just inspired me. When I read your comment I thought about the odd concepts writers come up with. If we didn’t think up strange plots, what would we write about? The answer came in a flash: washing up. We could write about washing up, or hanging curtains, or eating toast. I’m off to try to write a poem about washing up. Would writing about mundane activities make me boring,or odd? And is there something wrong with my thought processes?” I wrote back telling her I’d write a poem about washing up as well. This is mine and HERE is hers!

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/it-builds-character/

Homely Studio

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Homely Studio

My studio is my refuge––a place I’m never hounded.
Safe within my compound walls, its door is never pounded.
There is no telephone at all, no internet or texting.
No sense of what I should have done, no hurrying or “nexting.”

Its drawers are full of little things; its shelves are full of paint.
For when it comes to art supplies, I have little restraint.
Some might call it cluttered and I cannot deny it;
for if it’s miniature and cheap, I cannot help but buy it.

Here I paint, arrange and glue––what some would label “playing,”
and if objects perchance might fall, they stay where they are laying.
Yet I’m at home within it, for I know where each thing goes.
Never quite so happy as when making retablos.

Within my many drawers of flowers and charms and old watch parts,
of animals  and tiny fruits, there is a drawer of hearts.
So if “home is where the heart is,” my studio is my home––
the place that I come back to, wherever else I roam.

Often it’s disorganized–things piled and under feet.
Cruel folks say its cluttered, but the tactful say “replete.”
But, the truth is when I’m busy, the mess soon grows absurd.
and it’s true my studio’s homely in both meanings of the word!

Repleted: 1. filled or well-supplied with something.  synonyms: filled, full, well stocked, well supplied, crammed, packed, jammed, teeming, overflowing, bursting, jam-packed, chockablock, chock-full

Homely: 1. unattractive in appearance. unattractive, plain, unprepossessing, unlovely, ill-favored, 2. (of a place or surroundings) simple but cozy and comfortable, as in one’s own home “a modern hotel with a homely atmosphere”

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The topic “Homely Studio” was generated for me by Jennifer’s Topic Generator.  You can find it here: https://topicgenerator.wordpress.com/submit/

Two Times Three

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        Two Times Three

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In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “An Odd Trio.” Today, you can write about whatever you what — but your post must include, in whatever role you see fit, a cat, a bowl of soup, and a beach towel.

Once again, been there, done that!!!  Go HERE to see my response.

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?)