The Sunday Whirl/The Silence Afterwards/ deVerse -- Poets United

The Silence Afterwards

my body wrapped in flesh         with empty veins        on the table is food

the wind howls at my window        circles my house         through the night

your ghost comes to me in a dream                 in the form of a little lamb

i reach to stroke your soft coat      it has turned to granite      just as my heart

has turned hard and cold         a stone in snow             i search the names listed

the weight of your loss                 is far greater than i could have imagined

in the final days the words i told myself              were true but empty now

                                                                                     ...in the silence afterwards

February 28, 2015

     

Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads/The Time I Am

The Time I Am

what is time after all        how do we know it       is it the clock on the kitchen wall

the mirror       mirror mirror on the wall       can we see time       feel it

i have heard       we become aware that time has passed       when we see people on TV

and we see they have aged       our children have grown      our pets have died of old age

i look out across the mesa            see the mountains                          the sky

all looks the same           as if under water                             or trapped in resin

there is silence in the room         everyone i know is gone          alone

everything has been in anticipation of this moment      time is killing me...      and you

yet i wear a watch on my arm to measure it's passage              it is something

that cannot be escaped          trapped in time                for as long as i am

February 27, 2015

Poets United Midweek Motif/The Mother Tongue

The Mother Tongue

i speak to you          with the words               i learned from my mother

about the things i learned from my mother                           she was my teacher

taught me how to tell the truth                        i won't say she taught me to cook

as i must have been a poor student          still can't cook       but kindness she related to me

at caring she was the best              she cared for me                           like no other

a regular mother kitten          she taught me to love         how to scoop up the whole world

to fill my heart with what i could see           to feel the sun on my skin

to know another as myself                to smell spring             it was the mother tongue

she taught me                  i see her in those I meet                               i listen for her song

she spoke in the mother tongue      because of this             i could lick my son with my love

February 25, 2015

Traces in the Snow

I open my umbrella        still it snows      night into day           day into night

            transforms everything            in winter no blooms or delicate pedals

tiny birds with dark heads       perched on bare branches       yearning for spring

hop around     search for seeds                   leave dark prints on the white ground

when all seems hopeless        we are required to wait until....

              the exact time not designated

the sun returns       to warm our           cold blue hearts                  still beating

               negotiating the river of life

a large uncut tobacco leaf                 unfurled                           tied to a post

a brown flag         fluttering in the wind                      against the white ground

we do not give up         will not surrender         slowly we take one step at a time

                we also leave traces in the snow

February 22, 2015

The Sunday whirl/Instilled in My Being

Instilled in My Being

beginning of February       tumbled out of bed           found a too early spring morning

left on my door step                still winter              but you would never know                           

 the sun shinning          the weather warm            against my skin                

wounds still visible               erupt when least expected               spill tears            

water the dry and thirsty earth                a mournful cry emitted       

the song of a sad clown          wrapped in fleece         sheep's clothing

from sorrow                   you cannot hide          your white image                                   

gives you away                  against the night                        your destiny sealed             

held in a tumbler of glass                      drink your fill

you long for what is no longer your's              your heart has broken 

burst to a million pieces                               no sound can comfort 

only the distant sea              with all it's promise          your loss instilled in my being 

i call your name                                                    hoping you will return

February 8, 2015

February 5, 2015 The Sunday Whirl/The Days of the Artist

The Days of the Artist

the measure of an artist                       is not judged by the number of his patrons

it is not a race                       unless we are talking about the race from birth to death

the amount of snow that has fallen              is measured in inches

she measures herself              knows who she is                 yet keeps her humility

the clock is ticking                                     the days are numbered         a limited few

there is no rescue                             for the small creature running on the wheel

minutes ticking                       the hands spin on the face of the clock

the pages of the calendar                    are flipped by a terrible wind          a hurricane

yet she must spend long hours            at hard labor       or hard hours          at long labor

there are no shortcuts                          she is in a constant state of creation

she hosts her muse                  an honored guest               her day will come soon enough

the sun will not shine              a cloud will spread over the sky       the hour will always be 

                                                                                                                      twilight

February 4, 2015

February 4, 2015 dVerse/Snuggle -- Poets United Midweek Motif~Cancer/Taker or Giver

Snuggle

wrap my soft furry tail around me

pull it close under my chin

winter's snow rests in the fields

it has become a blanket

keeps us warm

as we move closer in the dark

February 4, 2015

___________________________

Taker or Giver

to speak of cancer                     the c word                                       taker or giver

life is a line drawn on the pavement                          street art          done by everyone

the line just so long                   shows the character of the artist       everyone an artist

everyone a life                          but just so long                   then what...

how does it end                                                  often it is cancer

taker or giver                giving us a way out                        when the sands have run out

eats away                                 makes a portal                                    opens a door

lets in the sunshine                  makes space                                        taker or giver

you ended my mother's life                   and my son's            perhaps you will come for me   

February 4, 2014