Saturday, January 24, 2015

January 24, 2015 The Sunday Whirl/Waiting for Sleep


Waiting for Sleep

instead of i don't know            i say maybe                                maybe it will rain

maybe it will snow                  maybe it won't                            and miles to go before I sleep

my nights often seem so          the clock chimes on the table      next to the bed

another hour has passed           my thoughts trite                         mixed up

often have no meaning             or maybe...                                   my aim is just to get some rest

my mind won't turn off             the spirit of thoughts continue      words tumble onto the bed covers

scorch the sheets                       if only i could sign                        no longer need to spell

silently they would fall             on the landscape like                     rain

quench the thirst                        of a changing clime                      sleep would come at last

January 24, 2014






Wednesday, January 21, 2015

Writers Digest Poetics Asides/ Night Watcher/Poets United Mid-week Motif


Night Watcher

the early morning cold white snow covers all that is unsightly

transforms the landscape gently coming down like frozen rain

frosts the sage on the mesa blocks out the view of the mountains the sky

creates a space makes a place for us like the one inside ourselves

absorbs sounds provokes memories of other days

other winters brings to mind the end of days

the length of a life the gift bestowed footprints tell us who is about

who came in the morning who walked at night under overcast skies

like Van Gogh you count the stars catch them in a knitted bag

cast the starry night upon the table your gift you are the night watcher

January 21, 2014

Note:  This is for my Friend, Kathleen, who has turned her camera skyward.

___________________________


Fashionable I Am Not

i am not fashionable when i go to work a simple shirt and a pair of pants

the hour early i may not know where i am going

but i am pretty sure where i have been my life

like a board game i throw the stone

seek the north star find the longitude the latitude

hop skip the squares draw chalk lines diagonally

lazy lines like the lines in a navajo weaving

this is it my style maybe not so fashionable

but true to find my position I use celestial navigation

using the sun the moon a planet

or one of 57 navigational stars sometimes a sextant to noon sight

circumnavigate the world i create alone in the studio fashionable I am not

January 21, 2015













Tuesday, January 20, 2015

January 20, 2015 Words from Elizabeth https://soulsmusic.wordpress.com/2015/01/17/thinking-of-lucille/




My Story

i live a legend           a legend of my own making           i have breathed putrid air

have looked at a dying moon                               i am the shapeshifter of my story

i guess you get the idea      it's all about me         i am my father's daughter

i scream at the top of my lungs         no one hears me      it is not the end of the world

if the story doesn't come out right      it is just a poem      the story of my life

January 20, 2015



Note: Elizabeth's words to replace the wordle this week.

“To cope with mystery, we create a story. Having no idea who we are, where we came from, where we're going, or what life means, we adapt by giving names to things and pretending that the names and the stories are real. That's the root of our ignorance.” From “The Fiction of Being” --Mark Matousek





Sunday, January 18, 2015

January 18, 2015 poets United/Missed Opportunity


Missed Opportunity

standing alone                          snow still on the ground        the sun shining

shadows from bare trees           sliding down adobe walls     bleeding onto the sidewalk

the polish and shine                  promise... something            you were there

your hand grasped mine            hard but hollow                    on the wall

hollow too                                 you speak of parties              that is all

you show no interest                  in me                                     or mine

it all feels hollow                       after my effort                       i lay before you

something precious                    true                                        my best

you disappear                             i feel hollow                          your retreating footsteps

                                                                                                        echo

the sound of the shining sun     the pointless afternoon         that is all there is

no meeting of minds                   why should i be surprised    always hoping for more

more than meets the eye             that you will be more           another missed opportunity

January 17, 2015


Thursday, January 15, 2015

January 15, 2015 dVerse/Ten Words to Say it All

Ten Words to say it All


First days of indian summer unclear, no end in sight.

January 15, 2015

Saturday, January 10, 2015

The Sunday Whirl/ Condemned to Wait for Spring


Condemned to Wait for Spring

the day is a single shade of      grey          visibility low     colder than a witch's tit

the contents of the landscape      trees      buildings      cattle in the fields

slowly move in and out of view      like ships in the channel      signal their presence

the sound of the fog horn                          echoes

the mountains are rendered invisible       a general feeling of ennui is generated

loss           sadness           longing              the unknown

hang from bare branches of the trees      whose outlines are like lace

against the sky's single shade of       grey


how to channel springtime      see it             smell it                           make it real

when one is huddled on a park bench alone      wrapped in the news

                                                against the cold

fingers smell of inky substance      words mumbled      tumble into place

like the small ball on a spinning roulette wheel      rolling around & around

                                                dropping into a compartment

when the wheel stops      numbers revealed      creating a list of winners & losers

condemned to capitulate     the game is over    ...i am condemned to wait for spring

                                                                          in a single shade of grey

January 10, 2015























Wednesday, January 7, 2015

January 7, 2014 deVerse/Painting is Dead/ Poets United Midweek Motif

Painting is Dead

the painter              Paul Delaroche first said the words      1839

painting is dead      dead as a doornail                       ...I was born much later

yet                          i chose painting as my profession

and already many times                                           painting had been declared dead

then alive               then dead                                     alive again

yet dead or not       painting can still                          thrill

charm                     warm                                            inform

puzzle                     inspire                                          comfort

look at Van Gogh   you are dazzled                            out of the present moment

it has been ignored   still it won't lie down                 won't give up

it still challenges      offers a new way to see              a new way to be

a new way to say      painting will never                     die

it will always be       at the least a whisper                 in the wind

men and women       dedicate their lives to it             dream of it

covet it                      long for it                                  steal it

it is not dead today    and it never will be              the heart still beats

as new today as ever     a mystery                            full of magic


Januaray 7, 2015

Note:  The prompt for the midweek motif was all about 7's.  Now I am in my seventies...I have been practicing painting for over 50 years...one might think one has it in the 7th decade of his life...still some who are in their seventies are just beginning.  So, I humbly offer my poem, Painting is Dead.