Wednesday, April 26, 2017

April 26, 2017 Poets United Midweek Motif/GRAINS OF SAND

GRAINS OF SAND

the morning silent                    not a breath of air        snow still on the ground

it is spring                                and in spring                you can expect

the unexpected                         you enter the room       traces of mud still on your boots

a bright feather in your cap      your pockets full          you hum a pleasing tune

familiar                                                and yet reminds me      of a distant land

far pavilions                             mountains rise                     plains spread to the horizon

you acknowledge me                kiss my lips                  and begin your story

where you have been               what you have seen      gains of pink sand between your fingers

April 26, 2017



                                   


           



Sunday, April 23, 2017

April 23, 2017 Sunday's Whirligig #108 -- The Sunday Wordle # -- Poets United Poets Pantry/ Beach Trash

     BEACH TRASH

 

the kitten softly curls against me                it is no longer midnight

 

a time sleep eludes me                    no longer blinded by darkness                   

 

it is morning              in memory                  i step out onto the deck      

 

it has been many moons                  since maidens in the form of blue herons

 

 

 

have greeted me there         the seagulls fly and fight for morsels          scream

 

play tough-of-war on the beach                  the dead and dying  rot there

 

you could not say                  life at sea is peacetime         to eat or be eaten

 

their lives are a game of       hide and seek      glass balls or fisherman’s floats

 

 

 

wash ashore               sparkle among the beach trash                   the bits and pieces

 

the dead bodies        no longer what they were                no longer full of color

 

flashing through the water          but colorless                       tied together in death

 

seldom do we recognize       what remains                                    beach trash now      

 

April 23, 2017

 

                                                                                                                       

 


 

Sunday, April 16, 2017

April 10, 2017 The Sunday Whirl #295 - Sunday's Whirligig - Poets United Poets Pantry / Easter

EASTER  

 

it is morning                             i listen for your call                            the world is waking

 

a new day is born                     a day of celebration                                 a moveable feast

 

people followed the patterns of nature       the equinoxes         & the solstices are sacred

 

the amount of day & night are similar            easter                    a celebration of new life

 

& relief from the cold                                   yesterday            from my bedroom window

 

i saw two bunnies in the sage                i always wondered        where that idea came from

 

 

 

spring the time of renewed life       after the chill of winter            eggs became the symbol 

 

often we have forgotten the origin        the idea of the easter bunny      & decorated eggs

 

by themselves seem insane       rabbits & hares      were associated with the goddess eostre

 

the stores are filled with products         stuffed bunnies           easter baskets & plastic eggs 


treats fill children’s baskets         without considering the origins        it all seems quiet mad

 

children hunting for colorful eggs                 rolling across the lawn              who has most  

 

April 10,2017                         

 

 

 

                                                                                                                                                                                   





Wednesday, April 12, 2017

April 12, 2017 Poets United Midweek Motif / To Write a Poem

TO WRITE A POEM

 the hand crawls across the white page       clutching the pen                  making marks

dainty loops                                         grand flourishes and such         recording thoughts

which change by the moment      like catching goldfish in your hand          they can easily slip away

the hand enters a world unknown        like a journey into snow                 white surrounds the hand

visibility low                            those who would take this journey       would do so at their own peril


                                                           
contour lines become visible                thick and thin                              like the scratches of the pen

fill the page                                          with abstract arabesque forms     create words

ink on paper                                        thoughts made visible               some based on memory

some on imagination                            some simply words                   cobbled together         

danger lurks                                         for months after           hundreds of bodies washed ashore      

wholesale murder                                 on the high seas                it takes courage to write a poem

April 11, 2017