Sunday, January 15, 2017

January 15, 2017 The Sunday Wordle #282/ Tiny Stitches --Poets United Poets Pantry

Wordle 282:

Tiny Stitches

as a girl         my mother and my grandmother              taught me to stitch

my grandmother             a quilter                            always on the back of her chair

hung the scrap bag      she would sit and rock               with her tiny stitches

create little squares and triangles     to be put into a quilt      she was known and admired

by all who knew her       for her tiny stitches             following the drawn pencil lines

circles and squares          a blanket of warmth                         based on geometry

as alice walker said of her mother        she was an artist                in her flower garden

at that time                most women were not encouraged                   to create paintings

so they created gardens               made quilts                         and nurtured their families

perhaps i am an artist         because the women before me       didn't think they could be

weren't allowed        sometimes a women could work for a man      paint the backgrounds

but weren't encouraged        to make their own statements             or paint what they liked

blue ribbons aren't often awarded to        (just) mothers                      who hauled water

singed the feathers from the chickens        cooked sunday dinner      woman would become

the author of their own destinies        claiming what was their's         often considered shrill

as if after a long sleep                 they are wakening           they would climb to the peak

break the glass ceiling        often forgetting what women before them     have gone through

making their lives possible     possible to have a sense of themselves         without apology

January 15, 2017

Saturday, January 14, 2017

January 14, 2017 Sunday's Whirligig/ Remember the Brilliant Green of Summer

Remember the Brilliant Green of Summer

the leaves are turning     no longer    the brilliant green of 


coins tossed into the fountain   source of life       water 


catching the morning sun     light glimmers off the water

remember other times     new beginnings      painful endings

slip easily into remembrance      a boy      straight and strong

you breathe         time wasted               thrown from the bridge

someone said     we were killing it                we didn't know

how precious      how short                            a sacred place

the well grown dry       grief moves in               suddenly

you realize          many days have passed      many months

many years      something from the past...still I think of you

January 14, 2017

Thursday, January 12, 2017

Poets United Midweek Motif/(Door) Sleeping in Hibernation

Sleeping in Hibernation

the door of the cave is open     winter wind wants to come in      still he dreams

sleeping in hibernation             like bear in his den                bright colors perish

become monotone                    his one note song                   breaks the silence

in shades of umber      yellows to deep brown        perhaps better to call it a hum

the door is closed                    welcome tucked away             no one in sight

all is quiet                                darkness falls                     tiny lights in the distance

he sits alone in the darkening room    waiting               even he cannot say for what

still he sits                                he dreams                               of brighter days

the back door                           where deliveries are made          the bell rings

it could be the grocery delivery           the milkman                    the iceman

the back entry                          is a buzz                                    comings and goings

they are of no concern to him            who still dreams             sleeping in hibernation

January 12, 2017

Sunday, January 8, 2017

January 8, 2017 The Sunday Whirl Wordle #281/ A Cold in Winter

A Cold in Winter

feeling slightly feeble this morning       truth is                 i may not be well

i did not leap from bed but am shuffling along at a slower pace    climbed 

                                                                                                         from my bed

like a very old woman         the deal may be sealed           perhaps a cold

stuffy nose                           a cough                                   a bit of a headache

or maybe                     just a slowing down of sorts            nowhere to flee

if i have picked up a bug      a single predator                     or a whole host of them

sound the sirens             i will have to pay the price            no way to cheat

take two aspirins                  drink fluids                              go back to bed

get plenty of rest           lean against the wall                       just to stay upright

take a shower         hot water on my skin my revive me      and a little preening

might help                       to face the day                              to scare the cold away

January 8, 2017

Saturday, January 7, 2017

January 7, 2017 Sunday's Whirligig/ Etiolation


like wolves           on the prowl                 hungry coyotes

silent through the sage      kitten's fur stands on end      reminds me

the whole world sleeps in fear               pulls the covers up

snuggles down       wonders what the spring             will bring

after the long winter's sleep      in darkness               new growth

bulbs will seek the light       and bloom           as if they didn't know

their beds               were covered with hungry wolves footprints

pressed into the snow           /the crocus will be the first to appear

then their siblings        soon the lambs ears        inhale the new air of spring

always for the first time       new green        will meekly fill the garden

January 7, 2017

Elizabeth game me the word “etiolate.”

Definition of etiolate
JC: inflections follow subheader if they are present at all
etiolated etiolating
JC: actual definitions
  • transitive verb
  • 1
:  to bleach and alter the natural development of (a green plant) by excluding sunlight

  • 2
a :  to make pale
b :  to deprive of natural vigor :  make feeble

etiolation play \ˌē-tē-ə-ˈlā-shən\ noun

I had shared that I was working on the idea of “darkness,” looking for the positive of “darkness,” what we might learn from “darkness,” and how what we learn, might help us to get through what is to come. During winter the plants are deprived of sunlight, "green" goes underground, but in spring, all returns to life.

Thursday, January 5, 2017

January 5, 2017 OKJ#4 - quickly /Tanya


tanya            you told me your name was tanya                  we were in it together

just for a little while          i was there with my friend         you were alone

tears ran down your cheeks       catching the light                sparkling like diamonds

you showed me      where you had broken your wrists         five years ago

pulled up your shirt            showed me the scars                  cancer three years ago

told me about your children and your mother in chicago     (how in the world had you

                                                                                                 strayed so far from home)

you were in pain                 i held your hand                  i told you i was sorry for the pain
that caused the tears             that ran down your cheeks          that sparkled like diamonds

no, i couldn't solve your problems         but i begged the nurses to help                    at last

i saw someone with her              taking notes         eventually we were released from the er       

i had to take my friend home         if only...              maybe i could have helped you get back

                                                                                                         home, too

tanya you told me your name         i think of you often              you taught me much                 

                                                                                          on one rainy... sunday afternoon

January 5, 2017


Wednesday, January 4, 2017

January 4, 2017 Writers Digest/Is It a Gift of the New Year

Is It a Gift of the New Year

clears the landscape         out of the blue          makes room for itself

touches my face      and asks to come under the covers      snuggles into the warmth

acts like it belongs           upon waking             there it is again

all new and shiny            slip it into my pocket           take it with me

later                                 upon examination                i ask myself

how will i use it      does it color all that came before          does it open new worlds

perhaps a gift of the imagination     a new direction             will it become a part of me

as new thoughts often do       new thoughts in a new year     nothing to be ignored

January 4, 2017