Friday, December 31, 2010

Friday December 31, 2010 We Write Poems #35 (Not) Poetry

We Write Poems #35(Not) Poetry
Find sentences from published material, write a poem.
* Encore, A Journal of Life, Eightieth Year, May Sarton

She sat in her studio.
The temperature 7 degrees outside,
Warm and cozy inside.
She was there
*She was just there.

She thought about the night before,
And how you poured the dark red wine,
Into favorite glasses
*We had a good talk about everything.
As was usual for the late afternoon,
The studio work complete for the day.

Beau, warm and furry,
Feeling his age,
More visits to the vet.
*Unfortunately the cat has fleas.

There was much to be done,
Getting firewood,
And sealing small leaks,
From the chill of the North Wind.
*Everything seems to be in an
uproar getting things ready for Winter.

Winter, her favorite time of year,
Time to hibernate,
Time to reflect,
And time of life
End of life
This thought
*Shot to my heart.

Time to begin a new year.
One more year.
Time for resolutions.
*There is something
I have never seen before.
No time to waste
It is certainly time to see it.

Friday December 31, 2010
Thursday Poets Rally Week #36

I tried to tell you how it was,
And why the day was grey,
The silence of the birds,
And why they ceased to pray.

The large coyote,
Pulled his tattered coat
a little tighter,
The song I sang,
No longer made the day
a little brighter.

The chill was deep,
The room so like a tomb,
There was no way to warm one's self,
Nor, to clear away the gloom.

Your voice was deep,
You held me tight,
The day was ending soon,
The night came early,
In deepest grays,
Subdued within that room.

The morning would come,
And all alone,
The silence would be broken,
By a tiny tear,
Rolled down the cheek,
To crash upon the floor.


Wednesday, December 29, 2010

Wednesday December 29, 2010 Poetics Assides #116/ One Shot Poetry

Prompt#116 Last Chance


The letter was filled with disappointment.
Discouragement was encouraged,
Someone said, it is your last chance.
It's happened before,
But knowing it was the last chance,
The dead artist sat down for a good cry.

The snow falls lightly,
The last chance,
Someone said as much,

Wait a minute...

Why is this chance,
That slipped out of sight,
Disappeared in the night,
Out of my grasp,
The one and only,
Last chance

Wait a minute...

No, not yet,
Not done,
Work not complete,
Still alive,
On fire,
Hard at work,
Cracking on all cylinders.

Wait a minute...

I won't be discarded,
I won't be folded up,
Put away in the dark,
Don't close the drawer,
Don't shut the door,
I will not accept,
This chance,
As the last chance!

Wednesday December 29, 2010 We Write Poems

Image from internet.
Prompt #34: Last Line as First Line.

My first line, "To hold the vision in my heart", December 22, 2010/ Three Word Wednesday. Was the last line of The Red Moon.

A Wonderland
To hold the vision in my heart,
I strained my eyes to see,
So much I could not name,
All before me was once under sea.

I felt as if I was at the bottom of the Universe,
Prepared to go deeper still,
Into the earth,
Ancient, old,
Formed in another time,

And yet here I stand,
In the middle of it all,
The wonder of this wonderland.

Wednesday December 29, 2010 Magpie #46/Big Tent Poetry

The gloves of
The horseman,
The maiden,
The repairman,

The plumber,
The workman,
The Indian Chief,
The biker,

The bowler,
The skier,
The raider,
The farmer,

Like dark ravens,
Ready for adventure.
Or a dark secret place,
To hide the evidence.

Wrap in warmth,
Hands that are,
Hands that do,
Hands that play,
Hands that work.

Each hand different,
Unique, one of a kind,
And yet a perfect pair.
Perfect to hold the heart.

In need of protection,
Against the North Wind's howl,
And other calamities encountered.

Sunday, December 26, 2010

Sunday 25, 2010 Carry on Tuesday

Carry on Tuesday
Prompt: Only a night from old to new!

Best Laid Plans
So often we have "it" figured out --

A month ago,

Then something comes up,
Never fails,
To spoil our plans,

A month later,

We realize,
Those plans never really worked out,
Best laid plans,
Are usually the first to go.

Saturday, December 25, 2010

Christmas Eve Taos Pueblo December 25, 2010

The mountain raises above,
The Mother of the valley,
Sacred Madra,
The clouds drop to the tops of the adobe structures
Stacked one upon another,
Like children's building blocks,
Made of mud, smoothed by hand,
Made of heart.

Taos Mountain looks over the celebrations,
Christmas Eve,
The procession of the virgin,
The sky is red in the west.
Bells toll,




The clouds clear and the snow covered peak appears,
People flow from mass
In the tiny white church, onto the plaza.

Hands folded over hearts,
Voices raised in song,
Costumes of the Matachine dancers,
Silver crowns and colorful ribbons,
Masks of ancient ones,
Torches, candles, drums and rattles,
Gun fire explodes,
Bonfires are lit to transform the darkness.
The sky above the plaza equals the sky in the west,
All is ablaze, colored red, embers fly over head.

Returning to the car,
We are plunged into total darkness,
Sun is set, filled with wonder.
Hand in hand,
Together we are each alone,
Walking our separate paths,
Our hearts are filled with a new,
Ancient, old way to celebrate Christmas,
All made of heart.

Friday, December 24, 2010

Friday December 24, 2010 Christmas Eve

It is morning, Christmas Eve. All is quiet. It snowed last night, and the landscape is transformed, as it should be on Christmas Eve morn. I was up early as usual.

Now in the studio, quiet, and alone. Here I sit on the mesa above town. All looks sleepy, wrapped in a white snowy winter's blanket. Yesterday, a large coyote, in molten fur, walked straight by the windows of the studio, which face north. He seems so large, and so determined, seemed to have an appointment, or other matter of importance. He walked toward the north, and disappeared. It is always a blessing to see wildlife, up close, it is as if this animal, and myself are the only ones on earth.

I feel a little bit as if I am in the Christmas story of Scrooge. All of Christmas past dance through my mind. Old friends and family long gone, are also here. And that for me is what makes Christmas a little sad. I was also thinking, that Christmas never really lived up to expectations in the past. It all seems too much. This year, we decided early, this year would be different. We would make everything smaller, including expectations. It will be interesting to see, how this works out.

Time to remember, time to do something for someone else, time to eat something special, and time to love. I guess that's it.
I'll let you know. And here is hoping you have the best Christmas ever!

Thursday, December 23, 2010

Thursday December 23, 2010 Poetic Asides

Image found on the internet. Post of painting by Munch.

Poetic Asides/ prompt: Write a poem about something you are dreading.

Something I am Dreading
When it comes to something
That I am dreading,
It could be anything...
The unknown,
The future always poses questions.

I will be as the animals,
Without fear,
I will walk bravely into the night.

Will I be able to face what is ahead for me?
Will I find the ground,
Will be jerked out from under my feet?
Will I be set free,
To fly and no longer be grounded?

I will be the eagle,
And I will soar.

Will it be an explosion,
Or a quiet receding of
This place I have known,
The place I call "safe?"
What is ahead,
Just around the bend?
If I knew,
Would I even get out of bed?

I will be the bear,
And I will sleep through winter.

I refuse to name my fear,
And all that I dread,
Let them remain nameless,
No reality at all.
I will make my preparations,
And I will know them then,
In the reality of the fall.

I will be as the animals,
Without fear,
I will walk bravely into the night.

Thursday December 23, 2010 Christmas Eve at Taos Pueblo

Image from the internet, print by Kloss.

On Christmas Eve,
About four in the afternoon,
The sun is already low in the sky,
We go to Taos Pueblo,
The oldest Pueblo in the Southwest,
The adobe buildings have been inhabited
Over one thousand years.

It's always freezing cold,
We gather together for warmth,
And anticipation.
The procession of the virgin.
Catholicism is intertwined with ancient,
American Indian beliefs.

The procession circles the plaza,
And the people light the bonfires,
The War-chiefs in colorful blankets,
Are out front,
Shooting off their guns.
Children singing,
Rattles and drums.

I have heard people describe it as hell,
But for me it is a very transportive ceremony.
It is definitely a reminder that there is another way.

Something deep within,
Something hard to reach,
Something else,
Something personal and unique,
Something ancient, old,
Something sometimes called the soul.

It is a life changing experience
And I am grateful to the People of the Taos Pueblo!

Thursday December 23, 2010 We Write Poetry

The prompt was to use the last line of an earlier poem.

Patched with Many Mends
Patched with many mends.
The hole is patched,
The time of wear,
The time of use and life,
The time of worry,
To make ends meet.

Time and again

So it is time we often have to patch,
Each day,
Each tick of the clock,
Each unkind thought,
Offered to the Universe,

Time and again

Perhaps it is our wings
That need to be mended,
The burdens we carry,
Have made us forget how to fly,
And left unused,
They begin to fall apart,
Feathers float to the ground.

Time and again

To mend is an art,
I remember my
Grandmother's tiny stitches,
To patch the heart,
To make it whole,
To die in love,
Instead of grief,
The heart is patched with many mends.

Time and again

And though it is patched with many mends,
Now it is whole,
And I offer it to you.

Time and again

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Tuesday December 21, Big Tent Poetry

Prompt: Wordles, December 20

Christmas Morning
I attempt to stay balanced,
Although, with the slightest breeze,
I could topple off my perch,
At any time,
I am swift to bring my attention,
To your aid,
Just as I ask for yours'.

In the basement,
We play and
Sing until we are hoarse,
We immerse ourselves,
In old traditions
Wrap gifts in handmade paper,
Tie them with a bow.
A fire engine for Bobby,
Knives, ropes and a gun for Sue,
She'll give her Annie Oakley performance.

We would be disloyal,
If we did indeed,
Forget to vanish,
Disappear at the witching hour
Only to squeeze into place,
When we are again called,
Christmas morning is a zoo.

Preparing for a holiday celebration is always a busy time. But Christmas seems the worst of all.

Monday, December 20, 2010

Monday December 20, 2010 Potluck Poetry

I thought when I was stopped short
By the sight of the brilliant red dragonfly.
The encounter had to do with the Poems of the Desert,
Earlier I had set about reading all that I could,
Learning about the desert.

This sighting predicted a change.
How could I have known
My energies would be diverted,
The change was coming.
There was a far off rumbling.....

My eyes scanned the horizon,
I had no idea what I was looking for,
Four months passed,
I was changing,
What I was investigating,
What I was interested in,
Now the dragonfly had settled on books,
That is the order of the day.

Books to hold,
Books to open,
Conceal and reveal
This seems to be the proper course,
Always the one that requires all that I have been,
And will ever be.

There was much thought,
And then a crescendo,
Five projects were completed.
I had to make them visible to "see."

Now, it seems I am working more slowly,
Thinking, working, writing,
And painting
What an adventure,
This life!

This is a Dragon book/project, based on the sighting of the red dragon fly. I read that there is a Native American tale about how coyote tricked the dragon, and forever after the dragon was the dragonfly.

Sunday, December 19, 2010

Sunday December 19, 2010 I saw Sunday

This week brought the long awaited snow to the Santa Fe area. So before me I saw the winter wonderland created by fresh snow, but in my mind's eye, I kept seeing the images from the Japanese film, Dolls. I think it is the most beautiful film I have ever seen and possibility the most beautiful film ever made.

The stills from the film kept playing in my head. This is a film made in 2002. I first saw it soon after. The director and writer was Takeshi Kitano.

Within the film are three stories of undying love. Each story is lovely. And each frame of the film, could be a painting. It is a poetic and introspective movie. Bear, the symbol of introspection, said, it is perfect for this time of year.

Sunday December 19, 2010 Sunday Scribblings #246

Sunday Scribblings #246

December song,
End of year,
End of life,
A time to think about endings,
And new beginnings.
If you can just get through this year.

December song,
Dead of winter,
Tax time almost here,
Same old holidays,
But different each year.
There are no promises,
If you can just get through this year.

December song,
The melody rolls on,
The chorus sings low,
Wrap it in handmade paper,
Tie it in a bow,
There are no promises,
If you can just get through this year.

December song,
Colors of the heart,
Washed out and faded,
Stitched together,
With a red thread,
Bound as one,
There are no promises,
If you can just get through this year.

December song,
My hope for you is,
That the days ahead,
Will get better,
The factory will reopen,
And you and the kids will get
A place of your own.
If you can just get through this year.

Sunday December 19, 2010 Carry on Tuesday

Prompt: Dear Santa


Dear Santa
I wanted to write to you early this year,
You see there have been some changes.
Some of the children are not so happy this year,
Their parents are out of work,
And have lost their homes.
Bobby said his family had no where to go,
They really haven't gone far,
If you look behind the store,
They are living in their car.
Christmas will be cold this year!

My best friend Scott,
Said his family has been taken in by the church,
Gave them room and board,
But they have no Christmas tree,
To warm their hearts,
And there is no money in the sugar bowl
For presents and such.
Christmas will be cold this year.

And there a lots of others, that I know.
Whose families have no where to go.
If only you can help them,
They are awfully good boys and girls.
It's not their fault, you see.
I know it will be hard to find them this year,
They are not where they are supposed to be.
Making do, is all they can do.
I'm counting on you to make it right.
Otherwise, Christmas
Will be cold this year!

Love from Me

Saturday, December 18, 2010

Saturday December 17, 2010 Writer's Island & the Poetry Bus -- poetry bus -- prompt;Star

#34 Triumph

This shinny star
I wear upon my dress
Is not a token
Of what I call success.

But instead a beacon,
Just to light the way,
A little encouragement,
A triumph for today.

Saturday December 18, 2010 Poets United #28 Smell

Image from

Poets United #28

(Even Liberals Sometimes Get Guns)

No smell today,
Not even the smallest scent,
There will be no celebration this year,
No evergreens,
No money in our pockets,
Not even a cent.
The pantry is bare.
The wind howls again the door,
There is no keeping you out,
You're a grinch and a whore.

We'll be shut for Christmas,
Oh dear,...
What should we do?
The jobs have all left,
Sailed over the blue,
No rainbows today,
No cups of good cheer.
No money in our pockets,
Not even a cent.

It never was fair,
But it's worst this year,
The battle goes on,
There is more to fear.
A few leaders out front,
Call your senators,
The toads,
"Reload and cock,"
Inappropriately advised,
No celebration this year.

Not the way things are done,
But to find what is fair,
We might have to get a gun...
Find unusual measures,
Sniff, sniff, the order is foul.
The evidence is in,
The time is now,
No celebration this year.

Friday, December 17, 2010

Friday December 17, 2010 Theme Thursday

My daily course is familiar,
I rarely have to inquire the way,
I pass faces and landmarks I know,
The map I refer to,
Are old tracings upon my heart.

I have traveled the territory of "loss,"
Without a compass,
I rely upon the stars,
I whisper to them,
Ask them to reveal.

Their bright illuminations,
Reflected upon the mirror of water,
A map is created.
I find my way,
And draw this new path
Again -- traced upon my heart.

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Wednesday, December 15, 2010 Magpie #45

Merry Christmas One and All!
Once a designated day on the calendar,
Circled in red,
Old dogs head, warm and familiar,
Children laughed, and played,
Sung songs,
Jingle Bells, Oh Holy Night,
Couldn't sleep, had to peek,
Someone sneaked,
Down the stairs,
Late at night,
Stars were bright,
The snow piled high against the door.

Door bell rang,
Guests arrived,
Family, friends,
Candles sparkled,
Table laid,
Places set,
Roast the bird,
Bake all day,
Presents wrapped.
The snow piled high against the door.

Now a holiday alone,
The circle red, does not appear,
I got no job,
Lost my house,
No creatures stirring,
Not even a mouse.
Fire place cold,
The snow piles high against the door.

Room is dim,
Cupboard bare,
Got no vittles,
To make a feast.
Sleep all night,
No sleigh bells in sight.
No invitations,
Door bell quiet,
No guests today.
The snow piles high against the door.

Alone I stand,
Head held high,
Looking up into the sky,
Starry night...
Tomorrow will be the same,
But by my will,
Again, I will circle red,
It's up to me,
To gather cheer,
Spread it around
Give it away,
Next year, I think,
When I have nothing,
I'll give it all.
I'll volunteer, as
The snow piles high against the door.

Merry Christmas One and All!

Monday, December 13, 2010

Monday December 13, 2010/Potluck Poetry

The Madwoman in the Studio
It comes from the soul,
Down deep in the,
Who we are.
It constantly bubbles up,
Like a clear spring.
Always fresh and always new.

It is exciting,
We may have had it for years,
But it doesn't change,
We are changed.
Always fresh and always new.

It is what we want,
It is what we do,
It is who we are.
It constantly bubbles up,
Like a clear spring.

It is as unique as we are ourselves,
Like a finger print,
With it's individual whorls,
It is a precious part of our being,
And should be respected,
Never taken for granted.
Like a tired pack animal,
With it's ability to transport,
Us to another place,
It is the passion,
The magic of our lives.


Prompt: Dead man poem.

1. The Dead Artist and Art
The dead artist lost her way,
Thought art was dead too,
She had seen it all,
Thought art was boring,.
Paintings of people, places and things,
Paint thrown and dibbled,
All the ideas had been done.
Nothing new under the sun.

2. More About The Dead Artist and Art

The dead artist approached her canvas,
And said, "I will recreate this whole thing,"
Try as she might it didn't come out right,
She painted more people, places and things.
Until she opened her heart,
Her work was fraught,
With disappointment,

But once soul was engaged,
Her art was a new page.
And she did recreate the whole thing.

Sunday, December 12, 2010

Sunday December 11, 2010/ I saw Sunday/Sunday Scribbling/ Carry on Tuesday/Writers Island

Prompt: Title Not Waving But Drowning, of the poem by Stevie Smith.

On the boat or on shore,
I saw you waving,
A greeting,
A farewell,
But of the drowning,
I know little.
It was a tale told,
Hardly made sense,
I didn't know,
When you said goodbye,
It would be the last,
And then your life was over,
The door closed,
The sea was the same,
The waves rolled in,
The tides continued to change,
But the world was not the same.
Writer's Island
Prompt #33: Wonderous.

I first heard the word whispered,
And I wondered,
I pushed ahead to see.
Later, I pulled the book from the shelf,
The word was written on every page.
Each word was a different color,
And all the pictures were of you.


Image from the Gorilla Girls Website.

Sunday Scribblings Prompt #245: Limits

What are my limits?
I don't mean to whine,
But there are limits,
Placed because of gender,
Yes, times have changed,
And somethings are better,
But the more things change,
The more they stay the same.

There are limits placed because of age,
Each day that passes,
That pile grow larger,
And limits of location.
When one lives on the outer limits,
She must find ways to stay in contact,
With the center of the Universe,
If she can figure out where that is?
I don't like to focus on limits,
But to know they exist,
Is probably helpful.
Then remember the advantages,
This is helpful, too.

Image from internet, roadside shrines, in New Mexico.

I Saw Sunday

Today we counted,
The roadside shrines,
Constructed and decorated,
Some crosses,
Glitter fringe flies,
Flowers and ribbons.

At the very spot a person,
Crossed over,
Alcohol is the killer,
Your feet stagger in,
Soft deerskin moccasins,
Or heavy work boots,
On and off the highway,
You dance.
In New Mexico,
The tradition of,
Poverty and hopelessness,
Are alive and well

Thursday, December 9, 2010

Thursday December 9, 2010 Tuesday Theme/ Poets United

Theme Thursday/ Prompt: Test

The idea of a test can be tricky,
As much as you might like,
A test is rarely fun,
More like a trip to the dentist.

You have a sick feeling in your stomach,
Your hands are clammy,
You mouth is dry,
And visions of horrors dance in your head.

Our first tests probably were,
Games like hop-scotch,
Marbles, checkers, tick-tack-toe,
These tested our skills,
And always seems fun.
But it was a preparation.

In school the tests got harder,
Tested what you learned,
These were difficult for a girl,
Who talked too much,
Had her head in the clouds,
Rarely touched feet to ground.

For years after college,
Though this never happened,
I dreamed it many times.
I attended class,
The professor asked everyone,
To get out his blue books.

It must have been a terrible fear,
One day I would go to class,
Totally unprepared,
I would have forgotten everything.

As we move through life,
The tests get harder.
They aren't about grades,
But life and death are involved.
Each day is a day in the lab of life,
Experimenting, learning,
Testing results.

It seems the successes are never as high
A the failures are low,
With each failure,
We dive deep,
To explore the murky depths,
We chid ourselves,
With -- we should have known,
Should have done better.

We stumble forward,
Sometimes beat up,
Black and blue,
Bruised and battered.

The fighter in the ring,
Testing our strength,
And what we know.
The sound of the bell,
It's just fight night, after all,
Just another test.


Poets United; The Thursday Think Tank, Prompt -- Forgiveness

To forgive and to forget is difficult,
Perhaps you can do it,
It takes a better man than I.
But I would say it depends on the offense,
And the sincerity of the apology,

If you are the offender,
Apologize right away,
From the bottom of your heart,
And accept all consequences.

If you have been offended,
It is important to learn from past experience,
Stay vigilant.
Do not put yourself in position to,
Wake up to find a gun to your head.

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

Wednesday December 8, 2010Mag #44/We Write Poetry/ Poetic Asides/Wednesday Poetry/ Three Word Wednesday

Prompt #113: Write a poem about a generalized group.

A hermit is what I am,
Free to move about,
Free to work
I don't wait for orders,
To be posted on the board.

I form my own thoughts,
At times I ask you to take a look,
Want to know if I'm still on the rails,
Or am I now, bumping along beside
The road, off the path,

Sometimes I need you,
Just to bounce ideas back and forth.
Then back in the studio alone,
I formulate my thoughts,
I create.

Get out my ruler,
Pencils and pens,
Make a sketch,
Choose brushes and paint.
I create.

In the beginning,
I didn't know,
Now, I'm more clear,
It takes a long time,
To become --
It is the journey of a lifetime.


The prompt was;judge, nightfall, safety

Safety is an illusion,
We are never safe really,
If there is someone,
Who wants to hurt you,
They probably will,
What can you do?
Should you hide under the bed?
Should you run away?
Maybe, a course in martial arts?

You judge the path ahead,
It looks safe,
Until nightfall,
All bets are off,
You are never really safe,
Should you be afraid?

And what is to fear after all?
It's really death,
When you get right down to it.
And still it is the destination of the living,
We'll all die one day.

Perhaps it's not so bad,
It is our job,
To live each day to the fullest,
So on the day,
Death knocks on our door,
We'll be ready,
Greet him as our friend,
Open the door and let him in.

Dedicated to Elizabeth Edwards.
Who died December 7, 2010

We Write Poems
Prompt #21 Love

Love isn't an easy thing to describe,
There are many forms,
And these can be split again into,
As many stars as there are in the sky.

But in the heart there is only one love,
We see a child,
We call it love,
A flower, same thing.

It is told in an Eastern myth,
The child is born,
With a red cord,
Connected to the one he will love.

It is up to him to follow his heart,
To follow the cord,
To follow the red,
To find the one waiting,
Before he is dead.


Mag #44

A Snow Sled
My experience of a sled is limited,
Something to found only in dreams,
Of course, I saw pictures,
But where I lived it was warm and balmy,
There may have been one,
Brought there from colder climes,
Tucked away in a garage,

In hopes children's dreams would
One day be answered.
But if so I didn't know,
We loved roller skates,
And on hot Friday night,
We would meet at the rink,
To go around as fast as we could,
Slicing the warm night air.
But if there were any sleds,
They had to wait,
Perhaps they also dreamed of snow.

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

Tuesday December 7, 2010 Carry on Tuesday #82

Image found on the net.

The prompt was from Mid Summers Night's Dream. The course of true love never did run smooth.


The bath water was hot --
Almost too,
Later we sat on the bed,
It was time to come clean,
The smoke from your cigarette,
Twisted and turned,
Looked for a way out,
Truth filed the room,
Wanted to come out.

The course of true love never did run smooth.

The smoothness of your words,
Left no room for retort,
Like a message on an email,
Or one left in a bottle,
It twisted and turned,
And looked for the way out.
The color was red,
The lights were low,
You were a conduit.
You spoke your truth.
Words learned in rote.

The course of true love never did run smooth.

The cold crept into the room,
Filled the spaces between words,
I reached for the covers,
Digested your words,
Tears collected under eyelids,
Heart ceased to beat,
You said it was good,
Could say anything,
Anything at all.

The course of true love never did run smooth.

It was a cold night in winter,
There was a shiver,
A dark ravens call.

The course of true love never did run smooth.

Monday, December 6, 2010

Monday December 6, 2010 Big Tent Poetry/And What I Saw Sunday

My write was inspired by Referential Magazine, Self Portrait as Fake Saint with a wheel

Woman's Work

I remember a little wheel with teeth,
Found in my Mother's sewing box,
A box bound with a blue ribbon,
Magical tools, for marking and measuring,
Sharp shiny scissors, and needles and pins.
Endless spools of colorful thread.

In time I learned to sew,
But never as well as my Mother,
Or Grandmother who's tiny
Stitches were admired and envied.

I remember the patterns
She would purchase at the store.
They came in a large envelope,
The picture of the finished
Garment on the front,
She would carefully extract the patterns,
Printed on thin tissue paper,
The color yellow ocher,
Easily torn.

The pattern once cut out,
Was pinned to the fabric,
Which was cut out,
And carefully sew,
Into the desired garment.
Something for everyone.

In those days,
And for some years after,
Each home was a mini-factory.
Each house had a garden,
And maybe chickens.

Just a few years earlier,
People who lived in the city,
But spent the summer on the bay,
Would have the "help'"
Walk the milk-cow down,
Some thirty miles.
To enjoy the cool bay breezes.
For it was long before air conditioners.

The milk-man still made his rounds,
As well as the lecherous ice-man,
Who delivered blocks of dripping ice,
Giving small chunks to
Laughing children in the neighborhood.

And women often worked together,
To preserve and can food at harvest,
Women still made quilts,
And young women
Filled their "hope chests,"
With fancy needlework,
They read etiquette books,
Amy Vanderbilt's Complete Book of Etiquette.
In those days no one wanted to be incorrect.
Just the perfect gossip across the fence,
Who did what - when.

Thou times have changed,
I'm sure, it still holds true,
No one wants to be incorrect.
But who has time?
And where has time gone?
Both men and women work,
And pursue careers,
Raise families,
Everything is on the fly.

In the days of my Mother and my Grandmother,
Women worked hard,
But the jobs were at home,
A woman's interest was her garden,
Her home and her family.

Today women still work hard,
And they have no time for
The frivolous activities,*
Of my ancestors.

*Characterized by insincerity, irony, or whimsical exaggeration = tongue-in-cheek.


Giants In Winter
Skeletons of giants,
Dot the landscape,
Dressed in gray,
Just a short time ago,
You were full and lush,
Now you are no refuge,
For winged travelers.
All is exposed.

Sunday, December 5, 2010

Sunday December 5, 2010 Sunday Scribblings/Guidance &
#244 Guidance

Today is Sunday,
Day of rest,
The idea of guidance,
And the question of the need for it.
I dare say,
No one knows everything,
So there are so many areas,
In which one could seek guidance.

I am looking at the,
Places where I might find guidance.
Places I go on a regular bases.
When in the end,
We much answer the question.

Friends, often offer guidance,
Or through the questions they ask,
They turn on the light,
Or open the door.
Force us to dive deeper.

There are books to read,
Spending time in the library,
Is time well spent.
Recently, I remembered
As a child one of my favorite
Places to go, was to the library.

When in dialog with yourself,
As you learn -- the questions
You ask of yourself,
Become richer.

Life is like that,
Song and response.
We go about the tasks of the day,
Singing to ourselves,
And responding

When it comes to you,
You are the master,
You alone know who you are.
And you alone,
Know the responses,
To your own questions.

It can be no other way,
Would we ask a stranger,
For guidance, Would we
Blindly follow the advice given?

I also think, there is truth everywhere,
We pass a sign,
We read a story in a newspaper,
And suddenly there is a resonance.
It is as if the words were meant for us alone.
Stay vigilant, be alert,
The universe wishes to speak with you.

Saturday, December 4, 2010

Saturday December 4, 2010 Writer's Island/Quest

Image from the internet.

The Quest for the Red Shoes
It is the winter of the year,
Snuggled in their warm,
Bed chambers,
Bears dream of sunny days.
The idea of red shoes
Dance in my head.

So much unknown,
If I put them on --
Will I be able to get them off?
I think not,
And who would want to?

Perhaps the Queen in the
Early version of Snow White,
That was made to dance,
To her death in red-hot-shoes.

The quest to find these perfect
Red shoes, fit like a glove,
That signify the active,
Independent woman,
Who makes her own choices,
And is a sexual creature.

Shoes that make us think of hearts,
Or other "wobbly bits."*
Shiny, sparkly blood, red shoes,
Shoes that offer the chance.

The chance to be,
The chance to dance.
To the rhythm of our own
Heart, shoes of magic,
The quest is to learn to use them.

To find the way home,
No longer a stranger,
In our white undergarments,
Follow the thread,
Slip into the dragon skin,
Put on the red shoes,

This is the vision,
The quest will be ended,
Get off of the pedestal,
Dance the red shoes home.

*From Bridget Jones Diary.

Friday, December 3, 2010

Friday December 3, 2010 Thursday Think Tank Poetry/Theme Thursday

The prompt today is something weird.

Curiosity Shop

Alas, you ask for
Something weird today,
I look through the shop,
Picking up each item,
Nothing weird here,
I pass a mirror.

I am the weirdest in the place,
I stand tall, but not very,
My feet barely touch the peddles,
I walk across the sand,
But leave no foot prints.
I call but there is no answer.

I reach for my coffee cup,
And leave no finger prints to be found,
I am fading.
I can hardly see my own reflection.
I don't take up much space,
And when I am completely gone,
There will only be a tiny imperfection
In the fabric of the universe,
That will mark my going.

Something so near to me,
My companion,
So often you wink, or blink,
And ask me to carry you
To a new destination.

I hold you in my hand,
Often I find you in my pocket,
Lost and lonely,
A precious stone I picked up,
But had forgotten.

You are ancient, old,
The keeper of so much knowledge,
But you are quiet,
Rarely stand up to be recognized,
Make a fuss,
Or embarrass yourself or anyone else.

You rarely win races,
But are content to sit,
By the roadside,
And watch the world go by,
Holding within yourself,
All that is known,
Or ever was.

Thursday, December 2, 2010

Thursday December 2, 2010 Magpietales/and Big Tent Poetry

Remember Me
I started up the path to your door,
I imagine myself,
The homeless one,
I push the cart,
I am heart sick and weary,
I fumble through the bits
And pieces in the bundle I carry.

Examine the tiny cotton gown that was yours,
I hear the gentle voice of my Father,
I find in a carefully folded wrapper,
The tears of my GrandMother.

On a paper, old and worn,
Yellow with time,
There is a sketch of my house,
Where we lived and loved.
It's all there.
Dissolving into memories,
Crumbs dropping to
The bottom of my pack.

So much is forgotten...

When you open the door,
You will find,
I will no longer be.
But I will leave a note for you,
With the words stitched by hand,
Blown on the wind.
Remember me.


How Much is Enough"
So you asked me about enough.
What is enough?
How much is enough?
How can we find the number?
Is it enough to fill up?
Or enough to run over?
Is it just enough to still see the bottom?

Maybe it all depends on who you ask.
If you asked my kitty,
It's never enough,
What about the water-board?
Probably wouldn't take much.
You sit in my lap,
Perhaps, too much.

This question of quantity,
Is a puzzle,
Just a little bit?
Just the right amount?
Too much?

It's a question I can't answer,
You'll have to answer it,
For yourself.
How much is enough?

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

Wednesday December 1, 2010 One Shot Poetry

Photo by Marya on Wikipedia

The mythical trickster
As he is known,
Does what he can,
Lives on the edge,
An outstanding man,

Cares for his family,
Plays tricks to survive,
Listens for her call.
Steals for a living.
And will take your last bite.

He is an upstanding citizen,
Has endured your hate,
His head hangs on
My neighbor's fence post.

Does what he can,
He endures his fate.
Has the skills of a wizard,
An outstanding mate.

Look again,
The coyote you see,
In disguise to distract,
Wrapped in fur,
He does what he can
Under hard circumstance.

Because he is distant,
Lives on the edge,
He's a mystery to man.
A fear in his dreams.
He's an incredible
Human being, who
Doesn't ask much.

Just leave him alone,
He's a myth in man's stories,
A shadow of delight,
An original outsider,
Right beside you,
In the darkness of night.

Image from google.

The prompt is: From the day we arrive on the planet.

Red Shoes
From the day I
Arrived on the planet,
I have been slipping my feet into,
The mythical red shoes,

Worn by the dancer,
Worn by Dorothy,
Worn by Cinderella,
Glass that cuts,
Blood runs red,
Worn by every woman,
Who wanted to write,
Who wanted to paint.

The real red shoes,
Shoes of art,
Shoes that hurt,
The queens dancing shoes,

Handed down from
Woman to woman,
Finally you overcome your fear,
Put on the shoes,
And you dance.

I have continued to work on the Pagoda/book project. I have added two elements, the antique doll, I call the story teller, and the little screen of Japanese women. I created a false bottom in each box, to hold each little handmade book, I had to tear out the bottom one to make room for the story teller, and the screen.

Taking time off.....

I am taking some time off from posting on my blog.  I am studying, practicing, have so much to learn....