Saturday, August 29, 2015

August 29, 2015 The Sunday Whirl/ Change--Poets United

Change
sleep eluded me      my mind raced through many thoughts

would not stop                i am not always aware of where it begins

last night it began        with the idea of change        how it can sneak 

                                                                                 up on you


the solider is on watch      he is tired drops his head and falls asleep

it seems the moment he closes his eyes                 change is there

rearranging the furniture       just when he has gotten it the way he wants it

if there is one thing       humans don't like                it is change

and it is the one thing we can count on                 i dare not speak

not a word               for fear more change                will come


when change knocks on your door invite her in     your will hear

the tap of the heel of her shoes as she crosses the floor

the hem of her skirt lightly brushes the ground       set a place for her

at your table                        keep her close


it's not a big deal really...

the revolving door of life                but it can cause such unhappiness

the one so easy to love     to share all my secrets with          my friend

when together           you find us chirping                our arms entwined

lost in whispers


do you see the large green worm            crawling on the wall nearby

                               does he overhear our conversation

I carefully pick him up and set him on an amber leaf in the garden

your loss fosters the feeling of rot in me       leaves a large hole in its' place

August 29, 2015









Sunday, August 23, 2015

August 23, 2015 The Sunday Whirl/The Making of Memories

The Making of Memories

above taos mountain              hanging in the night time sky       the golden moon

a perfectly chiseled object      true to the artist's hand          the sky an inky blue black

the stars luminous                   the music stopped                 the breeze so gentle

it hardly moved the leaves      the party over                       people drifted away

can you say                    one is superior to another             when all is said and done

each one unique                       people                                  places or things

we puzzled over each               there was no winner            stains were created

wine was spilled                       it was no hollow celebration       no one was foreign

we came together                     friends and neighbors                 memories were made

August 23, 2015

Note:  Today I am not feeling too creative...but I gave it a try...and still I wasn't able to use all the words...my brain seems to be jelly?











Thursday, August 20, 2015

August 20, 2015 Writer's Digest/Tools of the Trade

Tools of the Trade

to collect the tools I need                  i exchange the paddle for a brush

trade the wrench for imagination        i'll need a little custard to celebrate

have no need for a robot     no need indeed           what i need is human

thoughts                        feelings                             & responses

i won't quibble about where to start              i will start at today's beginning

just where i left off yesterday                         at a glance i would say

i begin at the head            move to the heart                   and by day's end

i will have gone only so far       not nearly far enough     but it will have to do

one day in the journey          that is my life          as i go about creating a soul

August 20, 2015









Wednesday, August 19, 2015

August 19, 2015 Poets United Midweek Motif/Silence

Silence

the sound of silence             never broken        i call your name

there is no answer                the sun rises in the morning      silently

shines all day                        the fires are raging              animals flee

the smoke hard to breath       sorrow's cry                 hard to hear

the end is written on the wind                        i listen for your coming

watch the horizon       the dust rising              the sound of silence

paints spectacular sunset                                 orange ribbons

woven round my heart      still beating            slowly the darkness

smothers the day        for the sound of silence     i keep listening

alone in my dreams          silently sleeping      angels not too far away

i call your name                there is no answer       only silence in the night


August 19, 2015        

Monday, August 17, 2015

August 17, 2015 The Sundays Whirligig/Old Cobblestone Street

Old Cobblestone Streets

on old cobblestone streets       we strolled in the shadows        mariachis played 

songs of the heart                     it was a journey to mexico       so many years ago

you sped away in the first motor car                 i missed the chance to go with you

suddenly i was alone in a foreign country                    i did not speak the language

later we met for dinner                  danced until midnight                we were young

our lives stretched before us          or so we thought                        we had no idea 

it would all end so soon at the mortuary                   sometimes there are no clues

no warnings             about the road ahead                  ...what dangers maybe waiting


it was morning                  early fall                            my favorite time of year

the phone rang              i answered                the party on the other end of the line

spoke in a language      i could not understand          confused i hung up the phone


it rang again              then i recognized your voice         you said darling... he is dead

the words so final        no more questions asked                         what was the point

you told me the ending                  what difference did the story make

the who what when or where         i am not a magician                           yet things 

...and people have often disappeared       not to reappear          alone now in the shadows           

i have told you the ending        mariachis still sing from the heart       romance is in the air

August 17, 2015



Sunday, August 16, 2015

Augsut 16, 2015 The Sunday Whirl #212/ Children's Games --Poets United

Children's Games

the sack       that once held treats       lay empty by the door

we scattered the loot              the feast of candies 

shared them equally           the idea of ghosts and goblins     

empty stories         made up to amuse children

darkness can generate fears           and we were frightened

yet we laughed       as we tricked or treated through the streets

on halloween       especially our own brand of horror     

customes and masks           then squeals of laughter      

children's games          innocent enough                   the bar 

was always raised             who was brave         who was not                   

once started                there was no escaping                  

the laughter of children          the running through the streets                                                  

August 16, 2015


Friday, August 14, 2015

Augsut 14, 2015 Poets United Midweek Motif - Beauty/The Beauty of Patterns

The Beauty of Patterns

you say beauty is observed in patterns       patterns are created when a form is repeated

i fall in love with patterns      i see them everywhere                  i see them in the sky

not one cloud alone         but many                        some times close together

and sometimes scattered                                 cotton balls across the clearest blue


i see them across the land          looking closer                        i see them in my garden

wild and free              i see them in the grasses                            that grow in the fields

moving together in the wind                            they lean to the right and then to the left

tiger           tiger                  burning bright                  carry patterns in your fur tonight

directional patterns                          touch them with my fingers soft and shiny

                            patterns in your breath and in your heart beat

i place my hand on your chest                      feel the patterns in the rising and falling



i see the lovely patterns         on your wings        as you fly from one flower to another

you were there to witness the patterns                          created at the ending of a life

in the stillness of the moment       you saw the patterns on my cheeks traces of the tears

that ran down       the patterns created on the floor           as the tears crashed to the earth

you say it is beauty when patterns are observed             in my work i create them daily

Augest 14, 2015

Note:  Poetry is amazing, it is only in poetry, I can fly among the clouds, touch a tiger, and communicate with a butterfly.  These are only some small observations of what beauty is for me.



Wednesday, August 12, 2015

Augsust 12, 2015 Writer's Digest/ Wonder

Wonder

there are times                  when old and                               tired are paired

but it isn't necessary             as i age & grow old       my understanding grows deeper

perhaps my ideas               become smaller                           up close and personal

                    i am thrilled at the smallest things of life

i ask the meaning of the morning         the pink at the horizon         the blue of the sky

the young have fledged                       yet there is one who returns each night

to sleep in the empty nest            where are the others                      & why do i follow

a chosen star                         what about the shadow that follows me each day

a tiny humming bird                  comes to the garden                      checks each flower

before she choses one         to hover & sip the nectar              why that one & not another

i am amazed                 at the mystery of time                                       how it speeds up

the hands on the face spin             then without warning         time slows to a labored crawl

marvel at the sunset         the colors of red & gold             the perfect ending of each day

perhaps it is only with age          i slow down       with wonder i see the world around me

                   ...i think of you

August 12, 2015



Sunday, August 9, 2015

August 9, 2015 The Sunday Whirl/A Change of Seasons -- Poets United

A Change of Seasons

the web of life in the valley          includes the sound of rattles            the beat of drums

floating onto the mesa                     over the sage                         and into the open window

celebration is in the night air         feet dance                                      voices raised in song

a scry of wild fowl fly above           a chill can be felt             fall approaches unexpectedly

still the days are hot        the sun scorches the sunflowers         which bloom beside the road

the water is cold in the creek      tumbles from the mountains       summer recedes without
                                                                                                                         notice

August 9, 2015













Sunday, August 2, 2015

Augsut 2, 2015 The Sunday Whirl/ Love and Longing -- Poets United/ Poets Pantry 263

Love and Longing

the river flows in its' bank              it gurgles                     but does not reveal

its' longing                   as an emerging artist              i have wondered

from where i emerge                and for what i long                is it from the unknown

as in the legend of the hopi                             or from the shallows of the river

on which i ride             moss hangs from the trees       which grow above the river....

i am reminded of the artist from caddo parish                 in northwestern Louisiana

clyde connell           she said “she was in a different world and it became a part of her”

the inspiration for her work        was the moss which hung down     she created sculpture

born of a simple need                       wanted it to look as if it grew out of the earth

and was trying to reach the moss       which hung down            she heard swamps songs

made by the swamp orchestra           sounds of night herons, owls, frogs, cicadas, crickets

and the winds of the night                           inventing intricate calligraphic notations

on large rolls of brown paper



...in the desert there is no moss hanging down                the air is clear and dry

everything is of the earth                reaching up                         like a prayer

rocks and bones                   sunshine and shadows                    colors intense to pale

it is here i create my work                         it is not the world where i grew up

like clyde connell                 “i am in a different world and it has become a part of me”

my work like the desert                  is austere                           the shapes are simple

i record colors         intense to pale                                  it is the essence of the desert

i track my footprints across the sand                             in my work i wear no mask

                                                                                     ...it reveals my love and longing
August 2, 2015

Note: Clyde Connell (1901 – May 2, 1998) was an American self-taught abstract impressionist sculptor. Her works are known for reflecting the nature of Louisiana and the culture of Jim Crow South.                                                                                   Wikipedia