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

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

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

July 30, 2015 Poets United Midweek Motif/Acceptance Writer's Digest Wednesday's Poetry Prompt

Acceptance

it is easy to accept a fine gift from the king              a trinket or treasure

wrapped in gold paper                to accept                i sacrifice nothing

but to accept loss is quiet a different thing             something is missing

i am no longer the same person i was              the world is different

the morning is no longer bright          nor the day                not the night

sorrow overtakes the world       how do i accept            what i do not want

i open my heart                       i arm myself                      as if for battle

this acceptance will not come easy         i will try                      i will fail

just too hard but...           i will try again              the bad dreams will be over

spring will come                      i will awake                       i will live again

as if for the first time          i will notice                        the beauty around me

that has been waiting                that has been there all the time

once again hear the bird song          meant only for me        i will be thrilled

i will look back                i will remember                           still i will miss you

                                                                                ...and on some days i will mourn

July 30, 2015

The Sunday Whirl/ Bygone Days --The Sunday Whirigig/ Summer Camping Trip--Poets Pantry #162

Bygone Days

i am coatless       the wind whistles                  autumn begins unexpectedly

i search the contents of the envelope                 for your last letter

stars glow in the nighttime sky                           i can feel your touch on my skin

i am thinking of the kitchen stories                   we used to tell

slices of watermelon                               sweet sticky juice runs down my chin

we made up games                         spitting seeds                 at a target

we flew flags                    catching the cool breezes                 you used to say

you wished           we could always stay there on the beach       thinking of bygone days

days when we were young           you and i           we walk together the last part

hand in hand            footsteps one following the other           remembering bygone days

July 25, 2015

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Summer Camping Trip

summer is here            in full swing          camping in the woods

the river flows in its' banks                        children laughing

roasting marshmallows by the fire                    telling stories

some are true           others not so much          we work hard

and deserve a rest        when the sun goes down          we curl up

in our bed rolls                     dream dreams of hell and damnation

sometimes it is fun to be scared               and when we wake 

we are so relieved            maybe it is mosquitoes or ants

 a snake in the bedroll          still it is only a summer camping trip 

                                                                 without a kayak

July 25, 2015