Lingering

Beside the front porch, peonies
explode—vibrant, incarnadine
complex blooms. Petals cache
secret crevices, hold beauty close.

I want to linger.

Photo credit: scoutcapecod.blogspot.com

 

A train at a standstill across
the river gasps for breath, hisses
its need to move along toward
destiny. Slow start, a wheeze.
It inches forward, heading East.

But I, I want to linger.

Photo credit: tahoebest.com

Two doves cavort from tree-
to-tree. Amid cheat grass, columbine
grows wild. The river rolls, no rush,
and sacred bird-song trills, thrills.

Oh, how I want to linger.

Photo credit: fineartamerica

Back home my projects wait.
A newly crafted action plan—
dead-lines, set in bold typeface,
folders placed in toppling piles.

But still, I have to linger.

Photo credit: techstudentblog

Recently, for Meeting the Bar, Anna Graham inspired us to write about velleity and volition.  The a-fore-mentioned action plan kept me from getting this done in time for MTB, but here it is. One of the best things about OLN is being able to play catch-up. This came to me a few days ago when I took the dogs on a walk along the Truckee river.

We hope you’ll join us Tuesday at 3:00 PM EDT over at the Poetry Pub.

Sunshine with Partial Cloudiness

Written for dVerse Poets’ Open Link Night--a reflection on  the meaning of Christmas.

Sunlight (Photo credit: Dave Stokes)

Sunshine, with Partial Cloudiness

i.
You stop me cold.
I’m lost in a fog
of steam, thoughts
and ruminations.
Then you peek through
the shower glass,
enlighten a droplet
of water, burst colors—
prisms to interrupt
my distractions.

ii.
In a bubble forming
on my forearm, you capture
my attention again,
force me to the present
moment. I notice the play
of spray on my bare skin,
hear the colors of music.
Through almost-closed blinds,
your light slows
in song to praise,
to dissipate dark clouds,
naked tree branches.

iii.
Is this how it was
for shepherds grazing
their flocks that night?
For kings searching
to grasp mysteries?
For us common folk
who muddle through life,
grapple with violence?

iv.
The feather of a cedar
waxwing, snags on the
tree outside my window
flutters in the breeze.
I can’t see wind,
only discern its presence
by its effect on something
tangible. Children died.
But love shines through
if you look for it.

v.
Yesterday in K-Mart,
at the LayAway counter
an older couple paid
down the debt of shoppers
who were delinquent,
scanning accounts that had
children’s toys. A younger
man, bearing no resemblance
whatsoever to Santa,
dropped $300 in cash
on the counter. “Add this
to whatever they do.”

vi.
So, where is the Sun?
So, where is the Son?

Merry Christmas to all! The Pub opens Tuesday, 15:00 EST. Hope to see as many of you as are able to make it. Don’t forget, you can join us on Wednesday, too.

Cedar Waxwing (Bombycilla cedrorum) eating berries (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Little Things

The kitchen counter’s sticky,
Handprints on the refrigerator door,
And white fuzz on the hardwood floor.
No matter how often I clean, try to
Keep our home perfect, I can’t.
For these small things, however, I’m grateful.
Unless you know I have a husband who
Loves to cook for me,
Little white dogs who want to cuddle,
You’ll wonder why I feel so blessed.

Sparky–Photo: D. Slotto

Today is Thanksgiving in the USA and as I meditated all I could notice was white dog hair all over my newly cleaned house. Then, when I went to the kitchen, everything I touched was sticky as my husband has thrown himself into creating culinary delights. I’m helplessly perfectionistic, but couldn’t help but realize these very things are among the many things for which I’m grateful–someone who cares enough to prepare a special lactose-free pumpkin pie using my special milk that he had to dehydrate, and my two beautiful dogs who teach me all about unconditional love.

Over at dVerse, the challenge for today is to write an acrostic poem centering on gratitude. My offering is not “perfect” poetry, but here it is anyway. We hope you’ll take a few moments to reflect on giving thanks, no matter where you are, or how imperfect your day may be.

Zoe, 2011 Photo: D. Slotto

De-mise

Photo Credit: Michał Nowosielsk
123rfs.com (Copyrighted, used with permission)

I pause
to watch
a drop
of dew
evap-
or-
ate,

to witness
the demise
of cosmic
wonder,

await the
brilliant sparkle

of its color
a heart-
beat
just before
it dis-
ap-
ears.

A sense
of sadness
shrouds
this sacred
moment.

How can it be
that so much
beauty
goes
un-
not-
iced?

Linked to dVerse Poets’ Pub Open Link Night where poets from all over the globe gather to drink in friendship and revel in one another’s creative work. Join us–offer up a poem of your own on any theme. The doors swing open at 1500 EST!

The Summer of 1948

The Summer of 1948

Photo Credit: Floyd Bariscale/Google Images

I perch in my pepper tree.
Pungent scents, fingered
leaves embrace me.
A lady bug, dressed in red
with black polka dots
climbs my arm, tickles.

Ocean sand, white as the rind
of a watermelon, clings to my
bare toes.
Only hours ago I ran through it,
reaching out, stretching to catch
sapphires.

The smell of hot concrete
dampened by rain showers
lingers along with DDT
sprayed from a can with a
plunger like a bicycle pump.

I slip down the gnarly trunk,
enter the house by the
screen door near the
Bendix with the ringer where
Mama found a black widow
yesterday.

She’s melting a blue cube
of laundry starch
in hot water.

“Did you know I’m four
and a half today?”
I ask. She nods, smiles.
The black fan whirrs
in the background.

“Go on over to Stewie’s,” she says.
“It’s almost time for
Kukla, Fran and Ollie.”

Cross-legged on the floor
I watch the 12” screen,

Understand I am.

Fun his-tory/her-story prompt today at dVerse,  offered by Brian Miller. This is a really old one about a time way back when.  Hope you are able to read…Google Chrome users (only) are getting weird messages. I have no idea how to correct.

Monday Morning Writing Prompt–Writing the Mundane

Image via Wikipedia

For today’s prompt I’d like to invite you to write a poem or short prose about some aspect of your everyday life: laundry, vacuuming, struggling with the photocopier at work, walking the dogs, or cooking for example. Try to make it rich in sensory detail.

This challenge invites us to awareness, an attribute that promises to enrich us as writers.

Here’s my effort–a Haiku

Washing Dishes

sun pierces window

creates rainbows in bubbles

caressing my hands

Wordsmith Wednesday–Some More Thoughts about Description

Image via Wikipedia

The more I read, the more I realize the critical role of description–involving all the senses–in the telling of a story. It is through sensory input that we engage in our world. So many of us today rush through life. Always in a hurry, we don’t take the time to notice the beauty of cloud formations, the scent of honey-suckle, the colors of the sunset or the caress of a summer breeze. Sucked into the vortex of Ipods, texting–even blogs–it’s easy to succumb to the inevitability of a life lived vicariously. So, offer your reader the joys he or she may be missing. Invite them to become more aware. This goes whether you write fiction, poetry, creative non-fiction or…you name it.

Here are a few more considerations to bear in mind when writing description:

• Good description does not have to be flowery, purple prose kind of stuff. Avoid extensive use of hyperbole, adjectives, adverbs. Go for active verbs when you can.
• Description isn’t only about what you see. Train yourself to become aware of all your senses. Keep notes about your experiences in your writing journal so that you can refer to them for inspiration.
• Use description to express emotion. It’s that old “show, don’t tell” advice. Become aware of how your body responds when you’re happy, afraid–whatever. Go ahead and jot that down in your journal, too.
• Don’t be afraid to describe the ugly, the scary, the difficult, the gruesome, even. This is all part of life, isn’t it?
• Description doesn’t have to be lengthy, rambling. Tighten up your narrative, but make every word count. I’m sure that when reading you, like me, have been guilty of skimming lengthy paragraphs of description that have taken you out of the story line.
• When writing short fiction, limit description to those things that will contribute to the story line.

Suggestion: to develop your own awareness, get in the habit of journaling each day. Jot down some memories of things you’ve observed. Go beyond the visual. Cultivate awareness.

If you haven’t written anything for this weeks Monday Morning Writing Prompt, I hope you’ll join us. Maybe some of these suggestions will help you.

Reminder–I will be off-line for a few days beginning tomorrow and will do my best to catch up when I get home. With luck, I’ll be able to do my part for MMWP!

(The image is entitled The Allegory of the Five Senses.)

Sunday 160–To Awaken

Photo: David Slotto

Submitted to Monkey Man’s Sunday 160: http://petzoldspracticalprose.blogspot.com/  In which you submit a poem or short prose using exactly 160 characters, including spaces.

To Awaken

If so awake
to feel each drop of rain
pummeling my body,
to hear my lover’s
gentle snores,
to see rays of
sun bounce off my
dog’s white fuzz—
would I
explode in ecstasy?

The little dog in this photo, a long-haired Jack Russell Terrier, was named Ascot. He was our first (of five). He lived with us sixteen years until he died, two years ago, the day after Thanksgiving. We miss him!

“B” is for Bougainvillea

Image via Wikipedia

Submitted to Leonnyes Z to A Challenge:  http://leonnyes.wordpress.com/ and to Jingle’s Poetry Rally (December 2, 2010): http://thursdaypoetsrallypoetry.wordpress.com/  

I must confess to a bit of poetic burn-out this morning, so I’ve reverted to a poem I wrote last winter during our stay in Palm Desert. Bougainvillea don’t grow here in Reno and certainly not in the snowy cold weather we’re experiencing right now but they are abundant down in the desert.

Bougainvillea

Sometimes,
when you’re aware,
life hurls its beauty
in your face.

Nature you know
so well
comes of age in
her seduction.

Color mounts
surrounding walls,
invades the senses with
its brilliance,

fondles, tantalizes,
coaxes you till you
understand her message,
surrenders

her loveliness into
your hands
so you will
linger for awhile.

Jingle’s Poetry Potluck–”The Sin Seller”

Image via Wikipedia

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Sin Seller

A funny little man with a screwed up nose
came pedaling down the street.
“Seven sins have I that you’ll want to buy,
seven sins, but they’re not what you think.”

“I’ll take some lust and a pinch of pride,
just a touch of greed will do.
A scoop of anger is enough today—
hold the sloth—I’ve got lots to do.”

He looked at me with his rheumy eyes
and tried to lift his head.
“You didn’t hear what I said to you—
there’re things that you’ll want instead.

“Envy’s not for sale, gluttony non plus—
those are all for free, you know.
Look inside your heart and I bet you’ll find
you can order them ‘to go.’

“But what I’ve got you will recognize
though you might not call them sins.
Check this out, it’s called blame, gets you off the hook.
It’s okay. Take a second look.”

“I’ll go for that, doesn’t seem too bad.
Shouldn’t send me straight to hell.
What else have you got that can help me out,
something light—to my conscience quell.

“Ah, then you’ll want this.” He held out his hand,
Crooked fingers clasped a glass.
“Take a sip and you’ll see (with veiled eyes)
those in need—then walk blithely past.”

“Oh, the poor—those who beg—they are everywhere.
Always looking for something more.
It would be a relief not to have to care.
You know, they’re just looking to score.

“What else do you have that I could use—
Anything to bring joy to my heart?”
His smile should have warned of the slippery path
I was sliding down from the start.

He wrung his hands and his words hissed out
through the gaps in his crooked teeth.
“Here, I’ve got a book that will help you learn
how to use others who believe

“that by helping you they are serving God.
They’re so easy to deceive.
Use them all you want, they will never guess
they are tools to meet your needs.”

“I think that’s all that I want for now,
I’m a little low on cash.
How much do I owe for all these sins?
Let me know and I’m gone in a flash.”

“Not so soon, my friend, these sins are cheap
and I have much more to offer.
Take a look in this box and see what you think.
You can add this one to your coffer.”

He lifted the lid and I peered in.
The box appeared to be empty.
“What the heck is this—do you think I’m dumb?
I suspect that you’re out to contempt me.”

“Can’t you see what this is?” he said to me.
It’s a place to hide your talent.
Once you put it out there for all to see
you cannot find time just ‘to be.’”

“Ah, I like that,” I said to the man.
I want to hoard my gifts.
I’ll take a dozen, put them in the bag.
What more to give me a lift?”

He pulled a watch from his bag of tricks.
“You’ll want this one for sure.
It will store your time for you alone
to use at your leisure.”

“I’ll go for that, I could use some rest.
I’m really tired from living
with those who expect me to be aware
of everything that they’re giving.”

“Then you’ll want this, it will free you up,”
He said with a glint in his eyes.
He reached out his hand and gave me a cup
with a message engraved on its side:

Forget about everything that you hear;
you really don’t need to be grateful.
Ignore those gifts and the joy that they bring.
Don’t pretend that you are thankful.

“That way no one will wait for your return
on whatever they’ve invested.
You won’t have to give of yourself to them.
Love’s easier if untested.

“Take these drugs,” he said, “then I’m done with you.
You’ll want to have this treasure.
Be sure that you remain always unaware
of beauty, joy and pleasure

for if you see what God has done
you will want more of Him
and then you’ll live in consciousness
and not enjoy your sin.”

I paid the man and he ran off
carting his merchandise.
But when I got home and saw what I’d bought
something opened wide my eyes.

Things just were not as he said they were,
these were not just harmless vices.
Within each one I could see the seed
that would lead to darkest crisis.

I’d been terribly fooled by his evil lies.
I saw it now all too clearly.
It’s bit-by-bit that the soul dies.
It doesn’t scream, it simply sighs.

And so I took his bag of tricks
and tossed it in the ocean
of God’s good grace and cleansing love.
It’s little things that will do you in.

This is the longest rhyming, metered poem I’ve ever written. It has plenty “sins” of its own: cliche, some forced meter and rhyme. But it was the most fun I’ve had with sin in a long time. This poem is written for and submitted to Jingle’s Poetry Potluck: http://jinglepoetry.blogspot.com/ Check out the many established and burgeoning poets who contribute to this site.

Image: Bosch’s “Seven Deadly Sins”