Monday, February 8, 2016

February 8, 2016 The Sunday Whirl--Wordle #237/A Sunny Day on the Bay

A Sunny Day on the Bay

the sun sparkles       across the bay                    fireflies on the blue

a gentle breeze moves the garden chimes          the gulls cry aloud

i see them                they see me                         they swoop

to grab another piece of fish         i offer        they believe i will always be here

standing on the ramp      holding the pieces of fish high up           i call to them

like drones                they turn                              make their way to me

others join                their need and mine match   i chop up the fish

and hike to the pier      their belief is not law        for i am already gone

you are gone too         my home in the desert        no longer by the bay

i wonder                      i remember them                do they remember me

February 8, 2016

Saturday, February 6, 2016

February 6, 2016 The Sunday Whirl/The Pencil Remembered -- Sunday's Whirligig/The Broken Spell

The Pencil Remembered

the suitcases are packed      cake hiding in your pocket     the fool is ready
                                                                                               to begin his journey

the first step is the hardest   memories folded between tissue    you stand swaying

unsure                         you wrap your skirts around your legs    clutch the envelope

finger the sharp scissors     you carry all that you will need       suddenly you are hot 
                                                                                               like fever

you imagine germs attacking you     left over from a dream      you have forgotten 
                                                                                               your pencil

no words                                       no sketches                            no memories at all

February 6, 2016


The Broken Spell

the bridge to the unknown         a spell is cast            you lie your head down on your bed

thinking you will rest only for a little                   while you never know what is following

what is right                         what is wrong                      a tight skirt above the knees

the line is drawn                   a rose is offered                    you have a flair for a tale

you stumble into the pub      ask for a drink              the sign reads we don't serve unicorns

the coins fall from your hand       spare change                     the bridge is crossed

you are awaken           by the sound of the breaking of the day           the spell is broken

February 6, 2016

Wednesday, February 3, 2016

February 3, 2016 Writers Digest

Writers Digest Prompt: Prompt, an anticipation poem

The End of Waiting

it seems so much of life is waiting     often i don't know         for what i wait

still i wait      it is good when we know         have something to look forward to

but more often than not      there is nothing          or we could wait for the next season

or the weekend             or the next holiday                    life seems to stretch 

into what seems infinity          of course this isn't true               life is finite

it is up to us to remember       there are only a number of days      months

years                and then it comes to a screeching halt               one day it is over

as surely as we are born          life will run its' course                   then dead

truly dead                                no waking up                                 no return

no more waiting                  this is it                                  what we were all waiting for

February 3, 2016

Tuesday, February 2, 2016

February 2, 2016 dVerse/ Coming Back

Coming Back

i do not mean to be unkind      but the very idea                  of coming back

goes against the grain              if that is what you think       so be it

you can't go home again      no experience                           can be repeated exactly            

even deja vu            is said to be a trick of the brain            in trying to remember              

(put back together)              we are tricked into thinking     it has happened before               

still it is always with us     crawling beneath the surface     burning the skin

mongrel dog                              what we think                     we cannot stand

sure enough                               happens                               when least expected

the pain of it all                          an explosion                       dropped without a care

lost                                             we stand witness                and then it is over

the little grasshopper in the chest       stops                  when all along it never took a rest

not a day off                              it did its' work                   strong without complaint

there will be no return               when it is over                  it is over

no one is expected       there is no knock at the door             silence persists

this very day will not come again         nor this season                            nor will i

February 2, 2016

Sunday, January 31, 2016

The Sunday Whirligig /Briar Rabbit and the Zodiac --Sunday's Whirl #235/ There is No Fix --Poets United

The Sunday Whirligig

Briar Rabbit and the Zodiac

icy snow predicted for later in the day      we are in our dens         warmed by the fire

i am reminded of your icy cold fridge heart      your behavior        in the town

if the zodiac was made up of characters from the briar rabbit stories        you are briar fox

with your sniveling ways    lacking the honesty to be yourself       your attempt to disguise

gives way to your mealy mouth demeanor   pressing for something     you huddle at the

cannot stand up straight        your head down                     looking from the corners
                                                                                                                     of your eyes

your words have slashed and burned               left cuts                    drawn blood

you walk away             the shrugs of your shoulders indicate           you don't understand

or you don't care                    satisfied                   you have gotten the attention you crave

it was all about you               you are an accident waiting to happen        now with intention

debris scattered behind you               left for others to sort out                         clean up

swooping in like vultures            debating what happened                         no one quite sure

we are briar goats                     with our furry beards                     make good pack animals

January 31, 2016


Sunday's Whirl #235

There is No Fix

the sky is overcast                  a grey blue                       a woodpecker flies by my window

hours pass very fast                i check the time         i look up and many hours have passed

not time enough                      or very slow                     especially when i look back

to see behind my action          i anchor myself                 to my work

so i do not risk floating away      into the grey blue sky   the woodpecker teamed up with
                                                                                                                       a magpie

they have disappeared from sight        facts do not really matter              only feelings

two against one                       a sorry state of affairs                with many direct hits

afterwards the feelings were heavy       a certain ending reached               something lost

each day is a risk                    words do matter                         and actions too

sometimes there is no fix       humpty dumpty agrees    for when he fell from the wall

he couldn't be put together again       a sorry way to start a new year    and to end

                                                                                       the first month...of the new year

Note: I you think it has all been written, and we are simply actors on a stage? There are surprises, but later it seems if we could have just seen behind the curtain, it would have all been clear and there would have been no surprises? Some endings cannot be avoided....and when they happen how I long to have known...what would happen next. I always think my actions may have been different?

January 30, 2016

Sunday, January 24, 2016

The Sunday Whirl/ The End of the World -- Poets United Poets Pantry -- Sunday's Whirligig/No Time For Laughter

The End of the World

the heavy anchor                no longer set                                i am adrift

hours pass                           i walk on a plain                  of patchwork marshes

red wing black birds       grasp the shafts of reeds         gently sway in the breeze

the sun shines to light the world      it is summer           clicking sounds of insects

i return to this place            & return again                     when first i came

there were abandoned barns along the path                     no other humans in sight

a lonely place             the end of the world                       i can go no further

there is no further              you wait for me                               at “home”

like dorothy           i have forgotten the name of the place         where i belong

lost my way                ahead i see the barns                    silhouetted against the sky

large made of heavy logs             landmarks           i must be on the right path

 this time there are people       sitting outside                 unfamiliar faces

 leisurely smoking                                        or sitting at tables laden with food

i see them move their mouths     as if to speak         i do not understand their words

i enter a barn            there are colorful pictures                   in the windows

stained glass                 gargoyles everywhere                   i have seen them before

familiar                                         ancient                                     old

i am instructed to take the path        to the left                           there is a town

i follow the path up a hill                              at first there are only a few structures

then there are many          a town with a name unknown to me      hard to pronounce

there is a bus station        on the list are three towns with names          unknown to me

carefully chalked on the board       i have money              i could buy a ticket

i do not know where i want to go          by what name it is called       i cannot tell them

i cannot speak                it is always a risk                              to follow a path unknown
you may also find yourself         at a place unknown                         the end of the world

January 24, 2016


No Time for Laughter

hush                                 the mother whispers to her baby                    looks away

she has already witnessed too much      the world before her           is a disappearing act

she simply closes her eyes           her body begins to sway                 she hums softly

the wind like guilty fingers                   lifts her hair        her life has become a time of woe

she praises those who don't seem to notice                   the ground beneath her feet mossy

she is fierce in her determination          the moonlight glints off the ring she wears on her finger

there is much sorrow              about the history she knows              the future she doesn't

January 21, 2016

Sunday, January 17, 2016

January 17, 2016 The Sunday Whirl/The Revenant --Poets United Poets Pantry

The Revenant

you are the revenant       you did return                    after years of silence

we really didn't discuss it                        i always thought there would be time

you told me of some of the things                     that happened in your life

some happy                    some sad                                      like any life

the scale tipped one way      and then another       you accepted each fluctuation


no it was not how        i would have written it               not how i wanted it

it was a shadow time       a half life for me                    the child wants to go

the time comes               the child is ready                     the parent grieves

the child always ran ahead     never waiting for the light to change      took chances

the roar of the river        makes me cover my ears          i dismiss what i do not know


sometimes it seems there is no justice           only the memory of your finger to my heart

to your own                                like the river you were the pilot of your own course

all questions dropped          the puzzle pieces fall into place                    it was as it was

you wrote the story of your life                                      and mine


January 17, 2016